#this has been sitting in my WIP folder for so long

[swordmaid]

back to the shadows 🌑

inspired by the storm by pierre auguste cot, shri’iia and astarion running away from the sun bc he’s a vampire and she has sunlight sensitivity.

please zoom in to see the details! 🥹🫶

[nullians]

Growing Gracideas

[starbiology]

working on this mini comic again >:)

[marbledpython]

the idea of them sharing aiba like someone shares a straw has been in my head since aini was announced

[yellow-faerie]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë & Original Female Character(s) Characters: Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo, Original Female Character(s), Mentioned Elrond Peredhel, Mentioned Elros Tar-Minyatur Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, kidnap family, Light Angst, Drinking to Cope, Arguing Summary:

“Oh sweet fuck,” Idralas says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You kidnapped two elflings?”

Maedhros glowers silently as Maglor’s face pinches as if he’s just eaten a lemon. “Well, technically, they’re half-elves, not elves, and kidnapping kind of requires intent for it to be well, kidnapping, so…” He trails off at the look she is giving him and sighs in defeat.

“Yes. Yes we did,” he admits.

A take on the moments after Sirion.

My entry for Day 2 of @feanorianweek​

[pathologicalreid]

stuck between a rock and a hard place | S.R.

next

You, an undercover agent, uncover a hidden secret of the country's largest operation, putting your life in danger and under the protection of the BAU.

who? spencer reid x fem!FBI!reader category: angst content warnings: general cm violence, hospitals, medical inaccuracy, drugs, sex crimes/trafficking, attempted sa, reader works in sex crimes. mentions foyet and also 6x24 (supply and demand). established relationship. word count: 7.7k a/n: this has been sitting in my wip folder for far too long. i am now emotionally attached to these two. i will write more of this specific pairing because now all i want is for them to be happy.

Spencer

It wasn’t every day that men and women in suits piled into the BAU carrying evidence boxes, everyone stood up at their desks. Spencer watched as Andi Swann followed in behind the other agents, not even bothering to greet the team as she went straight to Emily’s office.

Prentiss opened the door, letting Andi in before beckoning for Reid to join them. This had to be about you.

Ignoring the way his heart rate spiked, Spencer stood up from his desk and went up to Emily’s office. On the other side of the bullpen, the rest of the team filed into the roundtable room.

“Spencer, have a seat,” Emily offered, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of her desk.

Glancing at Agent Swann, he crossed his arms in front of his chest, “No, I’ll stand.”

Andi cleared her throat, looking at Spencer, she spoke, “Y/N missed her last two check-ins. As her next of kin, I need to notify you to let you know that as of now, the FBI is considering her missing.”

He wanted to be angry. He wanted so badly to be mad, but he’d seen this before. Years ago, an agent in Andi’s unit missed her check-ins and the BAU helped find her. More than that, he knew how much Andi cared about her agents, so he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad.

“Section Chief Cruz has asked that the BAU help to recover Y/N,” Emily said, looking at Spencer. “You know I have to tell you that you can’t be on this case,” she explained, leaning against her desk, eyes flickering as she tried to read Spencer’s expression.

Taking a deep breath, Spencer looked at Emily, “Y/N’s gone missing, and I’m not allowed to help look for her?”

Sympathetically, Prentiss shook her head, dark hair swaying with the movement. “You know it’s a conflict of interest to be involved with a loved one’s case.”

“Isn’t that kind of what the BAU does?” He could’ve rambled off a list of BAU agents who worked on cases involving their loved ones – including himself and Emily.

Turning to face Agent Swann, Emily suggested she join the rest of the team in the roundtable room. She waited until the door was closed before speaking again, “When’s the last time you saw Y/N?”

Closing his eyes, he remembered the morning of the day you left, the both of you had stayed up late as if you could delay your departure, but the last time he saw you was when he dropped you off at the Sex Crimes Unit before making his way up to the Behavioral Analysis Unit. “We haven’t even spoken since she left,” he answered, almost a month ago now.

“Is there a chance she tried to reach you or her family?” Emily asked. She had to ask, he knew that, but it didn’t make the questions any less ridiculous to him.

Shaking his head, he began to pace around the office, “No, she wouldn’t have done that. She follows the undercover playbook obsessively. She always said freestyling was like signing your death certificate.” He tried. He tried to get you to leave him breadcrumbs, but you never did.

Nodding, Emily watched as he paced back and forth “When did you get married?”

Pressing his lips into a thin white line, he stopped in his tracks, “When I came back after The Believers. It was the next day.” You had offered to sleep on the couch in an attempt to give him space when he asked you to go to the courthouse with him. That was two months ago now.

He didn’t want space. Not from you. Never from you.

Finally, he sat down.

“Did you tell anyone?” Emily asked, sitting down in the chair next to him. “Did you have a witness to sign your marriage certificate?”

Nodding, Spencer reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced three rings, his wedding ring, your engagement ring, and your wedding band. You didn’t have the time to get them soldered together yet. “Rossi was our witness,” he responded, “He was the only one who answered his phone.” He slipped his ring on and closed his fist around your two rings.

After a moment, Emily stood, “I’m going to speak with the rest of the team, but I won’t tell them anything I don’t think is pertinent to the case.” Which was her way of saying ‘Your secret is safe with me.’ “Stay in here as long as you need, Spence,” she offered before walking out, shutting the door tightly behind her.

He thought of the last night you were together. Spencer tried to check in with you, he told you that if your job ever became too much, you just had to tell him, and he’d be there. What he neglected to tell you was that he was beginning to feel like your job was too much for him.

You had given him the opportunity to hold you close, and instead, he let you slip through his fingers.

Opening his fist, he looked down at your rings and the indent they had left on his palm, slipping them back into his pocket before he walked over to the roundtable room. Everyone paused what they were doing to look up at him.

Spencer just shrugged and looked at Emily, “I can’t just do nothing.”

In response, Emily nodded solemnly and suggested he go through the case files with Matt.

It had been hours. The sun had set, jackets had been shed, and takeout had been ordered. The clock behind him showed it was nearly midnight, meaning it had been almost two days since anyone had last heard from you.

“Oh god,” Penelope said, her voice cutting into the thick silence of the roundtable room. Her fingers began frantically typing on her laptop.

Spinning in the office chair, Spencer wheeled over so he could look at the screen, vaguely aware of Emily hovering above him, “What is it? What did you find?”

She hit the keyboard so hard he thought they might break, but she answered, “The trauma center at Johns Hopkins reported a Jane Doe brought in a few hours ago. She matches Y/N’s description.”

“Did they run prints?” Andi asked, of course, there would be red tape if the hospital tried to run your prints, seeing as you were undercover.

Another tap and dozens of files opened, “It looks like she went right into surgery. Uh, the EMTs reported she was listing off a string of numbers when they brought her in… 265D019Z?”

Spencer swallowed thickly, “That’s Y/N’s badge number.”

Shaking her head, JJ looked over at the map of DC on the wall, “It’s a two-hour drive to Baltimore from here.”

“But it’s a thirty-minute flight, Reid, Tara, Swann, and Alvez go. The rest of us will look into what happened from here,” Emily doled out responsibilities, nodding at everyone as the team broke.

Spencer stayed still, still looking at Penelope’s screen, his eyes flickering over the documents. Words jumped out at him, drugged, punctured, and knife. It made his stomach churn. How had you gotten to Baltimore? Your unit had you set up in an apartment near the Hill. When did you travel from the district to Baltimore?

The thirty-minute flight felt like it was hours long, the drive from the airstrip to the hospital dragged on, but thankfully Emily had called the hospital ahead of time to let them know who you were and who was coming for you.

A doctor stopped the four of you from going into the room, a police officer was already stationed outside of the room, and the blinds were closed. Please, Spencer wanted to plead, please just let me see her.

“She’s weak, she just came down from recovery and she hasn’t fully woken up yet,” the doctor said, placing her hands on her hips. “I can’t in good faith let you go in there and badger her with questions. Not with no one in there to focus on her well-being,” she ordered. The doctor stared the four of them down with piercing gray eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Spencer peeked through the doorway when a nurse exited your room. “She’s my wife, I’ll advocate for her,” he responded, hoping the doctor would let him through. He could feel Tara and Luke staring, but he didn’t care.

Nodding, the doctor continued sizing Reid up, “Alright, but just you, for now. She’s not awake enough to be questioned anyway.” Stepping to the side, the doctor let Spencer through before blocking the doorway to everyone else.

In the worst way possible, you took his breath away. Your skin was sallow, you had an IV, nasal cannula, and a chest tube out the left side. Walking to your right, he took a seat next to you, taking your hand in his and pressing a gentle kiss to your bloodied knuckles – evidence that you had put up one hell of a fight. “Oh sweetheart, what did they do to you?” He whispered even though he knew you wouldn’t answer.

Reaching over you, he smoothed your hair from your face, your skin was clammy, probably as a result of blood loss. It looked like they were still transfusing, so you had probably lost a considerable amount of blood.

Shuffling the seat closer to you, Spencer took your hand in his. The doctor came back in holding a tablet, “Dr. Reid?”

He hummed in response, not daring to take his eyes off of you. “What happened to her? Why did she need surgery?”

“She had been bleeding out in an alley, according to the police officers who reported to the scene. The other agents are talking to them now,” the doctor said, tapping a few buttons on the tablet. “She had been stabbed several times in the upper left side, we went in to repair damage to her spleen, liver, and lung. There was some strain to her heart, it appears she was drugged before she was stabbed.”

He intently watched the steady rise and fall of your chest before he spoke up again, “Is she going to be okay?”

Setting the tablet down, the doctor paused before answering, “We’ll know more when she wakes up.”

Spencer leaned back in the chair, finally taking his eyes off of you and looking at the doctor, “Was there anything… did they…” He felt ridiculous, having spent the better part of his adult life in the BAU, and he couldn’t even put the words together.

To his relief, the doctor shook her head, “There were no injuries that suggested she was sexually assaulted.”

Reading the doctor’s badge, Spencer nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Herman.”

“Hit the call button when she wakes up, we’ll need to evaluate her pain and other treatment,” the doctor said, gathering her things before walking out of the room, and shutting the door behind her.

Spencer kept his eyes on you, tapping his foot on the ground impatiently, every once in a while, his phone rang, but he didn’t have the energy to talk on the phone. When his phone buzzed, he pulled it out of his pocket and checked the messages.

Penelope Garcia: How is she? Spencer Reid: Still sleeping. Penelope Garcia: How are you? Spencer Reid: Not sure.

Setting his phone on the table, screen down, he watched you again, every once in a while, your nose would twitch, or your eyes would flutter. Every time he would hold his breath, hoping you’d open your eyes.

He waited, and about an hour after he had arrived, a small, keening noise came from you. His head snapped up at the sound, your eyes were still closed, but you were moving. “Y/N?” He whispered hesitantly, not wanting to wake you up if you weren’t ready. Slowly, he stood up from the chair, not sure if he should keep waiting or if he should hit the call button.

You were muttering something, talking to someone in your sleep, when suddenly you jerked away. Instinctively, Spencer put his hands on your shoulders to stop you from tearing your stitches, and it was that touch that caused your eyes to snap open. “No, no, no, no,” you babbled, frantically looking around the hospital room.

“Y/N,” Spencer said, keeping his hands on your shoulders, “You’re safe, I’m here. You’re at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.”

With wide eyes, you looked up at him and mouthed the word ‘Baltimore.’ As if you were trying to figure out how you had ended up in Baltimore, something the BAU still hadn’t figured out. “I thought I…” Your voice was nothing more than a rasp, but with the bruises he could now see littering your neck, that didn’t surprise him much. “Did you see it?”

Spencer pushed the call button without you noticing, “Did I see what, love?” He asked, keeping his voice low as he gently sat down on the edge of your hospital bed.

You furrowed your eyebrows and looked around the room, “Is Andi here?" Your voice was tight, like you were struggling to breathe. "I need to talk to Andi.”

Helplessly, Spencer watched as the number signifying your heart rate jumped, “Not just yet, alright?” He said, looking up when the doctor and a nurse came through the door.

The doctor introduced herself and started trying to get you to even out your breathing, one of the monitors was beeping like crazy until the nurse hit a button on it.

All he could do was watch, making sure he didn’t get in the way. Listening in to words about medications and making a mental note to research everything. “How’s your pain, Y/N? On a scale from one through ten.” The doctor asked, standing at the foot of the bed.

“Like a seven? When I breathe it’s more like a nine,” you answered, every word was strained. The doctor flashed a light in your eyes, “That isn’t helping,” you said through gritted teeth.

The doctor said something to the nurse, prompting her to nod before pushing something through your IV. After a few moments, Spencer watched as your heart rate lowered and your body visibly relaxed into the mattress. You nodded softly when the nurse asked if that was better.

Dr. Herman left and the nurse scrawled some notes down on your chart, introducing herself as Amelia before she left as well.

“Oh no,” you whispered, looking in the direction of the door. “Is the whole BAU here? How badly did I fuck up?”

Quickly, Spencer shook his head, “You didn’t, at all. It’s just me, Tara, and Luke,” he tried to reassure you as best he could without knowing the full story. “Do you feel up to talking?” He asked, smoothing your hair away from your face.

You nodded gently, “I need to talk to Andi. Alone, if it’s okay with you.”

“I can wait right outside in the hallway,” he offered, holding your hand in his and skimming the pad of his thumb over top of your knuckles.

You hummed contentedly, “Could you see if I can have water?”

Grateful to have something to do, Spencer stood up, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I’ll be right back.” He stepped out of the room, garnering the attention of the agents who were waiting in the hallway, all of them staring at Spencer expectantly, “Andi, she wants to talk to you.”

The Unit Chief nodded and disappeared into the room, leaving the door open just a crack.

