#it’s just impossible it can’t be done

[biggianteggplant]

Flashing hq men while in an arguement pls💗🤗🤗🤗💋💥💥💥💥💥💥

AKAASHI KEIJI

It started with paper.

Well—your paper. Strewn across the floor, the desk, the couch, and even the corner of Akaashi’s neatly stacked planner.

“You said you’d clean it yesterday,” he said, arms crossed, brow tight.

“I was going to,” you argued, voice rising with every crumpled page he lifted like it was a war crime. “But then someone moved my binder!”

Akaashi let out a controlled sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re messy.”

“You’re bossy!”

You were both heating up now—petty words thrown like darts, tension thick in the room. Your frustration hit a boiling point. And then—

You did it.

Mid-rant, mid-glare, without thinking, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it just enough to derail the universe.

Silence.

Akaashi blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Please,” he said slowly, voice even. “Put your shirt down.”

But his ears betrayed him—burning a deep, undeniable red. His eyes flicked anywhere but you. The bookshelf. The ceiling. His own hands. His composure stayed upright, but his soul? Shattered.

You stood there smug, the chaos fully unleashed.

“I’m waiting,” he added, half-glancing your way—then immediately regretting it. “We’re not done talking.”

“You sure?” you teased, already giggling.

His glare was weak. His lips twitched. And the planner he used as a shield? Shaking just a little.

He was so, so done with you. And so, so doomed.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

You and Iwaizumi were in the middle of that kind of argument—the stubborn kind. The kind where no one’s yelling, but everything's tense. His arms are crossed. His jaw is tight. His tone is sharp. “You can’t keep doing that,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

“And you can’t keep acting like you’re always right,” you snap back.

Boom. There it is.

He starts pacing like a storm in a hoodie, muttering things under his breath and side-eyeing you every three seconds.

And then—you break him.

Mid-lecture. You flash him.

Just a quick shirt lift. One second of chaos.

Silence.

He stops moving. Stops breathing.

“…What the hell was that?” His voice cracks. A little. But you catch it.

He turns his head away so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull something.

“Are you seriously trying to distract me right now?” He’s fuming. But blushing. Oh, furiously blushing.

He drags a hand down his face like this is the worst test of patience he’s ever had. “Put your damn shirt down—what are you, five?”

But he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s talking to the wall. Avoiding eye contact like you’ve got a superpower he can’t fight.

His ears are red. His neck’s red. The fight is hanging by a thread and you cut it clean with one move.

He grumbles under his breath, trying to collect himself. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, like he’s the victim here.

By the end of it, he’s sulking on the couch, arms crossed, still pink in the face. “Next time you try that, I’m walking out,” he says.

…But he doesn’t move.

Yeah. You win.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

You were done going in circles with him. Tsukishima was being his usual snarky self, arms crossed, eyes narrowed behind those glasses like he was just barely tolerating your existence.

“Oh, wow. You’re mad again? What a surprise,” he says flatly, with the most condescending tone known to man.

You glare. He rolls his eyes.

"You never take anything seriously," you shoot.

"Maybe because you're always being ridiculous."

And just like that—your brain short circuits. Your hands move before your logic can catch up.

Shirt. Up. Boom.

Mid-rant. Mid-scowl. Mid-superiority complex.

Silence.

His entire soul exits his body for a split second.

His mouth opens. Then closes. His eyes snap away so fast you think he might give himself whiplash.

“…Are you kidding me right now?” He hisses it through gritted teeth, like he just stepped on a LEGO.

He’s still standing tall, but oh—he’s red. A furious, fuming, flustered kind of red.

"You’re an actual menace," he mutters, voice cracking ever so slightly.

He adjusts his glasses three times. He’s not even looking at you anymore—he’s looking at a very interesting corner of the ceiling.

But that blush? That tight grip on his sleeves? The way he’s definitely breathing harder now?

Yeah, you broke him.

He tries to carry on like he’s unaffected. Throws in one more dry jab: “I’m telling Yamaguchi you’ve gone insane.”

But he won’t meet your eyes. He keeps muttering about “immature behavior” while practically vibrating out of his skin.

He lost the argument. You know it. He knows it.

So when he snaps, “Put your shirt down and grow up,” just know: That’s Tsukishima language for “you win, but I’ll die before I admit it.”

SUNA RINTARO

You’re arguing. Not just snapping at each other—arguing. There’s fire in your voice, and he’s got that annoying little tilt to his head, hands in his pockets, barely blinking as he listens to your rant.

“Oh, so now you’re just gonna stand there and act like it’s all my fault?!” You’re fuming. Genuinely ready to throw a pillow at him.

But Suna just yawns. “I mean… I wasn’t not listening. I just stopped caring halfway.”

(OK LMAO WHY DID THAT SOUND TOXIC...)

You snap.

So you do the most unhinged thing you can think of—flash him mid-fight.

Shirt up.Boom.Zero hesitation.

Pause.

His reaction? A slow blink. A low whistle. That familiar smirk curling on his lips.

“…Seriously?” he says, and it’s not judging—it’s amused. It’s interested.

He leans against the nearest wall like he’s front-row at a private concert.

“Didn’t think the argument was going that badly,” he adds, eyes dragging all the way down and back up with no shame. “But hey, I’m not complaining.”

You meant to throw him off. Instead, he’s thriving.

And then—he flips it on you.

Takes one confident step forward and murmurs, “Gonna do that every time we fight? ‘Cause I could start more arguments if you want.”

Now you’re the flustered one.

He tilts his head, smile lazy, watching you struggle for words. “Oh? You mad? Still mad? Or did you forget?”

He’s the type to walk past you, tap your chin with a finger, and say, “Thanks for the view, though. 10/10—argument over.”

You were trying to win. He just walked away with your dignity and a mental screenshot.

KITA SHINSUKE

The argument had been quiet but firm—just like him. No yelling, no dramatics, just clipped words, heavy sighs, and that disappointed tone he uses when he’s really not mad, just… tired.

“You could’ve handled that better,” he says, standing by the doorway with arms crossed.

“And you could stop acting like I messed up everything!” you shoot back, arms thrown wide.

It’s tense. Not explosive—just sharp. Cold air between you.

You huff. Your face is warm with frustration. And without thinking—you do it.

You lift your shirt mid-rant. No warning. No explanation. Just—bam.

Silence.

Kita blinks once. Twice.

And then—a tiny noise leaves his throat. A tiny startled sound like a hiccup that should not be as adorable as it is.

His ears go pink instantly. His back stiffens like someone hit pause on a statue.

“…Please put your shirt down,” he says, voice calm but clearly struggling. “That’s not… appropriate.” He’s looking everywhere but at you—at the floor, at the clock, at a nearby plant for some reason.

He clears his throat. Adjusts his shirt. Mutters something under his breath about “minding his manners” and “this not being the time.” But his voice is a little shaky. His fingers fidget at the hem of his own shirt.

He’s not yelling. He’s not falling apart. But he is absolutely short-circuiting inside.

You swear you catch him blinking rapidly, like he’s forcing his brain to reboot without making it obvious. One deep breath later, he finally meets your eyes—and it takes every ounce of strength in his being.

“…We’re not done talking,” he says, and it would be intimidating—if not for the way his neck is still tinted red like sunset light creeping across his skin.

And when he walks away? It’s fast. Awkward. Like he’s running from temptation in the name of discipline.

You giggle. He definitely hears it.

From the other room, you hear a quiet, flustered “…Ain’t fair at all.”

KENMA KOZUME

You’re pissed. You’ve been talking for like ten minutes. Kenma? Half-listening at best. One earbud in, eyes flicking toward his phone every few seconds, thumbs still tapping the screen mid-fight.

“Are you seriously playing right now?” “I am listening,” he mutters, not looking up.

Spoiler: he is not listening.

“You don’t pay attention to anything I say anymore!” “I do. You said—uh…”

He trails off, squinting like he’s buffering the last ten minutes of your rant.

You snap.

You say nothing. You just—lift your shirt. Out of nowhere. No warning. Boom. Unhinged main character moment.

Silence.

His head shoots up like you just pulled the fire alarm.

His game drops. Literally. Phone slips from his hands and hits the blanket. His eyes go wide—wider than when he misclicks in the middle of a clutch match.

“…What the hell are you doing,” he says, but it comes out way too soft.

He's blinking like you just jump-scared him. The flush creeps up his neck like betrayal. His voice cracks: “That’s not—You can’t just do that in the middle of an argument!”

He grabs a nearby pillow and holds it up like a shield, physically tilting away from you like proximity is making him combust. “I was paying attention!” (blondie stop lying rn)

His hoodie is now halfway over his head. His fingers are twitching like he doesn’t know where to put them. His mouth opens like he wants to keep arguing—closes again when his brain short-circuits.

“Are you even taking this seriously?” he huffs, refusing to meet your eyes, cheeks boiling.

You shrug, smug as ever. “I mean… now I have your attention.”

He groans, collapsing into the couch with a dramatic sigh, burying his face like he wishes he could respawn in another room.

Later that night, he’s still red. Still pouting. And now? Oh, he’s paying attention very closely.

SHOYO HINATA

It started over something so dumb.

"You weren’t even listening to me, Shoyo!" "I was! You said something about—uh—laundry and… cat food?"

You don’t even have a cat.

"SEE?! You weren't paying attention again!" "I—Okay, maybe I zoned out a little! But that’s because you talk kinda fast sometimes!"

That just made it worse.

You’re both fired up. You’re standing your ground, and Hinata’s pacing in little angry circles like an offended golden retriever, cheeks already a little pink—not from embarrassment yet, but from the sheer emotional overload of arguing with someone he really doesn’t want to fight with.

And then—mid-sentence, mid-pacing, mid-life—

You lift your shirt.

Not sexy. Not teasing. Just blam. The most unserious, chaotic flash in the middle of a full-on emotional rant.

Immediate silence.

He freezes in place like someone yanked the batteries out of him. You swear you can hear the error message in his brain.

“W-WHA—?! W-WHAT—WHAT ARE YOU—?!”

His hands fly to his face so fast it’s like muscle memory. He looks like he just witnessed a glitch in the simulation.

“I WAS TRYING TO BE SERIOUS!!” he squeaks. “Y-YOU CAN’T JUST—!! That’s—That’s ILLEGAL!!”

He can’t look at you. He’s peeking through his fingers like you’re the sun. Then he turns around, still red as a chili pepper, mumbling things like:

“Y-You’re evil…” “That’s not even fair…” “I think I forgot how to breathe…”

Now he’s hiding behind a couch cushion, his argument forgotten, his dignity obliterated. He’s crouched on the floor muttering, “You can’t use your shirt like a weapon!”

Meanwhile, you’re just standing there. Calm. Smug. Argument won. Mission accomplished.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

The argument was steady. Measured. Like a volleyball rally that just wouldn't end.

"I just feel like you don’t get what I’m trying to say sometimes!" "I am listening. I just… do not understand why you're upset."

Classic Ushijima. Calm, straightforward, and totally missing the emotional context. You were spiraling. He was blinking slowly.

And it was driving you insane.

So, naturally, you made a choice. A powerful, chaotic, absolutely uncalled-for choice.

You lifted your shirt.

Mid-lecture. Mid-eye roll. No hesitation.

Silence. He just… stared.

Not in a pervy way—more like a caveman discovering fire for the first time. His brows furrow. His eyes go slightly wide. You can practically see the gears grinding in his head.

"…Why… did you do that?"

There’s zero panic in his voice. Just confusion. Like you’ve thrown a completely unrelated plot twist into a very serious documentary.

You try not to laugh as he stands there, blinking like an emotionally repressed NPC trying to figure out what facial expression to make. Then—slightly—his ears turn pink.

"I am still not sure what point you're making," he mutters. "But I… cannot look at you right now."

He turns around slowly. Stiffly. Like his operating system is updating. "…That was… distracting."

