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milla984 · 1 year ago

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It's the Great Pumpkin, Spencer Reid

Summary: Spencer and Reader get to spend some quality time together on Halloween

Pairing: virgin!Spencer Reid x fem!reader, virgin!Spencer Reid x plus size Reader

Category: smut (NSFW, 18+, MDNI)

TW/CW: heavy kissing, handjob, fingering, brief mention of an anxiety attack, body image insecurities (both parts)

Word Count: 5.4k

This work is part of the series Spencer Reid, my beloved

“I am officially traumatized,” Penelope blurted out when the end credits rolled on the screen, “remind me to never watch another Halloween movie with you, guys!!”

You could almost hear Spencer squeak in disbelief. “What?! This is a classic!”

She stood up to adjust her skirt, the one with jack-o’-lanterns and spiderwebs arranged in a casual pattern all over the dark fabric, and the bats standing on top of her fuzzy headband wiggled in different directions.

“Uh–uh, La Dolce Vita is a classic. This is what goes on in the twisted mind of someone who desperately needed a hug and a large cup of hot cocoa with a ton of whipped cream and sprinkles as a child.”

You smiled as you finished loading the dishwasher, amused by the discussion unfolding in your living room; in your heart you were the greatest admirer of Spencer’s ability to conjure up any kind of random information on the spot but the exact moment you saw him open his mouth you knew he was about to make the situation worse.

“In fact, Barker’s grandmother had a fascination with the macabre. She would often tell gruesome stories which she presented as true tales so he grew up with the fear of being murdered in his own house.”

Garcia gawked and raised a hand in his direction, simultaneously turning your way. “See?! Forgive me if I don’t think that having my entire body ripped apart by giant hooks is the ultimate frontier of pleasure!”

“And I’ll never look at a puzzle box the same way! What if it’s a brain teaser from Hell and there’s one of those chattering monsters inside?” she added and you had to hold back your laughter because Spencer’s perplexed frown was probably one of the cutest and funniest things in the whole world.

The mustache glued to his upper lip and the cravat he wore over a white shirt and black vest were only adding to it so you forced yourself to remain serious. “I’m sorry… pizza and a movie from my dvd collection were all I had to offer on such short notice,” you said, to which she replied by shaking her long, wavy hair.

“Oh no, sweet pea! You did great, I’m just too attached to the illusion that life is a rainbow to be into the traditional Halloween gore,” she sighed and wrapped herself in a colorful poncho. “Hey, Raven Man! Ready to leave?”

Spencer squirmed: an IQ of 187 and still he was unable to come up with a semi-plausible lie when it came to hiding the truth from his friends. Feeling the weight of her curious stare he swallowed nervously.

“I was kind of considering the possibility of going to the midnight screening of Nosferatu, at the Silver Theatre. It’s the 100th anniversary so the Silent Orchestra will play the entire score live, have you ever heard of them? They use contemporary musical idioms to convey the art of pre-talkies films to modern audiences, they’ve been widely acclaimed for their work.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Midnight screening, huh?! Which means you don’t need a ride home… what a coincidence,” she teased, leaning forward to squeeze you in a passionate hug. “I knew it! I saw it the minute I walked in!”

This time was your turn to shrug with a puzzled expression: Reid and Garcia should have been on the opposite side of D.C. for a relaxed dinner at the Morgans’ after a thorough raid of all the neighborhood porches. However, Derek had called just as they were getting in the car to inform them that Hank got unexpectedly sick and forty-five minutes later All Hallows’ Eve enthusiast Reid (dressed up as Edgar Allan Poe) plus a very concerned Penelope had showed up at your apartment, making you wonder why on earth wasn’t she already busy baking since she kept repeating chickenpox called for the best pumpkin pie ever.

“Well, there goes our plan to keep a low profile,” you groaned as you closed the door behind her, and Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise.

“How…?! Is this what they call ‘female intuition’?”

“Call it whatever you want but I’m glad she’s not mad we didn’t tell her right away,” you replied, proceeding to wrap your arms around his shoulders, “and I can think of another person who’s probably very happy for you, now.”

Spencer got rid of the fake mustache with a pensive stare. When it finally dawned on him that Garcia’s phone buzzing during your impromptu horror-themed movie night had in fact started out as live updates on their godson’s health and most likely turned into a gossip session about you two as a couple he squinted.

“I almost bailed on going trick-or-treating with them. I didn’t because I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but I also wanted to see you. It’s our first Halloween.”

You nodded. “Maybe we can still get tickets for Nosferatu. You’re a terrible liar, so I’m sure there really is a midnight screening at the Silver Theatre.”

Spencer stared at you, entranced, then pulled you closer and in a heartbeat your lips met his - a sweet caress, tender and soft, your breaths entwined and your noses rubbing against each other in delicate strokes. You gave him a gentle push and he plopped down on the couch as you placed one knee on either side of his legs to straddle him; one of his hands sneaked behind you, exploring you as if he was trying to blindly map your whole back.

You felt his other hand on your waist, hesitant.

Three months had passed since the day you both came to the conclusion you were not “just friends” - three months made of late night phone calls from six different States, of handwritten silly notes you hid in his leather bag each time you drove him to the airport to catch a flight for Houston, three months of you hoping things would eventually move past the PG rated phase.

Three months of your self-consciousness sowing the seed of doubt in your heart, encouraged by the notion of whom he got to share his workspace with: you were no Emily or JJ and even if Spencer wasn’t the type to pay attention to details he frequently referred to as ‘trivial’ you were growing less and less confident.

“It’s fine, you can touch me,” you whispered, guiding his palm to cup your breast. They were pretty difficult to ignore, nevertheless he always seemed to steer away from them as much as he could.

You ran your fingers through his hair until you grabbed a small chunk of his curls; Spencer gasped for air and you brushed your tongue over his lower lip, letting out a muffled moan when the heat between your legs became almost unbearable. You started grinding on his lap to adjust tightly against his body.

“Wait…” he whined, squirming under you.

A second moan escaped from your throat while the pressure of his stiff cock hit your thigh but he shoved you away to free himself and spring to his feet, shaking heavily as if he was experiencing a full blown anxiety attack.

His cheeks were flustered and his hair stuck to his dampened forehead so that he couldn’t even look at you straight - which gave him the perfect excuse to avoid doing it altogether. “I– I’m sorry…”

“No, no, I am…” you muttered, because the guilt building up in your chest felt so heavy you find it difficult to breathe.

Spencer was standing there, fumbling nervously with the cravat around his neck; his body language was screaming discomfort and he was clearly thinking of an excuse to remove himself from the situation. It was then that the hidden and irrational side of you, the one that desperately feared he would have disappeared forever if you’d let him go, kicked in and a rush of adrenaline came running down your spine.

“Please…” you continued, placing a hand over his, “it’s okay, really… there’s no way to control it, you should know better than anyone—”

“Why? Because I’m a man and men are supposed to have zero impulse regulation?!”

The embarrassment and shame in his voice broke you: you had sworn a thousand times in your mind to do your best to be his solace, yet now it seemed you were hurting him like no-one had ever done before.

“No,” you replied, “because you’re the genius, here, and you should know it’s a perfectly healthy and natural reaction.”

He huffed, visibly irritated at what he must have perceived as a patronizing tone. A different sort of emotion crawled under your skin, sparked by the amount of tension stagnating in the air.

You offered him a cushion and glanced at him with your usual no-nonsense attitude. “Sit down, so we can have a proper conversation? You know, like… functioning adults.”

Spencer pouted for a second, evaluating numbers and statistics about two years and a half’s worth of interactions. The truth was, intellectual affinity was such a familiar concept for the two of you that talking your way through an issue was indeed a synonym for a positive outcome.

He grabbed the cushion and held it onto his stomach to shield himself from your gaze, though it was purposely focused on his face; you thought it was best to put some distance between your bodies when he sat on the couch again so you folded your legs underneath you, shivering like a cold draft had found its way inside the room.

“Listen, we can both agree this is not your regular, everyday casual topic of conversation… which is why we’ve never discussed premarital sex—”

“I’m not against it,” Spencer rushed to declare, “I’ve assumed it was the same for—”

“Sure, no! Ditto,” you confirmed.

His furrowed brows relaxed while his mouth curved in a timid smile. “Did you know that every person’s intimate relationships follow a script that has been written according to their own individual attitude towards all –uhm, sexual experiences?”

“I did not,” you admitted, and Spencer’s hands started dancing to the sound of his own words.

“There are sets of guidelines for appropriate behavior, each partner in consensual encounters acts as if they are an actor following a script rather than acting on impulse alone. Researches indicate that women are more likely to initiate contact in well established relationships, negotiating sexual activity in developing relationships can be difficult 'cause both parts have multiple goals to deal with, such as providing relational definitions or following specific standards or morals.”

“Yeah, speaking about relationships… I think we’ve been in one since Christmas, we were just too dumb to say it out loud. And to each other,” you explained. “Sounds like a well-established to me but what’s your take on us?”

He curled into himself. “Every time we’re together I know there’s no other place I’d rather be. I’ve never even imagined it could be possible, I want to feel you even closer… and I’m so afraid I’m forcing this on you—”

“You’re not, I want it too,” you reassured him, “but to be honest I was starting to worry you were not into… me.”

Spencer’s beautiful eyes roamed over you and what you could see was all but repulsion. “Actually it’s the complete opposite.”

“So, what if my script says I’m ready to take things further?” you inquired, inching towards him to tug at the cravat of his costume.

Spencer cupped your face and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Mine is on the same page,” he whispered.

Your fingers immediately went to the vest he was wearing and trailed the line of buttons in a slow movement; you undid them one by one, the hems eventually coming apart to reveal the white shirt underneath.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” you purred while you loosened the cravat to uncover his Adam’s apple. The way his muscles tensed as it bobbed up and down drove you crazy, so you teased him with the tip of your tongue - your lips grazing over the short stubble.

Damn him and his impeccable bone structure: the scruffy look suited him so well it always sparked in you the urge to pin him to a wall and sink your teeth into his tender flesh. You loved how he could sport a smooth, professional style when the situation required it still wasn’t concerned with shaving each morning, almost as if it was an impractical activity which took energy away from whatever he considered to be a priority at that moment.

You heard something flop on the floor and stopped your ministrations: the cushion he’d been holding over his stomach wasn’t there anymore, meaning you got to notice his trousers were becoming increasingly tight.

You squeezed his knee to make sure he was prepared for a more intimate contact then you slid it even further on his leg, giving him a couple of minutes to adjust to your gentle strokes before you felt confident enough to move the action to his inner thigh.

Spencer gasped, surprised rather than shocked or disturbed by how close you were now to where he was aching, and he leaned back to ease the pressure of the fabric but kept his eyes on you.

He gave a silent nod in response to your interrogative stare, so you finally traced the outline of his hard cock between your thumb and index.

He jolted this time and muttered under his breath, a deep rasp in his voice you didn’t expect: you were unprepared to hear your name spoken as it was the quintessence of pure desire and you quivered, the throbbing in your ears rolling to your core.

You kissed his temple as you pointed at the waistband of his trousers. “Can I…?”

“Y– yes…” he muttered.

His clothes didn’t have any space left to accommodate his bulge. You palmed over it and felt an impatient twitch, which nearly had Spencer cursing; it was becoming torture for him so you reached for the zipper.

For a split second the historical inaccuracy of a Victorian era costume featuring a device first introduced years after Edgar Allan Poe’s death hit you - a remark Reid himself would have been very appreciative of, which showed how much you could relate to the way his brain worked. Then you shook out of it and peeled his slacks open.

You crumpled the shirt over his stomach and marveled at the sight of his soft belly, the flawless navel, the dark fuzz pointing directly to his raging erection. With a cautious approach you freed it from any restraint, chewing on your lower lip as you often did when you were entirely focused on a challenging task.

You couldn’t exactly say you had many options in your mind to compare him to but you had done a lot of fantasizing: now that he was in front of you, undressed and defenseless, you were downright mesmerized by—

“What’s wrong?!” Spencer screeched, interrupting your train of thought. “Is it odd? Does it look odd?!”

You shook your head, taken aback. “... odd?! No, why?!” you asked. “It’s just…” you petted the roundness to demonstrate, “I like your tummy so much.”

The way it pressed against his belt whenever he sat next to you on your couch or his was overly inviting and in the past weeks you had to fight the temptation to sneak a hand inside his shirt to squish it, because you didn’t know how he would’ve reacted.

“Really?!” he marveled, confirming he wasn’t even aware you had a thing for soft tummies. His soft tummy, to be specific.

You smiled and leaned forward to rest your forehead against his. “Are you okay with me doing this?”

Spencer nodded, his eyelids half-closed, so you let your fingertips follow the trail of hair below his belly button; his hardness twitched again when you got near, then you wrapped your hand around it.

You both moaned in unison, a harmony of pleasure that filled the silence of your living room. You moved along his entire length, feeling the satiny skin sliding over the shaft, and he threw his hair back in a movement that left his jugular exposed: his neck was too inviting and you sucked on it, the groans vibrating in his throat reverberating on your lips.

You gripped tighter when he got used to your caresses. As soon as his muffled whimpers seemed to increase in frequency you circled your thumb over the tip, spreading his leaking precum over the sensitive head. Spencer was at loss for words, a good indication that he was definitely enjoying the moment.

You were enjoying it too; you started to rub your legs together, your imagination running wild and picturing all sorts of scenarios. The mere thought of having him inside of you made you want to touch yourself but you resisted: Spencer was undoubtedly new to this and deserved someone in his life to love him and shower him with attention, so you decided to put his release before your own.

When you twisted your hand at the base of his cock he jumped, missing the bridge of your nose by a few inches.

“Too much?!” you cooed, and he seemed to come out of a sort of drunken stupor.

“No, no… it’s good, I like it…”

You sighed. “Spence, you have to tell me if—”

“It’s really good,” he replied, the urgency sensible in his tone. “Don’t stop,” he pleaded, low-key ashamed of how needy he’d sounded.

You pecked him on the nose as a reassurance you accepted and cherished this version of him: he wasn’t the kind of man to be interested in the crude physical aspect of sex, he’d made it clear. He wasn’t desperate for just anyone to satisfy him - he trusted you to do it, because he knew you were safe in each other’s arms.

You shifted to adjust at his side and returned to your previous occupation; you let your other hand wander over his thigh as a forewarning, then you sheepishly cupped his balls so you could provide additional stimulation and send him over the edge.

He bucked his hips, a loud “Oh, God!!!” escaping from his mouth before he grasped a fistful of your hair. He was hungry for you, his tongue sliding lustfully against yours and his breathing so ragged you were sure he was getting close.

Kissing him was your drug of choice but you also wanted to watch him come undone, thanks to you, so you turned your head while he tensed: he arched his back and bucked his hips once more, nipping at your earlobe. He became harder as he spilled himself over your fingers, wrist and his own stomach with a feral growl.

You didn’t let go of him, not even when his whole body finally slumped down.

The well-defined jaw and unruly curls falling on his face, now so serene, made him appear like a Botticellian masterpiece. Botticelli would have never painted one of his subjects in such a disheveled state, for sure, but the contrast between his angelic aura and the fact he was sprawled on the couch with his trousers unzipped and his softening cock still in your hand was a vision to behold.

“Hey,” you hummed as he re-opened his eyes and found you looking at him, “you’re too cute to be real, you know that?!”

Embarrassed - yet adorably proud - Spencer lowered his gaze, only to grimace at the stickiness on his belly. And on you. “I made a mess, I’m s—”

“We made a mess. Besides, it’s nothing a towel can’t fix, don’t be sorry,” you said, patting his tummy.

You were almost tempted to ask him how long he’d been saving it for, in a clumsy attempt to remind him you’d fallen so head over heels for him you were not at all grossed out; at the last moment you ruled the joke out, though, stretching your legs to get up instead. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

He flashed you the most awkward smile and you forced your feet to move towards the bathroom.

You washed your hands under the hot running water and silently watched a part of Spencer swirling down the drain; the floral scent of the soap was now in the air but you could still feel his - coffee and cologne, accentuated by the faint traces of sweat on his skin.

You had just discovered something new: Spencer was often oblivious of how good he looked (despite the dark circles under his eyes) and that was no mystery, but the idea he might have been insecure about different parts of his body was something you’d never taken into account. If being a couple was the natural consequence of the emotional bond between you - rather than a result of some physical infatuation alone - why was he so preoccupied with your reaction to his half-naked self?

Your brain was going in severe overdrive.

You inhaled and exhaled a couple of times, your fingers gripping on the honed marble of the countertop, then you dried your hands with a towel, grabbed a fresh one and returned to the living room; the instant you approached your couch you realized Spencer had been doing a lot of thinking of his own, and your heart sank into your stomach.

“Wunderkind, are you alright?” you questioned as you offered him the towel so that he could clean himself up. “What’s going on in here?” you added, tapping lightly on his temple.

He shrugged and proceeded to meticulously remove any trace of his seed from his belly and clothes before tucking the shirt into the waistband of his trousers. “Nothing special.”

His left eyebrow raised, due to an involuntary movement of his facial muscles: it was a flash, a glimpse, the undeniable proof he was hiding something. The sound of your intrusive thoughts and fears got so loud you wanted to scream to cover their noise.

“Your microexpressions say otherwise,” you retorted.

Spencer lifted his head to meet your eyes, mouth agape, and you couldn’t decipher the meaning of such a bewildered reaction. You had always been able to recognize his lying frown, his anxious smile, the suspicious squint and a hundred more variations: you were not a member of the BAU but you were an expert on detecting and classifying his emotions, yet you’d never seen that one before.

“It’s… uhm, I’m wondering if it was good for you.”

Your heart leaped and bounced back where it belonged. His job required him to be the one calling people out on their behavior, not the other way round; your presence in his life forced him to face a situation in which his skills as a profiler couldn’t shield him from his own vulnerability, so he was in serious need of some consolation.

You bent over to whisper in his ear. “It was.”

“But you didn’t...” he nervously licked his lips, “and I want you to. Just tell me how.”

In the back of your mind you were 100% sure it would have been the right moment to confess you’d been harboring a few insecurities of your own but your fight-flight-freeze response was already answering on your behalf, making you freeze on the spot.

