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tobeholyistobeempty · 2 months ago

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‘SO YOU CAN LISTEN….GOOD.’ | simon ghost riley

📊 result of my poll found here.

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni, (amt) engineer!reader, asshole!ghost but with motives, slightly stalkerish!ghost, ghost is a cocky bastard but reader is too, so much verbal sparring, enough tension to choke on, reader afab, ghost is a munch and has a unique way of saying sorry, oral f!receiving, religious undertones, fingering, enemies to something worse then enemies, dubcon bc consent verbally unstated, so much dirty talk it hurts, canon warped a bit.

A/N - this ended up being so much longer than i intended but dear god it needed that build up. ghost makes a real wild first impression. 12k.

Today was just another day. Just another day.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself as you grabbed your data pad from the terminal and made your way toward the front of the hangar — pulse thrumming, blood pressure undoubtedly a tad higher than usual. Perhaps today was just another day, but to say that it didn't hold slightly more merit than yesterday would be a fucking lie.

Today marks the date of your six month performance evaluation. Today is the day you finally find out if you nab that promotion or not.

And maybe you’re overthinking, maybe you’re nervous for no reason. Did this promotion make or break your career? Would not getting promoted singlehandedly destroy everything you've achieved and accomplished over the last however many years? No.

But it would definitely feel like a real kick in the ass given everything that you've done for this place since you got here.

The day you first got that damned data-pad, you should have known this job would be a complete shitshow. Still, you pulled up yourself up by your bootstraps and did your duties just like every other day — and that day like all the previous ones since you graduated. You’d been all over the world at this point, as an AMT you go wherever you’re needed and usually remain however long you’re needed for. But this transfer — to an unnamed, unmarked base in the middle of goddamn no where — is different then anything you’d ever done before.

The hours are different, the people are different, the pay is different. It was unexpected, but when their last head AMT simply vanished without a fucking trace — it seemed as though they scrambled, and took the next best thing they could find (or so you like to tell yourself).

It’s all a little…strange, to say the least.

And of course, there’s been talk about what happened to their last head engineer, speculations, but it seems no one actually knows for certain. It’s one of those things that everyone low rank whispers about, but no one high up with actual informative intel dares to speak on — which only made the chatter worse.

Along with your nerves.

Regardless, you didn’t have a choice, and the first day of your transfer was a baptism by fire — stepping into the aftermath of utter chaos they'd left behind.

Your job isn’t to save lives in the heat of battle, or to clear rooms, or to conduct stealth operations. No, your job is to repair aircrafts torn to hell and back and continue to keep them functional. It’s rather thankless, and often you'd find yourself overworked and under-appreciated — which, granted, goes hand-in-hand with your overall life summary — but the hangar at TF141’s main base was a sight to behold, and not in any positive sense. Neglected and battered machinery lay strewn about, with debris haphazardly scattered in every fucking corner imaginable. By the time you'd reached the actual aircraft's you were almost afraid to look at them — and for good goddamn cause.

TF141 has two main helo’s: MH-6 Little Bird and an AH-6J Little Bird. Upon first inspection of them, you’d almost thought they'd been through a war of their own — hastily patched together with little regard for proper repair. The evidence of prior negligence was glaring, and you were fucking fuming.

You'd expected some clean up, but not that much.

And to top it all off, you were given clear instruction by General Shepherd himself to keep your mouth shut and your head down, do your job and mind your own. On your way out of his office he informed you, surely out of the sheer kindness of his heart, that although he couldn't tell you what exactly happened to their prior head engineer, you could easily suffer the same fate if you weren't careful.

Which was more than enough to shake the very foundation of your so very deeply engraved attitude problem.

No matter how pissed off and irritated you’d been during your start here, you kept your emotions bottled up until you were back inside the privacy of your barracks and could freely let it explode. It's been a little maddening almost, the solace. You'd been here half a year and the only person you've had an actual conversation with outside of the other engineers is 141’s Captain, and that was only when he was looking for a debriefing on your recent repair work.

However, amidst the avoidance and the uneasy silence that you experience on a daily with the others, there seems to always be one fucking exception;

Ghost.

You'd seen photos and heard a lot about him prior to this assignment — the mysterious Lieutenant with a reputation that preceded him as if the Grim Reaper himself were present on earth.

But meeting him, being around him, well that was something fucking else entirely.

He routinely shows up at random hours, never muttering more than a few words to you before pissing off — disappearing into the shadows or taking out one of the birds. It’s always odd. He is odd. And the cryptic comments coupled with his rather bizarre reputation continue to leave you tangled between the dangerous desire to learn everything you can about the man, and the primal instinct to avoid him at all fucking costs.

Though, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't matter.

If and when Ghost decides to present himself to you, it is impossible to prevent it. His approach is as translucent as his namesake. You'd never fucking know he was coming, and if you did, it’s with purpose.

Nevertheless, you couldn't worry about him, or any of the other nonsensical bullshit today. You had other matters on your mind such as ensuring the hangar was in perfect condition for inspection later that evening. Price let you know rather early in advance that a hangar and aircraft inspection are part of your performance review — which clearly means the state of them would determine whether or not you passed.

There would be absolutely no room for error, and no one to complain to when it didn't go your way either. If this inspection failed, it would be the result of your own incompetence — and you were well aware of how that would be perceived. You didn't want to give any reason, any chance to end up like the former Engineer, after all.

So today is about one thing, and one thing alone, proving yourself worthy of that promotion.

With your data pad in hand, you began a quick sweep of the hangar, ensuring the guys hadn't made too much of a mess overnight or early this morning before you arrived. A few things were out of place, but for the most part, everything looked good.

Well, except for one thing — which was currently barrelling toward you at a dangerous fucking speed.

"Bloody fucking hell..."

Your data pad nearly fell from your grasp, your jaw dropping in disbelief as your ears rang — no, damn-near wailed — a deafening roar shattering the silence you'd just found yourself in, accompanied by the shrill whine of metal grinding against metal. You couldn't believe your eyes, your feet absentmindedly carrying you closer to the destroyed helo landing on the far side of the hangar, smoke billowing from its battered frame, obscuring the air with a veil of grey.

And as you got closer, you realized it only got worse — a door was missing, torn from its hinges, and half of the exterior was brutally ripped away. You didn't even realize you were clenching your hands into fists until you felt the glass of your data pad crack beneath your fingers.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re all but yelling as you take in the damage. "Today? Today. Of all goddamn days! Bloody ignorant bastards.”

As soon as those words were past your teeth, there’s movement from inside the cabin — heavy laden set steps — two iron slabs clanking against the metal floor, quaking the ground underneath your own feet, too. The air thinned slightly, but you didn't notice, too inebriated off your anger to think of anything other than cursing the hell out of whoever was inside.

You came to a halt in front of the now door-less opening, coming face to face with a pair of rich brown eyes peering down at you.

"Care t’repeat tha’?" A deep, low voice rumbled from under a faded, skull-faced balaclava. You swear the ground trembled as he jumped down. "...I'd like t’make sure I heard y’right."

You’d have to imagine he was grinning under that mask, and it only made your fucking blood boil.

"Ghost, why didn't you tell me-“

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand.

"I need permission t’take out my own helo now? Huh.” A shake of his head. “Y’should know I was told to test your repairs. Bosses orders, sweet’eart. Take it up with him if you’ve gotta’ problem.”

"You-" your lips part, but words elude you. Due to his admission or the nickname he used, you aren’t entirely sure. "What?"

Ghost blinks, sight sweeping the empty hangar for a fraction of a second before fixing back on you.

"Y’heard me." He steps closer, smoke billowing behind him. "Or d'you need me t'repeat it again?" A pause, twitch of his lips. "I can speak slower, if you’d like.”

What a dick.

You pull your own lips thin, trying to trap the profanity desperately wanting to fly his way. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He just hums.

"Way I see it, y’got two options.” He starts, and you long to tell him to shove his options somewhere the sun don’t shine. “Get pissed off with me, which is futile, since I ain’t the one y’actually got a problem with. Or, y’can get back to work and fix er’ up before Price comes down in an hour. Your choice 'ere."

An hour. A fucking hour? Is he clinically insane? This is easily about three days of work. And that’s if the bloody stars align.

"You’re unbelievable.” Scowl laden, you frown at him, words dripping venom as you shake your pounding head. "How nice of you to give me the option of choosing. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, truly."

A beat of silence, unreadable eyes flicking over you.

“S’that sarcasm, engineer?” And then, he takes another step closer.

It never gets easier — the way he fills the space, how much bigger he is when he’s this close, broad shoulders cutting the world around you down to just him. He could crush you if he wanted. You’ve never forgotten that.

Your lips part, but before you can get a word out he’s already speaking.

"Y'know," he peers down at you with a slight tilt of his head. "A simple ‘thank you' wouldn't be the end of tha’ world."

You deadpan, biting back the scoff threatening to escape. Thank him? He wants you to thank him — for blowing a helo out of the sky an hour before the biggest inspection of your life? No. He’s not insane. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

“Thank you for what, exactly?” You force the words out, fighting to keep the sarcasm at bay, to sound even remotely genuine.

It doesn’t help that he’s right there, close enough to reach out and touch. You’ve been through enough in your time with the military to handle pressure, but there’s something about him — the bulk of him, the way he commands the space around him, the fact you can never read his facial expressions — that makes it hard to breathe.

Not to mention the tac gear he’s always dressed in. Layered thick like it’s meant for a frozen wasteland instead of the stifling summer heat you’re currently experiencing.

“F’givin’ you a passin’ grade,” he says, like that means a damn thing to you.

This game is getting old.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about now?” Heat flares beneath your skin, frustration mounting. “If that was a test, then it was a goddamn shitty one. You didn’t fly it. You destroyed it.”

He steps in again, exhaling like you’re the one wasting his time.

“M’giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.” You’re ready to bite back, to tell him exactly where he can put his opportunity, but then— “How’re you s’posed to prove y’worth somethin’, when no one thinks you’ve got it in ya?”

For the third time today, he shuts you up. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. This is, without a doubt, the strangest, most infuriating first interaction you’ve ever had with anyone in your entire life.

“Wow.” That’s all you manage. You knew being one of the only female engineers here would put you at a disadvantage, but this? Blowing up the helo just to test if you can fix it? It’s beyond comprehension. “That’s great, Ghost. Thanks.”

He doesn’t blink—just steps closer again, crowding you until you have to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze.

“Lieutenant.” Flat. Unyielding. But there’s something about the way it drips off his tongue that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. It’s not a request. It’s a correction. “Say it.”

Oh.

Heat licks up your neck, pooling at the base of your skull, and you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. You swallow hard, forcing down the lump wedged in your throat because technically he is still your superior, regardless if he holds power over your job or not.

“Thank you,” you start again, your ego turning purple. “Lieutenant.”

You don’t look, but you feel his head tilt. You’d bet your life he’s smiling.

"So you can listen." Warm air skims your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s coming from him or from the heat of the burning aircraft - but it stings. "...good."

And then, when he realizes you’ve most likely bitten your tongue in half at this point, he takes a step back. You watch him now, eyes like a laser as he turns and heads for the door without another word. And almost immediately after he vanishes out into the hall you take the opportunity to suck in air like you’re starved of it, not realizing how fucking tense you were until he was out of sight.

Leaving you with a burning helo, an hour of time to fix it, and a whole lot of fuckin’ irritation.

“You bastard.” You mutter under your breath, staring at the wreckage before you.

If there was another option, you sure as hell didn’t know it. But no matter how impossible this seemed, failure wasn’t on the table — not after the years you’d put into this, the money, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. You didn’t crawl your way up through this goddamn system just to crash and burn now.

You needed a miracle.

And for the next two hours in the hangar, chaos was the only thing you knew.

You’ve never worked this fast in your life. The moment you got down to business you started barking orders, pulling maintenance techs and engineers off other projects, shoving tools into hands and sending them where they’re needed. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess — the aircraft has to be back in the air, and it has to be now.

And within minutes smoke steeped the hangar, sparks bursting like firecrackers from stripped wires. Everyone’s locked in — shouts, curses, the groan of machinery being pushed and pulled back together reverberating. It’s frantic, relentless, like a pack of starving wolves tearing at a fresh carcass, and you’re right there in the thick of it, teeth bared, fighting to hold the whole damn thing together.

But the euphemism falls short, because this wasn’t just a carcass torn open, in need of some stitching. It was worse — much worse.

The helo wasn’t just damaged; it was obliterated. Every inch of it had been shredded to ribbons, from the engine to the exterior frame, internal wiring snapped and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever the fuck that maniac had done, he hadn’t just tested its limits — he’d taken a sledgehammer to it and kept swinging.

You’ve seen aircraft’s in bad shape before, but nothing like this. It was a wreck, a heap of smoldering metal and sparking circuits, and somehow, you’re supposed to pull it back from the dead. But there’s no time to dwell on the impossibility of it — not when you’re hauling replacement parts back and forth, hands slick with oil and sweat, not when you’re welding and soldering with the kind of precision that would make your professors weep, not when the only thing keeping you moving is sheer goddamn will.

And then, after what feels like hours, you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, the kind that don’t belong to someone who helps—but someone who watches.

“My, my.” You recognize the voice instantly—Captain Price. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

You practically fling yourself to your feet, dragging a sleeve across your forehead, smearing grime over skin already slick with sweat. You almost groan in exasperation, but you swallow it down, clenching your jaw, praying to whatever god might be listening for the strength to not say something about Ghost that’ll get you court-martialed.

“Sir,” you greet him with a respectful nod. “I was informed, rather late mind you, that there was a scheduled test flight.”

A beat.

“Test flight,” Price repeats, brow lifting with something you can’t quite name. “Right. Test flight.”

A sharp bark of laughter leaves him, short and humourless, shaking his head as his eyes rake over the half-patched wreckage sprawled before him.

“And this,” he turns back to you. “This is the damage from that test flight?”

You hesitate—just for a fraction of a second—before nodding, breath held tight in your chest. It’s useless, really. You both know there’s no universe where a few minutes in the air could inflict this level of destruction. Price might’ve ordered Ghost to take the bird up, to test your work a little more personally—but there’s no way in hell he told him to annihilate the goddamn thing.

You’d bet your entire career the bastard did not have permission to go this far.

“Fucken’ typical,” Price mutters, pulling off his cap as he begins pacing around the bird, taking in the carnage from every angle. “Damn near destroyed the thing.”

That’ll be your fault, you think grimly. You’re the one who gave him the fucking order, after all.

But you keep your mouth shut, trailing behind him as he circles the wreckage, eyes sweeping over the mess of half-patched repairs. When he stops short, turning on his heel so fast you almost stumble back, you know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“How long’s this gonna’ take to fix?”

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. Swallow, but your throat stays dry. It’s not hesitation—it’s knowing the answer is one he won’t like. You don’t even like it. Because with the kind of damage Ghost inflicted, there’s no way in hell you’ll have it ready for any type of inspection today.

“For proper repairs and testing?” You exhale, shaking your head. “Days. At least two, sir.”

You brace yourself for impact—for the reprimand, the frustration, the inevitable do better speech. But it doesn’t come. He only sighs, nodding once before readjusting his cap.

“Two days, then.” He’s already walking away, halfway to the hangar doors when he glances back over his shoulder. “Performance review postponed.”

Those last three words make your stomach churn, and then Price is gone.

“Goddamn it. Asshole.”

The curse leaves you sharper than intended, loud enough to carry across the hangar. You don’t care. How could you? The moment you’ve bled for—postponed—because one insufferable bastard decided to make a spectacle of himself. You want to scream, to hurl every goddamn tool in reach straight at his smug, masked face.

Instead, you inhale deeply, exhaling through gritted teeth before turning to the crew.

“Call it a night, guys. I appreciate the help.”

A few nod, murmuring about leaving their assignments to meet early and help with the rest of the repairs, but their voices barely register. You’re exhausted, and you need a fucking shower — so you just mutter some type of agreement and head for the door. You walk the path back to housing, hardly even noticing that it’s nightfall now. Price must have come later than planned, though you really have no idea the hour because in all honesty you weren’t keep track of time. Either way, your boots hit the threshold of the barracks before you even realize you’d made it inside, your full focus on forcing your mind to keep busy.

You head straight for the showers, not bothering to grab fresh clothes. If you stop now, you might start thinking again — about the disaster of a day, about him, about the sheer fucking audacity — and that’s the last thing you need.

You tear off your disgusting uniform in seconds. The water is scalding, but you don’t flinch. If anything, you lean into it, letting the heat work its way into your bones, washing away the sweat, the grease, the tension coiled tight in your shoulders. You brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling sharply.

Fucking Ghost.

Your mind takes over now that you lack distraction, and the name alone is enough to set your teeth on edge. He didn’t just make your job harder—he deliberately threw you into the fire, watched you scramble, tested you like you were some new recruit fresh out of training. And the worst part? He got exactly what he wanted.

You hate that you rose to the challenge. That you had to. You just can’t figure out why. Why he did it — where his motives are.

Steam curls around you as you drop your head, water hammering against your spine, drowning out everything else. Your breaths come heavy, dragging in and out of your chest like you’ve just run a goddamn marathon, so busy in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shift in the air, the faint tremor in the ground beneath you.

You don’t hear the footsteps until they’re too close to ignore, breaking through your sorrows, coming to a halt just beyond the dividing wall. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing. Just the steady rush of water, the sound of your own breathing.

Then—

“Y’done sulkin’ yet?”

Fucking hell.

You snap to attention, the sound of that voice like a gut punch. Verbal inflection so intense that only after a few conversations (if you can even call them that) you know you’d recognize it in your sleep, and it takes all of your willpower not to react with more than just the involuntary stiffening in your muscles.

You blink the water out of your eyes, trying to center yourself.

“Do you make a hobby out of sneaking in on people while they shower?” You ask, forcing your voice to stay light, to not betray the rush of heat in your chest. You should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known this wasn’t the end of the goddamn shitshow. “Or am I just that special?”

"Didn’t know I had t’make an appointment for a communal shower.”

God, that does something to you, and you hate that it does. He’s taking your attitude and he’s feeding it right back to you — and the taste of your own medicine has never been so bitter.

Then, you hear his boots against the floor again, his voice accompanying. “Seems there’s alot I don’ know about ya.”

And again. It’s that tone. The way it drags, measured, like he’s thinking out loud. Like he’s taking you apart in his mind piece by piece. Trying to figure you out.

And you—stupidly, impulsively—throw it back at him.

“I’d say we’re even, then.”

It slips out before you can stop it, and you know it’s a mistake the second the words settle. Because he stops moving. The air tightens. A beat stretches long between you. You take the opportunity to reach for your towel, turn off the water, anything to not feel so vulnerable — but it doesn’t help. Not when you’re suddenly so acutely aware of how close he is. How little space separates you.

How very little there is between you at all.

You swallow, forcing steel into your voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

Then, the softest sound — amusement, maybe.

“Not sure y’need to.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pulling the towel tight around your torso. Of course.

“Not sure I want to.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything.

But he catches it anyway.

You hear the shift of his stance, another hum of amusement. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

And that does it.

You know you’re walking straight into the trap he’s setting, but you don’t care anymore. Your patience is gone, worn to the bone, and you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t get to glare him right in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

“Cut the shit, Ghost.” The stall door slams open as you shove it wide, padding forward until your bare feet nearly touch his boots. “Why the hell are you even here?”

You don’t expect to hit a brick wall, but that’s exactly what it feels like. He’s missing a layer of tac gear now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargos, shoulder propped against the support beam like he’s been here all night. His gaze flicks over your face, your neck, the way water drips from your skin.

You fight not to pull your towel tighter.

“Cap’s orders.” He states, voice easy, right as rain. “Told me t’make amends.”

He has to be kidding.

“Make amends.” You repeat the words flatly, tasting them, turning them over in your mind like they might somehow make more sense on the second pass. “He told you to make amends.”

They don’t.

And when he nods — you huff a laugh, humourless.

“Right. And you thought the best way to do that was to sneak into the showers and stand there like a fucking serial killer?”

“Didn’t sneak,” he says simply. “Walked in same as you.”

You blink. You have this sick feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying every reaction you’re giving.

“Yet your intent is not the same as mine.”

He looks at the door, then back to you. “Ain’t it?”

You inhale sharply through your nose, hands tightening around the towel at your chest. You know better than to engage with this — than to let him push and prod and get under your skin. But it’s too late. He’s already there, and you’re too goddamn tired to claw him back out.

