#will make a dark mode for him later

[moonspiritleaf]

I decided to go and remake my Spellcasters version of Zane. Same design but new name.

Spellcasters Au by @onyxonline

Name: Julien Kurosawa

Age: 19

Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him

Coven: Stella Coven

Meet Julien Kurosawa, an American-Japanese boy who is a sweet, outgoing, and hardworking student. He's trying to be more social and try to talk to other students at the academy.

He has a familiar, a wolf named Zane who he cares deeply about.

[luveline]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬

You’re in love with Spencer from the minute he gets you in his bed. [4k]

c: fem/afab. smut mdni, p in v sex, oral, fluff, aftercare, early intense feelings, spencer in sweetheart mode, flirting.

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It’s a cold day in November when you see him across the bar. He’s sitting at a table of friends drinking from a tall glass of coke. He’s normal. Non-imposing, undeniably cute, laughing with a smile that shows his teeth. His tie is to his belt and his suit jacket’s been thrown over the back of the chair. 

He looks like he might have fun with you, if you can catch his attention. Something about him seems… eager to please. 

You watch him, and you watch his friend. He seems more your usual type, muscled, confident. He’s the key. You let your gaze linger on the curly-haired boy until the friend glances your way. You give him a look. Hey, who’s your friend?

You look away once you see an arm rise. There’s elbowing, arguing. You sit relaxed at the bar and twists your straw through cherry spritz, ice cubes tinkling. After a minute you think, Oh, come on. After two you worry you aren’t his type. 

Then comes salvation. The curly haired boy slots between your seat and the next, beckoning the bartender forward with a nearly perfect, “Excuse me?” 

“Right there with you.”

You wait. He seems cute, but you’re not trying to take him home if he doesn’t have the chops for it. And not because you see yourself as some deadly thing to be pleased, but you can’t spend another night fluffing someone else’s feathers. 

“Hey,” he says finally, surprisingly without the nerves you’d read before. He must’ve breathed through them. “How’s it going?” 

You lift your gaze from the dark purple of your spritz. The first thing you notice are the beauty marks you couldn’t see before, along his cheeks and hiding among a light shadow of stubble. “Hi, handsome,” you say softly. You can’t imagine him liking a firm touch, but that might become more apparent later on. “Nothing’s going on, I suppose I was just waiting for you.” 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Mm-hm.” 

He puts one arm on the bar. You let your eyes dawdle on his hand. “Are you here alone?” 

“I was with a friend,” you confess, lifting your gaze to his, making steady eye contact for as long as he’ll allow you to. His gaze flits to your mouth as you continue. “But she met somebody. I was told not to wait up.” 

“So you’re in need of company?” 

You tip your head to give him the best glance at you, all eyes and gentle smiles as you nod. “Would that be you?” 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Cherry spritzer.” 

“Can I buy you another one?” 

“Just one, please.” You believe in the overarching reach of sexuality, of being with someone, but you don’t believe in drinking and sex, nor allowing a man to pave the way. “This is my first. If I have more than that I’ll be too tipsy to do what I want tonight.” 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

You tap your nose. The boy —the man— to your delight, seems to like the gesture very much. 

The bartender approaches. Your unknown, lovely looking man asks for a coke and a cherry spritzer, extra cherries, though you didn’t tell him too. He nods to your little plate of cherry stems and asks, “Can you tie a knot?” But before you can answer, he adds, “I’m good at it.” 

Spencer proves to be good at a few things. Kissing, touching, his face in sweet places and his spit-wet thumb to a nerve. One moment you’re sitting at the bar wondering if he’ll take you home and the next you’re taking a taxi, you’re lying in his bed being stripped of your stockings, being laid on top of. You didn’t know he had it in him, this sweaty, adoring kissing in the dark; there’s a difference between kissing for hunger’s sake and kissing with love, and for some strange reason Spencer doesn’t seem to know the difference. 

“Have we met before?” you ask, the ache between your legs sharper than ever as his hand flirts with the boundary of your stomach and the apex of you, begging to go back there and prolong what he’d started. 

“No.” His lips are on your neck, kissing as he slips a finger behind your ear. “I’d remember.”

His chest pushes into yours again, triggering a breathy gasp as the button of your nipple takes the brunt of him. He turns your face, that flirting hand abandoning your wanting cunt to squeeze at your sides, your ribs, the soft hill of your breast. 

“Do you wanna cum again?” he asks softly. The best part is that he’s earnest, not a second of bravado in it as he lays his lips against your cheek. 

You could. He’d done stuff with his mouth you’ve never experienced before, fingertips teasing your wetness as he told you something about tantrics and pleasure, his hand under your knee, holding you open. You’d felt so suddenly out of control and —and honestly, you’d thought yourself half in love with him for the way he was kissing you alone. No shyness, but softness. No rushing, no annoyance when it took you time to tip into pleasure. He’d been delighted when you seized, had sat up to draw the climax out with circles, matching pace to your rising chest. 

You slip a hand into his curls and treat him with the same sweetness he’d given you, kissing him like you love him: for whatever time this is, you really do. He’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever fucked. All it took to meet was a snowstorm and a need to escape the rigid cold. 

“I think you should fuck me now,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly, not so frantic, no more pulling. “Please.”

He kisses you, kisses your jaw, and doesn’t pretend he isn’t eager as he snatches the condom from the dresser. For a while things are giggly and breathless, nervous for a pause, then achingly tight. You stay and Spencer wraps his arms behind you, kissing your neck as you let your leg fall to the side. 

“When did you tell me your name?” you ask, breathless again as his kiss matches his rhythm, slow grinds of his hips, flirting as his hand had been, just a few inches from filling you completely. 

“I don’t remember,” he says through a kiss.

“Spencer.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I just thought I’d try it,” you say, covering your eyes with your hand as his hips flex and he touches that worst part of you over, and over, and over. 

Spencer turns your face to take your hand, slowing to a crawl. He checks your gaze, and sinks into you again. Slow fucking, long kisses, his hands rubbing up the juncture of your neck and down again, then stroking your arms, comfort for a pain you don’t feel. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly. 

“Just this.” 

“No, but what do you want?” he asks, lips pulled into a smile that didn’t quite make it into a laugh. “What feels best? I can get you there again.” 

So you end up more on your side than your back. He helps you lift a leg over his hip and then he’s back to kissing you senseless. You can’t think of anything but being kissed, being fucked, it doesn’t just feel like an okay pastime with a vaguely handsome guy heightened by a drink, it’s fucking with intent. He curls an arm behind your back to hold you against him and he lets you have everything. 

Something must give you away, a shaking leg, the way you breathe; he knows you’re ready before you do, kissing down your chest as his hand sinks between your hot thighs. Slick or not, he finds where he wants to touch, your eyes filling with heat as he slows. 

