#quick mill coffee

[beanscoffee]

Unlocking The Perfect Brew: Exploring The Features Of Quick Mill Coffee Machines

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[mostlysignssomeportents]

A profoundly stupid case about video game cheating could transform adblocking into a copyright infringement

I'm coming to DEFCON! On Aug 9, I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On Aug 10, I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Here's a weird consequence of our societal shift from capitalism (where riches come from profits) to feudalism (where riches come from rents): increasingly, your rights to your actual property (the physical stuff you own) are trumped by corporations' metaphorical "intellectual property" claims.

That's a lot to unpack! Let's start with a quick primer on profits and rents. Capitalists invest money in buying equipment, then they pay workers wages to use that equipment to produce goods and services. Profit is the sum a capitalist takes home from this arrangement: money made from paying workers to do productive things.

Now, rents: "rent" is the money a rentier makes by owning a "factor of production": something the capitalist needs in order to make profits. Capitalists risk their capital to get profits, but rents are heavily insulated from risk.

For example: a coffee shop owner buys espresso machines, hires baristas, and rents a storefront. If they do well, the landlord can raise their rent, denying them profits and increasing rents. But! If a great new cafe opens across the street and the coffee shop owner goes broke, the landlord is in great shape, because they now have a vacant storefront they can rent, and they can charge extra for a prime location across the street from the hottest new coffee shop in town.

The "moral philosophers" that today's self-described capitalists claim to worship – Adam Smith, David Ricardo – hated rents. For them, profits were the moral way to get rich, because when capitalists chase profits, they necessarily chase the production of things that people want.

When rentiers chase rents, they do so at the expense of profits. Every dollar a capitalist pays in rent – licenses for IP, rent for a building, etc – is a dollar that can't be extracted in profit, and then reinvested in the production of more goods and services that society desires.

The "free markets" of Adam Smith weren't free from regulation, they were free from rents.

The moral philosophers' hatred of rents was really a hatred of feudalism. The industrial revolution wasn't merely (or even primarily) the triumph of new machines: rather, it was the triumph of profits over rent. For the industrial revolution to succeed, the feudal arrangement had to end. Capitalism is incompatible with hereditary lords receiving guaranteed rents from hereditary serfs who are legally obliged to work for them. Capitalism triumphed over feudalism when the serfs were turned off of the land (becoming the "free labor" who went to work in the textile mills) and the land itself was given over to sheep grazing (providing the wool for those same mills).

But that doesn't mean that the industrial revolution invented profits. Profits were to be found in feudal societies, wherever a wealthy person increased their wealth by investing in machines and hiring workers to use them. The thing that made feudalism feudal was how conflicts between rents and profits cashed out. For so long as the legal system elevated the claims of rentiers over the claims of capitalists, the society was feudal. Once the legal system gave priority to profit over rent, it became capitalist.

Capitalists hate capitalism. The engine of capitalism is insecurity. The successful capitalist is like the fastest gun in the old west: there's always a young gun out there looking to "disrupt" their fortune with a new invention, product, or organizational strategy that "creatively destroys" the successful businesses of the day and replaces them with new ones:

https://locusmag.com/2024/03/cory-doctorow-capitalists-hate-capitalism/

That's a hard way to live, with your every success serving as a blinking KICK ME sign visible to every ambitious person in the world. Precarity makes people miserable and nuts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

So capitalists universally aspire to become rentiers and investors seek out companies that have a plan to extract rent. This is why Warren Buffett is so priapatic for companies with "moats and walls" – legal privileges and market structures that protect the business from competition and disruption:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/warren-buffett-explains-moat-principle-164442359.html

Feudal rents were mostly derived from land, but even in the feudal era, the king was known to reward loyal lickspittles with rents over ideas. The "patents royal" were the legally protected right to decide who could make or do certain things: for example, you might have a patent royal over the production of silver ribbon, and anyone who wanted to make a silver ribbon would have to pay for your permission. If you chose to grant that permission exclusively to one manufacturer, then no one else could make it, and you could charge a license fee to the manufacturer that accounted for nearly all their profit.

Today, rentiers are also interested in land. Bill Gates is the country's number one landowner, and in many towns, private equity landlords are snappinig up every single family home that hits the market and converting it to a badly maintained slum:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

But the 21st Century's defining source of rent is "IP" – a controversial term that I use here to mean, "Any law or policy that allows a company to exert legal control over its competitors, critics and customers":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

IP is in irreconcilable conflict with real property rights. Think of HP selling you a printer and wanting to decide which ink you use, or John Deere selling you a tractor and wanting to tell you who can fix it. Or, for that matter, Apple selling you a phone and dictating which software you are allowed to install on it.

Think of Unity, a company that makes tools for video-game makers, demanding a royalty from every game that is eventually sold, calling this "shared success":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

Every time one of these conflicts ends with IP's triumph over real property rights, that is a notch in favor of calling the world we live in now "technofeudalist" rather than "technocapitalist":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

Once you start to think of "IP" as "laws that let me control how other people use their real property," a lot of the seemingly incoherent fights over IP snap into place. This also goes a long way to explaining how otherwise sensible people can agree on expansions of IP to achieve some short-term goal, irrespective of the spillover harms from such a move. Hard cases make bad law, and hard IP cases make terrible law.

Five years ago, some anti-fascist counterdemonstrators hit on the clever idea of blaring top 40 music during neo-Nazi marches, on the theory that this would prevent Nazis from uploading videos of their marches to Youtube and other platforms, whose filters would block any footage that included copyrighted music:

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/07/23/clever-hack-that-will-end-badly-playing-copyrighted-music-during-nazis-rallies-so-they-cant-be-posted-to-youtube/

Thankfully, this didn't work, but not for lack of trying. And it might still work, if calls for beefing up video copyright filters are heeded. Cops all over the place are already blaring Taylor Swift songs and Disney tunes to prevent their interactions with the public from being uploaded:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/07/moral-hazard-of-filternets/#dmas

The same thinking that causes progressives to recklessly argue in favor of upload filters also causes them to demand that web scraping be treated as a copyright crime. They think they're creating a world where AI companies can't rip off their creation to train a model; they're actually creating a world where the Internet Archive can't capture JD Vance's embarrassing old podcast appearances or newspaper editorial boards' advocacy for positions they now recant:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

It's not that Nazi marches are good, or that scraping can't be bad – it's just that advocating for the use of IP to address either is a cure that's not just worse than the disease – it's also not a cure.

A problem can be real, and still not be solvable with IP. I have enormous sympathy for gamers who rail against cheaters who use aftermarket hacks to improve their aim, see through buildings, or command other unfair advantages.

If you want to tell a stranger how they must configure their PC or console, IP ("any law that lets you control your competitors, critics or customers") is an obvious answer. But – as with other attempts to solve real problems with IP – this is a cure that is both worse than the disease, and also not a cure after all.

Back in 2002, Blizzard sued some hobbyists over a program called "bnetd." Bnetd was a program that provided a game-server you could connect to with the Blizzard games that you'd bought. It was created as an alternative to Battlenet, Blizzard's notoriously unreliable game-server software that left gamers frustrated and furious due to frequent outages:

https://www.eff.org/cases/blizzard-v-bnetd

To the public, Blizzard made several arguments against bnetd. They claimed that it encouraged piracy, because – unlike the official Battlenet servers – it didn't check whether the copies of Blizzard software that connected to it had a valid license key. Gamers didn't really care about that, but they did respond to another argument: that bnetd lacked the anti-cheat checking of Battlenet.

But that wasn't what Blizzard took to the court: in court, they argued that the hobbyists who made bnetd violated copyright law. Specifically, Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, which bans "circumvention of access controls to copyrighted works." Basically, Blizzard argued that bnetd's authors violated the law because they used debuggers to examine the software they'd paid for, while it ran on their own computers, to figure out how to make a game server of their own.

Blizzard didn't sue bnetd's authors for pirating Blizzard software (they didn't – they'd paid for their copies). They didn't sue them for abetting other gamers' piracy. They certainly didn't sue them for making a cheat-friendly game-server.

Blizzard sued them for analyzing software they'd paid for, while it was running on their own computers.

Imagine if Walmart – one of the biggest book-retailers in America – had a policy that said that you could only shelve the books you bought at Walmart on shelves that you also bought at Walmart. Now imagine that Walmart successfully argued that measuring the books you bought from them and using those measurements to create your own compatible book-case violated their IP rights!

This is an outrageous triumph of IP rights over real property rights, and yet gamers vocally backed Blizzard in the early noughts, because gamers hate cheaters and because IP law is (correctly) understood as "the law that lets a company tell you how you can use your own real, physical property." Hard cases make bad law, hard IP cases make batshit law.

It's more than 20 years since bnetd, and cheating continues to serve as a Trojan horse to smuggle in batshit new IP laws. In Germany, Sony is suing the cheat-device maker Datel:

https://torrentfreak.com/sonys-ancient-lawsuit-vs-cheat-device-heads-in-right-direction-sonys-defeat-240705/

Sony argues that the Datel device – which rewrites the contents of a player's device's RAM, at the direction of that player – infringes copyright. Sony claims that the values that its programs write to your device's RAM chips are copyrighted works that it has created, and that altering that copyrighted work makes an unauthorized derivative work, which infringes its copyright.

Yes, this is batshit, and thankfully, Sony has been thwarted in court to date, but it is steaming ahead to the EU's highest court. If it succeeds, then it will open up every tool that modifies your computer at your direction to this kind of claim.

How bad can it be? Well, get this: the German publishing giant Axel Springer (owned by a monomaniacal Trumpist and Israel hardliner who has ordered journalists in his US news outlets to go easy on both) is suing Eyeo, makers of Adblock Plus, on the grounds that changing HTML to block an ad creates a "derivative work" of Axel Springer's web-pages:

https://torrentfreak.com/ad-blocking-infringes-copyright-ancient-sony-cheat-lawsuit-may-prove-pivotal-240729/

Axel Springer's filings cite the Sony/Datel case, using it to argue that their IP rights trump your property rights, and that you can only configure your web-browser, running on your computer, which you own, in ways that it approves of.

Axel Springer's war on browsers is a particularly pernicious maneuver, because browsers are the best example we have of internet software that serves as a "user agent." "User agent" is an old-timey engineering synonym for "browser" that reflects the browser's role: to go out onto the web on your behalf and bring back things for you, which it displays in the way you prefer:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/07/treacherous-computing/#rewilding-the-internet

Want to block flickering GIFs to forestall photosensitive epileptic servers? Ask your user agent to find and delete them. Want to shift colors into a gamut that accounts for your color-blindness? Ask your user-agent:

https://dankaminsky.com/2010/12/15/dankam/

Want to goose the font size and contrast so you can read the sadistic grey-on-white type that young designers use in the mistaken belief that black-on-white type is "hard on the eyes"? That's what Reader Mode is for:

https://frankgroeneveld.nl/2021/08/24/most-underused-browser-feature/

The foundation of any good digital relationship is a device that works for you, not for the people who own the servers you connect to. Even if they don't plan on screwing you over by directing your user agent to attack you on their behalf right now, the very existence of a facility in your technology that causes it to betray you, by design, is a moral hazard that inevitably results in your victimization:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

"IP" ("a law that lets me control how you use your own property") is a tempting solution to every problem, but ultimately, IP ends up magnifying the power of the already powerful, in contests where your only hope of victory is having a user agent whose only loyalty is to you.

The monotonic, dangerous expansion of IP reflects the growing victory of rents over profits – income from owning things, rather than income from doing things. Everyday people may argue for IP in the belief that it will solve their immediate problems – with AI, or Nazis, or in-game cheats – but ultimately, the expansion of a law that limits how you can use your property (including your capital) to uses that don't threaten neofeudalists will doom you to technoserfdom.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/29/faithful-user-agents/#hard-cases-make-bad-copyright-law

[rebelspykatie]

Part 2

Part 1

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eddie stands and follows Steve to the door as he’s pulling on his shoes. He wants to stop him, pull the shoe out of his hand and drag Steve back to the couch, but he doesn’t have any right. He’s not entirely sure Steve won’t push him away if he tries to touch him right now, anyways.

“You think I’m straight and I was convinced you were into me,” Steve leans against the door frame to pull his other shoe on. He mutters under his breath, “I should’ve never listened to Robin an-”

“Robin was in on this?” He interrupts that thought. It throws Eddie. They’re such a tight knit group, he doesn’t know how they were so far off track with him.

“We spent hours going through every stupid interaction we had. Thought we had it all figured out.” He huffs and walks back over to the coffee table to pick up his wallet and keys. “I guess we’re both idiots.”

“No, Steve,” he tries to reach out and grab Steve’s arm, but he moves too quickly and Eddie’s left grasping air, “you’re not.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it, anyways.” Steve scrambles to pull his sweater back on, the cold just starting to seep into the night air outside.

“Can you just slow down for a second?” Eddie stops trying to catch Steve and plants himself in front of the door. “What do you mean, you’re used to it?”

“Are you going to trap me here?”

“Answer the question.”

“This part, Eddie,” he sighs and gestures between them like that means anything to Eddie. “Everyone I’ve ever confessed to or made a move on has had the same reaction.” He looks off to the side, unable to look Eddie in the eye. “I’m pretty sure I’m the problem. Good ole Steve Harrington, too stupid to notice no one is interested in him.”

“Steve, you’re not stupid.”

“Feels like it most of the time.” He pinches his nose again, still not looking at Eddie, more like through him, gaze pinned to somewhere in the middle of Eddie’s chest. “Can you please move? We can pretend like this never happened and I promise I won’t make any weird moves on you ever again. I’m still friends with Nancy and Robin after everything, I can do it with you, too.”

Eddie skips over the whole Robin part of that in his head because he doesn’t have the brain power to analyze anything beyond Steve’s feelings for him. He never saw this coming. No one, boy or girl or anything in between, has ever made a move on Eddie before. He’s the local freak. There’s no way he could have predicted the town’s golden boy hero would make the moves on him.

He takes in how disheveled Steve’s become in the last few minutes. How hastily he’s thrown on his sweater. The mess of Steve’s hair from the hand that’s run through it several times since he got up from the couch. Barely laced up shoes so he could get out the door faster. He’s normally so put together and this, the sight of him so frazzled, frightens Eddie.

They were fast friends after everything happened with Vecna, leaning on each other for support. Becoming inseparable with King Steve wasn’t something Eddie ever imagined, but it was so easy. Neither of them were what each other had built up in their heads from the rumor mill around Hawkins. Eddie’s never had a guy friend as close as Steve. Sure, he had Hellfire and Corroded Coffin, but Eddie’s always been a bit of a loner.

It was impossible to feel alone with Steve as a friend. He had a way of knowing when you needed support, always just there when Eddie felt alone or needed a physical presence when the weight of the upside down was dragging him down. There wasn’t a day in the past six months that Eddie didn’t see Steve, even if it was only in passing or a quick little jaunt down to Family Video, he’s a constant presence in Eddie’s life.

To lose that? Would be like losing a part of himself. Like losing a limb. Losing his home.

And he’s scared. He doesn’t want to let Steve walk out that door, the weight of losing him forever lingering in the air. But he can’t trap him here. That wouldn’t be fair to Steve.

He moves out of the way, taking a step towards Steve, but he sidesteps Eddie and reaches for the door.

“Steve-”

“Don’t worry about me, Eddie,” he doesn’t turn around, but hesitates halfway out the door. “I’ll be fine.”

With the soft click of the door closing, he’s gone.

And that should be the end of it. Closed book. Eddie doesn’t like Steve and Steve needs to move on. There’s not much Eddie can do about that.

But it haunts him.

If you didn’t know Steve, you wouldn’t realize that anything was wrong. He’s acting normal, smile on his face when he jokes with Robin, complaining about the kids being terrors, going to his job.

But there’s something in the set of his shoulders, in the way his smile droops when he thinks no one’s paying attention to him, in the way Robin protectively hovers around him when Eddie is nearby. It’s clearly a facade he’s putting on to get by.

And Eddie aches. There’s a pit in his stomach that opened up that day and it hasn’t closed. Steve avoids his touch and the chasm grows larger, dragging Eddie further into the darkness. Casual hangouts halted. No more divulging of nightmares or fears late at night. A piece of Eddie is with Steve and he’s bereft of comfort. Unsettled.

He lies awake replaying that kiss over and over in his head. Thinking about what Steve said after. There’s no comfort in the way he handled the situation. It feels like he miscalculated, like pushing Steve away was the wrong move and now his life will never be the same again.

Maybe it won’t. Maybe there’s no way for them to move forward and for him to not break Steve’s heart every day. Steve said he was an idiot, but Eddie’s positive he’s got it all backwards. Eddie’s the idiot.

And he can’t stop thinking about kissing Steve.

[unspeakable-imagination]

Couch Cuddles || Logan Howlette/Wolverine

Kinda a drabble, not to long.

My masterlist is here

Cw:lumberjack logan even though it's not really mentioned, lots of fluff/cuddles, mentions of sex but nothing happens, use of tabacco and alcohol, established relationship, use of petnames, fem reader

SEND IN YOUR ASK REQUESTS, ILL MAKE MORE CONTENT

"I'll be back soon," Logan said as he placed a warm kiss to the top of your temples. "I need to go to work. You know where to find me, right, princess?" You nodded silent.

His eyebrows creased and his lips turned to a small frown. You hardly caught it, but you did."I love you, Logan. Drive safe, okay?"

His mood had shifted the moment the first three words left your lips, and he already felt better. "I will, baby girl." Before you knew it, he was out the door and you were sitting on the sofa, curled in a blanket in the cabin he's built by hand for the two of you.

You'd been living together for a year, and dating for two. Maybe it was a little fast to move in, but he pulled you out of water when it felt like tou were drowning.You were stuck in living a life of manotany and Logan was always looking for some way to make his own exiting. And somehow- he figured that was you.

You weren't sure why- as you really thought you wanted different things than him. You wanted to settle down, maybe even have kids. You wanted to dance in a kitchen and shoo a cat off the table, and watch your kids throw sticks for a dog to chase.

You wanted a life of meangful relationships, not just the one you viewed with Logan. You weren't even sure if you two were considered dating.

You'd never made it official, just kind of- moved in. Sure, you were intimate, you'd discussed being exclusive, and agreed that while you were together- it would just be a simply monogamous relationship, but what kind of relationship was it?

You bristled at the idea of it simply being a situationship. You loved him and the idea of that almost made your heart shatter. Maybe you'd have to talk to him when he came home.

To fill your time, you opted to just sit with a warm cup of tea- you weren't sure what kind, you hadn't paid attention, and a book. It was some silly fantasy story about mutants, monsters, and fairy's. Midevil monster hunters, swords and magic. The white-haired protagonists adopting a cheeky blonde princess and teaching her the ways of his guild.

