#which… isn’t something I particularly like doing. at all

[hoiststowline]

responses to their s/o falling asleep on them. [w/ ultra magnus, bluestreak, ratchet, hound, kup & sunstreaker]

-

isn't moving until you wake up, would rather stay like this all evening than risk moving at all. [ultra magnus, bluestreak]

something so harmless as falling asleep alongside ultra magnus is going to fry some circuits. the first time especially, he's mostly in subtle shock that you felt not only safe, but at peace enough to succumb to the temptation to shut your eyes. it's a trust thing for magnus, and while you may express it vocally, these subconscious actions translate loudly for him to which he treasures greatly. with that being said, if you fall asleep beside to him, he isn't moving until you wake up. of course, there may be emergencies or circumstances beyond his control that he would have to try and maneuver himself or his arm away from his s/o. but it is not necessarily a want, nor a desire to even attempt to wake you up. you look so calm. initially, thinking he would go very rigid and stiff if this occurred, i'm now perceiving the opposite. i think magnus would actually release some of the tension in his frame and sink a little deeper into his chair. it's almost like a deserved break, a gift that he wasn't expecting but appreciates significantly nonetheless.

on the other hand, bluestreak is the one that goes completely taut and inflexible upon realizing you've fallen asleep. it’s likely on his chassis so there is virtually nowhere else to look, mesmerized by your state of tranquility and terrified to disturb it. he doesn’t want to, particularly after he gently rests a servo across your back and you intuitively bundle deeper into his touch. then bluestreak is really not moving, not until you arise fully on your own. you evidently needed it, and he required this to shake free some of the stress that’s had him wound up very tight. if it’s the first time, he is so entranced with studying your face and how you hardly move. or on the other side, if you move around a lot, he let’s you do whatever you please, raising his hand until you become comfortable, lowering it once more atop your spine. if somebody needs him, they’re gonna have to come and get him because he isn’t getting up.

would test the limits to get both you and themselves into a more comfortable position, but would stop if it appeared as if you were going to wake up. [ratchet, hound]

ratchet probably recognizes the way you’re positioned will leave an ache in your neck or shoulders in the morning, so searches for a way to get you elevated but comfortable. he is the first mech who wants you to get the best rest possible, knowing that you likely haven't been getting enough or there's too much time in between your last round of shut-eye. he tries to guide you into laying down, but every time he moves away, you follow like a magnet. ratchet will give it a try three more times before giving up, realizing that you're beginning to rouse or are shuffling around too much. it isn't worth it then if you ultimately awake anyways, but in the end, he might as well join you. your cheek smushed up against his side isn't really doing him any favors in denying it, half-wondering when you even fell asleep. had he been talking to himself for the past fifteen minutes? the last thing he recalls you mumbling about is how warm he feels, though the recollection now has him ex-venting, silently but contentedly accepting defeat.

hound rather you sleep in your own bed, for the sole reason that it's far more enjoyable and comfortable than his cold berth or up against his boxy frame. of course, if he had his preference, snuggling up beside you would triumph over any other suggestion. but if you were to conk out underneath his arm, hound's only looking out for the fact you have work/school in the morning. he knows how exhausted you are after a long day, so while this isn't unfamiliar, he still tries to adjust you into a more satisfactory pose. every time he so much as touches you, you stir, even if he's so moderate with each brush of contact. the last thing hound wants is to accidentally wake you, knowing it's ten times harder to get back to sleep after being roused so abruptly. he's the first to give in, but he's a bit guilty about it, yielding to his own temptations rather than finding a better solution. though, the way your fingers rest along his plating is a really substantial distraction, enraptured by the feeling of your chest rising and falling against his side. a better idea would have to wait, because all he wants now is for this moment to last forever.

accidentally wakes you up trying to get you in a more comfortable and desirable resting position, feels bad but tells you to go back to sleep. [kup, sunstreaker]

similar to a deer in headlights, kup doesn't know what to with himself. you're sound asleep yet you're practically upside down tucked up against his neck, and this presents two immediate problems. one, if you move in your sleep you're gonna fall or get hurt, and two, he can hardly see you situated like that. kup falls still, but racks his processor for a better undertaking than waking you up. it's in vain, so gently, he'd tug on the bottom of your pants for two minutes until he realizes that you aren't going to respond to that, grumbling under his breath but it's all in good fun. eventually, he hushes your name, tilting his helm back to try and catch the expression on your face. if you're in a deep enough sleep, he slides a servo under your form to bring you to his front, waking you in the process. kup will instantly get you in a restful position that is better for the both of you, more than likely at his front so he can multitask [usually a lie, because he ends up falling asleep as well]. he generally kisses your temple and tells you that it's all alright, and that he's sorry for disturbing you. his gruffness is smothered when he whispers for you to try to go back to sleep, alongside that he'll be right here when you wake up.

sunstreaker stands conflicted for ten or so minutes, uncertain as to what the best response is to such a situation. you're more likely to fall asleep in the crook of his arm, leaning against his upper appendage as your fingers fight to interlock around his elbow. you've been mumbling sleepy nonsense for the last hour, but sunstreaker hadn't thought anything of it until you stopped talking in full. quickly, he finishes whatever he's working on and moves to gather you in his hands so he can nap with you, but he's jumped up too fast or the switching of positions startled you. he's mumbling apologies at the lowest level his voice box goes, trying to whisper until he can get you both back into his berth. it's a soft and drowsy sunstreaker that you are not quite overfamiliar with, but hope to meet when you regain full consciousness in the morning. he appreciates the quiet and would happily take any chance to embrace his s/o in such a devoted manner. he might feel a bit bad about fortuitously waking you up, but sunstreaker rather you be safe and comfy in his arms than try and get a good repose at his desk.

[wandaslovey]

I just know wandanat sits at home completely worried while bunny is out there partying with her friends.(Mommy wanda specifically)

Btw what do you think bunny's career path'd be after the school is over? Also some random facts about bunny which wandanat absolutely adore while something they y'know kinda tolerates for their little one

definitely! thankfully, bunny isn’t much of a partier.

bunny’s currently in school to get her masters degree in psychology. she wants to be a therapist eventually once she jumps through all the hoops and gets enough hours in to start practicing officially.

fun facts about bunny:

• she has to watch asmr to fall asleep. at first wandanat thought it was kinda strange, but it quickly went from “this is weird” to “what video(s) are we watching tonight?” and they like it just as much as her now.

• she’s incapable of taking a fast shower. the average time she spends in there is about 30 minutes and that’s if she’s being conscious about how much time she spends in there. wanda or natasha often have to step inside the bathroom (assuming they’re not already showering with her) to give her a time check n tell her she needs to wrap it up.

• bunny is obsessed with sour candy. a bag of a sour patch watermelon gummies are never too far away from her. one time natasha ordered the worlds sourest candy to try with her for fun and it totally backfired on her. bunny didn’t mind it, but natasha just about passed away.

• bunny is the queen of cinnamon. cinnamon gum, floss, toothpaste, candy — you name it, she has it. wanda particularly loves that taste in her mouth

• she likes to sing to herself a lot. when she’s zoning out, feeling a little anxious, feeling a little down, really anything. she doesn’t like other people to hear her though, so she either hums or sings really quietly. both wanda and natasha try to catch her in the act on numerous occasions. she has a lovely voice, they have no idea why she tries to hide it.

• she specifically loves tummy kisses. so much so that because she’s too shy to be straight forward about asking for things, she’ll often lay across either natasha or wanda’s lap and stretch her arms back so her shirt rides up a bit, making the newly exposed skin look more “tempting” to feast on. it works 7.5/10 times

[lady-arcane]

—Nothing Special—

Nanami doesn’t believe in doing things halfway. Not work, not fights, and certainly not meals.

----

It’s something you notice early on, the way he approaches cooking with the same quiet precision he applies to everything else. No shortcuts, no half-hearted attempts. Just careful, deliberate movements—measuring, chopping, stirring, tasting. He doesn’t rush anything, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he works. Like cooking is one of the few things in this world that make sense.

And yet, every time he sets down a plate in front of you, he shrugs it off with a casual, “It’s nothing special.”

Which is, frankly, insane.

Because Nanami’s cooking isn’t just good—it’s absurdly, unfairly good. The kind of good that makes you reconsider every meal you’ve ever had before. It’s balanced and flavorful and just indulgent enough to make you wonder if he missed his true calling.

He didn’t, of course. Because as much as you hate to admit it, he is a good sorcerer.-Even if you’d much rather see him somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere with a kitchen instead of a battlefield.

-----

“You know, most people don’t just whip up a three-course meal on a random weeknight,” you tell him once, staring down at the plate he’s just set in front of you. “This is not ‘nothing special.’”

Nanami exhales through his nose, unamused. “It’s just a simple meal.”

“Nanami, there’s saffron in this.”

He barely reacts. “I had some left over.”

“Of course you did."

It’s a pattern, this quiet form of care he offers. He doesn’t say much about it, doesn’t expect praise or gratitude. But you see it in the way he portions out the food, always making sure your plate is full before serving himself. In the way he adjusts the spice level just enough to match your tastes. In the way he always, always makes sure there’s something comforting on the table after a particularly rough day.

You don’t always call him out on it. Sometimes, you just let it happen—this wordless, steady kind of love that he insists isn’t anything grand.

-----

But one night, after a long, exhausting day, you sit down at the table, take one bite of his cooking, and blurt out, “I think you love me more than I love you.”

Nanami pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Raises a brow.

You gesture at the food. “This is ridiculous. This is devotion. And I—what? I just show up? I sit here and receive all this?” You shake your head, overwhelmed. “It’s embarrassing, honestly. I need to step up my game.”

For a second, he just looks at you, unreadable as ever. Then, very quietly, he says, “You do more than you realize.”

And maybe it’s the exhaustion talking, or maybe it’s just the way he says it—calm, certain, like an undeniable fact—but you find yourself falling silent. Because when Nanami says something like that, you believe him.

The rest of the meal is quiet. Easy. And when you finish, setting your chopsticks down with a sigh, Nanami gives you a look and says, “So? How was it?”

You meet his eyes, dead serious. “Nothing special.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. But he doesn’t argue.

He just gets up, takes your plate, and starts cleaning up.

-----

Greetings, Dreamers and Readers ✨🌸

You know, I’ve been thinking—maybe cooking is a love language. My younger Bhai (cousin brother), for example, is an absolute menace most of the time (as younger siblings tend to be lol)

But when he’s in the kitchen, he always makes something for me too. Not in an overly sweet, “look how much I care” kind of way—more like a casual, “I was already making food, so here, take this” way. No big declarations, no dramatic gestures, just... an unspoken understanding.

Which, honestly, is kind of unfair. Because while I can barely cook to save my life, this little brat could probably become a chef if he wanted to. 😭✋

Meanwhile, I struggle to flip a half fry egg without cracking its yolk. Life is cruel like that. 🗿

But anyway—maybe food is one of those quiet ways people show love. No grand speeches, no poetic confessions—just a plate of something warm, made with care, set in front of you without a word. Feels very Nanami-coded, doesn’t it? lol

---

What about you guys? Do you express love through cooking? Or does someone do that for you? Let me know—I’d love to hear your stories! 🎀

[bulletsandbracelets]

I normally don’t engage on Harry Potter content anymore because I don’t think it, or JK, deserve the attention. But I wanted to clarify that I think y’all are missing the criticism of the story that people have.

Harry is a hard protagonist to like because she tries to have it both ways. He is bullied and kicked down all his life, but the moment he reaches school, things flip and suddenly he’s the cool kid. Normally, at some point, that would bring a little self reflection. But despite that, he becomes pretty much the same person his father was. He is rude to Luna and Neville initially, he doesn’t think much of Hermoine, snd he never really engages with anyone on a deeper level than “some people are mean and some aren’t” or “some people are cool and some aren’t”.

That’s a feature of JK’s writing though. Everything is incredibly shallow. The problem with the series, particularly the ending, isn’t that Harry doesn’t change anything. It’s that no one is trying to change anything, and the few times people do, they are treated like idealistic fools who are overstepping and actually doing more harm than good. Muggles and wizards always have to be separate because magic isn’t something to be used to improve muggles’ lives, they are too small minded to ever engage with it positively. Magical creatures should never be on the same level as wizards, even the sentient ones, because surely they know their place and are happier there. I don’t think you needed to get that on an initial read but in retrospect, the book says very little.

Voldemort wasn’t bad because he disliked “muggles”, he was bad because he took that too far. Other wizards are totally fine disliking them, and Mr. Weasley is such a weird fanboy for being so into mundane things like that. Hermoine means well, but she is a little “woke”, trying to push her agenda on everyone. Doesn’t she know they are happy without rights? (Sorry, couldn’t resist).

Harry Potter is a simple good vs evil story in a world with a lot of detail but very little, if any, depth. Systems are neutral, they cannot be good or bad, it is the people that are the problem according to the way the story is written. It’s fine for a children’s series in isolation, but when you combine it with JKR’s horrible political views after the fact, it becomes a lot clearer that the series didnt necessarily mean what people took from it back then. And it becomes harder to enjoy it now, even for those who prescribe to “death of the author” (which I don’t, for her).

You cannot separate Harry Potter or the books from JK and her beliefs because she wrote the book believing those things and the book reflects those beliefs. You can ignore it, you can put your own interpretations on it, of course. But what the author intended and what they believe is always going to inform analysis, and unfortunately for us, that means reckoning with the fact that Harry being a bit of a prick a lot of the time wasn’t so much a flaw as it was giving him the “satisfaction” of being the cool kid and the one with the power. The bullied becomes the bully, to a lesser extent, but he’s never really called on it. Which makes a lot of sense, again, seeing how vindictive and spite driven JKR is in her interactions.

Hello! How are you?

Basically, I have seen this in many spaces where people are anti hp (the series and the mc), they bring up the fact that harry isn't a great mc because by the end of the series he made/brought no changes in the wizarding world. He didn't change the system, didn't do anything about the house elf slavery, (they mention the fact that after the war harry contemplates asking kreacher to bring him a sandwich!! and that he wasn't as passionate about freeing them as Hermione was), and so on, I don't remember everything.

Mostly, they mention that he becomes a ministry lapdog and ended up joining the same system which oppressed him (like you, i hate that he becomes an auror btw) and by the end of the series everything is the same and he didn't bring any monumental change like he doesn't have the power or interest to do so.

So, my questions to you are - what are your thoughts on these opinions?? Do you think it's poor writing by jkr?? Or it wasn't relevant to the core plot?

I don't really like speculating what JKR was thinking when she wrote something, because I have no way of actually knowing, but book 7, in certain parts, always felt to me like she was ready to move on and wanted to be done with it.

I think by the time she got to writing book 7, she just kinda wanted the writing process to be over already. So, book 7 has always been a mixed bag for me — when it's good, it's really good, but it also has moments that drag and are utter stupidity.

I think the epilogue is a bit of that race to be done with it already.

Like, there is a fan theory she wrote the epilogue before the book, and honestly, I can belive that.

But, I think the Harry becoming an auror isn't bad writing in the books — it's bad writing post-books. Sure, the epilogue implies the system didn't change as much as it should have (Albus worrying about being sorted into Slytherin, Ron confounding muggles with no consequences, Percy's treatment, etc.), but I think it wouldn't have been as egregious and offensive as it is to most fans who dislike it if it wasn’t for a lot of JKR's periphery canon she wrote that added a lot of details about the characters' futures that just made everything worse (plus the CC play).

Without the epilogue, the ending of DH doesn't say anything about what Harry would do. Yes, he isn't passionate about freeing house elves, but this isn't new and is true to his character. He isn't perfect, and that's not bad writing, it's staying consistent with his characterization up to this point. The ending without the epilogue leaves the reader off with plenty of potential to work with for their imagination and write fic about Harry's future. I actually like the end note of the series pre-epilogue because it fits. It works with Harry as a character who just wants something simple to eat and go to bed. He isn't concerned with instating new policies and shit, because it would be out of character for him to concern himself over these things in that moment. Harry is not a politician and he never wanted to be one. I feel like the fandom expects a lot from Harry that would be out of character for him to do without external factors pushing him into a political role. (Don't get me wrong, he'd be a decent politician, but that would be because he won't play the same game as everyone else. And he'd never choose to be a politician without being forced/pressured/otherwise convinced into the position).