He draws it out. The second his lips find your chest you trip into cumming for the second time. You hadn’t realised he was close but you cum and he quickly follows, his nose at your collar. He sounds insane. Beggy, breathy moans, a shade from laughter.

“Can I keep going?” he asks just under your ear. 

You can’t say yes fast enough. He’s kind, ignoring your desperate tone. 

You don’t count the number of times you fuck that night. It’s not clear, really. They aren’t separate occasions. You come down and he’s stroking the skin of your neck as you catch your breath, drawing lines down your arm, murmuring, “You okay?” as you nod and slip a hand behind his back. 

He hugs you like he’s known you for years. When you kiss his blushing chest, kiss downward, he turns breathless. It goes on like that for a while. Afterwards, he situates himself between your legs and lets his weight force your thighs into your abdomen, just enough to feel the pressure, searching kisses pressed to your knee. 

It’s not that you fuck all night, it’s just different than before. And when he encourages you under his sheets to lay behind you, there’s a part of you that wants his hand to stray between your legs again, no matter how tired you are. 

“I’d say sorry for keeping you up, but you sounded like you liked it,” he murmurs in the dark, wrapping a solid arm around your stomach and pulling you tightly to him.

You have no regrets. For perhaps the first time ever, it feels as though all your gasps and teary sighs were adored, and not just smugly kept. “You didn’t notice me falling asleep?” 

He laughs at your teasing, his breath kissing the back of your neck. “When did that happen?” 

“…I don’t want to fall asleep, now.” 

“You don’t have to… I can make you a cup of tea, or…” He draws another line down your arm, ending in a swirl before your elbow. “You could shower.” 

Both sound nice, but no. Your legs are still weak from being held, the ache of a good fuck taking home in your stomach. Truthfully, nothing could make you wanna leave whatever it is he’s doing to you now. The shape of his lips warms your shoulder. 

“That was amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he says, wrapping you up all over again. He can’t decide how to hold you. You grab his hand and keep it there under your breasts, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

How can he say that? He has this strange way of touching that’s making you feel yards prettier than you usually do, and he’d just fucked you like a dream. You couldn’t manage that sort of pleasure alone. 

“Where have you been hiding?” you whisper, toying with his fingers. Might as well do everything you can while you can. 

“Nowhere.” 

“So where have you been?” 

He takes a breath. “Turn around?”

You begin turning and he takes you like a dance, leaning in slowly to kiss you, until his smoothness gives way to a smile. He pulls back. In the barest lick of light from the window, you can see a blush spreading across his nose. 

“Sorry. I should ask, I shouldn’t just kiss you,” he says, cupping your cheek. 

How might you go about marrying this boy? You decide to play it cool, kissing him until you fall asleep in his arms, your lips still parted for another lazy press of his as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. 

—

You wake to something new. There isn’t a man against you hinting for a morning tryst, nor an empty bed, a note to let yourself out when you’re ready. There’s a real, gentle hand on your neck. It slides to your shoulder and rubs. 

“You okay?” a voice asks. 

You force your eyes open, blurry vision further occluded by a face. 

His hair is damp. Like he showered a while ago. Spencer’s hand travels to the back of your neck and touches accordingly. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but it’s almost one. I was worried you might be sick.” 

You close your eyes, smiling, better when he scratches the back of your neck with short nails. “I was up late.” 

“I know, I’m  sorry.” 

You wait for him to tell you why you have to leave, any manner of excuse, but nothing comes. 

“So are you? Okay?” he asks gently. 

“I’ll leave soon.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. If you’re not sick, you can go back to sleep.” 

“And just lay in your bed all day,” you murmur, disbelieving. 

“If you wanted to. Or… you can shower, and I can make you something to eat.” His thumb takes to your cheek. One night stand sex can’t be something he does often, or there’s a real possibility that he’s the first man to ever do it right.

His eyes are so much bigger than you realised. “Do you wear glasses?” 

He stammers, embarrassed, “How would you guess that?” 

You raise a hand to his face and draw a short line against his nose. “You have the marks here. Were you reading?” 

“Just while I was waiting for you.” 

“What do you do?” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t ask what you do, I don’t think we managed to ask each other much of anything,” you say, rewarded for your vulnerability with a chest-aching smile, his canine teeth peeking from under his lips. He still looks kissed, lips a shade of sore you’re sure you’d see on yourself in the mirror. 

“I work for the government,” he says, catching your hand to cradle your wrist, “for something called the behavioural analysis unit.” 

“Like, statistics?” 

He lets your hand fall against his chest, a thin grey t-shirt under your knuckles failing to hide the shapes of him, of which you’d explored at length last night. You kissed as much of his chest as you could and it hadn’t felt like enough, Spencer leaner than you’d realised with a stomach on the soft side, easy to kiss relentlessly. 

Your mouth is drying thinking about it. Spencer watches you wordlessly, before saying, “I guess it is like statistics, especially for me. We try to think about serial criminals in terms of their motives. It’s an attempt at math for something not usually quantitative.” 

“And you’re good at it.” 

“I’m good at math, yeah.” 

“Probability of a,” —your breath betrays you, slightly too hopeful as it catches— “morning kiss if I brush my teeth first?” 

His eyes light up. He leans down carefully, and gives you a chaste, firm kiss. 

You forget that you’re naked, not worried about being shy. The sheets fall away from you as you lift up to meet him. He holds them to your naked waist, the other hand skirting just below your breast. You wish he’d touch you like he did last night, but he isn’t so forward. His kiss is kind. You frown as he pulls away. 

“I had a really great time, last night,” he says, tip of his thumb setting your nerves aflame as it drifts over your skin. “Really great.” 

“Me too.” 

“And you’re okay?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing hurts?” he asks. 

“No, of course not.” Your confusion clears. “No, you weren’t like that. I think my legs might be aching but that’ll go away in the shower.” 

“I can run you a bath, if you want. It’s a half bath so you might not be able to stretch out, but it’ll help.” He gives you a smile. The familiarity between you doesn’t want to ebb. 

“Shouldn’t have showered without me,” you say, soft, lest playful be something he doesn’t want on a new day. 

“My hair was greasy. Someone kept touching it.” 

You sit up. Spencer’s hands fall to yours.

It’s hard not to play with someone’s hair when it’s in their face, and when they’re trailing kisses in warm places. He doesn’t blame you really, you can see it in his eyes. 

For a pause, you just sit. 

This is nice. Not being thrown out, left with that aching gap in your chest like you gave something you hadn’t intended when it started. Sex will never be easy again, you realise, not when you know it can be good. 

“You’re not working today, are you?” you ask. 

“No, why?” he asks in turn, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Maybe we…” He waits. He’s pretty enough to force your hand. “We could get to know each other,” you say, gaze taking refuge on his hands. “If you want to.” 

”Really?” 

“I’ve never had that with someone. Maybe we’re, I don’t know, compatible in more ways than one.” You remember yourself, lifting your head, startled by the sheer want in his expression as he holds your fingers. “You’re handsome, and you seem kind. We could have fun.” 