He’s flustered, but he’s too logical to know how to handle it. So now he's just awkwardly staring at the wall, as if it holds the answers to why you are the way you are.

The argument? Gone. Left the planet.

Now he's just standing there, arms crossed, back turned, muttering,

"You startled me." "I think we need to return to the topic once you are… dressed again."

Congratulations. You confused the strongest man alive into surrender.

BOKUTO KOTAROU

It had started as a small disagreement. But with Bokuto, everything feels big.

You hadn’t meant to upset him. You just pointed something out—a little jab, a comment, a joke, maybe—and suddenly his smile had dimmed.

Now he was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, eyebrows scrunched, pout forming like a storm cloud.

"So… you do think I’m annoying sometimes."

He looked genuinely hurt. The worst part? His hair was a little droopy. His voice was quieter. You’d poked at something sensitive without meaning to, and now guilt was creeping in like a wave.

You panicked.

And when in doubt?

You did the dumbest thing possible.

You flashed him.

Mid-sulk. Mid-emotional spiral. Mid-“I guess I’ll just be quiet then…”

You lifted your shirt with all the grace of a gremlin and just—boom. Chaos deployed.

Silence. Bokuto blinked.

His mouth dropped open, eyes huge and completely stunned.

"Wha—WHAT?!"

His entire face went red in 0.3 seconds. He staggered back like he’d just been physically hit by your existence.

"WH—YOU—WAIT—"

Now he’s flailing. He nearly trips over his own foot, arms waving like he’s trying to land a plane.

"THAT’S NOT FAIR!! I WAS BEING SAD!!"

You're biting back laughter, guilt already shrinking under the pure shock on his face.

"YOU CAN’T JUST FLASH ME TO WIN!!"

He’s yelling but he’s smiling now—wide, flustered, and trying so hard to stay upset. But it’s gone. The pout? Obliterated. The sadness? Vaporized.

Now he's hiding behind his hands, peeking through his fingers like a broken vending machine.

"You're EVIL!!" "I CAN’T EVEN BE MAD ANYMORE!!"

He whines but scoots closer anyway, tugging your shirt back down like it’ll protect his poor soul. You wrap your arms around him in apology and he hugs back so tight you can barely breathe.

You whisper, “Still annoyed?” And he mumbles into your neck, voice high and muffled:

“I was gonna cry, you know.” “Now I’m just embarrassed and in love.”

Argument? What argument?

SUGAWARA KOUSHI

He was trying to stay calm. Trying really, really hard.

The two of you were mid-argument—well, more like a debate with attitude. Suga had that signature teacher-tone on, arms crossed, eyebrows lifted, trying to keep his voice level like some kind of saint.

"I’m not upset. I just think you’re being immature."

He’d said it with the most composed, reasonable expression. Like you were in class and he was trying not to give you detention. Meanwhile, you were pacing, fired up, throwing your hands around.

And he was standing there. Calm. Controlled. Saint-like. But you knew that twitch in his brow. That tiny sigh through his nose. Suga was clinging to composure by a thread.

So you did what any chaos gremlin would do when logic fails.

You lifted your shirt.

Mid-rant. Mid-lesson. Mid-his Saint Sugawara Mode.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

"…Wha—what are you—"

His words hit the wall. The man who had just been giving you a full grown-up lecture was now short-circuiting like someone had just unplugged and replugged his soul.

"I—wha—wait a second!!"

Now he’s covering his face with both hands, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks as his calm facade disintegrates.

"You—that’s cheating!!"

His voice cracks so hard you swear a window somewhere just shattered. He tries to act unbothered for a millisecond longer, peeking between his fingers like a scandalized old lady.

"I was winning that argument!" "You can’t just throw your shirt into the mix and expect me to—"

He pauses. Chokes a little. Then finally throws his hands in the air with a dramatic sigh.

"Okay. You win. Whatever. I surrender. I’m too pretty for this kind of emotional warfare."

He turns around like he’s gonna go pace dramatically but ends up just bumping into the wall and standing there, flustered and quietly panicking.

"I need a second. Or a nap. Or… maybe an ice bath."

You giggle. He groans. You walk over. He melts the second you hug him.

"I hate how well that worked," he mumbles, red to his ears.

But he’s smiling now, hands on your waist, forehead resting against yours.

Argument: forgotten. Victory: yours. Suga’s composure: rest in peace.

might do a second part since this request definitely amused me hihi

[reidsism]

➳ DON’T WORRY — S.R

to nav 𓇙 to s.r mlist

spencer reid x fem!reader

in which spencer is having a tough time, and penelope garcia decides to take matters into her own hands, by sending him on a blind date

wc: 3.3k

warnings: none, just wine! all fluff and awkwardness and a shy blind date that’s not really a date but definitely feels like one (also my overabundance of italics)

a/n: my first spencer fic omg hi!!! pls go easy on me, i haven’t written in like three years and im still only on s9 of cm :,) also not beta’d lol

Spencer’s in a slump. He can’t deny it, even with the forced smiles and the constant “I’m fine”s to the team, day after day.

He knows the lack of sleep has manifested itself in his appearance—his undereyes are so dark he looks like he’s been punched, his hair is more unruly than usual, his clothes are rumpled. He’s even been having trouble focusing.  Stumbling over his words. Mixing up numbers when he rambles, which isn’t even all that often anymore.

He knows the team’s been concerned, too.

Hotch has been glancing at him more during briefings and keeping an eye on him when on cases.

Frankly, Spencer’s getting a bit annoyed by it all.

And then, when he’s staring through the report on his desk, Penelope strolls into the bullpen like a woman on a mission, planting herself next to him, her hands on her hips with a wide grin.

Spencer sighs. “Garcia—”

She interrupts him. “I have a proposal for you.” She’s not hiding her excitement well; her legs are jumpy, her heels stuttering in place on the linoleum where she stands, and she’s even slightly shaking, positively vibrating with eagerness. Spencer holds in a groan. “I feel like the Good Doctor needs a bit of a pick-me-up. So, I’ve done what I do, and made some calls, and oh,” she grins impossibly wider. “Long story short, you have a date!”

Spencer blanches. “What…?”

Garcia just nods. “I set up a reservation for you two at Gianni’s—it’s this totally adorable little Italian place, you’ll love it.”

He can’t quite make out the rest of her rambling. He feels like his hearing is going again, like his headaches have come back full-force. He coughs, successfully ending Garcia’s rant. She just looks at him, a flicker of worry crossing her bright features before she sighs, taking a seat on the corner of his desk. She sets a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Spencer, you can’t lie to me, like, at all. I know you,” she wiggles his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “You’re, well… you’re struggling. We can see it, and, hey,” she leans down to smile softly, more reassuring. “You don’t need to treat it like a date if you don’t want to. I just know someone who I think you’ll click with, and I think it’ll be fun. Y’know, to let loose for a bit? Eat some good food, drink some good wine, have a fun, not death-slash-kidnapping-slash-totally-terrible-things-based conversation? I mean, honestly, Reid, when’s the last time you had a normal conversation with someone outside of us?”

And, well… that makes Spencer pause. He thinks—really, genuinely thinks. About two weeks and four days ago, he made a call to a semi-local bookstore to see if they had a first-edition copy of The Outsider by HP Lovecraft in stock. (They didn’t.)

Since then, cases have taken up most of his time. He mostly spends his days working on cases at the BAU or reviewing the files at home.

Garcia knows she has him beat when Spencer hangs his head. She grins and claps her hands like she’s won a prize. “Yay! So, head home before it’s dark out, yeah? I’ll text you the details! It’ll be fun, don’t even worry about it!” She grins before heading back to her office down the hall, and Spencer sighs, putting his head onto his desk.

***

Spencer stands outside of the restaurant for, probably, longer than socially acceptable. He really would’ve rather not come, but then he started feeling guilty. He didn’t want to hurt Garcia’s feelings by refusing her, and he didn’t want to potentially hurt whoever she had set up to meet him by standing them up, even if he had no idea who they were.

The sign over the door says Gianni’s in blinking red neon, and he thinks the establishment seems… painfully fine, from his view into the windows. It’s not overly fancy, not exactly the vibe of a romantic first date. He mentally thanks Garcia for that.

He wrings his hands one final time before pulling open the glass door and stepping inside.

The hostess smiles brightly at him. “Hi! Welcome to Gianni’s,” she glances around him for a moment. “Party of one?” The smile turns to pity.

Spencer purses his lips in a tiny smile. “Uh, no. I have a reservation actually, under, uh…” he blinks. “Under Garcia?”

God, this is awkward. Spencer nibbles on his lower lip, glancing around the room as the hostess takes a look at the book beside the register. She nods. “Of course, sir. Right this way,” she grins, leading him to the back of the dining room, to a small table nestled in the corner right beside a huge window, the lights of the city nightlife shining through the glass.

He takes a seat with a small smile. The hostess says she’ll have someone over to take care of him shortly, and Spencer just nods before looking outside. It’s started to rain slowly tonight, small round droplets pattering the concrete sidewalk. He follows the lines they leave on the glass like a lure.

When the waitress comes over, she simply introduces herself—Sasha. She says she’ll come back once he’s settled, before leaving two laminated menus on the table and, strangely, taking the wine menu with her.

Spencer starts skimming over the menu, lower lip locked between his teeth. He worries the corner of the laminate between his fingers. Why is he so nervous? It’s not like this is a real date, after all, Garcia even told him it would just be something casual for him to get his mind off of work for a while. But he can’t help the strange stuttering in his chest when he thinks about it, meeting someone he doesn’t know for dinner. It’s not that he’s worried, no, he trusts Garcia. Even if her methods are, well, blunt, he knows that she knows him well enough not to drop a bomb on his lap in the form of a conversation partner.

He’s lost staring through the laminated cover of the menu when he hears footsteps nearing his little alcove in the corner. He glances up, and, well. Is it dramatic to say his breath catches? He’ll deny it if—or rather, when—Garcia asks.

You’re standing with a slightly nervous smile, the remnants of small raindrops clinging to your hair, with wet streaks shining on your skin. You wave shyly at him. “Hi, uh, are you Spencer?”

Spencer’s standing before you can even finish speaking, the chair scraping against the hardwood. He cringes. “Yeah- yes. Hi,” he smiles. 

You extend your hand to shake before pulling it away quickly. He frowns. “Penelope mentioned you don’t really do handshakes,” you chuckle. “Can I sit?” You point at the chair across from him. Spencer nods, sitting back down in his seat, watching as you shed your coat and hang it on the back of the chair, before taking a seat across from him. You smile at him, introducing yourself. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long? I didn’t expect the rain to hit when it did, and I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Spencer shakes his head with a small laugh; just the barest exhale from his nose. “Uh, no, don’t worry. I just got here. And I didn’t bring an umbrella either, so,” he grins back at you. “Don’t worry.”

“You said that twice,” you grin, all teeth. Spencer can feel the warmth flush his neck. “Don’t worry,” you echo. “Maybe the rain’ll let up by the time we leave.” You pick up the other menu, so casual, and Spencer watches you like a creature he’s never seen before.

His phone buzzes from its place on the table. You don’t look up from your menu, but Spencer can see a faint smirk on your face with a hint of mischief or mirth in your eyes. He scrambles to look at the screen, only to be met with a text from Garcia.

PG: Is she there yet? Call her pretty! And don’t forget to smile! You’ll be fine, Einstein <3

Spencer sighs, turning his phone off and tucking it into his messenger bag, hanging off the back of his seat. He murmurs a small apology, and you simply shake your head before lowering the menu. “Was it Pen?�� At his guilty look, you grin and shake your head. “She was badgering me, too. Don’t worry.”

Spencer can't hold back his tiny smile. “We’re saying that a lot.” You just laugh. Any tension that might’ve lingered over the evening seems to dissipate into thin air.

It doesn’t take long for the waitress, Sasha, to return to the table, this time carrying a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of wine sticking out of the top.  Spencer’s eyes widen comically, and you can only laugh as Sasha sets the bucket down. “A 2003 Pinot Gris,” she explains as she takes the bottle out and begins to fill both your glasses.