The epilogue itself, while, closing off some options and proving the wizarding world still has many many issues, doesn't actually mention the Golden Trio's (or Ginny's) professions and still leaves us with a lot of open room for interpretation. Harry isn't stated to be an auror in the epilogue — it's JKR's writings after the books that made him an auror and Hermione a minister and kinda butchered Ron altogether (book 7 started the job of butchering Ron's character, though...). Even if the epilogue doesn't paint the best picture of the future of the WW, it's still open enough to work with if you really want to. It's the stuff she published after the books that made everything about the wizarding world's (and Harry's) future so much worse for me.

I do think, the epilogue is bad writing in that it doesn't add to the story and I think makes book 7 (and the whole series) worse overall, but I would've hated it less if it wasn't for all the information she added in after the fact (that didn't actually add anything, just ruin and destroy).

And a lot of her periphery canon writing show how much she doesn't remember from her books. I talked about it when it comes to fahion and the term "warlock", but she tends to, not really know her own world building and she contradicts herself a lot. This tendency is at it's worst with book 7 Wandlore, a lot of her Pottermore articles, and, of course, the Fantastic Beasts films and CC (some of her commentary in the Hogwarts Library books collection as well). So, I take any periphery canon stuff as additional to the books and optional depending on if they make sense with the books' canon or not.

So, I'd say, the problems for me are more with post-books stuff, and not the content of the books themselves. Becouse yeah, Harry mentioned wanting to be an auror in years 5 and 6, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't change his mind once he realizes what it entails

15-16 year old Harry talking about wanting to be an auror actually fits his character. Not because I think the job would be great for him, but because of his low self-worth. Moody/Barty told him he has the talent to be an auror and Harry is ridiculously insecure in himself. When one of the first adults to tell him he is talented and good at things to his face told him he'd make a good auror — of course that's what Harry would focus on!

Even if Moody/Barty was discovered to be a Death Eater later, he was still someone Harry looked up to. Harry who thinks he isn't particularly good at anything:

“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” said Moody gruffly. “I don’t show favoritism, me. I’m just going to give you some good, general advice. And the first bit is — play to your strengths.” “I haven’t got any,” said Harry, before he could stop himself. “Excuse me,” growled Moody, “you’ve got strengths if I say you’ve got them. Think now. What are you best at?”

(GoF, Ch20)

Was told he'd be good at something (being an auror) — so it makes sense he'd want to pursue it initially. I think Harry is likely to not want to stay as an auror though. I love to headcanon him as an auror program dropout, honestly. That he starts and then leaves. Which is possible with book 7 canon (including the epilogue).

The books actually don't contradict some changes or changes-in-progress in the WW (including the epilogue). It's just been 19 years, not even a whole generation, big systematic changes rarely happen this quickly, so while some of the patterns are worrying, you can work with it, I think the epilogue is bad, but it's not the worst that happened to HP books.

The worse problem is that JKR kept writing contradictory things instead of leaving the books be once they were done.

(Not that the books don't have their moments of contradicting themselves, they do. There are plot contrivances, stuff that makes zero sense, and plenty of plot holes, but when it comes to Harry's future and the WW's future as a whole, the books are not the main culprit here, the epilogue was a witness that did nothing to help at the scene of the crime at best).

[malachitezmeyka]

I always forget just how many love songs I have in my playlist until I’m having an ultra-love-repulsed day and have to try my best to contain my breakdown until I get home

[goldensunset]

i want to properly hit people with the keykid dalia lore but unfortunately i’m a perfectionist and i believe text should be accompanied with pictures in order to have a stronger impact which means i gotta draw which means it’ll never happen

[tobeholyistobeempty]

joel miller • be quiet, or i’ll make you

“Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

WARNINGS - smut smut smut mdni, porn with some plot, forced proximity, feral!joel, risky/secret sex, brutal sex, size!kink, dubcon if you squint but mostly a mutual want situation, reader and joel have an unspoken relationship, copious amounts of dirty talk, piv, creampie, daddy dom joel.

The world ended in disaster.

You’ve lived with that knowledge for years now, and you think you’ve finally come to terms with the kind of things you’ll get from it. Pain. Loss. Destruction. The same chaos, day in day out, just in different forms.

You know that at this point you’ll be lucky if you survive until tomorrow; so you take it in stride.

And it’s with that thought that you find yourself following Joel into the city, your steps just as reluctant as he was to agree to this. You don’t particularly want to be out here — and neither does he — but you’ve been wanting to look for more medical supplies for a while now and Joel wasn’t about to let you go alone. Despite how much bitchin’ he did beforehand.

You can’t tell which is more depressing; the streets covered in broken glass and littered with remnants of a life long gone, or the buildings that are nearly crumbling to the ground. Neither are very pleasant to look at, but not many things are these days, so you keep moving. You have a job to do, and you don’t have too much time to do it — the sun won’t be up much longer, and you want to get the fuck out of here before the real dangerous kinds of people come out lookin’ for their next meal.

Or, whatever Joel had said earlier. Mostly just in attempt to scare you.

Minutes feel like hours as you keep your gaze pointed forward, and when you pass a shattered window belonging to some old broken down building, you don’t dare look inside.

You’d rather not know what lingers inside death eaten walls.

But it’s while you’re doing that, keeping your gaze ahead, that you miss the fact that Joel has stopped walking. When it finally registers that the world around you has gotten quieter - and when you finally do turn around - you’re surprised for two reasons.

The first being that he even stopped at all, and the second being the fucking look on his face.

“You alright?” You ask as you edge closer, glancing at the abandoned building that’s in front of him. It doesn’t look like anything remarkable, but there’s definitely something in the way he stares at it. “Joel, you still with me?”

He isn’t saying anything, his expression is rather blank — but you know him well enough to know that he’s not just seeing what’s right in front of him. He’s seeing something else entirely. He snaps back to attention faster than you would have expected at the sound of your voice, and when his eyes land down on yours - there’s something inside them that makes your heart sink.

“Somethin’s wrong.” Is all he says before he’s grabbing your wrist, and yanking you inside.

Your heart starts pounding faster, but you try your best to stay calm. He isn’t the kind of man who would panic without cause, so you know he must have seen something - or heard something - and you’re doing your best not to let that scare you.

“Joel—shit—what the hell—“ you stumble over rubble and pieces of broken furniture. “What’re you—“

He’s pulling you deeper into the building, not giving you a chance to stand still long enough to say more. When you get to a staircase he yanks you down a few steps, waiting for the sound of the door shutting behind you before shoving your shoulders back against the wall.

“You listen to me—“ he’s panting, words spat through grit teeth. “You’re gonna’ shut up, and you’re gonna’ stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

The tone of his voice alone forces you to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from talking. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve seen him this serious. You’d almost forgotten that he was capable of producing this kind of tension - the kind that’s so palpable it could be cut with a knife.

So, you just nod, lips pressed into a thin line, and you hope that it’s enough.

“Alright.” He doesn’t seem certain of your answer, but he nods anyway, reaching for your wrist again and dragging you down the remaining stairs.

When you get to the bottom, he opens the door slowly, eyes darting around until they land on a nearby closet - and it’s only after the first step you take towards it that you hear noises on the floor above you.

Footsteps.

And way too fucking many for you to be comfortable.

The kind of heavy, laden-boot marching you’d dread to hear on good days - nevermind while you’re out in dangerous territory, trying your damnest to flee unseen. It’s only seconds before the steps grow louder, and you can feel your heart rate speeding up again - while Joel is staring at the ceiling with such intensity you think that he might just be able to will it to break if he so much as blinked at it.

Then, in a flash, he snaps out of it - dragging you toward the closet and shoving you inside before you can even think about protesting.

And god, is it fucking cramped.

The closet is small. Small enough that you have to force yourself closer to the wall so that he has space to squeeze inside behind you. And it’s within the first second that he shuts the door, and the darkness swallows you both whole - in which you realize you have a new problem altogether.

“Joel—“ you choke out as a heavy palm snakes around your waist, pressing tight against your belly. He’s a solid wall behind you, his front flush against your back, and all you can fucking feel is his hot breath against your ear - his stubble tickling your cheek. “What’s—“

“No talking.” And then he brings his free hand up to cover your mouth, and you have to stifle a noise that threatens to explode in your chest. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

You take solace in the fact that he can’t see how flushed your face becomes, but your stupid brain is working overtime - overanalyzing the feeling of his calloused palm against your lips, the heat of his mouth way too fucking close to your ear, his free hand that seems to be sliding lower down your abdomen—

“Stop squirming.” He whispers, all heat as his fingers press a little harder against your lower stomach.

You long to bark at him. I can’t control it.

But you can’t. So instead you try to focus on the sounds of the people upstairs. You try to pay more attention to the way your heart is threatening to break free through your sternum. Anything to try and take your mind off of the way he’s touching you - but he makes it so, so hard.

You’re certain you would have a better fighting chance if you were to try and move mountains.

Without even thinking, your hand comes up to wrap around his wrist, and it’s then that his lips curve into a smile against your ear. And when the realization comes crashing down - the realization that he’s fully aware of what’s happening to you - you think you may just collapse.

Oh, god, this is torture.

If it were anyone else, you’d think this was a joke. You’d think that perhaps the way he’s touching you was some kind of attempt at making the terrifying just a little more tolerable, a little more exhilarating for different reasons - but this isn’t just anyone. This is Joel. And you know his mind never works like what. Instead, he simply acts on instinct - in ways that usually leave you reeling and your thoughts in a whirlwind.

You’ve been through this a million times with him.

Unsurprisingly, this time is no different.

And as you try to focus on the footsteps above you - desperately searching for a thought, a train of any kind to follow - his hand moves again, fingertips tracing the waistband of your dirt covered cargos - barely dipping between fabric and skin.

It’s slow, teasing, but it’s enough. And you don’t currently have enough control over yourself to stop your back from arching, pressing directly against the bulge in his jeans that’s growing impatiently despite himself.

And it’s the way he exhales in your ear, the way you hear him inhale right after before his nose brushes the shell of your ear — before his hand dips lower to trace the zipper of your fly — that you find yourself fighting for your life to swallow the moan that threatens to spill because the people on the second floor are now shouting and hollering, and the whole floor seems to quake under the force of their heavy boots.

A second passes. Then two, and then ten — there’s silence. You’re pretty sure the steps are now heading away from where you’re hiding, and you think Joel must agree because he slips his hand from your mouth, sliding it down your jaw.

“Joel—“ you choke out, the last syllables of his name sounding desperate. “I-we—“

And yet again, you aren’t able to finish, because he has a habit of taking the words you think you want to say straight from your chest. You aren’t able to process it until a moment later - when his mouth finds your neck, fingers slipping into your now unzipped cargo pants.

This isn’t what you meant.

You don’t have the chance to tell him that. You don’t have the cognitive ability to push the idea that this isn’t the time. You don’t even have enough room in your head to acknowledge how this could go so badly, so quickly. You’re too drunk on the high of his touch to think straight.

And when his fingers drag the lace of your underwear to the side - all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to a God you’re sure you’ve never actually believed in that you’ll survive this without the shame over how fucking soaked you are eating you alive first.

His fingers find your clit, making slow, small circles. Just enough to make you keen. Just enough to make you forget who you are, and what you’re doing. You think if he keeps it up for any longer, the sounds trapped behind your teeth are going to jailbreak before you can get a handle on them. He knows it too - because it’s only a split second after that thought enters your mind, that he whispers gravel in your ear again.

“If y’can’t stay quiet, I’ll make you.” And it’s said with enough sternness to let you know that it isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. “Be good f’me.”

You don’t know if you can. You don’t know if you can possibly keep yourself silent. Not when his lips are teasing your burning flesh, not when his fingers are rolling your clit, not when he’s whispering promises of heaven in your ear.

But it’s then, that you hear the floorboards creak, and you know then, that you have no choice.

Either find a way to stay silent, or throw yourself headfirst into danger.

“Mm.” He hums as his fingers slip lower, sliding along your slit until they find your embarrassingly wet heat - to which you find yourself widening your feet despite yourself.

And this time, the noise that slips isn’t audible. Not to him anyway. But you can feel the sound vibrate the back of your throat. You can feel the way it glides over your tongue - and when you have the wherewithal, you bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it’s almost painful. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you’re glad because you know he’d only find it funny.

He pushes a finger into you, and holy fuck—

“Oh—“ the sound gets out of your mouth before you can stop it, involuntarily defying his direct order to shut the fuck up.

You hope, foolishly, it was quiet enough for him to not hear.

It isn’t, and as a result the hand that had been sitting lazily around your jaw slips firm over your mouth again, yanking your head back against his shoulder. You feel his fingers tighten as if to let you know that it’ll only get harder as his finger pushes deeper, and then retreats, pumping into you slow and steady.

“F-fuck—“ your whine is smothered against his palm, and you somehow have half the mind to realize the footsteps have stopped. Vanished. “J-joel.”

You’re expecting some type of response, some biting be quiet — but instead, all you get is a deep grunt in your ear and a roll of his hips against your ass as he slides another finger into your cunt, thumb brushing your clit.

And there’s almost no fight in you left to resist this - to resist the pleasure he’s pouring into your veins. You’d curse him if you could, if you could put more than four coherent words together to do it - but all there seems to be left in your mind is his name, which he’s using against you like he always does.

“Good girl.” He praises between slow, steady thrusts and you have to wonder what kind of game he’s playing to get you like this - to get you so undone you don’t even remember your own goddamn name.

Then again, you know better than to think there’s a game, at all. There are no games with Joel. He does what he wants and you’re either the benefit of it, or you’re the object of his ire.

But when a third finger slips into you, stretching and stuffing your cunt wider than you were mentally prepared for - you forget about any of that as you bite down on his hand as hard as you dare because it’s just too fucking much.

“J-joel—“ you try again, shaking your head. The footsteps haven’t returned. You have to believe they’re gone. You know Joel knows it too. “P-please—“

And like someone struck a match in a room full of gasoline, he seems to have decided that you’ve waited long enough. In the blink of an eye, you feel his palm leave your mouth, and move to the limited space between you. He’s unbuckling his belt.

“What’s the matter, huh?” He all but growls in your ear, still pumping his fingers deep. “Three too much for you? How d’ya think you’re gonna’ take my cock if you can’t even take my fuckin’ fingers.”

God. His voice is deep, dripping like sin. It goes straight to the center of your chest and you feel like the walls of your rib cage are cracking open. You have no idea how you’re going to be able to take him like this - especially when he’s so far gone it’s like he’s forgotten himself.

“I-I don’t know—“ and it’s the truth. You have no concept of how you’ll take a single drop of him in this state. But he’s already shifted himself free, pulling his fingers out to yank your pants down and slide his throbbing shaft into the slick space between your thighs. “F-fuck. You’re crazy.”

“Worse.” And you already know what he’s going to tell you just by the way the word drips into your ear. “M’insane.”

Truer words.

You never imagined that you’d ever find the thought of Joel Miller going insane so enticing. You imagine all kinds of ways you would have pictured it if someone had told you back when you first met - but somehow, this was never one of the things that came to mind.

“What does that make me?” You hiss as his fingers find your clit again, as he kicks your legs a little wider to slide his leaking tip against your slit.

“A goddamned fool.” He answers as he sinks into you, and there’s never been a more divine connection in the world. He groans into your ear, and you have to bite your lip again until you’re sure you might draw blood. “But you already knew that.”

And somehow, even still - you do.

Yeah. You do. He isn’t the type of man someone can ever know fully. He’s got walls and barriers built high - a fortress, impenetrable and vast - but somehow, you still manage to squeeze your way through it. It isn’t lost on you that you’re the only one who has.

“J-joel—go fuckin’ easy, please—“ you’re grabbing at the wall infront of you as he splits you open without so much as giving you a chance for breath. “It’s—been a while—“

And that stops him for a beat - but not for long, and not long enough. He still doesn’t go easy, still thrusts right to the hilt with the kind of power you’d associate with a man half his age - a man who (if the world hadn’t gone to hell) would be so close to retiring that he could taste the future on the back of his tongue - but you wouldn’t want him to anyway.

“I know, babygirl. I know. Just take it nice n’ deep, f’me. Just take it.”

