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writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

would you write more of the smart cookie fic? im just very very into it and would love a part 2 🫶🏻

Love You To The Moon & Back

Summary:

“Good morning to you, too,” you kiss his forehead, and he mumbles something else, snuggling deeper into your arms. “What happened to the early bird catches the worm, hmm?” “....not a bird…no worms please….” he mumbles. “Hmm,” you respond, rubbing circles along his back, “How about pancakes? I think I might have some blueberries or chocolate chips,” you muse; Spencer peeks up at you. “Ah, I see I’ve piqued your interest.”

Pairings:

Spencer Reid x Male Reader

Tags:

Words: 4690

Author's Note:

Yes, you may 😌. I've been thinking of doing some more stuff for the AUs I make, cause it's fun, and I think male & gender-neutral readers need more AUs. Sorry for making this long 💀.

I found the experience of falling in love or being in love was a death: a death of everything. You kind of watch yourself die in a wonderful way, and you experience for the briefest moment - if you see yourself for a moment through their eyes - everything you believed about yourself gone. In a death-and-rebirth sense.

- Hozier

Around Spencer, the kitchen felt like a world away as he took in the feeling he was experiencing; with light, frivolous laughter, he hid his face in your chest to stop himself from falling into giddy hysterics. You were equally as giddy, chuckling when Spencer met your eye, “So…what now?” he asked.

“Well, we’ve got a few more hours of work,” you respond, chuckling when his face scrunched up in mock irritation, “but after, we could go on a date,” you suggest.

“Date?”

“Hmm, you know,” you respond, “that thing people do when they want to pursue a romantic relationship.” He smiles; admittedly, he hadn’t thought past the kiss, now surprised to find you wanted to cultivate something along the lines of an actual romantic relationship with him.

“Yeah, I know,” he responds, “what do you have in mind?”

“Well, the museum has a new Classics exhibit,” you reply, and Spencer is amazed that you’d genuinely been paying attention when he’d dumped his knowledge of 15th Century literature on you. “What do you say?”

“Yes,” he nods enthusiastically, excitedly bouncing on the balls of his feet. The hours left at work breeze through fast, and Spencer spends most of it with dancing hands, a wide smile on his face - your date is set to 9:30 AM, Saturday morning. He goes home with a prep in his step, and when the weekend comes around, his enthusiasm soars; Saturday morning sees few clouds in the sky and the promise of sun. Spencer kept to his usual attire of casualness; the streets were averagely busy, and he twists the strap of his satchel on his way there, quelling any anxieties that manage to break past the excitement. Said anxieties are set aside when he notes how well your leather jacket hugs your arms.

“Hey, cookie,” you greet, hand reaching out to hold his.

“Hey,” he threads his fingers with yours, thumb rubbing circles on your skin as you make your way through the museum. The Classics exhibit displayed several kraters from c. 520-500 BCE, Etruscan figurines, Greek and Roman sculptures, and various other artifacts. Classics isn’t as interesting a topic it seems, as the crowd is relatively small, but Spencer is thankful for that - the overcrowded dinosaur exhibit you’d passed came to mind, and he shuddered at the thought of being caught up in that.

“Etruscan tomb painting….” You read off one of the displays before turning to him with a knowing smile.

“Oh, the Etruscans were a civilization that flourished in Central Italy between the 8th and 3rd Century BCE, renowned in antiquity for their rich mineral resources and as a major Mediterranean trading power,” he speaks easily, basking in the fondness you directed towards his rambling. “Much of their history and culture was either destroyed or assimilated into the conquering Roman Empire. Tomb painting is considered one of the Etruscans' greatest legacies, with beautifully painted tombs in Tarquinia, Cerveteri, Chiusi, and Vulci.”

The exhibit didn’t have the actual paintings, instead displaying photographic copies with annotations and interactive maps; the sculptures are set up to mimic the inside of a temple, leading to the back where the kraters are set. The other sculptures are scattered about the room, and Spencer beams when you turn to him for information, having spoken more today than he has in a long time. He coughs in the middle of his tangent about pediments; he rubs the back of his neck and apologizes for the scratchy throat.

You chuckle, “Come on, let’s get something for that cough, eh?” The museum’s cafe is surprisingly empty, with a few people milling about here and there and the majority off at the shops. You both get iced teas and take a table away near one of the window walls. Spencer keeps hold of your hand and drums his fingers mindlessly. He is saddened when the date comes to an end. “C —can we do this again?”

You nod enthusiastically in response, and still riding on the coattails of joy, he asks, “Can I kiss you again?”

“As many times as you like, love.”

He beams, leaning into your space to do just that, his thumb rubs across your skin, and even after you part for the day, Spencer is ecstatic - the joy persisting into tomorrow as he skips with every step. “Well, well, well, someone’s happy,” Derek remarks. “I hope this means you finally said something to loverboy.”

“Yup,” Spencer responds, “we, uh, had a date yesterday.”

Derek pats Spencer’s back with a proud smile, “You know what this means? I, Derek Morgan, was right.” Spencer shakes his head; any attempts to clarify to Derek that this wasn’t exactly an I told you so moment fell on deaf ears as the man smugly waltzed from the elevator with a cheer. Spencer follows after; when you arrive some moments later, it’s with two coffees as usual, and the day begins as the first of many days chasing an unsub through the Appalachian Mountains.

“It’s almost like some twisted sightseeing event,” Derek mumbles. “The unsub’s earliest activities can be traced in Alabama; they kidnap two people, and from what the surviving witnesses have said, make both victims fight to the death, the winner gets to live.”

“Ties get both killed, and refusal to fight does the same,” you add. “They’re patient, willing to wait for months if need be to strike again. The murders between Kentucky and West Virginia had two years between them; if they are following the mountains, then there’s a chance they’ll cross over into Canada and most likely out of our hands.”

“Alright, then, let’s make sure that doesn’t happen,” Gideon says, “What else do we know?”

“They’re also meticulous, the locations, the methods, the choosing of victims. It’s all so careful, like some form of entertainment,” Spencer responds.

The facts are as follows:

The unsub has little regard for other people, seeing them as pawns for their own amusement.

The victims appear randomly selected, but on closer inspection, all seem to play into their disturbing amusement. Features vary, but all work in the retail industry - the unsub walks through retail stores for hours before picking. They’d do the same company for two states before switching to another, then another, and another.

Victims had a week; after that, survivors were left tied, with a sack over their heads at their place of work, and corpses were left in the same place as well.

The unsub didn’t care for publicity and seemed to want to keep it as something private.

Pennsylvania is the next destination; the first victim is already chosen by the time of landing, which leaves one of hundreds if not thousands of other potential candidates. Spencer and Gideon stay with the local police department, you split off with Ellle, and Hotch goes off with Derek. Spencer bounces off theories and facts with Gideon; the profile becomes clearer but comes with a few more holes. The unsub seems well-red, familiar with police procedures, not intimately, more so like someone who’s read and heard extensively enough to understand.

“The space between murders suggests they must have traveling involved in their day-to-day life to be able to do so with such ease. Said life must offer them some satisfaction if they’re able to handle their urges so well.“ Gideon pointed to the mapped-out route of the unsub, “They could be in the tourism field, a flight attendant or a business consultant, something that lets them go from state to state easily enough.”

“Business consultants are sought after for their professional advice and services; they locate challenges in businesses and strategize plans to find solutions; they essentially come in and take over control, in the same way the unsub takes power over one’s life from their victims.” Spencer rambles, “but why target retails workers?”

Gideon sighs, “The higher up the chain you go, the less regard you have for your fellow man,” he states, “83% of retail workers report harassment from customers, the higher the social class, the worse the abuse can be. Our unsub’s disregard for human life may also be intrinsically linked to their social class as well as their occupation.”

“So everyone below a certain point is no better than cattle to them?” Gideon nods in response to Spencer’s question.

“Can I help you folks out?”

The Goodwill of the first victim’s kidnapping was small, residential houses all around; the community around it wasn’t small per se, but close enough to take note when outsiders came about. The manager, Naomi Hughes, is a kind middle-aged woman of relative height, hair in a neat row of braids along her head.

You and Elle introduce yourselves and draw out your badges, “We’re here about Hayden Mullins.”

She nods, “Oh yes…uh…come with me.” She leads you to the back and into her office, “Hayden was working the closing shift when he was abducted, I told him not to work it alone, but he was determined. Home isn’t the happiest place for him,” she explains, “I’d let him sleep here when his dad was making a ruckus, get some food in him. He’s a good kid; I don’t know why anyone would go after him.”

“Did he have any hostile interactions with customers in the days before he was taken?” you ask.

“Who doesn’t? Folks get real snappy when you can’t get them what they want.” She rubs her temple, “I had a customer scream at me 'cause we didn’t carry non-salted water,” she exclaims with quotation marks, “what the hell is non-salted water?”

Elle huffs and shakes her head, “What about friendly customers? Did you notice anyone who didn’t act the way you’d expect? Anyone who stood out for a different reason?”

Naomi purses her lips, “Now that you mention it,” she opens her desk and pulls out a file, “There was this one woman; she was nice, like really nice. She said she’d just come off a four-hour road trip, so we was ready for all sorts of tantrums, but….”

“But what?” Elle asks.

“She was sweet. Smiled at me and said it was alright when we couldn’t get her what she needed,” Naomi’s face scrunched up a little, “I was a little spooked if I’m being honest; I mean, I’ve had nice customers, but she was something else.” She shuddered, passing over the file to you, “I was gonna forget all about her, but….when she looked at Hayden,” she shook her head, “I got a bad feeling.”

Inside the file was a woman’s side profile - hair clipped back into a bun, light makeup from what you can note in the black and white frame, a neatly kept suit - for all intents and purposes, a regular businesswoman.

“Hayden was stocking the shelves, I think, and she got mad when he couldn’t man a checkout. Had to have her escorted from the premises, but she came back again —oh my god, do you think she—”

“We don’t know that yet, ma’am,” you interject, “this is still an ongoing investigation; we’re just looking into all the facts as of now.”

“Don’t blame yourself for anything that happened,” Elle tells her.

Naomi nods, “Promise me something, if…if anything happens, you’ll tell me before you tell the news, understand?” You both nod to her request and leave with the security footage and any receipts linked back to the woman.

“If this, April Walsh is our unsub,” Elle points to the picture, “it sounds like she doesn’t like to lose control, the ties, the refusal to fight, it was in the hands of the victims, it was anarchy….”

“....she can’t let it thrive,” you finish. “The store is already out of her comfort zone and control; what if she assigns roles to the people around her, say Naomi? Managers are notorious for allowing bad behavior, but when Naomi didn’t….” You get behind the wheel and drive while throwing around more theories.

“....she got angry. April told Naomi she came off a four-hour drive; how far is the last crime scene?” She pulls out her phone, and minutes later, she cheers, “Four hours, and eighteen minutes, it’s not much, but….”

“It’s something; let’s get back to Spencer and Gideon with the info.”

“Speaking of Spencer,” Elle chuckles, “a little birdy told me the two of you went out on a date.”

You groan and roll your eyes, “Seriously?”

“Come on, I mean, Derek’s been bragging that he got Mr. Lovebird and the Resident Genius together,” she quips, “plus, you two make a cute couple.”

You smile, “Thanks. At the very least, I know there’s another date somewhere in the future, so good things to come, I hope.”

“Oh, they’re definitely coming,” Elle remarks. You lightly smack her arm and laugh as you pull up to the local precinct. She raises her eyebrows when Spencer greets you laughing when you stick your tongue out at her.

“Hey, cookie.”

“Hey,” he responds, grinning at you, “did you bring me anything?” he quips.

“How does a potential name for our unsub sound?” You give him the file, “and also, a few more details to add to the profile?”

“I’d say it sounds good,” Gideon responds with a small smile. You and Spencer huff, amused and bashful - Elle relays the theories you’d bounced off each other in the car as Spencer pins April’s image on the board, while Gideon does the same to catch you up on what he and Spencer discussed while you were away. “We can brief the officers when Hotch and Derek get back.”

“It’s about two things,” Gideon begins, facing the “control and entertainment. The unsub does not care for anyone but herself; at best, anyone outside of that is a form of entertainment and, at worst, an annoyance.” He points to April’s security image, “April Kennedy Walsh is a business consultant, highly sought after from what we’ve gathered, and meticulous with just about everything, from her schedule to her wardrobe.”

“Her method of murder calls back to the gladiatorial fights in the Colosseum; the emperor and the people of Rome would watch as gladiators fought with each other or animals,” Spencer adds, “she feels no remorse for her victims and rewards winners with their life. Refusing to fight for her amusement might insult her in some way, as though she were an actual Roman emperor.”

“She fits in easily with the crowd from a distance, but up close, her disregard peeks through during moments of loss of control. She’s not shown any violent behaviors during those times, but it can’t be ruled out,” Derek passes copies of April’s photos, “and judging by how she took little time to disguise herself in any way, she’s not afraid of being caught. In fact, this whole chase could be another form of entertainment for her, the same way you or I sit back and watch TV.”

“The potential want to be caught doesn’t mean she isn’t using an alias and could be a way to challenge us, so be on the lookout,” Gideon finished.

The officers split off after the debrief, and you gather back as a group, “There’s a few other Goodwills from the first and a bunch more in Pennsylvania; we can’t search them all,” Elle points out, “and even if we did, she’s patient, she could just as easily wait until the smoke blows over before coming back.”

