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dadbodbuck · 3 days ago

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could it shine down here with you?

Rating: G | WC: 1.7k | Pairing: BuckTommy

Loosely based on this post by @loulovingho!

Summary:

Tommy doesn't realize until later that he already asked for Thanksgiving off.

Read it here on Ao3 or continue below!

Tommy is five, or maybe six, and he doesn’t like Thanksgiving. His dad is screaming at his mom because the turkey isn’t thawed. He’s calling her a lot of words that Tommy thinks are really mean. Tommy’s dad yells a lot, but it’s rarely this bad. Tommy’s mom usually waits for it to blow over, but this time, Tommy watches from the living room entry as her face crumbles and she shoulders past Tommy’s dad, breezes by Tommy, and flees into their bedroom.

Tommy wants to follow her, but his dad grabs his arm, too-tight, and tugs Tommy away towards where the half-thawed turkey is laying on the ground, cold and slimy. When they get there, Tommy’s dad hands him a garbage bag and a roll of paper towels and says “Your mom needs some time alone to think about what she’s done. Clean up this mess.”

It’s okay, because later his mom comes out of the bedroom and kneels down, her eyes red and puffy, and she tells him, “I’m so sorry you had to see that, honey. You did a good job cleaning the kitchen. It’s okay, we can still have dinner, even if I messed up the turkey,” and she makes Stovetop stuffing, and takes cranberry sauce out of a can, dishing them up on a plastic plate for Tommy, and a glass plate for her.

Tommy’s not sure where his dad went, but he’s glad it’s just him and his mom for a little while.

Tommy is twelve, and he hates Thanksgiving. He hates most holidays centered around football, actually. It’s a double-edged sword—his dad gets drunk, and his dad gets riled up, and he’s either too loud and happy, or too loud and mad. The Superbowl is Tommy’s least favorite time of the year. Especially when the Rams are playing.

The Rams aren’t playing this year, but that doesn’t mean Tommy’s off the hook. Tommy brings his dad beers when his dad calls for them, doesn’t say a word to his old man, carefully doesn’t flinch when his dad yells angrily at the screen.

For the most part, Tommy sits alone in his room and looks at the picture of his mom. It’s her high school graduation, she’s gleaming in her cap and gown. Tommy misses her.

Tommy knows that his family isn’t normal. That it’s fucked up. But he also knows how to deal with his dad, especially now that his mom isn’t around to instigate anymore. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen if he gets sent to foster care. He doesn’t want to know.

Tommy also knows, somewhere, that it’s partially his own fault. Maybe if he was a better kid—someone his dad could be proud of, this wouldn’t happen. He was always doing something to incur his father’s wrath. Plus, it’s not like his dad doesn’t love him, in his own way. Tommy loves his dad, too.

Tommy makes his own Stovetop stuffing and cranberry sauce from a can. His dad doesn’t eat it, but Tommy doesn’t care, because at least he survived Thanksgiving without any more bruises.

Tommy is eighteen, and twenty-three, and thirty-one. Thanksgiving is in a shitty barracks at the base, a tiny studio in downtown LA, and the 118 firehouse. It’s spent wolfing down an MRE, trying to figure out how to get his horrible stove to work, and eating Stovetop stuffing and cranberry sauce and praying that the alarm doesn’t go off. There are the other soldiers, and Tommy’s rescue cat Teddy, and Howie.

The MRE is as it always is. You get used to the weird textures and instant coffee and chemical heat smell of the food warmer. The funny thing about Iraq, the thing that will keep Tommy awake for years and years, is that it gets cold during the winter. Tommy knew before he shipped out that he didn’t know what much about the country, but now that he’s here, he’s stuck with sick realization after sick realization. The people here are scared, and the Army isn’t helping. Tommy looks at the other soldiers in a way he shouldn’t. Civilians are dying. War is messy in a way that allows people to excuse inexcusable violence. Tommy cannot speak the language, of either the Iraqi citizens or the people he was told would be his brothers. Iraq gets cold during the winter.