He was gone for three minutes, that was the time it took him to walk to the nurses’ station and ask if you were allowed liquids and back, but when he returned the door to your room was wide open. “Where did they go?” He asked, looking over at Tara.

She was still leaning against the taupe hospital walls before nodding in the direction of the red exit sign, “Swann was in there for maybe two minutes before she came out in a huff, she took Alvez with her.” Lewis spoke calmly like it didn’t necessarily mean anything to her.

But it did to him. Walking back into your room, he stood at the side of your bed, “What did you tell Andi that you didn’t want me hearing?”

“Huh?” You sounded tired – rightfully so. Your pupils were dilated, which told Spencer that the drugs that the doctors had given you were working.

It comforted him that you weren’t in as much pain, but you were still hiding something from him. “You asked me to leave while you talked to Andi because you didn’t want me to hear what you were telling her. What did you tell her?”

Your face softened as your eyes filled with a different kind of hurt, “Don’t profile me.” You were too tired to hide the pain in your voice.

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, “Don’t lie to me,” He countered. You were lying by omission, but what was worse was that you might’ve been putting yourself in danger.

“Please don’t leave me,” you whimpered.

Spencer’s chest tightened as he watched your eyes fill with tears, he sat down on the edge of your bed and took your hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere. Why would you think I’d leave you, darling?”

Your eyes were half-closed, “because you…” your voice trailed off and he squeezed your hand to get your attention. “When Scratch had Emily, you wanted to kill him,” you murmured.

The air had been knocked out of his lungs. You hadn’t been talking about a divorce. You were saying that you could identify your assailant, and you didn’t want Spencer to know. “I won’t go,” he whispered, “I’ll be right here.”

“It was Jake,” you mumbled, barely able to open your mouth as you fought your exhaustion.

That hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. He swallowed thickly, “Jake did this to you?” He asked slowly, looking at your hand, your fingers intertwined.

Minutely, you shook your head, “Jake blew my cover, Spence.” Yawning, you proceeded to mumble about him doing it on purpose.

Untangling your fingers, Spencer reached out and smoothed your hair away from your forehead, “Get some sleep, angel. I love you.”

You hummed an ‘I love you’ back, and the next moment your eyes were shut.

A nurse came in and asked for a moment while she checked the output of your chest tube, ushering Spencer and Tara out. “Okay, I’ll bite, who’s Jake?” Tara asked, putting a hand on her hip as she looked expectantly at Reid.

“Jake is her partner. When she’s not undercover and just out in the field, they’re partners,” Spencer explained.

Tara pursed her lips thoughtfully, “So, he would’ve known that she was undercover.”

Nodding as the newly added weight of the situation threatened to pull him down, Spencer turned and faced you, watching as the nurse examined you as you slept. “He blew her cover on purpose,” he reached up and rubbed his eye. Jake knew exactly what he was doing when he blew your cover, and you knew exactly what you were doing when you begged Spencer not to leave you.

“We have to go back in and ask her more questions,” Tara said.

Usually, Spencer agreed with Tara, but not this time. He saw the monitors you were hooked up to, he read your chart, and he watched the concerned looks on the nurses’ faces. They all told him that you weren’t stable enough to be speaking, let alone a cognitive interview. “No,” Spencer said finally.

Clearing her throat lightly, Tara stood next to him in the doorway, “We can’t let them get away, Reid.”

“And I can’t lose her,” he rebutted, ignoring the way his voice broke in his desperation. 

Stepping back slightly, the other agent nodded in understanding. “Okay, I’ll call Emily. You go sit with her.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice; he pulled a chair up impossibly close to your bedside and draped his jacket over the back of it before loosening his tie and sitting down.

You

When you woke up, it was still dark outside, but the bright lights of the hospital room made it hard for you to get any real rest. You were pleased to find that, true to his word, Spencer was right next to you when he woke up.

He was sleeping, resting his head on his hand with his wrist bent awkwardly. “Spence,” You whispered, clearing your throat, “Spencer.” You couldn’t reach out to touch him, but you wanted to wake him up, so his wrist wasn’t sore.

Jolting awake, he looked at you, “Hey, did you just wake up? How do you feel?”

It was a weird question, you felt like an absolute dumpster fire. “Better,” you whispered, “less hurt, achier. Sore. I don’t know, my head feels fuzzy,” you rambled, trying to move higher up on the hospital bed, but being limited by the chest tube. “How long do I have to have it?” You asked, staring at the plastic tubing as if you could make it go away via the power of suggestion.

“At least through the night, but it could be longer,” he said, reaching over and smoothing over the edges of your blanket. “Do you know what they gave you?” Spencer asked, shaking out his wrist.

You hummed in response, “No, it was intravenous though. They were big on amphetamines, but it didn’t feel like a stimulant. Benzos maybe,” you told him, your voice was soft. The pain in your throat had subsided after being intubated during surgery, but you were still swollen from when Cal grabbed you.

None of this made sense to you. The one thing that bothered you more than anything else was why Cal stopped when Jake said to. It couldn’t have been as simple as the money.

Spencer must’ve noticed you burrowing into your memories, “You remember everything?” He asked gently.

He knew what he was implying, in more cases involving severe trauma, victims generally remember everything or remember nothing. It was lucky for law enforcement when they remembered, but bad for the victims. Bad for you. “Mostly,” you breathed, avoiding his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” you said softly.

“Why? You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” he tried to reassure you, reaching out and taking your hand in his.

You hummed, “I don’t remember anything after they drugged me, just the stuff before. Just the…” Your voice trailed off as you returned to your confusion. “Who’s still here that I can talk to?”

He squeezed your hand comfortingly, “Do you feel up to it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice,” you answered him despondently.

Spencer nodded before he got up from his chair, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before he stepped out into the hallway and let Tara in.

The agent smiled at you gently, “Hey, Y/N, how are you feeling?” She asked, sitting down at a free chair at the end of your hospital bed, leaving the chair at your side available for Spencer to return to.

You gave your best attempt at returning the smile before you answered, “I think I’m going to make it.”

As Spencer sat back down next to you, placing a water cup on your bedside table, Tara opened a file and looked through it, “Can you start by telling me a little bit about your assignment? You were undercover as… Barbara?” She read from the file.

Nodding slowly, you held out your hand for Spencer to hold, “Yeah, but they called me Babs.”

Three days ago...

You shifted self-consciously in the gold dress. It was a silky, slippery number that displayed more than you particularly liked. Spencer would probably like it, but he’d hate how uncomfortable you were in it.

Inadvertently, you smiled at just the thought of your husband. It was late, so he was probably at home, reading next to the fireplace. Maybe he was on a case, off somewhere in the United States and saving lives.

It had been twenty-nine days since you had last seen him.

“You look gorgeous tonight, Babs,” Johnathan McCallister, better known as Cal, told you, reaching out and placing a hand on either one of your shoulders before placing a kiss on both cheeks.

Bashfully, you smiled at him, “You’re too good to me, Cal. I can’t believe you got me in!” Deep down, you knew tonight could be the night, you would be able to take down The Program. At least the D.C. chapter of it.

When it was over, you could be Y/N Reid again, instead of Barbara McFarston.

The Program took women around your age and sold them into sex slavery. The chapter in Washington D.C. was one of the most active, which made sense when you looked around the room and saw a majority of the people were elected officials – men and women alike.

Andi Swann had assured you that taking down this chapter would create a domino effect, causing the other chapters to topple. According to her, if you could take down D.C., Miami, and Los Angeles, The Program would most likely cease to exist.

Turning to ask Cal about the selection tonight, you were startled to see familiar gray eyes on your companion’s other side. You felt your façade slip, but only for a second before you pasted a brilliant smile back on your face.

You tilted your head to the side, “And who might you be?” You asked Jake, wondering if Andi had sent him in to get a status report on you.

“Jake Cohn,” he answered, and goosebumps spread over your exposed skin at his answer. He should’ve said William Jacoby, that was his identity for this case.

In horror, you watched as Jake leaned in to whisper something in Cal’s ear, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. You bit your tongue as Cal wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you in tightly, “Let’s talk.”

You stumbled a little over your own feet and looked at Jake with wide eyes, the leader forcefully shoved you into a private room, one that would probably light up like a Christmas tree under a blacklight. “What’s wrong, Cal?” You asked, standing up straight.

He reached over and grabbed the back of your neck, gathering the hair at the nape of your neck in his fist. The force of it made you scrunch your shoulders up, “You’re a fucking fed?” He seethed, tossing you to the ground in one swift movement.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tried to convince him. Tried to flip the script so that Jake was the liar instead of you.

Cal grabbed your throat next, holding you down on a booth seat. “Oh, Y/N… Jake’s been one of my best employees for years.” He said, chuckling at the betrayal in your eyes, he only laughed more when you kneed him in the gut. “Oh, I like it when they fight back.”

You shut your eyes tightly as you heard the clinking of his belt buckle, but they snapped back open when you heard the word, “Stop.”

“What? Did you want first go on her?” Cal asked, wiping his cheek – you must’ve scratched him in your struggle.

Jake cleared his throat and met your eyes, “We should keep her clean, you know?” He said, and for a moment you thought he was actually trying to help you, “Think about how much a clean fed would go for here. Especially in D.C.”

And just like that, your hopes were dashed, “he’s right,” you told Cal, trying to formulate a plan.

“Shut up, whore,” Cal spat, causing you to involuntarily flinch.

At least there’s nothing he could call you that you hadn’t heard before, in your line of work, people got very creative.

Cal looked at you, inspecting your neck where he had grabbed you before, “You’ll make me a lot of money, won’t you?” He said, rubbing a hand up and down your arm soothingly before poking you with a needle.

Your legs gave out beneath you, but Jake caught you before you hit the ground. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t think he’d do this. I thought he’d kick you out, but I didn’t think…”

Looking up at him, your throat burned, and you weren’t sure if you were going to cry or throw up, but you shut your eyes. “No, you didn’t.” You don’t just casually tell the leader of a sex trafficking ring that the person with them is an FBI agent.

Present

“And that’s the last thing you remember?” Tara asked, scribbling something down in your file.

You nodded absentmindedly, “I think…” Your voice trailed off as you looked at Spencer, “I think Jake might’ve been in charge the whole time. Pulling the strings from behind the curtain while he waited for the perfect time to catch me off guard. That’s the only reason Cal would’ve backed off when Jake told him to,” You proposed your theory, not missing the way Spencer was holding your hand a little tighter than before.

Tara’s brows were raised, “Jake Cohn has worked in the bureau for almost a decade, it would be hard for him to evade detection for that long.”

“But he knows exactly how to evade it,” you rebutted. “He’d know all of the tricks from Sex Crimes and all of my tricks. He- He set me up,” you realized.

Spencer turned around and looked at your monitor, “Okay, let’s take a break. We can talk more later.”

Getting up, Tara let Spencer know she was going to call the rest of the team before she stepped back into the hallway.

“My chest hurts,” you said, hating how your voice sounded like a whine.

In response, Spencer smoothed your hair back in an attempt to comfort you. “Your heart is racing,” he whispered, “Take a deep breath, okay?”

You nodded slowly, breathing in deeply through your nostrils and letting the air collect in your lungs before blowing it out your mouth. Looking up at Spencer, worry plain in his eyes no matter how hard he tried to hide it, you came to a decision, “Spence?”

He bowed slightly closer to you so he could hear you better, “What is it, love?” He moved his hand, so it was gently cupping your cheek.

Leaning into his touch, you whispered, “It’s too much.” The only thing you had left was to hope he knew what you were talking about, the words were too hard right now, but you felt them contributing to the burning in your chest.

“Okay,” he answered. “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about disappointing anyone.”

You practically melted back into the hospital bed; the weight of your job eased off of you. Nodding, you closed your eyes, “It’s good, this is good. I just feel crazy, but a good crazy.”

Spencer smiled at you, “Okay crazy,” he whispered, “I’m going to-“ He was abruptly cut off by his phone ringing, furrowing his brows, he swiped the screen and held the phone up to his ear, “Hey, JJ.”

Cocking your head to the side, you tried to listen to JJ’s side of the conversation, but either she was speaking quietly, or Spencer had his phone volume really low. From the way Spencer’s jaw tightened, you knew that this couldn’t be anything good.

He looked at you before looking at the door, “Do you know where?” He said in a tone entirely unfamiliar to you, it was low and steely. Reaching over you, he nimbly pressed the call button on your bed, “Okay, keep me updated.”

“Spencer, what is going on?” You asked as the nurse came into your room, faltering for a moment as she looked at the two of you.

Placing a hand on the bar of your hospital bed, Spencer looked at the nurse, “Do you have somewhere secure she can be moved to?”

The nurse looked shellshocked, surely the FBI occupying the hospital wasn’t an everyday occurrence, “I don’t… I don’t think so?” She seemed unsure of herself.

“Spencer,” you repeated his name.

He turned to look at you, “Jake’s here and he’s looking for you.” Turning back to the nurse, he pointed at you, “She has to be moved.”

“I don’t… I’m just a student, my preceptor is taking a break. I could try to find-“ The nurse stammered nervously. “We don’t usually just move people.”

Nothing about this situation was usual, but one look at Spencer told you this was life or death. Your life or your death. You sighed in defeat, “This is really going to suck.” Reaching over to your side, you gripped the tube that had been draining blood from outside your lung and pulled it out. Like ripping off a band-aid.

In the process, you tore the stitches holding it in place and set off all kinds of alarms, leading to a crowd of nurses and doctors charging into the room.

As someone held pressure down on where you were bleeding, someone said something about moving you to a sterile procedure room, and the nursing student trailed along, whispering “That was the stupidest smart thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

Everything was blurry when you woke up next and, through the blinds, you could see that the sun was finally rising. The warm, orange light peeking through like lines on a piece of paper.

