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nuelles · 3 days ago

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Giddy Up, Spencer || Spencer Agnew

Summary: When Smosh Summer Games: Cowboys vs. Robbers lands the cast on your family’s Southern farm, Spencer Agnew is fully prepared for heat, hay bales, and general chaos. What he’s not ready for is how flustered he gets around you—a fellow cast member, longtime farm girl, and expert at making him forget how words work. As the challenges get messier (and the rooster attacks more personal), Spencer finds himself tangled in something far trickier than obstacle courses: feelings. By the time the final challenge rolls around, it’s not just about winning points—it’s about whether he’ll finally cowboy up and kiss the girl who’s been roping his heart all week.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x Southern!Reader

Tropes: Opposites Attract, Ridiculous Challenges, PDA, Farm Chaos

Warnings: Fluff, Romance, Flirting, Carl the Rooster, Author knows nothing about farm life, not proofread

WC: 7.1K

Requested: Yes (by anon) thanks for the idea sugar <3

Author's Note: Tried listening to some country music while writing, hopefully it translated through lol also I wanted to add a lot more challenge-wise but decided to just focus on Spencer and Reader oops

If anyone had told Spencer Agnew he’d spend a week filming Smosh Summer Games: Cowboys vs. Robbers on a real-deal Southern farm, he would’ve laughed, made a sarcastic remark about outlaw fashion, and then quietly prepared to die in 90-degree heat.

But no one told him that the real danger wasn’t the heat, or the bugs, or Ian’s over-enthusiastic cowboy accent.

It was you.

You stood at the edge of the gravel driveway in cut-off jeans, a tied-up flannel shirt, and worn-in boots that looked like they’d actually touched dirt before today. Sunlight hit your face just right as you waved at the approaching van.

“Welcome to the farm, y’all!” you called, Southern drawl like molasses—warm and impossible to ignore.

Spencer, from the back seat of the van, whispered, “Okay. Nope. Not emotionally ready for that.”

Damien, beside him, raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Spencer sat up straighter. “For the full Yeehaw Cinematic Universe. Obviously.”

Damien grinned. “Sure. That’s totally what you meant.”

There was something about the way you said y’all that short-circuited his frontal lobe. This was going to be a long trip.

As the van came to a stop, Spencer gave himself a pep talk: You were just a person, a beautiful, smart, and funny person. And this was just like any other work trip —

“How was the ride, darlin’?” Spencer had been so in his head that he hadn’t noticed Shayne open the side door or seen his fellow castmates get off, leaving him by himself in his dissociated state. “Hope you’re not getting second thoughts about coming to my family farm,” Spencer shook his head, trying and failing to get the words out.

“Yes — No, I mean no, I was just giving everyone a head start, you know, since I'm gonna win this.” You arched a brow at him but shrugged nonetheless, “Can’t wait to see that, sugar.”

Fuck

You helped them unload gear, directing people to where the bunkhouse was, where the bathrooms were, and where not to step if they didn’t want to get chased by a rooster named Carl.

Spencer tried to keep his cool. He really did.

But then you handed him a bottle of water and said, “You better hydrate, darlin’. Don’t want you droppin’ like a sack of flour on your first day.”

He almost said “thank you.” What came out was: “Ha ha yeah cool cool flour me.” His brain screamed internally. Why did he say that? What did that even mean? It was like his mouth had disconnected from his consciousness and gone rogue.

You blinked.

He blinked.

Courtney, walking past, snorted so hard she almost choked on their gum.

“Flour you?” you repeated, smiling with a raised brow.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Sorry. I meant... thank you. I’m not used to being in the presence of someone who knows how to wrangle cattle and also looks like they belong on the cover of a romance novel.”

You tilted your head. “You callin’ me a cowboy romance cover model?”

Spencer blinked, realizing what he’d just said, and immediately tried to backpedal. “I mean, not in a weird way. Like, respectfully. Like, you’d have a hat and a horse and emotional range.”

You laughed again, clearly entertained. Spencer fought the urge to bury himself in the hay bales behind you.

“I’m just saying if there was a book where someone tames a mysterious stranger with a YouTube career and too many emotional metaphors, I feel like you could carry the whole plot.”

There was a pause.

Then you grinned. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I’m sweating and emotionally compromised.”

You laughed, soft and amused. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Spencer stood very still, wondering if it was possible to pass out from sheer attraction.

Shayne wandered over, squinting. “Are you two flirting or having a stroke? I can’t tell.”

Spencer didn’t answer. He was still rebooting.

A few minutes later, Ian clapped his hands together and yelled, “Alright, y’all! Y/N’s family was nice enough to let us crash here, so find a partner and head inside, tomorrow’s filming day!”You pointed toward a wooden fence across the field. “Home is this way. Mind the goats.”

Spencer squinted. “Wait. Actual goats? Like, roaming? With agendas?”

You gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Welcome to the country, cowboy.”

As you walked away, Spencer turned to Damien and whispered, “They just touched my shoulder, and I think I need a moment alone.”

Damien just sighed. “You’re gonna die out here, man.”

Spencer nodded, smiling like an idiot. “Yeah. And I’m gonna look hot doing it.”

Spencer woke up to the sound of a rooster crowing like it had a personal vendetta against him.

For a solid three seconds, he thought it was Damien doing a bit.

Then he opened his eyes, saw the rustic wood paneling, the dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight, and—most disturbingly—a goat staring at him through the bunkhouse window like it had questions.

Spencer stared back.

The goat blinked.

Spencer slowly rolled over and groaned into his pillow. “This place is haunted.”

He sighed and threw his legs over the side of the bed, praying that today would run smoothly— and that his brain would listen to him when you were in front of him.

Slipping on his shoes and glasses, he made his way towards the kitchen. He already knew he looked like a tired zombie. He needed caffeine, and since he’d forgotten his Kickstarters, some good ol’ black coffee would have to do.

In the bunkhouse kitchen, Shayne was already half-dressed in outlaw gear, sipping from a mason jar of coffee like he hadn’t spent the night curled up like a shrimp on an ancient twin mattress.

“Morning, city slicker,” he said cheerfully as Spencer shuffled in.

Spencer ran a hand through his hair, squinting at the weak sunlight pouring through the screen door. “Is this… what morning is supposed to feel like?”

“Welcome to farm time,” Courtney muttered, chewing on whatever breakfast seemed to have been put out and reapplying their mustache for the day. “Time moves differently out here. Like prison.”

“Pretty sure I heard a ghost rooster,” Spencer said.

“That’s just Carl,” Damien yawned, flopping onto a creaky couch. “Y/N says he only goes after people who walk funny.”

Spencer blinked. “I walk fine.”

Everyone stared at him.

“…I walk differently.”

“Oh, by the way,” Damien added, “Y/N also said there’s some Mountain Dew Kickstarter in the fridge for later—made it very clear it’s not a morning drink.”

They’d thought of him. Maybe today really would look different.

An hour later, the full cast had gathered near the massive hay maze built behind the barn. It was tall enough to block your view across the field and rickety enough that it looked like one good sneeze could knock it over—which meant it was perfect.

You strolled over from the barn, clipboard in hand, wearing a fresh plaid shirt tied at the waist and a cowboy hat that probably should’ve looked ridiculous—but somehow didn’t. The sun hit your face, and Spencer had to physically resist the urge to sigh out loud.

“Morning, y’all,” you called, flashing that smile that somehow made dirt roads and sweat look romantic.

Spencer took a gulp of water and muttered to himself, “Cool. Totally normal reaction. Just a normal coworker crush. Not a crisis.”

You came to a stop beside him, giving him a once-over with your eyes. “You look ready.”

“For what? Farm-themed death?”

You grinned. “Maze challenge. First event of the day.”

“Right. Hay. Running. Definitely my strong suit.”

“Did you sleep alright, darlin’?” you asked, teasing. “Did Carl behave?”

Spencer deadpanned, “Carl and I had a heart-to-heart about boundaries. I think we understand each other now.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You’re funny in the morning. That’s rare.”

“No, I’m delusional from sleeping on a mattress stuffed with, I assume, corn husks and regret.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Ian blew a whistle and called the crew to attention. “Alright, people! First challenge: Hay Bale Maze Showdown! The first to solve the puzzle in the middle and escape the maze wins a point and bragging rights. Your surprise partner will enter the maze through the back and meet you at the puzzle if they can make it.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

Your smile only widened. “Aw, poor thing. Need a good-luck charm?”

Before Spencer could answer, you reached out and straightened the askew bandana around his neck and planting a small kiss on his cheek before patting his chest.

“There. Now you’re officially presentable.”

Spencer blinked. Words gone. Brain smooth.

“…I think I’m in love with you,” he said.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“I said—I said thank you. Yep. That’s what I said.”

Shayne rubbed his hands together. “We’re sending Spencer in first. He’s got the legs for it.”

“I do not have the legs for this,” Spencer mumbled, adjusting his too-tight boots.

“Just remember,” Courtney added, twirling their fake sheriff’s badge, “if you get lost, scream dramatically. We’ll assume you’re doing a bit and leave you there.”

As the rest of the cast decided who’d go in after, you passed by Spencer again, leaning close with a crooked smile.

“Don’t worry,” you said quietly, voice smooth and warm. “I believe in you, cowboy.”

Spencer didn’t trip walking into the maze.

But it was close.

Spencer stepped into the hay maze like he was entering a war zone.

He could hear Damien behind him whispering, “Godspeed, buddy,” and Shayne yelling, “Remember us when you’re famous—or dead!”

The opening corridor of the maze was narrow, lined with hay bales stacked taller than his head. It smelled like dust and livestock trauma. Somewhere in the distance, a walkie crackled with static, and Courtney’s voice echoed: “There will be consequences for cheating, and those consequences will be dramatic reenactments.”

Spencer muttered, “That’s not ominous at all.” Time to impress you and show everyone just how quickly he could get out of there.

Cut to: The Other Cast, Waiting Outside the Maze

Courtney, Shayne, and Damien stood on a picnic table, squinting into the maze like over-invested sports commentators.

“Ten bucks says he takes a wrong turn and ends up back at the entrance within five minutes,” Courtney said, arms crossed.

“I’ll double it if he trips over a scarecrow that isn’t even in the challenge,” Shayne added.

Damien held up a hand. “Guys. Come on. Let’s have some faith in him.”

They all turned to see Spencer on the GoPro feed, spinning in a circle and yelling, “WHO DESIGNED THIS? WHO HURT YOU?”

“…Okay, yeah. Ten bucks says he doesn’t make it to the puzzle without an existential crisis.”

Back to Spencer

Spencer turned a corner and hit a dead end.

“Cool,” he muttered. “Symbolic. Love that.”

He backtracked, only to find two identical-looking paths.

Left or right?

He squinted at a hay bale on the left. Someone (Shayne, probably) had taped a piece of paper to it. In bold Sharpie, it read: “This is totally the right way. Definitely. Trust us.”

Spencer stared at it for a moment. “Hmm. That’s not suspicious at all.”

He went left anyway.

Twenty seconds later, he stepped on a booby trap—an explosion of glitter and feathers shot into the air, coating him like an arts-and-crafts project gone rogue.

From somewhere deeper in the maze, a triumphant cackle echoed.

“SHAYNE!” Spencer shouted.

Eventually, by some miracle (and yelling “Marco” until someone shouted “Polo” in confusion), Spencer stumbled into the center clearing—face flushed, shirt wrinkled, and glitter sticking to his hair.

There was a folding table with a jigsaw puzzle.

And next to it, you.

You leaned against the hay wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk playing at your lips. “Well, well,” you said. “You made it.”

Spencer exhaled dramatically and pointed at the puzzle. “Please tell me that’s it. I don’t have to milk a cow next, right?”

“No promises.”

You stepped up to help him with the puzzle, and he glanced at you sideways. “Are you here to sabotage me?”

“Officially? No. Unofficially? Maybe a little.”

He grinned. “Great. Love that. Betrayed by the one person I trusted.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You trust me?”

“I’m covered in glitter and hay. It’s been a long day.”

Together, you managed to finish the puzzle—barely—and Spencer took off running toward the exit, dragging you behind him with a triumphant, “WE’RE FREE! WE SOLVED YOUR RURAL CURSE!”

Everyone cheered.

Spencer collapsed in the grass, face-up, arms spread. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, grinning. “You alright, cowboy?”

He looked up at you, dazed. “Emotionally? No. Spiritually? I think I was reborn inside that maze.”

Courtney leaned over and whispered to Shayne, “Double or nothing, he doesn’t survive the next challenge.”

Later that afternoon, after everyone had recovered (read: collapsed dramatically in the grass for twenty minutes), Ian gathered the cast near the barn with a suspicious gleam in his eye and a coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

“Time for our next challenge!” he announced.

Courtney squinted. “Why do I feel like that’s code for ‘someone’s about to get tackled’?”

You stepped up beside Ian with a grin. “Because someone is—if they don’t dodge fast enough.”

You gestured to a pen just behind you. Your eyes twinkle with excitement, ready to see how everyone would react to the challenge, “Alright, y’all,” you drawled, “this one’s called the Rope ‘Em Rodeo. Teams of two, timed challenge. One person’s gotta lasso a moving target while blindfolded—guided only by their partner’s voice. The fastest team to rope the target wins. Bonus points if you don’t trip and die.”

“Wait—moving target?” Damien asked warily.

You whistled.

From behind the barn, your cousin appeared, leading an actual miniature pony—outfitted with pool noodles taped to its sides like jousting armor. Angela immediately gasped.

“Her name is Clementine!” you said proudly.

Clementine, to her credit, looked like she could not care less.

Spencer stepped forward slowly, eyeing the pony. “I have so many questions, and I’m scared none of the answers will help.”

You clapped him on the back. “You’ll do great.”

The heat simmered off the dirt like a stovetop left on low, and Spencer was already regretting everything.

His bandana was tied over his eyes, itchy and crooked, the rope felt weird in his hands, and somewhere to his left, Clementine the miniature pony let out a huff that sounded judgmental.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and called out, “Just to clarify—I’m blindfolded, holding rope, and about to throw it at a live animal?”

You laughed from the sidelines. “Clementine’s tougher than she looks. And technically, you’re tossin’ the rope near her.”

Spencer tilted his head toward your voice. “That sounds hard.”

“It absolutely is.”

There was a brief pause as he sighed, and the cast behind you murmured in various tones of amusement and very little help. You held the walkie-talkie up to your mouth, your voice warm in his ear through the little earpiece Ian rigged together last-minute.

“Alright, sugar,” you drawled, smile audible. “Take three slow steps forward.”

Spencer shuffled forward like he was walking across lava, arms stiff, rope gripped like it might bite him. “You’re sure this is the right way?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m literally watchin’ you. Trust me.”

“Oh, well, that’s comforting,” he muttered, toeing the dry dirt. “Blindly following the voice of a person who regularly threatens me with roosters.”

“Threatens?” you said, feigning offense. “Carl just likes his personal space respected.”

“I said good morning!”

“And he said, ‘Try again.’”

A ripple of laughter from the others floated across the field. Spencer tried not to smile, but you could hear it in his voice.

“Okay,” you said, focusing. “You’re close now. Couple more steps, then turn about fifteen degrees left.”