“I- I didn’t order any wine,” Spencer says, a strange, pathetic tinge to his voice as he helplessly watches his glass get filled. He hopes it’s not too expensive.

Sasha shakes her head. “It was requested when the reservation was made. Miss Garcia said she had your bill covered tonight.” She places the open bottle back into the bucket, the ice shifting around it. “So don’t worry. I’ll be back in a moment to take your orders,” she winks before stalking off.

You both stare at each other for a breath. The silence is broken with your contagious laughter, picking up your glass and raising it for a toast. “Well then. To Pen!”

Spencer grins, slowly raising his glass to gently clink it against yours. “To Garcia.”

Conversation flows naturally, more easily than Spencer had expected. Even when he went on an unintentional ramble about how fettuccine alfredo isn't really Italian, and how the word “pesto” literally means “to crush”, and how Pinot Gris is a French wine, not Italian like Pinot Grigio, even though they’re basically the same thing, and how a wine like this tends to pair well with pasta because of its dry, acidic profile that can cut through thick, creamy sauces.

When Spencer cut himself off to take a full, proper breath, he freezes. You have the sweetest smile on your face, your head resting on your hand like you’re really listening, like you’re actually interested in his long, unnecessary rambling. He takes a gulp of his wine and cringes. God, he hates wine.

When the food gets to the table, you grin at him. “I thought fettuccine alfredo wasn’t really Italian?” It’s a tease, yes, but Spencer doesn’t hear a trace of malice in your voice.

He shrugs, twirling some onto his fork. “I mean, it was technically invented in Rome, but it’s not the same. This version of fettuccine alfredo is an Americanized recreation from 1920s Hollywood,” he says, taking a bite. “Still, that doesn’t mean it’s not good.”

You chuckle, taking a bite of your own food. You grin at each other across the table like teenagers with a secret. It’s nice. Comfortable.

“So,” you start, pouring the last bit of wine, splitting the amount between your glass and his. “Aside from your impressive knowledge of the wine menu, what do you do when you’re not reading about Italian cuisine?”

Spencer shrugs, setting his fork down. “I, uh, I read. A lot.”

You smile. “Yeah, you seem like a reader. Anything that’s not like, work or Italian food-related, though? I’m sure you have hobbies outside of… well, the obvious.”

He nods. “I guess. I’m kind of a nerd about a lot of things, honestly. Not that that’s a hobby,” Spencer clarifies, his shoulders relaxing at your chuckle. “I’m really into old, out-of-print books. You know, the ones that—”

“The ones that cost a small fortune and have that weird, dusty smell?” You cut in, simpering. Your eyes crinkle. Spencer finds it painfully sweet.

He smiles. “Exactly,” he exhales a laugh before taking a sip of his wine. “I like to collect them. It’s kind of… calming, I guess.”

“That’s really cool,” you grin. “Y’know, I used to be super into photography when I was younger. Like, just… taking random pictures of random things.”

Spencer tilts his head. “Really? Like a hobby, or—?”

“No, no,” you laugh. “Just random moments. Sometimes the best things happen when you’re not looking, y’know?” And if there’s a part of Spencer’s heart that flutters in understanding, that whispers “you, you, you,” like an echo in his chest? Well, that’s between him and his internal organs. “Anyway, I haven’t even touched a camera in years.” 

“Why not?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. Life got busy, and now it just feels kind of silly to start again. I do kind of miss it, though, I guess. The idea of capturing something, like… pure. Unfiltered? That’s still pretty appealing.”

Spencer smiles softly. “Don’t worry,” and oh, there’s a warmth in his gut that has nothing to do with the wine. “You still have time.”

“You think so?” There’s a far-off, wistful look of something not unlike hope that swims in your eyes.

He nods, and Spencer wonders if it’s too early to consider buying you a gift.

By the time you’re done, you’ve shared a small plate of tiramisu between you both. The rain outside the window hasn’t let up; if anything, it looks like it’s only coming down harder now. You and Spencer are still mindlessly chatting as you stand, and he helps you put your coat on. You look back at him and smile like a fool.

You walk outside the restaurant, and Spencer stops at the hostess’ station at the front, slipping a fifty to Sasha, and smiling softly as she balks.

The rain is pouring. You groan, “I took the metro here,” you say, raising your voice over the sounds of fat droplets hitting the sidewalk.

Spencer nods, tugging his coat tighter around himself. “Me too,” he glances towards the street. “We can get a cab?”

You nod, watching as he rushes into the rain, out from the cover of the awning, to wave down one of the yellow cars driving past. He beckons you over as one slows to a stop at the side of the road.

You follow Spencer, sliding into the backseat behind him and sitting beside him as the driver turns. “Where to?”

Spencer clears his throat. “Uh, two stops, if that’s alright?” The driver simply nods, and you tell him your address, a faint nervous tremble in your voice.

The ride to your apartment is almost silent, save for quiet murmuring from the backseat. Like you two can’t help the conversation, like you can’t bear not talking to each other for even five minutes.

When the cab pulls up to your apartment complex, you grin at Spencer, about to speak, when he climbs out of the car behind you. He mutters to the driver that he’ll only take a minute. “What’re you doing?” you ask, looking up at him in confusion.

Spencer shrugs, leading you to the doorway to the building. “I wouldn’t be a very good date if I left you to walk to your door alone.” He says it so simply, so easily, it almost shakes him. He can’t believe how nervous he was, not that long ago, refusing to even think of this dinner as anything more than a way to get his mind off work.

You grin widely up at him, letting yourself inside and holding the door open for him. “I suppose you’re right,” you lead him to the elevator. “You wouldn’t be a very good date. But I wouldn’t hold it against you,” you tease, pressing the button for your floor—eight. Spencer tucks that information away. “Don’t worry.”

You wink, and Spencer can’t hold back his soft laughter. He’s quiet on the elevator ride, too busy just looking at you. You’ve managed to shatter every one of his expectations and preconceived notions in no more than a couple of hours. It’s strange, but welcome. You’re welcome, now. Always.

When the elevator opens, and you lead the way to your apartment door, you turn around to face him fully. “Thank you,” you smile softly, looking up at him. “I had a really good evening, Spencer. Thanks for not running off.”

He purses his lips, smiling back at you. “I had a really good evening, too.” His hands start to wring again. “And, I wouldn’t have run off. Don’t worry.”

You chuckle, a glint in your eyes. “Well, still. Thanks. For the company, tonight. And the conversation. And all of the new facts I’ve just learned about Italian cuisine.”

Spencer blushes. He shrugs, his hands moving to clutch at the strap of his messenger bag. “Glad to provide newfound knowledge, then,” he chuckles.

And before he can overthink it or second-guess himself, Spencer bends slightly, pressing a soft, feather-light kiss to your cheek. Your eyes go wide for just a moment before warmth floods your cheeks, and a grin that surpasses even sunshine itself takes over your face. You inhale shakily and unlock your door. You keep your eyes on Spencer as you step inside. “Thanks again,” you breathe. “I’ll um, I’ll text you?”

Spencer nods before beginning to walk backwards toward the elevator. He wishes you a good night and watches you slowly close your door.

He doesn’t step onto the elevator until he hears your door lock, and then he’s rushing back outside, into the pouring monsoon, before throwing himself into the backseat of the taxi.

The driver just laughs at him, at his cheeks all blotchy and red. Spencer clears his throat and awkwardly gives him his address.

He’s inside his apartment and toeing off his shoes when he realizes he never got your number.

Spencer freezes. He yanks his phone out of his bag with all the decorum of a deer in the road, and notices the abundance of missed texts from Garcia.

PG: How’s dinner going?? Is it awkward??? Did you say anything weird yet????

PG: Guess things are going well!! Don’t worry about the bill, it’s on me!!

PG: And DON'T COMPLAIN ABOUT THE WINE!!!!!!!

PG: Oh I’m SO excited to see your face tomorrow, Reid! I told you this was a good idea!

PG: Here’s her number, in case you were too stunned and totally in love with her to ask for it ;)

Spencer sighs, grateful for the inclusion of your number that saves him the awkward embarrassment of asking for it. He can’t keep the smile off his face as he adds it to his contacts, and types out a quick message. He sends it before he can talk himself out of it, and leaves his phone on the couch as he heads into his room to change.

Spencer: Hi, this is Spencer. Have a good night, and thanks again for dinner! It was really enjoyable. Hope you don’t mind me getting your number from Garcia, I only just noticed we hadn’t exchanged contact info :)

If Garcia ever asked, Spencer would deny it, but he runs out of his bedroom with his shirt still in his hand when he hears his phone buzz on the couch.

You: hey spencer! you have a good night too, dinner was super fun. you’re a fun conversationalist. and if you hadn’t gotten my number from pen, i would’ve asked her for yours, so don’t worry :)

He grins down at his phone before turning it off and pulling his shirt on. He brushes his teeth with a smile on his lips, crawls into bed with his face sore and his cheeks cramping, and begins to fall asleep to the sound of heavy rain pattering on his window.

It’s not until he’s curled up between the sheets, half asleep, that he realizes he hasn’t thought about work or cases all night.

Well then. Thank you, Penelope Garcia.

[din-skywalker]

The Maid and the Dragon

Tags: Sylus, MC, Sylus/MC, Fiend Sylus, Dragon Sylus, Smut, Double Penitration, Maid MC, Commission for a friend, Sylus/Reader, Second POV

Rating: Mature

Summary:

You've been working the dragon Sylus for a short amount of time, and you're already over it.

But damn- why does he have to be so hot?

AO3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63259903

A/N:

this was a commission for a friend........ so it's her fault not mine lol. first time writing sylus but everyone says i did a good job so i'll believe them

in this it is WILLING- NOT dubious consent. sylus can see mc's desires and wouldnt have pushed her into this if she didnt want it. PLEASE DO NOT reblog this as anything but wiling.

DO NOT INTERACT IF YOURE A MINOR.

thanks

You haven't been his maid for long, but you're already sick of it.

You've never worked for someone that is as much of an ass as he is. You can't tell if it's because of the fact he's a dragon, or if that's just his personality. Maybe if he'd been born human, he would show a modicum of empathy or compassion.

You just wanted a safe place to live, with an easy job. Most of the time, being a maid is an easy job. You've worked for two other people in the past- both of which have died since then- and it has been incredibly easy. Then, this ass had to literally swoop in and whisk you away to his cave that's at the top of the mountain.

Ordinarily, you'd be rather upset that you were kidnapped, but at the moment, you can't really bring yourself to care. Sylus is a dragon… a handsome one at that. Living with a dragon is the epitome of safety, especially since you work with him. So your wish for someplace safe to live has been met… it's just that your contractor is not easy to work with.

He's extremely picky with how you clean his ridiculous amount of treasure, and where you place said treasure when you're done with it. He expects you to shine and polish every piece of it, in fact, which is an almost impossible task to complete! He has miles of the stuff, if that were possible, which it must be, because that's the case here!

After you're done cleaning his treasure, he expects you to clean him. And once more, he's extremely picky with how it's done. You have to clean him in one of two forms, in fact. Once in his annoyingly handsome human form, or his much larger, much more annoying dragon form. At least in the human form, you have something nice to look at.

You've never been made to clean your employer before, but he's insistent that you clean him. You have to make sure to do it properly- thoroughly. In his dragon form, you have to crawl all over his giant form, weaving between his limbs and wings and sliding along his tail. He’ll lean his massive head down for you to reach his scaly lips, and then open his jaws, allowing you to brush each of his pointy teeth. It doesn’t feel as intimate because he’s a giant dragon- he’s always naked in this form. It’s nothing different.

In his human form, however, it’s… a lot. A lot more.

The only thing that makes up for living and working with him is the copious amounts of treasure. Piles of gold, bundles of gems, mountains of precious metals. Many times, you can’t help but to pluck up a crystal or pretty necklace and stash it between your breasts. You’re sure he won’t notice a couple of things missing.