“Spencer…”

“You don’t think I can?!” he inquired, still convinced his lack of experience was the motivation behind any episode of miscommunication.

“NO! It’s not about you,” you responded in a hurry, hugging him as he was still seated on the couch. “Or maybe it is… ” you gestured to your whole figure, “I guess I’m a bit worried this isn’t what—”

Spencer wrapped you in an equally sweet hug, his chin dimple pressed on your abdomen. “This is soft,” his hands ran to the back of your knees, trailing up, “it’s so soft I’ve got only one thing in mind every time you hug me and I have to stop myself…”

He stopped talking mid-sentence when you guided his palms over your chest and he finally laughed, fascinated by the feeling of your breasts through the shirt.

If he was so happy at the idea you were starving for his touch and was clearly eager to reciprocate it was time to consider the strong possibility he wasn’t just settling for less. “Do you really—”

“Yes!” he replied, enthusiastically. “But I could use a few hints, you know.”

You knew. “May I sit on your lap, kind sir?”

The ‘are you even serious?’ pout on his face deserved an award; now you were both allowed to act silly without the slightest concern one of you was making fun of the other, high on the intoxicating concept of true intimacy.

You positioned yourself so that you were seated on his groin, your back flat on his chest and your head nestled in the crook of his neck, thanking Mother Nature for the existence of refractory periods. Not that it was necessary, but Spencer hooked his left forearm around your waist to secure you as his tongue glided over the soft skin behind your ear. “How do I start?”

“Step one: make some space,” you tipped him.

He gulped loudly and began to caress your knee, ghosting his fingers along the thigh-bone. You shivered in anticipation and when he tried to reach for your inner thigh you spread your legs apart; he flattened his palm, gripping on your muscles and rubbing back and forth - still keeping some distance from your most delicate spots.

You turned to offer him your lips. “Tease me… up and down, light touches.”

He did as he was told. When he ran the back of his hand over your mound you whimpered, the oversensitivity being too much to bear combined with the mind-blowing taste of his mouth over yours.

“Isn’t it frustrating for you?” he managed to articulate in between kisses and you rocked your hips against him.

You could already feel the familiar and insistent throbbing, accentuated by the fact that delayed gratification was a real pain; you were dying for him to placate the fire his hard cock had sparked in you, so you grabbed his wrist and guided it over your stomach, down the front of your panties.

He gasped at the feeling of your tender flesh, the curly hair, the dampness - too many sensory inputs to process all at once. “You’re so… warm?”

“Core body temperature is higher than the temperature of the skin,” you reminded him.

“So warm,” he kept repeating, basic biology facts lost on him because his brain seemed to have switched off.

His palm grazed over your folds and your legs fell further open to give him better access; you stroked his left forearm and tilted your head back. “Only two fingers now, Spence… up and down. But don’t go straight for—”

You tensed when his fingertips danced on your clit and he gripped you even tighter. “Sorry,” he mumbled, but the sensation was so good you could only smile.

“If you plan to go there it’s left and right. And draw a few circles around, big and small...” you explained before words turned into muffled moans as he put your suggestions into actions.

You were still grinding on his lap, your back glued to his chest, and he took advantage of the proximity to trap your earlobe between his teeth, sucking lightly at each change of the pattern he was tracing.

You squeezed his wrist when the flame inside of you grew fiercer. “You can slip your finger in if you want.”

Spencer let go of your earlobe and paused. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks,” you admitted, the weight of your secret vanishing in the air like a puff of smoke.

He sighed and shifted underneath you; just as you were ready to tell him he didn’t have to if he wasn’t comfortable with the idea he slid his middle finger past your entrance and you shuddered in his embrace. His hands were elegant, veiny, and his slender digits made for playing piano or reaching your hidden crevices - you had no doubts about it, but judging by how he was sitting still he had more than one question regarding what to do with them.

“How do I feel? Spence...?”

Even if you couldn’t really see his face, you knew he had a confused-slash-excited look on. “Hot… and wet, I never thought—”

“You like it?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?!” he asked in the cutest high-pitched tone and you laughed, making you both wince at the sudden movement.

All the words in any existent language put together couldn’t describe the amount of affection you had for him. “I like it, Spence,” you hummed, “and it would be even better if you tried curling your fin— FUCK!”

Spencer wasn’t one to waste time once he was given a specific instruction.

He pushed his finger forward and curled it as you said, gliding in and out to slowly familiarize himself with the different textures of your inner walls. He adopted a very empirical approach, experimenting several techniques based on what he’d learned not so long before, while you whimpered and moaned his name; he was moaning, too, and so prettily you couldn’t control yourself.

“Spence, I need more…”

He nipped at your jaw, his long hair tickling your cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, I promise”, you panted, almost out of breath.

When he slipped a second finger in you realized that his arm wrapped around your waist was the only thing still keeping you in place: your legs were giving up on you, your hips swayed to let Spencer’s fingers plunge deeper as your back arched and your fists closed around his clothes. He was pumping relentlessly, overwhelmed by your wetness and the way you were taking him inside like he was a missing part of your own body; he tried to reach for your mouth and you turned to grasp the nape of his neck.

“Your hands are perfect,” you whined, “you are perfect…”

He huffed, his heart pounding fast. “Are you…?”

“Please... make me come, Spence,” you begged him in a whisper.

He pressed his thumb on your clit and started alternating between rough circling motions and the upward movement of his fingers, as you bucked your hips at a frantic pace; your thighs muscles contracted, you clenched around him and you ears plugged as you climaxed - something that had never happened to you before.

You tugged at his hair and screamed his name, before settling against his body once the tension faded.

He kept his fingers inside and he cuddled you throughout the aftermath of your orgasm, planting butterfly kisses wherever his mouth could reach and cradling you like his only mission in life was making you feel safe and protected.

Your self-consciousness awoke first, despite the rush of feel-good hormones flowing in your bloodstream.

“Am I crushing you…?” you mumbled, and he grunted as you wriggled free to lean forward and pick up the towel from the floor.

He stared at his wet fingers with a pensive frown, then he wiped them clean and turned to face you - now seated on the couch with your legs across his and your forearm rested on his shoulder, so that you could play with his curls.

“Doctor, you deserve a gold star for your performance.”

He smiled and lowered his gaze for a second. “I’m very good at following instructions.”

“You’re not bad at improvising, either,” you pointed out, “the thing you did with your thumb…?”

“I figured it was only a matter of combining the exact pressure and the right angle. Technically speaking—”

“Spencer?!” you cut him off, before he could lose himself in his own rambling. “Thank you,” you added, kissing him lightly on his lips before you stood up to fix your panties and trousers. “You can tell me all about the mechanics behind one of the best orgasms of my life on our way.”

“Nosferatu. First Halloween together…?” you elaborated when he looked at you in total confusion. “You’ve changed your mind.”

He shifted on the couch, his hazel eyes fixed on you. “Is that okay?”

This time you looked at him with your best ‘is ice cream cold?’ frown: you wanted to spend eternity with him, not just an hour or two more. You climbed into his lap and tangled your fingers in his hair while he cupped your breasts.

“What if I get…? I mean... again?!”

“Well, it’s not going to happen right now, Professor!!" you snorted, and his giggle sounded like celestial music. "But don’t worry, we’ve got the whole night."

NB: I'm not using my regular taglist for Spencer Reid smut fics but I'm obviously tagging only the users who sent a request. If you wish to be added you can send me an ask or leave a comment below with the request to be added.

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satorusugurugurl · 5 months ago

Text

I Think He Knows: (Chapter Six)

Summary: When your novel takes off and becomes a best seller, doors of opportunities open for you. You can work on the series you have dreamed about all your life. And you’re also given the chance to stay in a tiny cottage in Europe for two years to help with inspiration! Your best friend, Geto Suguru, shatters at the news. How could he tell you how he feels when you leave him? His opportunity appears right before him when you confess that your editor thinks a change of scenery will help with your not-so-steamy romance scenes. They’re lacking a particular spice because you’re a virgin. So, Suguru does what any best friend would do. He offers to teach you how things work. Will you cross that line as friends? Or will you both say goodbye?

Pairing: Geto Suguru x FAB!Reader

Word Count: 4,964

Warning: Language, suggestiveness, rql sex (male receiving) grinding, neck kisses, dry humping, mentions of character death,night terror, blood, mentions of PTSD, anxiety

A/N: Man oh man what a silly fluffy slice of life spicy series we got! It would be a shame if something happened 😀—😈

*MDNI*

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven

Think that you were an easy-going person who got along well with everyone. Generally, you were easy-going unless someone fucked you over, then you were a bit salty. Manami Suda Was the only exception. You could not stand her guts. She would be the only person he would gladly hit with your car.

“Manami,” you spit back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Suguru is expecting me.”

“Mm, he didn’t mention anything to me. You would assume he would make his schedule.”

“Ha, funny, let me in.”

“Huh,” she purses her red-painted lips together. “Let me check with my client and see if he’s available. We’re both swamped.”

You roll your eyes, pushing open the door, poking your head. “Suguru, call your Hellhound off.” Manami presses herself to the side, trying to block you from getting further inside the apartment.

“Geto is busy at the moment, but he’ll call you later.”

“Busy my ass Suguru!!”

Upon hearing you call his name again, Suguru headed out of his makeshift studio. He was covered in different blue paint hues, smeared on his forearm and cheek. His eyes darted between you, trying to force your way inside before back at his agent, who was fighting against your attempts. Dark ice glitter with the amusement at how you were putting all your effort into trying to squeeze past her

“Manami, let her in.” He finally said with a chuckle. “Before she starts gnawing at the door frame.”

“Ha!” Manami sidestepped again just as you tried pushing yourself inside, resulting in you falling face forward with the yelp dropping the groceries.“Geto called you a termite.”

Wincing, you sat up, rubbing your chin. Suguru had better put an ad online for a new agent because his current one was about to disappear without a trace. “But she’s the cutest termite in the whole world.” The bluntness and flirty tone of his voice had both you and Manami glancing at him as he headed into the kitchen.

Since when did he start calling you cute around other people? That was usually something someone said about their partner, right? Not their best friend. More importantly, why the hell did you love it?

Manami was too stunned to speak as she gaped at her client before looking back at you. You felt her eyes on you, so you didn't know what any mature adult your age would do. You glanced back up at her and smiled as wide as you could before sticking your tongue out at her. She glared, nose pinching up in annoyance as she flipped you off with her sharp, manicured nails. To which you shot back, flipping her off with both hands as you sat up on your knees.

“Girls.” hearing Suguru call you both out stopped the childish faces and the middle fingers, but no amount of tone, yelling, or godly power could prevent the glaring daggers you gave each other.

“We’re fine, Geto.”

“Yeah, Suguru!”

“You shouldn't use his name so freely!”

“Oooh~ last time I checked, I’ve been his best friend for over a decade!”

Manami clenched her fists together. “Yes, I am aware of that. You make it a point to remind me of that every time I see you.” You stood up, putting the groceries in the kitchen before flopping onto the couch.

“Because you act like I should be courteous and cold to him! I've known him longer than you. So kiss my ass.”

“Geto!” Manami barked, her hair flowing as she looked into the kitchen. “Do you hear the way she's talking to me?”

Your eyes focused on the way Suguru washed paint off his arms. His hands brushed back stray dark strands of hair behind his gauged ears. “Manami, if you just let her in, she wouldn’t be in such a mood.” A certain pleasure settled in your stomach. “She’s always welcome in my apartment whether I’m working or not, you know that.” For some reason, your stomach twisted, and heat pooled between your legs as he told her pretty much to fuck off.

Suguru heard the faintest whimper from the direction of the living room. Looking through his lashes, he smirked, seeing your flushed face. God, you were so easy to rile up. For once in his career, he wanted to shove his agent out and pin you against the sofa. He wanted to pry open your thighs that were pressed together open. Desperate to see if you were as wet as you were a few days ago at breakfast. God Suguru wanted to taste you again, to make you cry on his tongue.

His cock twitched, and he realized now might not be the best time to be sporting a boner in the presence of professional company. So he turned the water in the sink to cold and threw it on his face. There would be a time to get a bit more intimate later. He needed to keep his composure and not eat you out with his agent in the room.

“Fine, but we aren’t done discussing business.”

“I know.”

You watched from the couch, noticing the annoyed look in Suguru’s eyes, and Manami stepped forward. “The aquarium called again; they want to know if you—”

“No.”

“Geto—”

“I said no.”

The aquarium? You blinked, sitting up and tilting your head. Did it have to do with his most recent painting of Riko?

Manami sighed, pulling her phone out. “They increased their offer for you to do the commission.”

Suguru was exceptionally talented. His paintings of dragons, creatures, and sceneries had gone viral in high school, earning him a full ride to art school. He was selling paintings, being commissioned, thriving, and getting paid to do what he loved. He, of course, had rules for commissions he took on from strangers and whatnot, but to deny an aquarium wasn’t like him.

“No,” Suguru repeated more firmly.

“You’d only be—”

A loud crash causes you and Manami to jump as Suguru throws his cup of paintbrushes into the sink. “Manami, no. That’s my final answer.” It was rare for Suguru to get pissed; he was usually well-tempered. So, for him to snap like that was out of character and meant he didn’t want to do whatever she had set up for him.

Manami sighed, grabbing her phone off the kitchen counter and shoving her cell phone inside. “I know it’s a reminder of the past, but it’s good money.” She slid expensive name-brand sunglasses on before turning on her heels with a strut in her step. “Think about it; I’m not sending the denial letter yet.” Without another word, she left the apartment, slamming the door shut behind her.

“Well,” you started, pouting as you hummed, “she is a peach.”

“Yeah.” Suguru sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before focusing his undivided attention on you. “So, uhm, what’s on the menus for dinner? I can help?” He grabbed the brown paper bags, beginning to unload them without another word.

You didn’t mean to pry about what was going on in his life. You knew him better than you knew himself at times. So, he would tell you if he wanted to talk about what was happening. The only time you got involved with what was happening during his work, you were utterly concerned about him and his well-being. So instead of saying anything, you just not at your head as the two of you made dinner together.

But the entire time we both stood in the kitchen silently in tune with each other, your mind kept drifting off to what exactly he was asked to paint. It seemed a little strange that he was asked to paint something at the aquarium, and his current canvas depicted Riko at the aquarium in Okinawa before the accident. That might be triggering his current nightmares, along with the fact that he has never truly forgiven himself for the accident that wasn’t his fault at all.

You knew he blamed himself for what happened. He wasn’t fast enough to push Riko out of the way when the car approached them. He saw her like a little sister. Watching the life fade from her eyes while he was fighting for his own life would traumatize anyone.

That sort of trauma never leaves. It lingers forever, which it had for your best friend. After the accident in her death, he started seeing a therapist every week. He’s on severe anxiety and depression medication, and for a while, his artwork took a very dark turn. He wouldn’t see anyone. He lost a ton of weight but always insisted that he was fine, just tired.

It wasn’t until he snapped when his nieces Nanako and Mimiko were in a car accident themselves that he lost all of his composure. he broke down having a mental episode. He nearly beat the ever-loving shit out of the man that caused the accident. The man had been remorseful, paying for everything from the car to the medical bills for the girls, but that wasn’t good enough for Suguru. He wanted to make him pay for what he had done. In a way, he saw it as the driver that caused Riko’s accident to pay for the pain the two of them went through.

Suguru was lucky enough to have you and your mutual friends by his side. All of you helped him get the help that he needed. You were there when he needed to talk or was having a rough day. That was one of the many reasons you both lived in the same apartment complex. He felt safe around you. Suguru knew he was with you. He was seen for who he was and for not being the man who couldn’t save his friend's life.

Despite it not being his fault at all.

And well, he had healed over the years,

Like anyone else living with that kind of trauma, he had his good days and his bad days from his sleeping over, insomnia, and how he reacted to Manami pushing him to do the mural at the aquarium. He was having a rough week.

After eating a delicious home-cooked meal and cleaning the kitchen, you sat on the couch, staring blankly at the television as Suguru gently ran his hand up and down your thigh. Some thriller played in the background; at this point, it was mindless background noise as your mind reeled, trying to think of what to say.

Your silence and uptight demeanor had Suguru’s dark eyes darting towards you every few seconds. There was something on your mind, something he knew you were contemplating saying. But much like you, he wasn’t one to pry. He knew in the last decade that you were upfront with him whenever you wanted to talk about an issue. But from the shyness in your touch to how you kept looking at him, he figured that maybe you wanted to make a move or ask him to teach you something new.

God, you were just so cute and shy. He wanted you to feel comfortable, to tell him what you wanted. But at the same time, he knew you. There was no way you would be upfront and ask home to do stuff with you or ask him to teach you more things. Until you were ready, he would have to continue making suggestions or ask how you felt and what you wanted to do.

Giving your thigh a gentle squeeze, your eyes dart in his direction. “Did you get all your rewrites done for Utahime? How did the meeting with her go?” Your face lit up.

“Oh, it went well; she loved what I had! She said my writing has improved.”

“That’s great! Do you get any time off? Like to relax that big brain of yours?”

With a pout, you collapsed into his side with a huff. “No, she wants the next chapter in two weeks. So I have to write it, have Nanami read it, edit it, and then I can send it to her.” The feeling of Suguru’s hand leaving your thigh left a trail of goosebumps in its wake as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Oh, well—do you need help with the next chapter? Or are there fewer spicy scenes in this one?”

You scoff, resting your chin on his upper arm. “That’s what you bookworms call sex scenes in books, right; spicy scenes?”

“Awee~ you do listen.”

“I listen when it’s you.”

You resist the urge to kiss him, opting for blushing instead. “Uhm, right! Yeah, so—“ you clear your throat, “it’s more plot than spice, but I’m not opposed to—ya’ know, adding spice.”

This was your way of telling him you wanted more without outwardly saying it. This was keeping your friendship safe. Besides, just because you didn’t use it in this chapter didn’t mean you wouldn’t use it in the future!

Suguru was slightly disappointed when you first said there were no spicy scenes in this current chapter. He felt like you did, not wanting to ruin your friendship. But to hear you say that you weren’t opposed to adding spice to your current chapter and all the worries and disappointment vanished. Suguru hummed, putting his hand behind his head and slowly licking his lips as he watched you sit up.