“We don’t have much of a choice; handing out her photo to the media could cause her to abandon the hunt too, and then we’d have no easy way of finding Hayden,” you say, “there has to be some kind of pattern between the stores she chooses.”

“She chooses the same two stores for each pair of victims, always employees, never managers; after two pairs, she changes stores,” JJ reiterates, “what if she’s following the road? Picking whatever store she sees on her way?” She looks at the map, hand trailing over the red pins set on the previous stores, “The first incident was in Huntsville, Alabama, from there, and according to her schedule, she had been on a back-to-back business expose.”

You pick up blue pins and place them outside the border of the Appalachian Mountains, “In that two-year break period, she was in Lancaster, Ohio.” You put a pin there, “then Richmond, Virginia. Maybe, the two-year gap wasn’t by choice or lack of available victims.”

“Personal tragedy? But we couldn’t find anything like that,” JJ sighed, “then again, we could barely find anything about her personal life. Her parents are divorced, and when I called and asked about April, they hung up on me really quick.”

“What are you thinking?” You ask.

“Well, what if this disregard for people started early? Her mother was a judge, her father a surgeon; I’d say that’s enough money to cover up any accidents,” JJ theorizes, “both high-pressure jobs might have caused the divorce. But why not speak about their daughter?”

“One or both parents could have felt guilty, argued with the other about covering it up, then,” you shrug, “divorce?”

You dial Garcia’s number and wait as the tone rings, “Mistress of all knowledge, how may I enlighten you today?”

“Hey, gorgeous,” you greet, she scoffs on the other end, and you can imagine she’s rolling her eyes.

“Ah, my favorite work of art,” she greets back.

“We need to know if April has any juvenile records, sealed records, anything like that, and if her mother was involved in having them buried.”

“Okie dokie.” She types fast a few clicks later and, “Wow. I’ve found a couple of things, most of them cited as isolated incidents and common behavior among children, but one sticks out, November 23rd, 1999, the same year Judge Walsh resigned from her post.”

“She give any reason why?” You inquire.

“Nope.”

“Alright, thanks, Garcia.”

“Anytime.”

You relay the information, “The divorce happened the next year,” JJ mumbles, “let’s see if we can get those records open.”

November 23rd, 1999. April K. Walsh attended a camping trip near Lake Michigan; during a scavenger hunt, one of April’s buddies - Sam Goodwin - was found face down in the waters; the leading theory was Sam had gotten distracted and veered off the trail, with little experience swimming, Sam may have slipped into the water, panicked then subsequently drowned. The children had been paired into groups of three; the third child, Emma Chavez, had insisted that April had done it, and one detective had shot in the dark - months of investigation, and it looked like April would be facing time in a juvenile detention facility.

“What juvenile detention facility did she get sent to?” Gideon asks.

“None; close to the trial, the whole case fell apart; the next year, Judge Walsh resigned from her post and got a divorce.”

“Phone calls won’t cut it,” Hotch states, “we need her parents down here now.”

Joshua Walsh - now a retired surgeon- stayed close to Lake Michigan after the divorce and never remarried. Sofia Phillips - previously Sofia Walsh, post-divorce, she moved to Vermont, remarried, and had two more children before returning to work as a judge in a more minor position. Both refused to look each other in the eye; Joshua appeared more saddened, while Sofia was irritated.

“I’m sure you have a good reason for dragging me all the way here,” Sofia grumbled.

You knew very little of Sofia Phillips, but from what you could gauge, she held herself higher than others and regarded the investigation with about as much regard as buying the wrong flavor of juice.

“Yes, ma’am, we wanted to ask about your daughter, April,” Hotch replied.

“April? Please, I don’t have a daughter called April anymore.”

Joshua scoffed, “Yes, you do, April Kennedy Walsh,” he turned to her, pulling out his wallet with shaky hands; he riffled through it before holding a picture in her face. “She had your eyes, remember?”

“Yes, I also remember her being dead to me, Joshua,” Sofia responds, glancing away. “She was always troubled. I tried to be a good mother, but sometimes you just can’t beat that attitude out of them.” She crosses one leg over the other, “I thank god I was blessed with two wonderful children after her, kind, obedient, nothing like April.”

“Hypocrite much? Where do you think she got it from, huh?”

Sofia rolls her eyes and glances at Hotch, “Are we finished now? My son has a recital in a few hours.” Hotch nods, and she leaves without a second glance; Joshua stays seated, shaking his head with a sigh.

“April��she’s not a bad kid…just lost. Sofia and I didn’t expect to have kids that early…I mean, we coped, but our jobs….” He looks at the photo again, “I tried as best as I could to be there, but Sofia…I wish I did better."

Joshua reluctantly recounts the event of November 23rd, 1999, alongside his divorce and any other moments before and after that point. The Appalachian Mountains had been Joshua’s dream destination, Sofia, to no surprise, had constantly been vocal about instilling the appropriate life goals in April - high grades, top careers, appropriate connections. The stores chosen all had qualities Sofia had cited as detestable, with Pennsylvania’s first Goodwill reminding her too much of her least favorite architecture - brutalist architecture. So going off that, the next Goodwill would have to be similar in style as well. This new detail leads to a few counties over.

April Walsh doesn’t fight when caught; appearing exhausted, the only other emotion she shows is a mix of relief and joy when she sees Mr. Walsh again, but it’s brief. She sits without prompting, crosses a leg over the other, and makes her only demand, “I’d like to speak to my father—”

“Give us Hayden,” Hotch counters.

“Who? Oh, the retail worker,” she scoffs, “he’s perfectly safe, tied and unconscious in room 345, Liberty Hotel. Now, can I please talk to my father?” Hotch nods, leaving for Hayden with everyone but Gideon and Reid. Hayden is unharmed, drowsy, and confused when he awakes.

You slump into your seat on the airplane, Spencer sits by you, and you lean your head against his shoulder. “No one wake me up for anything,” Derek mumbles across from you, lying across two seats to nap.

“You look bored, cookie.” Spencer glances over at you; the others on the plane have either gone to sleep or relaxed in their seats.

“Maybe, but I’m not sure there’s much to do in an airplane.”

“We could play a game —not that kind,” you remark; he’d raised his eyebrows, and a light blush had dusted his cheeks, “we can do that at a later date, Dr. Reid. Right now, I was thinking of something like the ABC game.”

“ABC game?”

You sit up, “On long car rides, my grandma loved to play it; we choose a topic or theme and go through the alphabet. Say the theme was food, I’d say apricot; then you’d say bread; we can narrow down themes like food to fruits or vegetables.”

“Ooh, that sounds interesting; ok, what’s the theme?” he asks, turning towards you.

“We can stick with food; it’s pretty easy and fun for a first-timer,” you reply, “We’ve got apricot and bread down, so, C, carrot cake.”

“Ok, donut.”

“Éclair.”

“French onion soup.”

You breeze through the first round, and Spencer picks the next theme - countries - which you manage through a quarter of before landing; you carry on while on the tarmac and finish just before leaving for home. It’s late afternoon in Quantico; Spencer bumps his hand against yours as you walk, smiling when you hold his hand in response. Paperwork is easy enough, and once done, you collectively sigh in relief when no other case comes up. It’s not night yet, and hearing everyone else make plans or detail what they have in mind when they leave has Spencer debating on whether to have that second date now.

“Thinking hard?” You ask, laughing when he comes out of his thoughts to find you standing close to him.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, “do you…uh…can we have that second date now? I know this great Indian restaurant, it’s a bit out of the way, but it has very good chicken tandoori.”

“Sure, lead the way.”

The restaurant is nice, getting there just half an hour after it opens at 5:00 PM; there’s plenty of space to choose from; Spencer leads you to his favorite seat by the fish tank. It’s a nice date; Spencer finds his legs close to yours after you split the bill, leaving just after seven. “Did you like it?”

“Loved it,” you respond. “You sure know how to treat a man, sweetheart.”

Spencer tugs at your arm, smiling into the kiss you give him. “Goodnight, love.”

Spencer is soft.

It’s what you repeatedly note - when he smiles, leans into your space for a kiss, or drums your fingers along your hands. When he snuffles in his sleep, a moment before waking up, “Morning….” he’d mumble before dozing off for a few odd minutes.

“Good morning to you, too,” you kiss his forehead, and he mumbles something else, snuggling deeper into your arms. “What happened to the early bird catches the worm, hmm?”

“....not a bird…no worms please….” he mumbles.

“Hmm,” you respond, rubbing circles along his back, “How about pancakes? I think I might have some blueberries or chocolate chips,” you muse; Spencer peeks up at you. “Ah, I see I’ve piqued your interest.” You laugh as Spencer ponders between the comfort of the bed and the prospect of pancakes. You leave him to his decision-making; by the time you’ve made the batter, Spencer shuffles from the bedroom - donning one of your hoodies and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Spencer hugs you from the back and pecks the space between your shoulder blades, “Süss,” he says.

You purse your lips and glance over your shoulder at him, “Süss? Come on; I thought you liked a challenge?” You switch off the stove and turn to face him, “German. Sweet.”

“I wasn’t looking for a challenge today,” he clarifies, “I was stating a fact.” He points at you as he repeats the word. “Mein süss.”

You grin, “I’d say you’re the sweet one, cookie.” He scrunches his nose, “Mein süßer Keks.” You wink when he stares at you, “You’re not the only one with a knack for languages.” He sticks out his tongue, leaving the kitchen with the pancakes; you join him at the dining table - he sits with his back to the window, soaking in the sun like a cat.

“Fun fact, chocolate chips melt best at temperatures between 104 °F and 113 °F; the melting process starts at 90 °F when the chips’ cocoa butter starts to heat. For milk and white chocolate chips, the temperature shouldn’t exceed 115 °F; for dark chocolate, it’s 120 °F; otherwise, the chocolate will burn.”

You nod, “Which flavor’s your favorite?”

“The classic chips, made from small chunks of sweetened chocolate, I like to eat them in winter when there’s less chance for them to melt in the bag,” he answers. “What about you?”

“I don’t mind, but I suppose I prefer the classic ones too.” The pancakes were long gone by now, and coffees almost finished; Spencer had come previously to visit but never slept over before, “How’d you sleep?” You ask, placing your arm around his shoulders.

“Good,” he yawns, “you’re really comfortable.” You chuckle as Spencer snuggles closer, “Can we go back to bed?” He asks with another yawn.

“Hmm,” you stand, “you head on in; I’ll take care of the dishes.” He nods, shuffling back to the bedroom; you gather the dishes, rinse off the food, place them in the dishwasher, and leave them to clean. You find Spencer nestled comfortably under the blankets; when you slide in alongside him, he latches onto you, not fully asleep and not fully lucid. You comb your fingers through his hair, and when his breath evens out, you close your own eyes and doze off.

End Note:

This turned out a lot longer than I thought it would, and also, not that I think it needs mentioning, but this and the previous fic takes place somewhere in season one. Stay Hydrated.

#spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid x reader #smart cookie universe :)#shiterequests #this is my reward for finishing my assignment :) i say as i ignore the other assignments. i couldn't find cookie love quotes or titles :(

393 notes · View notes

writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

Jon snow nsfw alphabet? 😍

Summary:

Jon Snow NSFW Alphabet

Pairings:

Jon Snow x Male Reader

Tags:

Smut

Words: 877

Author's Note:

Second time doing one of these, let's go!

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Jon isn’t all that familiar with aftercare or much in the way of anything like that, but he tries his best.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of their partners)

Jon loves your hands. He loves to hold them; he loves it when they wander his body and pull at his hair. He also loves to just play with your fingers, kissing the knuckles of your hands.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum, basically)

Jon loves to cum inside you; he’s also in favor of you doing the same to him.

D = Dirty Secret

I think to him, hell will freeze over before he admits or acknowledges his mild exhibition kink. It’s mild, he keeps it in control, and he doesn’t totally imagine you fucking him on the wall for everyone to see. There’s also a bondage kink somewhere in there as well, not that he’s going to admit it 🙂

E = Experience (How experienced are they?)

Jon doesn’t have that much experience, he knows the basics, obviously, but outside that, he’s relatively clueless on the matter. Things like foreplay or kinks are almost unknown to him; what he does know, he picks up in passing from those around him.

F = Favourite Position

Doggy Style - Jon is a little shy sometimes and sometimes prefers you don’t see his face; he also likes the feeling of you hovering over him and talking dirty to him.

Missionary - On some occasions where he finds himself facing you during sex, he tries to hide his face away, but if not, he’ll have his head against yours.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)

I don’t think Jon would be very goofy during sex; he’s sometimes nervous or uncertain.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

As I said earlier, he is hairy, back to front, and well-groomed.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

Jon is a romantic at heart; his attention is always on you, so he’ll ensure you enjoy every moment.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He jacks off every so often, mostly thinking about you.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Voice kink - I feel like he’d have a voice kink, no explanation; I just think so.

Somnophilia - He loved being on the receiving end of it.

Hair Pulling - What is that long hair for if not to be pulled?

Exhibition - He would love to be fucked on the edge of the wall for the world to see.