You look outside of the cave entrance, cursing when you see the position of the sun. Bath time. You sniff at the air, and when you don’t catch the heavy scent of sulfur, you know he’s in his human form. Great, you have to draw a bath.

By the time you’ve set everything up in the small bathing nook you’d set up- many candles and supplies lining the floor and walls, he’s already stripping behind a thin, cloth wall, moving painfully slowly. While you draw the bath to ensure the water is warm enough for his desires, you watch the silhouette of his form move. You swear he’s going so slow for you to watch, to entice you with the greatest treasure you can’t have; you’re his maid, after all. Sometimes, you think you see the shadow of a.. Second… dick? But no. That’s ridiculous. It’s most likely his tail.

Once he’s undressed, you turn and wait patiently for him to step into the steaming water, sinking into the bubble filled liquid. “You can look now, kitten,” he says. You can hear the amusement in his deep voice.

“Of course, master,” you say, cringing at the last word. He insists on you calling him that, and him calling you kitten. You’re not the biggest fan, but he seems to like watching you squirm whenever you say or hear those two words. You twirl on your feet, the high held skirt of your small maid dress brushing against the tops of your thighs.

This isn’t your first time cleaning him, but… your eyes travel down towards the bubbles, where you know his-

You inwardly shake yourself, and then step towards the edge of the bath. Grabbing a nearby rag and a bar of soap, you lather the damp fabric until bubbles cover its surface. Sylus watches you closely, his long tail draped over one edge of the tub, the tip brushing against the stone ground. His head is leaned back, the steam from the water is already turning his face damp.

Carefully, slowly, lightly- the way he likes it- you begin to drag the rag along his exposed arms. You sit on the edge of the tub, crossing one ankle over the other. You begin to sing softly, since you know how much he likes music, no matter how pathetic it sounds coming from between your lips.

He continues to watch you closely, eyes half lidded as you start on his legs, and finish on his feet. You grab another damp rag and drip a few droplets of lavender oil onto it, shaking it in front of his face so he can draw in a deep breath of the soothing scent. You then wrap it around his eyes, pressing the sides to his temples. You make sure to keep it in place by wrapping one end of it to the other, and then begin to rub soap into his pure white hair, lightly scraping your nails along his scalp.

His head leans back further as you work, fingers tangling in his white strands. Once you’ve finished your ministrations, you tap the side of his neck to let him know you’ve finished. With that signal, he sinks into the water, dunking his head under the surface.

You catch your breath while he’s under, your heart pounding in your chest. You toy with a ring on your finger, looking to the side as he reemerges. Now that you’ve finished, you step aside and keep your back to him as he steps out of the tub. He grabs a nearby towel, quickly drying himself off.

You hear him pulling his pants on, and let out a small sigh. Okay, time to return to your cleaning duties-

You let out a yelp when his tail suddenly wraps around your waist, tugging you back to him. Your back hits his chest with a small thump, and you grunt, the skirt of your dress brushing against your thighs lightly. He leans in closer, his hot breath tickling the side of your neck.

“I didn’t say you were finished cleaning, did I?” he asks, his voice a rough timber in your ear. You shudder, heat gathering in the pit of your stomach. His earlier teasing comes back to you; the feeling of his tail tip tickling your pussy lips through the bottom of your undergarments, his clawed hand grabbing your ass tightly, and the sight of how hard he is through his tight, leather pants. “You still have two more things to clean, little maid.”

You feel your eyes widen, and your cheeks flushing a bright red. “Pardon me, master?” you ask aloud. He chuckles, all buttery smooth. You hate how even his laughter is extremely sexy. It’s entirely not fair to your prospects.

Suddenly, Sylus twists you around so you’re facing him. His tail remains wrapped tightly around your waist, but you can feel the tip of it traveling further up your legs, just like it had before. You bite down on your tongue, and allow him to move your hand as he pleases. He guides it to the bulge in his pants, and your eyes screw shut tightly when you feel not one, but two hard ons. He has two dicks?

You swallow heavily, your heart racing in the back of your throat as he uses his other hand to lightly grasp your chin, tilting your head backwards. “I want to see your pretty eyes, kitten," Sylus murmurs, breath mingling with yours. You slowly peel your eyes open, and your gaze locks with his. He smirks, thumb brushing against the side of your chin gently. “There are those pretty emeralds…”

The sound of his scales rubbing together reaches your ears as he constricts it around you tighter, almost squeezing the air from your lungs. “I know you’ve been stealing from me,” he whispers, voice dropping several octaves. Your heart skips a beat, and you feel your palms start to sweat, one on top of his dicks, the other hanging uselessly at your side. He smirks at you, the firelight nearby reflecting off of his bright eyes. He tilts his head to the side, an eyebrow quirked. “Did you really think a dragon wouldn’t notice his own hoard missing treasures?”

You open and close your mouth several times, “I can explain-”

“I don’t want you to,” he says, shaking his head, eyelids drooping. He leans in closer, lips hovering just an inch or two from your own. “I just want you to be a good girl and accept your punishment… now take my pants off, and clean the rest of me.”

Had he seriously put his pants on after a bath just so you could strip him yourself? You almost scoff at the absurdity of it. But when you catch him watching you expectantly, your breath catches, and your stomach fills with butterflies. You should have known you’d eventually be caught taking more and more of his treasures. You’d gotten too greedy- not that he minds, most likely. Human greed is a delectable flavor on top of his sharp tongue. “I’m being punished?” you ask meekly, your voice a high pitched squeak. He grins down at you, all sharp teeth and malicious glee.

“You are,” he rumbles out, tail squeezing ever tighter. “Now get to work.”

Taking steadying breaths, you begin to move. Sylus slowly releases your chin, but he doesn’t unravel his tail from your waist. Instead, he loosens it, allowing you to have better ability to move. You kneel downwards, reaching up to grab the hem of his pants. He stares down at you, watching you closely with his head tilted. This isn’t going to be your first time seeing him naked, not even close- but this will certainly be your first time seeing his cock- ahem, cocks. You wet your lip and begin to pull his pants downwards, hearing how it rubs against his skin. You can see some of his draconic scales covering the sides of his thighs the further down you go.

You glance up midway down, feeling the blood drain from your face when you see them.

His two cocks- both huge and long. They’re not yet fully erect, but they’re not shyly hanging, either. You can see the veins pulsing on both, and the same shade of red on their tips. You swallow once more, your heart rate picking up. They’re thicker than a rod, but not so terribly thick you couldn’t wrap your hands around them. They look as if they’re the perfect size for you to hold onto and stroke.

Dear god, you may just faint then and there. You’ve seen another client’s dick in the past, but they never looked like this, nevermind the fact there are two, and that they have ridges on their shafts. They look like small, edged bumps, and you could just imagine how they’d feel rubbing against your walls. You feel dizzy, and close your eyes to urge those thoughts away. You need to clean.

Wetting your lips, you take the pants off the rest of the way, waiting for him to step out of them before you toss it aside. Then, you reach for the nearby bucket of water, dipping a rag into the warm liquid. You can feel him staring down at you, watching you. He’s probably trying to get some kind of rise out of you. If this had happened just a few days ago when you had first begun working for him, it would have for sure. But now that you’ve grown more used to his shenanigans, and seeing him naked, you aren’t as shocked.

Reaching up, you grasp the top dick first, feeling the way his tail subtly tightens around your waist at your touch. You draw in a deep breath and try not to think too hard about what you’re currently holding- because if you did, you’d probably end up melting into a puddle. You’ve seen this man naked, and now you’re seeing his dicks. Touching his dicks. Cleaning his dicks.

You feel lightheaded. You’d dreamed of something like this, but you never thought it would actually happen. Your heart is racing, your mouth going dry.

With your other hand, you bring up the soaked rag. He’s still watching you, his hands propped on his hips, claws very slightly digging into his skin as you begin to carefully clean the shaft of his first cock.

You move the long length with your other hand as you need to, your fingers curling around it, rubbing against it with each movement. You feel him tense under your touch. You’re lightheaded at the point you move onto his second dick, holding the first one up for better access. Water trickles down the sides of both, dripping onto the floor with audible plops. It’s gotten so quiet you can hear each one hit the stone floor, and the way Sylus’ breath has started to pick up speed. His dick is slowly hardening in your hand, and you close your eyes for a moment, and finally finish cleaning it.

“I’m finished, master,” you say with relief, tossing the rag back into the bucket. You move to stand, but Sylus’ tail tightens further, holding you in place. You look up at him with confusion, breath catching when you see the lust gleaming in his red eyes.

“You’re not finished,” he says, voice sharp, breathing heavy. His chest heaves as he reaches down, grabbing your cheeks with one hand. He presses inwards, against your jaws. Your eyes widen as he forces your mouth to open wide, the grip bruising. He then gestures at both of his dicks with his free hand, an expectant smirk on his face. “Use your tongue.”

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

You feel your own breathing becoming fast, and before you know it, you’re leaning forward, unable to resist any longer. You’ve thought about this for days since he’d first hired you. You’d wondered how he’d feel in your mouth, how hard he could become, what he’d taste like.

You open your mouth wider, your tongue sliding out. You place your face next to his first dick and drag your tongue along its side. He tenses further, and as you lick up the length of it, all the way to its tip, his hand lands on your head, fingers tangling in your hair, claws scraping across your scalp. You close your eyes at the sharp pain from those claws, but you don’t mind a bit. In fact, it eggs you on. You swirl your tongue along the tip, one of your hands coming up to the second. You cup his lower shaft, grabbing onto it tightly. He gasps sharply, and when you glance up at his face, you can see that his eyes have closed. His tail curls tighter around you, his scales grinding, your ribs creaking. You draw in a sharp breath and press your lips against the tip, your fingers tracing the tip of the lower one.

You can see his eyelashes fluttering, and you can almost see the steam puffing out from his lips. It makes your pussy throb, and it gives you further confidence to go further.

You open your mouth wider, and obediently take his upper cock into your mouth. You start at the very tip, closing your eyes so you can focus on all of the sensations. You begin to inch forward, opening your jaws more and more as you take more and more of him in. He grunts, claws biting into your scalp as his hips jerk, trying to keep himself from thrusting yet. You wouldn’t mind if he did; you could handle it. You need to let him know that. You want him to know that. You’re his maid, after all.

Without warning, you press forward further, causing him to moan. You move your tongue along the bottom of his dick, and make sure to press harder against his lower tip; the combined sensations cause him to finally thrust, further jamming his upper shaft into your mouth. You feel the tip of it brush against the entrance to your throat, and you swallow instinctively, making sure to not bite down or gag. When you swallow around him, he lets out a grunt, his other hand tangling into your hair, tugging your hair as he pushes you closer to his pelvis. You continue to suck on it, only pausing when he thrusts, when you have to open your mouth and pull back just a little to breathe, before he tugs your head back into place.

You close your eyes tighter, swallowing as best you can. Your stomach is full of heat, turned on by his demanding touch. Using your hand, you manage to tease the tip of his lower dick, tracing the sides with your fingertips. It’s growing harder under your light touch, and so you grip on it tighter, giving it a light tug as you swallow around his upper shaft once more.

Sylus lets out a low growl and thrusts harder, this time making you choke just a little with surprise. He does so again, and you lean back on instinct, until he holds your head still and in place once more. He continues thrusting, his first dick growing with the hardness, further filling your mouth until you can’t even move your tongue against its bottom anymore. Your eyes sting with the pain of his thrusts, but you can’t help but crave the feeling. Your free hand reaches up, blindly grasping at his hip, nails dragging against his skin, digging in. You feel your nails strain from how hard you grip on, feel the heat and liquidity of his blood wetting your fingertips. He groans once more, and his claws scrape against the hard curve of your scalp and skull.

You wince slightly at the pain, but honestly, it actually feels rather… nice. Grounding, really, while you’re touching all of his two penises.