“Hey,” Spencer said from right next to you, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he whispered.

You looked away from him, back towards the blinds, “Will you open them?” You rasped, your throat felt raw, and your body felt heavy.

He got up and ambled over to the window, twisting the mechanism until the sun poured into your room. “How are you feeling?”

“Heavy,” you whispered, the mental weight of the past several days was threatening to take you down, but physically you felt like Atlas himself, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.

Spencer hummed in response, “They sedated you, standard procedure for people who rip their own chest tubes out.” He adjusted the way your gown rested on your shoulders, “Luckily you didn’t do too much damage.”

You took a deep breath and leaned your head so you could look out the window. The outside felt so foreign to you now, you couldn’t remember the last time you had breathed real, fresh air. “So, what is the damage?” Your voice was little more than a murmur but with just the two of you in your room, it wasn’t hard to hear.

“You’re going to be fine; they think the tube can go later today. Then they’ll evaluate whether enough you’re strong enough to go home, it’ll probably be another couple of days,” He explained to you, matching your gentle tone. “Johnathan McCallister is in custody, and Jake Cohn is dead,” he told you, studying your face for any kind of reaction.

Closing your eyes, you felt white hot tears stream down your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, laughing a little despite yourself. He probably thought you were losing it, crying over the death of someone who had nearly had you murdered.

The edge of your mattress dipped down slightly, and you opened your eyes to see Spencer sitting next to you, “You don’t need to be sorry, my love.” Gently, he rested a hand on your hip, skimming his thumb over the rough fabric of your hospital gown, “He was like family to you. I’m not sorry he’s dead – I’m not. I am sorry for that loss, though.”

Nodding, you felt it as your face crumpled, leading Spencer to lean down and hug you as best he could. “I’m sorry I scared you,” you said as he pulled away.

Your furrowed your brows in confusion as he reached into his pocket and produced your wedding ring, taking your left hand, he slid the rings on, “For better or for worse, right?”

A small smile grew on your face as the gem on your finger shimmered in the morning light, “for richer or for poorer,” you continued.

“In sickness and in health,” Spencer whispered, eyes flickering around the hospital room.

You reached up a shaky hand and cupped his cheek with your palm, “to love and to cherish.” You said, feeling a dopey, lovesick grin blooming on your face.

He turned his head and kissed the center of your palm, “until parted by death,” he finished, taking your hand in his.

“No dying,” you insisted, feeling your energy begin to drain, you started to understand why the doctors didn’t want you going home for a few days.

Spencer hummed in response, “You almost did. If you hadn’t been found when you were-“ his voice broke off and you had to tear your eyes away from his for a moment. “I still can’t believe you chose that,” he whispered, looking at you like you hung the moon.

Shrugging as if it was nothing, you melted back into the pillows, “I had a split second to weigh my options – get sold into sex slavery or get stabbed in the chest.”

“A catch-22,” he nodded, wrapping his head around your impossible decision. You couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take until the fear in his eyes left.

You shifted a little in the hospital bed, the sheets rustling as you did, “We get it, you’ve read Joseph Heller.”

He smiled at that, the light teasing seemed to bring brightness to his face, “What is it about blood loss that makes you think you’re funny?”

Laughing lightly, you squeezed his hand as tightly as you could manage, “I am funny. And I’m tired.”

“Go back to sleep then, baby,” he said softly, “it’ll all be here when you wake up.”

There was a party in your hospital room. It started with just Emily, coming in because you were finally up to seeing anyone other than Spencer, and it ended up being the entire BAU.

Someone had gone to the apartment and gathered clothes for you so that, once your chest tube was removed, you could put on real clothes. So now you were sitting up, wearing sweatpants and a ratty old college sweatshirt, and laughing with the BAU. You were leaning heavily on Spencer, who was also sitting on your hospital bed, but he didn’t seem to have a problem with keeping you steady.

Luckily for you, no one in the BAU wanted to ask about what had happened on your assignment, they were more interested in the rings that adorned your and Spencer’s fingers.

“I still can’t believe you two secretly got married,” Penelope said. “Of all of the times for me to not answer my phone.”

Next to her, Luke shrugged, “Honestly, I can believe it. It feels like a very Y/N and Reid thing to do.”

Gently, Spencer rubbed your back. His hovering was quickly going to become insufferable, but right now you were welcoming every touch with open arms.

“Well, we’ll have a party for the two of you. When you’re up for it, of course,” JJ said, smiling from where she was standing next to Emily.

You wanted to shake your head and tell them that it really wasn’t necessary, but asking the BAU to refrain from throwing a party was like asking a shark to stop swimming. Instead of debating, you just smiled and bobbed your head.

Eventually, Andi showed up, just as you knew she would. “Hey, guys,” Emily nodded in the direction of the doorway, “Why don’t we go raid the hospital cafeteria?”

After a few more hugs, including a lingering one from Garcia, the BAU, save for your husband, filtered out, and Andi made her way to the foot of your bed. “Hey,” you said, your voice was soft.

Nine years. You had spent nine years in the sex crimes unit. Spencer had done the math, you’d spent approximately seventy-six percent of that time undercover, missing birthdays, holidays, not ever really looking forward to the future. Until now.

You, the most decorated member of the sex crimes unit, were leaving.

Suspiciously, you eyed the files in Andi’s arms, one was a case file, the other a plain manila folder. She silently handed you the case file, and you shared a look with Spencer before flipping it open. “The Program is gone?” You asked, your eyes skimming the folder.

Swann nodded, her brown hair swaying with the movement, “The arrest of the leader of the D.C. chapter greatly contributed to that, but it was the death of the ringleader that took the remainder of The Program down.”

Closing your eyes, you nodded as you tried to process what she was telling you. Jake had been in charge all along. “Andi, I-“

“It was your intel that did it,” she cut you off. “From your last several assignments, everything you collected directly contributed to the downfall of this trafficking network. One of the largest networks the FBI has ever seen.”

She handed you the next file, labeled with only your name. You flipped it open, well aware that Spencer was reading from over your shoulder. “I don’t qualify for retirement,” you told her, furrowing your eyebrows, and looking at the papers in front of you. You didn’t qualify for retirement, and yet, you were looking at a retirement offer.

Your unit chief nodded understandingly, “I pulled some strings, with some help. Collectively, Prentiss and I know a lot of people.”

Spencer placed a supportive hand on your back, and you looked up at Andi. “I’m only thirty-two?” You asked, it wasn’t a clarification, it was a question.

“And yet,” she answered, “you’ve done more for the Bureau than most agents could hope to do in their whole career. This plan came from the director, Y/N. He wanted you to have it.”

Shaking your head, you handed the folder over to your husband so he could look through it. “I don’t… can I think about it?”

“He’ll want an answer soon but talk it over and give me a call when you’ve come to a decision,” she said, grabbing her things and making her way to the door. “And Y/N?”

You lifted your head up to meet her eyes, “Yeah, Andi?”

She smiled at you, a rare, real smile from her, “Make the right decision for you. You have a small army ready to support you through everything.”

Slowly, your gaze followed her out the door, waiting until you heard the latch of the door secure. Spencer handed the folder back to you, “What do you want to do?”

You flipped through the folder again, it was a lot of money, and there were a few different distribution options, but it was more than you felt you’d ever need. “I don’t really feel like I deserve this,” you whispered, reaching your hand up and rubbing the back of your neck. “The Bureau doesn’t offer early retirement like this, not without extenuating circumstances,” you continued.

“They did it with Hotch,” Spencer said, reading the file over your shoulder.

Shaking your head, you leaned over to look at him, “That was way different, Haley was murdered by a serial killer.”

Spencer sighed, “I think you’re selling yourself short, darling. The Program was trafficking almost 12,000 people across the country. That’s almost 70 percent of the yearly total trafficking victims. You took them down,” he told you earnestly.

Your shoulders slouched forward, “I didn’t do it alone, though.”

“Didn’t you, though? They sent you in with no communication device, no emergency signal, and information that wasn’t even true. Your unit told you Johnathan McCallister was the leader of the ring, but it ended up being a decorated agent and you’re the one who figured that out,” Spencer spoke emphatically. “You almost died in the process, and now there are thousands of victims who are going to go home – all thanks to you.”

Wiping at your eyes, you looked at your husband, “You’re biased.” That felt true, but Spencer was the person who knew you best in the world.

“What’s holding you back?” He murmured gently, sweeping strands of your hair behind your ears.

Smiling unsurely, you closed your eyes, “Fear of the future. In the past nine years, the longest I’ve ever been home was four weeks. I don’t… What do you want me to do?”

He shook his head slowly, “it’s not my decision.” A diplomatic answer, you should’ve guessed.

“But what do you want me to do?” You pressed.

Sighing, you watched him weigh his options, “If my choices are you going back out into the field and getting hurt again, where maybe it doesn’t have this good of an outcome, or you, safe at home, where I get to see you more than approximately three months a year, then the choice is clear.”

When he laid it out for you like that, it was pretty clear. “Maybe I could finally see what all the BAU spouses are talking about. You know, how you’re never home,” you said. Some part of you always felt disconnected from the other BAU family members, Spencer wasn’t the one who was never home, you were.

Spencer laughed lightly, “We could celebrate your birthday together.” That was the one day you always missed. Almost six years together, and something always came up on your birthday.

“I’ve never had this before,” you whispered, there was still something about it that felt tentative, almost frail.

Smilingly softly, Spencer reached out and took your hand in his, “Had what before?”

You beamed, “A future to plan.” Everything was always laid out for you, every day was spent waiting for the next directive, a new assignment. “I mean, not in nine years.”

There were always dreams, late-night murmurs with Spencer about a house with a yard and kids running around, but they were just dreams. The nights when you were able to sleep next to each other. “Do you have plans for us?”

Nodding rapidly, you answered, “Oh yeah, you and me, I’ve got big plans for us.”

next

please remember to like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed :-)

[fanaticsnail]

Oh snail, i know you already have a long list of WIPs (i can't wait to read them) and your Inbox is probably already full with requests, so i understand if its not in the cards right now.

I was just wondering what the kid-pirates would do, or how they would react if ther precious doc-reader is the one that was injured badly or was very sick. Especialy how Killer would react after that romantic tention between them (i need more of that 😩). I don't have a particular song in mind, because the seires already has a vibe to it, hope thats okay.

I wish you a wonderful day/night/evening! 💕Sooo looking forward to your next work, whatever it may be 🐢

I love you for this prompt, @daydreamer-in-training. Thank you!

Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?

Hey Doc Masterlist here

Word Count: 2,000+

Synopsis: You've taken care of your crew and nursed them back to health from their flus... but now it's your turn. The Kid-Pirates do their best to take care of the worlds worst patient, their doctor: you.

Themes: platonic!kid-pirates, eustass kid x gn!reader, swearing, illness, comforting, taking medication, kid is a bit of a dom, doc is a bit of a bra, you're the kid-pirate doctor: the crew calls you 'doc'.

Notes: I am currently struggling with the flu myself, and this was simply too cute to not write about. Thank you for your ask, it's been fun to write about!

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @sinning-23 @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @nerium-lil

“Hey, Doc? Did we need any more petroleum jelly from the-...?” the fire breather called beside you, hating when you turned to face him, “...-Shit, Doc. You look like absolute balls today.” 

Rolling your swollen, glassy and red eyes at him, you draw another tissue from your counter and sneeze into it. The silky tissue felt like sandpaper over your leaky nose, the skin splitting surrounding your nostrils and leaving small stains of red on the pale paper.

“Always so full of compliments and kindness, Heat,” you huff out, your voice sounding hoarse and cracking along with every word. Heat cringed, recoiling away from you with eyes narrowed in sympathy. You attempt to breathe through your blocked nose, no air passing through the dual nostrils.

Treating the crew for the past two weeks, and nursing them to health in recovering from the flu, had finally caught up with you. You felt both cold and hot at the same time, your skin both dry and sticky with sweat. Mind swelling and cracking behind the tense throbbing throughout your brain caused a dull ache ringing in your ears and fogging your mind.

“I-... I’m just saying, Doc,” he reiterated in defense of himself, “You don’t look too good. Maybe you ought to sit out from the in-land trip to restock. Stay home on the Victoria Punk?” Heat suggested with a soft smile and a subtle shrug.

“What?” you grunted out a cough, “And leave you lot to restock my clinic for me? Not fucking like-...” coughing into another tissue, your glassy eyes pricked at the corners and began to spill out and down your cheeks, “...-likely.” 

Heat’s smile fled from his face, his lip downturning in sympathy. He shook his head and extended his hand out to you, gesturing you to follow him out through the door towards the deck. You attempt to sniff back another intake of air to reopen your nose to no avail. Following on, you trudge somberly towards the top deck where the crew were all waiting to step foot onto the pier. 

Without drawing attention to yourself, your eyes squinted lazily to compensate for the pain the sun caused your mind. With each achy step, you attempted to bite back the ache your body was going through. Barely aware of your surroundings, you gesture in the medicinal remedy booths at town square for herbs, ointments and aromatic fragrances. 

As you reached into your pocket to pull out your small folder of Berry, a large right forearm reached over your shoulder and paid the vendor before you could. Rolling your eyes, you turn to look at the scowling grimace of your captain, Eustass Kid, baring his rage down at you. Attempting to roll your eyes at him again, you clenched them tightly shut instead as the world became far too bright to process.

“Captain,” you acknowledge him with a clumsy nod, fighting the urge to not to fall over with the vertigo overcoming you. He growled at you immediately, gesturing to Wire beside him to gather the supplies and walk back to the ship. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ idiot, aren’t ya, Doc?” he spat, scolding you with his heavy growl. You laughed at him, shaking your swirling head and beginning to walk beside him. Your overexertion and sleep deprivation caught up with you as you tripped over an uneven divot in the rocky path.

