#mud room off of garage

[timelordoflumpyspace]

Craftsman Entry - Mudroom Example of a large arts and crafts ceramic tile and black floor entryway design with gray walls and a black front door

[pricegouge]

Humor Me (Even When it's Ruining Me)

masterlist | taglist: @pricegouged

babysitter!reader x single dad!price

cw: fem reader. implied age gap. nothing specific beyond reader being legal. alcohol. reader is a brat and john's having a lot of fun with it. inappropriate work flirting lmao. also i beefed john up cause i could. MDNI

this is in response to a prompt but i don't wanna publish the ask until it's all done and up. also, i don't think this is recognizable against what she posted, but i do remember reading @ceilidho 's musings on this exact dynamic forever ago and it poisoned my brain so any similarities are in fact her fault cause she's gotta stop being so brilliant

Banner by @cafekitsune

>Running late but the door's unlocked. Feel free to let yourself in.

You read the text again as you park your car alongside the shiniest Lexus you've ever seen in your life. It rubs you wrong, the whole thing. The triple wide garage and the perfectly manicured lawn, the lack of a formal meeting and now this - 'Come on in and meet my daughter unsupervised for the first time, the door to my aggressively lavish home is unlocked just for you.' 

It had your hackles raised, creeping up the drive with caution. Honestly, if it hadn't been for the Laswells hooking you up with this gig, you probably would've backed right back out just as soon as you'd parked, but they'd never steered you wrong before and you doubted they would start tonight. 

Kate Laswell wouldn't tolerate some kind of pervert, and she definitely wouldn't recommend your services to him. 

The door is indeed unlocked, though you have some difficulty finding it at first. The flow of the walkway leads you right to the paneled door, but it certainly doesn't look very welcoming and at first glance you mistake the recessed entryway for just another confusing design element. But then the pathway runs out, bordering up to a lawn so lush it may as well have been planted with a carpet and you chew your lip, contemplating. For a moment you think to look for a back door, but then you take one step onto the lawn and your boot kicks out from under you, the soil beneath deceptively soaked by the automatic sprinkler no doubt. The fall isn't hard, just enough to plant you on your ass and splash some soil up onto your face. You frown at your dirty hands and then frown even harder when you see the trench your trainer has dug into the beautiful lawn. Standing, you try to wipe your palms on your hips and discover yet more mud so you give up, toeing a hunk of grass back into place in an attempt to cover the divot. 

When you turn back to the house, your brain finally makes sense of the broad bands of wood, the lock, and the handle. You pull open the heavy door with a frustrated sigh, finding a moody foyer - pale flooring contrasting nicely with the glossy black wall which stood across from you, subtle inlets suggesting it hid closet space if only you were clever enough to figure out how to open it. Fucking rich people.

You remove your muddy shoes out of necessity, but you leave them in a dirty pile next to the door and head off in the direction of little kid TV noises with your jean jacket still firmly in place. You've had enough hoity toity doors for one day.

Emily is four, and you think at first that her father must be brave to leave her unsupervised while he gets ready in the other room, but you suppose needs must, and she's well enough behaved to be trusted it seems, if the pristine state of the room is anything to go by. She sits placidly on the floor, playing idly with a pile of HotWheels as she zones out to some bubbly princess show on the screen. She jumps about a foot when you call to her to make yourself known, and then watches warily as you introduce yourself. For a moment you think you'd rather face a parent's scrutiny, her dark eyes so intense on your face you briefly wonder if she's got the shining or something, if maybe she's about to tell you how you die -

And then she points at you with a boxcar accusationally. "Why are you so dirty?"

"Oh," you laugh awkwardly. It's stupid to flounder under a child's gaze but you feel a bit out of your depth already so you do, smearing more mess across your pants when you pat your dirty hands over your thighs. "Took a little tumble outside."

"You look silly. You need to clean up."

"I -. You're right, I do. Where's the bathroom, please?"

But Emily is uninterested in helping you, it seems, instead much more entertained by the vaguely rhythmic chanting of 'dirty girl' she sets into, clamoring to her feet in order to run circles around you, pointing every now and again to make it clear who she's singing about.

You sigh to yourself, hoping against hope that she's not another spoiled rotten client. You're getting real sick of rich people and their spoiled kids, honestly. But you don't bother trying to correct her behavior. You are after all a stranger who just wandered into her home covered in mud. Any adjustments made now likely wouldn't be taken seriously by a child and that's okay, you wouldn't take anyone seriously under those conditions either. So you just grumble good naturedly and break free from her little circle, wandering in the direction of a dark, recessed hall off to your left. 

"The bathroom over here?"

"Dirty girl, messy girl!"

"Good talk," you mutter to yourself, socked feet slipping on the polished floor. You were definitely going to Risky Business the hell out of this place once the little shit had gone to bed. In the privacy the hallway offers, you give it a trial run, grinning like an idiot as you overshoot the first door and sidle back, rapping your knuckles on the frame out of habit. You roll your eyes at yourself for it, knowing full well the only other person home is upstairs getting ready, and push the door open just as someone from within grumbles 'In use!'

It's like you've never seen a man before, the way you stand there and gape. Looking at him now, you're not sure you ever have.

John Price is big. And hairy. And wet. And big, meaty fist so thoroughly swallowing the razor he's pulling up his exposed throat that at first you're unsure if he's just feeling himself up, inspecting the thick cords of his neck, maybe. Shaving cream drips down his bare chest in sticky rivulets, matting the thick pelt to his pecs. Water flows into the runnel between them, chestnut hair darkened by the runoff from his task. It drips down his forearms too, at least as far as it can, the hair there so thick it dams up somewhere around his wrists. He wears a towel slung low on his hips, his muscled belly hanging over the hem. It's tied off on the hip closest to you and hanging on for dear life, the breadth of him testing its capabilities. It gapes open high on his thigh, yet more hair and dense meat on display.

In the overwhelming humidity of the room, each breath feels too heavy to take, like your chest is simply too weak. You want to stammer an apology, but your mouth is suddenly much too dry and it comes out as little more than a series of clicking noises in your throat - 

Which are completely drowned out by the litany of 'dirty girl!'s behind you.

Mr. Price huffs a laugh, razor clattering against the sink as he taps it clean. The noise is muted in the dense air but it's enough to break you of your spell and this time when you apologize, your voice is winded and thin but at least audible. You step back, attempt to duck out, but then the man is turning to face you fully, motioning you closer with the hand that still holds the razor and you've never been one to disobey the people who pay you so you do, careful not to slip on the slick tile.

"Think you need it more than I do," John rumbles, deep voice lilting around the edges as if he's in on some joke that you're not. He nods to the sink he still mostly blocks when you shoot him a confused look, clock the open interest in his gaze.

Right, the mud. Some first impression. "Sorry," you chuckle, trying to make light of it. "I took a little spill in your yard just now. Mr. Price, yes?"

John at least nods and has the decency to look concerned but his niceties end there, still standing much too close as you step forward and run the faucet, getting to work on your hands. You keep your eyes locked on your task, afraid to make eye contact with his reflection in front of you. He's only one man but between the sheer size of him and the mirror, you feel like you've been caged in.

"But you're alright, I hope? Not hurt?"

"Nothing besides my ego." Your laugh is still breathless, nodding down the hall where Emily continues singing. In the reflection, you catch John staring down at you shamelessly and you duck your head again before continuing, "Your daughter has a way with words."

John chuckles, scratches his chest absently. You try not to zero in on the sound of it. "Gets her clever tongue from her mum, I'm afraid."

And maybe it's because you're stupid, or it's because humor's never failed to get you out of a bind before - maybe you just like making things difficult for yourself - whatever the cause, the effect's the same. You're an incorrigible flirt. "Well, don't sell yourself short."

The scratching against John's chest stops. When you look up, ears on fire, you find him staring back at you through the reflection, dark eyes so heavy they're nearly a physical weight. Your pulse thrums, whole body primed for a smart retort, but then Emily is in the door, laughing at her own antics. Her voice is bubbly when she asks if you can order pizza and it's hard to stay mad at her even when she calls you 'messy girl' again.

You start to say yes and then bite your tongue, unsure. You don't care how Mr. Price feels about delivery, honestly, but it's possible Emily has a dairy allergy you don't yet know about. This is why you usually prefer to meet parents ahead of time, but Kate had said the man was much too busy for such a thing, and the way he'd been scrambling for a reliable babysitter after his live-in nanny retired had made you sympathetic (see: very open to accepting clients who could afford live-ins), bending your rules for one of the Laswells' oldest friends. It hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time but now you were being guilted into cheesy comfort food, you find yourself ill-prepared

Thankfully, John takes over. "Not until you learn some manners first, munchkin," he proposes, wetting a hand towel and turning you to face him with a big hand on your shoulder. You frown up at him in confusion but he just ignores you, wiping at your temple with his towel as he continues talking to the toddler behind you. "That's Miss Messy Girl, alright? Only polite."

When he releases you, you glare up at him, no real heat. He smirks, taking the towel to his own face now, wiping excess product off his skin without breaking eye contact. "Now ask nice."

You flounder a moment, at a loss, and then have to resist the urge to kick yourself when Emily takes up the queue instead. Of course he meant his daughter.

"Miss Messy, can we please order pizza?" 

John laughs and suddenly you don't care how Mister Price feels about delivery. And if it turns out Emily can't have it, he can deal with her ensuing meltdown. He's already running late anyway. "Of course we can, sweetie. But please, my name is -." 

"MISS MESSY'S THE BEST!" Emily crows, jumping up and down on the spot. 

***

When he gets out of the bathroom, John teases you right up until the moment he heads out the door that pizza was your idea so you'll have to pay for it. He also throws a stack of flannel and henley at you, tells you to stop tracking mud all over his house or he'll add cleaning to your job description. You tell him you charge extra for that and he gives you a look like he's famished, like you're the first slice of meat he's seen in years.

It only gets worse when you emerge from the bathroom moments later with what can only be his pajamas hanging off you, but he never says anything inappropriate and he keeps his hands to himself. You try not to think about why that disappoints you. 

Resisting the urge to take a big whiff of his thermal is far more difficult. 

(Past the scent of fresh laundry, he smells like cedar and smoke and in the crease of the seams, something muskier lingers. 

You decide you're going to steal it right then.)

He shows you to the laundry room, shuffling a load of brightly colored girl's clothes from the dryer before giving you the rundown on how to use them. You're not sure what about you gives him the idea you don't know how to operate a washer, but you decide not to comment on it when it means him standing too close, the warmth of his body seeping into your back.

The spiel about Emily's schedule and needs is delivered as he shoves his feet into a brown pair of loafers. They match his belt perfectly, visible where he keeps his fitted button up tucked into pressed blue slacks. It's hard to pay attention to what he's saying but you're fairly certain you catch the gist of it. No strawberries or house parties, bed by ten at the latest and only if she's well behaved. He knows you have his number saved because he texted you about your availability this evening earlier in the week, but that doesn't stop him from standing over your shoulder to ensure he's still in there. You think you hear him snort when he sees he's saved as 'Mr. Price' with a money bag emoji but you steadfastly refuse to think too hard about it.

When everything finally meets his expectations, John scoops Emily up in a big bear hug and peppers her in kisses which leave her squealing in ticklish delight.

Emily hangs from him happily, little arms wrapped around his neck as if she'll never let go. You hear him whisper something conspiratorial directly into her ear which makes the girl giggle in delight before shooting you a wink which has your stomach fluttering with a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. Likely, he's just telling her to behave for you and being cheeky about it, but he's far too handsome to be running around winking at young ladies like that and you've half a mind to tell him.

Maybe you'll pencil that in after your sock sliding. He does say you're allowed to text for any reason, after all.

"And I mean it. Don't want to waste my evening there anyway," he grumbles, setting his daughter down. 

"So stay here with me, daddy!" she implores. "I'm much cuter anyway." Little shit even strikes a pose.

John chuckles, hand heavy when he pets her hair. "The company here is much better," he hedges, and for a split second you think you see his eyes flick to you. "But unfortunately a man's gotta endure some boring business dinners from time to time if he wants to get ahead in life."

A beat passes while Emily seems to think that over. John starts his car from his fob while he lets her digest that, the very picture of placating indulgence. Vaguely, you want him to look at you - or through you - like that and then immediately decide that's a desire best left uninspected. 

"You're out every night!" Emily gripes, no real heat. It's the kind of thing you know will bug her later in life but for now she's too busy reveling in all the late night pizza parties and gifts he no doubt showers her with to mask his own guilt.

You've been there before.

"That's true," John allows, brief flick of regret across his face. "Which means you gotta be good for Ms. Messy so she'll come back."

Emily gives you a look as if she's not very excited by that prospect and you're so offended you forget to correct John about your position being regular. 

John laughs when you scoff, a harsh bark that stops your snide remark in its tracks. "Behave, you two," he says by way of farewell. "And try to get along."

Shrugging, Emily bounds away in search of better entertainment. John's big hand is on his ridiculous doorknob as he waves absently and then you're remembering so quickly there's no time to dress up your request when you call after him for pizza money.

A beat passes, Mr. Price blinks at you. You sheepishly tack on a please and he hums, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. "Suppose I can't expect you not to ruin my reputation as a good tipper," he grumbles and you gape when he hands you a crisp hundred note.

"That's way too much," you blurt, not even reaching to take it from him.

John just shrugs, tucks it into the hip pocket of his own pajama pants while you're still stiff as a board, winks as he tells you it's just a tip.

It's only after the door snicks shut on silent hinges behind him that your brain catches up enough to catch his double entendre 

***

Emily is a sweet girl, if a little catty at times but she's endlessly amusing to tease so you're honestly surprised when bedtime sneaks up on you both. Despite your chosen profession, you don't usually get along with kids as well as you do with her. She even carts herself off to bed with little complaint, an absolute unheard of when it comes to first nights with a new family. 

It's how you end up on the couch with too much time to spare, bored in a house that's smarter than you and unsure when you'll be relieved. You flick through the endless list of streaming services briefly, settling on some mindless comedy because you don't want to watch any girly romances and mess up Mr. Price's algorithm. 

Well, the messing it up part sounds endlessly entertaining, but not worth the embarrassment of him knowing the kind of stuff you blubber to at home. 

It's a fine enough distraction until you settle into the couch, the collar of John's shirt riding up until you can comfortably cover your face with it. It still smells like him, enough to deter you from going downstairs and swapping it for your own clothes. It's not a problem until the masculine scent and the boring movie have you reaching for your phone, scrolling through steamy romances until you find something to fantasize about. And even that's not a problem until the author earns their rating, the depiction of the female lead's satisfaction so explicitly rendered it has you rubbing your thighs together, head on a swivel lest you be surprised by a sleepless little girl.

By the time your face feels aflame and your panties feel soaked, you're debating texting John to see if he'd mind you crashing in a guest room when you jump a foot at a noise behind you, turning to find that very same man not two feet behind you.

That fucking door.

"Could've texted," you accuse, and Mr. Price holds up two hands in mock surrender.

"So could've you," he drawls and then smirks at your confused look, drawing in a rather pointed breath through his nose. "Told you to text if you needed help with anything."

It's just subtle enough you're not sure you would have gotten it if not for the graphic descriptions of heady scent your nose had just been stuck in. You stammer something that might be an apology, though you're not entirely sure why. Suddenly you feel like the frog being boiled alive.

He's kind enough not to let you flounder for too long, moving on like he's the picture of innocence with a heavy hand on the back of the couch, muscles of his forearm bunching when he leans over the back of it, just this side of too close. "Everything go okay, then?"

"Yes, Mr. Price," you recite, the fight to keep your legs uncrossed and neutral a conscious thing. You do not need to prove him right by overacting the blushing virgin.

"And Emily behaved?"

"Well," you hedge, voice high and humorous. You're desperate to get to familiar ground and it's the quickest path, unfolding before you well-trod and welcoming. Parents love when you can joke about their kids and John's no exception, eyes crinkling in delight as he conjures up whatever image he has of his daughter in mind.

"She can be a handful," he agrees even though you never said that. "Not so bad you'll refuse me for Wednesday though, I hope?"

You balk. "Wednesday? Day after tomorrow?"

"Aye, sorry for the late notice - again. But you'd be getting out of here a little earlier, at least."

"Mr. Price, I have…" A paper due, a social life that's slowly dying, responsibilities. "I'm busy that night. The Laswells -."

"I've already fixed it with Kate. You can bring Colin here for the evening, Gina will pick him up when she gets off work."

"But… Wait, I can bring him?"

"Well they'll need you for the morning, right? I won't need you until Emily's due back from preschool." He shrugs, the motion carrying him down until he leans both forearms on the back of the couch. "It just makes the most sense."

"But that's clear across town?"

"Oh, I'll pay for your gas, of course."

"Hang on. Am I picking up Emily, too?"

"Oh, would you? Thanks, you're such a dear."

You blink, overwhelmed. This was only supposed to be a one time favor for Kate's friend, you can't juggle school and two part time babysitting gigs. But you don't know how to tell him that in a way Kate hasn't already. "I'm not sure how I feel about watching both kids at once."

