#what happens when your car needs a tune up

[andromeda-pleiades]

Just Trust Me

WORD COUNT: 1,747

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Part- 1 | Part 3

The ride home is quieter than usual. Simon, who typically fills the silence with small talk or offhand comments, stays focused on the road. You can feel the absence of his usual chatter, and the space between you both grows.

You bite your lip, trying to decide whether to bring it up. The missing phone. The app. Simon’s reaction could tell you more than anything, but you're not sure what you're hoping to hear.

"So, I think I lost my phone today," you say, casually, trying to gauge his response.

Simon’s hands tighten around the steering wheel, though his expression doesn’t change. “Lost it? That’s a shame. Where?”

You hesitate, thinking back to the sandwich shop. The moment you realized your phone was gone, it felt like it happened in slow motion. “In the sandwich shop, I guess. It was just... gone.”

Simon glances at you briefly, his eyes cool, before returning to the road. “That’s annoying.”

He says it with a certain calmness, almost as if he's dismissing it without making a big deal out of it. You can’t quite place it, but something about his reaction makes you feel... uneasy.

"I’ll get you a new one," he adds, as if he’s solving the problem for you. “No point in you going without one.”

You almost want to argue, but something holds you back. The way he offers to replace it feels like it should be reassuring, but it only adds to the sense that you're losing control over things you once took for granted. You nod, unsure of what else to say.

"Thanks," you murmur. But the words feel hollow.

The silence stretches on, the low hum of the car filling the space between you. You keep wondering if he knows. About the app. About the things you haven’t figured out yet.

You glance at him, but his face is unreadable, his focus entirely on driving. It's as if the missing phone is nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and you can't decide if that should reassure you—or if it should worry you.

The car pulls into the driveway, and you feel the weight of the day pressing down on you. You know Simon’s going to act like everything is fine, that the missing phone is just another small thing to be dealt with. But a small voice inside you whispers that it's more than that.

You can't put your finger on it yet. But something feels...

You sit on the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, while Simon moves around the kitchen, humming a soft tune as he cleans up after dinner. The evening feels deceptively normal, his attentiveness wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He checks in with you often—bringing you water, asking if you’re comfortable—all while wearing the calm, steady expression you’ve always admired.

It’s what you should want, isn’t it? A partner who cares, who notices even the smallest things.

And yet, you feel… off. Not because of anything he’s doing, but because of you. Because of your own thoughts.

You glance at him as he wipes down the counter, his movements smooth and precise. Memories of his stories about his time in the special forces flash through your mind—missions in dangerous places, the constant threat of danger, the toll it must’ve taken on him. You’ve seen glimpses of it in the night terrors that wake him up, in the way he’s always scanning his surroundings when you’re out in public, in the way he can’t fully relax even here, at home.

You understand why he might have done it. The app, you mean.

It feels foolish now, the way you reacted earlier when you found it. Simon has always been a good boyfriend, patient and attentive even when you’ve struggled to keep up with his complexities. It makes sense that he would want to keep you safe, that he might need the reassurance of knowing where you are.

He’s been through so much—things you can’t begin to comprehend. After everything he’s seen, after all the chaos he’s lived through, is it so wrong that he wants control? That he wants to protect you in the only way he knows how?

You press your lips together, fighting back a wave of guilt. Maybe you overreacted. Maybe the app really is just his way of looking out for you.

But there’s something else, something you can’t quite name. A feeling deep in your gut that won’t go away, no matter how much you try to rationalize it.

Because if it was just about safety, just about protection, why didn’t he tell you about it?

The question twists in your mind, and you hate yourself for it. You hate that you’re doubting him when he’s never given you a real reason to. He’s been nothing but wonderful to you. Understanding. Patient. The perfect partner in every way.

And yet, the unease lingers, curling low in your stomach like a warning.

Simon turns to you then, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle, concerned.

You force a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

He studies you for a moment, his eyes searching yours, and you feel your pulse quicken. But then he nods, accepting your answer without pushing further.

“You should get some rest,” he says, walking over to press a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll finish up here.”

You murmur your thanks, leaning into his touch despite the knot tightening in your chest.

As you retreat to the bedroom, you try to shake the feeling, to convince yourself that you’re overthinking it. Simon loves you. He’s always loved you. And he’s been through more than anyone should ever have to endure.

But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s fine, you can’t ignore the small voice whispering in the back of your mind. The one telling you there’s more to this than he’s letting on.

And the more you try to silence it, the louder it becomes.

The room is dark and still when you wake, the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air. You blink a few times, disoriented, before realizing Simon isn’t beside you.

You sit up slowly, the silence pressing against your ears. Through the bedroom window, you catch a glimpse of him standing on the porch, his silhouette faintly illuminated by the cherry-red glow of his cigarette.

Simon doesn’t smoke often—only when he’s stressed. You watch him for a moment, his posture rigid, his shoulders tense as he stares out into the darkness.

A sense of unease washes over you, but you push it aside, convincing yourself it’s nothing. He’s probably just thinking, you tell yourself. Processing whatever ghosts still haunt him.

But you can’t shake the restlessness in your chest.

Sliding out of bed, you move quietly across the room. Your bare feet make no sound as they touch the cool floor. You don’t know what compels you to move toward the closet, but something in the back of your mind whispers for you to check.

The closet is orderly, as always—Simon’s precision extending to even the smallest details of his life. You scan the shelves and the small duffel bag tucked into the corner. It’s zipped shut, but not fully.

Your heart pounds as you crouch down, pulling it open. At first, you don’t see anything out of the ordinary: folded clothes, a shaving kit. But then your hand brushes against something hard and rectangular.

Your phone.

For a moment, you just stare at it, your breath caught in your throat. You pull it out slowly, your fingers trembling. The screen lights up as you press the button, and the app you found earlier stares back at you like a damning accusation.

You’re about to set it down when a notification pops up.

A message.

From Gaz

Your stomach drops. You hesitate for only a moment before swiping to unlock the screen. The message thread opens, and your pulse races as you scroll through it.

Gaz: She doesn’t suspect anything, does she?

Soap: Not a chance. Simon’s too good for that.

Simon: Just keep your end clear. I don’t want any loose ends.

Gaz: Relax. She’s not like that.

Your vision blurs as you stare at the screen, your brain struggling to piece together what you’re seeing.

She’s not like that. Are they talking about you?

You scroll further, catching bits and pieces of their conversation.

Gaz: How’s she holding up?

Simon: Doesn’t matter. Everything’s under control.

Soap: Yeah, but for how long?

The words feel like a punch to the gut. You don’t understand the full context, but you know enough to realize that this isn’t normal. This isn’t right.

And then it hits you.

Gaz

Kyle.

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Kyle—the same Kyle you’d known for years, your childhood friend. He’d always been part of Simon’s stories, but you never knew he was the same person. You never knew that Gaz—the elusive, almost mythical figure in Simon’s past—was your old friend.

Your childhood friend. The same Kyle you ran into at the sandwich shop. The same Kyle who was part of Simon’s special forces team, whose codename you’d heard in passing but never connected until now.

Your mind races as the truth sinks in. This wasn’t a coincidence. None of this was. Simon had been watching you from the start, and Kyle had been helping him. Every move you made, every step you took—it had all been calculated.

You feel like the floor has been ripped out from under you.

You force yourself to put the phone back exactly as you found it, zipping up the duffel bag and closing the closet door. Your hands are shaking, your breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

When you glance out the window again, Simon is still there, his cigarette burned down to the filter. He crushes it under his boot, the movement precise, deliberate.

In that moment, he doesn’t look like the man you thought you knew.

He doesn’t look like the comforting, loving boyfriend who holds you when you’re upset or makes you laugh when you’ve had a bad day.

He looks like a soldier. A man trained to control every situation, to anticipate every threat, to eliminate every weakness.

And suddenly, you realize: you’re not his partner. You’re just another piece on the board.

[cosyvelvetorchid]

You want a little bucktommy oneshot that’ll make you cry?

I was watching the episode of SWAT where Deac gives Annie ‘The Letter’ and it sparked an idea. I’ve only given it a cursory edit so apologies if there’s any mistakes.

Anyway, grab your tissues and enjoy!

🩶

Read on Ao3 or below.

**********

The Letter

Rating: G

W/C: 2,192

Summary:

Buck decides it’s time to give Tommy back his things. He add The Letter to the box he had stashed in his locker in case something happens to him.

It’s not what Tommy expects.

**********

Buck stood outside Tommy’s door with the box in hands. The box of Tommy’s things.

The first month after the breakup he couldn’t touch any of Tommys things, let alone remove them. To remove them would be to remove Tommy from his life and he was not ready to do that.

The second month it hurt too much to see his toothbrush on the bathroom shelf, or his underwear mixed in with Bucks in the drawer. He wasn’t ready to get rid of everything yet but he couldn’t stand the pain radiating through him but the constant reminders of him everyday. So he’d boxed everything up and shoved the box into his closet hoping they he’d forget about it.

The third month he was still in pain but managing. Mostly by either working or baking. Everybody was definitely getting sick of eating his cakes or breads or pies but it wasn’t like he was using drugs or alcohol to—he’d found a healthy outlet. If you don’t count the sugar. Still, when he saw Tommy for the first time since the breakup up at a scene they were both on, it felt like another lightning bolt to his heart.

He stood staring at his former boyfriend; his boots glued to the ground, not being able to remove. Tommy eventually tuned and caught his eye and of all the ways Tommy could have reacted in that moment, he chose the one that broke Bucks heart even more.

He walked away.

Buck cried himself to sleep that night. He hadn’t done that since a month after they broke up. But in the morning when he woke up he decided he’d had enough. Tommy didn’t want him anymore—he’d made that clear. Buck needed to move on and he couldn’t until he’d completely removed Tommy from his life.

He removed the box from his closet and took it to his car, leaving it in the trunk while on shift. When his shift was done he’d take the letter hidden in his locker and add it to the box before dropping it at Tommys house.

The Letter. It was something that first responders did in the event they never made it home. They’d write a letter to a loved one or one’s, and keep it in their locker just in case.

Buck previously had one in his locker from about a year into being a firefighter, addressed to Maddie. But recently, after hearing of the death of somebody at another station he realised he needed to update it now that Maddie was happily married and had a beautiful daughter.

It was then that he’d thought about Tommy and the idea of dying without Tommy knowing how he felt about him wasn’t even a question.

It was supposed to be read in the event of his death but what was the point now? He’d chosen to leave Buck so there was no need for him to keep it. If he was honest he didn’t really know why he was giving the letter to Tommy now—it just somehow felt like the right thing to do.

So, he left the box on Tommys porch—hidden to the side so no passers by could see it—and left.

*****

Tommy arrived back home from a tiring 48 hour shift. He’d spent most of it doing ground work at a large factory fire. God he hated ground work. On top of that he’d seen Evan yesterday and his heart nearly tore itself out of his chest.

