#still love this old man after 2 decades

[anna-hawk]

Seeing all the Wolverine content popping up left and right since Deadpool and Wolverine aired makes me so nostalgic. If 17 yo me had had Tumblr 20 years ago, she'd have gone absolutely crazy over this.

[sonicfan3]

I feel it says something that I genuinely wish Richard's cheating ass had lived instead of Shea

[cryptidghostgirl]

hii i read your fic with the humanalastor! x reader where they become like partners in crime (i loved it sm)

and got an idea based off of it

what if Alastor dies first and a few years later Alastor and the reader reunite after she goes to the hotel? thought it would be kinda cute :)

A/N ngl I was thinking of doing something like this so I am very happy it is desired by the people as well. Also, we're gonna pretend that the timeline I created wouldn't make her like over a hundred years old when she died, okay? Okay.

Cover Up Pt. 2 (Alastor x Reader)

Pairing: Alastor x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of murder and blood, nothing graphic. Alastor being a depressed little bitch. Also a lot of dead bird metaphors for lost hope. Please let me know if I forgot anything.

Word Count: 1,971

Part One: Cover Up (Human!Alastor x Human!Reader)

Master Lists:

Master Lists 

Hazbin Hotel Master List

When Alastor had died, Y/n had shattered. Their years of holding one another's bloodstained hands had finally drawn to a close. They had a good run, nearly a decade before anyone caught on. His death also came with the added downside of throwing suspicion on Y/n. To say the event changed her life would be an understatement.

When Alastor had first woken up in Hell, he had mourned his loss as if she was the one who had died and not him. The allowance of such a foolish thing was short lived. He quickly realized there was no way Y/n wouldn't end up in Hell as well eventually, with her track record. He refocused his pain, his anguish into making sure he had the perfect world to serve up to her on a platter as soon as she arrived.

As the years ticked on, the little bird fluttering away in his ribcage became more and more despondent. He tried to distract himself by continuing his work, continuing his plans for her. Always for her. It worked to a certain extent but, soon it had been sixty years and she still hadn't made her arrival. It didn't matter how many overlords he killed, how many worthless souls he tortured. There was nothing that could take his mind off that.

Alastor wondered what sort of life Y/n had made for herself after his death. He wondered if she had found love again, held out hope that she hadn't. It was a selfish wish, he knew it. Alastor had always been selfish. It wasn't that he wished for her to be unhappy, just that he knew she was the only person, living or dead, out there for him. There was no hope for Alastor that wasn't Y/n and he wanted her to feel the same way about him. He didn't want to lose, to have been an idiot, to have been the one that loved more. At the same time, he didn't want her to feel that way either. It was complicated and confusing, the twists of his own logic.

Another decade and he began wondering if somehow his beloved wife had gotten into Heaven instead. He knew it was a long shot, after everything she had done but, she had also never killed anyone who didn't deserve it. Maybe there was some exception for women who killed their pursuers, when the pursuers were coming on too intensely or had ulterior motives. He wondered if she'd remarried, if she had kids. If she was still on earth, there would have to be something that was keeping her there and that was the only thing that made sense.

Eighty years, as it turned out, had been all he could take. The bird had died and its corpse had rotted, festering into anger. Not anger at Y/n no, never anger at Y/n but anger at the world, at the system of the afterlife. He became bolder, brasher, more foolish. He got caught in a bad deal.

Coming to the hotel had been a command, yes, but it had also ended up being something of a salvation for the man. In the seven years of his disappearance from the rings of Hell, there had been little to distract him from the growing hole of Y/n's absence. It was a hungry thing, a deep seated want, a controlling desire. The hotel served to fill it. Not completely, but a little. It was better than nothing. Besides, for all her violence, Y/n had always had a way of seeing the best in others, in the world around her. He was certain she would have liked Charlie if she ever got to meet her, certain the hotel would shine in his wife's eyes.

Husk and Nifty were the only two who knew. They had both met him when Alastor's focus had been the creation of a world for Y/n, it was impossible for them not to. They had both noticed how as the years had passed, he had said her name less, how he had become crueler. Not even Charlie had in inkling of an idea that Alastor might be missing something, might be unshakable heartbroken. He hid it well.

Even now as he entered the lobby intent on finding Charlie in order to discuss some of the decor on the upper floors, he made sure his smile was firmly fixed in place. A smile was the strongest weapon a person or demon could have, the strongest disguise. He made sure he was never without one.

"So you just arrived today?" he heard Charlie saying as he began to make his way down the stairs.

He could see her by the door, talking to a demon whom her position obscured from his vision. A new guest. Internally, Alastor sighed. This was throwing a wrench into his plans for the day.

"Yeah I... it's all so confusing here. Wonderful in a way, don't get me wrong but... when I heard about your hotel, it seemed safe."

The unknown demon's voice was soft, it pulled at his heart strings. The corpse of the bird was a puppet at its familiarity. It was a sickening feeling, the dead body of his hope being pulled up and twitched around for another's unknowing amusement. Alastor nearly faltered, hesitating on the last step.

"So are you actually interested in redemption?" Charlie asked, sounding downcast.

"Well, I'm not really sure yet. Is that okay? I mean, I just got here today and... either way, I love the idea of your hotel and I want to help. I could work as a maid? Or I'm a pretty good cook? My husband always said so anyways. I'm sort of trying to find someone too so... What I'm trying to say is that I could work until I've figured it out, if that is alright with you?"

Charlie hummed in thought as Alastor began to cross the room, heading straight for the pair.

"It's a bit unorthodox but, I suppose. We could always use another helping hand."

"Really!?" the stranger exclaimed, "Oh thank you!"

Alastor was over Charlie's shoulder practically now. She shifted on her feet, allowing Alastor to at last see the person she was talking to.

"So, what's your name?"

The demon opened her mouth to speak but, before a word could leave her lips, she was interrupted by a static filled voice. It brought back memories, hurt her heart to hear.

"Y/n."

There was no doubt about it. Even in her new demon form, Alastor knew. It was the curl of her hair, it was the brightness of her eyes, the way she held herself. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

"When did you get here?" Charlie asked in confusion as she turned to the side, turning the pair into a group of three all facing one another, "Also, you know her? Oh my gosh, wait. Are you okay? I don't think I've ever seen you not smiling before."

Neither payed the princess any mind, each absorbed in one another's eyes. Y/n took a sutering half step forwards, her mouth slightly open.

"Alastor?"

It was barley more than a whisper. She took another step towards him, then yet another. Lifting her hand, she gently cupped it around his cheek. Instinctively, the Radio Demon leaned into the touch.

"It really is you... isn't it."

Alastor pulled Y/n into his arms, wrapping her in his frame and resting his chin on the top of her head. Y/n was frozen in shock for a moment before she returned the gesture, balling her fists in to the back of his coat.

"Wow. You guys really know each other." Charlie mumbled to herself, eyes wide.

The pair pulled apart, Alastor still holding Y/n's waist as Y/n held his coat. She looked up at him, disbelief etched into her features, her sentiments reflected back to her in Alastor's own face.

"I thought..." he mumbled, raising a hand and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "I thought I'd never see you again."

Y/n laughed tearfully.

"Me too."

"Where have you been? What happened? What... what took you so long?"

"If I had known I was coming to you, I would have died way sooner. I lived, Al. That's what happened. I only just got here today."

"I know, I heard, but what... what kept you?"

Y/n heard the tremor in his voice, the fear. She looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

"Are you jealous?"

Alastor's eyes flicked to the side momentarily. One of his ears twitched. It might have been nearly ninety years since they had last seen one another, they might've looked completely different and had whole lives the other wasn't in, but it felt like they had just seen one another yesterday.

"Oh, you so are!" Y/n teased brightly.

"Y/n."

"Yeah, yeah. It's just dumb is all, especially now I know you've been here all along."

"So tell me."

Y/n had always loved his insistence. It was what kept Alastor to his code, kept him to her, kept him him. She smiled once again.

"Soooo..." Charlie stepped in, her hands behind her back, "Either of you want to explain?"

Both Alastor and Y/n at last turned to look at her. He was smiling again, Charlie noticed. Not the normal ear to ear grin, teeth bared, she was used to. Something smaller, something softer. They released one another, only for Alastor to immediately drape an arm over Y/n's shoulders. It almost seemed like each feared the other would vanish into thin air if they weren't physically touching. She reached a hand up, gently holding his hand where it hung off her shoulder, keeping him to her.

"Charlie, this is my darling, lovely wife."

Y/n shoved him playfully and he smiled down at her.

"You're married!?"

"Yes." Y/n nodded, "We are. Have been for what, like one hundred years now?"

"So what kept you?" Alastor asked again and Y/n sighed.

"You really aren't going to let this go, are you?"

He shook his head. Y/n slipped out from under Alastor's arm, taking both his hands in hers. Her fingers traced his knuckles, the lines of his bones beneath the surface of his skin. Her eyes watched their hands, she sighed.

"After... well, Al, you died burying a body. It was hard for people not to know. I..."

"You got caught? You went to jail?" Alastor interrupted, his smile having fallen once again.

Y/n laughed slightly under her breath.

"No, heart. I stopped my own work but, the whole world knew of yours. I thought that... it was so dumb! I thought that... if I was alive, then so was the real version of you in some way. Not the true crime, vandalized version, but the person I knew."

Alastor lifted her face to his, his hand lingering under her chin.

"You were always secretly quite the romantic, weren't you."

"Oh hush you."

"Make me."

Y/n cheeks suddenly flushed bright red.

"Okay!" Charlie interrupted, laughing nervously, "Okay, well, I'm happy for... this, um, Alastor! Why don't you show Y/n around?"

"With pleasure."

Alastor leaned down, kissing Y/n gently. Her hand was half raised to burry itself in his hair when he pulled away, smirking in response to Y/n's irritated glare. Linking arms with her, he began leading Y/n to the staircase.

"I must say, I rather like this new look of yours." he hummed placidly.

"You're not half bad yourself deer boy, if a little cocky."

"I was always cocky. That's what you liked about me."

"Wrong. It's only one of the things I love about you."

----

Next Part -> Cover Up pt. 3

[littlebatgames]

How to make a powerful, hot vampire you still want to hug

Hi tumblr! I'm Cyrus Nemati, creative director at Little Bat Games, and a voice actor you might know from games likes Hades (I did the really secure guy and the really insecure guy).

We're closing in on the release of our debut title, Vampire Therapist, and based on tumblr's response in the past, I think you might be interested in seeing our creative process.

Andromachos is our 3000-year-old vampire mentor you'll meet early in Vampire Therapist. He's a complicated character: he was an assassin and warrior for most of his 3000 years, but a personal crisis put him on a voyage of self-discovery in the 1800s. Therapy never existed in his time, but as it developed, so did he. We needed a character who expressed wisdom and strength, but also gentleness and compassion. And of course, he's a vampire in a sexy vampire game. He needed to look like a Mediterranean dream.

This was our initial sketch of Andromachos by art director Ruth Bosch (https://x.com/rthbosch). As you can see, he's already oozing confident vampire energy, and he clearly has the wisdom of 3000 years. This is someone you want as your therapist. Vampire Therapist is a game with specific needs, and a certain lightheartedness is one of them. This Andromachos is very much grounded in reality, and just might be *too* realistically sexy.

This was @nomnomroko's first test render for Andromachos before joining the team. Right away, she understood the *figure* of Andromachos and poise of a man who has lived for 3000 years, but this was a more villainous (albeit super hot character). We toned him down shortly after, and brought back in some of the more grounded humanity from Ruth's initial sketch. You can make fan art of this version, though, we won't mind. This version might come back if we ever do a prequel!

Here's his toned down version, already much closer to the Andromachos we see in the final game. He's lost none of his power, but is already the welcoming presence we needed to have in Vampire Therapist.

Body language is also a key aspect of our game. In a game about therapy, we are mostly sitting, so the ways we can express emotion and intention are more subtle. You can already see the strength of Andromachos's character here.

Which takes us to our final rendering!

I love Andromachos. Or Andy, as more familiar folk call him. And I think you will, too. To me, he's a perfect synthesis between Ruth's initial rendering and Sybille's test that fits the comedic, warm, and very human tone of our game.

You can check out our game on Steam and GOG, and your wishlists will make algorithms happy. As you know, everything is algorithms! Help us make Vampire Therapist 2?

Steam:

And GOG:

[carlos-in-glasses]

Rhythms

124k, 17 chapters, E, complete and on Ao3.

TK swoons when he discovers a sentimental scrapbook full of notes he and Carlos have left for each other – but he also unearths a book of poems that closeted teen-Carlos wrote about his struggles, including a few dedicated to his high school crush. An adorably mortified Carlos recalls the stir he caused when he was published anonymously in the high school paper, and everything he went through to write his wedding vows for TK years later. With TK as a hype-man, maybe Carlos can embrace his creative side again.

Read on Ao3

Chapter 1 - Love Heart: The day after TK and Carlos’ first wedding anniversary, TK is sent home from work sick. Back at the loft unexpectedly, he makes a surprising discovery about Carlos.

Chapter 2 - Club Can't Handle Me: In 2011, sixteen-year-old Carlos is both in the closet and in his high school’s wrestling team – and it’s all a bit too much. Perhaps against his better judgment, he turns to poetry and makes a decision that will change his life.

Chapter 3 - Crossroads: Daydreaming about his wedding vows mid-drive, Carlos gets pulled over for a traffic violation – and Gabriel isn’t happy. Reunited with TK, Carlos might be lost for words, but he finds another way to express his love and desire.