The look he gives you is borderline lecherous, though you're unsure why. "I'm sure you can handle it," he rumbles, voice suddenly much deeper. He clears his throat. "And we'd both pay you full rate, of course. Only fair."

You scoff. "Well yeah, I don't offer a group rate." 

Your jaw clicks closed audibly when his gaze turns hungry again. "Our loss."

Swallowing past the nerves in your throat, you eye him over openly. Technically, John hasn't moved any closer but the way he looms over you now feels somehow much more imminent than it had only moments ago; threatens to pin you in place lest you move out from under him. "I have to go get my clothes... I'll think on it?"

John smiles, just slightly forced. "'Course, kiddo. Need me to walk you downstairs? Basement can be a bit scary after dark."

"Um. No. Thanks."

He breaks away when you do, unfolding to his full, impressive height. "I'll be in the kitchen," he offers and then he lets you get away with no further comment.

Outside of Mr. Price's vaguely concerning influence, it's easy to see you'd be stupid not to take the job. You don't like how pushy he seems, but if you've already given up your day to work anyway, it's a no-brainer to take on the second income while you're at it. Besides, the beauty of under the table jobs like this was you could back out any time you wanted so there really wasn't much harm in taking the man who tips delivery drivers one hundred percent on for a few jobs, see how well it panned out for you. Even if you're fairly certain he's flirting.

Like, extremely certain.

But he was still annoying about it and you didn't like being taken advantage of or being teased like that, so you don't feel bad when you leave his comfy henley on under your sweatshirt, march back upstairs with your spoils well hidden.

In the kitchen, John inspects the label of a golden scotch you can't pronounce, thick fingers drumming on the counter silently. His watch catches the pendant light, a thick stripe of silver nestled in his dark hair. He's got his shirt unbuttoned like a whore, just far enough you can see a spot of the matching pelt there, your brain helpfully supplying you with memories of how he'd looked earlier, shirtless and dripping with cream. 

Shaving cream. Dripping with shaving cream.

"Are you old enough to drink?" He asks bluntly, pointing at the matching tumblers before him when all you manage is a blink in response.

"No. No, thank you!" You clarify when the man looks like he's about to choke on his tongue. It's enough to settle your nerves a bit, get your footing back underneath yourself. About time he's the one left floundering. "Sorry, I am old enough, but I gotta drive in a minute here."

John's quick to recover, pouring himself a neat glass as he shrugs. "Could spend the night."

"Well," you hedge, still worrying you're reading too far into all this. If it's too hot in here, you blame the three layers of tops you have on. "Wouldn't want to wear out my welcome. You'll see me again on Wednesday, after all."

His smile is just as honeyed and warm as his drink. "There's a good girl," he rumbles and it's a physical fight not to let your knees buckle when he comes close, another hundred note tucked into your front pocket. 

"That's way too much again, John," you breathe and his grin turns patronizing.

"John, is it?" He makes as if to snatch away the money and you take a step back, out of his range. He just grins at you over the rim of his glass, lets you keep your distance.

"S-sorry, Mr. Price." After a moment's deliberation, you ask if he'd like the money back and he snorts.

"Cute." Placing his drink on the counter with a clatter, he steps close and guides you to the door with a hand on your back. Part of you thinks your dismissal is a bit sudden, but you can't be too upset by it when you just want to hide under a pile of blankets until your nerves settle, maybe replace your pillow case with his shirt. "No, kiddo, I don't want that back. Just teasing. Over tipper, remember?"

"Right. Um. Thank you."

"My pleasure," he says magnanimously, drawing to a stop next to your shoes and pushing them toward you with socked feet. He does nothing to hide his slight distaste at the sight of so much mud and you try not to let shame make you meek again, remembering instead how annoyed you'd been about his stupid door and his stupid lawn when you'd left them there. It's hard to maintain the feeling when he offers to walk you to your car, your weak little thank you just as pathetic as the one that came before.

John's the perfect gentleman, his hand returning to the small of your back as he ushers you down the drive. He tells you to text him when you get home safe and checks for fingers before closing the door. He even watches as you pull out, waving at you happily as you drive off. You spend the whole commute wondering what you've gotten yourself into and if you'll ever be able to look Kate in the eye again if you fuck her friend.

John calls you kiddo again when you text him that you've made it home safe, tells you to sleep well.

In the morning he asks if you've stolen his shirt.

Next>>

[pocketsizedq]

Let’s have a baby

Word Count: 1828

Author's Note: This is my first smut so bare with me on this. thank you to @jungkookskookieblr for helping me and i hope you enjoy it!

I decided to change this smut from who it was originally about

Warnings:Fluff. Steamy smut. Breeding kink. there are hints of her being a housewife. I think that about covers all of it.

As the sun slowly started to set the pacific northwest region of the us.

Matt slowly made his way into your guys shared seattle home through the garage. He shuts the garage door taking off his shoes in the mud room that was when he enter also hanging up his keys on the hook near the door.

He makes his way toward the kitchen where he knew he could find you as when he had later practices he would always come home from them to find you cooking dinner to which has made you gain the nickname of his little housewife.

As He walked to the kitchen, He could already smell what you were cooking but couldn't figure out what you were cooking so once he made it into the kitchen.

The center made his way to your shorter figure that was leaned over the stove stirring something. He took a moment to just admire you also taking in the fact you were wearing one of his shirts until his thoughts went somewhere else.

He imagined coming home to you taking care of his kids. You both have talked about having kids even before you both got married but since he's nearly thirty. He's been thinking more about it.

Matt wraps his arms around your body pulling you close to his processing to bend down which puts him at a weird angle so he could rest his chin on the top of your head to watch what you were doing at the stove.

He bend down more processing to move your hair to the side that was covering your neck so he could have access to your exposed skin starting to leave soft kisses on your neck.

You let out a soft giggle not use to him being super cuddly as he's usually like that when he is tired or drunk so you decided to speak up and ask him whats going on.

"Honey." you spoke finally breaking the comfortable silence that had filled the kitchen to which he went "hm" against your neck continuing to kiss your neck holding you close to his large warm figure.

"What's got you all cuddly." you said with a small giggle enjoying the affection he was giving to which the canadian answered bluntly with somewhat with a smirk which you could feel it against your neck.

"you just look so.... domestic. just standing here cooking while waiting for me to get home. it makes me think about me coming home to you taking care of my babies." Matt spoke this into your ear which made you clench your thighs.

He slowly took his hands that were around you to go down to the bottom of the shirt of his you were wearing moving his hands so they can go under the shirt and started to rub your bare sides with his hands.

You shivered a little bit due to the coldness of his wedding band. he starts to move his left hand to rest on you stomach to which he whispers "you'd look so pretty full with my babies."

Matt's touch on your stomach sent a jolt of anticipation through your body, igniting a primal fire within. As his thumb trailed gently over the subtle curve where your uterus nestled beneath the surface, a quiet gasp escaped your lips.

But suddenly, his movements shifted. With a swift motion, he moved away, his hand reaching towards the stove's switch. The click of the knob heightened the tension in the room, as he swiftly turned you around to face him. Your bodies remained inches apart, the air thick with heated energy, as his warm breath tickled your earlobe

He was so close to you to the point where you could smell the tom ford cologne he had put on after showering at practice. It was the one you had gotten him for birthday a couple of years back.

Matt spoke into your ear, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine. "Imagine how full your breasts would grow," he said, his words dripping with desire as his warm breath grazed your skin.

The mention of your changing body added fuel to the fire burning between you. With a subtle smirk, Matt's hand trailed from your stomach to your waist, his touch electrifying every inch of your being as he slowly pulled you closer.

As he drew you near, his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice low and husky. "I want to explore every inch of you," he murmured, his fingers lightly grazing the curve of your hips.

A surge of anticipation surged through you, your heart racing with a mixture of excitement and longing. The intensity of Matt's touch and his words spurred you on, reaching out to trace your fingers along the contours of his chest, desperate to feel his own desire rising alongside yours.

The energy between you crackled, igniting a fierce passion that threatened to consume everything in its wake. With each passing moment, the world around you faded into insignificance, leaving only the two of you caught in a mesmerizing dance of desire and exploration.

As the passion between you both grew more intense, The hockey player lifted you to your feet and carrying to the bedroom. He set you down gently on the bed and gazed into her eyes, his desire for you burning brightly.

Without a word, he began to explore every inch of your body, tracing his fingers over your curves and kissing you deeply. You moaned softly as his touch sent shivers down your spine.

As Matt's hands drifted lower, your heart skipped a beat. you knew what was coming next, and your body responded eagerly to his touch. you lifted your arms, allowing him to pull your shirt of his shirt over your head, revealing your bare skin to his hungry gaze.

As Matt's eyes drifted downwards, he couldn't help but notice that you weren't wearing a bra. His heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight of your breast.

Without a word, Matt reached out to touch you, his fingers trailing over the soft curves of your breasts as you moaned softly. He leaned in to kiss you deeply.

Without a word, Matt sat up on his knees, his hands moving to remove his shirt. you watched in awe as he revealed his chiseled chest and broad shoulders, your heart racing as you took in the sight of him.

Next came his pants, which he discarded with your shirt that was lying on the floor. He removes his briefs then slowly moves his hand down removing your underwear throwing them to the side.

The hockey player watching you in awe as you take his cock into your hands driving the head of his cock over your cilt making your body shake.

You let out a soft groan smiling to yourself as your cunt adjusted to his size.

Matt presses his forehead against yours looking into your eyes as he let everything else in his mind fade away into it just being about you and him starting a family.

He watched as your eyes moved from his to adjust your eyes to the moonlight that was shine in on you both to which made him look so perfect.

"i want you to put a baby in me Matt." you pleaded looking back into his eyes clenching around his cock. "want be full of your cum."

The hockey player thought it was so hot to hear these words fall from your lips. "I'm going to fuck my pretty little housewife. so hard she forgets her own name."

As gentle as Matt's words were you knew it was a serious promise as he spoke the same words to you on your wedding night. He started to slowly move inside of you wrapping your legs around his waist.

Matt's hands found their way to the sides of your head, his fingers gently cradling your delicate skull. As he leaned in to kiss you deeply, you felt a shiver run through your body. you closed your eyes.

As your lips parted, Matt's chain dangled and swung between you both.

Matt's rhythm was slow and deliberate, his movements measured and precise. you felt yourself being pulled deeper into his embrace, your body responding to his every touch.

The hockey player then became desperate to fulfill his desires of seeing you full as he move one hand to grip the headboard the other staying by your head as he slowly started to go harder watching as his cock bottomed you out hitting your g-spot.

Which made you start filling the room with your moans.

Matt took the hand that was on the pillow cupping the back of your head to pull you into a kiss letting out a soft chuckle. " I bet you've been thinking about me filling you with my baby." he spoke up to you watching your eyes roll back.

You slowly took your hand down between your bodies finding your clint "want it so bad" you felt you eyes rolls back and your breathing become irregular as you struggled to focus.

Those words were like honey to your husband. "wont be able to last you speaking like that." Matt groaned in your ear as he felt your cunt clench around him.

You both started to feel the room grow hot as your legs began to shake. sounds of slapping skin echo between the both of you as your eyebrows clenched up.

"go ahead princess" Matt ordered as his cock could only handle so much of this before he came himself. "milk my cock sweet girl." His lips went to your neck leaving kisses on your neck.

low grumbles left your lips as you clenched yourself around his cock in spurts as you continue the movements of your finger on your cilt struggling to stay focused.

"shit baby." you let out as your vision went blurry making you shut your eyes. "dont stop" you pleaded making him pull you into a hungry kiss.

Matt wasn't that far behind you as his chest began to grow tight sweat dripping from his forehead but at the moment he was focused on fucking you through your orgasm "such a good girl" He praised as the coil in his stomach snapped. "fuck!" putting both his hand on the headboard.

your cunt coated with his release making smile as he continued to slowly fuck you making sure it stays in and gently kisses your lips with a small smile.

He gently flips you both over so that you are now on top of him but with his cock still inside. "gotta make sure it accepts." he softly teases kissing your head as you are now cock warming him.

Matt pulls the covers over the both of you gently kissing your head as you snuggled into him and starts rubbing your back from under the covers just enjoying this moment that was filled with love.

[deliciousangelfestival]

Tears In His Ferrari || Chp 1

Character: Bucky Barnes x Farmer!Reader

Words Count: 2,070

Summary: Bucky Barnes, used to a life of luxury, takes on farm challenges in a bet with his father. Mud-stained Ferraris and a rustic farmhouse lead to unexpected personal growth, guided by the stern mentorship of Y/N, a farmer making his city-boy life difficult.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7 , Chp 8 , Chp 9 , Chp 10 , Chp 11 , Chp 12.

Under the relentless blaze of the scorching sun, Bucky Barnes, the pampered scion of the country's largest retail business, was far removed from the air-conditioned boardrooms of his family's empire. Grumbling incessantly, he swatted away the relentless flies that seemed to thrive in the rural heat. 

"Pick them up gently, Bucky. We don't want scrambled eggs before breakfast," Y/N instructed sternly, her eyes narrowing as Bucky clumsily reached for the first egg. The delicate shell slipped through his fingers, meeting the unforgiving ground with a sharp crack.

"Really, city boy? You gotta treat 'em like they're made of glass," Y/N scolded, her tone unyielding. Bucky, now sporting a mix of irritation and embarrassment, shot back with a sarcastic retort.

"Glass? They're just eggs, not Fabergé. And who knew these chickens were so high-maintenance?"

Bucky, wiping sweat from his brow, replied with a half-smile of his own, “This is absurd. I'm a Barnes, not a farmer.”

How could the sole heir of the country's largest retail company find himself toiling like this? It all stemmed from a bet he made with his father.

2 weeks ago:

Under the glittering Dubai night sky, Bucky, driven by the thrill of rebellion, decided to join a race car event despite his father's explicit warnings. The roar of the engines reverberated through the darkness as Bucky sped along the circuit, the city lights blending into a streak of colors.

As Bucky pulled into the pit garage, the bright lights revealed an unexpected sight – his father, stern-faced and waiting. The realization struck Bucky like a sudden brake, his heart pounding in rhythm with the fading echoes of the race.

His father's disapproval was palpable as he approached, a storm gathering in his gaze.

"Dad!" Bucky exclaimed, but his words were drowned by the tirade that followed. His father, fueled by a mix of anger and concern, chased after him, leaving no room for escape.

The victory that should have been a sweet taste of triumph was overshadowed by the looming storm of his father's wrath.

His father, face etched in a stern expression, strode towards Bucky, a potent mix of anger and disappointment simmering beneath the surface. Bucky's heart sank, realizing that the victory he had just tasted was now tainted by the disapproval in his father's eyes.

"Damn it!" Bucky muttered as he reluctantly shut off the engine and climbed out of the race car. His father's presence loomed over him, a formidable figure casting a shadow on Bucky's moment of recklessness.

His dad, arms crossed, began to unleash a torrent of frustration. "For the whole year, you roamed overseas to live your wildlife. You promised me after graduating that you'd take a year off before entering the company."

Bucky hails from a family that owns the largest retail company in the country, a business empire built over generations. As the sole heir to this colossal enterprise, Bucky enjoys the privileges that come with his family's success. 

Bucky is set to inherit Verve, a retail giant in the country. Despite the family's success, his spoiled and impulsive nature creates a conflict between his privileged upbringing and the responsibilities tied to the business. 

Seated on a nearby bench, Bucky nibbled on his snacks, a subconscious attempt to deflect the gravity of the situation. His eyes, darting between the snacks and his father, conveyed a mix of guilt and defiance.

He heard his father's words but struggled to understand why he, the heir to the family's business empire, should start as an intern when his friends effortlessly landed positions in their family companies.

"Why intern, Dad?" Bucky interjected his tone, a mix of frustration and confusion. "We own the company. Why don't I get the same treatment as my friends?"

The tension in the pit garage hung thick as his father expressed his feelings. "I'm fed up with it!" he declared, his voice a mixture of anger and disappointment.

Bucky, attempting to downplay the situation, replied nonchalantly, "Dad, chill. At least I gained some money from this."

His father responded swiftly and cut, "And you blew it all in a second! How can I trust our company to you?"

He rubbed his chest, a physical manifestation of the stress and disappointment weighing on him. "I feel like our ancestors are judging me. They were never big spenders like you."

A moment of silence followed as both father and son grappled with the underlying issues. Bucky's father couldn't shake the feeling that he had spoiled Bucky too much, especially since the loss of Bucky's mother when he was still young.

Feeling offended, Bucky retorted, "Do you think I can't handle my own money? I could make a million in one week."

"Really?" his father questioned, a skeptical look in his eyes.

Bucky, fueled by pride, affirmed, "Yes."

The challenge was set. Bucky's father nodded, "Alright, if you could make our farm profitable with a million, I will give you any position you want in the company."

"Really?" Bucky's eyes widened, a glimmer of opportunity sparking.