Bondage - One of his least explored kinks.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Jon likes your shared room best, but he’s also partial to anywhere else, with some incentive of course.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Jon is a simple man; breathe, and he will fold. Tug him into a secluded archway, and he will fold. Simply put, you get him going.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

I don’t think Jon would be into daddy kink very much ��

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He prefers receiving; it drives him up the wall, and seeing you take him is his favorite thing.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Generally, Jon prefers slow because he likes to take it all in - both giving and receiving - he doesn’t mind fast, but he’d prefer long fucks.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Jon doesn’t mind quickies, but like said before; he prefers long and slow fucks, so quickies tend to be a little rare for him.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

I think Jon wouldn’t be opposed to risks, he’d be willing to try something every now and then, but it all depends on his comfort zone.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

He’s got decent stamina; I mean, with all that training and muscles, he’s good to go for a while.

T=Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Yes. He had a dildo he’d carved himself, he used it often, and sometimes, on calmer days, with your encouragement, he’d have it lodged inside him for the day.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Despite his demeanor, Jon does enjoy teasing, he thinks it’s fun, and it makes him feel things to see you desperate to reach for him.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Loud. Jon may be stoic in the streets, but he’s a fucking orchestra in the sheets.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture, or words)

Around four of five inches (I had to pull out the ruler again 💀)

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

I think he’s got a moderate enough sex drive.

Z = ZZZ (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

He will try and resist the urge to fall asleep first, but he passes out first.

End Note:

Hope this was good. Stay Hydrated.

#jon snow x male reader #jon snow x reader #shiterequests #he's babyyyyyyyy #jon snow smut headcanons

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writeshite · 2 years ago

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Hellooo, I might be requesting for Daryl Dixon quite a lot but man has me on a chokehold lmao

This one can be quite short if u want, but u see how Daryl in the first season had beef with everyone? 💀 man was always ready to throw punches

What abt the group finding out he has a special other? A boyfriend to be exact, but this man is so calm and collected and a total sunshine meanwhile Season 1 Daryl was fighting w everyone including the flies in the air and when they see Daryl with his boyfriend man suddenly is calm.

“Did we get bit?”

Lori elbows Shane harshly; granted, Daryl Dixon being calm is enough to cause anyone to question their sanity. For lack of a better word, Daryl and Merle had been the outskirts of the group, often sitting far from them and ready to fly off the handle. Daryl was by far the more tolerable of the two, so seeing him this way shouldn’t be a surprise. You’d stumbled into their camp by accident, having climbed up a tree and taken a nap; Dale had been both impressed and concerned to so high up.

“Oh, sorry about that; I was just napping,” you apologized, coming down the tree. Merle had burst into laughter, slinging an arm around you.

“Look at ya,” he’d laughed, “still as crazy as always.” The familiarity had brought unease among the others; the two Dixons were already an acquired taste, so there was worry about your personality.

But all that didn’t matter at the moment; what mattered was watching Daryl be so calm and whisper talk with you, completely ignoring everything else. “Maybe the deer got bit,” Shane glances down at the deer in his hand.

“It’s called love, Shane,” Dale added in.

Shane just shakes his head, “I’m gonna lie down; if they're still eyefucking later, I’ll believe it.”

#daryl dixon x male reader #daryl dixon x reader #shiterequests #shitedrabbles

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writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

helloooo, just wanted to make a daryl dixon request? the male readers are lacking lmao

it's canon that daryl was very abused and mistreated by his father when merle was away and in one scene where merle tears up his shirt from behind daryl has scares from when he was beaten up with probably a belt.

Daryl now has a boyfriend who loves him so much, but he was avoidant of the topic with him. Until they were having their aftercare session after an intimate moment and reader takes little time to see Daryl's back, Daryl's head on reader's lap while he smokes and caresses the scarred back, that's when Daryl opens up about everything.

"I'll take care of you."

"It's rotten work."

"Not for me, not if it's you."

Kintsugi

Summary:

Daryl doesn’t believe in love. But you would disagree. Holding his hands as though he were the most precious thing left in this apocalyptic world, laying kiss after kiss on his skin, each one accompanied by a whisper of adoration, combing his hair back to gaze lovingly at his eyes, “There you are, love.” To which he would blush, shoving your face away as you grinned at his bashful expression.

Pairings:

Dary Dixon x Male Reader

Tags:

Comfort | Angst | Warning - Mentions of Child Abuse | Flashbacks

Words: 625

Author's Note:

I would like to preface this with the warning that there will be flashbacks to Daryl's childhood which, alongside the rest of the fic, will include child abuse.

Daryl doesn’t believe in love.

His father did a bang-up job squandering it, a belt to his back once or twice a day, thrice if he cried, several more if he tried to evade it. His penchant for running away saved him more times than he could count - drunk old man Dixon was not someone to be around - but back to the point, Daryl Dixon did not believe in love, particularly for himself. But you would disagree. Holding his hands as though he were the most precious thing left in this apocalyptic world, laying kiss after kiss on his skin, each one accompanied by a whisper of adoration, combing his hair back to gaze lovingly at his eyes, “There you are, love.” To which he would blush, shoving your face away as you grinned at his bashful expression.

Now, lying his head on your lap, puffing away, Daryl finds comfort in the silence of the night; he enjoys the feeling of your hands through his hair. He tries not to flinch when your hands drift lower, praying the absence of light hides the scars across his back. It had been a topic of almost conversations - when his shirt rode up, or you woke with his back to you - you never pushed, and perhaps Daryl was a coward for never saying anything. You pause just at the base of his neck, fingers grazing the first mark - his oldest, near his shoulder, and as big as his hand had been at the time.

“December 5th…” he mumbles.

“What?”

“December 5th…wanted hot chocolate but couldn’t get the cocoa…the game was on…dad didn’t like being interrupted….”

Daryl had been small, even for a six-year-old, and the cocoa had been way up on the top shelf, shoved behind the flour and sugar. He’d climbed the counter and stood up, head smacking against the cabinet a bit when he did. He just wanted to shove the flour and sugar away - the flour moved easily, but the sugar didn’t. So he did what any child would; he pulled and fell, bringing with him a rain of sugar. The sound of his fall and the sugar sack hitting the floor was enough to catch his father’s attention.

“What the— boy, you better not be fucking up my kitchen!”

Daryl hadn’t been hurt that bad from the fall, but he wouldn’t know, having run off before his father could step foot in the kitchen.

“....didn’t get very far….”

“NO, NO— Pa—” Daryl had screamed when he’d been dragged back by his hair, cowering with his hands held high as his father shouted at him, the man’s favorite belt in his hand, heated up by the steam of the kettle. “I was cold, I—”

“... dipped the thing into the hot water and beat me with it….”

Daryl didn’t continue down memory lane, and you’d gone quiet, pausing in your movements - he sat up, moving from the bed to grab another smoke. He could feel a little shake in his hands, halting when he felt your hands on his back again, “I don’t —” his throat clogged up as tears pricked the corner of his eyes.

“Ok,” you responded. There was no phantom pain to soothe, yet you continued to do so, palm slowly running across his back as he rubbed furiously at his eyes. He hadn’t meant to start crying; you moved to stand ahead of him, thumbs wiping the remnants of his tears. “We don’t have to keep talking about him, ok?”

Daryl nods, sniffling, “I’m sorry, it’s rotten work.”

“What?”

“Me….I’m rotten work,” he clarifies.

“Not for me,” you counter, “not if it’s you, Daryl.”

Daryl doesn’t believe in love, but being pulled back into the covers to lie by you, he could.

End Note:

Hope you enjoyed it. Stay Hydrated.

#daryl dixon x male!reader #daryl dixon x reader #twd imagine #this man deserves the world 😭#there ain't enough male reader for daryl istg #also fuck daryl's dad I hope that man had his face eaten by a walker #shiterequests

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writeshite · 2 years ago

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Hi! I was wondering if you could make a yandere! dark! sandman x reader. I know it's a bit of a novelty for you, but it would be great if you did!

Sorry for my bad english, its not my first language.

Sweet Dreams Are Made Of Tears

Summary:

When you wake back up, you apologize for taking up his time and falling asleep on him, but he waves you off, “It’s no problem,” he assures you. You become much more perceptive to his touch, seeking it out before sleep, your mind follows suit, and he’s soon the only one in your dreamscape.

Pairings:

Morpheus x Male Reader

Tags:

Yandere Morpheus | Dark Morpheus |

Words: 662

Author's Note:

I don't think I've properly written for a yandere (?) I mean, technically, maybe Homelander counts?? But I don't lean into his obsessive tendencies as much. Don't ask about the name; it's like three in the morning, also don't worry, English ain't my first language either

Being immortal can be pretty lonely, even if you have other immortals around you. It doesn’t help that Morpehus is largely allergic to social interaction at times and prefers to spend his days in the Dreaming, drifting between the minds of mortals.

Meeting you had been an accident. Your dreams are simple, cozy things, they’re comfortable, and at first, he mostly sits on the outskirts when he wants a break, but then he gets curious, wondering whose dreams they belong to, so he steps in.

Morpheus finds himself inside an almost endless room, a fire nearby and books strewn about, and on a cozy couch, you. Morpheus scoffs; reading was near impossible in dreams. “Strange,” he remarks.

You, on the other hand, are confused; while it’s not uncommon for you to dream of handsome men, they’re commonly people you know or have conjured up yourself. This man was neither of those. “Who are you?”

Morpheus finds your confusion amusing, “Just a dream,” he responds. Drawn to him, you stand and reach out, curious himself; Morpheus allows your touch. It’s faint, and perhaps, outside the dreams, it would be warm - your hands start at his coat, the fabric’s texture no doubt intriguing you equally; before your hands might drift up, he grabs hold of them. His touch is solid, and your eyes widen; he has the dream change before you can speak.

Morpheus is no stranger to want. He returns to your dream again, watching from the outskirts as you glance around for him, attempting to conjure him from memory. The aberration is hardly close; it fizzles, then falls apart, much to your frustration.

You live in a quiet town with a nice apartment and lovely neighbors; when he orchestrates your interaction, you almost jump, eyes wide, as you point at him, “IT’S YOU!” You apologize for the outburst and then invite him for coffee, and he agrees, slowly integrating himself into your life. He pretends to know nothing and soaks up your interactions.

He doesn’t like it when you dream about anyone else—often morphing the dreams into nightmares that leave you shaking. It takes time to train your mind not to think of anyone else; for extra measure, he has a few harmless nightmares that disturb you in the waking world. They bite at your ankles, howl from dark corners, and have you looking over your shoulder.

One of them takes it too far, leaving gashes along your wall, and Morpheus would have destroyed the little terror had it not driven you to him so efficiently. Your sleep patterns had grown erratic enough to make you malleable.

Morpheus hadn’t needed to do much convincing to have you fall into his arms; he’d come to visit and found you barely standing, mind muddled as you failed to blink past the exhaustion. “Are you alright?” He asks, leading you to the couch; you’re practically shaking, your grip weak as you cry about the nightmares. You shake your head when he suggests lying down.

“I can’t, Morpheus,” you cry, “the nightmares, they’ve gotten worse, and…” your eyes dart around the room, catching the tail end of the terrors he’d send to disturb you. He pretends not to see them, which drives you further into hysterics, “I feel like I’m going mad!”

“No, you’re exhausted; you need to sleep,” he reiterates. He wipes your tears, and he gathers you into his arms when you finally give in to the fatigue. Morpheus leaves your mind empty and allows you some solace. The nightmares cower away, and there are moments where you almost startle awake, but he puts you back to sleep, “Rest, dove.”

End Note:

I think Yandere Morpheus would be sweet, still scary and manipulative, but sweet. Stay Hydrated.

#yandere morpheus x male reader #yandere morpheus x reader #the sandman imagine #shiterequests #don't ask about the title i think I'm clever but I'm not #am i procrastinating on homework? yes

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writeshite · 2 years ago

Text

Hunger For The Devil

Summary:

You, hmm, in agreement, “It wouldn’t be if you’d stay in the mornings,” you pout. Lucifer’s tendency to run off at first light was nothing awful; it was more so annoying than insulting. “Don’t you remember our first time? Us.” “Rome.” “The sound of Caeser dying,” you reminisced, “oh, how fun that was.”

Pairings:

Lucifer Morningstar x Male!Reader

Tags:

Beelzebub!Reader | Smut | Sort Of Inspired By Gomez and Morticia Addams

Words: 1554

Author's Note:

A piece requested by @houseofalexo because as we all know Lucifer Morningstar is a gift

Sometimes, a sin has to leave hell and find other things to do with his immortal life. It doesn’t matter how luxurious your position in hell had been; it won’t cover the boredom that seeps into the infernal world. You hadn’t hated it, but one does grow sick of cold and heat and screams; Earth was much different; live humans were much more entertaining - rather ecstatic for a species with such a short lifespan - you’d been topside for centuries, not quite as long as some others.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Speak of the devil. The restaurant isn’t small by any means; its luxury is evident by the silver carved decor and glimmering chandeliers; if not that, then the clientele was undoubtedly enough indication. Lucifer’s dark suit was well pressed, jacket in hand; he strolled up to your table, familiar grin on his face; he placed his coat on your chair and a peck on your forehead in greeting.

“My Lord Lucifer,” you began, “a pleasant surprise.”

“I’d imagine so,” he says, sitting beside you; he takes your hand, holding it lightly as he gazes at you. “It’s been far too long, Beelzebub.”

“Rome," he adds.

“The sound of Caeser dying,” you reminisced, “oh, how fun that was.” You took a bite of the berry and cream crepe dessert; Lucifer wasted no time indulging himself, snagging a piece. You lightly smacked his hand away, “Manners. At least ask first,” you tutted.