“We could have so much fun,” he says, that flushed blush already spreading across his nose again. 

You draw a line up his chest. “I might need help getting my back, in the shower. That’s not a tight squeeze, is it?” 

“We might have to stand very close.” 

You giggle wildly as he pulls you up, worse when he drapes a sheet over you worrying about the cold. It’s treatment you could grow used to. 

— 

Spencer’s trying to figure out how he got here. You, across the bar sending him looks —Derek swore you were— and the second he got to your chair he realised you were out of his league, but he had nothing to lose beside his pride. 

Then there was you, in bed, pulling on his tie murmuring sweet somethings, sweet pleadings, really, taking another kiss as he moved as you asked. 

Then you, the morning after. You’d slept for long enough to scare him, but when you woke you were exactly the girl you’d been the night before, only slower. Ever so slightly bashful. We could get to know each other. 

Spencer’s not sure how he managed it, but you don’t go home. And on Monday you go to work and come back. On Tuesday he meets you outside of your building to take you for dinner, and you come back with him again, another night up in his arms, tangling his hair with enthusiastic fingers. The sex is good, it is, not just ‘cos his past catalogue of lays were with women who wanted casual experiences solely, or those few times with Ethan where it ended too fast and left him useless. You fuck him like you love him. It’s crazy, except he’s acting the same way. 

When you’re not fucking you’re in his lap, or sitting at the coffee table with your face on his thigh driving him crazy, or you’re laying with your feet tucked under him telling him something about you. He is desperate for the details. 

Like, this is it. You’ve pulled your chair as close to his as humanly possible and thrown both legs over his, basically sharing his seat as you laugh around a messy mouthful of Thai noodles. 

“Don’t look, I’m being disgusting–”

“You’re never disgusting, let me–”

He’s heard you pee. He’s kissed you all over. The human aspects of you don’t bother him. 

“Spence, can you–”

“It’s going up your nose–”

“–stop, holy s–”

He pinches your nose clean. “Tada. Kiss now?” 

“You wanna share?” 

“Yes!” 

“No.” You press your hand to your mouth before he can lean in.

He lets you swallow your mouthful. Your ankle is cool in his hand. When people talk about love, it’s about meeting someone, the dates and the phone calls, the big questions. Spencer didn’t know you could do it like this. Every time you go home, you’re asking if you can come back or pestering him to come your way. 

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks imploringly. 

“No, we’re done kissing for a bit. I want another one of those massages.” 

He can’t joke about it or he’ll turn crimson. You enjoyed a polite leg massage, until he got to your thighs, and things got out of hand. 

“No massages.” He taps you under the chin, letting his hand travel wherever it wants over the side of your face. 

“Fine, no massages. Unless you want one?” 

“No, we agreed tonight we’d just– sleep. My boss is onto me.” 

You wink involuntarily as he cups your cheek, his fingers pushed lightly over your eyes.

You aren’t fiends, but finding someone who matches as you do makes it hard to abstain from the fun. Last night was tame, though; he’d made sure you were happy and fallen asleep to grateful neck kisses. Tonight, he won’t say no, but these all-hours affairs have to stop. Derek’s suspicious of him, Hotch has the situation entirely sussed, he's sure, and Spencer’s sixty percent sure Rossi saw you both outside of Quantico tonight kissing against a toll booth.  

Not that it matters. Spencer has a good feeling you’re not a fling. 

“I got you some stuff earlier,” he says. 

You pull his hand from your face and ask, “What stuff?” 

“Like, stuff you need here. I don’t know what you like, but there’s a cleansing balm– are you allergic to chamomile?” You shake your head. “Um, it might be weird, I got you underwear, just ‘cos of the situation yesterday–”

“I liked wearing boxers, they were snug in a certain region is all–”

“–and some shampoo. That sort of stuff. Just so you can stop suffering with mine.” 

“You know what shampoo I use?” 

“I deduced it.” 

“Ah, yes, mister profiler,” you mumble, bending into your knees to hold his face. “If I hadn’t looked you up online I’d think you were a stalker. How can you guess my favourite ice cream flavour when I never told you?”

He smiles shyly. “I just can.”

“Is there anything else you’ve guessed about me?” 

“Every meal with you takes a half hour. You’re easily distracted.”

He laughs as you protest, “You’re distracting! You don’t need to guess that.” 

“You distract me, too.” 

You gather yourself up and stand over him to kiss his nose. “Spencer,” you whisper, your fingers sliding into his hair, “thank you. You don’t have to buy me stuff, I could’ve just gone home.”

“I don’t really want you to.” 

You raise your head to see him eye to eye. “I don't want to either. This is… I like you.” 

He hums, wrapping his arms around you. The hugs are rarer than kisses, but only because you’ve shared so many of the latter in the dark. He’s been thinking of kisses as the extension to fucking, that they’re okay as long as it’s done in bed, but the more time you stay, the more kisses you’ve shared for no reason at all. You kissed his cheek on the train earlier and he felt it like a shock, tipping his chin down to peck you on the lips, your arm curled behind his back as the traincar rattled over a bend. 

“I like you too,” he laughs. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, of course I do.” 

“Not just…” 

“It’s not just the sex,” he says, waving his hand behind your shoulder as you curl into him all over again. It feels amazing. 

“Should we go out, then?” 

“We do.” 

“No, should we date? We could be partners, officially.” 

Spencer can’t take it, scooping you into his lap, though you do sit obligingly on his thigh. He shifts to take the weight. 

“Please, let’s be partners,” he says softly. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t, it’s still soon.” 

“Five days and counting. That’s longer than some marriages, you know.” 

“Maybe we can be, like, tentative boyfriend and girlfriend. If you change your mind, no hard feelings.” 

“And if I don’t?” he asks. 

“Then we get married in Vegas.” 

“You could meet my mom.” 

“I’d love to meet your mom.”

“Do you really wanna be my girlfriend?” he asks. 

“I mean… there’s not such a big difference in dating and what we’re doing, right? This is relationship stuff, we just sort of skipped the awkward first dates.” 

“We did,” he says, failing to hide his grin. 

You stroke his cheek with your nose.

Your attempt at abstinence doesn’t last, but neither party is to blame. You have to celebrate somehow. So you finish your takeout dinner and wash dishes bumping hips. He locks the door for the night and you, giggling, struggle to change his A/C. When he drags you by the sleeve to the bedroom, he doesn’t intend on jumping right into it, and for a while he doesn’t. You lay on top of him between his parted legs and he spends a sluggish hour stroking your hairline, listening to you talk. But his devotion turns to your ear, and he’s kissing behind it, and you’re hitching yourself up his chest soon enough. 

“That cherry spritzer was worth it, huh?” you ask lowly, scratching his jaw as you sit over him.

You really are pretty, amplified by your syrupy smile. 