"Yes. If you manage to do it, I will never interfere with your life anymore," his father declared. Both of them shook hands, sealing the deal.

But then came the unexpected twist. "By the way, I'm going to cut all your access to your money," his father dropped the bomb.

"What?" Bucky exclaimed, shock and disbelief etched across his face.

"Your great-grandfather started his business with $100. You need to appreciate money, stop wasting it all in one day," his father explained sternly.

"But how am I going to live without money?" Bucky protested, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice.

"I've provided everything you need on the farm," his father countered, emphasizing the gravity of the challenge. "You're my only son, and I don't want you to be a wastrel!"

The moment's intensity lingered in the air as the weight of the challenge and the drastic shift in Bucky's circumstances began to sink in.

Bucky couldn't help but roll his eyes at the daunting challenge ahead. "Fine. I'll show that I can do it on my own. How difficult can it be?" he muttered, perhaps more to reassure himself than anything else.

Oh, how he wished he could take those words back as his Ferrari pulled up to the family farm, the only luxury permitted by his father. To his dismay, the farm appeared desolate and barren, a stark contrast to the lavish lifestyle he was accustomed to.

Bucky, sporting his usual city-boy ensemble of expensive leather shoes and a sleek leather jacket, stepped out of the pristine car only to find the uneven terrain immediately wreaking havoc on his attire. Mud splattered on the once-immaculate leather shoes, a cruel irony of the stark contrast between luxury and the rustic farm reality.

As Bucky surveyed the damage to his meticulously polished shoes, his eyes widened with panic. "No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me," he muttered frantically, attempting to wipe away the mud with his hands, only succeeding in making matters worse.

The realization of his Red Ferrari parked amidst the farm's untamed landscape hit him like a ton of bricks.

A look of horror crossed Bucky's face as he surveyed the mud-smeared exterior of his prized possession. "This is not happening," he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mix of disbelief and anxiety.

The once-gleaming Ferrari now stood as a symbol of the clash between opulence and the unyielding demands of rural life, leaving Bucky in a state of mild panic about the fate of his beloved car amid this unexpected farm adventure.

His panic only intensified as he turned his attention to the house assigned to him. It was a far cry from the sleek, modern apartment he was accustomed to. With its weathered exterior and superficial charm, the rustic farmhouse left Bucky in shock. 

"Wait, this is my house?" he stammered, disbelief etched across his face. The reality of the situation sank in, and Bucky grappled with the stark contrast between the urban comfort he knew and the quaint simplicity of his new rural abode.

In sheer disbelief, Bucky scratched his head and pulled at his hair. "How am I going to do this? I'm so dead," he lamented, realizing the task's magnitude.

Just as the weight of the situation began to sink in, a voice disrupted his thoughts. "James Barnes?"

Turning around, Bucky saw a woman seated in a farm truck, wearing a practical flannel grey shirt. She stepped out of the truck, her attire markedly suitable for the farm environment.

Still grappling with the shock of the situation, Bucky mustered a response, "The one and only call me Bucky. And you are?"

Undeterred by his casual attitude, the woman retorted with a smirk, "The one who will make your life miserable."

Bucky's eyes widened in disbelief. "Is this how you introduce yourself when meeting a new person?" he shot back, a mixture of surprise and amusement playing across his face. 

Y/N's face remained stoic, her expression unwavering as she delivered the news to Bucky. "I will be straight to the point; your life won't be easy like in the city," she asserted, leaning down to rest her hands on the wooden rail. "I'll be your mentor."

With a pointed finger, she continued, "We're neighbors. My dad asked me to help you." Her tone hinted at an unspoken determination to ensure Bucky's time in the town would be far from a leisurely escape. She was poised, ready to make him regret ever leaving her domain.

Flashback start

Y/N had returned from the farm two days prior, dropping fresh milk on the kitchen cabinet with plans to make cheese—her mother's favorite. Her family, owners of a dairy farm and several crops, had a livelihood deeply rooted in agriculture. The biggest of their ventures was their dairy farm.

As Y/N washed her hands, her father said their family would assist their new neighbor. Y/N, although accustomed to helping neighbors, Y/N couldn't hide her disdain when she heard the name 'Barnes.' She gritted her teeth at the mere mention of the family.

Her aversion to the 'Barnes' name was reflected in her unyielding body language, a subtle tension in her shoulders, and a clenching of her jaw. The prospect of aiding Bucky, the city boy from the family she held some resentment toward, added an unexpected layer of complexity to her already busy life on the farm.

Years ago, in their relentless pursuit of expanding their retail empire, the Barnes family made a business move that significantly impacted Y/N's family farm. The Barnes Corporation, seeking to acquire more land for development, had set its sights on the quaint farmland owned by Y/N's family.

Despite Y/N's family's resistance and the sentimental value attached to their land, the Barnes Corporation, driven by profit, successfully carried out the acquisition, leaving Y/N's family with no choice but to relinquish the farm that had been in their possession for generations.

The ruthless business dealings and lack of empathy from the Barnes family left a bitter taste in Y/N's mouth.

Despite the Barnes Corporation's relentless pursuit of their farmland, Y/N's family salvaged a small piece of their ancestral land.

But, the memories of losing her family's cherished farm to the corporate giant fueled Y/N's resentment and distaste for the Barnes family. 

Flashback end

Y/N flashed Bucky an assuring smile, though it carried an undercurrent of intimidation. Her expression was a blend of warmth and a silent warning. Bucky, feeling the weight of the unspoken challenge, involuntarily gulped.

It was a realization that, from that moment onward, his life was destined to be anything but easy. The smile that seemed promising also bore the weight of a mentorship that would test his resilience in the unfamiliar terrain of the farm.

Still processing the intensity of Y/N's smile, Bucky mumbled uncertainly, “What have I gotten myself into? ... and I have no clue where this is headed." With a mix of trepidation and curiosity in his eyes, he took a hesitant step forward, realizing that the journey ahead was bound to be far more intricate than he had initially bargained for. 

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7

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[mountainsandmayhem]

hey hun!! for your 500 followers celebration could you do 📝, of a scenario in which joel comes home to find you all cramped up and in pain since you began your period and he decides to be the comforting little man and cuddles you to death??

(no pressure!! 🥰🤗)

-vii💗💗

Joel: Period Master

18+, but mostly fluff

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

AN: Thank you sweet Viv for this ask. This is based in the Little Dove universe, but Sarah and Ellie are teenagers and living at home. 💋 also, I 100% did not edit or proof read this. Sorry!

Joel has had a long ass day. A joke of a day really. First the concrete was late, then someone broke the powered wheelbarrow so they were moving gravel by hand. Then it started raining and they scrambled to cover everything, the job site soon became a muddy mess. He’s desperately looking forward to a hot shower and a glass of whiskey.

He pulls into the garage to see your vehicle already parked, which is strange since you had plans with a friend for after work drinks.

He trudges from the truck to the back door, mud still breaking off his work boots along the shiny concrete floor of the garage. He toes them off before heading into the back entry. Your heels are tossed on the floor, work bag and jacket haphazardly placed on the bench.

“Babe?” He calls from the back door, walking around to the family room to find his two daughters curled up on the couches.

“Hi girls. Where’s your mom?”

They both shoot daggers from their eyes, Ellie clutching the blanket tighter around herself and Sarah flipping the ice pack that’s draped across the back of her neck.

Shit, already that time.

The joys of living with all women….they’ve synced up. His usually sweet teenagers daughters turn extra moody, but Joel is the supporter of this family in every way, so he is always prepared for this time each month. Sarah, usually the sweet tooth, needs salt and chocolate milk. Ellie, usually the salty one, needs Diet Coke and green gummy frogs. All things Joel keeps tucked up in a cupboard, or in the back of the beer fridge in the garage.

He sneaks quietly back into the living room, putting the emergency supplies for the girls down on the coffee table as they watch Dirty Dancing.

Ellie looks up at him with sad eyes, tears welling in the corners. “Thanks, dad.”

He crouches down beside her and rubs her lower back through the big fuzzy blanket she’s cocooned in. “You’re welcome, kiddo. Do you need anything else?”

Sarah’s head pops up from her couch, “Mom’s not doing well. You should go be with her.”

He kisses both his daughters on the foreheads, taking a big breath before walking down the hall to your bedroom. Nothing in this world breaks his heart more than seeing you in pain. He knows some months can be worse than others, he knows about the bloating and the large clots you deal with. He knows that you can be insatiably hungry one minute and throwing up the next. He knows that your cramps can have you on the floor in the matter of seconds most of the time.

He opens the door as quietly as possible, finding you curled in a tight ball under the down filled duvet, just your hair peaking out the top. The room is stifling hot, the air almost thick, it feels like being in Phoenix in July as he pads over to the bed.

“Baby?” He whispers, carefully climbing up beside you, trying not to disturb you. A lesson he learned a few years ago when you had finally gotten comfortable, only to be brought to big crocodile tears when he moved a pillow that was tucked against your back.

A sad groaning whine leaves your throat as his large palm dips under the blanket to cup your forehead. “Sweetie, you’re burning up.”

“I’m freezing,” you whine, pulling the big blanket tighter around you.

“Ok, baby girl. I’m here now,” he says, standing and stripping down to his boxers briefs. You peek your eyes over the blanket, watching the way his strong body flexes and relaxes, the muscles ripping as he moves. The summer sun has tanned his arms a beautiful golden brown.

He wanders around to lay behind you. “Let me in, honey.”

You let go of the blanket so he can slip under, his warmth immediately sinking into you, heating your sore and achy body all the way to the bone. “You’re practically naked under here, Little Dove.”

You sink back into his heat. ���Don’t look, I’m wearing the worst granny panties and one of those super pads.”

His hands trail around your slides, a large palm resting on the very bottom of your belly where the cramps are, hand sliding under the band of your incredibly unattractive panties. “You’re sexy to me no matter what you wear.”

Joel begins kneading the muscles of your lower abdomen, simulating the contracting of your uterus and the pain begins to ease. You moan and relax more into your perfect man.

“That feel good?” He says in a deep, gravel filled whisper.

“Mm-hmmm,” you hum, closing your eyes and finally feeling relief from the debilitating cramps.

Joel pulls you in tighter and kisses your shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re suffering, baby. I’m going to take care of you. Anything you need, I’ll do it or get it.”

“DAAAAAAD!!” Sarah and Ellie call in unison from the couch. “PIZZAAAA!!!”

You snort a little laugh. Poor Joel, having to deal with all these uterus’s.

“Pizza party?” You ask.

“Anything for my girls.” He hums, stubble grazing the shell of your ear.

“Anything?” You say mischievously.

“You’re not painting my toe nails again”

“Damn. I have this new hot pink that I think would really suit you,” you tease.

Joel’s quiet for a moment, still kneading the muscles absentmindedly, but with incredible care and precision. “I’ll lend you my favourite sweats and t shirt if you stay away from my toes.”

“Deal,” you say with a wince.

“What’s wrong?” Joel says, pulling you onto your back so he can look you over. Concern etching his eyebrows.

You reach up and rub the creases spot with your thumb, his eyes meeting yours. “Butt hole cramp,” you say flatly.

Joel smirks down at you, at this angle your swollen, heavy breasts are on display for him. “Want me to kiss it better?”

“You’re a menace, Joel Miller. And our daughters will riot if we don’t get them pizza soon.”

Joel lends you his clothes and helps you get dressed before sliding on his jeans and t shirt. He kisses your forehead and helps you to the lazy boy chair, brining your king sized duvet with him to wrap you up.

“I’ll be back with pizza,” he says to the group.

As soon as he’s out of ear shot Ellie pipes up, “do you think if we play this up we can get him to let us paint his toe nails again?”

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

meaning upon motion: rosquez [e]

Marc catalogues those things that keep showing up.

The rosé wine he likes—God, Valentino used to give him so much shit for that, him and his girly drinks. Sugar next to the coffee pot. A room for himself, but Valentino’s door is always open. The towels are 100% cotton, silken soft to the touch.

It says—something, maybe, or it’s the heavy roll of all that fucking wine in his stomach.

Marc doesn’t want to look too closely into it, so he doesn’t. Everything is still there.

Valentino makes a noise, that cross between kissing his teeth and clicking his tongue. “Tomorrow, eh?” He says, pointing his chin to the window, to the track outside.

Rain had turned it into a slippery hellslide, all brackish puddles and mud banks. He’d been thinking about that track for ten years now, give or take. Dreading it, picturing it, loving it. If they go to shit tomorrow, if racing does to them what it likes to do, he’ll have gone up on a dirt bike there anyway.

It helps. A little.

“Yeah,” Marc mutters. He goes for another sip, finds his glass empty.

Valentino is right there, though. Their calves are touching. Their knees. He lets out a soft ah, let me and fills it again for him, just a couple of fingers, almost like a fancy restaurant. It’s funny, because a couple of minutes—hours—ago, they were pretty far from each other on this ratty couch.

Marc snorts. Doesn’t want to linger on this either. “Who else is coming?”

“I tell you, no? Just the two of us.”

Valentino’s expression stutters, his baby-fine eyebrows twitching and his mouth pursing. Marc wouldn’t have noticed if they weren’t so close.

“Did you? Sorry, I forgot.” It comes out easy, that harmless little lie.

Problem is, Valentino is bright like a knife between the ribs. “You are alone,” he points out. Then, less sharply: “I think, allora, for sure he brings Álex this time.”

Marc pulls a face, and Valentino breaks into a chuckle. He’d considered it, for a brief, panicky half second, right before he boarded on the plane to Bologna.

But Álex is already unhappy enough with this whole thing.

So Valentino is right—he is here alone. No Ducati mechanics, which he could’ve demanded, back to their usual tune; no Álex, which was expected; none of his branded bikes.

And the Ranch is empty.

“He wouldn’t leave the dogs,” is what Marc settles on saying rather than why don’t you have any of your staff here? Where are your Academy boys? Why are you doing this? Am I being stupid again? Is it funny? Another little harmless lie.

“All the better for me.”

Marc smiles. “Isn’t it usually?”

And that’s how the night goes, the two of them not quite talking, brushing against the heat of each other, edges dulled on rosé wine. Marc allows himself to wonder if tonight, maybe, but nothing happens.

The disappointment only softens the next morning, when Valentino shows up at his door at an insensate hour and drags him to the garage. He shepherds Marc along, a hand splayed on his back, between his shoulder blades, to show him—

“So?”

Valentino is basically bouncing. Trying to play it cool, with another impatient tsch sound, but his eyes are too keen, and there’s something jittery about the sway of his long, spindly arms.

Marc swallows past the tangle in his throat. Unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

It is an MX Honda, a red and orange 93 emblazoned on the front, two stroke engine. Not his model, but close enough. Everything about it is smooth and new and polished. If he tried, he thinks he would be able to smell the leather, the freshness of undented metal. His stomach rolls, light and airy like a frizz of champagne.

What an odd, expensive thing to do for a one-off guest when you have dozens of bikes around. Marc would’ve ridden any of them.

“It is,” he fishes for a word. Any word. Everything he feels is the hook of affection tangled in his guts, tugging. His mouth might as well be stuffed with cotton. “Good. Tell me the specs?”

“Always the hunt with you,” Valentino says.

It sounds mean—a little. In that way of Valentino’s of prodding bruises. Fond too, with him squeezing his arm, fingers lingering on the crook of his elbow. Marc wants to get on it already. Wants to race. Wants to freeze this instant, Valentino golden in the morning sun, just the two of them, talking about a dirt bike’s innards.

Leathers, gloves, boots, helmets. They hop in, and the track unfurls ahead of him. Dejavu threatens to kick Marc off the first five or so laps, where they aren’t exactly racing yet. It’s not that different—except the angle of a few corners. Too narrow here, too wide there, places where it’s either his memory fumbling or Valentino, shockingly, making changes.

“Still remember it?” Valentino prods, shouting over the engines rumbling. Marc can picture it, the slanted curve of his grin.

He scoffs. “Of course.”

Then they are racing, reckless with it. Valentino slides on a half-dried mud patch when he gets off the usual line to try and overtake him. Marc goes down too low on a corner and loses the front. They kick up dust and dirt, laughing uproariously, and Marc allows himself to think, just once, that Valentino has to be up to something.

It is easy anyway, to have fun, even if he knows that Valentino is shrewd, no stitch without a knot, even if he’s prickling, restless, unkissed. They didn’t come up with rules, so the excuse of racing becomes a graceless overtake fest, round and round and round, until their bikes start to splutter without fuel.

Valentino leads them through a final show, a victory lap on the colosseum, bathed by the infernal midday sun. Leads them to the kitchen after that—chipped plates, an atrocity of a tablecloth, horrendous yellow flowers on a green field. Another world from the track, it looks like.

There’s escabetx. The fish is soggy—reheated—but it tastes good. Familiar. Way, way, way above Valentino’s cooking skills.

Dishes left on the sink for later or tomorrow or whenever, they circle back to the couch. It throws Marc off more than the changes to the track, more than his growing catalogue of things that don’t quite add up. Last time he was here, there wasn’t a moment to think. The Ranch was full of cameras, and events, and eager-hungry Academy kids, and personnel, and PR stuff.