“How rude of me,” he takes your chin in his hand and holds it gently, “May I have a taste?” You nod, and he kisses you, his other hand gently holding your face; he angles his body toward you. When he draws back, he licks his lips, a satisfied smile on his face, “Wonderful.” His eyes take on the familiar ruby glint, and he licks his lips; your sin makes him crave more; both of you seem to be driving the other specialty higher as the humans around you turn. That’s not unusual, annoying, if anything else.

“So then, my precious little devil,” you stroke his hand, fingers laced with his, “do you desire something?” You tease, and he snickers, “Or,” your fingers walk from his hand, along his arm, and to his chest, dragging him even closer by his tie. “Do you hunger for me?”

“Yes,” someone voiced, a fellow customer, opulent suit and multiple rings; he’d been one of the closest to your table and was nearly on his knees. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were blown as he reached out for you; you simply brushed him off, shaking your head.

“Sorry, but I’m looking for something more hellish tonight,” you turn him away. Lucifer draws back your attention, the rest of your dessert is gone, and the cheeky bastard licks his lips, a smug smile on his face. “I was going to eat that,” you protest, “I hope you plan to compensate me.”

“I have dessert!” another voice cuts in as a plate is all but thrown onto your table. Another human has approached your table, cutting in between you and Lucifer; they offer said dessert with a hopeful look, expression more dazed and infatuated than the last man. You turn him away the same, “But, I have what you need!” he insists, pressing forward desperately, “I hunger for you!”

“As delectable as you think you are, I’m not craving mortality today,” you tell him, “now,” your eyes take on an unnatural hue, “run along,” you hiss at the man. He leaves, dejected, and his face cast down. You smooth out your features, returning to appear human, “I do apologize —”

Lucifer dismisses your apologies, leaning close to press a kiss to your cheek, “Think nothing of it; I don’t blame them,” he says, “but all the same, let’s take this elsewhere, shall we?” He flags a server over, and you both stand to leave, rather excited for the night ahead, when you are yet again interrupted.

“Please,” the cry is desperate, and you find yourself wrapped in unfamiliar arms; your combined presence has wrapped the humans further in a haze of their own bliss, their desperation claws at their skins, expressions distraught at the thought of you leaving. “Please don’t go! You can’t leave me!”

You shrug him off as you did the others; unlike the others, however, this human doesn’t slink away in despair; on the contrary, he grabs the nearest delicacy and throws it at you. It’s nothing major, a handful of something, but it does the trick of staining your suit. It hits your shoulder, trails leading down your arm as it falls to the floor, another pelts you again, you dodge the next, and it narrowly misses your face. You dodge a few others, but some do hit the target; Lucifer isn’t spared the barrage either - a few good hits land and leave him equally as enraged - you shirk out a wing to deflect the attacks, knocking a few humans back in the process.

The food stops coming, as your assailants stand in shock, mouths open, a few make incomprehensible sounds, “What’s the matter? Scared of little old me?” you taunt; they don’t retaliate and resign further when you allow a few more demonic features out. The wiser ones turn tail; the not so wise ones seem to be adamant about challenging you, or rather Lucifer.

“Why does he get to have you?!”

Lucifer looks a tad miffed at that; his face flashes to its actual self for a moment, causing them to step back, a few releasing screams before you stop him from laying a hand on them. “Now, now, dear, don’t be too rash,” you tell him.

The previous question is repeated, far more timidly this time, and you answer, “Why?” you begin, head tilted and eyes taking an unnatural hue, “because I am Beelzebub, and I crave nothing but the very best; you, my sweet little mortals, don’t even come close.”

They appear deflated and finally turn away; you return your attention to Lucifer, brushing a hand on his suit, “What a waste….” you mumble, brushing the crumbs away. “Our first date in centuries, ruined,” you pout jestingly.

“Perhaps I should make up for that with another, then?” Lucifer muses.

You chuckle, “As long as there’s food involved,” you respond, “if not, there are other things I wouldn’t mind tasting again.”

“I’ll put that on the dessert menu then; let’s see about that date.”

You leave the restaurant hand in hand and head to another, one with private booths, “Such a gentleman,” you say when he leads you inside.

Two meals are ordered, alongside wine and some privacy; you dine leisurely, closely sat together, “We should do this more often,” Lucifer remarks, taking a spoonful of your food.

“Hmm, well, I wouldn’t say no to that,” you reply, “but I may have to return to hell,” you pout.

“Or you could stay here with me,” he offers, threading his fingers with yours, “two infernal lovers,” he pecks beneath your ear, “free from our hellish responsibilities.” His nose trails down to the junction with your shoulder; you tilt your head back with a giddy smile. Open-mouth kisses follow to the tune of your laughter; Lucifer’s hands drift beneath your shirt, caressing the skin of your hip, and your own hands move to his hair, softly tugging at some of the strands. A few yeses slip between the laughter, and Lucifer’s enthusiasm piques further. He lays a series of bites with his kisses, drawing back when the soft noises outside your private booth remind you of your public location.

You finish your meals quicker now and move your tryst elsewhere - hands tugging at the other’s clothes as you make your way up to his penthouse - the music from his bar grows distant, your focuses zeroing in on each other. No care is given to clothing, a few things tear here and there, but you ignore them as your stumble into the bed together. Lucifer’s kisses return, teeth dragging along your skin, leaving hickeys in his wake. You graze over the wing scars of his back, leaving newer ones alongside them, his own leaving markings on your waist.

“Someone’s eager,” you mumble, never one to leave you empty; his fingers make quick work inside of you and draws out light moans. Your back arches slightly, a whine in your throat when his fingers leave, soon enough replaced by his cock. You hook your legs around him, back arching further when he begins to thrusts. His own body curves closer to you, holding you close, laughter mixes with groans, and any words said come out barely coherent. His hand moves to your dick and Lucifer’s hand moves faster - you dig your nails into his back when you cum. Lucifer follows much later, adjusting speed to draw out more sounds from you, angling your leg higher to delve deeper inside you. When he cums, you cling close together, and he falls atop you after, the promising smirk on his face for round two.

End Note:

Look, I would barter my soul for Lucifer. Stay Hydrated.

#lucifer morningstar x male reader #lucifer morninstar x reader #lucifer imagine #shiterequests

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writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

*tugs at collar* Um, so I don't know what comic THAT art of Thor is from but I need more of him in my life like yesterday 👀

Soft Moments

Summary:

“Are you alright, my love?” You turn at Thor’s voice, and he moves towards you from the balcony’s entrance, plastering himself to your back; he places a peck on your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

Pairings:

Thor x Male Reader

Tags:

Fluff | Married Couple | Mentioned Nightmares

Words: 287

Author's Note:

Of course my good, sir - for reference, here's the art. Idk what's happening in the panel so I kinda just went with the first idea that came to my head.

Asgard is a small golden speck in the distance, like a star on the horizon; you lean against the balcony and try not to stress about how well things are being handled. The nightmare from moments ago isn’t helping keep you calm, and you push everything about it to the back of your mind. The cottage is tucked away in the forests, far enough to give you your own bubble but not so far that an emergency would pass you by.

“Are you alright, my love?”

You turn at Thor’s voice, and he moves towards you from the balcony’s entrance, plastering himself to your back; he places a peck on your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

You nod, “Nothing too bad this time,” you assure him, but he doesn’t look so easily swayed; you pat his arm, “I’m ok.”

His face is painted with concern; this vacation of sorts was more so for you than anything else, “A few days away.” It’s been almost a week, and despite the nightmares, you’ve felt less stressed; you’re brought out of your thoughts as Thor steps back, tugging lightly for you to follow. You don’t return to the bed, instead heading to the kitchen - it’s by no means small but more so fitted for two, as is the rest of the cottage. Thor huddles you to the table, and you watch him flutter about the kitchen - tea, cakes, and whatever else he can find for you - he moves the unoccupied chair closer when he joins you.

He doesn’t ask about the nightmare, instead taking one of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together as you place your head on his shoulder, “Thank you,” you mutter, and he kisses your forehead in response.

End Note:

It's a very short blurb, I know but I'm trying to kick off the writer's block 😭 Stay Hydrated.

#thor odinson x male reader #thor odinson x reader #marvel imagine #shiterequests

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writeshite · 2 years ago

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So I was wondering if you are up for it if you could write a agents. For morpheus x reader. Where the reader died of a sickness and morpheus is all upset. The corinthian was best freinds whith reader and when he died the corinthian blamed morpheus.

When the corinthian trys and gets rose on his side he tells her that morpheus killed his lover. And when rose confronts him in the dreaming morpheus explained what happend and he kinda just brakes down . ( you can make up the end )

Anyway if you feel uncomfortable writing this then that is ok .

Bye ! ( btw male reader pls )

Hit Close To Home

Summary:

“Are you going to tell Lord Morpheus?” The blood on his chin was dry now, his gaze downcast as you glanced between him and the corpse. You sigh, coming down to his height, and you wipe away at the blood; you say nothing, instead gathering him in your arms, and the others glare enviously at him - your favored little horror, they often called him. Lord Morpheus says nothing when you return, but Corinthian isn’t allowed to return to Earth.

Pairings:

Morpheus x Male Reader

Tags:

Forest Spirit Reader | Dead Reader | Angst | This Author regrets Nothing 🙂

Words: 1556

Author's Note:

Someone woke up and chose angst, damn, not that I'm complaining, I love putting you all through emotional torture.

“Oh, hello.”

The Dreaming was vast and monotone, with your personal terrace the only break between the sand and dreams; the Corinthian remembers stumbling across it the first time - even among his fellow nightmares, he was considered a monster. His memories of the Dreaming were less than pleasant, but you were perhaps the only shining light among them.

“You must be the new nightmare, then.”

“Go away,” he hissed; he wiped his eyes furiously, wincing as they bit at his hands. His form is tiny - unstable, at best - like that of the waking children he’s heard the other nightmares speak of. He’d run off from them, form flicking about like a shadow, and hidden in the first room he could find. Lord Morpheus would no doubt be looking for him, the dreams and nightmares of the Dreaming heeded to their master, and as the newest, he would need to catch up to his fellow manifestations.

He didn’t turn to glance at whoever had spoken to him, instead drawing himself further away, “You can’t hide in there forever, little nightmare.”

“I said go away!” he hissed again, face contorting as he turned to the other person. It always worked with everyone else; they’d run off at the sight of him, but not you. You huffed; you didn’t scream, instead shrugging and leaving him to his hidey-hole.

You’d let him stay there for hours, undisturbed as he minded his own until boredom overtook, and he peeked out to glance at you. You certainly weren’t under Morpheus’ domain - not with that smile - your clothing looked like it was crafted from the branches and leaves of the Waking.

“Who are you?” he asks.

You chuckle, “Well, that depends. Will you be joining me here, or do you plan to converse from your hideout?”

Your terrace had been a private abode, untouched by sand; it was filled to the brim with plants, paint, and various other trinkets from the Waking World. You’d been one of the few to forgo Morpheus’ orders, treating him and any manifestation like your own, and the Corinthian had spent many a day in your company. On the rare occasions, you’d allow him and a few others to tag along to Earth - the forest you inhabited required little upkeep, but you went for the humans. Strange creatures, really. He never understood why you cared for them; personally, he preferred them with a side of sauce.

“Are you going to tell Lord Morpheus?” The blood on his chin was dry now, his gaze downcast as you glanced between him and the corpse.

You sigh, coming down to his height, and you wipe away at the blood; you say nothing, instead gathering him in your arms, and the others glare enviously at him - your favored little horror, they often called him. Lord Morpheus says nothing when you return, but Corinthian isn’t allowed to return to Earth.

He doesn’t tell Rose all of this, far too personal to share; he says what he can bear, “He was my friend, and Morpheus killed him.”

Morpheus had always been weak to your requests; treating the nightmares like children hadn’t been something he’d ever done. They’d been more so his creations, his associates at best, but you’d gathered them around you, and they’d willingly flocked, nurturing them with care. The Corinthian had been perhaps the most attached to you, digging the sands of the Dreaming for any wayward thoughts that would make wonderous decors for your terrace.

“You coddle him,” Morpheus spoke lowly; he overlooks the balcony over your shoulder; the nightmares trudge along without disturbance, the little nightmare you’d befriended shifted through the sands below, having promised to find you something worthwhile.

“I coddle them all,” you remind him.

“He is a nightmare, not a child,” he reminds you.

“Yes, yes, dear,” you jest, patting his cheek fondly. The little nightmare turns up towards you, holding something up proudly, you gesture him towards you, and he runs into the castle joyfully. He goes to protest, but you silence him with a peck, “I know, I know, but it won’t do much harm.”

Now thinking of the nightmare, he barely glimpsed the wisp that clung to you so desperately. He’d hate to think of the devastation that would befall you if you saw them now, “Don’t turn him away when I’m gone,” Morpheus had withdrawn, remaining by your side far long after your passing, leaving the Corinthian to his own murderous grieving process. The nightmare had made his way through the remnants of your Earthly forest, then to Rose - Rose, who stared at him with contempt and uncertainty.

“Why?” she asks.

Morpheus almost laughs; he’s not sure what she’s asking - why did he sit by and watch you wither? Why didn’t he plunge humanity into waste to save you? Why didn’t he petition your fellow spirits for aid? - the answer was simple. He couldn’t.

“Morpheus….please, let’s not spend my last days arguing.”