Teddy is an orange beauty, with long fluffy fur and a penchant for mischief. Tommy didn’t ask for Thanksgiving off, but it’s a holiday at the Academy, apparently. So, he’s here, listening to the click of the gas range as it tries to light. Teddy watches from the tiny countertop with uncharacteristic judgment in his eyes. When the flame finally catches, Tommy laughs victoriously, and gets to work making stuffing and cranberry sauce for the first time in years. It’s not gourmet by any means, just the Stovetop and the canned stuff, but it feels like his mom. It feels like he’s talking to her again. Tommy wonders if there’s a universe out there where his mom got help before it was too late. He eats his food in the camp chair that furnishes his pathetic living room, with Teddy invading his personal space and trying to sneak a bite for himself.

Tommy keeps the tradition of making himself Stovetop and canned cranberry sauce. He keeps it the year Howie shows up at the 118 and immediately proves himself braver and stronger than Tommy ever could be. While everyone else is busy whining about missing their grandma’s mashed potatoes, Tommy scrapes together his sacred traditional Thanksgiving feast. While Tommy’s not looking, Howie steals half of it.

“Mm!” Howie sighs, “That childhood nostalgia fakeness.”

“Hey! That was mine,” Tommy says, without any real heat. He hasn’t been able to muster anything beyond mild irritation for Howie since he saved his life.

“Oh, because you were going to eat all of that in one sitting,” Howie scoffs, “I’ll pay you back your dollar for my half if you really want.”

“No, it’s fine,” Tommy huffs, scraping out the other half for his own portion. They sit at the table and eat together, and it’s the closest Tommy’s ever had to spending Thanksgiving with someone.

It’s not until they finish eating and the bell rings that Tommy realizes Howie’s the only one who hasn’t asked Tommy if he’s sad he’s missing out on the holidays.

For the most part, his Thanksgivings after the 118 are spent much the same way, but at Harbor, and alone. He gets to put his leftovers in the fridge and eat off them for a few days. Thanksgiving (save for deep fried turkey incidents) is a relatively tame holiday. No fireworks, at least.

Then, Evan.

A lot of things change for Tommy when Evan crashes into his life, all legs and a blinding smile. Evan is a whirlwind and the most beautiful man Tommy has ever seen. Evan is kind of everything.

When Tommy realizes he’s falling in love, it makes him sick to his stomach. He remembers loving his dad enough to excuse his anger, loving his mom enough to let her slip away, loving a country enough to enact its violence, loving the sense of belonging at the 118 enough to allow the kindest people he’s ever met to suffer. Tommy doesn’t love right. He can’t let Evan get tired of him and leave. He can’t poison Evan until he turns into something cruel. So Tommy breaks up with him. Evan asks him to move in, and he can feel the iron jaws of a bear trap closing around his throat, so he breaks up with him.

Tommy doesn’t realize until later that he already asked for Thanksgiving off.

(Thanksgiving came up between them for the first time when Evan asked if he wanted to do their own thing or go over to the grand 118 Thanksgiving Feast.

“I don’t know,” Evan has shrugged, “I mean, I want to spend it with you. I don’t want to pressure you into a big thing if you don’t want to, or if—if you’re used to smaller Thanksgivings. What does your family do for Thanksgiving?”

“Um,” Tommy had said, a little caught off-guard like he was every time they brushed up against the topic of family, “We didn’t really celebrate Thanksgiving. I usually just get a box of Stovetop stuffing and a can of cranberry sauce and call it a day.”

Evan had scoffed, mock-offended. “Well! In that case, we’re going. Mark your calendar. You’re going to cream your pants when you try Bobby’s turkey.”

Tommy had smiled and thought maybe. Maybe this will be the year.)

Tommy sighs and opens the box of Stovetop stuffing. His water and butter are already boiling, so he pours the mix in and watches it saturate. He stirs it and takes it off the heat to sit. A strange, painful sadness claws at the inside of his throat. It hurts. It hurts worse than it usually does.

He doesn’t think about Evan and Bobby’s allegedly orgasm-worthy turkey and Howie introducing Tommy to Jee-yun and how close they had all seemed at the hospital for Denny. He walks over to the mantle above his fireplace, with a small, framed pawprint inside, and Teddy 2021 written underneath.