Suddenly, he seems to lose his balance, because he stumbles forward. You grunt, forced backwards until your back hits the stone bench behind you. Your spine digs into the hard, cold edge of it until you’re arching. Sylus follows your descent, one of his hands reaching out to catch himself on the surface of the bench. He pants heavily, his body shuddering. He looks down at you, his eyes shadowed as he stares at your face, your mouth stuffed full of his upper cock. He groans at the sight, shaking his head, closing his eyes, the image of it burned into his retinas and mind. You smirk as best you can with your current mouthful, despite the pain running up and down your spine from the impact.

Taking you by surprise, Sylus pulls both of his cocks away from you. They’re both standing at full attention now, throbbing and pulsing. You begin to pant as well, your cheeks and lips wet with your own saliva. In the next second, you’re yanked off of the bench by the dragon’s tail. He grabs your hips and turns you around in one motion, bending you forward until your chest and face are on the bench’s surface. You gasp with surprise when you feel his claws on your bare thighs, tracing into them sharply, leaving thin, red trails on your skin. You shudder, letting out a small, pleased noise.

He pushes the skirt of your maid’s dress up, and then grabs your underwear. Your eyes widen at the sudden actions, and you shift under his hands, your cheeks hot like molten lava. He yanks the skirt downwards, and you know he can see how wet you already are. You’re throbbing, needing some kind of stimulation, some kind of attention. You want his dicks inside of you. You hear him chuckle, one of his hands tracing up the side of your waist and ribs, cupping your breast through the fabric as he leans forward. Your breaths stutter, eyes closing as goosebumps raise along your skin. His touch is so gentle, so light, it’s almost addictive. His teeth sink into the side of your neck, causing you to choke on air. His other hand cups the curve of your bare ass, gripping the plumpness tightly.

“You’re already so wet, kitten,” he whispers into your ear, dragging his tongue along your neck. You whine softly, and he nips at the shell of your ear. “You’ve been good and cleaned me rather well… I suppose now you deserve a reward. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Before you can muster an answer, his hand moves from your ass and in between your thighs. You breathe heavily, nodding jerkily as his fingers slide between your wet folds, slipping along the smooth insides. Your skin tingles as he finds your clit and begins to rub it teasingly, his two dicks brushing against the side of your thigh. You pant as his rubbing presses down harder, up and down, up and down, side to side, round and round. You moan, legs shaking as he bites down on your neck once more with a small growl. That familiar, pleasant heat courses throughout your stomach and legs, tingling as it goes. You choke on butterflies, eyelashes fluttering.

As you begin to tremble, his warm fingers taking you higher and higher, he shifts against your ass, the hand on your breast disappearing. It finds itself on one of your ass cheeks, tracing the hole. It sends goosebumps up your arms, down your back. It’s almost too much at once when his other hand moves backwards, finding your opening. His claws never cut you once, but the cool smoothness of their surfaces add to the sensations you’re feeling all. His tail uncurls just enough to tease the tip of it along your clit, taking his fingers’ place.

Said fingers tease your two entrances, exploring both, causing both to quiver. Your vagina throbs as he sticks one finger inside, using your own cum to wet it. It slides in with ease, and you can feel it inside, shifting around, feeling your walls. You tremble, crying out as his other finger enters your ass, stretching it out at the same time as your vagina. Is he trying to overwhelm you? Trying to make you pass out? With the added sensation of his tail rubbing against your clit, and his teeth digging into your neck, you’re starting to think he is.

You shout out with the overstimulation of it all, hands flying forward. You grab at the opposite edge of the bench, the coldness of it biting into your hot, sweaty palms as he slides a second finger inside of you. He’s still circling your anus, slowly stretching it, as it needs a bit more convincing than your vagina. But eventually, he plunges a finger into it, using it to stretch it out further. You claw at the bench, resting your forehead against the stone, your heavy breaths fogging the reflective surface.

And then finally, finally, after an eternity of fingering you, he finally removes his fingers with wet squelches. You use the opportunity to catch your breath, before you’re crying out once more; he’s stuck one of his dicks into your wet pussy, instantly stretching it out further than before. You gasp for air, nails cracking on the stone bench, fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. He presses to the side of your neck, carefully sliding in, not going too fast to keep from hurting you, but also not going necessarily slow. He’s hungry for this- you can tell by the pace he’s taking. You have that same hunger, and the way your walls stretch begins to feed that hunger.

Once he’s halfway into your vagina, he slides his second dick into your anus. Your eyes snap open, and your groan, legs trembling under you as you’re stretched wide open in two areas at once. You choke on air, lungs drawing in shaky breaths. You feel so stuffed- so full, and he hasn’t even cummed yet. You already have once, and you can feel it dripping down the insides of your thighs, hot and slick.

“Excellent,” Sylus whispers into your ear, grinding against you with a low groan. He pants heavily, rapid breaths filling your ears. He shifts himself, letting you feel both of his dicks in both of your holes. You whine sharply, your hands turning white from how hard you’re clinging to the bench. He’s not thrusting yet- he’s trying to get you used to the feeling before he really starts. You grunt, biting down on your tongue before you begin to move your hips, helping him grind. His breath catches, and he lets out a strained laugh. “You’re taking me so well, kitten. Let’s go a bit faster, hm?”

And faster he goes. Your vision goes white for a moment, and all you can do is cling onto the edge of the bench, eyes rolling into the back of your head as pleasure fills you.

You choke as he pulls out only to thrust back in, his pelvis hitting your rear end. You feel both of his dicks deep inside of you, stretching you to the brim. You feel the one in your vagina hitting your vaginal walls, finding that perfect spot. Your head tosses back, and you press your toes against the ground for extra support as you clench around him. He grunts, his hands finding your waist, holding you in place when he thrusts once more, harder this time. He hits that g-spot once more, and the one in your ass rips further in, touching areas that have never been touched by another before. You push at the ground with your feet, trying to move, but he holds you in place, claws digging into your skin once more.

It’s all so much. You squirm and whimper, and he bites at the top of your shoulder, shaking his head a little to further deepen it. He thrusts a third time, and then picks up the pace, staying at that angle to continue hitting your perfect spot. Tears pour down your cheeks, and sweat dampens your skin. Your stomach heaves, your heart racing almost painfully in your chest.

You’re floating as he pounds against you, coming in and out, in and out in a smooth motion. Your mouth hangs open, your forehead pressed hard against the bench, trying to find some kind of lifeline in the overstimulation. You’re tightening up, a familiar, tingling heat spreading through your thighs and gut and chest. He grunts, readjusts himself, and plunges in once more, making you see stars.

You cry out, and you release all at once. As you do, you tighten beautifully around both of his cocks. He growls, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and he feels himself burst shortly after you, following behind your pleased cry.

He fills you to bursting, and some of his cum leaks from your asshole, trailing over your folds and his lower dick, before dripping onto the backs of your feet. You’re trembling, and you can feel him shaking, as you both try and catch your breaths. He doesn’t pull out from either of your holes yet, remaining in place. He leans his forehead against the back of your shoulder, drawing in a deep whiff of your arousal. It’s delicious.

Your cunt is throbbing at this point, your vaginal walls and anus quivering around both of his lengths. You feel limp, drawn out, overused. He presses soft kisses up the side of your neck a second later, lips glancing over the side of your temple. He hums deeply, nose tracing over the curve of your jaw.

“Did you enjoy your gift, kitten?” Sylus asks in a low, rumbling voice. He kisses your cheek, lips warm against your skin. Mustering up your strength, you turn your head enough to catch his lips with your own, brushing them together lightly. He hums into it, eyes closing momentarily. As you kiss, he slowly and carefully pulls out of your holes, both popping out with wet “squelches”. “I’m going to take that as a yes. Now, don’t move. I’m going to clean you up.”

Catching your breath, you look over your shoulder, seeing him grab the water bucket from before and a fresh rag. “I thought that was my job, master,” you murmur, your mouth dry after gasping for air, after moaning and crying out. He chuckles, shaking his head as he crouches beside you. With gentle hands, he grabs your hips once more and turns you around, resting your back against the bench you’d just been fucked on. Dipping the rag into the water, he brings it up to your sides, wiping the blood from your skin.

“This is part of your gift,” he replies. “Don’t take it for granted, or I’ll stop.”

You close your mouth, allowing him to open your legs as he desires. He carefully wipes up the cum from your inner thighs, the water still warm from earlier, somehow. You watch him through half lidded eyes, head tilting to the side as he drags the rag up the top of your folds carefully; not pressing down hard enough to irritate your throbbing clit.

He moves slowly, leisurely, humming an off key version of a song you’d sang the day before. It’s spo off key, you almost don’t recognize the song. You bite down on your tongue once more to keep yourself from giggling; he can be adorable for a terrifying dragon.

“How do you feel?” he asks suddenly, glancing up at you, red eyes sparkling. “Are you okay?”

You can’t help but stare into his eyes, entranced for a moment. You hum lightly in response, closing your legs once he’s finished cleaning you up. He hums as well, and stands back up. He bends over for a moment to scoop you into his arms, holding you close to his broad chest. “I feel… nice,” you reply after a moment, resting your head against his shoulder, allowing your eyes to close. “That was nice.”

“Only nice?” he asks, a small huff escaping his lips. “Come now, it was better than nice.”

You chuckle, running your fingers along the curve of his deltoid. “Okay… it was great, master,” you say with a wistful sigh.

“Call me Sylus, kitten,” he says, steps even. “I think you’ve earned the right.”

Maybe you’re no longer sick of being his maid.

[tryandbehappy]

Ok we need to talk about SHE’LL NEVER FORGIVE HIM 😀

I posted a vid and I see that the fandom is really upset about this particular line from the interview and I wanna explain how I see this. Careful: this might light you up

1. “She won’t forgive him” ≠ “She won’t be with him” !!!

They always love to play with semantics, I’ve seen a lot of stuff like this.

June might not forgive the action, like betraying Mayday, ruining the plan, breaking her trust.

But love and forgiveness? Not the same thing.

She can:

• still love him

• understand why he did it

• see how much he’s suffering

• stay with him, even if she’s still hurt

2. “Not forgiving” can be the conflict, not the ending

This is a drama, not a contract. She might say “I can’t forgive you.” Then later “But I still love you.” Then eventually “And god, I can’t live without you.”

That’s a classic arc: pain, struggle, and then choosing love anyway.

3. They’re baiting us and they know it 🤡

Of course they’re gonna say “She’ll never forgive him.”

A shockwave for the fandom.

But what they really mean could be:

• «She’s furious right now»

• «It’s going to take time»

• «She’ll have to work through it»

that’s just Act Two: conflict.

4. June might think she can’t forgive but she’ll grow

This show is obsessed with moral gray areas.

June is always re-evaluating her values.

And she might think she’s done with him until:

• she ends up in a similar impossible position

• she sees how broken he is

• someone tells her what he did for her

• or he does it again, choosing her over everything

Growth is messy. That’s the point.

5. Endgames ALWAYS break before they mend

They separate the OTP. They make it hurt. And then they heal it.