He wanted to talk to him. He wanted to beg him for forgiveness. He wanted to scream how sorry he was. But he couldn’t move. It hurt too much. In the end he had to use all of his strength to walk away. Again.

He lugged himself out of his truck and up the steps of his porch. Something caught his eye and he spotted a box at the far end of his porch. He looked up and down the street cautiously but didn’t see anybody hanging around.

He lifted the lid and immediately recognised Evan’s handwriting on an envelope placed on top of a familiar blue hoodie.

Evan had delivered his things back.

Emotion bit at his throat and he struggled to hold it down. He picked up the box and took it inside, dropping it onto the sofa. He picked up the envelope and ran his fingertips over the familiar handwriting, remembering when he’d first seen it and teased Evan about it.

He put the envelope back down and walked over to the cabinet in the corner to pull out a bottle of whiskey. He down the first glass for Dutch courage and poured a second one before sitting back down and once again picking up the envelope.

He was fairly certain what it was—a letter telling him what a piece shit he was for breaking up with Evan. How much of a coward he was and how Evan had regretted ever dating him.

He should probably burn it without reading it but in a pathetic act of self hate he forced himself to open it and began reading.

“Dear Tommy,

Obviously I don’t need to explain what this letter is for and why you’re receiving it. To be honest I’m not really sure what to write so I’m just going to put pen to paper and hope for the best (and hope to you can read my “chicken scratches.”)”

“Oh my god.” He said out loud realising what this letter was. It was The Letter. The one that most first responders had. He’d never written one for Evan—not because he didn’t want to, but because he was scared that writing one would somehow jinx their relationship. The irony was not lost on him, now.

He continued reading.

“I’m writing this a week before our six month anniversary, although I’m not sure that’s a thing you celebrate? We haven’t talked about it. We haven’t talked about a lot I suppose. I don’t know if it’s because we’re caught up in the newness of us or we’re both scared to open up.

For me I am a little scared. I’ve had so many people in my life leave me that I tend to cling on to relationships that aren’t working out of fear they’ll be another person who leaves. But not with you. For the first time in my life I don’t feel like I’m clinging.

Being with you is the easiest it’s ever been with anybody. You fit so perfectly into my heart it’s as though there was already a space in there waiting for you to fill. My whole life I’ve always felt like something was missing and when you kissed me that first time in my kitchen I thought the thing that was missing was my sexuality. But I was wrong. I think the thing that was missing was you.

You’re the most incredible man I have ever met, Tommy. And every day I look at you and I am in awe. How somebody so beautiful could want me is something I don’t think I’ll ever understand. I’m not naive—I know there are things you don’t talk about, things from your past, I see it in your eyes sometimes or when a subject comes up and you quickly change it. I hope that one day you’ll feel safe enough with me to talk about those things.

Hope? I should probably have said “hoped” given that I’m likely dead right about now. Whatever is the right word I want you to know that I have no intentions of going anywhere, no matter what you tell (told?) me.

You flew into my life LITERALLY, and turned it upside down in the best way. You once asked me why I liked you calling me Evan and I think I gave a half hearted response of I just like how you say it. And while that is the truth (seriously it’s hot as hell!) it’s not just that. It’s that for the first time in my life somebody is saying my name without following it up with criticism or derision. You speak it so purely and lovingly. Like it brings you joy. I’ve never had that before.

I’ve never had somebody make me feel so seen or so wanted. You let me yap for hours about stupid things and never make me feel like I’m annoying you. You tease me but always with affection. Even when you’re mad at me you never try to intentionally make me feel bad. You make me feel like being me, being Evan Buckley, is enough.

But we can’t ignore the big dead elephant in the room. I’m dead and you’re reading this almost like a ghost wrote it which thinking about that is actually kind of creepy. Anyway, I better stop writing soon before this ends up stupidly long.

Tommy, I am so insanely in love with you I don’t know what to do with it half the time. Who you are, how you look at me, the beautiful things you say to me, those gorgeous blue eyes and those wrinkles around them that I adore so much. If I could have stayed and lived the rest of my life loving you, just know that I would have done it in a heart beat. You were it for me. Not an infatuation or some shiny knew toy after realising my sexuality.

You were my whole heart and I’m so, so sorry that I couldn’t stay longer on earth to tell you that. But hey, maybe by the time you’ve read this in the future I would have already told you in person how much I love you.

I really have to go now. We’re decorating the station for Halloween this year and I’ve seen a super cool fake corpse at a prop house down the street so I need to pick it up.

I love you so much, Tommy. You made my life infinitely better while I was here and if I made you half as happy as you made me then it was worth it.

Love,

Your Evan.”

Tommy broke down in choked sobs.

*****

Buck was finally drifting off to sleep. He was exhausted. His 12 hour shift and then the emotional weight of getting rid of the last of Tommy from his life had taken its toll.

A knock at the door echoed throughout the loft. Buck sighed in annoyance—he just wanted to sleep. He threw off the covers and padded down the stairs, grabbing some sweatpants on the way and quickly slipping them on before opening the door.

His heart jolted in his chest at the sight of Tommy standing there. His eyes red and raw, and his face puffy. He looked away—he couldn’t bear to see Tommy like this. Or see him at all if he was honest.

“I take it you’re here to drop off my stuff?” He said to the ground. When he didn’t get a response he looked up. That’s when he noticed the letter in Tommys hand.

“Did.. did you-“ Tommy couldn’t get words out. His voice was raw and hoarse and barely there. He took a shaking breath. “You loved me?”

His face gave away how much he couldn’t believe what he’d read. As though it were a ridiculous notion that he could be loved.

Buck wanted to deny it. God, he wanted to tell him no; that he didn’t mean it; that it was past Buck who’d written it and current Buck didn’t feel the same anymore.

But that would be a lie.

The love he had for Tommy hadn’t diminished in the slightest in the last 3 months. He’d wished it had—it would have made getting over him a lot easier. But it hadn’t. Tommy was wrapped around his heart and permanently etched into his bones.

He tried so hard to keep himself together but it was fruitless. The tears fell from his eyes as quick as they’d gathered in his waterline. His whole jaw and chin shook as he spoke.

“I never stopped.”

Tommy let out a loud sob as he threw himself forward wrapping his arms around Evan. His Evan. Buck couldn’t stop the matching sob from leaving his own throat as Tommy peppered his face with kisses in between words.

“I love you.. so much.. I’m sorry.. I’m so… so sorry.. I love you.. I love you.. I love you..”

Finally his lips met Bucks. The kiss was wet with tears and probably snot, too, but neither cared.

They clung to each other and cried. All of the emotion they’d both felt over the last few months pouring out of them raw and unfiltered.

They had a long road ahead of them to get things back on track. A lot of talking, probably some therapy and hard work from Tommy to build Evan’s trust in him back up.

But all of that could wait until tomorrow. Right now all they needed was to hold each other. To remember how safe the other’s arms felt around them.

The future could never be promised, but they will both give everything to try.

[carlaxautoservicecenter]

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[puleosauto]

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[expertcarcare]

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[autorepairhendersonnv]

Wondering how can you tell if your car needs a tune up? Ask the auto experts at Rebel Automotive to explain what a tune up car includes.

[luludeluluramblings]

Socialite!BatSis!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Hi! I don't know where the fuck this came from. But, it has plagued me for months. Inspired by Labour and the Fruits by Paris Palmoa, Please Don't Cry for Your Daughters Eve by Lydia the Bard, and Curses by the Crane Wives. This my attempt at being dark, so either this fucks you up or I fucked up. Apologies for both.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Implied assault, neglect, yandere themes at the end

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You got the Wayne looks, the Wayne charm, the Wayne name, but you’re fragile. Bruce would tell you. Damian would tell you. (Not so kindly.) Everyone in the manor would tell you.

But, charm and good looks still have their uses. And, everyone in the family despises all the galas they need to attend.

So, when Bruce offers to take you to one, you up the charm, you dress your best. You use your finest manners and all the proper ways your Momma raised you to your advantage. And, you flourish.

You can tell from the slight smile Bruce has on his face on the way home. The hint of pride in his eyes at your job well done.

You can’t help your family or Gotham as a Bat. But, you can help them as a Wayne.

The socialite. That’s your roll. Not a bird, not a bat. A little social butterfly. Drawing the public attention away from the things that go bump in the night.

You like your role. Sure, you're not bounding over the Gotham skyline saving people from muggers and insanely themed villains. But, you're helping your family, and that's what matters to you.

At least, that's how it starts.

It was special to you in the beginning. Going to charity gala's and events with your father, Bruce. No one else in the family enjoys going to these events. It was your own personal father and daughter bonding time, in a way.

But, as you got older the pressure started and the distance between you and the others grew.

You were a music box ballerina. Spinning in place to the same tune over and over again while sitting on a dusty shelf. And, Bruce would wind you up to dance every time he need his social butterfly to charm Gotham's public.

Soon you had a whole team of faceless people picking out your dresses, changing your style, cutting your hair. You couldn't be anything less than a vain air-headed heiress, because that was your role. Brucie needed someone to follow in his footsteps, not Batman.

The dresses got more expensive, the flashes got brighter. The diets got stricter.

And, the distance grew farther.

And, then Bruce stopped going with you to the galas.

You weren't upset the first time. Or, the second time. Or, even the third time.

It was the fourth time that things started to crack.

Sure, Batman was needed. Sure, there was Justice League business. Sure, there was a patrol that ran late. Sure, there was a breakout at Arkham.

But, the fourth time, when you found him and the rest of the family laughing in the cave, it really didn't feel like they were focusing on the good of Gotham while you were struggling to smile sweetly at men twice Bruce's age wanting to take you home.

Still, you powered on. Kept doing your part. You were making the family proud afterall.

Right?

It was the ninth time it happened that you broke.

The nineth time you had gone to a gala alone in an expensive dress you didn't pick, one that showed off way too much skin. One that seemed to tell everyone in that grand ballroom that you were up for the taking. One that just barely hid the bruises from their fingers and palms under the fabric.

You wore that placating smile and that dress all the way home. With a driver you didn't know at the wheel of the car Bruce sent for you. The backseat empty even if you sat on it.

When you got home, you walk in on something that made each cracked piece of you ache.

Apparently it was game night. Everyone that mattered was playing Mario cart of all things.

"Look at that Cinderella’s back from the ball." Jason was the first to notice you standing in the doorway of the room. And, his words burned.

Cinderella. Cinderella. Back from the Ball.

"Hey, glad you’re back. Hope you had fun." Dick didn't even glance at you as he spoke, took focused on beating Stephanie who had her tongue sticking out as she concentrated.

"God, those galas are so boring, I don’t know how you do it." Duke says in passing. It would be meaningful if he hadn't said the same thing the last six times you had come home.

Tim and Damian were also playing the game, with Tim occasionally nudging Damian to mess him up. Like typical siblings.