Five minutes passes slowly without anyone to distract him. Tommy tries and fails not to think about every holiday he’s spent alone, or wishing he was alone. This is the first holiday he’s wished for someone in particular who wasn’t his mom or Teddy.

Tommy eats stuffing and canned cranberry sauce at his kitchen table. Somewhere, Evan is in a house warm with love. Somewhere, Evan is loved, wholly and unconditionally. Tommy’s glad people love him. He deserves to be loved.

Tommy doesn’t like watching football on Thanksgiving, so instead he puts on Mean Girls. After his stomach settles, he’s too tired to do anything but crawl into bed and sleep until his shift in the morning.

When Tommy gets to work, he’s surprised when Lucy says, “Delivery for you in the fridge, Kinard, you better eat it before I can get my hands on it.”

Inside the fridge is a glass Tupperware container wrapped in a plastic Chinese takeout bag. There’s a sticky note attached to it that says Bobby’s turkey is even better the next day.

Tommy texts Evan and asks about it. Evan doesn’t say anything back.

But he does get a text from Howie, and the timing is too quick to be coincidence. When you’re reheating it, remember to put half a teaspoon of water in the dish so it doesn’t dry everything out in the microwave.

#bucktommy #tevan #kinley #kinkley

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shotmrmiller · 2 days ago

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With Thanksgiving literally tmr, I'm curious: Who do you think at a big fest would completely clean their plate and ask for seconds?

3rds and a plate to take home, less greens more meat, ty luv.

seconds and asks if he can come by again the next day

3rds then fucks off with some bourbon straight to a chair on the porch

3rds, denied 4ths then throws away a paper plate that's been bitten into. also asks to come back the next day.

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the-duchess-of-domination · 1 year ago

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Thanksgiving

here is a Thanksgiving fantasy to put you all in the mood.

your boyfriend is a people pleaser who has a hard time saying no. he fears disappointing people, and because of that you’ve got quite the line-up of Thanksgiving dinner invites: Friendsgiving with your mutual friends, Thanksgiving with his folks, Thanksgiving at your parent’s, a Thanksgiving dinner at his work. it’s a week long affair, and you’ve even got multiple dinners in one day with little time to recover. you slave away in the kitchen, making a new dish to bring to each dinner. your boyfriend, of course, is your taste tester.

the first dinner at your parent’s house is uneventful. this is his first holiday with your family, so he wants to make a good impression. he fervently eats anything that is put in front of him, and even though he doesn’t have room left for your mother’s sweet potato pie, he eats two slices.

the next day his work is having a Thanksgiving dinner. he brings you to meet his coworkers, and he wants to schmooze and charm them so much he takes a helping of Tanya’s mash potatoes, Carl’s filling, Genevieve’s green bean casserole. Not wanting to offend anyone, he fills a flimsy paper plate with so much food that it begins to bend. against all odds, every bite ends up in his rapidly tightening belly.

now it’s Thanksgiving Day, and you’ve got his family’s Thanksgiving in the early afternoon and your mutual Friendsgiving in the evening. your boyfriend’s mother gives him hearty scoops. that’s her little boy, after all. your boyfriend is noticeably petering out, but he doesn’t want to make his mother worry. he finishes his plate with an achingly full stomach, trained from the days of when he was a kid and wasn’t allowed to leave the dinner table without finishing his supper.

when it’s time for you to head to your Friendsgiving, you drive, and he sits in the passenger seat with his head against the headrest, wincing and cringing at every pothole you hit.

“you okay?” you ask him. “you’ve been awfully quiet.”

“yeah. just tired.” he lies.

at Friendsgiving, he listlessly plays with his turkey, pushing it around his plate with a fork, an elbow on the table and a hand supporting his head. while he doesn’t empty the plate, he hardly has anything to scrape into the trash.

when everyone retires to the living room, your boyfriend disappears. you search your friend’s house and see the bathroom door is closed. you knock.

“honey?” you say.

“hm?” your boyfriend replies.

“can i come in?”