Chapter 4 - The Wrestler: Carlos’ poems are published – and he quickly learns there’s no putting the genie back into the bottle.

Chapter 5 - A Gay Fantasia: In the aftermath of being abducted by a serial killer, Carlos reflects on recent events and resumes work on his wedding vows.

Chapter 6 - La Tormenta: Carlos is devastated when Scott gets a girlfriend, and he finds himself in another snowballing situation.

Chapter 7 - Soulmates: When TK has a Huntington’s disease scare, Carlos finds he knows exactly what to say. But will it help him with his writer’s block when it comes to his wedding vows?

Chapter 8 - Man of Mystery: It’s the day of the Lake View High School Talent Show – and will the real Shadow Poet please stand up?

Chapter 9 - Crush: In 2011, it’s make or break for sixteen year old Carlos at the talent show. In 2024, TK becomes the hype man Carlos had needed over a decade ago.

Chapter 10 - From Behind: A couple of weeks before the wedding, Carlos is still working on his vows when a deeper rift develops between him and his dad. In 2012, seventeen year-old Carlos is spiraling after coming out to his parents.

Chapter 11 - The Other Wrestler: TK decides to lift Carlos’ spirits by learning how to wrestle.

Chapter 12 - Carlos Reyes Will Be Okay: At Gabriel’s funeral, Carlos regrets saying no to reading a poem in tribute – but during the wake, he finds himself under a whole new pressure. Later that night, he realizes the vows he’s worked so hard on for TK cannot be spoken yet.

Chapter 13 - The Closet: Despite some good news, Carlos ends up in the doghouse with his mom and with TK.

Chapter 14 - Once in a Blue Moon: Reeling from his confrontation with Andrea, Carlos seeks advice and admits a secret.

Chapter 15 - Raining on Prom Night: In May 2012, chaos erupts at Carlos’ senior prom.

Chapter 16 - Tyler Kennedy Strand: The wedding day arrives, and Carlos finally gets to recite his vows to TK.

Chapter 17 - Shadow Poet: Carlos attends his poetry reading with TK by his side and some important people in the audience – but will he actually perform this time?

“I was just remembering–” Carlos says, “The first time you stayed for a while after one of our hookups. It was, like, the third time we hooked up, I think. I asked if you wanted tea and cookies and you looked at me like I’d said the weirdest thing ever.”

TK’s exhausted, puffy face breaks into a dazzling grin. “You were being such a Boy Scout.”

“But then you said yes and you ate half the cookie jar.”

“You called me the Cookie Monster.”

“That was the first time I really made you laugh.”

“Tea came out my nose.”

“It was beautiful,” Carlos says, pausing then to qualify: “Your laugh.”

TK gazes up at him, his clear green eyes large and shining. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“The first time you made me laugh was when we were dancing at the honky-tonk.”

“Hey!” TK swats his arm. “I was trying my best!”

“You were so goofy,” Carlos chides. “I just loved it. I loved you.”

Read on Ao3

[fandom-lover2]

Sacrifices - Pt 2

Word Count - 2146

Part One

Part Three

Optimus was grateful for his battle mask, now more than ever. Only his optics could show his panic.

And, knowing Megatron as well as he did, Optimus knew Megatron could see it, and smirk across the warlord’s faceplates telling Optimus Megatron was getting the exact reaction he wanted.

4 Decepticons, 4 glass canisters, 4 vulnerable humans, 4 keys.

Optimus was surprised it had taken Megatron this long to locate the humans. While he had done everything in his power to ensure they would remain safe and undetected by the Decepticon intelligence, Soundwave’s methods were far superior then any of them could ever imagine.

Starscream stepped forward, wordlessly handing over the case that held you to his master.

Optimus lost the battle of not looking down at you, and when your eyes met his optics, his servo clenched around the Star Sabers hilt.

For someone so close to death, you seemed unnervingly calm. But your eyes, your eyes showed the truth.

Acceptance. You had accepted you were going to die.

Optimus almost stumbled back as his words repeated in his processor, over and over again.

“You speak as though your life means anything to me.”

You had accepted you were going to die, because Optimus had told you as such. He had declared loud and clear for you to hear that his own desires would always be put above your life. Had announced that your life, your future and your dreams, were nothing to him in the grand scheme of his existence.

He was going to let Megatron kill you, open your cage and let Cybertron’s atmosphere kill you slowly, painfully. He would watch on without so much as a flinch, perhaps even turning his back and begin the process of rebuilding his home.

Home? Was Cybertron still his home?

After all he had done to his planet, all the loves lost in his war, was this metal shell still his home? Would it still welcome him back? Or was it you, and your vibrant planet that now held his spark.

Things were happening around him, but Optimus could not look away from you.

Starscream taunted the Autobots, clawing at Jack’s prison. The young man, how much he’d grown since their first encounter, stated clearly for all that he was willing to die for Cybertron and the Autobot cause. His brave, little companions agreed with his statement. And, Optimus knew you felt the same.

Even after all he’d said to you, done to you. Even after the pain he had caused, you were still right there, willing to give everything up. For the team.

The team he had told you you were not a part of.

Behind him, Optimus could feel his fellow bots moments from losing control. Weapons aimed, battle stances ready.

Would they stand down if he told them to? Would they continue with the mission if he decided that 4 human lives were not worth the restoration of Cybertron?

“Perhaps we should oblige them?” Megatron taunted

How fleeting human lives were. What was considered a decently long human life span was nothing but a blink of the optic for a Cybertronian. If the humans did not die today, they would die eventually. The humans would die long before the Cybertronians had aged a year and they would be left to mourn their friends. Since arriving on Earth, Agent Fowler was their third human liaison. The first died decades ago, the second grew too old to work. Fowler was nearing that age now, when he would step away and a new human would fill his shoes.

And yet, these four little humans had had more impact on his soldier’s lives then any other human had.

“Optimus.”

The prime was pulled back to the present, called back by your voice. He looked at you, into your steady gaze.

“Don’t.”

How silly you were, thinking you could change his mind.

It wasn’t a question, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Your life was not worth Cybertron, Cybertron was not worth your life.

He felt sick, horrified at himself that you had thought he wouldn’t fight with everything he had to save you. He hated himself that he’d allowed you to even have a moment of hesitation about what your life meant to him.

From the moment the space bridge portal had opened and he’d seen you and your fellow humans, he knew what his decision would be.

Nothing, not Cybertron, not his life, not The Matrix, nothing would mean more to him than you.

“If my decision dooms the future of the Autobot cause on Cybertron, so be it. But I will never forsake our human allies.”

Optimus speared the Star Saber into Cybertron’s surface with more force than was needed and began to step back, rejoining his fellow Autobots. Without so much more than a glance, they began to disarm themselves.

So, they were all in agreement then.

One by one, a key for a human child, until all that remained was one. Smokescreen held the final key, and Megatron had you. Wordlessly, Optimus held out his hand, a signal for the newest member of the team to hand over their final hope.

Each step towards his enemy, he felt heavier and heavier. This was it. The last hope for Autobot life on Cybertron, and he was giving it away for a human. Giving away the hopes of his people and his planet for one single human.

Optimus was before Megatron, the only space between them your cage. Optimus kept his eyes locked on Megatron, his battle mask up. He couldn’t look down at you, wouldn’t. He didn’t want to see the confusion, the concern, the uncertainty. 

It should have been relief, it should have been a sigh of relief. It should have been, but it wasn’t because he had made you believe you would die on his planet and now you could not comprehend why he was saving you.

He had failed. Failed you. And now he was failing his mentor, his people, his fellow Primes.

But, he was saving you.

He held out his key in one servo, and extended the other in expectation. Megatron extended his servos in turn, holding you out in one and wrapping his digits around the key with the other.

For a moment, neither one released either, but then Optimus’ grip on the key lessened just a smidge and Megatron opened his servo.

Not expecting the sudden weight, you fell to the hard metal surface of the dead planet. Optimus lunged to grab you, your canister bouncing once before he managed to grab you.

Luckily, the glass did not shatter, but within you winced.

Optimus barely had the chance to look you over before a second ground bridge opened and Decepticons rushed through.

One Autobot with an occupied servo could not take them all. Spinning, Optimus sprinted to the safety of his team, disposing you with the rest of the trapped humans.

The Decepticons surrounded the Autobots, blasters raised and keeping them in place as Megatron, Starscream, Knockout and Soundwave activated the Omega Lock with the Keys.

Everyone watched, transfixed as the mechanism powered up.

A keypad appeared, and Megatron selected something. With a shake and a shudder, the circle shot out a bream of blue light, the energy streaking across the expanse of the barren landscape and encompassing the ruins of the Iacon Records Halls.

Optimus watched in amazement as the building began to rebuild itself, within a few seconds transforming from the blackened ruins to the once sparkling tower Optimus once knew.

It worked. The Keys worked. Cybertron could be restored, would be restored. His home would be restored again.

Bumblebee said something, the humans making various noises of amazement, you remained silent. Briefly, Optimus flicked his optics down to you.

You were seated in your cage, hand raised to press against your forehead. Red stained your fingers, blood leaking from a cut.

Megatron must have caused more damage than he realized.

He needed to you get and your fellow humans off this planet. Who knew how much oxygen you had in those canisters, and what would happen once Megatron used the Keys to begin widescale restoration.

“This conflict is between Autobots and Decepticons.” he started. If he wanted to get Megatron to listen, he’d need to tread carefully. “Allow me to return the humans to Earth.”

“Oh I wouldn’t recommend it.” Megatron started, turning to address the Autobot leader. “They’ll be far safer here.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” you spoke up.

“Is the Space Bridge locked on target?”

“Per your instructions, Lord Megatron.” Starscream bowed.

“Excellent.” Megatron purred, turning back to Optimus and locking optics with him. “Why rule one world, when I can rule two…”

Megatron was a sadistic, megalomaniac, power hunger monster, but he could not be this insane? Could he?

Far above, a ground bridge opened up. Megatron turned back to the consol and hit the activation button. Once again the Omega Lock powered up, and shot a beam of raw energy through the swirling green vortex.

“No.” Optimus could not find any others words.

“What’s he doing?” you asked, struggling to stand. When your guardian did not answer, you changed it to a demand. “Optimus, what is he doing?”

“If the Omega Lock can restore Cybertron, then it will do the same to Earth, right?” Miko asked before Optimus had a chance to speak.

“No. It will cyber-form your planet in favor of its new matrix. And destroy all indigenous life in the process.”

There was no reason to sugar coat it, not after all you children had been through. You deserved the truth.

“Such raw power.” Megatron began to ramble. “What should I call my new domain, New Koan? How about Gilded Earth?”

Optimus knew Megatron was taunting him, and it was working. He’d given up the chance as restoring his planet and you were still in danger. In fact, now you and every human on your planet were at risk.

Optimus looked to you human companions, held by their guardians. They fought against their glass prisons, spewing threats at the warlord, like it would make him change his mind.

Megatron laughed at their attempts, his followers joining his as they watched the scanners display how much of Earth was being lost.

Optimus looked down at you, and found you already looking up at him, fear marring your face.

It was a lot easier to face your own death than to stand by when facing the deaths of all those you love and care for.

Optimus’ processor was bombarded of all the times he’d heard of the humans mention their families in passing, every meadow and lake and mountain he’d stopped to admire for just a moment on his patrols. He saw the hill you and he had spent a late night sitting on, looking up at the clear night sky as he retold stories from Cybertron before the fall.

All of that would be lost. And, once the oxygen ran out, you would die too.

Optimus took a moment to plot his course, and then he charged. Slamming away a Decepticon, he raced towards the Star Saber.

Ripping it from the ground, he arched it through the air to disable two more Cons before racing to meet a roaring Megatron. Their swords collided, bouncing off one another. Megatron had size and strength one his side, but Optimus had something to fight for.

With a clean slice, Optimus literally disarmed Megatron, but he didn’t have a moment to waste. Every second the battle drew on, more of Earth was lost.

Optimus moved faster than he’d done in many cycles, deflecting blaster shots and leaning right so Starscream’s missile sailed past him.

Using the treacherous seeker, Optimus used his body to vault himself into the air, gaining the momentum needed to swing down, embedding the Star Saber deep into the Omega Lock.

He had not the explosion to be so big. It blasted him back, sending out a wave of fire all around. It was as he was airborne that he prayed someone had managed to grab ahold of you before the force sent you flying.

Hitting the ground in a roll, Optimus righted himself instantly and looked around. The rusted structure was now blackened by the flames, small fires dotting the charred circle. He did a quick headcount, finding all his Autobots and humans accounted for.

Ratchet spoke to him over the comm link, sounding desperate. Optimus was just as urgent in his request for a way back to Earth. If Ratchet was still able to contact them, that meant the base was still intact. Who knew how much else of Earth was still organic.

Securing his sword to his back, Optimus followed his team through the Space Bridge. He needed to make sure you received medical attention.

[psychologeek]

12.08.2023 prompt - Love Among the Shelves

Barbara was at the children's section's front desk when he approached.

It was her day shift, but every instinct she developed during her over-a-decade time as a vigilant, screamed inside of her that this man was DANGEROUS.

"Excuse me, sir!" She called him, as she took a quick look at the population.

(fifteen children, ten mothers, and a teen- probably a babysitter, or an older sister).

"How can I help you?" She asked as he stood in front of her, almost 2 ft over her. She quietly unlocked her wheels, and reach for the emergency taser.

"I want to get a library card." He says.

"This is the children section, mr...?"

"Dan. Just Dan. And that not for me, that's for the hellion". He gesture to his left, only seem to notice no one's there.

"ELLIE!"