Nature spirits were perhaps the least fortunate of divine beings, lives heavily intertwined with their domains; your forest had been the target of some human development - each tree torn down saw a lapse in your health. It had started small, a slight cough of petals, before escalating to weak muscles and bedridden days. Your fellow spirits had died quicker; living in the Dreaming slowed the damage, but it wasn’t enough. Your arms had grown stiff, skin twisting to resemble branches, leaves had begun to sprout from you, accompanied by flowers, and your blood had turned dark like tar. The branches had come from your back as well, and tearing into the sheets, each movement you made had been painful, staining the bed with your obsidian blood.

“Your brother’s river is dry.” Morpheus had found the man’s husk of a body by the banks, drier than a desert; it had crumbled at the touch of the wind, and the Gods had fallen into panic at the death rate, but no solution had been found. He’d grown frustrated at their excuses, ‘we’re trying’ - were they? He’s brought back to the moment by a touch to his cheek; your thumb swipes at a stray tear; your face was more bark than flesh now, a slight wince in your expression as you reach out to him.

He moved closer to you, head against yours, and the tears didn’t stop, “I’m sorry —I don’t —I,” you shushed him as he wept, fingers loosely interlaced with his.

“I didn't kill him,” Morpheus corrects, “you did. Your kind tore down the forests, polluted the air, and ran rivers dry until he and his brethren were all but gone.”

“What?” Confusion laces her voice. Morpheus turns away, the dreaming shifting with his thoughts, and the sand rises to a height, morphing to form you. Not sickly, but the way you had been before. “He’s….” Breathtaking. Handsome. No words could come close to describing how Morpheus felt about you.

“He was kind,” Morpheus begins, more sand shifts as more imitations rise, “the nightmares adored him, the Corinthian more so than the rest.” Most residents of the Dreaming wouldn’t even think to defy him, much less stick their tongue childishly, but the Corinthian had picked many of your habits. The craving for human flesh had come from neither of you - the nightmare had loved the soft taste of eyes and often asked for them, much to both your displeasures.

“They’re hurting him; why won’t you kill them?!”

No amount of words could convey the fragile peace among the endless - if one of them killed, the others would follow suit - that’s not even to say what the other celestial beings would do. But that hadn’t been enough for the Corinthian.

“What good is your power if you do nothing useful?!”

Morpheus shook his head, a watery laugh in his throat, “What would you have me do?” he asked, “put humanity down like a dog?”

“YES!” The Corinthian replied - he’d come to spend every hour by your bedside and pestering Morpheus to act.

But you’d made him promise, “You’re going to be angry, and you’re going to be sad, but please, Morpheus,” you pleaded, “don’t seek vengeance, not in my name.”

“But—”

“Please,” you’d leaned forward, snapping some of the bark along your spine. Morpheus nodded somberly, guiding you back to the pillows.

When you’d passed, your body had fully turned to flora, the bed now intertwined into the tree you’d become; he’d left the room as is, allowing the dreams and nightmares to mourn. The Corinthian had screamed, cried, and then blamed - blamed humanity, blamed the gods, the endless - he blamed everyone, but Morpheus bore the brunt of it all. The Dreaming’s collapse had turned what was left of you to dust, Lucienne’s bark snippet being the last piece of you he had. The bark sat in an inner pocket of his coat, threaded with your favorite color of thread.

“I’m sorry,” Rose spoke. Morpheus half scoffed; the sand imitation of you stood on its own, grainy hand in his; he felt close to crying again. When the sand fell again, he said nothing more; the little Corinthian stood far off, mouths frowning at him - unlike the peaceful fall of your imitation, his snapped at the heat of his emotion into glass. “Are you going to kill him?”

Morpheus doesn’t answer.

End Note:

Sorry about changing the relationship between the Corinthian and Reader; I felt like the request worked a little better if Reader treated him and the other nightmares and dreams like his kids. Stay Hydrated.

#morpheus x male reader #dream x male reader #the sandmand imagine #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #shiterequests

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writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

I was wondering if I could request a headquanons demigod daughter of Poseidon x Morpheus ?

Ok, this confuses me a little. Are you asking for Reader as Poseidon or Reader as daughter, cause I don't write for female readers

#shiteanswers #shiterequests

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writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

Bonjour 👀 It is I just on anon!

I was wondering if I could request a Billy Hargrove x bottom!male reader smut.

This might be confusing but I’m gonna try my best here-

So basically, the reader is cocky, doesn’t let up to Billy’s bullying, doesn’t really care.

This makes Billy even angrier, and one day reader says some off-hand remark and Billy is like “What did you just say?” and pins him to the wall.

Yadda yadda smut ensues IDK 🫣

If you need suggestions for kinks maybe uhh degradation with a mix of rough sex mayhaps…

Mouthy Little Slut

Summary:

“Repeat after me,” he instructs you, and you try your best, well as best as anyone could when they're pinned to the wall, dick hard. It takes three tries before Billy becomes irritated at your failure to follow his demands; you manage something acceptable enough for him on the sixth or seventh try; by then, you’re hopelessly whimpering. Billy scoffs, “What happened to the mouthy little slut?” He taunts.

Pairings:

Billy Hargrove x Male!Reader

Tags:

Words: 1561

Author's Note:

Bonjour, I give you Billy Hargrove smut, written after I submitted homework I procrastinated on for three weeks 😀

You can practically hear the rest of the school cringe and pray for your survival as you flip off Billy Hargrove. The new kid rose to the top of the school hierarchy nearly overnight, he all but deposed Steve Harrington, and everyone bowed out of his way whenever he walked by. You must have missed the memo because, unlike the rest of your peers, your general instinct around Billy was to antagonize him - something many people have advised against. You remember the day you met Billy - he had rocked up to your locker; Mr. Hotshot slicked some of his hair back; the second he’d opened his mouth, you’d flicked his forehead and walked off laughing. Thus started you and Billy’s lengthy feud.

The classrooms were no sanctuary away from this; most of the teachers have effectively given up and instead elected to shift your seating arrangement as far from each other. Of course, gym has no seating arrangement, and coach has no qualms watching the two of you work out your anger. Today, you’d taken every opportunity to snatch the ball from Billy and be as uncooperative as possible whenever either of you was close, an angry Billy was an entertaining Billy.

With all that in mind, it explains why you’d flipped him off; what it didn’t explain is why Billy had stopped in his tracks, turned around, and asked, correction demanded, you repeat what you said to his face. Before all this, Billy already seemed slightly pissed, which encouraged you to try and push his buttons. You repeated your words, flipping him off with both hands; gladly satisfied with his angry expression, you turned to leave but found yourself pinned to the locker room wall, “Say that again.”

“What? Your hearing bail on you or something, Hargrove?” You rebutted, “I said what I said.”

Billy’s hand comes to your neck, gripping at it as his eyes bore into yours, “You think you can just go around saying whatever you want.”

You smirk, “It’s a free country, Billy boy,” you tell him, “I don’t know how it works back in California, but down here in Hawkins, running your mouth ain’t punishable.”

His hand squeezes tighter, face coming closer to yours, his face is drawn into an angry expression; you attempt to laugh, but it comes out as a slight wheeze, dragging on as Billy’s hand travels up, fingers edging at the corner of your mouth. His leg forces its way between your legs, and you feel your dick harden, but so does Billy. He starts chuckling, moving to press his knee against your growing erection; you wince, your wiggling growing frantic as you attempt to free yourself before anything else can happen. You cuss at him, but he silences you again with his knee digging into your pants. Your wiggling almost frees your hands, but Billy catches on, fixing that problem; his other hand travels from your neck to the inside of your pants as he now takes hold of your cock.

His hand remains in place, face now closer to yours, “What’s that you said about running your mouth?”

“Fuck you.” Billy tugs harshly.

“That’s not what I want to hear,” he states, forehead against yours, “apologize for your words.”

“Fuc—” you don’t get the chance to cuss him out again as he tugs again; you groan, bucking your hips to get some form of relief and crying out when there is none. You go back and forth like this a few times before your resolve crumbles, “Alri-alright fine, I–I–sorry—”

He pumps you once, “For what?”

“For–for–” you can’t find the words. Surprisingly, Billy chuckles at this; he releases your cock, his hand coming to your chin, and he commands you to look at him.

“B-bi—please—” you whimper.

He huffs, “You don’t get shit after what you did; you want something,” he tells you; moving back, he sits on one of the benches, legs spread and pants pulled down. He holds his dick, beckoning you to him with his fingers, “work for it.”

You walk up to him, crouching down, and you take his dick in your hand, pumping it a few times; Billy holds your head as your take it in. Once you have it all in, he keeps your head there, hand rubbing circles on your head as he admires the view, you reach down for your won dick, but Billy chastises you, “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

You sound out a few words in response, “No, I didn’t. Put your hands on my thighs, and keep them there,” he demands. You do as your told; he pats your cheek, “Good boy.” He nods his head, and you start moving. Your pace is slow per Billy’s control, he doesn’t move much, an occasional thrust here and there, but otherwise, he leaves the work to you. Biting his lip, his hands hold your head, the corners of your mouth have bits of drool, and your eyes remain fixed on his. Your dick twitches, aching to be touched, but Billy’s glare dissuades you from doing so when your hand tries to move. His legs spread further as he drags you slightly higher, your elbows dig into his thighs, and he holds your head down when he comes. “Swallow,” he tells you, and you do.

Your obedience earns you a pat on the head. Bily pulls his pants back on again; he tells you to get presentable and meet him by his car. When you do, he’s leaning by it, cigar in hand; he squeezes your ass when you get there, “Why are we here, Billy? Are you too much of a coward to do it in school?”

He grimaces, the grip on your ass becoming taught, “What did I say about mouthy sluts?”

Your face pinches, “I don’t know, what did you say?” you reply impatiently; you shift on your feet, a small but ineffective method of soothing the hard-on.

Billy shakes his head, “Get in the car.” He drives until the school is no longer visible, past houses and into the forest, and up to Skull Rock. The place is empty, and once the car engine switches off, Billy is situating himself in the back, demanding you follow suit. You find yourself straddling him, hands around his shoulder once more; you manage to roll your hips once before Billy grips them. You complain, but he smacks your ass, you complain again, and he repeats his actions; the pattern carries on, each slap more painful than the last until you’re whimpering out another apology.

He kneads your ass; he must deem this good enough since he finally goes to hold your dick, his other hand moves your shirt out of the way, and his mouth latches onto one of your nipples. He pumps your dick steadily while his mouth works on your chest - your back arches when he bites, hands tightening on his shoulders. Billy enjoys riling you up, and when you come, he doesn’t stop, his come-stained hand moving to your ass, his fingers working their way in; you moan, head falling forward and eyes shut tight. Billy’s other hand spreads your asscheek wide, and at some point, his dick is added to the mix, settling between both cheeks; he doesn't shove it in, only ever rubbing it between your cheeks. On the other hand, you are holding onto him, legs barely able to move without trembling as Billy’s fingers reach in. He comes once, shooting up along your back; after that, you reach back to shove it in yourself, but Billy takes your hand.

You pleaded to him, “Billy—plea—fuck—”

“What did you say?”

“Fu–fuck me, please, Billy,” you elaborated, “please…please….”

His hand leaves your ass and is replaced by his dick; the tip goes in, but nothing else. You fuss, body moving to get the rest of it in; you manage a little before Billy thrusts the whole thing into you. Your mouth falls open, a strangled sound coming from you as your head falls forward. He palms your skin, humming to himself; he grabs the back of your neck, “See what being impatient gets you?”

“Unngghh….mmmhhh….” Billy directed your face to him, kissing you as he started to move; his thrusts started out at a moderate pace, and the kiss stopped when his pace picked up. Arms slung around your lower back, your face in his neck now, as moans spilled from your mouth. He didn’t falter when he came, only slowed down in his pace, his grip becoming tense.

“Anything else to say?” He asked. You made some more incoherent sounds, another load went in your ass, Billy’s movements paused, but his dicks remained. You both panted; coming off the high, Billy brought you back into another kiss; you winced into his mouth when his dick slipped out., cum sliding out, leaving you empty.

Billy tsked, “Damn, I’m gonna have to clean that later.”

End Note:

😈 We love ourselves some Billy Hargrove fanfic. Stay Hydrated.

#billy hargrove x male reader #billy hargrove x reader #stranger things imagine #shiterequests

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writeshite · 2 years ago

Text

Good Natured

Summary:

There are a great many mysteries in this world; some are solved by the advent of science, others remain secrets of the universe, but without a doubt, perhaps the greatest mystery known to humanity is how you willingly dated and continue to date the Homelander.

Pairings:

Homelander x Gender Neutral!Reader

Tags:

Magic!Reader | A Little Bit Of Flower Language | 5+1 Things (Sort Of) | Fluff | The Tiniest Wee Mention Of Violence

Words: 4584

Author's Note:

The original ask is here, requested by @ayamethewitch I spent three hours reading up on flower language, mainly cause I got sidetracked again. This turned out way longer than I thought it would, and idk how 😭

Every child dreams of becoming a superhero, flying through the sky, saving people from dangers, fame, fortune, and adoration. Annie’s looked to the skies and the heroes that came before with admiration and plastered her bedroom walls with their merchandise; she’d run around the house like she was flying, arms out and smile on her face. Now, as she stood in Vought, the newest member of the Seven, it was safe to say she was far more than just ecstatic.