And you got a good portion through it, with good breaks between meals and some normal daily activities, basic cleaning, laundry, and putting something in the oven for when Logan did finally come home.

The day passed you quickly and by the time you were taking dinner from the oven, a simple cottage pie, Logan's truck rumbled as it pulled to the window and parked in its rightful spot. You watched him run his hands through his hair, you noticed the look on his face, and you watched him light his cigar before he opened the truck door and heave his way out.

Your eyes followed him as he walked past the window , towards the doorway, and lost him as he entered. You quickly averted you gaze and resorted to dishing a heaping pile of the hot meal into two bowls. Grabbing them and weaving past the chairs of the dining table, you brought them to the coffee table where Logan had sat down.

"Welcome home, Lo." It was quiet but you knew he heard you with how he gently perked. He took a deep breath and it was like a calm wave washed over him, the closer you got.

"Hey, darlin'," he started. He watched you place the two bowls onto the table and sit down next to him. He pulled the cigar from his lips and blew his smoke away.

"What are you thinking tonight? Need a drink or some soda? Water?"

"Just a beer is okay, please, love?" You were quick to get it, and your own tall glass of milk. You popped the cap from the bottle and returned to his side. She was already scarfing down his food, starved from the tirless hours he'd been working at the mill. You placed the bottle on a coaster and took your seat beside him.

You took a drink of your milk before you grabbed your own bowl, but paused before you ate. Logan put his fork in his bowl and grabbed your knee, pulling your leg to drape across his own. It made your stomach flutter, and your heart quickened at the smallest but of affection.

Logan was craving your touch most of the day. He felt so desperate for a good day, a real day, a long day with you. He'd been so busy at the mill that he'd hardly had a day off and was itching to spend time with you aside from curling up, wrapping his arms around your waist as you sleep.

He missed hearing your laugh, and missed your smile, even the small ones. He'd missed being around for more than sleep and mornings. Sure, he'd come home and snake his tounge or hips between tough thighs, but that's not what he needed. He needed you. He needed your words.

Eating was mostly silent, peaceful. You'd asked the normal questions, and ge did too. How was your day, what did you do, what did you eat, I missed you.

Logan had long finished his food as you sat there, finishing your last bites. Patting your belly, you sighed. "I'm sure full. Do tou need any more, Lo?"

"No, baby. Let me grab thoes." He'd stood and grabbed both your bowls and him empty bottle, taking them to the kitchen and putting them in the sink and garbage.

He returned and sat down, pulling you closer to his hip."Want to watch a movie, darlin'?" It was a simple ask- but it was the way he asked it thag had you turning to putty in his arms. His lips rested against your forehead, his nose in your hair. He took a deep breath, humming at how good you smelled to him

"No, I just wanna hold you." he was sure he felt his heart stop. That was all he needed from you. He just needed your attention, your love. "But Lo," you hummed. "I need to talk to you about something. Oh no. Oh god no, we're you going to leave him? The one relationship he's had successfully- and he was worried he'd loose you. He pulled his fingers from your hair and leaned backwards onto the couch, but still facing you.

You crawled onto his lap, straddling him, wrapping your arms around his neck and your face buried in his chest. What?

"What you wanna talk about, baby girl?" He said, his hands sliding up your legs and settling around your waist, locking his fingers together to hold you.

"Us," you said, your breah came out shaky, as if you were gonna cry. You raised your head from his chest and looked at him, one right land moving to cup the side of his face. "What are we, Lo?" You sounded so meek and nervous. "I'm so scared that this is just some situationship and i-"

He interrupted you. "What, a situationship? Baby, your going to be my wife." Your heart skipped a beat. Did you hear him right? You hadn't even established dating? Had you missed something

"I- I what?" He groaned. "Fuck, I was going to wait to ask you." He easily lifted you with one of the arms he ticked under you thigh and fished his other hand in his pocket. He'd pulled out a small green box. "It's not all that fancy." Your hand left his face and covered your mouth, your eyes welling with tears.

"Logan," you softly gasped. Once you were sat back comfortably on his lap he opened the ring box in front if you. It was a thing, shiny silver ring with a pretty diamond set into the band. It was simple, charming, and it glimmered. "Logan I love it."

"Hold on, baby. I havnt even gotten the chance you say it. [Name], will you marry me? Can we live the rest of our lives together? I need you to be more than my girlfriend. I need you to be my wife. I need tou to be the mother of our babies." He looked down to the ring, then back up at your face, tears freely flowing from your eyes.

"Yes logan, God yes. I want to marry you, I can't wait. I can't wait for us to have a family." He grinned and took the ring out, grabbing your hand and placing it on your ring finger. You leaned down, curling into his chest, listening to his heart. You sighed.

"I love you, my [Name]."

[spaceclefairy]

Keep that Coffee Hot

You, a bounty agent. The Ghoul, a bounty hunter. The Ghoul needs to cash in on his most recent job and ends up with more than the contract promised.

Act II | Act III | Act IV | Act V | Ao3 Compilation

When the Ghoul walks through the front door of your office, you know he's here for one of two things: a contract or a cashout. This no-name wasteland town is little more than a hub for the bounty agencies, so you get rough characters milling in and out of town all the time, but no one can clear a street quite like this Ghoul. You always know when he's back in town - the few people milling about scatter, and even the other bounty hunters coming through make themselves scarce. Even in the middle of a wasteland, he somehow makes the place even more desolate with his just presence alone. 

You don't mind the Ghoul, personally. Dealing with him is part of your job, after all - you're a bounty agent, he's a bounty hunter. You manage the contracts, he hunts the target, you give the payout when he's done. Easy-peasy. He's intimidating, sure, and dangerous, but he's always been all business with you, and he’s damn good for business. 

And if he’s a little flirty sometimes, well, you don’t mind.

This time when the Ghoul struts through your door, he’s dusty from the wasteland outside and carrying a grimy, drippy leather bag in hand. The leather bag squelches faintly as whatever's inside shifts around, dripping brownish liquid on the scrubbed wooden floor. He greets you in his usual way, with a howdy and a sugary darlin’, and plonks the bag down on your desk, goo oozing out from the seams. 

“Howdy, Coop,” you greet, eying the bag with glee. As you drag it over to you, it leaves a snail-trail of ick on the wood, staining it further. You peer into the bag and confirm it's the correct bounty in your contract.

“One mutant heart, as requested,” the Ghoul says. He watches you with a faint amused smile. “Never brought the bounty straight to the agent before.”

You dump the faintly-pulsing mutant heart out on the desk. It’s overly large - much larger than a normal human’s - and gray-brown, and it spurts little gushes of blood when you poke it, so you know it’s still fresh. You’re surprised it’s still working, but that’s why you paid for the Ghoul: he gets things done quickly. 

“That's because I'm the client this time.”

“Aw, you asked for me?” the Ghoul teases, only a little derisively, grinning at you. “That’s sweet.”

You roll your eyes. “I didn't ask for you - I gave the contract straight to you.”

“Straight to little ol’ me, huh?” he grins, resting his elbows on top of your desk.

Anyone else would have been shot for getting this close to you and your contract book, but you’ve always had a little bit of a soft spot for this Ghoul. It might be the flirting swaying your judgment. It might be that he’s actually fairly polite when he comes in - for a bounty hunter anyway. Regardless, you can’t deny you let him get away with more than you let the others who come in for payout.

“That’s what I said, Cooper,” you say as you duck down under your desk to retrieve a sack of caps from the safe and a case stocked with chems and rad-away. “You’re expensive, but you’re worth it. And I needed that done quickly.”

The Ghoul gestures down at the faintly thumping heart. “What’d you want with that guy anyway?”

“Ex-boyfriend.”

“Explains why you wanted his heart in a bag,” the Ghoul comments. He sounds vaguely impressed. “Your ex-boyfriend was a mutant with two heads.”

“Four heads if you count the two below the belt,” you reply. You hand the Ghoul the bag of caps first and the case full of chems second. “Here's your payout and a bonus for quick work.”

The Ghoul opens the case slightly and snaps it shut, apparently pleased by the way his non-existent eyebrows raise. He shoves the bag of caps and case into his shoulder bag and slings it back over his shoulder. “Much appreciated. You got anything else for me to do?”

“Plenty. Let me check the contract log.”

You reach for your book to check, but he stops you by dragging the book over to him. Truly, anyone else would have been shot. Not him. He flips open a page and runs a gloved finger down the crease in the spine, pretending to read whatever’s on the page.

The Ghoul glances up at you. “Are you in the contract log?”

You meet his gaze, eyebrows raised. “Are you telling me you want to do me, Cooper?”

“Sure am, darlin’.”

You lean back in your chair, eyeing the Ghoul where he stands. You’ve always liked his eyes. It’s the only part of him left that looks like there’s still humanity to him.

The Ghoul steps back. “But, if a ghoul’s not really your thing…”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Then what do you say?”

You pause, pretending to think, but you don’t really have to think about it. “Sure, why not?”

“You got a backroom or somethin’ or we just movin’ your book out of the way?”

You nod towards the door behind you, not that you’d be opposed to just fucking him here in the middle of your office. “Yeah, I got a backroom.”

Said backroom constitutes little more than a spare desk and chair with a window, but that’s really all you’ll need. There are no curtains for the window, so whoever walks by is going to get an eyeful of what’s going on if they peek in at the wrong time. You don’t particularly care, and the Ghoul surely doesn’t.

The hat and duster stay put as the Ghoul backs you up against the desk. He’s only a bit taller than you, but his presence takes up the remainder of the tiny, boiling hot room. The hollow, pitted flesh of his face appears raw and red, but his eyes are pretty and alert. His lips are dry and smooth against yours, raw like the rest of his skin. You don’t mind - there’s no room to be picky out in this wasteland town. 

You’re not sure how he’s not miserable in the heat of the tiny room, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. In any case, you drag him closer by his belt, fisting your hand in his duster.

The Ghoul kisses you again, then strips off one of his leather gloves with his teeth and tosses it on the desk behind you. “Guess a ghoul is a step up from a mutant, at least?”

You yank his belt open and shimmy his pants down over his hips - he doesn’t let you get them down any farther. “I like ghouls.”

“Well, then, you’re a fuckin’ weirdo, ain’t ya?”

You slide down the side of the desk and hit your knees, your back pressed against the creaking wood. “Works out well for you, doesn’t it, Coop?”

His still-gloved hand wraps around the back of your neck, the leather sticking to your skin in the heat. “Sure does, darlin’.”

You take his exposed cock in hand and lick him root to tip, grinning at the hiss he gives you. His hand tightens around the back of your neck, catching in your hair. He looms over you, his unoccupied hand planted on the desk, blacking out the sides of your vision with his duster. You slide your hand down around the base of his cock and inch your lips down his shaft, hollowing your cheeks out, and he groans, low and slow, hips twitching like he's fighting the urge to just bury himself in your throat. You look up at him, wrapping your tongue around the tip of his cock, and his eyes are dark deep in the hollows of his eye sockets. 

He doesn't tolerate your teasing long. No, he tangles his hand in your hair and presses himself deep down your throat until your nose is flush with his skin. You gag around him, and he grins, pulling out and thrusting back in so you'll gag on him again.

“That's it,” the Ghoul says, teetering right on the edge of breathlessness, “you take it so well.”

You punctuate his words by scraping your teeth down his shaft, which he seems to like by the way he slams himself down your throat. Your eyes water, and you can feel the tears rolling down your face as surely as you can feel sweat snaking through your hair.

“Look so good on your knees for me,” he says, threading his fingers through your hair. He catches your chin with his ungloved hand, tilting your face up with his cock still in your mouth. His thumb swipes through the tears staining your face. “Pretty as a picture.”

The backroom is only getting hotter the longer you're stuck on your knees, clothed and trapped underneath the Ghoul’s duster with him. You're sure you're soaking through your clothes by now. Your hand snakes down to undo your top and pants so you can get some relief from the heat. It doesn’t help much, but it’s enough to keep your head from swimming.

The Ghoul takes that as an indication you’re itching to take your clothes off (you are). He hauls you to your feet, picks you up, and deposits you on top of the desk, looming over you with a grin. You let him strip the rest of your shirt off and help him get your pants off of one leg. You squeeze his hips between your thighs and hook your foot around his back, pulling him flush against you. 

“Take off the duster, Coop,” you say, moving to tug it down his shoulder. “It’s too hot in here for that.”

He takes the hand clutching his duster and pins it down to the desk. “I think you just want me to get naked.”

You smirk. “That, too.”

He strips off the other glove with his teeth and grips your hip. “Maybe next time, doll.”

“Aw, you wanna fuck me again - oh, fuck-”

The Ghoul doesn’t let you finish teasing him, instead thrusting into you with a rough stroke. The words get caught in your mouth, and he loves that. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Dick,” you say, grabbing the front of his shirt and yanking him into a breathless kiss. “Just come here.”

The Ghoul yanks you closer by the hip and wastes no time rutting into you. He can’t decide where to put his hands and runs them up your hips, your sides, grabs at your tits, before finally settling one hand around the back of your neck (seems to be his favorite place to grab you) and the other hand down in your lap so he can press his thumb to your clit. You clench around him, and that just makes him thrust into you harder, rubbing tight circles into your clit.

You’re not gonna last long - not like this. It’s hot, and he feels so good, thick and heavy in your cunt, and the way he groans in your ear and licks at your neck makes you whine.

You can tell the Ghoul is getting close to from the way his hips start to stutter, pressing deeper into you, pace quickening. He yanks your head back by your hair and latches onto your neck, sucking a bruise into your skin.

He presses his lips to your ear, “Where do you want it, doll?”

“Inside,” you reply, tightening your legs around him. “Less cleanup. And I’ve got extra radaway.”

The Ghoul takes that to heart, pounding into you until you cum with a sharp whine. It doesn’t take him long to finish after you, spilling himself deep inside you. He pulls out, cock soaked and softening slowly, but he’s not done with you. He stuffs his fingers into your cunt to keep you full, pumping in and out, and keeps pressing down on your clit with his thumb. It’s teetering violently on the edge of too much, overstimulating you, but you cum again anyway, this time harder and louder from the aftershocks ripping through you.

You drop bonelessly to the desk when he pulls his fingers out, and you watch him idly through your comedown as he licks his own fingers clean.

After a beat, you clamber up onto your elbows. “You still want another contract?”

The Ghoul adjusts himself and zips up his pants, chuckling lowly. “I just fucked you stupid and you’re talking about work.”

You grab your shirt and pull it down over your head, climb down off the desk, and set to work pulling up your pants. “Gets boring around here - gotta keep you coming back somehow.”

He snorts. “Oh, babydoll, you’ll be begging to get rid of me if you keep that up.”

“Try me.”

“I could use another contract,” he says. The slow grin that spread across his face would give anyone else chills. “Let’s see what you’ve got in your little book out there.”

[luveline]

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes. 

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating. 

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye. 

A phone number. 

If lost, please call. 

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day. 

It goes for ages. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess. 

You’re the opposite of fearless. 

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it. 

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it. 

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you. 

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches. 

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on. 

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip. 

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness. 

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.” 

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles. 

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?” 

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, really." 

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you. 

"That's you?" Moons asks. 

"That's me. Sorry." 

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling." 

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside. 

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with. 

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair. 

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it. 

"Nice highscore." 

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound. 

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair. 

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?" 

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?" 

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course." 

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting. 

"Sure you don't mind?" 

"I'm paid not to mind." 

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please." 

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?" 

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be. 

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused. 

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you." 

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me." 

"Yeah." 

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes. 

"Is there something wrong?" you ask. 

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands. 

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it." 

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul." 

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable. 

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it. 

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside. 

You look up in shock. "I can't–" 

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view. 

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one. 

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself. 

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line. 

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it." 

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, seriously." 

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach. 

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front. 

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes. 

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way. 

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it. 

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited. 

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin. 

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons. 

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe. 

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage. 

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours. 

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing. 

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow. 

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them. 

They're good. 

Like, too good to be openers for long. 

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out. 

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places. 

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set. 

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship." 

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl. 

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says. 

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons. 

You try not to tense as footsteps approach. 

"Can I sit?" he asks. 

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up. 

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say. 

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup. 

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted." 

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion. 

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?" 

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then. 

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup." 

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice." 

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet." 

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call. 

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar. 

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over. 

"Hey, it's you!" 

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together. 

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?" 

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?" 

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians." 

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames. 

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now." 

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says. 

"And the handsomest." 

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly. 

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?" 

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here." 

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound. 

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back." 

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody. 

Not that it matters if he is or isn't. 

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is. 

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything. 

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say. 

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?" 

"I'm not a big drinker." 

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino." 

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?" 

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much." 

"What's in San Marino?" 

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding. 

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it. 

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch. 

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino." 

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar. 

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

— 

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again. 

James has never seen Remus like this before. 

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever. 

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour. 

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out." 

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close. 

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy. 

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly. 

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes. 

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does. 

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone. 

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake. 

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming." 

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it. 

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?" 

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous." 

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before." 

"This is your first date?" 

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that." 

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special." 

"It doesn't," you say. 

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–" 

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning. 

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?" 

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair. 

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it." 

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners. 

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?" 

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect. 

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married." 

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance. 

"He's devoted," you guess. 

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding." 

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared. 

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying." 

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest. 

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man." 

"Half?" 

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me." 

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say. 

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does. 

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other. 

"They've always been like brothers." 

"But not…" 

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time." 

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now. 

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful." 

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes. 

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise." 

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own. 

"Charming, isn't it?" 

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?" 

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in. 

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble." 

"No trouble at all." 

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another. 

It's not so bad. It's agonising. 

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this." 

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay." 

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–" 

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder." 

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing. 

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time. 

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says. 

Not promising. "Okay." 

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me." 

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries." 

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh. 

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down. 

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep. 

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume. 

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking. 

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo. 

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same. 

The date is suddenly over. 

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest. 

You nod rather than answer. 

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes. 

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling. 

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours. 

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands. 

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it. 

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly. 

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again. 

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long. 

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming. 

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly. 

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered. 

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you. 

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking. 

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own. 

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath. 

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm. 

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say. 

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane. 

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him. 

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie. 

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated. 

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away. 

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure. 

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear. 

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date. 

Which means he has to get out of his head. 

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice… 

He wants to see what other sounds you make. 

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air. 

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible. 

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice. 

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands. 

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still. 

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips. 

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down. 

Your thumb traces a scar. 

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs. 

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor. 

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone. 

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head. 

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again. 