“I'm not into degradation, Cap,” you respond in a half-joking hum, your eyes feeling heavy and weighted, “Not my kink. Might be yours, though, considering the amount of times I yell at you to hold you accountable.” That comment earnt you another low growl from your captain, his face turning a few shades darker than his hair. 

He turned to face you at his side, his lips curling as if to speak. As he opened his lips, he was lost for words as you fell into him, bracing yourself against him to steady your walk. He caught you in his right arm, bringing his face down towards you and brows knitting with concern. Turning towards Wire, he cocked his chin to the side to usher him on towards the ship. 

With no further warning, Kid dipped at the knees and hoisted you up into his chest beneath your thighs. He curled his bicep and hooked your head beneath his chin and cradled you firmly into him. Under usual circumstances, you would’ve fought this tooth and nail.

You do not enjoy being manhandled by the crew, especially by your captain. While you enjoy the embrace once in a while with your more sensitive crewmates, particularly Bubblegum, the Captain has only ever been this close to you when he’s sparring with you.

“C’mon Doc, I'll get you seen to,” he grunted down at your position curled into his chest, “I’ve-... And the-...” his words trailed off, the fever raising your temperature higher and prompting you to seek out sleep against his pectoral. 

Voices and words fade in and out of your ears, a slow drawl and murmurs of several of your crewmates swelling around your assumed resting spot for the day. The room wasn’t physically moving, even though your vertigo suggested it was. 

“When was the last time Doc’s had a day off?” you recognised the feminine voice of Quincy in the room beside you. Several grunts and incessant babbling reverberated around the room, prompting you to flutter your eyelashes open and push through the pain. 

“Doc!” you cringed as a body almost flew into your bed, sitting on the plush sheets beside you, “You’re awake! I’m so happy to see you’re up!” You wince, slowly waving Bubblegum away, swatting at his zig-zagged head.

“Off, off,” you shooed him, wincing as you shrugged your duvet off your thighs and swung your legs over the side of the bed. As you began to wobble to your feet, the booming voice of your captain called over the chatter of the room,

“Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?” he growled, striding over in intentional steps and giving you a shove from his right hand in the middle of your chest, “The medics here said you need a week in bed to rest. Sit down.” You growled at him, doing your best to gather the strength to growl at him. 

“If I’ve been prescribed ‘rest’,” you began, gesturing to the crewmates surrounding your current room, “Why the fuck are you all here?” Several sheepish mutters surround the room, a few members pinching the scruffs of their necks, a few more wringing their hands in front of their waists. 

Your captain clapped his hand on your shoulder, pushing you to lay back down and wrangling you into your bedsheets. Refusing to go down without a fight this time, you wriggled in his grip and fought both the fever and the strong arm of your captain. 

“For fucks sake, Doc!” Kid yelled at you, pushing and shoving you down into the very comfortable and unfamiliar bed in front of the crew. “Just lay down and rest, damn it! Go back to sleep.” You wriggled harder. 

“No!” you yelled defiantly, kicking off the duvet and fighting each and every time your captain attempted to shove you into your bed. Kid looked around to the crew, angled his chin sharply to wordlessly order them to leave the room. As they left, Kid turned back towards you and crawled up onto the bed. 

“You are more of a pain in the ass than that fucking bullet to the buttcheek,” he growled, climbing over you and baring down his weight onto your smaller frame. Straddling your thighs, he placed his knees on your open palms and successfully pinned you beneath him. He pressed his forearm over your chest and gave you a firm shove to force you to lay down. You had no choice but to thump your head back into the plush pillow behind your head. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you clench your jaw and growl behind your lips. The rumble in your throat hurt the raw swell in your jugular, but you pushed past it to air your frustrations at him regardless. The chuckle from your captain above you only served to propel your anger to rise higher. 

“Yeah, yeah. Growl and groan all you want,” he scoffed at you, pinning your chest with his bicep while reaching his hand between you and gathering the blankets in his fist. Slowly raising it up, he continued his place straddling your thighs until he thought you would no longer fight him. 

“Why are you doing this, Captain?” you snarl at him, finally opening your eyes to gaze up into his eyes. He smirked at you in response, pressing his palm to your forehead and clicking his tongue at the temperature. 

“Because,” he leaned over to the bedside, taking two small spherical tablets into his hand, “We love you, Doc.” He leaned back over you, gesturing with his chin for you to part your lips. You take a moment to snarl at him before complying, parting your lips and allowing him to place the bitter tablets on your tongue. 

He leaned back over to the bedside, finding a glass of water and bringing it down to your lips. Tilting the glass slowly as it brushed with your bottom lip, he carefully fed you a sip of water to take the pills with. Placing the glass back over on the table, he drew his attention to the small amount of water seeping from the corner of your lip.

“Now, be a good Doctor and get loved on, idiot,” he softly huffed, his voice low and husky as he leaned forward. He used the pad of his thumb to gently collect the spill of water from the corner of your lips. Your eyes never ceased its glare up at him. He grinned tauntingly down at you, arching his brow and ensuring you swallowed the tablets. 

“Get off, Captain,” you growled at him, bucking your hips up in an attempt to remove him from your body. He cackled his rumbled laugh down at you in response, shaking his head. 

“You gonna get up again if I do?” he asked, leaning down and caressing your cheek in a gentle stroke. His eyes held nothing but mischievous mockery, but his hand felt like it was gently coaxing you to comply with what he asked. 

“No, I’ll behave,” you snarled at him. His laugh was genuine this time, low and gentle. Slowly backing off you, he slid off your body before adjusting the sheets and smoothing them over. 

“Good,” he nodded, beginning to leave the room by the door off to the side of the room. Halting at the door, he fought with himself for a moment before looking at you over his shoulder and uttering, “I’ll-… I’ll get Kil to check on you in a few hours. Get some rest, okay?”

What he said next was something you weren’t expecting to come from his lips. In all the time you served with him, he only ever called you ‘Doc’, or ‘Doctor.’ You were your title, and you appreciated that about the crew. You were Doc, only ever Doc. But what he said changed all that.

After he uttered the word “okay,” it was immediately followed by your name. Waiting a few moments, you responded in a cadence just above a whisper. 

“I’ll be right where you left me, Kid,” you replied with a soft smile back at him. He closed his eyes, offering you a reflection of your smile in return before it grew back into its usual mischievous face. 

“Good,” he again offered you, scrunching his nose up at you and looking up through his red eyelashes at you, “Otherwise I would’ve gotten your doting daddy to come coddle his whiny baby.” Your eyes went wide, your jaw clenching and your eyebrows shot up to your hairline. 

Eustass Kid just laughed in response, exiting the room and giving you both the time and space you needed to recover. Your recovery was not only the flu, but of the second hand embarrassment that Killer must’ve relayed to Kid what he’d said to you in the consultation room. Either that, or you left the shell of your Den-Den accidentally activated from when you spoke with your captain earlier in the day.

Either way, you pouted as you did as you were told and huffed back into your bed and went to sleep: the paracetamol activating and stilling your swelling head and masking the undertones of pain in your body.

[girlsdads]

tagged by @annebd for WIP wednesday friday... instead of a WIP snippet have something that i don't really know what else to do with but i didn't hate so :-)

Max’s phone lights up with Daniel’s name while he’s sitting in hospitality the morning of race day. It’s face-up on the arm of the sofa—Max watches as it catches the eye of Lawson next to him. Possessiveness rises like bile in his throat. He snatches the phone as quickly as he can, cradles it to his chest like that would erase the letters of Daniel’s name from Lawson’s memory.

“Whatever, mate,” Lawson quips, rolling his eyes. Like anyone was talking to him, anyway. Like Max gives a fuck if he’s here or not. Like they’re mates, and he’s not someone Max is contractually obligated to be cordial to.

“Clean up your crumbs, when you are finished,” Max says as he stands, sweeping his gaze pointedly over the spray of chocolate chip muffin debris covering Lawson’s lap and the sofa cushion beside him. He doesn’t wait for Lawson’s response before stalking from the room. He thinks about the stacks of keto-friendly protein bars going stale back in his motorhome and hates Lawson that much more.

Max waits until he’s closed the motorhome door behind him to open Daniel’s text.

It’s stupid, he knows, to want to do this in private. Everyone knows he talks to Daniel still, probably no one would think it strange or pathetic for Max to be texting him now. Daniel had said—Max had known he wouldn’t be here, this weekend, or any weekend. Max understands, in his own way, despite how bereft he always feels, during.

But. It is a race day and Daniel is texting him. Daniel hasn’t texted on a race weekend since, well—since. He had facetimed the day after Brazil, relaxed and happy and congratulating Max from New York. They keep a running conversation during off weeks, Daniel sending picture after picture of himself with arms around his friends, some Max knows, some he doesn’t. Max saves the photos to a hidden folder on his phone, crops them all so it’s only Daniel. Sometimes it leaves him missing an arm, or two, but he can’t stand to see Daniel with all these people who aren’t Max. In turn, Max sends him videos of the cats, memes he hopes will make Daniel laugh, updates on the funny-looking bird that has been building a nest on Max’s balcony.

(That’s my—what’s the little animal friend that witches have—my familiar, Maximus! I sent him to watch over you, obviously. Be nice to him.) That message had gone into the secret folder, too.

Race weekends are radio silence. Max has come to terms with that, knows it isn’t personal, that it’s an open wound Daniel is nursing. So for Daniel to reach out, today of all days, Max can’t help the stab of yearning in his belly. It could be an important day, for Max, maybe Daniel decided—maybe he’s said he’s hopped a plane, he’s driving out from LA, he’ll be here before the chequered flag—

Max couldn’t bear it if anyone else were around, if that’s not what Daniel’s message says. Even alone, he feels like a hermit crab that’s outgrown its shell, hope leaving him soft-bellied and vulnerable.

He swipes open his and Daniel’s message chain.

Daniel’s not coming to Vegas. At least, that’s not what he’s texted.

The text is a picture. Max’s eyes are drawn immediately to Daniel, though he’s only in about one quarter of the frame. If he was trying to take a selfie, he did not do such a good job--it's mostly a shot of the dusty-red ground, Daniel's beautiful face peeking in from the top corner. He’s wearing his dirt biking clothes, sweat darkening the pits of his long sleeves where his arm is lifted to make a thumbs-up. His pinky still doesn't quite fold in next to the rest of his fingers. Max wants to kiss the careful bend of his knuckle.

It's a few long moments before Max even registers what's etched into the earth behind Daniel. It is very obvious, then, why Daniel is sending this now. There in the California dirt, Daniel has used a stick or maybe even one of his long, lovely fingers to write 3 + 1 = 4. A wobbly heart is drawn around the whole thing.

Max is infinitely grateful for the lack of prying eyes as he sinks slowly to the floor. He draws his knees up to his chest and cradles the phone in cupped hands, as if the message will be sucked back into the ether if he grips too tightly. He lightly taps to full-screen the image, zooms in on Daniel's face. The soft, almost awkward smile is the same one Max has only ever seen directed at him. He knows this, because he's spent years cataloguing Daniel's interactions with others, longing and longing. Daniel never makes that face at anyone else.

Max's phone buzzes as another text comes through. Daniel's hands reaching through the wire to squeeze Max's heart until it leaks out between his fingers.

Always cheering for you, Max. Give 'em hell for me.

[thursdayinspace]

ficlet (breaking up just doesn't work for them)

or: thing that can stand on its own but might also maybe possibly be a WIP now, who the fuck even knows anymore, my WIP folder has given up on me at this point. Rating: Explicit

tagging @today-in-fic

---

They shouldn’t. They said they wouldn’t do this anymore. And she knows it’s the right decision—they can’t risk it interfering with their work, with their partnership. What they have together is too important. That hadn’t stopped her from spending the weekend on the couch crying after they’d decided to end it. And he’d been quiet on Monday morning, looking like he hadn’t slept in days, and the pain in his eyes every time he’d looked at her told her he was as heartbroken as she was.

It’s been weeks now. And she misses him like a severed limb even though they’re together all the time. But he doesn’t put his hand on her back anymore. He looks quickly away every time their eyes meet. She understands. He’s hurting the same way she is. She’s starting to wonder if they made the right decision. Some days it feels like she’s losing him, and she has to excuse herself and step outside for a moment, sit down somewhere out of view because her head is spinning as she tries to stop herself from hyperventilating. She knows it wouldn’t take more than a single look, a single touch to have him in her arms again, but she can’t, she can’t. They said they wouldn’t.

Five weeks. That’s how long they last before he knocks on her door on a Wednesday night after a long day at the office where they barely exchanged a word. He looks awful, like he’s been crying, and her heart hurts in her chest.

“Send me away,” he says, his voice breaking on the last syllable. “Please send me away.”

She doesn’t answer, keeps one hand on the door. She should close it. She should step back and let him in. She shouldn’t look into his beautiful sad eyes that cut into her soul and destroy her utterly until she feels tears prickling behind her eyes. She stands frozen in speechless indecision as the seconds tick past and give him her answer, and his palms framing her face make her paper-thin walls crumble. His first kiss is tentative but she can feel him trembling as she puts her hands on his chest, she can feel the pounding of his heart, and she wraps her arms around him and jumps as he lifts, her legs coming around his hips. She kicks the door closed once he steps over the threshold. Neither of them speaks as he carries her to the bedroom.

Touching his naked skin as he stretches out next to her isn’t the comfort she expected; it makes her desperate for him until she feels like she’s shaking apart with the love that’s pushing at the confines of her being. Finally he meets her eyes, the hunger in them stealing the breath from her lungs. All she can do as he kisses his way down her body is to close her eyes and put her hands in his hair. She can’t move, all her muscles are gone. She’s his now to do with as he pleases.