Spencer turned right.

“Other left.”

“That’s aggressive,” he muttered, adjusting.

“Alright, now square your shoulders. Clementine’s dead ahead. I need you to aim just a little above her shoulder, then let the rope fly when I say.”

Spencer exhaled slowly. “You ever guided someone into blind-lassoing a pony before?”

“Nope.”

“Cool. Great. Feeling very alive.”

You grinned. “You should. Now… swing it smooth. On my count. Three… two… one—now!”

The rope sailed through the air in a perfect lazy arc. It spun once, then twice—before looping right over Clementine’s neck.

The pony didn’t even flinch. Just blinked.

There was a stunned second of total silence.

Spencer stood frozen. “What happened? Did I rope a person? Is Damien crying?”

You were already running toward him, laughter breaking loose from your chest. “Spencer, you did it! You got her!”

He pulled down the bandana, blinking at the scene before him. “Wait. I actually got the—?”

“Roped her fair and square,” you said, reaching his side.

Spencer looked down at the rope, then at Clementine, then back at you, stunned. “I have no idea how that happened.” Spencer stood there, blinking in disbelief, still gripping the rope that now loosely hung from Clementine’s neck. Glitter clung to his shirt from the earlier maze disaster, and now sweat dotted his brow under the high afternoon sun.

You leaned in, teasing, “Beginner’s luck?”

“No,” he said solemnly. “Divine intervention. Or you bribed the pony.”

“Pfft. Clementine doesn’t take bribes.”

Spencer rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This is either the coolest or weirdest thing I’ve ever done. Possibly both.”

“You did real good, darlin’,” you said softly, grabbing the rope to lead Clementine back toward the post. “Kinda proud of you.”

Spencer opened his mouth—then promptly closed it. Whatever words were forming, they scattered like the hay in his hair. You gave him one last crooked smile before turning to the others.

“Alright, y’all! Who’s up next?”

Team Two: Shayne & Courtney

Shayne marched up like he’d just been handed the role of a lifetime, saluting the crowd.

Courtney pulled the bandana over their eyes with a flourish. “Let’s ride, partner!”

Shayne whispered something dramatic like, “Let the spirit of the wild west consume us,” before guiding Courtney into the arena with a flair for the theatrical.

“Step left! No, your other left! No—wait—SNAKE!” Courtney screamed and threw the rope. It sailed wide, wrapped around a random hay bale, and yanked it straight into Shayne’s shins.

He went down like a sack of yams.

“Y’all okay?” you called, fighting laughter.

Shayne groaned, face in the dirt. “I’ve been humbled.”

Courtney tore the bandana off. “I roped something, though!”

Team Three: Angela & Tommy

Tommy approached with precision, arms folded, already in Game Mode.

Angela, meanwhile, was bouncing slightly on his heels. “Okay, so I have lassoed before—granted, it was a belt loop and a chair leg, but I feel good about this.”

Tommy side-eyed her. “Don’t make me regret this.”

He guided her with shocking clarity—left, left, steady, swing—and when she let it go, it soared in a clean arc…

…and gently landed around Clementine��s neck.

Gasps all around.

“Did we just win the whole game?” Tommy whispered.

Angela smirked. “We roped the pony. That’s a win in my book.”

Clementine sneezed, clearly unimpressed again.

Team Four: Ian & Anthony

When these two stepped up, the chaos was immediate.

“Ian, I swear to God, if you say ‘yeehaw’ one more time—” “YEE-—sorry.”

Anthony stood in front of him like a fed-up schoolteacher. “Just listen to me. No bits. For once in your life.”

Ian pouted. “But I was born for the rope.”

He took two steps, swung wide, and nearly nailed a camera tripod.

A very long, slow silence.

Anthony sighed. “You’re banned from rope.”

Team Five: Amanda & Arasha

Amanda stepped forward with pure confidence. “I grew up on country movies. This is in my blood.”

Arasha blinked. “...I once saw a horse. Does that count?”

“Absolutely not,” Amanda said cheerfully, tossing her bandana on. “We got this.”

Arasha tried her best to guide her, but Amanda had already sprinted full speed across the field, yelling, “YEEHAW!” while swinging the rope above her head like a rodeo queen.

It hit Clementine’s butt.

The pony made an offended noise and trotted a circle in protest.

“Y’all alright?” you called again.

“Great!” Amanda said, grinning. “I call that a direct hit.”

“On the wrong end,” Arasha muttered, facepalming.

When all was said and done, you were laughing so hard your cheeks hurt. The cast gathered again in the middle of the field as Ian tallied scores using an old clipboard and what looked like a cartoonishly large pencil.

“Alright! Time for the final tally,” Alex declared. “Some teams roped with elegance. Others roped with… whatever Ian and Anthony did.”

“That was art,” Ian shouted. “You just didn’t get it.”

Courtney threw a hay bale chunk at his feet.

“Angela and Tommy take the point for fastest clean rope,” Ian announced. “But I think we all agree that Spencer gets the honorary ‘Most Unexpected Cowboy Arc’ ribbon.”

You whooped. “I second that!”

Spencer just looked around like he’d blacked out for the entire event. “Wait, what? What’d I win?”

“Respect,” Damien said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “And possible tetanus.”

“And Clementine’s admiration,” you added, reaching out to gently pluck a piece of glitter out of Spencer’s hair. “She don’t trust easy.”

Spencer, thoroughly flustered, offered a shaky thumbs-up. “Great. Big honor. Thanks. Yeehaw.”

You leaned in with a wink. “You’re startin’ to sound like one of us, cowboy.”

And Spencer didn’t say anything—because he couldn’t say anything.

His brain was still buffering.

The sun had dipped below the hills, leaving the farm bathed in that syrupy golden hour glow. Crickets chirped lazily in the tall grass, fireflies blinked like tiny stage lights, and the air finally cooled enough for people to stop complaining in real-time about heatstroke.

A bonfire crackled at the edge of the field, its orange light flickering across everyone’s faces as they gathered around in mismatched folding chairs, hay bales, and one deflated pool float someone had decided was “rustic.”

You were perched on a log with a s’more in hand, cowboy hat tipped back on your head. Spencer sat across from you, chin in hand, blinking like he was trying not to combust.

Courtney took a huge bite of a marshmallow and pointed at him. “So. You roped the pony.”

Spencer, already mid-sip of water, choked slightly. “Are we still on this?”

“Buddy,” Damien said with mock sympathy, “we will be on this until the end of time.”

“Legend status,” Shayne added. “Right up there with Tommy’s chattering moment and Ian’s two truths and a lie failure.”

Anthony poked at the fire with a stick. “I just want to know how you managed a perfect lasso while blindfolded. That’s, like… divine comedy.”

“He was guided by love,” Amanda said dramatically, clasping her hands together.

You arched a brow, trying not to smirk. “Love?”

“Farm love,” she added with a wink. “Southern tension. There was chemistry in the air.”

Spencer made a strangled noise. “I don’t—what? There was dust in the air.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Tommy said, grinning. “We all saw you blush when Y/N straightened your bandana. You turned the color of a boiled shrimp.”

“I did not!” Spencer protested, half-laughing, half-suffering.

“You did,” Angela said, deadpan. “It was... honestly kind of sweet. Like a middle school dance if it was sponsored by Wrangler.”

Courtney snapped their fingers like they'd cracked a case. “Spencer’s got a farm crush!”

A chorus of “oohs” echoed around the fire like a live studio audience.

Spencer, fully red now, buried his face in his hands. “Why are y’all like this?”

You leaned back, bite of s’more still in hand, and said in your best innocent drawl, “You okay, cowboy? Look a little overheated.”

The group howled.

Shayne was doubled over. Amanda fell off her chair.

“Okay,” Spencer said, pointing at you, “you don’t get to say that while lookin’ like you walked out of a romance cover and lassoed my nervous system.”

“Nervous system?!” Damien howled.

Even Clementine—off in the distance, tied to a post and chewing hay—snorted like she was laughing.

You tipped your hat lower, hiding your smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Y’all flirting is louder than Ian yelling ‘Yeehaw,’” Courtney added.

“I regret nothing,” Ian called from where he was roasting a marshmallow at a wildly unsafe angle.

Spencer groaned and melted further into his chair. “Why did I come on this trip.”

“Because fate wanted us to watch you fall in farm love,” Shayne said, holding his hands to the sky. “And we are so blessed.”

You met Spencer’s eyes across the fire, your grin softer now, a quiet twinkle behind it.

“Don’t worry,” you said gently, voice just low enough for him to hear over the others. “They’ll forget by tomorrow.”

He didn’t believe you for a second.

But for the first time all day, he didn’t seem to mind.

Spencer had barely made it out of bed. He was 80% sore, 15% glitter, and 5% internally screaming.

The sun had barely climbed past the trees when Ian announced, far too cheerfully, “Good morning, cowfolk! Today’s challenge is called ‘Love & Livestock!’” He pointed to a line of wooden posts, hay bales, eggs, and… was that a podium?

“I hate it already,” Spencer mumbled to Damien.

“It’s a relay race,” Ian continued. “One partner is the ‘Cowboy,’ the other is the ‘Sweetheart.’ Together, you must complete four farm-themed obstacles, including—but not limited to—egg carrying, goat herding, wheelbarrow sprinting, and romantic communication!”

“Romantic, what now?” Anthony blinked.

Courtney raised a hand. “I’m sorry. Did you say romantic communication?”

You stepped forward, clearly in on the scheme. “That’s right. Each team has to shout a romantic line of encouragement before the final sprint. Extra points for sincerity... or creativity.”

Spencer looked skyward. “Cool. Love that for me.”

“Alright,” Ian clapped his hands, “first team: Spencer and Y/N!”

Everyone erupted in cheers and whistles.

“NO. No no no,” Spencer protested, turning toward Ian. “You did this on purpose.”

Ian was already walking away. “It’s what the people want.”

You were beside Spencer now, all sunshine and smugness, clearly having the time of your life. “C’mon, partner,” you teased. “You ready to prove your love to the livestock?”

“I swear if one of these obstacles involves Carl, I’m out.”

Obstacle One: Egg on a Spoon

Spencer stared at the wooden spoon like it was a cursed relic. You, meanwhile, stood behind the start line, gently stretching like you were about to run the Kentucky Derby.

“Alright,” you said, handing him the spoon. “Balance the egg on this. Walk in a straight line to the fence post, round the bale, and come back. Easy.”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Nothing on this trip has been easy.”

“Consider it a test of grace under pressure,” you said sweetly. “Like love. Or avoiding Carl.”

From the sidelines, Courtney shouted, “Walk like you’re carrying Y/N’s heart in your mouth!”

“Oh my god,” Spencer muttered, stuffing the spoon between his lips.

As he began his awkward shuffle down the track, the entire cast broke into an impromptu chant of “He’s got her heart! Don’t drop it!”

He wobbled left.

He wobbled right.

You jogged alongside him, hands on your hips, voice syrupy-smooth. “Steady now, darlin’. Don’t you dare crack under pressure.”

Spencer made a muffled noise—something like “You’re not helping!” but it came out as “Mph mm hngghff!”

He was two feet from the bale when a butterfly flew past his face.

He flinched.

The egg rocketed into the air like a tiny doomed UFO—then splattered on his shirt.

Silence.

Spencer stared down at himself. “Cool. Romantic yolk. Symbolic.”

You giggled, reaching over to pluck a bit of shell off his shoulder. “Guess you scrambled.”

From the background, Shayne yelled, “You scrambled the relationship, man!”

Obstacle Two: Goat Herding

“Alright,” you said, unlocking the small corral gate. “All you gotta do is get these three goats into that little pen over there. Use the treat bucket if you need.”

Spencer nodded, dead serious. “Copy. Goats. Pen. I’ve seen ‘Charlotte’s Web.’ I’m emotionally prepared.”

You handed him the bucket.

He stepped into the pen.

Carl the rooster immediately charged the gate, flaring his wings like he’d been waiting all night for a rematch.

Spencer backpedaled. “I THOUGHT THIS WAS GOAT HERDING—WHY IS THERE A MINIBOSS?”

Carl pecked his boot with surgical precision. The goats bleated with interest, clearly invested in the chaos.

“Maybe... maybe start with gentle persuasion?” you suggested.

Spencer turned to the goats, crouched low, and held out a handful of treats. “Okay, listen. I’m not from here. I’m a man from the internet. But we don’t have to be enemies.”

One goat trotted toward him.

Spencer smiled—then it headbutted his thigh and bolted past him.

“I’M LOSING TO A FARM,” he shouted.

The second goat just… sat down and refused to move. The third followed Carl like it had better things to do.

“Your aura’s all messed up,” Amanda called helpfully. “Goats are intuitive.”

You leaned on the fence, eyes twinkling. “Maybe they sense the unresolved romantic tension.”

Spencer spun. “What tension?!”

“You tell me, sugar.”

The goat behind him bleated.

And pooped.

Obstacle Three: Wheelbarrow Sprint

You flopped into the rusted metal wheelbarrow with a dramatic sigh, adjusting your bandana and resting your boots on the edge like royalty.

Spencer gripped the handles with a weary look. “Is this revenge for the goats?”

You popped a marshmallow in your mouth from your pocket stash. “Nope. This is character development.”

He lifted the handles—and immediately struggled. “Okay. Wow. Either this thing’s made of concrete or you’ve been secretly lifting hay bales for sport.”

“Shut up and push, cowboy.”

The track was a bumpy, uneven loop around the barn. Spencer sprinted, dodging rocks and tufts of grass. You cheered like a pageant queen on a parade float.

“You’re doin’ great, sweetheart! Real strong—real capable—just don’t hit that—”

He hit a rock.

The wheelbarrow veered sharply, nearly launching you into the grass.

“WE’RE GOOD!” he yelled, correcting course. “WE’RE FINE!”

You were doubled over with laughter, one hand braced on the rim. “My spine disagrees!”

As they rounded the final turn, Spencer lost steam. He wheezed. “Why did no one tell me this was a leg day episode?!”

Shayne called from the sidelines, “Love makes you stronger, bro!”

Damien added, “Or just sweaty and confused!”

As Spencer crossed the finish line and dropped the handles, you tumbled out onto the grass with a dramatic roll.

“10 outta 10 dismount,” Courtney announced.

“I’m seeing spots,” Spencer panted.

“Those are just fireflies,” you whispered, lying beside him. “You didn’t die.”

“...Emotionally, I did.”

Obstacle Four: Romantic Declaration

Now it was time for the final piece—the dramatic confession.

Spencer stood in the middle of the field, sweaty, dirt-streaked, possibly concussed by love. The entire cast formed a semi-circle behind you, phones out, ready to document everything.

You crossed your arms, eyebrows raised. “Alright, cowboy. Final step. Woo me. Loudly.”

Spencer stared at you for a long moment.

The group held its collective breath.

Then, Spencer took a step forward, raised his arms to the sky, and bellowed:

“IF THIS WEEK HAS TAUGHT ME ANYTHING, IT’S THAT I’D CHASE GOATS, WHEELBARROW A GODDESS, AND EAT RAW GLITTER IF IT MEANT YOU’D KEEP CALLING ME DARLIN’!”