Valentino brandishes a small chocolate bar like a parrying knife. Breaks off a piece for himself, shoves the rest in his hands. Marc can’t pretend to not want it. He’s always liked sweetness.

He can’t pretend to not have something on his mind either. It lingers, red-hot.

Might as well do it. Make it real.

“Valentino,” he starts, gets cut off.

“Are you having fun?”

Marc’s mouth clicks shut. He prods his tongue against his teeth, the chocolate sticking there, to not laugh. The weave of them sitting so close feels like crystal in his grip. Fragile glass. It’s very Valentino. A bit myopic. He’s immortalized moments less gentle than this. Cradled them close and kept them with him forever.

And really, fun.

Was fun ever the issue?

“Of course,” he answers, smiles. The corners of his eyes are crinkling, he knows, but so are Valentino’s.

There’s a suspended beat, Valentino inching closer, about as subtle as his neon merch. “But is it fantastic—the best you’ve ever had?”

Marc does laugh this time. Valentino aims for smug, hits it pretty well.

“Almost.”

And it’s a mindfuck, that he sees the way Valentino straightens up in real time. Now that he isn’t so young anymore, buzzing with the chance of touching a streak of the divine. Now that he can recognize the man in him—which is no less devastating, truth be told. The little frown on his forehead, deepening the wrinkles there.

Tell me, he says without saying, spreading his hand on Marc’s ankle. “You used to be pushier when I was twenty.”

Valentino’s breathing does something funny. A convulsive little wheeze.

“You,” he starts, has to try again. “In Argentina.”

Marc looks off to the side.

Argentina, right. His arm had been hurting, chainsaw teeth to the old wound. Álex had been watching, a worried, unhappy tilt to his lips—one in a sea of pinched-tight faces, going from the jerky seesaw of his shoulder to Valentino standing there, close. Too many cameras, too many eyes, too many points he could win. Did win.

And Marc is as superstitious as he can afford to be.

Nothing good can come out of Termas, of Sepang—like nothing good can come out of Galilee.

Marc doesn’t remember what he said, exactly. Only that he’d been clenching down on a razor blade for the whole weekend and very, very tired of being in pain. If Valentino touched him then, it’d have hurt too. But now he has Marc’s ankle, and a bike for him, and Catalan food, and chocolate, and soft towels, and everything rattling in his mind for the past thirty-something hours is—

Kiss me.

“But it’s fine, now.” It isn’t.

It categorically isn’t, but it’s stupid to worry about that. Why tempt this into breaking? Marc licks chocolate off his fingers, Valentino’s eyes burning on his hands, his mouth. He clambers into his lap with the sugar sharp on his tongue, their knees knocking together.

Careful, mild, it never lasts, not between them. Valentino gets both hands on his waist, thumbs digging on the sliver of skin where his undershirt has ridden up.

The small bite of pain is exquisite. Barely anything, but still.

“Cannot be easy, hm?” Valentino hums, lilting, bemused, closer than they’d been since that odd week between Sepang and Valencia.

“Like you want it easy.”

He spits out the word, and Valentino laughs. Runs his fingers over the jut of his hipbones. “Allora, we can say we try, it is boring.”

It’s that small sway of movement that gets him. His head is spinning. He surges into the kiss he’s been hungry for a humiliating stretch of time, catches the noise Valentino makes ravenously. Marc likes it more than he thought he would, making out like teenagers—nipping at Valentino’s lower lip to make him hiss, licking into his mouth.

The kisses start melting together, one after the other after the other. They’re greedy, unashamed. Marc only realizes they’re grinding against each other when Valentino breaks off, groans, sweat beading on the edge of his thinning hair.

“Do you want—” Valentino skims his hand over the knobs of his spine. Marc wedges them closer together, leaning in to suck a bruise on the hollow of his throat.

“Not yet,” he mumbles there, hidden, safe as it gets. “No. Sorry. I am not—I do not know what—”

“Alright,” Valentino tells him, brusque but not unkind. “Alright.”

Is it, Marc wants to ask, but instead he takes his time pressing his teeth to Valentino’s jaw, leaving a red imprint there. Marc can feel him hard against him, pressing against his belly. There’s a gasping noise, but Valentino shakes his head at his inquisitive look.

It’s exactly as ungainly as the past thirty minutes and thirty hours were, Valentino pulling their cocks out. Takes some shuffling. Marc ends up with his hand on the half-melted candy bar, stumbles over half a dozen curses, and Valentino tugs at wrist to lick it clean before managing to get his underwear down and spitting on his own palm.

His hand is still dry around them both. The callouses there scrape. Marc chokes on a whine, closes his eyes, then forces them open again because he has to watch this.

“Vale,” Marc moans, hips hitching. Valentino’s other hand surges up, grabs his chin tight to force his head back. There’re teeth, his tongue soothing their sting.

Marc jolts, their cocks rubbing together—and God, it’s only everything he wants. After that, they don’t settle into a rhythm as much as they crumble into one. Valentino’s hand hot and tight around them, and his mouth insistent against Marc’s for a kiss, two, ten. The slide gets easier, wetter. There’s the fucking noise it makes, damp, obscene.

And there’s Valentino, looking at him. Softer, maybe, than either of them should risk.

“Are you—wooing me?” Marc asks, halfway to a laugh. He doesn’t stammer. Much.

It’s there, behind his teeth—were you wooing me this whole time? Are you being gentle?

Valentino has the gall to grin, makes his grip a little firmer when Marc tries to pretend to be annoyed. “I am a romantic,” he says, all showmanship that shatters when Marc bucks against him, grinds them together. “Stop that, Christ.”

He doesn’t.

So Valentino clamps down on his nape, wound tight, biting on his throat. There’s zero fucking finesse to any of it, Marc fumbling for air, for the string of his sanity, digging into Valentino’s skinny, sharp shoulders. It’s ugly, too fast. Valentino jerks at the bite of his nails. Marc is so hard his vision that starts to wobble.

Next time, they can get on a bed, they can be sweet—maybe.

Right now, Marc wants to come so much he’s unraveling, drool pooling inside his mouth.

“Good?” Valentino asks, strained. He could make it sound cruel—there was a time when it was the only way he spoke. But it’s plaintive instead. Small.

“Fantastic. Best I’ve ever had.”

God, he tries for a joke, for wryness—it comes out too honest, instead. Marc vows to be ashamed about it later.

Or not at all. Valentino buries whatever he was going to say next in a bite, hard and mean on the swell of his chest. Marc catches a fraction of what his face looks like, shocked, hungry, mouth tight. He comes over his hand, his stomach, shaking with a keening groan.

It’s—Christ. Marc ruts against Valentino and his lax, sloppy grip until he’s twitching and whining with oversensitivity, cock fully soft against his thigh. But those flashes of pain get Valentino back online, have him wrapping his come-streaked fingers properly around Marc.

He doesn’t take that easy, either. Fucks Valentino’s fist, pants heavily. It’s burnt with hot iron in his mind, how Valentino’s expression had turned raw like a bruised nerve ending. Marc chases his own orgasm wildly, babbling—Spanish, Catalan, Italian, whatever. He comes in a kaleidoscopic fritz of color, everything narrowed down to the slack line of Valentino’s mouth.

His bones are loose, liquid. If he tried walking, he thinks his feet would sink in clouds. The minutes tick by around them, a string of flowing, round pearls slipping from his fingers.

Marc blinks—once he feels marginally more human again—and stretches his neck. Smooths his hand over Valentino’s crooked collar, his skinny chest. There’s come on his stomach, drying on a viscous patch over dark gray fabric.

“Your shirt is dirty,” he says, feeling clumsy, feeling golden.

Valentino clicks his tongue. “Ah, who cares.”

“Uhm, okay.” Marc decides against safety, tucks his face into the crook of Valentino’s throat. “It is an ugly shirt anyway.”

There’s laughing, the sound punched out and disbelieving. A hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck. Outside, it’s raining, a soft, gray security blanket over the everything else that they’ll one day be able to say.

[luna-andra]

Domesticated!König Headcanons ✨

Image: @Jispooks (Source)

Some HCS I thought up of for funsies, take it with a grain of salt if you disagree with any of it. And let me know what you would think differently! If this gets any love, I have a couple of more headcanon ideas to post as well, so please support my delusions of grandeur!

Part 2 is out! StepDad!Konig

Adjusting to civilian lifestyle for König proved to be challenging. Thankfully, he had you to help him along the way.

If you're not from Austria, König will compromise with spending summers in Vienna in the vacation home and live full-time with you in your home county (or wherever the hell you decide to choose. As long as he's not a convicted war criminal there.)

König tends to keep his PTSD episodes in check for the most part, except when he has a few drinks. He opts to sleep in the guest room after scaring you one night from the terrors. The years away from his past life helps them fade, but he will always carry that shit with him.

You help him job hunt. Blue-collar work was for him, the less human interaction, the better.

With that being said, König insists on DIY-ing every problem in the house. He tried figuring it out with his own basic knowledge, but became unstoppable when you introduced him to the DIY side if YouTube. Some projects had him at his wits end, and when you hear him cuss up a storm in German, you have to hold your laughter back until you're out of earshot.

The grocery bill. That's all I gotta say.

Add a couple more bills on it if you got a kid(s).

Most days, König is careful with not trekking mud in from the job site, leaving his boots in the garage/on the front porch. If it slips his mind, you know he's tired. It took a couple of scoldings to figure it out, but he does his best to make it up to you.

König had been okay with living where you wanted to, but he doubled down on living somewhere secluded, or at least outside of the city. Meaning longer drives/day trips if you wanted to shop at outlets. Totally fine, you talk his ear off during the drive to catch up on what he's missed out on during his long week of work.

Tons of nature hikes. If you weren't used to the outdoors, König would get you shaped up. He was so damn proud of you when you stopped relying on GPS and used maps/surroundings/cardinal directions, etc.

Dog or cat family, but I also see him being a reptile dad, too.

WANTS KIDS. THE MORE, THE BETTER. He wants to age and be surrounded by his kids & grandkids every holiday.

When you would go out on dates/shopping trips, there was no avoiding the double takes and stares. You man was giant, it wasn't something he could help. It would grind on his nerves when it came from grown ass adults, but he had a soft spot for children. They didn't know better, so he'd flash a friendly smile or wave so they're not afraid. Those moments would bring back the baby fever for him.

Nothing made König more happy than coming back home to the home you two have made after an adventurous day, watching you saunter happily to the kitchen to grab drinks and snacks to settle down into the plush couch next to him to watch some movies. Your choice, always. And if that baby fever was raging, he would toss you over his shoulder to settle that urge in the bedroom 😏

If this does well, I'll consider posting some other headcanons I have been thinking of! Likes & reblogs are always appreciated <3

[cutielando]

why don’t we go there? | m.s.

synopsis: in which you help him believe in himself again

my masterlist

The clock in front of your eyes moved incredibly slow. As you inched closer and closer to the paddock, your heart began beating out of its chest.

Some time ago, coming to the paddock to watch the race was a dream come true. You enjoyed every moment of it, feeling like you were a dream and you never wanted to wake up.

But now, that dream turned into a nightmare.

You knew the risks you were taking when you began your relationship with Mick, seeing the other partners and what they had to go through just for being with a driver.

Ever since you announced your relationship to the public, the problems started creeping in.

Fights between the two of you, his fans dragging you through the mud, the media outlets tearing your relationship to shreds from the outside.

You felt like a stranger into your own relationship, like an outsides looking in as everything was going to shit right under their eyes.

It tore you apart. Every Grand Prix you attended represented another nail in the coffin of your relationship with Mick.

“Y/N?”

You blinked, hearing Mick’s voice calling out to you.

Looking out the window, you noticed that you were already in the paddock parking lot, Mick having already turned the car engine off.

“Sorry, I was just thinking” you forced a smile out of you, trying to mask how much you dreaded going into the paddock.

Mick eyed you suspiciously, but nodded nonetheless.

You thanked God that he couldn’t read through tour facade, not wanting to risk having another fight with him in such a public place.

After you got out of the car, Mick reached out and took your hand in his, trying to give you a sense of comfort. But even he knew that it was in vain.

“Why are you so tense?” he asked, scanning your passes and smiling at some photographers.

You smiled with him, not as naturally as you would’ve maybe liked.

“I’m not, I’m just a little tired. Didn’t sleep that well last night” you said, hoping he would buy it.

Of course, he wouldn’t even know how you slept last night. He came back to your hotel room late, opting to crash on the couch instead of your shared bed.

He nodded, not giving you a second thought as you approached the Mercedes garage.

Just like he always did.

“I’m gonna go talk to my engineer before practice. Find a place to sit and do your thing” he said, giving you a chaste kiss on your forehead before disappearing.

You sighed, looking around at the place your boyfriend had been calling home for years now. And yet, despite the many times that you had been inside that very garage, you felt more as an outsider than ever before.

Between the neglect you were suffering from Mick, the hate you were receiving from his fans, the way the media was painting you as a bad influence on Mick, you didn't feel you belonged anywhere in his world.

"Y/N?" you were shaken out of your thoughts once again, meeting George's worried eyes scanning you.

"Oh, hi George. Sorry, I'll be out of your way" you grabbed your purse tighter and went to leave and go to the hospitality, but he grabbed your arm to stop you from walking away.

"Are you okay? You were spaced out for a good while there" his expression was worried, which was exactly what you had wanted to avoid.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little tired. I'm gonna go hang out in hospitality, wish you guys luck with your practice" you nodded and left before George could say another word.

♡♡♡♡♡

Being alone in your hotel room while your boyfriend was out somewhere with his team allowed you time to contemplate.

You loved Mick, and you loved being with him. But lately, it seemed like you were the only one present in the relationship. He would barely touch you, look at you or speak to you when you would be alone together.

You had never thought that going public would cause your relationship to completely collapse. It broke your heart, and you didn't know what to do to fix it. If there was even anything left to fix.

The door opening grabbed your attention. "Y/N?" Mick called out, his footsteps growing louder as he came closer and closer to the bedroom.

You quickly tried to wipe your tears, hoping he wouldn't be able to tell you had been crying. But you weren't fast enough.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, his voice not sounding bothered at all.

"Nothing"

"I know something's wrong. Tell me what's going on with you"

Maybe it was his tone, or maybe it was his choice of words, or maybe simply the fact that you were so tired of holding everything in that prompted you to completely break down and let everything out.

"We're not doing okay, Mick. Ever since we went to the paddock together for the first time, nothing has been the same. We barely talk to each other, you barely touch me or look at me unless you have to, your fans and the media are tearing me to shreds, calling me a gold digger and saying I'm only with you for your money and your fame and you couldn't care less. I barely see you anymore, it seems like you're doing everything to make sure you're not around me. You're staying out late, I don't know where you are half of the time and you can't wait to ditch me whenever we go somewhere together. I'm tired of fighting for a relationship that I'm not sure is worth fighting for" and with that you started sobbing, curling up on the bed and hiding your face in your hands.

Mick was shocked beyond words.

He knew he had been in the wrong. He realized he had been doing exactly what you had said. He'd been neglecting you, and the worst part was the fact that he didn't have an answer as to why. He saw the hate that you had been getting, and he didn't think it was worth it to say something in your defense. Why? He didn't know.

But as he heard your sobs fill the room and saw your body shaking with the intensity of your crying, he realized how much of an asshole he had been towards you.

"Shhh" he enveloped you in his arms, hugging you tightly and squeezing you close.

This was the first time he had touched you in weeks, you had even forgotten what his embrace felt like. In your vulnerable state, you forgot about the last few weeks, the hate and everything, completely melting in the arms of your boyfriend.

"It's okay, I'm here, let it all out" he kept whispering in your ear, kissing the top of your head and petting your hair.

As you slowly started to calm down, you didn't make a move to pull away from him, having missed his touch too much.

"Can we talk now?" his voice was soft, in contrast with the icy tone he had had when he had come back to the room.

You nodded, clearing your throat and slowly pulling away from him.

"I know I've been a shitty boyfriend lately, and there's no excuse for how I've been acting. I've been under a lot of stress from the team and I've been taking it out on you, which you didn't deserve. I'm sorry for how I've been treating you, I'm sorry for not standing up for you to my fans and the internet and I'm sorry I haven't been around. I love you, and I promise that I'm gonna do better, I'm gonna be a better boyfriend and I'm never going to make you feel like this ever again" he was holding your face in his hands, his eyes tearing up.

You knew you shouldn't cave in so easily, make him work for it more than this. But you loved him, and you could never resist him.

"I love you too" you whispered, caressing his cheek and connecting your lips, sighing at the feeling you had been missing.

Despite your rough patch, you both knew you were going to be alright, as long as you had each other.

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[hometoursandotherstuff]

Picturesque 1898 Craftsman Bungalow in Redlands, CA was completely renovated. The 4bd, 2ba home was opened up and now basically open concept, but still retains some of the original features. Asking $925K.