His mouth on her makes her moan and arch her back off the mattress. There are no words, not after these past few weeks, not for the magnitude of this love that only managed to grow during their separation. But she understands what he’s telling her. There are no words, but his mouth is saying everything she longed to hear for so long. His lips closing around her clit, his tongue pushing into her, the sounds he makes as he presses in closer, buries his face deeper against her and eats her out like he’s been starving. There’s relief and ecstasy in his voice as he gives himself to her, gives her what she needs.

Her orgasm washes through her in wave after wave of release so intense it makes her tears finally spill over; she’s coming for the first time in five weeks. She hadn’t even been able to touch herself with the loss of him numbing every part of her body and soul. He waits until she’s done before he crawls back up the bed, waits for her nod before he lowers himself between her legs and pushes into her, stretching her, filling her so completely. She’s always loved his size, but she welcomes it more than ever now. He’s everywhere.

His thrusts are slow and hard, his hands hooked around her shoulders to keep her in place, and she’s pinned to the mattress beneath him. He’s taking her, claiming her, and she digs her nails into his back, knowing he likes when she marks him, she’s seen him twisting around in front of a mirror admiring the scratch marks on his skin. He fucks her like he owns her, and he does, he does. The same way he’s given her ownership of his heart a long, long time ago.

She knows he needs to come, she can hear it in his breath, can feel it in the controlled, forceful roll of his hips, but he makes her come again first, and this time it happens slowly, the pressure building and building until she falls over the edge with a final push. She can’t breathe, can’t make a sound, her whole body is alive with pleasure that won’t end as he keeps going relentlessly even when his movements become frantic, erratic. He waits, he holds on until she’s spent, her body unclenching, sinking down against the rumpled sheets.

She holds him as he lets go, as he buries himself deep inside her and cries out, and she’s missed this more than she can fully understand. He’s shaking in her arms after he’s done and she wonders if it feels like this for everyone, like the universe isn’t big enough for everything she feels.

They don’t say the words. They don’t have to. They both already know.

[kuduarts]

this has been sitting on my wips folder for too long and i lost steam on it, so i tried to clean it up enough for posting lol

my main gw2 toon! tempest!!! LIGHTNING BOLT!!!!!!

[howdoyousleep3]

Prompt: Mommy Kink

Pairing: Female Reader x Randsom Drysdale Word Count: ~7K Tags: age difference, dom/sub relationship, alcohol use (light), porn with little/hidden plot, porn with little angst, mommy kink, nipple play, shower sex, praise kink, exhibitionism, dirty talk, topping from the bottom, multiple orgasms, edging, fluff Author's Note: This has become a fic I've been dying to wash my hands of; it's been in my life and WIP folder for far too long. I hope it doesn't read that way and I hope you can enjoy it. ❤️

As soon as you close the door to your apartment behind you, you know Ransom is here. 

You’ve stopped questioning how he gets into your home.

Based on the subtle tells littered all throughout your apartment, his mood is not a positive one. You know that without needing these signs from the slow walk through your kitchen and towards the living room; he doesn’t visit you when he is cheery. Cabinet door open, tequila bottle left uncorked, his coat draped along the back of your couch; he’s feeling quite brazen tonight. And he’s been drinking. 

You remind yourself of the importance of patience. 

You make no rush to find out where he is even though you have a sneaking suspicion that he’s somewhere in your bedroom. You can see him thinking that being in your most private of spaces will unnerve you, but it’s the most telling of all; a bedroom is the most intimate space in a home. 

You pour yourself two fingers worth of tequila, skip the ice, and place the bottle back into the cabinet. You leave your purse on the kitchen island.

The sound of your heels dances across the darkened walls of your apartment as you make your way to your bedroom. Your shin-length skirt flutters around you at a shared languid pace. You take your time turning off lights and ensuring the apartment is as it should be along your way, sipping on the golden liquid as you go. You gently pull the neck scarf from around the hollow of your throat, removing your hair clip and letting your locks tumble down over your shoulders. 

You softly smile to yourself as you unbutton your shirt enough to where the delicate lace of your bra is visible. There’s no doubt his eyes will be on your breasts in an instant. Good.

You aren’t sure what you expect, but him sitting in your bed, back against the headboard, your current read in his lap is not it. 

He sits in your room with only the dim light of your bedside lamp. You wonder if he realizes it’s terribly domestic. Your steps cease to falter though, not wanting to show him one ounce of surprise as you make your way to your dresser. By the time you’ve set your tumbler on your dresser and removed your watch from your wrist, he still has not spoken to you. You choose to break the silence. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” you murmur, reaching for the backs of your earrings as you remove them, turning to look at him as you do so. 

Your heart nearly stops. 

Immediately, you want to push and ask him what’s happened, his split lip and fresh bruise on his cheek pulling at your heart, but you know if you rush him, he’ll run. He’s still as gorgeous as ever though, his sharp clean jaw and an even sharper set of eyes. From across the room, they’re dark, but up close you know they’re beautifully haunted and bright with mischief. 

In his cable knit sweater and his socked feet, his hair unruly and boyish, the sight feels like a vice around your heart. 

He’s beautiful. 

He’s also a brat. 

Your favorite.

He merely watches you as you place your earrings in the tray on your dresser, placing the clip and neck scarf in their appropriate places as well. You pull your stocking-clad feet from your heels, sighing as you stretch your arches out and make your way across the room to your closet. When you reamerge you break the silence again. 

“Did you have a good day?” 

Not a question of why he’s here or what led to him being on the receiving end of such physical violence that then resulted in the marks on his face. It’s a simple inquiry, but you aren’t surprised by the venom in his tone. 

“What the fuck do you care?” 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care, you know this.” Your tone is gentle, soft, as you reach for the zipper of your skirt and try again. “Did you have a good day?” 

His eyes are on your body as your skirt drops to the floor. They feel like a physical touch, a heavy one. Even broken and furious he still manages to fill this space with intensely sexual energy and your body, fragile from your own long day, reacts immediately. You ignore said reaction as best you can, but you’re sure your hardened nipples are visible through your shirt as you bend to reach for your skirt. 

“I didn’t come here to talk about my day,” he tells you, tone sharp and mocking. 

“Oh? And why did you come here?” 

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“I came here to fuck you.” 

You in turn do not miss a beat either. 

“Oh, sugar— that’s not quite the truth, is it?” 

You don’t wait for an answer, turning and making your way back into your closet. As you remove your shirt the decision of what Ransom needs comes to you easily. When he comes to you in a mood like this you rarely have to break him down any further; he comes to you ready to be pieced back together again. Rarely do you see this side of him, this pushy, needy side of him that needs a gentle yet implacable hand. 

You leave your stockings, bra, and panties on and return to the bedroom, reaching for your glass along the way back to your bed. 

“Finish your drink,” you tell him, gesturing with your own glass to his on the bedside table. You take a slow sip of your tequila, relishing the burn that slips down your throat. He doesn’t make a move towards his glass and juts his chin out in blatant defiance. 

“You’re not going to waste a drop of my good tequila, Ransom Drysdale. Finish it.” 

You’re surprised and simultaneously relieved when he waits a few seconds and slowly reaches for his glass. Maybe it was your stern tone. He locks eyes with you as he tosses the rest of the tequila back quickly and you make the active decision to not reprimand him for not savoring this finely aged liquor. 

You finish off your two fingers not long after he does, maintaining eye contact as you do so, and when you’ve both swallowed the last of it down, your belly is more than warm. 

You skipped dinner, didn’t you? 

Damn. 

You take a few more steps towards him and hand him your glass. He only hesitates a few seconds before he reaches for it. 

“Thank you, baby,” you murmur, turning and heading into your bathroom, your stockings muffling your footsteps as you walk. You reach for the lights, turning on the dimmest setting, then head to the walk-in shower. You turn that on as well, the above rain shower head as well as the jets of water coming out of the wall. You place two of your largest and fluffiest towels on the bench just out of reach of the spray of water. 

You stop in the doorway of the bathroom, cock your hip and make yourself look as seductive as possible. You bite back your grin when you see that both glasses are out of sight. Good boy.

“Shower with me.” 

The way he gazes at you and your body almost makes you shiver. It’s fond and it’s hungry, the attitude he came here with deteriorating with each passing minute. This is why he came to you— to be loved on. You’re not quite sure how you became this person to him, what led to him clinging to you and reaching for you, but you’ve not once been uninterested. The opposite in fact; you take this cherished role very seriously. 

The last of the fight Ransom wants to put up is terribly visible on his face, the younger man as transparent as always. The way his eyes roam your body feels like a physical touch: down your torso, over your thighs, between your legs. You feel your panties grow damp in an instant, especially when he rises to his feet and reaches for the hem of his sweater. You don’t move from your spot in the doorway, watching on as he strips himself first of his sweater and then his undershirt, your heart kicking up into your throat once he’s bare chested, somehow soft yet hard all over. 

He’s quite literally breathtaking. 

You try your hardest to minimize the rise and fall of your chest as you watch him remove his pants, but you’re certain your neck is flushed and giving you away in an instant. Your panties are ruined, your nipples are more than visible through the thin lining of your bra. There’s no way your face isn’t giving your hunger away either, your eyelids heavy as he kicks his pants a few feet in front of himself, directly in front of you. 

It’s as if he’s taunting you, testing you in order to see the direction the two of you are headed in for the night. 

He knows you won’t tolerate such a move.

You have no choice but to square up with him, and you do so with a dramatic look down at Ransom’s pants on the floor and back up at his face. You’re impressed with yourself when your eyes manage to not linger or even pause on the impressive and familiar bulge between his legs, the dark material of his briefs straining to conceal his erection. The look you are met with is casually challenging, as if he wants you to push back and to do so hard. 

You don’t waste any time. You give him exactly what he’s here for— 

“Mama doesn’t like a mess, sweetheart. You know that.”

The effect of your words is instantaneous. You can practically see your sentence slipping over his shoulders and down his spine, his eyelids fluttering as he swallows quite audibly. And for a moment, he looks vulnerable, fragile even. It breaks your heart, shatters it, brings light to your importance in this role and in his life. You anticipate him fighting you a bit more, which is why you have to put effort into schooling your features when he steps forward and reaches for his discarded pants. 

Oh, baby…

Folding his pants, he places them into the chair to your right and then reaches for his shirts as well. Once his clothes are in a neat stack and he’s left standing in front of you, close enough to force you to tip your head back to look up at him, you want to toss your plan to the side and snuggle Ransom to sleep and not wake up for days. 

But he’s here for a reason. 

“Good boy,” you purr, voice husky as you reign in your eagerness. His lips part when your fingers reach for his cock, circling what you can around the fabric of his briefs. He’s harder than stone under your grip. You can swear you feel him throb there in your hand as you hold onto him, squeezing him. The weight of him, the girth of him, makes your pussy ache, makes you wish you had something to clench around. Your pussy wants him. 

Down girl. 

“Such a big boy,” you whisper anyway, testing the limits of what is and is not acceptable for the night. Ransom responds beautifully, eyelids drooping a bit alongside his jaw as you tug at his erection, stroking him off slowly through his underwear. It’s a selfish move, one just for you to indulge in, and he lets you with a hitch in his breath. 

Christ, he’s beautiful. You want more of him. 

“Is this for me?” you whisper on his lips with a squeeze at his cock, Ransom bending down to meet the tip of your chin. If your mouths weren’t nearly touching you’d miss his gentle and hesitant murmur of “...yes.” He knows what you want to hear but you know he cannot be pushed into indulging in your dynamic; he has to reach that point on his own terms. 

That fact doesn't stop you from giving him a nudge though.

“You sweet boy. All for me?”

You tug on the waistband of his briefs, pull it past the tip of his erection, exposing it. You hear the beginnings of a groan he manages to bite back. 

“For you.”

“For who?” 

You can see the word on the tip of his tongue, his hesitation palpable. You run your thumb along his cockhead, purse your lips around his plump bottom lip in encouragement. You reach for his hand with your free one, help him wrap his trembling fingers around the skin of your neck hoping the gesture will bring him comfort, will ground him. 

“For who, sweetheart?” 

He swallows loudly. 

“For…for Mama...” 

Yes. 

You know your eagerness could scare him away in an instant, but that doesn’t stop you from letting out a shaky noise, one that blurs the line between a purr and a groan. There are few things in this world sweeter than Ransom giving into his desires and letting you take care of him in the way only you could. It’s more than a word, it’s more than a misunderstood kink; it’s what this sweet boy needs from you and you’re more than happy to provide. 

You want to give him everything in this moment, want to start by bending down and suckling on his pretty cockhead, but you reel yourself in just enough to whisper, “Can you take the rest of my clothes off, baby? Please?” 

His hands are immediately on your thighs. His touch is rough with eagerness, the tremble in his capable hands obvious, a flush growing on his chest. He drops to his knees then, leans forward and presses his lips along the inside of your thigh as he works one stocking down your leg, peppering it with little kisses, first one and then the other.

He never gives in this easily. He never becomes your sweet boy without more of a fight. 

He must need you tonight. 

The sight and sensation of him kneeling before you does wicked things to your head. With your stockings removed from your legs, he moves up and reaches for your hips with both hands, fingers curling around the meat of them. He kisses over your panties, over your mound, unabashedly inhaling before he’s tugging on the waistband of your silky panties. When you step out of them, one leg at a time, your hands fall easily to his head, fingers slipping through his normally gelled locks. The gentle touch has him exhaling roughly into your belly. 

His urge to put his mouth on you is damn near palpable and fuck, your pussy can feel it too. 