Silence.

Then uproar.

Damien screamed. Amanda actually fell over. Angela wheezed. Even Clementine let out a single unimpressed snort like she couldn’t believe the audacity.

You blinked once.

Twice.

Then tipped your hat low, smirking. “You passed.”

Spencer blinked. “What does that mean?!”

Ian blew the whistle. “TIME! They win!”

Spencer stared up at the sky, dramatically collapsing into the dirt. “Tell my story.”

You stood over him, shadows dancing across your face. “I’ll make sure it’s a good one, sugar.”

And just like that, he was done for.

The chaos of the day had finally dimmed.

The crew had scattered across the bunkhouse, the barn, and wherever they’d passed out in exhaustion. Someone’s leftover s’more sat half-melted on a paper plate, and Carl had (mercifully) gone quiet for the night.

The fire pit still glowed faintly, low embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the grass.

You stepped out of the bunkhouse, hoodie thrown over your top, holding a mason jar of lemonade. The air was thick with summer, soft and humming with crickets.

Spencer was already out there—lying flat on his back in the grass a few feet from the fire, arms folded behind his head, gaze fixed skyward. His glasses were perched slightly crooked on his nose, and his shirt still had a smudge of dirt across the sleeve.

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just padded over and dropped into the grass beside him, close enough for your knees to brush.

He glanced over and smiled. It wasn’t his usual sarcastic grin or chaotic one-liner expression. Just… tired. Soft. Warm.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey, yourself.”

You both looked up at the stars—dozens of them, bright and wild in a way they never were in the city. The Milky Way stretched overhead, glowing faintly like some spilled-glitter accident across the sky.

Spencer let out a breath. “I forgot how many stars there are out here. I’m used to like, six. Maybe one bold planet.”

You smiled, tracing a constellation with your finger. “Out here, you’ve got the whole galaxy if you want it.”

A pause.

Then he added, voice quieter: “Can’t lie. I’m still emotionally recovering from that goat herding. That was... humbling.”

“Carl’s a menace,” you said, tone affectionate.

Spencer chuckled. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes. There were... memes. So many memes.”

You tilted your head toward him, resting on your elbow. “You did good today. All things considered.”

“Even when I yelled my feelings in a field?”

“Especially then.”

He didn’t reply for a second, just blinked up at the stars.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I was gonna say something earlier. After the race. When you asked me to ‘woo’ you.”

“Oh, I remember.”

“I panicked.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

“I also remember.”

You grinned, and he looked over at you, a little sheepish, a little earnest. The space between you buzzed with something unspoken.

“But,” he continued, “since there’s no goat-chasing now, no glitter mines, no one screaming ‘YEEHAW!’… I’ll try again.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

He nodded, voice quiet. “Right now.”

The night wrapped around you both like a soft quilt, warm and slow. Spencer sat up slightly, bracing on one elbow to face you.

I think you’re incredible,” he said simply. “Funny. Cool under pressure. Completely terrifying with a rope. And I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing around you.”

Your breath caught, just slightly.

“But every time you say ‘darlin’,’ I forget what my own name is.”

You let out a soft laugh, blinking down at your jar of lemonade. “You don’t gotta flirt with me under starlight like we’re in a country song, Spence.”

“Not flirting,” he said. “I mean, yes, I am, but… I also mean it.”

The quiet buzzed a little louder now, closer to your heartbeat than the crickets.

You looked back at him. “You don’t always have to be charming, y’know.”

He smiled. “Then I’m in trouble. That’s most of my skill set.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t look away. “But you like it.”

“…Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.”

And for a moment, neither of you needed to say anything else.

The stars above blinked on, steady and wide. Somewhere inside, the crew snored, laughed in their sleep, or muttered about goats.

But out there, under a sky too big to hold all the feelings starting to crack open between you—

You and Spencer just sat, and existed, and felt.

Together.

The next morning broke with golden sunlight, damp grass, and the uneasy quiet that only meant one thing on this farm: chaos was coming.

Spencer had just finished sipping from his emergency Kickstart when Ian appeared out of nowhere, breaking the stillness of a morning that smelled like dewy grass and distant livestock. Somewhere behind the barn, a cow mooed lazily, and a chorus of birds chirped from the treetops, blending into the soft rustle of wind through the fields. megaphone in hand.

“GOOD MORNING, PARTNERS!” Ian shouted with too much energy for 8:02 a.m. “It’s time for your FINAL Summer Games challenge: The Great Eggscape!”

You raised a brow. “This gonna involve actual chickens or just, like, metaphorical ones?” Worried about putting the hens in any stressful environment.

“Both,” Ian beamed. “We cleared it with your dad. Here’s how it works: each team must collect five eggs scattered around the chicken yard and return them to the basket at the fence. Fastest time wins.”

Spencer frowned. “That sounds… suspiciously simple.”

Courtney stepped up with a clipboard. “Forgot to mention—Carl’s guarding the eggs.”

Spencer froze. “Carl? Carl the rooster?”

From the shadows, a single ba-kawk rang out. Sinister. Personal.

“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID, AGNEW,” Courtney added in a low growl. “Ever since that time you accidentally knocked over his feed bucket during the rehearsal shoot, he’s had it out for you.”

The chicken yard had been turned into a mini obstacle course—scattered hay, tiny wooden bridges, fake cacti for aesthetic, and at least two dozen plastic and real eggs hidden around the space. But standing dead center like a feathery war general…

Carl.

Tail puffed. Wings out. Eyes locked on Spencer like he owed him money.

You clapped Spencer on the shoulder, trying not to laugh. “Guess you’re up first.”

He looked at you, horrified. “This is how I die.”

“No,” you said sweetly. “This is how you win my heart.”

“Same difference.”

He stepped into the chicken yard like it was a minefield.

The timer started. The cast counted down. “3… 2… 1—GO!”

Spencer sprinted, ducking under a string of bunting and snatching the first two eggs with surprising agility.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself. “This is fine. No poultry problems. Just eggs. Just—”

BA-KAWK!

Carl swooped in from the left like a dive-bombing missile.

“AHHHHH!” Spencer shrieked, dropping an egg as he dodged the bird.

The cast howled.

“HE’S BACK FOR BLOOD!” yelled Damien, from atop the fence.

Carl flapped his wings dramatically and gave chase. Spencer ran a zig-zag pattern through the hay bales, yelling, “I DIDN’T EVEN LOOK AT YOUR HENS!”

You were doubled over laughing, holding your basket.

“Spence!” you called. “Over here—two more!”

He dove behind a coop, grabbed the eggs—and then Carl launched from the roof like a villain in a Fast & Furious movie.

Spencer flailed, landed hard in a pile of feathers, and emerged with one cracked egg and grass in his hair.

“I want it known,” he gasped, sprinting toward you, “that I have fought literal chickens for your honor!”

You held the basket out. He dumped the eggs in and collapsed at your feet.

Shayne and Courtney approached the pen like trained spies. Carl ignored them completely.

Ian and Anthony made it halfway before Anthony tripped and invented new curse words.

Amanda and Arasha worked silently, efficiently, and somehow found all their eggs without being attacked once.

Spencer, still on the ground, muttered, “Why me?”

You smirked. “He only attacks threats.”

“…I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

Courtney checked the stopwatch. “Despite being mauled by poultry… Spencer won by five seconds!”

Everyone clapped. Someone started chanting “CARL! CARL! CARL!”

You dropped the basket on the haystack and turned to Spencer, dusting feathers off his shoulder. “You alright, cowboy?”

“Mentally? No. Physically? Still feeling egg yolk in places I didn’t know existed.”

You grinned. “You really did all that for me?”

Spencer stood up straighter. “I’d do it again. Probably cry a little harder, though.”

You stepped in close. “Well, lucky for you… you don’t have to.”

Before he could respond, you kissed him.

His breath caught mid-thought, every word he might’ve said instantly forgotten. For a second, all the chaos faded—the goat bleats, the chants, even Carl’s indignant squawk in the background. Spencer’s mind, usually a nonstop parade of sarcasm and overthinking, just… quieted.

It was soft, a little messy thanks to the feathers still stuck to his shirt, but it was real. And in that barnyard, with hay underfoot and your hand resting lightly on his chest, he felt like the whole week had led to this exact ridiculous, perfect moment.

When you pulled away, Spencer’s heart was doing something suspiciously dramatic in his chest. His glasses were slightly crooked, but his grin was straight out of a romance novel.

He blinked. "Okay. That definitely counts as a win."

Right there in the barnyard, surrounded by cheers, goat bleats, and the faint squawk of a very offended rooster—you kissed him.

And Spencer melted into it, feathers and all.

When you pulled back, he was grinning like a fool. “Worth it?”

You winked. “Every cluckin’ second.”

#smosh #smosh x reader #spencer agnew #spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew x f!reader #x f!reader #nuelleswritez #x you #smosh x you #smosh fic #smoshblr #smosh fanfiction #spencer agnew fluff #spencer agnew fanfiction #spencer agnew imagine

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writingjourney · 12 hours ago

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Sweeter the Sun

Primo finds that retirement comes with pleasantly few distractions – though he does not mind spending the heat wave with one writhing in his lap.

content: 1.8k words, reader has a cunt, otherwise non-descript, italian pet names, smut, soft dick play, frotting, v fingering, sweat, old man loving, primo's pov, second person pov, it gets a bit romantic at the end

Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+

It’s dark inside the old stone cottage, only errant rays of light stream in through cracks in the splintered wood of the shutters that keep the rooms cool and secluded. Even so, a fan is blowing, distantly, circulating the air for some semblance of control over this hot and humid summer. The heat has left him too lethargic to do much of anything. But what would he be doing anyway? Retired, finally left alone, the days that remain to him are surprisingly peaceful.

“Papa!” you whine, a sweaty forehead falling against his cheek.

Ah, yes. That.

Primo smiles, wicked, as he crooks his fingers inside of you. He resumes to fuck you despite the stiffness in them, eliciting a plethora of mewls and whimpers that tell him he’s not quite out of practice yet. You came to seek refuge from the heat, that’s what you’d said, and yet here you are – naked, writhing and sweating in his arms as he makes sure you feel every knuckle. It’s not the first time, though, no, and he’s sure you had exactly this in mind when you came knocking with a hesitant hand and flaming cheeks.

What a poor little lamb.

“Please,” you whisper, running out of air to speak, and then you come around his fingers.

He can’t see much of your face but your body is shaking on top of his, the armchair creaking as your hips buck and you clench around him. He strokes you through the sensation and picks back up, his pace never slowing. It’s his favourite game, to see just how delirious he can get you, and he passes hours like this, the only distraction from retirement he allows.

You reach for him, then, and by now you’re not surprised anymore when you pull him from his pants. He’s soft in your hand but you don’t seem to mind when this happens, no. You are just as eager, touching him with reverence, aware that it does not speak of a lack of arousal or attraction.

It tugs at his heart, or what remains of it, how gentle you are with him. Your fingers are cautious at first, cradling, feeling what little blood has gathered. With the help of some spit you stroke him, thumb gently pressed to his frenulum, just to see if you can coax it a little more. Primo closes his eyes, enjoying your soft hand on him. He remains limp but it is no matter, your touch is pleasurable all the same.

Your lips press to his neck, then, and he startles, a kiss followed by a moan and he twitches just the tiniest bit in your hand. You do it again and then your lips travel, along his jaw and to the corner of his mouth. This is new, entirely, but he does not stop you when you finally kiss him. At first, it is a tentative thing, soft, plump lips ghosting over his thin, old ones, and then you find your courage and press in with a desperation he didn’t know you carried. Primo indulges you, how could he not, and he makes sure to push his fingers deeper inside just to feel your gasps. As your mouth opens he regains control, using his free hand to angle your head however he likes. It has been a while since he’s revelled in the taste of another, let alone someone so sweet.

“What does an angel like you want from an old devil like me?” he hears himself asking, once you come apart.

You look at him, though he can’t see more than a reflection of light in your eyes. “Would you rather I stopped visiting you, Papa?”

“No,” he says, holding your cheek in his weathered palm. “But that is not an answer.”

He has stopped moving his fingers and you squirm, deflating until he can feel your warm breath against his neck where you’re hiding. “I just– I want more of you.”

Primo smiles, satisfied with your answer, though he is not insecure. He knows you could get taken care of in someone else’s arms, knows that a younger man could please you in ways that are lost to him. But you would not be the first with a preference that defies reason. If you want his stiff, worn hands, his flaccid cock and brittle lips, then who is he to deny you? He’s seen you fall apart in his lap enough times to know that you are not left wanting in his presence.

And he does appreciate the company.

“More, hm?” he whispers. “Perhaps we can try something else today, fiore mio.”

”What– Ah.”

He retrieves his hand and you wince at the absence. You’ve been dripping into his palm for the better part of an hour and he spreads your arousal on his cock, grasping your smaller hand to help him along. You seem to understand his meaning, swinging your leg over his hips until you’re straddling his narrow hips.

“Get comfortable” he says when he notices you hovering.

“Are you sure I’m not too heavy?”

In reply, he seizes your waist and pulls you forward. Your cunt meets his overly sensitive cock and he loses himself in the moment. Deep moans in perfect synchrony, your soft flesh, the warmth and wetness of you pressing down on him. Your fingers grasp at his shoulders, scrambling for purchase before your upper body crashes into his.

“I am old but not fragile,” he retorts after too much time but you huff a laugh anyway, leaning further into him, and you’re just so soft.

He feels your hand on his cheek, then, softly alerting him of the kiss that follows. With your other hand you reach down, aligning his cock to fit between your folds. It feels different today, everything. A growing affection he can’t deny, the way you are so open about your desire for him, and now these sweet, sweet kisses. He’d blame the heat for playing with his mind, or his sentimental age for making him soft, but deep down he knows that he’s grown fond of you.

“Is this okay?” you ask against his lips.

“Sì, tesoro, move however you please.”

His hands roam, he can’t help himself, up your back, back down to your hips, sharp nails trailing over smooth skin, leaving a few marks, no doubt. He’d leave more, he plans to, but then you slowly begin to roll your hips, trapping his cock in your heat. Primo growls, the sensations so much more saturated compared to your hands or even your mouth.

You whimper in reply, hesitation making way for a senseless need for more. It drives you into a faster rhythm, grasping at his shirt until the buttons rip open. A hand buries into his white chest hair, scratching lightly as your mouth keeps teasing his. It is thrilling, to witness you taking what you need from him, so utterly shameless.

“Very good,” he whispers proudly, using his hands to urge you along, leaving dents in your soft flesh that will bruise come morning.

With the next roll of your hips the hooded tip of his cock catches at your entrance, sending a bolt through him, and you both keen, overly sensitive. It compels you to grind down harder, feeling him dip in and out, just so, just barely, and it’s enough to drive him mad. When he feels your heat clamping down on him he can taste a prayer at the tip of his tongue. What a divine creature you are, heaven bows to the light you’ve brought into his life.

“Ah, Papa–”

“I know, angelo mio.”

“I’m gonna come.”

“Baciami, tesoro,” he says, a long finger at your chin, angling it up.