“Look,” you sigh, shifting your weight, fighting not to admire the bulk of his chest at your eye level. “Whatever Price told you to do, consider it done. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out so I can forget this conversation ever happened.”

A long beat. You don’t know what kind of response you expect, but the way he just stands there considering you is somehow worse than all the possible outcomes you’d imagined.

Then, finally—finally—he moves. But not to leave.

Instead, he pushes off the beam, straightening to full height and moves closer. Not much, just enough to make you feel it — the shift in the air — the heat radiating off him.

“Y’sure about that?” His voice is quieter now, head tilting down toward yours. “Seem a little too wound for someone who’s ready t’forget about it.”

A huff. “And you seem a little too invested for someone who’s just here on orders.”

It's stupid. It's really goddamn stupid how he's able to do this, to turn your words into a rope he can use to drag you around the way he wants. You know that. But still, you’re useless in stopping the way your stomach keens as he leans closer.

"Y’gonna deny you’re still pissed at me?” He whispers.

You shake your head. “Never said I wasn’t still pissed.”

"Mhm." He nods along with it. "But pissed don't fully describe it, does it?”

"It’s an improvement from murderous,” you retort, as pointedly as you can muster. “Count your blessings.”

Another hum, eyes dragging slow over your face, like he’s searching for something. Or maybe just savouring it — the way you bristle under his scrutiny — the way your fingers twitch where they clutch at your towel.

“M’grateful for y’kindness. Truly.” It takes you a second to register it—the cadence, the words, the mockery. He’s parroting you. Throwing your own attitude from earlier back in your face. “But y’know, yeah? I only did what I did ‘cause I knew y’could handle it.”

You go still, pulse hammering in your throat.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ghost.” Your voice wavers, choked by realization that everything he does has motive. “And definitely don’t flatter me. Not now.”

A slow exhale, warm against your chilled skin, hooded eyes flicking to your ear like he’s considering something.

“S’not flattery. Just truth.”

And then— closer. Close enough that the breath between you is thin, almost nonexistent.

“M’not a good man, sweet’eart. M’a filthy, vile thing. But you—” a pause. He breathes in, your hair shifting with the exhale. “Mm. Y’good. Clean. I knew y’could take it. Needed Price t’know it too.”

Well, fuck.

Your head is spinning now, but even through the vertigo you realize your second mistake. You know it’s a mistake the moment it happens — rather, the moment before it happens — but when your head shifts, just enough that your ear brushes against fabric of his mask; you realize it’s the type of mistake you can’t come back from.

And so, you breathe him in. It’s reckless. It’s ruinous. It’s completely unavoidable.

“My gut is telling me you’re patronizing me.” You whisper; something softer, something you shouldn’t allow. A pause. Your lashes flutter. “But god, I can’t figure you out.”

And again, you don’t know what reaction you expect from him. Maybe you don’t expect one at all. It’s been an exceptionally odd 24 hours, so you’re certain nothing can surprise you at this point. But what you definitely don’t count on is the continued brush of his mask against your cheek, or the way your toes long to curl against the damp floor—

"Y’not suppose to." His voice is so deep you feel it in your bones. “S’don’t try too hard.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but you do know you should step back. You need to step back.

But you don’t.

You stay right there, still as the air between you, every nerve suffocated by the viscosity stretching between his words and yours. The scent of him—gunmetal, something dark and earthen—settles in your lungs like smoke; curling, clinging, refusing to leave.

And so, you breathe him in for the second time. A dangerous temptation. “You came here to make amends, didn’t you?”

The words leave you quieter than you mean them to, tinged in something close to breathlessness — something you wish to god you didn’t hear. Something you hope to god he didn’t hear.

Because atleast now, you can say you know how he is — how he listens, how he picks the quirks out of you and files them away for later — how he knows what to do with the things he finds in people, how to use them like leverage.

And you should be immune to it.

You’ve spent your entire career training for moments like these. All the military training you went through, tactical and aerospace alike. You’ve been thrown into war zones, fixed and pulled aircraft’s out of burning fields, run repairs under enemy fire with nothing but your hands and your own goddamn heartbeat when the situation called for it.

You know what fear looks like. You know what death smells like. You know what it means to be hunted.

And yet—this? You never saw this coming.

Never saw him coming.

“Y’want an apology?” He mutters, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Y’want m’to say I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a good start.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, the smirk in his voice lingering, curling at the edges of the silence between you.

Then, he hums. “How ’bout I do y’one better?”

You barely have time to process the shift before you feel it—his hand—rough, calloused palm grazing slow along the towel covering your hip.

“Let m’spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Get y’feelin’ just how much I mean it.”

For a moment, you forget everything.

All the reasons, all the lines. The ones he's crossing — or maybe the ones you're erasing with every second you let his massive paw of a hand touch you. God — you aren't supposed to want this. You don’t know even know him. Don’t know his name, what his face looks like. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s dangerous, and that he’s made you fucking ache.

You exhale — when the moment passes and you remember where you are — a long, almost shaky breath, and it doesn't escape you the way he notices. Watches you through those thick lashes, like he's enjoying the reaction he's been working so hard for.

You wish you could hate him for it.

“Make me feel it then,” you whisper, all pathetic and trembling and borderline wanton as his fingers find the end of your towel, and brush against goosebumped flesh. “Lieutenant.”

And for a moment, you think you’ve made your third mistake of the evening. His title slips out like a curse — and something in your chest roars with how much you mean it.

He's so goddamn cocky. So sure of himself and you hate that you're the one he's so sure of. But when you call him by his rank — when you push that sarcastic mouth of yours just a little bit further, you can feel his reaction instantaneously by the way he stalls — eyes glinting in the low light.

"She wants t’bring rank into this now, yeah?” And when you don’t reply fast enough, he replies for you. “Get in the stall, engineer.”

There's a thousand reasons this is a bad idea. A million reasons you should be saying no right now. But when he looks at you like that, with those eyes like fire locked on yours and practically daring you to refuse him — he has to know he’s not going to get it.

His hand comes up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Now.”

And that, is your fourth mistake of the night.

You turn, padding back into the stall you’d showered in only moments before — tiles still beading with diamond droplets, gleaming up at you as you step inside. You turn as he follows you in, crowding you against the wall, broad shoulders taking up all the width in the already cramped space as he shuts the door behind him.

And then, he’s on you.

It's so abrupt and so visceral that it takes your breath away entirely. Your hands go up automatically to catch his chest, steadying yourself when he slots his knee between your legs, pinning you against the wall. Your towel is barely clinging around you, and it’s a shocker it still is — but you forget about it when he starts dipping his head down.

"Feels good, don’t it? Bein’ told what t'do?” He murmurs, fabric covered lips grazing the shell of your ear. "M'bettin’ y’don’t experience this much anymore. Tha’s why you’re melting for it.”

And god, the fact that he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Somewhere between your rank and your title and your pride, you’ve forgotten the last time you had someone looking at you like this. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to bite and scratch and insist that you're nothing like he's saying — but then a hand slips up around your throat, and the other down between the space separating your bodies, thick fingers catching the end of your towel — and your eyes flutter.

“M’not hearing any apologies.” You manage to mutter, just before those same thick digits find your inner thigh, working up higher.

You're deflecting. The both of you know it. The same pride that drove you to where you are is the same pride that drove him where he is. You think he’s going to call you on it, but then you realize he won’t. Not when the hand at your throat tightens just barely, not when his voice drips into your ear.

"Y’gonna feel em’ soon.”

And then, you do.

You feel the grazing of calloused flesh against sensitive, damn-near celibate flesh. There’s another sound. A low, wanton, filthy moan, and you’re about 94% sure it came from you as beastly fingers slide along your slick slit, exposing the extent of your need to his ego in its entirety — once, twice, curling toward your sopping entrance before you feel the thunder of his hum.

Mocking. "Christ. S’like m’workin’ a faucet, yeah?"

His lips are on your neck now, mouthing slow and deliberate along your jaw even while covered by fabric — and the whimper that slips out is pathetic, even to your own ears.

"Wha’s that?” He all but growls. "C'mon, use y'words f’me. Or d’you only know how t’spit insults?“

You do know how to use your words, actually — and they're usually good ones. You've got a sharp tongue, a mouth just as foul as your temper. So you don't know what to do when every curse, every name, every string of insults you keep in stock gets caught in your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but try not to gasp when his fingers slide up to your clit and swirl.

"Fucking hell." Your jaw goes slack under the hand that holds it. "You—really are vile—“

This whole goddamn thing is vile. The way he can ruin you like this — make you quiver like this — in moments without so much as a name or face to attach the memory of it to.

If he's vile, you know you're not much better.

"Yeah. Tha’s right. I know you’re feelin’ it." He murmurs, fingers circling your clit firmer, faster. "Look how y’squirmin’ for it.”

You have half a mind to spit in his face for that. You have half a mind to tell him to go to hell. You have a million other things you should be doing right now other than clawing at his chest just to stay upright as he brings you to the brink of ruin.

"T-there you go again—mmf—“ your words are so breathless it’s pathetic. “Flattering yourself.”

It’s a futile attempt at a rebuttal, a stupid one because you already know the response he’s going to have to it. Pathetic. You are squirming, and you want to hate him for it, so you do. Your nails bite into his chest, dragging, raking slow and hard as if you could tear through the fabric covering it. You know you wouldn’t. Couldn't. But it's still good enough for him to grunt, hand around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp in response.

"S’not flattery. Just truth.” He parrots himself again from earlier, and you think you’re on the verge of losing your mind because you know him well enough now have to predicted it. “Y’fuckin need this, don’ you?”

It's not a question. He doesn't need you to answer, because you both know how it ends anyway. But god damn him and his words. Because his filthy mouth is the second most dangerous thing to ever happen to you — right behind his fingers. You need to reply. Need to answer. He's going to force a reaction from you one way or another.

But he doesn’t give you the luxury of even trying.

His fingers still with a suddenness that makes you cry out in frustration — silver platter feeding him exactly what he was fucking looking for.

"Mhm. S’what I thought." He murmurs, hand sliding from around your throat to the back of your head. “M’guessing it’s been years. Least’ a couple.”

And it’s then, that you get it.

You get why this man is feared. You get why he’s so fucking dangerous. He’s worse than the name you know him by — because you’re certain even ghosts aren’t this knowing. This brutal. This consuming.

And through the haze in your head, you try to think back to the day you first met him. There had to have been dark signs — omens in your skies — a warning.

Yet, you can’t think of one.

“F-fuck you.” You spit it at him, because it’s apparently all your mouth is good for. “Stroke your ego any harder and it might just fucking cum before I do.”

He laughs, and then you feel it. The grip tightening in your hair, the palm slapping at your inner thigh to work your legs wider.

“Judging by tha’ mouth, y’never been fucked right either.” He mutters, fingers slipping up the slick coating your thighs. “S’alright. M’here to apologize, yeah? I’ll pay m’penance.”

Bullshit.

He’s not going to apologize by any means — if the last however many minutes aren’t proof enough of that. This is punishment in its worst form, and even that’s not enough. If you want him to make it up to you, you’re going to have to take it.

"Get on your fucking knees, then.” You’re so unbelievably wired that you hardly even realize what you’d said. You hardly even realize when you continue. “And use that mouth for something other than self elation.”

If you thought this was dangerous before - you’re not sure what the fuck this is now.

If someone had asked you an hour ago if you'd ever considered you have a death wish of this caliber, you’d have laughed. If someone had asked you if you were capable of saying half the things you’re saying right now, you’d have laughed even harder. But the fact that they’re leaving your lips - your lips that are now trembling with the realization that you just ordered one of the most dangerous men in the world to kneel — is enough to make you dizzy.

But then, he does it.

He sinks to those knees, cargos sponging the cold showered tiles as he does.

And you don’t think— not really — not for a moment.

Because if you did, you might have wondered if your pride and your dignity are even worth the way he’s looking at you right now — like he wants to eat you alive. You might have wondered if you were dreaming, if this was even physically fucking possible — the nameless, faceless man who has scared people shitless with just his reputation, kneeling between your fucking feet.

“Fuck.” It slips out in an exhale, and you don’t even hear it.

He does, though.

And in response, he holds your eyes while pulling at the edge of his balaclava. Just enough to uncover his jaw and lips — thick, pillow-full lips cocked into the type of grin you’d have expected, but steals the remainder of your breath regardless.

“M’gonna’ spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow.” He rasps, pulling one of your thighs over his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

Oh, how you wish he meant that.

Because he isn’t. He isn’t the least bit apologetic when he pushes your back against the tiled walls with a heavy palm against your pelvis — he isn’t the least bit remorseful when he’s dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, nipping and lapping — and he’s certainly not the least bit sorry as he brings that filthy fucking mouth of his to your slit, and starts to devour you like he’s starved.

And this, you know is sin.

You know this, because you’ve never felt a mouth on you until now that made you think of god. You’ve never felt fingers dig into flesh with enough force to bruise the way his do — never felt anything that could make you forget who you are and where you are and everything in between.

It has to be sin, because no one could do this without an explicit knowledge of what sin tastes like.

There’s no other explanation for the way he can make you keen, arch and moan like this. No other excuse for the way you quiver as he curls his tongue and strokes you until you’re seeing white, just to suck on your clit with a ferocity that makes your stomach tighten and your hands shoot up to cover your own mouth.

“Feel it.” He husks against you, and the sound and sensation make your hips buck forward in response. “Relax an’ feel it.”

It’s not a request — it’s a demand. And you don’t think to defy him when he pulls your hands away, pushes you back, and buries his whole face against your pussy again like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You’re so dizzy you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can only hear your breath coming out in stilted moans and little cries of his namesake — the namesake that you realize the irony of rather briefly, but forget when your brain flatlines all over again.

Because he groans against your clit like you’re the best goddamn meal he’s ever had, and suddenly, you get how easy it is to fall. Fall into the rhythm — your hips moving in sync with the strokes of his tongue, your thighs closing around his skull. You want to scream. You almost want to cry. Your voice breaks with every sound you make, and you know your heart is only a few beats away from beating out of your chest by the way he grips your hips, pulling your cunt to his head before bringing a finger to your sopping entrance.

"Gonna’ stretch y’out a bit.” He rasps, and you aren’t sure if he’s saying it to warn you or to remind himself. “Breathe.”

You try, but then, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening — that thick finger pushes inside you, curling against your walls until you’re gasping and covering your mouth all over again.

And god, you aren’t going to be able to look at his skull mask the same way again. Not when you watch it’s shape shifting just slightly as he works his jaw, suckling against your clit with a hunger you can only describe as feral, eyes half-lidded as they lock with your own. You’re certain nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. It's a goddamn match to a bomb as he starts to work another finger into you, curling them in time with his tongue in a way you don’t think you’d have been able to come up with if you’d had a lifetime to consider it. You can feel that tension building — a tight coil of heat and pressure building low in your core.

Then, you feel his fingers inside you doing something odd. Something—

Oh, fuck.

You feel it before you can comprehend it — before you know he’s tracing the first letter, the shape of it hitting in just the right place that it makes your hips buck in response.

Oh. Oh god.

You can feel him hum against you, like he’s savouring it — the way you’re clenching around his fingers as you realize what he’s doing. It takes everything in you not to scream, eyes squeezed shut and hand over your mouth — head back against the wall as you imagine the look in his eyes, how goddamn wicked it must be while he spells out the rest of his apology inside you.

O. Then, R. Then another. Then, Y.

“G-ghost—“ you know he must be able to tell you're almost gone, because when he hits the last R and your breath catches, his name a whoreish moan you try to smother against the back of your hand — he growls in satisfaction. It’s too much. You can't breathe because your climax is right fucking there, and you can’t stop it for a second longer. “G-ghost—m’gonna—ohgod—“

With a suddenness that makes stars burst across the backs of your eyes, he brings his free hand up, stuffing two fingers into your mouth to smother the sound and feel of his name as you cry it. He strokes you through it, pumping you with his fingers as your vision blurs into some indiscernible haze — a kaleidoscope of light and pleasure and everything you know you should never allow yourself to have.

And then, when you finally catch the breath it took to even say his name, he pulls away. Fingers slipping from your mouth and your pussy like a goddamn magician.

A ghost.

Then, he stands up, and you watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like you’re all the goddamn nourishment he needs before he’s helping you get stable on your feet.

“M’sure y’feel it now.” He murmurs, lips so close to yours you can taste yourself on his breath. "M’a man of m’word, sweet’eart. Always make good on m’promises.”

You’re sure he can see it, the realization in your eyes when you come back down to earth long enough to remember what just happened. Remember that you weren't supposed to let it happen in the first place. That you were supposed to have better control over yourself — and you can guess he knows, by the way he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Guess I made m’point, yeah?"

He tugs his balaclava back in place, and you exhale.

“Yeah, you made your point.” He hums at that, and you tug your towel tighter. “But this—this can’t happen again.”

It takes him a beat to respond, and when he does, it’s simple.

"Of course.”

You don’t know why, but that response makes your chest tighten in a way it has no business doing. It would have been so much easier if he’d given you a smart ass smirk, or a biting response. It would be so much easier if he told you that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t.

And so, you step closer to him, tilting your head back to keep his eyes.

“I mean it, Ghost.” You whisper. “I’ll take a pound of your flesh before I allow you to fuck with my paystub ever again.”

You thought, at this point, you’d have figured out some type of gauge on his reactions. But still, he proves you haven’t. You don't expect the hand coming up, cupping your jaw to hold you in place as his eyes drop to your lips. You don't expect him to lean in, and bring his own to your ear — and you definitely don’t expect the words that fill it.

“There’s a few things I wanna’ fuck. Y’paystub ain’t one.” He pauses, and you’re certain it’s because he’s enjoying the drumbeat that is now your heart rate. You’d just found your breath and he singlehandedly stole it again. “I’ll be watchin’ f’your enemies. T’let em’ know they contend with me.”

You think you get it then. The reason everyone looks at him the way they do. The reason they're so terrified of him in one second, and willing to take a bullet for him during the next. It's not even because he's trained to be a killing machine. Not because he can see what you're thinking before you even realize you are. Not because he'd walk through fire just to be close to hell.

It's because he's a man of his word, and even you understand the gravity of that kind of loyalty.

You exhale with a nod, and then he’s gone.

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ponderingmoonlight · 15 days ago

Text

How you accidentally made Dante look like a hero again

Pairing: Dante x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,6k

Synopsis: All you wanted was to outsmart Dante and prove he was setting you up for demon attacks in order to get closer to you. Instead, you ended up buried under library rubble, fighting off scorpion demons, and getting saved by him — again. This is why you have trust issues.

Warnings: swearing, kinda enemies to lovers dynamic, I just love Dante y'all need to have mercy with me lol

You’re starting to think you’re cursed.

That’s the only explanation for it. How else do you keep ending up in demon-infested alleys, haunted casinos, and - once - dangling upside down from a stolen motorcycle, twice in the same week? No average person deserves so much distress.

But even worse: every time - every damn time - there’s Dante.

Bursting in like he’s auditioning for an action movie. Guns blazing, coat flaring behind him, a cocky smirk plastered across his stupidly handsome face.

God, how much you hate that guy.

…do you?

"Oh no," you mutter under your breath when you spot him swaggering through the chaos yet again.

"Not this asshole."

"Miss me, babe?" he calls, spinning his sword once before cleaving a demon in half like it's no big deal.

You barely dodge a flying claw, pretty used to almost dying by now.

"Dante, why are there hellhounds in the laundromat?! I just came here to do my laundry!"

He winks at you like this is all part of some grand romantic plan.

"You know. Crazy city. You never know what’s gonna happen. Nice panties by the way, wish I could see them up close."

You stare at him, sceptical to say the least, as he shoots a demon that was two inches away from biting your head off.

"This is the fourth time this month. And every time you're 'coincidentally' nearby!"

He strolls over, casually beheading something with his sword like he's just stretching his legs. How many times have you seen this already? Probably like a hundred times.

This month.

"Fate works in mysterious ways, sweetheart."

You gawk at him. No, the thing he calls fate can’t be an accident. There is literally no way in hell that you get attacked even more often than himself. There has to be another reason. Could it be that…?

"Are you setting this up?!"

He gives you a look, all fake innocence and devilish grin.

That bastard.

"Who, me? Nahhh. Demons just have a thing for damsels. Lucky for you... I'm a professional knight in shining armor."