“I guess that depends what you think. Was I as good at making knots as I promised?” he asks. 

“I can’t remember.” 

“I can remind you?”

“That might be prudent, Dr. Reid.” 

“I never should’ve told you about that,” he murmurs, your lips atop his, ready to be parted. 

“I would’ve found out eventually. I’m gonna find out everything about you, honey.” 

Spencer lets his eyes shutter closed. Me first, he thinks, giving in to another endless kiss. He has the advantage, after all. 

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thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed please consider liking reblogging or leaving a comment/reply it makes my day and I am so grateful<3 

[ssahotchnerr]

Hello!!! I’ve got a request. Say wife!reader works in the fbi or in some kind of specialty field she gets called in to consult the team for the first time. Would they be professional or sweet with Hotch? Would also be so cute to see how the team reacts to their dynamic!!

expert opinion

definitely an equal part of both 💓 cw; consultant fem!reader, typical cm case violence, established relationship, fluff <333

As you approached the door to his office, you could already hear the familiar sound of your husband’s voice from the other side.

You smiled to yourself; hearing his confident conversational voice, putting out fires from the sound of it. After a second, you rapped your knuckles against the door – already slightly ajar – and leaned in hesitantly, wary of disturbing him in case the conversation he was having was of any particular importance.

Aaron's eyes lifted at the intrusion, his eyes softening from his professional rigidity - revealing a flicker of warmth - at his wife. Your face equally formed into one of gentle greeting. Into the phone, he said, "I'll have to give you a call back."

Hanging up and approaching you, his lips quirked into a smile. "Hi sweetheart."

"Hi honey," His head tilted downward, his lips meeting yours in a quick, sweet kiss. "Hope I wasn't interrupting anything important."

"No, no. You're right on time, I knew I married you for a reason." His teasing left him lightly, before his dark brows drew over his eyes. It wasn't as profound if you were anyone else; there was a gentleness to them, more quizzical than anything else. "I appreciate you taking the time to come in." His playfulness returned for just a moment more, "I'll have to show you how much later. Did you get a chance to review the file I sent over?"

"Is that a promise?' You raised your eyebrows, gaining a cheeky smirk from Aaron - who was never one to go back on his word. "And profusely, yes."

"Perfect." Something to look forward to after whatever unpleasantness awaited on this case. "C'mon, the team's waiting."

His hand found the small of your back, shutting his door and guiding you down the walkway. He was to your right, creating a sense of protectiveness from the bullpen, and kept the natural affection under wraps.

His touch only disappeared as you entered the roundtable room, the sound of your heels against the vinyl flooring drawing focus. Aaron squared his shoulders, strictly switching into Unit Chief mode.

"Oh, we got the Mrs. today?" Morgan commented as the two of you entered in perfect sync. "Hotchners taking the BAU over?"

You grinned, "Nice to see you too, Derek."

"My lovely!" Penelope abandoned her spot at the front near the screen to throw her arms around you in an embrace. She squeezed you, tilting you side to side. "How I've missed you!"

"Keeping Aaron on his toes, I hope." Dave chimed in, looking far too amused for his own good.

"Of course," you laughed.

"We can make nice later." Aaron commented, causing Penelope to release you and circling back to the subject at hand. If he hadn't, the team would’ve been more than happy to spend an hour catching up with you. "She's here to assist us with further analyzing the COD of the victims."

With the unsub's sadistic way of dissecting an individual, your expertise as a forensic pathologist made you more than qualified to retrace the story written within the body; each wound a deliberate signature etched in the flesh. You knew how to separate chaos from precision, rage from ritual. Where others saw horror, you saw patterns; the twisted messages left behind.

So when Aaron called and asked for your help, you hadn't hesitated to free up a portion of your day.

"Our hero." JJ shuddered, crossing her arms in disgust. "It sure is something."

"I'm more than happy to help." You assured, your tone warm and sincere, leaving no doubt that your willingness was genuine. "Aaron sent over the ME's findings earlier, and I have a few insights that I hope will be helpful."

His first name rolled off your tongue, it not even occurring to you to refer to him as Hotch, and why would you? He's always been Aaron. The others, however, found it quite novel, trading bemused looks with each other around the table. 

Aaron pulled a chair out for you, only taking his own once you were seated. There was a gleam of pride in his eyes as he prompted, "What have you got for us?"

"So, it appears..."

As you listed off your findings, Aaron couldn’t help but listen in complete awe of you. He’d known you were intelligent, of course, and he was aware – in an abstract sense – that you were good at your job, but this was the first time he’d seen you in your element.

Referencing parts of the autopsy report, distinguishing patterns in the crime scene images - the unrestrained rage and the violence. You even pointed out a signature hidden within, something so minuscule it could've been easily missed. And all through your spiel you didn't bat an eye or hesitate - you were completely confident in what you knew. A true professional.

While Aaron was paying thorough attention to your points, he couldn’t help but set aside some room to fawn over you, admiration filling his chest.

His wife was a badass, to say the least.

"Wow." Emily blinked once you finished, turning towards him. "Can we keep her?"

"I wouldn't argue against that." He exchanged a glance with you, his lips lifting lightly at the ends. Thank you.

Your hand immediately found his under the table, squeezing gently. You’d do the same for me.

[p1girlfriend]

✦you moan their name in your sleep – f1 grid reactions ✦

lando norris ── .✦

he’s awake playing on his phone when he hears it.

“mm... Lando...” he freezes. looks over. you’re deep asleep, breathing steady — completely unaware. “no way... are you dreaming about me?” grins like a gremlin. teases you about it for days. “someone's obsessed. can’t even sleep without me in your head, huh?”

oscar piastri ── .✦

he’s half-asleep himself, until you whisper his name into the dark. soft, breathy.

“...Oscar.” his eyes fly open. you shift closer, still out cold. he turns red instantly. completely still. did she just—? he doesn’t tell you. but he thinks about it for weeks and blushes every time he looks at you.

charles leclerc ── .✦

he hears it while spooning you. you arch slightly and whisper his name like a sigh.

“Charles…” his hand on your waist tightens just a little. “Tu rêves de moi, mon cœur?” ("You're dreaming of me, my heart?") he says it right into your ear, smirking like a menace. you don’t remember the dream — but he won’t let you forget you moaned his name.

lewis hamilton ── .✦

you say it so soft he almost thinks he imagined it.

“Lewis…” he looks at you like you’re the sun and stars. kisses your shoulder and whispers, “i got you, baby. even in your dreams.” makes him so emotional he just holds you tighter all night. tells you in the morning with a little grin and so much love.

carlos sainz ── .✦

he’s already awake and staring at the ceiling when you murmur,

“...Carlos.” he FLINCHES. sits up a little like did I hear that right? leans over to look at you. “¿Estás soñando conmigo, cariño?” ("Are you dreaming of me, baby?") grins to himself. smug mode activated. won’t shut up about it for a week.

daniel ricciardo ── .✦

he gasps. dramatically.