He’s not sure you understand his words but you lean in anyway, kissing him urgently as your peak tears through you. Your thighs shake on either side of him, your cunt fluttering where he’s pressing against you, pulsing with each tremor. And to his own surprise he feels it, the way his muscles constrict, how his lower body tightens, the final tug that drags him along with you, so intensely that his lungs hollow out. His moan is swallowed by your bruising kiss and with a hand on your head he traps you there, pushing his tongue into you with a violent force. He only manages to break away when his head start to spin, wondering when he last felt a pleasure this acute.

“Papa,” you whisper between choked inhales, no doubt feeling the sticky mess between your bodies where sweat and come mingle.

“Breathe,” he says. “You made your Papa feel very good, tesoro.”

You hum, quite content, leaning on him in an embrace that he is far too eager to return. “Is this okay for you? Are you in any pain?”

“No pain,” he whispers. “And I am not done with you.”

It’s a half-truth, the strain on his back is persistent and his joints are aching more so than usual. But he’d be damned if he didn’t draw a few more orgasms out of you, until you are so exhausted that your feet won’t carry you back to the abbey and he can coax you into staying.

“But Papa,” you whisper, “I can’t move.”

A deep rumble falls from his chest. “You can still talk, fiore mio.”

You wince at the implication, just the tiniest bit, but the evening is still long and he sees no need to hurry. Vaguely, he notices the fan still whirring, wondering if he should offer you a shower and take you to bed, more for his comfort than yours. The cottage is cool enough, but the sun won’t set for another few hours.

“Fiore,” he whispers to avoid startling you, though his voice comes out raspy.

A nose lazily nuzzles against the loose skin of his neck. “Hm?”

“Would you like to stay, tonight?”

You sit up abruptly, meeting his gaze in the half-dark. “Are you sure?”

“I would not offer, otherwise.”

He can see the vague shape of your mouth curling upwards and you struggle to suppress the giggle that comes with it. “Do I get to rub your ointment into your back?”

“If you wish it so, tesoro.”

“I love how it smells.”

Primo smiles a rare, genuine smile when your sweaty face nestles back to his neck, his old, withering heart quite taken. For a while he lets you rest, ignoring the complains in his lower back at the added weight on the strained muscles. It’s true, he he has grown soft with age to allow for such domesticity, but he lives a secluded life, the only witnesses you and the birds chirping outside his window, and the thought is so very fleeting.

You want more, you said, and perhaps, at last, Primo wouldn’t mind more either.

thank you for reading <3 likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

#the band ghost fanfiction #the band ghost fic #primo x reader #papa emeritus i x reader #primo fanfiction #papa emeritus i fanfiction #primo smut #papa emeritus i smut #female reader #reader insert

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adlersgirl · 2 days ago

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Adler With a Younger Fem!Reader

summary + warnings: general hcs, some nsfw, age gap (adult reader) so if u don't like that pls don't read! mdni

• Adler is used to working with younger women. But after all the grey hairs he'd gotten from arguing nonstop with Park, you were a breath of fresh air. Strong, capable, but also undeniably beautiful and elegant — something about you caught his eye.

• Adler isn't one to underestimate someone because of their gender or age. Skill and ability are what matter most to him. He recognized your potential from the start and had full faith that you wouldn't disappoint him.

• Adler would never accept nor admit that he was attracted to you, but god, his eyes were glued to you at all times, and when you weren't around, you would continue to creep into his thoughts until it drove him mad.

• Adler would call you by pet names — doll, sweetheart, and dear were his favorites. He would casually drop them while giving orders and in greetings. "What's on your mind, doll?"

• Adler would be easy to turn on. Before establishing a relationship, he would try his hardest to resist making a move on you, but his resolve crumbled the moment you reached up to brush a hair away from his eye. That slight physical contact. He grabbed your hand, pulling you closer as he pressed his face against yours, and soon enough you were spread over his desk, clothes off, his strong body pinning you down.

• As much as Adler is cool and collected, he's also an adrenaline junkie. That's why his advances towards you would come spontaneously and unexpectedly. A flirtatious remark in the middle of a gunfight, a heated kiss after escaping an ambush, and rough sex in his car on the way back home from meeting a contact.

• Adler would keep you a secret, for your safety and his. But that didn't stop him from keeping you close at all times — sitting next to you during meetings, his hand on your back, guiding you as you walked together, and when no one else was around, having you sit on his lap while on the phone or reviewing intel.

• Adler would protect you with his whole being. It wasn't because of your age, and he knew you could defend yourself, but your safety would be his top priority at all times. You were his favorite, and it was obvious in the way he gave you more attention and encouragement than anyone else.

#call of duty #cod x reader #russell adler x reader #adler x reader #russell adler #fanfic #fanfiction #headcanons #black ops cold war

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hannah-lou · 13 hours ago

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🍃riverbank tension🍃

This is the 1st part of my fic, which takes place over a year after the events of Kingdom. I also worked on an art piece specifically for this one. So I hope you like it!

It had been over a year since Mae left Noa that day, but the feelings she had for him were still very much alive. She couldn’t ever seem to shake them no matter what activities she did to preoccupy herself. Not able to quite describe what the feelings were other than extreme attraction towards him. She imagined how he would look now if she were to see him again and wished she could, but who was she to go marching back into his village uninvited. He’d probably not even remember her now.

Clinging onto the necklace that he gave her the last time she saw him, she stood at the rivers edge and watched the water dance with the sun’s rays, the flickers of sunlight shone onto her face. She could feel herself getting lost in the therapeutic sound of the water battling against the rocks a little further downstream.

Crouching down to feel the waters temperature, she felt that it was cold but not too cold for her, after all, she was used to bathing in such conditions, even when it was icy conditions, she was able to take a quick dip as long as a fire was steadily burning nearby so that she could warm back up again. It wasn’t ideal but she didn’t have anything else.

Standing upright again, she started removing the tattered fabrics covering her, exposing the scars on her arms and legs from the previous attacks and shivering as the cool air greeted her bare skin. Closing her eyes and stepping into the water, goose bumps appeared on her arms. She hugged herself for a minute or two until her body got more used to the temperature, then began to wash.

Little to Mae’s knowledge, Noa was travelling in her direction on his horse. Cantering through the trees, he had decided to go foraging for any other human items worth taking back to his village. Eagle Sun gently glided above him, calling quietly until he landed on a low tree branch next to Mae and fluttered his wings a few times to settle.

Noa pulled the reigns when he saw that his eagle had perched, slowing his horse to a stop. He looked at his eagle and narrowed his eyes before attempting to call him back, tapping the gauntlet on his arm.

Then he saw movement in the river and decided to dismount, landing as softly as he could. He walked cautiously with his left hand positioned ready to pull his knife if he needed to, his steps were slow and light. But when he was able to see her clearly, he had no trouble recognising her instantly.

“M- Mae?”

He whispered, his eyes widening for a moment at the sight of her pale, naked body. It definitely took him by surprise. He stared at her, admiring how she looked similar to the females of his clan but some parts of her still managed to make him curious

He knew he should look away but he simply couldn’t. He’d never seen her without clothing before and his mind ran wild with curiosity. Hiding behind a tree, he watched intently, a feeling building inside of his chest that he’d never felt. His breath quickened, his heart felt like it might jump out of his chest.

Mae was unaware that she was being watched. She turned around, revealing her bare chest to the ape. He gasped but covered his mouth quickly, feeling a need for something but he wasn’t sure what. It was like a magnet pulling him toward her. He gripped onto the tree bark, his fingers digging in and chipping away some of the looser pieces as he released a trembled sigh.

Where is swelling from oestrogen?

Echo’s chest ha full breasts even when not baring a child?

Why does echo wear fabrics to cover?

Echo only has fur in only some places?

Stepping out of the water Mae dried off and put on her clothes, the blue top with black jeans that she had worn the last time she saw Noa. She picked up the necklace and put it on, her mind wandered again, visualising him. The way he walked, how he sounded when he spoke, his protective personality. She was quickly snapped back away from her thoughts, though, when she noticed some rustling not far away, she paused then gabbed her gun.

“Don’t even think about attempting anything!” She held the pistol tightly in both hands “come out... now!”

Noa closed his eyes tightly, bracing himself before stepping out from behind the tree and into view. Mae didn’t recognise him. He wore a necklace made from feathers and and what looked to be canine teeth draped around his neck and down his shoulders. more feathered arm cuffs wrapped around his muscular arms and his face had traces of blue and grey paint on it which made his bright green eyes seem as though they were glowing.

He slowly stepped towards her, putting his hands out in front of him in an attempt to signal that he wasn’t a threat but Mae stood firm.

“stay away! I’ll shoot!”

Noa raised a brow, taken aback by the fact that she didn’t recognise him, he wasn’t surprised though. He was aware that he looked different. He also knew Mae was telling the truth. After all, he saw her put a hole in an apes chest in the vault that day. The memory of the gunshot circled around his mind for a moment, but he continued slowly closing the gap between them.

She will remember he thought, taking another step forward.

Mae’s finger landed on the trigger, ready to squeeze it, but Noa quickly pointed to the necklace she was wearing. Throwing her off.

“Important”

His single word stopped her abruptly, gasping. She knew that voice. “w- what did you say?”

“Very... important”

Hearing him speak again. Mae stared at him with wide eyes, struggling to believe that it was really him. This scenario had been swirling around in her mind for such a long time. She opened her mouth to speak but she couldn’t make words.

Noa gently lowered the hand with the gun that was still pointing at him. Mae held her breath and raised one hand up to touch his face.

“You’re real” she said, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Noa hummed softly, enjoying the feel of her skin on his before placing his hand over hers. A sensation built in the pit of his stomach. A feeling he had for her before, but this time it was so much stronger.

Mae pointed to the paint on his face and finally managed to speak “w- what is it for?” she asked, her voice a quiet tremble “I really didn’t recognise you”

Noa’s eyes glinted at her question, he remembered that she didn’t know his clan’s ways, it amused him. He answered with a low raspy tone.

“For honour. A mark for other members... of my clan to know my role... and females to know that-” he trailed off and looked away for a moment.

“To know what?” Mae instantly regretted asking that question. She already knew and it made her jealous. She didn’t understand why.

“That I... am ready” he lowered his brows and wrinkled his nose before turning his gaze back to her “to... mate”.

The vision inside Mae’s mind of him breeding another female felt like torture. She knew she needed to shut it off but she just couldn’t. In some ways, she missed the version of him that wasn’t available, even to his own kind.

Noa tilted his head, he could smell the jealousy radiating from her “I have not... claimed a mate yet, Mae”

He wasn’t quite sure what he was feeling, but he liked it. He had never felt this, not even for his own kind. He knew that it was something primal, burning deep inside that every inhale of her scent made it stronger, but he didn’t want to stop.

Mae blinked hard, wondering why he felt the need to tell her that. Did he feel the same way as her? Was he saving himself for... her? She wanted answers. She shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop herself, she needed to ask.

“so, who are you saving yourself for?”

No going back from it now.

Her question seemed to ring loudly in his ears. He suddenly felt like the shy, younger ape who he thought he buried long ago. His eyes widened before moving his hand to subtly sign. He began motioning to her but quickly clenched his fist. He didn’t want her to know yet.

He needed to change topic, needed to shake this feeling. He wanted to take her there and then, but what would she think of him if he told her that he stood and watched her in the river?

He glanced around and motioned to a small spot Mae had set up earlier “You are... camping here, yes?”

Mae somewhat welcomed the subject change, she wished that she never even asked that dreaded question.

“I am... you’d better get back to your clan, right?”

He narrowed his eyes, his brows lowered with confusion, his protective instinct coming back for her once again “I will stay... with you” he closed his eyes tightly and let out a breath, putting one hand under her chin “I need... to stay with you, Mae... will not lose you again... I cannot”

Mae didn’t say anything, she felt his hand squeeze hers softly. She smiled and leaned in, resting her head against his chest and nuzzling into his thick fur.

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wallofchynax · 3 days ago

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Lessons in Romance: Chapter One

Synopsis: When skipping mandatory gym class lands you weekly detention, the last thing you want is extra time with Mr. Michaels, the intimidating yet undeniably attractive gym teacher everyone calls a silver fox. As an A+ student struggling privately with bullying and self-esteem, you're determined to keep your head down, finish senior year, and move forward. But detention with Mr. Michaels slowly shifts from uncomfortable silences to unexpected conversations, warmth, and genuine care, forcing you both to confront a growing attraction that's complicated by age, roles, and boundaries.

Content Warnings: contains depictions of student/teacher relationships with a significant age gap, bullying and body shaming, themes of low self-esteem, internalized shame, anxiety, and gradual romantic tension involving a professional power imbalance. Reader discretion is advised. EVERYONE IS OVER 18.

Taglist: @urb3stg1rl @thebigredmonster

if you want to be added to the tag list: comment or answer this.

The room smelt like lemon disinfectant and printer toner. You sat with your knees pressed together, fingers twisting in your lap, and heart thudding way too loud despite how still the room was that afternoon. It was the kind of oppressive silence that made you feel like even breathing too loud might count as a disruption. You had never been in this office before. Not really. Never the kind of student to cause trouble or even be noticed outside of being a straight-A student on your best behaviour. You weren't the kind of girl to cause a fuss or be rude to a teacher. You were quiet. Kept to yourself. Studied hard. Followed rules like they were gospel.

So, here you were. Sitting in a cold plastic chair that creaked every time you shifted, waiting as the seconds dragged out under the fluorescent lights that buzzed above you like flies in your ear. You tried not to fidget. Tried to keep your spine straight and your expression neutral, even as your stomach twisted itself into nervous knots.

Right across from you, Stephanie McMahon-or Mrs. McMahon, as she was known in the halls-sat behind her desk like it was a throne. Everything about her was intimidating in a cold, corporate sort of way. Sleek ponytail. Perfectly tailored dark blazer. Glossy nails that tapped a steady rhythm against the manila folder sitting on her desk, the one with your name printed on the tab.

She didn't look up when she finally spoke. "So, skipping gym, are we?"

Her voice was cool and clipped, almost bored, like she had already decided your fate before you even stepped foot through the door. You resisted the urge to shrink into yourself.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound more composed than you felt. "I wasn't trying to skip… I just…"

Stephanie looked up at you then. Her eyes were sharp and assessing. Not angry. Just unimpressed, like she was trying to figure out how someone like you had ended up sitting in front of her.

"I don't need excuses," she said, her tone calm but cutting. "I need accountability."

Your jaw clenched. Stephanie McMahon was terrifying, and she was only the deputy head. Her father, Mr. McMahon, was the headmaster, and you'd heard stories about him. Strict. Ruthless. Barely visible around campus anymore, but his reputation alone was enough to make students fall in line. If she was the softer face of authority, you didn’t want to imagine what her father would have done with this meeting.

"I didn't mean to cause trouble," you said, quieter now.

"You didn't cause trouble," she replied, folding her arms over her desk. "You've avoided it. Which, in some ways, is even worse."

You blinked, unsure how to respond. The words between you hung thick in the air, like a layer of dust nobody had bothered to clean.

Stephanie leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly. She looked at you like a puzzle she hadn’t been able to solve yet. "You've got straight As. No history of behavioural issues. You've never even been late to a class… until this semester. So tell me-why gym? Why now?"