“Oh really now?”

“Mhmm~ I just don’t know what to add~ maybe you—” You slid your fingers down his ab’s, gently sliding them underneath the hem of his shirt. Your manicured nails gently ran over his happy chill, making Suguru twitch in anticipation. “Do you have a suggestion for what I could add to this chapter?”

“Mmm, well, you could always have Oaklynn go down on Ilsan, or you could have them dry hump or grind.”

You toyed with the waistband of his sweat, biting your lip as you felt his cock twitch, growing harder the more you rubbed the band. Your eyes were so focused on his pants that Suguru could hear the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears, his stomach filled as you looked up, meeting his gaze. He swallowed hard at the lustful need burning in your eyes. It’s hard to believe you had never been kissed a week ago, and now you were playing with his waistband to his sweats so suggestively?

What the fuck was this life?

“Sugu—can I touch you?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

With his consent, you tugged his sweats down to rest over the top of his thighs, finding a tent in his boxers. There was something oddly satisfying about seeing the way your touch affected him. You knew his body was probably reacting naturally to an intimate touch. Part of you wish this might be more than a physical reaction deep down inside. But that was ludicrous because he was helping you out.

But maybe it could turn into something more you wouldn’t oppose.

“You’re already hard.” You said with a blush, your hand gently brushing over the hardening shaft in his boxers.

“What can I say? I have my beautiful best friend touching me.”

“Can this beautiful friend return the favor from the other day?”

Subaru chokes on his spit as you gently talk the band of his boxers down. If you want to, that shouldn’t be an issue. But you don’t have to return the favor! The cutest pout graces your lips as you reach out gently, grabbing his shaft and squeezing it. “Ooooh, fuck—”

“Oh! Sorry, did that hurt? I was trying to be a bit more confident!”

“N-No, it felt really good.”

“Oh! Okay, uhm—” You bite your lip in concentration, trying to mimic the moves. He had done when he first jerked off in front of you. “I want you to feel good.”

Subaru could not believe you were saying this. The same girl that hadn’t had an orgasm in her entire life less than a week ago. Was now stroking his cock with confidence in your eyes! There was no way he would ever extinguish that burning lust in your eyes. He would encourage you to do what you wanted if you were comfortable doing this because he would be lying to himself if he said that he hadn’t dreamed about something like this happening for as long as he could remember.

“The, by all means, feel free to keep going; it feels fucking great. Unless you need me to help tell you what to do?”

“No, I think I got this.” You pulled your hair back before situating yourself in between his legs, holding his shaft close to your mouth. “Just sit back and relax, okay?”

“Okay.”

Suguru watched with bated breath as you slowly leaned down. Your eyes were focused on his before your tongue darted out, kitten licking his tip. The man lost his shit right there. Suguru threw his head back, grunting as his eyes rolled back in pleasure. Fuck, it felt good mentally and physically. Finally, have you been doing the things he had imagined doing since he was a teenager? It was better than he could’ve imagined. God, he wasn’t going to last long.

His tip's salty yet sweet taste made you more eager to take him in your mouth. You swirl your tongue around relishing in the sounds that escaped your best friends mouth. One of his hands gripped the back of his sofa while the other grabbed his shirt, tugging it tight. He looked so hot when drowning in pleasure; seeing him like that gave you a confidence boost. You had never done this before, but you had read plenty of erotic novels, and you knew how to eat a popsicle. Putting both of them together gave you an idea of what to do.

While his chest heaved up and down, eyes shut tight, you took the whole head of his cock into your mouth you hummed. That action alone made Suguru’s hips buck up with a whine. His thrusting, pushing his cock against the back of your throat, made your eyes water as you gagged around him. Almost instantly, Suguru pulled back out, sitting up on his elbows to look down at you with concern etched into his features.

“Fuck Princes, I’m sorry! Are you sorry?”

“Mhmm!” You hummed around him, making his jaw clench at the vibrations around him.

“F-Fuck—haaah—fuuuuck.” His hand slowly slid down, tangling in your hair, not forcing you down his shaft further. He just held onto you. “Fuck—”

You can’t help but stare up at him. The way his jaw drops, his eyes narrowing as they darken with lust. Watching him slowly lose himself to the pleasure had you squirming. You could feel yourself getting wet as the heat began to pool between your legs, urging you to keep going, to take him further into his mouth. So you did; inhaling through your nose, you took more of your best friend into your mouth, gagging slightly as he slid further down into your throat.

Suguru was utterly losing himself in the sensation of being buried in your mouth. I was so wet and tight, and you knew what you were doing. Despite being a virgin and never having a boyfriend, Suguru was thoroughly impressed with how well you were taking him. Your lips around his thick fat cock, taking him down your throat, had him teetering on the edge of his release like he was a virgin.

He dropped his arm off the back of his couch, covering his eyes. What the hell was happening to him? Why was it he could barely compose himself when he was around you?

You always had that effect on him. “Fuuuck—shit—” His fingers gently scratched your scalp as you took him deeper, bobbing your head up and down, making his cock wet with your saliva and his pre-cum. “Fuck~ you’re doing such a good job, pretty girl~ so good.” A rosy blush dusted Suguru’s cheeks as his chest heaved faster, the muscles in his abdomen twitching from the pleasure.

Pulling off his cock, you slowly lick the underside of it right against the vein. He had grazed when he would touch himself. The most sensitive part of his cock. A hiss passed through his lips while his hands remained tangled in your hair. You grinned, pressing gentle kisses over him, nibbling on the soft skin before your kitten looked at the leaking slit.

“Could you maybe— fuck my throat?”

If you hadn’t been squeezing his bass when you were, Suguru was afraid that he might cum all over your hand at your request. “W-What seriously?” Your request was not entirely out of left field. It still left him in stunned silence.

“Yeah, Ilsan is a bit rough, so I wanted to see what it was like?” When in reality, you just wanted to see him lose all of the control he was barely grasping.

“I can do that, but if it gets too intense, just tap my thigh, okay?”

You opened your mouth to respond, only to have Suguru grab onto your hair with both his hands and force his cock into your mouth. “M-Mmmphm!” as he slid his shaft over your tongue and down the back of your throat with a gentle thrust.

“Fuck yeah, Princess~ god, you must feel so fucking good~” he pulled his shaft out of your mouth, just about to hit the back of your teeth before he slammed back into you, making you gag as he hit the back of your throat. “Nngh! Shit~ ooooh fuckin’ hell, that’s so good.”

“Mmm! Mmmhpm! Mmm!” You cried out each time his cock slid in and out of your mouth, making a mixture of drool and pre-cum leak out the sides of your mouth, dribbling down your chin and onto the couch beneath you.

“Oooh god—oooh fuck—haaaah!” A low moan sounds deep in your best friends chest. He lifted his head, watching his tears weld in your eyes, streaming down your cheeks, a trail of mascara left on your pretty, beautiful cheeks. “Fuck—Princess, I’m going to—I’m gonna cum. Wh-Where do you—nngh!”

Upon hearing his orgasm was approaching him, you grabbed both of his thick thighs, squeezing them as you moved in tandem with his hand. Your head up and down as fast as you could without making yourself gag more. Your eyes were transfixed solely on him as tears blurred your vision. Suguru knew where you wanted him to cum—and it was down your throat.

“F-Fuck—I-I’m cu-cumming! Cumming!”

Spurts of his hot cum that had covered your hand days before now filled your willing mouth. It was salty but also strangely sweet. That might be because Suguru was always eating healthy and making sure to eat plenty of vegetables and fruit. You’d have to thank him for that later; right now, all you could focus on was how good he tasted all over your tongue.

You swallow every drop, only pulling away when Suguru’s grip on your hair loosens and rests on your head, gently stroking your hair back. He was grinning drunkenly as he watched you lick your lips, smiling down at him as you fixed his sweats. Once you were done, he yanked you down to rest on his chest as he continued to caress you with his hands gently.

“Are you sure you’ve never done that?” The tone of his voice was stern. “Because holy shit, you sucked the soul out of my dick.”

You couldn’t help but giggle, snuggling into his chest as you rested your chin on his sternum, watching him closely. “Yep, I’ve never done that.” He shook his head, taking a deep breath as he did. “Did I do a good job?”

“I just said you sucked my soul out of my cock; yes, you did a phenomenal job, Princess.”

You smiled sweetly, losing yourself in his stare as he leaned down to kiss you softly. For the briefest moments, you stiffened, but you found yourself melting into his kiss with a happy hum. This was the perfect way to research for your book.

That was the sort of way things went about for two weeks. Grinding, making out, oral sex, and nothing between you changed, aside from the constant need to be around each other. You both had been close before, but now you were practically inseparable.

Weekends were spent together, meals were shared as you worked together, or Suguru sketched in your apartments while you wrote at his place. Not only did your work improve during this change, but you could also see a change in Suguru. He looked less tired, wasn’t having any more nightmares, and just seemed genuinely happy.

God, what a time to be together.

A time where you were closer and happier. Things felt so good, and the more time you spent together, the more you began to worry less about your book and focus more on your relationship. You created different scenarios for your characters to spice things up for your ‘research.’ And you knew deep down that Suguru knew it was a bullshit excuse to hook up. You could see it in the way his dark eyes would twinkle with mischief before he agreed to do whatever you requested with no questions asked.

“Fuck!” You gasped out as Suguru ground him against your clothed sex. His hands were hooked under your knees, spreading them as he sensually ground to the low R&B playing through the speakers. “Fuuuck~ that feels good.”

“Heh—yeah, it does.” His lips attached to your neck sucking and kissing on the sensitive skin. “You always feel good~ so good~.”

You ran your hands through his dark hair, holding his mouth against your neck. “Please don’t stop.” He grunted, eyebrows knitting together as you whimpered his name.

Suguru’s fingers dug into your thighs, bucking faster, not intending to stop at all. Instead, he moved faster, making you cry out, tugging on the dark strands as she sucked on, leaving several hickies against your skin. God, he could get used to this. Domestic shit, making dinner, but losing yourselves in grazing touches and kisses on cheeks. Leaving the bell peppers on the cutting board uncut and the steak sitting in the fridge. The corkscrew was still embedded in the unopened bottle of wine as you ground against each other, inching closer and closer to sweet release.

“Suguru~ hah—“ your hands grip his shoulders, holding them tight as he grinds hard, faster, “c-close!”

Somehow, Suguru pulled his lips off your neck, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. “Yeah~ gonna cum, Princess~? Gonna cream your panties~?” You lean in, bringing down his bottom lip as you rock against him, matching his movements and speed.

“Yes~ I-I’m so close!”

“Then do it~ cum for me~” he kisses you deeply as he grinds faster and faster until you both are crying out against moving lips, eyes shut tight as waves of your orgasm wash over you. “Oooh fuck~!”

“Fuuuck~ fuck!” You cry out, feeling your panties grow wetter and wetter. “Oh my god, Sugu~” you pant against his kiss-swollen lips while he lazily nods.

“Yeah, shit.” He grumbles with a moan.

“I need to borrow some boxers or sweats.”

“Yeah? You make a mess?”

He teases you with a peck to your cheek as he gently releases his hold on your legs, helping you off his counter. “Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Oh please, you’re as much to blame for this as me.”

Suguru presses another kiss against your cheek. “I’ll take the blame, but I’ll start on dinner if you want to go raid my closet for sweats.” The glimmer in your eyes had your best friend gently flicking your forehead. “Just sweats, none of my hoodies, dork.” That statement had you pouting as Suguru gently slapped your ass, pushing you forward.

“No fair.”

“Life ain’t fair; your notebook is on the dresser if you need to write notes.”

You give him a thumbs up as you head into his room, ignoring the glittery notebook and heading straight for the closet instead. The more often nights like this occurred, the more you didn’t care about taking notes or jotting down ideas. Instead, you find yourself wanting to spend every waking moment with Suguru.

Notebook aside, you stripped out of your clothes, folding them up, before grabbing a pair of his baggy gray sweats as his phone buzzed on his nightstand. Glancing down at the screen, you resisted the urge to gag as you saw Manami’s name appear.

“Eeew, Sugu, the troll you call an agent, is texting you!” You grab his phone, unlocking it as you return to the kitchen. The sound of chopped vegetables echoed off the walls as Suguru looked up at you. “Want me to read you what she said?”

“Yeah, it’s probably about this client she found.”

Opening the chat, you pull out the barstools at his breakfast bar before him and clear your throat. “Geto, the new client, loved the sketch you submitted, and he would like to proceed with the next steps for the painting to be done. He has paid in advance.” Suguru did a little fist bump before he slid the peppers into a sizzling pan. “I also wanted to discuss the offer from the Amanai Foundation. They will pay for our room and board for the four months we’ll be in Okinawa finishing the aquarium piece.”

The spatula falls from his hand as he turns to you, staring into your wide eyes and pale complexion staring at the phone. You blankly stare at the message as big tears form in your eyes. Suguru watchI in horror as tears stream down your cheeks.

“What does she mean you two are going to Okinawa for four months together?”

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks

Tag List (TO BE ADDED AGE MUST BE IN BIO)

@lemonintrovert01 @spankmydepression @renttheannihilator @witchbybirth @missmuffinr @lialia3945 @theobsidianempress @aquasan29 @toffeebrat @aussiemeerkat @chimichangagirl @zoroisminty @spankmydepression @em-aizawa @gojosimp26 @moonlightazriel @maskedpacific

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snowball-doie · 2 months ago

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The Type of Dad Poly!Ilichil Is

Made this for anyone interested in my poly!ilichil x oc book~~ This is the kind of dad they all are with their daughter, Reyna. If you guys have any questions, my asks are open! Hope you enjoy!

Johnny - suburban dad Makes everyone's food, packs Reyna's school bag, asks about her day, gets her settled in her car seat and makes sure she’s safe, gets her after school snacks. He’s the one on all her paperwork, so he’s gotta be there for everythingggggggg-- Dance recitals, sports games, pre-k graduation, etc.

Taeyong - tired dad Falls asleep everywhere in the house with Reyna laying on top of him. He didn’t get to spend much time with her when she was a baby because of his enlistment, so he does a lot to make up time with her now. Likes to spoil her with expensive gifts. Teaches her to dance. Front row for all of her school events and performances so he can record and take pics like an embaeassinglty proud dad.

Yuta - fashionista dad Picks out all of Reyna's outfits, buys all of her clothes, very critical of the outfits the other boys try to put her in whenever he's not around. Goes with her to the hair salon to make sure the stylist doesn’t fuck up his daughter’s hair— Loves to wear matching outfits with her omfg….. Very casual, so he only picks her up when she runs over to him and asks. Teaches her to speak Japanese, insists that she only speaks Japanese when talking to him. Takes her to Japan whenever she's on break from school. Loves to take her to concerts, having her run on stage before the show starts and the stadium is empty, making sure her noise cancelling headphones are snug on her head every time he runs off stage between sets, etc. Average rockstar dad things.

Doyoung - cuddle bug dad If he can’t sleep, he’ll steal Reyna from Ahri’s room and sleep with her in his room. He loves to watch her run around in her princess costumes omfg. He loves to make her laugh because he thinks her laugh is the cutest thing in the whole wide world-- She has a bright, wide, gummy laugh just like him. He’s just all around supportive. Buys stuffed animals for her, specifically bunnies. He does the chores around the house, he takes Reyna when Ahri needs a break, he helps Johnny with paperwork and any tasks for Reyna, etc. Basically just the back bone to everyone else’s dad traits.

Jaehyun - bestest dad in the whole world Loves to hold her and carry her around the house. Loves cuddling with her and watching movies with her. He takes her to work in the years before grade school starts, then he starts taking her on holidays and weekends when Yuta doesn't steal her away to Japan. He’ll have her run around practice rooms, sit in the board room chairs that are too big for her, watch as he records music in the music booths, etc. If he could take her everywhere, have her attached to his hip 25/8, he would. He loves doing everything with her.

Jungwoo - silly dad Sneaks her snacks, takes her to do fun things. Is very protective and will bat off all the little kids who try to flirt with her on the playground. Cries on her first day of school. Play date dad-- Drops her off at the other parents' houses, scopes out if it's safe or not, runs the interrogations (He will interrogate the kids, too, no one is safe from protective dad!Jungwoo). If it's a sleepover, he'll overpack her bags and sit in the car in the driveway for, like 10 min, worrying about her before he finally goes home.

Mark - late bloomer He’s figuring it out, he just needs more time… He’s a lil scared…. But when he’s missed her lots after tour or something, he’ll fight everyone else to hold her in his arms for hours to days on end. Haechan has a folder full of pictures and videos of Mark and Reyna sleeping or playing together. When Mark and Hyuck are on tour and he bring up missing her, Hyuck will pull out his phone.

Haechan - the most girl dad to ever girl dad Bro is obsessed with Reyna even before she’s born ok. Buys her everything she wants. Plays silly games with her. Will dress up as a princess for tea time. Makes silly faces with her as their silent love language. Spoils her to Hell and back because he doesn't want her to lift a single finger ever. If one of the boys tries to give her chores to do, Haechan will do them for her, even though he hates doing chores. Teaches her bad habits because it’s fun for them to do together even tho Ahri and Johnny beg him not to…

#op #fanfic #ahri thoughts #johnny #taeyong #yuta #doyoung #jaehyun #jungwoo #mark #haechan

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dailydemonspotlight · 1 month ago

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Sandman - Day 132

Race: Night Arcana: Strength Alignment: Neutral-Chaos October 22nd, 2024

Mr Sandman, sand me a man. Make him the cutest man car door hook hand.

Dreams have always been an incredibly curious part of human existence as a whole, and many different cultures around the world have looked for ways to explain the phenomenon, one that we, even now, don't fully understand. After all, even with our relative understanding of why they form and how they work, dreams are still a bit of a mystery in the terms of their purpose. This brings us to back in the day, however, when we knew even less- dreams were even more obscure in their origins and their role, and as such, like many things, people looked to folkloric explanations. Case in point, our subject, the Sandman: the bringer of dreams in traditional European folklore.