"Sheesh, Old Mold." A kid show up. "No leed to yell. MY ears are still new and working."

"You can't just disappear without telling anyone!"

"What, am I in prison now? Oh, wait, I'm not the one who's been locked up!"

"You little hazard. What did we say about telling OUTSIDERS private information?"

"Do it for fun and profit?-"

And the man just grab by the back of her hoodie, and pick her up in one hand.

"That's the Hellion. She needs a library card."

The kid move a little, trying to escape, before giving up and just looking at Barbara.

"Hi! I'm Ellie - WOW ARE YOU JAZZ'S CLONE?".

-OR-

After learning that Danielle just travel around the world on her own, Dan's core re-develope his old obsession.

(protect her)

They travel across the world as Dan& Ellie - father and daughter.

Ellie wants to go to Gotham, (They have WEIRD THINGS) and they try getting a life there.

On an attempt to get something like normal (halfa?) life, Dan take Ellie to get her first library card.

Enter Barbara Gordon, a librarian extraordinary by day, and a vigilant named "Oracle" by night.

Somehow, she keep meeting that single dad (ex-prisoner) and his daughter.

(she CAN'T be introduced to Damian. The world may not survive it).

Or: I started thinking Dan/Barbara and now I can't unsee it.

Tag some I think would like this:

@stealingyourbones @im-only-here-for-the-fandom @hdgnj

[sevsbestfriend]

I usually write fics here but I just wanna rant rn.

Sometimes I got to old posts and stuff, either to get new ideas or just see what the fuck is going on with the other side of the fandom.

The people coming to James defense or crazy, like on one hand they are like 'oh he was only human, he grew as a person otherwise how would lily love him?'

We literally have cannon confirmation that the fucking prat didn't stop hexing people, he just learned to hide it better. Sirius and Remus confirmed this when they called Severus a 'special case'. I don't give a shit about them saying he attacked first, you better believe I am attacking first if I come across a guy who has stripped me naked in public when I didn't do shit to him. (Or the other guy who tried to get me killed by bloody werewolf) Like wtf are you even talking about at that point???

Also, Harry comes across a detention report of them hexing another student in their 7th year. So uhm...yeah.

Then they are like 'oh Severus hates him so his memories are biased'

Did you morons even read the books?? Pensive memories are unbiased, any manipulation is extremely apparent as we saw in Slughorns case. So NO they aren't biased that extremely uncomfortable read of SWM? it's fucking canon in its truest sense.

Also, how in the ever living hippogryph does a guy who strips people naked for fun change so much that he becomes head boy??

It's pretty simple, he doesn't. He learns to hide it better and given the fact that this person has always been given the benefit of the doubt, it is very easy for them to their nature.

Dude had a map that showed him everyone's real time location and an invisibility cloak, he could damn well harass anyone in isolated corners of the castle if he wished. Which is exactly what he did.

Also, these people love to claim how 'lily only approved of him cause he changed.'

To that I say, Who the fuck is Lily?? Mother Teresa??

How is she the ultimate decider of what is good and bad and at the same time, completely right in dating someone who stripped another student makes after a year (or 2) of the event??

Don't get me wrong, she doesn't owe Severus anything, really, but seriously this is just ridiculous. Like if I was a woman, I would be genuinely terrified of someone like that, especially when they got away with no real consequences what so ever.

James was a prick with a very good PR team for friends and teachers. That's really it, it is often said that good looking people can get away with a lot of things and James is just a prime example of that.

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Also...BRAVE?? Dude had 2 cheat items and the advantage of a Pureblood upbringing and was still too PUSSY to face Severus alone. Yeah..what a real Gryphindor that one. Scrams bravery to you doesn't it? He did this all the way till 17, so yeah he definitely was super important in the order right??

---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_---_

Dumbledore invested quite a bit in the Marauders with his blatant favoritism and letting a werewolf in the school risking his own position as a headmaster.

And...they all turned to be bloody useless. With only James being useful because of his participation in the birth of Harry Potter.

Sirius in his madness derailed a murder investigation for a fucking decade.

Remus, I genuinely can't remember anything substantial Remus did, except for letting someone he believed was a murderer into Hogwarts and never telling Dumbledore that they were Animagus to begin with.

---_---_--_---_

Seriously, the most useful person in the war had to literally beg on his knees for the man to use him. Even fate was like, for fucks sake, just give this guy a chance already.

[forhappysake]

Late-Night Talking

Author's note: This can be read as part 2 of "Never Forget a Face," or it can be read as a stand-alone. 5k words, not proofread xoxo.

Summary: After you get to know Spencer, the team starts believing you may be more than friends. Despite pushing back against their jokes, you and Spencer quickly realize they may not be wrong.

Warnings: fem!reader, spoilers for season 12/13, mentions of typical BAU-level violence, age gap mentioned, one bed trope that i LOVE, no smut just some heavy fluff/making out at the end

“Checkmate,” Spencer said. 

You groaned. 

The soft glow of an antique lamp illuminated your surroundings. You sat cross-legged on an old leather armchair, resting your head in your hands. Spencer, across from you, looked a little too amused. The pair of you had been at this for roughly two hours. 

“I’m not sure why you decided to make that last move. If you want, I can show you some additional strategies and what I would have done in your place,” Spencer rambled. If it were any other man, you likely would have rolled your eyes and told them to shut up. Something about the way he spoke was entirely genuine, and he knew he had your best interest at heart. 

“No thanks, Spence. I think I’ve met my match for the day,” you said, rising from your seat. You stretched your arms above your head. “I could go for some coffee, though.”

He smiled as you turned to walk toward his kitchen. In the three weeks since the two of you had spent the evening talking, the two of you had only become closer. This was the third night this week that you had found yourself enjoying his company. 

“Do you want a cup?” you called behind the counter. 

It was quiet for a second, and you could imagine his eyes narrowing in thought as he weighed his options. “Sure,” he said. “Could you make it with-”

“Lots of sugar and a little bit of coffee,” you finished for him, appearing from behind the island with two cups in hand. “Here.”

Spencer thanked you, taking a small sip before setting the steaming cup on the side table. “Perfect,” he acknowledged. 

“Oh really? Maybe I should pursue a career as a barista,” you joked, whirling the mixture around in your mug with a small red stirrer. 

Spencer let out a small laugh before he grew quiet for a moment. He looked at you thoughtfully. “Not that I think you wouldn’t be good at it, but I think I - or uh - we prefer to have you on our team.”

As you opened your mouth to respond, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You set your coffee on the side table next to Spencer’s and pulled it out, unveiling Penelope’s name and face buzzing across your screen. 

“It’s Penelope,” you said. Spencer shot you a knowing look. 

You raised the phone and answered her video message request. Her face filled the screen. 

“Hello, my lovely,” she said to you in her usual bubbly manner. The bright pink bows in her hair and the way they matched what you could see of her dress made you smile. 

“Hey, Pen,” you greeted. “What’s up?”

“That’s the less lovely part,” she said, her smiling turning to a frown. “I need you in the office in an hour or less. We have a case.” 

You sighed as you shot a glance at Spencer who was staring at you from across the chess table. “Right, I’ll be there. Thanks.”

You were about to hang up when she spoke again. “Oh, wait! Y/N!”

“Yes?” you asked her, a bit confused by her sudden urgency. 

“Have you talked to Spencer? You’re the last one on my call list and I haven’t been able to get ahold of him for twenty minutes.” 

Rather than respond, you flipped the camera around to unveil Spencer sitting on the edge of the armchair. “Yeah, I think I can get ahold of him for you,” you quipped. 

Penelope gasped. “My two favorite BAU babies spending time together? Be still my speckled heart.”

Spencer groaned, looking directly at the camera. “Penelope, we’ve been over this. I’m 36. I’ve been with the team for over a decade. I’ve done time in a maximum security prison. I haven’t been a BAU ‘baby,’” he made air quotes with his hands, “for ten years.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, causing you to giggle and causing Spencer to furrow his brow. “Oh, Dr. Reid, your wit is charming but I fear you’ll always be a BAU baby in my mind.” 

Spencer huffed. 

“Regardless, it’s nice to see my babies together,” she said, her cheery disposition fading as she began clacking on her keyboard. “Anyway, I’ll see you lovebirds in an hour. Peace!”

You and Spencer had both frozen at her final statement as her face faded from the screen. Lovebirds?

In an attempt to diffuse the awkward silence that had fallen over the room, you cleared your throat. “I have to run home and grab my go-bag.” You rose and made for the door. Spencer remained seated, a perplexed look on his face. 

“I’ll see you in an hour?” you half-asked. 

Spencer snapped out of his thoughts, finally noticing that you were standing with your hand on his doorknob, ready to leave. 

“Y-yeah. Of course. See you there,” he said, offering a small yet sincere small. 

You drove home and grabbed your things, Penelope’s statement still ringing in your ears. Lovebirds. 

Sure, you enjoyed spending time with Spencer. In the month since you’d met him, you’d gotten to know him quite well. You knew how he took his coffee, what books he was working through at the moment, and how his therapy was going. However, you didn’t think that qualified you as lovebirds. 

You shook your head as you pulled into your parking spot at work. You were overthinking it. Penelope called people questionable names all the time. Just last week, the HR department was forced to give a seminar on workplace conduct after some of Penelope’s most famous lines were brought to the attention of the department. 

Spencer had leaned over to you during the presentation, nudging you with his elbow. “Last time they gave one of these, Penelope got in trouble for calling our friend ‘dark chocolate thunder,’” he whispered. You had widened your eyes at him and looked appalled as he offered a small, mischievous smile, turning back to the front.  

You paused for a moment before entering the building and thought about how that interaction had made you feel. The butterflies in your stomach took flight when he nudged your arm, the tingling sensation running through your veins as he whispered in your ear. Maybe Penelope wasn’t as far off as you thought. 

Regardless, you had a job to do. So did Spencer, for that matter. Based on the worried glances your coworkers gave you when you walked into the roundtable room, you could tell it was going to be a doozy. 

Emily and Spencer walked in moments later, taking their seats around the table. He offered you a small smile, which you kindly returned before focusing on Penelope’s presentation at the front of the room. 

Another serial killer, another flight that was going to take you across the country. 

For three days after touchdown in California, the team worked around the clock. On the third day, the team went out in pairs to keep watch over the local parks in town, from which women were being kidnapped and subsequently murdered. Emily had asked you and Spencer to stay behind at the police station in case any new developments came about.

By the time night fell, you weren’t sure when the last time you’d slept or eaten was. You were sitting on a couch in the meeting room assigned to the BAU for your time in California. You’d zoned out at the images of the victim’s bloody bodies before you on the coffee table, your eyes glazed over and bloodshot from the lack of sleep. 

When someone placed a hand on your shoulder, you jumped in surprise. 

“Just me,” Spencer said, putting one hand up in surrender. He’d walked in through the open door, you hadn’t even noticed his entrance.

You rubbed your eyes. “Sorry. What’s up? Any news?”

Spencer shook his head, sitting down next to you. He cleared his throat. “You could sleep, you know? I can always wake you if something changes.” 

You yawned. “I appreciate the offer, but don’t you think that’s unfair? You haven’t slept either.” 

He shrugged, glancing sideways at you. “I didn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time for three months of my life. This is nothing.” 

You looked at him in that moment. Truly looked at him. The small scar on the side of his neck where a few stray curls ended. The stubble on his cheek, getting longer each day you worked this case. Finally, your eyes met his. 

“Alright,” you relented. “Just promise you’ll wake me up if something changes.” 

Spencer nodded. “I’ll be right here next to the phone. Rest for a little bit.” 

Without another word, you sunk further down on the couch and laid your head back, falling into a dreamless sleep. 

SPENCER’S POV

I developed this habit of staring at clocks while I was away. Some might think that makes the time pass slower, but on the contrary, I found that the minutes flew by faster if I could zone out at something for long enough. 

I found myself practicing this same habit as the night passed. The only thing that pulled me from my daze was Y/N’s body shifting on the couch next to me. 

I turned to look at her. She rested her head on the back of the couch. Her hair had fallen haphazardly over one side of her face. The black top she wore was dangerously close to slipping off her shoulder. I leaned forward to strip off my suit jacket and gently lay it over her, the thick fabric wrinkling. As if on cue, she subconsciously pulled the jacked around her figure, burying her face in the material. 

I felt my heart warm at the sight and bit back a smile. She was still too innocent for the job. Probably too innocent for this world, frankly. But the pleasure of getting to know her had made Emily’s decision to place her on the team a no-brainer. She was, by all intents and purposes, a ray of sunshine. 

“You two look cozy,” Luke spoke from the doorway. 

My eyes shot up to face him. I tried to act casual like I wasn’t just oogling over my coworker.  “Oh. Yeah, she is.” 

Luke rolled his eyes. “Jig’s up, Reid,” he started, leaning against the doorway. “You’ve been looking at her like that for weeks. Why don’t you just ask her on a date?” 

I cringed. “Why does everyone keep insinuating that we’re somehow romantically involved?”

“Well let’s see,” Luke held up his fingers to count as he spoke. “You guys talk to each other like, all the time.” One. “You didn’t tell her to move when she accidentally sat in your seat at the conference table.” Two. “I know for a fact that she’s been out with you at least three nights a week, hence why she didn’t come out with Garcia and me last weekend.” Three. “You actually laugh when she tells you a joke.” Four. “You keep staring at her-”

“Alright, I get it,” I interrupted, holding up a hand to quiet him. I sighed. “You’ve forgotten some pretty important details in your explanation.” 