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat. 

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat. 

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine. 

“Was that alright?” he asks. 

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time. 

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden. 

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge. 

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move. 

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.” 

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore. 

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart. 

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said. 

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes. 

Close? Remus is fucked. 

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back. 

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans. 

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far. 

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly. 

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up. 

He drags the quilt over your naked back. 

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead. 

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up. 

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?” 

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently. 

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought. 

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen. 

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.  

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

[avis-writeshq]

06 — untouchable

summary: “come on, come on, say that we’ll be together/”i’m caught up in you.” pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn,  warnings: rated 16+ for two mentions of nakedness, short blood mention, brief mention of dead things, mostly canon compliant (s4 e23 ‘amplification’), wc: 4.3k a/n: thank you again to the lovely @astrophileous for beta-reading <3 good luck on your thesis babes MWAH SERIES MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

38 Hours Before the Phone Call – Monday, 8:42AM, BAU Office

Spencer arrives at the office with a stupidly giddy smile on his face. His cheeks are flushed as he grips a hot takeaway cup of coffee in his hands. He taps the cup idly with his fingers, bouncing on the heels of his feet as he steps out of the elevator unable to shake the smile off his face. It’s ridiculous and insane and borderline delusional but he knows it’s far from that. After all, he has a perfectly good reason as to why he is in such high spirits and that reason is you. After years of pining and psyching himself up (only to psych himself out) he managed to actually ask you out on a date. And, he reminds himself with a silly smile, he actually kissed you. And it wasn’t one of those platonic kisses, no, this was an actual kiss to the lips and he couldn’t be happier. 

He thinks back to the previous night, visualising the way your cheeks grew warm and the way your lips felt against his. His own cheeks flush at the thoughts and he remembers committing that version of you to memory. How on earth are you so beautiful? Even while sleep deprived with dark bags under your eyes or unruly hair, he still thinks you’re the most beautiful girl in the world. 

“Pretty boy,” Derek comments in a teasing sing-songy voice as Spencer takes a sip of his coffee, trying to appear nonchalant. “Ooh, I know that look.”

Spencer chokes a little, wiping his mouth with a tissue in his bag. “What look?”

“Someone got lucky last night,” Derek responds with a grin. “It must be the hair. I heard that long hair gets all the ladies nowadays.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Spencer is quick to deny, walking through the big glass doors of the office. 

“Who got lucky last night?” Emily asks, poking her head out of her little stall. Her eyes flit to Spencer and she grins. “Oh… I see how it is.”

“Nothing happened last night,” Spencer says adamantly, swiping a hand over his face. “It isn’t like that. Whatever we have is good. It doesn’t need to be–” He coughs quietly as blood rushes to his ears– “to be sexual. I like her. More than physically.”

Emily coos at his confession, twisting around her desk to ruffle his hair. “You’re such a gentleman, Reid.”

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says through a laugh, swatting Emily’s hands away. “Being a gentleman. Some women prefer it over the whole macho act.”

“Hey, I am plenty gentleman,” Derek says swiftly, holding a finger out. “And chicks dig the macho thing.”

*** 

14 Hours Before the Phone Call – Tuesday, 7:09AM, BAU Office

It was supposed to be a normal morning. It was supposed to be an average Tuesday with your average, run-of-the-mill serial killer with daddy issues but instead, JJ called the entire team in the early hours of the morning, saying to get to the BAU as quickly as possible. 

“Case must be local. JJ said not to bring a go-bag,” Spencer says as they enter the office. 

In moments they were met with a complete arsenal of military personnel, bustling around their desks and storming throughout the office. Others were answering and sending phone calls, demanding for processes to be sped up as Hotch speaks to a group of people in his own personal office, Rossi beside him.

“What’s the army doing here?” Derek asks, his brows furrowed.

“What the hell is going on?” Emily demands, eyeing the uniformed professionals as they splay casefiles across their desks. 

They all enter the conference room where JJ was waiting for them, along with a neatly dressed Asian woman with her hair tied up in a ponytail and out of her face. 

“Guys, this is Dr Linda Kimura, Chief of Special Pathogens at the CDC,” JJ introduces, filling up styrofoam cups with water and placing them around the round table. 

“Hello. I’m sorry to meet under these circumstances,” she says as she places pills on a shiny metal tray. 

Spencer frowns at that. “What circumstances?”

Hotch enters the room instantly, gripping a case file in his iron fist. “We need to get started.”

“Last night, twenty-five people checked into emergency rooms in and around Annapolis. They were all at the same park after 2PM yesterday. Within 10 hours, the first victim died. It’s now just past 7AM the next day, we have twelve people dead,” JJ explains as the rest of team look through the manilla files. 

“Lung failure and black lesions,” Derek murmurs thoughtfully. “Anthrax?”

Spencer flicks through the papers, scanning the tox screen. “Anthrax doesn’t kill this fast.”

“This strain does,” Kimura says, an edge of fear in her tone.

“What are we doing about potential mass targets– airports, malls, trains?” Emily asks, turning to Hotch who shakes his head. 

“There’s a media blackout.”

“We’re not telling the public?”

Derek looks over at Emily. “We’d have a mass exodus.”

“The psychology of group panic would cause more deaths than this last attack,” Rossi explains.

“Yeah, and if it does get out, whoever did this might go underground or destroy their samples,” Spencer says as he sifts through the papers. 

“Or if they wanted attention and didn’t get it, they might attack again. Doesn’t the public have the right know that?” 

“If there is another attack, there’s no way we’ll be able to keep it quiet,” Hotch says urgently. “Our best chance of protecting the public is by building a profile as quickly as we can.”

Spencer wets his bottom lip nervously, his thoughts drifting to you. You work indoors all day. You’ll be fine, you have to be. “What do we know about this strain?”

“The spores are weaponized,” Kimura explains, “reduced to a respiral ideal that attacks deep in the lungs. Odourless and invisible.”

Rossi nods, almost as if he wasn’t surprised at all upon hearing the news. “A sophisticated strain. Only a scientist would know how to do that.”

“These lesions are doubling in size in a matter of hours,” Derek points out, gesturing to the less than positive crime photos in their files. 

“It’s not the lesions I’m worried about,” Kimura begins, taking an ultrasound scan of a patient’s lungs and presenting it to the team. “Its the lungs. We don’t know how to com2bat the toxins once they’re inside. And the reality is, we may lose them all.”

“The remaining survivors have been moved to a special wing at Walter Reed Hospital. Our offices will become a small command centre,” JJ tells them.

“We’ll be working with military scientists from Fort Detrick,” Hotch adds on.

“General Whitworth is coming here?” Rossi asks.

Hotch nods in the affirmative. “He’s in charge of sit containment and spore analysis. Determining what strain this is will help inform who’s responsible.”

“My team is in charge of treating all victims,” Kimura goes on to tell the team, looking at each person.

“Reid, go with Dr. Kimura to the hospital, interview the victims,” Hotch says, dishing out responsibilities. “Morgan and Prentiss, there’s a hazmat team that will accompany you to the crime scene. There’s Cipro. Everybody needs to take it before we go.”

Linda hands a small plastic container, each one having two round tablets resting inside. “We don’t know if it’s effective against this strain, but it’s something.”

Emily lets out a nervous breath as she toys with the rim of the container. “This… is really happening?

“We knew this could happen. We’ve done our homework. We’ve prepared for this. This is it,” Hotch says as reassuringly as possible before knocking his head back and taking the two Cipro tablets. 

“Cent’anni,” Rossi toasts, holding the little container out. “May you live one hundred years.”

*** 

Everyone rushes about, gathering files and resources before the head off to complete their allocated assignments. Regardless of how much is at stake in this certain situation, Spencer feels his heart spike with anxiety. It’s against protocol, sure, but shouldn’t he call you? Tell you to take a sick day and stay at home, or to just stay indoors the entire time you’re at work. Maybe if he’s lucky he could get you into witness protection. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch says slowly, seemingly appearing out of thin air behind him. 

Spencer freezes, his hands pausing as they rummage through his bag in search of his cell. “I’m not.”

“You’re not thinking?” Hotch asks, raising an eyebrow. “I know what you want to do.”

“I can’t just– I can’t just keep her in the dark, Hotch,” Spencer insists, continuing to feel for his cell phone. “She could get infected and–” His mouth runs dry at the idea and he swallows thickly. “If I can protect her, then why shouldn’t I?

Aaron sighs, his forehead wrinkling as his eyebrows knit together. “I know you care about her and I know you’re worried, but she isn’t on this team anymore. If we all called home and used this information to give them the advantage that other people don’t have… is that really the right thing to do?”

“Don’t give me a moral dilemma, Hotch. This isn’t a hypothetical,” Spencer counters, finally finding the little device buried at the bottom of his satchel. “When I– when the incident with Tobias Hankel happened, she never gave up on me. She went out on a limb for me. I’m returning the favour.”

Hotch is quiet for a moment before finally, “What about the guilt?”

Spencer balks. “What?”

“If she is saved because of the information you gave her… can you imagine the guilt she would feel? She’s a selfless person, Spencer, and knowing her… well, you can guess what she would do,” Aaron says, glancing back to his office where Rossi is waving him over. “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision. Kimura is waiting for you.”

Hotch is gone before Spencer could say anything. He huffs quietly, guilty after hearing Hotch’s words. Even though he doesn’t want to admit it, he has to accept that his boss is right. The best way to keep you safe is by finding this UnSub before he could hurt any more people. He rubs at his eyes in frustration, stalking out of the BAU offices. Hopefully you’ll forgive him.

*** 

“Dr. Lawrence Nichols? Yeah, I read about him. He was highly respected doctor who studied anthrax prior to the attacks in 2001,” Spencer says as he gets into the passenger seat of Derek’s SUV. He rolls up the sleeves of his dark purple shirt, brushing some sweat from his forehead. “They think that he’s behind it?”

“There was a video of him at a conference with the with the National Defense Committee. He was paranoid after the Amerithrax attacks in 2001, proposing some crazy high budget to ‘protect the people of America’,” Derek explains. “He matches the profile exactly. Prentiss and Rossi are heading to his work. Apparently he got demoted into working with influenza.”

Spencer grimaces as he stares at the overgrowing rose bushes at the front of Dr. Nichols’s house, his nose scrunching up in distaste. Do people not hire gardeners anymore? He squeezes past a few bushes to follow Derek closer to the house, hissing when his hand gets caught on one of the thorns. He shakes his hand out, a scratch already blooming on the back of his hand with small droplets ot blood already emerging. 

He continues to walk into the house as Derek’s phone rings, entering the house through a glass sliding door. The whirring of the fan above him grabs his attention and he frowns. The fan is on but the door is open… someone must have left in a hurry. He takes another step forward, jolting when he hears the sound of glass being crushed under his feet. Shit.

“Reid?” Derek yells, and Spencer jumps. 

“Morgan, get– get back!” Spencer yells, slamming the sliding door shut so hard that the glass shakes. “Get back! Get out of here!”

Derek frowns, tugging at the handle. ‘What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

“No, don’t!”

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks again, tugging once more at the handle; Spencer is a lot stronger than he expected.

“What’s wrong?”

Spencer pushes his hair out of his face in frustration as he locks the door, turning back to his friend. “I’m sorry.”

It is in that moment that Derek’s eyes turn to the ground, his eyes widening in disbelief as he sees the white powder in the room leaking from a broken test tube with a bright yellow symbol for ‘biological hazard’. 

It feels like hours before Hotch and the military arrive at the house, along with an ambulance and a hazmat team. The stench of Dr. Nichols’s dead body lingers in the air even though the air-con is blasting and the air is circulating through the room. He doesn’t even want to think about the dead animals and test subjects in the cages, his stomach churning at the mere thought. From what he could tell, the doctor was dead three days ago, meaning that he couldn’t have been the one to infect those people at the park. His head is pounding and his throat itches and all of a sudden he can’t breathe. He tells himself to relax but how can he when he very well could die in here? He knows the statistics; only 55% of those who receive aggressive treatment survive. He doesn’t like those odds. 

“Hotch, I really messed up this time,” he says hoarsely into the phone, wiping the sweat off his upper lip.

“Reid, we need to get you out and to the hospital,” Hotch says firmly, and Spencer watches as he puts the call on speaker. 

“What– no, I’m staying right here,” Spencer insists, frowning. 

Derek interrupts swiftly, “No, you’re not, Reid.”

“I’m already exposed,” Spencer says, his voice straining as he turns back into Dr. Nichols’s makeshift lab. “It’s not gonna do me any good to stop working the case.”

General Whitworth grimaces in response. “He’s already infected. Now, if Nichols created the strain, he may have also created the cure.”

“My best chance is to stay here, see if there’s a cure, and try to figure out who killed Dr. Nichols,” Spencer insists as he searches through the lab for what seems like the millionth time. 

Test tubes, files, and text books litter the lab, a flurry of papers splayed across the floor. The sight of them remind him of the first time he met you when you had ran into him on his first official day at the BAU. You were a swirling rainstorm as you practically slammed your head against his chest, the paperwork you were carrying flying into the air as you toppled over like a house of cards. In that moment, Spencer could have sworn that you were untouchable. You were like a fire, burning brighter than the sun, and he would be damned if he ever made that flame flicker away. 

“Come on, Hotch, say something to him,” Derek tries again, worry laced in his tone.

Aaron hesitates as he considers his options before sighing. “He’s right. His best chase is inside. We’re gonna get a suit and mask in to you right away.”

“Don’t bother, it’s not going to do me any good. I’m already infected.” Spencer knows that if you were still part of the team that you would be scolding him about being so stubborn. Hell, you’re not even on the team anymore and you still scold him about it. 

As he continues to try and search for more clues and filtering the information he finds through to Derek, his thoughts continuously drift back to you. You and your blissfully unaware state. He thinks of the way you smile and the way you felt in his arms that day. He is sure that the universe is playing tricks with him because the one moment he finally has you, you’re ripped away from him. His mind wanders back to the way your eyes lit up and the way your lips felt against his and in that moment he’s begging. He’s begging whatever higher power there is that he is part of the 55% of people who survive an anthrax attack after treatment. 

“Hey, Reid,” Penelope’s voice echoes through the phone, sad and mopey. It’s unlike her, incredibly uncharacteristic and Spencer chokes out a quiet laugh. 

“Reid? Wow, no, uh… no witty Garcia greeting for me?” He asks, running his fingers through his damp sweaty hair. It’s disgusting and gross and he hates it because he knows that it’s a symptom of the disease. 

Penelope chuckles weakly from the other side of the line. “I can’t be my sparkly self when you are where you are.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that so instead he asks, “Garcia, do you think you can do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“I… I know I can’t call… I know I can’t call (Y/N) or my mother without, uh–” he coughs, wiping his face with the palm of his hand and feeling his clammy skin– “without alerting everyone.”

“What do you need?”

“I– uh– I need you to record a message. Two messages. One for my mother and the other for… for (Y/N). In case anything happens to me.” His voice cracks as he speaks, his hand trembling because oh God, this really could be the end. After everything he went through going to those Narcotics Anonymous meetings, getting clean, going to therapy… this is how it ends?

“Oh, nothing is gonna happen to you,” Garcia says, wholeheartedly believing it. “You’re gonna brilliantly find ut who did this and we’re gonna treat this strain.”

Spencer lets out a nervous breath. “I hope you’re right. But if you’re not, I just… I really want to make sure that they hear my voice. Both of them.”

“Okay. Just– just give me a second,” Penelope mumbles, clicking away on her keyboard. 

“Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

“This– um, it’s for my mum first…” He clears his throat, trying to keep his voice even. “Hi, mum. This is Spencer. I just– I just really want you to know that I love you, and– and I need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.”

Penelope presses pause on that message, murmuring, “Okay. And– and for (Y/N)?”

“Is it on?” He asks quietly, coughing as the itchiness in his throat refuses to relent. “Hey, angel, it’s me, Spenc– Walter. It’s your Walter.” His voice catches in his throat as he speaks, tears slipping past his eyes as he tries to choke out the words. “If you’re getting this then something happened and I just wanted you to know that– that– that I love you. I didn’t get the chance to tell you that before but I do. I love you and I wish it didn’t turn out like this but I am– I am so glad that we had that moment.”

“Reid?”

Dr. Kimura enters the room through the sliding door, clad in a bright red hazmat suit. “Prep the victim for transfer.”

“I gotta go,” Spencer says quickly, hanging up the call and pocketing his phone. 

“Dr. Reid,” Kimura says, walking over to him.

“You look nice,” he says drily, staring at the uniform. It looks very similar to an astronaut costume and if he were in any other situation, he would have started to laugh.

Kimura chuckles quietly. “I haven’t been in this outfit for a while.”

“How… how are the patients doing?” Spencer manages to ask, and suddenly it feels as if all the air is kicked out of his lungs. His head throbs with each attempt he makes to take in a breath and sweat pools at the top of his lip. 

“Let’s worry about you.”

“I actually… I feel fine,” Spencer lies through gritted teeth, the muscles in his shoulders aching with each heave of his chest. 

Kimura nods, her concern palpable. “Okay, if you feel any pain, I can give you something.”

In an instant, the fear of losing all the progress he has made in the past year pools to his stomach and he shakes his head adamantly, ignoring the way the room spins. “No, I’d rather not take any pain medication.”

“We can at least make you feel more comfortable.”

“I am comfortable and I don’t want to take any narcotics!” Spencer says firmly, and he can see the realisation dawn in Kimura’s eyes. 

“Okay… tell me how I can help.”

“I think the cure for this strain is in here somewhere,” he says through heavy breaths, sucking in a mouthful of air with every sentence. 

It isn’t long before the hazmat team has Spencer in a decontamination tent, the smell of sterile plastic filling his nose. They’re hosing him down behind a clear plastic curtain, Derek standing in front of him. The feeling of the cold water splashing against his back is uncomfortable, and Spencer grimaces at the feeling of his clothes sticking to his skin. It’s gross and his work shirt is growing heavy from the waterweight, sagging down on his shoulders. The anthrax isn’t helping either. It’s too hot and too cold all at once, it’s too hard to breathe and it’s like his head weighs a million pounds. 

“Go help Hotch,” Spencer croaks out to Derek, shivering as they continue to spray water on his back and front.

“Hotch has plenty of people helping him,” Derek dismisses. 

Spencer shakes his head and regrets it immediately, his head starting to spin. “He needs you more than I do.”

“Reid, I’m gonna see you off to the hospital.”

“I’m about to get naked so that they can scrub me down. Is that something you really want to see?” Spencer deadpans.

Derek grimaces before finally saying, “What if (Y/N) were here? Would you tell her to go?”