Unexpectedly, a large entrance room leads directly into a pool room. I'm lost trying to figure out what the original floor plan was. The rooms with columns are usually the living and dining rooms.

A central hall with original oak stair rails is off the pool room.

Also off the entrance room, there's a dining room.

A mud room with lovely original doors.

And, a guest powder room.

The kitchen and living room are now open concept and share a stone fireplace. A new stove island stands in the middle of the floor, acting as a division.

The kitchen is quite spread out. There's a lovely cabinet bar, then what looks like a doorway with a baby/dog gate, another cabinet, and fridge.

More cabinetry is along the window wall. There's an opening for a dishwasher next to the sink.

The kitchen goes right around to the back of the fireplace.

However, the "living room" is kind of small. Like a large foyer.

The primary bedroom has doors to the terrace.

There's a nice awning over the terrace for shade, which is great.

This room is a home office with some extra bedroom furniture.

Secondary bedroom with interesting architecture.

Here's another home office.

And, the 2nd cute vintage bath.

The yard is very nice. It has a large pergola and a barbeque set into a stone counter.

The garage has a guest bedroom above it.

8,100 sq ft lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/337-S-Center-St-Redlands-CA-92373/17263105_zpid/

[geekgirl750]

Random details I noticed in Scream after watching it for the umpteenth time.

First:

Stu has a dog?!

In the final confrontation scene in the kitchen before Stu brings out Sidney's dad I noticed that there was a note written on the white board behind him

Here it is in more detail, although the quality isn't the best as I had to screenshot the scene from YouTube:

When I paused to read it in the actual film I was able to make out most of the note except for the small writing in the upper right (Which I think is either a phone number or date) but I'm pretty sure the note reads:

"Hi Stu, Sorry we missed you today. We'll be back Sunday. Be good! Love mom & dad. P.S. feed the dog."

The last line I wasn't sure about because it was blurry but I matched the note from this shot to the shot where Stu is sitting at the desk on the telephone and sure enough the last line is "P.S. Feed the dog"

So basically, Stu canonically has a dog which I think is super funny because it makes me wonder where the dog was during the party and what type of dog it is.

It also makes more sense for the dog door in the garage that Tatum tries to crawl through to be put there for the Macher's family dog rather than the cat.

Side tangent head cannons:

The orange cat we see run out before Tatum is killed in the garage belongs to Stu's sister Leslie and has a basic name like Marmalade or Garfield

Stu is 100% a dog person and hates his sister's cat because its tried to scratch him on a number of occasions and now he's lowkey afraid of it

That's why when he's left home alone he doesn't really watch the cat and lets it do as it pleases. (His sister is adamant that the cat is indoor only but Stu is kinda careless lets the cat roam free outside through the dog door)

The Macher's family dog is either a basic crusty ass white dog that belongs to his mom and has a ridiculously fancy name like Princess or Dutchess

Or the dog is something small and hyperactive like a Jack Russell that Stu used to play fetch with and run around with in the backyard as a kid

Like I said before I feel like the Machers aren't super creative with naming their pets. If the dog is a boy his name is probably Max or something like that.

Okay second thing:

I never noticed this but you can see Randy dancing with/ flirting with a girl at the party when Sid and Tatum first walk in

And then later that girl is being led away by a different guy so I guess Randy struck out twice that night lol

(Also peep Stu and Tatum flirting/ kissing in the lower left)

Thirdly:

In the garage scene after Ghostface first cuts Tatum's arm she stumbles backwards and bangs into a bike

This is more of a head canon than anything but I noticed that the bike is more feminine in coloring (shades of red and purple) so it makes me wonder if it belongs to Stu's mom or maybe his sister.

Lastly,

The layout of Stu's house makes no sense!

So I'm going to make another longer post about this because I spent like an hour last night comparing shots from Scream 1996 to shots from Scream 5 to get an understanding of the Macher house because it's almost labyrinthian in it's layout, especially the upstairs, but I'm pretty sure there's no way that house has 3 bedrooms if Stu's sister is supposed to be canon.

Anyways, here are a couple details I noticed that I thought were interesting:

I think the house has an intercom system! You can seen what looks like speaker/receiver on the wall behind the lamp in Stu's room as Sidney runs by it.

Lastly,

The Macher house has a back stairwell!!!

So I've watched this movie a bunch of times and I always thought that there was a door in the kitchen that led directly to the garage but that's NOT TRUE!

When Tatum goes to get the beer for Stu you can see that the kitchen is connected to the dining room and off the dining room is a door that leads into a laundry room/ mud room.

To Tatum's right you can see what looks like an ironing board and then a set of railings/steps which I'm assuming is a back set of stairs that leads to the upper floor.

You can see again in the reverse shot that the door that gets locked behind Tatum isn't actually the kitchen door but the door to the laundry room in between the garage and the kitchen .

Seeing this changed my whole perception of Tatum's death scene because I was always like how did no one see Ghostface sneaking around the party, whether it was Billy or Stu, and not realize when he goes back inside after killing Tatum rather than leaving through the garage. Now I think it's because whoever was Ghostface never actually cut through the party at all.

HE WENT UP THE BACK STAIRS!

And the layout of the laundry room would have hidden him from view of the kitchen as he would have behind the wall and out of sight.

I want to go more into detail about the logistics about how I think Billy and Stu got around the house as Ghostface as well as the entire layout of the house in a second post because I think the set design is so interesting but for now these are just some cool things I noticed that I wanted to share.

[bitchesuntitled]

Goober

Summary: On a stormy night, a dog makes a dash for the garage. Frankie is insistent, like all dad's, they are not keeping that damn dog.

Warnings: Cussing, fluff, puppy madness, Nora seems to need her own warning in this fic cause she is sassy!

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday!!! Another installment of the Parents to Lovers AU! Thank you so much @noxturnalpascal for betaing for me ❤️❤️ @jay-zzle, my side kick for all these stories, my personal moodboard maker, one of my best friends that I would have never even met without Pedro Pascal existing, once again thank you for making the moodboard AND the other thing(wait til y'all get to the end)

Masterlist||AO3||Parents to Lovers

divider provided by @saradika-graphics

The thunder was getting closer and closer. You can smell the incoming rain on the air as you close the kitchen window.

“Girls!” You shout, approaching the living room doorway “Did you remember to bring your bikes in the garage?”

“I did!” Missy says quickly, returning to the game on her tablet.

“Uhh…” Nora hesitates, fingers fidgeting against her own tablet, “I forgot.”

“Nora! How many times have we talked about this?”

“Sorry,” she shrugs, “I just forgot.”

You groan, putting your shoes on and making your way to the garage. Frankie won’t be home for another hour or else you’d send him outside to get the bike. Opening the garage door you see the rain already starting to come down in sheets. Thankfully, Nora’s bike isn’t that far from the open door, but running towards it you see something dash past you into the garage.

“Fuck,” you mutter, grabbing the bike and wheeling it into the garage, “Now I get to deal with whatever creature decided to run into here for shelter from the storm. Thanks Nora, you’re the best!”

A clap of thunder sounds just then, causing you to jump, and you hear a whimper at the edge of the room. You reach for the switch on the wall and when the overhead lights come on you see a dog huddled in the corner.

“Hey little baby,” you say sweetly, crouching down and stretching out your hand, “It’s just a little thunder, nothing to be scared about.”

The dog slowly begins to move closer to your outstretched hand. You notice the floppy ears, short legs and long body. Another clap of thunder and the thing darts over, shaking and whimpering.

“Hi there,” you coo, “Let's get you some place warm and dry, huh? That sound good?”

The dog’s tail starts to wag a little as you continue talking to it, grabbing a towel as you begin to attempt to dry the dog off.

“Are we a boy or a girl?” You ask, lifting a leg to check, “Congrats! It’s a girl!” You say to no one but yourself.

The dog begins licking your face as you wipe her paws more to get the mud off.

“Aww, you’re just a sweet girl, aren’t you?” You coo, as the dog continues to lick your face, “Yes, yes you are! Okay, I think we’re good to go inside now.”

You gently scoop the dog up in the towel and carry her inside, bringing her into the living room.

“Is that what I think it is?!” Nora shrieks, smacking Missy’s arm to get her attention from her tablet.

“Hey, calm down, she doesn’t like loud noises,” you explain, “This little girl ran into the garage because of the storm.”

“She’s so cute!” Missy excitedly whispers, “Does she have a name?”

“Well I don’t see a collar so I don’t know,” you say, placing the dog in the middle of the living room.

The dog’s tail begins to wag harder when the girls slowly slide off the couch to approach her, and you notice her peeing on the carpet. 

“Shit,” you hiss, quickly going to the laundry room for a towel, laying it on the carpet to soak up the mess. She’s much more enthusiastic seeing the girls than she was seeing you. You sit on the couch watching the girls interact with the puppy.

“Hi,” Missy whispers, reaching her hand out for the dog to sniff, “You’re very pretty.”

“Yes,” Nora agrees, stretching her arm out, “Pretty and smooshy!”

The dog eats up the attention stretching out on the floor to show her chest and belly. Missy and Nora begin petting her, taking turns rubbing her tummy and scratching behind her ears.

“Momma, what kind of dog is she?” Nora asks, looking at you.

“It looks like she’s what’s called a basset hound,” you grin. You’d always wanted one growing up and thought that whoever owned this girl was the luckiest person in the world. You needed to call Frankie before he got home, that way he could maybe stop somewhere to get a collar, leash, and dog food. You pull your phone from your pocket, tapping on his contact info.

“Hey babe,” he sighed, “Think we’re almost done here and then I’ll be home.”

“So,” you say, getting up and walking to the kitchen so the girls wouldn’t hear, “I need you to do something for me before you come home.”

“What kind of ice cream do you want now?” He laughs.

“It’s not a craving this time,” you whisper into the phone, hand rubbing across your barely there bump, that news you hadn’t shared yet with the girls, “Not a bad idea though, Ben and Jerry’s Salted Caramel.”

“Sure thing,” he says, “I’ll be sure to ge—“

“No babe,” you interrupt, “Seriously that’s not what I was calling about. I need you to get some puppy food, a leash, and a collar.”

“Do what now?”

“Puppy food, a leash and a collar,” you repeat, “and the Ben and Jerry’s! I’ll text you what I said, love you, bye!” You say quickly before hanging up and texting him the list. Your phone pings a second later.

Frankie: What the fuck?!

—

“Babe,” Frankie shouts, entering the kitchen, “I got the st—“

The dog ran into the kitchen, looking up at Frankie, giving a single bark.

“Well, hello,” he says, dropping the small bag of dog food on the table, hesitantly the dog inches closer to Frankie, tail tucked between her legs, sniffing his boot.

“Dad, look!” Missy says, pointing at the dog.

“I see,” Frankie says, eyebrows raised.

“Can we keep her?!” Nora asks, bouncing from foot to foot.

“Absolutely not!” Frankie says, putting his hands on his hips, “She looks pretty young, probably has a family around here somewhere.”

“Obviously they don’t care about her though,” Nora argues, “They left her out in a storm!”

“Yeah,” Missy agrees, nodding her head, “That’s just mean to do to a baby dog!”

“Now, now girls,” you say, placing a hand on each of their shoulders, “Sometimes dogs get loose when they’re scared and just run off.”

“We’ll make some flyers and post them around the neighborhood,” Frankie says, “Until we can find the owners we’ll make sure the little thing’s fed and taken care of.”

“She’s not just a thing, Frankie,” Nora grumbles, stomping past you to the living room, the dog and Missy following right behind her.

Frankie takes in a deep breath before slowly letting it out. You walk towards him, grabbing him around his waist and pulling him close, breathing him in.

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper into his neck, placing a small kiss there.

“Why’s she gotta be so damn stubborn like her momma?” Frankie hums, grabbing a handful of your ass.

“Everyone says she looks like her dad so guess that means she has to have my attitude,” you say, shrugging your shoulders with a laugh.

—

“Are you sure we can’t just keep her?” Missy asks while you’re stapling one of the flyers to a pole.

It’s been a couple days since the dog arrived. You’d gotten the flyers made and now you were all walking around the area with the dog and posting them up in numerous places. You’d already hit every business downtown that you could. Now it was time to hit the neighborhoods around you.

“I’m sure,” Frankie said in a stern tone, “We are not keeping her.”

“But I already picked out a name,” Nora pipes up, flicking the leash lightly in her hands like a whip, “Goober!”

“Nora don’t do that with the leash,” you say, “You could hurt her.”

“Don’t name her!” Frankie groans, “She’s not our dog!”

“Why Goober?” Missy laughs, as you all continue to walk.

“Well,” Nora says, looking down at the dog who cocks her head to the side like she was waiting for the answer as well, “Just look at her! Mom always says I’m a goober when I do something funny and she just looks funny!”

“I like it,” Missy says with a small smile.

“No,” Frankie said, “Her name is not Goober.”

The dog barks, ears perked up, wagging her tail, and looking directly at Frankie.

“Oh,” you laugh, “Babe, I think she just told you you’re wrong and that her name is, in fact, Goober.”

“Stop it,” he says, pointing at you before hanging up another one of the flyers.

—

“Would it be such a bad idea to keep her?” You ask while filling the dog’s food and water dish. The dog is patiently waiting for you to place them on the floor for her.

“Yes it would.”

“Frankie,” you groan, hand on your stomach, and bending down to set them on the floor, “She’s so cute though!”

“Doesn’t matter how cute she is,” Frankie shakes his head, “We shouldn’t keep her.”

“Babe,” you say flatly, “It’s been a week and a half and we haven’t heard a single thing from anyone!”

“Good morning, Mom!” Nora beams, coming into the kitchen, “And good morning Princess Goober!”

“Morning,” Missy grumbles, “Goober!” She says perking up a little and petting the dog on the head.

“Stop calling her that!” Frankie says sternly, “She’s not our dog. End of discussion.”

“Oh,” Nora says, glaring at him, “Morning Frank.”

“Are you guys ready for school?” He asks, ignoring Nora’s glare.

“Yeah,” Missy yawns. Nora just grumbles still glaring at him.

“Alrighty then,” you hum, “Come here. Hugs!”

Both girls embrace you one either side, giving them both a tight squeeze before letting them go.

“Have a good day and Nora,” you smile, “Please behave.”

She rolls her eyes, following Missy into the garage with a huff. Frankie shakes his head, walking towards you, wrapping his arms around you.

“That girl’s gonna give me more gray hairs than the baby,” Frankie mutters into your temple.

“That makes the both of us,” you laugh, giving him a chaste kiss before he’s off to take the girls to school and go to work.

—

“Goober!” The girls shriek, bursting into the house through the garage. Goober’s tail starts wagging like crazy and she pees all over the floor.

“Goober Goo!” You groan, “Not again!”

Goober just looks at you, panting, tongue hanging out to the side.

“Can we take her to the backyard?” Missy asks, putting her backpack on the hook.

“Sure,” Frankie grunts, bending down to clean up the pee. Goober pokes her head under his armpit, while he wipes the pee up and begins licking his face, “Okay, okay. Yes, I see you.”

“Think she likes the way your beard tastes, Dad,” Missy giggles.

“Must be leftovers in there,” he grumbles, rubbing Goober’s ears.

“Oh! Watch this!” Nora exclaims, “Come here Goober! Come here!”

Goober pushes past Frankie’s arm, walking in her pee to get to Nora.

“Damn dog,” Frankie mumbles, motioning for you to hand him the Clorox wipes.

Goober plops down in front of Nora. She grabs one of Goober’s ears and begins to scratch the inside of it, causing Goober’s back leg to violently shake. 

“What is she doing?!” Missy asks, starting to giggle.

“You found her puppy spot!” You exclaim with a laugh.

Frankie looks up to see what you are all laughing at, watching the saggy dog’s body jiggle and starts laughing.

“What the hell?” Frankie laughs, shaking his head, “Think she is a Goober afterall. Go on, take her outside now, I’m sure she’s got more pee in her. Don’t want her pissin’ in the house more than she already has.”

The girls take her outside, taking turns throwing the floppy stuffed animal they gave her that she had ripped the stuffing out of.

“Babe,” You smile watching the girls play with Goober outside, “I think we have a dog now.”

“I think you’re right,” Frankie groans, standing up, throwing away the Clorox wipes and throwing the towel into the hamper in the laundry room.

“We can’t get rid of her,” you pout, “The girls love her too much. Frankie, I love her too much and no one’s claimed her!”

Frankie finishes washing his hands at the sink, turning around, crossing his arms with a big sigh.

“Fine,” he sighs, “We’ll keep the damn dog.”

—

“What ya making, babe?” Frankie asks, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, “Smells really fucking good.”

“Spaghetti,” you grumble, “Only thing the girls seem to want to eat right now.”

Nora rushes into the kitchen, observing the fridge, rearranging some of the pictures on it.

“What are ya doin’ kid?” Frankie asks, looking behind his shoulder.

“Moving some stuff around,” she says snarkily, “This coupon is expired. Can I throw it away?”

“Yes,” you and Frankie say at the same time.