Barbara was in the room as well, a book on her lab to read. Only you could tell she hadn't read much, judging from where her book mark was located.

"Good job." Bruce says absentmindedly. You can't even tell if its directed at you or at the blueshell Damian just managed to hit Dick's racer with.

Words don't even leave your lips as you exit the doorway, pieces of you falling to the floor as you wobble to your room.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

The clock striking twelve in your mind as you feel the rotten pumpkin sinking in your gut and the magic wearing off.

You don't notice that Cassandra seems to hear it too as she watches you. Like she can hear the shards falling to the ground. And, she's unsure if she needs to warn the family that something just broke down the hall.

As you enter your room, taking in the fancy decor. It feels disgusting. The magic is gone. It's all rotten and you want it gone.

Cinderella. Cinder. Cinder.

Your tear the fabric of the dress as you take it off. Tears falling down your cheeks s you struggle against the fabric and clasp. Expensive gemstones falling to the floor as your finally rip it free.

There bruises under your dress. Finger prints on your bones. And, you're choking on air as the fabric rubs your skin as it falls to the floor. The fabric ripples like water and you hate it. You want the opposite of cool rippling water. Water drowns, and you need air.

Your skin feels to hot and each bruise burns.

Cinder. Cinder.

You're Cinderella and you crave ashes. You need air, but smoke will do instead.

Instead of letting it lay on the ground like it's dead, you throw open that grand window in your room and chuck it out the window. Watching as it flutters and falls to the grass in a heap, the breeze doing nothing to cool your anger on and underneath.

It’s not enough. Not enough. It's not going to be enough.

More. Cinderella. Give it more.

Your closet door was cracked when you left for the gala tonight. Now you break it the rest of the way and grab each hanger carrying a pretty dress in a bag and throw it over the ledge.

Still not enough. Needs more ash.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

You break you dresser as you rip out the drawers. The wood splintering as you throw it out the window and on to the pile of dresses on the night dew covered grass.

You want to throw more, but you chest is heaving and your hands are shaking. Instead you stumble out of your room with just the bruises on your skin and towards the kitchen. You don't even hear the pans and cabinets doors slamming as you search for the matches.

Before you can find your light, you find a bottle of fancy wine. One that reminded you of the smell of this night.

You grab it, not caring that another bottle falls and shatters by your feet. Drawing attention, but not yours, as you finally find the matches and wobble out the door towards your pile of soon to be ash.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

You're laughing as you shatter the bottle on to the fabric. Lighting up a single match and then throwing the entire box at it the pile.

It catches light quick and the air around you finally matches the heat under your skin.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You can barely hear Bruce's voice from behind you as your laugh. Turing to face him and the rest of the family's horrified faces at the sight of you.

You can barely restrain the giggles.

“I’m Cinderella. Cinder fucking Ella.” You spin like the little figurine you are. Like the pretty paper ballerina before she burst into flame.

Bruce rushes towards you, words spilling from his lips as terrifying thoughts fill his head at the sight of the bruises illuminating your skin.

“What happened tonight?”

“You would know if you had been there. But, you weren't. You never are.”

“Listen, you said you liked the galas-“ Excuses, excuses. You made enough for him and the rest of them in your own head that you don't want to hear more spoken out loud.

“I did! I did! But, that was when I had my father there to keep me safe.” You mock, spinning out of reach and looking at the flames.

They don't last long. The wood from your broken dresser drawers the only thing keeping the fire going. The expensive fabric not lasting long at all. Pretty things rarely ever do.

“But, no. I’m just another little one of your pawns in this family. Only you didn’t fuckin’ train me on how to fight off wandering hands. You taught me that I just had to grin and bare it.” Bitterness trips from your lips as you wipe of that sweet tasting wine from the night off your mouth.

“What happened?” His voice almost shakes. Almost, but not quite. You were the fragile one. The paper ballerina. The little Cinderella of the family.

You weren't suppose to break under his care.

But, was there any care if he let you fall from the shelf after he so haphazardiously placed you on it between uses?

“I’m not a whore.” You whisper to yourself. Words that had been dying to say to the hands that touches to tonight. Words that you wanted to shove down the throats of the strangers that pinched your skin, that gripped you too tight and too close.

“I’M NOT A WHORE!” Instead you scream it at him. Uncaring if you don't look pretty and perfect while doing it. Uncaring if your voice cracks from the way the emotion bubbles from your chest.

Startling enough, Bruce wraps his arms around you. Like he was trying to shield you. Like he was trying to keep you safe. Like he should have done. It feels awkward and tight. Your arms pressed tightly to your chest at an awkward angle. Your legs giving out at you sob and scream at him.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t you touch me. Let me go— I don’t want you to touch me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m— I’m so sorry.” His whispers over into your hair as he clutches you close. So close that you feel more bruises forming on your skin.

Cinderella. Cinderella.

“I’m not—" Your voice breaking as you wail. Like the child you are in his arms.

Through your tears you watch Dick turn away, followed by the others. Cass lingering to brush your hair back as Bruce holds you tight.

You don't see his fist clench so tight his knuckles turn white.

You don't hear the silence in the cave as Jason changes out the bullets in his gun.

You don't feel the chill in the air as Damian scouts out the fancy house.

You don't feel the fear of God that Tim puts into grown men as that watch their wealthy drain to zero before their eyes on screens.

You don't watch as Barbara makes a few calls and plants evidence of crimes that can't be covered up.

You don't see Stephanie ripping out teeth.

You don't see Duke letting Gotham go dark as terror reigns for that one long night and day.

You just see Bruce, holding you close and apologize over and over again while Alfred puts out the flames behind you.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: Yeah, I love the thought of Reader being the one to be the Socialite Wayne while everyone does vigilante stuff. But, interacting with Gotham’s elite would suck so much and so many things could go wrong.

A/N: Apologies if I missed the mark with it or if it’s all over the place.

A/N: I just really loved the imagery of standing in front of a fire of expensive burning dresses while screaming at Bruce naked as the day you were born much to the rest of the family’s horror.

[thesuperiorrobin]

Damian looks horrible.

His once-perfect skin was covered in bruises and dry blood that either belonged to him or someone else, but you couldn't tell. His hair, which was supposed to be gelled back, is all over the place, his once neatly ironed suit is wrinkled, and his blazer is falling off his shoulders. Pennyworth would be disappointed if he saw the boy like this. For once, he's out of breath as he stands in front of your front door with a nice-sized bouquet in hand. He knocks twice before you open the door.

"Damian?! Oh god! What happened!?" with wide, worried eyes you open the door more, allowing him to enter your home.

"My apologies for being late tonight Beloved," he hands you the flowers "I ran into some trouble and my father needed me to patrol longer. We still have time to make it to the reservation"

"Damian, forget about the reservation! I mean, look at you!" you glace up and down at his figure. “We can just go another day. Let’s get you cleaned first”

You grab ahold of his hand, dragging him to the closest bathroom. As you switch the light on you signal him to take a seat. You start to dig around under the cabinet beneath the sink for a first aid kit. You’ve never owned one until now—until Damian had appeared one night badly wounded.

“But you’ve been begging me to go” His voice was horsed, green eyes following your every move.

“I know” you sighed, Damian sat on the edge of the bathroom bathtub waiting patiently. “But that’s not important right now. Like I said we can go another day when you don’t look like you just got run over by three cars on the highway”

“That’s very specific” He chuckles.

“And it’s probably true” you roll your eyes. You get up from your position under the sink with a first aid kit in hand. “Let’s stay in tonight yeah? My parents won’t be home until late at night and we get the living room all to ourselves….”

“That……sounds lovely actually ” Damian lets out a heavy sigh—closing his eyes for a moment. Basking in the scent of your perfume and your gentle touches. He can hear you hum a soft tune as you tend to his wound carefully. Damian could almost fall asleep then and there.

“We have to finish twilight,” you say, Damian opens his eyes to stare into yours and frowns.

“Do we have to?”

“Duh. It’s twilight season”

It really is twilight season for me🤭

I won’t EVER get tired of writing soft!Damian

[gghostwriter]

Out of Sunshine

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Having forgotten your dinner date, Spencer comforts his usually sunshine girlfriend Trope:Fluff & Comfort w.c: 1.2k a/n: been very overwhelmed with responsibilities and wants lately that I just needed to write a self-indulgent fic. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! 💗 masterlist

Spencer’s knock on your apartment door was met with silence. It was a starry Friday night and he had arranged a dinner reservation with you, his girlfriend for a year and a half, to the newly opened French restaurant along the main street. With a certain spring in his step, he settled with Hotch, and by extension the team, that he couldn’t be disturbed unless an emergency case comes in—something he silently wished not to happen. He had also picked up a bouquet of your favorites from the local florist. An array of whites that reminded him of the dress he first saw you wearing at the park.

He knocked again, ears straining to hear anything behind the dark wooden door. There was nothing. He balanced the bouquet on one hand and reached for the phone inside his satchel. It was quite unlike you to not answer the door.

The number you dialed is either unattended—

“Strange,” he muttered under his breath. During his morning phone call with you, a much needed routine to tide him through the macabre of his job, you sounded so excited about the dinner he’d planned and had even promised to wear the same white dress that had plagued his eidetic memory. He chuckled in reply before asking any plans for the day. There was a slight pause on your end, no doubt thinking of ways to pass time before night winds down, and you answer—

The studio, he remembered. You mentioned passing by your art studio to occupy time. He sighed in relief as he enters his vintage blue car parked on the the sidewalk, bouquet placed securely on the passenger seat. The clock on the dashboard tells him there’s still time to make it to the reservation, granted he wasn’t sure if you were ready to go.

A non-descriptive tune played from the radio as he turned left to enter the designated parking space of your studio building. It was a mixture of soft piano keys that sounded like spring and sunshine, both adjectives he loved to use to describe you.

When he finally found the courage to fumble his way in asking for your number, the smile that flashed on your face was blinding. It was as if he stared directly into the sun with little to no protection for his vision.

Over the course of multiple dates, he found himself waxing prose about you in his head. The pinking of your cheeks reminded him of strawberries ripening, so tempting to touch with his own pair of lips. The twinkle in your eyes, full of adoration and trust, made him feel strong and protective—like he was some kind of crow guarding his loot of sparkling treasure. And the bounce in your step wherever you’d go had him envisioning a sprig of wildflowers growing from each footprint, the nymph of his very own Spring.

He let himself in the studio, grateful you’ve trusted him with a spare key. “Sunshine,” he called out.

The light inside the four cornered room was on, windows all open for the paint fumes to escape, and there you were, hunched over an easel, furiously painting without any care of your surroundings.

He called your name, softer this time, as if to slowly ease you out of the artistic trance. The timber of his voice and his sudden presence led you to squeak in surprise, paintbrush dropping on the wooden streaked floor.

“It’s me, sunshine,” he raised his hands in front of him in surrender. “It’s me.”