A piece of ceiling collapses dangerously close to you. You flinch for once. Dante doesn’t even blink, just throws an arm around your waist and throws you out of the way with way too much enthusiasm.

You land on your back with a grunt, staring up at the cracked ceiling and wondering what life choices led you here. Where did you take a wrong turn to deserve this? Being liked by a hot guy is all fun and games until the name of that jerk is Dante Sparda, apparently.

Dante leans over you, upside-down, grinning like a maniac.

"You good? Need mouth-to-mouth?" he offers helpfully.

You shove him off you, the heat of his body almost devouring you whole.

"I’m getting a restraining order."

"You say that, but then who’s gonna save you next time you almost get eaten by a possessed vending machine?"

You open your mouth to argue - and realize you have no idea how to deal with possessed vending machines. You groan, burying your face in your hands.

“Maybe you’re the one who possesses everything around me…”

Dante pats your head fondly like you’re some kind of beloved but very dumb kitten.

"You mean like your thoughts? Most definitely, yeah. But don't worry, babe," he coos cheerfully, "I'll always be there to save your pretty little ass."

You’re pretty sure that’s supposed to be comforting. Instead, you start mentally drafting your will.

“Get off me now, I need to get going jerk. And stop staring at my panties”, you hiss through gritted teeth while getting up, packing your things and leaving.

No, this isn’t an accident, not your fault by any means. Dante is the one who sets all of this shit up.

“That fucker…”, you mutter to yourself, slamming the door shut in fury.

You can’t do this anymore, can’t take seeing a demon each time you leave your house. You’ll have to teach him a lesson.

Yes, there has to be a way to stop this madness once and for all.

“I’ll catch you mid-act, Dante…”

You hatch a plan.

A pretty simple one: bait Dante into showing up, catch him red-handed, and finally prove he's arranging all this chaos.

You pick the most boring, demon-unfriendly place you can think of: the public library. No shady alleys, no creepy neon signs, no way in hell anything supernatural is hanging out between the tax law section and the dusty romance novels.

You text him a fake tip, something about "possible demonic activity" near the library, totally urgent, definitely needs his professional attention.

Then you sit back, tuck yourself into a corner with a stack of books, and wait.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty.

No Dante.

You start to relax. Maybe he finally got the hint. Maybe he's actually busy for once. Did your words from yesterday finally stir something inside of his brain?

And that's when the ceiling caves in.

You shriek as a massive scorpion demon crashes through the roof, scattering books and terrified civilians everywhere. Librarians are running for their lives. An entire row of encyclopedias explodes in a puff of dusty chaos, taking your sight while you desperately try to crawl out of the scene.

Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen. That definitely wasn’t written on your bingo card for today.

"What the hell?!" you shout, diving behind a bookshelf just in time before a whole fucking shelf bumps onto the ground next to you.

"HEY BABY!" a too-familiar voice yells from somewhere in the smoke.

You peek out and see Dante standing atop the checkout desk, dual pistols in hand, grinning like this is the best day of his life.

"Miss me?"

You stare at him, speechless. No, this has to be a dream. This was supposed to be a trap, you set him off in order to finally find him guilty. And now this?

"HOW?!"

He jumps off the desk, unloading a round of bullets into the demon's face like it’s a casual Tuesday.

"You sent me the text! Good instincts, by the way - I was gonna ignore it, but then I figured, ‘Hey, if my girl’s around, probably gonna be some action.’ And look! Action!"

You dodge a flying claw and seriously consider strangling him with a library card cord.

"I SENT YOU A FAKE TEXT!" you shout over the sound of gunfire.

"THERE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE A REAL DEMON!"

"Aw," Dante replies, kicking a demon minion into a copy machine, "you’re so modest. You’re like a magnet for this stuff."

You have no time to argue. The giant scorpion is bearing down on you. You grab the nearest weapon, a hardcover dictionary about curse words in Spanish, and hurl it at its head. It bounces off harmlessly. Yeah, what a surprise, actually.

Dante whistles low, impressed.

"Good arm, babe. But here - lemme show you how it's done."

Before you can blink, he’s in front of you, sword flashing, doing some ridiculously show-offy spin move that absolutely wasn’t necessary but looks cool as hell anyway.

The demon collapses with a final screech.

Silence falls over the destroyed library.

Books smolder, paper flutters in the air like sad confetti. Somewhere, a printer makes a pathetic beep before dying.

You sit down heavily on the floor, dazed.

Dante strolls over, all proud, offering you a hand up.

"No need to thank me. It’s kinda my thing."

You stare at him, mind still processing what just happened. Your mission failed – miserably, so say the least.

"I literally TRIED to set you up."

"And look how well it worked!" he declares brightly.

"You lured out the bad guys! You're a natural at this demon-hunting stuff. I'm so proud."

You want to punch him. You want to kiss him. You want to punch him then kiss him.

Instead, you let him pull you to your feet, dusting off your scorched jacket.

"I'm never texting you again," you grumble.

"Sure you will," Dante coos, flashing that stupid, charming grin.

"You can't resist me."

You open your mouth to argue - and immediately get tackled to the ground as a second, smaller demon leaps from the wreckage.

You land with a painful thud, pinned beneath Dante’s weight as he shoots over your head, finishing off the last monster.

When the danger’s over, he stays there for an awkward beat too long, smirking down at you.

"See? Told ya. Always there to catch ya when you fall."

You groan, covering your face with your hands while absolutely hating how good his body weight feels on top of you, how surprisingly good that asshole of a man smells.

"I'm going to die of second-hand embarrassment."

"Nah," Dante retorts confidently, getting up and pulling you with him again.

"If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be something way cooler. Like a demon. Or a possessed espresso machine."

You squint at him.

"You’re not gonna let this go, are you?"

He slings an arm around your shoulders like he owns the place, like the ablaze library isn’t his fault at all, and leads you toward the exit.

"Nope. You're stuck with me, sweetheart."

You sigh.

Maybe getting a new phone and a new name wouldn’t be the worst idea.

…Or just giving in.

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cimmanonrowl · 9 months ago

Text

Eat Your Young pt.2

Part One | Masterlist

Coming down from the high that Aaron introduced you to feels impossible at this point. Following your very first encounter after his arrival, there isn't a day that he didn't make you feel desired and pleasured. And what better way to have him sated than letting him fuck you senseless out of pure unadulterated jealousy?

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Theme: smut heaven

Contents: age gap, oral fixation, oral (f) receiving, masturbation, cum play, overstimulation, squirting, breeding kink, daddy & sir kink, unprotected, rough sex, angry sex, jealous!aaron, size difference, belly bulging, dirty talk, powerplay: boss/employee dynamic, pure filth, pussy-eater, bearded aaron.

You weren’t sure what was waiting ahead when you accepted the job.

For one, it was a blessing, given your old employers were moving out of state and you couldn’t go with them. They wanted to bring you, of course. They wanted you to come with them but you had to decline as you have plans of your own after you finish your studies. It was a hard decision to make. You were with the family for almost three years, they helped you through University so you don’t drown in student loans and debt, and the kids loved you as much as you loved them. Even without telling you, you could tell their parents felt bad you’re losing your only financial support at the moment.

That was when Jessica was sent to you like an angel in disguise.

She was an acquaintance; a close friend to your employers, so in a way you knew the woman and some bits of her life. You knew that she was taking care of her nephew, although occasionally; a young kid named Jack. You knew that she loved looking after him but her new promotion at work demanded more and more of her time, so she and her brother-in-law had to look for extra help. Apparently, Jack’s father was a very busy man, as you were told.

And that was when you became part of the Hotchners.

For them, you were heaven-sent.

“I’m fine, Jess…” you mumbled over the phone as you read the street sign quietly. You were almost there, almost, heaving a little as you dragged your suitcase behind you. “Of course, I’m nervous… you know how it is. I’m not very good with…”

“Kids?” you heard her breathy laughter at the other line, more teasing than incredulous.

You chuckled in return, shaking your head. “Fathers, actually. It’s different talking to women and knowing how exactly they want things to be done. Fathers aren’t like that. They expect— they just expect you to figure out everything.”

“Aaron isn’t like that,” she assured you, her voice kind. “You’ll see. He knows how he likes things and will tell you so. He’s a good man.”

Your heart hammered against your chest. He knows how he likes things. And he will tell you so. That’s supposed to be an assurance, right? So, why on Earth were you blushing?

Must be because of those damn pictures, a voice in your head whispered. Last night– maybe it was the nerves, or your plain curiosity after hearing many stories about the man that you let yourself get swayed by temptation. You were not one to research about your employers. A brief personal background was always provided by the agency to ensure that employees like you will be in safe hands, and it has always been enough. But last night, for some reason, you felt the need to know him.

In the past week you were negotiating with Jessica, you never met Mr. Hotchner. You thought it was weird and so reckless of him. He’s a federal agent. You expected him to be paranoid, careful at a fault. Why wouldn’t he insist on meeting firsthand the stranger who will take care of his son? The one he’ll let inside his home? It seemed like he didn’t care at all. All you knew was he was out on a case and wouldn’t be home at least for a couple more days. You don’t even know what this man looks like.

You met his son three days ago, though, and you already love the kid. Jack was a little shy at first, soft-spoken, but cheeky as he was polite. You wondered since then if he got that from his father. But you thought it was unlikely when you started digging information from the internet.

“So serious…” you whispered as you plucked the cherry from the stem, chewing slowly as you continued scrolling through the available pictures of him on the web.

There were YouTube links that also popped out when you typed in his name. You knew he’s some kind of bigshot fed but it still shocked you when you realized Mr. Hotchner had to stand in front of the camera and make public announcements on the news. It was impossible not to notice that face. But the least you could say is he looks good. Then you had to stop yourself there and divert your attention to the flaws you could pinpoint.

He looks strict and scary. In every video you opened, there was a tight frown on his face. It looks like he barely smiles or doesn’t know how to, and that he’s always constipated. What a poor man. You could already imagine your days in their household getting shouted at for being clumsy.

“You’re here! Dad, she’s here! Dad! She’s here!” the familiar voice of a young boy cut through your thoughts.

You stood still outside the closed gate of your new residence, peering over where a kid was running toward your direction, and an older man distractedly dribbling a basketball in a mini court. He was topless and sweaty. His arms strong, his muscles taut. And even from a distance, you could tell that he was watching you, too.

Then your eyes met and he smiled, warm and so kind.

At that moment you knew that this wouldn’t be bad after all.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. It’s late— later than you realized and Aaron still wasn’t home after a long day in the office. You’ve learned not to worry too much as you’ve grown accustomed to his late nights. He always comes home to you and Jack. But every night, there was a part of you that couldn’t fully relax until you heard the sound of his key in the door.

The clock just struck half past 10 o’clock. Most of the lights were already dimmed and the house was filled with silence. Jack had just gone to bed. These past few days, you realized how things changed. It took you almost an hour to convince him to get off his iPad and stop the game he was playing with his friends, and another hour before he fell asleep reading you his book of choice for this week. Which explains why you’re still up at this hour.

The soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was the only sound that accompanied you as you moved through the living room, gathering up Jack’s scattered Lego blocks and soldier figurines. It was all over the place. You told him countless times to clean up his mess before eating dinner, but he just shrugged you off and told you he’d clean it up later. Hours passed by and he seemed to forget about his promise as he was already engrossed with the weird game he was playing on his iPad.

Jack was growing fast. And as much as the thought put an ache in your heart, you knew this was also inevitable.

But the thing is, you have no idea how you should deal with these changes. You didn’t dare scold him, no– considering your growing relationship with his father. You didn’t want him to think that you were crossing the line of acting like his mother, or a replacement for her. So, you thought it was better you wait for Aaron to come home and bring up this issue instead.

Another deep sigh escaped your lips as you bent down to pick up another handful of Lego blocks. You’re ready to go to bed, already clad in your satin nightgown, a pale pink that clings to your curves; feeling soft and smooth against your skin. The thin straps would occasionally slip off your shoulders as you reach for more toys, and the hem would brush against your thighs as you move.

“Didn’t think you’d still be up…”

You froze at the voice, still bent over, before straightening up and turning toward the entryway just as Aaron stepped inside.

His presence filled the space immediately. He’s still in his work clothes— a dark suit that looks a little rumpled from the long day, his tie loosened and his shirt collar open. His hair was slightly disheveled, and you noticed the tiredness in his eyes that he tried to hide as he closed the door behind.

For a moment, his eyes lingered on you, taking in the way the satin nightgown hugged your body, the fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, the way the hem fluttered around your thighs. There was a brief flicker of something in his gaze, appreciative, and scandalously lustful. You saw the slight tug at the corner of his lips behind his thick beard.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he greeted.

Your heart did that familiar, annoying little skip when he languidly crossed the room and caged you in his arms. He sighed deeply, kissed your forehead then your lips, before resting his cheeks at the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

“Rough day, Mr. Hotchner?” you wanted to tease him, but with his hot breath fanning over your neck, the coarse hair of his beard against your skin, your words came out breathless.

You heard him groan, his voice low and a little rough when he said, “You have no idea, baby. Why are you still up, anyway? Did Jack gave you a hard time?”

“He’s just growing, Aaron. That’s how it is.”

“So he did?” he concluded, “I’ll talk to him, baby. There’s just too much going on at work.”

You hummed and nodded, running your fingers through his hair, understanding and supporting him without needing any details. You’ve never pressed him for specifics about his work and you know that Aaron was carrying enough weight on his shoulders without you adding to it. But even so, there was something in his tone and the exhaustion in his face that made you hug him tighter.

“You’re home now,” you said softly, massaging his scalp, “You should sit down for a bit. I can make you something to eat if you’re hungry.”

Just then, you felt his teeth dug gently on the skin of your neck. “How about I eat you instead?”

“Aaron…” you couldn’t help but giggle, ignoring the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

“Hmm?”

“Not here.”

He let out a soft grunt. “You smell heavenly, baby. I want to fuck you.”

His voice was raspy, gruff from all the grueling hours he spent in the office. You squirmed and chuckled quietly as you felt his lips trailing wet kisses on your neck, the soft curve of your shoulders, and even your jaw. His thick beard tickling you with every little movement.

You let out a sigh, clamping your thighs as you felt the heat dampening your cotton underwear. “Not here, Aaron. I’ll finish- I’ll clean up this mess first.”

He didn’t seem to hear you. The rough pad of his calloused palm roamed and caressed every inch of your clothed body. His hands moved to the curve of your ass, the swell of your breast, kneading your tits roughly on his hands while rolling your now sensitive nipples in between his thick fingers.

“I missed you so much, angel…” he said in a whisper, “I can’t get enough of your little pussy. You make me so hard, feel that?”

He guided your hand to the obvious bulge in his pants. Although that idea thrilled you, your fingers trembled in embarrassment and anticipation. You glanced up at him with wide, innocent eyes, your breath caught in your throat, while he hissed as you softly cupped and pressed your palm on his restrained cock, moving your hand experimentally in circles.

“Fuck,” he grunted your name, you even saw a muscle twitch on his tight jaw. “Saw you innocently bent over when I stepped into that door. It’s almost like you’re begging someone to ruin your tight cunt, is that right, angel?”

His hand found the dampness in between your legs, already pressing his thumb on your aching clit, yet it was the crudeness of his words that made you whimper. “S-sir…”

“Use your big words, sweet girl.”

“Not s-someone, sir…” you admitted. “Just you. W-want you to use me.”

A satisfied smile played on his lips.

“I know, baby. Want me to fuck you with my big cock, don’t you? Always fucking ready to spread your legs for me, is that right?”

You nodded dumbly, blinking up at him.

“Are you a whore?”

“N-no...” you said unsurely, “No, daddy. Not a w-whore.”

The dark look in his eyes brought you back to the memories of earlier in the morning. He gave you a small smile. “You’re daddy’s baby, I know, little girl.”

Like he always does, Aaron woke you up earlier with his face buried between your legs. He was lapping your dripping cunt like a madman, licking and sucking with his expert mouth. Two of his thick fingers were pushed deep inside you, making a lewd squelching sound as he nudged the sweet bundle of nerves inside. Your legs were trembling uncontrollably all you could do was moan and tug on Aaron’s hair. When he looked up to see your face, his beard was wet and a string of saliva was hanging from his lips and to your puffy folds.

You already came twice today. One from his mouth, as promised. And one from his big, leaking cock. He had your legs wide open, his hand pressed on the back of your thighs until you were folded almost in half, and rammed his big cock in and out of your weeping cunt with vigor. His eyes were focused on where you were both connected, watching in awe how you willingly swallow his thick cock in your body. He enjoyed watching the bulge appear in your stomach with every deep thrust.

He called you sweet names as he came inside you, flooding your womb with his warm cum. It took him all the self-control (and a message from Morgan) not to bend you again over the sink as he watched you walk to the bathroom, his release slowly dripping down your legs. And he wished you only knew how he wanted to push it back inside and keep his cock buried in your raw cunt for the rest of the day.

- - - - - - - ⋆ ★

The Saturday sun beamed over the soccer field where kids are darting back and forth in a burst of energy. The sidelines were lined with parents and family members, all chatting and watching the game with varying degrees of attention. You were standing among them, your eyes following Jack as he weaved between the other kids, his face bright with determination. Every now and then, his laughter carries across the field, and you couldn’t help but smile as well.

Aaron was beside you, his arms crossed as he watched Jack with that focused intensity he always seemed to have when it comes to his son. You could tell that as much as they were both competitive, he was worried that some accidents may happen.

“I’m going to check in with Jack for a minute,” Aaron informed you as he let go of your intertwined hand, nodding toward the bench where Jack was sitting during a break. “Be right back.”

You nodded and watched in silence as Aaron strode across the field toward Jack, the sun catching in his dark hair. You took a deep breath, relaxing a little now that you were alone for a moment. It feels good to be outside, to be with Aaron, but you hate the weird glances some mothers were throwing at you. As if you were doing something illegal.

Just as you were about to take a seat on one of the folding chairs, a familiar man approached you from the side, his expression friendly. You recognized him as one of the other parents and father of one of Jack’s friends at school, though you don’t recall his name right away. He was tall, with sandy blond hair and a warm, easygoing smile.

“Hey there,” he said with a chuckle, gesturing toward the field. “Quite a game, huh?”

You smiled back, letting out a small laugh. “Tell me about it. My bones could never. I’m exhausted just watching them.”

The man laughed, then glanced over at the field before turning his attention back to you. “I’m Tom, by the way,” he said, offering his hand. “I’ve seen you around a few times… and my son told me last night he and Jack partnered for the bake sale activity at school.”

You shook his hand. “I think I recall Jack telling me about that bake sale. Is Jake your son?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Tom replied, nodding fast and chuckling. “I thought you’d think I’m just making up excuses to come up to a pretty woman and start chatting with her—”

“Pretty woman?” you smiled at the compliment, glancing up at him.

“Well, yeah. Anyway…” Tom grinned shyly, clearly pleased. “Yeah, my son was crazy about beating the other boys or something like that. Tell you honestly, I have no idea what to bring. I’m useless in the kitchen, but I don’t want to be that guy who just shows up with store-bought stuff, you know?”

You laughed softly, nodding in understanding. “I do get it. But it’s a good thing they can choose a partner. If you want, I could help you out. I make a pretty mean batch of cookies.”

Tom’s face lit up with genuine gratitude. “Really? That would be amazing. I mean, only if you have time to accommodate— I don’t want to impose.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” you waved off his concern. “I like baking, plus I can invite Jake to come over so I have another little assistant.”

“Or me?” The man teased. “Just kidding. That would be incredible. You just saved me from embarrassment. The old ladies at school… they’re very, you know.”

The sound of your laughter tangled in the air. But as the laughter fades, you felt a subtle shift in the air. You unconsciously wandered your eyes around and realized Aaron was standing just a few feet away, his eyes trained on you and Tom, his expression intense. His strong arms were crossed, and there was a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before.

“Hey,” you greeted, offering Aaron a small smile as he stepped closer. “Everything okay with Jack?”

Aaron nodded, though his eyes briefly flickered over to Tom, taking in the easy conversation you’ve been having. “He’s fine,” Aaron replied, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of something sharper, something controlled. “Just needed a little pep talk.”

Tom, the poor man oblivious to the tension, smiled at Aaron and offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Tom. We were just talking about the kids’ upcoming school bake sale.”

Aaron shook his hand, but there was a slight stiffness to the gesture. “Aaron Hotchner. Jack’s father.”