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” 

It was my turn to do the counting. “She’s roughly eight years younger than I am. I haven’t the faintest clue if she’s seeing anyone. She’s only known me for a month and she happens to know about… my history.” Luke glanced up at me, a touch of sympathy in his gaze. “Prison time is not exactly a turn-on to most women,” I admitted. 

Luke took a deep breath. “Well, I hope it works out however you want it to, Reid. I can say this for sure, I haven’t seen you this happy in a year.” 

I watched him begin to walk away before he turned to look back over his shoulder. “By the way, we caught the guy. Wheels-up in thirty.” 

With that utterance, he was gone. 

READER’S POV

The next thing you remembered was Spencer gently shaking your shoulder. “Y/N,” he said your name quietly. 

You rolled over, groggy as you pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. “Yeah, what’s up, Spence?” 

“The case is closed. We’re going to get ready to go home.” 

Your eyes shot open. “Really? I can’t believe we missed it,” you said, sounding somewhat disappointed. 

Spencer shrugged. “I think I would prefer the comfort of this place than being out there.” He pointed out the window where a steady rain had begun falling over the parking lot.

You groaned, peeling the blanket off your body. It was just then that you realized it wasn’t a blanket, but Spencer’s jacket. 

“Oh. Uh. Here you go,” you offered it back to him. 

Spencer took it from you, immediately beginning to overexplain himself. “Sorry, I just thought you looked kind of cold and your shirt was hanging off your shoulder so I thought it would be better if I-”

“Spencer,” you cut him off. “I was just going to say thank you.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing. Let’s just get out of here and back home.” You offered him a warm smile, reassurance that he hadn’t overstepped your boundaries. 

You found it quite endearing, actually- him having covered you up. When he smiled back, your stomach did a backflip. God, you were screwed. 

The two of you hurriedly packed up the files strewn about the precinct and drove back to the hotel. The flight home was relatively uneventful. You did, however, notice Luke giving you one of his mischievous smiles. Halfway through the flight, you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Luke, what is your deal?” you asked quietly not to wake JJ, seated next to you. Spencer, who sat across from the table on the jet’s couch, sneaked a glance up from his book, slyly listening in to the conversation you’d started. 

“Did you have a nice nap earlier this evening, Y/N?” Luke asked jokingly. 

You rolled your eyes. “As a matter of fact, I did. Why are you asking?” 

Luke glanced over at Spencer. “I saw loverboy went out of his way to keep you warm.”

It was your turn to glance at Spencer, whose cheeks were turning pink as his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked back down at his book, acting as though he wasn’t listening. 

You leaned forward across the table. “Look, Luke. I’m not sure what delusions Penelope is feeding you, but Spencer and I are just friends. Just like me and you. Just like me and everyone on this team.”

“Uh huh,” Luke said, unconvinced. He popped a piece of candy into his mouth. “When’s the last time you spent three evenings at my apartment?” 

“Maybe I would spent three evenings at your apartment if you were intelligent and mature enough to keep up an adult conversation,” you shot back. 

Luke raised his eyebrows. “Touched a nerve there, did I?” he joked. 

“It isn’t funny, Luke,” you scolded. “And for that matter, I happen to be seeing someone.” 

That caught everyone’s attention. You saw Spencer twitch out of the corner of your eye, his brow furrowing has his grip on the book in his hands became firmer. Luke laughed. 

“You have been going out with someone?” he asked, somewhat incredulously. 

You took offense to his reaction. “Why is that so hard to believe?” 

Luke shrugged. “I don’t know. I just hadn’t heard about this before.”

“Well, I don’t exactly go out of my way to talk about my personal life. Now if you’ll excuse me,” you tapped the empty coffee cup in your hands. “I need to replenish my supply.” 

You made your way to the back of the jet. Seeing the coffee pot empty, you began the task of brewing more. 

“Was that true?” Spencer asked from behind you. 

“Jesus,” you said, trying not to jump out of your skin, “You’ve really got to quit sneaking up on me like that.” 

“Sorry.” He stood awkwardly in the doorway, blocking your view of the rest of the jet. “But was it true?”

“Which part?” you challenged, watching the dark liquid fill the pot.

“The part about you seeing someone.” 

Your cheeks reddened. “No. It wasn’t true. I just wanted to get Luke off my back,” you admitted. 

Spencer sighed what almost sounded like a sigh of relief. “Was the rest of it true?” he continued. 

“What do you mean?” You looked at him, genuinely confused as to what he was referencing.

Spencer took a step closer to you, and you could feel the heat coming off his body as he looked down at you. He lowered his voice to a near whisper, “The part about us just being friends.” 

Oh. 

“Well, I- you know we haven’t really ever discussed if we would even… I- I don’t know,” you stuttered. 

Spencer nodded and the serious expression on his face faded to his normal friendly facade. “Right. I just wanted to check,” he said casually before making his way back to his seat. 

You were in shock regarding the conversation that had just occurred and remained that way for the rest of the flight. You found yourself glancing at Spencer often and occasionally, you’d catch him looking at you too.

You put your headphones in, in an attempt to take your mind off of it. The reprieve of the music in your ears was short-lived as JJ nudged your shoulder. “Did you hear Emily?” she asked. 

“What? No, what did I miss?” you looked around, confused, before Emily appeared beside you. 

“Sorry, I should’ve checked to make sure everyone could hear me,” she apologized. “Change of plans. We’re stopping in Tennessee. I just got a call from an old colleague. They need some help.”

You tried to hide your disappointment. All you wanted to do was get home to go to bed. Not to mention, you needed time to think over this whole Spencer thing. However, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. 

Two hours later, you were on the ground in Nashville. 

The team stumbled into a hotel lobby. It was 2 a.m. You could tell you all looked terrible, and you weren’t sure you all smelled much better.

“Alright,” Emily said, coming back from the check-in counter. “Here’s the deal. Since I booked last minute, I could only get four rooms. We’re going to have to double up.” 

You watched as pairs were quickly formed. JJ and Emily stepped to one side. Tara and Luke to another. Rossi and Matt even joined up. You and Spencer stood awkwardly next to each other. 

“Right, well, here are your keys,” she handed you the room keys for yourself and Spencer. You sighed and took off for the elevator, Spencer in tow. 

The elevator ride and walk to the room passed without a word. When you stepped into the hotel room, you immediately flopped your bags on the ground and dropped to the floor. 

For the first time in two hours, Spencer spoke. “What are you doing?” 

You didn’t get up, still lying prone on the floor. “Relaxing.”

“Do you know how many germs are on the floor of a hotel room? If I had to estimate, based on research-”

“Spence, please,” you cut him off, “I’m getting up, I’m getting up.” You rolled over and sat up, looking up at him. 

It was also the first real glimpse you’d caught of the room since arriving, and you felt your stomach drop when you grasped one key detail. 

There was only one bed. 

Oh. Oh. 

Spencer followed your eyes to the single bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said sincerely. 

You scoffed. “Spencer, that’s ridiculous. You’ve told me time and time again how your back bothers you because of these terrible hotel beds. I can’t imagine what state sleeping on the floor would leave you in. I’ll do it.” 

He shook his head. “I would never expect you to do that.”

“I know." you weighed your words carefully. “We can share the bed, you know? It won’t be a big deal. As long as you’re comfortable with it, of course.”

Spencer looked between you and the bed for a moment. “Okay,” he said simply, throwing his bag on the ground. “Do you prefer a certain side?” 

You hummed, standing up from the floor. “Do I want the slide closer to the AC or the side closer to the window?”

Spencer smiled, raising his eyebrows. “These are some tough decisions.”

You nodded. “I’ll take the window. You can have the vent.” 

“How thoughtful,” he quipped. 

You bent over and began going through your bag. “You can go ahead and shower first, Spence.”

He nodded. “Alright, I’ll be quick.” 

Grabbing his bag, he disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. You heard the click of the lock and sighed in a mix of relief and disappointment. He hadn’t brought up your previous conversation. Maybe he hadn’t meant it or maybe he meant it differently than you interpreted.

Pulling your pajamas from your bag, you resigned yourself to sit on the edge of the bed and wait. Minutes later, Spencer reappeared. His hair, slightly damp, hung down over his eyes. He wore a pair of plaid pajama pants and a loose t-shirt that clung nicely to his biceps. 

He looked good. Really good. 

You were lucky you didn’t start drooling right there. Spencer caught your gaze. “Is there something on my shirt?” he asked seriously. 

You shook your head, averting your eyes. “No! I mean - no. Not at all. I’m just tired.” You stood up from the bed and without another word, shut yourself in the bathroom in an attempt to get yourself under control. 

SPENCER’S POV

It had been five minutes and seventeen seconds since Y/N went to take a shower. I laid back on the bed, head propped up by some pillows, and thought as the time passed. 

It had been five minutes and forty-five seconds of me thinking about how to approach this conversation with her. 

I knew after our exchange on the plane that I’d have to come to terms with my feelings eventually. Even if I’d only known her for a month, I couldn’t help but gravitate towards her. I loved her smile, the way she laughed at my jokes, and how she genuinely listened when I talked. 

Most of all, I was starting to think I loved her. 

When I heard the bathroom door open, I tried to be nonchalant. I reached for my book on the side table and quickly began reading through it, flipping pages as I finished them. I felt a dip in the bed and saw her sit on the edge out of my periphery. 

She was slipping her socks on, facing away from me, her damp her hanging loosely in front of her face. I wanted to do nothing more than tuck it behind her ear and kiss her right then and there. 

I had to be logical, I told myself. I shook the thoughts away and tried to focus on the book in my hands. 

READER’S POV

Spencer didn’t speak to you when you came out from the shower, offering only a glance and a small smile as he skimmed through the book in his hands. After slipping on your socks, you tucked yourself under the covers next to him, turning off the light next to your side of the bed. 

It was silent for a moment before you heard his book thud down on the side table. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, flipping the lamp off.

“Night, Spence,” you said back. You rolled to your side so your back was to him, trying to minimize the amount of space you took up in the bed. 

The two of you stayed that way for twenty minutes. You breathed slowly, trying not to think about the man in the bed next to you. Just when you thought you may have relaxed enough to drift off to sleep, the lamp next to Spencer’s side of the bed flipped on.

You kept your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep as you felt him shift in the bed. You wondered if he was just restless, struggling to wind down after working so many cases back to back. Seconds later, he spoke.

“I know you’re awake. I think we should talk,” he said quietly. 

Your eyes shot open. You rolled over to face him, trying to remain calm. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“Let’s play a game,” he suggested. Your eyebrows shot up. You did enjoy a good competition. “I’ll ask you a question, you ask me a question. How does that sound?” Spencer asked. 

You searched his eyes for any hint of mischief but found none. Who were you to say no? You sat up in the bed, crisscrossing your legs as you faced him. 

“Shoot,” you challenged him. 

“Does it bother you when the team suggests we’re romantically involved?” 

You hadn’t quite expected that one. You looked around the room, taking a deep breath as you pondered. “Not as much as it probably should. Does it bother you?” you countered. 

Spencer shook his head. “Only when I thought it made you uncomfortable. Now that I know it doesn’t, no.” He paused for a second, narrowing his eyes at you as he tried to pick out his next question. 

During this lull, you reached for your water bottle on the side table and took a quick drink. “Do you find me attractive?” he asked. 

You nearly spit out your water. 

You sat up a bit straighter, trying not to let him see just how attractive you thought he was. “Well… that’s quite a direct question. But, yeah. Yeah, I think you’re attractive.” 

Spencer nodded, satisfied, though he didn’t look smug. Just content. 

“Do you think I’m attractive?” you asked. 

Spencer glanced up at you, his hands folding and unfolding in his lap as he tapped the tips of his fingers against his thigh. “Very,” he admitted. 

The two of you were quiet once more, not sure what to do with this newfound information. 

Spencer cleared his throat and you could hear the doubt and concern seeping into his voice when he spoke again. “Does it bother you that I’m older than you are?” 

You figured that was coming. “No. You’ve never made me feel younger or dumber for it. I often forget we aren’t the same age.” You shrugged before continuing. “Does it bother you that I’m younger?”

Spencer thought for a moment. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I was just afraid you’d think I was strange for finding you attractive since you are younger than I am.” 

You laughed. “Spencer, I find you strange for many reasons, but our age difference is not one of them.” 

Spencer smiled shyly at you. He seemed to appreciate the endearing way you used the word “strange” to describe him.

“Can-” he stuttered for a moment, you could tell he was nervous about his next question. He took a breath, building confidence. “Can I kiss you?” 

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes widening immediately. He turned a bright shade of crimson, his confidence seemingly wavering. “You can say no, of course. I’m sorry if I made this weird, I just thought-”

“You can kiss me,” you interjected. He looked at you, his crimson blush fading away but his eyes still uncertain. “I’d like for you to, actually,” you reassured. 

Spencer sat up straighter on the bed, his earlier expression gone serious as he moved closer to you. He gently placed one hand on your cheek, holding you in place as his lips met yours. 

His lips were soft. In fact, everything he was doing was soft. The way he gently cupped your face, the way his other hand had come up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the way his mouth moved against yours. His tongue probed your mouth open, a small moan eliciting from him when you allowed him access. 

The tenderness disappeared quickly as he kissed you with more urgency. The two of you fell back on the bed like teenagers. 

His hands moved from your face to your waist, holding you firmly against him. You tested the waters by moving your hands up his back and into his hair, earning a sigh of approval on his part. 

You slipped a hand under the front of his shirt, trailing your fingers across his chest. He pulled away from you, gently grabbing your hand.

“Too far?” you asked in a small panic, quickly withdrawing your hand from under the fabric of his shirt.