“(Y/N)  wouldn’t mind seeing me naked.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot upwards at Spencer’s less than innocent words, immediately turning away. “We are having a conversation about this later. Take good care of him, please.”

The ambulance is stuffy and cramped, and the scrubs that he has to wear is itchy and uncomfortable. They’re menial thoughts that don’t even matter considering the severity of the situation, and Spencer wheezes out of a cough; a reminder that he might not even live to see the next day. The nasal cannula that is attached to Spencer’s nose isn’t doing much to assist him to breathe, and he coughs again. 

“How are you feeling, Dr. Reid?” Kimura asks as she checks his vitals. 

“My throats a little dry, but other than that I feel– I flee– feel…” He blanks. His mind knows the words but they get stuck on his tongue and he panics. It can’t end like this. He refuses for it to end like this. “Flee– fleel– I–”

Kimura nods in understanding, a sense of urgency behind her words. “Okay. Okay, you’re doing okay. Driver, faster!”

“Call–” Spencer tries again, the words spinning in his head. “Pelen– Penel… low… len…”

Call Penelope, he tries to say, the lights in the ambulance growing brighter and brighter. She needs to give (Y/N) the message, she needs to… she needs to…

All he sees is white.

*** 

The first thing Spencer notices when he regains consciousness is the smell of lavender and oranges overpowering the sterile scent of antibacterial wipes. It’s comforting and familiar and he wracks his brain as he tries to remember where he remembers it from. He doesn’t remember much; only getting into the ambulance and Kimura asking him questions. He shuffles around in his hospital bed, stretching his aching muscles. He forces his eyes open little by little, and he quints at the woman at the end of his hospital bed. 

“(Y/N)?”

“You ass,” you respond tearfully, your voice cracking as you swat him lightly on the arm. “You refused treatment?”

He smiles a little, sitting up on the bed. “Hey, angel.”

“Don’t ‘hey angel’ me,” you sniffle, taking hold of his hand and stroking his palm with your thumb. “You scared me.”

Spencer hums softly in acknowledgement, squeezing your hand back. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“Dr. Kimura said that you should be free to go in a couple of days but you need rest afterwards,” you tell him, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You owe me a date.”

“I do,” he murmurs, his cheeks flushed and a giddy smile on his face despite where he is. He looks at you, you and his oversized CalTech hoodie. The hoodie in itself is ugly; a muted grey with a half-assed logo slapped to the front and Spencer has hated it ever since he bought it with what little funds he had back in college. Yet, for some reason, he doesn’t hate it so much when you wear it. “You look beautiful.”

You roll your pretty eyes at him, moving your chair closer to him. “Liar.”

“Never,” he whispers. “Never to you.”

You smile at him again, bringing your lips to the back of his hand. “You told me you loved me. Is that true, too?”

“Love,” he corrects you quietly, “and I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

Heat rushes up your neck at his words and you beam at him, kissing his cheeks. “I love you.”

He reaches a hand out to hold the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the line from your ear to your jaw. “I love you,” he says into the space between you, before kissing you again. 

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[janeyseymour]

Save Me Before I Lose Myself- part 9

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8.

Summary: Family court is a nightmare. But all nightmares come to an end.

WC: ~2.45k

You toss and turn all night, and when you finally fall into a fitful sleep, your alarm goes off. You already hate today. But still, you roll out of bed and head into your daughter’s room. She’s sound asleep, curled up with her favorite stuffed animal and snoring quietly. You take a few extra minutes, minutes you know you probably don’t have to waste, to just sit by your little girl and pray. You pray for a long life of just you and her finally finding your happiness. You pray that she never loses what small pieces of innocence she has back. You pray to God that you get her as far away from Carrie as possible- that maybe… maybe you find happiness in a new life with Melissa and Barbara to help you raise this sweet little gift from God.

Brushing a few stray hairs away from her face, you smile gently. God, Millie is perfect- there is not one thing you would change about her. Because even when it comes down to it, and she is a child who has her moments, Amelia has the biggest heart, the warmest smile, and the sweetest soul that could touch anybody who has the absolute blessing of meeting her.

“Millie Mill,” you whisper as you shake her shoulder gently. “Baby girl, it’s time to rise and shine.”

“Momma?” a sleepy voice almost whines.

“Yeah, sweetness, it’s Momma,” you chuckle. “Who else would it be?”

“Mel,” your daughter shrugs as she cracks an eye open.

“Well, I can smell breakfast being made downstairs, and I just woke up,” you chuckle. “Why don’t we go see what Mel is making?”

Your little girl sits up and rubs at her eyes sleepily, but then she does make for the kitchen.

Melissa, fully dressed and made up for the day, is standing by the stove making a spread that could feed three families, and Millie is quick to wrap her arms around the woman’s waist. “Melly,” she mumbles sleepily.

You see the redhead tense for a quick second before she relaxes and drops a gentle kiss to your daughter’s head. “Hey Mill.”

“Sleepy. I don’ wanna go to court today,” your daughter sighs.

Melissa grimaces slightly. “I know hun. But you gotta if you wanna stay with your momma. And Mel and Barb will be there for you too.”

“Auntie Barb,” Millie sighs softly, but just loud enough for both of you to hear. Both yours and Melissa’s eyes widen at that first word- that powerful word.

“Yeah, hun,” the redhead finally starts again. “Go sit at the table with your momma. Breakfast is almost ready.”

Your little girl comes and sits right in your lap, content to get in a few extra cuddles this morning. The teacher of the house brings over all of the platters and a fresh mug of coffee for you.

“Thank you,” you sigh quietly.

Melissa smiles at you. “Of course.” Breakfast is eaten in a stiff silence for the first time in a long time, and when it comes time to start getting ready, the redhead swoops in again. She takes Millie to get her ready while you prepare yourself for what you can only assume is going to be a long and hellish day of fighting for your little girl.

And then Barbara shows up in her own car and escorts you to the courthouse. The four of you find your way in and sigh.

Carrie fights. Carrie fights hard, and she fights dirty. She fully intends on throwing you under the bus and winning this fight.

Her first claim is that she is Millie’s biological mother. And that is a true fact. But your lawyer argues that you are just as much Millie’s mother as Carrie- your name is on that birth certificate too. Your lawyer argues that blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb in this case- you take care of Millie, not Carrie.

Then she tries to argue that you won’t be able to support your daughter fully financially. Your lawyer disputes that argument and states that finances wouldn’t be an issue for you because spousal support does indeed exist for this exact circumstance. He then looks to Melissa, who stands, much to your surprise. But she has a knowing look on her face, and you can only assume that she and her buddy had orchestrated for this to happen.

“Your honor,” Melissa starts, and she already sounds much more formal than you’ve ever heard her before. “Y/N and Amelia won’t have to worry about finances, as they haven’t been troubled in that area for the months that they’ve lived with me. There hasn’t been any support from Carrie since the separation, and I do believe that this side of the party has been just fine- better than fine. I am happy to continue housing them and help to ensure that Millie is taken care of.”

“Thank you, for that,” the judge raises a brow. It’s clear he’s considering what the redhead stated.

And finally, Carrie attempts to claim that Millie needs two stable parental figures in her life- that she and the new boyfriend (apparently you ‘turned her straight’) would be able to provide much better for her than just you. The judge’s brow goes up, but his lip quirks in a way that you see he is definitely leaning towards joint custody. Your lawyer glances to you, and then he stands.

“Your honor, I think that since this is in regard to the child’s wellbeing, we should have Millie speak.”

“Your honor, she’s seven,” Carrie’s lawyer points out.

“And seven is old enough to know who she should want to live with for a majority of the time- to keep her within the parameters of her school, where she is quite happy,” your lawyer objects.

“Very well,” the judge mutters. He clears his throat, and he calls Millie to him.

Your little girl has never looked smaller standing next to him.

“Hi, sweetheart,” the gruff judge turns warmer when addressing your child, and you are eternally grateful for that. “Millie, yes?”

Millie nods her head and squeaks out a “yes”.

“Can you tell me about the times when you lived with both of your mothers?”

Your little girl does. She details the typical day that the she lived- from waking up with you and giggling, to going to school with you, to you picking her up, she’d make dinner with you, you would read with her or watch television with her, it was you who would help her with homework, it was you who told her to get in the shower and start getting ready for bed, you were the one who tucked her in at night and read her a story.

“And… Millie, where was your other mother during all of this?” the judge cuts in softly.

Your little girl shrugs. “I dunno.”

“That’s not true, Mill,” Carrie tries to butt in, but the judge holds up a hand.

“That’s not the end of my days though,” your daughter says softly. When the judge prompts her to continue, she details how she would hear the berating at night, the slaps and pleas for Carrie to stop, the crashing of furniture and decor.

“And who was the cause of that?”

Millie doesn’t even say Carrie’s name- just points to her with a frown. “She hurt Momma. And she tried to hurt m-”

“Amelia!” Your soon to be ex-wife leaps out of her chair and points an accusatory finger. “You stop telling lies right this instant, young lady!”

“I- I’m not,” Millie whispers to the judge. “I promised not to lie, and I don’t break promises. That would be bad.”

“I believe you, honey,” the judge promises your daughter. “Can you tell me about the days now that you’re living with your Momma and Melissa?”

The day that your daughter details in regards to living with her teacher are much brighter- full of more love and smiles. She lets the judge know that she adores living with you and Melissa. Her days start with you waking her, Melissa cooking a delicious breakfast, driving to school with the redhead and singing songs, loving always having you pick her up on time, eating dinner together and actually enjoying meal times, bedtime… She tells the judge about the day she was sick, and Melissa stayed home with her while you went to work but when you came home she was given so much love. It’s clear to everybody in the room, including Carrie, which life Millie likes more.

“That sounds like quite a fun time living with Melissa,” the judge quips thoughtfully. “I have one more question for you.”

“Yes?”

“If you were given the choice of who to live with, who would you go to?”

Your daughter doesn’t even hesitate. “Momma and Melly.”

You feel Melissa reach forward and squeeze your shoulder gently from her place, but you also hear Carrie begin to shout. She flies off the handle and tells the judge that everything the little girl said was lies- orchestrated lies that you trained your daughter to say. 

The judge doesn’t like that one bit, and Carrie’s lawyer even tries to get her to simmer down.

“Mr. Judge, sir,” Millie whimpers quietly. “I- I don’t want to go to M-Mom and her boyfriend… I- I’m scared.”

The judge glances to Carrie, but at this point, she’s lost it. The woman that you used to call your life partner rushes to Millie and grabs her roughly by the arm. She begins shouting at her, shaking her, telling her that she is such an ungrateful little-

She’s torn away from the stand by one of the security guards and hauled out of the room, much to the dismay of her lawyer. He knows in that instant that he’s lost the case entirely. You’ve won. There’s no way she didn’t just put the nail in her own coffin with that little stunt. Millie, not caring that she’s supposed to stay side by side with the judge flies into your arms. You soothe her the best that you can as she climbs into your lap and buries her face in your shoulder. The little girl reaches for Melissa too, who very quickly leans forward and begins to shush your daughter gently, running her hand over Millie’s shoulder and wild locks.

The rest of what the judge has to say is a blur, but you hear the gavel slam down, and Millie, Barb, and Melissa are hugging you with such ferocity that you know you won. You have sole custody of your sweet ray of sunshine.

The next thing that you can clearly comprehend is being shuffled out of the courtroom and into the Howard van with Millie on your hip and smiling into your shoulder while Melissa holds your free hand gently.

“You won,” Melissa whispers as she pulls you in close and daringly presses a quick kiss to your cheek. “Congratulations, hun. I knew you would.”

The kindergarten teacher smirks at that action. But then she too is offering her congratulations, and you can’t help but grin.

“I’d say this calls for a celebratory dinner,” Melissa states. “Whatever the two of you want. Barbara, you’re more than welcome to come. Invite Gerald too.”

“Ger is gonna come?” Millie’s head lifts from your shoulder, and she smiles brightly.

Barbara, who was fully intending on heading home and leaving the three of you to have a ‘family’ night, can’t find it in her to deny your little girl of her wish. “Of course. Let me call Gerald now, and we can pick him up on the way.”

“What’s on the menu tonight?” the redhead asks the two of you.

“Whatever Mill wants,” you grin. “Whatever my little girl wants.”

“Melly, can you make your meatballs?”

The kindergarten teacher has to bite back a laugh at your daughter calling Melissa by the one nickname she’s always notoriously hated. “Yeah, Melly. Can you?”

“Sure, Barbie.”

Dinner is… it’s exactly what you had always hoped your life would be when you were growing up. You might not have the perfect spouse, or even a spouse at all anymore. But you have your beautiful daughter, one who is happier than ever. You have your family, and it may not be the conventional family- but they’re family. Barbara Howard, Gerald Howard, and Melissa Schemmenti are family to you more than your actual family. They’ve been here for you through the toughest of times, and they’re only going to continue to support you in life. It may not be the most conventional family, but it’s family. It’s an ordinary family dinner where everybody is a little drunk on happiness, and that’s all you could ever wish for- happiness.

It’s an early night for your little girl. She falls asleep on you not thirty minutes into settling on the couch, splayed out over you and Melissa. Barbara and Gerald make their way out once they’ve finished their glasses of the champagne that they bought the night before- they knew you would be celebrating today.

The redhead’s arm makes its way around your shoulders again, and you can’t help but rest your head on her shoulder. It’s warm, it’s comfortable, and it’s something that just feels so natural to do.

“I know I said it before,” Melissa sighs softly. “But congratulations.” She presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you tell her honestly. “I- I really don’t think I would’ve been able to have the courage without you by my side.”

“You would’ve,” the second grade teacher tells you quietly. “I know you would’ve.”

“Well,” you turn to look up at her. “Still. Thank you.”

You stretch up to kiss her cheek, and then you linger there for a few seconds. Her eyes meet yours, and then they glance down at your lips. You think she might kiss you, and your heart begins to beat out of your chest.

But she doesn’t. Melissa knows that today left you rather vulnerable, and she doesn’t want to take advantage of you in this state. If she does ever make her move on you, she wants you to be stable and healed, and ready. And right now, you aren’t ready. And that’s okay for her. She’ll wait.

She smiles warmly at you before looking down at the little girl asleep in your laps. “I think this could be the perfect start to your new life.”

“This is all I could ever want,” you whisper. And then you close your eyes, and you drift off into the easiest sleep you’ve gotten in years. 

AND THAT IS A WRAP ON THIS FIC- I HOPE YOUSE ENJOYED IT! Theres definitely a possibility of this little world continuing on, but for now... that's all folks!

Tags: (and let me know if you want to be included!): @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @sweetcheeksschemmenti @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo @m1lflov3rrr @ricejucie @temilyrights @emilynissangtr @squinnchy @dopenightmaretyphoon @emeraldoceansstuff @shinyfaerielights @blkmxrvel @marvelwomenrule

[obsessivevoidkitten]

The Landlord’s Property

Male Alpha Landlord x Female Omega Reader (CW: Non-con, overstimulation, oral sex, vaginal sex, female reader, crying, reader tied up, a/b/o dynamics, fingering, praise, general yandere behavior, scenting, musk, pheromones, chloroformed reader, panty stealing, biting, claiming) Word Count: 7.2k (This may be the longest fic I have ever written, certainly up there, I hope everyone enjoys it, it was a commission from @dusty-void) 