Your nose scrunched up in question, a streak of blue dried paint on your cheek, adorable. How adorable you were in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” you bent down to grab the brush before resuming your old position.

“It’s 7:50, love.”

You swiveled to face him, eyes wide in distress. Hands promptly reaching to turn over the faced down phone. “No, no—oh my god, I am so sorry!”

“It’s alright,” he tries to placate you but his words of comfort seem to fall on deaf ears. “Really, it’s alright. It happens to everyone.”

Tears were starting to build up in your eyes. Your hands were wrangling with the apron tied around your waist as you mutter a series of apologies again and again. “I’m sorry. So sorry—we can’t make it to our reservation now, can’t we? Spence, I’m so so sorry. I—I forgot,” a sob escaped from your throat. “I don’t know what to do.”

He puts down the flowers on the nearest available space, your stool, and steps into your space. Filling it with his perfume and warmth meant to comfort you. He could see how distressed you were—rocking on your heels, hands unable to stay put, and lower lip sandwiched in between your pearly teeth.

“Breathe. It’s completely fine, love. No harm done. Really, it’s alright.”

The tears come rushing down, staining your flushed cheeks with its tracks. “It’s not—how could I forget?”

“Sunshine, it’s okay. It happens to all of us and I know you’re quite busy, it’s understandable.”

You burrow into his chest some more, afraid of separating from him and the haven he brings.

He continued on. “I also know you’re overwhelmed, the exhibit is just around the corner and I know how important it is to you, I understand.”

Laying your cheek near his beating heart, you mutter a reply. “It’s really not—I don’t want you to think you’re not important to me too.”

His hands cupped your face to stare into your saddened eyes. Spencer couldn’t see the warmth and brightness that was always present in his sunshine. There was a cloud of rain and doubt covering its’ greatness. He understood no one could always be happy all the time but it bothered him to see you breaking down from stress.

“Shouldn’t I be the one worried about that?” he lightly joked. “I’ve cancelled on dates so many times and did those ever make you feel less important to me?”

“No. Never,” you sniffled.

“Then what makes you say I’d think that, sunshine? I would never, I promise.”

The corners of your lips lifted up to a small smile. There it was, the rays of sun peeking behind the clouds, bringing warmth back to the dark crevices of his being.

“I’m sorry about your shirt,” your lower lip jutting out in a pout. The air of anxiety slowly dissipating around you.

Spencer laughed, noting the tear stained marks littered on his purple button down. “That’s alright. Why don’t we order from your favorite Indian place down the block? We can get your favorites and have our dinner date here instead?”

“You’d be okay with that?”

He leaned in to kiss your temples, taking in the twinkle back in your eyes framed by your wet long lashes and the flush on your cheeks from emotion—good and bad.

For Spencer, you had never looked more beautiful. The reason behind of your breakdown was raw, intimate, and it made him see you in a new light. Heat bloomed in his chest, like a series of red roses, filled with love for you.

“Anywhere with you is good for me, sunshine.”

Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

[martiniluvr]

18+ minors dni

1,000 follower celebration!! I love u all wow. thank you for all your support, truly. be warned, this is long. enjoy 💫

warnings: nsfw alphabet for dick grayson and jason todd, so there’s a variety of things under the cut. please proceed with caution 🩷

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

A | Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

jason is very different after sex. it’s a major act of trust for him, so when it’s done, all he really wants is to be close to you. in other words: he’s a big cuddler. he’ll mumble some things into your skin as you run your fingers through his hair, and after, you usually end up ordering enough food to feed a small family, because that man can eat.

dick is a loverboy at heart. once the dust has settled and you’re both down from your highs, he’s doting on you—bringing you water, a snack, cleaning you up with a damp cloth—with doe eyes and a big old grin. always invites you to have a shower with him afterwards, and you always say yes, because his shoulder rubs are divine.

B | Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

unsurprisingly, jason has some…issues with his body from all the shit it’s been through. that being said, I think he intentionally trains his back and shoulders the most. it’s what makes him look as huge as he does. as for his favourite thing about you, jason todd is an ass man, argue with the wall. he likes something he can grab. hard.

dick grayson knows his ass is fat. he’s not shy about it. but his favourite body part is actually his arms, and how muscular they’ve become over the years. as for you, he loves your hips. they trigger something primal in him; the second you put on a fitted dress, he’s thinking about giving you his children.

C | Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

jason gets nasty. he’ll cum anywhere on your body just for the obscene sight, but he especially loves to cum in your mouth when he’s feeling that extra bit dominant. he doesn’t care if you spit or swallow, it turns him on either way—but, god, he’s proud when you open your mouth to show him it’s all gone.

let’s cut to the chase. dick wants to cum inside you over and over again. he hardly even contemplates doing it anywhere else; that man wants to fill you up and watch you drip. maybe it’s his out-of-control breeding kink, maybe it’s how intimate it feels—whatever the case may be, rest assured dick grayson loves a creampie.

D | Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

voyeurism. jason likes to watch. it happened accidentally once when he walked in on you practicing some self-care, and he’s thought about it ever since. he enjoys the performance aspect of it; it’s a power play, watching you get yourself off, knowing he’s right there but refusing to help you.

this ties in with Q, but dick borders on exhibitionism sometimes. fucking you in his car, in the bathroom at a charity event, or in a changing room—anywhere you might get caught, really—god, it gets him going. it’s the daredevil in him, constantly yearning to test the limits of what he can do.

E | Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

I think jason had very limited to no experience before his death, and most of what knows today he learned by being with you. ever the fast learner, though, he sure as shit knows what he’s doing now. I think he’s very in-tune with your body and his needs, and it shows in the way he fucks you.

we have to face facts here. dick definitely got around before committing to a serious relationship. despite that, I think he knows what he’s doing thanks to his impeccable observational skills; sometimes you think he knows your body better than you do (but don’t tell him that; it goes straight to his head).

F | Favorite position (this goes without saying)

jason is a sucker for good old-fashioned doggy style, of course, but fuck, does he adore the prone bone position. trapping you under his body, hitting you deep with each thrust, and he gets to watch your ass jiggle at every movement? it borders on religious ecstasy for him.

dick goes feral—feral—for the mating press position. it’s erotic, carnal, and raw, and that’s exactly what he wants when he’s fucking you. he’s also partial to cowgirl, especially when he can tell you want to take control. the view it offers him is enough to have him whining underneath you for more.

G | Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

jason is more on the serious side; sex with him, intense as it may be, is still a big act of vulnerability on his part, so he doesn’t treat it lightly. he will, however, crack a warm smile on those occasions when you make love in the small hours of the morning, when he thinks you can’t see his face clearly.

dick is a tease, and sex with him is fun. he likes to flirt with you while he bends you into compromising positions, and he gets very cocky when you cum. he can’t help but make little quips after the fact, either; “something wrong with your leg, baby?” as your limbs twitch and tremble from your orgasm. jerk.

H | Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

in keeping with his rugged exterior, jason is only doing what he needs to in order to keep things manageable and convenient. he is not dedicating hours to manscaping. much to your elation, that means he keeps his happy trail intact.

dick is a little more meticulous in his grooming, being the “pretty boy” that he is. he prefers keeping himself neatly trimmed, partly to ensure more comfort in his nightwing suit—he’s learned the hard way that the pornstar look is a one-way ticket to chafing when you’re jumping off of buildings.

I | Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

jason really restrains himself from being outwardly intimate. he finds it hard to be that vulnerable, and while he loves the passion between you when you fuck, he’s only really able to tap into the romantic aspect if he’s wholly at ease. that’s not to say it never happens! it definitely does, just give him time.

he may be cocky and unserious when he’s fucking you, but sex with dick is always very openly intimate. he sees the beauty and romance in what you do together, and it’s truly special to him that he gets to witness you like this. sex is absolutely one of the ways he expresses his love and admiration for you.

J | Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

jason only really masturbates when he’s away from you on a mission, and needs to take the edge off. it’s less interesting without you, so he wants it done quick. he imagines you touching yourself as he does it—legs wide and eyes hazy—and that gets him to his peak extremely efficiently.

dick likes to edge himself. I said what I said. he’s thinking about how he’d much rather save his load for your pretty cunt, so he’s bucking his hips and screwing his eyes shut as he forces himself to stop right before his climax, reminding himself how good it’ll feel when he gets to fill you up.

K | Kink (one or more of their kinks)

overstimulation is jason’s go-to; he gets off on dragging orgasm after orgasm out of you until you’re hardly able to speak. he also loves forced eye contact, especially when you can barely keep your eyes open. oh, and he has a massive size kink. when you’re as huge as he is, everyone is small by comparison, and he likes how big you make him feel.

say it with me. dick grayson has a breeding kink. the visual aspect of cumming inside you is enough to drive him crazy, but the thought of getting you pregnant…now that makes him rabid. face-sitting is another big one; any variation of pussy-eating drives him wild, but having you sit on his face is his favourite way to do it.

L | Location (favorite places to do the do)

if you’re at home, anywhere is fair game to jason. he’s fucking you in the kitchen, in the bedroom, on the sofa, against the wall, in the office—anywhere. outside of home, he’s more restrictive, but he has thought about fucking you in the batmobile on the many occasions he’s stolen it.

the bedroom is definitely dick’s favourite place to fuck you; aside from making things feel more romantic, he wants you to be comfortable as he’s bending you into crazy positions. he also loves a shower quickie and car sex, impractical though they may be. don’t worry, he’s an acrobat. it’ll work.

M | Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

is it crazy to say that jason gets turned on when you argue? because he does. a moderate disagreement where you’re getting huffy with him is a surefire way to get bent over the sofa. oh, and if he feels even a little jealousy creeping over him, you’re in for a ride. also, if you nestle into him during the night, you’ll be contending with his hard cock pressed against your lower back until one of you caves.

dick is whipped. whatever you’re doing can get him going. cooking, reading, wearing his clothes—he loves everything you do. but, he’s particularly turned on whenever you dress up for a special occasion. it can be a little inconvenient when you’re running late for an event and he’s groping you over your gown in the limo, but how can you refuse those blue eyes?

N | No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

jason would be very resistant to anything that puts him in a submissive role (this goes for ak!jason too). this includes both sex acts and the use of props/toys that take control away from him; he’s just not into it. he’d also refuse any kind of roleplay, saying it’s unnecessary. he’s a pragmatic guy.

I think dick would really dislike the idea of hurting you. he’s not opposed to spanking, and he’ll even engage in some light breath play (ahem, headlock, anyone?), but he would never take it any further than that. if he bruised you through anything other than hickies, he’d be sick with guilt.

O | Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

it should come as no surprise that jason loves receiving head. there are few sights as enticing as watching you take his cock in your mouth while he instructs you to keep your eyes on him. he’s also very skilled in returning the favour, and his preference is eating you from the back so he can see your pretty ass move each time you squirm.

you know my stance on this. dick is a munch. he’s eating pussy like it’s his last meal before the end of the world, and he’s doing it for him. needless to say, he’s fucking good at it. receiving head is quite literally the last thing on his mind. that being said, when he does remember to let you reciprocate, all he can think about is how pretty you look while doing it.

P | Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

jason can get pretty rough, and he likes to fuck you hard, but he knows how much you can take. sex for him is partially an emotional release. but, he’s good at alternating between destroying you one day and being gentle the next; despite his tough facade, jay enjoys soft, passionate sex as much—if not more—than you do.

dick is kind of a hedonist; once he starts feeling pleasure, he doesn’t want it to end—especially when you start feeling it too. he’s happy to give you fast and rough if it’s what you want, but his preference is sloppy, erotic fucking. the messier you get, the better. although, if he’s got you in a mating press, the roughness seeps back in quickly.

Q | Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

while he’ll never say no to a quickie, jason prefers to take his time with you. once he starts, he finds it hard to stop, and he loves to see how much you can take from him before you’re spent. quickies are sporadic with him; he prefers to enjoy your body at his pace.

if he gets the chance to fuck you—hell, even just tease you—dick is going to take it. he loves the thrill and the sense of urgency that comes with quickies. whether it’s a hookup in his car or an impromptu blowjob when he’s supposed to be on patrol, his eyes are lighting up like it’s christmas.

R | Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

jason is not a risk-taker. he needs time to warm to any kind of experimentation, but he’s more likely to try things on you than on himself, like using light restraints on you or dabbling in sensory play. as long as he feels he has some control.

dick is a different story. he’s willing to try most things at least once, and he’s able to laugh it off if something goes south. he’s not opposed to switching (ha) things up and giving you the lead, either; he likes a woman in charge.

S | Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

maybe it’s his extensive training, maybe it’s just who he is; whatever the case may be, jason can go for a long time. but, it’s usually just one round that he draws out so he can really work you to your limit.

dick can handle multiple rounds if you give him time. his recovery consists of burying his face between your legs until he’s ready to go again, which doesn’t take very long once you start convulsing against his tongue.

T | Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

jason wouldn’t even think to use sex toys unless you brought it up, but he’d be open to using them on you if you asked. he’s quick to see the potential in your little pink vibrator when he holds it against your clit while he fucks you, noticing how much easier it is to overstimulate you this way.

ever the experimentalist, dick isn’t opposed to trying out toys in the bedroom. in fact, he’s the one who would show up with fuzzy blue handcuffs (“I got them in my colour!”) to restrain your hands behind your back, so he can devour your cunt without interference from you.

U | Unfair (how much they like to tease)

he’d like to tease you more, but jason doesn’t really have the restraint for it. as soon as you’re splayed out in front of him, he wants to take you. when he does tease, though, he likes to touch you everywhere but where you need him most, until you’re begging for him to make you feel good. then, he likes to make you regret it—over and over again.

dick is the world’s biggest tease, and you can look that up. he’s got you grinding on his lap, making out with you until you’re panting, only to say he needs to do some work as he stands up with a smirk. and when he finally gets you naked, he makes you tell him what you need while his fingers hover over your aching pussy, never reaching you.

V | Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

jason isn’t very loud at all, but the sounds he does make range from grunts and groans to the occasional low moan if you tug at the hair on the nape of his neck. he’s a big dirty talker, and he likes to get up in your ear to do it, so he knows you’re listening. he notices the way you shiver at his gravelly voice, and it drives him crazy.

dick is far less concerned about being quiet. he’s moaning, swearing, telling you how pretty you are, even occasionally whining, and he’s not worried about what your neighbours think—in fact, he’s making sure you’re just as vocal as he is, insisting you tell him how you feel. he’s also expressive when he cums, especially when he does it inside you.

W | Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

I know this is controversial, but jason would never agree to a threesome. this man is possessive. the mere thought of seeing someone else touch you in front of him is enough to make him see red, so no—he’d end up committing murder (not that it’s a far leap for him on a good day).

dick has a thing for watching you work out, especially when you’re doing yoga in the living room in those skin-tight pants. watching the way your limbs elongate and contract as you bend and stretch does things to him, but he never interrupts; the images stay in his mind for those long missions.

X | X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

jason is a behemoth of a man all over. and I do mean all over. he’s packing. an easy 8 inches (slightly more), thick, with a slight upwards curve and a prominent vein from the base to the tip—which is a mauvy pink, by the way. you’re still shocked you’re able to take him, and he was too the first time.

‘prettiest man alive also has a pretty cock’ would be dick’s headline. just over 6 inches, with enough girth to make you feel full, and a rosy pink tip that matches his lips…you could honestly just stare at it if he’d let you (and he probably would). he fits you like a glove every single time.

Y | Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

jason’s sex drive is pretty consistent; it’s always simmering a little ways below the surface. he’s able to compartmentalise it when he has to, but sex doubles as a form of stress-relief for him, so it happens…often.

dick has an incredibly high sex drive. like jason, he can reel it in when needed, but if it were up to him, you’d fuck every single day, twice even. I also truly believe that he’s regularly plagued by morning wood.

Z | Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

he’s going to make sure you’re comfortable and taken care of, but the truth is jason could probably pass out in your arms about 10 minutes after you’re done. take it as a sign of how safe he feels with you as he’s snoring softly into your neck.

he’s definitely tired after sex, but dick is waiting until he notices you dozing off before he closes his eyes. once he’s out, though, good luck waking him up again without an air horn. he’s going to need his full eight hours to recharge.

[misctf]

Country Living

When he stopped to help you on the side of this lonely country road, you couldn’t have been more grateful. You didn’t expect your car to breakdown on these desolate backroads. Nor did you expect a lack of cell service. Your years studying in college didn’t exactly give you the knowledge on how to diagnose and fix cars. But based on all the smoke, you figured something was wrong.

“Aw, don't you worry none, I'm right happy to help y'all out.” He removed his ball cap and ran his hand through his short brown hair, “Name’s Bucky. What brings y'all to this neck of the woods?”

He was certainly taller and more muscular than you- not to mention ripe with the smell of a hard day’s work. And you could tell he was looking you over, the juxtaposition couldn’t have been clearer. Country vs city boy, manual laborer vs keyboard warrior, dropped out of high school vs college educated. The list could go on. But despite the bias you held towards these country folks, you were happy he was helping. And so you introduced yourself and expressed your sincere gratitude. Bucky smiled and gave you a bone crushing handshake.

“Ain't no trouble at all, I'm just glad to help out.” He smiled warmly, his dark eyes, while lacking intelligence, were filled with kindness and just a bit of mischief.

He winks at you and you felt your heart flutter for just a moment. Maybe it was the way his stubble framed his tanned face. Or the way the sweat dripped from his muscular arms as he worked on your car. Or perhaps it was the occasional glances he gave you and the sly smirk that told you he knew you were checking him out.

“I reckon I know what's wrong. Just need to grab a tool from my garage.” He said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “You care to join me? Looks like you could use a sip of somethin’.”

It was true. In the sweltering heat, you were certainly thirsty. And while part of you wanted to stay with your car, you felt beckoned to go with him. And so you did. You climbed into his pick-up truck and watched as he revved the engine. And before long, you were cruising down the old country road with your car disappearing from sight.

“Well, dang if this ain't my favorite tune!” Bucky said, turning up the volume, “You figure you into this kinda music?”

It was some country song. One about cars, beer, and living on a farm. Not something you’d listen to voluntarily. But as Bucky sang in his southern twang, you found your foot tapping along. Soon you were mouthing the words, almost as if you knew the song by heart. And a moment later you joined in with him, the two of you putting your hearts into every lyric. You barely noticed the southern twang that garnished your voice.

“Well, I'll be darned! Can’t believe you like these kinda tunes. No offense intended, but you don't quite fit the mold, do ya?” He says with a chuckle.

Bucky gives your arm a playful punch and you look down at the exposed, tanned skin of your bicep. Your muscles were contracting and seemingly getting larger, highlighted nicely by the wifebeater that clung tightly to your skin. You look up at Bucky and he gives you a wink. Again, you feel comforted by his kind smile and playful dark eyes. You turn away and absentmindedly run a hand over your growing biceps. So firm and tight, the skin somewhat weathered. But deep down you know something isn’t right. Its nagging at you, begging for you to say something. To at least find out what’s happening to you. You want to tell Bucky, but he’s just pulled up to his garage.  

“Mind givin’ me a hand findin’ my toolkit?” Bucky asks. You nod quickly- your anxiety being pushed deep into your subconsciousness. And as Bucky enters the garage, he pulls off his sweaty wifebeater, “Don't pay me no mind, it sure gets mighty hot 'round these parts. You’re welcome to do the same.”

And you follow his example. As you do, you catch a whiff of your pits. The musk that invades your nostrils is a far cry from the vegan deodorant you applied this morning. Moreso, your usually well-trimmed pit hair is now a curly damp bush of dark brown hairs that poke out when you lower your arms. The smell makes you dizzy and you feel like you might fall over, but Bucky lends you a hand.

“Don’t go faintin’ on me now.” He says with a grin, “We got a lotta work to do.”

“Don't you worry 'bout me none, I got this here handled.” You say- the words leaving your mouth without much input from your brain. Bucky’s eyes light up and he grins.

“I shoulda known that.” His laugh fills your ears and you swear it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve heard. He notices you admiring him, “Gotta find those tools now.”

You nod and start rummaging through his garage and workbench. You pick up a wrench and place it down. Then another and another. You never really needed to learn basic mechanic stuff, let alone the names of wrenches. You were more focused on your degree. Your degree in... In...? You stare at the composite wrench in your hand and your eyes narrow. You were studying something at that univer... uni... book-learnin’ place of yours, right? Your thoughts are distracted when some oil spills on your hands.

“Gosh darnit.” You mutter, wiping the oil on your work jeans. Work jeans that were stained and torn from years of laboring.

You turn towards Bucky to say something, but instead find yourself gawking. His perfect stubble across his face, the sweat gleaming on his firm and toned muscles, and the way his chest hairs frame his pecs. Your dick gets hard and you quickly start to massage your bulge. And when you see how well his work jeans fit tightly around his juicy ass, you can’t but help let out a whistle.

“You say somethin’?” He asks, turning to face you, “Yeehaw! Look at you!” He says, clearly gawking.  

You turn to catch a glimpse of yourself in a nearby mirror and your eyes widen. You bounce your juicy pecs, appreciating the light dusting of hairs that decorate them. You raise your thick, meaty arm and flex, causing your muscles to bulge. And then you look at your face. It had squared out a bit, giving it a masculine edge and your cheeks now sported stubble. You felt powerful, and you couldn’t help but continue to flex.

“Hey there big fella.” You let out a masculine moan as Bucky comes from behind you, his arm reaching around, and his hand grabbing a fistful of your muscle tit, “You’re bigger’n a bull in springtime!” You just nod, unable to produce words as pleasure courses through you from his teasing hand, “It sure does get lonesome out here in these parts. Reckon I wouldn’t mind some company, if it ain’t too much trouble.”