Tom nodded, then focused back on you. “Thanks again for the offer. If it’s alright, I was thinking— maybe I should grab your number? You know, just so we can coordinate for the bake sale and all that. Would make it easier to figure out what to bring.”

He was just being friendly and practical, that’s what you know. But the suggestion lingered in the air awkwardly. You could feel Aaron tense beside you, the shift in his posture subtle but unmistakable. With hesitation, you glanced at Aaron out of the corner of your eye. His expression has hardened, his jaw clenched just enough to be noticeable, and there was a flash of something dangerous in his eyes—something possessive, territorial even.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Aaron stepped in, his voice low and edged with barely restrained anger. “If you need anything, you can go through me.”

Tom blinked, clearly caught off guard. He forced out a chuckle, trying to brush off the tension with a good-natured grin. “I didn’t mean anything by it, man. Just thought it’d be easier—”

“You don’t need her number for that.”

You swallowed hard, feeling everyone’s attention on the growing commotion. Aaron’s eyes were still fixed on Tom, his stance rigid, his body language screaming of a barely controlled fury. This wasn’t just about the number.

Tom raised his hands slightly, clearly trying to defuse the situation. “Hey, no problem,” he said, though there was a hint of confusion in his eyes as he glanced between you and Aaron. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

You forced a tight smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Thanks, Tom. Maybe we can let the kids decide and start there.”

Tom nodded again. “Yeah, sure. I’ll catch you both around.” He gave a quick wave before turning and walking back toward the crowd of parents, his pace a bit quicker than before.

As soon as Tom was out of earshot, the silence between you and Aaron felt heavy. You could feel the heat of Aaron’s anger, his jaw still clenched as he silently watched Tom disappear into the distance.

You glanced up at Aaron, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “What was that about?”

“What?” Aaron finally tore his gaze away from Tom, turning to face you. There was a storm in his eyes, it made your breath catch. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he admitted, his voice rougher than before. Then he mumbled, “Or him having your number. Why would he have your fucking number for? Bake sale and all that, that fucking idiot.”

You grimaced at his admission, of how easily he admitted what he felt. You’ve never seen Aaron like this before— so openly protective, so possessive— and it stirred something deep inside you that was too intense to put a name on.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “He was just being friendly, Aaron. It was harmless.”

“Maybe to you,” His voice was still tensed as he retorted. “But I didn’t trust him. And I don’t like the idea of other men thinking they can just… move in like that.”

You bit back a smile, a little amused by his jealousy.

“We were talking about bake sales, not making any plans to run off together,” you nudged his arm with your elbow teasingly.

Aaron took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he stared down at you. “Oh, so you can joke. Do you think this is funny?”

“What? Of course no–”

“Jack will be out on a sleepover,” he leaned closer to your ear just to whisper, “We’ll fucking talk later, hm? Save your explanations ‘cause I’ll fuck you like a whore.”

Your breath staggered as you pressed your lips shut. You knew by then that it was going to be a long, long night.

- - - - - - - ⋆ ★

The door slammed against the wall with a loud bang as you and Aaron stumbled inside, your bodies pressed tightly together. His big, calloused hands were on your waist, pulling you closer to him, his fingers digging into your skin as your mouths crashed together in a rough, desperate kiss.

Everything felt hazy, like you were moving through a dream, but there was nothing gentle about the way you were kissing him, or the way his hands were gripping you. It felt like he couldn’t get close enough. It was frantic, dirty, almost reckless, as if both of you were on the verge of losing control and neither of you cared.

You barely noticed the door swing shut behind you as Aaron pushed you roughly up against the wall, his mouth never leaving yours, his breath hot and uneven as he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through your body, but the only thing you could focus on was him— his scent, his warmth, the feeling of his lips on yours, the way his strong body felt pressed up against you.

“Aaron…” you managed to gasp out between kisses, your voice breathless. You could barely think, your mind clouded with desire, but his name slipped from your lips like a plea, a litany. “D-daddy... slow- slow... down...”

His hands were everywhere— on your waist, your hips, sliding down to the curve of your thighs as he gripped you tightly, pressing his bulge against your needy cunt. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by another fierce kiss as his body pinned you harder against the wall, pressing you there as if you might disappear if he let go.

“I’m s-sorry… D-daddy, please…”

“Please what?” he groaned against your mouth, his lips trailing down to your jaw, then to your neck, the coarse hair on his chin scraping against your skin as he kissed a heated path down your throat. “Now you’re sorry? Bet you fucking liked the attention earlier. Thought you aren’t a whore?”

“No. I’m sorry, daddy. I’m sorry. I’m not—”

His rough hands slid up your sides, gripping the hem of your shirt and yanking it up and over your head with a quick, impatient movement. The cool air hit your skin, but it was immediately replaced by the warmth of his touch as his hands moved over your bare skin, his fingers digging into your flesh like he wanted his mark so deeply ingrained in your skin and your whole being.

“Feels like you’re forgetting who you belong to.”

You shook you head, moaning as you felt his hand travel closer to your heat. “No, no. I belong to you, sir. Only you. I’m so sorry, daddy.”

“Are you?” he barked a taunting laugh. “And why do you belong to me then, little girl? Why does this pussy belong to me?”

“Because… b-because you take care of m-me, daddy.”

“I fucking do, don’t I?” he remarked, tracing soft circles on your clit through the rough fabric of your jeans. “And I’m so fucking good to you. So why are you fucking ungrateful, angel? Batting your eyelashes and giggling with other men like a cheap whore on the streets?”

You felt like crying. Tears welled at the corner of your eyes, your heart hammering painfully against your chest. You messed up and now he’s mad. But you don’t like the words coming out of his mouth. You only want to be daddy’s good girl.

“I’m s-sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, I-I promise.”

“No, baby. I bet you it won’t,” he pulled back for a second, his eyes dark and filled with something primal, his chest rising and falling with the force of his ragged breaths. “I’ll fuck you until your little belly’s round with my cum and you’re pregnant with my child. I’ll knock you up so every man will know whose cock split your tight cunt open. You like that, little girl? You want to be a good whore for daddy?”

You nodded and grabbed the back of his neck, pulled him back down to you, crashing your lips together again as the two of you stumbled further into the room, barely able to focus on anything but each other. Your legs hit the edge of the couch, and before you know it, Aaron was already manspreading in front of you, while you knelt in front of him, your hands laid on your lap.

“Atta girl, look at you,” you keened at the praise, biting on your lower lip as you waited patiently for him to remove his shirt and finish unbuckling his belt.

“Can- can I suck your cock, s-sir?” you said weakly. “Please?”

Aaron hissed as his cock sprang free, slapping the base of his soft stomach. His cock was already hard and leaking, the tip shiny with beads of precum. Your mouth watered at the sight. But still, you waited for his permission, glancing up at him innocently, patiently.

He leaned on the couch and pumped his length slowly, an amused smirk on his lips. “Remove your pants.”

You whimpered and did what he told you. That wasn’t the permission you were waiting for but still you obliged eagerly. Your eyes focused on his hand slowly fisting his hardening cock before glancing up and meeting his eyes. Aaron let out a deep breath as he took in your naked body, your tits, your now swollen lips, and even your thighs that you were subtly rubbing to create some friction.

“Play with your tits, baby,” he said gruffly, “Put on a show for me like a good girl. Go on.”

There was something possessive in his gaze, a wildness that you’d never seen in him before, but it sent a thrill directly through your wet core. You played with your tits, kneaded the soft mound, and pinched your nipples making you whimper pathetically.

Aaron pumped his cock a little faster, his hungry eyes following your movements. “Spread your legs, want to see that pussy of yours.”

It felt humiliating, to scamper on your knees to follow his orders. But still you did. Because the moment you opened your legs for him, Aaron let out a loud growl and gripped his cock tightly on his fist, as if he was trying not to cum just by the sight of your wet cunt. You felt happy with his reaction.

With trembling fingers, you opened your puffy folds to show him how much you desired to be fucked, your clit swollen, your cunt desperately fluttering and clenching on nothing.

“Is that all for me?”

You nodded, your body tingling with pleasure and pride.

“D-daddy…” you sounded meek, all up for the taking. “Want you, p-please. Sir, please? Please?”

You can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest rises and falls with each ragged breath as he thumbed the leaking tip of his big and veiny cock. In a swift movement, he grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you harder, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made you sigh in relief.

“Ride my cock then. Show me how much you want it.”

There was hunger in him that matched your own. The sound of your highpitched whining and Aaron’s deep grunt weaved through the air. You sank down his big cock, your cunt clenching to accommodate his girth. Aaron was so big you don’t think it’s possible to get used to it, the burn of the stretch was there, but it was heady and intoxicating.

“Aaron,” you whispered again, your voice trembling with need as your fingers dug into his shoulders, urging him closer, needing more, needing him. The intensity was overwhelming, but you can’t stop—you don’t want to stop. “D-daddy, help. Help, please.”

“Pathetic,” he growled against your lips. With one sharp thrust, he plunged the rest of his cock into your raw cunt.

“T-thank you, sir…” you mewled at the feeling, grounding your hips in slow circles. “Good- feels g-good…”

His lips trailed back down your neck, your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His beard scratched your skin. Every touch, every kiss, feels like fire, igniting something primal deep inside of you that you hadn’t even realized was there.

“Does it, angel? Who’s making you feel good right now?”

You arched your back, pressing into him. “Y-you, sir. J-just you...”

A harsh slap landed at the side of your thigh.

“Louder!”

“You, d-daddy! Only y-you. OH MY GOD, AARON!” you screamed, hiding your flushed cheeks at the crook of his neck as Aaron plowed his cock so deep into your frail body. “You’re making me feel g-good. You fuck me so well, daddy! I love your cock, you own me, you ow-”

You heard a low growl reverberate through his heaving chest. He propped his knees at the edge of the couch for better leverage. You felt his cock pulsating deep inside you, his thighs strong beneath your trembling legs. Your vision was blurry with unshed tears and the force of Aaron’s cock ramming inside you. The noise leaving his open lips was dirty, primal, so filthy all you could do was take it.

You let him ruin you.

Let him use you to his heart content.

Like that’s all you’re worth for.

“I’ll fuck my baby inside of you, little girl, ‘s that what you want?” he panted beneath you, his hips staggering a little. “I’ll make you all round and pretty. Everyone will know whose whore you a-are…”

Yes, yes, yes. You couldn’t bring yourself to say. You just whimpered, your voice raw and absolutely fucked out. You just let yourself feel how his cock assaulted your tight, little cunt. There was a familiar coil in your stomach, and then the familiar squelching sound.

“I-I’m s-” you squealed loudly, high-pitched and frantic. “I-I’m coming, ‘m c-coming, daddy, ple-”

Aaron grunted and plunged his cock on a particularly deep thrust, feeling the tip nestle at the sweet bundle of sensitive nerves that made you roll your eyes. You felt Aaron’s cock slide out of your used pussy, a gush of clear release dampening Aaron’s belly and the floor below.

“F-fuck! Look at that…”

“Oh- oh my go-” you bit your lower lip in overstimulation, yet you didn’t do anything to protest when he thrust his thick cock inside again. “Too much… t-too much, sen-sensitive. D-daddy! P-please, no more!”

His cock slid out the second time you squirted. Another gush of release dampened the carpet below. The force was too overwhelming your knees buckled, your legs trembling uncontrollably. You heard Aaron’s pleasured grunt as you clenched even tighter around his cock, your velvety walls hugging his girth like it was molded to be there.

“S-stop, d-daddy! S-stop…”

He scarcely heard you. You could feel every inch of him, the way his body moves against yours, the heat of his skin, the sweat, the strength in his hands as they explore every part of you. He groped you like you were nothing but a fucktoy— one that he will discard the moment he finally got his release.

“See this, little girl?” he grabbed your neck and forced you to look at your belly. You whined at the faint sight of his cock bulging against your skin. “That’s h-how deep I am, you feel that? That’s how well you take me. G-good girl, baby.”

You nodded. “S-so deep, d-daddy. You make me feel s-so good…”

“I’m so close…” you heard him whisper.

You traced the lines of his muscles, feeling the tension beneath his skin as his breath hitched against your neck. With the rest of your energy left, you lifted yourself and met his desperate thrust. The sound was lewd, disgusting– so wet and filthy.

The world outside disappeared—there was no sound, no movement, no thoughts. Just Aaron. Just him and his big, girthy cock, and his desperate thrust. Beyond the heat of his body against yours, the endless ropes of warm cum flooded your fertile womb. You only closed your eyes and let him take you. Take everything he wants from you.

“It’s coming out of your pretty cunt, baby. Look, you’re so full of my cum…” Aaron said in awe a moment later. He got you lying on your back on the couch, your legs wide open, while he knelt in front of you. He prodded your puffy folds with wide, hungry eyes. “Fuck, you’re so messy, angel.”

He licked the cum that dripped out of you. Your cunt felt raw and sore. Too used. So you whimpered as a protest. You’re too sensitive. Too sated. Too much. Too much. Too much–

Aaron smiled smugly when he saw the drunk look on your face.

“Give me one more, angel?”

Happy 600-something, everyone! I know this is long overdue but it's better late than later, right? Anyway, hope everyone's well and healthy (I'm sick right now so don't be like me!) Drink a lot of water and eat well. As always, I appreciate every like, replies, reblogs- everything. Thank you so much for the support. I love you all. See you on the next ones! xx

Tag list: @downbad4reid, @roseydoesypoesy, @pastelpinkflowerlife, @justyourusualash, @hotchsmutrecs, @msfreedom, @birdysaturne, @gghostwriter, @mrs-ssa-hotch, @fore45fore, @actualdeemon, @diksy1112, @jethro-mcgee-tony, @hotchnerbau, @iniyalovesall, @222hwilsss, @balariie, @oliviabbb, @ncis0mrs0gibbs, @jasonswhitetuftofhair, @m4pl, @zaddyhotch, @fandom-garbage, @obsessed-oops, @ujws5, @babybluelrh98, @seraphinlover, @reidsflwr, @cattt777, @fishsticksarenice-blog, @velvetinkbym

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner smut #criminal minds smut #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x female!reader #bearded!aaron hotchner #bearded aaron #daddy!aaron hotchner #daddy!aaron

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fligniuz · 1 month ago

Text

a performance deserving of standing ovations

luigi mangione x reader

｡𖦹°‧ you have some inquiries about your boyfriend’s habits.

word count: 2.6k • nsfw • read on ao3

tag list : @mangionebabymama , @mangobabygirl , @jenisaswift13 , @mangionesdaisy , @iinfinitelimits , @daydreamingwithluigi , @nephris , @mashkatzi

warnings : gender neutral reader; EXPLICIT; voyeurism; mutual masturbation; discussions of filmed sex and oral; probably poorly translated italian; starring luigi’s dislike of porn

notes : this is dedicated to @diors002 in spirit because i thought of her while writing this,, title from:

“So if you don’t watch porn, how do you get off?”

Luigi looks at you from over the lip of his laptop, eyes narrow. “What?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t jerk off, either,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Seriously. What do you do?”

What kind of question is this?

“I have a broad imagination,” he replies, still typing away. “I just use my brain.”

“Are you sure you don’t have any of those hentai sex simulator games on there?”

Please. As if he’d be caught dead with that trash. He’s almost insulted that you would insinuate such a thing, even if you’re joking.

His face remains neutral. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” You crawl up onto the couch to sit beside him. “I’ve never known a nerd to not love hentai.”

If he weren’t smart, he would tell you that he’s not a nerd. Instead, he says, “I pride myself on being unpredictable. And hentai is too…It’s over the top. The girls are always voiced by someone who sounds five years old. Huge turn off.”

“Then why do you not like porn?” you ask, propping your head up on your palm. “At least it’s grown humans.”

If he weren’t busy, he would probably give you a lecture—but that would technically be mansplaining, he thinks, so better to leave that alone. Instead…

“This is a whole conversation we could have,” Luigi says, “and I would love to have it with you, baby, really, but my mind is a bit occupied with something else right now. I have my reasons. I’ll tell you that.”

He’s got reasons for everything. Sometimes it pisses you off that he’s such a good thinker. Right now, though, it intrigues you; what does he like to imagine when he’s touching himself? Does he think about you? Doing what?

These are questions you could answer with one question of your own:

“Can I watch you?”

He glances over, furrowing his bushy eyebrows. “Watch me what?”

“Jerk off,” you say simply.

Then he blinks. Stops typing. Flushes ruddy red in his cheeks and his nose. “I’m—That’s—”

God, he’s adorable.

“You don’t have to decide now,” you tell him, gently planting your hand just above his knee and squeezing. “It’s just an idea.”

Your boyfriend stumbles over his words for a moment, makes some funny choked noises—as if he wants so desperately to find the means first, but just can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Would you like that?” he asks finally. “Like—Watching me?”

Well, you asked for a reason.

“Yeah,” you nod. “But if you’re uncomfortable with it, I understand.”

His big hands linger over the keyboard of his laptop, tracing the ridges beneath his palms. It takes some significant willpower to push the image of his fingers in your mouth out of your head.

“Think about it,” you say, patting his shoulder.

You don’t know if he does. Not for a while.

You’re in his room looking for your phone charger when you get to find out.

First you hear his keys turning in the door, his gigantic feet shuffling against the welcome mat: “Our House is a Very Very Very Fine House”. They step closer, trailing off every so often when he peeks into a room in search of you—but eventually you hear them approaching right behind you, a familiar pair of lips finding your neck.

Typically Luigi is quite blunt. Today he has no qualms about being indirect with you.

“What’s up, babe?” you ask when he wraps his arms around your torso, face buried in the warm crease of your shoulder.

And then you feel him.

Luigi is hard. You can feel his cock pressing against your backside, straining through his jeans, shockingly intimidating even after all this time of waking up next to his morning wood.

“Baby, is that you?”

“You said you wanted to watch me,” he interjects, his voice a rough and gravelly murmur in your ears. His breath is hot against your throat. “Do you still want to?”

Is he kidding?

“Fuck, yeah,” you nod, hands meeting his. “Are you gonna let me?”

He doesn’t answer you with words. Rather, he pulls away from you to settle down in his desk chair, just opposite the bed you’re now sitting on. You have to swallow your moan when he starts to unbuckle his belt—arousal rushes through your nervous system at the sound of metal clinking and pure Italian leather slipping through each loop of his pants.

You smile at the imprint of his greedy sex in his boxers. “What got you this worked up, Gi?”

His eyes relax, those long lashes fluttering. “I was thinking about you at work.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s palming his erection through navy blue cotton, leaning back against the headrest of his chair. “Can’t get anything fuckin’ done. You’re distracting, you know that?”

He says that like it’s your fault he can’t control himself.

“You drive me nuts,” Luigi continues, hand squeezing and stroking at himself. “I’d quit the fucking thing if it meant I could just keep you in bed all day.”

The sound of that is nice.

“What were you thinking about?” you ask.

He takes a moment, either to formulate a response or to relish in the feeling of his hand teasing his cock through the soft fabric.

“You remember our third date?” he asks, eyelids heavy.

Of course you remember. For your third date, on a mild day in early June, Luigi took you to Kauai so you could see the Nāpali coast. June was the best time to visit, he said—tourists come for the sunniest weather, so the intermittent months when summer is still settling in are the least crowded and most tolerable. The sun was setting by the time you had made it down near the shore, and the way those glowing rays hit your skin had him feeling things that scared him and exhilarated him all in one sweeping breath; he insisted on pulling out his phone to snap a few pictures of you prancing along the coastline, your hair blowing in the wind. Your eyes were wild with joy and you squealed in ecstasy when he ran over to scoop you up in his strong arms and spin you around. For your third date Luigi fucked you in his car, parked in a lonely dirt lot just a few miles out of Koke‘e State Park, with the windows rolled down so the salty air could stream through and cool your flushed, sweating, moving bodies, his hips pounding into you from underneath. You think it’s the day he really fell in love with you; you heard him groan the words into your ear, breath shaky and words choked, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” in time with his pointed thrusts.

You nod. “In your car.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the thumb of his left hand dancing along the waistband of his underwear. “Fuck, you were so pretty that day. Sun looks good on you.”

Yes, he had made that very clear to you. He told you probably fifty times on the drive back to his apartment, thirty of which were said just before he pulled over and took matters into his own hands.

“You think about that day a lot, babe?” you ask.

“I think about you a lot.”

“Tell me,” you say. “Show me that big cock and tell me what else you think about.”