“YOU JUST MOANED MY NAME.” wakes you up just to tell you. “you literally said it like it was a scene from a movie. should I be flattered or concerned?” laughs about it but is secretly SO smug. asks you what the dream was. demands details. probably takes it as inspiration later.

gabriel bortoleto ── .✦

your voice comes out all sweet and breathless:

“Gabriel…” he’s instantly wide awake, watching you in the dark like 🧍‍♂️ strokes your hair and whispers, “eu tô aqui, meu amor.” ("I'm here, my love.") he doesn’t say a word about it in the morning — just keeps smiling like he knows a secret.

franco colapinto ── .✦

he hears it, and instantly malfunctions.

“Franco…” he looks over like 😳 lays there stiff as a board, brain going 1000mph. Was it sexy? Was it romantic? Was I just delivering you food in the dream?? asks you shyly in the morning: “So... um... did you have any dreams last night?”

[timmydraker]

Tim Drake first went to the Iceberg Lounge when he was seven years old.

Due to a rather unfortunate car collision his nanny, a sweet woman named Lillian, had never arrived to care for him while his parents went for dinner with their biggest sponsor. the woman lived thankfully, but when Tim realised he was home alone he grew fearful and took it upon himself to go and find his parents.

Luckily he was paranoid enough with them leaving so frequently he had… found a way to permanently track them.

Tim had only been allowed into the seedy lounge due to the fact that the bouncer on duty recognised him and knew his parents were inside.

Escorting the young boy inside after Tim very politely explained the situation, the man left him in the staff rom for the security and went to get the elder Drakes.

Who promptly betrayed Tim for so recklessly leaving the very safe mansion in Bristol on a public bus and then walking through Gotham in his pyjamas into a very respectful restaurant owned by a very important man all because his nanny was a little late-

Until an incredibly well dressed man came in, waving a cane around with a gleeful look on his face, “Jack! Janet! You didn’t tell me your little one was coming!”

Oswald Cobblepot, AKA the Penguin, didn’t seem to care for the frazzled and furious looks that quickly vanished into something appeasing from the Drakes and instead approached the wide eyed boy who just realised where exactly he was.

Tim looked up at the man and, knowing full well he was one of the most powerful mobsters in the whole world, promptly panicked and went into full faun mode, “I-I’m sorry Mister Pen- Mister Cobblepot, I was just alone and I got scared and I- I wanted my parents-“

Cobblepot, a feared man who had made his very name and appearance enough for people to run or give appeasing bow in a hopes he wouldn’t have them shot on the spot, then cooed.

Tim was then given a new set of pyjamas bought by a henchmen and was given his own room to sleep in for the night while his parents finished their dinner. Tim was given a hot chocolate with penguins shaped marshmallows and despite being in such a dangerous place, he felt so very safe.

Cobblepot tucked Tim in himself and with a somewhat dark look in his eyes said to him, “Look, kiddo, there’s… some people in this world who say they are good or that they will do good by and they don’t. These folks they, ah, don’t always seem like the type and that ain’t your fault, ya hear?”

Tim had listened with a confused expression but chose to keep the words in mind after considering how the older man had built his inheritance up to something so grand. He had to be smart, had to have good advice, even if he used said knowledge for nefarious means.

Tim had left a few hours later, half asleep in his mothers arms, with Cobblepot’s last words in his mind,

“If you ever need anything, you just come by, okay? Don’t worry, I won’t let anything bad happen ‘round ya, not anything that could make the big bat cross with you. But… if you need helps, any at all, just say the word.”

Tim didn’t exactly go and see the monster after that, not at least straight away, but when he got a sprained ankle one night after taking photos of Batman and Robin he panicked. Seen as The Iceberg Lounge was closer than the bus stop and he was really in a lot of pain, the then eight year old decided that it was better to get help quickly than have to wait for hours and only help himself.

So, Tim went to the Lounge and calmly asked the security if they could ask Mister Cobblepot if he could please come help him.

Having been told to allow the boy in if he came by, the man was already radioing to alert the boss only to widen his eyes at the very obviously swollen ankle the boy was standing on.

Picking Tim up carefully and taking him into the office room, he quickly got some ice and wrapped it around the limb.

Cobblepot had rushed in, alarmed at hearing the boy had been hurt and not having any other context, just to find himself telling the boy to be more careful when climbing around to take photos.

Tim, who had been given prescription medicine that Cobblepot had promised him was safe and the young boy had somewhat recklessly decided to trust, was then sleepy and embarrassed and accidentally confessed to taking photos of Batman.

Cobblepot had just been about to order his men to contact his parents, who were in Peru and unavailable, and was left with curiosity.

Tim showed him the actually very good photos and Cobblepot was left with a choice.

Use the boy for information on how he was finding and tracking the Bat or… leave the golden chance to get one over the Big Bat in favour of not hurting the young boy.

If he had lived even the slightest bit crueler of a life, if he had taken the marketing and business opportunity of dealing in kiddies and drugs and the things that are truely evil and not just money control, maybe he would have used the kid.

But this Cobblepot wasn’t as bitter as he could have been, all due to one interaction with Martha Wayne where the woman had chosen him to talk to in a crowd or ‘normal’ people.

He had to repay that kindness in more than just procreating her son.

So, Cobblepot bought Tim some new shoes and a new camera lense and told him come by in a few days so he could check his ankle was healing and maybe to see some more photos?

Tim then started to send printed out photos to Cobblepot every few weeks. Never really of Batman, but of everything and anything he photographed.

Cobblepot adored them and framed his favourite.

When winter came and Tim took as many photos as he could of the snowed in Gotham, the ice rinks and the penguins sat the zoo, Cobblepot had many of them framed and soon half of The Iceberg Lounge was covered in them.

When Robin died Tim went to Cobblepot and sobbed.

The man hadn’t understood why he was so upset at first even though he was a bit shaken by the boy dying, but all that mattered was the kid chose to come to him even though his parents were in town.

That night they talked a lot.

Tim confessed that he wanted to be like Robin, maybe not a hero, but brave and loud and funny and bright and not all polite wording, formal clothes and scheming for partnerships. He wanted to be someone more than a company and a last name, even if he did like his life and all of his friends.

Oswald opened up about his disability and how much he hated it. He told Tim about when Martha Wayne spoke to him like a person, greeting him without bending down or making a show of looking lower. He talked about how he wishes he was different and that he is only so cruel so people respect him.

They make a promise to each other that night.

Oswald promises to be nicer to himself so Tim won’t be worried about him, as well as a more loose promise of trying to avoid the meaner methods of his business.

Tim promises to be whoever he wants and that if her ever becomes Robin, he’ll turn a blind eye to the Lounge.

Tim does become Robin a year later, debuting two years later after his extensive training in an improved suit and with a far a more calculating and measured approach to the role than the last two.