You almost say something, chastise him for so obviously warring over his distracting thoughts and urges, when you feel his fingers run up your backside. He finds the clasp of your bra quickly and he expertly flicks it open even quicker, easing the straps down your shoulders until it too joins your other undergarments on the floor. Your breasts ache, nipples pebbled tightly and begging for a warm mouth. 

This time Ransom gives into his urges, nuzzling at the curve of your breast, rubbing his cheek into it as he sighs. The need to guide his head, to coo as he suckles, almost does you in. 

Instead you take a step back.

“Shower, sweetheart…”

You turn and leave him to follow after you. Pride thrums through your body over the fact that you’ve stayed strong so far, that you have given Ransom what he needs. He doesn’t need someone he can persuade or bend to his will, doesn’t need someone that will give into him easily. He needs steady, he needs calm. He needs structure and love, needs to be soothed and doted on. He needs to be told no. 

You had assumed the steam of the shower and the scorching temperature of the water would bring you clarity, but it seems to do the exact opposite; it makes your need for him grow infinitely. As you begin to remove your makeup and wash your face as causally as you can, your eyes drink him in slowly and luxuriously, his body entirely bare as he seems to saunter into the shower, almost predatorily. 

His eyes are on your body as well, something you would know even if you weren’t looking right at him, the path his eyes take feeling like the lick of a flame. You aren’t intimidated by the glint in his eyes or the curl of his lips; you know his looks are deceiving. His reputation is upheld by his looks, his sharpness, but at this point you know better than to believe there isn’t an abundance of softness underneath his facade. 

When you turn to wet your hair under the stream of water, hot water running down your already heated form, your front presses deliciously against his own. His heavy cock presses tightly against your stomach and your clit throbs at the slick feel of it against your skin. His energy is anything but calm, both of his hands coming up to frame the base of your throat, tightening them briefly before he bats your hands away and replaces them in your hair. 

You don’t react in the slightest to his gestures, eyes locking with his through the rising steam. Trust is a pillar in your relationship, whatever this is. He’d never hurt you, unless that’s something you asked for.

The intimacy of this shared shower is not lost on you.

As you tip your head back and look him over, your eyes are immediately drawn to his lip and his cheek, the respective cut and bruise. 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” you ask gently as he reaches for your shampoo, your hands landing easily on his hips. Once they’re there you let them wander easily and greedily, squeezing and sliding them up his sides, down and around to his ass, up his back. Carved from marble, he has to be. His answer is what you expect, a short, “No,” in addition to your name. Just because it’s what you expect doesn’t mean it doesn’t disappoint you. You know little about his family, even littler about his job, his endeavors, but you know he is surely undeserving of physical violence. 

His hands in your hair feel like absolute heaven. When you envisioned the end of your day and this shower it was without him, but even then you were looking forward to it. The addition of Ransom is a delight. His capable fingers work wonders on your scalp as he thoroughly works the shampoo through your hair and you can’t help but moan and let your eyelids fall closed. His trapped cock twitches as each noise falls from your lips, each movement sending a wave of arousal to your core. 

When he rinses the shampoo from your hair, tipping your head back to meet the stream of water with a hand on your neck, you reach for his cock. 

His gasp is so pretty, almost as pretty as your handful. 

“Mama’s missed you,” you tell him as he rids your hair of shampoo, leaning into his hold on your throat as he pulls you towards him with the same grip. His lips land on your temple as you take your time feeling him, unabashedly groping at him. “It’s been so long since you’ve come to visit me.” 

He doesn’t answer, but he does let out his first unreserved noise of the evening, a groan of an exhale that sounds almost painful. You grin into his chest as you bring your other hand down to hold onto his balls, cupping the heavy pair, rolling them. He ruts against your front, your hold on him, does what he can to thrust into your fist. You openly ignore his efforts, taking your time to enjoy the weighty feel of him in your hands, giving yourself a moment to be greedy, to imagine what this will feel like inside of you soon. 

The insides of your thighs are slick and it has nothing to do with the stream of the shower. 

One more soft and urgent noise from him has you humming, pinching the tip of his cock softly. 

“You tell me when you’re close, remember?” 

You’re far too pleased when there is little hesitation as he answers very quietly, “Y-yes, Mama.” You give his sac a slow tug. 

“Are you close?” 

You know he is. You always know when he is about to come. His stomach draws tight, his breathing stutters, his lips part and his eyelids grow heavy. It’s obvious, yet he shakes his head, attempts to fuck into your grip. Greedy boy. You know you should be disappointed, but you find that you’re more thrilled than anything else. You fist his erection and pump him vigorously in your grip, his bitten, “Fuck,” dropping right to your clit. 

“No? You aren’t close?” 

You’re stroking him exactly how he likes, long strokes with a squeeze of your closed fist at the tip, your other hand holding on tightly to his balls. He whines in response, shakes his head and dipping it down so he can press a sucking kiss to the corner of your mouth. How sweet. 

“Liar,” you whisper against his jaw, digging your teeth into it as you drop both of your hands at once. You push him back by a hand in the middle of his flushed chest. You’re tempted to drop to your knees and selfishly suck him off when you get eyes on his hard and angry cock, but the build is so good. You know waiting will be what he needs and what you want. 

“Sit down,” you tell him, gesturing towards the built-in bench at the end of the shower as you reach for your conditioner. “Mama needs to finish washing her hair and then needs to wash her body. You can’t be trusted.” He doesn’t look hurt at your words, just mischievous as ever. If anything, regret flashes in his eyes briefly before a cocky, hungry look takes its place and he leans back into the bench, spreading himself out in an intimidating manner. 

You’re always weak for a manspread, for the way he can send his limbs out in a way that makes him appear even larger than he already is. He knows your weakness. You bite the inside of your lip at his obvious and defiant demeanor. 

You take your time distributing the conditioner through your hair, winding it into a low bun once it saturates the strands as you want it to. You won’t let this man, any man, take away from your self care. When you reach for your loofah and luxurious soap you feel the weight of his eyes on you and you feel your inner vixen slip through your veins and down your spine. 

His eyes on you are your guilty pleasure, your ultimate weakness. The attention he gives you, this special form of attention, is the foundation of your relationship. He looks to you when there is no one else to turn to. He looks to you when he needs comfort that is meaningful and deep, erotic and pleasurable. 

So, his eyes on you make you intoxicated with power, such a unique form of feminine power. You lean into that sensation as you move your loofah across your body, sudsing it up as you make swipe after swipe over your skin. You’re taking care of yourself, showing yourself gratitude and love, but it’s also a show for him. Where you squeeze, where your touch lingers, when you bend your body— it’s all for him. 

But you’re not immune to the way your touches and his gaze combined makes you feel. 

Ransom just about cracks when you turn away from him and bend at the waist, unnecessarily reaching down for your feet. The view has to be sublime. You’re so aroused by the situation that has unfolded before you this evening, turned on by the touches of your little display, that you can feel how swollen your pussy is. Bent over, you reach between your legs with a free hand and give into the urge to rub at yourself, fingers slipping against your clit, dipping between your folds. 

His whine is barely detectable, bitten off and swallowed, but it’s there, you hear it. And it’s just as sweet a victory to you as a climax is.

You’re impressed with yourself at the strength it takes to stand back up just out of reach of the spray of water, turning to face where Ransom sits on the bench. That is when you bring the loofah to your chest, slowly and unnecessarily rubbing it over the heavy curve of your breasts. The ache of the tightness of your nipples as you touch yourself forces your exhale to sound more like a whimper and you drop the loofah to indulge, both for yourself and Ransom. 

You squeeze your breasts together, the soap causing them to slip and smush together lewdly, and you enjoy it immensely as you pinch at both of your nipples. 

You let out a happy, throaty noise and do it all again. 

“Mama,” Ransom bites out, his tone daring to sound more like a warning than a plea. His look is one of warning as well, a stern look you’re sure he gives others and watches them crumble. But not you; you never crumble. 

He knows better than to try it on you. But he sure is a tempting sight, one plucked right out of one of your wettest of dreams. You’ve stood in this exact spot in your shower before, wishing he was sitting just as he is now, cock hard and eyes dark. His body, bare and wet and so big, makes you feel as if you could easily lose your footing in your normally rock solid feminine dominance. 

But that’s not what gets the both of you off, together. 

So, you continue to squeeze and fondle and pinch at your breasts, letting breathy noises fall from your lips. There are many weaknesses he holds for you, but this one just might take the cake. He loves your breasts, adores them even. He gets easily distracted by them, wants to hold them, wants his mouth on them. And when he’s most vulnerable, when he himself would consider him to be at his weakest, he wants to suckle on you, wants your nipples in his mouth as he whines and squeezes for more. 

His brazen display of entering your home without your permission, demanding sex from you, and warning you to not touch yourself is fresh in your mind as you pout, “They’re just so heavy and achy, baby.” 

You move to step back under the stream of water, cupping your breasts with both hands and squeezing at your handfuls, waiting for the water to do its job of rinsing the soap from your body. You then work the conditioner out of your hair, eyes locked onto him as you do so. 

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he does his best to conceal the way he pants for you, his cock heavy and achy itself. The sight of it standing proud between his muscular thighs, the way it arches up towards his stomach, helps make your decision for you. 

There’s a reason Ransom comes to you and only you. 

You delight in his look of surprise as you saunter over towards him. It seems he thought you weren’t going to give him what he came here for and you smile at him as if you don’t intend to prove him wrong. He leans up off the wall behind him, sitting up and looking at you expectantly, the look of surprise only there for but a moment. It’s easy to let him think he’s won as you straddle him, as his hands find your hips and squeeze to the point of pain. 

You aren’t surprised when his hands rise to cup your breasts, squeezing needily, but you are delighted nonetheless. 

It’s an easy decision then, how the evening and your time together should play out. 

You deserve to come. And you’re not sure if he does. 

“Mama wants you inside of her,” you whisper hotly on Ransom’s mouth, rubbing your ass along the line of his cock, fingers of both hands sliding none too gently through his hair. “Are you going to be good and let Mama have what she wants?” 

You can see the internal battle he’s putting himself through in his eyes, the way they somehow gleam with defiance yet soften with submission. You cling to that sign of submission and hum as he brings his mouth to your nipples. You run your fingers through his hair once more as he suckles loudly, pressing your breasts into his hands, into his mouth. Your pussy throbs at his treatment of you, at watching this man feast on your body. Your inner walls clench around nothing, the ache of it something fierce and making you feel a sliver of desperation. 

So, you push. 

“Let Mama come on your cock, baby,” you practically moan, reaching behind your body to grab at his cock. “Let Mama come on your big, baby cock. Let Mama sit on it.” 

Ransom moans around his mouthful, squeezing your breasts together and reaching for your other nipple with his mouth. The look on his face forces a moan from your own mouth, that pretty, glazed look in his eyes making you ache between your legs even more. 

“Mama,” is all he mumbles out against your skin, the both of you groaning when you press his cock against your waiting pussy. Your fingers dive back into his wet hair when you sink onto his cock, first the tip, then halfway down his shaft. There’s no exaggerating your need to ride the tip of his cock, to work yourself up to taking more of him. 

“So big, baby. Your cock makes me feel so good.” 

“Mama…” 

“Say it, baby. Tell Mama you make her feel good.” 

You know he won’t say it, won’t repeat your words about himself, but his reaction makes his disobedience worth it. Ransom’s moan sounds as if it grates against the front of his throat, long and drawn out, and it sounds like pure relief. A relief that only you can bring him. And isn’t that a heady reminder? 

At first, you bounce on your knees, taking your time to adjust to the size of him. It doesn’t take you long though, not with how hungry you are for the feel of him inside of you, the stretch of him, and you’re quickly saddled in close and sitting in his lap. You can’t help the groan that slips easily from your mouth, the indulgent one, the long and drawn out one. It’s more than the feel of him inside of you; it’s the feel of him. 

Ransom underneath you, pressed against you. His sizeable hands running from your hips, up to your back, squeezing at the nape of your neck, pulling you close and demanding your mouth on his. The feeling of him surrounding you as you rock yourself in his lap, as you use his body to make your own body feel impossible things, sensations you admittedly chase with others. 

You wind your arms around his neck, tucking your face into the side of his own, moaning again at the feel of him everywhere; he fills you up like no one else can. He returns your moan in kind and you can feel, can sense, that he’s near his breaking point of complete submission. 

That alone has your walls clenching down around the girth of him, has your stomach swooping as you gasp. 

You rock harder in his lap, bouncing in it as you cling to one another. 

“Mama…Mama.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat. “Baby…yes. Yes.” 

The harder he holds you against him, the more difficult it becomes to move, to bounce. But it’s the way you like it when you’re this close to your orgasm, the way he’s come to know how you like to be held; you want it taken from you. It’s almost savage in nature, how hard you have to force yourself against one another, how forcefully you have to ride him, to use him. 

The sound of your skin slapping against his own, the sound of softness coming in contact with packed muscle, echoes against the shower walls and in your ears. The sensation of the stretch of your pussy around Ransom heightens, the pain, you let out a noise akin to a growl into his cheek, and—

“Take it,” Ransom whimpers through gritted teeth directly into your ear, hands sliding up your back to curl around your shoulders, to make you work harder for it. “Take it, mama. S’yours.”

It’s the submission you constantly crave, the high that burns its way throughout your entire being. This beautiful man, this man that is so unearthly dominant, so aggressive, gives you submission. Beautiful submission. He allows for you to use, allows for you to break him down, allows you to see a side that others couldn’t fathom. You’ll continue to fight for it, you’ve earned it over time, but it’s submission nonetheless. And nothing compares. 

You look him in the eyes when you come. 

You pull your head back out of his neck, dig your fingers into his scalp and hold him there while letting him see the results of what his submission has brought out of you. He can surely feel the way your pussy pulses around him, the way your body demands release from his own and makes a valiant attempt to milk his come from his cock, and you know he can hear you whining, but you always want him to see. 