Traditionally a Scandinavian being, though one that spread throughout much of Europe, the Sandman was a popular figure that existed to help people fall asleep and grant them dreams. One of the earliest accounts we're aware of, being an 18th century German dictionary of the supernatural, speaks of just this, as 'der Sandmann kommt' (literally 'the Sandman comes') was an idiom used to refer to someone who looked like they were just about to sleep. The phrase was also typically used to refer to a child who would rub their eyes, or alternatively had rheum under their eyes upon waking up, and essentially was a joke about the fact that the Sandman had thrown sand in their eyes while they were asleep/to make them fall asleep.

However, as time went on, the Sandman began to take on a far more literal role, solidified in the famous 1817 story 'Der Sandmann,' which paints the figure in a far more antagonistic light; as the story goes, a young boy is told of the story of a 'Sandman' who would throw sand in the eyes of anybody awake in the wee hours of the night to make their eyes fall out, after which he'd steal their eyes and bag them up to feed to his children back home. This eventually ended up inspiring the story Ole Lukøie, which was a far less horror-focused fairy tale. The 1841 story speaks of the eponymous Ole Lukøie, roughly translating to 'Mr. Shut-eye,' who would be a fairy-like figure who brought a carton of milk to pour in people's eyes to let them sleep.

However, with the strange translations of the story early in its lifespan afoot, Ole Lukøie would be described as 'throwing a powder' into people's eyes instead, and somewhere down the road, someone decided to call him the Sandman instead. As time went on and the concept evolved, the Sandman became detached from Der Sandmann and more associated with Ole Lukøie. Now, with the myriad of poems and stories about him being related to him bringing good sleep instead of, well, stealing the eyes of children, the Sandman became a far more friendly figure who brought good dreams and inspired imagination far and wide. He was said to have told stories in the night, bringing about what dreams were, bringing this all full circle.

Shin Megami Tensei takes the theme of sleep and night to a head with the design of the Sandman, as his head is literally a moon, and the sack he carries is filled with the sand that the Sandman would toss into the eyes of children to put them to sleep. I'm not sure why his preset dialogue in most games is on the older side, though, as several interpretations of the Sandman show him as a child- it might just be a translation thing, might be connected to his general race as a Night (which is a fun nod, honestly,) or it could even draw connection between him and the original story. I'm not sure, but still, it's a fun and memorable design in the series that has barely changed over the years for good reason.

#smt #shin megami tensei #megaten #persona #daily

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qupidddd · 5 months ago

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Racer! Red Hood x reader

Back with another drabble about best girl red hood since she’s giving me serious brainrot. Btw I was listening to the ridge racer 4 ost while writing this!

- [ ] Okay lemme start off by saying she’d totally be sporting those racing suits like they do in NASCAR, but her top would prolly be cropped yk she gotta be serving on the race track!!

- [ ] There was a Grand Prix being held inside the Ark, the track spread out all throughout Royal Road, (Mustang funded it) where the best of the best were competing. There were rumors circulating around that a racer by the name of The Crimson Wolf would be entering the competition.

- [ ] No one knew what she looked like, as she always had her helmet on, but you being her biggest fan was hoping just this once, that’d she show her face. You knew she had to be good looking!

- [ ] The night of the big race, you managed to get a seat in the front row, watching as the other racers slowed to a stop behind the finish line. The Crimson Wolf was the last to show up, you watched as she stepped out of her black and dark red race car, scanning over the large crowd….before her eyes landed on you.

- [ ] Wait, she were looking at YOU?! No no, that couldn’t be right, she must be looking at the person behind you…is what you thought before she motioned to you to come closer. You were sweating bullets, taking shaky steps and smiling awkwardly as she waited for you to get closer to the fence. “A-are you sure you meant me…?” You nervously asked.

- [ ] She chuckled a bit, her laugh making you feel fuzzy as she waved you off, leaning forward into the fence. You could faintly see what looked like red hair inside her helmet. She gently took a few of your fingers through the fence, rubbing her thumb across your hand. “Y’know, out of all these people here, your definitely the cutest. If I win tonight, I’ll drive you home. Think on it a bit, yeah?”

- [ ] Σ（・□・；）

- [ ] Before you could give her an answer, she hesitantly left your side, walking back to her car as the race was about to start. As soon as the starting gun went off, her car was a blur, a strong gust of wind blowing against you as you watched in awe.

- [ ] By the time of the the third lap, you could see another racer in the lead, with The Crimson Wolf close behind. You watched with bated breath as she chased them down, like a wolf hunting a rabbit. You took a sigh of relief as she overtook them at the last second. She had won!! (Not that you ever doubted her or anything.)

- [ ] You gave a loud cheer for her as she accepted the first place trophy, you froze up when you saw her finally take off her helmet, revealing a full head of crimson red hair, matching her striking red scarf. You hoped she couldn’t see your beet red face from this distance….but her confident smirk said otherwise.

- [ ] You were at a loss for words when she once again took your hand in her gloved ones. “So…about that offer- oh!” She looked at you in surprise when you hugged her, a wide smile plastered across your face, before she returned the gesture. “Heh, I’ll take that as a yes then.”

- [ ] You sat in her passenger seat next to her with your hands in your lap, still not fully processing that you were sharing the same space as your favorite person in the whole world. You could feel her gloved hand gently tilt your head towards her, giving you a small peck on the nose. She leaned back, adjusting her mirror like she didn’t just cause you to short circuit before giving you a side glance. “Y’know, I think your a much better reward then some trophy.” She placed her left hand on the wheel, the other hand reaching over to gently but firmly hold yours. “Hold on tight, okay? I’m a bit of a speed demon.” And with that, she sped off into the night, scoring not one but two rewards.

- [ ] Let’s just say she gave you the ride of your life when you got home 😉

#nikke goddess of victory #goddess of victory: nikke #nikke x reader #nikke red hood #red hood x reader #I love her a lot guys seriously I’m not normal about her

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neko-naruto · 1 year ago

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i wish i had the instruction book (maybe it'd make sense)

Summary: Wherein Uzomi Karashi can't figure out if she's doing the whole being a lesbian thing right

Warnings: identity crisis, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: I had a moment and wrote this, she's the lesbian ever so I decided I should project on her just a little bit. @sobredunia I put your home brewed gay in situations, again, with a little bit of uzomi/mastermind propaganda. Hope ya'll enjoyed, and if you did consider leaving a reblog

Since Uzomi Karashi was young she knew she didn't fit in, maybe it was her home life, maybe it was her hair. She just knew she was different, but not in the good way. Everyone kept gushing about all the boys even when she was in grade school, albeit, they were puppy crushes before they hit age eleven.

And then they were pushed from a safe place like elementary school into the worlds most caustic environment: middle school. A bubbling pot of kids entering puberty and addled with confusion over why everything is so different now. Why am I waking up so tired? Why am I bleeding? Why do my shirts not fit anymore? Why does she look so pretty? Why does he look so unattractive?

That's not right.

Why does she look so pretty, and how come he looks… Cute, is what Uzomi told herself. Yeah, cute, he looks cute. She'll lie to herself and her friends and say she has a crush on some random asshole even though she knows that whatever feeling is brewing in her gut is not love. Not even close.

She's twelve, she's twelve and soon to turn thirteen when her friend who binds brings her into the queer room, he promises her free pizza and she says that's why she's coming. To give him some support and have a slice of pepperoni. To say her eyes are blown wide open would be an understatement, the sheer amount of people (no more than fifteen) made her heart flutter. And she knew a lot of them weren't like her, hell, she didn't even know what was like her at the time.

She was still too wrapped up in her own lie of having a crush on the cutest boy in class to figure it out. She just said she was questioning and hoped no one thought she was there just to have pizza. She barely figured out what was going on inside of her head until she transferred schools and got a 'fresh start' of sorts. That rough transfer between schools gave her almost two years of time to disconnect from her friends, and her life, and her family.

Am I doing this right?

It was just her and her brother running across the country, ambitious, unheard of, odd. She was fourteen with math books and a notepad, he was seventeen with a car he stole from their parents. She didn't get to go back to school and be normal until she was in grade ten, and by then she already had plenty of notebooks full of questions she couldn't answer. Even her brother couldn't answer them. She just wanted to know what was wrong with her.

Running across the beach in the evenings with whoever was there (it was girls, she always remembered the girls and how beautiful they looked in the orange glow of the sunset). Eating out at fast food restaurants and maybe she stared a little bit too long at the waitress, but the outfits shouldn't be so skimpy. Her brother letting her use his old laptop, full of cartoons she was no longer the demographic of by two years (she thought about Marceline a lot, she thought about how she was with Bubblegum).

Uzomi's quiet when she returns to school, soon to turn fifteen, she doesn't remember how to socialize, she doesn't remember the structural rules of how to act. She wears black, her hair is black, her mom said it complimented her eyes and she holds the notion relatively close to heart. She keeps her headphones on so loud she's almost afraid other people can hear what she's listening too, and she pulls her backpack tight like it's a protective shell.

She's a people watcher these days, sitting in the window sill on top of the stair case and overlooking her schoolmates as she eats lunch. But eventually the other kids come to her spots, a couple girls just do stretches while she's sitting in the sill and she forces herself not to stare. Why they decided to do so is beyond her, how it makes her skin burn and her face heat up answers some questions partially. It must be a fluke though, everyone gets a bit restless when a bunch of hot (they were average) girls stretch near them.

She's not a lesbian, she's bisexual. She can't be lesbian, well, she can, but she doesn't know why it wouldn't have made itself clearer before she turned fifteen. Why would it not come to punch her in the gut while she was in the heat of her confusion instead of now, while she's finally coming down from the confusion.

Am I doing this right?

She sits at the bottom of the staircase now, where no one will ever bother her again. Where no one will ever make her question herself again, sitting in a broken chair beside abandoned tables. She loiters at the bus stop, hers takes a while to get there, the second last one too arrive at that. It's always on time in being the second last one there, never late, and sometimes early at that.

Her plans on never being thrust into confusion again is abruptly destroyed when the mechanics club ends before her bus arrives and the group of blossoming mechanics walks out. They're laughing and she turns her head to see why they're making such a ruckus and she instantly regrets it. Her freshman ass is not ready for whats she sees.

They aren't wearing jackets even though it's cold out, their hair is tied back messy, white t-shirts and tank tops sweat through and with oil splotches. Her stomach turns and she wants to run before they notice she's staring at them, the girls, she's staring at the girls. She later comes to dub this as the final test of what her sexuality could be, because she no longer knows what could be better than mechanics fresh out of work. The guys aren't appealing in the slightest, fuck no, not when the gals are right there.

Laughing, grinning, jackets tied around their waists, steel toe snow boots- they're perfect. January snow comes to her face and she can feel them melt under the heat of the blush on her cheeks. Her heart slams so very rapidly in her chest when one of them walks up to her and asks if a bus has arrived and all she can do is choke out a weak 'no.'

Am I doing this right?

She decides she needs to dye her hair when she gets home that night, blue, a chunk up front goes blue. A nice shade of blue, not too vibrant or too dark, one that matches her eyes. Why she does so again is beyond her, she just knows it's the next logical step somewhere in her gut.

She's gay, she's lesbian, she's queer, she's a dyke, and you know what? That's fine. She buys herself a button and she wears it too school every single day and no one fucking notices. No one asks her, no one else finds her. She wonders if she's the only one which she knows is asinine but it feels like there isn't anyone else like her because she doesn't know where to look. She doesn't know if she looks like she's gay, she doesn't know what gay people even look like anymore.

She can't recognize the signs, she can't look for the subtle things because she never learned them. Fashion is stupid, she can't tell baby butch from t-boy in her freshman year and she's glad it gets a little bit easier to tell the difference as she goes. She steals her brothers jacket which is just a little bit too short and hopes that lets people know.

Uzomi scraps the button in grade eleven, fuck 'em, if they want to know they can pick up her hints themselves. She doesn't even know if she's giving the right hints, but she does know she's building confidence. She even has a friend that's a girl, not a girlfriend, she's straight anyways. She still got Uzomi something 'inherently romantic' much earlier in the year for her birthday, probably a joke. They sit in the stair wells together and laugh about whatever gossip her friend has found in bio eleven and drama class. She just tries to beat down whatever feelings could possibly be boiling up in her.

Am I doing this right?

At least she's in mechanics club now, she was barred from it in her first year but since that bus stop incident she's been enthralled with it. She bought books and tools to work over the summer, to try and make sense of it; the pieces of the puzzle came to her naturally. This piece goes here, unscrew those in a specific order, engines work like this, oil and gas are both important. She's very quiet in mechanics club, those same girls from last year are still there. Somehow they've only managed to get even prettier since then, even a welding mask and coveralls accentuate their features.

They're in grade twelve, they're rebuilding a car engine as a group, Uzomi is not. She's working on smaller things, taking apart and rebuilding broken and working things. She does help the older girls though, brings them tools and takes note as they work. She swears she dies inside when the teacher assigns her to work on the car because of how good she is at working on engines.

She passes them wrenches and spark plugs, even gets to tug one out by the ankles when they get stuck underneath a car. She's glad her hair is long enough to hide her face when they're breathing down her neck and leaning over her shoulder giving gentle critique. That relief goes away when her hair is almost lost to the machine, thankfully it isn't, but after that her hair was required to be tied up. One of the girls did it up for her, fingers brushing along her neck making her burn like fire because despite knowing it wasn't anything she wanted it to be, she chose to believe.

Her first kiss was before grade eleven but it doesn't count when she can say she got her first kiss from the most beautiful girl she's ever met instead. Leaning against the hood of the car, joking about and passing a bottle of water back and forth. The casualness of it all felt surreal even when a hand grasped her own which jolted her back to reality. There's a brief pause and then she's being kissed but that's even briefer. She's told it's a birthday present, she's seventeen now, she should've kissed a girl years ago she realizes as she stands alone with a water bottle in hand.

Am I doing this right?

None of that really matters now, not when she barely remembers any of it. She just knows that she's somewhere very purple in a room full of dismantled machinery and the occasional person. She doesn't even know what she's supposed to be doing, she just starts excavating amongst the rubble.

She finds people which is rather odd, you don't usually find people in piles of mechanical garbage. She hauls out a red one, spiky hair, sharp teeth, seems like an asshole and he won't say his name. She hauls out someone in brown, a trench coat, purple rimmed glasses, again, seems like an asshole, also a guy. She's starting to find a pattern in guys, except for her brother, she's missing her jacket.

She pulls out her jacket and the pockets are heavy, she tosses out the items only for them to be scavenged by the guys. They meander around the purple room, they don't even help her pull out a small kid in reds with purple hair. Thankfully, the kid helps her retrieve one more person from the rubble, a girl in yellow and white.

She's confused, she's scared, and Uzomi shares her name and tries to explain things before the yellow girl is on her way. She keeps going through the rubble, just in case someone else is trapped inside. One final person is retrieved, a boy with dual tone hair, he can't move his legs. She builds him a wheel chair, although build is a loose term, she mixes a bunch of parts together and hopes for the best.

Then she joins the rest of them, wheeling along the boy as she goes. Two more people are there, and a green screen is in the midst of it all, a person is on screen. Her grip on the wheel chair handles tighten just a bit as she stares at the fox masked mystery.

She tries to quip and joke, she really does, but she has a hard time being on point with it all as she stares at the gal. Then she speaks, and no one else is talking, voice clear in the confused silence and Uzomi wants to die. She feels like she's in tenth grade all over again at the bus stop, it gets worse when the yellow girl talks in response. Confusion coils deep in her stomach and her chest and she can't really bring herself to say much of anything even when the green screen drops down.

One question lingers on her mind with the flood of her memories, her worst memories. The turbulent and confusing ones, the ones she's glad she had forgotten because if she didn't know she was blissfully ignorant and just gay. Now she remembers and she can't shake the question that she never wanted to enter her mind again:

Am I doing this right?

#kenikari #uzomi karashi #uzomi kenikari #kenikari fanfiction #kenikari fanfic #writing #fanfic #fanfiction

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queen-of-deans-booty · 2 years ago

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Clip Show: Final Part

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: canon angst and violence

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated.

Your phone rings this time, and you answer it without looking to see who it is.

"You son of a bitch. What the hell are you doing, Crowley?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm killing everyone you've ever saved--the damsels in distress, the innocent whippersnappers, the would-be vampire chow--all of them."

"How do you even know where they are?"

"I have my sources and a cracking research team. When you three hit a town, you tend to leave a mess. Now, you're probably wondering why my droogs aren't in there giving you the bum's rush, so let's brass these tacks, shall we? I'm gonna gut one person every twelve hours until you bring me the Demon Tablet and stop this whole trial nonsense."

"We don't have the tablet. Kevin took it and--"

"I took Kevin, then someone took him back. Word from the cloud is that it wasn't Heaven. So either the cutest little Prophet in the world is with you three lads, or you better find him because time, she is a-wasting. About now, you're thinking of ways to stop me. You won't be able to, but you'll try because that's what you do. So, time for an object lesson. Indianapolis, the Ivy Motel, room 116. You have fifty-seven minutes."

Crowley hangs up, and you turn to the brothers with a pale face. You explain everything that just happened, and that's enough to rush back onto the road.

You're not sure who is inside room 116, but when she opens the door, you get a flashback to when you helped her back in New York.

"I'm just glad this whole thing is over. I never liked Upstate New York." You said.

"I guess this means you're leaving." Sarah said sadly, looking at Sam. The air started to thicken up with awkwardness and you looked between Sam and Sarah, nodding.

"Okay then, Dean, why don't we wait by the car." You smiled to Sarah, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean's shoulders slumped but followed your instruction anyways.

"I'm the one that burned the doll and destroyed the spirit, but don't thank me or anything." Dean grumbled as you walked with him.

"Mmm, I'll thank you." You said seductively, leaning up to his ear and nibbling on it. He growled and pushed you against the car, kissing you. You pulled away and looked into his eyes that sparkled with love. You turned around and leaned into his body, your back to his front and he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. You held onto his strong arms, watching Sam and Sarah say goodbye.

Sarah closed the door of the auction house while Sam was outside. You guess Sam never made a move. You knew he wanted to and he should. You smiled widely when Sam walked back to the door and knocked. The door opened to reveal a smiling Sarah and she leaned up just as Sam leaned down and their lips met.