You stared blankly at the computer screen, your face illuminated by the harsh white glow of your writing program, completely empty, in front of you. Though you had been trying for hours you could simply not will your brain into action and get any words typed out, now that it was past 3am in the morning you let out a defeated sigh as it had become painfully clear that simply no work was going to get done tonight. You were a freelance writer. You worked from home completing various assignments from content mills, websites, and even dabbled in short stories. The pay was not particularly glamorous, but you had managed to find a very cheap duplex to rent, and it helped that your landlord was very lenient and did not seem to mind that your rent payments were frequently just a bit late. Though you were still always worried about what would happen if he suddenly decided he had had enough. You turned off your computer and settled into your unkempt nest, hoping in vain that you could put your worries aside and be able to sleep peacefully for once. When you woke up from your fitful sleep you realized that you had actually managed to wake up later than you had intended. Feeling almost as if you had not slept at all you forced yourself up from bed and threw on some low effort clothing, you were just going to be alone and in the house all day so you figured it did not really matter what you wore. After getting dressed you trudged your way into the kitchen, starting your late morning off right with your breakfast of choice, pop-tarts. You quickly ate your sugar packed meal before making some coffee and dragging yourself to your work desk and booting up your computer. Your penchant for quick, convenient, sugary meals was probably what had lead you to be as chubby as you were, but you pushed that uncomfortable thought aside for now. You heard your fire alarm go off in its unmistakable shrill tone, once again letting you know that its battery was low as it had been periodically for the past two days. You made another mental note to order some batteries or something and get it fixed. Before getting to work you text your several online friends, you did not go out too much, but you very successfully maintained many good online friendships. After a sending a few hellos and making a plan or two to play a game sometime later this week with some buddies you opened up your writing programs and after a few minute of once again staring blankly at the blinking cursor your brain finally whirred into action and you actually started to make some solid progress. Just when you started to really hit your stride your doorbell rang. The first time you ignored it but after a couple rings you grumbled and figured you would just have to answer it. You grumbled and got up, just knowing this would throw off the roll you were on. You answered the door and saw your alpha landlord Nathan smiling and looking down at you. You were immediately worried you had done something wrong but before you could say a word he spoke. “Heya, I just happened to hear your fire alarm beeping since the wall it is on is adjacent to mine, and I figured maybe you needed some batteries and help reaching it, since omegas tend to be a bit short.” There was nothing angry or even annoyed in his tone, there never really seemed to be, he was his normal amicable self just genuinely offering to help. His green eyes bright and a friendly smile on his face. Even his vibrant orange hair seemed happy. You felt bad though because you were sure you must have annoyed him with how inconsiderate you had been, you had not even thought of him being able to hear the alarm. He was probably just concealing his displeasure. “O-oh, um, thanks that’s too kind of you, I am so sorry for not getting to it sooner,” you stammered while averting your gaze. “Hey, it’s no problem at all.” He went into your kitchen and noticed all the boxes of junk food as well as the wrappers that were in the garbage can which was close to where he had to stand to change the batteries. It was not that he was trying to be nosy or judgmental, but it made him a bit sad that you had no one taking care of you properly. You were a cute omega and probably couldn’t afford good food or did not have the time to prepare it with how busy you were with writing. And you must have been very busy, he could tell by the dark eyes and by the scent of your stressed out pheromones that you probably were not getting an adequate amount of sleep. It tugged at his heart, you were trying so hard, you clearly put yourself through a lot and had trouble with sleeping, eating habits, and getting the rent in on time. It was becoming more and more clear to him that what you really needed was an alpha helping you out and maybe being your mate and taking better care of you than you were capable of taking care of yourself. “Okay, all done, but if you need anything else please don’t hesitate to ask me okay?” He left your home and went back to his, telling himself that he would do a lot more to check up on you in case you were too scared or nervous to ask for help. You heard his words and mumbled out an affirmation that you would definitely ask if you needed something, but you knew that wasn’t true, you tended to just ignore most little problems and inconveniences until they either went away completely by themselves or until they could no longer be ignored. There were light bulbs that needed changing, your AC unit needed to be looked at, and you could probably be a bit tidier, for example. All things you needed to do yourself but were just too depressed and anxious to actually do. You were lucky Nathan did all the outside work, diligently cleaning the gutters, power washing the building, raking the leaves, and mowing the lawn even on your side of the building. And he was always in a nice tank top showing off his powerful body, but that surely wasn’t for your benefit, you thought. He was an alpha after all, and they always enjoyed exposing their muscles whenever given the chance. Of course he really was doing it to attract your gaze, though it never seemed to work. No matter how many times he made advances or hinted that he wanted to be friends you seemed to be completely uninterested. You didn’t check him out when he was doing physical outdoor labor, you did not pay attention when he was working in your unit, and you did not even seem to notice his scent, which was always powerful after working up a sweat for you. He even often worked out before coming over just to make his pheromones really strong. His mind could not entertain the thought that you might be uninterested though, not after all he did for you. You probably just needed more attention to feel comfortable with him, you were probably just too shy and insecure and needed a bit more positive attention and encouragement, so he decided that he would continue to help you as often as possible in the belief that you would eventually come around. Weeks passed since he fixed your alarm, and he was beginning to think that you would never approach him. Nathan was yearning for any excuse to go in your home again, where the air smelled so full of your scent and where he could hear that lovely voice of yours, but there was never a reason to go over there of his own initiative and you never approached him. The increasingly desperate alpha decided he would have to make his own opportunities for you to come to him. He knew when you would go on one of your infrequent walks to the corner store. They were like clockwork, you always went on the same days of the month. You normally were gone at least thirty minutes when you left and that gave him more than enough time to sabotage your home. He knew it was wrong to do it, but if there was no other way to get you to approach him then he had to. Nathan was sure that you liked him, you were just too shy and unsure of yourself to let him know you were noticing his advances, and this would also be another good way to show how handy and helpful he would be as your mate. To show he could take care of you. Nathan made sure to scrub himself clean of any scent that could potentially be left as evidence of his actions, then, as soon as you were gone and were out of sight down the road he went to your side of the duplex and rushed to your breaker panel. He flipped a breaker switch and replaced one of your fuses with a blown one, thus shutting off electricity to a large portion of the building. The alpha seriously doubted that you would know what to do to fix the problem and even if you did you probably did not have any fuses laying around. You did not exactly give off a prepared and organized vibe. As he started to leave a curious smell hit his nostrils, beckoning him into your room. He was powerless to resist seeking out the source of that heavenly aroma, that aroma that smelled so purely of you. He followed the scent to your bedroom and slowly opened the door, he knew such an invasion was even worse than what he had already done, but the smell was demanding that he follow his instincts and find the source. Immediately upon stepping into your room a wave of dizzying pheromones and the scent of slick nearly made him stumble backwards. There, in your laundry pile, he found what was emanating the smell that was causing his pants to grow tight. A pair of slick soaked panties lay on top of your laundry hamper, as if waiting for him. He never could have imagined when he entered your home that your heat had just ended and such a treasure would be left for him to enjoy. He pulled them to his nose and inhaled the scent deeply. He blushed when he thought about the fact that his nose was touching fabric that has caressed your pussy. So sweet and a bit musky, an omega’s most delicious scent reserved only for mates. He had to stop himself from masturbating right then and there, because you certainly would have smelled him had he done so. He decided that it would be okay for him to take a pair because you had several similarly colored and messy ones in your hamper and it would be unlikely that you noticed just one missing. Your landlord quickly left the room and closed the door behind him before retreating back to his home. He put your panties under his pillow and thoroughly washed his face off. His trophy would have to be enjoyed later, when you got back you would soon discover the sabotaged electricity and come to him for help. When you got back from your trip to the store, bags of junk food that passed as groceries in your mind in your hands, you did not notice anything amiss. You were completely unaware that anyone had been there. When you went to turn on the kitchen light you realized that it did not work at all. You needed to change the light bulb, that was the obvious thought that entered your mind, but when you opened your fridge to put your food in it you realized the light inside of it was also not working. That was really odd, your power couldn’t be out, the light in the living room came right on when you stepped in your home. You checked some other appliances and it seemed that all electricity in your kitchen was just… not working. Anxiety welled up within you, you did not know the first thing about fixing this type of issue but you dreaded asking Nathan, you knew he was sweet and would probably be happy to take a look at the issue but you really hated to be an inconvenience and in general you just preferred to be independent. You swallowed your anxiety and made your way outside slowly as if each foot was made by lead. You stared at his door, breathed deeply, and rang the doorbell. Nathan answered fairly quickly, opening the door and greeting you with that jovial smile of his. “Hey, how are you? Anything I can help you with?” “Um, yeah, it seems that my electricity is out in my kitchen, I, uh, wouldn’t normally bug you with it, but I don’t want my food to go bad…,” you explained while looking down awkwardly, unable to meet his gaze. “Oh, sure, I can take a look at it no problem, honestly it sounds like maybe a blown fuse. I have some spare ones, let me go grab them just in case.” He went back to his house before returning with something in his hand. You both went into your unit and he walked into the kitchen and checked all of your appliances to verify they really weren’t working before going over to the panel in the wall and pulling out what you guessed was a fuse and replacing it before flipping a switch. Suddenly, much to your relief, all the appliances whirred to life. “Thanks so much! I am sorry I did not know it was something so simple…” “Hey it’s no pr-,” Nathan began to respond, but stopped when he turned around and noticed that you had already retreated back to your computer, typing away diligently. Nathan was beginning to get a bit frustrated, not at you but just at the situation and with myself. He just did not know what he had to do to get your eyes on him, you seemed absolutely immune to flirting and showing off… It was time for the direct approach. Maybe things really just flew over your head or you were afraid to give him any attention for some reason, maybe you had been hurt in a previous relationship, or maybe you just needed someone to show you that you were worth the affection. But whatever it was he decided he would have to use the direct approach, though he would have preferred to have been getting you to notice him a bit more before he did so there was simply no other option left. Tomorrow he would simply ask you out directly. He was a big strong alpha that took care of you, surely you would not say no. He finally left so you could breathe a sigh of relief, you really did not like having others over. You were grateful and all but under Nathan’s smile you were positively convinced that he was judging you, you always caught him staring at you and it made you more than a bit nervous. With him gone you finished up what you had started on, ate one of your dietary staples, a pack of ramen noodles, and washed up before staying up too late and eventually passing out in your bed while watching YouTube videos. Nathan knows that you do not get up early like he does, so he spends all day getting ready. He put together a thoughtfully crafted courting package. Sweet treats that omegas tended to be fond of and some particularly fragrant flowers all wrapped up in one of his slightly worn shirts so that you had a token that smelled of him. He even made sure it was your favorite color, which he guessed based on the décor in your home. He was pretty sure of himself, so he lacked any nervousness when he approached your door and rung the bell. When you heard it you grumbled, as usual you did not want to be disturbed, especially when you had actually managed to start working. You had not even really bothered to get dressed yet, you had been so busy between catching up on sleep and actually being productive with your writing that you had completely forgotten to change out of the clothes from yesterday and now that you had someone at the door you were now painfully aware that your hair was a bit of a mess as well. You straightened your hair the best you could with your fingers and checked to see who was at the door before answering. When you saw that it was Nathan you felt a sharp panic. Had you forgotten to pay rent? Had you done something wrong? Was he finally tired of dealing with you and had decided you needed to leave. Taking a deep breath you opened the door and greeted him. “Oh, uh, hi Nathan, what’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to ask if you would let me court you? You’re such a cute omega and I really think we are compatible. Don’t you think we would make a good match?” He tried to hand you a courting package wrapped up in one of his scented shirts but you did not take it. “Oh, um, I am really sorry about this, but I am not uh… really looking for a relationship right now. I am just trying to focus on myself and my writing… sorry.” Nathan regarded you blankly for a few moments that dragged on and felt like an awkward eternity before he finally acknowledged your words and responded a bit frantically, “If you’re worried about taking care of yourself you wouldn’t need to! I could take care of all your needs!” “That’s the thing, I really just want to make it on my own and take care of myself completely before I have a mate. I am so sorry I hope you understand…” He nodded solemnly and you nervously closed the door. You hoped he didn’t hate you now, he was a nice guy but you had been completely honest with him. Of course Nathan did not hate you now, in fact it may have been better if he had. Instead he was more determined than ever to make you his. His mind just would not accept in any way, shape, form, or fashion that you were uninterested in him. Instead he was in denial, thinking and reaching for any plausible explanation as to why you would want him but say no to his courtship. The delusional alpha finally reached the most reasonable conclusion, you just did not think you were good enough to date him. It was rather obvious when he thought over all the evidence. You lived like someone who had at least partially given up on themselves. You hastily ate whatever was the lowest effort junk food available, your sleep habits were awful, you never left your home and as he was not aware of your online social life he thought you were utterly friendless. It all added up perfectly in his mind, you thought you were bad and needed to be elevated and you desperately needed someone to care for you, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it. And, as your self-appointed alpha, it was up to him to make sure your needs were met. He sat down and calmly thought of a plan, the fact that you lived not only in an a home connected to his and owned by him made everything much easier for him. The next time you went on one of your little store trips he would once again put a nefarious plan into motion. Your soon to be lover collected all the necessary materials to have a romantic evening with you, his chubby little omega. He had prepared a meal of lasagna, garlic bread, and a side salad with a fancy bottle of wine. As well as some crucial extras such as rope and chloroform. As soon as you were gone he waltzed right on in and set up a lovely candle lit dinner for you and him to enjoy, you would get to see another way that he could take care of you, making you tasty and nutritious proper meals. When you opened the door to your home you were greeted by the scent of Italian herbs, cheese, the hearty aroma of meat in tomato sauce, fresh cut veggies, and garlic. You were confused, sometimes you could detect the smell of food from Nathan cooking next door, but never this intensely. You took a few steps inside when suddenly someone strong gripped you from behind and put a rag over your face. You thrashed and kicked in a panicked frenzy as a sickeningly sweet smell flooded your nostrils. Your kicks quickly grew feeble before everything went black. When you came to you were seated at your kitchen table, your head fuzzy and rope tightly bound your legs and torso. Your hands were free enough to be able to eat, but they would be useless in breaking your binds. In front of you there was a dinner with presentation that would not be out of place at a five star restaurant. A floral centerpiece, candle light, pasta, salad, and garlic bread. And across the table, staring intensely at you with a smile going from ear to ear, was Nathan. You could smell the excitement radiating off of him, this was a crazed alpha with their mate. “N-Nathan? What’s… going on?” Your fuzzy brain struggled to make sense of what was happening but was rapidly catching on as the drugging continued to fade. “Oh good darling, I am so glad you are awake from your nap! Why don’t you dig in? I worked really hard on a nice homemade dinner for you~” He said everything so casually and sweetly. As if a man talking to his wife and not a man talking to a woman he had forcefully knocked out and restrained. You stared at him silently, your mind struggling to come to grips with what was happening to you. Nathan had always been so nice to you, how could he be capable of something like this? “Go ahead and eat pumpkin, no need to be shy, I know how much you needed a good home cooked meal!” “Wh-what the hell is wrong with you?” You asked angrily as you glared at him, probably the most direct eye contact you had ever made with him. “What do you mean? You don’t like pumpkin as a pet name? We can try others and see what f-” “N-no! What? I don’t mean the name, I mean the fact that you knocked me out and tied me up!!” You were seething now, your rage even affecting your scent and making it more acrid. “Oh, don’t worry about that my darling mate~ I just had to make sure that you wouldn’t try to run out of our date! I know you said you didn’t want to be my mate mate but I know you were just being silly, you are just too shy to admit that you want a mate and you don’t think that you are good enough, but no worries! I will prove to you that you are.” You didn’t know what to say. He was completely unstable. “Please eat baby doll, you really need to,” he pleaded as if you were a petulant child refusing a meal, as if this was an everyday inconvenience and not the result of him assaulting you and tying you up. But eating was the farthest thing on your mind and you did not want to give him the satisfaction of giving in to his demands, and you were not entirely sure he didn’t drug the food with something even more potent. Instead you threw yourself in a rather comical attempt to escape. The way you were tied with your arms partially free and your legs firmly bound made you have to resort to wiggling on the floor like some kind of worm. Nathan got up from his seat, hoisted you up, and sat back down with you in his lap. “I know you are shy and maybe even a bit too prideful, but I promise you will feel better with some food in your belly.” As he said this he rubbed your chubby belly and kissed your cheek lightly before holding a fork full of lasagna up to your face. You knew you were going to start crying before you even felt the first hot tear streak down your cheek, you were powerless and scared of what he could do to you so you reluctantly opened your mouth, allowing him to slide the fork in. What at any other time would have been a flavorful dinner with tangy and savory flavors dancing on your tongue turned now only to cotton, as you struggled past your emotional trauma as you ate each bite that he gave you. As you ate he filled your ear with whispered praises, telling you how you were such a good girl, and you just had a bit more to go, and how he was so happy you were eating properly for him. You ate roughly half of everything that he had put on your plate and once you had he rubbed your back soothingly. “Such a good girl for me. I am so happy. My good little omega~” Don’t worry, you will get used to our life together eventually. You wanted to throw up. But you fought the urge, who knows what he would do if you got sick. Force feed you more? Make you take medicine and baby you? It wasn’t worth the risk. He left you on the chair as he cleaned up after dinner, you shooting him daggers with your eyes the entire time that he was doing so, but he just blissfully hummed to himself the entire time seemingly unaware of your glares. For Nathan everything was finally coming together, he had successfully taken the first crucial steps in getting his mate to accept him. When the kitchen was all clean he took you, still tied up, to the living room and put you on the couch. You didn’t have a tv since you never bothered with anything other than your PC or tablet so he turned his laptop to Netflix and placed it on the coffee table in front of the both of you and turned on your favorite show. Once again your stomach turned a bit, how did he know the things that you liked to watch? Had he really paid such a creepy amount of attention to what you were doing during one of the many times he had been over to fix something? Just how long had he been so obsessed with you, and why? Nathan finally removed your bindings after pulling you close, perhaps realizing that they were more than a bit overkill since you were right up beside him with his arm around you. There was no way you could even attempt to escape without him immediately stopping you. And you certainly weren’t going to make the attempt now, he had knocked you out, tied you up, force fed you, and was living in his own little delusion that you would easily accept him as a partner when you did not even really want a partner even in the best of circumstances. Who knew what he might do to you if you shattered those delusions by escaping. You’d have to lull him into a false sense of security and trust before you attempted to do anything. For now you allowed him to stroke your hair as he watched a show with you, though you were very rigid, scared, and not paying any attention at all to the screen, but if he noticed he did not make a fuss about it, maybe it was enough just to be obedient for the moment. And it was, Nathan knew it would take you a bit of time to adjust. There were always adjustments both parties had to make when starting a new relationship. You had to get used to being around him all the time and used to having someone praise you, build you up, and make sure you were being taken care of. He would have to adjust his time and schedule to give you all the time and attention that you needed and he would have to be really patient with you. It was just part of a new relationship. Nothing to worry about. You continued sitting on the couch for him for what seemed like an eternity. He occasionally planted a gentle kiss on your cheek or on your cheek. You flinched a bit each time that he did, but finally he turned the laptop off. While you were more than a bit relieved you had to fear what would happen next. And your fear only increased as he led you to your bedroom. Apparently he did quite a bit more than just bring dinner over and lay in wait for you. He had reorganized your next, not only tidying it up but also adding several new items that he had personally scented. His musk hung thickly all about the room. He had likely placed scented objects all around the room. You scrunched your face as the smell became increasingly gross to you. This was the ultimate invasion to any omega. A non-consensual intrusion into an omega’s nest was pretty revolting and anxiety inducing. A nest was supposed to be a place where an unmated omega had supreme authority in constructing it in a way to make them feel comfortable, safe, and comfortable. This alpha forcing his scent in not only your den but also your nest made you more nauseous than when you were being forced to eat. As he guided you to your nest you begin to truly panic, thinking you were surely about to be raped. You started to try and turn for the door, but he caught you and held you close while rubbing your back. “Shhh, don’t worry babe, we aren’t going to do anything other than sleep okay? You need to fix your sleep schedule, I am your alpha and have to make sure that you rest enough and you have had a long day. Shhh, just relax,” he whispered in a hush tone before licking your neck in the way an alpha or beta does to relax an omega. Though you were opposed to the licking, and you certainly did not want to be in your tainted nest, you did calm down a bit with his assurances that he wasn’t going to forcefully breed you. You let him lead him into your defiled bedding and lay there. He whispered praises of you being his good girl as he slid in behind you and put his arm around you, pulling you close. You felt the heat of tears as they welled up in your eyes and cried silently until you finally fell into a fitful sleep. You woke up from your light sleep to the smell of breakfast cooking and the sound of meat sizzling from the kitchen. You felt as if you had hardly slept at all and your head was pounding, likely from dehydration from all the crying you did last night. You briefly considered trying to sneak out the front door while he was busy in the kitchen, but the rooms were close and at this time in the early morning there would be absolutely no one outside. He would hear you leave and then snatch you back up immediately. And who knew what the consequences would be. Instead you forced yourself into the kitchen and did your best to act like everything was fine. “Good morning sunshine~ I hope you slept well. Breakfast is almost done, sausage and homemade pancakes. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day so I can’t let you go without it,” once again he was saying all of this so casually, as if you could just so easily accept him as your provider and caretaker. “Th-thanks,” you mumbled while trying to sound at least a little sincere. Nathan thought you were, his heart fluttered thinking you were finally starting to accept him. Which is exactly what you wanted. Nathan wasn’t the only one who could think of a plan. Once he completely let his guard down and left you alone for an extended period of time you would get the hell out of here and go to the police. He had taken away all of your electronics so you had no way to signal for help, so you would have to run. So for the next few weeks you let Nathan think you were warming up to him. You ate his food, let him pull you close, you engaged him in conversations, always acting as sweet as can be, and eventually started leaning on him and holding on to him in bed. It worked like a charm, he started leaving you unattended for a few minutes at a time and that time slowly grew bit by bit until one night he said he had to run out to the store to get some supplies he had forgotten to get earlier that he needed to fix a minor leak in the roof the next day. You told him okay and made a big show of being sleepy and snuggling up in your nest with the big plushy he had gotten and scent marked for you so you could always have his scent by you. When he left the home you stared out the window and waited for his car to move out of sight. When it had you sprang up, quickly put some appropriate clothing and shoes on, and ran out the door. Smacking right into Nathan’s broad chest. He must have parked the car down the street then sprinted here while you were throwing your clothes and shoes on. He was a bit out of breath. It had all been a clever trap to test you. “Nathan… I was… just getting some fresh air. I-i didn’t feel well.” You started to back away but he grabbed your wrist a bit painfully and pulled you back to him. “Don’t give me that. I know you were trying to get away from me. It’s my fault, I gave you a bit too much freedom too quickly. And I should have realized how badly I needed to mark and mate with you to keep you happier. I know you won’t admit that you want it yet, but it is clear you are crying out for it.” “Nathan no. N-no please don’t,” you pleaded desperately, each word out of your mouth dripping with terror. Your self elected alpha ignored all of your objections and struggles as he picked you up and started carrying you to the bedroom. You scratched at him, punched, kicked, elbowed, everything you could do to stop what was about to happen. “Calm down baby girl, I’ll make you feel so much better, I promise. Gonna mark you, breed you, you’ll be so much happier, just calm down.” Nathan deposited you in your shared nest, you tried to push him away with your legs and feet but he just caught them effortlessly before aggressively ripping off your pants and then panties, exposing your pussy to him. Then he moved to your top and bra and removed those as well. Your body was completely uncovered. You tried to cover yourself the best you could with your arms and hands but he just pried them away. He now had you completely pinned and at his mercy. The first thing he went for was your neck, knowing that stimulating your scent glands there would be an effective way to arouse you. He licked up and down the sensitive area before kissing and nibbling on it. Your reaction was as strong as it was involuntary, small gasps and whimpers escaping your lips as your pussy began to drool. He firmly grasped your tits, groping and kneading them in his hands as he continued his assault on your neck. You feared he would make a claiming mark soon, his teeth grazing over your skin threateningly, but so far he had restrained himself from that ultimate act of dominance. You had a moment to collect yourself as he temporarily released you to slide out of his shirt, a light sheen of sweat covering his chest, before then taking off his pants and underwear. His large cock bounced free. “No, no, no please I don-,” you started to protest before your pleas were swallowed up by his lips dominating yours in an oppressive embrace. He broke the kiss as one of his hands slowly traveled down from your side to your pussy. He slowly teased the lips as you continued to mutter, whimper, and whine out little pleas and protests. But despite your obvious lack of consent, each word you uttered was steeped in arousal. It only convinced him that he was doing the right thing, that you were just too shy to admit that you wanted it, that your shyness in conjunction with your pride made you try to run away. Mostly it convinced him more and more that he just needed to open you up, in every sense of the word. And with that thought he finally slid two fingers inside your eagerly waiting cunt. Instinctively at the sensation your body completely betrayed you, your legs spread more as if inviting him in deeper while moving yourself into his touch, grinding into his fingers. “See babe, I knew you wanted this~,” he whispered faintly before sliding another finger into your drooling depths. He didn’t let up, in fact he picked up the pace as you began really fucking yourself on his fingers, your body clearly craving release. His previously acrid smell began to actually smell a lot better to you, desirable even. The combination of domination, neck stimulation, and his skilled fingers lead to you cumming a lot more quickly than you normally would. “Gosh, such a good girl for me, already cumming for me,” he said under his breath more to himself than to you, as he regarded you with awe. You were the picture of perfection to him, simply radiant as you panted and shuddered in the wake of your climax. Nathan licked all your juices off his fingers before kissing a trail from your pudgy belly to your sex. He kissed it deeply before sliding his tongue in, thoroughly making out with your nether-lips. His tongue was eager for every drop of flavor inside your pussy, the pheromones your body was producing sending him into rut as all the sensations began to trigger you into an early heat. His tongue probed and prodded every inch it could reach within you as you kept producing more slick. It wasn’t long before another orgasm hit you, causing you to squeeze his head between your thick thighs. He didn’t mind at all, instead taking pride in the pleasure he was causing your body despite you claiming you didn’t want him to be doing this. You laid back limp panting more than earlier in the wake of your pleasure, now not even able to make a single objection. But your mate was nowhere near done with you. The alpha flipped you over and put you on your tummy, you felt a warmth on your thighs as he rubbed his cock against you before sliding it all the way inside you. He started very slowly moving back and forth in your abused pussy, savoring every shudder and movement you made under him. As he began licking and kissing your neck gently while mating you agonizingly slowly you began to break down and cry, once more feeling that sensation that had gotten all too familiar lately of tears welling up in your eyes and raining down your face. “So good for me, such a good girl, such a good omega. Taking my cock so well, making so much slick for me to slide in easily, so so good,” he told you in a comforting voice as he peppered the side of your face and your neck with a bunch of tiny kisses. You were shaking, so broken by him. The slow speed had become completely torturous. You needed to cum again. Despite your shaking and exhaustion and sheer overstimulation you began to weakly rock against each one of his thrusts, driving him deeply and forcing the pace to go a bit faster. Nathan followed your cue and started going significantly faster, his large cock rubbing against your walls so wonderfully. You felt so betrayed by your body, starting a heat at his actions, pheromones thick in the air beckoning him to continue, body moving instinctively to seek pleasure from your rapist and captor. But you couldn’t help it. His praise for you continued and now became almost like a chant. “So good for me, so good for me, so good, so good, so good, so good…,” as the words of praise and worship for you kept tumbling from his lips his knot started to grow inside you, binding the two of you together. This was when he started really railing you, his swollen knot catching against your inner folds in the best way possible, as if his cock was specifically for your use. The sensations were reaching their peak for the both of you. Your face completely wet with tears of desperation and frustration. Nathan’s mouth was back at your neck and just as he filled your insides with thick potent seed he bit down on your scent gland HARD. You screamed out loud. A brilliant mix of both pleasure and pain mixed through you as the bite sent an almost electric feeling throughout your entire body as it quivered once more with the strongest climax you had ever experienced in your life. It was so immense that you blacked out from all the sensations assaulting your body. Nathan licked your neck of the blood his claiming bite had caused and pulled you close, spooning you as his knot stayed rigid within you. You woke up whimpering as your sore pussy was being bred all over again. Nathan had never pulled out of you and when he woke up he started thrusting lightly, trying not to disturb your rest. He smiled when he saw that your eyes had opened and you were already flushed and flustered from his movements. “Ah, my sleeping beauty is awake, now we can start round two before breakfast~”