“one sec.”

when you enter your boyfriend is sitting on the edge of the tub. he stands up quickly.

“what are you doing in here?” you ask.

“i just needed a minute.”

you look down to see a sliver of his white underwear. he zips up his fly, and sucks in his distended stomach to button his pants.

“are you okay?”

“yeah. it’s nothing. i just have a stomachache.”

you find this adorable. in an effort to get on everyone’s good side, to flatter them by eating their food, your boyfriend has given himself a terrible bellyache.

while your friends laugh over a card game at the coffee table, your boyfriend is distracted on the sofa, rubbing his stomach through the pocket of his hoodie. you put your hand in the pocket and start rubbing his belly, touching his cold hand with your warm one. his poor belly is hard and tight from everything he’s eaten in the past four days.

“does it hurt bad?” you whisper, and when he nods you say “do you want to leave early?”

he shakes his head. “we’re supposed to be having fun with our friends. i don’t want us to leave on my account.”

a mutual friend brings over a slice of pumpkin pie topped with whip cream. she offers it to your boyfriend. in horror you watch your boyfriend beam a fake smile and then graciously take the plate from her. the fork goes in his mouth. you feel his body shudder and his stomach growl angrily against your hand

what will Christmas bring?

#tummy ache #belly gurgling #belly ache #feedee feeder #feedee boy #feeding kink #male feedism #bloating kink #bhm weight gain #ffa bhm #stuffed feedee #your boyfriend #sickfic #fantasies from the duchess 👑

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disneyprincemuke · 11 months ago

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santa baby * ls2

it's never fun feeling like an outsider, so you'd sworn that nobody would ever feel the way you did all those years ago

pairings: logan sargeant x platonic!femdriver

notes: hi i know i took forever to write this but uh what r u gonna do? ik u love me B)

you hum, whirling around at the camera crew settling right by the front of the mercedes racing home. “ah, it’s that time of years again, isn’t it?”

“yes! are you excited?”

you nod with a smile as you see a box being pulled out of the cart they’ve been lugging around in the paddocks for the video. “have you seen the present? got any hints for me?”

“aw, we can’t do that,” she giggles. “where’s the fun in that?”

secret santa is the yearly affair that you find yourself looking forward to as the year progresses. it’s always the santa hat and the fun of guessing who’s gotten you what this year. what used to be a silly game of gag gifts when you first started out, is now an endearing event filled with thoughtful gifts that you keep on your shelf for years to come.

last year, max had gotten your name. he is very thoughtful with his presents. his present sits at the top of your shelf: a paper mache trophy he admitted that he made with penelope (you’ve met her and she loves you) deeming you his toughest competitor in 2022.

you’re curious to see who drew your name this year.

“oh! do i get to keep this one?” you giggle as she hands you a santa hat. you pull it over your head snuggly and clap your hands. “where is it?”

“here.”

a box is handed to you, wrapped neatly in a mercedes green paper. you squeal as you take it into your hands and carefully unwrap it. there is something about wrapping paper that is so incredibly delicate and worth keeping.

you carefully tear at the tape holding the seams and edges of the box.

“any guesses who it could be right off the bat?”

“it could be anyone at this point,” you sigh, shaking your head. “could it be max again? hopefully it’s not charles — who knows what he will give me.” you look up to the camera. “in secret santa terms, of course. he is actually a good gift giver.”

you tear off the wrapping paper, folding it up neatly before pinning it between your body and elbow. “okay. truth time.”

you pull the cover off the box and tilt your head at the array of presents sitting comfortably in mercedes’ coloured confetti.

“what did you get?”

“a ‘best mum’ mug?” you say, coming out in a slight question as you lift up the pastel green mug to the camera. “am i pregnant and somehow it’s passed me?”

you hear a chorus of laughter as you venture further, each of the presents somehow getting weirder by the second. “and a christmas card? seriously?”

you graze your fingers over the 3d design on the card with a small smile, reading ‘merry christmas!’ with a cute doodle of a christmas tree in the centre. “we’ve been instructed to tell you to read that after you get all the presents and guess him correctly.”

your eyes trail to the gold plate in the shape of a star.