Though it wasn’t really like anything she’d imagined - the Seven and various other supes stood around the room; the public had had their fill of her, so now, she mingled with her fellow heroes. She’d been nibbling on the same cookie for the past thirty minutes - Stormfront and Homelander were the big no-nos; the two were in the midst of showing off - Queen Maeve had spoken to her for a bit before moving on. Annie was now standing by the Deep and Black Noir, half-listening to whatever the topic of conversation was.

“Hey,” a new voice called out softly. Annie turned, and you held out your hand, “Bloodroot, lovely to meet you.”

“Bloodroot….” Annie says the name cautiously, shaking your hand, and examines you. You’re, for lack of a better term, perhaps the oddest one in the room - your witch hat resembles a mushroom, and your loose pale green shirt has various flowers threaded on the sleeves. It dips down on your chest, exposing the multiple necklaces you have; your pants are a dark color, as are your shoes. Annie notices the necklaces and rings you have all have some form of star-like symbol; if not gold, they’re either red, blue, or white. ‘Reminds me of Homelander,’ she thinks to herself.

“Yeah, it’s a dramatic name, but it does the trick,” you wink. A few petals bloom from the corner of your eye; they drift to the floor and melt into the ground. Annie gawked at you, and you shrugged, “It’s kind of on point, though.”

“That was amazing,” she says, and you wave her off.

“Not really, making petals’ a parlor trick, although….” you trail off, taking off your hat, you shove your hand in it and stick your tongue out, fishing for something, you pull a whole bouquet of yellow roses, and hand them over to her. “Yellow roses to brighten up your day.”

When Annie takes them, the petals open, twisting out to become butterflies that flutter around her, leaving a trail of golden sparkles. The sparkles fall on her, leaving a slight glow and bringing a smile to her face; the stems unravel, and the leaves burst into birds, settling on her shoulders. The unraveled stalks shoot up, then burst like fireworks, Annie’s smile gets wider as she marvels at your magic, “Holy shit….”

“Welcome to Vought, Starlight,” you say.

The others around had stopped their conversations and joined Annie in marveling, some reached out to the butterflies as they drifted away from her. A few looked just about ready to rush towards you and ask for more magic marvels but resisted doing so. John hated the attention you gave new supes, but it helped them feel less nervous and brought a smile to their faces. Granted, it also meant that a few would latch onto you for a few days before John would threaten them.

“Don’t I get any flowers?” Kevin pouted.

“No.” You almost groan at the sound of John’s voice; he’d gone from his little show-off to your side at the mere mention of flowers from the Deep. He placed his hand on your waist and frowned, glaring daggers at the other hero, “Sorry, Guppy, but my partner’s not some charity.”

“John —”

“Partner?” Annie questions, and John takes your hand, turning it over to showcase the various rings on your hand; he points to one in particular - the band resembles a vine, twisting towards the center and around three diamonds in the middle. The band wraps around the jewels like a branch would emerge from a tree, “Wow.” It’s all she can say; she’s only been around for a few hours, but from the little she knows so far - you and Homelander are on two ends of the personality spectrum.

You shake your head as John proudly displays the ring; he doesn’t let go of your hand, instead keeping it in his hold as he stares down the Deep. You’d given him flowers once, and John had thrown a right fit about it, Annie gulps nervously, and you elbow John. “Starlight, is it?” he turns to the newest addition to the team, and she anxiously nods, shaking his hand with a tight smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to welcome you properly.”

Her tight smile loosens when you toss her a reassuring smile, “So…” she starts, “how long….uh….have you been married?”

“We’re not married, well, not publicly,” John responds, “as far as the public’s aware, we’re recently engaged. Vought likes the opposites attract story, and I like showing off my partner.”

“How did you meet?” Annie asks; she directs the question at both of you but looks to you.

“I tried shoving my hat down his throat,” you reply, almost deadpanned, it brings a snort out of Annie, “Course, it didn’t work, so I settled for almost turning him into a tree.” She laughs, then reigns it back when John glares at her, “...sorry, sorry….” but then you laugh, and she takes that as a sign that she’s safe to do so again.

The party’s died down since your welcome gift as people mill about, and the excitement settles down; John grows weary of the conversation, tapping his foot impatiently. When you and Annie’s laughter dies down, he starts to steer you away, footsteps slow as you bid goodbye to the new supe, “Don’t hesitate to find me if you need help,” you say, elbowing John again when he shakes his head sternly, eyes tinted red.

Annie watches you get swept away, now, just you and John; she notes how the supe’s figure nearly wraps around you as if to block anyone from laying eyes on you. It’s not just her; it seems; the other guests all wait for Homelander to direct his attention - however brief - elsewhere before looking at you. Some practically avert their gaze when you pass by, and Annie has to take a moment to grasp the soft (?) look Homelander gives you.

“Strange aren’t they?” the Deep remarks, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one who wonders how Homelander got them to date him.” He assures her, “By the way, his hearing barely registers when they’re around, so nothing you say will have him ripping your lungs out.”

Yeah, nothing quite like she imagined.

Every day, the damage control department at Vought sends kisses towards the photo they have of you. The picture hangs framed in the back corner, tucked away in a tiny cubicle, where the tired department has set up their offerings - see before you, they had it tough, cleaning up after one supe was hard enough, but cleaning up after Homelander was a nightmare. Then, like an angel, you graced this world, and their jobs became easier, Homelander’s damage rate decreased, and they could rest easy, knowing they wouldn’t have to sacrifice countless nights to fix things.

Various other departments had their own altars, but damage control was the main one - it was well hidden, polished daily, and sometimes prayed to as well. This was all, of course, on a need-to-know basis; Homelander didn’t quite appreciate anyone so much as looking at you for too long; Anika shuddered to think what he’d do if he found out. Security had personal altars, all tucked away by their stations - hers consisted of a vase of sweet peas and yellow lilies, a subtle way to convey gratitude. The combo was very common around security, and some had even gone as far as to wear it on their person.

The higher-ups were none the wiser, and no one felt inclined to inform them on the matter. “Your flower’s drooping.” The silent worship you received from the Vought employees also brought about superstitions - letting flowers die on Vought grounds could bring misfortune or, worse, Homelander (somehow). As if Anika didn’t already have enough to fear from this godforsaken job.

She tended to leave her flowers till the day they were shriveled before replacing them; her coworkers all shook their heads at her as she dumped the old flowers. She’d already had her last break of the day, so she’d have to wait and come back tomorrow with new flowers. She shook off the nagging feeling, focusing on her work; just when she thought she was home-free, low and behold, Homelander comes charging into the room, eyeing each and every one of them as he lays out his demands - she prays he just waltzes past her, but he doesn’t. Choosing her to find what he needs and to find it now.

Her hands slightly tremble as she works; the supe stands over her, arms collapsed behind his back - she thinks she can feel the heat of his laser eyes as she takes what he deems as too long. He’s almost fed up with her slow progress when salvation appears; you waltz into the room - your iconic hat gone - you don a classy suit-like attire, with a waist cape and fingerless gloves, you look every bit the witch Vought market you out to be.

“There you are,” you say, coming up to them. Anika’s coworkers try not to seem too nosy, but some have their heads slightly turned in her direction. “John, you’re bothering the poor dear.”

“I’m not bothering her; am I bothering you?” John asks in a demanding tone. Anika’s not sure what answer he expects, but she shakes her head, a strained smile on her face, “See.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re bothering her, John; come on, if you’re that bored, I’m sure we can find you something else to do.” You grab his arm, tugging lightly; he takes a step, then turns back to Anika, “You can get the report sent up to you; now come on.” You tug a few more times, and he finally turns to leave; you move to follow but pause, hand reaching out to Anika’s vase. Sweet peas and yellow lilies sprout from nothing, “Should last you longer than the last ones,” you tell her.

Her head snaps to you, as do the heads of everyone else, but you just chuckle and leave them with a wink. Anika leaves an offering at every altar in the building for a whole week after, a grand gesture of thanks that she’s still breathing. She’s on her way to damage control when she bumps into you; she steps back and thanks you profusely.

“No problem at all,” you tell her, “feel free to come to me if you need any help.”

She nods, watching you as you go by, then averts her gaze when Homelander rounds the corner. You take one of his arms, disrupting his perfect posture, threading your fingers through his; you almost skip in the corridor - Anika leaves extra on that offering.

Whatever Ashley did in a past life to deserve this, she’d like to repent for now at this very instance.

Of course, you happen to fall sick on the day of a major interview, and of course, the doctors forbid you from leaving the bed until it's passed. The first wave of get-well-soon flowers get returned when your sneezing makes them explode; Homelander practically bars anyone aside from the doctors from stepping foot in your shared suite.

“John, I can’t get better if you chase away the doctors.” You try to sit up, but John pushes you back down, wrapping you to your neck in blankets. It wasn’t anything too serious, most likely just a cold; a week’s worth of bed rest should do you some good. The doctors had been sent to double-check and make sure the diagnosis was correct; you wrangle your hands from the cocoon you’re in, taking John’s hands in yours. “Dear, I don’t need to be buried in mountains of blankets.”

“Yes, you do,” he insists, “that’s what people do when they’re sick.”

Ashley nods her head to herself, he’s not wrong, but she thinks he might be smothering you - not that she says that aloud. Homelander hasn’t left your side since you woke up with the cough; he’d thrown out all the flowers when someone had commented on pollen allergies - not that he knows if you’ve got them - you’re decked head to toe in cozy clothing. An hour ago, the heating had been up to the max, but you’d put it back down after Ashely had shown some discomfort.

“Homelander, sir,” she interrupts, gulping when Homelander turns to her with crimson eyes, “the interview starts in —” she ducks, barely managing to dodge the laser from his eyes.

“What did I say about the interview?”

She whimpers, “The executives said….” her eyes dart away, “....they said it’s not an option.”

Your coughing fit draws his attention away from her, and she sighs in relief; he speeds off, returning with a glass of water. He puts the edge of the cup by your lips, you manage half the glass, but Homelander doesn’t move, insisting you finish the rest. He pushes your hair back, shirking off his glove, and placing the back of his hand on your forehead - your running temperature is running almost as high as he usually does. The medicine they’d given you had been sickeningly sweet, and even now, John could still smell it in your breath - you’re eyes droop, and you’re on the verge of nodding off, yet stubbornly, you refuse to sleep until this matter is resolved.

“Sleep,” John demands, but you shake your head.

“Not until you promise to go to the interview.” Your voice is raspy, and you’re quite literally hanging on a thread; your mind is foggy, and your limbs feel heavy; the plush comfort of the bed lulls you further and further from the waking world. “John,” you persist until he groans, agreeing to it; once you’re sure he’s not just saying it to get you off his back, you give in to the fatigue. John tucks you in bed, a kiss on your head; he switches off the lights and drags Ashley out of the room.

“You don’t leave them alone for anything,” he seethes, “I don’t care if the building catches fire; you stay by their side until I’m back. Got it?”

Ashley nods, eyes wide as she tries not to wince at the tight grip the supe has on her forearm; Homelander straightens back to his signature posture, and she tries not to quiver at the way he scrutinizes her. She walks back into the room where you rest, grabbing a chair; she puts it close to the bed but moves back when the room takes on a scarlet glow. Homelander’s footsteps echo as he leaves; your face is half hidden under the blankets, and she doesn’t reach out to touch you - on the off chance your maniac’s using his x-ray vision to spy on her. She takes back what she’d been thinking earlier; she’d obviously been lucky enough not to be stuck with Homelander in this life.

Channel One prided itself in being the first at everything; over the years, they’d been the first to interview Vought and give the public the best of what journalism had to offer. Today, they had the luck of interviewing the it couple at Vought - Homelander and Bloodroot - the opposites that attracted the title’s still in work. Jennifer prided herself in being the one to catch this interview - the last interview hadn’t been a bust per se, but you’d been sick, and Homelander had been on edge the whole time.

She’d gotten a double couch for you and Homelander to sit on, and an armchair for herself, an assortment of flowers had been arranged for you - anthuriums for hospitality and heathers for admiration - not the usual combo they’d pick for guests but anything vaguely romantic like a rose might have her losing her arm to the Homelander. The live studio audience sounded excited; they murmured among themselves as they anticipated your arrival. They quieted down when you entered the room, followed closely behind by Homelander. You and the supe sat close together on the double couch, his arm draped behind you on the back, his other hand holding one of yours in his lap.

She held out her hand to introduce herself but pulled it back when Homelander stopped you from reaching out. She smoothed down her hands on her skirt, the director signaled, and the cameras started rolling, “Good evening and welcome; tonight, we return with Homelander, accompanied by his partner, Bloodroot.”

The audience clapped, and she handed you the flowers, “From everyone in the studio, we’re happy to see you up and about this week,” she said, ignoring the slight eye roll from the other supe.

You thank her, fingers thrumming on them, the vines twisted around themselves, and they went from bouquet to flower crown; the audience gasped, “So, tell us about your upcoming engagement party, what should we expect for the future of Bloodroot and Homelander?”

“Well, you can expect a lot more of this,” Homelander kisses you; it’s short, but it tugs at the heartstrings, “and a big wedding,” he adds on.

“That’s sweet,” she comments. The interview is a lot easier than the last one, Homelander’s still the egotistical bastard he usually is, but he tries to reign it in - barely. The flower crown on your head remains as elegant as it was when you’d made it, Jennifer has a blast, and the audience has fun chiming in with their own questions. She remembers the first time you and Homelander had an interview with Channel One - it had been at the beginning of your relationship, and the number of proposals you received was astounding.

“So, aside from all that, do the two of you plan to start a family?” Jennifer asks.