He’s pulling his boxers down his thighs—they quickly join the pool of denim at his ankles. One hand just barely lifts his sweater up, revealing a hint of his chiseled abs. The big cock in question smacks against his abdomen, the fat head of it pink and oozing pre. Your mouth waters.

“Think about fucking your face,” Luigi mutters, words slurred and hazy with titillation. His slender fingers are stroking the head of his dick, smearing slick over himself. “When you bent over the console to suck me off…I wish—Wish we could’ve been in my bed, so I could’ve just used your gorgeous little mouth.”

You can’t change the past, but you can certainly imagine an alternate universe where that did happen. He can too. He’s using his thumb and two fingers to squeeze his weeping glans, coaxing more of his arousal onto his hand and spreading it down to the base of his dick.

“I enjoyed that,” you tell him.

“Fuck, I did too,” he says, nodding. “You’re lucky it was so late and nobody was around. You had your ass facing the window. Probably would’ve given anyone walking by a pretty fuckin’ sight.”

Luigi’s loose fist continues stroking his cockhead, curls pressed back against his chair. His throat is bared to you, Adam’s apple bobbing, and your teeth yearn to touch the sensitive, stubble-dusted skin there. Every so often his thumb grazes his tender slit and punches a delicious whine from him, a sound so precious you wish you could collect it in a conch, hold it up to your ear and listen until the Earth burns out.

“I think what’s in front of me is much prettier,” you purr, leaning back onto the bed casually.

“Should’ve seen yourself,” he says. “I’m so glad I got you on camera. My brain could never conjure up the perfection of you, baby.”

That’s right. The pictures he took of you at the Nāpali coast weren’t the only documentation of that night. There was more taken later, in his car, as he was driving his hips into yours with your hair fisted tight in his hand; this video was more explicit, more revealing, a landscape shot of you riding on top, him gripping your ass ravenously. A few times you had suggested watching this particular video together—perhaps past glimpses of your voyeuristic desires—but every attempt only ended in a recreation rather than a communicative, parallel experience.

His hand begins to move lower, spreading his pre down his shaft with long, languid strokes, cupping and squeezing his balls occasionally. If you listen closely enough you can hear the wet sounds of him touching his cock. His face is pink, blatant evidence of his arousal, if the sight of him playing with himself right in front of you wasn’t enough to prove it.

“You gettin’ hot, babe?” you ask him, tone sultry.

He nods frantically.

Smirking, you order, “take that sweater off.”

Luigi has always been a good listener. His dick bounces when he shifts to pull the offending article up and over his head, curls ruffled and stomach muscles twisting. With his torso revealed to you he settles back into the chair and moves his hand to his cock again, still focused on wetting his length sufficiently (which isn’t difficult, what with how much he’s leaking at the sound of you bossing him around.) His abs are flexed and his nipples are hard, begging for a tongue to tease.

“That’s a good boy,” you murmur.

He groans, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Listen to me, baby,” you say, reaching for the hem of your shirt. “Stroke that perfect dick and keep your eyes on me.”

Your boyfriend nods obediently, hand moving with intent over the entire length of his cock, balls and all. His lush lips are parted, breathing heavy and moaning when his slick palm passes over the underside—his pace is slow at first, working himself up to his climax with ease.

And when his beaming brown eyes meet yours you take off your own shirt, leaving it to pile with his on the floor.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” you instruct.

Luigi whines. “I want my mouth on your nipples.”

You moan at that. Your hands glide over your chest, groping at yourself and passing over the very nipples your boyfriend speaks of. With a tightened fist he squeezes his glans, sighing with delight as he watches you move under lidded eyes.

“Il tuo corpo è arte,” he mutters under his breath.

“Yeah?” you tease, as if you understand what he’s saying. As if your flesh isn’t burning with desire. “You thinkin’ about tasting me?”

As you speak your hands migrate to the waistband of your sweatpants, beginning to pull them down.

“Fuck yes,” he nods. “You know I always am.”

In the process of getting your bottoms off you wiggle your hips around playfully, grinning at the way Luigi licks his lips and pumps his cock with each inch of skin you unveil to him. Your thighs flex and your smile grows the longer you keep your lidded eyes glued to his flushed face, lip trapped between sharp fangs. You ache to feel the point of his teeth in your skin.

“Baby, touch yourself,” he pleads. “Per favore, I want to see.”

You tut. “Patience, sweet boy. Keep talking to me.”

“Fuuuck,” he moans, compressing his cockhead with two fingers. “I love how you taste, love all the noises you make, fuck, so fucking pretty…”

“Mhmm,” you hum, leaning back on the bed invitingly. You run your hands over your chest again and smile sweetly at him, crossing your legs, uncrossing them, crossing again. Egging him on.

The tendons in his wrist flex against his Fitbit deliciously. “I want to lay you down and just make you come until you can’t stand me. Così dannatamente stupendo. You are…Shit…Tu governi la mio mente.”

You have no idea what the fuck he’s saying or why the Italian is coming out so strong when he’s this worked up but goddamn, if you were recording this…Your brain certainly is, capturing every second of his fist rubbing his cock furiously and the slick sounds of it projecting throughout the room. His wide throat pulses when he throws his head back to whine, feet fidgeting as he works, and you bite your lip to suppress your own needful impulses.

When your hand sneaks between your legs he grunts like a rabid dog.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” Luigi nods, staring directly at you. “I’m gonna come, oh, fuck, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

You nod with him, hand moving in sync, working yourself up quickly to see if you can meet him head-on. If he gets to watch you come while he’s climaxing you think he might explode. His veins throb as he speeds up his wrist and tenses his thighs, eyes glued on the pure arousal between your legs, spread open and on display just for him.

And then his face drops familiarly, eyelids stunned and lips parted, like he’s teetering on the edge, and you push him to the other side with a honeyed “I love you, baby,” and then he’s coming, splattering his hand and his sweat-soaked abdomen with himself. He keeps stroking the fat head of his cock for a few seconds longer and you love how he twitches and furrows his bushy brows, loudly finishing yourself at the sight of the mess he’s made for you.

“Wow, babe,” you chuckle. “You needed that, didn’t you?”

He flushes. “Whatever. You’re the one who wanted to watch, perv.”

Before he can reach for the tissues on his desk you hop up from the bed and crouch by his seat, grabbing his face. “You liked being watched. Didn’t you?”

“I—”

And before he can answer you, you reach down and scrape some of his orgasm onto your fingers, popping them into your mouth emphatically and giggling when his jaw goes slack.

“Well, did you?” you repeat with a wicked grin, licking some excess from between your index and middle finger.

His face tenses, then settles. “You’re insatiable.”

You shrug playfully.

Luigi points in your face. “And I better not hear about hentai simulators anymore. Help me clean up.”

il tuo corpo è arte = “your body is art”

per favore = “please”

così dannatamente stupendo = “so damn gorgeous”

tu governi la mio mente = “you rule my mind”

#luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione imagine #luigi mangione fic #luigi mangione fanfiction #flig’s work

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azrielbrainrot · 10 months ago

Text

Silent Voices Speak

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Description: Both you and Azriel find yourselves with some sleep related problems. Who would have thought you could be each other's remedy?

Warnings: barely any angst

Word Count: 3400

Notes: I can't believe it took me so long to write a new story in the healer!reader universe, they're my first babies. Hope you enjoy!

Healer!Reader Universe Masterlist

The killings hadn't stopped. The, by now, tripled security slowed them down and allowed the Inner Circle to be made aware of any disturbances quicker, and the bodies hadn't been found by any innocent civilians since then either, thankfully saving a lot of fae from having to witness such gruesome sights, but the killings hadn't stopped.

Your research has given you some clues as to the motives behind the murders, though you still can't fully understand the ritual behind them. None of the information you've gathered has helped in stopping them from happening or finding the people responsible for them. Amren has traveled to the Day Court and is now searching the High Lord's extensive libraries to try and find more information on a lead she got but, for now, there wasn't enough to make anyone feel safer.

The streets of Velaris felt lifeless, bars and restaurants closing earlier than usual given the unofficial curfew every fae seemed to have set for themselves. The City of Dreamers, heart of the Night Court, was scared of the dark. Apart from the killings, that was what weighed the heaviest on the Inner Circle's minds.

Feyre and Rhysand had been forthcoming with information, letting the public know they were actively searching for the killers and sharing some of the details as a means to stop the rumors that kept going around that were only exaggerating the already awful murders the more they spread. Of course, they'd been careful not to reveal any of the more gruesome details, or the fact that everything pointed to the murders actually being sacrifices to what could be an old God or even worse.

Those had been the details keeping you up at night as you were now, sipping on chamomile tea in hopes of relaxing your body enough to get some sleep without any unwanted thoughts filtering through and spoiling it once again. You wanted to help as much as you could, and weren't considering talking to Rhys and backing down as Azriel had suggested multiple times, but you weren't used to witnessing this much cruelty, not like this.

When you'd been stationed as a healer during the war, you saw a lot of awful things, some of them you won't ever forget, but this felt different. Everything about these killings and the motives behind them had set off every alarm in your body.

The cup was empty before you realized, bringing it up to your mouth only to be met with nothing. You let out a sigh and look over to the comfortable bed, knowing you had to at least lay down and try to fall asleep, no matter how frustrating it was to toss and turn for hours on end or get woken up by terrifying dreams. At least this bed was a lot more comfortable than the one you had at home, it almost made you want to ask Rhysand where he got it from although you probably would never be able to afford it.

You're not entirely sure what brought it on but, after coming back from yet another fruitless mission, Azriel asked you to stay in the townhouse with him. You tried to decline, not entirely comfortable with staying at the High Lord's house indefinitely. You've spent some nights up in the House of Wind when you were helping with research, but this was different. You didn't want to take advantage of Rhysand and Feyre's kindness, but Azriel insisted, a tormented look you weren't used to seeing painted in the shadowsinger's face, and so you ended up accepting.

Just remembering your talk that night made you feel hopeless, wanting nothing more than to make him feel better and take some of the unbearable weight off his shoulders somehow.

“I'm not sure this is necessary,” you try to reason with him, “There haven't been any attacks in the city, with so many eyes on the streets it would be impossible.”

“It also seemed impossible for them to be able to hide for so long but even my shadows are blind to them.”

“I can't stay at my High Lord and Lady's home."

“I can't sleep not knowing you're safe,” the admission feels heavy between you, prompting you to study his face carefully, taking note of the fear and desperation behind his request. “I wouldn't forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“Azriel…”

You don't know what to say, not sure what this means for the two of you.

“Please.”

But with that little word he convinced you, not caring if it was Rhysand's house you were going to sleep in, or anyone else's, as long as it made Azriel feel at least a bit more at ease.

Your relationship has been changing ever since that fateful night when he kissed your cheek goodnight. It's a silly thought even now, that something so inconsequential as a peck to the cheek would end up meaning so much for the two of you.

Ever since that day your talks have gotten longer and more frequent, Azriel has also flown you to and from work a few times, has taken you on multiple outings that you can only classify as dates at this point. But things hadn't gotten further than that and more chaste kisses on the cheek.

The timing wasn't right. Not with everything that has been happening and the troubles filling both of your minds, the long hours Azriel had been putting his body through trying to find even the smallest clue about these murders, and your assistance in any research the Inner Circle needs as well as providing mental and physical aid to a terrified city.

Your feelings for him were impossible to deny - even though you've certainly tried to when everyone else asks about him, especially your High Lady, who you've come to learn is an avid busybody, - and you were more than confident that he cared for you just as much, but the timing wasn't right, and so you've been stuck between acting like friends and so much more.

You were still thinking about the shadowsinger when your head hit the pillow, making yourself comfortable and letting your thoughts wander around warm hazel eyes and shy smiles, hopefully lulling you into a peaceful sleep at last.

Rushed murmurs and harsh breaths take you away from the soft grasp of sleep. You try to ignore them at first but as the words grow louder, you try to decipher them confused. A flurry of shadows filters into your room, flying over you when you open your eyes to try and ascertain the situation. You can barely see them with the low lights the moon rays covered by dark curtains provide, but it almost feels like they're tugging at you, urging you to get up.

The thought that Azriel could be in danger makes you leap out of bed, foregoing your robe or slippers as you follow the frantic shadows to his room next to yours. Only hesitating at the door for a moment, knuckles raised against the intricately designed wood as you considered knocking before barging into his room unannounced, but another string of groans and panicked breathing assault your ears, prompting you to open the door.

Your eyes land on the shadowsinger immediately as he lay restless on his bed, blinking a few times as you adjusted to the dim lighting, his room being even darker than yours. A small sigh of relief escapes you when you find him unharmed, although you soon realize that the noises you heard were the result of what appears to be a particularly consuming and terrifying nightmare.

He had struggled so much in his sleep that the sheets were completely thrown off, laying by his feet as his body tossed and turned uninterrupted. A light sheen of sweat covered him, telling you he'd been at this for a while. There was a familiar glint of blue on his nightstand, as Truth Teller and two of his siphons lay close by. You tried not to linger on the fact that he didn't appear to be wearing anything else aside from underwear for too long.

Some of the shadows that swirled around the room meet the ones that had brought you here, moving over you once more as if asking you to save their singer. You wanted to help them, but you're not entirely sure if you should be seeing him like this, if he'd want you to see him so vulnerable.

Aside from that, waking up someone when they were so immersed in a dream, especially a nightmare, could be dangerous and bring more harm than good. Still, you couldn't leave him like this and go back to your room, so you decide to try and call his name softly, hoping the noise or familiarity will be enough to help him wake up in a more organic way.

“Azriel?”

You hesitate in the doorway, feeling like you were already invading his space, but as another weak cry escapes him your body moves on its own. You're at the edge of the bed before you even notice, repeating his name and shaking him softly so as not to startle him too much.

The pain was evident on his face. You didn't know what he was dreaming of but you knew you had to pull him out of there fast. You've never seen him so distressed. Watching him like this felt like a chain was tightening around your heart and lungs, making it hard for you to breathe or think.

At a slightly harder push, his eyes open, one scarred hand moving to grab your wrist, stopping you from touching him as the other went to the nightstand, finding the hilt of his dagger. His hazel eyes were open wide, clearly disoriented by not only the nightmare but also having someone in his room. You expected nothing less from the Spymaster, of course he couldn't be so easily caught off guard even in his own room, but the tight grip was becoming too much, and you knew it was bruising, not being able to stop yourself from cringing softly at the pain.

As he understands the situation, wide eyes blinking multiple times as the waking world comes into focus, he drops your wrist and pulls away from you, sitting up and almost bumping his head against the headboard in his rush.

Neither of you moves or speaks for a moment, his heavy breathing the only thing that can be heard in the dark room. You wanted to turn the faelights on, to properly check on him, but Azriel always prefered the dark, feeling much more at ease surrounded by it. In fact, his shadows had hurried to him as soon as he woke up.

When his wide gaze settles into a frown, hazel eyes dropping to your wrist, you decide to speak up. You know that look and this was not the time for any other worries that might be growing in his mind, certainly none that concerned you.

“Azriel,” you whisper, not wanting to startle him, “Are you okay?”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No-”

“I shouldn't have hurt you,” he says, more to himself than to you, haunted eyes never straying from your wrist. You had only wanted to help, but now it feels like you made it worse by coming here.

“No, it's my fault. I know better than to wake someone up from a nightmare,” you swallow, throat suddenly dry, “but it looked like you were in pain and I couldn't leave you like this.”

He seemed unwilling to listen to you, a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head the only answer he gave you as you told him it wasn't his fault. Azriel is always too aware of himself, never allows himself any mistakes, as if he thinks he has to prove himself worthy of the life he leads. You don't even want to know what's going through his head now that he's convinced himself he hurt someone he cares about.

You let out a sigh when it was clear he wasn't going to say anything or acknowledge you further, you could almost see him receding into his own mind, getting consumed by his betraying thoughts. If you had listened to your training, you might not have ended up in this situation.

Slowly and very carefully, you move closer to him, giving him time to push you away or stop you if he wanted to. You only stop when your bare knee brushes his thigh, the warmth of his skin spreading through yours. Reaching for his hand, you interlock your fingers and squeeze softly, his eyes finally meeting yours.

“I shouldn't have grabbed you like that.” The pain was evident in his face, and it hurt you far more to think he was beating himself up than your wrist ever did. “I'm sorry.”

“There's no reason to be sorry,” you smile up at him, trying your best to soothe him, “You were disoriented and moved to protect yourself, that's all.”

He still looks unwilling to let go of his guilt, but you can see him settling back into himself, his usual calm expression falling over his beautiful face. He lets go of your hand in favor of cradling your wrist, carefully inspecting it as if he was looking at a broken bone and not at a bruise that would be completely healed within the hour. Caressing the soft skin with his thumb lightly, the scarred skin and affection behind the movement causing goosebumps to erupt.

“You didn't answer my question. Are you alright?”

Azriel looks up at you then, a conflicted look falling over his face once more. It seems he had been too focused on your wrist to remember the nightmare, and the fact that you'd seen him like that. You're almost positive he hates the fact that you've seen him like that even more than whatever haunted his nightmares. He's always been an extremely private person, so you can't even imagine what it feels like for him to be seen in such a vulnerable light by someone he barely knows.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” the expression on his face telling you he doesn't believe it, “You didn't. I've been finding it hard to sleep with everything that has been going on.”

“You're safe here.”

“I know, I've just had too much on my mind.” It feels like you're doing this wrong, you're the one that should be worried about him, not the other way around. “Your shadows came into my room and I heard movement so I came to check on you.”

Disapprovement flashes in his eyes, directed at his shadows of course. You'd find it adorable how he treats his shadows like misbehaving children if it weren't for the situation. Hopefully he won't be too harsh on them, you can almost feel the lecture coming. You're not entirely sure how much they can feel, if they can at all, but they had done good in going to find you, even if Azriel reprimanded them for it.

“I didn't know they could do that without you being conscious. They were very helpful,” you smile down at the dark wisps stationed over his shoulders. He clearly didn't agree with you, a soft scoff escaping his lips, but you hope this is enough for them to know they can come to find you in this type of situation from now on. You don't want Azriel to suffer on his own when you're there for him.

“Thank you,” you look up at him in surprise, “You didn't have to come. It was only a nightmare.”

It's not as surprising that he doesn't want to tell you what the nightmare was about, or even change the subject. If he wants to pretend this never happened come morning, you're more than welcome to oblige, as long as he feels better and knows you're always ready to lend a helping hand.

“You can come to me for anything, Azriel,” your hand finds his once again, thumb caressing the scarred skin on the back of his hand. “I'll always be here for you.”

He holds your gaze in an intense stare, the swirl of emotions written in his eyes becoming almost too much to bear, and still you're unable to break away from the all-consuming hazel. It seems like the world stops around you for a moment, and there's only you and him.

As your surroundings return slowly, you suddenly become too aware of the position you're in, of what it would look like if someone walked in. They would find you sitting on his bed, right next to him, lost in his eyes, hands clasped together between you, disheveled hair and half lidded eyes. The lack of clothing only added to the sight, you had never been so conscious of how short and thin the nightgown you wore to sleep was. You can only be grateful that Azriel doesn't sleep completely naked, though his underwear barely leaves anything to the imagination, and your imagination is desperate to run wild.

Heat rushes to your cheeks as the thought settles in your mind, clearing your throat softly to try and break yourself out of those thoughts. Looking up at the suddenly captivating pattern painted on his dark navy walls when his gaze becomes too much. You could swear you saw the corner of his lip rise as he likely noticed the effect he had on you. This was a good thing, it was like the Azriel you're used to, but you needed to get back on track.

“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” You try to untangle your fingers from his but he holds onto your hand, unwilling to let go of you just yet. “I can get you some tea to help you relax if you can't, or maybe we could go for a walk instead?”

Tiring him out could be a good idea, although his body is probably beyond exhausted from the long hours he's been putting himself through. Maybe tea was the best option.

“Can you stay with me?”

His words cut through your racing thoughts, your lips parting in surprise. You had half expected him to kick you out of his bedroom when he came to, inviting you into his bed was the last thing you would have seen coming.

“What?”

“I think I can sleep if you stay,” he whispers, “but if you don't feel comfortable-”

“I don't mind staying,” you rush to assure him with burning cheeks, thankfully matching his own, “You just caught me off guard that's all.”