"That's my boy." Dean muttered with a smile. Sam deserved to be happy and in that moment, you knew he was.

Sarah is glad to see you three after being years apart, but as soon as you explain what's going on, she becomes grim.

"So a demon named Crowley is gonna kill me in sixteen minutes."

"No, he's not. I'm not going to let it happen. My powers are stronger than ever. You won't die, but that won't stop him from trying."

"What are you doing in Indiana?" Dean asks, trying to get her mind off things.

"I was scouting an estate sale for my dad."

"Look, we're gonna put Devil's Traps everywhere. We've got holy water, an exorcism ready to play on a loop, and anything that comes through that door is dead. Look, I know this is insane, but insane is kind of what we do. We'll keep you safe," Sam promises.

"Okay."

"That's it?"

"You've done this before. I trust you."

She fiddles with her fingers, and you notice the rock on her hands.

"Damn, look at the size of that ring," you gri.

"Yeah, his name is Ian. He works search and rescue. I guess I have a type. Our daughter, Bess, will be one in a month."

"I won't let anything happen to your family, Sarah. I promise," you squeeze her shoulder and join Dean to give Sam some privacy.

They talk for a few minutes, and then Crowley calls. Dread fills your chest, but you won't let her die.

"Crowley," Dean answers with a growl.

"Five... Four... Trios... Zwei... Uno." Sarah struggles to breathe. Whatever Crowley is doing, he's doing it remotely. You rush over to her and try to help her, but it's like she is being strangled by an invisible force. "She's dying, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"You son of a bitch!" Dean yells.

"Son of a witch, actually. My mommy taught me a few tricks."

"It's a spell. Find the hex bag!" you yell.

Dean and Sam immediately start to ransack the area, and you grab Dean's phone to talk to Crowley.

"I thought of sending in a few of my bruisers and really let them go to town. Then, trial one was to kill a Hellhound. Trial two was to rescue a soul from the pit. So, from here on, I'm gonna keep everything hell-related away from you. Plus, I just thought it seemed fitting. From what I understand, Sammy took that bird's breath away. What's the line? 'Saving people, hunting things, the family business'? Well, I think the people you save are how you justify your pathetic little lives. The alcoholism, the collateral damage, and the pain you've caused is the one thing that allows you to sleep at night. The one thing is knowing that these folks are out there, still out there happy and healthy because of you, you great, big, bloody heroes!"

"You're not getting her, you bastard," you growl.

"Sarah? They're your life's work, and I'm going to rip it apart piece by piece because I can, because you can't stop me, and because when they're all gone, what will you have left? You want to keep those people alive. I want complete and utter surrender. You'll surrender the tablet and the trials or we'll keep doing this dance. Your choice, my darlings."

You hang up on Crowley and let your magic guide you to where the hex bag is. Sarah doesn't have much longer, so you need to find it now. Clouds of magic form at your hands, and Sam and Dean pause when they see what's happening. The clouds of your magic cover every inch of the apartment until it's sucked into a single location--the couch.

You use your magic to rip it apart, and you find the hex bag easily. With your magic, you burn the hex bag right before Sarah could go unconscious. She sucks in a deep breath and coughs, and Sam rushes to her side to take care of her.

"You're okay. You're going to be okay."

"I didn't have any doubt," she coughs.

Crowley thinks she's dead and you're going to keep it that way.

By the time you get back to the bunker, Sam heads straight to his room. He's pissed about this whole thing, but you're just exhausted. Dean takes care of the kids while you stay in the library. You don't move from your spot at the table even when Dean comes back without the kids.

"Get up. Follow me."

"Where are we going?" you ask hollowly.

Dean doesn't answer and helps you to your feet. He takes you to the hallway where Sam and the kids' rooms are. Yours and Dean's room is in the other hallway on the other side of the Bunker. Dean stops outside of Robert's room and grips the doorknob.

"We're going inside and facing this."

"I can't," you mutter.

"No, you need to let it in, Y/N. I'm going to let it in with you. This is how we're going to start to heal."

"It's going to hurt," you whimper.

"Of course it's going to hurt, but then tomorrow, it'll hurt a little less. Then, in a year from now, it's going to hurt a lot less. You have to start now before something bad happens."

You know he's right. You don't think you can do this alone, so you're glad you have Dean here with you. You move Dean's hand out of the way before you grasp the handle yourself. You slowly push open the door into the dark room. The only light is coming from the hallway, but you don't move to turn on the light.

Everything is how you left it before he died. The only difference is that his urn is sitting on top of the dresser next to the rocking chair. Imagine what your life would be like if he was here right now. Maryann would grow up with her twin. Joanna would have a younger brother. You and Dean would have a son.

You walk into the room and run your fingers over the crib. Tears want to fall, but you're trying not to let them fall. Dean is right behind you to walk you through it, and you're grateful for him. The dresser is your next step where a picture of him all wrapped up in his blue blanket right before he was taken to the morgue.

Next to his picture is a framed picture of his foot and handprints. His hospital bracelet sits next to that, and a small box with a glass lid holds the lock of his hair. Your bottom lip trembles, and as soon as your hand touches his urn, you break down crying.

"He should be here, Dean," you cry and grab the urn.

Dean backs you up and takes a seat on the rocking chair. You fall into his lap and curl into a ball, and he begins rocking you gently.

"He should be here. He should have gotten to live. I didn't even get to hold him," you sob into your husband's chest.

You're both crying at this point, but Dean is better at controlling it than you are. You let everything you've suppressed since you came home from the hospital out in the form of tears. Dean isn't sobbing, but you can feel his tears on your head.

He's right, it hurts like hell, but it'll be easier tomorrow and then before you know it, it won't hurt when you think of him.

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural fic #supernatural fiction #supernatural fan fiction #supernatural fanfic #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfic #spn #spn fic #spn fiction

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larabiatasstuff · 2 years ago

Note

Hey bestie I have a request for you 😁 I'm not sure if you have heard of these before, but sometimes soft play centres for children can be open for adults one night, and they get to drink! It's so cool! I'd love to read something about Max being with his girlfriend in one of them 😁 take your time bestie, love you 💚💚💚

Sorry for the wait Bestie 🖤 Of course I write that for you 🤗 I really love that request. 🙏

Max and I were dating for a while now and we couldn't be happier. It was Friday afternoon and I was beyond nervous. I had a major surprise for Max cause he had to deal with so many bad guys and overworking in the last few weeks that he deserved a nice weekend. "Babes, I'm home!" he calls from the hallway. "Hey baby, how are you feeling?" I asked and gave him a kiss. "I'm just glad that it's finally weekend. I'm beyond exhausted." he says lying on the couch. "Well I hope you're not too exhausted for the surprise I have for you." he sat straight up. "A surprise? For me? Is it something dirty?" he asked raising his eyebrows. "Really Max? Okay remember when we were at my nephews birthday at the soft play centre and how sad you were that you couldn't join him in the ball pit fight?" his face got serious "Well he would have won with me in his team okay?" "I'm absolutely sure about that baby. The thing is I did some research and it appears that they're open for adults a few times a week and like the good girlfriend I am..." Max eyes got wide "You did not, or did you? Babes don't play with my feelings right now." "We're going tomorrow at eight ." he jumped from his seat pulled me into a very tight hug and covered my face with kisses. "Max, Max stop... I can't breathe baby." I laughed. "Did I ever tell you that you're the best girlfriend in the world? Cause you are, I would marry you right away if I could. I love you so much babes." "Awww aren't you the cutest? I love you too baby." The next day went on pretty fast and Max was beyond excited. He talked about it non stop and it was just too cute to watch him doing research what he would do first what we could do together. He acted just like a child but I actually loved him for that, life was serious enough. As soon as we got there we were looking for a table but I realized that Max couldn't wait any longer. "Okay baby take the lead I follow you." he took my hand and guided me through the whole thing. We went on some kind of slide together, had a play fight in the ball pit and had some fun pushing each other around on a trampoline. After two hours we both were exhausted and ready to go home. Max constantly wearing a big smile on his face. "Babes that was one of the best nights ever. Thank you so much for doing that with me." "You know I usually don't like that kind of stuff but with you it was very much fun. No thanks needed I love seeing you happy baby." I started the car and Max already fell asleep on the way home.

#thomas ian griffith #sensei targaryen #max parish #max parish x reader

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blueparadis · 2 years ago

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*Barges into your room*

Baby is it your birthday?? Did I miss it?? OMG I missed it didn't I?? OMG hyperventilating rn!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE!!!!

I just want you to be happy on your birthday 🥺 YOU, YOU PARADIS, YOU DESERVE THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD!!! YOU'RE ALWAYS THE SWEETEST, KINDEST, CUTEST AND THE BIGGEST HEART! YOU DESERVE EVERYTHING BABY!!

Okay let's go, get up, I assumed you've showered and if not, that's okay, let's go put on your make-up and your cutest dress, we're going out! Come on my treat! No, don't do that, no pouts and buts, let's go we're going shopping, get you your favorite cake and ice cream, your fav meal or anytg new u want to try and we'll go on a long drive to nowhere and u can vent all you want I'll listen and once u done we'll turn on the radio loud to your favorite song, roll down the windows cause I probably don't own a convertible, ohh fxck it, let's go rent one while we at it, Ran and Reo's paying or we'll take their car anyways FOCUS, we'll drive to the beach, feel the air in our hair, put your hands up as I accelerate into the coastal wind, and then after we walk on the beach, we'll check in to the hotel there and get ourselves the best spa treatment before we head out in our fancy sexy dress we bought earlier at the mall and hang out at the bar by the beach, walks in to Lana's High by the beach and babeee it's all about YOUUUU!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LOVE. DRINK AFTER DRINK AFTER DRINKS I PASS OUTT. The cute bartender slaps my face to wake me up and you panicked, but you woke up and then we'll go back to the hotel. I swear I did not throw up on the way. Promise. And we'll binge your favorite show all night long w room service till we fall asleep. Maybe, just maybeee we extended our stay for a few more days. Like I said Ran and Reo's paying for the ride and hotel. Muahhhh!!

This is the cutest, softest and most heartwarming wish I've got ever. Ran and Reo sponsoring our good time. Heck yeah.

Relax, you didn't miss it. I'm still a birthday girl. Hahah. I spent my day unexpectedly great. My not so girlfriend took me out to a cafe and we talked a lot. It was an impromptu plan. She gave me a book, actually lent it to me. Apparently she doesn't lend books to anybody, not even her boyfriend and i was like ehehe. I'm special.

We talked how we would own a cafe cum library and do all the silly things that we'll never be able to do lol. Lots of love, xoxo.

#love letter 💌#:from swan #I'll definitely remember my 22nd bday #thank you so much for putting rep and ran together #lol I'm sure reo is gonna give a hard time to ran 🙂#whatever it'll be I'm a Rindou protector #they can rip eacthother's throats #thank you for taking your time and making my bday this special #thank you from the bottom of my heart sawn babie UwU

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seitmai · 5 months ago

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Wow!! So many thoughts down below

If one person is great at going at it with Mav, it's Bradley lol

"How are you so damn sure it was us?" Bradley continues, throwing his hands up. He's so close that his nails scratch your elbow on their way past. You hardly feel a thing. "We weren't the only ones who knew this shit!"

Held back by Jake and Bradley. Teeth bared. Blood pouring from the corner of his mouth. Shoving against Jake and Bradley's hold. And he's strong, but he's not stronger than both alpha and omega combined. You hardly feel your feet moving, bending to scoop the fractured frames off the floor.

Not his glasses!! Also who out if Bradley and Jake is the alpha and who is the omega 🤔

"Do you think he's realized that he can't read the road signs?" Javy wonders aloud as you walk toward your vehicles. Always parked next to each other. He's the only one you trust not to ding your car with his door, and vice versa.

Everything about this part cracked me up😅

"Maybe we should check for him around Mav's place," the sound of Reuben's voice is the only reason why you remember that he's walking behind you, "might be looking for a round two. No referees this time."

No referees lol 🤭

You suppose that you can't blame him; you acted similarly when they finally took you off those suppressants. Too many unbalanced hormones, all at once, thrown in the deep end with no idea how to swim.

I mean living in a world without alpha or omega hormones, normal hormones alone can fuck you up pretty badly 🥴🫠

"I...I'm sorry," Bob's voice breaks through your thoughts like sunshine peeking through storm clouds, warm enough to melt away the words fluttering about your head, "I almost blew—" "Mav had it coming." Cutting him off before he can finish his sentence. You were never upset about that to begin with.

Facts

Touch his chest. Touch his chest. Touch his chest.

Literally a glimpse into my brain lol

A chirp bursts out of you. Sharp. High pitched. Jake did a piss poor job of explaining what that noise does to an alpha, but he must be right about one thing. Bob stiffens. Holding onto his breath, his wide eyes flickering up and down your body. His eyelashes flutter. "Oh."

🤭🤭🤭

"'m I doing it right?" He asks, breath tickling your ear. "You're getting the hang of it," your confirmation doesn't amount to a whole lot. He knows that as well as you do. You're only slightly better than he is, too far removed from the instinct that resides in your DNA to make much connection with it.

It's the cutest thing that he asks if he's doing it right 🥹🥰

"I'm just as surprised as you are," his hand squeezes yours, obediently following along as you walk into the elevator. There's no use in him trying to do anything else. Not when he can't see. "It's not...you know, all the way there yet, but it's either that or an unfortunately placed tumor."

In some situations a little humor can really help🤭😅

"I don't even remember what day it is."

Lol this happens to me way too often

Bob's frown is something that you find yourself having to kiss away, can't stand the sight of such a thing. And that's really...that's the last thing that you remember doing. Standing in the bathroom, feeling his arms snake around you, as you kiss his lips until they lift with a smile one more.

🥰🥰🥰

Oh, and his cheeks are on fucking fire, red as they can possibly get. All these years, and yet he's still so shy about these topics. It's cute.

I LOVE a blushing man 😍

"Don't tell me..." his chest heaves as you make your way across it, peppering every little freckle with attention, "don't tell me you're..." "I'll be gentle," peeking up at him through your lashes, blindly following the hard valley of his sternum. Down, down down to the start of his upper belly, soft and squishing beneath your kiss. Here, you can pause, sucking gently at a patch of pale skin.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

"Do you want me to stop?" Pausing in your tracks. "Nuh uh," his head shakes back and forth, then, hesitantly, "'s just...new."

New can be good 😌

It's not enough for you, and so you're already opening your mouth with another question. "Can you use your words for me?" But that pretty head shakes back and forth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "N-no."

Ahh the cutest blubbering mess 🥰🤤

Hand flying away from the pillow, making a little grabbing motion until you offer him your unoccupied one. Always has to be holding your hand. Always.

"Feels, feels, aha—!" If he sounded this pretty in the backseat of a jet, you probably wouldn't have a license anymore. "Feels good!"

🥵🥵🥵

What else are you meant to do on your day off? Something productive?

Absolutely not!

"So pretty," he babbles, sounds absolutely awe-struck, "you're so pretty." "You're just saying that because I'm riding you," teasing, a little smile emerging onto your face as you draw yourself up. "No, I'm—mmh!" His head falls backward, thunking against the pillow.

He's is so out of this mind, hot 🥵

There's no way that you'll be separating any time soon, not with his knot pulsing inside of your poor pussy, stretched to a limit you didn't know you had. Even when his phone dings from the other room, there's nothing he can do about it. How cruel nature is, forcing you to lie here and accept his snuggling advances. Barbaric, even.

What a bummer 🤷🏻‍♀️😌

"This..." Bob hums, kissing at your jaw, "feels so damn weird." Idle, your arm loops around his shoulders, hand greedily delving into his hair. "Tell me about it. If you cum any more, I think I might pop."

🤭🤭🤭

Bobby should have known whether he was alpha, omega, or beta over ten years ago. Why is it that you and he have been medicated to high hell while Maverick has walked around for the better half of thirty years without being given a single fucking pill to take? He's exactly what the Navy preaches about; a hot-headed, cocky alpha who gets so invested in instinct that he hurts his team.

Yes!! This!!!👏🏻

You know that voice. You know what happened the last time you called. But for once in your life, you've forgotten how to feel hesitant about the words that are about to leave your mouth.

God, fuck, his fangs aren't even formed properly. Short and stunted from the lack of hormones, not an ounce of threat to them, no matter how many times he may try to flash them.

This makes me so sad, poor little Bobby 🥺

Omg I loved this ending!! This lowkey mysterious voice and the open end, wow!! 👏🏻 It leaves so many open questions but that's also what it kinda makes it more intriguing, obsessed!

Cinnamon, Coffee & Vanilla | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 12,600 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, alpha! Bob, omega! Reader. Physical altercations, heavily implied abuse/mistreatment & trauma from the Navy, a little blood, brief food mentions, handjobs, mating cycles, first ruts, knotting, unprotected sex, a (slight) open ending, and a weak traitor plot woven between the lines. Brief Summary: You'd figured you would be able to smell him by now. Truly deduce whether or not he's an alpha, beta, omega, or something in between the lines, but even as you breathe in, you can't catch a damn thing.

Wind howls around the corner, rain pattering against the window with soft thunks that dance and twist down the hallway like their own little melody. You haven't got the slightest idea where your feet are falling, barely guided by the pale blue light that peeks out from the kitchen and out into the hallway.

Turning the light on is a viable option; the switch should be somewhere on your right, but your arm is too heavy to lift, dangling limp at your side as you amble down the hall.

There are some things that you can't bring yourself to do this late in the night. Not when this is the first time you've seen these walls since you left this morning, skipping off into the sunrise, naively believing that you'd get to come home at a normal time.

Lightning flickers so brightly that, for a moment, you think the kitchen light has turned on by itself. But it's gone just as quickly as it appeared, thunder rattling the picture hanging on the wall as you drift past.

The kitchen isn't that much better. It seems that being closer to the window doesn't do all that much in regards to lighting because...you can't see a damn thing. All you know is that you're surrounded by vaguely shaped splotches, all varying shades of black. Some of them are familiar: the round blob that is the clock on the wall, the rug, the step stool, the dining table, the foot sticking out from underneath it...