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[thriftedtchotchkes]

keep it on the low

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

summary: just because you and joel broke up doesn't mean you can't still (secretly) enjoy each other's company

warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, hurt/angst, ex!joel, possessive!joel, pwp, smut, post-breakup sex, rough sex, mild exhibitionism

word count: 3k

a/n: all i can say is oops. blame sza, i guess. and of course, couch gif for obvious reasons. as always, thoughts and feedback are always appreciated!

Joel’s being obvious again. Discretion’s never been his strong suit, but he’s especially attuned to you today, and not in a good way. He’s not undressing you with his eyes, itching for the moment he can take you home like he usually is.

Nope, he just looks irritated as fuck. Way too angry for someone who just happens to be sitting in the same room as his ex. If he keeps this up, you’re going to get caught, and then what are you going to do? Fuck other people?

Like that’ll ever happen. You and Joel broke up almost three months ago and yet here you are, still hooking up like there’s no one else in this town to have sex with. But you have an agreement…sort of. You keep sleeping together, you don’t talk about it, and you definitely don’t tell anyone else. It’s high school-level dramatic and, honestly, you’re both way too old for this shit.

You know everyone’s gossiping about you behind your back, trying to figure out why you’re not together anymore. It was a bad breakup, probably the worst you’ve ever had and the biggest Jackson’s ever seen. The second this town hall is over, they’ll all be chatting amongst themselves, analyzing your behavior like it’s any of their business.

And Joel’s only giving them more to talk about. Seriously, why is he staring at you like that? If you can keep your eyes to yourself for an hour, surely he can at least pretend to be listening to what Maria’s saying, even though it’s boring as hell and doesn’t apply to either of you in the slightest. The winter dance next week really isn't your thing, no offense to her, but at least you're trying to look interested.

You shoot him a quick glare across the room, and he rolls his eyes, finally shifting his focus elsewhere. Apparently, that little interaction is all it takes to stir up the gossip mill because you can already hear a few of the worst offenders whispering to each other.

Fucking vultures. You’re pretty sure half of them are trying to make a move on Joel now that you’re over. Too bad he’s still busy spending his nights buried inside you.

The meeting ends pretty quickly after that, and everyone gets up from their seats, some staying to help put away folding chairs and others loitering around before they head to dinner. Somehow, Joel ends up next to you as you’re walking out, probably on purpose, and you take the opportunity to tell him off.

“Way to be fucking obvious, asshole,” you mumble, hoping no one else can hear you. “Did you have to stare at me like that? You made it seem like I spat in your fucking coffee this morning.”

He scoffs loudly, and you elbow him in the side, throwing him a warning glance. He’s acting like he wants everyone to know what you’re trying so hard to hide and it’s really starting to piss you off.

“Wasn’t lookin’ at you any sorta way, darlin’. You’re the one makin’ a fuss and gettin’ everyone’s attention,” he smirks. It’s not even fair how good he looks when he does that.

You feel a strong urge to slap it off his face, but that’s not really an option right now. An annoyingly intrusive thought tells you to save it for later when you’re alone, but you push it to the back of your mind. He’d probably enjoy that, anyways.

You quirk an eyebrow as subtly as you can. “…Are you kidding me? I wasn’t the one glaring at you the entire meeting.”

He looks around pointedly. “Ya think you’re not makin' it worse right now?”

You pause to take in your surroundings, and he’s right. You’re making a scene unnecessarily when you could’ve just ignored him and gone home like you’d planned. This is exactly why everyone thinks the breakup was your fault. Why they all think you're the villain in his story.

Joel knows just how to bring out the worst in you and you hate it. It’s one of the reasons you broke up in the first place. He pretends like everything’s fine and nothing’s ever his fault, and you’re constantly tricked into proving him right. But today he’s being purposely antagonistic and you can’t tell why.

“Oh, fuck you, Joel,” you grit through your teeth. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

He doesn’t.

Not even a few hours later, he’s at your back door—like always, so no one sees him come and go—eyeing you a little wildly. Hungrily. And suddenly, it all makes sense.

He's horny. Probably has been all day, judging by his behavior earlier. He doesn’t say anything, just lurches forward to kiss you, to get his hands on you, but your arms shoot out to stop him.

“Uhh, what are you doing? Pretty sure I told you to leave me the fuck alone.”

He’s already panting as if he ran all the way here, but the tent in his pants tells you otherwise. His heart is racing under your palms, and while you haven’t forgotten how furious you still are, the fact that he’s this desperate for you makes you want to.

"Yeah, but ya didn't mean it. Ya never mean it,” he says like he knows you so well. You hate that he does, but the last thing you’re going to do is admit it.

“Why the fuck would I say it if I didn't?" you scoff.

"'Cus it's more fun that way," he leans in again, but you jerk your head back. Is he serious? It’s not like you normally have a nice little chat before you fuck, but he usually has more patience than this.

“Joel, stop. Are you trying to get us caught?” you eye him incredulously. It’s dark out and, yeah, you’re not having this conversation on the porch where anyone can see you, but other people’s windows still face your yard. He’s acting ridiculous.

"Maybe I wanna get caught,” he replies smugly, crowding you against the door. “Maybe I want everyone to know who ya belong to.”

His eyes are unreadable, and you’re caught between shock and intense curiosity. But then, that familiar feeling of fury returns, and you allow that to win out. You reach behind you for the doorknob, twisting it open to back inside.

“No. Nope, that’s not happening today,” you say with finality, yanking him by the collar into the house. You shove his back against the door, slamming it shut, and your grip tightens on his shirt. He’s smirking again, and it somehow looks even better on his face now than it did earlier.

“There’s my girl,” he breathes out, his hands finding your waist to pull you closer. It sends an unwitting wave of heat through you, a gasp escaping your lips before you can stop it. Fuck. He hasn’t called you that since before the breakup. Because it hasn’t been true since then, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Only in here. Right, Joel?” He nods his head slowly, but his eyes betray him. He doesn’t believe that for one second.

“Sure, darlin’. Whatever you say.”

And, for now, that’s enough for you. You crash your lips into his hard enough to bruise and he groans into your mouth, rocking his hips into your belly so you can feel him straining in his jeans. It’s a little dizzying knowing just how much he wants you. How much he always wants you.

Flipping your positions to lead him backward, you reach down to unbutton his pants, your lips still moving languidly against his. Your fingertips purposely skim his bulge as you tug down his zipper, and he bucks into your hand, something soft and needy rumbling out of his chest.

More layers of clothing are stripped off and thrown haphazardly on the floor, leaving a trail from the kitchen to the living room, until the backs of his legs bump into the couch. All that's left now are his boxers, your underwear, and your bra. You make quick work of the latter yourself, dropping it to the floor, and then kick off your underwear, smirking at the look of sheer yearning on his face.

He reaches out to touch you, fingertips only managing to graze the side of your breast before you slap his hand away. He's not allowed to touch you until the playing field is even and he's as bare as you are. He already knows that.

His eyes are so dark, pupils dilated until that gentle brown has almost completely disappeared, and the way he's looking at you is reminiscent of a different time. You ignore it, focusing on all of the things you know he's about to do to your body instead. It'll help you forget whatever you just recognized in his gaze for a little while.

You tug on the waistband of his boxers, letting them snap back into his hips.

"Off," you tell him simply, giving him enough time to pull them down before you shove him onto the cushions. You climb into his lap, hands settling on his shoulders as you lower yourself down to drag your wet folds across his cock.

He hisses a breath through his teeth, his fingers digging into your hips to guide you, and you let him slick himself up against your pussy. He's so hard below you, looking painfully and almost angrily red at the tip. You sigh at the repeated friction on your clit and he twitches at the sound, dribbling precum that immediately mixes with your wetness.

"Need to be inside you. Now," he moans breathily, burying his face between your tits. He turns his head slightly to nip at the sensitive skin, and you tremble, trailing a hand up the side of his neck to bury in his soft curls. "You ready for me, darlin'?"

You nod quickly, chest heaving as you lift enough to reach down and wrap your fingers around him. Pumping him a few times, you drag the tip between your folds before lining him up with your entrance. He pants damply into your chest, more precum leaking out in anticipation.

And then you're dropping onto him, crying out loudly as you impale yourself on his cock. His hips shoot up off the couch, forcing himself deeper into your cunt, and he lets out a pained whoosh of air, adjusting to you as much as you are to him.

"Shit, that's—," he chokes out a moan as you start to move, "—tight. Fuckin' grippin' me, Christ."

You purposely squeeze him a little harder, exhaling sharply out your nose when his nails bite into your skin.

"Yeah, because you barely fucking fit," you tease breathily.

But it's more than that. You mold around him like you were made to take it, soft sighs leaving your lips as you ride him slowly. He fits perfectly, something that took precious time, his cock finding a home inside you over and over, reshaping your walls in his image. The lock to his key.

You bury that thought, too—with every swivel of your hips, every brush of your clit against his skin. He latches onto your breast, sucking a nipple into his mouth as you continue to work him.

His eyes flutter shut, hands beginning to guide you up and down a little faster as he swirls searing circles around the nub until it peaks. He tugs at it sharply with his teeth and you gasp, a spear of heat lancing through your spine as you gush around him.

It all feels so…fuck, he knows exactly how you like it. And both of you can hear how much you like it, feel how sticky you're making his lap. The slide around his cock is wet and easy, and your pussy's gripping him even tighter, but you need…god, you need—

"Joel, fuck me—come on, fuck me," you whimper, tugging him away from your tits by his hair, and he responds immediately. Taking over, he establishes a frantic, steady rhythm, lifting you until just the tip is inside, and forcing you back down.

But it's still not hard or fast enough to satisfy the way he needs you right now. He wraps his arms fully around your waist to hold you in place, pistoning his hips into you, forcing increasingly louder haahs out of your chest.

"That's it, darlin', take it…take it," he groans, head tilting back so he can observe every subtle change of expression as he gives you exactly you asked for. He leans up to capture your lips, but it's not so much a kiss as an exchange of breath, soft and humid as you pant heavily into each other mouths.

It quiets you for a brief moment—potentially the best possible moment, because out of nowhere, you hear faint voices passing by outside. They're way too close for comfort, and you realize belatedly that you made a huge mistake earlier.

"W-wait, the curtains—shit, the curtains…ngh…are still open," you barely manage to gasp out. "Fuck, the windows are open."

It doesn't deter him in the slightest and, instead, spurs him on. "S'alright, it's dark in here. They can't see us," he rasps, keeping up his merciless pace.

Ducking his head down, he sucks hard on a sensitive spot—your favorite spot—right above your collarbone, and you whimper much louder than you mean to.

"They can still fucking hear us," you all but growl, feeling your thighs start to quake despite your growing panic.

"Good, let 'em," he laughs almost cruelly, and he sounds so possessive that it stuns you momentarily. He takes the opportunity to abruptly tug you off his lap and toss you onto your back across the cushions, fucking back into you before you can even process the shift in position.

Now that he's on top of you, pressing down with his entire weight, his pelvis grinds into your already swollen clit with every single thrust, and you can't help the wail that escapes your parted lips.

He doesn't hesitate to pull you close, hugging your head to his neck as if he's trying to block out the rest of the world. Everything and everyone, but you and him.

"Always so loud for me. C'mon, darlin', lemme hear ya," he murmurs into your hair, hips snapping into yours. "I know you can be louder than that. Scream for me."

And you do. There's nothing else you could've done anyway, not with how he's dragging against everything just right. Your hips desperately swivel into his, chasing that hot, slick friction every time he connects with you.

The slap-slap-slap of your skin on his becomes a deep, wet thock-thock-thock the closer you get, your pussy dripping pathetically down his cock, fluttering with your impending release. He can feel it, you know he can, because he's moaning loud enough to rival even you now. He ruts greedily into you, hitting so much deeper than before.

"Christ…you're gonna make me cum," he warns, voice wrecked, his face still buried in your hair. "Jesus fuckin'…" You keen into his neck, still desperately chasing your own high, but it's not enough.

"J-Joel, I need—," you try to tell him, but he cuts you off.

"—'m fuckin' cummin'. Fuck," he grunts roughly, tumbling over the edge before you get the chance. His hips slow even as he continues to punch his cock as deep as it'll go, flooding your pussy.