And then he grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you back so he can get even deeper, your spine arching just enough.

Fucking hell.

The sound that’s almost impossible not to make threatens to rip from the pit of your chest, but you bite down in time and it turns into something between a strangled cry and an elongated whimper. You know you’re going to be walking funny tomorrow - but right now, there’s no such thing as being able to imagine tomorrow.

“You—fuck.” It’s a whisper so pained someone might think you’re actually being impaled. In some ways you are. “Oh, god, Joel. Ohmygod you’re deep—“

“There she is.” He all but growls into your ear. “There’s the tough woman I know.” If he wasn’t holding you so tightly you might’d fall at the way he suddenly slams into you. “Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

You almost bite your tongue in half at the very thought of him doing that. Your mind is a wasteland of icoherent thought - and it’s then that you know with all the certainty in the world that you’d been done for the moment he came into your life. He always had a rough edge to him - but back then, when you first met, you thought it was just the product of a shitty life. But now, you know better - now, you know he’s just a good-natured person with an innate drive to protect - and you’d go to your grave knowing that you’d go there loving him for it.

Even though, right now, it feels a lot more like he’s trying to kill you rather than protect you.

“Ohhh, fuck—“ you hiss through grit teeth as he pulls out, dragging slow at tight, wet walls. “M’close to cryin’ now.”

“Mmm.” He all but purrs. “That’ll mean I’m doin’ my job right.” There’s heat in the way he speaks that you swear would burn even the toughest person. But then again, that’s always been something you’d only ever been able to say about Joel. “M’not gonna’ be gentle. You know you ain’t deserving of it right now.”

Another time, you’d tell him he was wrong. Another time, you would have argued that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong - but right now, your thoughts are just as lost as your voice.

Still, you try your best. “W-why? Because I—mmf—dragged you outta’ bed?”

“Wrong.” You can’t see it, but you’re sure there’s a smirk on his face. “You really wanna get into it? Wanna’ make a list?”

You don’t, but you have the horrible feeling that this is going to happen either way.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask with what little breath you can find.

“No.” The word sounds so simple - but in that moment, it might as well have been a dagger. “You don’t.”

He pulls out just so he can drive back into you harder, hand sliding from your hair and back over your mouth.

“First, you dragged me outta’ bed. That right there? Shoulda been spanked for it. Next, you got yourself pinned in a goddamn closet with me after raiders chased us down. Almost got us killed.” Another painfully slow draw out, followed by a hard drive back in - smacking your cervix. “An’ for what? Cause’ you don’t wanna’ listen when I say it’s too dangerous to be out here.”

There are a million retorts you could have - most of them have something to do with you being able to take care of yourself - but none of them even find the beginning of your tongue.

He’ll take that win. Just like he takes everything else.

“Not t’mention you’ve kept this perfect ass from me for far too long.” He’s fucking you hard now, head kissing your cervix with each long thrust and you’re crying out under his palm but the sound doesn’t escape. He makes sure of it. “Mmm, yeah. Far. Too. Long.”

You want to tell him to shut up - that he’s being an ass - but you’re two broken breaths from wailing at the sting on your cervix and the pressure he’s now swirling on your clit. The only thing that’s left for you to do is the only thing you can do.

Take it.

You roll your hips, shoving back against him with every thrust just to have him hit that much deeper - and if he has something to say about it, he doesn’t say it. But he seems satisfied with just that, and suddenly, you think he’s just as close as you are.

“That’s it.” His voice is tight. “Good girl. Just like that.”

His hips snap against your ass so hard you think you might end up bruised tomorrow, but the thought only adds to the haze in your mind.

“Ffffffuck—Joel—“ you mewl, pathetic desperate and needy as a whore, against his palm. His fingers speed up against your clit. “Oh!”

“Take it, baby. Make me fuckin’ proud.” He hisses in your ear, a groan slipping out between it. “So good. Pussy feels so good.”

“Gonna’ make me cum.” You try to speak - maybe another time you’d be embarrassed by how desperate you sound, but this isn’t that time and it’s not the time to be anything other than truthful. “Mmm—gonna cum J-joel—“

“Yeah you are.” He grunts, the rhythm of his thrusts stuttering just a little. “Squeezing my cock so goddamn tight. Fuckin’ cum on it, babygirl. Wanna’ feel you.”

The sound that pushes past his palm at just the last moment doesn’t sound like you - but you know it is. It's the sound of the kind of pleasure that you’ve never experienced before that makes your entire body feel like a rubber band that’s too tight, and you have the vaguest sense of your walls squeezing the life out of him but there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening at all - becuase your climax hits you like a goddamn freight train and its run you over hard.

You think he’s saying something - you know he is - but you can’t hear anything aside from the blood racing in your ears. Even still, you know exactly what happens next, because you’ve experienced it so many times. The way he loses himself, like he forgets every bit of control he prides himself for having and the need to empty himself inside you takes over.

He spills into you hard - and you love every second of it for the simplicity of the comedown.

It’s the kind of feeling that washes you in warmth. It’s the kind of feeling that tells you that the world is going to be okay, so long as you’ve got him and he’s got you. He groans and his hands come out to brace against the wall infront of you to hold himself up as he shoots hot jets of cum deep inside your cunt - and you can’t remember the last time you’d heard him breathe this hard. Though, truth be told, you can’t remember the last time you heard yourself breathe this hard, either.

Your mouth feels dry, your mind feels hazy, and your legs feel weak - and as he leans over you, he can surely tell all three - but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he drags his mouth over your ear with an inhale.

“Mmhmm.” He grumbles as he presses a kiss to your jaw. “Look what you made me to do ya.” Your cheek gets the same treatment, and a breath later as he turns your head slightly, your lips do too. “Gonna’ have my cum leakin’ out of ya all the way back to camp.”

The sound you make doesn’t even seem human, but it’s muffled before it even comes - because he’s kissing you. And it isn’t a hard kiss like you’d expect - it’s slow and steady, and you know he’s doing it in a way to say sorry, as if he realizes he might’ve gone a little too far.

You smile into it, and he does too.

“You really are insane.” You whisper as he pulls back slightly. “My cervix gonna’ need a week vacation after that.”

“M’not a good man, darlin'. If I was, I’d say sorry for that.” He whispers with a small kiss against your lips. “But I ain’t. So, I’ll just tell you I’ll take care of you later as much as you like. That good enough for now?”

There’s only one answer for you. Only one that’s ever been the answer with him.

“Always.” There is a beat of silence, and you smile in the dark. “I love you.”

He pulls out of you, finally, leaving the part of himself behind that tells you how much he loves you too without verbalizing it. Soon as he fixes his jeans, he helps you fix yours.

“And I love you.” He whispers, calloused palm finding your own. “Let’s get outta’ here. The sooner we’re back, the better.”

And that, you can’t agree more with.

[rafey-baby]

rafe has always been close with his sister…  

c/w: incest, dubcon, oral (m receiving), rafe being a perv about his (adopted) sister & her being inexperienced, 18+ mdni!

wc: 1.7k

part two & moodboard

if this is something u don’t like, scroll & read something else xx   

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

Her big brother has always been rather overbearing, which is something she’s tried to shrug off as him merely being protective, but as far as her understanding of siblings goes— they aren’t supposed to act the way Rafe does.  

Ever since they were little, Rafe has been weird about everyone in their strange family, but sometimes it makes her feel gross when he barges into her room while she’s changing— not even bothering to cover his eyes as he sits down on her mattress and starts ranting about something completely irrelevant.

It makes her feel disgusting when she notices the subtle smirk tugging at his mouth as his gaze narrows down onto whatever bare sliver of skin she’s hurriedly trying to hide from his borderline hungry eyes.   

And she doesn’t particularly enjoy when he gets wasted or high off of whatever he’s snorted at some stupid party and insists that he just has to sleep next to her because he’s not feeling good. And despite her drowsy complaints, he’s always snuggling too close for comfort with his hands all over her; pulling her flush against him and letting the cushion of his lips graze the skin of her neck.

He keeps telling her that it’s nothing out of the ordinary when he gives her details about the girls he’s slept with and what his favorite positions are, even if she’s told him multiple times that she doesn’t want to know. And whenever they’re home alone, he even goes as far as bringing girls to his room— making sure their loud moans echo right into her bedroom when he knows she’s trying to study.   

And whenever he’s tagging along during her little shopping trips (he doesn’t let her go alone because what if something happens?), he always demands on joining her in the fitting rooms— even squeezing himself into the crammed space when she’s trying on lingerie, claiming that she absolutely needs his opinion.   

“Rafe, that’s weird,” she tries to get him to wait outside but of course he merely rolls his eyes.  

“S’not weird, know how indecisive you can be, jus’ wanna help,” he says, seemingly genuine while he’s already fiddling with the clip of her bra.   

And she feels her cheeks burning when the cashier mentions how sweet it is that her boyfriend is paying for her clothes— to which Rafe merely chuckles while she can’t find the words to correct the poor woman because she’d probably faint if she learned the truth about their relationship.

More often than not, he tends to be borderline territorial. One time, she’s simply talking to a guy at some party, when all of a sudden, she feels an all too familiar presence behind her.

“Who’s this, hm?” he slurs, slinging a heavy arm over her shoulder.   

“Oh, it’s…um, no one,” she peeps out because she knows how he is. However, her attempts at calming him down prove to be fruitless because he’s already approaching the guy with a scoff.   

“You, uh, you do know that this is m’sister, right? Mine. So, why don’t you, uh, go ‘n try to impress some other bitch, yeah?” he offers him a sickly-sweet smile, voice harsh before telling her they’re leaving— strong hands on her waist already dragging her towards his truck.

“I was having fun,” she complains when he’s putting the seatbelt on her— his breath smelling of beer when he drawls out a reply. “You can have all the fun you want with me when we get home, yeah?”   

“But I wanted to spend time with my friends,” she pouts.   

“That’s just too bad then, isn’t it?” he murmurs while starting the engine— resting a warm palm on her thigh soon after, ignoring her efforts of shrugging it off.  

- - - - - - - - - - -

When he learns that she hasn’t had her first kiss yet (because why would anyone even think about touching her when they know Rafe is a complete psycho), he mocks her to the point of her eyes growing glossy as she tries to blink away the soggy droplets.

“S’okay, you wanna get it over with, hm? I’ll help you,” he so kindly offers with faux concern glimmering in the moonstones of his eyes.   

“Rafe, that’s gross,” she frowns, to which he merely furrows his brows before scoffing— as if she’s the one being weird.   

“So, uh, so you tellin’ me you want some…some stranger at a party who only wants to get in your pants to do it instead?” he narrows his eyes as if that’s the only alternative.  

“N— no,” her answer is hesitant.  

“Listen, m’just…m’just, tryna be a good brother ‘n help my little sister out, but if you don’t want m’help then don’t come cryin’ to me when you embarrass yourself cause you don’t even know how to kiss,” he lifts his hands up in surrender before shrugging, suggesting that he’d merely be doing her a favor.   

And before her brain has the time to process what’s happening, he’s already dragging her into his lap. And it feels wrong when their mouths are suddenly slotting together— when he’s letting out a shallow groan and slipping his tongue past her teeth without so much as a warning.

“Rafe! You didn’t tell me you were gonna do that,” she squeaks out, pulling away with her face all crumpled up, feeling disconcerted.   

“Shut up, you’re gonna wake up everyone, thought you wanted to learn?” he mutters out before he’s smearing his mouth on hers once more— this time with a tight grip on her jaw that forces her to stay put as the the kiss turns into something sloppy; wet.

And afterwards, he makes her promise that she won’t tell anyone because ‘you don’t want dad to get mad at you, do you?’ and even if she feels guilt eat away at her, she keeps it to herself because the last thing she wants is to upset anyone. 

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

“Rafe guess what? I have a date tomorrow,” she gives him a giddy smile while stepping into his room a few weeks later.  

“With who?” he eyes her while slouching on his bed, seemingly in the midst of texting someone.

“This guy I met on the beach today,” she sits down on the edge of the mattress when he places his phone on his nightstand.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” he asks, shifting closer.  

“Um, Ethan.” 

“Last name?”  

“I— I don’t know, didn’t ask…why does it matter? Was just wondering if you could drive me there?” she says, surprised by his sudden interest. 

“Where?” his tone sounds almost exasperated now, as if she’s done something bad.

“Um, we’re just gonna hang out at his house,” she chews on her bottom lip, suddenly nervous.

“You havin’ a date at his house? You finally gonna lose that virginity, huh?” he asks as patronizing laughter bubbles from his chest.

“What? No! S’not like that,” she mumbles, her skin already boiling. 

“No? You do know when guys say they wanna hang out, it means they wanna fuck, right? You’re not that stupid, are you?” his gaze is borderline condescending when he raises his brows.

“Well, he’s not like that, he seems nice,” she tries to defend herself, feeling small all of a sudden.

“Sweetheart, every guy’s like that, especially the ones that seem nice, you’re so fuckin’ naive,” he scoffs while running a hand through his hair.

“You know what? Forget about it, I’ll just walk there,” she huffs out, standing up to leave, however, she doesn’t get far before he’s grabbing at her arm.

“Listen, m’just tryna look out for you, okay? Don’t feel like dealin’ with your shit ‘bout how he broke your heart. I mean, if you’re not gonna let him hit, he’s gonna be expectin’ somethin’ else, you know that, right?”

She swallows.

“I— are you sure? But…but I don’t even know how to—” 

“Poor baby, what would you do without your big brother, hm? Don’t worry, I’ll teach you, yeah?” he coos before pinky promising he’ll be gentle.

And that’s how she ends up on her knees in front of him. 

“Ray, this doesn’t feel…right,” she mumbles out, eyes focused on the ruddy tip he’s thumbing over while he stares at her.

“Shh, can be our little secret, yeah? Jus’ wanna make sure my little sister doesn’t embarrass herself,” he lets out a grunt when she blinks up at him with uncertain eyes.

“Open your mouth, tongue out,” he instructs while moving closer to her tentative form, biting his lip when she gingerly does what he tells her to. Then, he’s thudding the drippy head on the flat of her tongue— one, two, three times, which makes her let out a noise; something that only seems to spur him on.

He tastes salty and she doesn’t necessarily mind it, which makes her feel entirely too gross about the situation altogether— the words ‘I don’t wanna do this anymore’ turning into a tangled muddle when he’s already pushing past her lips, making her gag around the sudden intrusion.

“Shit, tha’s good, jus’ take it, yeah?” he rumbles out; a big hand holding the back of her head as he stuffs himself deeper down her throat— cock twitching in response to her whines and attempts at drawing away for air.

It overwhelms her to no end when he’s so rough, abrasive, but despite his broken promise, she’s unable to prevent her thighs from pressing together when throaty moans keep escaping him; his respiration turning labored by each lazy rut of his hips while her head begins to spin.

Only when his sticky cum gushes onto her tongue— the white substance dribbling past the seam of her lips and covering her chin in the process, does he grant her a moment to catch her breath.

“Guys like it when you swallow,” his voice is like gravel when he pushes at her jaw, heady gaze glued to the way her throat bobs when she does just that, the aftertaste of what they’ve done making her feel stained; dirty.

“You know, s’cute you thought I’d let some, some shithead fuck my sister,” he sounds almost humored as he pats at the flushed skin of her cheek— making her eyes turn watery when he swipes a thumb under her wobbly bottom lip to clean up the remaining mess.

She feels something in her guts churn when he tucks it back into her mouth with a sick smile.

[imaginedisish]

Modern Love (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey y'all! Here's something short and sweet. This is based on a request, so I hope the requester enjoys :) No song references here, but "Modern Love" by David Bowie seems appropriate. It's 80s, New Wave-y, and we're in an arcade in this fic, so it fits.

Summary: The team goes out to an arcade, and Logan is his usual grumpy self...but his soft spot for you is more clear than ever.

Warnings: Suggestive content (would totally write a second part with some true smut), tooth rotting fluff, friends to lovers, kissing, cursing, f!reader/afab!reader, grumpy!Logan, Jubilee is a cock block LOL, def some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 1,685 short and sweet indeed

“I do not want to be here,” Logan complains, rolling his eyes as the team strolls into the arcade. 