Your eyes narrow. Squinting as if that can possibly brighten the room.

"Bobby?" Because there should only be one other pair of feet in this apartment.

"Hm?" It's faint, but you recognize that hum all the same.

Your weary knees creak as you crouch down, peering below the table. Light leaks out from a crack in the curtains, casting across a familiar mop of hair. His eyes squint back at you, unfocused and blurry, without the assistance of his glasses.

"What are you doing?" Your head tilts to the side, trying your best to shake an idea out of your brain.

"Dunno," Bob raises his hand, watching intently as he knocks his knuckles against the wood above his head, "trying to figure out what omegas get out of this."

You're...not following. "I've never gotten under the table."

"You said you like small, dark spaces." His shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "This is the only place I could fit."

"Well..." pausing, you shrug the backpack off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a resounding thunk. The neighbors downstairs probably heard that, but it's not your problem right now. "Is it striking any instincts for you?"

A chuckle rumbles out of him. "Not a damn thing."

But he's not making the slightest effort to come out from under there. Content to rest with his back against one of the table legs, like it's the best spot in the house. If the sun were still out, and your eyes weren't halfway closed, then you'd probably have a lot more questions for him, but fuck if questions are the last thing you want to think of right now.

Your palms flatten against the floor, left knee chirping as you begin to crawl under the table with him. Another motion, and it pops, the remnants of a nagging ejection injury. It's usually an easily missable sound, but in this quiet little kitchen, it might as well be as loud as the thunder.

"Was that your knee?" Bob asks it as if he doesn't already know the answer, his hand darting out as you settle next to him. His palm is hot against your bare skin, thick fingers squeezing around the joint like he thinks that a bit of pressure will heal the old fracture.

You wish it was that simple.

"Yeah," your head falls against his shoulder, unable to keep it up any longer. "I should bill Maverick for the surgery."

As if they'd even give you enough time off to heal. The consequence of being the best of the best: your free time vanishes because everyone on planet Earth needs you.

Bob's head comes to rest against yours, a subtle weight that seems to quiet your thoughts in an instant. No worries about getting into bed before six-thirty rolls around, what you'll pack for your rushed lunch tomorrow, and whether or not you'll come home from this mission alive. All you can do is breathe and watch as Bob reaches for your weary hand, squeezing it gently.

His wrist shakes, and you don't need to ask to know that it's been caused by another one of those full-body tremors. One of the side effects of being taken off navy regulation suppressants for the first time in over a decade, left to suffer the consequences of a body that has never learned to regulate its own hormones.

Slow, you tilt your head, nuzzling into the soft fat of his cheek. Squishy. "Anything change for you yet?"

"I can smell your scent now," you can feel the flex of muscle as he smiles, peeking at you through the corner of his eye, "but...nah, I think that's about it."

You'd figured you would be able to smell him by now. Truly deduce whether or not he's an alpha, beta, omega, or something in between the lines, but even as you breathe in, you can't catch a damn thing. Still the same vanilla shampoo and faded woodsy cologne.

"What do I smell like?" Asking after a moment.

"Somethin' like..." All of a sudden, the tip of his nose finds the shell of your ear. His fingers dance across your sensitive thighs, tickling.

"Hey!" You squeal.

A kiss presses to your cheek. "Sugar." Kiss. "'n fresh laundry." Another kiss.

Your noses bump together. It's too dark to see, but you know there's a shade of cherry dusting across his cheeks as he pulls you into him, mouths colliding like galaxies, merging into one.

There is no end to your exhaustion—simply an intermission.

Your feet fall so heavily that it sounds as if you're stomping down this empty hall. Boots pounding against the floor with heavy thump, thump thumps that pale in comparison to the voice that booms above all. It's so loud that you can hardly understand a single word, and you're making no effort to try and decipher it.

The hand on your bicep tugs, forcing you forward. A voice in the back of your head sparks to lie; they shouldn't be hauling you around like a mutt on a leash, but you can't bring yourself to say a damn thing. Not when your throat is already raw from shouting, voice run ragged in a desperate attempt to convince Cyclone that you're not the person he's accusing you of being.

What ever happened to innocent until proven guilty, anyway?

"I cannot fucking believe this!" Maverick's voice crystallizes as you round the corner, feet flailing beneath you as you're thrust into the room.

Weary heads turn your way. Jake. Natasha. Rueben. Mickey. Bob. Javy. Billy. Brigham. Callie. And you know the names of the remainders, but their names just aren't coming to you right now. But one glance is all it takes to realize that they must have pulled all of you all at once; they look just as miserable as you feel.

"The Navy trusted you!" Spit flies out of Maverick's mouth. "I trusted you!"

He turns, hands combing through his hair as if to try and soothe himself. It doesn't work. It never works. "I paraded you as the best goddamn pilots the Navy has seen this decade, and you make a fucking fool of me!"

Bob's head tilts, muttering something to Jake that you can't quite hear. Whatever it is, it's enough to have Jake nodding his head and leaning over to Javy.

"I give you my best and how do you repay me?" Mav doesn't seem to hear them, too red in the face to think about anything other than this. Betrayal. A figurative knife in the back. "By running off and becoming an insider for the goddamn enemy!"

His arm swipes across a shelf. Porcelain figures and glass frames fly in your direction. Shattering on the ground into a million and one pieces. Damn near invisible on this white floor, presence merely indicated by the glisten of the shards in the light. But he's not done. A potted plant strikes the wall, exploding like a firework.

"God, so help me," spinning around, Mav jabs his finger in your face, "if I find out which of you fucking did this—"

"For godsakes, Mav!" Bradley's voice is loud in your right ear. Every bit as strained as yours is. Cracking in the middle. A husk of its usual sound.

Just as quickly as he's turned to face you, Maverick is moving again. Storming across the room. Turning. Pacing back to you and Bradley like a mad dog, thirsty for someone's blood.

A hand appears on your shoulder. Warm, a thumb swiping back and forth in such a familiar manner that you don't need to look to know who it is. Bobby. His slight nudge is enough to get you to follow him, slinking toward the back of the room. Walking backwards has never been your talent, but somehow, you don't bump into anything.

What's he trying to do?

"You and your team are the only pilots who knew the information that made its way across enemy lines," there's a sudden calmness to Maverick's tone that wasn't there before. You don't like it, not one bit. "And now you've cost us an entire goddamn mission."

Boots stomp across the tile. Louder. Closer.

"And not one of you is fucking leaving!" And all of a sudden, Maverick is nose to nose with Bobby. "Not until someone starts talking!"

Bob's mouth opens, but for a moment, nothing but air escapes. "You can't lock us in here."

Jake's head nods. So does Javy's. Silent agreement.

Mav shoves Bob's shoulders. Knocking him against the wall. "Yes, I goddamn can."

Bob's lip curls. Canines uncharacteristically flash in the light with the same glisten and sharpness as the glass scattered across the tile.

Maverick strikes him.

You don't even see him reeling back. You blink, and his fist is crashing into Bob's glasses. The frames fracture, falling to the floor with a clatter.

Someone gasps. Mav falls backward, hand shielding the side of his head. A boot finds his jaw. Hands grab hold of his hair. A flurry of bodies dart between. Someone's got Mav by the collar, and Bob—

Bob growls.

"What's gotten into you?" Natasha shouts. Somewhere off on your left. "Both of you!"

Her shoulder clocks yours.

You spin on your heels.

She's nose to nose with you. "Get your roommate under control," she hisses under her breath. For a moment, her gaze darts to Maverick, eyes so wide that you fear she may never close them again. Then, back to you. "If this goes south—"

"I know." Your hands find each other at the same time. Squeezing once. Twice. Four times. She's got this handled. "I'll get Bobby sorted."

"By safe," she's stepping away, already beginning to shout something that you don't quite catch.

By the time you turn around, Bob is gone.

For someone who usually operates at a turtles pace, Bob sure does move quickly when he wants to. Jake tells you that he caught a glimpse of him leaving the locker room, and by the time you get outside, his truck is missing from its usual place beneath the old maple tree in the back corner of the lot.

You're still waiting on Mickey to pay for that giant scratch he gifted you this past Christmas.

"He's probably wearing the set with the tinted lenses," you chirp, adjusting the bag weighing on your weary shoulders. "I think he usually keeps them in the center console." That's where you last saw them, at least.

Javy nods his head like he's agreeing with your train of thought. "Well, if I see a black truck swerving in and out of lanes, I'll give you a heads up."

The front of your boot thunks against the curb. Your weight falls forward. But your footing recovers just as quickly as you lost it. Javy's already grabbing your shoulder, holding you steady.

You might be too tired to be driving. But what other choice do you have other than to call a car and pay the fine when your car gets towed overnight?

Your hand darts into your pocket, pressing a button on your key fob. A second passes, and the locks in your car doors audibly open. "Well, if he's not home, I'll sound the alarm,"

"Y'all make it home safe!" Jake's voice echoes across the lot.

"Text the group chat, or you'll find me at your front door!" Natasha picks up right where he left off, her phone shaking in the air as she yells. "That means you, Bradshaw!"

Bradley's horn honks. "It was one time!"

It's not until you get situated in the driver's seat and are combing through your music, looking for something decent to listen to, that your phone dings with a singular message.

Bob: Made it home 👍 12:47 AM

With everyone leaving at the same time, it's not difficult to find yourself falling into a loose line as you all make your way off base. A symphony of honks soar through the air once you've crossed onto city-owned pavement, some dumb little routine that sparked from Jake's incessant need to remind you all that he's here before you can possibly begin to forget.

This place is so far out that for a good three miles, the only vehicles on the road belong to your little group, following the slightly too-fast lead of Mickey's project car until the street guides you into town. Jake and Bradley take a left at the red light. Natasha cruises off onto the upcoming exit. Mickey and Rueben turn off into the parking lot of a sandwich shop; Javy tails you until you enter a roundabout.

And all of a sudden, you're by yourself.

It's almost strange, actually. You've grown so used to Bobby's headlights reflecting in your rearview mirror that without them, the road feels impossibly dark. Not another person on this Earth but you.

The sight of his truck parked in its spot is just as foreign, and once parked, you catch yourself trying to wait for him to pull in next to you. But there is no smiling WSO to accompany you on the walk into the apartment complex. No giggling as he tries to beat you to the elevator doors. It's just you and your overfilled backpack.

All that, only for the apartment to be dark when you open the door.

"Bobby?" You call out, trudging into the darkness. No response. Blindly, your hand feels along the wall, seeking the switch.

A whine jumps out of your throat. Light does nothing to reveal him, but his backpack rests in its usual spot beside the door, those tinted glasses sit on the arm of the couch, and his work shoes rest in the place of the beat-up pair reserved for the gym.

Is he not tired?

Evidently, you aren't either because somehow you've got the energy to slip into a softer pair of shoes and head back out of the apartment. Eyes half-lidded, barely paying attention to your surroundings as you make your way down the hallway.

There's absolutely zero reason for you to be doing this. It's not as if Bob is never going to come home again, but something has got you hunting him down like a bloodhound on a trail. Frozen images flicker through your head, like flipping through a picture book.

The drop of his smile when Cyclone made his accusations that someone is leaking information to the enemy. How tired those usually bright eyes were when you were finally hauled out of the office. The flashing of fangs, the fist connecting with the side of Mav's head. You don't understand. You've seen him riled up a number of times, but this...

This is new.

You hear him before you've even stepped off of the basement stairs—the soft patter of fists against leather echoing throughout the stairwell like a beacon. Heat greets you like a slap in the face, enveloping you as if you've just walked into a sauna. It's always so damn hot down here; you don't know how Bobby can stand working out in it.

The door to the bottom of the stairwell is missing, seamlessly opening up to the gym. Treadmills, a long rack of weights, specialty machines you've already forgotten the names of; the mini fridge in the corner is still broken, and whoever left their neon yellow yoga mat has yet to come back for the poor thing.

It's so big that at first, you don't notice him. But then you do, and...

Shit. Has Bob always looked like that?

It's got to be a trick that the lighting is playing on your eyes, set off by the sweat that pours off his body like a waterfall. Dripping down the swell of his chest, running loose across a toned stomach, only makes it that much more obvious when his abdomen flexes. There's no way that he's fully awake, but his feet are alive beneath him, dancing left and right as if this old punching bag might start punching back.

You've seen this sight more times than you count, have followed him down here for the sole purpose of drooling over his swollen biceps, but this...this is different. Something has changed, and you can't pinpoint what that is.

The strike of his fists might be more aggressive than you remember them being, but maybe the exhaustion slowing your senses is causing you to misjudge. His upper lip twitches up, breathing hard through his nose. It's the only other sound in the room. Too shy to allow himself to make much noise, for fear of hearing his own grunts.

There's a foreign scent in the air. Something hidden beneath the stench of sweat and the indescribable sourness that comes with a poorly maintained gym. Your brows furrow. It reminds you of...a kitchen. Fresh. Warm. Kind of like...the pot of black coffee that he brews every morning. Wrapped around a cluster of cinnamon and vanilla, like a hand-crafted candle.

Is that...?

All of a sudden, the gym falls quiet, his fists frozen at his sides, the punching bag still swaying from his final strike. From across the room, his eyes lock with yours, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead, cheeks flushed, unkempt in an almost endearing fashion.

Oh, his poor eye. Mottled with red and darkening purple, swollen around the corner, just enough to be noticeable when compared to his right one. The split in his lip doesn't look that much better, a visible scab resting in the corner.

Something in your lower belly twists. A shiver wracks down your spine.

Bob doesn't say anything, and you don't either. Frozen into silence.

Coming here may have been a mistake. Shit. Why did it never occur to you that he probably came down here because he wanted to be left alone? Why else would he be down here at one in the morning?

"I...I'm sorry," Bob's voice breaks through your thoughts like sunshine peeking through storm clouds, warm enough to melt away the words fluttering about your head, "I almost blew—"

"Mav had it coming." Cutting him off before he can finish his sentence. You were never upset about that to begin with.

Again, it's quiet. Hesitant, Bob steps forward, then pauses, looking back toward the swaying punching bag, then back to you. Then, one foot falls in front of the other, head hanging low as he crosses the room. A small part of you wishes that he would have stayed right where he was because that little voice in your head stirs to life the moment that he's within an arm's length of you.

Touch his chest. Touch his chest. Touch his chest.

You're no better than an omega in heat.

"'s my face look that bad?" A chuckle rumbles out of him, blindly pawing at his bruised cheek with the side of his hand.

Blink. "Huh?"

"You're looking at me kinda funny," he says it like there's absolutely nothing different here. As if today is just another average day. Same old, same old.

"You really haven't figured it out, have you?" It's more of an observation than a question. Even through your half-open eyes, it's not hard to tell that he hasn't put two and two together.

He reaches to scratch at the back of his neck. "...no?"

Ugh.

"Flashing your teeth, sudden aggression..." You're starting out slow, listing your evidence out bit by bit, but he's not reacting to a word you've said, "developing a scent..."

A scent is an understatement. He smells like a goddamn bakery.

A beat passes, and then, slowly, his shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "I'm not following."

For a guy with glasses, Robert Floyd can be really fucking dense sometimes.

If you were more awake, then maybe you'd put more effort into spelling this out for him, but a king-size mattress on the ninth floor is calling your name, and you're running low on willpower. Your brow furrows, swallowing hard. It's been a minute since you last tried to do this, but if you dig deep and focus on flexing your throat...

A chirp bursts out of you. Sharp. High pitched.

Jake did a piss poor job of explaining what that noise does to an alpha, but he must be right about one thing. Bob stiffens. Holding onto his breath, his wide eyes flickering up and down your body.

His eyelashes flutter. "Oh."

You're fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Alphas.

Of course, that's what he would wind up being.

It seems that you can only fight one battle at a time because your hands are on the move. Palms skittering up the sides of his waist on a one-way track to his chest. He's on fire, burning so hot that the feel of his skin alone is enough to have you feeling light-headed. There's no reason for you to be embarrassed by it, but you find yourself masking your intentions by using him to remain steady as you lean in.

His scent glands have only just begun to awaken, producing so little oil that your scent almost wipes his out entirely, but it's there, and it's real, and it's so...him. Hands appear on your waist, drawing you in, his sweaty body pressing against your uniform. Slow, his head moves against yours, temples brushing against each other once more.

"'m I doing it right?" He asks, breath tickling your ear.

"You're getting the hang of it," your confirmation doesn't amount to a whole lot. He knows that as well as you do. You're only slightly better than he is, too far removed from the instinct that resides in your DNA to make much connection with it.

Even so, that doesn't stop him from following your lead. Letting your hand curl around his jaw, guiding him to nuzzle against you in a sloppy, unpracticed fashion that just feels right. A noise lurches out of him, a low, rumbling thing that sounds like the beginnings of a purr.

Lips appear on the corner of your ear. Breaking your attempt at scenting in favor of kissing along the side of your cheek, each one growing closer and closer until his lips finally meet yours. Soft, melding with yours in a dance that you know like the back of your hand.

This is something that the Navy can never take from you. The weightlessness that settles into your joints, the way your head goes completely and utterly quiet when you kiss him. He molds against you like he's been built just for this, the soft jabs of his prickly chin drawing you into him like a moth to a flame.

You can feel the flex of muscle in his arms as they curl around you, strong and burning and so, so familiar. The fresh, warm scent that greets your nose is new and yet so undeniably him; you've only known it for a few minutes, but you can't wait to spend a lifetime wrapped up in it. In him, and his soft hums and the dizziness that he puts in your head.

It's the voices in the stairwell that break you apart, but it's the deepest craving of your soft, cozy bed that has you both tumbling up each and every step. Shoulders bump together as your weary legs carry you to that familiar apartment door, not quite awake enough to maintain any sense of balance.

"I can't believe you never put it together," you find yourself saying as you meander down the hallway. Whoever decided that the elevator should stop on the first floor and not the basement should be fired.

"Well...I sort of already did," Bobby pauses, squinting at the buttons, "I just didn't..." he trails off, too focused to finish his sentence.

"Uhuh, sure," Your hand darts out, pressing the correct one. "What other symptom could I have possibly missed?"

"A knot."

Saliva catches in your throat. "Huh?"