Because him watching you, his eyes frantically taking everything in and witnessing the result of him being good as it’s sprawled across your features, is the best part. 

When your hips slow, when you’re sitting in his lap as you gasp for enough air to slow the beat of your heart, you recognize he’s truly giving you the submission you want. 

Without prompt, without redirection, without reprimand; Ransom waits. He clings to you and you feel the way his body trembles against all the places his skin touches yours, his chest heaving as well, and you marvel at his desire to be good. 

He comes to you for a reason. Your firm hand and expectations are ones different from the ones society places on his shoulders. People see hardness when they look at Ransom, see cockiness and an unjustifiable ego. They see a fight. But you see softness. You see years of unaddressed trauma present in the way he takes on the world head-first, see someone in desperate need of praise and comfort and trust. 

Even if he sometimes seeks out your attention through negative antics such as breaking into your house while you’re away at work, he chooses you. You choose one another. And that coupled with the blooming bruises on his face, ones you’re taking note of again now that the feral haze of want is clearing after your orgasm, makes the decision easy for you. 

“I want you to come,” you murmur against his lips, winding an arm around his shoulder as you use your opposite hand to stroke your fingers down his cheek. You rise up on your knees again, the two of you hissing at the sensations of two very different kinds of overstimulation. His hands fly to your hips, unabashedly whimpering against your mouth as he frantically shakes his head. 

“No, Mama. Mama…” 

He’s so far gone and so, so goddamn beautiful. 

It’s your turn to whimper, but you nod your head in retaliation against the shake of his. 

“Yes…yes,” is all you can say at first, the stretch and drag of his cock inside of you momentarily zapping all focus away from your mind. “Yes, I want you to come.” 

“Mama…Mama, please.” 

“You’ve been so good, baby. You’ve been—” 

The broken moan he pours onto your lips spurs your hips on, has you bouncing in his lap with renewed vigor. The drag of your nipples against his chest, your wet skin sliding easily against each other’s, overstimulates you further. You don’t give him another chance to further deny you what it is you both want. 

“You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart,” you repeat, brushing the fingers of one hand through his hair and looking him in the eyes as you cling to him. “You deserve this. I want you to come. Mama wants it, baby. Mama wants it.” 

“I don’t…fuck, but I don’t—”

You bite out a sharp noise.

“Hush. You’re going to come because you deserve it and because I want it. You’re good. You’re so good, baby.” 

When Ransom’s breath hitches, when his arms wind around your bouncing frame and his mouth drops open, you know you’ve got him. It nearly makes you come again, the vulnerable look he gives you as he accepts your words of support and praise and climaxes from it. 

The times when he comes with a gentleness about him, when he is most quiet, are your favorite. When you can feel him feeling his orgasm across every part of his body, when he almost looks at you with wide eyes as if he’s scared to feel this good, you can barely contain your own wave of emotion, the hitch in your breathing. 

“That’s it, baby— give Mama what she wants.” 

He shakes his way through his orgasm, clinging to you as if you’re safety and comfort personified, as if you’re the only thing that makes sense in a world that he has to fake his way through. Your own moans are broken, ragged even, the feeling of Ransom coming inside of you never failing to bring you an immense sense of purpose and pleasure. 

He sucks down air as if he’s run a marathon, breaths whooshing against your neck. His grip is still painfully tight on your sides where he clings to you and his breaths sound damn near sorrowful. You run your hands along his shoulders and marvel at the strength that hides his softness. So strong, too strong. So soft. 

Your eyes fall shut as your lips take in the softness of the skin of his neck and shoulder. 

When they open again it’s because of the sensation of being picked up. And when you make a pitiful noise in protest of being carried out of the shower, you’re met with a taste of your own medicine. 

“Hush. I’m allowed to take care of you too, Mama.” 

You swear you feel yourself blush. 

He sets you down on your bathroom counter, taking one of the towels you set out and drying you off with it. You watch him as he’s gentle with your body, as he squeezes the water from your hair. Your eyes follow him even as he dries his own body off, moving much more efficiently and quickly compared to how he cared for your body. 

You want him to stay. You want him to stay for a long time. But you don’t dare vocalize your desire for him to stay with you; it will surely scare him away. You’re certain it’s obvious on your face though, with the way you look up at him and lean towards his touch as he begins to move a brush through your hair. 

You know your thoughts are obvious when he pauses before reaching for you again, hands wrapped gently around the column of your throat as he gazes down at you. 

Don’t look at me like that. 

You can hear the words even if they are unspoken. 

He’s said them to you before. 

You’re ready for the inevitable sting of rejection when he pulls you up into his arms once more and carries you into your dimly lit bedroom. When he pulls back the duvet and manages to climb in with you in tow, the surprise written all over your face is surely something he chooses to ignore.  

He reaches for your bedside lamp then, engulfing the room in total darkness, reaching for you next. 

A level of emotional content washes over you as he settles into your bed beside you as if it’s something he does every night, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. Your bodies meld together, your limbs intertwine, and your heart aches the moment the thought of you not being able to do this with other people crosses your mind. Aftercare, gentleness, snuggling, is something you have to force yourself through with others. 

It seems you both yearn for things you can only find with each other. It seems that there's a reason you're pulled back to one another again and again. 

His breaths are barely evening out, deepening, when you break the silence with a whisper as your fingers run up his back. 

“You’re going to tell me who hurt you.” 

The answer you get in response isn’t even a word; it’s a gruff noise.

You decide to not press the issue any further, promising both yourself and him that you’ll make whoever hurt him pay in your own special way, and tuck yourself into his neck. 

One win at a time.

[noforkingclue]

Desperation

Summary: The end times are near and Crowley has come to you with a proposition.

Author's Note: decided to publish this as it was sitting in my WiP folder for too long and since I've also started re-watching Good Omens I thought now was as good as time to publish it!

You always knew when Crowley and/or Aziraphale were in your flat. Call it an instinct that developed from knowing them for over thousands of years. Which was why it was so surprising to see Crowley standing in the middle of your flat without any prior warning.

You paused when you saw the demon standing there and you carefully shut the door behind you. He twitched at the sound but didn’t turn around. You slowly made your way towards him, nervous about what was going to happen. You frowned briefly at the unfamiliar feeling coiling in the pit of your stomach, it had been years since he had made you feel like that.

“Crowl-“

“Everything’s fucked.”

You blinked at Crowley’s sudden outburst. While you’d heard him swear before it wasn’t that usual. You winced as you heard the sound of cracking wood and looked down, realising that he was gripping your table so hard that he was splintering the wood.

“Why don’t you sit down?” you suggested, worried about your friend as well as the future of your table. It was an antique after all.

“Have a cup of tea and tell me what’s happened.”

“What’s happened?” Crowley let out a bark of laughter, “What’s happened is the world’s ending and Hell knows that all of this,” he spun around and waved his hands about, “Is because of me! I misplaced the antichrist and now they’re coming.”

“Oh.”

“So I’m leaving.”

“That’s sensible.”

“And I want you to come with me.”

You froze, midway through making that cup of tea you promised. You looked at Crowley out of the corner of your eye. He walked over to you and put a hand over yours, forcing you to lower the kettle.

“It isn’t safe anymore,” he said, “Everything is going to get destroyed. Hell and Heaven are going to war and it isn’t going to be pretty. We can escape. Be safe.”

“What about Aziraphale?”

Crowley, who had rested his forehead against your shoulder, tensed behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you against him.

“He think he can stop this,” he muttered, “He isn’t coming.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly you were spun around and pushed roughly against the counter. You gasped in shock and Crowley tilted your chin so you were looking directly into his eyes. It was the first time you had properly seen him and you could see the desperation etched across his face. His sunglasses were gone and you were forced to look into his yellow eyes. He grabbed your chin and forced your head in place.

“Come with me,” he said quietly, “It’ll just be the two of us.”

“But what about-“

“Shh, don’t think about him.”

You opened your mouth to protest but Crowley seized the opportunity to press his lips against yours. You squeaked in surprise as Crowley wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you roughly against him. You put your hands against his chest but found them trapped between your bodies. Crowley broke the kiss but remained close. You felt his lips brush against yours and he said,

“Just think about me.”

“And the world.”

“We’ll be safe.”

“We’ll be on the run.”

“We’ll have each other.”

“And Azira-“

Crowley covered your mouth with a hand. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder.

“I thought I told you not to think about him.”

He removed his hand and brushed your cheek with the back of it. He smile softly and his gaze dropped back down to your lips.

“If Zira thinks that there’s hope then there must be.”

“So you’re choosing him?”

Crowley shook his head and gave you a bitter smile. He stepped away and you gave him a pained look. You took half a step towards him but he put his hands up to stop you.

“I understand,” he said, “one last hurrah.”

“Crowley-“

“It was fun while it lasted.”

“We can still beat this.”

“No we can’t.”

And with that you were once again left alone with only your hope to keep you company.

[berenwrites]

Summary of My Stranger Things Fanfic Year 2024

2024 was a pretty good year for fanfic for me. All Stranger Things and Steddie, because the obsession has me in its grasp.

I published 24 stories this years with a total of 85,693 words.

That's 11 more stories than last year, but under half the words, but then one story last year was over 100K and another tipped 57K.

Steddie still has my heart and looking at my WiP folder will continue to do so. Thanks to everyone who has commented on, liked, and reblogged my stories.🥰

It was also so much fun to take part in my first big bangs since back in LJ days.💖💖

Chaptered Fics

Sight: Now I See You - Steddie (COMPLETE) ~26K wds (13 ch) - PG13 The final battle with Vecna was victorious, but not everyone came out unscathed. Steve wakes up in the hospital high as a kite with something wrong with his eyes. Robin’s right there to assure him it’s nothing permanent, but something weird is going on, and he needs answers. That there appear to be two government factions in town, one of which is hunting El even though she saved the world, does not help. Neither does the feeling there’s someone watching him. It’s all a mess and Steve can’t sit back and let the others fix it by themselves.

Wolf in the Light - Steddie (COMPLETE) ~45K wds (23 CH) explicit - only on AO3 Steve has been keeping a big secret: he’s a werewolf from a long line of werewolves. Only problem is, he’s a complete failure at it. He can’t even shift, but it does make him a bit harder to kill, so he thought he’d found his perfect niche keeping the kids and his secret safe after ‘83. With their plan to end Vecna only half successful and Eddie bleeding out, he has no choice but to reveal the truth and try and convince his friends that werewolves are real. That would be enough of a task for anyone, but to his shock, his heritage has an even bigger surprise in store, and of course, there’s Max to worry about too.

One-Shots

Reborn: Facing the Unexpected - Steddie - PG - 404wds (on AO3 too) Written for steddiemicrofic January prompt: HOLE | wc: 404 The final confrontation with Vecna has come and gone, they won, but Steve can only focus on one thing...

Wake-up Call: An End or a Beginning? - Steddie - PG - 404wds (on AO3 too) Written for January 2024 prompt: HOLE | wc: 404 When you're dead, you're not supposed to wake up.

Strange Relationship: Of Sex and Revelations - Steddie - Explicit - 404wds (on AO3 too) Written for January 2024 prompt: HOLE | wc: 404 Steve is good at sex, but there are some things he hasn't been considering. Eddie is very happy to open his eyes.

Caring: Now It's Your Turn - Steddie - G - 593wds (also on AO3) Written for @steddielovemonth 2024 day 1 Steve has been looking after everyone, now it's his turn.

Revelation: A Heart-Stopping Reality - Steddie - G - 1396wds (also on AO3) Written for steddielovemonth day 3 Steve is just sitting by the pool watching his friends have fun when he comes to a stunning conclusion.

A Small Thing: The Truth Hurts - Steddie - T - 956wds (also on AO3) Written for steddielovemonth day 4. Eddie wants to know everything about Steve, and Steve has a confession to make.

Falling: Who Will Catch Me? - Steddie - PG - 509wds (also on AO3) Written for Feb prompt: EDGE | wc: 509 | PG | cw: PTSD, mentions of torture It's all over and Steve has nothing left to keep the horror at bay.

See Me: In the Silence - Steddie - G - 309wds (also on AO3) Written for steddielovemonth day 5 Steve always see what Eddie needs.

Quiet: But Far From Idle - Steddie - G - 627wds (also on AO3) Written for steddielovemonth day 6. Eddie loves when both he and Steve are in the zone.

Arms of Love: Whatever You Need - Steddie - G - 678wds (also on AO3) Written for @steddielovemonth day 8. It's July, Steve is having trouble sleeping, Eddie helps.

Closure: Rifts & Reactions - Steddie - G - 836wds - (also on AO3) Written for steddielovemonth day 12 The final battle is over, it's time to look forward.

Late Again?: Love Is Too Compelling! - Steddie - PG - 980wds - (also on AO3 soon) Written for steddielovemonth day 14. Eddie doesn't want Steve to go to work, so is trying to convince him to quit.

Always and Forever: Love Finds a Way - Steddie - G - 1237wds - (also on AO3) Written for steddielovemonth day 29. After their usual phone call while Eddie is on tour with Corroded Coffin, Steve is worried.

Best Present Ever - Steddie - G - 290wds Vecna was dead. Hawkins was no longer split open. It was time to celebrate.

Half a Dream - Steddie - G - 510 wds (also on AO3) It took Eddie until he reached the top to realise he’d been chasing only half a dream the entire time.

The Giveaway - Steddie - G - 483 wds (also on AO3) It's not anything they would have guessed that give Steve and Eddie away to their friends and family.

With Both Hands - Steddie - PG - 838 wds (also on AO3) Eddie is having trouble figuring out how he got here and believing it's real.