“Cool,” she says, throwing it away and running out of the kitchen.

You continue stirring the sauce, trying not to let the smell get to you.

“Need me to take over?” Frankie asks, kissing your temple.

“Oh my god,” you huff, “Please.”

Frankie laughs softly, kissing the spot on your neck that meets your shoulder. Then moves you to the side when Nora and Missy come rushing back in. Goober following closely behind them.

“I think we should put it here,” Nora says, pointing to the empty spot she made.

“What if though,” Missy says, rearranging different pictures, creating a new empty space, “We put it here?”

“Hmm, yeah, I like that better,” Nora agrees.

Missy grabs one of the magnets off the fridge, placing a new picture on the fridge, right alongside the picture of the four of you together, underneath the picture of Missy and Nora, and above the picture of Frankie with the guys.

“There!” Nora beams, “Goober is on the fridge, that means she’s family!”

“No take backs!” Missy says, pointing at Frankie.

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Oliver and His Company

[A/N: This can be read as a standalone, but if you want context on Aaron & reader’s relationship, find their story here and here! Enjoy 🖤]

4 times Aaron Hotchner refused to admit that he’s a cat person…

1) A Spicy Upgrade

“I swear, Em, it was like an out of body experience,” you tell your best friend through the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you balance grocery bags in one hand and fish your keys out of your pocket with the other.

“So everything was just backwards?” Emily laughs.

“Yes!” you cry, equal parts miffed by your dream and excited to have somehow slotted the key into the lock in the correct orientation without looking. “Pen was, like, fifty shades of beige, and everyone else was super bright and colorful! Hotch was wearing a suit worthy of Elle Woods herself,” you assert.

“I would pay a stupid amount of money to see that,” your best friend snickers. “Can we please get him a pink suit?”

“Not gonna lie, he looked pretty hot,” you muse quietly as you shuffle down the hall to the kitchen. “I’ll work on…that…”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you answer immediately, sorry to have worried her. “Just found my man in an interesting position. Call you later, love you, bye,” you rush out in a whisper, ending the call and snapping a photo for your personal album before the opportunity disappears. Clearing your throat, you place the last of the grocery bags on the counter with a solid thud. “Whatcha doin’ down there?”

Aaron’s answer is muffled given the fact his head is currently in the spice cabinet, the rest of his tall form tucked under him, ass comically up in the air for better leverage. You bend down with a groan and open the adjacent cabinet to pop your head in, meeting his sheepish smile and reddening cheeks. Pressing your lips to his, you murmur, “I didn’t quite get that.“

“I said-” He pauses to capture your lips in another sweet kiss, and the butterflies that have taken up residence in your belly since the first day you met Aaron Hotchner stir to life. “I read online that it’s easier for cats to open doors with handles than knobs, so I’m fixing all the doors before you move in.”

“You’re what?” You bump your head against the top of the cabinet in shock, letting out a harsh curse that you’re glad Jack isn’t around to hear.

“Oh, honey,” Aaron tuts softly, unfolding himself from his spot to help you out and delicately rubbing the tender area on the back of your head.

“You- by yourself- you’re swapping out every single handle in this house for Oliver?” You don’t mean to sound incredulous, but there’s no way this man is real. Then again, he bought this house six months into your relationship so that you could each have an office space and ample room for Jack and one or two additional little Hotchners to grow up- although he hadn’t divulged the latter part of that plan to you when he gifted you a key.

“I know it sounds ridiculous-”

“No,” you cut him off immediately, molding your palms against his cheeks to pull him in for a kiss, your lips quirking up in a victorious grin. “It sounds like something a loving cat dad would do.”

Aaron scoffs before muttering, “Just don’t want him getting stuck, that’s all.”

“Right,” you draw out the word, one eyebrow raised playfully. “Totally not cause you’re a cat person. And that’s why I spotted an empty box sporting a picture of a cat tree as tall as you in the garage?”

“I never said I dislike cats, I’m just a dog guy!” Aaron insists, his words falling on deaf ears as you playfully hum a tune from The Aristocats while arranging the groceries in the fridge and he returns to his project.

2) A Sleepy Surprise

Toeing your shoes off in the mud room, you call out, “Boys? I’m home!” The novelty of getting to say those words has yet to wear off even though the last of your moving boxes are piled up on the curb, waiting to be recycled.

There’s no answering pitter patter of feet in the hallway nor voices greeting your arrival, but the sneakers lined up next to yours- one large pair in understated colors, one much smaller pair with Darth Vader on one shoe and Luke Skywalker on the other- tell you your little family is definitely home. You place your car keys on their designated hook before making your way down the hall, pausing at the threshold of the living room with a smile on your face at the sight before you.

Aaron’s lying on his back, his tall form taking up the entire length of the couch, with Jack tucked into his side and an orange ball of fur curled up on his chest, rising and falling with each peaceful breath of his. You let out a content sigh, warmth blooming in your chest from the overwhelming sense of comfort and love these three have brought into your life. Holding your hair back so it doesn’t tickle your darling boy’s face, you press a delicate kiss to his cheek and his mouth turns upward for the briefest of moments. Then you nuzzle your nose against the soft fur between your cat’s ears, and he stirs with a half-hearted chirp before curling up even tighter on his literal man-made bed.

“You’re home,” Aaron murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you whisper with a guilty pout, carding your fingers through his hair. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to make dinner.”

He grabs your hand before you can get too far, and you turn back to find just who exactly Jack inherited the puppy dog eyes from. “We can order in tonight. Stay with me?”

You gesture to the full couch and ask, “Where?”

Aaron tips his chin down to see Oliver purring contentedly on his chest, and he taps his head until the cat sits up with bleary eyes. “You’re in your mom’s spot.”

You stifle a laugh as your cat pointedly yawns in your boyfriend’s face, then takes his time using Aaron’s solid body to stretch before flouncing away in search of a bed with less attitude. Aaron looks up at you with a self-satisfied grin and pats the newly vacated space. Shaking your head as you ease yourself down to lay across his body, you chide, “That was mean.”

“Never too young to learn about sharing,” he pontificates.

“Mm, yes, what a poignant lesson from father to son,” you respond, voice muffled against Aaron’s chest.

“Step-cat, at best. And don’t you even say it- I’m not a cat person.”

“Sure, babe.”

3) A New Purr-spective

“Jack-Jack,” you call out with a knock against the doorframe to get the little Hotchner’s attention. He looks up from his latest art project with a smile and says, “Yeah?”

“Daddy washed your uniform so you’re all set for tomorrow’s game. And I wanted to ask you about…this,” you offer hesitantly, flipping the shirt in your hands around so he can see Hotchner displayed at the top and the number matching his jersey. “Would it be okay if I wore this so we can match?”

“Does Daddy have one, too?” His excitement- and nonchalance about you sporting their last name- has relief flooding through you, and you mirror his eager smile.

“Of course! Except his is even cooler cause it says ‘Coach’ on the front,” you respond with a click of your teeth. “I made one for Uncle Dave, too!”

“Awesome. You’re the best!” Jack proclaims.

“No, you are.”

“Nu uh, you,” he insists.

“Nope! You!” You let the word be drawn out as you make your escape down the hall, peals of laughter from Jack’s room echoing behind you.

“I have received official approval to wear my shirt,” you announce as you cross into the master bedroom, only to find the space empty. You can hear Aaron’s voice in hushed tones from the walk-in closet, so you approach quietly thinking that he’s on the phone.

“…not exactly your textbook psychopath, right?” He pauses, then continues, “Right. So there must be a piece of the profile we’re missing, something that explains the evolution of the kills with the alarming disorganization of the crime scenes. Do you think we could be dealing with two unsubs?”

Aaron’s phone is on the bedside table, and he’s using both hands to wrestle one of his dress shirts onto a hanger. Then, you spot his silent partner- Oliver’s sitting in his bed, in the nook that Aaron built into the closet for him, languidly cleaning his paws as your boyfriend theorizes aloud.

“So,” you start, crossing your arms and leaning against the wide doorframe, “you still maintain that you’re not a cat person?”

You can see the back of Aaron’s neck turning red at having been caught, but he studiously carries on putting the clean laundry away. Without turning to face you, he asserts, “I’m just… using him as a soundboard. Animals are excellent judges of character.”

“Congratulations, Ollie,” you offer proudly to your son, “you’re the very first cat to join the Behavioral Analysis Mew-nit.”

“Now that’s bad, even for you,” Aaron chuckles, and you bark out a, “Hey!” with faux umbrage. “When are you going to admit you love this cat?”

“I do love this cat,” your boyfriend counters, finally turning to face you. He curls his arm around your waist to pull you against him and speaks between kisses dotted along your nose and cheeks, “I’m just not a cat person.”

Smoothing your hands across his chest with playfully narrowed eyes, you mutter, “The Hotchner doth protest too much, methinks.”

4) Paw-sitively Whipped

“Bedtime, my little bubbas,” you raise your voice to be heard over the churning of the dishwasher as it starts up, drying your hands on a towel while you walk into the living room. Jack is sprawled out on the floor, flicking a feather toy on a stick back and forth that has Ollie frantically giving chase. You’re honestly not sure which little guy is more entertained by the game. “But I’m helping Oliver get his exercise! Daddy says he’s looking chunky lately,” Jack negotiates.

You and your cat turn to Aaron in unison, the man in question suddenly engrossed in an article on his phone. “Daddy’s lawyer genes certainly passed on to you, huh, Jack?” The little Hotchner grins proudly up at you in response, but even that sweet face doesn’t break your resolve. “C’mon, my love, we left off at a really good cliffhanger last night, remember?”

“You’re right,” Jack gasps, suddenly inspired to get ready for bed. “I’ll be ready in two minutes!”

“Make it three- you need to brush your teeth for a full two, Jack,” Aaron calls as he zooms past you to his bathroom.

“Okay!”

“Alright, Weight Watchers,” you snort, tweaking Aaron’s nose while he looks up at you sheepishly, “who’s on reading duty tonight?”

“I’ve got it,” he declares, tugging on your hand to guide you into his open lap. You settle against him with a sigh, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and pressing lazy kisses to his skin. Aaron turns his head to capture your lips in a sweet kiss that quickly grows more heated, and you let out a whimper when he cups the back of your neck to hold you more firmly to him until Jack’s little voice rings out down the hall.

“I’m ready for bed!”

“And that’s your cue, Daddy,” you laugh, patting his chest fondly before detaching yourself from him.

“We’ll pick this up later,” he declares in a murmur, and you can’t resist a smack to his shapely ass before parting ways in the hall.

You run through your own nightly routine, then make your way back to Jack’s room to say goodnight. You find Aaron with his son settled on his lap as he reads, and Ollie is settled on his favorite boy’s lap, purring up a storm. Your boyfriend is absentmindedly scratching his chin, pausing only to turn to the next page in the book. Then Aaron shifts to hold the book with both hands, and Ollie bats at his arm until he relents and resumes petting him. He looks up to find you standing in the doorway, the ghost of a smirk twitching at your lips, and you mouth, You are so a cat person.

He smiles back and shakes his head in response, refusing to give in.

…and the 1 time he finally did.

When you open the front door, you’re surprised to find the house dark. Given your shared line of work and healthy dose of paranoia, you and Aaron always leave at least one light on when the house is empty. But then you hear Jack giggle, “She’s coming!” and Aaron quietly shushing him, and a smile graces your face at whatever adorable surprise awaits you.

You flip on the light to find the foyer decorated with balloons dancing across the ceiling and streamers hanging down, each one adorned with pictures of you and Aaron, you and Jack, and your little family together. Your eyes immediately well up with tears seeing all the memories you’ve created and thinking about all the love you’ve been blessed with thanks to this family.

You walk through, awestruck, touching the Polaroids and printed pictures as you pass them. By the time you reach the living room and your eyes settle on Aaron with Jack standing pressed against his leg, your little boy holding your cat in his arms, you’re damn near sobbing.

“This is why you sent me to get my nails done, huh?” you ask through a half sniffle, half laugh. “You boys certainly were busy.”

Aaron smiles at you and holds out his free hand, and you grab onto him like a lifeline, letting him pull you in before bending down to press a flurry of kisses along Jack’s squishy cheeks. Ollie lets out a squeak of protest in the same timbre as Jack’s ticklish giggle, and you relent your attack with a pleased grin.

“Jack has a very important question to ask you,” Aaron murmurs, then winks at his son.

Jack raises Ollie up as high as he can, not unlike the scene out of The Lion King, and a glint of light flashes at you from your cat’s collar.

“Aaron,” you breathe out, moments before Jack excitedly asks, “Will you marry us, Y/N?”

“Nothing would make me happier,” you answer softly, looking up at Aaron as if he hung all the stars in the sky to find your adoring gaze reflected in his eyes.

—————

Lying in bed that night tangled up between the sheets and Aaron’s legs, you absentmindedly trail your fingers across his chest and muse, “Mighty interesting that a vehemently self-proclaimed not cat person would use a cat to propose, isn’t it?”

“You’re still on this, hm?” he murmurs from above you, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Merely making an observation,” you answer back lazily, then roll over until you body is nestled between his legs, your hands pressed against his chest so you can look at him directly. “I lied, I’m still on this,” you concede with a playful grin. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you’re not a cat person, Aaron Hotchner.”

He hums, then leans up to capture your lips in a series of soft, slow kisses that nearly make you forget your name, let alone the challenge you’ve posed. “Can’t do that, honey,” he finally admits between pecking your lips.

“Cause you are!”

He laughs, his fingers ghosting up and down your spine. Aaron notices you shiver under his touch and pulls the sheets up higher on your body while you settle against the warmth and security of his broad chest. “Honestly, I have been since day one.”

“Oh yeah?” You attempt to goad him, but your sass come out muffled thanks to your lips pressed to his skin.

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs nonchalantly as if you haven’t been lovingly arguing about this for over a year now. “He was your cat, and I’m a you person.”

Pushing against him to stretch up and level him with a raised eyebrow, you clarify, “Wait. He was my cat?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Now Ollie’s ours.”

“Everybody thinks you’re such a hardass, but you’re really a big teddy bear, Aaron,” you tease before pressing your lips to his.

“I’m admittedly both,” he concedes with a chuckle, pausing to kiss you again before adding, “and a reformed cat person.”

—————

[A/N: I absolutely adored writing these two and I enjoyed getting to sprinkle in a healthy dose of cat puns 😂 Thank you all for reading!]

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner

[the-amazing-digital-time-capsule]

TADTC Lore Dump #1

Character Lore And Fun Facts!

Pomni

Pomni was born in and grew up in upstate New York, going down to New York city to visit her very large extended family. She is incredibly good at math and physics, being able to recite long equations, and complete computations very quickly. Despite being able to do this, her memories on why or how she is able to, are foggy.  She doesn't remember her job, family, or education, or training…

She also loves to write historical fiction, but her dyslexia makes spelling and grammar a challenge. Sometimes she gets Caine to read over her stories and check both his historical accuracy as well as spelling and grammar. 

Pomni heavily dislikes playing the violin despite that being her assigned role in the capsule.  Though her memories are cloudy she associates the violin with nothing but anxiety and frustration.  Especially if she is ever tasked with playing sheet music, because of this correlation between distress and sheet music Pomni almost always plays the violin by ear.  She creates or edits performances on the spot, no matter if she was tasked with playing a specific piece or not.

Pomni’s Greek (But doesn't remember), and knows how to speak and write the language, however she has issues with her listening interpretation.

Pomni's lost the most memories when compared to the other capsule members.  Sometimes this fact makes her feel isolated and lonely as she is sure of so little about herself. 

Caine

He was born in 1900, Detroit, later moving and growing up in Pittsburgh. He is a WWI vet, he joined the army right out of high school, lying about his age (to his families dismay).  After showing exceptional skill in marksmanship, he went to Camp Perry, Ohio to become a trained sharp shooter.  He’s favorite rifle to shoot with is the Model 1903 Springfield with a scope.  Near the end of the war, he suffered an accident that made his confidence drop leading to job issues when coming home. After returning from war he worked as a freelance artist and animator, but after losing his animation job in 1926 he had to live off almost nothing. Eventually leading to him raiding an old garage for any junk that he could sell for cash.  There he found the Time Capsule.  

Caine has had a lot of time in the capsule to learn and master many skills.  He is a real renaissance man.  His favorite is being ambidextrous, since he finds amusement in confusing people by switching the hand he's using very quickly. 

Since becoming the leader in 1957 he has access to everyone's names including his own. However, Caine refuses to tell anyone their name, and to be in solidarity with everyone else refuses to go by or tell anyone his own.  Only Kinger Knows that Caine has access to everyone's names. 

No one besides Kinger really knows what has happened in Caine’s past.  He doesn't like to talk about it much due to severe PTSD; PTSD that can get triggered by loud noises, the smell of mud and gas, and getting touched without warning. 

Caine never goes to his room for this reason.

Caine is always interested in learning about what he's missed since entering the Capsule, but people don't tend to talk to him due to his depressing demeanor.  If given the chance he would be incredibly happy to sit and listen to whatever he's missed in the past 70 years. 