“another trophy!” you shriek. you squint your eyes to read the inscription on the plate. you sigh and press your lips together into a thin line. you hold it up. “best grid mum. the spelling alone gives it away!”

you step forward and let the camera zoom into it, the inscription reading “best grid mom”. “logan’s my secret santa?”

“ah, rookie mistake with the spelling there, wasn’t it?” she laughs. “there’s one more gift. he told us to give it to you when you figure it out.”

somebody else reaches out with a frame in their hands. you take it into your hands and smile, a picture of you and logan sitting right outside the mercedes home together for lunch sits tightly behind the glass.

“this is so sweet!” you coo, one hand covering your red cheeks. “do you want me to read the card?” she nods. you open the folded card and read as you speak. “thanks for welcoming me this year to the grid. you’re the best ever. hope i get to race with you longer than just this season. love, your secret santa.”

you look up as tears well in your eyes, looking into the camera. “aw, you’re the sweetest, logan. don’t worry, i’ve already got a present for him this christmas.”

you point to the lens of the camera. “can i grab this thing real quick for dramatic effect?” he nods. you grab the frame of the lens and take a step forward. “james vowles, if you do not re-sign logan hunter sargeant, i know where to find you.”

@cashtons-wife

#logan sargeant #logan sargeant x reader #logan sargeant x you #fem!driver #f1 female driver #f1 x you #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1 #disneyprincemuke inthaf #logan sargeant platonic #disneyprincemuke 3k celly

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sirfrogsworth · 1 day ago

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I haven't posted in a while.

Well, a while for me.

I've been stuck in a physical slump for about 7-ish weeks and it is starting to get to me. It's like my body is stuck in low power mode and I just don't have much productive energy. I've been trying to work on restoring photos but my willpower has been very inconsistent.

These slumps have happened before. They will happen again. And I always emerge from them eventually. But when they are this long I get very depressed and convince myself I am stuck like this forever. And that I will never be able to accomplish anything again.

But the other complication is the holidays. I mentioned on my Facebook page that my parents always made the holidays special. They went all out and did big decorations and cooked fancy dinners and we had these plates that we only used twice a year and silverware that stayed hidden in a drawer until Christmas Eve. We'd drive around and look at lights and we'd always have presents under the tree even when my parents probably couldn't afford presents.

And my mom would wrap our presents in plain brown postal paper with green yarn and it was just so much more tasteful than the shiny, garish wrapping paper you get at the store.

I just always loved how classy that was. I loved how she took the time to put a little hand-drawn doodle on each gift. She took something simple and inexpensive and made it so much more personal and memorable than the more expensive thing.

And all of that is gone now.

And I don't have a new family to build new traditions with.

And I never will because I'm disabled and that isn't really an option.

And I can't even be a cool uncle because my brother's wife decided she hated me and my parents for no reason we could ever decipher. So I will never meet my niece.

And all of that just kind of converges in my brain during the holidays and it is very hard. And it is doubly hard because I can't get out of bed. And I can't concentrate.

So I am just bored and sad and frustrated.

Umm... Happy Thanksgiving?

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thesassypadawan · 2 days ago

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Stuffed (Clay x WifeReader)

Summary: Thanksgiving, a time to gather together with loved ones and friends. To, well, give thanks and show how much you appreciate one another…by stuffing yourself full of all the delicious eats. Which your loving husband is more than happy to do…until you gobble and wobble.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there’s sooo much of the smut. Fun from behind (giddy up), inappropriate table manners, manipulative/possessive Clay, and… his thick, long dick.