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. The answer was right there, but you couldn't bring yourself to say it. That the locker room made your skin itch. That every bounce of your chest in gym felt like a spotlight aimed directly at the parts of you you didn’t want to think about. That the whispers, the stares, the muffled laughter from other girls when you changed-it all added up. You couldn't tell her that. Not her.

So instead, all you managed to say was, "It's complicated."

Stephanie's lips pressed into a line. "That's not good enough."

She stood, the sharp click of her heels against the tile slicing through the stillness as she crossed the room to a filing cabinet. She opened a drawer, flipped through papers, and pulled one free. Then she returned, setting the slip of paper gently on the desk between you.

"Two months of detention," she said. "To make up for the two months of absences. After school. Starting today. Gymnasium. 3:15 sharp. No more being late, and no more skipping. Understood?"

You blinked. "Detention?"

Stephanie nodded. "Supervised detention. Your gym teacher, Mr. Michaels, was kind enough to volunteer."

Mr. Michaels. You'd only ever seen him from a distance in the gym or the hallways. A former athlete, if the rumours were true. Sharp features, broad shoulders, a jawline that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. He had tattoos on both arms and a way of carrying himself that felt… unbothered. Relaxed. You never really spoke to him, and honestly, he didn't seem like the kind of teacher who noticed quiet girls like you.

"Volunteered," you echoed, your brain short-circuiting slightly at the image of him-the man who looked more like a retired rockstar than a high school teacher-supervising your silent study sessions.

"You’ll be doing study time. Quiet. Structured," Stephanie explained. "Shouldn’t be a problem for someone like you."

She said it like it was a compliment. You weren't sure it was.

Her expression softened by a fraction. "You’re not in trouble. But you do need to show up. In more ways than one."

You swallowed and gave a small nod, even though your hands had gone clammy against your thighs.

Stephanie picked your folder back up, already moving on to whatever name was next on her list. "That'll be all."

You stood, backpack slung over your shoulder, legs feeling like they weren’t quite connected to the rest of your body.

You left without looking back.

The halls were mostly empty by the time you reached your locker and grabbed what you needed for lunch. The silence was oddly comforting now, a stark contrast to the buzzing cafeteria that greeted you a few minutes later.

The cafeteria was loud in that predictable, echoey sort of way-trays clattering, sneakers squeaking, voices overlapping like waves crashing in every direction. It was organized chaos, and you knew how to navigate it by now. Keep your head down. Don’t stop moving.

You weaved your way past tables of students until you reached the far corner, your usual spot. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. Familiar.

A paper napkin sat on your chair, folded into a crude little crown.

Becky. Of course.

"You live!" she declared, as dramatic as ever, waving a half-eaten carrot stick like it was a magic wand. "I thought McMahon was gonna lock you in her dungeon."

Becky was a whirlwind in denim and eyeliner. Loud, fiercely loyal, and with zero tolerance for anyone's nonsense. If you were in a crisis, Becky was the kind of girl who would storm the principal's office without hesitation and ask questions later.

"She still might," you muttered, setting your lunch down with a sigh. The tray clattered a little louder than you meant it to, drawing attention from a nearby table before fading into the general chaos.

Next to Becky, Rhea raised her brows. She was the quiet strength of the group - cool, calm, always dressed like she could win a bar fight and still ace her chem exam. Her dark lipstick was perfectly in place, despite the steam curling from her coffee cup.

"She’d probably make you sign a waiver first," Rhea said, sipping her black coffee like it was a part of her soul.

On the opposite side of the table, Seth was half-scrolling through his phone and half-chewing his sandwich. He was the laid-back one - funny, charming, and somehow infuriatingly good at getting away with everything. He and Becky had been together for over a year now, and even though their bickering was near-constant, it never felt mean. Just noisy love in motion.

"So?" Seth asked, mouth full, not looking up. "What happened?"

You dropped into your seat and tugged your hoodie sleeves over your hands. "Two months of detention after school."

Becky gasped, slapping a hand over her heart. "Detention?! You? Our straight-A, rule-following, cardigan-wearing angel?"

"Supervised," you muttered, poking at your tray. "By Mr. Michaels."

Rhea's brows lifted. "The gym guy?"

"Yup."

Seth blinked and finally looked up. "The one with the tattoos? Drives that loud-ass truck that sounds like it eats smaller cars for breakfast?"

You tried not to let your face show how that thought made your stomach flip. Not because you feared him. It was worse - Mr. Michaels didn’t act like most teachers. He was chill, too cool for his own good. He laughed with students, wore baseball caps backwards, and probably didn’t even know where his staff lanyard was half the time. The kind of guy who looked like he belonged in a garage fixing motorcycles, not filling out grade reports.

"He doesn’t seem like the ‘write you up and lecture you for breathing’ type," Seth said, finishing your thought for you.

"No," you admitted. "I could have gotten Mr. Helmsley. He would've made me run laps until I passed out. But Mr. Michaels... I don’t know. It's still awkward."

Becky leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "It's still a dumb punishment. You’re being punished for having boundaries. That’s messed up."

You shrugged. "Yeah."

You traced a finger along the edge of your tray, the grooves of the plastic a welcome distraction. That was when Becky leaned in, voice dropping into something softer - a rarity.

"So," she said, nudging your elbow. "You gonna tell us why you've been skipping, or what?"

You hesitated. But then you sighed. You guessed you could tell them. They were your best friends, after all. If you couldn't tell them, then who could you tell?

"The locker room."

That got their attention. Seth’s phone dropped to the table. Rhea put her coffee down slowly. You could feel them listening, not just hearing you, but really listening.

"The comments," you went on. "The way they stare. I know what I look like, okay? I know I’m not small. And it’s not like I can disappear when we have to run laps or do jumping jacks."

The silence that followed was sharp around the edges.

Becky’s face twisted into pure outrage. "Okay. Who? Name them. I’ll destroy them."

"Don’t," you said quickly. "I don’t want to make it worse. I just wanted to avoid it."

"You shouldn’t have to," Rhea said. She wasn’t loud, but her voice carried the kind of certainty that made people shut up and listen. "You look amazing. They’re just insecure little gremlins who think cruelty is a personality."

Becky grabbed your hand across the table. Her eyeliner might have been smudging from the heat in the cafeteria, but her intensity never wavered. "You’re beautiful. And brave. And I swear to God, if anyone so much as breathes at you sideways, I’m going full MMA on their ass."

Seth cracked a smile. "Should we be concerned about how much joy she gets from that idea?"

Rhea smirked. "Absolutely."

You laughed - a small, real one this time. It bubbled up unexpectedly and lingered in your chest, loosening the tightness that had been there all morning.

"Still sucks I’m stuck with Michaels," you said. "He probably thinks I’m lazy or dramatic."

"I doubt he thinks that," Seth said. "Honestly, he doesn’t seem like he takes much seriously at all. He’s probably just treating this like glorified babysitting and figuring out where he can hide snacks."

"Still," you mumbled. "It's awkward..."

Becky tilted her head. "Maybe it's only awkward if you make it awkward."

She had a point. But that didn’t make the flutter in your stomach go away.

Not when detention meant sitting alone in a gym with him.

The hallway after school in the gym was quiet. Way too quiet. The kind of tension that made every footstep echo just a little too loudly, like the school itself was monitoring your journey. Your sneakers squeaked slightly on the polished floors as you walked slowly, hugging your books against your chest, heart thudding with each step. The final bell had rung less than ten minutes ago, scattering most of the student body out into the real world, but not you. Not today. You were heading toward the one place you had been trying to avoid since the semester started: the gym.

You could still hear Becky's voice from lunch, half joking and half protective. "Maybe it's only awkward if you make it awkward."

You shook your head at the memory, lips pressing together. That was easy for her to say. Becky could walk into a war zone and come out laughing. She had that kind of chaos magic in her, that natural ability to make a scene bend to her will.

But you?

You were already thinking up every worst-case scenario in your head. What if he asked about gym? What if he laughed at you? What if he didn’t say anything at all and just looked disappointed? The silence might be worse than anything else. Mr. Michaels wasn’t like your other teachers. He wasn’t like any of your other teachers.

He didn’t carry around clipboards or blow whistles at students like they were soldiers. He didn’t pace the gym barking orders or glare if you missed a step. He was casual, laid-back, even funny sometimes… but that didn’t mean this would be easy. Just because he smiled more than most didn’t mean he wouldn’t see right through you.

This was still detention. And you were still the girl who’d skipped three weeks of class just to avoid the locker room. Just to avoid the mirrors, the comments, the way gym class made your skin crawl and your breath catch in your throat.

As you neared the gym, the familiar scent of rubber mats, faint sweat, and lemon disinfectant drifted into your nose. Your steps slowed, almost coming to a stop outside the double doors. You stood there for a heartbeat longer, as if hoping the ground might just open up and swallow you whole.

A single thought rose to the surface, uninvited and cruel: Don't make this weird.

You adjusted your backpack strap, swallowed hard, and inhaled once through your nose before pushing the door open.

The hinges creaked faintly.

And just like that, detention had officially begun.

The gym looked different without all the noise. No whistles. No yelling. No squeak of sneakers racing across the floor. Just the low hum of the overhead lights and the echo of your own cautious footsteps. It was like walking into a stage before the actors showed up, sterile and far too big.

You spotted him right away.

Mr. Michaels was leaning back in a metal folding chair near the bleachers, legs stretched out like he had nowhere better to be. He wore a fitted t-shirt and jeans, his cap turned backwards, and a half-empty bottle of Gatorade dangling from his fingers. He looked almost too relaxed for someone supervising a punishment.

He looked like he belonged on the sidelines of a college game, not babysitting high school detention.

When he saw you, he gave a lazy nod, like this was all just routine. “Hey. You’re right on time. Didn’t have money on that.”

You blinked, caught off guard. That wasn’t the tone you’d expected. No stern greeting. No clipped instructions. Just… casual. Almost amused. Like he wasn’t taking this seriously at all, and maybe wasn’t meant to.

"I... yeah," you said, voice small.

He waved you over with a flick of his hand. "You don't have to stand there like I'm gonna bark orders at you. It's detention, not boot camp."

There were a few tables and chairs set up in the far corner of the gymnasium. You moved toward them with your heart beating fast in your chest and sat in one of them, setting your books down gently. Your palms were sweaty, and you wiped them discreetly on your jeans beneath the table.

You weren't scared, not exactly. It wasn't fear. It was the way his voice dropped low when he wasn't trying. The way he carried himself like nothing could rattle him. He had that kind of quiet confidence, that old-man calm that didn’t need to be loud to command a room. And that, somehow, was far more unsettling than any disciplinarian.

"Got homework?" he asked, barely glancing your way.

You nodded quickly and dug through your backpack, trying not to look like you were overthinking every movement. You kept your eyes down as you opened your notebook, heart hammering like you were about to sit for a final exam.

"Cool. You do that, I’ll pretend I’m grading something important." He held up a notebook that looked suspiciously like a sketchpad. You could see the worn edges and faint graphite smudges on the cover.

Right. Of course he wasn’t grading anything. He probably didn’t even believe in grades.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected - him yelling, making you run laps, launching into some lecture about responsibility. Instead, he just looked like a guy killing time. Relaxed. Unbothered. And somehow, that made it worse. Like the less he reacted, the more your anxiety had space to breathe and stretch and grow claws.

After a few minutes, his voice broke the silence again. “So. Skipped gym for three weeks, huh? That’s, like… a full-on protest.”

Your spine straightened involuntarily. “It’s not like that.”

He didn’t react with sarcasm or disbelief. He just glanced over again, casual but observant. Like he was collecting puzzle pieces but not trying to force them together.

"Didn’t say it was," he said. "Just… bold move for a straight-A student."

You didn’t reply. Your hands were clenched a little too tight around your pencil. You weren’t used to teachers like this. The kind who didn’t follow a script. The kind who let silences stretch instead of filling them with reprimands. The kind who made you feel like maybe they saw more than you wanted them to.

"I had reasons," you responded quietly.

"I figured," he replied, voice softer now. "Look, I'm not here to dig. Mrs. McMahon gave me a name. I show up. That's the whole agreement."

You exhaled through your nose, your shoulders slumping just slightly.

He leaned back further in his chair, propping his feet up on the bottom rung of another. "You want music or silence? I got both."

You blinked. “You’re seriously offering a soundtrack?”

He grinned. “Hey, some people focus better with chill vibes. Others like suffering in total silence. I aim to please.”

That caught you off guard again. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made your chest feel tight and confused. You weren’t used to kindness that didn’t come with strings.

"Silence is fine," you muttered.

"Your funeral," he said with a shrug, already turning back to his sketchpad.

And just like that, he went back to his own world like you weren’t even there.

But you were.

And for once, you didn’t feel invisible.

The rest of the hour passed in that strange in-between quiet. Not awkward. Not exactly. Just... uncertain. Like standing in the doorway of a conversation that never quite started but also never really needed to.

You pretended to focus on your math notes, though your eyes kept skimming the same equations over and over again. Nothing stuck. Numbers blurred, lines doubled, and your pencil tapped a nervous rhythm against the paper. You kept shifting in your seat, stretching your legs, then pulling them back in. You erased the same answer twice. The sound of graphite against paper seemed way too loud in the empty gym.

Mr. Michaels didn’t speak much again, not in the way you expected. He hummed under his breath sometimes, something soft and tuneless, like the remnants of a song stuck in his head. A couple of times, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck or adjust his cap. Every so often, he scribbled something in his notebook, then paused, tapping his pen against the page like he was waiting for a thought to finish itself. Once, he stretched in his chair with a quiet grunt that made you glance up instinctively.

He didn’t notice.

Or maybe, he did, and just didn’t care.

You couldn't figure him out.

He wasn't trying to force conversation. He wasn't trying to pry. But there was something about the way he existed in the room, like he didn't need to prove anything. Like your silence didn’t make him uncomfortable. He didn’t fill the space with empty words or constant reminders that he was in charge. That made it harder to hold onto your usual defences. Because if he wasn’t judging you, then what was left to be afraid of?

You kept waiting for him to shift into teacher mode. The lecture. The warning. The inevitable guilt trip about wasted potential. But it never came. There was no mention of missed classes, no probing questions about your academic record. It felt less like punishment and more like an oddly casual timeout.

Instead, when the wall clock hit 4:15, he stood and stretched, arms overhead, fingers lacing above his head as he arched his back. His shirt lifted slightly, just enough to reveal a narrow trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans before he let his arms drop again with a sigh.

You definitely weren’t looking.

Not really.

Maybe just a little.

"Alright," he said, glancing at the clock. "You survived Day One. Congrats."

You scrambled to pack up your things, stuffing loose papers into your notebook and zipping your bag too fast. You stood a little too quickly and bumped your knee on the underside of the table. A quiet wince escaped before you could catch it.

"Same time tomorrow," he added, voice still casual. "Unless you’re planning your great escape. In which case, at least leave a note. Preferably one that doesn’t make me fill out paperwork."

You turned halfway toward the door, already halfway through your escape plan in your head. "I’ll be here."

He nodded, reaching to grab his notebook again. "Oh, and maybe bring something better than math next time," he said, shooting you a lopsided grin. "You looked like you were in pain. Like actual, physical pain."