You scoff, “Doubt it.”

“I prefer to have my partner’s undivided attention,” Homelander replies, shuffling closer to you. The audience is split in answers; some sigh in disappointment, others cheer - the interview ends with applause; when the cameras stop rolling, and the lights go out, Jennifer watches backstage as Homelander piles treat atop treat, mostly sweet, the two of you stand off in your own little corner, the supe devoted to listening to every word you said.

Hughie would like it on record that this had been Billy’s idea, not his, Billy’s. Because who else would think of kidnapping the world’s most overpowered psychopath's partner - though how they managed to get the jump on you is another matter entirely. Annie had helped; well, as soon as she’d made them all promise nothing would happen to you, screw what happened to Homelander; she wanted assurances you’d be safe.

“They’re not as bad as Homelander.” She’d been arguing back and forth with Billy; the subject of what to do with you had been the hot topic for the past few hours. They couldn’t step foot outside the lead shielded basement without a foolproof plan - Homelander had been rampaging across the country looking for you. “If we try, maybe we can convince them to help us.”

“You’re talking about the same bloke who stood by that fucking cunt,” Billy argued, “They’re married to him for fuck’s sake; what makes you think they don't know about him?”

Annie hesitated, “They’re not like that —”

“Just cause they helped you on your first day doesn’t mean they’re not gonna turn you to mush at the first chance.” Billy points at the wedding photo from last year; it had been as grand as Homelander had said it would be, “They slept with the cunt, they kiss the cunt, they married the cunt, they’re as bad as the cunt.”

“Well, at least I’m trying,” Annie says, “all you’ve come up with is making this a hostage situation as if we have the muscle to handle that.”

“Oh yeah, and what if your friend in there goes back and blabs about us to their husband? What then? You know how Homelander gets; you willing to have your head blown off?”

Hughie turns away as the timer goes off, he opts to hand you your food to avoid getting dragged into the argument again. You’d been placed in the most lead-shielded area of the hideout - Annie had fitted it to be more comfortable than its usual concrete flooring, she’d also brought miscellaneous books from your suite, and you’d been rereading those for the days you were trapped here.

“Any chance you’ll let me walk out of here today?” you ask, but Hughie shakes his head. “Worth a shot,” you shrug.

Hughie doesn’t quite understand you; you’re not as malicious as the other people at Vought, or even most of the supes, so why on Earth did you choose to marry Homelander? Annie had said it was for genuine love, Frenchie had morbidly remarked that maybe you suffered from some form of Stockholm Syndrome, Billy had scoffed - the answers varied and against his better judgment - and the strict rule of not making conversation with you - he asked.

“Oh, well, because he asked,” you replied, glancing down at the ring on your finger; you twist it with a small smile, “and I’d already gone through the trouble of falling in love with him.”

“But he’s —”

“A murderous cunt with the emotional intelligence of a three-year-old on steroids?” you provided, and he nodded, “Yeah, I’ve gotten my fair share of concerned letters from fans and anti-Homelander fans alike. He’s complicated, and —”

There’s a crash upstairs, and Maeve’s voice carries through, she’s just arrived, and no doubt joined the argument. “Any chance you’ll divorce him and help us put him down?”

You shake your head, “Not likely,” you reply, “but I can agree to possibly holding off his murderous tendencies long enough to have you escape in one piece and hopefully making sure he doesn’t hunt you down after.” You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“You know then,” he mutters, “about….” he gestures to nothing, in particular, hand waving around in the air.

“It’s hard to miss, especially when he comes to bed with bits of human still in his hair.”

Hughie leaves you; he finds Annie and Billy have stopped arguing, but they occupy opposite ends of the room, Maeve in between, rubbing her temple and no doubt nursing another headache. “This plan was a mess from the beginning,” she mumbles, “did either of you even think this through?”

“Well, I was thinking we could use them to get Homelander to heel,” Billy voices, “Miss starshine over there wants us to hold hands and sing kumbayah with ‘em.”

“That’s not what I said —”

“ —might as well have.”

“Enough,” Maeve yelled, “Homelander’s been plowing his fist through people’s chests looking for them, he’s burned abandoned lots looking for them, and he’s getting crazier and harder to predict by the second.”

“How bad is it?” M.M asks, finally feeling the need to join the conversation.

“His costume’s more red now that it is blue,” Maeve responds, “We’ve gotta take them back.”

“How? Homelander’s been circling the planet 24/7; he so much as hears their voice outside these walls, we’re dead in a heartbeat.” Frenchie laments.

“Unless,” M.M. chimes in, “what if we leave and then have Maeve respond to an anonymous tip.” He accentuates the last two words with air quotations, “At least a couple hours after we high tail out of here.”

“That’s a stupid idea,” Billy says.

It’s their only idea, at least the only one that doesn’t involve any of them getting killed; they pack up everything and make it look like a construction company moving out and about. They don’t go too far - a lone truck driving speedily away from where Homelander’s partner is found a few hours into the morning would no doubt be suspicious - they park just behind one of the other buildings nearby, hiding away on the second floor of one of them. As planned, Maeve shows up first, Annie and the remaining Seven behind her; they step aside at the sound of a crack in the sky as Homelander lands upfront.

The ground isn’t perfect when he lands, shattering like glass; some of the concrete flies up as he rushes in, and the lead door flies through one of the walls a few minutes later, followed by a frustrated scream, then nothing. There are a few moments of silence, and Annie and Maeve share an uneasy look. Just as they were about ready to follow, the doors swung open, and out came Homelander, you carried bridal style in his arms.

“John, I can walk fine,” they could hear you insisting, but the supe was resolute, flying off before anyone could utter a word.

The Deep lets out a sigh, doubling over on his knees, “Oh, thank god, we found them; I don’t know how much longer I could survive with Homelander that hopped up and manic.”

John doesn’t leave your side even when you get back to Vought towers; the doctors have to work around him as he glares down at each and every one of them. He doesn’t trust the food brought to you and has several of the humans who do bring it to taste it first, waiting to see if any of them pass out or die. You haven’t told him about Annie or Maeve, and you’re not going to; judging by how close he is to punching a hole through the wall, you opt to keep that little nugget of information tucked away.

It’s just the two of you now; John’s bloody uniform is lying in the corner of your shared bathroom, and you’re sitting between his legs, leaning back on him in the bathtub. The bathtub. is spacious enough, but he’s tucked himself in one end with you. You’d already helped him wash off the blood, and he’d taken his time running the soap down your body, reassuring himself you were, in fact, real.

The water’s lukewarm now, so you pat his hand, but it takes a few more pats and a knock on the door to get him to move. You stand from the tub alongside him, but he guides you out, hand on your lower back, as the other grabs one of the robes; he has it gathered up to your neck; he wraps one of the towels around your neck and then opens the door - Ashley goes over a few more details, then leaves you and John to your evening.

“I’ll find them,” John mutters on your skin, “....make sure they die painfully.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

He doesn’t say anything, eyes void as he helps you change into sleep attire, “I’m serious, John, promise me you won’t do anything rash.” He nods stiffly, hugging you so as to hide his face as he mentally plans the demise of your kidnappers.

End Note:

This has been a rather long fic, and I have no idea where it started or where it ended 💀 Stay Hydrated.

#homelander x gender neutral!reader #homelander x reader #the boys imagine #shiterequests #flower language is both fascinating and overwhelming to me #flower 🌸 au

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writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

Soldier boy 😩😩😩😩👌👌👌😍😍😍

If you write for him I’ll love you even more 🥺🥺🥺

Pose For Me

Summary:

“Damn, that was yummy,” he mutters, “You mind if I get another taste, sweetheart?” Your voice doesn’t come out, so instead, you nod, and he comes back in for another kiss; your hands come up to his face; the feeling of his beard is nice, as are his hands on your back. When you draw back again, he’s licking his lips, and you almost shy away, but he doesn’t let you.

Pairings:

Soldier Boy x Male!Reader

Tags:

Human Reader | Smut | Slight Praise Kink | Photographer Reader

Words: 1430

Author's Note:

It has been brought to my attention, that apparently, there are no male!reader fics for Soldier Boy, I'll have you all know, Dean Winchester tripped on his ass to Castiel so Soldier Boy could run. Plus look at him, seriously look at him 😏.

“And when you meet him, keep the conversation short. Don’t antagonize him; no small talk, no Super jokes. Take the photos, adjust, retake them, just do your job.”

You’d think that a Supe like the Soldier Boy would have some form of people skills, at least enough so you, the photographer for the day, don’t have to memorize countless rules on interacting with him. But apparently not. From the moment you’d stepped foot inside Vought, you’d been bombarded with various regulations and guidelines. You followed the Vought employee as she led you to Soldier Boy’s private quarters; when the doors opened, you breathed a sigh of relief when you found everything set up already. An area closest to his large windows had been tarped and a white backdrop hung in front of various photography equipment. The kitchenette and counter had food laid out, and all around the room were minor employees busying themselves with little tasks as they waited for Soldier Boy.

Vought commissioned today’s session; since Soldier Boy was in a new era, he needed new promotional content - toys, photos, videos, merchandise - anything that could get the company a dime. You’d brought some example photos you’d taken of the other Supes before as examples. You placed your belongings on one of the couches, and once Soldier Boy walked in, the employees all fanned out, leaving you and him; he stared down at you with a questioning look. You held out your hand, introducing yourself, “I’m your photographer, sir,” you explained to him.

He nodded, walking over to the backdrop; you shuffled his arm, so his shield was fully visible and moved back to the cameras; the lights flashed; you took several photos and gestured him over, “They all look the same,“ he grunted.

“I guess, but it’s best to have enough photos in case we need them,” you tell him. “They’re your signature poses, so we need a lot of them. How about we move to some other ones?”

Soldier Boy shrugs; he kneels on one leg, shield held up as though he were being attacked, and face glancing to the side. You countdown from three, and the lights flash again; you shake your head, the photos aren’t bad, but they aren’t good either. You move towards him, lifting his shield higher, and push him back slightly; he holds your arm in its place, eyebrow raised. “Sorry,” you mumble, “it’s just easier for me this way.”

“Gotcha,” he remarks. He releases your arm but doesn’t stop looking at you, and the photos have him staring into the camera, they work, but they also send a shiver down your spine. His gaze doesn’t let down; this time, when he comes to look at the results, he stands closer to you, hands coming up on yours, and he asks about the process and modern-day photography. With every question and answer, he shuffles closer to you and is practically towering over you, glancing down at the pictures; you, on the other hand, have your eyes on your shoes, which Soldier Boy takes notice of. His hand moves to your chin, tilting it up, “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Don’t take pride in your work?”

“Uh, no, sir, just never had anyone this close for inspection,” you reply. He laughs, thumb tracing a circle on your neck before he moves back; he sets his shield down, moving to the counter, he beckons you over for a break; you shrug and follow, though you don’t get to sit in a chair as Soldier Boy drags you into his lap. “Sir?!”

“None of that sir stuff, call me Ben,” he tells you, “Now shush, we’re taking a break, might as well get to know each other more intimately.” His hand squeezes your waist, “So, sweetheart, what’s a pretty boy like you doing working for Vought?”

He pushes a strawberry into your mouth; your eyes dart away a bit as you swallow, but he turns your chin to look at him, “Uh, gotta pay the bills, you know?” you shrug, “And it’s not so bad, I don’t officially work for them….” he pushes a blueberry past your lips, when you try to finish, he tsks you.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Ben’s grip on your waist moves down to the top of your pants; you look away again, and he directs your gaze back to him, “Keep those eyes on me, pretty boy.”

You nod; he picks up another berry but puts it in his mouth, biting it gently; he turns to you, dangling it so close, he curls his finger, smiling. You bite your lip, gaze still on him, you lean forward, when you’re teeth graze the berry, his other hand pushes your neck, your eyes widen when you feel his lips on yours when you move back, and as you’re sitting there with your mind in a frazzle, Ben is grinning like a madman.

“The…the…the rest of the session,” you attempt, but he disregards your words, he stands, and you have no choice but to wrap your legs to keep your balance.

“Clever boy.” Your eyes dart away, and you bite your lip, “give us another kiss, won’t you?”

You peck him, and he praises you again, your stomach churns at his words, and you feel a buzz of joy when he does so. “You like that, don’t you?” Ben asks; he starts to walk, and you try to turn, but he calls back your attention, “no peeking, sweetheart - now answer my question - you like it when I compliment you, give you attention?”

The blood rushes down, “Yes.”

“Good.”

Then the world tilts, and you fall back onto something soft, your head touches pillows, and you glance around and realize you must be in Ben’s room. He’s hovering over you, arms by your head; he raises one of your legs, slinging it over his shoulder; he doesn’t avert his gaze as he pulls down your trousers. His hand runs up your other leg, pushing it slightly to the side; he takes your dick in his hand and runs his thumb up to the tip. You don’t get any warning before he deepthroats your cock; you moan, biting your lip to keep the noise down. Ben moves up, tongue dragging along your skin. Your head is tilted back on the pillows, and you're gripping the sheets tightly; when his head moves back down, his hand follows; his hand moves underneath, holding your dick as it moves up and down with his mouth until he brings you to orgasm. Your hand goes over your face as Ben licks the cum, then he pushes your legs higher, parting your buttcheeks; he dives in, chuckling when you squeal in surprise. When he grows bored of that, he substitutes his tongue for his fingers and puts his mouth to good use on your chest.