They didn’t give us:

• Nick’s flashback

• his love confession and basically a fucking PROPOSAL

• Paris dream

• the literal “you’re the only good thing in my life” line

• also her yes (?!!) like Luke never existed

• really messy situation with Wharton who abused Nick just like his father did ��

just to throw it away

This is the lowest point.The part where the audience sobs “NOOOO!” So when the moment of forgiveness comes, we’ll be like OMFG THEY ARE THE BEST SOBBING SCREAMING THROWING UP

It’s not over

[angelickks]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆 ۶ৎ bf!dean winchester x rich!bimbo!gf!reader (𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝟏𝟖+)

RICH!BIMBO!READER is chaos in lip gloss, all legs and luxury, and dean winchester is absolutely gone for you. you strut into his life in designer heels and never leave, wrecking his world with pink nails, sweet perfume, and a smile that could disarm a demon. you don’t know latin, but you do know how to charm a crossroads demon and shoplift from cursed boutiques like it’s a sport. dean calls you princess, worship and all—and you call him deany bear just to watch him grit his teeth and blush. you're glitter and gumption wrapped in an expensive sundress and manolo blahniks, and dean? he’d burn the world down just to buy you another one.

coconut body oil, sugar cookies, chanel, and vanilla flavored lip gloss. your scent lingers on dean’s flannel, in the impala, in the air after you leave a room - sweet, warm, impossible to ignore.

looks like an oversized designer sunglasses, bubblegum pink mini skirts, perfectly curled hair, and heart-shaped everything - necklaces, purses, prada sunnies, your damn mood ring you swear is “lowkey psychic.”

early 2000s pop icons, sultry lounge jazz on rainy days, and the occasional rock ballad - only because dean sings it under his breath when he thinks you're asleep.

always have a bejeweled lighter (even if you don't smoke), strawberry lip gloss in your expensive bra, and your phone full of selfies with dean scowling in the background.

chrome powder finished nails, soft blankets, romantic comedies with dramatic kissing scenes, and dean’s rough hands in your hair.

you're all glitter and girlhood, wrapped in curated chaos, with a heart so big it sneaks up on people. And dean? dean keeps catching himself thinking maybe heaven looks like her.

he totally didn't think he'd fall for you - at first, dean thought you were just another pretty face. high heels too high for salt and burns, nails too perfect for grave digging, and a wardrobe that looked more vogue than victim protection. but then you patched him up with the gentlest hands and bought him a limited edition vintage zepp vinyl “because it looked like something you'd like,” and he was gone.

he lives to ruin your expensive lingerie. you show up in matching sets — lace, silk, bows in the back — and every time he swears he’s gonna be gentle. but 15 minutes later, the panties are shredded, the bra's hanging off the lamp, and he’s got your lip gloss smeared across his jaw. “told you not to wear that if you wanted it back, sweetheart.”

motel sex with you is feral. you in your little pink mini dress on those grimy motel sheets? instant brain shutdown. he bends you over cheap bathroom sinks, lifts you up against creaky doors, pulls your heels off with his teeth. the man has zero chill when you're in “dumb little doll” mode, batting your lashes and giggling when he growls.

you love to tease him in public. sitting in his lap at a bar, whispering filthy things in his ear with a perfect princess pout. sliding your hand up his thigh under the table at a diner, playing dumb while he shifts in his seat and mutters, “you’re gonna get it later.” (you always do.)

the sight of you sucking on a lollipop? ends. him. he can’t function. Doesn’t matter where you are — car, bunker, goddamn library. you twirl that thing around with your lips glossed up and all innocent, and he’s 30 seconds from pulling over or bending you over a bookshelf.

he’s obsessed with your thighs. calls them his “favorite seat.” you could crush his head between them and he’d die happy. he’ll drop to his knees in the middle of a fight if it means tasting you — “hold still, baby, lemme take care of you real quick.” and when you ride him? hands locked around your hips, watching you bounce with that dumb pretty girl giggle — he’s done for.

he loves when you beg. big eyes, pouty lips, nails digging into his shoulders — when you whine for his cock in that sweet, breathy voice? he makes you wait just to hear you beg louder. “what was that, princess? didn’t hear you. gonna have to use your words fʻme.”

you love to leave scratches.his back, his arms, his ass — you mark him up like a crime scene. and he loves it. wears them like badges. dean’s favorite mornings are when he rolls out of your luxurious bed sore, covered in hickeys, and you’re lying there in nothing but his flannel shirt asking if he wants round two.

car sex. duh. backseat of the Impala. windows fogged. skirt bunched around your waist. dean with one hand on your throat and the other under your thigh, whispering, “whinin' already, princess?”

aftercare king, actually. for all his filthy talk and rough handling, he treats you like gold when it’s over. cleans you up, gets you water, rubs your thighs where he left bruises, kisses your forehead and murmurs, “you okay, doll? i didn’t go too far, did i?” then he wraps you up in his arms and says you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to him.

you're the only person allowed to call baby cute. you once referred to the Impala as “such a cutie lil car” and dean almost had a stroke — but then you pulled a diamond studded tire pressure gauge out of your designer bag and asked if she needed her fluids checked. now he won’t let anyone else touch her but you.

you always insist he moisturizes. “dean, baby, if you don't use this hyaluronic acid serum, your skin’s gonna look like leather before you're 40.” he grumbles, rolls his eyes, mutters something about “witchcraft,” but lets you do your little nighttime routine on him while pretending to hate it.

you’re fiercely protective — in your own sparkly way. the one time someone called dean “trailer trash” at a high-society event you dragged him to, you didn’t even blink just dumped an expensive cocktail on their head and said, “oops.” dean laughed so hard he nearly dropped his beer.

you spoil the hell out of him. real leather jackets. ridiculously expensive watches to, “match his outfits”. rare cassette tapes. a stupidly expensive gold lighter engraved with “Don’t Die, Dumbass.” he acts like he doesn’t care, but he keeps every single gift. And that lighter? Never leaves his pocket.

he secretly loves how soft you make him. you bring out a side of dean he doesn't let anyone else see. he finds himself saying “I love you, princess” more, letting his guard down, smiling more often. he even lets you paint one of his pinky nails sometimes “for fun.” (only the pinky though. he’s got a reputation.)

sam is baffled but supportive. he doesn’t get it. at all. but you bring dean back in one piece and make the bunker smell like vanilla and chanel instead of gunpowder and regret, so… he’s not complaining.

you love him so much. you don’t care about monsters or magic. you just know that dean winchester is the kindest, most broken, most beautiful man you’ve ever met, and you’d walk through hell in heels for him.

supernatural mlist!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐒: y’all ask, therefore u shall receive. the poll everyone voted for some bf!dean headcanons and im sorry this is one of my fave tropes ngl im gonna also be posting some pedro ones soon lovies!!

[24kmagiic]

Dearest Gentle Reader,

As the Social Season approaches, marked by its most anticipated opening soirée, all eyes are on a certain duchess whose legacy is as wild as the magic in her blood—the Enchanting Duchess Bennett.

Her Grace Bonnie Bennett is expected to appear this evening at the Hall of Ancestors, accompanied by the ever-controversial His Grace Niklaus Mikaelson—a pairing that has raised more than a few finely arched brows in the past.

Sources claim the two were seen exchanging animated words in the East Garden just days ago. And if this author knows anything about romantic tension, it’s that passion and provocation are often indistinguishable from a distance.

The question, dear reader, is: when the storm breaks, will their reputations remain unweathered?

With keen observance,

—Lady Mistledown

The Cottage Scandal

May 2: Forced Proximity The Kingdom of Mystic Falls Spring 1812 AD (Regency Era)

"A spring storm. Sharp tongues. And a cottage built for one. What could possibly go wrong?"

Bonnie Bennett and Klaus Mikaelson stood beside one another, examining the broken carriage wheel. Klaus looked only mildly annoyed; meanwhile, Bonnie was in full theatrical distress. Klaus listened to her complaints for as long as he could stand them before softly interjecting.

“You’re yelling like I snapped the wheel on purpose. You’re the witch—fix it,” he spat.

"Don't you think I would have done that already if I could? I told you not to take this route! It's dark and filled with holes. And I'm not entirely convinced your spooky night vision didn't see this hole. It's massive!"

"I would have seen it if you weren't chewing me out about what happened earlier."

"That's because you caused all of this! You provoked me like always, and now, Lady Lockwood's roof is burnt!"

"Take some accountability, love. I only provoke you because you let me."

The sky lit with lightning as thunder roared above them as if on cue. Klaus glanced toward the sky, noticing the sudden storm clouds on an otherwise clear night. He glanced down at Bonnie and watched her with amused interest.

“I don’t want to hear a word…”

“Great, because I have several.”

Bonnie huffed and groaned beneath her breath as the first pelts of raindrops hit her cheeks. “There’s a cottage,” she pointed ahead of them. “Let’s wait there until this storm is over.”

“This storm is a manifestation of your will.”

 ‘And so is this cottage,’ he failed to say aloud. “This entire night is the machinations of your beautiful mind, yet you blame me for everything.”

Bonnie gritted her teeth. “Inside now, please! Thank you.”

Inside, the cottage was warm and cozy. Despite its rough exterior, it looked lived in. Bonnie resisted questioning the cottage’s origin, though the magic coiling through the air felt achingly familiar.

She peeled off her shawl and hung it neatly on the coat rack fashioned from the finest oak, frowning when Klaus purposely dropped his wet overcoat on the only piece of furniture: a single bed.

“You’re making a mess!” She snatched his coat from the bed, hanging it on the opposite side of the rack. “You’re so uncouth. Can’t you practice some common courtesy for once in your life?”

“You have enough for both of us,” he muttered dryly. He sat on the bed with an unceremonious thud, slowly peeling off layers of clothing; shoes first, then blazer. When he began unbuttoning his shirt, Bonnie panicked.

“My Goddess. What on Earth are you doing?”

His perplexed expression nearly made her chuckle. “I’m getting comfortable.”

Bonnie’s eyes flittered around the cabin before landing on him. “Not in here, you’re not! I’m without a chaperone, and if anyone sees us—sees me with you, I’d be disgraced and stripped of my title!”

“So?”

Bonnie choked on her breath. “So?! Is that truly all you have to say for yourself?”

Niklaus shrugged. “You have nothing to worry about. I’d make an honest woman out of you if need be.”

Bonnie spun away from him, unable to hide her flushed expression. “You are impossible.” 

“And you need to relax. The longer you’re upset, the longer this storm will persist, I’m sure.”

She exhaled slowly, squaring her shoulders as she found the strength to turn around.

...And instantly regretted it.

“Your Grace,” she stuttered. “This is grossly inappropriate.”

Seated before her was a shirtless Klaus, smirking at her with golden irises that glowed with mischief. He rose slowly, each step toward her deliberate, unhurried, confident, and dangerous, reminding her that he was, indeed, an apex predator. With each step, Bonnie followed with a step backward until her back hit the wall behind her.

A muffled shriek left her lips. She averted her gaze and slowed her breathing. She didn't want or need to see or smell him. “Kindly, I ask you to take a step back, please,” she whispered.

“Or what?”

Bonnie’s throat tightened around everything she planned to say. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply—another mistake.

His scent had always intrigued her, yet she’d never been this close enough to... appreciate it. She released a shuddered exhale before strengthening her resolve. When her eyes opened, she stared straight into him, careful not to show any signs of intimidation.

“I know what you're doing and it’s not going to work,” she told him. She hated how soft her voice sounded.

“I think it’s working just fine,” he countered. Her heart skipped a beat, and, judging by how his ear twitched and the smile on his face, he heard it.

“I think it’s best if I take my chances in the storm,” she countered, hastily turning away from him to place necessary distance between them. She ignored his chuckles as she made her exit, pulling on the door's handle once. Then twice. She tugged on the handle a third time, but it didn't budge.

She spun on her heels with an angry huff to face him. 

“What did you do?”

Klaus’s face splintered into a full grin. “Here we go again,” he chuckled. “If blaming me for everything is your version of foreplay, then I’ll allow it.”

“You mind your tongue when you speak to me,” she growled, sounding every bit of Sheila Bennett. Klaus's grin only deepened as he reached for the door. Bonnie ignored how his skin brushed against hers as he pulled at the door and how his muscles bunched and flexed with each tug. She pushed him out of the way when his grunts became too much.

“You’re not trying hard enough,” she dismissed, hoping to end the show he was clearly putting on for ‘her’ benefit.

“Your magic is preventing us from leaving,” he said as he examined the hinges. “Which tells me that despite your tantrum, you don’t actually want to leave, do you?”

He was practically pressed against her back now. And shirtless. Bonnie squirmed away from him, moving to the other side of the room where only the bed separated them. 