The elevator dings, evidently just as surprised as you are. A moment passes, and the door slides open. It's empty, thank god. No prying ears to overhear what is about to come out of your partner's mouth.

Almost automatically, you press one of the buttons, not even entirely sure if it's the correct one or not. Guess you'll find out when the doors reopen because this cheap old contraption gives no indication as to what the hell you just did. Are you going to the ninth floor or the third? Only the elevator knows.

Bob's weight sways from foot to foot, and in the thin sliver of mirror in the corner, you can see the overhead light glistening against his sweaty chest. There's that twitch in your lower belly again, thighs pressing together on their own as if to keep something at bay. Maybe there would be something if your head weren't so...empty.

"Nobody ever warned me about how sore it'll be when it's coming in," Bob's words are stretched around a yawn, quickly chased by a second one.

Almost simultaneously, your mouth pries itself open, yawning, too. "That bad?"

"You have no idea," his laugh bounces off the metal walls, ringing in your ears; it's the kind of thing that might put you to sleep right here and now. "I forgot about it while I was in the shower this morning and about hit the floor."

With another ding, the doors slide open, and as it turns out, you did pick the correct floor. The next thing you know, you're stumbling into the apartment together; your phone rests on the couch, screen flickering to life with a text. Right.

You: Made it home! 2:12 AM

Almost instantly, a new message appears on your screen.

Rueben: Is Rob home, or should I send the search team to Mav's house? 2:12 AM

Bob: 🙄 2:15 AM

Something about that text has both of your phones buzzing away with a flurry of texts as if some kind of floodgate has been opened. Bob entertains it, but you're too focused on gathering clothes and towels, dumping them in an unceremonious pile on the bathroom sink.

Where your belongings end, and his begin can be figured out when you're out of the shower. For now, all you're focused on is turning on the water and pulling this stuffy uniform off your body before it becomes permanently stuck there.

"Do we have work in the morning?" You find yourself croaking as you test the water. Still a little chilly.

Lips appear on the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there. "We don't work on Sundays, remember?"

"I don't even remember what day it is." Oh how you wish that you were exaggerating. At some point in the week, you've just quit looking at the calendar and let your overfilled schedule swallow you whole.

There's no reason for him to guide you into the shower; hell, it's a walk-in, but he does it anyway. One hand on your waist, moving at the same slow pace until you're standing under a warm stream of water. Your eyes are already trying to drift shut, fighting against you as you try to keep them open.

Defiant, they drift down between Bob's legs as he reaches to grab a bottle off the shelf. There's a soft swell to the base of his cock that wasn't there before; skin stretched tau, not quite adjusted to this sudden change he's been hit with. Whether or not he catches you staring, you don't really care.

Moving is the last thing that you want to be doing. Your shower gel is only an arm's length away, but it might as well be a mile, and once you finally grab it, it's almost too heavy to hang onto. Somehow, though...somehow, you manage. You think you do, at least; you catch the familiar scent from the soap, and you certainly remember washing the bubbles off, so you must have washed something.

You're staring at your reflection in the foggy mirror when a cold wipe presses to the side of your neck, rubbing at the scent gland there. Funny, you'd almost forgotten about that. But now that it's been brought back to the forefront of your mind, you can't help but pluck one from its container.

The corner of Bob's lip lifts, obediently tilting his head to expose his neck for you. A few little swipes are all that it takes to unveil a scar atop the scent gland there. Faded white with age and almost blending in with his pale neck. For something that could cost you both your jobs, it's quite small.

"We're lucky Mav didn't see these," you mutter, thumb swiping over top of it. The gland is still dry, hasn't figured out how to produce that thin sheen of oil yet.

Maybe it never will.

What you do know is that somehow, you get into bed because the next time you open your eyes, you're snuggled into the sheets. Sunlight peeks through a crack in the curtains, casting a horribly bright light into this otherwise dark little bedroom, all too visible behind your closed eyelids.

Defiant, you roll over.

If you don't acknowledge it, it's not there.

Guided by habit, your arm darts out from your side, sliding across Bob's warm belly. His hand settles around your wrist, squeezing gently as if to test and see if you're really there. Through the haze of sleep still lingering in your head, you think you can feel him moving, hips wriggling back and forth against the mattress, unable to keep still.

It takes a moment to find your voice. "What's wrong?"

"It's..." fuck, you forgot how deep his voice can get in the mornings, it's the kind of thing that can put thunder to shame. "It's nothing."

The room is darker than you expected it to be, nothing but that little sliver of light to illuminate the whole place, stretching across the bed and up onto the wall.

"Well, it's got to be something," gliding your palm up and down his belly in that lazy sort of fashion that always makes him sigh.

His mouth opens, then snaps shut just as quickly, afraid of the words that rest on his tongue. "'m hard," he croaks, and then, before too much silence can build in between sentences, "which wouldn't...which wouldn't be a problem, but that stupid...that stupid knot hurts."

Oh, and his cheeks are on fucking fire, red as they can possibly get. All these years, and yet he's still so shy about these topics. It's cute. Even if part of his face is decorated in a frightening mixture of red and purple, only just beginning to recover from yesterday's events.

You're only just beginning to blink away the blurriness resting in the corners of your eyes, but there's already a lightbulb going off in your otherwise foggy head. So bright that you can feel it lighting up your features, eyes brightening, smile sprawling across your face.

Bobby clocks it before you can even begin to formulate words. "I suppose you have an idea."

"When do I not?" Your weary arms help to push yourself up, lazily swinging a leg over his waist.

The sheets jostle, pooling around your hips, a chill nipping at your skin. But alphas run pretty warm, and Bobby was already a furnace, to begin with, downright burning against you like a flickering campfire.

Your plan isn't that unpredictable. It's so easy to figure out that Bob is already leaning up, elbows settling on either side of himself as he meets you halfway. Teeth knock together, lips crashing with so little grace that you distantly wonder if you're at the start of your relationship again—just two fools who don't know how to navigate around each other's bodies.

But you do know.

Only several years spent together could teach you that he'll shudder when your nails trace down his chest, gasping into the kiss when they drift across his nipples. Always has been sensitive here, even if he struggles to admit it.

Biology suggests that you won't get away with it, but history assures that putting your hands on his shoulders and forcing him onto his back will be rewarded with perfect compliance. Instinct be damned, he's putty in your hands. Blinking up at you with those big, unfocused eyes, like a lamb caught in the hungry gaze of a wolf.

You just can't help yourself. Mouth finding the soft underside of his jaw, where a little bit of stubble has managed to make itself known, scraping against your nose as you drift past. His hands splay out on your hips, his only attempt at reigning you in as you kiss down his neck. Soft little pecks that can't last any longer than a second or two, lest you get carried away and leave a mark that your superiors may spot.

One of these days, you're going to childishly mottle his neck with marks. Make everyone understand that the cute WSO is yours, nobody else's. Alpha or not.

"Don't tell me..." his chest heaves as you make your way across it, peppering every little freckle with attention, "don't tell me you're..."

"I'll be gentle," peeking up at him through your lashes, blindly following the hard valley of his sternum. Down, down down to the start of his upper belly, soft and squishing beneath your kiss. Here, you can pause, sucking gently at a patch of pale skin.

A hand slides up your back, settling into the space between your shoulders, just resting there. "Ain't worried 'bout that," his words come out breathy, not quite focused on what he's trying to say.

You've already got a little red spot forming. Then a second, and a third, before you've reached the treacherous territory of where his shirt may unexpectedly ride up. Being visible in the locker room is one thing, but if he reaches to grab something while wearing that little black regulation t-shirt...

"Do you want me to stop?" Pausing in your tracks.

"Nuh uh," his head shakes back and forth, then, hesitantly, "'s just...new."

Your knee pops as you scoot further down his legs, fingers hooking under the thick elastic of his boxers. Obedient, his hips lift, letting you slide the fabric down his thighs. But you're a little too close, forcing him to pull his knees to his chest in order to get it safely past his ankles.

Fuck, he really does have a knot. Properly swollen at the base now, the skin stretched tight and flushed a dark shade of red, not quite adjusted to this sudden change. At least at sixteen, your body encounters these things over time, gradually increasing in intensity. But he's a decade older and up the creek without a paddle.

"Well, if you could handle me on my first heat," carefully taking his length into your hand, feeling the weight of it, "then this should be a walk in the park, right?"

Bob's head tilts to the side, gaze fixated on what you're doing. "'s easier when I ain't the one changing."

Fair point.

Maybe you would have more to add if you weren't too busy settling between his legs. In hindsight, you should have detailed your plan a little bit more because now that you're here, you're not entirely sure what to do. Start at the base? The tip? Somewhere in the middle? What do you usually do here?

Your tongue darts out, running over the swell of his knot. Just one little lick and—

"Oh."

A spring squeals as his hips writhe against the mattress, suddenly full of life.

Curious, your tongue pokes out once more, gliding across it slower this time. A whine cuts through the morning air, rising to chase your touch. Greedy. Like he hasn't been touched in forever.

"Do that..." sucking in a desperate gulp of air, "do that again."

You don't need any more encouragement; already beginning to fall into some kind of rhythm. Lazily mouthing at his delicate knot, all lips and tongue, like you're playing with a lollipop and not the base of his twitching cock. So simple and yet he throws his head back and whines, content with this and this alone.

"Lube," speaking against him, if only to see the shiver that ripples up his spine.

His hand audibly pats around the bed, feeling around until he makes his way onto the bedside table. A beat passes, and the bottle appears next to you. Thank god for being lazy; otherwise, he would have had to move and dig into the drawer.

This is something you know. Leaning back to pour it directly onto him, savoring that little hiss at the chill. Maybe you're a bit too generous with it, thick globs of it running down him like some kind of waterfall, but it's too early in the day to be worrying about such a thing.

All you care about is getting your hand around him, feeling that familiar girth beneath your fingers as you give him an experimental stroke. How his back rises up off the bed once more, his hand reaching to grab a handful of the pillow, anything to keep himself from pawing at your arm.

"Feel good?" Your wrist twists. His thighs squeeze around you.

Dumbly, he nods. "Uhuh."

It's not enough for you, and so you're already opening your mouth with another question. "Can you use your words for me?"

But that pretty head shakes back and forth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "N-no."

He's cracking. Hand flying away from the pillow, making a little grabbing motion until you offer him your unoccupied one. Always has to be holding your hand. Always. Even if it's when your other hand is lazily gliding up and down his weeping cock, working at its own comfortable pace.

Swift, your thumb darts out, massaging circles around his enflamed tip.

You don't know what's louder, the squelch of lube or the cry that rips out of him, muffled a little too late. This is so new. He's so much louder, reacting to every little thing as if it's the first time all over again.

"Up—mmh!" Bobby's eyes squeeze shut, then flutter open again, panting hard. "Up here."

If this was his first time requesting such a thing, you wouldn't know what he's talking about, but it has almost become second nature at this point. For a moment, you let go of him, needing both hands as you crawl back into your place beside him. He rolls onto his side, already beginning to reach for you before you can even settle in.

"This better?" You chirp. He's nodding before you can finish your question.

The change in angle makes it so much easier to stroke him, following your own undisclosed rhythm, feeling the way he twitches under your touch, sensitive to all hell. But you're already growing distracted, letting go of him once more, lightly tracing your fingers over that newly formed bulb at his base.

"That..." his thighs squeeze together, whimpering high in his throat. "That..."

In the back of your mind, you wonder if the neighbors can hear this. The unusually loud noises that just keep tumbling off his pretty tongue, so beautifully overwhelmed with the newness of all this. Glassy-eyed and pink in the cheeks, reaching out to hang onto your wrist as your fingers wrap around his cock once more, if only to keep himself grounded.

Maybe he's worried about being overheard because he's craning his neck, lips crashing together with the same clumsiness as before. Your tongue darts out, wrapping with his for a fleeting moment, wet and messy and certainly getting saliva on the pillow below.

Again, your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, running back and forth across his slit. His body jerks, gasping into your mouth so sharply that it startles you.

"Talk to me, Bob," you've got to quit using that phrase outside of the workplace, but it just works so well on him.

"Feels, feels, aha—!" If he sounded this pretty in the backseat of a jet, you probably wouldn't have a license anymore. "Feels good!"

Vanilla, cinnamon, and coffee kiss your senses with all the strength and intensity of a roaring freight train. The scarred gland on the side of his neck glistens, finally producing that intoxicatingly warm scent. So strong that it makes your head spin, senses downright swimming in it.

"I want...I'm gonna..." Bob's eyes scrunch shut, his foot kicking at the sheets like he can possibly keep it at bay if he fights hard enough.

But you're not slowing down.

"That's okay," squeezing him a little tighter, twisting your wrist in a fashion that makes his knees knock into each other. Close. So, so close. "Cum for me, Bobby."

And he does. Twitching in your hand one, two, three times before that first rope of cum paints your palm with white. Fuck, and it just keeps coming, knot swelling impossibly wide, pulsing with every spurt, until your entire hand is fucking dripping.

You've never seen so much of it. Not from him.

On their own, your fingers dip down, delicately rubbing at his expanded knot; it throbs under your touch, his thighs snapping together on impulse. The greedy voice in your head wonders what it would be like to feel that inside of you, locking your bodies together, cum flooding your pussy until you can't possibly take another drop from him.

"Feels..." he's fighting for a proper breath, eyes rolling, "feels so different."

"Is that a good thing?" You hum, drawing your hand away before that nonexistent refractory period of his can raise its ugly head and drag you in for a round two.

Weary, his head nods, but you're not entirely sure that he realizes he's doing it. "Uhuh."

You don't know if he's just not awake or if it's something about the alpha thing, but he hardly has his eyes open, lying next to you like a lazy puppy. His belly and your hand are a downright mess, drenched in an obscene mixture of cum, saliva, and lube, and more just keeps spilling out of him.

A shower is the only thing that can clean this mess up, but it's too late for that. He's already wriggling an arm around you, his head nuzzling beneath your chin, and moving is suddenly impossible.

If he's not worried about it, then you suppose that you aren't either.

It takes twenty minutes for his knot to go down, disappearing entirely as if it were never there, to begin with. It takes an hour to get out of bed and another one for your impromptu bubble bath to end, only for you to crash on the couch like a pair of sleep-deprived teenagers.

What else are you meant to do on your day off? Something productive?

You'd known this day was coming, but Christ, you didn't expect it to arrive this soon.

A gray building with gray floors and even grayer walls. The definition of boring and exactly where you're supposed to spend the next several hours rotting away in a meeting. The plastic chairs, the doors, and the pen that the lady sitting at the front desk taps her cheek with are all the same, dull monochrome.

It's such a severe lack of color that it makes the fading on Bob's cheek appear brighter. Fresher. Like he walked out of the fight ten minutes ago and not three days. There's no uniform, but Jake's red t-shirt is almost offensively vivid, persistently resting in your peripheral, no matter which direction you turn your head.

All of a sudden, the unnamed girl stands, darting into another room without a word.

"Sure can't wait for this to be over," Bradley mutters almost as soon as the door slams closed.

Jake shifts his weight, bumping their shoulders together. Hard enough to make Bradley sway with the impact. "Worried you can't take the heat?"

"Are you projecting?" Bradley hums, hardly even reacting to the second attempt to shove him.

There's a response there that you don't quite catch about something back at home. But before you can decipher those whispered words, your eavesdropping is cut short by a weight appearing on your own shoulder. The burning press of Bob's nose against your neck, shamelessly burying into you.

"Bobby?" You chirp, craning your neck to try and get a better look at him. No dice.

He doesn't move. "Mmm?"

Rueben's head swivels in your direction. Nose wrinkling.

...did you forget to take a shower? What's he looking at you like that for?

All of a sudden, Bob's feet stumble. Weight falling atop your back as he tries to regain his footing, so damn heavy that he's got you wobbling right along with him. A strangled noise rumbles out of him, riding on the coattails of his breath.

"Robert?" Because he's not answering to your nicknames. "Do you feel okay?"

"My head is..." his words vibrate into your collar, arms wrapping around you as if to use you as a pillar, "spinning."

"You're not gonna get sick on us again, are you?" Nat has suddenly appeared on your left, brows knitted together.

Between the lingering glances from Rueben and the sudden end to Jake and Bradley's conversation, it's suddenly far too quiet in this little room. A second drags by. Then a second, and a third. Your only indication that Bob is even awake is the brushing of his eyelashes against your skin.

Just as you're beginning to think he doesn't have a response, he opens his mouth.

"'s not that kinda spinning," he mumbles, hardly even loud enough to reach your ears.

Surely, it can't be something that he ate; you two have shared the same meals all week. If he's feeling off, then you should be, too. It's certainly not allergy season, and as far as you could tell, he was perfectly fine on the drive over here.

So what gives? What could have possibly changed in the span of a few minutes?

The unnamed woman stumbles back into the room, her heels clicking with every little step that she takes. Something comes out of her mouth, but the grumbling noise that rumbles out of Bob covers it up entirely. It must be a request to follow her because all at once, everyone around you begins to move, filing through the same door that she just came from.

Bob's arms loosen from around you, and he's straightening up, all things that should make him appear better, but...he looks worse. Pale in the face, shoulders appearing to slouch in on themselves as he walks next to you. He's moving, though, feet falling in perfect tandem with yours, following the crowd down the corridor and around a corner.

The group comes to a sudden halt.

Bob's shoe squeaks against the floor. His shoulder hits the wall, his head rolling like it's too heavy to hold up. Eyelashes flutter, his chest rising with a breath so shaky that you can see him quiver with it.

Something's wrong.

"Bobby?" You start to reach for him, but Rueben's quicker than you, settling a sturdy hand on the back of Bob's shoulder, trying to draw him away from the drywall before he can accidentally put a hole in it.

Abnormally short fangs flash. Something akin to a growl rips out of Bob's throat. Heat rushes between your legs.

His face drops. Eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I—"

"It's nothing personal," Rueben's already backing up, his palms facing the ceiling. The closest thing he can get to waving a white flag. "I get it."

You don't believe what you're seeing. Smelling, even. It's way too soon for this, but...

He's starting his rut.

"Is everything okay?" The girl from before is asking; you wish you could remember her name, but reading her nametag is the last thing you're doing right now.