He spins you around, your bodies pressing up against one another. His hand moves down your abs and then down your work jeans. He’s staring deep into your eyes now, a primal lust replacing the prior warmth from earlier. And for the first time, you feel lost. Scared even. As though you’re going down a path you wouldn’t be able to back away from. The end of one chapter of your life and the start of another you weren’t sure you wanted.

“Wait a minute... somethin’ don’t feel right. I... this ain’t who I am.” You say, unable to talk like you used to.

“Now, don’t go overthinkin’ it. Just keep your eyes on me.” Bucky whispered, his hands working to undo the buckle on your jeans.

You watch as he pulls down your pants and slowly gets down on his knees. Your enlarged, throbbing dick continues to grow, adding inch after inch. Bucky is nearly salivating as he comes face to face with your monster, and without another word, his tongue traces along the shaft. You moan as his mouth expertly works your cock. He bobs up and down, taking its entirety into his mouth. You feel as his hands wrap around your waist and he grabs a fistful of your muscular ass, causing you to let out another deep, masculine moan. You can feel your dick throbbing, your balls growing heavy with your seed. And as he expertly works the head of your cock, you can feel it. You’re getting close... so close. And then it stops. You’re breathing heavy now, and you look down at him. A sheen of sweat covers your body, dampening your body hair and filling the air with your country musk.

“Wh... why’d ya stop?” You breath out.

Bucky smirks, “You sure 'bout this, darlin’? Leavin’ behind all that city livin’ and book-learnin’? Just you and me, livin’ simple out here?” He licks along your shaft again, “Once you say yes, that’s it. No turnin’ back, no second thoughts. You sure you’re ready for that?”

Was this what he wanted? To bring you so close? To send you into a horny frenzy? To make it so that in this moment, all you’d be able to say was yes? With a smirk and a wink, he went back to sucking your cock. And as he did, you could feel it. You could feel your brain shrinking. Your memories growing up in suburbia vanished. As were your memories of going to college in the city. Nerdy interests like videogames and comic books vanished from your brain, and you felt terror as you forgot about your friends and family. Everything that made you you was vanishing from your mind. Instead, you could feel new interests: farming, hunting, woodworking, lifting weights, and drinking beer with your husband after a long day. Your fashion sense simplified: wifebeaters and work jeans, and honestly going shirtless was preferred. And as your eyes dimmed to reflect your lack of intelligence, and Bucky bobbed up and down on your dick, you finally came, releasing all of who you used to be. And as you filled your husband’s eager throat, you blacked out.

If someone told you who you used to be in your past life, I’m not sure you would go back. When the police came by a few days after your transformation with a missing persons poster of some kid, you had no idea who they were talking about. You quickly forgot all about that encounter. You had more important things like fixing the truck. But before you did that, you should check on Bucky. It’s been a few days, and your balls were mighty full.

[sleepyangelkami]

INDISPOSED d.winchester

𝜗𝜚 WORD COUNT - 2.1K

DEAN WINCHESTER X FEM!READER

𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - you always seem to feel more than upset when you're sick. luckily for you, dean's always by your side when you fall ill, no matter the time.

𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - sick!reader, illness symptoms, flu, dizziness, aches, reader's a little emotional, eating?, crying, mention of reader's lonely past, non-sexual nudity, kinda crybaby!reader, (1) use of y/n, slightly ooc dean, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷

there's seemingly a tell tale sign of when you're feeling extra poorly, and that's the feeling of water beginning to pool in your waterline.

you couldn't help the dramatics that would take over your body, much less when you find dean sitting in your bedroom, assuring you that it was alright that he'd come home early from his hunt. "you shouldn't have to leave sam alone 'cause of me." you were a sniffling mess at your desk, for two reasons, one being that you were upset and the second being that your nose was so stuffed you could hardly breathe.

"sammy's fine to figure out the rest of this one, baby." dean was sitting on your bed, girly covers and throw pillows surrounding him. "and i don't have to do anything, i'm choosing to be here." dean's voice was all low and soft, the voice he used when you were upset which was seemingly more often than you'd thought.

you heard him shuffle across the room to where you sat on a brown, tattered chair.

he crouched down so he was eye level with you. "come on, sweetheart, you know you're just upset 'cause you feel all sick." his hand was gently tracing your thigh, soothing you from your sniffles. "think you just need to lay down, yeah?"

you mumbled something that he didn't quite catch with a nod.

he waited momentarily but you hadn't made any decision to move. "y/n." your eyes snapped up to meet his. "come lay down."

"okay." was your sheepish response.

dean didn't often call you by your name, he cast it away with all the lovely nicknames he'd picked out for you personally. nobody was baby but his car, until he'd met you. it came so easily, that soft way of loving.

when dean had you finally beneath the blankets, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, half-comforting and half-trying to gauge your temperature.

"where are you going?" your hand reached out for his lower arm.

dean turned down to look at you, a smile softly reaching his lips. "just getting your medication, baby, i'll be back, don't worry." and this time, the kiss pressed against your forehead was purely because he felt like it.

dean was well aware of your inability to take care of yourself. now, he was in no way calling you a nuisance, he just wished you cared for yourself as much as he did. with that being said, he did always love being able to care for you, it was a way that was so different than having to take care of sam his whole life. perhaps it was because this, he wasn't obliged to do, it wasn't expected of him.

he loved taking care of you but if anything were to happen to him... he'd like to know you could take care of yourself, too.

when dean returned to the bedroom, you were passed out asleep against the sheets. the man couldn't help but stop in his tracks.

you were a chatty person, awfully bubbly at times. and dean loved that about you, listening to you babble on about something and when he didn't catch a word he'd ask you to repeat what you said, it was always funny watching as the gears turned in your head, trying to remember.

sometimes you swore you talked so much that you tuned yourself out.

dean didn't though, he listened to every word that spilled from your lips.

but you were chatty with everyone you were close to. god forbid you ever went on a road trip with he and sam.

but with him you could be quiet at times, you still got shy and nervous around him which always made him coo, there was something sweet at the fact you could be so different behind closed doors, so yourself.

and seeing you like this, your lips drew into a pout and pink staining your ill cheeks, well it was rather nice, he thought.

he hated to be so evil as he was to wake you.

"sweetheart." the mere whisper of the name as his hands came down to soothe your arms was enough to have your eyelids peeling open. "sweetheart, c'mon, you gotta take your medicine."

a half-whine fell from your lips as he sat you up against the bed, sitting too so that you could lean yourself against him. dean was suddenly aware of how much hotter your body had gotten. he hadn't been gone long, just a trip to the kitchen to get you a glass of water and the medication he needed, though it'd taken him a while to find it. he had a bad habit of leaving things in strange places and forgetting about it.

he handed you off the capsules and then the glass of water.

"how're you feeling, honey?" the back of his palm pressed against your right cheek then slightly down your top, to your chest. he was like a concerned mother. "you're really hot."

"thanks." you quipped, leaning your hot forehead against his arm and sipping the water he'd given you.

he rolled his eyes at your remark, obviously taking your sickness more seriously than you were. "'m serious, you can't have blankets."

"dean!"

"no."

"dean, 'm cold." you nuzzled yourself further into dean's warm body, a dark grey hoodie coated his form along with black sweatpants, not his usual attire.

"you're not cold." he took your face between his two hands. "you're sick." pressing a kiss against the tip of your nose. you fought the words 'sap' to come from the back of your scratchy throat. "you can have the blankets but i have to take this off, then." you felt him gently pull at the shirt you'd stolen from him, clad on your body.

"deal." you mumbled, feeling a wave of dizziness hit you.

to make matters worse, you shook your head, thinking it would rid of the dizziness.

"hey, don't do that." he steadied your head before taking the glass out from your hands and placing it on the bedside dresser.

you felt his hands on your shirt, slowly pulling it from your frame. you helped by putting your arms in he air, allowing him to pull it off your body and toss it somewhere on the ground.

"want the tv on?" you nodded your head silently as the man rose from his place on the bed, reaching the tv stand where he picked up the remote and switched it on.

aimlessly, you uttered, "my legs hurt." while sliding back under the pretty covers.

he was busy fidgeting with the buttons on the remote. he never did know how to work your tv properly. "'s just cause your sick, it'll go away, baby."

you huffed at his response, laying your head on the pillows while you pulled the blanket close to you. you were cold but it was that sickly cold where you couldn't tell if it was really a chill or perhaps you were so warm that you felt cold, which didn't make a whole pile of sense.

when dean finally climbed back into the bed, your body practically collapsed on top of him.

he laid with an arm behind his neck and the other trailing shapes across your bare back, you lay with your head on his chest, listening to the low tv along with the thumping of his heart.

"are you okay?" you mumbled, voice slick with tiredness. the sickness was weird like that, hitting you suddenly, leaving just as immediately.

dean could have cooed at you. even while you were wrapped up in blankets, sick as a small hospital, you managed to ask him if he was okay.

It was another reason why he liked taking care of you. you took care of each other. "i'm okay."

another hushed mumble. "promise?"

"i promise." he answered honestly, fingers against your skin, moving up and down your back. "get some sleep, 'kay?"

a yawn passed your lips. "okay."

they said sleep was the best medicine, that it cured everything that was curable. well, you weren't sure anyone had said it to you but you just knew that it was said.

you had to beg to differ.

by dinnertime, your temperature was running hot.

earlier was the kind of sick that you could stomach, this was the kind of sick that had you flushed against the headboard of your bed, hands running down your face as you felt your head pound against the back of your eyes.

you could hear dean walk back into the room and you felt guilt soar through your veins.

you knew you were being... difficult to say the least. but you couldn't help it, hot tears gathering at your waterline all over again.

the mattress dipped as dean nudged your arm and you looked up at him with glossy eyes before looking down at the sandwich sitting on a plate in his hands.

"know you said you're not hungry but can you try eat some f'me? 's jam." his tone was all soft and his voice was all quiet. by now, he'd turned off the tv and closed the curtains, noticing how the light had been affecting your eyes. the only light on now was the little lamp sitting on your bedside table so you could actually see your surroundings.

you nodded hesitantly and took the sandwich from him.

dean noticed things about you like nobody else. he very early on found out that you loved jam sandwiches, you loved raspberry jam but you had an awful distaste for strawberry jam so from there on, he never bought strawberry jam on the offhand occurence that you may accidentally use it without looking at the label and get your jam sandwich ruined.

you were halfway through said sandwich when you placed it back on the plate, begging to tear up.

dean immediately took notice of it, taking the plate from you. "wh's wrong, baby? too much?"

you shook your head, sniffling. even the act of shaking your head had you clutching it soon after.

dean tutted, moving your hand away so he could soothe your forehead with a kiss and a gentle movement of his thumb. "poor girl." you heard him mutter under his breath, his brows strewn together in sympathy.

looking up at him, you had those glassy eyes that made his stomach feel almost as nauseous as yours. he didn't have to ask what was troubling you for you answered, anyway, to the silent question behind his eyes. "you're so nice to me."

his heart shattered a little.

it was no supirse that you didn't grow up with much comfort surrounding you and that only got worse as you began to get older. some days, you didn't think you'd ever get the comfort that your body ached for. and then dean winchester walked in, and his one and only goal was to take care of you, was to care for you, was to love you.

so you couldn't help tearing up a little from time to time when you think about the strawberry jam he gave up just for you.