No. Shit—no, no, no. He can't slow down, not now. You're almost there—so fucking close. He has to keep going. Just a little bit longer.

"No, Joel, no," you sob, legs kicking up around his waist as you grind up into him needily, increasing your speed. "Please, harder…please, please. Keep going for me—"

You feel rather than hear the groan rumble in his chest as he resumes his previous, unforgiving pace, ramming into you almost painfully.

"'m gonna. Don't'chu fuckin' worry."

At that, your orgasm quickly crashes over you, and you don't even realize you're slapping a hand into his side, still begging him not to stop as you wring him dry.

It's deafening what erupts from your chest when you finally cum. There's no doubt anyone outside can hear everything. Every squelch, every squeal, even the couch creaking, being pushed to its absolute limit.

Joel's name leaves your lips breathily, repeatedly like a prayer. You're shaking like a leaf underneath him, and he pulls back to brush your hair out of your face so he can kiss you, tender and open-mouthed.

This, too, feels gut-wrenchingly familiar but, for some reason, you don't want it to stop. Right now, you don't want to forget how it makes you feel.

He pulls out slowly, shoving two thick fingers inside you before your pussy can leak your combined releases all over the couch, and the sigh that escapes you sounds both content and despairing. He notices right away. Of course, he does.

Watching him leave you after nights like this hurts so much worse lately. Maybe it's nostalgia. Or maybe it's the unavoidable emotional connection you feel when he's inside you.

Even though months have passed since you decided you'd be better off without each other, something inexplicable keeps bringing you back together. It's not just the sex and you know it, no matter how much you choose to pretend otherwise.

He knows it, too. He tells you all the time—in the softness of his kiss, his desire to please you, and his eyes, still only ever focused on you.

And, now, in the possessiveness of his words and actions. Of his touch.

He gazes down at you knowingly, as if he can see every one of your troubled thoughts in the cloudiness of your eyes. He's always been annoyingly good at that.

"Y'know, I don't have to leave just yet," he murmurs, brushing his nose gently against your cheek. "Only in here, right? You're still mine as long as we're right here."

You let him wrap you up in his arms, nodding into his warm, beautifully scar-riddled chest.

"I'm yours."

thanks for reading! 💕

[ghouljams]

In your tags with the "not moose" breaking the Witch's wards you said you had to nerf her. Now all I can think about how insanely strong Witch is. Since it's a long generation of witches in her family- I guess she's well known in the magic community. Maybe they even invite her to be apart of some witches coven 👀. But she always refuses because she likes doing her own thing. But imagine she has to go to like certain meetings and what not and Price sees her in some formal witchy garb 👀👀👀

I haven't talked much about other witches in this au! I keep meaning to. Yes, Witch has been invited to multiple covens, but she prefers her privacy. Witch's family is well known as old magic, and older covens often invite her because they know she's got that strong ancestral tie to her magic. New covens of young witches often invite her because they think she's a novice witch. She does a lot of "makeshift" magic because she knows it so well, and where old witches would see her as somewhat of a prodigy, new age witches see her as inexperienced and unprepared.

As you might imagine that does not fly with Witch. So she only goes to coven meetings for 1 of 2 reasons: for a sounding board on a problem(old witches), or to be petty(new witches). Here's Witch interacting with a very condescending witch, and Price seeing her in her formal witchy clothes.

You snap a card down on the coffee shop table, the crisp sound of the cardstock against lacquered wood is music to your ears. You study the card, the mice, and jot down a few notes in your nearby journal. A cup of tea is set down in front of you, you're quick to swipe your cards out of the way.

"Are you reading tarot?" The girl, you think she's the owner, asks.

"Uh," You look at your Lenormand deck, "Yeah, I am." It's usually easier to lie to people when you don't want to explain what it is you're doing. You don't always want to have a conversation with a stranger about magic and how they have a friend that's really into "that sort of thing."

The girl sort of... scoffs, and rolls her eyes. Rude. "You know it's not all tarot right? That's an oracle deck," She tells you(it's not), sitting down across from you. You don't remember inviting her company, but it's fine. You close your notebook and gather your cards back into their deck. You're not really a fan of being tested like this.

"You read cards?" You try to smile, and look friendly. You wonder if you could make all her hair fall out. She gestures at the store generally. You look around at the, sigh, occult artwork and gothic vibes. Sort of overplayed if you're being honest. You can spy a few "Wicca-pedia" books on the overstuffed shelves. There's a table of crystals for sale, that explains why you're so itchy.

"I'm a witch," She says returning your smile.

"Neat," You already want to text your sister, or Rún, about this. "What do you practice?" New witches always want to talk about their practice, and it gives you time to shuffle your cards.

"Right hand path mostly, but recently?" She leans forward, whispers conspiratorially, "I've been dealing a lot with the fae." You pause your shuffle, your stomach clenching unpleasantly.

"Really?" You ask, "I thought you were supposed to stay away from them."

"Oh, yeah, you should definitely stay away from them," She nods, "They're dangerous for beginners, but once you know how to deal with them you can get them to do all sorts of stuff for you." You snap a card down on the table, a nervous habit from your mother.

The Mice again.

That's not your card.

You glance around the shop, the people milling about. You don't need to see them to know what they are, you can feel it. The mice in the storehouse, waiting for the lights to go out before they gorge themselves.

"So how long have you been practicing?" The dumbass asks.

"Not long," You mumble, still scanning the shop for anyone you might recognize. It's not technically a lie, in the grand scheme of things you really haven't been a witch long. You know witches far longer lived and far longer practiced. You shuffle your card back into the deck and set it on your notepad.

"I've been at it for about five years now," She powers through you ignoring her, "Do you have a coven or anyone you're learning from?" You glance at her, barely paying attention, as you pull a coin from your pocket and a pin from your skirt.

"No, I'm-"

"You should really be learning from someone," She cuts you off "magic can be dangerous for beginners." You ignore her harder, jabbing the pin into your thumb and smearing the blood on the silver coin. "Uh, sweetie?" You reach to tug a sugar packet free of its container on the table and break it open over the coin, what else, what else? Payment, threat, bait- you pull a lighter from your pocket and melt the plastic pin head to stick it to the coin. Assurance, good, done. "What are you doing?" The girl sounds annoyed, like you're making a mess for no reason.

"Making a fae ward," You tell her, she scoffs. Rude, again.

"You need a little more than some random trash to do a spell," She shakes her head, waves a hand. You take the opportunity to flick the coin off the table with practiced fingers as she tells you how badly you need a mentor and how you can't believe everything you see about magic on the internet. The coin goes flying, and pings neatly against the leg of a chair before starting to pinball around the cafe floor. "-you should really come to a coven meeting, see what real magic looks like."

You can feel your magic tracing its web through the store, you're not sure how much more real you can get with it. Not when you can see the fae customers trying not to jump away from your spell. Still, an insult is an insult. You fold your hands on the table and level your uninvited guest with what you hope is a neutral expression.

"When do you meet?"

-

You're remembering why you hate covens as you get ready. First of all you've been drawing wards on yourself all day, and snuck in a ritual bath, then you had to find your great-grandmother's old chatelaine since your ritual robes don't have any pockets. Most importantly you forgot how fucking cold it is when you're just in the gauzy ritual fabric your aunt made for you.

You check the clock, you're running a little behind so you don't have time to put on anything else. That's just great. Maybe you'll skip it. But then that stupid- Ugh. You take a breath to steady your emotions, no sense in getting worked up when you're so thoroughly doused in magic. You grab a length of Mal's lace from your closet and pin it in place to veil yourself. No way are you letting these little dumbasses stick anything on you.

Another quick check of the clock as you lace your heels, then you're out the back door. You stop yourself at the fence, stare out at the snowy winter landscape. You can already feel the frostbite setting in.

"lace looks good on you," Price whispers, his fingers feel so rough where they brush your back. You hum, and turn to face him. His eyes drop immediately to your chest. You wait for him to decide to meet your gaze again, and find yourself feeling a tad self conscious. You've never been self conscious about going to a ritual sky-clad before. Witches had a long history of dancing naked in the moonlight after all.

"Since when do you cross the fence unannounced?" You ask, trying to bring his attention back where it's meant to be.

"Since when do you leave the house with so much skin showing?" He fires back, stalking around you to check the back like a shark. You lift your veil for him, let him trace his fingers down your spine. They stop short of the draped fabric covering your ass, and you suppress the shiver it draws from you. You let your veil drop back over his hand, obscuring his view.

"I'm going to a ritual."

"Any reason they're getting the works?"

"I'm trying to prove a point." You sigh. "I may have gotten a little-"

"Petty?" Price fills in, you're glad you don't have to say it. His hand smooths over your shoulder, sliding under the lace to cup your neck. "Anything I should be worried about?" You tip your head, feeling the curl of his fingers against your throat, the lingering warmth of his cigar still on his fingertips. You wonder if it'll leave a mark.

"No." It feels too plain an answer, but you doubt there's anything he could do even if he was worried. You're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, especially when other witches are involved.

Price hums, and you find the sound resonant as he tips your head back to rest against his shoulder. His body presses flush to your back, and you let it. You want nothing more than to sink into him, to let yourself relax into the dangerous hold he has over you, but you know your own ego. If there's one thing you can't stand it's a witch that thinks she's untouchable. You'd hate to see fresh talent eaten before it'd had a chance to blossom.

"You could escort me," You say, the idea striking you suddenly. What better way to show a new witch the dangers that hide behind fae kindness than to bring Price as your plus one? You're sure he's eaten more witches than he's comfortable divulging, but more importantly the wild listens to him. If he can take you through the forest you won't have to be cold so long.

"And what do I get, for this service?" He asks.

"What do you want?"

His hands go to cup your breasts almost as soon as the words leave your mouth, the thin fabric of your ritual robe doing little to hide his callused grip as he squeezes the soft flesh.

"Ten minutes," He breathes.

"You know you can have more than that," You smile.

"Not with you like this," His hands slip down, cup the softness of your stomach, hover over the pleat of fabric covering your legs.

"Alright," You agree, "ten minutes-" you can feel the ripple the goes through him, a deal of temptation being made, "-but only after, and you can't rip anything."

"Of course not," He agrees, "I want to see my witch dressed up again after all."

Inspiration images for the witch's ritual wear

[samwinchesterswifu]

You're All I Need to Get By (Sam Winchester x Reader) Fluff

Early Seasons Era

Song Inspo: "You're All I need to Get By" by Aretha Franklin

Warnings: none

MINORS DNI

A/N: okay okay okay. This is just a cute silly lil fluff I got out of my system, enjoy <3

Word Count: 985

Summary: A small look into how she takes care of her boys.

Sunshine began to bleed through the worn out curtains of the current motel they were propped up in. Stirring awake, she grins at the realization of the position she was in. Sam’s lanky arm draped over her side with her pulled against Sam’s chest tightly. She places a kiss on his bicep as she begins to struggle out of his grasp to get up for the day. Finally breaking through, she sits on the edge of the bed. Looking over at Dean’s side of the bed doing him a once over to make sure he was alright.

Grabbing a fresh pair of jeans and a clean plain t-shirt from her duffle, she makes her way over to the bathroom to change. Coming out, she grabs Sam’s discarded flannel that laid over the dining table chair and slips on her shoes. Sam’s wallet and the keys to the Impala laid on the same table so she swiftly collects them and makes her way outside.

She liked morning like this, being a morning person like Sam it helped them have little routines even when on the road. She typically woke before either boy did so she was always able to do something nice for them.

Driving towards one of the local diners, she orders breakfast for the three of them to go. Making sure to grab a black coffee for Dean since he never liked starting his mornings with out it. Also ordering a slice of whatever the daily special pie was for said place so Dean could have it later.

Arriving back at the motel, she tries her best to be quiet when unlocking the door with the bags of food in her hands. Upon entering, she notices Sam was no longer in bed, but in the bathroom with the shower running. She sets down the bags and begins to grabs plates from the make-shift kitchen. With her back turned to the bathroom door, she begins to make the boys their plate. Just as she places the plates on the table a warm arm wraps around her waist and she feels a kiss on the side of her head.

“Good morning,” Sam’s gruff morning voice says above her.

Turning around and smiles up at him.

“Good shower?” She asks, earning a soft ‘mhm’ from Sam.

Sam pulls her in a quick hug before taking a look at the table.

“Looks good,” he says sitting down preparing to eat.

She grabs the warm coffee for Dean and makes her way over to his bed. Before she could even open her mouth to awake him, Dean’s hand shot out from his blanket making a grabbing motion.

“Here you go you big baby,” she laughs. Handing the coffee over before making her way back over to join Sam.

Dean join them at the table shortly after. Smiling down at his plate lined with pancakes and bacon. She lets out a small laugh as he begins to stuff his face, smiling up at her.

“Good?” She asks in between bites and Dean nods exaggeratedly.

“Extremely, thanks sweetheart.” Dean says with a mouth full.

“There’s pie in the fridge,” she mentions causally watching as Dean’s eyes light up.

“It’s apple.” She mentions, Dean groans in delight.

“God Sam, you picked a good one.” Dean says waving his fork towards his brother.

Sam laughs echoes the room making her smile between bites.

They make casual small talk about the current case they’re working on as they finish up breakfast. More and more it sounds like a run of the mill vengeful ghost. Dean finishes his food and makes his way towards the shower. Leaving her and Sam to clean up.

They begin to tag-team the dishes. Sam washing down with her drying next to him. She stands there with a deep smile forming on her face, thinking about how lucky she is to have found the brothers, and Sam takes note of the forming smile.

“What’s on your mind?” Sam questions as he continues away at his task.

“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have you,” she replies.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks, turning to face her as he finishes the final utensil, place it on her pile.

“Mhm,” she responds, taking in a quick breath.

“Just a year ago, I was hunting on my own, getting myself in a lot of trouble. One call from Bobby and here you are in my life. I couldn’t ask for anything different,” she says, grabbing the same utensil Sam had placed on her pile a moment ago.

Finally finished with the morning chore, she places everything back in their respective drawer or cabinet and faces him. Arms crossing against her chest she looks up at her lover. Doing a quick once-over of his features. A blush forms on her cheeks as Sam sheepishly rubs the back of his neck at her roaming eyes.

Their eyes meet each other. Sam grabs her elbow as he pulls her close. She wraps her arms around his neck and leans up to steal a kiss. Sam’s hands rest on the dips of her hips, holding her steady. But, was rudely interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door opening.

Dean enters the room already dressed in his FBI suit.

“Well, come on you two, we have victims to interview.” Dean retorts, grabbing his tie from his duffle.

She groans, looking back at Sam with a shy smile. Sam gives her hips a squeeze and breaks away from their embrace. He grabs his suit and makes his way to bathroom while Dean makes his way outside to the Impala leaving her “alone” in the room.

She shakes her head and begins to make her way back towards the shared bed. Grabbing her pencil skirt and blouse from her bag. Incredibly grateful to have Sam in her life.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Flower Crowns.

masterlist || ask my anything <3

anniversary masterlist here !!

authors note - hi!! this is the last post ill be doing for my anniversary week and this is one of my most favourite little one shots ive wrote in my opinion so i hope you enjoy, it’s a little bit dark so if that’s not your cuppa then feel free to skidadle ☺️

word count - 1k

in which, harrys your body guard because your father is a mafia boss and instead of him taking a bullet for you, you end up taking a bullet for him.

warnings - mentions of guns and shooting, mafia, vulgar language and blood.

With your books hugged close to your chest and your backpack thrown over one shoulder, The campus is bustling with students, the energy vibrant and contagious. You and your best friend Rayleigh chat animatedly, caught up in the ease of your conversation.

"I can't believe Professor Thompson assigned us another case study," Rayleigh groans, rolling her eyes. "Does he think we have no other classes?"

You laugh, adjusting your grip on your books. "I know, right? As if we didn't already have enough on our plates. But I guess it's good practice."

Rayleigh nods in agreement, her expression softening. "Yeah, you're right. Still, it's going to be a long night. Coffee later?"

"Absolutely," you reply, grinning. "I wouldn't survive without our study sessions."

As you walk through the corridors, you spot Harry leaning casually against your locker. His presence is striking, a mix of calm and vigilance that makes him stand out from the crowd. He's dressed in a plain black T-shirt and jeans, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest.

"There's your shadow," Rayleigh teases, nudging you gently.

You chuckle, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and amusement.

Rayleigh gives you a quick hug. "See you later."

"Bye, Ray," you say, waving as she heads off.

You approach your locker, where Harry straightens up as you get closer.

"Hey," you greet him, opening your locker and starting to put your things away.

"Hey," Harry replies, his voice steady and calm. "How was class?"

"Busy, as usual," you say, glancing over at him. "Professor Thompson assigned us another case study. I'm starting to think he enjoys watching us suffer."

Harry chuckles softly. "Sounds intense. Y’handling it okay?"

"Yeah, it's all part of the deal," you shrug, organizing your books. "How about you? How's standing guard duty treating you?"

He smirks. "S’a bit different from m’usual assignments, but I don't mind. Keeps me on my toes."

You finish putting your things away and close your locker, turning to face him fully. "I appreciate it, you know. Having you around makes me feel a lot safer."

Harry's expression softens slightly. "S’the goal. M’here to make sure nothing happens to you."

You nod, feeling a sense of comfort in his presence. "Thanks, H. It means a lot."

He nods in return, his gaze steady and reassuring. "Anytime. Ready to head home?"

As you walk towards your car, chatting with Harry about inconsequential things, a sense of normalcy begins to settle over you. The campus is still busy, students milling around, completely unaware of the tension that shadows your every step.

Suddenly, you notice a red dot flickering on Harry's chest. Your heart stops. Your mind races, realizing the implications—someone knows Harry is protecting you, and taking him out would make it easier for them to get to you.

Without a second thought, you push Harry out of the way. "Harry, look out!"

A gunshot rings out, splitting the air, and you feel a searing pain in your shoulder. You scream, falling to the ground in front of him.

The world spins as you hit the pavement, agony spreading through your body. Students around you scream and scatter, the chaos erupting in the once peaceful campus.

Harry is at your side in an instant, his face a mask of panic and horror.

"No, no, what have you done?" he cries, crouching down next to you. "Silly, silly girl."

A tear slips down his cheek, and your heart aches at the sight. You've never seen him cry before, not once in all the time you've known him. The anguish in his eyes is almost too much to bear.

You manage to smile weakly through the pain. "Harry... you're too pretty to cry."

"And you're too pretty to die," he replies, his voice breaking. "S’was never supposed to happen. S’my job to protect you."

He presses down on your wound, trying to stop the bleeding, his hands shaking. "Everything is going to be fine. Just hold on, help is coming."