Bradley's shoulder nudges against yours, his head hanging low as if to shield out the rest of the group. "Get him home," he whispers. Firm. "I'll cover from here."

Your attention flickers to Bob, then to the rest of the group. "You're sure?"

All it takes is a look. Unwavering, jaw stiff, commanding all the authority that he can possibly muster. Omega or not, he's not one to be argued with.

Bob's shoulders shudder. Sweat is already beginning to bead at his forehead; lips parted, breathing through his mouth.

You don't need any more convincing, already beginning to take him by the wrist. There isn't the slightest bit of resistance, falling into step with you without any ounce of convincing. Whether or not he's actually comprehending what's going on, you're not sure, but he knows enough to not try and let go of you.

Taking the keys from him is the hardest part, trapped in the front pocket of his jeans, right next to the growing tent in the fabric, downright begging for your attention.

"Feels...weird," he grumbles, foot missing on his first attempt to climb into the truck. The second is a little more successful, almost trembling as he pulls himself up into the seat.

"I know," if it's anything like what your first heat felt like, then you've got a pretty good guess of what he's going through. Heat flashes, loss of coordination, nausea, the overwhelming need to orgasm damn near eating you alive.

In fact, you think that's exactly what he's going through. Grumbling with every turn you take, slouched against the corner of the seat, his head against the glass. There's a tremble in his hands that wasn't there before, knee bouncing up and down, unable to slow itself even for a second.

There are more signs that you would likely notice if you weren't so focused on the road ahead. You've only driven this truck a handful of times; the turn signal is in a different place, the view of the road is different, and it doesn't quite take turns as sharply as your car does.

But he's quiet. Uniquely so, as if he's lost in his own head. Doesn't make a comment on how you pull his truck into its spot rather than backing it in, only grumbling when you don't immediately give him your hand during the walk toward the apartment complex.

His chin falls onto your shoulder the moment the elevator doors close.

"Still feeling weird?" You ask, attention flicking to the mirror.

He whines, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, arms wrapping around your waist. A familiar hardness shamelessly grinds into the curve of your ass. Even the thick material of his jeans can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches, desperate for something. Anything.

Warmth rushes down into your thighs. Knees knocking together as they clamp shut, helpless to do anything but wriggle against him. His shaky exhale tickles your ear.

Something clangs overhead, but you can hardly pay it any mind. The elevator could be falling, and you still can't bring yourself to care. Too focused on twisting in his hold, bodies so close that your noses crash together.

Bob looks no better than he did while you were in the truck. Skin so clammy that he glistens in the overhead light, not quite pouring with sweat but if you give him a few minutes, that story may change.

The elevator doors open with a squeal. You move toward them. He doesn't budge.

"Bobby?" Your head tilts.

His eyes dart toward something in the hallway. You follow his gaze, but not a damn thing is there. Nothing but the same old gray carpet, dusty, decorative table, and the welcome rug sitting outside your neighbor's door.

Your alpha neighbor.

"Bobby, it's your instincts running wild," your attempt at diffusing fails to evoke the slightest reaction, "nobody is going to hurt us."

He doesn't seem to believe you. Still staring off into the hallway as if his greatest enemy is about to slink around the corner at any given moment.

You reach over his shoulder, fingertips brushing over the back of his neck. Scarred and battered from all those scruffings during basic and every other time a superior thought they caught a glimpse of defiance. Delicate, you pinch the soft skin there, but his shoulders don't loosen like they should. No, they stiffen.

His chest swells with a sharp inhale.

"It's okay," whispering, as gently as you can, "it's just me."

Hesitant, he takes a step forward. Obediently following your lead, those big blue eyes flickering back and forth across the hall as you walk down it. The apartment door is only a few steps away, off in the corner of the building, but it must take a minute or two to get him there. He's just sane enough not to fret when you let him go in exchange for digging the keys out of your pocket.

The door opens, and it's as if an invisible string snaps.

Kisses appear on the side of your neck. Crowding you through the threshold, the door slamming closed the moment you're through it. The apartment is at the same temperature it's always been at, and yet it's too damn hot in here. Feels as if you're walking into a burning room, but instead of flames licking at your skin, it's Bob's hands. Darting under your shirt, desperate to feel more of you.

"I..." Bob's voice dies in his throat. Rumbling against your nape. "I..."

It's too easy, letting him pull that thin piece of material over your head, your back finding its way up against the wall. The meeting, your friends, the buzzing of your cell phone in your back pocket, none of it matters. Only the press of Bob's lips against yours, how his body slots against yours, built for this and this alone.

He's everywhere. His lips are crashing into yours, and his hands are creeping up your naked back, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against your hip, and, and—

It's so much.

Fuck, it's so much.

"Bob," you find yourself gasping, aimlessly uttering his name as if it can quench the fire beneath your skin. "Bobby..."

He whines at that. Rumbling against your mouth and down your spine, rattling through you like a shockwave. Your fists gather the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Deeper. Draws a surprised groan right out of his throat, caught off guard but making no move to stop you.

His hips roll into yours once more, all too eager for something, anything. Your thigh slots between his, pushing up just enough and...

"Shit," he's swearing under his breath, so quiet that you hardly hear it.

Your impatient hands tug at his shirt. The kiss only breaks long enough for you to yank it over his head, taking his glasses with it. They the floor with a painful clatter.

He makes no effort to retrieve them.

Neither can you because he's back in your space within an instant, his lips stealing your breath away as if it has belonged to him all along. He tastes like coffee and the honey biscuit he scarfed down on the way to the meeting, so warm and sweet that it's like kissing a bakery instead of a man.

It ought to drown you. Flooding your senses like some kind of pleasant assault swirls your thoughts and delves deep into your belly, disturbing the butterflies there and setting you alight. This is...this is new. He's always made you weak in the knee, but you don't recall them nearly buckling from his scent alone, only held up by the strong arms looped around you.

Something in your lower stomach clenches. So upset over the overwhelming sensation of being empty that it begins to cramp, a wave of slick rushing to ease the ache.

Bob's moving, and it's all you can do to throw your arms over his shoulders and hang on. Following blindly as he backs you through the bedroom door, feet stumbling blindly. Back, back, back, guided by the pressure of his hands and the bump of his chest against yours.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, crumpling out from beneath you.

Your ass hits the bed. Vision swimming as you try to regain focus.

That soft belly is right in front of you. Pale and dusted with freckles, the thin layer of fat concealing the muscle that lurks beneath. You just can't help yourself, greedily leaning in and kissing a fading hickey. One of your hands finds its way to the tent in his jeans, pressing softly.

Bob sucks in a breath. Jerking. "Hurts."

"I'm gonna take care of you," you say it as if you've got yourself together. You don't. "I promise."

The button to his jeans pops open without the slightest resistance, zipper racing down the tracks at a record pace. He's too quick to help. Hands colliding with yours as you both yank at the hem of them, pulling his pants and his boxers down in one go, sloppy as it might be. His cock springs free without warning, the flushed tip nearly hitting your cheek as you try to help him pull the fabric past his thighs.

Once they're past his knees, you can no longer reach them.

Your eyes dart to the bottle of lube sitting on the bedside table. With the heat between your legs, you're almost certain that you won't need it, but you're squirming across the bed anyway, rolling onto your belly, arm outstretched, reaching for it. Your fingers wiggle, catching on the side. The bottle spins across the table, right into your grasp.

Hands appear on your hips, dipping beneath your waistband.

"Hey!" You squeal, but it's too late. He's already tugging your pants down, too, pulling you across the sheets in the process. Your phone pops out of the pocket, landing next to you.

"Sorry," but those half-lidded eyes and his lazy grin imply that he's definitely not sorry, already hovering over top of you. There's barely enough room for you to roll onto your back, caged between his shivering arms.

Funny, you'd always presumed alphas to fall under the same old, aggressive stereotype once their rut started, but this one...he's anything but. Pink in the face, pressing soft kisses against your cheek, almost entirely himself.

Whether or not he hears you uncapping the lube, you don't know, but he doesn't react to it in the slightest.

"Ah—!" He does react when your dripping hand wraps around his heavy cock, spreading cold lubricant across him without so much as a warning.

His knot is hardly there, nothing but a slight bump at his base, as it should have been this whole time. You reckon that something about his rut finally kicked his hormones into gear.

Your hand is hardly doing anything special. Simple strokes to spread the sticky substance across him, thumb swiping over his head once, twice, drawing little whimpers past his lips with every motion. Sensitive and so wrapped up in the feeling that he doesn't realize that you're surging up off the bed. Pushing him over, your leg swinging out to straddle his hips.

Those wide eyes draw a giggle out of you. "Dummy."

It's so easy, reaching between your thighs and taking hold of his weeping cock, guiding it up until his tip slips through your folds, nudging against your clit and all. Ugh, you've missed this feeling.

"You're..." Bob sucks in a trembling breath, eyes flickering from your face to the sight of his cock nuzzled against your cunt. "You're sure?"

"Are you?" Mirroring him. You've already made your intentions loud and clear.

He nods before he can find his voice. "Uhuh."

"Then so am I," and before either of you can begin to conjure up a response, you're sinking down on him.

A sudden pressure appears at your entrance, an ache already arising from your severe lack of interest in stretching yourself for him. It's a dizzying kind of burn that has your body shuddering, taking his cock head in with a soft 'pop' that ought to make your heart stop.

"Jesus," Bob's hands fly up to your hips, squeezing tight, "fuck."

There's just something about hearing him swear that gets your head spinning, fighting to keep your body upright as you take him inch by delirious inch. Not obscenely thick, but enough to already be rubbing against those little hidden nerves. It's not fair. He has no right to have your thighs tremoring before you've even taken him halfway.

Your hands fall forward, bracing yourself against his heaving chest. The feeling of the pitter-patter of his heart beneath your palms isn't doing much to help you either, beating at his chest like a caged animal.

Coffee and cinnamon strike your nose with the intensity of a freight train, tearing through your head so quickly that everything becomes muffled, wrapped up in your own little world. A little place where Bobby is your only concern, with his oddly sweet scent and soft blue eyes that threaten to drown you if you gaze too closely.

But your ass is settling into his lap, and you're too damn full to remain up in your head much longer. Fuck, you can't breathe. Lungs tight as if you've run out of room, forced to pant for air that you can't possibly hang onto.

Already, Bob's hips roll up, unable to keep himself from squirming beneath you. His hands roam up your sides, idly touching, as if to make sure that you're really here. That you're not a figment of his rut-clouded mind.

"So pretty," he babbles, sounds absolutely awe-struck, "you're so pretty."

"You're just saying that because I'm riding you," teasing, a little smile emerging onto your face as you draw yourself up.

"No, I'm—mmh!" His head falls backward, thunking against the pillow.

This...this is something. You've hardly even drawn yourself up an inch, and he's already whining about it, his hands squeezing your sides once more, hanging on tight as you sink back down on him.

It's on the second attempt that your breath hitches, stars sparkling in your vision as he rubs against a particular bundle of nerves. An experience nearly identical to any of the other times his cock has been in you, but something...something is different here. You don't recall feeling a sudden gush of slick, reacting to an extreme.

He should have quit taking those suppressants sooner.

You're drawing yourself up quicker now, clinging to his chest as you try to find your pace. Something quick enough to get what you want but shallow enough to avoid wearing yourself out before you've even gotten close. But it's so hard to remain rational when he's downright nailing that little spot, cock head kissing it over and over and over.

Bobby's hips jump up once more, meeting you halfway. His whine intertwines with yours, dancing about the room and through the walls. You hope the neighbors aren't home because you don't have the strength to quiet him down. Not when he sounds so pretty.

"Darlin'," his head rolls back and forth, blinking rapidly, "darlin', I..."

A beat passes. He doesn't finish that thought.

"Hm?" Fighting to keep your eyes open, "talk to me, Bob."

You're using workplace phrases in the bedroom again.

But his eyes only scrunch shut. So tight that his nose wrinkles with it. "I don't know."

On its own volition, your hand darts out; he meets you halfway, fingers lacing together as you push them onto the bed. It's a motion that forces you to lean forward, such a subtle change in angle, but—

"There," you blurt it as if you're not the one in charge here. Heat rushes up your belly, burning high into your throat, smoke clouding your vision.

You're babbling something, but you just can't hear it. Control crumbling like a house of cards, impossible to rebuild as your hips quicken, chasing the delicious pressure of his cock against your nerves. Cunt clenching around him like a vice, every little motion punctuated by an obscenely wet noise that you're only vaguely aware of.

It's a sudden growl that rips you back into reality. Bobby's short fangs sink into his shivering bottom lip, pretty blue eyes glassy as he bats his lashes up at you.

"Huh?" Freezing in your tracks. Is there something...did you do something that he doesn't like?

He's pushing himself up, suddenly all too close. "Wanna roll over."

The room is spinning before you can even realize what he's just said. Back hitting the soft mattress, a familiar weight settling atop your chest. Arms brace on either side of your head, already finding his favorite position.

Your newly empty hand darts up. Grasping at his wrist until your fingers lace together once more, his weight pinning them into the sheets. You haven't the slightest clue how he stayed inside of you, but he's already beginning to move, and your shaking legs are coiling behind him, and—

"There!" It rips out of you so suddenly that you think you sound akin to a wounded animal. Little shocks jump up your core, pussy fluttering around him. "There, there..."

His hips move a little harder, properly jostling you beneath him, rubbing into those little nerves once more. "Jus' like this?"

All you can do is nod, tongue limp in your mouth.

Bob's leaning closer, his nose nuzzling against yours, hardly an inch of space left between your heaving bodies. The slight swell of his knot catches on your entrance, such a sudden thing that it rips the air out of your lungs, fighting to keep your legs hitched around his waist. All it's doing is drawing him up against where you crave his touch most, growing impossibly wet from the feel of his knot alone.

A stray squeezes out from the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek and leaping down to hit your nose. His lips crash into yours before you can begin to ask about it. A soft intertwining that makes your thoughts swirl together until they've blended into a constant, incessant murmuring. Bob. Bob. Bob.

"Bobby?" It slips out before you've realized it, and if your voice itself could echo a word, you have no doubt that a hundred incantations of his name would be tumbling out your parted lips.

His whine cuts through the air.

"Feels good," he gasps, speaking against your lips, making no effort to pull away any more than he has to. "Feels...it's so—mmh."

There's no possible way to keep himself quiet, his whimpers so distracting that you hardly notice the ones coming out of your own mouth. Your unoccupied hand rises, shaking with the heavy thump of your heart as it settles against his cheek.

As if it's come alive, your back twitches up off the bed, legs squeezing around his bony hips, a wildfire rushing across your skin. Head swimming with the noise that is Bob Floyd and the incessant nudge of his growing knot rubbing against that sweet little spot. It's so new and it's so much, and, and it's got spots decorating your vision. Patches of black fading in and out, like you're about to faint.

His knot catches on its way out of you. So big that it doesn't slip back in on the next pass, merely pressing into your pussy once, twice, three times.

You don't feel it coming.

One moment you're fine, and the next, your eyes are rolling, cumming without warning, as his knot finally pops inside of you. Quaking with the force of it, ears ringing so loud that you can hardly hear Bob's cry as he cums inside of you. Knot swelling to its full size, locking your bodies together, his cum flooding your spasming cunt, with nowhere for it to escape.

You're only distantly aware of your back hitting the bed once more, legs slipping out from around him to fall at his sides instead. There are teeth sinking into your shoulder, and your heart is pounding against your chest, lungs burning for a breath you've gone too long without.

The first inhale grounds you. Brings you down from the ceiling and back into his arms.

The second rips every ounce of strength from your body. All too limp beneath Bobby and his crushing weight that has long since settled on top of you.

"I love you," his words are jumbled together, so unintelligible that you hardly realize what he's saying.

It must take a minute or two for you to squeeze his sweaty hand, still linked with yours. "I love you too."

"This..." Bob hums, kissing at your jaw, "feels so damn weird."

Idle, your arm loops around his shoulders, hand greedily delving into his hair. "Tell me about it. If you cum any more, I think I might pop."

Your giggles melt into yawns; whoever said that sex was a quick and easy thing clearly wasn't doing it right. The moment that Bob gets his head comfortable, his nose nuzzled beneath your ear, you know that you've lost him. Frankly, you're not far from it, either, already beginning to fight back another yawn.

But your brain isn't on the same page because while your body is already sinking further into the bed, growing heavier by the second, your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. Maverick. The prescription suppressants sitting on the dresser, waiting for the day that the Navy requires you to start taking them again, for the sake of efficiency and making the job easier for all parties.

You don't understand it.

Why does the Navy prioritize scrubbing you of alpha, beta, and omega statuses? What's the point of soap designed to strip your scent glands when all it does is make you so much more sensitive to the variety of scents out there? Was the endless scruffing from your superiors really meant to 'build character'? Or was it just a bunch of insecure superiors desperate to make themselves feel in charge?

God, fuck, his fangs aren't even formed properly. Short and stunted from the lack of hormones, not an ounce of threat to them, no matter how many times he may try to flash them.

Your eyes dart to your cell phone, resting on the unoccupied side of the bed.

It's barely within reach, but it's nothing that a little stretching won't resolve. Heavy in your hand as you type in the passcode and navigate toward an app, resting in the far right corner. The screen turns black.

A beat passes.

Then, a second.

And a third.

The camera opens, little squares dancing across the screen as it scans your irises. A microphone crosses the screen. Your name tumbles off your tongue.

Finally, it opens. A crudely built messenger app, a myriad of texts flooding in as it loads. Javy. Natasha. Jake. Rueben. Bob. Mickey. Three other familiar names that you cannot be bothered to read. All you care about is finding a contact by the name of Admin, and pressing the call button.

As the dial tone sounds, Bob's head lifts, sleepy eyes flickering up to meet with yours. Doesn't need to look at the phone to understand what you're doing. It's a call he made when Admiral Cain left a mark on your wrist. The same number Bradley dialed when Cyclone started that brawl with Jake.

Bob's just beginning to settle back into the crook of your neck when someone picks up.

"Who hit him?"

You know that voice. You know what happened the last time you called. But for once in your life, you've forgotten how to feel hesitant about the words that are about to leave your mouth.

"They call him Maverick."

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