Oswald didn’t stop dealing in weapons and some of the lesser drugs, but he did stop with the drugs that were harder to control and kept getting out of his connections. He still killed those who wronged him, but he gave one chance for improvement and instead of killing his men who failed he dropped their rank to things like janitors or waiters.

Oswald is hurt when his favourite gothamite stops coming around every few months for a chat or sending photos. He worries he upset the boy he started seeing as a family member, which makes him focus on the family aspects of his business, how it started and what he turned it into.

It’s almost a whole year later, a whole year of hearing about and seeing the new Robin get hurt on TV, that he meets the boy wonder.

Tim looks at Oswald, Batman commanding in his earpiece, in full gear and stares at the man in his full Penguin gear.

They lock eyes and Oswald just knows.

Twenty men have guns pointed at him, ready to fire when their boss says so, only to lower them when he stamps his cane down.

Awkwardly they all leave the room, knowing the boss is telling them too but consisted as to why.

Tim starts crying, feeling like he did when his parents were yelling at him when he first entered the Iceberg Lounge, and clenches his fist at his side and tries not to beg forgiveness.

Oswald, hurt that Robin is Tim and that Tim lied, is just so relieved because this means Tim wasn’t angry at him he just couldn’t be friends with a mod boss and be Robin at the same time.

The man smiles, wide and showing off his two golden teeth, he laughs heartily and shouts, “Congratulations, my boy! I can think of no one better for the role!”

Robin runs into Penguins arms, begging for forgiveness and asking for them to please not fight!

Oswald holds the boy for a moment before pulling away, “Listen, the boy behind this mask will always have a safe space in my Lounge, but the mask himself has a job to do. Leave me and the Bat to tussle, for both our sake.”

Sniffling, Tim pulls away and asks in a hopeful but resigned voice, “Can’t you just… stop?”

Oswald smiles and pulls the boy down for a quick squeeze, “You’ve already changed me a lot, but business don’t care for softies. Now, get outa here! My boys are tired so we’re… we’re gonna turn in for the night.”

Tim smiles, knowing full well that Oswald is giving into his puppy eyes but not willing to push it.

Batman, who was listening the whole time, is fucking furious, but can’t deny that Penguin has shaped up in the last few years and isn’t as much of a threat.

Robin is benched for three months and in that time trains with Barbara.

Tim visits Oswald, now named Uncle Ossie, every few months and sends him all of his photos even the odd ones from patrol.

Red Robin works with Penguin often, trading information and getting supplies for The Nest when he is too angry or petty to talk to anyone in the Cave.

Tim Drake has free access to the Lounge and often brings his friends. He knows all the workers names and has his own room next to his Uncle’s, who will always find the time to greet his boy with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek that he has managed to master with his pointed nose.

Everyone thinks Tim is apart of the mob, but considering he’s a CEO of Drake Industries and CFO and COO of Wayne Enterprises and seems to be a bit ignorant to crime statistics, they assume he’s just another rich dumbass or knows what he’s getting himself into.

Red Robin always shows up to the places encroaching on Penguins turf.

Tim Drake spends 57,000$ dollars on a cane made from a meteor that landed in the Arctic and has penguins engraved in the handle.

Red Robin yells at Red Hood for being mean to his ‘uncle’ and everyone assumes that’s why Penguin has gone soft, but when that same Red Robin single handedly beats the hell out of a mind controlled Superboy they decided it’s warranted.

[deansbeer]

when your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, you call the one person you shouldn’t — your ex, dean winchester.

♡ ⋮ minors do not interact.

warnings -> smut | angst | unprotected sex (use the damn rubber) | rough sex | possessive behavior | dirty talk | praising | size kink | mutual pining | semi-public sex | feelings confession | exes hooking up.

the engine dies with a pathetic sputter, and you barely manage to coast to the side of the empty highway before your car gives up completely. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter, turning the key again. nothing. not even that clicking sound that means a dead battery. just absolute silence except for the wind whistling through the kansas plains.

you pop the hood even though you know it’s pointless. you can change a tire, check the oil, jump a battery — basic stuff. but whatever’s wrong with your car right now is beyond basic, and you’re stranded on a stretch of road that hasn’t seen another vehicle in the past hour. the sun’s starting to set too, painting everything in shades of orange and pink that would be beautiful if you weren’t completely fucked.

your phone has two bars of signal, which is a miracle out here. you scroll through your contacts, thumb hovering over the name you haven’t called in exactly three months. not since that night when everything imploded, when you’s screamed at each other in bobby’s salvage yard about hunting and danger and how tired you were of patching him up just to watch him throw himself into the next fight.

but dean’s only forty minutes away, still in lebanon according to sam’s last text. and he knows cars better than anyone. knows your car specifically, since he’s the one who helped you buy it, who spent a weekend underneath it making sure everything was running perfectly. “reliable and safe,” he’d said, wiping grease off his hands. “nothing fancy, but she’ll take care of ya.”

ironic, considering you’re now stranded because of said “reliable car.”

you hit call before you can talk yourself out of it. it rings once, twice, and then— “sweetheart?” dean's voice is rough, surprised. the nickname slips out like he can’t help it, like the past three months haven’t happened. “everything okay?”

“my car broke down,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds. “i’m on route 36, about thirty miles east of smith center. it just... died. won’t turn over, no clicking, nothing. i think maybe the ignition?”

there’s a pause, and you can practically see him straightening up, switching into problem-solving mode. “you somewhere safe? off the road?” when you confirm, he’s already moving — you can hear keys jingling, boots on floor. “i’m leaving now. forty minutes, maybe less. just stay in the car, doors locked. you got water?”

yeah,” you manage, throat tight. this is so unfair. three months of silence, of trying to move on, and one phone call has you remembering why you fell for him in the first place. the way he drops everything to help, no questions asked. “dean, you don’t have to—”

“yes, i do,” he cuts you off. “just... stay put. i’ll be there.” he hangs up before you can argue, which is probably for the best. you slouch in your seat, watching the sky darken. this is fine. should be fine. he’ll fix your car, you’ll thank him, and you’ll go your separate ways again. simple. easy. no need to think about how good he looked the last time you saw him, or how your body still remembers the shape of his.

thirty-five minutes later, you see headlights in your rearview mirror and hear the familiar rumble of the impala. your traitorous heart speeds up as dean pulls up behind you, parking close enough that his headlights illuminate your car. he’s out in seconds, and damn him for looking even better than you remembered. worn jeans, that damned leather jacket of his, dark blue flannel with the buttons unfastened revealing the tight gray t-shirt underneath, that concerned furrow between his brows.

“hey,” he says softly when you get out to meet him. his eyes do a quick scan, checking for injuries even though you told him you were fine. “you okay?” the question carries more weight than it should, like he’s asking about more than just the breakdown.