Jubilee skips inside, twirling with excitement. “Well, that’s just too bad, Logan!” She calls, running over to the arcade’s version of Dance Dance Revolution. Kurt is laughing, following at her heels. “Because everyone else is going to have a great time!” 

“Gambit’s winning big tonight,” Gambit says, taking Rogue’s hand in his. “Gambit’s winning chere a prize, he is.” Rogue blushes, letting Gambit pull her to one of the fake slot machines. 

Jean and Scott walk over to an older machine—Pac-Man or something similar, probably. Storm and Charles head towards the seating area near the snack bar in the back, leaving you and Logan to yourselves. Of course. You’re alone with Logan. The person you want but you know you can’t have. 

You’re friends—just friends. You’ve accepted that he’ll never see you as anything more, but it still hurts. 

“So…” You say, trailing off as Logan looks around the arcade. “Not your kind of place, huh?”

“Not particularly,” he says back, his eyes finding yours. You can’t help but smile at that stupid, grumpy look on his face. “You like this shit?” He asks, smiling back at you. 

You shrug your shoulders, noncommittal. “I think you’d have fun if you tried,” you say, nodding towards the crane machine, and walking over. You can hear Logan’s footsteps against the carpet, following you close behind.

You peer into the glass, looking at all the stuffed animals filling the machine. Your smile widens when you spot the cute little turtle in the back—green and brown, wide eyes, and extra plush and round. Logan leans against the machine, arms crossed tightly against his chest. “Which one are we going for?” He asks. We—you can’t help but replay the word in your head. There’s a “we” in this. You and Logan. 

You point to the turtle in the back row. “We’re going for that one,” you say, and his eyes find the green little thing. “Isn’t he cute?”

He shakes his head, grinning ear to ear, his grumpiness seemingly gone now. “Sure, princess, sure he is.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat at the sound of the familiar pet name. You lean down to put a quarter in the machine, trying your best not to overthink the situation. The crane starts up, whirring to life, giving you three tries to win the stuffy. 

You maneuver the crane to the back row, just above the turtle. “Do you think that’s good?” You ask, looking towards Logan. But he isn’t looking at the machine; he’s looking at you, smirking. “What?” You ask, narrowing your eyes incredulously. 

“You’re cute when you concentrate,” Logan says, his smirk unwavering. You can feel the heat rising to your chest as he peers into the machine. He nods, his eyes finding yours again, changing the subject before you can respond to his comment. “Looks good to me.”

You swallow nervously, pressing the button on the top of the stick, sending the crane down to the stuffy. It grabs the turtle, holding it up. It looks like it’s going to make it, but it falls in the center of the glass box. You groan, annoyed as the crane moves back to position. You try again, bringing the crane to the center of the machine, just above the turtle, and dropping it again. The silver claws grip the plushy, but it’s a bad grab—the turtle slipping right out of its grasp. 

 “Fucking rigged,” you mutter, moving the crane over the turtle for the final time. “This is it,” you say, looking at Logan. He’s suddenly shifting closer to you, standing behind you and pressing his front to your back. His arms rest on either side of the crane machine’s controls, caging you in. 

“Much better view from here,” he whispers at the shell of your ear. You’re distracted by how close he is. You can smell him—tobacco and pine and musk. “Let’s see if it works, princess.” This is too much. Far more than you can possibly handle. 

You take a deep breath, your eyes surveying the crane’s distance from the turtle carefully, and you press the button. The crane drops, grabbing the stuffy, and picking it up successfully. “Yes!” You say, looking back at Logan. His face is inches from yours. You can feel his breath fan across your lips. Your noses are so close, brushing together softly. He leans in, lips parted. 

“Game over!” A robotic, automated voice rings out, the crane whirling back into position. It snaps you back to reality, and you look inside the machine. There, off to the side just next to the machine’s drop box, is the turtle. 

“Shit,” you mumble, shoulders slumping with disappointment. You know it’s just a game, and you are an adult after all, but you can’t help the frown that forms across your face. “I really wanted him. I was gonna name him Bernie.”

Logan chuckles. “Bernie?” he asks, and you nod. He’s centimeters away from you again, leaning in. “Don’t sweat the loss, princess. You’re cuter than that little thing is anyw—"

“Look what Kurt and I got with our tickets!” Jubilee is suddenly in front of you, a stuffed, sparkly blue dinosaur in her hand. She’s tugging you away from Logan and across the arcade before you can protest. “You gotta dance with me!” You look back at Logan, who’s standing alone in front of the crane machine, arms tucked against his chest. 

Have fun, he mouths. And good luck. He winks at you as Jubilee whisks you off to Dance Dance Revolution. You let her pick the song, and you struggle through the round, your feet tapping to the beat. You and Jubilee are a laughing mess. You know you look absolutely ridiculous, but it’s fun. 

And yet, your mind still wanders to Logan. You think about how close he was to you, the way his lips practically brushed against yours—the ghost of a kiss. You think about the way he caged you in, pressed against your back. You’re so distracted that you don’t even realize how badly you’re fumbling all the moves; you don’t hear Jubilee calling your name. 

“Hey!” She shouts, finally bringing you back to reality. The round is over; you missed the entire second half of the dance. “Where’d you go just there?” She asks, concern hidden within her smile.  

You look over to the crane machine, expecting to see Logan, but he’s gone. In fact, you can’t find him anywhere. “Sorry Jubes, but I gotta go see about something,” you say, stepping off the platform. 

Your eyes search the arcade. Gambit and Rogue are at the ticket redemption counter, picking out a big stuffed bear. Kurt is fooling around on one of those motorcycle racing games. Storm and Charles are—uncharacteristically—sharing a soft pretzel, while Jean and Scott share a milkshake. Everyone is here and accounted for except Logan. 

That is, until you notice the puff of smoke in the corner of the glass door at the front of the arcade. You smirk, walking towards the entrance and pushing the door open. 

Logan leans against the brick wall of the building, cigar in his mouth. His head turns towards you, and he immediately takes the cigar out, dropping it to the ground and extinguishing it with the heel of his boot. 

“Hi,” you whisper, standing next to him. 

He looks down at you, smiling widely. “Hi.” He’s leaning in again—so close—and a shiver runs up your spine. “Cold?” He asks, shrugging out of his leather jacket before you have a chance to answer. He helps you into the jacket one arm at a time, his eyes drinking you in once it’s on, trailing up and down your body. “Looks good on you,” he hums. “Way better than it does on me.”

You shake your head, letting your shoulder brush against his. You look over at him and suddenly notice something green and round in his hand. “What’s that?” You ask. But you already know. You recognize the little brown spots and the wide eyes. 

Logan smirks, lifting the turtle up. “Couldn’t let you go home without him,” he says, holding it out towards you. 

“No way!” You shout, ignoring the turtle and throwing your arms around Logan’s neck. It’s instinctive, natural. He tugs you in closer, his arms wrapping around your waist. “Thank you so much,” you mumble into the crook of his neck. “I can’t believe you ended up playing a game at an arcade.” 

“I’d do anything for you,” he whispers against your temple. The sudden vulnerability of his words makes your heart tighten in your chest. You stay like that for a while, his lips ghosting your forehead, your chests pressed together. You finally lift your head, looking up at Logan. 

“Lo?” You whisper, and his gaze meets yours, flitting between your eyes and your lips. He drops the plushy onto the bench next to him and walks you back into the brick wall, caging you in, hands on either side of your waist. 

He leans in. “Yeah, pretty girl?” He brings one hand to your hip, gripping gently. “What do you need?”

“Y-you,” you stutter. “I need y—"

His lips swallow your words, fitting against yours like a puzzle piece. The kiss is slow, languid, but you can feel his need in the way he moves against you, hands slipping underneath the borrowed jacket and your shirt to explore your skin. His fingertips drag along your back, relaxing you into his touch. 

“Maybe we should get out of here,” Logan mumbles against your lips. 

Your heart flutters in your chest. “But what about the others?” You ask, nodding to the arcade.

Logan smirks, stealing another kiss. “All the more reason to get back to the mansion before they do.”

“But how are we going to—”

He grips your waist, tugging you towards the parking lot. “I took my bike, pretty girl.”

Oh?

Oh. 

tags: @ilysmdovie12 @prettyseaveins @spiderset @figsnpassionfruits @silversprings-mp3 @movhoney @wittyjasontodd @theasiaabattoir @fanfic-writing-barbie @manipulatour @pedrohoe04 @derbygracie

[mostly-imagines]

So This Is Love

jason todd x fem!reader

aka you show each other what love is supposed to be like

4 in 1 blurbs

warnings: section 1: close-call panic attack for j, mentions of ptsd for j // section 2: implied sexual activity // section 3: mild angst w comfort // section 4: implied ptsd for j

He feels like his heart might burst through his chest.

The nightmare wasn’t anything unusual for him, but it did feel particularly vivid tonight. It was more of a memory than anything, though. That same one that plays on a loop in his head throughout the night the more he tries to push it away during the day. It was the last thwack of the crowbar that had him jolt awake in bed.

You shift in your spot next to him, opening your eyes to see his rattled state. If he’d been in a clearer frame of mind he would’ve lied to you. He would’ve expertly leveled his breathing and told you everything was fine and to go back to sleep.

But instead, he looks over at you with wide eyes, chest heaving and shaking like he might start hyperventilating at any moment.

You shoot up from the bed, instantly on alert. This isn’t the first time he’s had one of these nightmares around you, so it’s not hard for you to guess where this is coming from.

“Jay? What’s—what do you need?” You know better than to try and touch him unprompted right now, you’ve panicked enough yourself to know that sudden contact only makes it worse.

“I—I can’t, I—” Now he really looks like he’s about to lose all control of his breathing.

You sit up further, moving onto your knees. “Here, let me—can I see your hand?” you ask gently, holding your own out.

He extends it to you without question, a tiny act of vulnerability that he couldn’t have dreamed of doing in this state before he met you.

You flip his hand over, palm-up and start tracing lines over it in the moonlight. You’re looking at his hand quite intently like there’s something very important on it. It’s enough to make him question what the hell you’re doing. 

“I can read palms.” You tell him, simply. 

“What?” His voice almost breaks, like he’s right at the edge of tears. 

“Yeah, my friend taught me. I can tell the future and everything.” You look up at him, fingers not stopping their trailing. “Do you wanna hear yours?”

All he can do is nod.

You smile and start to inspect his hand carefully, tracing over calluses and a few tiny scars. You draw your finger across the short, deep line parallel to his fingers.

“This one…see the way it curves upwards right there?” He nods. “That means you’re very resourceful and ambitious. Like a leader.” His breathing starts to slow as he watches you, trying to focus on what you’re showing him in the dim light from the window.

“And this one,” you trace the line that curves downwards in the middle, “This one says that you’re strong and stubborn, which I can confirm,” he huffs out a laugh. It’s little but it’s genuine. “But it also means that you’re resilient. You’re built to overcome things and bounce back even stronger because of them. Which I can also confirm.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. He takes in a deep breath, watching you draw patterns across the base of his palm.

The sensation soothes him in a way that he frankly didn’t know he could be soothed. He figures he usually can’t, except when it’s you. He tries to match your breathing, syncing up with you. If anyone else tried to get this close to him when he was on the verge of a panic attack they’d get punched, at best.

But you…you always know how to help him. He’s considered in the past that he did something really right somewhere down the line and you were sent to him as reward. He’d racked his mind for hours of every good thing he’d ever done, trying to find one that could explain your presence in his life. For anything that could explain why he deserved you. He poured and poured over every memory he could dig up but couldn’t find any good he’d ever done that surmounted to a single piece of the good in your heart.

There was a time when he would’ve thought—when he did think that you were only in his life to be taken away as soon as he felt safe. That would certainly be in line with previous experiences. But you showed him quickly that you have this way about you…it makes those loud thoughts in the back of his head shut up and just listen. Listen to your words, your breathing, your footsteps, your laugh…anything he could. Because it turns out, when he listens, he feels safe. 

He’s quiet for a long time, contentedly watching you work. He notices that at some point you’d stopped tracing the lines and began drawing designs instead. 

He breaks the silence after several minutes, softly commenting, “You don’t know how to read palms.”

“No, I do not.” 

But you continued to leave your invisible art on the palm of his hand just the same, both of you taking comfort in the sound of the other's breathing and the soothing feeling of each other’s skin.

The radio plays lightly in the background, surrounding your night with soft ambience. You’re working at the cutting board with tomatoes as Jason leans against the counter next to you, having just finished getting the pasta set up on the stove.

His hands find your hips, resting them there as he watches you work over your shoulder.

“Watch your thumb.” He comments when the knife gets a little too close for his liking.

You shrug him off, “I know how to do it.”

He eyes the way the knife stutters as you cut through the tomato, slicing through not very cleanly at all. “Doesn’t look like it.”

You ignore him, elbowing him gently in the abdomen. He’s joking, but he’s not. The skill level you’re displaying is only above Bruce and slightly below Tim, which is not great.

“Will you let me do it?” he asks you when he realizes there’s going to be no improvement. 

“Fine.” You relent with faux annoyance. 

You switch over to the stovetop, keeping a careful eye on the pasta as it cooks. It’s quiet for a moment as he works, chopping with much more efficiency than you had.  

“You didn’t have to stay here tonight, you know.” You say quietly, still intently watching the stove.

In spite of the music, your low volume does nothing to faze him as he continues his actions, “Why wouldn’t I?”

You stir the contents of the saucepan around. “Well, I know Roy wanted you to go out…”

“Not missing much.” He mumbles, opening up the above cabinet to get out plates.

You lull your head to the side, “Come on, he’s your best friend.”

Jason frowns. “He’s not my best friend.”

You turn your head towards him, “No?”

He meets your gaze, frown consistent. “No. You are.” He says it like he’s confused that you don’t know that. 

“Oh.” You smile, “You’re my best friend too.”

His eyes soften at that, a light smile gracing his lips. He knew that, and he knew you’d say it, but hearing it out loud just…does something to him.

You flick the stove top off, prompting him to on instinct reach for the Marinara jar and crack it open for you. He hands it to you and you accept with a smile, twisting it open the rest of the way as you turn back to the stove. The jar sputters as you open, spitting out sauce.    

“Oh, shit.” You hiss, when the splatter hits your shirt.

He takes one glance at the mess on your shirt and pulls his own shirt off his back. He’s tugging yours off just as fast, replacing it with his. You’ve barely processed what happened as he scans your body, eyes lingering on where his shirt stops at your thighs. “Can you wear this to bed tonight?” He asks, hands running over your waist.

You laugh, “Really?”

He meets your eyes, face serious. “Yes.” He squeezes your hip, “You look good.”

“In your shirt.” You say with a knowing smile.

“In my shirt.” He confirms.

You turn back to the stove to dish out the salsa, his hands skimming around your thighs as you do. He watches you as you work, though rather than watching your hands he’s fixated on the size of his shirt over you and how fucking good you look right now. 

“Or…” He sweeps his eyes over your legs before looking back up at you again. “Did’ya turn the stove off?”

You tilt your head at him, “I did…?”

He grins at you, lifting you up by your thighs til you’re a head above him. “Good.” He maneuvers you over to the counter, setting you on top. He brings your wrist up to his mouth to press a delicate kiss before dropping to his knees.

You’ve been laying in bed for at least three hours, bordering on sleep but never quite falling in. You and Jason had a little spat, though nothing insurmountable, it was still the biggest fight you’ve had to date. You’d tried going out (at night) to see your friend that was having a hard time, and yeah, you should’ve told Jason you were going. It was only five blocks, give or take, but in Gotham at eleven o’clock at night, it’s a risk to say the least.

You should’ve told Jason, you know. But he wouldn’t have let you go or would’ve insisted on putting hold on patrolling to accompany you. You always feel bad when he does that—people could be getting hurt somewhere because you needed your boyfriend to walk you down the street. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter in the end because he caught you red handed before you’d even made it a full block away. Of all the nights for him to come home early, it had to be this one.

He dropped down from the rooftop behind you and scared the absolute hell out of you, and you didn’t even have time to be relieved that it was just him because he was on you in a flash. 

“What the hell are you doing out here?” His voice was hard through the modulator, a rare tone for him to use with you.