You hesitated. The kind of pause where your brain started shouting Don’t say anything, just smile and go. But before you could stop yourself: "Maybe I was."

That made him laugh. Soft. Genuine. Not the kind of laugh that tried to impress anyone. Just honest amusement, the kind that warmed the space between you instead of closing it.

You walked out before you could overthink it, heart doing something annoying in your chest. Something fluttery and ridiculous that you’d absolutely be denying later.

You weren’t sure what you expected from Mr. Michaels.

But it wasn’t this.

You stepped out of the gym, the heavy door creaking softly behind you as it swung shut. The sound echoed down the hallway like a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence.

The hallway was empty, washed in late-afternoon light that slanted in through the narrow windows. Dust floated in the air like golden glitter, dancing slowly in the quiet. Your shoes made soft clicks against the tile floor as you started down the corridor, slow, distracted. You kept your eyes forward, but your mind was still stuck on the way Mr. Michaels had laughed just now. Easy. Unforced. Like he wasn’t trying to be a teacher or an authority figure. Just... himself.

And for some reason, that was a lot harder to process than any lecture would have been. It didn’t come with a raised voice or disappointed glare. There were no warnings or punishments, just that quiet, matter-of-fact kindness that somehow slipped under your skin before you even had a chance to brace yourself against it.

You were about to round the corner, lost in your thoughts, when you heard another voice speak loudly behind the gym doors. The sharpness of it made you freeze, your feet halting mid-step as if your body had sensed something important before your mind caught up.

"Babysitting are we?"

The voice was unmistakable. Mr. Helmsley. Head of the gym department. Tall, intense, built like he never left his college football days. He had the kind of presence that made students sit up straighter without thinking. Always stern. Always watching. Also dating Mrs. McMahon. Not an important detail, you supposed, but still one your brain filed away, because it was strange to think of people like them dating at all.

"Yeah, yeah," Michaels replied from inside. "Don’t act like you didn’t pawn it off on me."

You paused, just out of sight, half-hidden by the edge of a trophy case with a dusty wrestling plaque and last year’s soccer team photo. Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know why you stayed. You just… did.

Helmsley snorted. "Could’ve said no."

"Could’ve," Michaels agreed. "But then McMahon would’ve guilt-tripped me until I dropped dead."

There was a pause. Then Michaels spoke again, this time quieter, almost like he wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud. "Besides… she seemed like she needed the break."

Your breath hitched. You felt it more than heard it, the weight of those words settling somewhere deep in your chest.

Helmsley’s tone shifted. Less mocking now. "The kid?"

"Yeah," Michaels said. "She walked in like she was expecting a firing squad. That’s not how it’s supposed to be."

There was another pause. You could hear the faint scrape of a folding chair, the shuffle of feet against the gym floor. Maybe Michaels was packing up, maybe he wasn’t. Either way, his next words were slower, more thoughtful.

"I don’t know what her deal is," he continued. "But I know that look. Seen it in the mirror more times than I’d like to admit."

Helmsley didn’t reply right away. You imagined him crossing his arms, that ever-present frown creasing his face as he processed it.

"You think you're gonna fix her?" he asked finally. His voice wasn’t sharp this time. It held a kind of grudging curiosity, almost like he was hoping Michaels would say no.

Michaels gave a low, dry laugh. "Nah. Not my job to fix anyone. But maybe if I make this suck a little less, she'll stop looking like the floor is going to swallow her up."

Another beat of silence. This time it felt less heavy, more like understanding passing between them without the need for explanation.

Then Helmsley said, "You ever think about switching to counselling? You’re halfway there already."

"God, no," Michaels replied immediately. "I like my sanity."

You smiled in spite of yourself. You didn’t mean to. It just happened. A tiny tug at the corner of your mouth that you didn’t fight.

"Alright, Michaels," Helmsley muttered. "Don’t go getting soft on me."

"Too late," Michaels said, his voice light and teasing again. "I let a kid choose silence over background music. I’m practically a guidance counsellor. Might as well get myself a cardigan and a mug that says 'World’s Okayest Mentor.'"

Their laughter faded behind the door, growing distant as they walked further into the gym.

You stood there a second longer, unmoving. Your heart felt like someone had wrung it out and handed it back, heavier and lighter at the same time. You pressed your hand to your chest as if that might help settle it.

You weren’t sure what surprised you more.

That he noticed.

Or that he cared.

And in a world where most people just looked right past you, that truth was almost too much to hold.

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witchtwig · 2 days ago

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Twigs Rewatches Agatha All Along - Episode 1, Part 2

Episode 1 - Seekest Thou The Road Deep Dive Part 2

Detective O’Connor: so demure, so delicate. Wiping her face like a trucker after shoveling a donut. The vision Agatha has of herself as Detective Agnes is fascinating, because again, this is Agatha’s turn on the wheel of the Hex. Agatha’s core self is obsessed with crime, has a dangerous edge (hitting a suspect), and isn’t the most ladylike. While the Nosy Neighbor was created to snare Wanda and drag her into Agatha’s grasp, Detective Agnes is Agatha without all of her guards.

But more importantly, here we are now at the "precinct," and we’re about to get to the juicy part of the episode.

No, she does not accept your apology, Chief!

But that’s interesting to consider this line in a broader way. Agatha's not huge on forgiveness. She also does not accept any of Rio’s apologies either, not really. She makes it clear from Nicholas’ birth: she will hate Rio forever. But that’s inevitable, isn’t it?

Even if he had been born healthy and eventually came to his natural life span, especially if he wasn’t a witch like either of them. The pair of them having a child was always going to be doomed and coloured by a loss that Rio could not circumvent and that Agatha would come to resent her for (the very thing that made Rio so attractive as a partner in the first place, Lady Death who is oh so powerful because of being Death (but not powerful enough to save their child and there’s the grief)).

Did you hear what happened to the stacks? More importantly, Chief–did you hear what happened to my favouritest evil grimoire, The Darkhold?

Also: O’Connor? Is that because she is a con woman, because if so: Agatha your evil little brain is genius.

A plant.

A boy, a boy who haunts Agatha Harkness. Tied to Rio, to The Green Witch, by that plant–his other mother who could not give him enough time, only snapshots left in Agatha’s subconscious.

Soil sample talk time! But what’s interesting here isn’t really about Wanda, is it? She’s the framework, the thin veneer of the story and the “crime” but really what this is all about is about to walk into the room. Because this is really all about Agatha, and what is about to walk in is so much of Agatha’s history. Wanda’s an entryway into us having met Agatha Harkness, and now we’re about to meet someone who Agatha’s love has defined (and in return has defined Agatha so very much).

Time to get to the part she’s not going to like.

Oh, the look on her face as Rio’s voice comes in. There’s disbelief and something softer there too.

Sunglasses, red lips, tight little button up and well-cut blazer–Death really went to play into her wife’s little fantasies. I always love how tight-fit Rio’s wardrobe is (and then the crop tops and slit skirts later). Rio's the cool girl. I love the character design in this show, and the choices they made so very much.

Missed her, Agatha?

Oh, she does not know what to make of this or how to unpack all of this. The mug reads “Get a Clue,” and you know Agatha underneath the Agnes costume is screaming and screaming and throwing a fit that Rio has shown up. She hates her so much (she loves her so much).

Time to play it cool, to pretend none of this matters, and drag it back to the Hex’s storyline. Rio’s just a special FBI Agent that’s all, nothing more to Agnes/Agatha nope! Just an uppity government stooge (someone who won’t break the rules enough for Agatha’s tastes, even if she did break the rules).

The sneer. She wants so badly to be unphased by this, but some of Agatha is leaking out–so angry, so hurt, always by Rio’s very existence.

So much yearning. Death has missed Agatha, and there’s something sadder there too. They’re a tragedy, and there’s no escaping it. Rio returning is them simply moving closer to where that tragedy goes up in absolute flames.

Rio is taking it in, taking in the storyline and everything around her. She can’t look at Agatha right this second–it is a lot. She’s finally seeing her again after what a decade or two behind the Darkhold separating them (I am of the camp that believes Agatha got her hands on that after the leather jacket look from episode 9).

And then they make eye contact again. They can’t help but stare each other down. They both hunger in their own ways.

Also: eat my ass, Chief.

Agatha, such a way with words.

Death adores Agatha, y’know? She finds her genuinely funny and interesting.

Agatha, your wife is home :) !

So much anger. So much resentment even here, even in this state.

I can’t remember the exact quote or article, but there was something talking about how this was supposed to set up and showcase the dynamics between Agatha and Rio. Rio as the government higher up who has more power than Agatha, and Agatha as the down and out scrappy cop. Agatha who doesn’t have the power or control she wants, but craves it and will enact her own justice if she has to. And Rio who seems so cool and collected and is her job.

Agatha wants to leap out of Detective Agnes and strangle Rio.

Rio’s just like: hi sweetheart! Missed me? Can't run away now, huh?

It’s been a long time.

What are you doing here? There’s layers to this question! Because what is Rio doing here?

Clearly, she is here to get Agatha out of the Hex, but there’s more to it than that as she’ll say: she’s here to do her job. And that’s not a lie. Billy William Kaplan Maximoff and Agatha Harkness (and Toby too) are on Death’s list of troublemakers. For as romantic (in whatever dark or twisted manner it has taken) a reading that this is just Rio chasing Agatha, it’s more than that, isn’t it now?

Agatha’s been outrunning Death with the Darkhold.

Rio’s having a great old time though! Seeing her estranged/ex-wife? Delightful. Messing with her just a little? Rio’s favourite pastime is riling up Agatha, let’s be real.

Agnes (and Agatha) is not impressed.

And then she turns it back to the story: you want to take control of my investigation?

The little snarl. Rio’s holding herself back in this role.

Big breath and little flirty body movements. “If you wanna be in control, you can be.” The line that launched this ship. This is about Agatha clawing her way out of the Hex. She is technically in control of it, but to really be in control of herself? She’s gotta take it over and let herself out. As well, I really think that is one of their general dynamics. Rio who is control, who is absolute control on a cosmic scale, is willing to give it up and over to Agatha who fights tooth and claw for control.

Gay panic, Agnes?

Witchy finger motions, but also. Agatha’s muscle memory is for sure intact here!

We’ll end here today. I’ll be back with part 3 before we know it.

#agatha all along #agathario #rio vidal #agatha harkness #witchtwig aaa deep dive

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mattslvrxo · 1 day ago

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love island series!!

part { 2 }

꣑ৎ { user x dominic fike} ꣑ৎ

{ ! } contains: slow burn, secret tension, messy heavy makeouts, electric guitar backstory, avoidance & pining, late-night encounters, dom’s teasing, thigh grabbing, hair pulling, soft whimpers, unresolved feelings, lowkey angst, villa drama, forbidden attraction, reality tv chaos

you’d been avoiding him since the night of the dare it wasn’t even intentional at first. more like survival instinct. because the second dominic fike kissed you — really kissed you, slow and deep, thumb on your jaw like he’d been waiting to do it for weeks — everything inside you lit up. in a way it absolutely should not have. you didn’t come here for this. you didn’t come here to unravel on camera for a guy who didn’t even pick you on day one. so you made yourself scarce. ducked into conversations with the new bombshells, let producers steer you into dumb group games. let yourself laugh too loud with people you didn’t actually like, just to avoid catching dominic’s eye. he didn’t make it easy.

the next morning he tried to sit by you at breakfast, but you pretended to be busy wiping down your glass. later he drifted over to where you were sunbathing and asked something casual about your tattoo, but you got up and jumped in the pool before he could finish. once he caught your eye across the courtyard — half-smirked, like he was amused by your efforts — and you just blinked at him, expression blank, then turned away. it wasn’t even about playing hard to get. it was just… safer. you weren’t here to catch feelings. you weren’t here to have your heart cracked open for a global audience. and you sure as hell weren’t here to hand it to a guy with a girl already hanging off him for the cameras. but none of it stopped what happened later.

—

the guitar thing was your secret, always had been. your dad taught you when you were a kid, back before things got complicated, back when he still sat in the living room with a beer and actually laughed. he’d let you strum his old busted acoustic, fingers too small to hold down the chords, proud anyway. after he left, you saved up for your first electric. bright red, a little too flashy. it felt heavier than it should, comforting in your hands, something you could control when everything else in your house felt tense. but you didn’t like talking about it. never played for other people. it was yours. the one piece of your life nobody else got to direct or edit or take from you. so when you snuck your electric guitar into your suitcase before flying to spain — carefully wrapped in t-shirts so the crew wouldn’t see it — it felt reckless. like keeping a piece of home hidden under your bed. most nights, you’d sneak out when the villa was dead silent, headphones in, volume low, playing for no one but yourself.

—

you were out there again tonight. couldn’t sleep. nerves still a mess from the last few days. fingers sliding over the strings, notes humming through your cheap amp. it was late enough the air turned cool against your bare legs. you were only in a sleep shirt and shorts, hair still damp from the shower. you didn’t notice him until it was too late. “you hiding from me out here?” you jumped so hard you nearly dropped your guitar. “fuck— dominic. jesus.” he was leaning against the patio doorframe, sweatpants hanging low, curls a disaster, eyes dark and locked on you. he looked unfair like that. too real. too close.

“been trying to get you alone for days,” he muttered, voice rough. “yeah well. maybe take the hint next time,” you shot back, untangling your cable a little too aggressively. he just smirked, stepped closer. “nah. i like watching you pretend you don’t want me around.” you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “you’re insufferable.”

“mm. maybe. or maybe you’re just scared.”

“of what?”

“this.” he didn’t wait. he dropped to a crouch in front of you, hands on your thighs, eyes locked on yours. your heart was hammering, palms slick on the guitar body. you tried to say something — anything to keep this from happening — but your voice died when he slid one hand higher, thumb tracing a slow line just under the hem of your shorts, “gonna run again?” he asked, voice low, almost amused. you opened your mouth, about to spit out something mean — something to keep this safe — but then he leaned in and kissed you. it was messy. greedy. not the slow pretty kind. his lips dragged over yours, biting down a little like he was punishing you for ignoring him. your guitar slipped out of your grip and clattered onto the patio, but neither of you moved to pick it up. instead his hand fisted in your hair, tugging just enough to pull a whimper from your throat. “fuck, there it is,” he breathed against your mouth, smirking. “knew you’d sound pretty.” you wanted to slap him. you also wanted to crawl into his lap. your hands clutched his shoulders instead, pulling him impossibly closer until you were half on his knee, his chest pressed tight to yours. he kissed you like he’d been starving, tongue sliding against yours, teeth scraping your bottom lip. when he finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, his hand was still on your thigh. thumb rubbing tiny circles that made your whole body feel electric. “don’t avoid me again,” he muttered, voice dark, forehead resting against yours. “or i’ll come find you. every time.” you didn’t have anything clever to say. didn’t want to. your brain felt scrambled, skin burning everywhere he touched. and when he leaned in and kissed you again — slower this time, but still just as hungry — you let him. because maybe it wasn’t smart. maybe it’d fuck everything up.

but right then? it felt like the only thing that made sense.

taglist: @birlemsbae @elianamattlvr @sagesturns @dominicfikeenthusiast @dominicfike @fikenight @adoreyousturniolos @sturnizolo @flowerfike @slvt4chrissturniolo @floweredsturn @sturniolo-szn2 @sturnitup @matts-girlfriend @chrispleasure @sturns-mermaid @loverrgirl3 @chrisspussygang @mattsweethrt @kait123456789876543 @sturnsiolos0 @chrissv4mp @auttysturnz

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if-you-give-a-dilf-a-danish · 9 hours ago

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Kidnapped P5: Hot & a little Cold

A/N: Hi!!!! Simon was a close-ish second in P3's poll, so i gave him a moment here. Kyle and Johnny will get theirs later, i promise. Also, no use of Y/N, it always comes out as "Yeen" to me help how do i stop that Contains: The rescue op, Angst and Hurt, a smidge of comfort. TW: some mentions of rot and vomit. More warnings at the POV change. Please let me know if I should add more. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 W/C: ~2k words ═════════════════════════ The National Lightning Detection Network (NLDN) is exactly what its name is, using over 100 ground sensors to record cloud-to-ground strikes with incredible accuracy (greater than 95% across the contiguous United States, narrowing locations down to around 250 meters, less than 100 in ideal conditions.) The information recorded is privately owned and not publicly available, used within agreements with agencies such as the National Weather Service. Across the pond, its equivalent is the European Cooperation for Lightning Detection.