“i’m fine,” you lie, wrapping your arms around yourself. the temperature's dropped with the sun, and you’re in just a thin sweater. “thanks for coming. i know things are... weird.”

he shrugs off his jacket immediately, holding it out. “put this on before you freeze.” when you hesitate, he just steps closer and drapes it around your shoulders himself. the smell of leather and him overwhelms you. “and things aren’t weird,” he says, but won’t meet your eyes. “you needed help. end of story.”

“right,” you mutter, pulling the jacket tighter. “so, the car?”

he’a already popping your hood, pulling a flashlight from his pocket. “tell me exactly what happened.” you explain while he works, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders move under his dark blue flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the competent way his hands check wires and connections. it’s been three months, but your body remembers exactly how those hands feel on your skin.

“found it,” he announces after a few minutes, pointing with the flashlight. “ignition wire snapped. must’ve been wearing thin and finally gave out.” he straightens up, wiping his hands on his jeans. “i can fix it, but not here. gonna need to tow it to bobby’s.”

“shit,” you breathe. bobby’s is two hours away, and it’s already dark. “okay, i’ll call—“

“i’ll drive you,” dean interrupts. “we can call for a tow in the morning. no point paying extra for night service.” he’s already closing your hood, decision made. “grab what you need from your car.”

you want to argue, but what’s the alternative? spend a fortune on a late-night tow to a shop that won’t even look at it until morning? “are you sure? i can get a motel or something...”

“there’s nothing out here for miles,” he points out. “just... let me help. please.” the please gets you. always does. dean winchester doesn’t say please often, and the vulnerability in it makes your chest ache.

you grab your phone and purse from your car, locking it up even though there’s literally nothing around. the impala is warm when you slide into the passenger seat, and muscle memory has you adjusting the vents the way you like before you remember this isn’t your place anymore. dean pretends not to notice, just puts the car in drive and pulls onto the empty highway.

the first ten minutes are silent except for the radio playing low — some classic rock station you know he’ll never change. you sneak glances at him in the dashboard light, noting new lines around his eyes, a healing cut on his knuckles. he’s been hunting without you, and the thought makes your stomach twist.

“so,” he finally says, voice carefully neutral. “how’ve you been? still working at the clinic?” he remembers. of course he does. the veterinary clinic job you’d taken in the next town over, trying to build something normal.

“yeah,” you answer, grateful for safe territory. “it’s good. steady.” boring, your mind supplies. nothing like the adrenaline of hunting with the winchesters. “how’s sammy?”

“he’s good. still a pain in my ass.” there's fondness in his voice though. “keeps asking about you.” he glances over quickly. “told him to give you space, but you know how he is.”

you do know. sam winchester, ever the optimist, probably thinks you and dean are just taking a break. probably doesn’t know about the screaming match, the accusations thrown like weapons. how you’d told dean he was reckless, that he had a death wish. how he’s shot back that you were asking him to be someone he wasn’t, that hunting was in his blood.

“i miss him,” you admit quietly. “both of you.” the last part slips out before you can stop it, and dean’s hands tighten on the wheel.

“yeah,” he says roughly. “we miss... sam misses you too.” the correction is obvious, and something in your chest cracks. you turn to look out the window, watching empty fields fly by in the darkness. this was a mistake. you should’ve called a tow truck, dealt with the expense. anything but sitting in this car that holds too many memories, breathing in the scent of leather and gunpowder and dean.

“i can drop you at a motel,” dean offers suddenly. “in smith center. get your car towed there instead.” he’s giving you an out, even though it makes no practical sense. that’s dean though — he’ll inconvenience himself before making you uncomfortable.

“no, it’s fine,” you say, because you’re apparently a masochist. “bobby’s makes more sense.” what you don’t say is that you’re not ready for this to end. three months of missing him, and having him this close is torture and relief all at once.

the next hour passes in fits of conversation and comfortable silence. he tells you about a vengeful spirit in iowa, you tell him about the Great Dane who ate an entire thanksgiving turkey. it’s easy, too easy, falling back into this rhythm. by the time he mentions being hungry, suggesting a diner he knows, you’ve almost forgotten why you’re not supposed to be here.

“i should probably just wait in the car,” you say when he pulls into the parking lot. it’s one of those 24-hour places, neon lights flickering, maybe three other cars in the lot. “not really hungry.”

he gives you a look. “when's the last time you ate?” when you don’t answer immediately, he shuts off the engine. “come on. my treat. least i can do since i’m kidnapping you to kansas.”

“you’re not kidnapping me,”, you protest, but you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt. “i called you, remember?”

“details,” he says with that half-smile that always made you weak. inside, the diner is exactly what you’d expect — cracked vinyl booths, ancient jukebox, waitress who looks like she’s been working since the place opened. dean guides you to a corner booth with a hand on your lower back, and you pretend the touch doesn’t send electricity up your spine.

you order coffee and a sandwich you probably won’t finish. dean gets a burger and fries, and when the waitress leaves, the silence stretches awkward for the first time. here, under fluorescent lights instead of dashboard glow, the reality of your situation is harder to ignore.

“this is weird,” you finally say, fidgeting with your napkin. “right? this is weird?”

“yeah, it is,”, dean agrees, but he’s smiling a little. “good weird or bad weird?” the question catches you off guard. you look at him, really look at him, and see the same conflict in his eyes that you’re feeling.

“i honestly don’t know,” you admit. “both? neither?” you take a breath. “i wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon. or at all, maybe.”

something flashes across his face — hurt, maybe. “you really thought that was it for us? one fight and we’re done forever?” he leans forward, intense now. “baby, we’ve been through too much for that.”

“we broke up, dean,” you remind him, voice sharper than intended. “that usually means done forever.” but even as you say it, you know it’s not true. nothing about you and dean has ever been usual.

“we had a fight,” he corrects. “a bad one, yeah. but i never said... i didn’t want...” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “fuck, i’m bad at this.”

the food arrives before he can finish, and you both pretend to be very interested in your meals. but the tension’s there now, thick between you. your sandwich tastes like sawdust, and you notice dean’s not really eating either, just pushing fries around.

“i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for what i said. about you not understanding the life, about being clingy. i was pissed and scared and i said shit i didn’t mean.” he meets your eyes. “you weren’t asking for too much. you were asking me to be careful. to come home. that’s... that’s what people do when they care.”

your throat feels tight. “i’m sorry too. i knew who you were when we got together. hunter first, everything else second. i shouldn’t have tried to change that.” you pause, chose your next words carefully. “i just... i got tired of patching you up. of wondering if each hunt would be the one you didn’t come back from.”

“i know,” he says softly. “i get it. hell, sometimes i wonder the same thing.” he reaches across the table, stops just short of your hand. “but these past three months... hunting without you, coming back to the bunker and you’re not there. it’s been...”