Azriel offers you a tired smile and, with a wave of his hand, fixes the sheets, moving to the middle of the bed so you have enough room to settle next to him. Your movements are painfully awkward as you lay down next to him, all too aware of every inch of your body, heart beating out of your chest.

While you're in the middle of deciding how to safely position your hands, stiff body frozen in place, he takes matters into his own hands, an achingly fond smile playing at his lips, his hand falling to the small of your back and pulling you in closer to his body, his scent enveloping you.

Azriel closes his eyes, breathing out a soft, “relax.” Your hand finds his chest, body slowly but surely melting into him as you do as he says and will your mind to stop wandering. Letting the soft beats of his heart calm yours, you decide to listen to your body, and fall into him, arm wrapping around his waist as you inch even closer, your chest finding his, tangling your legs until you can't know where you end and he begins. His grip on you tightens as a satisfied sigh escapes him, one heavy wing falling over your body, until you're impossibly close.

Your face now only a breath away from his, your nose bumping into his chin as he drops a soft kiss to your forehead and nuzzles into you, breathing you in. You almost catch yourself purring as you lay in his arms, completely surrounded by Azriel.

Tangled up in each other's warmths, sleep found you both easily, finally allowing you a few peaceful hours of sleep after the grueling weeks you've endured.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel fic #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #my writing

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revelboo · 5 months ago

Note

Me at your post:

Question. Have you ever thought about writing for the Constructicons? (Not with Prowl though). I think it would be hilarious.

Rewatched their G1 episodes today. Title is the song ‘Drive’ by The Matches. An attempt was made. 18+ 🌶️

Drive

Constructicons x Reader

• “I’m just saying. A little appreciation.” Exchanging a look with Long Haul, Scavenger tries to ignore Hook’s grumbling as they work. Pushing against a tree until the wood splinters and breaks so he can shove it over and drag it out of the way. Pausing to tip his head up at the night sky and wonder where home is. “We’re out here busting our afts and do we get any thanks?” Hook demands. No. What they’d gotten was their energon rations cut because in the Decepticon hierarchy, they’re not much higher than Insecticons. He doesn’t like it, but understands. Being forged here on this miserable mudball not Cybertron means being looked down upon. And he has no idea where Cybertron is among those glittering stars. Can it be home when he’s never set ped there?

• “We do our job. A fragging good job,” Scrapper says, trying to keep the peace as Bonecrusher utters a harsh laugh and Mixmaster just shakes his head at him. Like he doesn’t see the scorn. Knows the others think he’s oblivious, but he’s knows they’re looked down on until they’re needed. Devastator demands their respect, but on their own? They’re second class citizens. If even that. Some of the other Decepticons are all too happy to sneer at them, to assume that since they didn’t come from Cybertron they’re less.

• Bending to gouge up a handful of soil and to intake through his vents, separating out the individual components in his head, Mixmaster growls. Scenting those trace amounts of energon that are the whole reason they’re out here in the middle of nowhere. “No one wants to hear that, though,” Mixmaster mutters. “They want us to work and keep quiet. It’s here.” Glancing at his brother when Bonecrusher bumps him. “They’re scared of us,” Bonecrusher growls, beginning to aggressively clear the land of trees, movements sloppy and giving away that he’s been into the high grade. But they all know it’s Devastator that’s feared, not them. They’re tools. Nothing more. Disrespected and mocked by the rest of the Decepticons. Something they all feel and that gets compounded when they’re combined. That dissatisfaction growing every time they combine, spreading and feeding on itself when they separate again. Reaching a boiling point with no outlet to let off some steam. Except to destroy something. And there’s nothing here but trees.

• Exhausted and not even tempted by the hot, greasy smell of fast food in the bag in the passenger seat, you go over the list in your head again. Trying to remember if you’ve gotten at least a little something for everyone. That you’re ready for the upcoming holiday. You’d volunteered to work the day before for the extra cash, but you keep wondering if you’re forgetting something. Distracted you almost miss the huge, dark shape that comes sailing out of the woods. Slamming a foot on the brake as your car slides with a scream of tires, a tree slams into the road ahead of you and goes end over end in a shower of pine needles and broken branches. What? Toggling your emergency lights on, you put the car into park and get out, wincing at the biting cold. And your breath catches as it sinks in that a tree chucked like a javelin even though there’s no wind, no plausible explanation, nearly took you out. Squinting into the dark woods, your skin prickles as a red glow flares in the shadows. Then five more.

• Hears Bonecrusher laugh and Long Haul turns to follow his stare. Sees the tiny shape through the trees silhouetted by the headlights of the car behind them. There’s no way the little human can see anything more than the glow of their optics. But there’s a whisper of excitement twisting through him as Scrapper says, “Bottle of engex to whoever squishes it before it ruins everything.”

• Heart in your throat as those red glows shift and a branch cracks, there’s a roar from the trees that crackles through you and you forget the car. Forget everything beyond the animal need to get away. Running as trees crack and get uprooted with thunderous noise behind you to send you racing across the road and into the woods on the other side in a blind panic. Don’t even know what’s chasing you, only that you don’t want to find out. Is this what a rabbit feels like with hungry foxes snapping at its heels?

• Heavy peds tearing up dirt and leaves as he tries to overtake Hook, Scavenger hears Mixmaster calling out to the organic. Laughingly saying they only want to play. You’re surprisingly fast for being so small, but even noisier than Bonecrusher somehow. Energon pumping through his lines as you break from the trees, just a little shadow silvered by the moon, almost unreal looking as you pelt through the tall grass. Catches a glimpse of terrified eyes when you glance back and then you go down, disappearing completely.

• “Where’d it go?” Hook growls, reaching to push Scavenger out of his way as the rest of his brothers catch up and he realizes there’s a sheet drop, the ground giving way so suddenly you hadn’t seen it in time to react. Leaning down to look at the still form lying in the shallow stream at the bottom, there’s a momentary flicker of disappointment. Because chasing you had made him feel more alive than he’d felt in a long time. The hunt a high almost as sweet as combining.

• Lingering at the edge of the ravine, spark pulsing still with the excitement of your fear, Scrapper’s aware of Mixmaster and Bonecrusher shoving at each other. Of Long Haul and Scavenger both still staring down at their quarry. Turning away to order them back to work, he hesitates as Scavenger bumps his arm with a fist. “It’s still alive.” And he hears the low, pained sound from the little human. “Pretty fun to chase,” Long Haul adds, shooting him a look. Primus, are they wanting to keep you? Like a pet? All five of his brothers are staring at him now. Waiting for his decision. And groaning in defeat, he gestures at the drop. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up after it.” Because you’re a distraction, something to keep them from dwelling on how unhappy they all are.

#transformers x reader #IDW hook #IDW Bonecrusher #IDW mixmaster #constructicons x reader #IDW scavenger #IDW long haul #IDW scrapper #constructicons

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you-have-a-metal-arm · 9 months ago

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'Til The End of The Line pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Mentions of hospitals

Summary: You get injured in a mission, and Bucky cannot bear to see you in such state.

Author's Note: Please do not copy or translate my work. English is not my first language, so please understand grammar or spelling mistakes.

Thank you for those who enjoyed the first part, and thank you again for waiting.

Part 2 is now yours.

The world around Bucky seemed to blur as he followed the medical team through the corridor. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears like a drum. The sight of you lying so still, bloodied and broken, was something he never thought he’d see—not like this, not when he hadn’t even told you how much he loved you that morning.

As Dr. Cho and her team wheeled you into the surgical room, Bucky’s steps faltered. He felt like he was wading through quicksand, every movement heavy and slow. He wanted to be with you, to hold your hand, to tell you that everything would be okay. But he was kept out of the room, forced to watch through the glass as the doors closed behind you.

Tony, standing beside him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Bucky. She’ll pull through.”

But Tony’s words felt hollow to Bucky. He had seen too much death, too much loss. The fear of losing you was like a knife twisting in his gut. He couldn’t lose you—not when you were his reason to keep fighting, his anchor in the storm.

His mind raced back to the last few months—the mornings spent in quiet domesticity, the late-night talks about the future, the way you laughed at his terrible jokes. How could it all be ripped away in a single moment?

Bucky pressed his hand against the glass, his breath fogging up the cold surface. His other hand clenched into a fist, the tension coiled tight in his chest. The image of you, fragile and bleeding, burned into his mind.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours—he couldn’t tell. Time had no meaning as he stood there, waiting, praying, hoping for a miracle.

Tony stayed by his side, silent. Steve joined them, his face drawn and pale. The guilt weighed heavily on Steve’s shoulders, and Bucky could see it. But Bucky had no room for blame—only a desperate need for you to come back to him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dr. Cho emerged from the operating room. Her face was tired, but there was a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “She’s stable, but it was touch and go for a while.”

Bucky’s knees almost buckled with relief, but he held himself upright by sheer will. “Can I see her?”

Dr. Cho nodded. “She’s still unconscious, but you can sit with her. It’s important she has someone she loves nearby when she wakes up.”

Bucky didn’t wait for further permission. He pushed past the others and entered the room where you lay. The sight of you hooked up to monitors, IVs, and machines tore at his heart, but at least you were alive. Your chest rose and fell steadily, and the color was slowly returning to your cheeks.

He pulled up a chair beside your bed, taking your hand in his. The warmth of your skin, even faint, was enough to give him hope. He brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his thumb tracing the lines of your face as if memorizing every detail.

“I’m here, doll,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “I’m right here. Please, come back to me.”

The room was quiet, save for the beeping of the machines that tracked your vital signs. Bucky stayed by your side, his grip on your hand firm but gentle. He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat—he just watched you, waiting for any sign that you were waking up.

Hours passed, and the rest of the team came and went, offering support, but Bucky barely registered them. His world had narrowed down to just you, lying so still in that hospital bed.

At some point, he must have dozed off because he was startled awake by a faint pressure on his hand. His eyes flew open, and he looked down to see your fingers twitching slightly in his grasp.

“Y/N?” His voice was barely a whisper as he leaned closer, his heart pounding in his chest.

You stirred, your eyelids fluttering weakly. It took you a moment to orient yourself, but when your eyes finally opened, they were full of confusion and pain. “B-Buck?” Your voice was hoarse, barely audible.

“I’m here, doll, I’m right here.” Bucky’s relief was palpable as he squeezed your hand gently, his eyes misting over. “You’re okay. You made it.”

A weak smile tugged at your lips, though the effort seemed to exhaust you. “I… I thought… I wasn’t going to make it.”

“You did, though,” Bucky whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe now. We’re together.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, your hand trembling slightly in his grasp. “I… I heard you… on the comms. I was so scared… that I’d never see you again.”

“It’s quite a miracle that she woke up. But we still must keep an eye out for any damage to her brain,” the doctor said.

“I’ll call Dr. Cho for further checkups. My job’s done for now.” The doctor left, and Bucky’s gaze returned to you.

Bucky sat back down beside you, his eyes brimming with unshed tears as he clutched your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. He couldn't believe you were awake, breathing, speaking to him. The terror of almost losing you hadn’t yet faded from his mind.

You looked at him, your voice barely a whisper but full of the love you had for him. “Hey, I told you I’m not going anywhere, didn’t I?”

Bucky let out a shaky laugh, a mix of relief and disbelief. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, feeling the warmth of your skin that he thought he’d never feel again. “You scared the hell out of me, doll. I thought—”

His voice cracked, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, your free hand weakly brushing the tears from his cheeks. “But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Buck.”

He pulled back to look at you, his blue eyes swimming with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admitted, his voice barely holding together.

“I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

“You won’t,” you reassured him, squeezing his hand with as much strength as you could muster. “We’re going to get through this. Together.”

For a long moment, Bucky just stared at you, memorizing every line of your face as if afraid it might vanish if he looked away. The weight of everything he had almost lost hung heavily in the air between you, but so did the promise of the future you still had together.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling with the intensity of the words.

“More than anything in this world.”

“I love you too, Buck,” you replied softly, your eyes shining with the same intensity. “And I’m sorry for putting you through this. For making you worry so much.”

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You’re the strongest person I know, and you’re going to get better. We’re going to get through this, and then we’ll live that life we talked about.”

A small, hopeful smile tugged at your lips. “Yeah, with the house, the backyard, and maybe… maybe even those babies.”

Bucky’s heart swelled with emotion at the thought. The future seemed so far away, but with you here, with your hand in his, it felt possible again. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice choked with emotion. “We’ll have that. I promise you, we’ll have that.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, exhaustion weighing heavily on you, but you fought to stay awake, to stay with him. “I’m going to hold you to that, Barnes.”

He chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You better. I’m not going anywhere either, doll. You’re stuck with me.”

“Good,” you whispered, finally allowing yourself to drift off to sleep, knowing that Bucky would be right there when you woke up again.

As you slept, Bucky stayed by your side, his hand still holding yours tightly. He didn’t move, didn’t even blink, afraid that if he did, this fragile moment of peace would shatter. But as he watched the steady rise and fall of your chest, he let himself believe that everything was going to be okay. That the darkness had passed, and the light of a new day would bring the life you both deserved.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Bucky allowed himself to hope.

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

Tag list @baw1066 @hzdhrtss @mrsnikstan

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Thank you for reading and enjoy your weekend :)

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dellieghtful · 1 month ago

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7-Days of Recovery With You 🍧🌸

SYNOPSIS: After getting injured and blacking out during a battle, you had not other choice but to take a week-long rest at home to recover. Unfortunately, the universe had a different vision for your dedicated rest & relaxation and decided to send in not just one but all five of your "emergency contacts". Oh the joy of being their favorite past time.

🍓 A/N: Hello! First fanfic here on tumblr about our favorite LADS boys (்▿்). I'll be posting daily (if I can make time lol) for this one! Each part will have a different pairing with all the fluff & humor I can squeeze into the fics. Hope you like it!

- p.s: I'll work on tumblr's interface so I can figure out how to add pictures and stuff to make it more interesting~

˚₊·Xavier's Miracle Soup—̳͟͞͞♡

Your week had been more than just the typical stressful encounter. Well, first and foremost, you took a hit. A pretty bad one, to say the least. It just so happened you were out in the field with Xavier, fighting off Wanderers just like any other day. It was supposed to be an easy job, a quick 30-45 minute battle, however you never anticipated to be battling wave after wave of Wanderers.

Now, here you were under bedrest, seeking recovery from your battle, surrounded by a thick blanket and rows and towers of pillows for your own comfort. Ironically, despite all the comfort your own bed has brought to you over the years, nothing could compete to the impending feeling of doom you were feeling at that moment.

Your phone kept buzzing non-stop, one message after the other, not just from one but from all five of your "emergency contacts". For some reason, they thought it was wise to build a groupchat and include you in it, to keep "tabs" on your well-being. Knowing well-enough your house is littered with security cameras from Caleb's recent "house project" and Mephisto being on the 24/7 watch, constantly pecking at your window to check on you and most probably bring "gifts" from Onychinus' one and only leader, Sylus. Not to mention, all five men have access to your current vital signs that directly notify them if it gets too low or too high, all thanks to Zayne's newly-installed and gifted watch, which clings onto your wrist like a second skin.

Grumbling to yourself as you rolled on your bed, shielding your eyes from the light peeking through the curtains, "So much for a relaxing long weekend".

» Flashback: 3 days ago . . . «

"Xavier!" you yelled across the field., "2:00!". Loud shots were fired into the air accompanied with the clanging of metal hitting almost everything in its path. "There's too many," Xavier respons, panting heavily as he wipes off the sweat and dirt off his forehead. "Any ideas?" he asks, slashing his sword through the air as another Wanderer comes too close for its own comfort towards you and Xavier.

You and Xavier had been fighting Wanderers non-stop since early in the morning. What was anticipated to be an easy job for the both of you experienced hunters, became nearly a full-day battle. "Well, making it out alive is one of them," you half-heartedly joked, trying to figure out another way to eliminate at least most of the Wanderers stalking your way. You and Xavier were about to be cornered against a large boulder, with no other exit available for the both of you to make it out alive without leaving the other behind. With quick thinking, Xavier slashed his sword in the air and cut down a nearby tree, crushing the remaining Wanderers that were crawling towards the both of you.

With heavy panting, you let your knees buckle and kneel to the floor, carefully clutching both of your guns to the ground. "What the hell was that?", swiping off all the sweat and grime from your forehead and carefully tucking away hair strands of your now messy ponytail to the side.

"It was more than what we had expected," Xavier holds out a hand and helps you get up. Not even standing at your full height, you felt the pang to your chest, you quickly grasp the skin over your heart to try and ease the pain. You felt the whole world spinning, bits of black blotches decorating your vision, you couldn't help but feel the swaying motions of your entire body, feeling the wave of pain and exhaustion finally crashing into you.

With one last glance at Xavier, you blacked out and felt your body, crash to the floor with only hearing Xavier's worried voice over and over until everything became tuned out.

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

It wasn't long before you regained consciousness and finally woke up from your deep slumber. Quickly looking around the room, familiarity made you realize that Xavier had brought you back home in your apartment. Carefully expecting your body, you could clearly see you were beaten and bruised from head to toe with your body being covered in layers of bandages and band-aids, for the smaller cuts.

"You're awake," a voice finally broke you out of your thoughts. As you lift your gaze up, you felt a soft smile grace your face. It was none other than your one and only partner in crime, Xavier, who was seemingly unscathed from the recent battle, carrying what seems to be a steaming hot bowl of what looks like a multi-colored soup. Well, crap.

"You blacked out, I had to bring you to the nearest hospital. You were out for a long time." Xavier said slowly, walking towards your bed with the soup in his hand, carefully grabbing a nearby chair with his vacant hand and setting himself ontop of it. "You overused your powers today, the association has been informed that we finished the task but, seeing your current condition, they're letting you take a break for a couple of days for you to fully recover".

"What? No, I can't. We still have so much paperworks to deal with. Not to mention the sudden influx of Wanderer activity within neighboring cities of Linkon." Your eyes widden at the thought, trying to slowly get up and fix yourself to a seated position, only to feel a pang of pain that puts your back against the board of your bed with a small thud and a wince of pain that makes you grab your waist in hopes to soothe the pain.

"Exactly my point. I'll handle the rest for the meantime. You need to rest. Captain Jenna has already made plans to assign me with a temporary partner while you rest up. We'll continue the mission from here and I'll update you as much as I can". Xavier, carefully, placing the soup onto the nearby table, gives your hand a small squeeze and a reassuring smile. As he pulls away, his gaze drops to his homemade soup and carefully picks up the bowl and scoops a spoonful of it.

You could feel the dread crawling out of you as Xavier stirs the soup and grabs another handful of the soup onto the spoon. "This is my own homemade recipe. I made it a while ago while you were asleep. It's mixed with all the good stuff I could find in your fridge". Well, double crap! I haven't even cleaned out my fridge for the week.

"That's so sweet of you Xavier, it means a lot but you don't have to feed me. I can handle it on my own." Reassuring Xavier as you carefully try to find a comfortable sitting position on the bed. Also hoping & praying that Xavier wouldn't feed you his bathbomb of a soup. Who knows what the man found and put into his miracle of a soup?

"No, I insist. Open wide," While grabbing both of your cheeks, Xavier quickly grabs the spoon and shoves the content forcefully into your mouth. With no choice but to swallow, you try and close your eyes to somehow pretend you're eating anything but the bathbomb soup.

Trying not to grimace at the recently-swallowed spoonful of bathbomb soup, you gave Xavier a weak smile, "Wow, it's...definitely something".

"I'm glad you like it. I won't leave until you finish all of it. Doctor's orders after all." You could feel your soul ascend and leave your body. How could you possibly finish this whole soup infront of Xavier? Taking in a deep breathe, you playfully twirl the spoon with your fingers as it rotates gently with the soup in the bowl, hoping it would buy you enough time for Xavier to go home and you can dispatch the bathbomb soup.

"Oh and, don't worry about anything else. Everything else is covered. The association said that they informed your four other emergency contacts. So, while I'm not here to take care of you, either of the four will do the job." Xavier smiles sweetly, as he wips out his phone and shows you an email from the association with his email attached to the receiver, along with not just two but four other emails? Why on earth would you have five emergency contacts? It wasn't like you were dying or anything, just beaten and bruised, but you'll definitely heal within a day or two.

"Wow, that's a lot of people but I'm sure I'll be fine. I'll only be gone for a couple of days."

"A week, you'll be gone for a week". Xavier corrected, looking through his phone to double check the email and its content. A whole week? What kind of joke is the universe trying to pull on you now? "Are you kidding me? What am I supposed to do then?"