“I just—my friend—” he sounded tired and angry, sure signs that he’d really not had a good night so far which was probably all the more reason that you shouldn’t have been out by yourself in the middle of the night.

“What are you—no! Go home. Now.” You would’ve, you really would’ve, but your friend called you crying about her boyfriend cheating on her again and she needed the in person support. 

“Ja—” You’d cut yourself off, “It’s down the street, it’s fine—” He dropped his shoulders in a huff and faced you dead-on. You didn’t need him to take his helmet off to know exactly how he was looking at you.

He dropped down and hooked his arm around the back of your legs, lifting you off the ground with no discernible effort. “Wha—”

He started walking before you were even fully planted on his shoulder, arm wrapping around your legs to hold you in place. 

“Hood! I am so fucking serious, put me down!” You swatted at his back and struggled in his grip, though in the back of your mind you knew it was a pointless effort. Even if you were a match in size, whatever mood he’d been pushed in was enough to guarantee that you had no chance. 

He ignored you, not even pretending that you were giving him any difficulty with your squirming. He marched you back down the block to your apartment, not stopping until you’re outside your door. He set you down in between him and the entrance, digging into his pocket for his key.

He kicked the door shut behind him, finally letting you go. He wordlessly grabbed one of his spare guns and two cartridges of ammo from inside the closet by the door and turned back to you with a firm stance. “Stay here.”

You immediately tried to push past him again, at that point more angry about him dragging you back here than about having to duck out on your friend. He stopped you, holding you by the arms, which led you to respond by raising your voice at him, “Jason!” 

But he didn’t waste any time letting you know how it is, “I will lock you in this fucking apartment. Stay. Here.” Him cursing at you like that was very rare and not a particularly good sign, so through your anger you’d made the decision that it was better to relent, for now. Your posture dropped and you frowned at him resentfully, a visible cue that you were giving in without you having to say it. 

He stayed true to his word and locked the door on his way out, though knowing you could easily unlock it from the inside. You’d trudged into your bedroom, slamming the door behind you.   

Now you lay on Jason’s usual side of the bed, partially because you do miss him, partially because the bed feels a little less empty when you can’t see all the empty space. You know he was just trying to keep you safe after what was probably a rough start to the night, so you feel less than great that you’d yelled at him.

Your dwelling over the memory is interrupted by a quiet creak of the bedroom door. You blink up at him blearily, “Jay?” You sit up, furrowing your brow. You didn’t even hear him come home. “What’s wrong?” You figure he must be hurt to come in here—it’s not unknown for him to sleep on the couch if he feels like he did something wrong or upset you.   

Your eyes attempt to adjust to the darkness, scanning over him for any injuries. He’s out of his armor and in his regular clothes which means he must have showered already. And you know from dozens of nights patching him up that he always tends to his injuries before showering.

This leaves you confused, as you look up at him, waiting for an answer. “I can’t…I don’t want to sleep without you.” He whispers, eyes on the floor. 

You shuffle back into your usual spot near the wall and hold your hand out to him expectantly. You’re still a bit cross with him, but you miss him too much to care right now.

It takes him a second to move, but he eventually lingers away from the door and makes his way to the bed. He takes your hand as he climbs onto the bed, letting go only when you lay down after him, staring up at the ceiling next to him. 

You weren’t entirely expecting him to wrap his arms around you and tug you into his chest. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’d assumed he would lay on his side and you on yours and that would be enough for him to fall asleep with. Instead, he tightens his arms and buries his face into the crook of your neck. You lay there in silence for a couple minutes, both thinking.

“You’re mad.” He mumbles into your shoulder after a while. You know he feels badly about the dispute, you knew it while it was still happening. As hard as he tries, he’s not very good at hiding his emotions. Not with you, anyways.

You shrug slightly. “Barely. I’ll get over it. This is more important.”

He picks his head up to look at you, “I love you. You know that?”

You wiggle out of his grip a bit, making him frown. You use the new space to flip over to face him, before placing his arm back around your waist. You peek up at him, looking him in the eyes, “I do. You know I love you. Even when we fight.”

He looks at you like he’s a bit thrown off by your words. “I’m sorry. It was just…it was a rough night…I—I’m sorry.” He tells you dolefully.  

You shake your head, frowning. “Don’t be. I should’ve texted you.”

“It—yeah. Please. I just worry about you.” He looks so sad and it makes you feel somehow worse.

“I know,” you whisper, “I’m sorry.”  

“Don’t be.” He kisses your forehead, not moving away after.

You feel like you can finally relax and your tense body doesn’t take long to slacken in his hold. Soon after, he does the same, both of you closing your eyes. You feel your heart slow and your mind starts to find a space of peace.    

Jason didn’t get it at first.

Honestly, he didn’t really realize that you noticed things about him that even he didn’t see.

Your neighbor was having their place remodeled and you knew there would be construction going on near your apartment all day.

Jason didn’t really care, planning to bury his head under the pillow and trying to sleep through it. You however, seemed very adamant about getting out of the apartment that day. You’d left hours before the construction crew had even gotten there, telling him it was a nice day out.

It was an alright day, but he let you have your way.

You held his hand as you walked down the street, looking into shop windows and commenting on things you think he’d like.

You led him into a book store excitedly, telling him about how the author he’d been binging had just published something new. He didn’t even know that.

You were browsing the sections, flipping through books as you went. You peered across the shop at a kid holding an absolutely massive pile of books, who was clearly struggling to keep them in his arms.

His mother tried to help him but he shook his head and strided away independently, albeit very slowly. The weight of the books though, did get the best of him, and you could tell by the quivering in his arms that he was going to drop them.

“Loud noise.” You said quickly, seemingly out of the blue. Jason turned to you, confused, before seeing the stack the books splat flat onto the ground. It was indeed a loud noise.

He tilts his head at you, though you’re still busy watching the little boy as he throws his head back in frustration.

“What was that?”

You look at him, “He dropped his books.”

“Yeah, I saw. But why—”

His question gets cut off by the kid bursting into tears, wailing. You turn back to look at him, your gaze getting caught by the new book you’d been telling him about. “Ooh!”

You grab his hand and pull him over with you, smiling widely when you have the book in your hands. The sight of you makes him feel so warm so fast that he forgets about the odd interaction all together.

A couple hours later, you sit outside a cafe and eat lunch together, his back to the road, you sitting diagnal to him.

He’s telling you about the shit Damian got in trouble for at school last week, holding your hand with his right hand and eating with his left.

“He thinks he’s not going to get expelled for pulling shit like that every other week, it’s ridiculous.” He says, tossing his napkin down on the table.

Your smile is wavers as your eyes move past his shoulder looking down the block before widening, “Car—”

The sudden noise startles him enough to make him visibly jump, hand flying to where his holster would be. He looks over at the fender bender, shoulders relaxing.

He turns back to you to find your eyes looking far more worried than they should. You seem to be scanning his face, looking for something and he’s about to ask you what’s wrong when it sinks in.

He does get scared by unexpected loud sounds, doesn’t he? He never really thinks of it until it happens, but his mind is trained to expect gunshots or crowbars making impact.

It doesn’t happen often, but it noticeably takes a little piece out of him when it does.

“You…” he tries, but falters. He’s not even sure he’s processing this right.

He’s never seriously tried to fathom that you love him half as much as he loves you, though love doesn’t feel like a strong enough word. He lives and breathes for you, you’ve become a lifeline he’d been stranded without for most of his life. But now you're here and you’re everything, you’re in his head all the time, in every emotion he feels.

He thinks he’s here for you, that he was brought back from the dead because of you. You can’t possibly understand how much his heart is full of you, he doesn’t understand it himself.

He knows you love him, he’s gotten that through his head. But he can’t get a grasp on the idea that he’s equally matched in the who loves who the most battle.

Do you really care that much about him to go out of your way to keep track of things that might startle him? He knows there’s a million things about you that are in the back of his mind at any given time, but surely you don’t operate that same way with him?

Do you?

There’s this burning in his heart that aches and it only gets stronger when he sees you looking at him like that. So genuine. With care, with love.

He squeezes your hand, “I love you. More than anything.”

The look on your face sinks back into that sweet, adorable look that he’s so used to and it makes him want to scream.

You smile that bright smile and it sends his heart rocketing into oblivion. “I love you.” You squeeze his hand back, “More than everything.”

He feels like his heart might burst through his chest.

[quarterlifekitty]

weaknesses: your cooking

König was on watch with you late one night, and you insisted upon filling the air with a bit of conversation– said you needed it to stay awake. You end up asking him lots of questions that night, including all of his favorite foods and drinks. He has trouble answering, he’s never had to come up with this much information about himself, but you don’t mind.

“Do you have a favorite dessert? Mine is lemon meringue pie,” you say with a sweet little smile. It makes him realize how cute you are. That, outside of your uniforms, a cute girl is talking to him. It makes him panic a little, such that he can only bring himself to respond with a quiet me too. 

He had no idea what his favorite dessert was when you asked. He wasn’t even sure he particularly enjoyed desserts at all, honestly. He’s hoping you forget about this embarrassing exchange, really. But you don’t.

You’re stationed in Switzerland when next it comes up. You proudly come back to your accommodations with a little box from a bakery. “I saw this in town today and remembered that you liked meringue too! So I got one, if you wanted to share it with me?”

He just nods. And it’s the best fucking dessert he’s ever had. Which has little to do with how the desert itself tastes. It becomes the first dessert he learns how to make at home, and he makes his best yet when you’re celebrating moving in together. It’s when he’s feeding it to you that he finally comes clean– when you’d asked him his favorite dessert, he’d never even eaten lemon meringue pie before.

Gaz takes incredibly good care of himself. He detests getting sick, maybe more than anything else. It’s just so annoying, and it totally ruins his momentum– throws him off his groove. So he very very rarely gets sick, and is in fact often disgustingly bright, healthy, and energetic. 

Gaz also comes from a home that had amazing food. His standards are, understandably, quite high. A piece of his soul leaves with every MRE he consumes. Which is why his favorite food from you is such a surprise.

It’s during the infancy of your relationship. You’ve been on a few dates. Exploratory, probing, trying to deduce if this is love or just the symptoms of it. He’s on the fence about telling you he’s fallen ill– it’s a little awkward, isn’t it? Partners are supposed to take care of each other in times like that, but he’s not sure you’re ready to be called his partner, much less be around him when he’s a germ factory. But he ends up telling you, if only not to look like he’s ignoring you if he slips into another death-nap while you’re texting.

You do end up coming over, despite all his warnings, all of the easy outs he provides you with. Get him a fresh gatorade before busying yourself in his kitchen.

You come back with a steaming mug that he doesn’t recognize. You say you brought it from home– that it’s your special mug you like to use when you feel icky. It’s got wisteria painted on the side with the scientific name in script next to it, and a little silver spoon with a teddy bear on the end is sticking out of it.

He takes the mug gratefully but still a little cautious– he doesn’t really know all that much about your cooking, and he’ll readily admit that his parents ruined the standard.

He looks down in it to see oatmeal. A bit of cinnamon dusted on, a golden swirl of honey going through it. Just a little bit of cardamom. 

He used to hate oatmeal when he was a kid, but he finishes the mug in record time and asks if you’ll make more. It’s just so soft and hot– gentle on his aching stomach and sore throat, the heat and cinnamon spice clearing up his sinuses a little bit. The sweetness is perfect and comforting as it sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Nowadays he keeps up the same wellness regimen, but he does almost look forward to getting sick, because it means you’ll make oatmeal for him.

When sharing a safehouse with Soap, there’s one inevitable constant: the whining. He always finds something to whinge about, just to ease his own boredom. It’s never about the conditions, having to sleep on shitty mattresses on floors, having to trek 10 miles through the dark and fog to even get there– it’s always about something stupid.

Girl who hasn’t texted him back. His deployment making him miss out on a limited edition thing he would’ve wanted to buy. That during his last leave a girl ghosted him after he barked during sex. Come to think of it, it was usually about his girl problems.

But this time, it was that he happened to be deployed on his birthday. Not that he’s sore about spending time with the taskforce, you’re his best mates in the world– but there’s not much celebration to be had out here.

“Could do with a fockin’ cake, ye ken?”

You were taken onto this squad for your adaptability. You’re brilliant when it comes to improvisation. And there’s a couple of shelf stable things left around in the cabinets here, although dubious.

So what are you able to bang together with flour, sugar, and the liquid from a can of chickpeas in some tin cups on top of a butane stove on its last legs?

That’s right. A fockin’ cake. Is it good? God no. The texture is weird as hell and it’s somehow dry on the outside but completely raw in the middle. But Soap smiles the entire time he’s eating it, and god knows he’s finishing the whole damned thing.

He was always of the mind that it’s rude not to finish your wife’s cooking.

It’s Price’s first holiday with you, and his expectations are low. Not as in he doesn’t think you’ll be lovely and amazing, he most certainly does, but his whole squad is coming over and preparing for that is a pretty big undertaking. So if it’s something a little more casual, maybe a bit of potluck, he’ll be perfectly fine with that. His ex used to order catering and tell the guests that she’d cooked it all herself, so anything is a step up from that in his book.

You stun him absolutely stupid when you not only plan a spectacular, full holiday dinner, but you make his boys help out– commanding them in the kitchen the same way he does in the field. Well, maybe a bit less forgiving. You’re less tender-hearted than him when the moistness of the roast in the oven is on the line. Everything is delicious, full of love, and satisfying beyond belief.

But his true fulfillment comes about a year later when his soldiers are awkwardly talking around their plans for the holidays, trying to nudge him into inviting them over again to make dinner with his missus. Muppets, the lot of them.

A lot of Ghost’s concept of vegetables come from army food, school cafeterias, and all-you-can-eat buffets. Typically frozen, only to be thawed and overcooked to an ungodly degree. On the rare occasion he had a half-decent meal with a vegetable side, it was typically covered in butter, cheese, or finely chopped bacon. Sometimes a combination of the three.

You’re a hookup he falls back on a lot when he’s on leave. Keeps him away from his empty apartments and crowded mind. This time, he comes straight to your place when he lands, wanting to lose himself in your cunt more than anything else. And you’re accommodating, you don’t have anything better to do and he doesn’t leave you wanting.

Usually he makes himself scarce pretty quickly, but this time he finds that maybe he was still running on adrenaline when he came in, and now that it’s wearing off with his post-orgasm high, his entire body is killing him. He feels like lead. And he hates that his struggle is plain to see.

“You can just stay, y’know. S’not like I’ll be expecting a wedding ring in the morning or anything. I’m just gonna go make dinner.”

He’s too tired to protest. Falls asleep just about as soon as you’re out of the room, despite very much intending to get the hell up and pass out somewhere that isn’t your apartment. He wakes up to an amazing smell.

Your dinner isn’t complicated. You’d just planned to have dinner by yourself, so it wasn’t fancy or anything. Grilled some salmon, put it over rice with some unagi sauce, steamed some fresh veggies for the side. Simon just barely has the energy to amble over to your kitchen table when it’s clear he won’t be leaving the premises any time soon.

When he’s not eating food that’s mass produced and shitty, he expects to be eating the kind of battered and fried pub faire that sits like a stone and ravages the digestive tract.

This may very well be the first time he’s eaten a meal that was genuinely good that didn’t make him feel at least a little bit disgusting afterwards. And god– it’s like it’s his first time tasting a vegetable for real. Why didn’t anyone tell him they could be this way?

You’re quite frankly shocked when you wake up in the morning and Simon is not only still there– he wants to take you out to breakfast. 

The truth is that he got a pretty remarkably good night’s rest, but in the wee hours while he was waiting for you to wake up? He was planning. The jump from friends with benefits to marriage won’t really be so difficult if he can play his cards right.

[reidphobic]

i’ll show you heaven (if you’ll be an angel all night) - s. r.

in which you give your pretty boy neighbor a few much-needed lessons in pleasure. 4426 words. part two.

inexperienced!sub!spencer x dom!fem reader, unprotected sex, mommy kink, brief hint at nursing, praise, oral (f receiving), no use of y/n, reader is super condescending at times but it’s hot i promise

You’re utterly enamoured with the pretty boy next door. You know next to nothing about him, only that his name is Dr. Spencer Reid (his mail); he’s bookish (you first met when he literally bumped into you in the hall with his nose in a book); he keeps very odd hours; and, most crucially, in the four years you’ve been his neighbor, he’s never had a girl over.