“Not at all,” he shook his head sincerely. “I just don’t want to get carried away.” 

Spencer sat up, his hand on your waist bringing you up with him. You both leaned back against the bed, your head resting on his chest. 

“I want to do everything with you,” he said lowly. You could feel his voice rumble through his chest as he spoke. “I want to do all of this and more. However, I do believe you deserve more than some random hotel with the guy who has only known you for a month.” 

“You're not a random guy," you corrected. You were a bit disappointed, but you understood and appreciated his sentiment. It was silent for a moment. "So where do we go from here?” you asked, genuinely curious. 

Spencer smiled, wrapping his arm tighter around your waist. “I think I should start by asking you on a date. How do you feel about Vietnamese food?” 

You raised an eyebrow, looking up at him. “You know I am very passionate about pho,” you joked. 

“Yeah,” he rested his chin on the top of your head, “How about when we get back, we go out on a real date, in a real restaurant that isn’t my apartment, and we make this something real?”

You lifted your head up to meet his gaze at eye level. “I’d love to,” you said with a smile. “On one condition,” you added. 

It was his turn to act surprised. “What’s that?” 

“That you don’t refrain from kissing me until then. I do enjoy being close to you,” you answered. 

Spencer grinned at you. His arm around your waist pulled you in for a soft kiss on the lips. After a moment, he pulled away. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered.

You laid your head back on his chest as he flicked off the side table lamp, the two of you quickly falling asleep wrapped in each others' arms.

[peterspinkrobe]

Communion | AU Priest Miguel O’Hara x female Reader

A/N: I commissioned the above Priest Miguel. Ever since the artist sent the sketch, (@ ejpuki on twitter plz go show love!) this story has been a brewin’ in my cranium. I am not a newbie when it comes to fanfic, but a virgin to writing Miguel. Please accept this offering to the mania that is fandom. Feedback is appreciated. I know the tenses are probably all over the place. Part 2 is live!!. Let me know if you’re interested ~~

Warnings: Religious content, parents, dirty-minded reader, no mention of Y/N

As you sat in the middle pew, aisle seats, you fiddled with the dress your mother guilted you into wearing. The hem of the skirt had a little fraying and you couldn’t help but pick at it.

The meddling was met with a small smack on your wrist from your mother.

“Stop! You’re going to make it worse! I know it’s an old dress but it will only look that way if you pick at it.” The sharpness in tone and the lacy lilac dress from high school brought you back to all of the Sunday mornings you’d been ripped from the comfort of your bed to attend church.

Church. Your head was already starting to hurt from the early morning light pouring through the stained glasses windows, but your tried to remain neutral to spare mom.

Your relationship with the Almighty soured not long after your father passed. Faith was hard to come by and the struggles you’d faced recently only strained that even further.

“Sorry, mama.” You say quietly, acting like you’re still twelve and not in your mid twenties.

Ever since you moved back in you’ve had to live under “her rules”. Sunday service is one of those rules. Considering the headache you’ve caused her recently, you ignore your own and do as she asks. It’s only fair.

But church? Last week was your first time back inside a church since leaving for college five years ago. It was the same one you’d been dragged to in your younger years. The same stained pews, same old books of Psalms, same feeling of estrangement despite being surrounded by the same old folks.

Your mom had turned her attention to the lady that lived on our street and you turned your own attention to your fingernails, scraping underneath them for dirt that wasn’t there. You think about how you had dropped the habit until moving back in, but was interrupted by microphone static.

You pulled your gaze to the front of the church and saw Father Steen tapping the microphone. Despite only being five years since you last saw him, the man seemed to have aged decades. His frail frame balanced on the podium as he spoke. You realized why the microphone was needed when he started speaking - amplifying the hushed tone of the elder addressing his congregation.

“Good morning and many blessings to you all this Sunday morning,” he began and you couldn’t help but lower your gaze back to the frayed bit of your dress. His monotone voice was… kinda boring. You hated thinking that way because Father Steen was such a good man and he cared for your mother greatly when dad passed. He was mentioning an upcoming surgery and you were back to picking at your fingernails. His voice eked on through the speakers, “so we will be having a transitional deacon come in to take over my position until I recover. This fine young man has graciously accepted this position as he is working to become a priest himself. Please welcome Mr. O’Hara as he leads us in prayer to begin communion for this month.”

There is respectful applause and your eyes are still on your hands until your mom elbows you gently. You start to apologize again for not paying attention but notice she and her pew neighbor are giggling as they clap. You start to clap your own hands as you look up at what they were giggling like schoolgirls about when your hands freeze in their clapped position - almost like you’re praying.

The deacon that Father Steen introduced was… gorgeous, and he was looking at you. You blushed, embarrassingly, under the gaze of the dark eyes. Could he tell you hadn’t been paying attention?

Well, you most certainly were now.

You pulled your eyes away from him to look at your mother who was wiggling her eyebrows at you, causing you to blush even deeper and turn back to the front.

The first thing you notice about the man standing at the front of the church was his height. He towered over the podium he placed a hand on. Father Steen came up to only just above his elbows with his hunched body.

The eyes that were watching you now surveyed the room and the light from the windows shown dark, warm pools of irises. His face…

Sharp symmetry made up his countenance. Distinct cheekbones bobbing as the smooth bronze skin stretched upwards into a smile. The strong jawline accentuated with the muscles of his lips pulling back, revealing a dazzling toothy smile.

When he spoke for the first time, you understood why your mom cried during Psalms at times. His voice was gospel.

“Thank you, all, for welcoming me into your parish. I know that you have received excellent spiritual guidance from Father Steen. I can only hope to at least partially fill his shoes in his absence.” His voice boomed throughout the church with no need for a microphone. “Before we begin the sacred ritual that is communion, let us bow our heads in prayer.”

The church around you dutifully lowered their heads, and you did the same. Hating closing your eyes to the alluring man in front of the church. At least his voice still filled your ears with song.

“Heavenly Father, we are gathered here today, in your house, in the name of your Son to receive the Body and Blood of Christ…” you decide it won’t be such a terrible sin to sneak a peek during prayer. You lift your head up to catch another glimpse at the ethereal creature leading prayer while he wasn’t looking.

But he was looking. Right at you as he continued to recite, “We are all sinners, and we are all in need of your grace and forgiveness.” You start to think about how much you needed his grace, when you pinch yourself for the blasphemy.

You’re still staring at each other as he finishes, “We pray that You will bless this communion and that it will deepen our relationships with You.” You instantly feel heat in your gut when you wonder just how deep it can go..

You think you see him grin slightly, but he pulls his eyes away from yours and you quickly put your head back down.

“In Your Blessed Name, Amen.” He ends. “Amen”, the church responds in unison and you squeak it out as well.

The first pew stands and approaches the front of the church, choir boys retrieving the communion goods. You notice that there is a split in the line as one is given the small wafer and grape juice shot by Father Steen and the other line the new deacon.

You can’t keep your eyes off him as he offers the sacrament to each person in line. He is taking longer than Father Steen, seeming to ask questions before presenting the body and blood of a savior.

As it came to be your pew’s turn, you stood. With only a few people in front of you, you studied Miguel’s figure in short glances.

Along with being a towering figure, he was a wide one as well. Muscles filled in the long-sleeved black button down shirt. His large upper body tapered off into a slim waist, tucked neatly into dark pants. A belt accentuated the fit waist even further. Your eyes trailed quickly across the thick neck that was accessorized by the all too familiar white collar of priesthood. When you were just behind one more person, your eyes fell to the floor.

Part of you wished you would be on Father Steen’s side as you feel as though you’re about to burst from this proximity of the giant man. He was bent over speaking to an elder of the church, giving her a soft smile as she blessed him for coming to ‘our little church.’

The man in line in front of you stood to Father Steen and the woman was letting Mr. O’Hara go from a sweet embrace.

Thank God, you guessed, for the years of attending communion as your muscle memory tore your legs from their form rooted position at the altar.

You approached the tall figure and your eyes are locked on the lips of the man in front of you. You see them move, hearing nothing but the beating of your heart in your eardrums.

“I-I’m sorry. What?” You sputter the words and heat creeps into your chest and face.

A soft chuckle escapes his full lips and he smiles as he repeats, “What is your name?”

You give it to him. And he says it. The way your name sounds in his music makes you smile up at him. He holds your gaze for a moment before speaking again.

“The Body of Christ.” He extends his hand in an upward position, the white wafer between his index finger and thumb.

You bow your head slightly in reverence of the offering. As you start to pull your head up again, his pinky and ring finger catch under your chin, lifting your face the rest of the way.

You breathe out a small gasp and open your mouth. He seems to mirror the action slightly as his own mouth drops slightly open. You extend your tongue a little as he places the thin wafer onto it.

His gaze is heavy as he watches you take the offering into your mouth. Your breath hitches when he runs his thumb across your pouted bottom lip, catching some saliva with it.

“Amen.” You respond and it’s not until he pulls his hand from your face when you turn to grab a small glass of grape juice. “The Precious Blood.” You hear him say behind you as you bring the glass to your lips, relishing the sweet refreshment.

Your face is red hot as you turn to walk back to your pew, ignoring your mother’s glances as she had already been back to her seat.

The burning in your cheeks is even more fiery as it dawns on you that the whole church saw the exchange. You hope, you pray, that it was perceived as a normal moment between a new Shepard and a member of his flock.

Communion wraps up and Father Steen takes a seat behind the the new head of church as he begins his sermon. The slight pressure of his thumb on your bottom lip created a pool of heat in your belly that wouldn’t go away.

You try to pay attention to the Good Word, you really do, but your mind is other places. Definitely not holy places.

Maybe coming to church won’t be too bad after all…

[08melancholie]

Lessen your Stress. — Dutch Van der Linde/Micah Bell/Reader

tags: Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Smut, Shameless Smut, Porn, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Sex, Spoilers, dont read if you havent finished chapter 6, theres spoilers to it that youll regret, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Orgasm, Multiple Orgasms, Mildly Dubious Consent, Abuse of Authority, Authority Figures, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Spit as Lube, Lube, Come as Lube, precum still counts i hope, Not Beta Read, no beta we die like micah bell

summary: What's one way to relieve the stress of losing your family, friends and entire gang you spent decades building? Dutch assumes it's getting his best friend to fuck his other still-devoted follower with him. It's another power trip of his you will never refuse.

a/n: initially the idea was reader and micah both trying to fight over dutch but then i was like why do we have to fightttt just let them both ruin users guts..... so here we are now. disclaimer: ive literally never written a threesome, i dont know what im doing honestly.... thank you to that one user on here who inspired this.

this is my longest fic up to date... yeah okay lets go touch grass.

words: 5,043 | AO3 LINK

A heap of shouting, spilling of secrets and killing later, the three of you regroup, all alone. Death is haunting you; you almost feel their blood on your hands, for some reason. You can't pinpoint why, but you feel guilty. Might be the fact you're still following Dutch, after he got them all killed.

Dutch might have officially lost his mind, right? You sometimes really wonder how he's made it this far, with such a good gang. Well, until now anyways. It's not until now that you notice a small flip in his head; a switch turning on for the first time. He's sat across from you, only a small fire between yourselves that lights up a small fraction of the area around you; up on a mountain, a small indent into the rocks it's built of serving as a cave of sorts. You're on the other side of the fire, laying down and watching Dutch really think for the first time, in a while. Your head is supported with the satchel you carry around your torso, visibly more uncomfortable than the plush pillows inside your old tent, now left behind. Sat behind you both is none other than Micah; staying forever loyal to the black-haired man lost in his own thoughts, his own pondering whilst his eyes illuminate the fire between your bodies. Micah is quiet; in fact, everyone is. Nobody dares say a word—not you, not Micah, especially not Dutch. Dutch doesn't feel grief, oh no; that isn't what this can be. You'd think that leaving two of your sons to die even after having the choice to save them both would make a man go crazy, but Dutch is clearly too far gone for that.

The fire crackles again, and you can't stand the silence any longer, opening your mouth to speak up. "We'll be fine, Dutch. Don't stress so much."

His head perks up from the fire, the flame-ridden irises of his catch your own. "Fine?" He repeats after your reassurance—not sounding all that reassured. You swallow and nod, always feeling so small under that dark gaze of his. "I would love to have even an ounce of your optimism." He barks, and you sink even lower. Well, it was a good try, if nothing.

He and Micah share a look, and it all goes quiet again. Fire crackles; animals howl in the distance; shrubbery whistles under the small wind blowing through the area. And all is quiet.

It seems as you'll be spending the rest of the night in here, so you decide to rest your exhausted body for today. You toss over and get as comfortably as one can, making an attempt at sleeping off the sour mood and thick tension in the air.

Your slumber only lasts you a few mere hours, both the very early morning sun picking at your eyes and gloved hands on your bare skin breaking you away from the little sleep you managed yourself. You grumble, turning to lay on your back. "Get'cho ass up," Micah, standing over you, takes a step back and moves his hands off you, the leather material slipping away from your waist. You sit up and rub your knuckles into your eyes, taking your satchel from underneath where your head was and standing up. "hoping you enjoyed Colter, darlin'." Oh, Colter; if hell was an icy, snowy blizzard, you'd assume they were talking about that part of West Grizzlies.

"Don't tell me we're going back." You hold off on groaning—only briefly as Micah nods and you can't help yourself, not at all fond of going back there again. "Why West Grizzlies, anyways?" You ask, watching him kick at the burnt-out campfire from last night.

Micah stomps out the ashy, black logs, turning back over to you with a shrug. "Dutch says so." Of course he does.