You focus on Harry’s face, seeing the raw emotion and determination in his eyes.

"Promise me….you'll be careful," you manage to say, your voice barely audible.

"M’promise," he says fiercely, more tears falling. "But y’have to promise me you'll fight. Fight to stay with me."

You nod weakly, using every bit of strength you have left. "I'll... fight."

As the world around you blurs and fades, Harry’s face is the last thing you see, filled with raw, heartbreaking emotion. He leans closer, his voice trembling.

"I love you," he whispers, his words like a lifeline pulling you back from the brink.

Love.

You had always loved Harry, you can’t pinpoint a time when you first felt it, perhaps it was when you first met him, or when your lips first connected to his, but it was a feeling you had always felt and always would feel.

"I... love you too," you whisper back, your voice barely more than a breath. The pain is overwhelming, and you can feel yourself slipping away.

"Tell my father..." you start, struggling to get the words out. "Tell him I want a flower crown... when I'm buried."

Flower crowns had always been your thing, your mother had taught you how to make them when you were little and your father always had one in his office, as a reminder of both you at her.

His girls.

They were a symbol of your family.

Like a family crest.

Harry shakes his head fiercely, more tears spilling down his cheeks. "You're not going to get buried because you and I are going to get married and live forever. We'll have babies and grow old together."

You manage a faint smile at his words, the thought of a future with him a beautiful distraction from the pain. "Harry..."

"Stay with me," he pleads, his voice raw with emotion. "Keep your eyes open. Don't you dare close them."

[stayevildarling]

I am absolutely dying for a regina mills smut fic please please please 😭

Regina Mills x Reader- Magic in the moonlight

A/N: Here you go🫶🏼

tw/tags: female reader, established relationship, nsfw, enchanted strap, mommy kink, praise kink, breeding kink, reader recieving, regina recieving, oral, bottom reader, top regina, aftercare, soft/fluff

word count: 2.6k

taglist:

@lunaticwhittaker , @billiebeanhoward , @lanawinters-ily , @kenzbro , @minaslittleone , @httpfiftyshadesofgay @whitelotus00 , @ninaahelvar , @paulsonsratched , @vintagepaulson , @isle-of-earle , @grilledcheeseandguavajelly , @lucyintheskywithxanax , @fanfics4world , @mymiraclewitch , @hazard-to-myself , @awritersometimes , @wastdstime , @p1pecleanerwitheyes , @queen2234 , @ihartnat , @lifebyinez , @ahsatanizgay , @blu3dimples

The days in Storybrooke had turned colder lately, leaves slowly turning shades of orange and brown and bringing some chilly nights along. Regina and you had been incredibly busy lately, her being the mayor, Henry and the people in the brunette‘s life who had quickly welcomed you into their family, as the two of you had dated for several months now. And between all the dinners at grannys, family sunday breakfasts and teaching at the school, your lifes were always busy these days.

Most of the time, the two of you would barely see each other, lucky if you both had time to enjoy morning coffee and a quick chat before one of you needed to rush out the door, either of you, mostly Regina, returning home late and finding you already asleep. And with the mostly busy weekends, neither of you have had time to enjoy each other‘s company lately. And undeniably you missed each other, craved each other. It was obvious, the way your body set on fire whenever Regina lingered her hand on your leg briefly, when her lips would brush against yours in the morning before leaving. You needed each other desperately.

And luckily, the brunette had made some arrangements, cancelling the usual friday evening granny plans and Henry gone for the night, finishing work early and having pulled some strings at the school to have you home at a reasonable time. Once you step into your shared home, the smell of your girlfriend‘s cooking fills the large mansion, clouding your senses for a moment as you excitedly abandon your coat and bag, not having expected her to be home already, let alone having dinner prepared for you. „Hi“ you beam as you step into the dining room, finding the table neatly set, some candles illuminating the room further and hearing some noises coming from the kitchen.

„Hey darling“ she greets you softly as she carries some food into the dining room, bending over to place it on the table in front of you and your breath catches in your throat for a moment as you see the dress. Short..way too short.. and the colour red plastered all over her, the lipstick matching. Her cleavage takes your breath away for a moment as well as the exposed skin of her legs, as the familiar longing runs through your body, having to stop yourself from drooling as your mouth hangs wide open. „Cat got your tongue?“ she teases, a smirk on her face before she disappears for a moment, returning seconds later with two glasses of wine, passing you one.

„I thought we can use some alone time, just us two, I missed you“ she admits, her eyes sparkling with honesty and for a moment your mouth closes, a smile spreading as well as a little frown, having missed your girlfriend and very appreciative of the gesture and effort she went through tonight for you. „Thank you Gina“ you thank her and in response she raises her glass. Both of your eyes lock and as if some invisible string is pulling you towards each other, you abandon your glass of wine as you walk over to her. You pause for a moment, the hunger reflecting in your eyes, your breathing heavy as every part of you screams for the woman in front of you, but then you remember dinner and the effort she went through.

But Regina has other ideas, abandoning her wine just as quickly as she pulls you closer by the collar of your shirt, crashing her lips against yours, a moan escaping your lips as the familiar longing and electricity runs through your body, travelling straight to your stomach and core seconds later. Your tongues dance, similar to your hearts, as Regina fights for entrance and you quickly granting it, her entire movements sending you into overdrive already. „Y/N“ she moans as her lips travel to your neck, her breath hot against your ear as her hands tangle through your hair. „Gina“ you whine, needing her, wanting her so badly.

Neither of you care about dinner, the effort she went through long forgotten as the two of you stumble upstairs, your lips never leaving each other, hands never stopping to touch each other, the two of you giggling as your girlfriend attempts kicking her heels off but failing and you stopping her from tripping. Your back hits the bed softly as your girlfriend hovers above you, her lips kissing every inch of your body, sending tingles all over, your nipples already hard, your core glistening as she has you stripped of your clothing within seconds. Her lips ghost over your hardened buds, seductively taking them into her mouth, her eyes never leaving yours as she lets them go with a pop, a little smirk on her face as she sees your desperation, your breathing heavy.

Right now your girlfriend doesn‘t care about her own pleasure, wanting nothing more than to make you feel good, make you moan and whine and scream her name, like the many times she had before. But you have the same idea, wanting so badly to see the brunette fall apart and so in a brave attempt you sit up, her legs wrapping around yours as you have her on your lap, slowly taking off her dress and beginning to kiss the inches of her bare skin, goosebumps lingering at your touch, gentle and slow but sloppy at the same time, your desperation getting the better of you. And she lets you, the older woman usually in control, usually on top of you but she wants to feel you, every single touch and kiss on her skin igniting the same fire that had been building up over weeks.

„God Gina, you‘re so beautiful“ you whisper as you sloppily kiss her neck, her body so perfect and responsive for you. „Says you my love“ she teases, causing you to giggle momentarily, the love you both feel for each other present even in these moments. Your girlfriend wastes no time before pressing you down on the bed again, trailing sloppy kisses down your chest and stomach before settling between your thighs. „Spread your legs baby“ she orders and you do as you are told, before she nods appreciatively „That‘s it“. Her lips travel from your thighs to where you need her the most, your glistening core already so desperate for her, needing her to devour you. „Please Gina“ you beg, your hips wiggling a little, wanting to feel her so badly.

„Only because you asked so nicely“ she winks your way before wasting no time and her tongue runs through your soaked folds, ripping a loud moan from your throat, one filled with so much desperation that even your girlfriend is shocked. She wastes no time, knowing you are beyond ready before she begins sucking your clit, her tongue working her magic on your pussy just the way you loved it before her tongue enters you. Within seconds you are a moaning mess, your hips bucking, forcing your soaked center further into her face, the woman chuckling lowly at your neediness, sending vibrations right through you. Your hands grip the mattress, already so on edge, so close and your girlfriend can tell, knowing you won‘t last long and so with one last lick, she lets go, sitting up.

„Hey“ you pout in protest, your chest still heaving before she leans down, keeping you quiet before kissing you, letting you taste yourself on her lips. „I was thinking, how about we use the strap?“ she offers as she whispers in your ear and your eyebrows raise in surprise, the two of you only really using the strap for special occasions. „Really?“ you ask, feeling a little excited at the thought, despite knowing she could have made you falter right then if she kept her tongue on you. „Give me a second“ she smiles, before she presses a kiss to your forehead, stepping into her closet for a moment and returning a few moments later. The strap is secured around her, the black straps keeping it in place and you couldn‘t deny how hot she looked like this, wanting nothing more than her fake cock to enter your desperate pussy.

Within an instant, Regina is on top of you, kissing you deeply, already lining up the strap to your core, knowing you are more than ready for her, knowing she didn‘t need any lube. „Ready?“ she asks softly and you nod eagerly, your eyes forced closed, wanting her inside you so bad. „Yes please“ you manage to whine and within a moment she enters you, the tip first to let you adjust before she moves further and further inside you, bottoming out quickly as you let out a scream that causes her to chuckle lowly. She moves slowly, her hands keeping your hips in place before you open your eyes „Gina?“ you ask and she mumbles something incoherent before you carry on through moans and pants „It feels weird“ you manage to mumble out before she chuckles.

„I have enchanted it sweet girl“ she explains and thats all you needed to know, the two of you having talked about this before but never getting the time to try it. As soon as you see her face, seeing how she is feeling this just like you are, feeling the same pleasure, you force your eyes closed, focusing and savouring the feeling of having her inside you. „Just relax little one, it will feel so good, trust me“ she guides you through it as she keeps her pace slow and steady, despite wanting to absolutely ruin you, your pussy taking her so well, swallowing her cock, your walls so tight but feeling so good. There is a small moment of discomfort on your part but she guides you through it „Focus on your breathing sweetheart“ she tells you and once that feeling leaves you, the two of your eyes lock, the brunette seeing the discomfort replaced with a hunger and desire that causes her to lose any desire of holding back.

Her hips slam into you at a ruthless pace, the feeling of your pussy and finally able to feel it almost enough to make you both stumble over the edge. „Gina.. oh god“ you pant, your eyes forced shut as the feeling of her inside you sends waves of electricity and euphoria through your body, a feeling you had never experienced before. Your bodies move in perfect synch, your bodies dancing and catching up on what you had missed in the past few weeks. A little while later, your girlfriend lowers herself onto you, your mere chests touching as she still rocks her hips into you at a ruthless pace, wanting to kiss you while she is fucking you mindless. „You feel so good“ she whispers as you tremble against her, your lips hungrily kissing her, her teeth gracing your lower lip.

She can feel you tightening around her, the coil in your stomach about to burst and so she picks up the pace, entering you even deeper, hitting your sweet spot perfectly and causing your eyes to roll deep into your skull. „Oh.. Gina.. I“ you cry out and her free hand moves to your cheek, wiping some tears from the pleasure. „Cum for me baby, all over mommy‘s cock“ she encourages and you do without question, your hips buck into her and as you scream her name, your entire body trembling you coat her in your juices. „Mommy“ you whisper as the pleasure runs through you, your entire body shaking from the intensity of your orgasm.

When you finally open your eyes you see her moving up slighly, ready to pull out as her own orgasm begins washing over her, wanting to give you a break. „No.. no“ you whisper before you pull her down, her body slamming against you as your legs wrap around her hips, keeping her inside you. „Y/N.. I can‘t - I“ she stammers but you begin moving your hips, not caring about the slight sensitivity, her cock feeling so good inside you, making you so full. „Cum inside me“ you whisper, her eyes widening at your words and movements. She pauses for a moment, not having expected this but you give her no time to think it over, your hips moving in perfect synch with her.

„Please cum inside me Gina“ you whisper again as you keep eye contact, your eyes pleading with her. „Want you to fill me up mommy“ you whisper and she wastes no time, thrusting into you even harder than before, her own orgasm washing over her as you continiue to move and buck your hips perfectly for her, your legs keeping her right inside you, your nails marking her back. „Come on mommy please“ you whimper as she falls apart. „Oh god Y/N“ she moans into your mouth as your lips reconnect yet again and then with a final thrust you feel her juices coating your walls, the feeling so intense, unlike anything you had ever felt before, sending you right over the edge again without warning. „That‘s it baby, cum with me“ she moans upon noticing and the two of you burst at the same time, her cock shooting more cum into your drenched pussy and your juices flowing down her, the only sounds in the bedroom your cum mingling together.

„Fuck Gina“ you pant as the two of you finally catch your breathing, the brunette, finally pulling out of you carefully. She flops down beside you, your chests equally heaving, your bodies feeling numb from exhaustion. Her hand find yours, a silent promise that she is here, a silent praise for doing so good for her. With a flick of her wrist her cock turns into a strap on again and she abandons it quickly before laying on her side, taking the sight your sweaty and exhausted form in. She leans closer, her arms wrapping around you as she whispers „You did so well sweet girl“. Regina gently wipes your tears, knowing what they mean, the woman knowing you so well by now, she knows they are from pure joy and the intensity of your orgasms. The two of you stay in each other‘s embrace for a while before she leaves, running you both a bath and offering her hand to lead you there, knowing how exhausted your body must be and how much your legs are still trembling.

A few minutes later she has you leaning against her in the bath, the two of you sitting in the warm water and letting it soak your tired muscles as she holds you close from behind. She washes you gently, praising you with each gentle stroke of her hands on your skin, your eyes closed, soaking up the warmth from the bath and the woman holding you, feeling exhausted but content either way. „You took me so well“ she teases as she whispers in your ear, causing you to chuckle a little. After a little while you turn your head so your eyes meet her brown ones „I liked it a lot“ you admit and she smirks, knowing this was just the beginning of exploring this with you, your girlfriend having met a whole new side of you tonight. „We need more time off together then“ she teases and you nod before leaning into her again, your cheeks coated in a slight red shade.

„I love you Gina“ you mumble sleepily and she instinctively holds you a little closer before whispering „I love you so much more sweet girl“ before pressing a kiss to the back of your head.

[faithshouseofchaos]

I would like to see a part 2 to this

https://www.tumblr.com/faithshouseofchaos/762652024189976576/the-young-lewis-and-young-nico-being-told-off-by?source=share

Where it shows them now were their having trouble hiding from media because aparently no one would have guessed that brocedes were getting back in touch and this would be a headline if they can get info, and the other drivers surprise and confusion to this info is immense because they also thought that lewis and nico R hated each other in an extremely passive-aggressive way.

—🍑

A/n — @crispysoup318 I just combined the two idea as best as i cloud

I thought it was a joke — Lewis Hamilton x Male!Reader x Nico Rosebrg

Word count—776

Fluff Crack fic

The Monaco Grand Prix weekend had always been chaotic, but this year, it felt different. It wasn’t just the press swarming the paddock or the luxurious yachts packed along the harbor—it was the rumor mill spinning out of control.

It all started with a photo.

A single, grainy shot taken at a quiet café in Monte Carlo late last night. Nico Rosberg, sitting opposite Lewis Hamilton, both laughing over what looked like dessert. At first glance, it seemed like an amicable catch-up, shocking enough considering their years of tension. But the moment that sent the F1 world spiraling was the kiss—Lewis leaning over the small table, Nico tilting his head up, their lips meeting in a way that couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than romantic.

The first wave of shock hadn’t even settled when another photo hit social media. Nico’s so-called husband—you—appeared at the same café shortly afterward, leaning casually against Nico’s chair with a drink in hand. If that wasn’t enough to break the internet, the third shot did: you, Nico, and Lewis walking out together, Lewis’s hand resting lightly on your back while Nico smirked, his fingers brushing against yours.

Twitter descended into chaos.

“BROCEDES WAS A JOKE?!?!?”

“Nico has a HUSBAND?? And LEWIS IS PART OF THIS???”

“I need a second to breathe, but also I don’t think I can breathe.”

“So Nico hated Lewis… but also secretly loved him… while being married to this third guy… but then all three of them are a thing? Is this fanfiction?”

“Wait, wasn’t he just Nico’s husband?” someone muttered. “Like, how is Lewis involved in this?”

“And Nico and Lewis hated each other,” another replied. “This doesn’t make sense!”

In the corner, Charles Leclerc looked genuinely distressed, his breakfast untouched as he muttered to Pierre Gasly. “I don’t understand. They were always fighting, weren’t they? Like… properly angry. This has to be fake.”

Pierre, wide-eyed, shook his head. “Brocedes was a meme! A meme, Charles! How—” He gestured helplessly. “What are we supposed to do with this?”

Nearby, George Russell frowned, clearly overthinking the situation. “But if this is true, that means they’ve been hiding it for years. Years!”

Carlos Sainz, standing beside him, choked on his coffee. “So Nico didn’t just retire to get away from Lewis?”

“Apparently not,” George deadpanned.

“They won’t need to. Look at Lewis.”

Sure enough, Lewis Hamilton, arriving just minutes after you, was doing absolutely nothing to help the situation. He strode into Mercedes hospitality with all the confidence in the world, flashing his trademark smile. Instead of slipping quietly into the back like he should have, he went straight to Nico, threw an arm around his shoulders, and pressed a quick kiss to his temple—in full view of half the paddock.

Carlos, who had just recovered from his earlier choking incident, muttered, “Wait, wait, what?!”

George’s jaw dropped. “I… I don’t think my brain can process this right now.”

It didn’t take long for the drivers to start gathering in small, confused groups, some pulling out their phones for updates. Lando Norris, scrolling Twitter furiously, let out a stunned laugh. “Guys, the memes are already insane. Look at this!”

He shoved his phone toward Oscar Piastri, who squinted at the screen. “They Photoshopped Nico holding a ‘Brocedes Forever’ sign,” Oscar said, trying not to laugh.

“This is a PR nightmare,” Toto Wolff said somewhere in the background, his voice carrying over the general noise.

For you, Nico, and Lewis, it was just another challenge in a relationship that had defied expectations from the very beginning. The trio had spent years carefully hiding it, crafting a delicate balance to keep the media—and nosy drivers—off their trail. Nico was known for his perfectionism, Lewis for his showmanship, and you for being the quiet, grounding presence who had seamlessly blended into Nico’s post-retirement life. No one had suspected that your relationship extended beyond friendship—or that it included Lewis.

“Let’s make one thing clear,” you muttered to Nico as he grinned at Lewis’s display of affection. “This is your fault.”

“My fault?” Nico arched an eyebrow, pretending to be affronted.

“Yes,” you said, ignoring the curious stares aimed in your direction. “You’re the one who said, ‘It’s fine. Monaco is basically our backyard. Nobody will notice.’”

“To be fair,” Lewis interjected smoothly as he slid into the seat beside you, his hand casually brushing your knee, “he’s not entirely wrong. Usually no one notices.”

“Except when you kiss him in public,” you said dryly.

Lewis grinned, leaning back in his chair. “What can I say? I got caught up in the moment.”