It was with this information and the satellite phone pings that Laswell was able to track you down. However, upon immediately preparing for the rescue, the pinging stopped. It only brought in a further sense of urgency to save you, or at the very least, bring you home before your body gets too cold.

It was the day after the phone call when they were flown out to the Florida Everglades, armed and ready to take you back. They were on their own for this, originally benched for their other assignments by the higher-ups as soon as you went missing. What was done as a precaution was seen as more like an insult to all four of them.

On the ride, emotions were high. They were sitting in a blend of anxiety and anticipation, waiting to see what fruit, if any, bears from this. They don’t know what to expect when getting you, and that’s what scares them more than anything. Armed to the teeth in preparation to walk into a massive trap; with medical items on standby, but it can all just as easily be for naught and stripped off if a body needs to be lovingly carried back instead.

Upon landing, the Everglades were not welcoming to them. The storm from the previous day had made the humidity so fucking sticky, wet heat that made staying cool difficult. Yet, another thunderhead builds in the distance, threatening their mission. Soap almost steps on a snake, flinching away when he hears something move in the tall grass. Price reminds him not to shoot, attracting attention is the last thing they need out here. Yet far from the parks and the campsites, the only people they risk coming across are your captors or game wardens.

“Alright, let’s split up. Fan out a few klicks and see what we can find.” Price orders. The others agree and spread.

John itches for another cigar. But even with the rain, the foliage looks dry and ready to burn. He distracts himself with thoughts of you. He knows you’ll never be the same after this. His experience in this for so long has his mind conjure up various scenes about what they find. Entrails strewn about. Hung. Fed to the alligators. Shot point-blank right after the call. He regrets not letting you talk to the others. How panicked you sounded when Price said he’d hang up, how just his voice wasn’t enough to soothe you. If you’re alive-- No, when they find you and heal you, he’ll make it up to you. But he doesn’t know how he can. Maybe he can step-back for a minute, let them be the ones to dote on you—

��Fuck!!” He curses, his foot sinking into a hidden mud puddle. Deep enough to lose his balance, he falls back on his ass, landing on the edge of the puddle. His shin and the back of his pants are dirtied. Grumbling to himself, he refocuses on the search. Or at least he tries to. Johnny knows you’ll never be the same again. No one comes out of this unscathed. To him, and the rest of the task force, it’s just another nightmare in their rotation, another monster under the bed. But you, their love that waits for them on duty, that always stuck with them despite the filth and shadows that trail after them, you being the one with your own shadows is an incomprehensible thought.

With the traumas that they all have sustained, he thought each other as unloveable except to only themselves, that no one else would willingly pair themselves with this baggage. In a way, it brought the team closer together than what a team should be, reassurances after nightmares and seeing that their needs and comforts were met slowly evolved those feelings. Seeing you with those traumas, whatever they may be, Johnny doesn’t see you as unloveable. He knows that whatever your outcome is, he’ll be by your side.

A bug catches in his face, making him yelp. It collides with his cheek, causing him to slap it lightly before flying off. It didn’t sting or bite, but it buzzed like a wasp. He hears it circle back round him, Johnny prepares to swat at it again before it flies off. He decides to pick up the pace, getting away from the area if there’s a nest nearby.

Kyle believes you shouldn’t come back to the same house. Like him, you probably won’t be able to see it like a home anymore. That feeling soured and shattered like the oven glass, he looked up other homes for sale, large enough for everyone, and then some. With you, he doesn’t know what he’ll come across, and yet the hopeful part in him hopes to see you smile again like you were never taken away in the first place.

The others seemed to be on-board with a new home too, even had a couple house tours planned but that little light it brought their eyes dimmed when they realized you weren’t there to give your own opinion, that it would’ve been done without you. The tours were cancelled the same day they were planned.

When the tall sawgrass thins out, he hears a splash nearby from a pond. Slowly lurking towards it, he finds an alligator floating in the shallow pool. With it’s back turned to him, he immediately steps away, not wanting to become its next meal. He hopes you didn’t have to encounter one.

Simon is melting under his skull mask, the mugginess and sweat soaked into it irritating his scars and skin. He pushes through it, knowing that peeling it off would attract mosquitoes to him. He already starts to hear the high-pitched whizz of some around him, but he continues trudging on in the grass.

He’s afraid of seeing you dead too, of seeing that ‘shrine’ in Price’s office mean it. But unlike Price, he almost treats it like a certainty, that he’ll be taking your body back home with them, smelling of decay and dirt instead of your actual unique scent. He still bathes with your soaps, even handwashing one of his balaclavas in one so the mask retains it all day. His mind tells him it won’t be enough to hide the smell of death carrying you back.

He comes across a trail leading to an abandoned nature center, seemingly never completed. The concrete was cracked and bare, roof unfinished and caved-in at some spots, leftover construction materials rotting in the wild. Would-be trail markers hide in the grass.

“Everyone, come to my location, now. I’ve found somethin’.” Ghost orders, rushing inside to sweep the building. He doesn’t register Price telling him to wait for them, only scanning the few rooms to find you.

Empty. “No hostiles. No sign of them. I’ve located the sat phone. Soap— I-I’ve found your hoodie. They were here… wearin’ it.”

“Shite… we’re close, almost there.” Johnny sounds out of breath, obviously running.

Simon doesn't respond. The smell of old vomit and rot from the python distract him. A few puddles sit around him from where the sun hasn’t reached since the storms. Picking up the remains of Johnny’s hoodie, torn and foul with blood and vomit, his mind… goes blank. Too late, it rings like a bell in his head. The rifle falls from his grip as he sits next to the edge of the pit, eyes glassy.

He hears footsteps, and then a curse in a Scottish accent. Johnny shows up next, rushing next to Simon and seeing the hoodie clasped in his hands. Simon hears a broken “No” when he’s then grabbed by Johnny, embraced tightly. Kyle was next, yelling outside when he barged in, silencing when he saw Johnny hold their lieutenant. At first, he thought they found you dead in the pit, but when looking in, he asks: “I-It was only a day! How could they be gone already?!” His voice quivers with emotion.

The splash of a boot in one of the puddles announces John’s entrance. “Because it was a set-up. They knew we were coming.” He answers, seeing how barren the place is, it didn't give them any answers as to what happened to you. Sitting down on the other side of Simon, that guilt from before starts to take root again.

“I-I’m so fuckin’ sorry, loves.” The captain apologizes, and he doesn’t know what for at this point. Simon wraps his arm around him and has him lean against him. Kyle sits on the other side of Johnny, tears mixing with sweat as his gaze is stuck on the sat phone in the corner.

They remained like that when the thunderhead grew closer, Laswell calling them to tell them they have to get out, lest they get stuck there. She offered her sympathies and promises to keep digging, but until then, they couldn’t do anything. Again.

═════════════════════════

TW: Infection, Isolation, Delirium.

Now, you’re freezing. The metal floor you gain consciousness on slowly bites that into your entire back and arms. You wake up to the near-deafening roars of refrigeration units blowing frigid air. Confused, you try to get up off the floor, but your body screams in response to the movement. Realising the hoodie is missing, you raise your shirt, finding your chest and stomach bruised in all sorts of shapes, made sickly-looking by the fluorescent light. You don’t remember how you got them. …Weren’t you just somewhere hot? Last thing you remember was the phone call with- John. He said it would all be okay. You take a deep breath to remain calm. The cold, stale air burns your gums and sinuses. Or you try to. Something feels wrong.

Your lungs catch in the air, but it’s not enough. Something is inside. Taking in another gulp, you cough it out afterward, sharp chokes that scratch your throat and spray mucus droplets into your naked elbow. The soreness on your body gets angrier with every new wave, forcing you to stop when the first hints of blood tint the mucus.

Your body is in so much pain, your throat, sinuses, and mouth burn, drying out with the cold air and the effects from the water. The snake bite and the thigh gash have swollen, a disgusting smell emits from them but you couldn’t tell which in the cold. You’re starting to rot on the inside.

Didn’t they want you alive? To trade with? Or did they want you to stew in your own filth, watching you disintegrate like chalk in water? Water… they haven’t given you any. Food either.

Studying the small room, it remains mostly empty, save for a couple pallets and boxes in the corner. There’s no label or stamping on them, not a hint of their origins. You doubt they have anything edible in them. Your body hurts too much to get up to check anyway. Looking at the refrigeration units, loud with their metal fans; you tiredly wonder if you could drink their condensation. You’re not tall enough to reach the ceiling-mounted machines anyway. The door had no handle, just like the hot place.

The biting cold in your legs begins to go numb, as do the tips of your toes and fingers. They look faintly blue-ish in the light. The fatigue worsens, you close your eyes, resting for a minute.

══════

You wake up shivering. You don’t know how much time actually passes, the cold units and lights never once flicker.

You remember the call again, John’s voice. It was a trap, right? You hope they made it out okay. The clatter of your shivering teeth worsen the gum pain. It’s what helps you stay awake.

Yet, your eyelids get too heavy again. ════════════════ A/N: that bit with johnny was based on the time i got hit in the face with a wasp and it flew off but my hand was already flying at my face ready to slap it and i slapped myself instead T-T also doing my research for the nldn stuff, its all really cool they're like super accurate with that holy shit We are almost there! Glorious comfort will come, i promise! Thanks for your love for this series! Let me know if you want tagged for the next part! @rafaelacallinybbay @missborntodiex

#John price x reader #Simon ghost riley x reader #John soap mactavish x reader #Kyle gaz garrick x reader #Cod x reader #Call of duty x reader #Call of duty angst #Poly!141 #Poly!141 x reader #cod angst

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ticklish-n-stuff · 1 day ago

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Is this how you play?

I can't remember the last time I wrote a pjsk fic. Anyways this is for my super hot and attractive partner @azureyemberzz 💖

I finally wrote n25 KaiMeiLuka

Enjoy<3

Also on ao3

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N25 Luka x Kaito x Meiko (interpret as you wish)

+ Mafuyu cameo

Lee: Kaito

Lers: Luka, Meiko

Warnings: Tickles! Light bondage!

____________________________________

“Luka, are you sure that this is correct?” Kaito furrowed his brows, scrutinizing the red string that now binded his hands together. This was supposed to be an attempt at cat’s cradle, but he was starting to have his doubts.

“Of course, I did it exactly as Mizuki taught me. Don’t you trust me?~” Luka gave an innocent smile, though anyone could tell it was anything but.

“No” he replied flatly without missing a beat, his face starting to twist in irritation.

“Are you sure? You did agree to play with me, after all”

“Only because you wouldn’t stop pestering me. Now, let me go”

“Oh, alright…” Luka let out a dejected sigh, scooting closer to untie his hands. Only to take a detour and land a surprise squeeze on the vulnerable side.

“Hngh-!” A choked squawk resounded in the empty sekai. Kaito’s body went as stiff as a board, eyes wide in a rare moment of vulnerability

“What was that?”

He could practically hear the shit-eating grin in Luka’s voice. Truly, there’s no point in deflecting, but he still did so. Feeling too caught off guard to try to think of a proper way out of this. “Nothing, just let me go”

“Didn’t sound like nothing. Are you lying to me, Kaito?” Her nails started to crawl up and down his sides, like tiny spiders, causing his skin to jump and jolt with each touch. “That’s not very nice of you~” she cooed teasingly, not missing the faint hint of color that started creeping up the male vocaloid’s neck.

Kaito snapped his mouth shut into a thin line, hating how such a simple touch was able to produce such horrible noises out of him. He tried with all his might to remain quiet, but knowing Luka, she wouldn’t relent until she broke him.

“C’mon, I know you want to laugh” the pink vocaloid almost sounded like a whiny child. Kaito would’ve scoffed if he wasn’t on the verge of laughing. And to make matters worse…

“Oh? Hey, Meiko! Come help me out!~” Luka called out to the brunette vocaloid that had been spectating the scene, as she usually did.

“I don’t want to get involved”

“If you don’t join, I’ll just tickle you too~ So, what do you say?”

Meiko sighed, neither option sounded appealing, but being at the receiving end of Luka’s teasing felt worse. “Sorry, Kaito”.

Kaito felt something escape him, maybe his nonexistent soul, as Meiko sat behind him. The feeling of playful hands scribbling at his sides, and hesitant fingers poking and prodding at the back of his ribs made it near impossible to hold back. “Pff- Eheh.. Mph!”.

Luka’s face lit up like a christmas tree at the first sounds of what resembled laughter, even if it was all muffled and strained. “Aww, I didn’t know you could sound so cute!~ Isn’t he so cute, Meiko?”

The vocaloid in question merely shrugged, shoving her fingers under the blue vocaloid’s armpits to avert the attention away from her. That’s when the damn fully broke.

“WahAIT! No! StOHop!” pale, cool cheeks were instantly enveloped in warmth. Those blue eyes that usually held irritation were squeezed shut, and a rare smile had blossomed on normally stoic lips. To think that this ball of grump could behave so cutely…

“What are you guys doing…?” Mafuyu’s monotone voice broke everyone out of the moment. Luka quickly got up to greet the purple haired girl, while Meiko retracted back to the sidelines. Leaving poor Kaito all disheveled and out of breath. You would’ve thought he had ran a marathon, being so bent out of shape over some mere tickling. How embarrassing…

“I was simply playing cat’s cradle with Kaito” Luka motioned over to the glaring Kaito, though he just looked like an angry kitten still all flushed.

Mafuyu decided not to comment or question whatever it was they were doing, though the others didn’t miss the small smile that had formed on her face.

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#project sekai tickle #tickle fic #megurine luka #meiko vocaloid #kaito vocaloid #lee!kaito #ler!luka #ler!meiko

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coffeewasamistake · 1 day ago

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Last entry for the Pride Things Mini Bingo !

A lesbian and a straight bi guy walk into a bar

For the Mini Pride Bingo hosted by @genderthings.