She slipped out of her heels, shrinking several inches—but not, she hoped, in dignity. Klaus watched silently as she moved about her side of the room tersely in an attempt to get ‘comfortable’. 

“I’m taking the bed,” she said authoritatively. You can sleep on the floor.” She threw a pillow at him, which he caught with ease before launching it back at her. The pillow hit the stone hearth with a thud. Bonnie gaped, narrowly avoiding impact. Klaus raised a brow, smirking like a schoolboy who’d pulled her pigtails and dared her to hex him for it.

“That almost hit me!”

“Precisely my intent. What do you expect to happen when you launch something at someone?” 

“You weren’t supposed to throw it back that hard!” She laughed, both amused and annoyed by him.

“You give, but you’re awful at taking it.” He watched her flush with thinly veiled amusement—and smiled like he meant it. “That’ll have to change.”

She pursed her lips, ignoring the slew of innuendos littering his speech.

As if he would take the bed before she could claim it, Bonnie peeled back the covers and climbed modestly, ensuring her ankles remained covered. “There is only one bed and I wouldn't be caught dead sharing it with you.”

“You’d make a beautiful corpse. Slide over,” he instructed as he pulled the covers on his side back. Bonnie pulled the blanket to her neck, looking stiff and rigid with only her head visible.

“No. You don’t even need to sleep,” she pointed out.

“Being around you is exhausting. There are always exceptions to the rule,” he countered. The two glared at one another before she finally relented.

“Stay on your side.” She reached for the forgotten pillow he’d thrown at her and placed it between them. Curling on her side to ensure no parts of her touched him. “And turn away from me,” she demanded.

Klaus chuckled. “Or else?”

“I’ll liquefy your spleen.” His laughter echoed against the walls. Loud and unapologetic. “I mean it, Niklaus.”

Klaus felt something inside him stir at the mention of his full name. “Oh, I know. That’s half the thrill.”

She remained quiet before finally speaking, needing to get the last word. It didn’t work. “Keep your distance.”

“I have. You’ve made it abundantly clear I’m not to cross the invisible line of impropriety.” He paused, then added, “But you’ve inched closer three times now, love.” Bonnie’s jaw went slack.

She turned sharply. “That’s because this mattress is slanted! You’re bigger than me! There’s an imbalance.”

Klaus also turned to face her—his face suddenly inches from hers, expression unreadable in the firelight, neither of them was aware of until that moment. “Is that what it is?” he murmured.

Bonnie stared at him, lips parted, breath caught in her throat. His gaze dipped briefly to her mouth, then back to her eyes, causing her to go still. Neither moved as the air around them pulsed. Then Klaus did the unthinkable.

He retreated.

He rolled back to his side, giving her the full distance she demanded. He released a self-satisfied exhale that somehow made her stomach twist. It’s what she wanted, what she’d asked for. Yet for whatever reason, she felt…

Rejected…

“Good night, Bonnie,” he murmured. She said nothing.

She wasn’t sure what she’d say if she did.

“And while the storm raged against the cabin’s walls, something far more dangerous began to simmer inside.”

...Stay tuned.

Find the second installment here...

[otp-after-dark]

Everyone has a breaking point. But what made June powerful — what made her someone we loved —was that she understood moral clarity doesn’t exist in Gilead.

Hear me out because I am really starting to not like our female protagonist in this story. I feel much more Team Nick than I am Team June at the moment. And that's a bad look for this show.

There was a time when June Osborne was the heart of this story. Not because she was perfect — but because she wasn’t. Because she was messy, brutal, righteous and wrong all at once. Because she survived and didn’t apologize for it.

But somewhere in Season 5, and especially now, the cracks are widening. And I have to ask:

When did June become so judgmental? So selfish? So hypocritical?

Because if she can’t forgive Nick for trying to survive a system she also barely made it through —if she can’t see the impossible weight he’s carried, and the ways he’s quietly protected her for years — then who is she now?

Nick has never claimed innocence. He has never pretended to be a hero. He’s been quiet. Complicit. Strategic. But never heartless. And never selfish.

He’s risked everything for June, over and over. He gave up his daughter. He let June go. He stood beside Gilead’s commanders because it was the only way to keep her alive.

If she can’t see that — if she refuses to see that — then the problem isn’t him. It’s her.

Because if June — of all people — the woman who has killed, who has lied, who has sacrificed others to survive —can’t find empathy for the man who has loved her through all of it?

Then she’s not a hero anymore. She’s just another person using other people’s pain to justify her own.

If she walks into the rest of Season 6 acting like she’s earned the right to judge everyone else while refusing to be judged herself —then she’s no longer complicated.

She’s just unlikable.

And that’s what makes Nick in this episode so painful, so brave, so devastating.

He finally steps forward. After years of silence. Of sidelines. Of watching her choose everyone but him. He chooses her.

“I love you. I know you love me too.” “You’re it. It’s always been you.”

He says it with no conditions. No hidden angles. Just the truth.

He kisses her like he’s starved for it. Like he’s drowning. Like she’s the only thing that has ever kept him above water.

And when she kisses him back, it’s not passive. It’s a yes.

They smile. They laugh. They’re free for one impossible second.

And then it all collapses.

But here’s the thing: that collapse isn’t on him. Nick has done nothing but love her. Quietly. Fiercely. Entirely.

If June cannot find grace for the man who has bled for her —if her love dies the moment she learns he isn’t clean —then that love was never worth rooting for.

And frankly?

She doesn’t deserve him.

[mseden-fries]

Hey, @mseden-fries, I hope you're doing alright in work or college (don't know your age; not that I have to, right? But I hope it's going well). I'm really sorry if I'm bothering you, but if you maybe could answer, it would be great. Of course, there's no pressure; it's just if you feel like it and have the time.

Well, it's just that I was rewatching the Jungle movie today and wanted to ask what you thought about Helga's confession scene in that movie. In your work here you touched that subject, the one about it feeling like Arnold confessed because he owned Helga, so maybe you have your thoughts about the aforementioned scene. It seems to me Helga was impatient and, thus, acted without regard for Arnold's feelings, but do you think the "I wasn't ready to hear it" from Arnold at the end references the confession in that movie or in FTI? Yeah, probably a dumb question.

Not a dumb question at all! I feel like I relate to many fans when I say that the confession left me very unsatisfied and the resolution to the confession even more so. It seems you’ve noticed my backtracking I’ve done in my comic related to the confession for the jungle movie, and that was completely on purpose. My main issue with the confession in the movie was that it felt like an obligation to Arnold that he owed this to her and although I don’t think that was Craig Bartlett’s intentions or whether it was or not, I wanted it to make it clear that Arnold’s feelings were not based on Helga’s morality or her journey to be a better person but on a genuine connection between the two. that’s not to say that it’s completely disconnected of course. Arnold likes Helga because of her growth as a person, but that’s only one piece of the puzzle. When I hear people talk about their significant others, I don’t usually always hear the positive. It’s a lot of negative like they’re complaining about their partners but then at the end of it they say, ‘but I love them anyways’

I feel like Helga DOES need to grow as a person not for Arnold, but for herself. of course, most of my comic focuses on the relationship between the two, but it’s also very focused on Helga’s journey getting away from her insecurities and accepting herself as she is and not who she thinks Arnold deserves.

Personally I think Arnold meant both times when he said he wasn’t ready to hear it. I think in the beginning he was confused about his feelings on the FTI building. He was looking at Helga in a completely different light and it’s understandable that he just didn’t consider it or subconsciously he might have, but realistically it seemed impossible that Helga liked him. I personally believe Arnold hasn’t completely realized his feelings until the end of the jungle movie, but that’s not to say he hasn’t been thinking about it a lot in my opinion. I’m sure it’s been something in the back of his mind for a whole year after the FTI confession. For me, I believe Arnold and Helga‘s relationship after FTI and before the jungle movie is a lot like the relationship like on April Fools’ Day, and in my comic. In my opinion, it would be playful and charismatic and competitive. Like a flirtatious dance battle, where both of them can’t admit to their feelings out loud where Helga knows her feelings, but keeps them locked away, and Arnold isn’t aware of his feelings, but enjoys the combativeness and camaraderie that they have! If I had to describe Arnold’s realization to his feelings, I’d say it’s like when water slowly drips into a bucket and you don’t know that the buckets filled until it starts to pour over. It’s not that Arnold didn’t have feelings for Helga during the jungle movie, but that he didn’t realize what he was feeling was that.

Arnold and Helga‘s relationship is a lot of tug and pull, pushing each other out of bounds in their set personality we can explore his mischievous side, and Helga can better open up and be vulnerable to her considerate side. My line in ch6 where Arnold says ‘I don’t think it matters who’s influencing who’ I wanted to establish that they both make each other more of a ‘whole’ person, if that makes sense.

It was a very long answer to your question. I hope it helped to understand my opinion on it. 

[bizzylosingcats]

(Part 2)

Bruce wasn’t sure what to do now. He knew he had messed something up, and that he needed to fix it. But with Jason blocking his way to Damian he wasn’t sure how to do that. Bruce couldn’t explain himself, he didn’t know how to.

“Answer me!” Jason pushed forward, grabbing Bruce by the collar of his shirt. Bruce pulled Jason off and stepped back. “It’s not important.” Bruce said, as cold as usual. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I know you’ve had your issues with Damian in the past but you both got over that! Why are you acting like this?!” Jason said anger seeping into his voice.

Bruce didn’t realize that Jason had noticed anything. “Nothing’s wrong. I need to go speak with him.” Bruce said trying to walk past Jason but getting pushed back. “Not until you tell me why you’ve been so mad at him.” Jason said intimidatingly. “That kids done nothing wrong.” Jason stated.

Bruce looked up at Jason with concern. “I’m not mad at him. What makes you think I am?” Bruce questioned just as seriously. “Oh! I don’t know! Maybe because you’ve been glaring at him like you hate him, you barely talk to him anymore and you just said something that clearly offended him!” Jason huffed.

Bruce didn’t even realize he had done any of that. Was he so hooked up on the fact Damian resembled his mother that he had been blind to his own actions. “No. I haven’t.” Bruce shot Jason’s accusations down. That couldn’t be the case. Sure, He had been thinking about Talia more than usual, but that’s because living with Damians like living with her clone. The way he walks, the way he fights with a sense of regal elegance…

Okay, maybe he was doing that, but it wasn’t on purpose! He couldn’t help it. “I didn’t mean to say it.” Bruce said, giving up his arrogance. “What did you say?” Jason asked sternly once again. Did Bruce say something awful to Damian? Would Jason have to beat the fuck out of Bruce? “I told him…he looked like his mother.” Bruce said, with a huff before looking down, clearly regretting his actions. “That’s it?” Jason couldn’t believe all of this came from Bruce not being able to get over his Ex. Dick could be heard saying “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Behind them but was ignored.

“Fuckin’ obviously! That’s his mother! He’s gonna look like her!” Jason said, exasperatedly putting his hand over his face in frustration. All of this worry and emotion for nothing. “You don’t- You don’t understand.” Bruce said, walking past Jason. “Don’t tell me you’ve been blaming Damian over this.” Jason got defensive again. “No! No. None of this is Damian’s fault. He can’t control his genetics.” Bruce said with a sigh. “Then what is this about? Huh? You think Damian’s gonna magically look more like you if you glare at him enough? Yeah really great idea, asshole.” Jason said harshly.

He must have hit a nerve because Bruce looked back and glared at Jason. “I’m going to talk to him.” Bruce left. He needed to clear things up with Damian. He needed to move on. But that felt impossible with the light of his life looked just like a flame that died years ago.

“Damian? I need to talk with you.” Bruce felt like a broken record. Damian looked up from his sketch book to glare at Bruce. “Yes, father?” Damian was beyond upset with his father’s antics. “I… I want to apologize. That wasn’t appropriate of me.” Bruce said, entertaining Damian’s room. It looked a lot more lived in than it did before, that made Bruce feel a bit better.