"Well, for starters, you can finish your soup, I'll make up a new batch before I head out so I can give you time to rest". Xavier says, as he pats your head gently and slowly pushes away strands of your bangs to the side. Your eyes could never mistake the longing stare Xavier always does whenever he looks at you, as if worried you would disappear without a trace.

"I'll be fine. Have some faith in me, with your soup, I'll be back to work in no time." You say as you reach out for his hand and give it a tight squeeze and a reassuring smile.

Xavier couldn't help but smile, tidbits of little sparkles floating around him as you both reciprocate the emotion of relief, of being safe away from any worry and danger. "You'll always be my best partner in crime, you know? You've saved me more times than I can count".

"I'll always come to save you as you will always come and find me, no matter where I am". You couldn't help but smile but also wonder, what does Xavier mean by that, that you would always come and find him? Oh well, that's another mystery for another day.

"I think I'll rest up in while".

"Good, I'll make a new batch of soup. They should be arriving at any minute".

They?

And just like that, the universe decided to give you its own vision of rest & relaxation as a loud bang of the door accompanied by numerous voices flowed into your apartment.

"Pipsquek, I'm home! I got here as fast as I could!"

"Truly, we could have taken the elevator at different intervals. I don't think using your gravity evol to force the doors shut was wise".

"Oh doctor, relax. Surely, with your salary, we could pay a handsome fee and make another elevator to fit us".

"Or maybe we just don't visit at the same time? Her apartment's already cramped as is. Can't you find different day-offs or something?

Dear God, help me.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lads #xavier love and deepspace #lads caleb #lnds caleb #lads zayne #lnds zayne #lnds sylus #lads sylus #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #˚₊·dellie writes—̳͟͞͞♡

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hannahdalaney-blog · 2 months ago

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A Ruby

Anthony Bridgeton x plus-size reader

warning: none! pure fluff maybe a little risky thoughts but just one of two// fem reader

summary: Anthony purposes!! a lot of build up to it but its cute. Anthony is down bad for reader. Switches p.o.v

/// my x readers are confident in themselves for the most part, this reader is a little insecure about her personality. just for a second tho

Being in your second year of the marriage mart has proven to be rather dull. Party after party man after man. You were rather popular amongst the ton, your dance card always full. But no one had a marriage proposal for you yet. It was quite disappointing to say the least.

"It's my turn, yes?" Anthony Bridgerton, your a friend of Bridgerton house Daphne helped you in your first year. Her mama and the family seem to have taken a liking to you.

"So it is my lord." you take his held out hand sliding your glove across his skin. Taken to the floor guided by Mr. Bridgerton peoples stares feel like little knives in your skin.

"How is your season going?" he spoke so casually with you.

"Rather disappointing my lord." you sigh. It was hard to talk in a dance but for some reason he had always tried.

"Something the matter?" you glance around the room taking the time that your pulled apart to think. Then he was back his look of concern stuck on his face.

"I seem to be popular don't I?" he nods while being pulled away again.

"But I have yet to get a proposal, it leaves me to wonder what i'm missing." and then the music stopped but Anthony stayed in place, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

"I think it is the men at fault, you seem perfectly fine." he smiled and finally walked you off the floor. You would have thought he has taken a liking to you but he always spoke to you like this. His mother raised him well, and while she knew you didn't need it she asked him to dance with you at every party.

"Thank you Mr. Brigerton." a small smile on your face. He must have forgotten to let go of your hand because he doesn't, he takes you over to his family who seemed to be crowding one spot. You pull your hand out of his ignoring how he looks at you. It would give his family the wrong impression he had to have known that.

"Mrs. Bridgerton what a lovely gown!" you beam, she was a very nice and strong woman anyone with that many children is. She turns away from the Bridgerton circle smiling widely.

"Yes, you as well!" She sounded a little nervous.

"What are you doing?" Anthony spoke up his voice a little stern.

"Nothing we were just talking..." The group behind her fell apart smiling at their brother.

"Brother! Done with your dance already?" Colin spoke up looking between the two of you.

"Of course." Anthonys brows untwist themselves.

"um if you don't mind my lord I must be going." You look around to see your mama calling you over.

"You must?" he sounds almost pleading, it sends a wave of heat up your spine.

"Yes my mama seems to have a hand in filling up my card." you look at her while she's talking to another suitor, she wanted nothing more than to see you married.

"Yes.." he nods and you say your goodbyes. They really were a sweet family it's such a shame you couldn't marry into it. Just the thought alone made you smile but of course that will never happen.

---

"Tonight was not the night brother?" Benedict's hand clasps around his brother's tense shoulder.

"No we barely spoke, her mother is relentless." he glares at the woman. She has yet to stop looking for a match even though you are doing well enough on your own. Truth be told he was the one behind your lack of proposals if he had it his way other men wouldn't even look at you. But he needed to buy himself time to ask for your hand and to make sure you would take his.

"All of them are." Benedict was the only one he informed about his plans.

"Everything would fall in place soon." he smiled never taking his eyes off you for very long. The rest of the night he watched you dance with other men clenching his fist if they grazed your skin.

He supposed he shouldn't blame you for trying to find a match but in his mind you were already his. Your skin was so soft and practically glows, your pinned up hair exposing your neck. He wouldn't dare to think about lower than that, he was a gentleman.

When he lies in his bed his mind still wonders to you. He should have asked you on your first year in the marriage mart but he didn't know what he felt then. Daphne brought you home giggling girls walking hand and hand. How could he not fall in love with you the more he got to know you the more smart, kind, and beautiful he found you to be. Sure you were more of a woman than some but that didn't lead him astray.

Waking from his dreams (of you of course) he heard a very familiar laugh. He made himself presentable as quickly as he could trying to look charming. What are you doing here? Though he didn't mind seeing you as soon as he opened his eyes, he would have preferred you in the bed with him but still. He followed the sound of your voice leading him to the drawing room he cracked the door open just to make sure it was really you.

You sat across from his mother a tea cup in your pretty hands. He cleared his throat as he walked into the room amused by your little jump. His mother greeted him with a smile and so did you placing the tea cup on the table.

"Anthony! I thought you were still sleeping." Mother stood from her seat coming for a hug he thought, but she went for the snack table instead.

"I would have been here sooner if I had known we had company." he comes to sit next to you on the couch taking the opposite side.

"It's just me my lord." you spoke up, he frowned.

"Yes I see it is you." he looks you up and down admiring the lovely emerald green dress you wore.

"Well I invited her over because Daphne said she would be here." Mother sits back down placing a plate in front of you, she filled it up with snacks.

"Then where Is she." he looked from you to the plate then leaned forward taking a biscuit off the plate. He really just wanted to get a little closer.

"Those aren't for you." his mother warns.

"She doest mind." he smiles slouching back into his corner of the couch. Mother roles her eyes he should be nothing but a perfect gentleman but it was entertaining to annoy his mother.

"Maybe I should have come later in the day, it seems she may take awhile." you ignore his pleading eyes keeping yours on his mother's.

"No, I enjoy having you here. The children are busy these days." he could see your body relax.

"Busy being married." Daphne interrupts the room.

"Daphne!" you stand making your way toward his sister. He wished he had more time to speak with you but Daphne was here and the two of you rarely separate.

He watched as you hugged and laughed with her, who knew he would be jealous of his own sister. You dragged her over to the couch wedging her between you and him. And while he can listen to you talk for hours he says his goodbyes waving off his sister's objections.

----

"so any new proposals?" you shake your head.

"No proposals at all." you sigh, it was vexing to no end. What could be so off about you that you couldn't get a least one proposal.

"That's strange there must be at least one?" you shake your head again.

"I must have a terrible personality." a small laugh escapes your lips.

"I don't think that's it, I keep good company." she smiles.

"Well I don't know what it is then." you huff slumping into the couch. Mama wanted you married this season she said to dull yourself down. She must think it was your strong personaitly as well.

"I'm sure this season will prove to have more luck." you scoff.

"It has to, i'm the last one to marry." every one of your siblings has a family of their own leaving you alone to your parents lecturing.

"Everything will work out." Mrs. Bridgerton chimes in, honestly you forgot she was there.

"Yes. So Daphne how's your...husband?" you wanted to deflect from your failed season.

"Well even though I know it's just to stop talking about you it's going quite well." she goes on to talk about her happy marriage and the very exciting news of her expecting.

Seeing Daphne was a nice reminder that you should push extra hard this season. Daphne spent the day with you but you left before dinner saying your goodbyes to the family. Every single one of them was a reflection of their mother whether they know or not.

Going back home was always a quick ride, you lived just around the corner. In two days there's another ball and in those two days you will change yourself. You are going to be married this season no matter what.

---

"You should hurry with your proposal." Anthony leaned back in his chair. He's been working in his office trying to ignore the urge to see you.

"I don't know what you're talking about." she crossed the room standing in front of his desk.

"She thinks there's something wrong with her." he frowned. He was taking to long he knew that but he wanted everything to be perfect.

"I'm going to ask soon don't worry." he dismissed her waving his hand around.

"You must haste, before someone else does." he glared at his overly observant sister. Then she left the room abandoning him in a deafening silence. He should ask for your hand after the next ball he'll pull your mother and you aside and just ask. Of course he would ask your father first but he was overseas and he couldn't wait another day.

He stayed awake going over the made up scenarios again and again. He should look his absolute best not a hair out of place, he was sure you would look just as good. Not that he has ever seen you in a bad state. He would have to ask Mother for her ring tomorrow. Even through the crippling anxiety he was rather ecstatic to marry. He would have to have the ring sized. (and he ofc knows which size to get.)

Then as soon as he blinked the ball was here. He had made sure to get the ring so now all he needed was his breath taking bride. A smile plastered on his face the whole way there. When he saw you it knocked all the air out of his lungs. You were wearing his favorite color a beautiful purple with many little lavernder flowers along the bottom. Your neck line was square showing off your blinding neckless, your gloves were a silk dark purple reaching just past your elbows.

You must know how your dress would make all the blood rush to his head, you had to be doing this on purpose. He got to your side as quick as he could allow himself. Tonight was your night he needed to be the perfect gentleman.

"You look lovelier than usual." he keeps his hands behind his back. You jump a little but turn away from the snack table, a half eaten eclair still in your hand.

"Thank you, mother let me pick my dress for this evening." you look down at yourself then back up at him so quickly it made him dizzy.

"Well you have fine taste." he leaned a little closer than socially acceptable. "I was wondering if I could have a word." he watched as your breast rise and fall quicker than before he leaned in.

"yes of course my lord." he leaned back smiling as wide as he knew how.

"Honey! What are you doing over here?" your mother rushed over taking the eclair from you placing it back on the table.

"I'm speaking with lord Bridgerton." your mother nods in his direction but doesn't look at him.

"Yes, well I have a gentleman over there who would love to speak with you." your mother smiles and turns you to look at the rather plain looking man across the room.

"Actually I would like to speak with you, if I may." you both look at him now, you look a lot like your mother at least in this moment.

"Yes of course! I would be delighted. Why don't you go talk to lord Salon, dear." she pushed you away. You look back but continue on anyways.

"What would you like to speak about Mr. Bridgerton." she put on the best smile she could but kept glancing at you.

"I would like to ask for your permission to Marry your daughter." her mouth hung open for a while.

"If you will have me of course." he added and her face lit up.

"Yes! Yes we would love- I mean I will have to tell her father! And her dowery may not be as much as we would like-" she starts rambling but her smile never leaves, her hands flying around.

"That's no problem we have money, I just need her." he turns to look at you.

"Ah i'm so excited!" he hugged him squeezing him a little.

"If you don't mind I would like to ask her as well." she breaks away shooing him toward you.

"go, go !" he practically runs to you and when he reaches you your already turning to him.

----

"Did I do something to upset Mr. Bridgerton?" Lord Salon eyes widen at the seemingly angry man rushing toward you. You turn to him watching the room as he pulls you away.

"Lord Bridgerton?" you ask, the way he was smiling made you a little scared.

"Lady Y/L/N, will you marry me?" you twist your brows and feel your hands already sweating.

"Excuse me?" he pulls out a ring and takes your hand sliding the ring on your finger;It fit perfectly

"I would love for you to join my family, for us to start a new family. I have watched and waited for what feels like forever just to get this chance. You have sparked something inside me something I can not live without." he brings his left hand up to your face brushing his hand across your cheek.

"I-uh.." you start laughing a little, your eyes starting to water. "I will- I will marry you Lord Bridgerton." and then the room rips into cheers and claps. You gasp at the sound forgetting you were even in the public eye.

"I promise to make you the happiest woman in the world." he whispered in your ear before turning you to face the crowd holding his hand in yours

#plus size reader #fem reader #brigerton #anthony bridgerton #Anthony Bridgerton x reader #cute #x reader

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eamour · 11 months ago

Text

the way you manifest.

everybody has a different way of manifesting. some like to script, some like to affirm, and some like to just visualise their desires. however, some methods seem to work for some but don’t really work on others. why is that so?

the law of assumption.

now, the reason behind why everybody seems to have their own way of manifesting or why certain manifestation methods and techniques you cannot seem to be successful with can still ensure other people success is because of the LAW. once again, it's called the law of assumption — and it operates with BELIEF. what you assume or believe to be true, has to be true.

everything is an assumption.

in practice, this means that these methods and techniques seem to "function" well for some because they ASSUME that they will function well for them. on the contrary, the methods and techniques that you believe won’t help you manifest, eventually won’t help you. another example is that you might believe affirming might not work for you but works really good for others. the result: everyone can manifest with the use of affirmations except you.

no preassigned meaning.

it is important to not that with the law, nothing actually is the way it is and nothing is promised to remain the way it is… not unless you say otherwise. in this reality, things aren’t factual, forever or fixed. they don’t have any meaning attached to them. YOU give them meaning first.

the creator's rules.

if you know how the law works, you know that you can use it to your advantage. you can decide how you want to manifest by coming up with your own rules and correctly applying them. you can even influence the way a method or a technique will function for you. and not just methods and techniques! here are some examples for rules you could have:

rule one · i always manifest within 2 days.

rule two · manifesting is easy for me.

rule three · i can manifest even if i feel sad.

loopholes in manifesting.

now, what are loopholes in manifesting? a loophole is an ambiguity or inadequacy in the law or a set of rules, according to its official definition. in more simple words, they are subjective rules you have set up to simplify manifesting. you could almost say they are "cheat codes", coding the way you manifest.

you know, there are rules to manifesting. actually, there is only one: your assumptions create. for an assumption to manifest, you need to believe in it. now, i'm not saying you can’t have doubts, but there has to be at least a little belief in there, somewhere. now, see how i said "somewhere"? what i mean is that somewhere within the process of manifesting, there needs to be BELIEF.

1 · belief in assumption. you can believe in having your desire and manifest it.

2 · belief in method. you can believe that doing a method xyz times makes you manifest your desire.

3 · belief in self. you can believe that you always manifest your desires.

this is why many people who robotically affirm can manifest. they have the assumption that they either don’t need to believe their assumptions to manifest or that simply doing the method guarantees them their desire. other loopholes could be that only desirable thoughts of you manifest or that affirming once is enough for you.

the best way to manifest.

knowing all of this, it is clear to say one thing: there is no best or perfect way to manifest. technically, they are all the same. since manifesting is personal, it is your decision to decide which methods work for you or not, which techniques get you better or quicker results. and remember, all methods and techniques are all equally accessible to you. you don’t have to do anything beforehand. you don’t have to prove yourself to be worthy or deserving for a method to work for you. again, YOU are the creator.

manifesting is personal.

in conclusion, we all manifest similarly but still differently — and that’s alright! each one of us is an individual and the way we apply the law is personal. that being said, feel free to come up with your own rules! make the law work for you the way YOU would like it to and remain faithful to your rules. that way you can make manifesting a lot more easier.

with love, ella.

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peace-hunter · 3 months ago

Note

Hey! How’s it going?

I was just wondering what are the dynamics between Optimus and his thirteen ghostie siblings individually?

haunted au

oh boi.

i'm gonna warn you, there's some dynamics i've given more thought to than others and it shows. sorry about that.

also this got very, very long so i'm gonna put it under a read more.

okay here we go:

1- zeta is the strict older brother trying to keep OP alive at almost any cost. he still feels guilty for leading his siblings to their deaths and is maybe trying to atone for it by doing everything he can to get OP through a war. this mostly means pushing him harder than the rest of their siblings, because he wants OP to handle anything that comes his way.

and OP really wants to make zeta proud. he's low-key still in shock at receiving the Matrix and terrified of messing up in a way he can't fix, so he's really glad he has zeta to guide him through his stumbling even if more often than not he ends up self-conscious with the corrections he gets. he can't help comparing himself to zeta and feel like he's failing to measure up to him.

they have the hardest time out of everyone to reach a balance on how much zeta can influence optimus' decisions without it just being him dictating what should be done.

2- prima is a bit of a mother-hen and OP doesn't mind nearly as much as he probably should. seeing as zeta took the more strict role, prima found himself taking on a more supportive, almost care-taking one. he's the one that nags OP the most about taking care of himself and whether or not he's pushing himself too hard trying to be the Prime everyone expects him to be.

and OP feels like he should mind more than he actually does but it's just. it's nice. to be taken care of. he feels like he has to be strong for everyone else around him but prima makes him feel like it's okay if he's not sometimes. carrying the Matrix makes him feel so much older than he actually is most of the time, but sometimes prima treats him like a sparkling and it's. it's kinda nice.

prima is almost definitely the one optimus is closest to. partially because receiving prima's cog made them develop a bond that makes it easier for them to feel what the other is feeling which in turn makes their communication pretty open. but also because while with the others OP had to slowly lose his hero worship and learn to love them as just people, it's really hard to be star-struck by someone who is constantly nagging you about whether you're sleeping enough or not (/▽＼)

3- vector is pretty strict and a bit of rule stickler which does mean he and OP don't always agree on what's the best thing to do. they get along fine enough, they just... have a hard time vibing with each other.

OP spent his whole life chaffing against an unfair system and unjust rules, before finding out the horrible reason of why they existed, which makes him inherently suspicious of any kind of protocol he doesn't understand or doesn't see the point of.

vector loves protocol and rules and thinks they're there for a reason even if you don't always see it at first.

they struggle to find a balance until vector understands that OP doesn't just hate rules for the sake of hating them, he needs to understand why they're there and what purpose they serve before he acquiesces to follow them. once he gets where OP is coming from, it's a lot less frustrating to have to explain why certain protocols and rules exist.

and OP starts liking vector a lot more once he stops feeling like vector is trying to force him to follow useless directives that serve no purpose. once he sees vector is willing to sit down and explain to him why certain things are done the way they are, it's easier for him to not instinctively reject rules or protocols he doesn't immediately understand. he learns to trust that there's probably a reason behind everything and it's not always malicious. even if he ends up deciding he still doesn't agree with it, at least he's willing to learn more about it first.

4- alpha trion and orion have a mutual soft spot for the other and they enjoy spending time with one another very much!

AT was the only one that got to see Orion as a cogless miner trying so hard to make things right even when he had almost no power in his hands to do it. he was the one that saw a spark in him that could light up their world again. he saw the little bot that refused to stand down in the face of a giant injustice. and he will always love orion for that. for the hope he gave him in a time where everything seemed hopeless.

but he was also the one that set him and his friends in a path that led them to so much pain. he cannot regret it, revealing sentinel's lies was far too important and there was too little time to hesitate, but he does feel guilty for the part he played in what happened after. and it's that guilt that leads to him being more patient, more sympathetic to OP's weakness when it comes to megatron.

and to OP alpha trion will always feel a little larger to life, even after their size difference isn't as big as it was before. to him alpha trion will forever be the person who took the blindfold off his eyes. the one that confirmed that orion wasn't crazy for thinking things weren't right. that not only told him he, and everyone else, deserved the right to choose what they wanted to be, but also enabled them to make that choice.

he lowkey imprinted on alpha trion back in that cave lol

and on a more lighthearted note they both really enjoy spending time in the archives! they bond over a shared love for history and the importance of accurate records. and orion spent a lot of time listening to alpha trion's voice back when he used to sneak into the archives. he can barely believe he now gets to listen to the real thing and not just a recording!

he can't help but think that maybe in another world, in a better life, if he was very lucky, he could've worked in the archives under alpha trion's tutelage. he knows it's only a fantasy. but it's a nice one.