You hold back on rolling your eyes. "He at least in a better mood than yesterday?" You ask, very much still remembering his bite back to your simple attempt at making the situation you three were currently in a little more bearable. Micah starts walking off while talking to you, and you follow close behind, leaving the makeshift cave.

"Wouldn't put ma' money on it," He responds, voice getting quieter the closer he leads you towards Dutch—smoking a cigar, per the usual—and your three horses. "don't test yer luck, hm?" He gives a low chuckle, and you just sigh. Snow; low temperatures; blizzards; all things you wanted to leave and forget in Colter. But, here you were.

Dutch gives an acknowledging nod to both of you, which you swiftly return. "We ready to go, then?" Micah gives him another nod, and walks up to Baylock. You follow to your own horse, petting it briefly before getting up onto the saddle, mounting up as the two of them soon do the same.

The three of you start the long journey back up towards the mountains; almost feeling that familiar deja-vu-feeling kicking in.

The ride is long and definitely not friendly; the moment your horses get you to the snow, the wind picks up and so does the snow, plowing down on all six of you. It's almost unbearably annoying, having to ride with one hand on your reins and one covering the top of your eyebrows to block out the snow from your vision. It's only a long while later that the three of you get up on the snow-covered mountain of your liking, finding an abandoned area with a cabin, definitely big enough for the three of you, for now.

The three of you hitch your horses safely into a small stable-like area, making sure they wouldn't be cold in their spots. Afterwards, one after another, you enter the cabin and inspect it; it's a medium-sized hut-type room, a few cots still stable enough to sleep in and a kitchen on the other side, most cabinets left open and empty. Mere minutes of searching left you with a few cans of fruit and vegetables, but between you three, hunting will definitely be a must for nourishment. At least theres a run-down fireplace you can use to warm up your shivering bodies. Dutch sends Micah to get firewood, instructing you to work with him and make the place look a bit less messy. And, three of you get to work.

It isn't exactly homey, but it'll do. Can't be picky now, can you? You had a home, and it was Dutch's own fault everything at 'home' went to shit.

It's been about a week since, and you've gotten used to the spot you three settled into, you could even start calling it home. Well, no—nothing will ever replace the home that the gang provided, but that's something you'll have to simply cope with. You're still following Dutch, so really, do you miss them that much? Your trail of thought is broken up by the sound of the creaky cabin door opening, raising the volume of the small blizzard going on outside briefly.

Dutch and Micah enter after another, closing the door of the small cabin and blocking out the sound of wind outside. Your head perks up from the small book you were examining at the sound, and you nod in greeting. "Hey," Your gaze goes back to the book until Dutch clicks his tongue at you.

"Eyes up here."

You don't take even a second to comply, meeting his eyes but occasionally drifting them to Micah. You're slightly confused, they're acting odd. "You need something, Dutch?"

"Stand up."

Every command sends a small shiver to your spine, that much is sure. You place the book down and rise from your seat on the creaky cot, taking a step towards them to stand before the two men. Your compliance and submissiveness always sends one side of Dutch's mouth up slightly. "Got a.. proposition for you. Well... Not exactly, anyways." Micah matches Dutch's dark chuckle after the leader speaks up again, both looking down at you. "Listen now, it's been pretty cold, hasn't it, my dear?" As Dutch speaks to you, your eyes stay glued on him; but you can see Micah taking slow steps away from the leader, and around you. You focus on Dutch again, nodding. "That's what we thought. You see," He then takes a step closer to you, gloved hands clasping together in front of you. "we can keep ourselves warm without wasting so much firewood." At Dutch's words, you can definitely feel Micah so much closer to you, from behind your back. You're starting to feel something bubble in your abdomen; was it nervousness, anxiety? Lust, arousal? You couldn't exactly tell.

"Tell me, my dear," Another two steps; one in front of you, one behind you. You feel like you're being circled by sharks in an ocean, hunters on prey, making you feel small again. "you're a smart girl; you do know what I mean, don't you?" Oh, you do. You know it all too well as you've imagined it one too many times—late at night in your tent, your hands on yourself underneath the blanket, muffling the moans of their names into your palm—so it's not an unfamiliar feeling. Your words seem to only fail you further the more he speaks, so you just nod again. His moustache follows the curve of his lips when that devilish smirk arises again. "Thought so. Now..."

His gloves glide over your shoulders, leather on leather as he stands right in front of you now. "And surely, you wouldn't mind trying this new warm-up with us, would you?"

Like a cat playing with a mouse it's caught, toying with it until it breaks. Except, it's two big cats and one meek little mouse. A hot breath glides down to you, right over your shoulder when Micah draws himself closer, and you feel stuck in your spot between them—even more so when Micah places his gloved hands down to your sides, almost kneading at your waist. Now, how could you ever say no? It's Dutch Van der Linde and Micah Bell. For one, you've been imagining this scenario in the comfort of your tent, late into the many nights that turned very hot, very quickly. But also, do you really have a choice? Your boss; your leader, asking such a vulgar and intimate thing of you? What would he say if you refused? Would he let you refuse? Is this all another power-trip he'll hold over your head?

No time for questions when Micah squeezes your waist to bring you back to reality. "He asked 'ya a question, doll." He purrs—its low and sultry, right next to your ear, accompanied by another knead to your body. You feel almost lightheaded by your current situation. Your hands have been unconsciously balled-up, digging into your trousers in an attempt to ground yourself. "C'mon, answer the man." And all you can manage is a nod, again. A moan would probably leave your mouth if you opened it, which.. would also be an answer. Your nod was really all it took, a silent consent more than enough for Micah's hands to travel to your hips and for Dutch's to find the sides of your neck.

"Good girl, always listening to me like this. I know you wouldn't disobey."

The feeling is indescribable, really—Micah touches you with urgency and carelessness, almost selfishly and greedily; his hands map out the contour of your body, almost as if trying to mould your curves to his liking. Dutch, however, takes it hellishly slow; thumbs brush over the front of your neck while the tips of his other fingers dig into the sides, almost as if trying to coax you to relax into whatever they have planned for you. "Oh, she's good, boss." Whenever Micah speaks, it ends up right next to your ear, and you feel that familiar shiver down your spine. An agreeing chuckle leaves Dutch's mouth, which is very close to your face; your own lips. You're clueless as to what you have to do—should you stay stiff? Touch one of them? Say anything at all to their comments and wandering touches?

Dutch's slow pace slips up when he can't hold himself back from giving himself a taste of yourself, dipping his head down to latch onto your lips. It's nice and quick, and your hands find themselves creeping up his coat and resting on his shoulders, whereas his move under your jacket and place themselves on your ribs and under your chest. Micah is pressed right up to your back now, one hand leaves your hip to move your hair away from your neck, sliding your jacket collar down as he starts to pepper the side of your neck in kisses, occasionally sucking on the skin while pressing his hips to your backside—you can already feel him through both of your clothes. Dutch takes a moment to lick your lip, coaxing you to open your mouth up for him. You comply and your lips part an opening for Dutch's tongue, hands squeezing at his shoulders.

His tongue explores around your mouth with profound efficiency; with experience. It makes the feeling in your abdomen all the more prominent, and you slowly feel a heat rushing to it. Micah isn't any worse either, the mixture of his gentle kisses, rough sucks and sometimes licks up your neck all make you more worked up than you'd ever want to imagine. He's still pressed up to your rear, hands at the very top of your outer thighs, roughly handling you like previously. Then, Dutch starts unbuttoning your jacket. Slowly, each one gets undone, and your jackets pools between yours and Micah's boots, who carefully kicks it aside, just to continue marking up your neck. His stubble and beard occasionally brushes against your sensitive neck, making you let out little sounds into Dutch's mouth. Oh, how they're enjoying this.

Dutch momentarily breaks away from you, leaving you to finally breathe in. "You know, I always liked how you followed me so blindly," Dutch's hands move up and brush over your chest, then cup both of the muscles. "it was so damn hard to not take you right then and there, in camp." You gasp and sigh when his hands start massaging and fondling you. This much foreplay has never gotten you so worked up in your life, and you can definitely feel the dampness between your legs growing with each moment. Then, Micah's hands move. They're getting impatient, seen so by the man behind you who starts groping your rear, breathing oh-so-sweetly down your neck. "I'mma have my fun with'chu, sweet thin'." His hums have goosebumps running up your body. His hands squeeze your ass a final time before moving, sliding down onto your inner thighs. You almost think that he can tell how wet you are, from the low laugh he lets out into your neck.

Impatience really overtakes both of them when they break away and start stripping. Coats, vests, undershirts, trousers; all the many layers you need to survive the coldness of West Grizzlies. Once they're almost bare, left in their underpants, they walk to one of the cots and coax you to follow, taking a seat next to each other and gesturing for you to stand in front of them. "Your turn, my dear." Dutch commands, leaning back slightly.

"Make sure to give us a good show, darlin'." Micah adds, following Dutch and also leaning back. And a good show, they shall receive. You start with your undershirt, slowly and almost teasingly unbuttoning it, exposing yourself inch by inch, moment by moment. "Oh, she's good." Micah purrs to Dutch, looking at you intently and never breaking his eyes away from your body. Dutch gives an agreeing hum, nodding to the other mans' words as you move to your jeans, shrugging your undershirt off while undoing the restraints of your jeans. You slip them off and toss both clothing articles to your jacket, standing in only your garments, now only covering your chest and mound. Their eyes are still so predatory, it's almost killing you. Then, finally, Dutch gestures with his hand for you to move closer, and you step up right in front of them. They part slightly to the side, and Micah pats the space between them on the bed. You understand instantly and comply just as quickly, sitting between them now. "Attagirl... how'd 'ya train 'er to listen so well, boss?"

Neither of them say more, as Micah leans in to get his lips onto yours himself now, kissing you with speed and want; need. Dutch's hands go to your back, fiddling with your bra to get it off of you. Oh, but the best part is Micah's hands; one reaches down between your legs instantly, swiping across your slit over your undergarments. "Oh shit, 'yer this damn wet already?" Both men laugh in sync, dark and low chuckles filling the cabin. His fingers find your clit under the fabric and start rubbing, coaxing you to moan into his mouth which you do. He loves how your meek little gasps and whimpers echo down his throat, and he rubs faster. The other hand of his tangles itself in your hair, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. Dutch finally undoes your bra clasps, working it off of you without disturbing Micah and his workings on you. Your bra is tossed elsewhere, and one of Dutch's hands instantly finds your chest, fondling one while latching his mouth onto the other. Your hands grip one shoulder of theirs each, nails digging into the skin as your moans vibrate into Micahs mouth, hips already twitching into his two fingers working your bundle of nerves perfectly. Micah only breaks himself off your lips for a brief moment, "Can't wait to see this pretty cunt stretch around me." his mouth is back on yours, and the sentence alone has you grinding into his two fingers. Where's your dignity now?

Dutch's lips kiss around your nipple, teeth graze and pull oh-so-perfectly, and you already feel like you're close. They handle you with very different paces and things in mind; Micah is clearly trying to humiliate, get you to cum for him as quick as he can to give his ego a boost. Dutch however, he's now teasing; torturously slow pace on both of your tits, yet it works you up just as well as Micah's finger and mouth. And both are equally as blissful.

"Think she's ready for us?" Micah slows his fingers down and moves away from your lips to Dutch's question.

"Oh, surely, see how she's try'na fuck herself on my fingers? Poor, little thing. Bet she wants more."

"Well," Dutch leans away from your chest, standing to get his undergarments off. It's not long before Micah follows, and you can barely look at them; nude as the days they were born, with two almost equally as big cocks twitching for you, some precum at both their tips. It's a sight. "reckon she knows what she has to do—" He turns from Micah to yourself. "—doesn't she?" You swallow. Call it practice for what's to come, literally.

You shuffle off of the bed, and your knees meet the wood floors. Their grins down at you leave your panties practically leaking your own arousal. Looking between them, unsure where to start, you choose the leader—obviously. You get on-level with his hips, placing your hands on his thighs. "Oh, now don't leave my partner out, my dear." Dutch takes one of your hands by the wrist, guiding it to Micah's lower abdomen. "Show us both some love, baby." You can barely breathe at this point, and your hands might even be trembling slightly. Now, you've given maybe one blowjob/handjob in your life; but both, at the same time? This is overwhelming. Nonetheless, can't disappoint your boss, now can you? You push your thoughts down and slide your hand around Micah's shaft, running your thumb over his precum-covered tip to slicken it slightly, while simultaneously licking a stripe up the underside of Dutch's cock, collecting the leaky substance for a taste. Their faces are full of arousal and pure bliss, they almost make you feel proud. Dutch raises a hand to run through your hair, tugging on it. "We're old, impatient men, my darlin'. Get to it."

You take half of Dutch in your mouth, and start pumping your hand up and down Micah, earning a few praising groans and another tug to your hair, trying to draw you closer. You take Dutch until he hits the back of your mouth, and you barely suppress gagging on him. Don't need to inflate his ego that much. You move and bob your head, saliva slickening Dutch's dick up and painting your lips, some gathering at the corners of your mouth. Your hand works Micah in a slightly faster pace, seeing as it's easier to pump your hand over his shaft than take one in your mouth—especially one Dutch's size. You're used to average men, so this might as well even be nice. Not so much when he'll be stretching you open, but we'll get to that problem later. You continue your demonstrations, getting both of them to groan and even chuckle sometimes, looking down at you. They always looked down at you, you knew so much—but only ever figuratively. Never literally.