“No. It wasn’t.” Damian always struggled to talk about his mother. Not because he was ashamed of his mother, he loved her regardless of the circumstances, but because he saw just how much it affected his father. It didn’t matter if what he said was positive, he would still see his fathers face slip into a hardened frown at the mention. Whether if it’s because it’s part of his past that his father wasn’t in or if it was the mention of a women who had left Bruce an emotional wreck, he didn’t know. All he did know was that, most people would rather not talk about it. And that felt like a burden of not being able to share a very important part of his life with his family, it made him feel more distanced from them than he would like to admit.

Damian stood to face his father. He couldn’t even wrap his head around why his father was compelled to say such a thing. Yes, he had gotten more of his mother’s ethnic features. But, he spent his entire childhood in the league hearing from everyone how much he looked like his father, a miniature bat in the making. The father, he could only try to imagine, and now as he looks at his father, all he can see are the small features that he finds in his own reflection.

Bruce is hit with another flash of a memory. Damian stood before, hands on his waist, popping his hip slightly as he stood, head held high with a look of defiance on his face. An exact copy of Talia. Talia. The women he feel in love with, but now could only feel anger and betrayal at the thought of. He would never truly forget her. He couldn’t. Not with their son, someone Bruce could only associate with love, next to the image of her, only associated with pain. Bruce had to move on. But he didn’t know how.

[rafeyscumangel]

Trying to say that i made rape allegations when i’ve been open about my rape experience is actually crazy.

I was the one who told you about the allegations. And you were the one trying to tell me to get off tumblr and deactivate

(blocked out stuff is stuff that i don’t have a right to share)

Now i know you didn’t come from a place of worry, but a plan to try and make it seem like i’m making fake rape allegations which is bizarre. Especially after i told you about how i was raped and stalked and i’m still actively dealing with my stalker not leaving me alone when he’s in fucking jail. Plus told you i had to get an abortion at 14 by that same person. Trying to insinuate that i would lie about rape after finding this out shows how fucked you are.

And starfxkrinc saying; ‘and since we wanna fuckin take it there next time when the bitch ODs i hope theres nary a narcan available’ is honestly crazy even more and shows her lack of care for addiction as a whole imo. And the fact you support this when you also admittedly struggle with addiction makes no sense to me. Especially when you try saying death threats etc are bad..

The rest of the messages.

I’m not gonna speak on the allegations like i said earlier because it’s honestly sketchy af timing, but i’m also not gonna say it’s impossible because it’s not my place too. And as a victim myself i can’t bring myself to say there’s no possibility in the world because i wasn’t there.

If this is a liar, don��t fucking use this as an excuse to try and guilt trip people. And if it’s not i’m sorry but take legal action, dumping it on me is not going to get you justice.

Edit: And don’t fucking say i could be next please? As a victim that just scares me thank you

My boundaries is that i don’t want any connections to anyone who could have done any serious wrongdoings, but also don’t want allegations made about other writers in my inbox, so don’t fucking do it.

@shellxrls you also tried saying that for me you won’t be answering anymore asks about the situation and i regret believing you, because now on my other blogs i’m being told to overdose, relapse etc. So thank you for that i guess. I’m still genuinely sorry about the stuff you told me about and i’m praying that you’ll get to a better point in your life but for my own boundaries, please don’t speak about me. It’s not something i’m comfortable with right now and if this is the same anon from before i don’t want to be gore spammed, harassed etc again.

[time4resus-blog]

This is my first real post back. My personal life took a huge downturn a while back and I just haven’t been in a good mental space to write. With that said, things are getting better and I think I can constructively let the darkness out a bit, under close supervision. I hope you enjoy.

***Trigger Warnings: CnC, Violence, Dark Cardiophilia ***

The clacking of the keys on my keyboard drifted down the hall. I was furiously typing a reply to a last minute email, which had promised “only a few minutes of your time is needed” over two hours ago. That bitch Rachel in accounting was demanding yet another change to the upcoming software release. Apparently “the amount of clicks required to accomplish basic tasks is excessive. More automation is required.” That was her way of saying “I’m too damned lazy to do my job so I want someone to do it for me.”

At this point I was the only one left in IT, the rest of our crew having abandoned me to my fate two hours back. I knew that most everyone else was also gone for the long holiday weekend. Hell, ninety percent of the company had left at three and I hardly doubted that there were five or six people left in the building. Happily I’d be done in another few minutes and I could race to catch the last train of the night. If I missed it I’d have to pay for a cab back to the suburbs and that would be pricey.

I could hear her saying goodbye to the rest of her team as they walked down the hall. She promised to get drinks with them sometime over the weekend but begged off plans for tonight. She said something about meeting some friends from out of town and then swore as she said she’d forgotten her purse. The others turned to leave and Rachel caught sight of me and she grinned that sorority president’s smile.

“I need that change done for the 8am directors meeting on Monday. I know it’s last minute but I already approved the overtime with Mr Farris. He said to use whatever resources I needed but that if we don’t have that implemented on time that heads would roll.”

I stared at her and tried to remember that she couldn’t possibly know just how impossible that was. My entire team was hours gone now. Sure I could do it alone but I’d be in the office until early morning and then I’d have to stay in the city overnight.

“Look Rachel I’d love to help but…”

“I knew I could count on you!” She interrupted. Then she turned her perky little ass around and headed for her desk.

I just stood there slack jawed as she went. She didn’t care a damned but that id be stuck there, or that I might have had plans, or about anything except her stupid automation and proving just how much better she was than us mere mortals that didn’t sleep under Greek letters.

I can’t tell you now what went through my mind. Honestly I don’t remember going down the hall, or deciding I’d had enough. Not just enough of her either, but enough of everyone! As I walked down the hall there wasn’t another living soul in sight, the entire office was now empty except for me and Rachel, and soon it would be just me.

I saw her walking toward the door, reaching in her purse for something, probably her phone, and I took the opportunity. I wrapped the ends of the blue Ethernet cable around my hands and left slack in the middle. As she passed me spun around and threw my arms over her head and jerked hard. The cable bit into her throat and her hands instinctively went to the cable that was strangling her.

I crossed my wrists and pulled tighter. I couldn’t see her eyes but I imagined them darting around, bulging as she panicked. She fell back into me and we both tumbled to the ground, with her kicking and flailing. I think she would have been screaming too but the best she could manage was a gurgling sound. She’d always talked too much anyway, no great loss there.

It couldn’t have been long, but it felt like an eternity as we struggled. She for life, and me for death. Finally she went limp and slumped over. I rolled her onto her back and put my fingers to her carotid. There was a faint pulse there, which is exactly what I wanted.

I dragged her to a more secluded spot in the office, where nobody would come across us if they just happened to come back for some forgotten item. With her laid out on the floor I unbuttoned her pink blouse. The white skirt she was wearing rode high on her thighs and the lace bra underneath her blouse spoke volumes on what activity she’d planned with her “out of town friend.”

I pulled the AED from its case on the wall and unzipped the cover. The plastic box and pads sat there, begging for someone to save. Too bad Rachel still had a pulse, but soon I’d fix that. I straddled her narrow hips and knelt over her. Those perky breasts and tight stomach were exquisite, just waiting for the “friend” to come along.

I put both of my hands over her nose and mouth and pressed hard. Her eyes flew open again as she thrashed on the floor, trying to buck me off. She clawed at my face and hands as her chest caved in, trying to suck down air she couldn’t get. I pressed down harder as she got desperate. I can only imagine how she felt as the oxygen in her blood grew stale, replaced with more and more carbon dioxide. I imagine her vision faded first, edged with black and then blurring. The fire in her chest must have been unbearable as her lungs cried out. And then she would have felt her heart begin to stutter and skip as she slowly faded. I like to think that she felt her heart stop, going from steady to erratic and eventually quivering uselessly in her chest.

“Now the fun begins” I whispered in her ear

[jack-kellys]

i hate the song something to believe in dearly and truly. it’s the one part of newsies i cannot reconcile because it’s just so bad

please fix it. or do something with it

it’s just not a banger i agree. alright.

send me issues from the Plot or Script of this darn show. and i’ll fix them onstage

so my rules for this is that i cannot cut the song. i cannot invent a scene bc i did that already & that’s cheating.

i do think tho that the key to being… fine with something to believe in is the scene right before. i think that scene MUST be fucking stellar in order for the song to be passable. and the scene before…augh. it could also be written better. the positionally of it and the context and the stakes are more interesting than what they say to each other. except. for.

“don’t say it like it happens every day. i’m not an idiot- i know girls like you don’t wind up with guys like me. i don’t want you promising nothing you’re just gonna have to take back later. but standing here tonight, looking at you… i’m afraid tomorrow’s gonna come and change everything.” EATS.

what’s rly important abt jatherine to me is that jack like. literally does not express his fears to anyone else except her. he talks about regret and anger with davey in wwh(r), i’m not counting that as fear. kath is the only person in the show he shares this with. and what he’s afraid of is being alone.

tomorrow coming means he did vote for the disbanding of the union, it means all the kids he loves are angry and done with him, tomorrow means everyone is gone from his life. (in his pov).

so katherine has a job with this song. she has to refute those fears, finally admit that she’s fallen for him, which means he won’t be alone, even if he leaves. he’ll be in her heart, he’ll have a home there, even if he were to get on a train the next day. she initially comes into this scene demanding something of him, but when she learns his actions were done out of this loyalty and his fear for others & himself… wow. “you snuck up on me, jack kelly. i didn’t even see it coming.” YOU KNOW?? going from “cocky little sonofa” to “of course there’s something” is wild for her

she needs to see him FULLY and completely by this point. idt she does until now, it has to be here for this scene & song to mean anything. this is her almost like. protecting his scared little heart. she says she’s in love (he doesn’t), she assures him it’s okay that it might be for a short time, that it’s random, that things like this CAN be something that happens any day. she offers terms that are accessible to jack, that can let him love her. belief conquers fear, undermines it, and if there’s something reporters are good at it’s getting to the root of something. she just has to take an angle that she didn’t expect from herself.

i think honestly the only line that genuinely bugs me abt this song is jack calling her “an angel come to save him”…. especially cause that boy ain’t white anymore we’ve grown passed that as a community so now it’s like. eugh like SURE, sure, but jack u did lead the strike. with ur boys. and ur leadership skills. and ur love for them. so i think this can be said as a knowing tease and she can wave it off and blush and whatever. u can make it cute i promise.

smth abt uksies that was stellar (wow what a shocker rizz is praising uk newsies…) was how emotive and present bronté’s kath was thru this song, she reacted to every word jack said to her. as long as she’s present i think this scene and consequentially the song can work. u just cannot forget abt katherine’s stakes and her journey of learning abt who jack kelly really is. it’s not a bad song bc it’s a love song it’s bad bc it’s not…. actually about how THEY fell in love. the courage and fear line from seize the day should’ve had a reprise moment here bc that’s what their relationship is based on.

if newsies rly was a love story i think that would be the proper theme through their whole arc together. jatherine is about fear and courage. and so is the show. tbh. just saying

[valkyurii]

i know people love to complain about malenia still but have they ever thought about the fact that complaining won’t change anything and maybe instead of bitching and crying they could just learn to fight her? all those hours spent on reddit writing essays and for what exactly? she’s still there. nothings changed. do they hope that fromsoft will see it and then change her? “she’s a sekiro boss” go play sekiro then i honestly don’t know what else to tell you at this point holy shit

[cynicalmusings]

*drops this in your inbox*

*leaves*

HDKRPOAANKLRFAQPBPQWJJEJBENWLAERHLAAPEPFKANKELELE WAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

my heart. genuinely. is in danger.

HE’S SO BEAUTIFUL I WANT TO CRY YOU CAN’T JUST FUCKING WINK AT ME LIKE THAT AND EXPECT ME TO BE OKAY YOU DORK?? (affectionate)

heizou needs to start getting a permit for being the most beautiful man alive it’s not even funny

[frnkiebby]

sobbing~🎃