5- solus and optimus get along pretty well! she doesn't give him as much grief about megatron as the others do, not because she doesn't think it's a bad idea, but because she's kinda curious about it. she's very much a "let's see where this goes" kinda gal, even if she's relatively sure the results will go badly. so while she will let optimus know exactly what she thinks of megatron, she also lowkey doesn't discourage him from his attempts at reconnecting with him. she can respect the hustle of trying to fix something everyone else has deemed irreparable.

and optimus appreciates this! not quite enough to let solus take control of him so she can mess around in wheeljack's lab, but enough that he will hang around and act as translator so those two can bounce ideas off each other for far longer than he would otherwise lol

6- micronus shares OP's distaste for rules he doesn't understand or agree with so the two of them (and amalgamous) will team up against vector when they feel he's being particularly overbearing. the bond that rebelling against authority (an older sibling) creates between two people cannot be understated. their relationship is a simple one but very close nonetheless. micronus is one of the most affectionate of the group and he made OP feel very welcome into the family very quickly. he's also one of the most lighthearted about their situation. he thinks that as long as they're all together, not even the pits could be such a bad place to be in. his good attitude is contagious and OP gravitates towards him whenever he starts feeling a little too down.

7- alchemist is a more gentle, even tempered and lowkey presence. so while he and optimus don't spent a lot of time one-on-one, the time they do spend together is pretty nice for both of them. sometimes OP needs just a nice, simple conversation that won't touch of heavier topis and alchemist offers that. he tells optimus stories that weave science and mysticism so tightly it makes OP wonder how anyone can think they're irreconcilable with one another. he does give optimus high grade recipes he's pretty sure could kill someone if not prepared carefully enough tho lol

8- nexus on the other hand is loud, wildly creative and unpredictable. there is a reason he's the first one that discovered how to levitate in ghost form. the fact he couldn't turn if off afterwards is irrelevant. he's full of good humor, loves pranks and always has a joke on the tip of his tongue. OP loves him very much but he does find him a bit... grating at times. he understands why nexus tries to make all of them smile and laugh as much as he can but... he can't help but wish he wouldn't try so hard all the time. he's certain that as orion he would've not only taken it in stride, but even joined in. but as optimus he just... he no longer finds smiling as easy as he used to. nexus attempts at making him smile only emphasize how much more effort it takes nowadays.

9- onyx was a little bit intimidating to optimus at first, but once he got over his awe at the slightly mystic prime, he found himself enjoying his company pretty easily. onyx has a different perspective on many things, much more spiritual than the rest of his siblings, and while optimus doesn't always get what he means, he enjoys listening to him anyway. and the way he describes flying almost makes OP wish he had wings too.

10- amalgamous and optimus get along pretty well thanks to amalgamous' gentle but free-spirited temper and their relationship only strengthens upon the discovery that both of them have a natural irreverence for authority figures. the bond that being rebellious together creates is a strong one. the fact they're also authority figures does not escape their notice, but they're firm believers of the "i am not excluded from 'fuck'em' when relevant" mentality so it's fine.

amalgamous is also one of the firsts that starts pushing back the moment he feels zeta and vector are putting too much pressure on OP or imposing their opinions on him too much. while prima will speak up on behalf of optimus' well-being more often, it is amalgamous that defends optimus' independence most fiercely.

11- quintus is another quiet presence that doesn't make a lot of waves except when he feels compelled to speak up against the more ruthless approaches their siblings suggest. but otherwise he doesn't stand out as much as the others do. optimus' gets the feeling it wasn't always like that, the stories the others tell him of better times before the war hinting at a wild creativity and idealism he can't quite see in the quintus he knows. but the way even those hints vanish entirely once they start speaking of the war makes him wonder if they're related.

12-liege maximo is maybe the closest any of the primes get to being optimus' brother in every sense of the word. they're all family, they're all siblings, they all love each other but it is liege that makes optimus understand what the cain instinct means.

liege teases OP constantly and is delighted at the fact optimus is not afraid to give back as good as he gets. everyone else is a bit too over-protective of the kid in his opinion and it is his duty as fellow younger sibling to keep the baby of the family humble.

and OP is glad he gets one person he can be a little glitch with. as Prime there's an unspoken... decorum or property everyone around expects from him and he's... not like that. he misses being able to joke and mess around with his friends, he misses being able to be a little immature and even rude and not worry about whether it'll cause a political or social scandal.

and it's not like he's not close to or relaxed around the other primes, but there's still a little part of him that can't forget he used to hero-worship all of them and that part of him still screeches any time he's kinda rude to them. he's working on it.

but liege manages to get under his plates like no one else, he gets to the irreverent little glitch remnants of orion that optimus buries deep down inside himself most of the time and it's fantastic. the fact he can see liege visibly enjoys their little spats also helps.

on a gentler note, sometimes when OP is struggling to fall asleep, liege will tell him stories to pass the time. after all, storytelling is lying adjacent and liege is a very good liar. they both enjoy it more than they'd like to admit.

13-megatronus' relationship with optimus is... complicated. but maybe not exactly the way people expect it to be.

yes, at first the mere sight of him made him want to violently sob but like. what didn't make him want to cry those first few days. yes megatronus was a reminder of Dee, a painful one even, but so was literally everything else. dee was so ingrained into every single aspect of orion's life, it would've been easier to name the ones he wasn't.

when he couldn't even do vital tasks, like eating or sleeping, without it being a struggle to not crumble under the devastating guilt and heartbreak festering inside his chest, seeing megatronus is like. not even in the top ten of his list of issues tbh.

and afterwards, by the time when every day is a little easier to get through, he already got to know megatronus enough to see him more as person and less as dee's idol. of course it's not right away, not completely painless, you don't erase years of memories of someone you used to hold dearest to your heart just like that, but it's. it's a start.

he gets to make his own relationship with megatronus, his own memories with him, untainted by the pain of losing dee.

and their relationship in itself it's pretty nice. megatronus is a little overprotective of optimus (why the fuck is he so tiny???) but he doesn't really get the chance to be overbearing with it because. well. what can he really do. so instead it manifests into teaching optimus how to defend himself the best he can. the kid has pretty good instincts already but megatronus wasn't the greatest warrior who ever lived for nothing. he still has a lot he can teach OP.

and OP loves learning from him. he doesn't enjoy fighting, but he loves learning new things and the rush of getting a new move right is addicting. he also knows that if he gets through his training fast enough they're ahead of schedule he can get megatronus to tell him first hand stories of events he has read about hundreds of times.

no one is as good as alpha trion in telling stories, but megatronus is a close second.

their main point of contention is, of course, megatron.

megatronus is very bitter over what megatron has done with his name, his t-cog and his legacy. there is no hiding that, not even if he wanted to. and he doesn't. he's the most outspoken in his disdain for his actions and, after a while, the mech himself. at first he tried to be comprehensive and not push optimus too much, because he knows how much dee meant to him, but there's a point when he's just. done. with the topic. he believes there's only one solution to the war is and he wants optimus to understand it before he has to pay too high a price for his hesitation.

and optimus... cannot accept that.

logically, he knows megatronus is probably right. he knows that there'll be a line megatron will cross and won't be able to come back from.

he knows it will be then his duty to stop megatron no matter what it takes.

but... not yet. please. not yet.

and megatronus won't say it doesn't disappoint him. he just knows that optimus' reluctance to kill megatron will blow up on his face one day. but it's fine. what's family for if not to say "i told you so" while helping to get you out of trouble.

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grace5425 · 25 days ago

Text

tell me something i don't know

part one part two

Mattheo hadn’t exactly planned on camping out in your dorm until you got back.

But somehow, that's where he ended up anyway.

He told himself it was just to make sure you got home safe. That the Ravenclaw hadn’t pulled any slick moves. That you were smiling, relaxed, content—everything you deserved to be.

That was all it was. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what he kept repeating in his head as he lounged on your bed, flipping through a worn book he'd already read twice before. The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the enchanted candles hovering above your desk. His leg bounced restlessly as the clock ticked on. Every creak in the hallway made him sit up straighter, ears straining for your voice.

When the door finally creaked open at precisely 7:45, Mattheo's eyebrows pulled together.

Too early.

You stepped inside, your laugh soft and easy as you shut the door behind you. You peeled off your jacket and kicked off your shoes with a tired sort of grace, like someone trying to shake off the weight of a performance that hadn’t quite landed.

Mattheo watched you closely, snapping the book shut without another glance.

“Back already?” he asked, voice casual but laced with something else—curiosity, maybe. Or something more bitter.

You nodded, tugging your hair down from the neat topknot it had been in. It fell in waves around your shoulders, and you ran your fingers through it absently. “Yeah. We just got dinner, then came back.”

Mattheo stood, his brows still furrowed. “That’s it?”

You looked up at him, a half-smile ghosting your lips. “What else was supposed to happen? A grand romantic confession? A duel under the stars?”

Mattheo didn’t answer right away. He studied your face instead—the slight tiredness in your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped once you were out of view from anyone else. You looked… fine. But not lit up. Not glowing the way people said you should after a good date.

He crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of your desk. “Thought you’d at least make it to dessert. Isn’t that the whole point of going to Puddifoot’s?”

You let out a soft, noncommittal hum as you opened a drawer and began rummaging through it for something more comfortable to change into. “He didn’t want to get dessert.”

Mattheo’s jaw ticked, the muscle in it twitching visibly. “Did he even take you to Honeydukes?”

You laughed again—gentle, almost tired. “Matty, it’s fine. He’s a nice guy.”

But Mattheo knew it wasn’t fine. Not even close.

Because a nice guy would've taken you to the Three Broomsticks first, not some place that made you want to crawl out of your skin. He’d have rattled off your usual order before you could even open your mouth, already knowing you liked your butterbeer extra foamy with a cinnamon stick. And he would’ve paid without blinking, like it was second nature—because it was.

Then he would’ve let you wander around Honeydukes for as long as you wanted, trailing behind you with a basket, slipping in every single sweet you paused to look at—even the weird ones you swore you didn’t like but always ended up stealing bites of anyway.

And after that, he’d have taken you into that stupid little bookstore you were obsessed with—the one that always smelled like old parchment and ink. He’d have watched the way your eyes lit up when you ran your fingers along cracked spines, and he’d have listened like every ramble about plotlines and tragic poetry actually mattered.

Then—when you were stuck between two books, biting your lip and sighing in that way that meant you couldn’t choose—he wouldn’t have made you. He would’ve bought them both, no questions asked.

That’s what a nice guy would do.

That’s what Mattheo would’ve done. What he has done. A hundred times. Without thinking. Without needing a reason.

But you weren’t telling him that now. You were brushing him off, smiling like it didn’t sting. Like this whole date hadn’t felt like trying to force two puzzle pieces together that were never meant to fit.

Mattheo stayed quiet for a moment too long, his fingers curling against his arm as he studied the side of your face.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “Real nice.”

You paused then, glancing over your shoulder, sensing the shift in his tone. But when your eyes met his, he quickly masked it with that trademark smirk—cool and careless, like he hadn’t just dissected your evening in his head and rewritten it with himself in the lead role.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away for a beat before clearing his throat. “How about we go to The Three Broomsticks tomorrow?” he asked casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I need to run to Hogsmeade anyway.”

The anyway was a lie. He had no errands, no plans. But saying it made things simpler—less terrifying than the swirling mess of feelings sitting like a weight on his chest.

Your face lit up, and that smile—the real one—bloomed across your lips. “Oh! Really? That would be perfect.”

There it was. The dimple on your left cheek that only showed when you were genuinely happy. And just like that, something inside Mattheo eased. Just a little.

He didn’t need a reason to go. Not really. Making your weekend a little better was reason enough.

#slytherin boys #hp fanfic #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle #mattheoxreader #mattheo riddle x reader

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kabr0ztrousers · 3 months ago

Note

Let me start off by saying that everything I've read from you so far has been amazing! Ok so I used to be terrified of clowns but now I adore them. Fem reader who is scared of clowns and super timid gets dragged to a fair by a friend. One of the clowns notices and tries to cheer her up maybe tripping over himself and just being goofy. He takes her to a tent and fucks her with his other clown friends showing her there's no reasons to fear clowns. Super fluffy please!

Kabr0z Writes Episode 37: Coulrophilia

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Clowns; intox; group sex; enthusiastic consent;

A/N: Clowns aren't a thing I naturally find sexy, so we'll see how this one goes. Thanks for the request either way!

There's 4 or 5 stories to get through before the ask box empties out, so please if you have a request or an idea, send an ask or a DM and it'll get added to the pile!

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If there's one thing that's always made your skin crawl, it's clowns. Not that there weren't things that didn't scare you otherwise, you've never quite had a head for heights and spiders can just generally do one, but clowns always made you uneasy. That said, here you were at the circus. Primary habitat of your natural enemy. Your friends had convinced you to tag along, placating you that it'd be fun and you wouldn't even see a clown unless you went into the big top.

They lied, of course. The place was crawling with clowns, seemingly everywhere you looked there were at least two or three. That along with your friends having disappeared almost as soon as you passed the ticket booth, you weren't having the best of times.

Something honked behind you. You tried to ignore it, but it honked again. One of those pale-faced freaks trying to get your attention. You turned to tell them to kindly sod off or point you to the exit.

The clown wasn't there, then another honk came from behind you. You turned again, still no clown. Another honk-honk. You quarter-turned, then shot back in time to see a young man with a greasepaint grin pratfall on front of you. You stifled a chuckle as the man feigned trying to get up a couple of times, each time comically failing in more audacious ways until with an impressive backflip, he landed on his feet, swaying dramatically.

"Well hel-lo there ma'am" His over-pronounced southern drawl was a bit much, but fit the vibe "Are ya havin' a good time?"

You smiled at him, "I'm not much for circuses, and I've lost my friends"

The clown mock-cried when you told him your predicament, pulling hanky after hanky out of his sleeves and dabbing at his eyes "Well, can't have that, can we? Would a balloon pal make it better?" Before you could respond he was already halfway through making a poodle from a long balloon, what could you do but accept it?

"What ya' gonna name him?"

"Squeak!" The name popped into your head. You noticed you're smiling now, the clown noticed it too

"That's a good name" he gave an exaggerated nod "Tell you what, I'll put out some feelers to find your pals, 'til then, would ya like to meet mine?"

You smiled and nodded. The clown produced a hobby horse from the baggy silks of his outfit and 'mounted' it "Well, just follow me, the Clown Ranger!" He galloped off, but not so fast you couldn't stay on his tails as he guided you through the throngs of people, pausing every so often to pull an attendant's ear or dazzle someone with a quick card trick.

Deeper and deeper into the circus you went, the music of the calliope organ getting louder as you drew towards the tents in the middle. The clown lifted a tent flap and motioned inside"After you, Mon Ami"

You stepped in, and blanched. If you thought outside was bad, this was clown central. Literally. A man on stilts was holding a clipboard, calling out commands to the garishly painted mob below, who was needed where, what tent needed a moment to set something up, whose act had gone awry and clowns had to pick up the slack. Your clown cowboy was behind you, fastening the flap back up and motioned to the stilted one.

The chief clown bent down to listen, perfectly balanced even though the stilts were as long as you were tall. He was dressed in black and white with a perfectly even white face besides a pair of exaggerated red lips and gleaming red nose. The lead clown nodded and leant down to you, he spoke with a faint French accent "So, you have lost your fellows, yes? Please tell me what they look like, we will let them know where you are"

You gave a description to the clown, who reared up and called it to the arrayed fools, buffoons and jesters before coming back to you "You are welcome to wait in here, Ranger Rick will keep you company. Enjoy!"

Your newfound clown friend took your hand and swept you to a quiet part of the tent "This is the green room," the accent was gone now, "a bit quieter for you. Wanna see some magic?"

You nodded and the clown grabbed a deck of cards, dazzling you with his sleight of hand, occasionally seeming to screw up a trick to make you laugh before pulling your card or a coin from somewhere seemingly impossible

A couple more clowns stepped into the room and joined in the fun, before long you were in tears of laughter as they riffed off one another.

The night dragged on, and your friends weren't found, the clowns reckoned they'd probably left the circus already. You couldn't help but feel bummed out at that, seeing as they dragged you there to begin with. It was only you, your cowboy and two others in the room, the cacophony from outside dying down.

You and the clowns were sat on some benches, passing around a hip flask, enjoying your own private after-party. The men in front of you were still cracking jokes, though the more they drank the bawdier they got. After recovering from a particularly vile gag about a priest, a nun, and a donkey, you felt butterflies in your stomach. Whatever was in the flask was strong. You'd always had a weakness for a man who could make you laugh, and you were always a bit too easy when you'd had a few drinks.

You budged up to the Clown Ranger, putting your arm behind him and giving an experimental pat on his ass. It was a lot firmer than those oversized trousers gave him credit for. You saw him blush a little despite his makeup as he looked bashfully away from you.

The other clowns noticed "Oi, oi! The cowboy's pulled!" The one on your left called out, thumbs in his suspenders, bowler hat perched on his head. The other just gave a deep belly laugh "He gets all the ladies, never any for us Bozos!"

You cocked an eyebrow at the one in the hat, then the other "You know, I've never had a four-way before..." You spoke as sweetly as you could, the liquor wasn't making it easy to mask your desire for the men around you.

The clowns looked at one another, speechless for the first time in the night. You blushed hard and hunched your shoulders, certain you'd killed the mood. You stood up to leave before you made a bigger fool of yourself.

You stopped when you saw the looks in their eyes. They were all trying to figure out if you were serious, or if you were just joking. You paused to make sure, and certain enough you could feel the desire in the looks they gave you.

Sod it.

You kissed the cowboy. Dragging him to his feet by his comedic lapels. He kissed back, one hand on your back, unfastening your bra through your shirt, the other gripping your ass.

The other two were standing too now, stroking your body as they gently undressed you. Button by button they unfastened your blouse, letting it fall to the sawdust floor before sliding off your bra, leaving you topless as you enjoyed the attention of the three men worshipping your body. You unbuttoned the cowboy's waistband and his pants fell, revealing white boxers patterned with love hearts, which you opened to pull out his cock. It was already rock hard in your hand, thick and uncircumcised. You started with the balls, licking and sucking them before licking all the way to the tip of his cock, savoring the scent of it as you went. The other two followed suit and exposed themselves to you. A cock in each hand and one in your mouth, you sucked and jerked them. All three men were panting over you as you went, feeling your wetness dripping from you and soaking into your underwear. You're glad you wore a skirt, your jeans would be ruined by now.

You pulled off your soaked panties and stood back up, still facing your cowboy as you pushed him back down onto the bench behind him before mounting him. His cock was throbbing against you as you rubbed it against your clit, coating it with your wetness before lining it up and sitting down on it.

He whimpered as it went in, the look of bliss on his face clashing with the painted rictus grin. The one in the hat held his cock beside you. You turned your head to suck it as you rode your cowboy, presenting your asshole to the final clown behind you.

You're not sure where he got a bottle of lube from, but you're glad he had it. The clown in your rear was the biggest of the three, gently pushing it in, stretching you out as you felt the two cocks frotting against one another inside you.

Hands were on every inch of you, your tits, your waist, the sides of your head, your own were busy on your clit and teasing the balls of the one in your mouth.

Your orgasm came easily, quickly followed by another and another, groans muffled by the cock you were sucking on as you buried the cock below you in your pussy. The cowboy must've felt it, you could feel him start to pulse and paint your cunt with his cum. You took the cock out of your mouth to pull his head to yours and kiss him as he dumped his load, pushing your tongue into his mouth. Next was the one in your ass, pushing himself deep into you before releasing into your guts, gripping your tits and squeezing as the last few humps exhausted him.

Finally the one in the hat brought himself off over your face. You opened your mouth to catch as much as you could, but you couldn't help loving the feeling of his cum spattering across your face in hot ropes.

You stayed for a moment, panting and sweating. Feeling the men going soft in you as their juices gently leaked out of you.

Then the one in the hat gave you a handkerchief. Then another. Then another.

"Sorry, they're all tied together"

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Pleasant clown gangbang. More plot that I expected, less than I could've done.

Once again, if you have a request, an idea, a fetish, whatever, drop an ask. As long as it's within the very minimal boundaries in my pinned, it'll probably get written, completely free of charge! It's literally a free commission!

One last note: I did a surprising amount of research on clown makeup for this, it's a fascinating world as it turns out, but cut most of it to avoid writing a treatise on clowning. Ah, well, maybe one day

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