It’d be enough to make you think he just isn’t particularly interested in sex, if not for the paper-thin walls you share. You’re not trying to listen, but it’s hard to keep yourself under control when you know he’s only feet away, stroking himself to a whimpering, moaning orgasm in the dead of night. He just sounds so pretty, pliant and delicate, like he’s begging to be wrecked.

Your little crush has been spiralling out of control for a while now — you’re going through a dry spell, and it’s hard to keep your gorgeous neighbor out of your fantasies when they’re all you have. Your heart flutters when he smiles and waves from across the street, kicks in your chest when he nods at you in the hall. It’s embarrassing. Eventually, you have to take action. You order a parcel to his apartment, put your feet up and wait.

There’s a soft, timid tap at your door a day or so later, and you force yourself not to sprint to the door. “Hi,” Spencer says, bright and cheerful, an openness in his face that you’re dying to take advantage of. “Is this yours? It was delivered to my apartment by mistake. I- I’m Spencer. Reid. I live next door.”

Time for the performance of your life. You paste on a shocked, grateful look. “Yes! Oh, thank you!” you gasp. “I’ve been trying to get my money back all day, and it’s been a fucking nightmare,” you laugh, taking the box from him and leaning against the doorframe. Your eyes flicker down his body, tall and lean, catching on his hands for a second before landing on his lips. You smile, lick your lips. “Hey, d’you wanna come in? I’ll make you a coffee as a thank you.”

Spencer glances at his watch, then smiles, and, oh. You swear to yourself right then and there that you’ll do anything in your power to make him smile like that again. “Sure. I can’t stay long, though. Work,” he adds with an apologetic shrug.

“What is it you do?” you ask politely, closing the door behind him and busying yourself in the kitchen.

“I’m in the FBI,” he answers, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. Your eyes bug out of your head, and you turn to face him. But then you catch his expression, resigned and almost bored.

You let your eyes widen just enough that he knows you’re impressed, and then shrug. “And I bet that’s all you get to talk about when you meet someone new, am I right?” His face cycles through surprise, confusion and then relief, and he nods. You sit, slide him a cup of coffee, try not to be too transfixed by the muscles in his throat as he swallows. “So let’s talk about something else. You’re a doctor, right?” He tilts his head quizzically. “You’re not the only one who gets other people’s mail by mistake. The whole FBI thing means you’re not a medical doctor, at least, I don’t think, which only leaves a PhD.”

“Three, actually.” At that, you can’t stop your eyes from bugging out. He can’t be more than twenty-five! “Mathematics, Chemistry and Engineering.” He almost sounds sheepish, deliberately tucking in his shoulders to seem smaller as he speaks.

“Oh, my God,” you say faintly. “Well, I was going to ask about your thesis, but apparently I have to specify.” You pause. “Which one is your favourite? No, I wanna hear,” you say when Spencer opens his mouth to protest. “I won't understand a word, but I’m told I’m a really good listener.” You lean forward, smiling sweetly, and he fiddles nervously with his tie, stumbles over his words.

True enough, you don’t have the faintest idea what he’s talking about, but the way his eyes light up and his movements grow more animated the longer he talks more than makes up for it. You’re content to sit and listen, carefully memorise him as you hang onto every word, and the best part of an hour flies by like that. He pauses to take a breath, checks his watch and winces. “Crap. I’ve gotta go. This was… really nice. Thanks,” he says, setting his empty mug next to your sink on his way out.

“Hey,” you call out, and he pauses. “You’re welcome to come by another time, if you’re up for it. No offence or anything, but I kinda get the sense you need someone to talk to who’s not in the FBI.”

Spencer chuckles softly. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little,” you tease. “I’m sure your work is super serious and important, but, really, drop by if you get the chance. I’d like to see you again,” you add, letting the smallest note of interest creep into your voice at the last sentence, and you can tell by the way he falters mid-step that he picks up on it.

But he only smiles, offers you a polite goodbye, and disappears into the elevator. You don’t see him for a little while after that, but just when you’re starting to kick yourself for not getting his number, he taps on your door. It’s so late that you’d thought he wasn’t coming home for the night, but you smile warmly when you open the door, assure him he’s not bothering you at all, of course not, and you work nights anyway, so it’s not even close to your bedtime.

“You want something to drink? It’s a bit late for coffee, but I have tea? Wine?” You pad across the living room, hyper-conscious of Spencer’s gaze on your bare thighs, your short silk robe doing very little to protect your modesty.

“Wine would be great, actually,” he says, balancing himself delicately at the edge of your couch.

“Rough day?” you ask, pouring two healthy glasses and passing one to him.

He laughs ruefully. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Spencer bites his lip. “I’d really rather not,” he says quietly, looking down at his shoes. “How about you talk and I listen this time? About anything.” He laughs softly and you launch into your best first-date stories, slowly working your way through the wine and inching closer with each new glass. Both slightly tipsy, your head rests in his lap and he’s staring down at you like you hung the moon, and you can’t take your eyes off his lips, his pretty, flushed cheeks. “Hey, what was in that package they delivered to my apartment?” he asks, and you’ve got him.

“You don’t wanna know,” you smirk, toying with the hem of your robe and dragging it up, revealing just a sliver more of your bare thigh.

“I do, though,” he pouts, carding a hand gently through your hair.

Your smile broadens. “Well, you know what they say about curiosity.”

“It killed the cat?”

“Sure,” you answer, hands sliding up to the tie around your waist. “But satisfaction brought it back.” You untie your robe, let it spill into his lap and across the floor, hear him suck in a sharp breath at the sight of you. Lace in a shade of red so deep it’s almost black cradles the curves of your body, and you study his face carefully for a reaction. Spencer’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, and his hands tremble where they hover above your skin. “Do you like it? I bought it to cheer myself up. I’m in a real dry spell at the moment — but, you know about that, right?” you tease.

Spencer clears his throat. “I, uh… huh?” He sounds practically tongue-tied, poor thing, and you reach up to smooth his hair behind his ear.

“Spencer. Come on. Unless your mute girlfriend only comes in through the fire escape, you’ve never had a woman in your apartment,” you say, playful but just mean enough to get under his skin.

He flushes crimson to the tips of his ears. “Is it, uh…” He licks his lips. “Is it really that obvious?”

You smirk. “Yeah. Be honest, is this driving you a little crazy? Do you think I look pretty?”

“I think you’re beautiful.” You sit up, plant yourself squarely in his lap. He’s stiff, back ramrod-straight, fists clenched by his sides.

You shift your hips, grind down against him. “Do you want me?” you breathe, leaning in close. Spencer nods weakly, entirely at your mercy. “Spencer,” you purr. “Are you a virgin?”

“No!” he says indignantly. “I’ve had sex. Just not, you know, for a long while.”

Taking his hands, you place them on your waist, and his head tips back like he can’t believe his luck. You laugh, low and dark. “You blush like one.” Leaning in, you speak against his lips, so close he can practically swallow your words. “Do you want to fuck me, Spencer?”

He nods frantically, so hard you’re afraid his neck is going to snap. “Please. I want… God, I can’t—”

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip to silence him, resist the urge to press it deeper into his mouth. “Aw, you’re so needy, baby. So cute,” Spencer whines, pouts up at you as you shift your hips. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you,” you murmur, finally leaning in to kiss him; nothing more than a soft press of lips, at first. Then his hands slide up from your waist to your jaw, pull you in again. His kiss is starving, feverish, almost crazed, like he’s gone so long without it that he can’t relax.

You nip playfully at his bottom lip, pull it into your mouth. He slides his hands into your hair, happily cedes control as you slip your tongue into his mouth. His face scrunches up in displeasure when you pull away. “You’re not very experienced, are you?” you say, taking one of his hands and skimming it down your back. “All the theory in that brain of yours, but no application, right? Does that make you nervous?”

Spencer flushes impossibly redder. “I… Yes. I don’t… I want it to be good for you,” he murmurs, deliberately avoiding your gaze until you tilt his head up to meet his warm, honey-brown eyes.

Pressing a soft, near-chaste kiss to his lips, you gently twirl a strand of his hair around your finger. “It’s okay, baby. I can teach you, huh? How’s that sound?” You slip your hands under his sweater, slide them up his slim, toned chest.

“Mhmm,” he murmurs, head dipping to kiss your neck.

You giggle. “Such a quick learner, baby. You wanna bruise me up, just a little?” His teeth scrape at your neck, a messy, graceless thing; pain blooms under his touch, skitters down your spine. “Good boy,” you murmur, and he shudders. “Oh, you like that, don’t you, pretty? Be a good boy and take your shirt off for me, okay?”

He scrambles to obey, practically rips his shirt over his head and tosses it away. You pull back to gaze at him, trace your fingertips over his bare chest. “Stop it,” he says quietly, almost a whine, squirming under you. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Can’t help it,” you grin. “You’re just so pretty.” You grind your hips down, moan just a touch theatrically. “And so hard. This all for me, sweetheart?” you ask, and he melts under you at the epithet. “I asked you a question,” you add, digging your nails just slightly into his jaw.

“Yeah, it’s for you. S’yours, baby, I want you,” Spencer pleads, eyes wide and lips parted.

“So eager, baby. I’ll give you what you need, don’t worry. You wanna stay here or go to bed?”

Spencer grabs at your hips, squirms under you, meets your hips at an angle that sends pleasure cascading over you. “Bed. Please,” he gasps, burying his head in your neck and whining.

You stand up without a word, affecting casualness, but you feel the loss of his warm body between your thighs like an ache. “You coming, pretty?” you smirk, glancing over your shoulder to where Spencer is still sitting, stunned. He scrambles to his feet so fast he almost pitches over, stumbling after you as you pad into your bedroom.

Spencer doesn’t follow you into bed, though, casting a sweeping, curious look around your room. You snap your fingers impatiently. “Hey. Stop profiling the half-naked girl who wants to have sex with you.” Obediently, he climbs onto the bed next to you, kisses you sweetly as your hands slide down to unbuckle his belt. You tug his pants and boxers off in one motion, let him awkwardly kick them to the floor. Suddenly, he’s gorgeously naked in your bed, his cock hanging heavy and hard between his legs.

You stare openly, mind blanking for a second as your mouth waters. All you can think about is how beautiful he is, how good he’ll feel inside you. “Are you… Am I, uh… Okay?” Spencer asks softly, like he’s embarrassed. You gasp, grab his face, kiss him fiercely.

“Sweetheart,” you murmur, cupping his cheek as he blushes. “You’re gorgeous. Such a pretty boy for me, huh?” you breathe, connecting your lips and taking easy control of the kiss, your movements languid where his are frantic and desperate.

“Please,” he murmurs against your lips, the pathetic sound of it falling straight between your legs.

You smirk against Spencer’s lips as his hands rove along your back like he’s searching for something. “It undoes from the front, honey.” You guide his hands to the clasps, let him loosen your lingerie and pull it off, and he moans openly at the sight of your naked body.

He sits up to gaze at you, lips parted and eyes darting around as if he’s mapping every inch of you. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your chest until you grab them and rest them on your boobs. Arching up, you press your chest into Spencer’s hands, moan when he squeezes softly. One hand trails down your body, down your side and along the curve of your hip, under your leg to grab at the point where your thigh meets your ass. “How do you want me?” he breathes, a nervous tremble in his voice.

“It’s alright, baby. Take your time. I’m all yours, promise.” You smile softly up at him, let him cautiously explore your body, learn exactly how to pull a soft moan from your kiss-swollen lips. Spencer dips his head, kisses the hollow of your throat, works his way down until he’s wrapping his lips around your nipple. You whine when he sucks softly, laps at the peaked bud.

It seems like you’ve found something that makes him tick, because it’s minutes before he lifts his head, and only to switch to the other side. His eyes are glazed over with lust when he finally looks up, and you smile down at him. “Enjoying yourself?” you tease, and he flushes a now-familiar red. “It’s okay, pretty. Don’t need to be embarrassed. But I wanna fuck you now, ‘kay?” You crawl on top of him, grind your soaked cunt against his stomach. “Feel how wet I am, baby? S’all for you, gorgeous.”

Slowly, you push yourself up onto your knees, Spencer’s hands clutching your hips like you’re a mirage, like you’ll fade into a dream if he lets go. “Oh, my God,” he moans, eyes fluttering closed as his hips twitch in desperation.

You circle your hips, carefully line him up with your dripping hole. “You ever done cowgirl before?” He shakes his head mutely, mouth open but no sound coming out. “You want to?”

“Yes,” he rushes out. “God, yes. But, don’t you wanna… condom?”

You lean down to whisper in his ear, conspiratorial. “No. It’s hotter that way.” You shift your hips again. “I mean, I know I’m clean, and you haven’t had sex in over four years, I’m on the pill… I can go and get one, if you want, but I really want to feel you cum inside me, Spencer,” you murmur, and he gives a full-body shudder. “Yeah?”

He nods frantically. “Yeah.” You trail your hands down his stomach, the muscles bunched tight under your fingertips.

“Relax, okay, sweetheart?” you coo, still roaming your hands across his stomach. “S’only gonna feel even better if you just relax for me.” Spencer breathes in deeply, closes his eyes, exhales the tension. “Good boy.” Oh-so slowly, you sink down on him, the aching stretch delicious between your thighs. His whimpered fuck when you’re fully seated makes you pulse around him, back arching involuntarily. “Do you need a minute, baby?”

Spencer looks up at you, dazed, and nods. “You feel so good,” he groans, half-broken already. A moment or so passes, giving the both of you time to adjust to feeling each other. You can sense that he wants you to move by the way he starts twitching inside you, his nails digging harder into your hips.

You watch him suck his bottom lip into his mouth, screw his eyes shut, fight not to make a sound. Pouting, you slide your thumb over his mouth until his lips part obediently around the digit. “Who taught you that?” you murmur, scrunching your face in displeasure. “Who told you to be quiet, Spencer? Don’t do that with me, okay? I wanna hear all your pretty noises, honey. You gotta let me know you feel good.”

Nodding, Spencer moans your name the second you free his mouth, hips jerking as pent-up, needy whines spill free. Something that might be the word please stumbles from his lips, over and over until it’s the only sound you can hear, filling the room and humming under your skin.

Despite all his efforts, you hold still, though every nerve in your body is screaming, begging for you to fuck yourself on his cock. “Is there something you want, sweetheart?” you say, sickly-sweet and patronising. “Beg me for it, pretty.”

“Fuck, come on, please!” he whines. “Want you s’bad, please. God, I need you, please, Mommy, want you to fuck me, you feel so good, please!” he gasps. You don’t think he even realises what he’s said, too far gone in his desperation. You, however, are far more lucid.

You rock upwards, lift your hips off him, and he whines at the loss. “Is this what you need, baby? Need Mommy to fuck you like this?” Spencer covers his face in embarrassment, but he can’t hold back the gasping moan that slips out when you sink down on him, grind your clit against his stomach. “Stop it,” you snap, pulling his arm away from his face. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t be embarrassed, and don’t hold anything back. How’m I supposed to teach you if you don’t let me know what makes you feel good, huh?” Setting a slow pace, you start to bounce in his lap, every sound that escapes him pathetic and delicious. “I’ll be your Mommy if that’s what you need, pretty.”

Whining, Spencer gazes up at you, eyes fixed on your tits and practically drooling. “Tell me— shit— tell me what to do,” he pleads, grabbing greedily at your ass and moaning.

“Such an eager boy. Just wanna please, right?” He nods, moans your name and yes and Mommy. “Give me your hand, okay?” You take his hand, carefully press his index and middle fingers against your clit, moaning at the sudden stimulation. “Little circles, okay, baby? Just keep goin’, try and find—oh, fuck!” You choke on your words, a bright bolt of pleasure shooting up your spine as your thighs clench around his hips. “That’s it, baby, good fucking boy. Don’t stop,” you moan.

To his credit, Spencer knows what don’t stop means; doesn’t try to move faster, harder, just works at you in those same tight little circles, arousal sliding hot and sticky down your spine. His hips jerk, fucking up into you harder, and you grind down into his lap, against his fingers. Ecstasy pools in your belly, drips out between your legs, your hands fisting in the sheets.