Kinger 

Kinger was also a WWI War vet and a Lintennieut Colonel in the U.S Army.  Kinger refuses to enter a relationship while in the capsule, only Caine knows why he chooses to stay “single”.  

As the bartender in the capsule Kinger knows a lot of information, be it people's deepest desire or their social security number. He is very aware of his customers and their affairs.

Kinger is also the designated surgeon of the group, if any Capsule member gets hurt or injured by one of the Guests or anything else… Kinger will sew them back together.  When he performs a procedure he will give the patient alcohol (except Caine) to numb the pain as they don't have access to painkillers. 

Kinger is Caine's best friend and they rely heavily on each other.  Kinger tries to manage Caine's drinking habit by hiding or measuring his alcohol intake, but that doesn't always work. 

Kinger, despite acting the most aloof, retains the most memories of his past.  When you walk past his room at night you can hear him murmuring about missing someone.  

Zooble

Zooble is half German, and speaks the language fluently even in the capsule.

Zooble is the most deadpanned member of the Capsule but also has the biggest heart.  While they may not seem like the person to go to for help they will do anything to lend a hand if needed. 

They have a strange aversion to kids... while they don't hate children and even like them, Zooble avoids them at all cost.  Since Ragatha is the child care attendant, that also means that Zooble inadvertently avoids Ragatha as well, causing tension between the two.

Zooble’s right hand can act as almost any tool, from a blow torch to a screwdriver, Zooble's hand can act as any tool needed as long at they have the correct bit inserted. 

Zooble’s torso is a radar system that tracks every member of the capsule.  Bubble will sometimes use Zooble as a way to find and track down the other members.  Zooble’s hate this fact but can’t do anything about it.

Gangle 

Gangle is half Hispanic American and half Japanese.  Before entering the capsule she juggled two different worlds.  One being her cultural side at home and the other being her American side to her friends.  She would do anything to avoid having these two worlds collide. 

Within the Capsule she is most comfortable with Caine.  She’s not entirely sure why but Caine has always treated her like a younger sister and she is nothing but grateful for that.  He really helped her try to find some joy in the capsule allowing her to find some peace with her new situation. 

Pomni and Gangle are roommates as they are the two main performers.  They share a dressing room 50/50.  Gangle's side is a shrine to her favorite characters, of which she had Caine draw for her from description, and is surprisingly immaculate.  While Pomni's side is minimalistic, with a drawer next to her bed full of crumpled up pieces of paper. Gangle always tries to encourage her to decorate.

Jax

Jax used to be a rich brat who got through life with daddy’s money, but after partying a bit too much his senior year of college he found himself stuck in the capsule. 

Jax likes to be seen as a kind of idiot, cool guy, even when a human. He hid his love of classical books and chose to perform poorly in school.  Barely scraping by enough for his father to buy his way into Yale. 

In the capsule Jax lives on the pixelated streets, “entertaining” the children too old to be cared for by Ragatha.  If his joystick were to ever break Jax would be unable to ever move again, he would be conscious but paralyzed.   

Off duty Jax loves to tinker in Zooble's workshop, making a variety of small trinkets to decorate his alleyway. 

List of who remembers most about their life (Top is most, Bottom is least)

This list excludes Caine since, as the leader, he has access to all his memories.  

Kinger 

Jax

Zooble

Gangle

Ragatha

Pomni

[brummiereader]

PREVIOUS PART

A Ghost Of A Man (PART EIGHT)

Summary: After Tommy locks the reader in his room, she desperately tries to escape to get to him, will she succeed? Will Tommy use the information she gave him to save his life?

Warnings: Language, supernatural themes, smut (18+ minors DNI)

You had been sitting on Tommy's bed for hours. You tried countless times to open the door, but with no energy left and no more tears left to cry, you had given up. Staring off into the small room hopelessly waiting for Tommy to return, your eyes focused in on the old empty fireplace. Pushing away the hair that was now stuck to your face, you stood up and walked over to the dusty furnace. Grazing your hand over the top of the black mantle, you looked down. There beside the fireplace was a metal stoking iron. Picking it up you glanced over to the old wooden door, without a second thought you lodged the poker inbetween the door frame and the door itself. With all your force you pushed the metal rod towards the wooden frame prying it open. With a loud creak the door flung open as you stumbled back onto the floor, dropping the heavy iron pole. Breathing heavily you stood up rushing to your clothes as you frantically dressed yourself. With no time to lose, you bolted out the bedroom door running faster than your feet could take you down the stairs and out the front door.

"Y/N!" John shouted to you as you pushed past him, running down the street. Had it already happened? Was Tommy already dead? The thought alone had you crying uncontrollably as you held your skirt up, freeing your legs from the fitted garment as you raced desperately to him. Turning the corner a car suddenly stopped in front of you.

"Y/N, what the bloody hell is going on?" John asked as he lent over the passenger seat, opening the door for you. Climbing in breathless you tried to speak.

" It's...it's Tommy...his in trouble. His offices...Sabini" you managed to stumble out, as panic filled your eyes.

"What are you talking about?" he answered looking at you in complete confusion.

" We don't have fucking time for this! Go!" you said as you slid over, putting your foot down on the accelerator.

" Jesus Christ, hang on woman!" He said as he pushed your foot out the way. Speeding down the road John observed you in the corner of his eye. Hair disheveled, mud splashed all over your once pristine clothes, panic in your eyes, tears sticking to your cheeks...Who was this crazy girl? He wondered as he looked at your frightened face.

"Faster!" You shouted to him as you pushed his knee down making him press harder on the acceleration. Eyes wide, John turned to you in surprise. Never had he met a woman so determined, so forward absolutely relentless, a match for Tommy if there ever was one, he concluded.

Turning the corner you recognised the building instantly. John hadn't even stopped the car before you opened the door, jumping out into the pouring rain.

" Bloody hell, Y/N wait!" He said as he pulled the handbrake, running after you. Approaching the building you heard a whistle blow as multiple gunshots filled the night sky, men quickly scrambling away from a small garage into the downpour . Following the noise you watched as countless police officers then ran into the same area.

"Tommy!" you screamed as you turned the corner, fear in your eyes as you saw him laying on the concrete covered in blood.

" Shit" John said as he followed behind you, shock on his face at the sight of his brother helpless, unprotected.

"Tommy it's me, I'm here, get an ambulance!" you shouted at the policemen behind you. Cradling his head in your lap, you looked down at his bloodied face as he grabbed onto your arm trying to pull himself closer to you until, with no energy left he let go.

"I suppose we should see if the bastards still alive " A man with a walking stick said as he approached you, his thick Irish accent filling your ears. Turning to face you he looked down giving you a smirk as he then walked away, the sound of his cane echoing through the rain.

A few hours later you was sitting beside Tommy in hospital, holding his hand as tears fell from your eyes. Gripping onto the metal frame at the end of his bed, John watched you as you focused your stare in on Tommys chest, watching it rise and fall, panicking whenever his breathing labored.

"What happend?" You heard a voice say as the doors flung opened. Turning around you realised it was the same lady from the betting shop, Tommy's older brother Arthur following behind her.

" Sabini and his men beat the shit out of him" John said as he chewed at his tooth pick. Wide eyed the older lady walked over to the opposite side of the bed, resting the back of her hand to Tommys forehead.

"Fuck!" Arthur said as he kicked over a chair, pushing his hands through his hair.

"Arthur, calm down" the dark haired woman told him as she looked down at her injured nephew." Why was you at his offices?" she asked looking over to John.

" Saw Y/N here bolting out the house, caught up with her, said Tommy was in trouble. Never seen a woman run as fast as she did " he answered nodding towards you. Nervously shifting in your seat, you made eyed contact with the mysterious lady across from you.

" You saved his life" she said quietly, reaching for you hand.

" Bet...she could, out...run you Arthur" you heard Tommy croak as he tried to sit up, squeezing your hand tightly.

" Not bloody likely" Arthur replied chuckling, as everyone finally breathed a sigh of relief. Opening his eyes, you were the first person he looked at, as he softly caressed your hand with his thumb.

" Hi" he said smiling to you.

"Hi" was all you could manage back as you brushed away your tears with your other hand.

" Come on, he's well looked after" the older lady said next to him smiling, nodding to you as she stood up. "Out, out!" She loudly said as she batted the two brothers out the room with her hand .

"What about Sabini?" Arthur asked as he was being pushed out the door.

"Out!" She demanded once more.

" Bloody hell Pol give us a sec..." You heard in the distance as the door shut.

" You're alive" you said smiling to him, relieved.

" Only because of you" he answered pointing to you.

" I didn't think you would listen"

"Oh I listened love, can't say you did the same" he replied chuckling. " I contacted Campbell after I left the house, he said he would intervene, which he did, but let me get the beating I imagine he thought I deserved beforehand" he added groaning in pain as he tried to turn his body to face you.

" How did you get out?" He asked as he cocked an eyebrow.

" Broke out" you said smiling. Scoffing Tommy shook his head.

" You owe me a new door miss Y/L/N" he chuckled. " I knew you'd get out some how, never give up, eh?"

"Never..." you said as you leaned in gently pressing your lips to his.

You stayed at the hospital with Tommy for the rest of the night, he had told you to go back to his to get some rest, but you insisted on staying. Knowing you wouldn't listen to him, and with no strength to argue, he reluctantly agreed. You slept peacefully next to him as you rested your head on the side of his pillow, and for the first time in a very long time so did Tommy.

The next day you woke up with a thumping heachache, yesterdays events had obviously taken it out you. After freshening yourself up in public bathroom, you walked into Tommy's room as the same man from last night passed you by. Tilting his hat to you, you watched him walk out the hospital entrance, his cane thudding on the tiled floors with each step.

" What's he doing here?" You asked Tommy as you walked towards him.

" Irish business" he said groaning as he stood up from the bed.

" Tommy! What the hell are you doing?" you asked as you rushed to him, holding him up.

" I'm a sitting duck here Y/N, Sabini's men could come back at any moment to finish me off " he answered as he reached for his coat and hat.

" Tommy you can't leave, you need to rest" you said looking at him, astonished by his resilience.

" You won't win this one love. He said smirking. " Come on we're gonna take a boat" he added as he held onto you, wincing in pain as you both walked out the hospital doors.

Four days you had been travelling to London by canal, all the time staying by Tommy's bedside on the small barge called the "January". You helped him in any way you could, and surprisingly he let you. Tommy, always ahead of everything was already planning his next course of action, spending most of his time writing down notes in a small black book when he should have been resting. Was that why you was going to London, another plan?

Walking down the wooden steps into the small bedroom, a cigarette resting between his lips, he watched you as you busied yourself cleaning up the old bandages you had just changed.

" Come 'ere" he said as he stubbed his cigarette out." You alright? You're pale" He asked holding you in front of him, worried by your fairer complexion.

" I'm fine, just been a lot these past few days" you answered, deliberately not mentioning the pain in your head.

" Finally a bit of excitement for you, eh?" He chuckled as you playfully hit his arm, the memory flooding your recollection when he teased you about your "mundane" life.

" Tomorrow I need to go see a man, alright?" He said ducking his head down to meet your eyes.

" I'll go with you"

" No Y/N, this time you stay here with Curly'

" But Tommy.."

"Hey" He said holding your chin with his thumb." You don't need to worry, ok?" he added winking at you as a cheeky smile formed on his lips.

"Ok" you nodded unable to stop your blushing cheeks.

Cupping your face with his hands Tommy leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your waiting mouth. Placing your arms around his neck you moved closer as you pressed your body against his, deepening the embrace as you quietly moaned into his lips. Whilst his hands softly caressed your waist, he dipped his tongue into your mouth, passionately brushing it against your own. Heat rising in your bodies, Tommy's hand traced up your spine tangling his hand into your hair, pulling you closer to his face.

"Y/N" he stopped breathless as he pressed his forehead against yours " We don't have to".

" I want to" you replied, opening your pleading eyes to meet his lustful stare as you held onto the front of his shirt. Crashing his lips back onto yours he walked you slowly to the edge of the small single bed. Hands all other eachothers body unable to hold back anymore, you both frantically began taking the others clothes off, desperate to feel eachothers body heat. Standing next to the bed holding the small of your back quietly panting from the intensity of the moment, Tommy tried to catch his breath as he looked down at your naked bodies, letting out a hiss, he pushed himself flush against your stomach, his arousal already dripping from his swollen tip. Feeling the now desperate need for him to be in you, you let yourself fall onto the bed as Tommy climbed on top of you, spreading your legs with his body as he settled down between your thighs. You let out a small moan as you finally felt him pressed against your waiting heat, desperate for more.

"Tommy please..." You whined as you pushed your hips up to his. With his fingers softly stroking up the inside of you thigh he grabbed hold of himself, slowly entering you whilst he let out a whimper of a moan, as your body's slid together as one.

" Fuck...Y/N" he groaned quietly into you ear, feeling your wet heat wrapped around him. He had been wanting, waiting for this moment longer than he wanted to admit, now finally at one with eachother he pressed his lips onto yours as he slowly rocked himself into you. Hands gripping onto his back, you held on as tight as you could, relishing in the feeling of him inside of you, adoring you, pleasuring you...making love to you. Panting into eachothers mouths, sweat gathered on your foreheads as you looked deep into eachothers eyes. Stopping Tommy cupped your cheek.

" Y/N...I love you" he said looking at you desperately waiting for your response.

" I...I love you too Tommy" you said as you crashed your lips back onto his. Tommy holding onto your body picked up the pace as he drove himself into you, harder, deeper, desperately craving the high your body would soon give him.

" Tommy I'm so close" you said moaning into his mouth as you clenched yourself around him. Groaning at the sudden increased tightness, he could barely hold on, grabbing your outer thigh with his sweaty hand he rocked into you faster as he buried his head into your neck.

"God Y/N.. I'm going to.." he breathed against your neck, the words barely leaving his lips as his whole body stiffened, scrunching his eyes as he released his hot white arousal into you with force.

"Tommy..." You whined as you grabbed onto his shoulders reaching your high as he continued to throb inside you.

Looming over you, sweaty and breathless Tommy placed a tender kiss to your lips, nudging your nose with his as he pulled out collapsing beside you exhausted. Turning to face you he watched as your bare chest moved up and down beads of sweat trailing down to your stomach.

" Hey" he said turning your chin to face him. "You ok?"

" Perfect" you said smiling to him, ignoring the ringing in your ears.

Wrapping his arm around you, he pulled you closer to him as he held your hand. Both content and in peace you rested your head on his chest as you listened to his beating heart, he was alive, he was safe and you was here with him, finally. As you tried to get comfortable, the ringing in your ears was getting louder, almost unbearable.

" You ok Y/N" Tommy said opening his eyes a content smile on his face as he stroked up and down your arm.

" Yeh I'm fine" you answered as the thumping in your head increased. You was just tired, you tried to reassure yourself as you adjusted your position in his arms. Suddenly you started to feel hot, your hands sweaty the ringing becoming deafening. In a panic you abruptly stood up from the bed, your hand pressed against your forehead.

"What's wrong ?" Tommy questioned, fear in his eyes as he watched your face go a deathly white. Turning to face him you held yourself up by a nearby chair as the room spun around you. Eyes glossed over you looked at him, mumbling in a shaky panicked voice,

"Tommy, I don't feel so good..."

NEXT PART

Tag list: @theshelbyclan @babayaga67 @sysymei @nataliewalker93 @cherryslyce @globetrotter28 @jyessaminereads @meowtastick @kathrinemelissa @casa-boiardi

[widowsistersandfriends]

Fighting the Tickle Monster

Request: Hi! First of all, your fics are amazing and cute and I'm so sorry for the haters you're getting! If that's okay, I wanted to give you a little prompt for Wanda and reader. Like, since joining the compound, reader has always seen Wanda being the tickle monster (she gave herself that title!) so they get Wanda, only to find out she is a huge and adorable walking tickle spot! You're free to add whatever you want, even other characters, I don't mind :)

Notes: Thank you so much for this cute request! I appreciate your patience waiting for this fic! I hope you enjoy :)

Word Count: 2030

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You were new to the Avengers, as this was only your second week living in the compound with all of them. You were still in awe of the structure and layout of your new living space. The highest technology, finest finishes, and updated appliances. For now, you had your own room, but you were never alone for long. Especially since the rest of the Avengers loved hanging out as a group downstairs in the common area.

You had many mentors who helped lead the way for you. As you learned more about how to be a great superhero, you also learned a lot more about the roles around the compound. Yelena was the prankster, roping in Kate and Peter so she could split the punishment. Peter and Kate were young and maybe just a tad bit scared of Yelena. They figured it was better to split the punishment three ways rather than two. Natasha was definitely the mom of the group, caring and strong, while always looking out for your safety and well-being first. Steve was the goofy one, always cracking corny jokes and happened to be an amazing chef as well. Tony was the uptight, serious, all work no play guy around there. Thor, Bruce, and Clint were chill dudes, who bonded over their lack of understanding of what young people do these days. Lastly, Wanda was the one who would do anything to protect anyone, but she also had a mischievous side and couldn’t help messing with people given her powers.