Notes: Happy Thanksgiving all you, lovelies! 🧡❤️

- Hand glides over your pillowy thigh, palm resting a touch too high. Fingers play with the hem of your nearly inappropriate dress; the one he chose, insisted told you wear. “What’s the matter, mama…” Pushing, sliding the material higher and higher. Exposing more of your supple flesh to the warm kitchen air. “You’re so quite…”

- Tips press against your flimsy panties, the skimpy pair he laid out this morning. Rubbing, massaging them into your soaked folds. “Barely touched your meal…” The brush of the lacey fabric, accompanied with his wedding ring grazing your pudgy mound. Forcing you to swallow down each tiny gasp and coo, keep your lips sealed tightly. “Did I cut the pieces too big for you…”

- Nudging them aside, he slips two long digits into your drooling cunny. Curling teasingly, dragging them agonizingly slow. “Peanut giving you grief…” All the while carelessly carrying on, pretending like you’re not struggling to keep up with the conversation. Ignoring the fact that you’re sitting in front of your whole extended family, a mess of sticky arousal pooling between your thick legs. “Tummy upset…”

- Adding a third, pumping slightly faster. Mind grows increasingly more hazy, hardly able to comprehend the words he’s saying. “Do you need to lay down for a bit…” You begin to tremble, shake in your seat. As Clay nonchalantly sets his wine glass down, leans in close. Hand settling on top of your bountiful bump, thumb running along its gentle swell. “Is my little turkey already that stuffed…”

- Somehow you manage to nod in agreement. Suppressing the whimper that threatens to fly loose when he abruptly removes, mumbling weakly. “Y-yes… Can yo-you help me to t-the guestroom, hub-hubby…”

- Tugging, pulling your dress and panties back in place. He casually wipes off your slick on the patchwork tablecloth, before draping a comforting arm over your shoulders. “Of course, but let’s make a small stop at the bathroom first,” he mutters, voice caring and yet commanding. “All right…sweetheart.”

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

- The soft clanking of plates, sound of muffled laughter filters through the paper-thin walls. Mixing with the loud clinking of his belt buckle hitting your thighs, the almost deafening slap of his hips against yours.

- Bent over the sink, skirt bunched up high on your waist. “Sssh, need to be quiet…” Big hand covers, long fingers shoved into your mouth; attempting to stifle the small squeals that escape. “Need you to be my good girl…” When the bottom of your bare stomach kisses the cool porcelain with each rough drive. “Unless…”

- Saliva coated digits trail and descend, wind around your throat. Squeezing it tenderly, hold firm. “Unless you want them all to hear…” Clay forces you to stare at your disheveled reflection; to gaze into his darkened, blue eyes. Tongue dragging slowly, tantalizingly over the shell of your ear. “Hear all those lovely noises you make for me…”

- Pace increases, becomes wilder. Your hands scramble, slip on the smooth surface in a desperate attempt to brace yourself better against his unrestrained thrusts. To center yourself against the onslaught of raw pleasures that ravage your hormonal, bloated body. “How well I take care of their precious daughter…”

- Palm kneads, gropes your ample love handle. Harshly, bruisingly before moving lower. Gliding across your round tummy, cradling it possessively. “How you ended up and will stay like this…”

- Grip on your delicate column tightens. Ring digs, leaves an impression on the sensitive flesh. “That’s what you want, don’t you…” Addled brain begins to spiral, pussy clenches and flutters franticly. Stars burst, vison begins to fade to white. “For them all to hear how completely I ruin you, to know how utterly you’re mine…”

- Slamming into you one final time, fat tip punches your poor cervix. Knocking the remaining air from your lungs, causing a mess of strangled mewls and whines spill from your lips. “Yes…yes…” As you gush all over his thick length, while he packs your abused pussy to the brim with his hot seed. “All…all…yours, Clay…”

- Slumping forward, pressing his broad chest to your back. He loosens his hold, showers your neck and shoulders with sweet kisses. “That’s my pretty wifey…” Caressing and rubbing your bump lovingly, droplets of your combined releases trickle down your legs. “Now, let’s clean you up… Get you some dessert… Fill you with the other kind of cream… Until you’re absolutely stuffed…”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @laylaplease, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @anakinstwinklebunny, @decaffeinatedunicorn, @beresfordsgirl, @kenmaiica, @sythethecarrot, @xx-ttamaraa, @everydaydreamer, @rafeswifeyy2, @laoif, @xhunnybeeex, @jediavengers, @anisangeldust, @fredswrite, @reaperr-of-souls, @r0ttenz0mb1e, @anisdolly, @milliesrealgf, @ala2ilas-s

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michelle-is-writing · 9 months ago

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Birthday Pie, Spencer Reid

I was inspired to write this while watching the earlier seasons, so I know I wrote this a very long time ago.