A Simple Question - Steddie - PG-13 - 1155 wds (also on AO3) Eddie is a little tipsy, and he has a question for Nancy.

Through Your Eyes - Steddie - PG-13 - 943 wds (also on AO3) Steve wakes up and something is definitely not right.

Suddenly There Came a Tapping - Steddie - PG - 350wds (also on AO3) Eddie has a visitor with a message.

Like Magic - Steddie - PG - 350wds (also on AO3) Something weird is going on with Steve.

Vocation - Steddie - G 532wds (Also on AO3) Eddie is Steve's vocation in life.

[spiderlandry]

congrats!!!! i was wondering if you could do a childhood friends to lovers drabble with ethan landry?

thank u anon!! i Love childhood friends to lovers (i already have one for ethan in my wips, so i ended up making this one a little different, but my wip sounds like something you’d be into so stick around for when i release that soon!)

used a jack gif because i am running out of cute ethan ones 😧 this turned out way longer than expected sorry omfg

100 follower event

warnings/tags: mostly just fluff w ethan 😮‍💨 ghostface not mentioned, one use of y/n, mentions of dieting (by ethan b/c he’s going to the gym), insecurities

off the table — ethan landry

“Ethan, look at the camera!”

He stares at his phone, watching through the ‘movies’ you used to film at his house when you were younger. Your voice sounds squeaky, matching his at the time. The video is blurry, but he can see his own goofy pose through the pixels as you turn the camera to him, and then here comes his favourite part, when you turn the camcorder and set it on the coffee table and he can see you and him sitting on the floor of his family living room.

“Introduce yourself, come on!”

“Ethan?” A knock on his bedroom door forces him to shut off his device and hug it to his chest, leaning back against his headboard.

“Yeah?” He responds to the all-too familiar voice, you, on the other side of the wood, opening the door.

“Um—“ You squint your eyes at him, as if you’d heard the sounds coming from his phone. Shit, did you hear? “You have any plans tonight?” You don’t mention the way he’s visibly relieved when you ask.

“No, why?” He’s back at ease with you again, pushing back the thoughts of a future with you to the back of his mind.

“Dinner?”

“I want wings,” He confesses.

You chuckle at his admission, knowing he’d been dieting because he began regularly going to the gym with Chad. (Which, honestly, was a treat to your eyes—but he’d never know.)

“I’ll get wings.” You pull out your phone to order, then adding, “I won’t tell Chad.” Before you leave and close the door.

He runs his hands down his face. Why did he think becoming roommates with you was a good idea? Oh, right, because you promised each other when you were kids.

It’s not the fact that you’re roommates. It’s that you’re just roommates, at least at this moment. But you’re also each other’s best friend since childhood—a connection that neither of you plan to change.

He watches through the video folder he has, titled, ‘y/n and ethan’ consisting of the videos you two filmed with a shitty camcorder at his dad’s house.

It was a time capsule of sorts—the videos progressed and the two of you grew up—but as time passed, the entries became less frequent. The last time was before you both separated for the first two years of college, when you went to study abroad. But you came back, reminded him of the promises you both made; telling him ‘the offer is still on the table.’ and he ended up moving in with you as per the plans you made as children.

This year of living together has been like if nothing ever changed, like you never went anywhere else, never spent two years apart from him. Though, there are flashes of uncertainty. Cracks in your demeanor that leaves him wondering if he truly knows you still.

Each moment where you mention someone in your life he doesn't know, he feels a sting. And on top of that, he feels guilt. How can he stay in your life keeping this secret from you? It eats at him.

He's in love with you. There's no denying that. The problem lies in how long he can hold it in, out of fear of ruining what he has with you. But knowing you, you would probably reject him so nicely that he wouldn't notice. There is no chance you'd feel the same, he thinks.

You both eat wings on the couch, watching your favorite movie. Neither of you care about the close distance, shoulders touching and hands brushing against each other when the movie ends and you begin to cleanup.

In the kitchen disposing of trash, you lean against a counter while he gets busy tidying up the kitchen. He can feel your stare on him, burning.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" He laughs, but there's a waiver in his voice that is hard to miss.

"Were you watching the videos of us? You know. Earlier."

His heart pounds in his ears. "Yeah. Why?" He doesn't see a point in lying anymore.

You sigh, "I miss you too, you know."

His head snaps up to meet yours, a longing gaze in your eyes.

That's when he realizes that you've stepped closer, your warmth practically radiating off your figure. His mind blanks.

"I feel like I've been..." You pause to think, "I don't know. Distant?"

Between the two of you, you were always the more honest one. A trait he admires, a reason to look up to you. You never shy away from a conversation when it's needed.

Ethan's mind jumps to a worst case scenario. Multiple, actually. Why are you telling him this? You're about to break bad news to him, aren't you?

Reading the uncertainty in his eyes, you continue.

"Something's changed." You shrug, looking to him for an answer.

"No, why--why would you say that?"

"I'm sorry, E."

His brows furrow. Now he's even more confused.

"I feel like I don't know how to fucking act around you anymore."

Woah. Now where did that come from?

His shoulders slump at the mere though of you not wanting to be around him. Did he do something wrong? Are you uncomfortable?

You mumble something inaudible.

"What?" He whispers, almost breathless.

"IthinkI'minlovewithyou."

He's certain his heart stopped beating. He needs to get his ears checked, surely.

"Can--can you say that again?"

You stare at him through your lashes, a frown forming on your lips. He wants nothing more than to wipe it off you, but first he needs to make sure he heard you correctly.

"I'm in love with you." You stop looking at his eyes, unable to face him. "And I'm sorr--"

He engulfs you in a hug before you can finish.

"Don't ever be sorry," He tightens his hold, and you reciprocate. "I thought--I didn't think you'd ever feel the same."

He can physically feel you relaxing.

"You're an ass."

That gets a laugh out of him. "Why?"

"You made me say it again."

"You know what? I'll make you a deal."

"Yeah? Is it a good deal? Don't try to scam me."

He smiles, though you can't see it because your eyes are closed, too focused on the feeling of his arms around you. "I'll tell you how much I love you for as long as you want."

"Give me a timeframe."

"For the rest of our lives, hm? Deal?"

"Deal."

[heresthestorymorningglory]

Together Bound In Madness - Part 2

Summary: There’s a reason you were told not to walk alone at night….

A/N: This particular piece of work wasn’t meant to see the light of day and live its life in my WIP folder…it was supposed to….

Then I mentioned to @ken-dom that I might share and well…here we are…what can I say y'all? She’s mad encouraging and I love her dearly for it. Without her none of these would exist.

As always, this NSFW 18+ and has a few extra warnings attached; a kidnapping trigger warning being the biggest one, but others will follow.

The title comes from the Marianas Trench song The Killing Kind

Y'all should know by now I rarely post one shots…..so yeah, this will be multiple parts….I’m just not sure on the final tally yet. You can find previous parts here.

Enjoy my loves! <3 

He had had enough, if you weren't more careful, someone was going to….no he couldn't even consider such a thing. He wouldn't. 

He'd have to rectify this before you got yourself into trouble. 

And he had, it had been laughably easy. You walked home tonight, alone. If you hadn't had your earbuds in you would have likely heard him coming up behind you, but you were careless. 

And now, here you were with him, in his apartment. Safe. 

You stirred in his arms before he laid you on his bed gently. 

Your hands and feet were still bound, he frowned seeing the raw skin around your wrists. 

He sighed as you opened your eyes. Your eyes locked on his and you breathed hard through your nose. 

You screamed against the tape and he moved swiftly to sit next to you on the bed his gloved hand closing over your hands to keep yourself from cutting into your wrists further. 

You squeezed your eyes shut and his heart sank seeing the tears prick your eyes. Why were you so upset? 

He stroked a gloved thumb over your cheek, wiping away a tear and you flinched. 

The bump on your head was growing darker; god you were so fragile. 

He went down to the bathroom and found the first aid kit. 

When he came back he helped you sit up on the edge of the bed. 

Making his way to the kitchen, he wrapped a handful of ice cubes in a towel, twisting the top of the towel shut and knotting it. 

When he came back he knelt in front of you, touching the ice to your head. 

You closed your eyes with a flinch, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. 

His free hand reached to tug gently at the tape covering your mouth. 

You gasped, crying harder, finally able to take a breath. 

“Please don't hurt me” you sobbed 

Your face was red and stained with tears, your eyes glassy. They were beautiful. 

He set the ice aside long enough to reach around behind you, he took a breath and his nose was filled with your scent, making his cock twitch in his jeans. He snaps the zip ties with his hands before bringing your arms around in front of you. 

Your wrists were cut and raw. Maybe that was part of the reason you were so upset. You were hurt. 

You sniffed, but didn't pull away as he cleaned your wounds. 

Once one wrist was clean and bandaged, he held out the towel with ice cubes. 

You hesitated before taking it from him slowly, your eyes fixed on him as you brought the ice to rest on the bump. 

You watched as he cleaned and bandaged your other wrist but sat in silence. 

He moved to reach into his pocket and produced a tattered strip of fabric bringing your hands back together. 

“No, no, no” you pleaded, shaking your head, fighting to pull your hands away. He held your hands tighter, wrapping the strip of fabric around both wrists, making an effort not to tie it too tightly. “P-please don't 

He kept his head down as he got to his feet, you were shivering. Of course you were shivering, you were wearing practically nothing. 

He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. 

You reached up with collapsed hands wiping away more tears. The smudge of dried blood on the front of his jacket caught your eye and you took a breath trying not to panic. 

“Thank you” you whispered and he simply nodded. 

He hadn’t said a word, it was incredibly unsettling and doing nothing for your already frayed nerves, but you were still breathing air…his blood stained jacket was enough to stop you from thinking about an escape plan, at least for now, it very obviously hadn’t been his blood and you weren’t too keen to add yours to it. 

Of course the quiet, hot neighbour would be a serial killer and of course you would be on his radar. Your sister always said you had a really good resting bitch face. You had probably given him a dirty look or something and we're about to pay the ultimate price for it. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, not speaking, your wrists aching, your ankles still throbbing painfully. 

Suddenly your stomach growling loudly cut through the thick silence. It was late, you hadn't eaten since before leaving for work, that was almost twelve hours ago. 

Again, he didn't speak, you watched as he collected a box of cereal, milk and appropriate dishes. 

He poured a bowl and added the milk before turning his attention to you. 

He knelt in front of you, snapping the zip tie and you winced, the skin rubbed raw similar to your wrists. 

Whether he noticed or not you weren't sure, but you watched as his thumb stroked gently over the angry red skin making you flinch, but the leather felt cool against your skin. 

He stood to his full height and offered you a hand to help you stand. You had noticed ages ago that he was always wearing gloves, now you were starting to understand why. 

You looked from his extended hand, up to his face. It was unreadable. He didn't smile, didn't speak, nothing. Just waited expectantly. 

You took it, letting him pull you to your feet. He lead you over to the table where the cereal sat waiting. 

He pulled the chair out and you sat before he pushed you closer to the table. 

Your heart slammed in your chest, wanting to ask if he would untie your hands, but too afraid to speak. 

You picked up the spoon with your hands still bound as he sat in the chair next to you. He reached over untying the strip of fabric. The look in his eyes saying everything his mouth didn't. 

‘I’m trusting you, don't make me regret it’ 

You had managed to keep yourself from shaking more as you ate. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until you had started to eat. 

The spoon clinked against the edge of the bowl as you set it down, looking up for the first time since you had sat down. 

“Can I have some more?” You asked, not recognizing your own voice as you did. 

He nodded, refilling the bowl and adding more milk. 

You smiled appreciatively and continued to eat. 

He stood and your heart jumped but you stayed seated. You could hear him walk through his apartment as you examined the jacket he had put on you earlier. It was white, that was a bold fashion choice you thought, but it was clean save for the blood smears you had hoped you'd imagined. You hadn't. 

It was the same jacket you had seen him wear almost every time you had run into him in the hallway. 

For the first time since waking up you glanced around your surroundings. His apartment was very clean and well kept for what you could only assume was a young single guy. 

Maybe that's because he's constantly cleaning up blood, the little voice in the back of your mind whispered. 

You pushed it away as you heard him coming back into the small dining area and finished the last of your cereal. 

You yawned, exhaustion settling in as you noted it was nearly 4am. 

You wanted to fight it, wanted to stay awake, but you were so drained. 

He came back to the table offering you what you realized were pajamas.

Again, he offered you a hand, you swallowed hard taking it this time a little faster than before. 

He led you to the bathroom and handed you the clothes he'd had in his hand. You took them and walked into the small room and closed the door. 

You leaned against the closed door letting out a shaky breath as tears streamed down your cheeks. You covered your mouth to muffle your sobs. 

You sniffed quietly, wiping the back of your hand under your nose as you walked over to the small sink. There was a face cloth and a hand towel sitting on the basin. On top of them were a small tube of toothpaste and a new toothbrush. 

You reached with shaky hands to turn on the water, catching your reflection in the mirror over the sink. 

Your mascara was smeared from crying, your hair falling out after having been worn pulled back all day. A dark bruise on your forehead was new, a reminder of the chaos that had been your evening. It hurt enough for you to accept that this was reality and not some nightmare. 

You shrugged the jacket off, hanging it on the back of the door before cleaning yourself up  and changing into the pajamas he had given you. 

You folded the clothes you'd worn that day, clutching them to your chest as you opened the door. 

He stood leaned against the wall waiting for you. 

You held out the jacket and he took it from you leading you back into the main room. He draped it over the back of one of the dining chairs and again gestured for you to sit on the bed. 

You sat, leaning against the headboard, too tired to hold your head up anymore.

[raviollies]

This has been sitting in my WIP folder for too long that I don't feel like finishing it so pls just take it