"oh, baby. you're my sweet girl." he pulled you closer to him, putting your forehead against his chest so you could lean your weight on him. "'course 'm nice to you."

he helped you sit on his lap, fully discarding the place wherever his hands could push it to.

then his hands found your body, roaming it with this gentleness yet assertion. you'd put his shirt back on a while ago and discarded the blankets, which he was thankful for. he needed to break your temperature.

you weren't due medication for another two hours and you'd taken all the painkillers you could.

right now, all he could offer was himself.

and that was enough for you.

your arms tightened around his shoulders as you sniffled, tears breaking down your cheeks with a defeated sigh. "hate bein' sick." you uttered, sadness evident in your voice.

"i know, angel, i know." he gently rocked you in his lap, not enough to make your head dizzy but enough to bring you back to the moment, to remind you he was there.

and you stayed like that for seemingly a long time, melting into one another's embrace as if it were the most entertaining thing in the world.

you pressed your flush cheek against the hoodie covering his bare shoulder. the tears eventually dried up and all that was left was your frustrated sighs and mumbles.

"'s okay, sweetheart." he pressed a final kiss to your flushed face. "it'll pass."

and he was by your side as soon as it did.

main masterlist/dean's masterlist

[briefinquiries]

Tyler Owens x Reader: The Storm Inside Your Mind

Request: Anonymous said: "tyler x reader with panic attacks"

Word count: 2k

Warnings: panic attack tw

A/N: obviously stole some of Kate's trauma for this one... I feel like I've written a few fics where reader has panic attacks now, so sorry if this sounds repetitive at all. But as always, thank you all for the kind words, replies, and comments on my work. It's super encouraging and very appreciated!!

The team isn’t chasing today. Instead, you set up the RV and some tents at a campsite, hoping to enjoy what little time you had left of tornado season. 

Tyler gets a fire going while Boone and Dexter drag the camp chairs around it. There’s only half an hour or so left of daylight, and the crew decides s’mores will do just fine for dinner. 

Boone makes a joke about s’mores meeting all his nutritional food group needs, everyone laughs. Tyler settles into the chair beside you, his knee gently grazing against yours to catch your attention. 

When you look at him, he winks. A silent toss of affection. A sweet reminder that it’s you and him, even amongst the chaos of all your friends. 

The sun sets, casting a thousand shades of pinks and purples through the sky. It’s mesmerizing– the evening is perfect. 

It’s amazing how quickly things can fall apart.

All it takes is one note– 

Dani grabs their guitar and begins strumming softly to no tune in particular. Then Boone shouts out a song request that makes your breath catch. You try to be subtle, but you notice Tyler’s eyes lingering on you, because he can read you just as well as he can read any storm. 

You offer him the best, most reassuring smile that you can– and it must be good enough, because he looks back towards the fire. 

You pick at the skin around your nails, because it’s always been a good distraction. But even that isn’t enough when Dani plays the first note– 

“Took my love and I took it down,” they sing softly. 

And then suddenly, you can’t breathe. All you can hear is your best friend asking you to turn up the volume to her favorite song when it had come on the radio only minutes before everything had gone so, so wrong. 

Normally, you can talk yourself down from these moments, you can practice all the grounding exercises your therapist taught you and move on. But you feel the sense of panic creeping up your throat and it’s strong and fast. You don’t think you can deep breathe your way out of this one without anyone noticing.

In a rush, you stand up from your camp chair and mumble something incoherent about needing to go. It’s not very subtle, but it’s all you can manage before stumbling into the RV– aiming for the bathroom. 

Tyler calls your name, but all you hear is the sound of your friend screaming it over the increasing winds as they reached for you. 

From there it only gets worse– 

It comes in waves– memories of Fleetwood Mac still playing from the radio while you sat in the car and frantically tried to decide which way to run– the realization that no matter where you went, the tornado was going to consume you– knowing that the overpass was the worst place to go, but your alternative was remaining out in the open. Your name tumbling from your friend's lips as she begged you to help pull her up the ramp because her shoes kept slipping. The sound of her scream when the chunk of debris sent her flying into the storm. You losing sight of her body after only a second– 

The bathroom door rattles. “Y/N?” Tyler calls with a knock. “What happened?”

“What happened?” your friend’s dad had asked with tears spilling down his cheeks after the officer told them that their daughter was dead. “What the hell happened?” 

“There’s no storm,” you whisper to yourself. “The skies are clear– there’s no storm.”

Tyler calls your name a second time and knocks harder– the door rattles. You grip the edge of the sink and bite down harshly on your lip to keep yourself from screaming. Because despite the calm conditions outside, the storm inside your mind is here– it’s rattling the door and shaking the RV– it’s creating dark clouds, and causing them swirling around in every corner of your body– winds are flying through your stomach and your chest, the air is heavy, it’s harder to breathe– 

You put your hands over your ears and sink to the floor helplessly. 

“Y/N, answer me,” Tyler’s panicked– you can hear it in his voice. “I swear to God, I’m gonna kick this door down–”

You try to inhale– to tell him not to do that– that repairing a door will be expensive. But instead of finding your words, all you can do is choke out a desperate sob. The storm has stolen all your air– it’s sucked it right from your lungs… 

Before you can try again, the entire bathroom shakes when the hinges on the door break loose with a bang. Tyler’s eyes land on you– huddled on the floor, gasping for the breath you can’t find. 

Except– it’s not Tyler. It’s your friend’s dad. He’s come to get you– to kill you like you killed his daughter. 

You attempt to push yourself backwards on the floor, but the bathroom is small and soon, you've only managed to wedge yourself between the toilet and the wall. You try to speak again– to tell him how sorry you are for getting his daughter killed– but you can’t. Clutching desperately at your chest, you heave and heave, squeezing your eyes shut. 

The storm inside your mind causes the clouds to start swirling around chaotically– 

The storm inside your mind rips trees right from the roots– 

The storm inside your mind destroys everything in its path– 

“Baby–” a familiar warm voice cuts through the fog. And then, suddenly, someone grips your knee, causing your entire body to seize. 

“It’s me,” a gentle voice murmurs. "Hey, it’s me.“

Through your foggy haze, you recognize Tyler’s touch– and when you open your eyes, you see him squatting down to get on your level. 

But your knees– you open your mouth to say, except all that comes out is a gasp– a plea for help. 

“Okay, it’s okay. Look at me, baby,” he says. “It’s okay– you’re okay.” 

“I– can’t–” you gasp, your own hands flying up to grip his forearms for some sort of lifeline to reality. “I can’t– breathe–” 

“Okay, okay, okay,” he says. He’s trying to stay calm, but you can hear the uneasiness in his voice. “With me.” 

He gives a deep, methodical inhale before letting out a slow, intentional exhale. “Just do it with me. Slow, like this.” 

He continues, and you try to match his pace– to breathe with him, but it feels like the storm has stolen your lungs– ripped them right out of your chest– 

“Tyler–” you beg, your voice hoarse. “I can’t–” 

“C’mon, with me,” he repeats earnestly. He’s looking at you with terror in his eyes, but you find comfort in their familiarity just the same. “We’ve done this before, you know how to do this.”

“I– I–” you stammer, but the words won’t form. 

“Shh, with me. Everything’s okay. I’m here. We’re both okay,” he assures you. His gaze is just so tender and soft and careful while his thumb grazes your cheek. 

“I- I can’t-” you choke again, “Please–”

“Shh-” he soothes. “Look at me, nothing else, just me.”

Your wide, desperate eyes meet his. You don’t say anything, just shudder and gasp frantically.  

“With me,” he repeats.

Tyler slow and calming, in and out breathes. After a few seconds, you latch onto the sound, mimicking it, and then finally follow along. 

“There you go,” he whispers.

Your facial features slowly start to relax as you’re able to breathe properly.  Without your loud, choking sobs, you’re able to hear your heartbeat pounding in your chest frantically.  

“Good job,” Tyler sighs. “Look, it’s just you and me, we’re okay, we're both safe–” 

But he can’t even finish his sentence before you lean forward and reach for him. Tyler takes advantage of your gesture and quickly grips under your arms, yanking you from the corner and pulling you forward. He sits back on the floor, back resting against the door frame while he rests you on his lap. As soon as he’s settled, you wind your arms around his neck– desperate and longing for some sort of comfort. 

Strong, sturdy arms wrap around you as you hide your face into his chest. You breathe him in, letting his familiar scent wash over you. The sound of his heartbeat races in your ear (bum, bum, bum, bum). It reminds you that you’re both here– right now. Not stuck in an underpass, not chasing a tornado. But here– on the floor in the RV bathroom. 

“It’s okay,” Tyler soothes. Upon feeling your shaky body pressed against his, he squeezes tighter. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here, I got you.”

You melt against him in response, bunching the fabric of his shirt into your fist, trying to communicate just how badly you need him to hold you right now. 

And that’s exactly what he does— until you can finally breathe on your own again. 

And then the wave of guilt comes.

Suddenly the realization of everything hit you– what a basketcase you’ve been, running off like that, having a meltdown in front of everyone– you probably scared the shit out of them. And then there’s the door– broken right from the hinges. 

Slowly, you pull back. 

“Are you okay?” Tyler says before you can even open your mouth. He brushes the strands of loose hair from your face.  

You exhale a deep, shuddering breath that you can feel down your entire body. “I’m okay,” you say, your voice raw. 

“Baby, you don’t have to run from me when you’re having a panic attack. I’m here for you, you know that.”

“I know,” you whimper. “I know– I’m so sorry– I didn’t mean to freak out–”

“Shh. Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay,” Tyler says. “You don’t have to apologize. I just– I want you to come to me when you’re struggling. I want to be able to help you.”

“I just—” you start, but you stop when you notice how choked up your voice sounds. You take a slow breath. “I can't think clearly when they come. All I could think about was getting away. I didn't want to scare you– I wanted to prove to you that I was doing better– that I wasn’t going to freak out all the time. But it–” 

As soon as you feel the tears burning behind your eyes, you dig the heels of your palms into them frustratedly, like you were physically trying to push them away. 

“It was the music. That was her favorite song.” You didn’t even have to say your friend’s name for Tyler to know what you were talking about. “I just… I heard that first note and I panicked– I just felt like I had to get away.” 