He bites one, pulling at it with his teeth, a wicked smile on his face when you whimper, he alternates between the two, and when he feels you’re open enough, he drives his dick in your ass. Your arms come around his back, nails digging into his skin as he plows forward. “Look at you, my good boy, taking me all in,” he says; you manage a shallow nod as his hand comes under your back, lifting you for a better grip. One of your legs is thrown over his shoulder, and he uses that to help him fuck you harder, the other one is around his waist, and you whimper with every thrust that reaches your g-spot. His stamina is extraordinary, and even when he’s exhausted the last orgasm from you, he’s still going, and all you can do is cling onto him until he finally cums.

He pants above you; your arms are still around him, but your hold is weak; when he moves, and his dick slips out you whimper. He drags you to him; his chest is warm, and you snuggle close, “Did I fuck you too hard, sweetheart?” When you groan in response, he snickers, “Good.”

End Note:

If you need me I'll be asleep cause it's like 3 in the morning. I hope you enjoyed reading this shite, stay hydrated 🫡

#soldier boy x male reader #soldier boy x reader #shiterequests #this author regrets nothing #🫡

929 notes · View notes

writeshite · 2 years ago

Note

I absolutely love the homelander x therapist smut! Can I request a part two where John wants the reader to top him? Fluffy smut too

One Look And You’re Hypnotized

Summary:

“You’re hot when you’re threatening people,” John murmurs. You sip your drink with a smile, “She’ll be back,” you place your hand on his chest, sliding it beneath the side flap, “In the meantime, why don’t we go see how many orgasms I can fuck out of you.”

Pairings:

Homelander x Male!Reader

Tags:

Smut | Fluff | Brief Possessiveness | Praise Kink | Slight Threat Of Violence

Words: 2482

Author's Note:

I will not explain the thought process behind this other than Reader is once again inspired by Hannibal Lecter (excluding the cannibalism). Do I know where this went? No. But did I enjoy writing it? Yes.

John takes having sex as the final boundary to cross before he dives all the way into his infatuation, you fuck twice more on your kitchen floor, and you doze off after, waking in his suite at Vought Tower. You’re no longer in your usual sleep attire, instead draped in a long sheer robe - the fabric around your torso is near see-through, but the bottom half is slightly more opaque. You sit up in bed and find Ashley standing off nervously to the side, biting her lip and scratching anxiously at her nails.

The room is decked out with more of your possessions, all waiting for you as if you’d just moved into a new apartment. When you look to the side, a vase of flowers awaits, and beneath it sits a card - Congratulations to the happy couple - Ashley clears her throat and hands you a singular piece of paper. “What….”

“Vought sends its happiest regards on your marriage,” she says, “sir.” She blurbs out the title after, and you turn to her with a look of confusion; she just points to the paper. Now genuinely looking at it, you realize it’s a marriage certificate; the details are all filled out, and at the bottom are spaces for three signatures, the first two - John and Vought’s President - the third space is for you.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” you both turn to the door. Homelander stands there, all happy smiles. “Pretty neat, huh?”

“Could you…give us a moment?” You ask, but Ashley’s already rushing to leave; once the door clicks shut, you hold the paper up, “John, what is this?” He moves towards the bed, sitting beside you before he pecks your temple; when you press for an answer, he distracts you with another kiss, “John, I need an answer….”

“You don’t need an answer,” he interjects, “you’re home.”

You turn your head and trail your fingers on his cheek, “Darling, I’m your therapist —”

“Exactly, you’re mine, so you need to be with me; besides,” he pulls you close, your legs across his lap, one hand between your legs, “you said I was a good boy, and good boys get rewards.”

“Ah, so I’m a reward then?” He nods enthusiastically, “Is that what the marriage certificate’s for?” He smiles wider, happy that you seem to be going down the same thoughts as he no doubt is with this; he’s caressing your inner thigh and gripping your waist. There’s a hint of uncertainty in his eye as he tells you all this; mild panic surrounds him as he awaits your verdict on the matter.

You tilt your head, moving your legs to straddle him, “If I marry you,” you begin, “it means I’m yours, but it also means you’re mine. That means no one else gets to have a piece of you, no intern, no other supe, no one,” he moves up, chasing you for a kiss, you bring your face close to his, mouths inches apart, “not even Sitwell.”

He stops at the sound of her name, eyes locked on yours; you move your body closer and grind down onto him; he grunts, but you don’t stop. His hands push your robe up as he adjusts your position, hands gripping your ass painfully as he moans out your name. A wet patch forms on his crotch, the tent of his hard-on causing him to groan. His eyes flutter as he loses his concentration, his mind buzzing as the lust wraps around it. “No, no, sweetheart, don’t go just yet,” you lightly slap his cheek, “we’re still talking.”

He mutters something incoherent. You take his face into your hands, pushing aside the haze so he can speak more clearly, “...love you…you…love….” It’s the closest you’ll get to an answer at this point, so you take it; he whines when you move from him, then grumbles when you call Ashley’s name. She returns to the room, congratulating you as you sign the paper.

“There’ll be a press conference next week to announce it to the world; until then, enjoy your…uh…honeymoon.”

When she’s gone again, you return to the bed; John looks mildly irritated; you stalk up to him on all fours, and he slides down a little. He pulls you onto him, the outline of his dick pressing against you; you unbuckle his belt and help him shed the suit, chuckling when his cock springs up eagerly. He doesn’t waste any time lining it up, and you have to stop him when he gets half of it in before you can prepare. You hiss as you slide in the rest of it. John’s hands run along your lower torso, gaze facing up; he smiles at the slight scrunch of painful pleasure in your expression. He moves the robe off your shoulders but doesn’t toss it aside, leaving it on you; when you’ve adjusted to him, you glance down, clenching around him.

“That was a dirty move, dear,” you mutter; there’s a dull pain on your lower back, “I might not be able to walk after this.”

John thrusts into you; you lower your face to his, close like this again, “Good,” John mutters before his lips are on yours. It’s not as fast-paced as the first time; he moves slow, hands stroking every inch of you as if mesmerized, passion coils between you, and you push your own emotion into it. John hums at your delight when you part for air, his mouth holds open as his eyes close in bliss - his head tits back, and yours follows suit - the robe flies in the air as you bounce on his dick. You use his shoulder to balance yourself, your hands wander higher, settling around his neck - you don’t have the strength to strangle him, but John still enjoys it - his thrusts slow down, but you don’t. Riding him hard and reveling in the choked sound that leaves his mouth, he grips your hip hard, no doubt leaving an indent of a bruise, but you don’t care.

Your hands migrate from his neck, then down his chest, nails barely grazing his skin as you spear yourself on his dick. “Look at my pretty boy…,” you say. John’s hair curls around his forehead, gathered like a halo, the pillows beneath surround him like clouds, and the sounds he makes ring like music in your ears. When John comes, he tries to thrust further and manages a few, he draws his legs up, and you lean on them, still sat atop him as the come rushes in.

You shower together after, and John carries you into the bathroom, hands never quite leaving you; he holds you above the ground as the water runs over you. And you leave the bathroom, lips swollen from making out. John still has hero work to do, but he rushes back after, snuggling into your arms the second he returns.

“How was work?” You’re lying back on the couch; the TV sound falls into the background as you card your fingers through John’s hair.

“Shitty,” he grunts, “had to save a bunch of cocksuckers today….” He rubs his face on your chest; ever since your marriage, he’s liked keeping you in sheer robes and as less clothing as possible, “....missed you.”

You kiss his forehead, “Missed you too.”

Ashley is the only other face you see in between now and the press conference; she tries not to be around much, treading lightly when John’s about.

The press conference is loud, cameras flash at you as reporters clamor for your attention, and the room is arranged to mimic a church altar - with the podium at the front surrounded by flowers, and you and the people present sitting in rows. You stand hand in hand with John as the speaker drones on; the Seven sit at the very front, half on one isle, half on the other. The dress code has everyone around you donned in white, and various shades of cream - including the supes - John had grimaced at the sight of his ‘wedding suit’ earlier.

The speaker, Madelyn Sitwell, puts on a facade of joy, but there’s a bubble of irritation, you think, around it; when she turns to you and John, you note the strained smile on her face. The reporters nearly swamp you at the mock reception.

“How did you meet?”

“How long have you known each other?”

“Is your husband a supe too?”

John’s PR smile is on full blast; he takes one of the mics being shoved in his face, “Look, all you need to know is that marrying this man was the greatest thing to ever happen to me….” He goes on, laying in the sweet sappiness, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from outright laughing. Over the flashes and heads, you see Sitwell again, a glass of something in hand; she’s not smiling anymore; her lips are drawn into a frown as outright envy bursts from her. There’s a dash of vexation there as well, and a part of you almost feels smug; leaning your head onto John’s chest and placing your hand there riles her further.

She looks about ready to snap her glass in half. “Anything else to add?” the reporter who asks does so timidly, a nervous smile on their face as they pass the mic to you.

“Not much,” you say, “but I do want to express how lucky I am to have found such an amazing man to be my husband.”

Oh, she doesn’t like that. Stalking off in a huff as John tilts his head for a kiss, the cameras go off tenfold, and you hold him softly; you send him off to fetch you refreshment after to give Sitwell a chance to saddle by. “I’m amazed at how well you handle him,” she starts, holding out her hand, “Madelyn Sitwell, Vice President of Vought, as you know.”

You shake her hand, introducing yourself, “Husband to Homelander, as you know.” You both stand there, eyeing the other up, “so Miss Sitwell, come to offer your happiest blessings?”

“Something like that,” she replies, “I just wanted to meet the man who stole Homelander’s heart….and mind.”

You grin, “Well, I guess I’m just that good,” you shrug, “but that’s not really why you’re here, is it? Go on then, ask away; what do you really want, Sitwell?”

“I’ve never had to struggle keeping John’s attention, it took me a while, but I got there,” she says, “now you show up and, in less than a year, manage to do what I did and keep him in line. What’s your goal here? What are you planning?”

“Well, tonight, I’m planning to fuck my husband,” you respond slyly, “see, he likes it when I —”

“I don’t,” she holds her hand up, “I don’t need to know the details, thanks. Still doesn’t answer —”

“Oh please, don’t pretend to care about John’s wellbeing,” you interrupt, “you’re just mad you can’t make him do what you want anymore.” The resentment she’d been holding in flares up, and she glowers at you, “Struck a nerve then, have I?”

She takes deep breaths to calm herself, “I’d think twice about crossing the line with me.”

“I should say that to you,” you tell her, “who knows what John will do for me.” It’s not a threat per se, at least not in the most blatant way, it does the trick, and Sitwell steps back, resentment fading into fear, then slight panic when John returns; he hands you a glass of champagne with a kiss, then turns to greet her. She smiles as she offers her good wishes; you toast to her words, and John follows suit, “Thank you, Miss Sitwell.”

“You’re hot when you’re threatening people,” John murmurs.

You sip your drink with a smile, “She’ll be back,” you place your hand on his chest, sliding it beneath the side flap, “In the meantime, why don’t we go see how many orgasms I can fuck out of you.”

You slide away from the events, John flying you back to his suite; he doesn’t bother to lock the door as you pull him inside. Most of your clothes get discarded on your way to the bed, and shoes and gloves fumble together by the bedroom door - John falls onto the bed, head on the bottom half with you on top of him. He’s happy to toss the white suit aside; you sling one of his legs over your shoulder as the other curls around you, heel digging into your backside. You kiss him giddily, “Put it in already, will you?”

“Impatient, aren’t we?” You utter by his lips, you’ve still got your shirt on, and he pulls you by your tie. He moans when your dick goes in; his other hand grips your shirt as he pulls the tie, “You like that, don’t you?” Thrusting into him, you kiss him again, biting his lip when you move back - there’s content and cheerfulness around you; John drags you back in every second for kisses.

When you do get some semblance of a pace going, John tosses his head back, eyes shut, and you hold onto his hips, the sound of skin on skin in the room, as you pound into him. There’s a sound somewhere in the background, but you ignore it; when you recognize the sound of heels, you glance up from John’s face - Sitwell stands by the door; she’s got one of her dress sleeves draping off her shoulder, a bottle of wine in one hand and her clutch bag in the other. You tilt your head, smirk on your face, John’s still unaware of her presence, and you doubt he’ll come down from the high anytime soon. You don’t stop, gaze locked on hers as you fuck John, “Are you mine forever, John?” you ask smugly.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes….” he repeats the word like a mantra. Sitwell looks like a deer in headlights, and you laugh - something wicked, something mocking - you pull her mind into the haze, and she flinches at the overwhelming feeling of it, dropping the wine bottle; it shatters as she clutches her head, it’s too much for her, and she whimpers as it strangles her thoughts. Distress bursts from her, and a trail of it drifts behind her as she runs from the room.

“....what….what was that?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” you reply, kissing his nose. You hover closer to him, John’s arms wind around you, and he locks his legs around your waist; you kiss along his neck, reveling in the small whimpers that come from him. John maneuvers you around so he can lay on your chest, nudging his head into your chin until you run your hands through his hair; you fall asleep that way, hands loosely tucked in the strands of his hair.

End Note:

At this point, my FBI agent is probably rolling in their grave. I gotta admit, the idea of Reader and Sitwell just ready to fight entertains me. Stay Hydrated.

#homelander x male reader #homelander x reader #shiterequests #my fbi agent must be rolling in their grave 💀#Homelander has a praise kink i said what i said #therapist reader

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