[AO3]

Prompt: Leather community | Rating: T | WC: 862 | Relationships : Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington; Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Summary:

Robin goes to a gay bar with her emotional support Dingus.

They weren't expecting to cross paths with a leather clad Eddie Munson.

The club was packed. Robin had be told about it by some pretty girl apparently working at the bookshop were she had found all her lesbian informations. Of course she had insisted on showing up tonight, when the mysterious hottie had advised his best friend to come. There was an event, something something, lots of queer people from every horizon, something something. Robin's explication had been severly lacking, and Steve was pretty sure she hadn't heard a third of the cashier's speech, too occupied trying to not melt into a pile of goo because an attractive girl had told to her.

Whatever. It was not the first overpacked party he had attended. Buying a drink would be a bit difficult with so many people around, but as long as he Robin's hand in his, they would at least stay together.

"I didn't think it was your scene, Big Boy..."

Steve turned around, startled. He knew that voice. He had heard it so many times in the high school cafeteria while its owner was flouncing on the tables.

Eddie Munson was standing in front of him, clad in leather pants and a goddamn leather harness. He wore nothing else, and Steve found himself almost hypnotised by the expanse of naked, tattoed skin in front of him. He swallowed heavily, trying desperatly to find something to say, anything, before Munson go too weirded out by Steve's lack of answer.

"Oh, hi Munson! He's with me!" Robin pipped, saving him from looking too much like an idiot. She was smiling like crazy. "I was a bit scared to come alone, and Steve was all 'I'm a great winngman Robie, I'll get you laid'. And I thought, yeah, this guy is known as the ultimate lady killer, the Panties Whisperer. So I thought why not? He could help me find a girl, because, lesbian, you know." Her smile dropped for a second, and she winced. "Though I saw him try to flirt with the girls who came at Scoops during the summer and he was absolutely awful, so I don't know if his expertise is to be believed. Maybe his technique is not that good and I'll end up alone at the end of the night... But at least I would have been to a gay bar once in my life."

"So first time being here. I though so, but I didn't want to assume."

Robin grimaced. "Why, do I look out of place?" She glanced at Steve. "Do I seem straight to you Dingus?" Steve shook his head. Robin turned back to Eddie. "Is it my clothes? I try do wear something cool, but clearly," she gave him a once over, "I'm falling short right now."

"Nah, you're fine. I just never saw you here, and well, we live in Hawkins. You look good for a girl, don't worry. "

"Oh." Robin visibly relaxed. "I was scared there was a dress code I had missed or something."

"No, I'm a special case. You like it, Birdie?" he asked, grinning.

"I'm not gonna lie, you look amazing in leather. Very dramatic. Does it works with the boys?"

Eddie laughed.

"You have no idea. People are coming on to me right, front and center. I'm nearly as popular as our own King Steve." He winked.

Robin started fidgetting with her rings. "Does it... Does it works well with girls too? Do they even make things like that" she gestured at the harness Eddie was wearing, "for girls? Whoever create these, I mean."

"Oh believe me, they do. It's less common for lesbians, but some girls dress like that too. I've seen it, it looks great with tits. Why, you wanna try?"

Robin hesitated. "You think it would look good on me?"

"What I think, my lady Robin, is that you would look very butch in leather. And that would make a lot of panties drop." He winked. "I know a few girls who could tell you all about it. Interested?"

"Oh my god, Eddie! Yes!"

He turned toward Steve, and the strange look in his eyes made him shiver. He felt like a poor little gazelle staring at a dark haired lion.

"And you Stevie? You haven't used your pretty mouth in a second, now. Tell me, pretty boy, do you like the leather?"

Steve blushed, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. For once he had nothing to respond to someone who was flirting with him. He was accustomed to girls batting their eyelashes at him, smiling, playing with their hair. But now, in front of Eddie Munson's burning intensity, he found himself barely able to look at the older guy. He kept glancing at his almost naked torso, at the glorious contrast between the leather and his pale skin. He felt an insane urge to lick at the sweaty expanse of flesh right in front of him.

Did he like the leather? Steve averted his eyes.

"Yes." he mumbled.

A beat. Steve found himself glancing back at the other guy, drawn to him like a moth to a flamme.

Eddie's eyes met his own. His smile was blinding.

"Good to know, sweetheart. Good to know."

#robin: wtf you're not straight???#steve staring at Eddie in the distance: I'm a gazelle #robin: that's not an answer dingus #stop staring at my new gay mentor please #stranger things #stranger things fic #steddie #eddie x steve #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #platonic stobin #gender things #pride things bingo #pridethingsbingo #prompt: leather community

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candyheartedchy · 2 days ago

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Man I'm sorry about Dishy being treated like a joke character like that, but if it helps! I'm in the Date Everything discord and every character is pretty accepted there! They have character threads and I was looking through Dishy's and there's lots of people who genuinely like him or are attracted to him in a non-joke way. :)

In my experience while there, most of the time if you have a favorite that isn't as popular, the reaction is generally "That's so cool, I'm so glad this character has fan! :)"

I’m in that discord too (I’m just too shy to interact lol) and it does make me smile seeing others like his character as well!!!

But unfortunately I’ve seen fans (those who aren’t apart of the self ship or canon x oc community since folks here are more welcoming) who are very vocal about not liking Dishy and questioning folks who do (which again folks are allowed to not like characters who aren’t their tastes, I get that) where it does feel like we are being judged. And with his character meaning a lot to me, it just stings a bit more, you know? Like Dishy is a very unique and compelling character (especially when you explore his boss fight in the game and how he starts questioning that what he was doing before by being pushy and controlling was wrong) and that at the end of the day he really just wants to help folks.

But I do agree that when I see characters as well who aren’t as popular in fandoms have a fan or two who adore them, it makes me happy because those characters are being loved!

#myslooni #💌 letters 💌

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38livesalone-has3cats · 2 hours ago

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Hi lovely! I have a request if you’re interested 🤔 I can imagine Bob Floyd misinterpreting the reader who is trying to flirt with him, he thinks the reader is wanting to ask him for Hangman or Roosters number 😂 at least until Phoenix sets him straight

Not Again (bob floyd x fem!reader)

warnings/tags: fem reader, mentions of drinking/alcohol, cursing? lol idk, (y/n) used x2, bob’s pov for just a few paragraphs, reader hating on jake seresin but not really<3

wc: 1.8k

a/n: thank you for the request oml this is soo cute :] this turned out way longer than i wanted it to be LMAO SORRY😭

The Hard Deck is loud as shit- you can feel the buzzing of the conversations happening around you. It’s hot out, but the cool air blowing in from the coast just outside keeps it from being miserable. Add the refreshing AC blasting and it’s all the perfect recipe for a packed bar.

You hadn’t come here for the loud atmosphere, of course; you’d come to hang with your best friend, have a few drinks, and admire the hotties in uniforms who frequent this spot. In fact, your friend is nudging your arm now, her eyes locked on the front doors.

“Oh my god, look.” She whisper-yells, a grin on her face. Your eyes find what she’s looking at, a new group of soldiers- pilots, guessing by their uniforms and the base close by. Beautiful, of course, they’re all attractive as fuck, but your eyes stick to one in particular.

He lingers towards the back of the group but still engages with the others with a lopsided smile on his face. He’s taller, lanky with a dash of muscle stretching under that uniform. He has an awkward energy about him but to be honest, that just makes you want him more.

His head turns and you rip your eyes away before he can catch you staring. You can feel a heat crawl up your cheeks.

“Jesus, I didn’t mean look for that long.” Your friend teases, her grin growing as you hide your face by gulping down your drink. “Which one were you looking at? The tall, loud one in the front is so fine.”

You chuckle, nodding slightly as you glance at the guy she must’ve been talking about. “He’s cute.” You shrug, chewing on the straw of your drink. “The one in the glasses.” You look from your friend to the pilots just as the cute one looks in your direction.

Your heart drops to your stomach and you turn to fully face your friend, who’s already laughing at what she saw. “Shut up. I’m about to kill myself.” You drop your forehead against her shoulder.

“So, what’re you staring at, Bobby?” Phoenix’s voice tears Bob out of his daze.

As soon as he’d walked in with the rest of the squad, he’d felt eyes on him. It wasn’t particularly unusual, being in uniform and with the loudest people he had ever met- they often got a few looks in public. He glanced around, catching sight of a girl sitting at the bar. He can’t help the way his heart stutters in his chest.

She was glowing. The light of the bar was dim, but the setting sun peeked through the open windows just enough to shine on her- for her, more like. She was easily one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen.

And it was clear she had been looking their way. Bob didn’t want to get his hopes up- of course she’d been looking, Rooster had burst through the front doors singing loud as hell. Bob tries to push the thoughts of her to the back of his head as he was pulled into a game of pool, but he can’t help but look again.

He watches as your eyes dart from Hangman to him and finally back to your friend. It’s clear you’re embarrassed he’d caught you staring. Of course, Jake fucking Seresin. Bob lets out a sigh, finally turning toward Phoenix.

“Nothin’. Just another girl staring at Bagman.” He huffs quietly as he sets up his shot, bending over the table. If Phoenix notices the extra bite to his tone, she doesn’t mention it.

“Go talk to him! I’m telling you, he cannot keep his eyes off of you.”

Your friend has only gotten more insistent with each drink she’s had, and you’re starting to listen.

The liquid courage in your system only fuels your desire for the pilot across the bar. You had caught him looking your way a few times, but he looked so grumpy. A furrow stuck in his brow, a slight pout carved into his lips. You chalked it up to him loosing his game of pool, but now his friends are singing and that same expression is on his face.

“I don’t know..” You chew on the inside of your lip, your eyes trailing over to the group again. Before you can even debate it, your friend is pulling you out of your seat. “Go, go, go. Don’t think, okay? Just do it. You only live once.” She grins.

“If this goes badly, we’re getting the fuck outta here.” You huff, turning towards the man you’ve been fantasizing about all night.

Your knees wobble anxiously as you walk- the alcohol in your system not helping either. You take in a deep breath, trying to look as put-together as possible; you straighten up your posture, puff out your chest a bit, and tilt your chin up.

You feel like a fool.

Even the alcohol flowing through you can’t stop the blood rushing to your cheeks as you finally approach him. You’d gone around the back of their group, not wanting to walk through all of them.

Oh, wow, he looks taller up close. And he smells fantastic. Your heart thuds loudly in his chest as you realize just how blue his eyes are. His eyes- shit, he’s looking right at you and you aren’t sure if you’re breathing.

“Hi, sorry, I didn’t mean to, um, yeah.” You want to slap yourself.

“Sorry, my name’s (y/n). I saw your group from across the bar, I really like your uniforms- are you pilots?” You see his brows twitch just slightly and you can’t tear your eyes from his broad shoulders as he rolls them back to fix his posture.

“Yeah- yes, we are. We’re with Top Gun. I’m Bob- my name’s Bob.” His lips break into a tentative smile as he speaks, his long fingers reaching up to adjust his glasses.

“Bob,” You repeat, your own smile growing, “Top gun. That’s impressive.” Everyone on the island knows about Top Gun, and how hard it is to get in.

The sound of giggles tear your attention from Bob and you find yourself glancing over his shoulder to see a few of his friends watching you two and laughing, sending a heat to your cheeks.

“T-thanks, I’m just a weapons system operator, though; I don’t do any of the piloting-“ Bob stops when he realizes your eyes aren’t on him. He turns his head and makes direct eye contact with Hangman- him and Phoenix are clearly laughing at Bob.

You look back to Bob, trying to ignore your racing heart. “No, that’s still really impressive. I could never-“

“Sorry to interrupt you, miss, but my friend’s name is Jake, and he is single. I’ve seen you looking at him all night, and you very pretty- I’m sure it’ll go well.” Bob’s lips form a thin line as he looks back to you, his chest suddenly feeling like it’s been carved out.

“I.. What?” Your heart drops to your stomach, your brows creasing.

“If you’ll excuse me.” He mumbles, sliding past you and towards the bar, leaving you standing there like an idiot- looking at his friends like they’ll have some explanation.

“The fuck?” The girl is already following after him, shooting you an apologetic glance. The guy- you’re assuming Jake- approaches you.

“Hello. So sorry about my shy friend over there- his brain shuts down around women.” Jake grins, confidence rolling off of him in waves.

“Right.” You aren’t quite sure what to say, so you give him some awkward wave before you’re trudging back to your friend at the bar. You aren’t necessarily devastated- but god, he was beautiful, and he had been looking at you all night. Were you reading into it too much? Maybe he wasn’t interested at all and was trying to be polite? You try to ignore the way your chest suddenly feels heavy.

You don’t make it far before you’re stopped my a hand on your arm.

You turn and meet the eyes of the woman from before, who’s already speaking to you.

“Hi, I’m so sorry to bother you! I’m Natasha, and I’d like to formally apologize for my friend.” She’s smiling at you, and you realize Bob is standing a few feet behind her, his cheeks bright red- looking somewhat like a scolded puppy. “I swear he’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet, and he’d love if you’d give him the chance to apologize.” As she speaks, she throws a firm look to Bob, who starts to resemble a kicked puppy.

“Oh- okay?” You laugh, incredulously- unable to process everything that’s happening right now.

Bob steps forward then, Natasha giving him a pat on the back before she leaves the two of you.

“I really am sorry, (y/n). Um, can we step outside to talk?” Bob’s head is ducked closer to you so you can hear him, but it’s still a struggle for your ears.

You agree, and the two of you find yourself standing beneath a neon sign, the sun mostly under the horizon by now; you both find yourselves laughing at the situation.

“I’m really embarrassed about all this- god, I’m so dense.” Bob sighs, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “I just- you’re so beautiful I couldn’t even..” He trails off, and you can’t help the small smile that grows on your face.

He is absolutely adorable, every part of you is drawn to him. Like a moth to flame; he has this glow about him, like no matter how quiet he is, he’s the one lighting up the room.

“Can I get your number?” You manage to ask.

“Of course.” He’s replying quickly, already yanking his phone out of his pocket.

The two of you exchange information and chat a bit more before making your way back inside- you can’t abandon your friend, after all. His hand hovers over the small of your back as you cross the threshold until he’s letting out a small groan and covering his mouth with his hand.

“Bagman’s descended on your friend.” He mutters, voice full of disdain.

You aren’t sure what that means until your eyes find your friend at the bar. Mr Confidence. Jake. Bagman. His arm slung over your friend’s shoulders as they laugh together.

You shake your head, a quiet laugh escaping your lips as you watch the rest of their group approach Jake and your friend, surrounding them and ordering another round from Penny.

Jake's eyes find you two as you approach, his smile turning smug. "Baby on board! I wasn’t sure you had it in ya!”

“Thanks. Real supportive.” Bob mutters, motioning to Penny for a drink of his own. His hand drops back to hovering behind you; you decide to scoot just a little closer until he finally makes contact. He shoots you a soft smile and you can’t help the way your heart flutters.

No matter how awkward the interaction might’ve started as, now that you’ve got Bob in your grasp, you won’t ever let go.

#fanfic #drabbles #fluff #oneshot #bob floyd #lewis pullman #top gun maverick #top gun x reader #top gun oneshot #robert floyd #top gun maverick oneshot

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