Tyler nodded in understanding. “You don’t have to hide from me,” he whispered. “Next time, you drag me to the bathroom with you and we’ll get through it together, okay? I think that’ll save us many doors in the future.”

You exhale a puff of air, your best attempt at laughter. 

“I’m just sorry you have to deal with me all the time. You have enough on your plate,” you groan, rubbing your tired eyes. 

Tyler sighs. “Baby, I drive around and chase tornadoes– shoot some fireworks into the air when I’m really feelin’ it. I think I can handle being there for you on top of that,” he says. “I love you. And I want you to be okay, always. That’s all I’ll ever want.”

Nodding slowly, you lean forward and rest your forehead on Tyler’s chest. 

Strong, warm arms anchor you to safety. You hold on to Tyler– letting the sound of his heartbeat (bum, bum, bum, bum) block out any noise from the raging storms inside your mind. 

[starboye]

Kinktober Day 1

starring: john price x male reader

request: Older!Captain Price fucking femboy!younger!male reader

warnings: smut, cursing, femboy!reader, kinda age play, praise, pet names, unprotected sex, somewhat blowjob, perv!141 team, mentions of masturbation, daddy kink, creampie

how did the team ever get so lucky with a young bun like you, so helpful and cheerful around the base as the assistant to price, always helping the team out even when they tell you no because they don't want you overexerting or even worse hurting yourself so no matter how much you say you could help they make sure you're out of the way when they work on the cars around the base or something else.

hell, sometimes they use you as eye candy while they work, glancing over at your beautiful ass self dawned in some tight shorts with a little skirt around it because price said you couldn't wear that short of a skirt with nothing underneath it around the base so you just settled with putting some shorts under it with a tight button up shirt that had a couple buttons popped open to help with the hot weather.

and each time you caught them looking they would quickly act like they were talking among each other but just to give them what they want a little bit you would pretend to drop some papers then bend over to pick them up, giving the boys a clear view of you pretty ass, letting their thoughts run wild as they thought of the many ways the would use you if given the chance, to the dismay of price who was watching from a nearby window.

so he calls you into his office, you walking down the hallway nervously before stepping into his office, the air was tense as he sat in his chair, arms folded across his big chest "you wanted to see me sir" you were nervous as hell and it showed on your nervous stance "c'mere love" he said patting his leg and you slowly made your way to him before lightly sitting down on him, his hand caressing your lower back.

"y'know i can't have you runnin' around here lookin' like that and distractin' all the guys from their work right" he asked, his eyes glued to your face as you tried to find anything else to look at "yes sir" you stammered "just think of what some old dog like them or me happens when we see you lookin' like a beaut'" his hands now trailing up and down your spine making you shudder to his rough yet soft touch.

"im sorry mr.price" you were getting hornier by the seconds with his longing touches and soft words you just didn't want to embarrass yourself in front of him "no need to be sorry, just where this stuff f'us okay, me and the team and no one else" he wasn't being coy anymore he wanted you and you caught onto that quickly so what would be the harm in acting in your slutty way "so just you and the team, all my ass for you guys" you ask tuning at him fully and straddling his lap, his hands finding and holding your waist.

"ah ah i didn't say the team could have this ass now did i, this ass is just f'me but i'll let the guys fuck you with their eyes" he assured beginning to kiss your neck and feel you ass, your arms draped over his shoulder as you began grinding on him speedily "now how about i get a taste of this jaw dropping ass i've seen so much" he said pulling your shorts off but leaving the skirt for the pretty look of it.

you slowly pull down his jeans down to see the outline of his hard on, palming him through briefs making him rock hard while you both made out "m'gonna need that hole now lovie" he panted slapping your ass and kneading it intently so you did as he said and pulled his briefs down to let his girthy cock fling out, as you spit into your hand and began working on lubing up his dick price took off your shirt and littered your chest in little bites and hickeys, further adding to his boner.

he lifted you up and angled you over his cock before plopping you down, drawing a loud moan from you that price swallowed with a deep kiss "stay quiet now, wouldn't want the others to hear would ya" price urged pulling back to lean into the chair and watch this cute sight "yes sir" and with that you were off, hopping up and down on his dick like a desperate puppy, needy for every inch of your boss and price? well price was just happy he could get some action after so long i mean he could only go on so long with jerking off to some porn.

and with a pretty young thing like you, he was happy as hell to be fucking you, groaning lowly with each plap from your ass against his lap "a young thing like you with an old dog like me, almost like a match doomed to meet" price smirked throwing his hands behind your head and making you do all the work in pleasuring his cock and you were to out of it to even reply, your tongue lolling out with drool dripping from the corner of your mouth "ha m'dick so good can't even reply" price snickered, enjoying the sight of your little skirt flying up and down.

the real reason he didn't want you wearing just a skirt is because he was nervous the others would be so desperate to fuck you that they'd do anything to get in your bed (and hole) so he told you to cover up more, you were now leaning into him, arms wrapped around his necked as you fucked yourself on him like your life depended on it but no worries price loved the sight of your ass bouncing against him and you moaning in his ear like a whore.

"you want daddys cum" price asks now controlling your ass, his hands tightly holding your cheeks in his hand and lowering you up and down on his cock "mhm i want it so bad" you whined, price couldn't believe that with a few words he'd have you begging for his cum and he was so happy that he finally got to fuck you after so long of only imagining it, mentally bragging about how he got to fuck you before the rest of the boys.

"right there sir please keep going right there" prices' cock was hitting every one of your sensitive spots bringing you right to the edge of cumming with price who was loving every second of this so much that he blew his load without even thinking, filling you up with his warm cum making you cum on the spot, littering his shirt with your cum "oh no pup you ruined my shirt" price said looking all pouty but he was joking but you took it seriously.

"im so so sorry sir i'll clean it up" you quickly said getting to your knees and licking the cum from his shirt, every drop of it and making it all clean again, you down below him between his thighs was making him think some thoughts, mainly ones that were questioning how much of his cock could he fit down your tight throat, he started thinking even nastier perverted thoughts when you started cleaning his cock.

tongue swirling around his dick to lick up all the cum and saliva that you made, and damn i must say you were looking insatiable, hole still dripping with warm cum and looking fucked out but still wanting to do good boy for your boss "this is definitely adding to your performance evaluation" price joked as he put his dick back in his pants and helped you clean up with some napkins he had lying around and put your stuff back on, leaving some lingering touches on your ass before kissing you and watching you walk out the door.

you saw the boys running back to their rooms with their pants shimmied down their thighs, knowing they listened to the whole ordeal and jerked off to it, nice to know you basically had them wrapped around your well manicured finger.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft

[puleosauto]

Wondering what happens when your car needs a tune up? Ask your mechanic at Puleo's Auto Clinic for more information about car diagnostics.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Heyy, could you maybe do an age difference reader x Toto Wolff or sunshine x grumpy, where he has one of his headphone breaking moments and she scolds him in the middle of the garage? Like I’d find super funny like his smaller, younger wife yelling at him for breaking his headphones and the fans and media eating that up haha. Please and thanks!! <3

The hum of the Mercedes garage was as familiar as it was chaotic, a rhythm of voices, machinery, and focused intensity. Engineers moved swiftly, the clatter of tools punctuating their discussions as mechanics fine-tuned the car for the upcoming race. Amidst the organized chaos, you stood by the monitors, scanning data with a calm focus that contrasted sharply with the frenetic energy around you.

Then it happened.

“Verdammt!” Toto’s voice boomed from the other end of the garage, startling even the most seasoned team members. Heads turned to see him, towering as always, but now radiating frustration. His expression was a storm cloud, and in his hands were the remnants of his latest pair of Bose headphones, the poor device snapped clean in two.

You let out a sigh, half amused, half exasperated. Your husband—the esteemed team principal of Mercedes-AMG Petronas, feared and respected across the paddock—had once again succumbed to his infamous headphone-breaking habit.

“Oh no, not again,” you muttered under your breath. You handed your tablet to a nearby engineer and strode across the garage, weaving through the maze of equipment and personnel. The team parted like the Red Sea as you approached, sensing what was about to unfold.

Toto stood there, oblivious to the audience he had attracted. His broad shoulders heaved as he tried to rein in his temper, the broken headphones dangling from his massive hands. He looked every bit the grumpy giant he was known to be, but to you, it was just another Friday.

“Toto Wolff,” you began, your voice sharp enough to cut through the air. His head snapped up, and his stormy gaze softened—just a little—when it landed on you. But his sheepish expression did nothing to quell your determination.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, planting your hands on your hips. Despite being significantly shorter and younger than him, you had no trouble commanding the attention of a man who could intimidate entire boardrooms.

“They broke,” Toto said, as if that explained everything. He held up the shattered headphones as evidence, his Austrian accent thick in his defense.

“Oh, really?” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words. “Did they break, or did you break them? Because I’ve lost count of how many pairs you’ve destroyed this season alone. What is it now, five? Six?”

A snicker rippled through the garage, and you caught George trying to suppress a grin from where he stood by the car. Even the media personnel hovering near the entrance couldn’t hide their amusement, cameras clicking furiously to capture the moment.

Toto’s ears turned red, a rare crack in his composed demeanor. “It was… a stressful situation,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but at you.

“Stressful?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “And snapping your headphones in half helps how, exactly? Are you planning to intimidate Red Bull with broken electronics now?”

The garage erupted in laughter, and Toto’s lips twitched, caught between a scowl and a smile. He shifted awkwardly, the 6’4” team principal suddenly looking very much like a schoolboy caught red-handed.

“You need to control your temper, mein Liebling,” you said, softening your tone but not your resolve. “You’re setting a terrible example for the team. And for the record, I’m not buying you another pair. You can use the cheap earbuds like everyone else until you learn some self-restraint.”

Toto’s eyes widened, the horror of your words sinking in. “Not the earbuds,” he said, as if you’d suggested he race barefoot.

“Yes, the earbuds,” you confirmed, folding your arms. “Consider it a lesson in anger management.”

Another wave of laughter rippled through the team, and even Toto couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him. He looked down at you, his eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and affection.

“You’re terrifying when you’re angry,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Good,” you replied, poking a finger into his chest. “Maybe you’ll finally listen to me.”

As you turned to walk away, the garage buzzed with whispered commentary and stifled laughs. The moment had been caught by every camera in the vicinity, and you had no doubt it would be all over social media within the hour.

A shadow loomed over you, and you turned to see Toto standing there, an apologetic smile on his face. In his hand was a hastily repaired pair of headphones, held together with duct tape.

“I’ll behave,” he promised, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “No more broken headphones.”

“Good,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Because next time, it’ll be the earbuds and no kisses for a week.”

He groaned dramatically but nodded, retreating to his post with his makeshift headphones. You shook your head, a fond smile tugging at your lips. He might be a grumpy giant with a penchant for breaking expensive electronics, but he was your grumpy giant. And if keeping him in line meant scolding him in front of the entire team, well, you were more than up to the task.