It's not long before Dutch grabs your head and just fucks himself into your mouth at his pace, which makes it easier to focus on your hand that's working Micah. You increase the pace of your hand, occasionally teasing the tip to see it twitch before continuing. "Wouldn't be surprised if you was a whore before 'ya joined us, so good at this." Micah's comment should make you mad, but you're definitely more turned on than anything. "Keep working dem pretty fingers around me, 'm close." And you absolutely will.

Dutch, however, doesn't give you a warning like Micah; he suddenly cums down your throat with a groan, and you have to focus on not gagging all over his dick as it empties itself out into your mouth, and you swallow every drop like if it were holy water. Unfortunately, you're not given a breather when he withdraws his hips from your mouth, as Micah pulls your hand away from his cock and brings your closer to it, grasping your jaw and squeezing so that your lips part. "Open." You don't feel like being painted all over with his cum, so you comply instantly, and he jerks himself a few times before spilling into your mouth like Dutch, your hands finding his thighs to brace yourself.

"Damn, she's good." Dutch seats himself back on the cot with a small creak, palming himself—somehow still semi-hard. Micah lets go of your jaw after he's spent, and you can't stop yourself from coughing as you swallow practically every drop, only a few around your mouth still. Micah chuckles down at you before grabbing you by the sides, his hands grasping your waist as he brings you back to your feet. "Come on then, you ain't done yet, or are 'ya, babydoll?" You're guided over to Dutch, turned to face him as both men help position you over him to straddle the leader. Micah's hands are replaced by Dutch's ones, who immediately moves your panties off and guides your folds around his shaft to slicken himself up again. "Still practically dripping. Oh, you poor thing. We won't be selfish no longer, my dear, you shall get your own, too." His tip slides to your entrance, and you have to grasp his shoulders to keep yourself steady, your lips slightly parted in pleasure. Slowly, Dutch's tip presses into you, and you squeak out a moan as you feel that small stretch you were dreading. "I'll go slow, don't wanna split our new toy in half, do we darling?" Well, that's exactly how you're feeling, oddly enough.

You're gasping and moaning as every inch of his disappears into your slick walls, the lewd noises mixing with Dutch's small praise and breathy exhales as you sink down on his cock, feeling it twitch inside you a few times. "Good girl, taking all of me like that." He gives you a moment to adjust before lifting your hips up and slamming right back down, earning a strained moan out of you, nail indents marking his shoulders up as they dig into the flesh, which just makes him laugh. "Love how tight you are, like it's sucking me right in. Your cunt loves me stretching you out, huh." His hips slowly begin to slap against you, filling the cabin with the suggestive noises of skin-on-skin and moans.

As you finally get used to his size, you feel hands on your waist from behind. You almost forgot Micah was there, seeing how quiet he was being. Then, one hand trails down to your rear, and a thumb circles your anus. "Can't leave me out again, can 'ya?" His thumb slowly draws itself into you, and you have to bite down on Dutch's shoulder. Jesus, you did not expect them to try and fuck you at the exact same time, even less from behind. He briefly extracts his thumb to spit at your entrance, circle it and then stick it right back in, trying to loosen your muscles up for his—much fucking bigger, may you add—member. They find a similar pace, Dutch is rutting you down onto his dick while Micah's thumb stretches your other hole out, readying it for his cock which is already leaking in anticipation. You brace yourself when he moves his thumb out and spits again, this time on his own cock to moisten it up again, mixing the saliva with his precum. Then, his tip slaps against your ass a few times, before it slides to your opening. Dutch has slowed his thrusts down to let Micah get in as well, and you haven't stopped biting at his shoulder since you started, almost drooling around it. Even if it's only the tip, as soon as Micah eases it in, you shudder and gasp into Dutch's flesh, biting down harder as your asshole feels every little stretch it's getting from Micah's thick cock. Thankfully, it's sliding in somewhat-easily after a few moments, Dutch's hands squeezing your hips as he shushes you to relax you, and Micah's caressing your backside as he slowly sinks into you.

The first thrust is the worst, obviously. You almost immediately shiver when Micah slowly slips out of you, to the tip, before drawing his hips right against your ass again. Dutch coos into your ear to keep you collected as Micah gets you used to his size, kissing your slightly sweaty spine briefly. "Come on, 'ya can take me, girlie." He sinks his whole length into you, almost as breathless as you. Then, they slowly find a synced pace and fuck into you from both holes as you gasp against Dutch's shoulder and shudder into him. "We'll let'cha cum too, don't worry doll." Micah slides a hand over to your abdomen, and his thumb circles your clit once more. You're on cloud nine—hell, you've never been high, but it's probably similar to this feeling. Your holes are tight around their cocks, all three now audibly gasping and moaning in sync. It's possibly the lewdest trio you've ever heard. With how they're thrusting into you, you're reduced to a goddamn mess; gasping, moaning their names, your cunt and anus tightening and squeezing, your mouth open and tongue slightly sticking out—you look like a dog, almost. Their bitch, that's for sure. From now on, anyways. You don't see how this could ever be a one-time-thing.

You can feel your orgasm building again, and you've honestly been doing pretty well, all things considered. "Can't cum in that pretty cunt, but I can back here." Micah's comment runs goosebumps over your body, and you already dread the feeling of that. His breath brushes over your skin as he kisses up your back again, reaching the nape of your neck and grazing his teeth over it, all while his hips slam into your ass. Dutch is stroking your sides, his cock twitching even more inside you. He's close—Micah's close—you're close—you might all just come at the same time.

That's exactly how it goes down. You're first to hit your orgasm, one that causes you to squeeze around their cocks once more, which is enough for both of them to hit their peaks with you, Micah staying buried deep in your guts while Dutch pulls out and jerks himself dry over your mound and his stomach, gasping for air in sync with you. Micah draws his spent member out of your asshole slowly, some of his cum leaking out and down your thigh. He takes a breather on your back and hugs around your waist, heaving into your spine. Your body relaxes over Dutch's, who can barely hold all three of you up. It takes all three of you a moment of no movement to calm down from your highs, before Micah is first to move off your back and help you off Dutch, slowly seating you next to him. "Well, goddamn, princess. Dutch was right; 'ya didn't disappoint for even a moment." He hums, getting to the nightstand and tossing a rag over your stomach. He shuts the drawer and sits down next to you, cleaning Dutch's spent off of your stomach while you gather your thoughts, before wiping his shaft and tossing it over to Dutch.

"I'm sure you know we aren't leaving you be after that performance, my dear." Dutch adds as he wipes him self clean, and you just wordlessly nod, laying back slightly. "I guessed so." He chuckles, and Micah chimes in with his own breathy laugh, standing to walk over and grab everyone's clothes, giving them out to you and Dutch before starting to get dressed himself.

And you're damn sure you won't want to stop anytime soon either.

Kudos on AO3 appreciated, as always! This fic killed me omg its my longest one up to date and its got me in a chokehold. fuck i wanna be between them so bad.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[astrologydayz]

ASTROLOGY FUCKING NOTES2🖤💀

Nobody really knows a person with a 12th House Sun🤔🤔. They hide themselves really well, & project themselves as someone they're truly not. They don't do it on purpose, they're just so fucking private. My brother actually has this placement, and we're practically twins, but I still feel like I don't know him, AT ALL. They hide themselves, because they're afraid that their true selves won't be "enough"/won't be "liked". BUT OFC IT WILL, & IF NOT, THEN FUCK THEM, BABE.

MOON CONJUNCT/SQUARE SATURN people can hate being alone 4 the first two decades of their lives, but later learn 2 be their own best friend, & love it. They "mother themselves 2 life/back2life". They learned the hard way, that everything is better when u don't put your faith in just anybody. They also learned not 2 trust from a young age, because of their mother/father or both parents💀💔.

I've seen people say "that u can choose not to access that specific energy in your chart, if you don't want 2"🤣. Like u can choose 2 get a million dollars tmrw?, IF YOU WANT 2?🤣 come on. Natal charts are a tool 2 c who u are, why you developed that way/what “happens in your life”, and why you're here with the help of astrology. No matter the aspect, it will be present at some point. A chart never lies🔮🤷‍♀️.

MOON SQUARE/QUINCUNX VENUS IN A MAN'S NATAL CHART tells us that he finds it hard 2 understand women. He has "problems" when it comes 2 feminine energies, &with the women he's surrounding himself with🤔. He can have a hate/love relationship 2/with women💋.

VENUS CONJUNCT/TRINE/QUINTILE MONY ASTEROID - 7782) IN SYNASTRY, will cause the asteroid person 2 provide the Venus person with a lot of material gifts👠🛍💄.

IDK why anybody would say that your MC has NOTHING to do with how u look/how people see u! Lol okay. My mentor must have been on drugs when she was taught everything + in all those 43 years she's been in practice then. gtfo. Let me give u an example. 👇🏼

I’ll just tell you everything I see with this aspect.

Kim K = Venus in Virgo in 9th house at 19 degrees - Libra degree) conjunct her MC in Virgo at 28 degrees - cancer degree). She's famous 4 her beautiful looks/people finding her beautiful. she always does things to look "YOUNGER, cosmetic procedures etc. 2 take years off! Growing a big following worldwide of young people looking up 2 her/her being idolized by them. Famous 4 being beautiful/4modelling/fashion/cosmetics - being in Venusian businesses/4 who she dates. she also takes after her MOM, with her looks!!! I know her mom was/is also her manager, & I would include this here, cuz u can actually see that, but I would have to go into details again. Idk if u would find that boring?? as I already wrote a lot. Thanks for making it this far😂.

ASTEROID MEMORIA (1247) IN SYNASTRY can tell u why u feel like you’ve met the other person before, or what memories that r the most "memorable" with the other person🧡🪐🔮.

ASTEROID FANATICA - 1589) IN SYNASTRY tells u what really fascinates u about the other person/what u can become obsessed with, when it comes 2 the other person❕

IF U HAVE A SYNASTRY ASPECT/OR ASPECTS with someone, and u also have it in your natal chart = a very important person you're dealing with! They'll teach u whatever the aspect is/aspects are! And they're meant 2 be the one who teaches it 2u/ or meant 2 be the one who makes that aspect exist in your life. (good or bad).

VENUS OPPOSITE VERTEX/CONJUNCT ANTI-VERTEX IN SYNASTRY is co cute🥹, Vertex let Venus in2 their "private world". Venus is usually not the type Vertex person goes 4, but they’re mesmerised anyway!! “There’s just something unreal about Venus”.

KARMA ASTEROID - 3811) can tell you about your karma! Old karma/Karma you're creating etc. U can use it in in any chart u want2, natal charts, synastry charts, composite charts, Davidson Charts, solar return charts, lunar return charts, progressed charts, ANY CHART U WANT2 BABE!!🪐🤛💥🪐⛅☀🌊.

BLACK MOON LILITH SQUARE/QUINCUNX ASC in a WOMAN'S CHART can show problems with both genders. She can feel left out, not apart of "the group", when it comes to women. And with men = men always trying to run up on her/trying her boundaries, &they're provocative af. People can't handle her here. She will not conform to anyone. She can feel pretty fucking alone in the way she goes about her day to day life. feeling like nobody will ever understand the struggles she has/the pain she's going around with. The key here is acceptance of ones self. She cannot change herself for others sake, she will never be happy. She'll be happy when she chooses herself, & the right people will flock 2 her, right after. They'll See her light, &will not put who she is down, but CELEBRATE. It can also be the complete opposite. She can be a people pleaser, & has internal fights with herself, every day about this. Trying 2 fit in with groups, dating men who's crossing her boundaries, all the time. She either fights people, or she fights herself. SHE HAS 2 STAY TRUE2HERSELF! There will always be people hating on her, no matter how she moves. FUCK THEM. People who are meant 2 be in her life will CELEBRATE HER!! Not put who she is down/make her change. People who can't understand her = she needs2 get them the fuck out.

NEPTUNE CONJUNCT ASC can show a person living in their own "delulu world". They're not really "there" - can be seen as the "dumb blonde". Neptune can cloud their mind, every single day. They're "different"/they change all the time. They can't really be "real" with people. Trying 2 always be friends with everyone, not really having their own opinions, following the pack etc. They can 100% people please.

VALENTINE/AMOR/ 447) - 1221) CONJUNCT MC - They "look like love", &they also project it out. People think they're beautiful. But remember, even tho people know/c them like that = doesn't mean that they're really like that. That's just what they show off/how they're "known" in the eyes of the public/in their career/their surroundings💜.

SUN MAKING AN "EASY" ASPECT2 MOON does not mean that your parents like each other. I have this, and my parents literally can't stand each other. I've seen this more times than I can count. It's about your conscious ego&how you emotionally feel about the way u express yourself/with the way u "show your ego off" - "yin&Yang duality".

I HATE MOON SQUARE URANUS IN SYNASTRYYYYY. Uranus will pop in&out of the other person's life, as they desire2. The Moon person needs support&a feeling of being safe, &Uranus wants other things/aka not worried about the Moon person - Uranus is erratic. WHO GOT TIME4THAT?

MERCURY OPPOSITE NEPTUNE can show us a person being pretty good at lying/coming up with lies easily/Quickly. Having no problems with finding "excuses" 4 what they say/do, &can get other people in on it, 2 lie for them as well. It happens in periods tho, like on & off periods.

Asteroids I always look at first: Nemesis - 128) Amor - 1221), Valentine - 447), Alma - 390), Destiny - 6583), Moira - 638), Eros - 433), Karma - 3811), Kama - 1387), Close - 54902), Apollo - 1862), Child - 4580), Compassion - 8990), Angel - 11911), Yes - 7707), Boda - 1487), DNA - 55555), Fast - 27719), Prey - 6157), Not - 2857), Casanova - 7328), Fox - 16248), Savage - 29837), Pholus - 5145), Fanatica - 1589), Priapus - h22), Sado - 118230), Medea - 212), Nessus - 7066), Dejanira - 157), Hazard - 9305), Mentor - 3451), Lysistrata - 897), Bilk - 4425 - using the other person 4 own material gain).