You clench around him, roll your hips, lean down just enough that he can wrap his lips around your boob, grazing your skin with his teeth in his desperation. “Feel so good, Mommy,” Spencer moans, writhing desperately under you. “I’m gonna— gonna fucking— please,” he whimpers, choking on his own moans. Desire threads under your skin, pulls taut in your belly.

“You gonna cum, pretty? Aw, baby. Cum for me, yeah? I wanna feel it.” Your instruction seems to be all Spencer needs, twitching and jerking under you as he spills in your cunt. “Good boy,” you murmur. He shudders, goes limp, smiles dazedly up at you.

“Thank you,” he gasps as you climb off him, kissing you sweetly, frantic desire dispersed into slow, indolent passion. “That was… you’re… I mean…”

You giggle. “Oh, my God, are you speechless?” You press your lips against his, chest clenching with affection as he blushes. “God, you’re so cute,” you add, and Spencer closes his eyes, scrunches up his face in embarrassment.

He pouts up at you, all pleading brown eyes and soft hands skimming up and down your body. “You didn’t finish,” he says, and he sounds genuinely forlorn, earnestly apologetic.

“It’s okay, baby,” you say, and although it’s far from the first time you’ve said that in bed, you really do mean it. “This was about you, yeah? First time you’ve had sex in, oh… five years?” He nods. “You were never gonna last, sweetheart, it’s alright,” you coo, stroking his cheek as he presses his body close to yours.

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me? If I just… like that… How am I supposed to learn?” Spencer says slyly, the corner of his mouth quirking teasingly upward.

Oh, he’s learning, all right. You grin. “I’ll teach you something, Spencer. You ask a woman anything with that look on your face, she’ll do it.”

Spencer smiles faintly as you slide his hand down your body, along the inside of your thigh, let him explore you with the tips of his fingers. “Can I… I wanna taste you. Please?” You thread your fingers into his hair, tug lightly just to make him whine.

“Yeah? S’that what you want, pretty?” He nods as you lift his head, straining frantically to reach your lips where you hold him tantalisingly out of reach. “Oh, you’re so good, honey. God, I’m so lucky I got my hands on you, sweetheart, so good for me, such a sweet boy,” you say indulgently, and he scrambles down your body as soon as you let go of his hair. “Slow down, baby, s’not a race. You wanna take your time, alright? Kisses, a little bit of tongue, make me want it, yeah?”

“Okay,” Spencer breathes against your skin, kissing at your lower belly. His tongue swirls over your body, tracing delicate patterns over your skin that work you into a frenzy. You’re desperate, a fire burning you from the inside out, your body aching with it. You moan his name, and you feel him smile against you. “You want something?” he says, sounding all too pleased with himself.

You scoff, tugging on his hair. “Don’t get cute,” you scold, pulling him down until his lips meet your core.

Still teasing, he presses soft little kisses to the insides of your thighs. “What am I supposed to do?” he asks, wide eyed and faux-innocent even with his mouth achingly close to where you need it.

“Use your imagination,” you groan, tugging his head down until his tongue finally makes contact with your core. He’s hesitant, at first, licking a slow stripe along your cunt, but your moan and the way you slam your thighs closed around his head seem to spur him on. Suddenly, he’s frantic, hands clutching at your hips as he buries his tongue inside you. Pleasure burns under your skin, creeps up your spine, drips out against Spencer’s mouth. He pauses between every new motion, every movement of his tongue, every trace of his fingers, studies your reaction oh-so carefully.

He’s hungry, and it only makes you more feverish, his sweet little moans into you coaxing matching ones from your own lips. His nose bumps your clit and you whine, a bolt of heat lurching through your body. Smiling, Spencer repeats the motion, brings his fingers up to circle your soaked clit. You grind against his face, down on his tongue, arousal winding tight between your thighs. “Shit, honey, I’m close,” you moan, holding him close, crossing your legs behind his head. He murmurs something unintelligible, but the words vibrate deliciously through you all the same, dragging you ever closer to your peak.

You whine when he moves his fingers away, clenching uselessly around nothing and bucking your hips in a silent plea. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking harshly and moaning into you. The sudden wave of stimulation is all it takes, your vision cracking and splintering as ecstasy crashes over you. Your cunt pulses against his mouth, his name spilling from your lips in a nearly crazed litany, pure pleasure wiping your mind clean. You’re half-convinced you left Earth for a second, your body melting into the mattress with his still tangled between your hips.

When you finally regain the strength to move, you let go of him, and he climbs eagerly up your body. “Was I good?” he asks, quiet and almost fragile.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You cup his jaw, kiss your own taste off his lips. “You’re so good for me, baby, did so good. C’mere, let me hold you.” You hook one leg over his, let him tuck his body into yours. “Such a good boy,” you murmur.

You’re conscious of the state of both of you, sweat-soaked and sticky between your thighs, but, selfishly, you just want to hold him a little longer. “Thank you,” Spencer says softly. “Do you… Can we, um. Do this again sometime? Maybe?”

You smile. “Honey, I’m not even close to done with you yet.”

[mariasont]

Peak Ovulation - A.H

your period tracker warned you to avoid attractive men today. you failed spectacularly

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: suggest content for sure, explicit focus on hormonal arousal, sexual tension, pre-relationship pining, mild workplace inappropriateness (internal thoughts only, no action), mention of nipples, hotch being a little shit wc: 1.5k a/n: all creds to the amazing @ssamorganhotchner for the request/idea <3

It is too hot in this office, you’ve decided. The air conditioning is on, the thermostat reads a reasonable 68 degrees, but you know your body isn’t lying to you – something is wrong. 

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, adjusting the hem of your (probably too short) silk slip skirt, the material clinging to every overheated inch of you. It doesn’t help. Nothing will. Because the problem really isn’t the temperature. No, the problem is standing across from you, stirring his coffee like it’s not the most erotic thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Hotch, all razor sharp lines and rolling forearm veins, stands at the kitchenette counter, completely unaware that you are seconds away from becoming a tragic, melted puddle of lust. His sleeves are pushed up, brows furrowed in concentration as he stirs, and you watch – helpless, transfixed – as his fingers snake around the spoon, the way tendons shift beneath his skin.

It’s a teaspoon. An inanimate object. He’s stirring coffee. That’s it. And yet, your body reacts spectacularly, like he’s just backed you into the nearest sturdy surface and whispered something so depraved, so explicitly not-safe-for-work, into your ear.

You knew this was coming. It’s right there in your tracking app – day 11, peak ovulation, high fertility, maximum risk of self-sabotage, avoid contact with attractive men. Avoid Aaron Hotchner, specifically. But here you are, fully within range of the object of your affection, the exact man you should be fleeing, logic tied to the train tracks while hormones drive the speeding locomotive straight to you.

It’s not your fault, not really. Blame science. Blame nature. Blame evolution.

You feel like you’re not breathing, not functioning, gripping your pen so tightly, it’s a miracle it hasn’t shattered into shrapnel. All because Hotch is walking by.

“Good morning.”

“Oh — hi! Yes! Good morning! Great morning. Beautiful morning. Gorgeous morning, actually. Just — wow. Look at us. In the morning.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you want to die.

Hotch, to his eternal credit, does not react immediately. He pauses mid-step, head tilting slightly, like he’s running a quick internal diagnostic to determine whether or not he should be concerned.

“...Right.” He finally says again, before shaking his head and walking into his office.

You cannot do this today. And according to your normal, non-biological-doomsday schedule, you’re supposed to review updated case files with Hotch today – which entails standing next to him, pointing things out, maybe even brushing hands if the universe is feeling particularly sadistic.

You hover over the keyboard, preparing to type out a very sudden, very dramatic resignation email, but before you can hit send – Reid passes your desk.

“Spencer!”

You latch onto him immediately, grabbing his wrist.

“Jesus, what?” Spencer stumbles mid-step, nearly dropping his phone.

Then, his eyes flicker over you, scanning everything — your flushed cheeks, the way you’re practically vibrating with tension, the slight glossy daze in your eyes that suggests either a medical emergency or a particularly brutal hangover.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Not in an unkind way. In a genuine, confused, and slightly alarmed way.

You shove the file at him so fast that a few loose papers nearly fall out, ignoring his question. “Can you go over this case file with Hotch for me?”

Spencer looks down at the file, flips through it once. “Why?”

“Because — uh — I have to, um… reorganize the supply closet.”

Spencer raises a brow. 

You switch strategies instantly. “Okay, okay — listen, I’ll let you pick the next five movie nights, and I won’t complain once. Even if you make me watch 2001: A Space Odyssey again.”

“Five movie nights?”

“Yes. Uninterrupted. No protests. No phone distractions.”

The second the word deal leaves Spencer’s mouth, you explode into motion, flinging yourself at him, arms around his neck.

“Have I ever told you that you are the single greatest human being to ever exist?”

Spencer makes a deep, pained noise, stumbling back, but he doesn’t fight it – merely sighs deeply, long-suffering but tolerant, before patting your back exactly once, resigned to his fate.

“You tell me weekly,” he mutters, but there’s a little laugh hidden in the words. He pries you off gently, shaking his head as he turns toward Hotch’s office. “Okay, okay. Before you suffocate me, I’m going.”

Spencer leaves, and for a second, you convince yourself you might actually make it though the day.

You are so wrong.

By lunch, you have died and resurrected at least sixteen times. Maybe more. It’s hard to say because you stopped functioning somewhere around incident three.

First the tie. One casual tug at the knot, loosening it just enough to reveal the cut of his throat. You nearly walked into a wall. Then, the glasses. The stupidest, most intellectual accessory known to man, perched low on his nose like some stern professor who graded mercilessly but might just let you stay after class for some extra credit. You had to physically sit down. And the final straw involved Hotch undoing a single button on his dress shirt. You had to assume you blacked out.

So now, here you are, in the breakroom, white-knuckling the counter, silently begging for the inferno raging in your body to calm the hell down. You’d spent your entire lunch break sprinting through department stores in search of a new blouse, because your previous one was rubbing against your already painfully sensitive nipples with every breath.

You yank at the neckline, cursing yourself six ways to Sunday for not trying the thing on before swiping your card. It doesn’t just fit snugly, it practically announces your ongoing crisis, the material stretching so perfectly over your nipples that you might as well be wearing a sign that flashes noticeably aroused.

The door opens, and you don’t even have to look. You already know who it is.

There’s a half-second delay before you risk looking up – just in time to catch the downward sweep that’s over as quickly as it came, his discipline snapping back into place like a rubber band.

Your stomach clenches, because oh, great, that is not helping. Not when you’ve been exceedingly well-behaved all morning, and definitely not when all you can think about is how you want him to rip your clothes off and put the unassuming breakroom table behind you to the kind of use that would get HR involved.

His jaw ticks, and then, in a flat, exhausted tone. “Do I even want to know what’s going on with you?”

No. No, he does not. Unless, of course, he’s invested in hearing about how you’ve had to swap out your underwear three separate times today just from existing in the same vicinity as him. In which, by all means, he should stay. But if he values his peace of mind (and you know him well enough to know he does) he should probably just walk away. Quickly. Before you start getting ideas.

“Nothing! I’m great! Never been better, actually.” You nod once, as if that seals it. “All good. Just, um, a little warm, that’s all.”

“You’re sweating,” he observes, unimpressed.

He steps closer and you’re certain the temperature in the room spikes by at least ten degrees. 

Then, as if he wasn’t already being reckless with your well-being, he lifts a hand, pressing the back of his fingers to your collarbone. His brow furrows. “You do feel warm. Are you coming down with something?”

“Yeah.” Technically, it’s not a lie. Something is happening to you, it’s just not the flu. “Aren’t you – aren’t you supposed to feel my forehead?”

“Yeah, but then I’d have to listen to you complain about how I ruined your makeup.”

Of course he would know you’d spent an ungodly amount of time on your makeup this morning.

If you had any sort of claim on this man, you would be on your knees so fast, your coworkers would hear the impact from across the office.

Hotch studies you for a second longer, then his hand moves, his fingers brushing up the column of your throat. He’s not even thinking about it. It’s gentle, like he’s feeling for something.

“You sure that’s all this is?” he murmurs, thumb sweeping into the tense muscle there. “You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

“Y-yeah. I’m fine. Totally fine.” You can tell he doesn't believe you from the way his brows pinch, but he doesn’t press. “Would it be okay if I went home early? I mean, unless you need me for something.”

“I mean, I always need you,” he says, devastating in its casualness. You make a noise in response, but just as casually, he sobers, hand falling away as he takes a step back. “Go home. Hydrate, eat something with actual nutrients, and try to rest. If you still feel bad tomorrow, I don’t want to see you in the office.”

You nod and blurt out, “Yep. Totally. I’ll, um – drink a lot. Not – not alcohol, though. Water. Obviously.”

Hotch pauses, his mouth pressing into the kind of line that means he’s trying very hard not to laugh. He gives you a slow, knowing nod before heading for the door.

You somehow manage to pack up your things, make it to the parking lot, and drop into the driver’s seat without further public humiliation. But just as you’re fumbling for your keys, your phone buzzes.

Mr. Bossman ❤️‍🔥: If you’re still feeling warm, a cold shower might help.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[lovebugism]

I love your ones with shy x king steve could you write more with lots of angst lolll

ty for requesting !! — the trials and tribulations of dating hawkins' golden boy (shy!reader, secret relationship, hurt/comfort, king!steve universe | 1.6k)

Gravel crunches under your feet, digging into the bottoms of your shoes with every step. You storm through the empty alleyway between the gymnasium and the chemistry lab despite that. Despite the whipping wind that threatens to pull you back. Despite the calls of your name from an achingly familiar voice.

“Hey! Hey, wait up!” Steve shouts at the back of you, laughing like it’s funny. 

You hear his footsteps kicking up gravel as he rushes to catch up with you. It takes little effort on his part — legs long and mostly bare in his Hawkins Tigers basketball shorts. He towers over you accordingly, when he slides ahead of you to stop you suddenly in your tracks. 

“Hey. What’s going on?” the boy pants with a crooked smile. His cheeks, freshly shaven, are now flushed from a merciless practice. The shirt clinging just perfectly to his torso, too, is damp at the neckline with sweat. “Why are you avoiding me, huh?”

He’s met with an emotionless scowl from you, which is strange, ‘cause you’re usually all smiles around him. But you keep your arms crossed over tight your chest, adamant in revealing nothing to him. 

Steve’s smile wavers at the edges as he forces a breathy, unsure laugh. “Oh, you’re not— you’re not talking to me? Shit, I must have some serious groveling to do, don’t I?”

His wide hands settle warm on the outsides of your elbows, just before he ducks down to kiss you. You catch a smirk pulling at his pink mouth when the tip of his nose traces the bridge of yours — like it’s still so funny to him. 

He frowns when you flinch back from him, boyish features twisting like a puppy’s might. “You okay?” he wonders, suddenly solemn.

“No, Steve,” you snap. “I’m not.”

He stammers hopelessly. “Well, what— What happened? Did I… Did I do something, or…?”

“No. You didn’t do anything,” you bite. “Because you never do anything.”

You try to walk past him, but Steve sidesteps to block you, his hands spread awkwardly before him in surrender. “Okay, well, now I’m confused,” he murmurs, face swirled with uncertainty. “‘Cause you’re saying I didn’t do anything, but… it kinda sounds like I did do something…”

His disregard sets you aflame from the inside. 

“Tommy made fun of me in front of all your friends. In front of you—” You dig your finger into the center of his chest. “—And what did you do? Nothing, Steve… Nothing.”

Your voice breaks. You clear your throat when emotion starts to strangle you. 

The memory of earlier that day pangs your chest like it just happened — like it’s still happening. And it’s not so much what Tommy said to you, but what Steve didn’t have the courage to say.

The boy sighs, swiping a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “He’s a dick, babe. You know that. Don’t let him get to you—”

“That’s really easy for you to say, isn’t it?”

He flinches at your foreignly sharp tone. “Well, what was I supposed to do?”

Now, you can’t tell if he’s oblivious or just a coward. Neither is particularly attractive.

“Anything,” you spit. “Literally anything.”

“I just didn’t want them to find out about us, alright?” Steve argues, harsher now. “That was the agreement, wasn’t it? That we stay a secret—”

“‘Cause you’re ashamed of me,” you choke, eyes going glassy.