Word Count: 1.1k~

Waiting at Spencer's desk with the rest of the team, we all happily stand in anticipation of the celebration of a certain holiday. Today is October 12th, meaning it is officially Spencer's birthday, and because of the very special occasion, we plan on spending it the best way we can. We'll have "cake" here in the morning and let him open our gifts for him, then once we all get off of work later, we'll go to a Chinese restaurant - one that has forks for Spencer, of course.

In all of our hands, we each have a gift for Spencer, and in the middle of his desk sits a pie I made for him which I am praying he will like. It's a chocolate chess pie which I thought was very fitting since Spencer likes chess and chocolate. I also know on your birthday you're supposed to have cake and ice cream, but maybe after 27 years, he'll want something else...?

"Do you think he'll like the pie instead of a regular Birthday cake?" I ask JJ, slightly unsure.

"Oh, he'll love it, (Y/n)," She assures me with one of her perfect smiles.

"Pretty boy loves anything you do," Morgan adds with a smirk. "Trust me."

I lightly laugh at his remark before sarcastically saying a small "Sure."

"No, no," Penelope cuts me off, waving her hands frantically with a huge smile. "You could walk a straight line and Spencer could give an hour-long seminar on how perfect your movements were," Immediately, my cheeks begin to blush while the rest of the team laughs at her comment. "Just sayin'," She finishes, holding her hands out in a shrug motion.

Just as she finishes speaking, my eyes move to the main entrance hall where my handsome brunet boyfriend is currently walking through the doors. Without noticing us at first, he mindlessly heads over to the area while straightening out his brown and green harlequin-pattern sweater vest. He doesn't even realize the spot he just fixed is going to be messed up again by the inevitable Birthday pin that Penelope plans to bestow upon him.

I watch as Spencer turns the corner, his pace slowing down before coming to a stop as sees us all waiting at his desk. It only takes a short second before he realizes what's going on, causing him to break into an award-winning grin and quicken his speed over to us. "Happy Birthday!" We all yell at the same time, making his eyes light up like fireworks.

"What's this?" He asks as he stops beside me, one of his hands instantly coming up to rest against my back.

"A birthday surprise, my love," I answer him, leaning in to kiss his cheek. Pushing my gift into his hands, I smile at him as he gazes at me with what hope is a mix of love and happiness. "Happy twenty-seventh birthday, Spencer."

After opening all of our gifts, Spencer sits down in his chair while I sit on the edge of his desk and cut a slice of pie for him. "What kind is it?" He asks, his eyes matching the sweet treat in front of him. Smiling, I push the slice of pie onto a paper plate before handing it to him.

"Chocolate chess," I tell him with a nod, watching as he chuckles; I'm glad he got the joke.

"I already like it," he tells me, referring to the name. Looking over at Morgan, I see both he and Penelope mouth "Told you so."

Handing Spence a fork, I watch as he takes the first bite of the pie, a half-surprised, half-happy emotion filling his face as he begins chewing the morsel of food. "Oh my God," he says, food still in his mouth. A moment of panic fills me as I begin to think he doesn't like it. "This tastes amazing," Those three words instantly take all the fear and worry away, causing me to grin and let out a sigh of relief.

Soon enough, everyone else has a slice of pie, each having reactions like Spencer. "This is really, really good, (Y/n)," Prentiss approves.

"Yes, it is!" Penelope agrees, taking another bite of her slice.

"Mama, I am coming to your place for Thanksgiving," Derek announces, causing me to hide my grin. Even Rossi and Hotch had something good to say about the pie I made, all of the comments making me feel like I've done a good job.

Once Spencer is done with his slice, he places the empty plate on his desk before wrapping his arms around my waist to pull me from the edge and onto his lap. Meanwhile, the rest of the team heads back to their desks, all of them having so much work to do all of a sudden.