From what you’ve seen so far, whenever Yelena would try to pull pranks with Kate and Peter, Wanda would be the first to punish them with tickles. Her powers allowed her to pin all three of them at once while still having both her hands free. Natasha would sometimes join in to help her or give away Yelena’s weaknesses. Even though you were new here, Yelena still tried to rope you in as much as possible. Today, you were involved in your first quadruplet prank, which you learned the hard way to not do.

The four of you had put on swim flippers, dragging mud prints into the compound, trying to scare the others that an animal had walked through and left footprints. You guys were able to execute it quickly, running into the garage to take off the flippers and hide them. You knew this was a harmless prank since Wanda could use her magic to clean it up in seconds. However, your flippers were stuck and you couldn’t get them off in time, when the garage door opened and Wanda caught you guys in the act. 

“Well well well, what do we have here?” Wanda asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing…” You said, avoiding eye contact and trying to move out of sight.

“Seems like Y/N has gotten roped into one of Yelena’s famous pranks huh?” The witch said, knowing that Yelena and the rest of the crew were hiding nearby. 

“I wasn’t doing anything!” You blurted out.

The witch knew you were lying, as she could hear your thoughts. 

“Really?” Wanda said, smirking a little before sending some magic towards you. In seconds you felt ticklish sensations on your ribcage, making you double over with laughter and wrap your arms around yourself, to no avail.

“Wahahanda stahahahap gehehet ihihit ohohoff,” you giggled, struggling to stay standing.

“Not until you spill the truth,” Wanda said, upping the sensation, making you fall to the ground laughing. It also didn’t help that she had added sensations to your armpits. Wanda slowly made her way over to you, as you were a giggly mess on the floor. Your superpower was the ability to shut your nerves off. However, you were too ticklish and couldn’t concentrate enough to focus.

“C’mon Y/N, what’s the matter? Can’t turn your ticklishness off?” Wanda asked, now picking you up and flying back into the living room with you, and pinning you with her powers. With that, she continued the sensations and began to tickle your sides with her sharp nails.

“GAHAHAHA WAHAHANDA STAHAHAHAP PLEHEHEASE IHIHIT TIHIHICKLES,” you screamed with laughter. 

“Better fess up who else is in cahoots with you,” the witch teased, speeding her fingers up.

“AHAHAHA NEHEHEVER,” you cried, unable to squirm and knowing that if you didn’t fess up, she would tickle you to tears.

“Tell the tickle monster, before she makes you pee your pants,” Wanda teased, moving down to your feet.

“NOHOHO NOHOHOT THEHEHERE OKAHAHAY IHIHI GHIHIVE,” you shouted, knowing that once someone got a hold of your feet, you were done for.

“Tell me,” Wanda demanded, as you giggled from the lingering sensation.

“Ihihi ahaha was wihith Yelena, Kate, and Peter,” you huffed out, lying there in defeat.

“Ohh interesting,” Wanda said teasingly, as you knew she already knew all the details, wanted to tickle you to get you to confess.

“You’re evil, you know that,” you said playfully.

“Glad you picked up on that in the short time you’ve been here,” Wanda said with a wink.

“Now what do you say? Want to help me dish out a punishment to your other little minions?” Wanda asked with a smile.

You thought for a second, knowing that either way you would be in trouble. Whether it was with Wanda or Yelena. However, Wanda had way more power, so you took your chances with Yelena and led the witch back to the garage where the others were hiding. In your defense, they didn’t try to save you when you were being tickled to pieces.

You turned on the lights in the garage, telling Wanda where they hid. 

“Thanks, Y/N. I’ll give you a headstart so they don’t try to chase you,” the witch whispered. You quickly ran off, hearing Yelena shout your name to get back there. You let out a giggle and returned to the living room where you found Natasha doing a sudoku puzzle.

“Heard you got wrecked, Y/N,” Natasha said, smirking without looking up.

“Shut up, I did not!” 

“Everyone could hear your laughter throughout the compound,” Natasha said. Before you could respond, Wanda came back in, all three kiddos in tow.

“Why do we keep agreeing to this?” Peter asked Kate, who looked like a deer in the headlights, knowing she was doomed. Yelena was the only one trying to wiggle her way out of Wanda’s grasp, being unsuccessful. 

“The more you squirm, the more she’s gonna tickle you,” Natasha told Yelena.

“But if I escape I won’t get tickled at all,” Yelena said back matter-of-factly.

“Too bad you’re not escaping,” you chimed in shyly.

“You little turd. You’re the reason why I got caught!” Yelena said, pointing at you.

“Don’t worry, I already tickled her to pieces,” Wanda said, catching you blushing.

“Oh man, I wish I saw that,” Yelena said with a chuckle.

“You missed a lot. She’s super ticklish and has the sweetest giggle,” Wanda said, floating her magic towards you, this time on your stomach.

“Nohohohoo Wahahahanda plehehehease ihih’ve hahahad enohough,” you squealed, curling up into a ball. They all laughed at your reaction, much to your embarrassment. 

“I didn’t forget about you guys,” Wanda said, promptly pinning the three of them with her powers.

“Now, who should I start with first?” Wanda said, wiggling her fingers.

“Kate!” Yelena blurted out, before bursting into laughter, as Wanda raked her nails over Yelena’s armpits.

“AHAHAHAHA STAHAHAHAHAP.”

“Since you volunteered someone else, I decided to tickle you first,” Wanda said cheekily.

“IHIHITS SOHOHO BAHAHAD PLEHEHEASE,” the blonde laughed, as Wanda began to squeeze her knees and knead into her hips.

Wanda gave her a break and moved on to Kate, who was the most scared out of all of them.

“Please don’t tickle me! I’m sorry!” Kate pleaded.

“Hmm, no I think the tickle monster is still hungry,” Wanda said, blowing three raspberries on Kate’s stomach. It tickled so much that Kate went into silent laughter.

“Wow Kate, she’s not even doing much,” Peter teased, whose eyes then widened when Wanda reached over and tickled his armpits, making the boy squeal with laughter. She now used her other hand to dip a finger into Kate’s belly button. 

“WANDA NOT THEHEHEHERE IHIHI CAHAHANT STAHAHAND IHIHIT,” Kate screamed. She was getting their two worst spots at the same time. Once she felt they had enough, she sent some magic to all of them, tickling them on their feet and sides. They were all laughing too much to even speak. Meanwhile Natasha had moved closer to you on the couch.

“You know, we should try to get Wanda back. She’s always the most powerful one here, but why not give her a taste of her own medicine?” Natasha suggested quietly to you.

“No way! I’m not suffering through punishment again!” You hissed back quietly.

“You’d rather be in trouble with me?” Natasha said, pinching your side, making you yelp and jump away.

“That’s what I thought,” the redhead said, now explaining the plan to you.

Natasha snuck up behind Wanda while she was distracted, grabbing her from behind and pinning her arms above her head. Meanwhile you came around and quickly sat on Wanda’s waist.

“Y/N! What are you doing??” Wanda questioned, trying to break free from Natasha. 

“I’m here to get revenge,” you said simply.

“Too bad I’m not ticklish, so you’ll have to find another way,” the witch responded confidently.

“We’ll see about that,” you said, slowly tracing your fingers over her sides and stomach. You saw her jolt, as she sucked her stomach in to avoid your fingers.

“Oh what do we have here? Seems like I’m not the only liar here,” you said, now kneading into her sides and tickling her stomach with no mercy.

“Y/N STAHAHAHAP OHOO MY GOHOHOSH,” the witch cried out with laughter. The tickling was enough for her to break concentration, which released the other three from her spell holding them down. Meanwhile, Natasha was using her free hand to tickle the witch’s armpits. 

“Alright everyone, pick a spot,” Natasha said, keeping a firm grip on her wrists.

Yelena went to her feet, Kate was at her knees, and you and Peter would get her upper body, while Natasha got her armpits. 

“Everyone ready?” Yelena asked.

“NO GUYS PLEASE! DONT DO THIS!” Wanda panicked, unable to escape. 

“Who’s the tickle monster now?” You asked, as you all began to tickle her to pieces.

“NOHOHOHO AHAHAHAHAHA GUYS STAHAHAP,” Wanda shouted, overwhelmed with ticklish sensations. 

You raked your nails over her ribs, before digging in between her rib bones knowing that you had hit a sweet spot. The witch tried to kick and wiggle as much as she could, but she was outnumbered.

“Do you admit defeat?” Yelena asked, running her nails over a particularly good spot near her heel. 

“GAHAHA NEHEHEVER SCREHEHEW YOHOHOU GUHUYS,” the witch laughed, turning pink.

“Man she is stubborn,” Peter commented with a small laugh.

“Fine, then take this as revenge for all the times you tickled us. Turns out you’re even more ticklish than us!” Kate said, now tickling the back of her knees.

Natasha had let her guard down a bit, loosening her grip on Wanda’s wrists. The witch saw this opportunity and extended her arms to reach Natasha’s stomach. She wiggled her fingers, causing Natasha to yelp and let go of her wrists. With her hands free now, she immediately turned towards you and reached up to tickle you off of her. You squealed and immediately got off of her. Wanda was able to overpower the others and quickly turned the tables on Natasha, the only one who hadn’t been tickled yet. 

Within seconds, Natasha was laughing and squealing, failing to swat Wanda’s quick hands away. You joined the other three, fleeing to safety.

“You brats!” Natasha yelled out over her laughter. The four of you knew they would get revenge on you guys afterwards, so you guys took advantage of the head start. Even if tickling embarrassed you, you loved the bonding it created between you and your superhero teammates. And the one thing you always remembered was that Wanda was the ultimate tickle monster.

[reincrimination]

who were you expecting?

9-1-1 | eddie diaz x evan buckley

content warnings: hurt/comfort, injury

collection: buddie week 2021 (reposting sept '24)

read on archive of our own

Eddie twists to see the bruises better in the mirror, hands coming down to frame them as if they were a piece of art. He tugs his turnout gear past his waist and over his hipbone, trying to see how far it extends. The bruising ends abruptly at the top of his hip. Already, the edges are turning a sickly yellow, unflattering against the tan skin of his torso. It looks like a sunset, but maybe more like the type you’d see in a zombie apocalypse. The door creaks open and he turns with a start, exhaling when he sees Buck. “Oh, it’s you.” “Who were you expecting?” Buck hazards, but his gaze has already turned to the marred mess of Eddie’s side. “Hen, I hope?”

It’d been a rough shift.

It hadn’t been the kind of shift where Eddie would keep seeing a dying person’s last moments on the backs of his eyelids, or when the ride back to the station would be silent with everyone’s heads bowed in bone-deep exhaustion. Where the feelings in his chest hurt more than his muscles.

It’d been the kind of shift where the hits had kept coming, and coming, and coming. Call after call after call, with no casualties, but maybe some that would’ve been better off dead. When closing his eyes on the way to another scene was the most rest he’d had all shift, when the only thing he’d eaten was half a granola bar that Buck gave him. When Eddie had to shower not once, not twice, but three times, to scrub mud and soot and dirt off of him in-between calls, just for the last one to slather him in layers of concrete dust, anyways.

When a parking garage collapse had led to him, two stories aboveground and yet feeling like he was in the deepest cave imaginable, pulling a woman and her children from their crumpled car, he had expected to need another shower, but not to need medical attention, too.

He supposes he remembers it, now that he thinks back. He’d been leaning in to pull the youngest out of her car seat and a chunk of the roof, resting on top of the car, had shifted enough to pin him where he was hanging down into the sunroof. In seconds, Buck had moved it off and he had gotten the kid up and out. He doesn’t remember it hurting.

As he stands in the shower room, turnout gear shoved down and hanging off of his waist like a lumpy skirt, he figures it must’ve hurt when it happened. It certainly does now.

His ribs are painted a mural of blue and purple, bruises echoing from his flank to his ribcage, and stretching down to his hipbone. Small abrasions litter his torso like cat scratches, and they’d stung as the fabric of his shirt had peeled away from them. Eddie twists to see the bruises better in the mirror, hands coming down to frame them as if they were a piece of art. He tugs his turnout gear past his waist and over his hipbone, trying to see how far it extends. The bruising ends abruptly at the top of his hip. Already, the edges are turning a sickly yellow, unflattering against the tan skin of his torso. It looks like a sunset, but maybe more like the type you’d see in a zombie apocalypse. 

The door creaks open and he turns with a start, exhaling when he sees Buck. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Who were you expecting?” Buck hazards, but his gaze has already turned to the marred mess of Eddie’s side. “Hen, I hope?”

Eddie shakes his head, fingers quickly dancing along the length of his ribs. He doesn’t need to be checked out. “Nah. Nothing’s broken.”

“What about bleeding?” Buck’s already standing beside Eddie, so close the latter can feel his breath ghost along his exposed shoulder and collarbones. “When was this?”

“Parking garage,” Eddie mumbles, losing his focus as Buck’s palm comes to rest over the very center of the bruise. His palm is scorching hot. It soothes Eddie’s aching chest.

“The slab?” Buck hisses in sympathy, pressing in gently with his fingertips along the lines of Eddie’s ribs. He tracks down to the swell of his hipbone, palpating the expanse of blue and yellow. “Shit, I’m sorry, man- I tried to get it off as quick as I could- I didn’t notice it caught you this bad.”

“Don’t,” Eddie shakes his head, putting a hand over Buck’s forearm, stilling the man’s movements on his torso.

“Right. Not about me. Sorry.” Buck gently smooths along the rest of the bruise, tugging down Eddie’s gear like he had to see how far down it extends.

“Not what I meant,” Eddie murmurs, so softly that it makes Buck stutter in his movements. He looks up, finding Eddie’s gaze waiting. His eyes are tinged red, probably from exhaustion, and Buck wants to pull him into his chest and hold him until he falls asleep. “Not your fault.”

“Okay,” Buck breathes, unable to tear his gaze away from Eddie’s. His fingers still rest on the abstract art coloring Eddie’s skin.

“Broken? Bleeding?”

“No, I don’t think so. You should still get it checked-.”

Eddie’s turning away and shaking his head, then. Buck looks away as he strips out of the rest of his gear, now just in his nylon uniform pants that he’d worn underneath it. A thin layer of gray dust litters his hair, face, and neck- whatever had been exposed during the rescue.

“Let me,” Buck mumbles, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it before nudging Eddie towards the bench. He looks like he is going to protest, but the tiredness weighing down his bones is so profound he doesn’t, he just straddles the bench so he’s facing Buck and lets his head hang.

Buck does the same facing Eddie, scooting forward and gently cupping his chin with his own bruised, scraped hands. Eddie’s eyes flutter closed as Buck carefully wipes the dust off of his cheeks, his jawline, his forehead, under his eyes. He wets the towel more and starts on Eddie’s hair, trying to avoid having to rinse it again. Eddie’s completely pliant as Buck works on him, breathing slowing as he finds a moment to relax.

Buck gently rests Eddie’s forehead against his shoulder, letting the man sag against him as he moves onto the back of his neck and shoulders. He falls into the rhythm of swiping and blotting the dust off, wringing out the towel, and then re-wetting it and repeating. Eddie’s breathing is slow- not labored, Buck notes, as he listens carefully- and he thinks he might be falling asleep. When Buck is done, he cups the back of Eddie’s neck with a dry hand and rests his own cheek against the top of his head. He smells like cement and soot and a little bit of sweat, but underneath there is still the coconut of his shampoo that he shares with Chris, and the cinnamon pine of that nice cologne he buys himself.

Buck doesn’t know how long they sit there, one hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and the other resting gently over the bruise on his side, like his touch alone can heal it. The warmth from his palm seeps out onto Eddie’s cold-to-the-touch skin. Eddie is floating in that space between sleep and awareness, where his thoughts are slow like honey and incoherent, and he’s aptly aware of the sensation of Buck’s hands on him- but also feels like he’s floating in warmth.

He feels safe and he never wants to move.

Except his shift has been over for half an hour and his kid is going to be back from school soon.

Eddie groans, a pathetic noise, as he pulls himself away from Buck. The hand on his neck releases, fingertips dragging across the raised goosebumps that have sprung up like spring flowers across his skin. The hand on his side pats gently and then is gone, too. 

“Thanks.” Eddie’s voice is gruff and weary. Buck wants to smooth down the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb until it is gone, paint over the dark of his under-eyes with a color light enough to help him look alive. “Better get going.”

“Yeah,” Buck rubs the back of his own neck, fingers still tingling like he’d dipped them in lidocaine. “You have, uh, Chris waiting.”

“He’ll be home in a bit,” Eddie mumbles. “And you have, uh. Taylor.”

Buck looks like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. 

“Can I-?”

“Do you want to-?”

They stop at the same time, huffing twin laughs before tiredly meeting each other’s gazes again. There’s a new weight to it, now. 

“Come home with me?” Eddie asks, quick, before Buck can say anything else.

“Read my mind, Diaz.”