“‘Cause I didn’t want this shit to get any worse for you!”

“It can’t get any worse, Steve! I’m fucking— I’m fish bait!”

“What?!”

“Every day, I’m terrified of what your friends are gonna say to me,” you confess, despite the cracks in your voice and the tears blurring your vision. “I’m self-conscious, all the time, ‘cause they always have something to say. About my hair, my clothes, my makeup—”

Steve’s chest burns with a palpable ache. Every inch of your heartbreak is his own. His arms cross over his chest in a feeble attempt to quell the flame. “Really?”

You scoff a bitter laugh. “God, you’re so oblivious…”

“I didn’t know it was that bad, babe, I swear,” Steve says, voice suddenly fragile as he takes a step closer to you. His sneaker scuffs the gravel with hesitancy. “I thought Tommy was just being a prick, you know? He’s like that with everyone. I had no idea it was like that, okay?”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh. “The point is, Steve… That Tommy shouldn’t be doing anything to be at all. You should be protecting me— Not even as my boyfriend, but as a decent fucking human being.”

“I’ll talk to him,” the boy says with a firm nod.

“Steve—”

“I will. I-I’ll sort it out, okay? I promise.”

Even though the look of hurt twisting his features makes your eyes sting, you smack your lips indifferently against your teeth. “No. Don’t worry about it. I’d hate for him to find out about us—”

“Babe—”

“Or, god forbid, you lose any shot of being prom king,” you laugh cynically. “Wouldn’t that be a bite?”

Steve huffs, though it’s hard with the leaden weight on his chest. “Okay. Now you’re just being mean.”

You know you are. You wanted to be — wanted to hurt him like he hurt you. But you’re questioning if he deserves it now, so you shrink into yourself all over again. “I have to go. Me and Robin are going to the library.” When you walk past him this time, he makes no effort to stop you. 

It hurts only slightly.

“Let me drive you,” he calls to you, anyway.

“So you can be seen with a bunch of dweebs at the library?” you scoff, not looking back at him. “I’d hate to see what that would do to your reputation.” 

“Please, don’t,” Steve sighs, with his hands on his hips and his head tossed back like he’s talking to the sky. “Don’t leave when you’re mad at me. Please.”

His words are carried to you on an early fall breeze, which stills suddenly when you spin around to face him. The sight of you takes his breath in a similar way — eyes teary, chin quivering, face twisted with the hurt he caused.

“Do you know how humiliating it is?” you ask him, voice trembling. “To watch your boyfriend stay silent when all of his friends are making fun of you?”

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s fucking humiliating.”

His jaw clenches. So hard his temples shift. “I thought I was helping,” Steve explains, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I thought if I said something, then everyone would find out, and you said you didn’t want that—”

“Because you’re King Steve,” you retort, agonizing the point he seems to be forgetting. Your voice breaks like splintered glass. “And I’m— I’m nothing—”

“That’s not true—”

“—And I thought the only way I’d get to be with you was if no one else knew. So you could keep being Hawkins Royalty while dating the… the local fucking prude.”

An emotionless laugh sputters from your lips. It cuts through Steve like a knife. 

“I didn’t… I didn’t know you felt that way,” the boy confesses, closing the short distance between you. The snapping gravel under his sneakers fills the silence. You duck your gaze when he towers over you again.

“Well… now you do,” you murmur.

“I’ll make it better, okay? I’ll fix it,” Steve assures. Unsure of what to do with his hands when they’re not holding you, he sticks the trembling limbs in the pockets of his short shorts. He shifts on his feet and kicks a rock with his sneaker. “You just… You just have to let me.”

He flashes you a look then, a pleading sort of glance from beneath his lashes, glimmering with a darkened honey. It makes your chest sparkle in a similar way. But still slightly hurt, you only shrug in response.

“Can I have a kiss, at least?”

You shrug again with eyes wide and pleading, shining now with a surer answer you hope he can hear in your silence. 

Steve leans in slowly, testing the waters. His gaze darts from your eyes, to your mouth, and to your eyes again. When you don’t flinch away by the time his nose grazes yours, he finally kisses you — a chaste peck that makes your tense shoulders slowly relax. You fight the urge to chase him when he pulls back from you. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Really,” Steve says in a pained murmur. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “‘Cause you mean— You mean a lot to me, you know?”

It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to telling you he loves you, which is saying something, ‘cause he thinks he almost tells you every day. 

“You mean a lot to me, too,” you mutter shyly in response.

Steve tries and fails to bite back a grin. He ducks down for another kiss –– the long and languid one he’s been dreaming about all day. The kind that tastes like strawberry chapstick and nicotine and yearning. The kind that pains you to pull away from.

Your kissed mouths smack apart in protest. You try hard to conceal a lovesick smile. “I really do have to meet Robin, though…” you confess in a mousy voice.

His rosy mouth falls softly agape. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, uh,” he clears his throat. “Call me later?”

You step back from him and shrug, still smiling. “We’ll see,” you lilt beneath the gravel crunching under your feet. Only when you’re at the edge of the alleyway do you glance at him over your shoulder. The puppy-like hurt on his face returns.

“You’re breakin’ my heart!” he calls to you, only partly serious.

“Just like seeing you grovel,” you joke. “That’s all.”

[irndad]

won't you be my sunshine-a.h.

a/n: runner!hotch x sunshine!reader !! sooooo fluffy, first hotch fic of mine so be gentle with me! lots of pining and happy end <3 happy to continue with these two in an au!

Aaron Hotchner is not a particularly emotive man. 

This is a skill he has honed, a cherished quality that was not born of luck or of natural ability, but a skill that he has honed down to a fine tip point. He needs to be, in this job. It’s cost him things, of course, but for the most part, Aaron is happy with his choices. He takes a firm line with people he works with, and does not always let up in his personal life.

The only time this sometimes causes a hitch, is in his romantic life.

Which isn’t to say that he has one. 

There is a woman who reads in the park every morning. Aaron affectionately thinks of this bench as her bench, as it is marked by wisterias and hyacinths on either end of it. It’s something of a ritual, after his runs, that they talk. 

It’s fun. He doesn’t have a lot of space for fun. He’d collapsed on the bench one day after siphoning his anger at a particular case into a difficult run. He’d crashed onto the bench, sweaty and exhausted and hadn’t even seen her there. Which is a bit impressive, as she’s hard to miss the sight of. It is also in equal measure embarrassing. It’s not every day you collapse in front of a gorgeous woman, disturbing her from what is likely a lovely afternoon in the park.

That’s how it started, anyway. She doesn’t run, so each break is punctuated by her company. He’s actually not sure if they’re flirting. He’s not very good at that- the last time he has to he was 17 and so full of unearned confidence, he lucked into a partnership. 

Now, he’s a bit older and a lot more scarred. She’s younger than him, not by much. She laughs with her whole chest at his dry, glib humor- and this is something Aaron had forgotten. The joy of a beautiful, wonderful woman’s company beside you. 

He feels a little out of place next to her. Romance is not something he does. Ever thought he’d do again, really. That’s not to say that this is romance. Their romance is almost entirely hypothetical. He thinks of her at work, which is a monumental development in and of itself. 

“So, how was the paperwork? I know you’ve been taking a little more on since your colleague had a baby. It’s so kind of you to do it.” She asks him on a beautiful August morning. 

He fights off a blush that she remembers what he’s done for JJ. He’s not big on mentioning his own good deeds. Aaron believes that this would cancel it out. Still, her praise is a warm balm to the exhaustion that plagues him. It’s hedonistic, the way he wants her to say more about him. He wonders absentmindedly if she knew everything about him that’s hard to love, she’d still paint him with such a light and warm glance. She’s bright enough, he’s tempted to tell her everything about him just because she asks. 

“It was…alright. My team is excellent. I’m lucky to work with people like them, it makes the process better. I couldn’t ask for more.”

She giggles a little at this, and there’s that roar of affection. 

He feels a sense of ease around her, one that is suspicious for him. He tries not to romanticize, but this connection is hard not to. She’s beautiful- this is obvious to anyone who meets her, a simple truth of her. But Aaron is trained to notice things little factors that show the truth of someone. 

He likes to watch her- it’s a pleasant thing, getting to be in her presence. It’s a little addicting, the way she looks at him. It makes him feel like all of the things he knows to be true of himself- his relative failures, the closed-off nature of his demeanor- are things that not only can be overlooked, but don’t seem to be in her line of sight at all. It’s an honor, to have her doe eyes rake over the sight of him, to meet him with gentle conversation. 

He tries not to notice that she is gorgeous. Aaron has been around beautiful women, of course- this is not something that should surprise him. But there’s something effervescent about her, something that his him wondering if it’s possible that she might feel the same way about him. He knows that he used to be a more attractive man, but now. Well, he’s a bit bruised, both metaphorically and physically. 

It feels odd to even think of this happening. She’s just got a warm, sweet tone and he replays what it’s like when she greets him. She smiles her brilliant grin and sometimes hugs him. It’s embarrassing how much he likes the feeling of it- soft curves against hard muscle and scarred skin. She always smells wonderful, and he wonders how nice it would be to have more of this. 

“I like your new shirt, by the way.” She smiles at him, and his heart jumps. It feels juvenile, but- she’s wearing a new lipstick, it seems. Her beautiful pout looks awfully tempting. 

“I like the lip color,” he tries to compliment back amenably, but that doesn’t stick. Instead, it comes out too earnest. He’s hyper aware of the fact that she’s right by him. She flushes, and Aaron feels a surge of pride. 

“Thank you,” she says, voice softer and flattered, and isn’t that a pretty sound? He’d love to do that for her, make her feel seen, make her feel like she’s as beautiful as she is, “I thought you might like it.”

It’s her directiveness that breaks the seal, he supposes looking back. Because she wore the lipstick for him. That’s just about the only thing it can mean, and he is struck with a particularly sensory fantasy of what it would be like to slot his mouth against hers- he gets the feeling it might be worth it even if he gets the color on his mouth. 

He’s a gentleman, though, he decides after a decidedly ungentlemanly amount of time spend staring at the gorgeous curve of her lips. 

“Would you want to get dinner with me?” He hears himself say it before he’s processed it, and then it’s out into the world. His heart is hammering and he’s blaming on the run, when god, it’s absolutely about how breathtaking she looks, the sunlight reflecting off her hair like a halo. When she beams back at him, she looks particularly angelic. 

It’s then, she leans over and kisses him on the cheek. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

(Months later, when she is sitting on his kitchen counter and he is standing between her legs, gazing down at her with unabated fondness because he is entitled to that, he reflects on this moment and thinks god, how lucky am I, that I ran past that bench?) 

[flanaganfilm]

Mr. Flanagan, I’d like to ask a question and I deeply hope that it does not offend or upset you. I am strongly considering canceling my Netflix subscription due to their new password sharing policy. However, Midnight Mass is one of my favorite shows of all time and I know it isn’t available on DVD, and I’m also profoundly anticipating your take on my favorite Edgar Allen Poe story. So I wanted to ask your take on people accessing your work through, uh, other means. If it’s something that’s offensive to you or will harm you or the other people who work so hard on these shows, I’ll happily keep my Netflix just so that I can keep supporting your work. I respect you far too much as an artist to do otherwise.

Again, I really hope I’m not upsetting you by asking this question. Thank you for everything, and I hope you’re having a great day!

(NOTE 6/4/2024: I'm editing this entry because, well over a year since it was posted, some journalists dug this up and used it to create click-bait headlines that are misleading, out of context and artificially combative. While I was of course disappointed over the years that Netflix opted not to release my work on physical media, I never experienced any hostility or aggression in those discussions, and I sincerely regret the manner in which this post was used in the press this week.)

Hi there - no offense taken whatsoever, in fact I think this is a very interesting and important question.

So. If you asked me this a few years ago, I would have said "I hate piracy and it is hurting creators, especially in the independent space." I used to get in Facebook arguments with fans early in my career when people would post about seeing my work on torrent sites, especially when that work was readily available for rent and purchase on VOD.

Back in 2014, my movie Before I Wake was pirated and leaked prior to any domestic release, and that was devastating to the project. It actually made it harder to find distribution for the film. By the time we were able to get distribution in the US, the film had already been so exposed online that the best we could hope for was a Netflix release. Netflix stepped in and saved that movie, and for that I will always be grateful to them.

However...

Working in streaming for the past few years has made me reconsider my position on piracy.

In the years I worked at Netflix, I tried very hard to get them to release my work on blu-ray and DVD.

It became clear very fast that their priority was subscriptions, and that they were not particularly interested in physical media releases of their originals, with a few exceptions.

While companies like Netflix pride themselves on being disruptors, and have proven that they can affect great change in the industry, they sometimes fail to see the difference between disruption and damage. So much that they can find themselves, intentionally or not, doing harm to the concept of film preservation.

The danger comes when a title is only available on one platform, and then - for whatever reason - is removed.

We have already seen this happen. And it is only going to happen more and more. Titles exclusively available on streaming services have essentially been erased from the world. If those titles existed on the marketplace on physical media, like HBO's Westworld, the loss is somewhat mitigated (though only somewhat.) But when titles do not exist elsewhere, they are potentially gone forever.

The list of titles that have been removed from streaming services is growing.

I still believe that where we put our dollars matters. Renting or buying a piece of work that you like is essential. It is casting a vote, encouraging studios - who only speak the language of money - to invest more effort into similar work. If we show up to support distinct, unique, exciting work, it encourages them to make more of it. It's as simple as that. If we don't show up, or if they can't hear our voice because we are casing our vote "silently" through torrent sites or other means - it makes it unlikely that they will take a chance to create that kind of work again.

Which is why I typically suggest that if you like a movie you've seen through - uh - other means, throw a few dollars at that title on a legitimate platform. Rent it. Purchase it. Support it.

But if some studios offer no avenue for that kind of support, and can (and will) remove content from their platform forever... frankly, I think that changes the rules.

Netflix will likely never release the work I created for them on physical media, though I'll always hold out hope.

Some of you may say "wait, aren't The Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor available on blu-ray and DVD?" Yes, they are, because they were co-produced with Paramount, and I'm grateful that Paramount was able to release and protect those titles. (I'm also grateful that those releases include extended cuts, deleted scenes, and commentary tracks. There are a number of fantastic benefits to physical media releases.)

But a lot of the other work I did there are Netflix originals, without any other studio involvement. Those titles - like Midnight Mass, The Midnight Club, and the upcoming Fall of the House of Usher - along with my Netflix exclusive and/or original movies Before I Wake and Gerald's Game - have no such protections. The physical media releases of those titles are entirely at Netflix's discretion, and don't appear to be priority for the studio at this time.

At the moment, Netflix seems content to leave Before I Wake, Gerald's Game, Midnight Mass, and The Midnight Club on the service, where they still draw audiences. I don't think there is a plan to remove any of them anytime soon. But plans change, the industry changes.

The point is things change, and each of those titles - should they be removed from the service for any reason - are not available anywhere else. If that day comes - if Netflix's servers are destroyed, if a meteor hits the building, if they are bought out by a competitor and their library is liquidated - I don't know what the circumstances might be, I just know that if that day comes, some of the work that means the most to me in the world would be entirely erased.

Or, what if we aren't so catastrophic in our thinking? What if it the change isn't so total? What if Netflix simply bumps into an issue with the license they paid for music (like the Neil Diamond songs that play such a crucial role in Midnight Mass), and decide to leave the show up but replace the songs?

This has happened before as well - fans of Northern Exposure can get the show on DVD and blu-ray, but the music they heard when the series aired has been replaced due to the licensing issues. And the replacements - chosen for their low cost, not for creative reasons - are not improvements. What if the shows are just changed, and not by creatives, but by business affairs executives?

All to say that physical media is critically important. Having redundancy in the marketplace is critically important. The more platforms a piece of work is available on, the more likely it is to survive and grow its audience.

As for Netflix, I hope sincerely that their thinking on this issue evolves, and that they value the content they spend so much money creating enough to protect it for posterity. That's up to them, it's their studio, it's their rules. But I like to think they may see that light eventually, and realize that exclusivity in a certain window is very cool... but exclusivity in perpetuity could potentially limit the audience and endanger the work itself.