Smiling at Spencer's antics, I lean my head back against his shoulder and look up at him, his chocolate eyes meeting my own (e/c) eyes. We both know we can't do this for long as neither of us want to be written up, but we can risk it for today.

"Did you like your birthday surprise?" I ask him, watching as he nods.

"Of course I did," he assures me, reaching a hand up to cup my cheek. Leaning my head down toward his, Spencer attaches his lips to mine for a second before pulling away, trying to keep it at least a little professional at work. "You should know that I enjoy anything you do."

"Oh yeah?" I can't help but ask, leaning my head a bit further into his shoulder. Still smiling, he looks away from my eyes as a red tint spreads across his cheeks. I almost laugh at the sight, finding the irony in the situation that he's already blushing despite me not saying my next comment yet.

"Well then, I know you'll enjoy tonight," I tell him, dressing another kiss to his cheek as his eyes growing wide at the many implications behind my words. I can only giggle at his reaction, reveling in the knowledge that that's the best part - he truly has no idea what's in store for him tonight. He doesn't know about our plans to go to the Chinese restaurant and eat with the rest of the team later, nor does he know about my plans to surprise him with a new set of lingerie in his favorite color tonight. However, I think he might have some growing suspicions going by the smirk that slowly worms its way across his face.

"I can't wait," He finally murmurs to me, giving my hip a tight, yet discreet squeeze. With that, I know he definitely has an idea of what's in store for him and I can't wait either.

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler imagines #matthew gray gubler imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds oneshot #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds

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swifty-fox · 9 days ago

Text

christmas fic posting. Do we know what it is yet

There’s precious little room under the table, their feet are not quite tangled, but at least overlapping. Gale can feel the warm point of John’s knee pressed against his thigh. Their elbow brushes every time John reaches for the sweet and sour chicken, dipping it into the alarmingly bright sauce and pulling it towards his mouth quickly before it drips. John’s eyes keep flickering over to the stack of drawings and Gale wordlessly nudges them over, careful to avoid any staining.

“Would you think I’m consdescending you if I say they’re good?” John holds up one of the sheets, squinting at the brushpen lines and watercolor gradients.

Gale’s lips twitch, “No.”

“Well, you’re really good, you draw really good.”

“Thank you,” he answers dryly, “You grow plants good.”

John snorts, presses his thumb to his mouth in a grin, “I do, don’t I?”

Gale thinks about kissing him again, the way he’d taste of soy sauce and dough. How hot his tongue would be and the way he’d let Gale, go pliant under his touch, head lolling back and large body gentle. He steals another carrot instead.

“Bit of a paltry Thanksgiving,” John watches the journey from his plate to Gale’s mouth, “A couple of soggy carrots and broccoli.”

Shrugging, gesturing around to the empty studio, “Not like I had grand plans otherwise.”

John hums again, wipes his mouth on a napkin and pivots smartly on his stool to face Gale fully.

“About the other night –”

Gale goes stiff, “Forget about it.”

“I just wanted to apologize–”

“For what?” he snaps, then takes a breath, setting his chopsticks down slowly on the edge of his paper plate.

John stares at him, head slightly tilted, cocked to the left like a dog, ears fluffy and perked forward. His words start slow, like he’s wary of poking something tender and Gale feels a bit of a wretch. All his sharp thorns turned outwards instead of towards the center where they couldn’t hurt anyone.

“If you’re closeted, or if it just wasn’t like that or if you felt I was putin’ some sort of pressure on you to let me reciprocate–”

“Ain’t closeted, Bucky,” Gale says around the heat in his cheeks, “Sure didn’t feel any pressure, either.”

John’s bigger than him, broader and heavier and thicker. Strong hands pricked with red from thorns and a body that was naturally athletic but gone a bit soft from disuse. Laying atop Gale he’d press the breath from him, and underneath Gale’s thighs would ache with the spread across his torso. But there’d not been a single second he’d worried.

“Just don’t want it to hang above us. Make things awkward between neighbors.”

The other man is still looking at him, chin propped in one hand and brow furrowed.

“Don’t count on it,” Gale drawls.

#clegan #swiftywrites #the heart is a muscle

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