THANKS4READING BEAUTIFUL❤️🍒 Appreciate u, always.

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 103 (Lavender is Adorable & Malcolm Follows a Lead)

Finally back home after the end of Winterfest break, Conrad caught Heather looking at her ring with a grin while she cleaned up the kitchen. "Did you think you want to set a date yet?" he asked.

She grinned, practically giddy against his charming smile. "Still no."

He laughed, heading into the living room to play with Lavender, where she sucked her slippered toe and chewed her toys. She'd sat up on her own on Boxing Day morning, but she was still more comfortable getting a bird's eye view of the world. Conrad and Heather didn't want to push her; she'd pull herself up with regularity when she had places she wanted to get to.

Heather got dressed and returned from the bedroom to find Conrad chatting with Lavender on the sofa. "It's so much fun to crawl around, sweet girl. You're gonna want to try it soon. I know it."

Heather smiled. "I thought instead of breastfeeding, I could help Lavender explore foods this morning."

Conrad set her up in the high chair as Heather opened a jar of crushed carrots. But Lavender was totally uninterested, batting away the spoon and sticking out her tongue, ejecting the orange mush from her mouth with a grimace.

Heather sighed. "I think we have a picky eater on our hands."

As it turned out, Lavender hated the texture, and sometimes the taste, of most baby foods, so Heather kept breastfeeding. "When she's ready for finger foods, maybe she'll be less picky," suggested Conrad with a hopeful smile.

Lavender's three infant quirks: Loves Wake Up Time, Picky Eater, and the lesser-noted Frequently Hiccups (because it's been mostly inconsequential since Lavender's such a happy baby).

Soon enough, Lavender was upright all the time, and Heather and Conrad chalked it up to her wanting to be tall enough to hang with Gord. The beloved Bernese loved Lavender, often moving in for pets from Lavender's tiny palms. He offered nose rubs in return while the infant giggled wildly.

Conrad, meanwhile, had chased too many leads for Rafa to precisely nowhere, and Ximena had stayed undetected throughout the holidays. As far as Rafa was concerned, he was beginning to fear he was looking for another dead body, but he couldn't let himself rest until he knew for sure.

Trying to relax in the living room with his family, he took a call from Zion Spangler. "George and his wife extended their time in Sulani," reported the young detective. "He won't be coming home for questioning any time soon." Conrad hung up and rubbed his temples in frustration.

Heather frowned in their crowded living room. Ash was practicing a speech for class in the mirror and Lavender was playing with Gord, so she couldn't talk to Conrad about the case. He hadn't shared much, but the police detail lingered outside their home and the clinic, so she knew Ximena was still at large.

She wanted him to be able to find Rafa. She knew how much it meant to him, and how it tore at him not to be any closer to learning what happened. They were both ready to put all of this past them.

In San Myshuno, Malcolm had done some digging into the murder at the docks from his penthouse. Law enforcement wouldn't speak to him about the confidential file, but he'd managed to uncover George Brindleton's shady investment in the company's crooked books, and tracked down the man himself at his tropical villa in Sulani.

"Thank you for talking to me today, Mr. Brindleton. I gather with your secrecy, you don't talk to many reporters."

"This is off the record," grunted George. "I want to get to know you before I tell you anything about my work. You are a Landgraab, after all."

He frowned. "Malcolm's fine."

"I told the detectives I don't know a single damn thing about a murder at the docks. I'm a good businessman and I know where to trim the fat from my investments. Demand. Supply. It's not my fault that for the first time in decades, someone died of anything other than old age or rabies in Brindleton Bay."

"Do they think it was someone from your company?"

"No, they've asked what we know about some cartel called Los Tigres. Hey! Hey Rafael, bring me another soda with extra lime!" He turned his attention back to Malcolm over their video connection with a sneer. "The wait staff at this villa is horrible, but the booze is strong and the sun is hot!"

Malcolm curled his lip at flagrant George Brindleton, taking note of the name of the cartel. "I'm sure the wait staff would be better at a more expensive villa, Mr. Brindleton."

George sneered. "You're a punk reporter, I see. Think you're better than me just because you've got that Landgraab elitism running through your veins?"

Malcolm shrugged. He'd always been a snob, and most people were right when they called him an ass, but he'd found reasons to smile after becoming a father and marrying his wife. He didn't want to spend his night arguing with an angry old man. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Brindleton. I think I have everything I needed from you, but if you have more to say, by all means, call the news station anytime."

"What does some big city national reporter want with a story about a body in Brindleton Bay, anyway?"

"The story is important, but my son lives in Brindleton Bay. On a personal level, I care that he's safe, and if your company isn't doing their job, I think my mother would love to know there's an open business opportunity at the docks. Demand and supply, and all that."

"You have a son in Brindleton Bay?"

"I do. The local vet is his mother."

George froze as the waiter named Rafael approached with his drink.

"Your son is Heather Nesbitt's son?" He stammered. "Listen, there's no need to start a competing security company in Brindleton Bay...as a matter of fact, I'm gonna tell my guy to go back to the old schedule, effective immediately, so don't even bother."

George ended the video call with a click. The names of Heather's kids had been redacted in the restraining order, but the order had covered the school and the daycare, as well as the house. It's not like he really needed to be able to single them out from any of the other squealing brats in his town - despite his threats outside the courthouse, he preferred to stay away from all of them.

George was more focused on the bigger picture than scaring kids - asserting his importance to the safety of Brindleton Bay served him far better. He'd expected a rise in hooliganism, not a murder, when he pulled his guys from the docks, but the sequence of events had played right into his hands while he sipped cocktails in the sunshine.

He had no reverence for most of the Brindleton Bay Police Force. They'd been in his pocket for decades and they needed him now more than ever. But the Landgraabs were a bigger fish than any he pulled from the Simlandia Sea in his fishing days.

He smiled, taking the drink from Rafael. "Thank you, amigo. Here's a tip to keep 'em coming."

June stood and pleaded with her husband. "Don't drink all morning, George!"

"Don't tell me what to do, June."

Rafa smiled. "Yes, sir. I'll bring round number two before you fall asleep in the lounge chair again for your afternoon nap."

With the Sulani sun beating down on his forehead, George Brindleton considered what he'd learned from Malcolm Landgraab. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: Some may recall my side project to flip Malcolm's evil trait to good. That hasn't happened yet but he has added cheerful as a bonus trait - Snob, Evil, Music Lover, and Cheerful is who Malcolm is right now. Good-hearted Miko helping change him is maybe sorta slowly working! He did finish with George and did the evil cackle animation because George was mad and he reveled in it, however...

WCIF Serving Poses: @tenyrasims' Serving With a Smile Posepack and @someone-elsa's cocktails tray accessory (also available at the link). Seriously fantastic, thank you so much for creating and sharing this! it's exactly what I was looking for when I needed to shoot this scene.

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week - June 26, 2023

1. California's Lake Oroville now at 100% capacity following megadrought; 1st time since 2019

Once a stark example of the drastic effects of California's yearslong megadrought, Lake Oroville has rebounded and is once again filled to capacity, data from the state's Department of Water Resources shows.

Lake Oroville, the state's most beleaguered and second-largest reservoir, is at 100% of its total capacity and 127% of where it should be around this time of year - a huge boost after the climate-change-fueled megadrought sucked away nearly all its water supply.

2. Blue whales are thriving in California waters – the story of their amazing comeback

If you’ve recently taken a Southern California whale-watching tour, you may have been lucky enough to come across earth’s largest animal. Pacific blue whales grow up to 110 feet long and can reach a weight of 200 tons. Decades ago, blue whales were nearly hunted to extinction, and although still listed as protected under the Endangered Species Act, marine biologists and researchers are heralding a “conservation success story,” unlike any other.

According to a study published in 2014 by researchers at the University of Washington, the West Coast blue whale population has bounced back at tremendous levels, recouping 97% of its pre-whaling population

3. Newborn left in Florida Safe Haven Baby Box adopted by the firefighter who found her

Zoey is now 5 months old. Courtesy Zoey's family

A firefighter in Ocala, Florida, was pulling an overnight shift at the station in January when he was awakened at 2 a.m. by an alarm. He recognized the sound immediately. A newborn had been placed in the building’s Safe Haven Baby Box, a device that allows someone to safely and anonymously surrender a child — no questions asked.

“To be honest, I thought it was a false alarm,” said the firefighter, who wished to remain anonymous to protect his family’s privacy. But when he opened the box, he discovered a healthy infant wrapped in a pink blanket.

That baby would become his daughter, Zoey.

4. Iceland suspends whale hunt on animal welfare concerns

Iceland's government said Tuesday it was suspending this year's whale hunt until the end of August due to animal welfare concerns, likely bringing the controversial practice to a historic end.

"I have taken the decision to suspend whaling" until August 31, Food Minister Svandis Svavarsdottir said in a statement. The country's last remaining whaling company, Hvalur, had previously said this would be its final season as the hunt has become less profitable.

5. He wanted to pet dogs for his 100th birthday. Hundreds lined up.

Alison Moore had a unique idea to celebrate her father's 100th birthday: a pet parade filled with as many dogs as possible. Her father, Robert Moore, has always adored dogs and wanted to pet every one he saw. So, Alison took to social media and invited the community to join in the festivities. Little did she know that over 200 dogs and their owners would gather for the heartwarming event.

The parade brought immense joy not only to Robert but also to attendees like Rodger, who has Alzheimer's disease, and his daughter Denise, who hadn't seen her father smile so much in a long time. It was a day filled with wagging tails, smiling faces, and love that made Robert's milestone birthday an unforgettable celebration.

6. Historic decision: Estonia legalizes same-sex marriage

Tuesday, the Estonian government has survived a vote of no confidence in the Riigikogu tied to amendments to the Family Law Act and related legislation, which is granting same-sex couples the legal right to wed. 55 members of the Riigikogu voted in favor of the measure, while 34 voted against.

It is proposed that the institution of marriage, as defined by family law, be modified so that  any two natural persons of legal age, regardless of gender, may marry. The words "man and woman" will be replaced with the words "two natural persons."

7. US approves chicken made from cultivated cells, the nation's first 'lab-grown' meat

For the first time, U.S. regulators on Wednesday approved the sale of chicken made from animal cells, allowing two California companies to offer “lab-grown” meat to the nation’s restaurant tables and eventually, supermarket shelves.

The Agriculture Department gave the green light to Upside Foods and Good Meat, firms that had been racing to be the first in the U.S. to sell meat that doesn’t come from slaughtered animals — what’s now being referred to as “cell-cultivated” or “cultured” meat as it emerges from the laboratory and arrives on dinner plates.

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[elysianholly]

Why Spuffy

Decided to put this here so I can find it more easily. Originally answered on r/Fanfic: What is your OTP?

Why? There are a lot of assumptions made about Spike/Spuffy fans. Like, we're just whores for good cheekbones. We're blinded by Spike's abs. We're all just abuse victims waiting to fall in love with the wrong person. And honestly, after 2+ decades of this nonsense, it'd be nice to just say: "read this then get back to me."

So. What is your OTP?

Buffy/Spike from BtVS. They've owned my heart for more than 20 years and show no signs of slowing down.

At first, it was the enemies-to-lovers thing. I've always been a sucker for that. Especially for a villain who turns to mush for a hero in the falling process. That is still true, but my love for them has become more nuanced the older I've gotten. I just turned 39; I fell in love with Spuffy when I was 17. What I love most about them today is that their history as enemies means they know each other better than anyone, have seen each other's faults, have done the worst things they could do to each other, and have a very honest, non-rosy view of their relationship. Spike is also the only man in Buffy's life (on the show; I'm not counting comics) who owns the hurt he's caused without making it her fault or imposing his view of things and convincing her he's right. He shows her that loving her doesn't always mean sacrifice or suffering, the way it was with Angel or Riley, but that she can make someone want to be better. And he also knows her well enough to know she will assume the responsibility of the soul he sought for himself (the most effective and tortuous sentence for the demon who hurt her), so he first tries to hide it from her, then encourages her when she starts dating Robin Wood that she owes him nothing, that she doesn't need to consider his feelings. It's the first time someone she's been intimate with has not been petty or jealous at the thought of her moving on. And because he has seen the best and worst in her, when he says he loves her, it's with a view of the whole person Buffy is.

And for Buffy, loving Spike is about loving herself. He was her outlet for her depression, a representation of all the bad things she thought about herself when she was at her lowest, and she punished him for that. She was conditioned to believe her friends' acceptance of her had strings attached. By Season 7, after she has come to peace with the worst thing she went through, she is no longer apologizing for herself or making excuses. She is unapologetically in charge. Loving Spike means loving the parts of her she always thought were ugly or twisted or irredeemable, going all the way back to how she carried the burden of Angel having lost his soul when she was a 17-year-old girl in love and had no idea what was going to happen. Furthermore, how she was made to feel responsible (side-eyeing Xander here; Giles and Willow get a pass but Xander was the most egregious offender). She also assumed the responsibility for her relationship with Riley falling apart even after he negged, gaslit, and cheated on her. Spike showed Buffy that she is not the problem in relationships, and allowing herself to love him meant an acceptance of self she struggled to find throughout the course of the show. In the end, after bringing out the worst in each other when they were at their worst, they learned to bring out the best in each other. It's just beautiful.

And that's why Spuffy, friends.