“i know,” you whisper, because you know. you’ve felt it too. the empty spaces where he should be. waking up alone, no one to call after a long shift, no one who understands the nightmares. “dean...”

he does touch your hand then, fingers brushing yours. “i fucked up. letting you walk away. not calling. being too stubborn to...” he takes a breath. “i missed you. every damn day.”

you turn your hand palm up, letting your fingers intertwine. “i drove past the bunker,” you confess. “two weeks ago. almost stopped.” you’d sat at the end of the road for twenty minutes, engine running, trying to find the courage. “…missed you too.”

the moment stretches, both of you holding on like letting go means losing this again. then dean’s phone buzzes, breaking the spell. he checks it with his free hand. “sam,” he says. “making sure i found you okay.”

“what did you tell him?” you ask, curious despite yourself. dean types one-handed rather than let go of you.

“that i got you. that we’re stopping for food.” he pauses, then adds something else. when he sets the phone down, there’s color in his cheeks. “he says to tell you hi. and that your room’s still exactly how you left it.”

your room. not the guest room, not a room. your room. like you still belong there. “dean...” but you don’t know how to finish. everything’s too complicated, too raw. three months wasn’t enough to get over him. you’re starting to think three years wouldn’t be enough.

“i know,” he says. “i know it’s complicated. but...” he squeezes your hand. “just come back tonight. we’ll figure out your car in the morning, and then... then we can talk. really talk. if you want.”

you should say no. should insist on a motel, on boundaries, on protecting whatever healing you’ve managed. instead you find yourself nodding. “okay. but just tonight.” it’s a lie and you both know it. nothing with dean is ever just anything.

he pays the check despite your protests, and then you’re back in the impala, except now there’s this thing between you. this acknowledgment that you’re not over, maybe never were. his hand finds yours across the seat, and you let yourself have this. for tonight. when he parks behind the bunker two hours later, you’re still holding on.

“home sweet home,” he says, but catches himself. “i mean…”

“i know what you meant,” you tell him. because despite everything, part of you has always known this was home. not the bunker itself, but wherever dean winchester is. that’s the problem.

that’s always been the problem.

you don’t make it inside the bunker. dean kills the engine and the silence is deafening, both of you still holding hands across the seat like teenagers. “we should go in,” you say, but neither of you moves. the air feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid. “sam’s waiting inside.”

“yeah,” he agrees, but his thumb is stroking across your knuckles and his eyes keep dropping to your lips. “he is probably waiting.” another beat of silence. “fuck it,” he mutters, and then he’s pulling you across the bench seat and into his lap.

his mouth crashes into yours and it’s like coming home and drowning all at once. three months of missing this, of pretending you didn’t need him like air, and now his hands are everywhere —. tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. you kiss him back just as desperately, grinding down against him and swallowing his groan.

“backseat,” he pants against your mouth. “now.” you scramble over the seat ungracefully, dean right behind you. the space is familiar, how many times you’ve done this before, but it feels different now. charged with the weight of your separation, the raw need to reclaim each other.

“missed you so fucking much,” dean breathes, pulling you back into his lap. his hands slide under your shirt, rough palms against soft skin. “thought about this every night. how you feel, how you taste.” he mouths at your neck and you’re already falling apart, three months of built-up want making you hypersensitive.

you gasp softly, rocking against him. he’s rock hard already, denim rough against your core through your thin leggings. “please, i need you inside me.” there’s no room for putting on an act here, not when you’ve been starving for him. your hands shake as you work at his belt, desperate to feel him.

he helps, lifting his hips to shove his jeans down just enough. then he’s pulling at your leggings, the fabric catching awkwardly in the confined space. “these fucking things,” he growls, and you laugh breathlessly, helping him get them off one leg so you can straddle him properly.

when you sink down onto him, both of you moan so loud it could probably be the only thing heard for miles and your heavy breaths start to fog up the windows. “fuck, baby,” he grits out, hands gripping your hips bruisingly tight. “so perfect. always so perfect for me.” you can’t speak, too overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness, the rightness of having him inside you again.

you start moving and the impala rocks with it, shocks creaking with each roll of your hips. dean’s making these broken sounds against your neck — grunts and whimpers that shoot straight to your core. “that’s right,” he pants. “ride me. show me how much you missed my cock.”

the dirty talk unlocks something in you and suddenly you’re bouncing on him hard, the car protesting with every movement. “missed it so much,” you confess in a whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. “nothing else... mmm, nobody else feels like you.” he groans and bucks up into you, feet planted on the floor for leverage.

the position changes everything, letting him thrust up deep and hard. the whole car is moving now, rocking obviously with your rhythm. “everyone’s gonna know,” he grunts in your ear. “gonna know i’m fucking you so good you can’t keep quiet.” as if to prove his point, he hits that perfect spot and you cry out, not caring who might hear.

“i’m so fucking close,” you gasp again, that familiar tension building. dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles as he continues pounding up into you. “dean, shit , i’m gonna—“ you come with his name on your lips, clenching around him.

he follows right after, arms tight around you as he empties himself inside with a broken whimper. you collapse against his chest, both breathing hard as the car finally stills. “definitely not making it inside anytime soon,” you murmur against his neck, and feel him laugh. “good,” he says, arms tightening around you. “not done with you yet.”

[fear-is-truth]

𝑺𝑰𝑳𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 – nicholas alexander chavez x fem!reader

summary — you’re a rising pop star and best friends with cooper koch. when you visit him on set of “monsters”, he introduces you to his co-star. / wc: 1.9k

tags — fluff. not proofread. english is not my first language

05/16/2024

The warm, late afternoon sun beat down on the set of Monsters: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story, where the buzz of production crews filled the air. You stepped out of your car, smoothing down your blouse as you made your way through the maze of trailers. You were here to see your friend Cooper Koch, who was playing Erik Menendez in the docuseries. He had invited you to visit him on set, and you hadn’t seen him in months. As you approached the craft services table, a familiar voice called out to you.

“Yo, there she is!” Cooper exclaimed happily, rushing over to scoop you into a bear hug. You laughed, burying your face in his shoulder.

“Hey!” you pull back slightly to get a good look at him. Even in character, with his hair styled in a very 1980s fashion and wearing the sharp suit of Eric Menendez, he still had the lighthearted energy that you adored.

“How’s it going, ‘Erik Menendez’?” He shrugged, letting out a playful sigh. “You know, just emotionally preparing for a murder trial.” He looked around, then nodded his head toward a nearby tent. “Come meet Nicholas. He’s playing my brother.” Following him across the set, you spotted Nicholas sitting alone, flipping through his script. Even off-camera, he looked striking: sharp jawline, dark, neatly styled curls, and an air of seriousness. The fitted suit he wore only added to the whole intense vibe, his features tight with focus.

“Hey Nic,” Cooper called out, breaking the actor’s concentration. “This is y/n l/n, pop sensation and my dear friend. y/n, meet Nicholas—my on-screen brother.”Nicholas stood up, a little stiff, offering you a polite smile and extending his hand. “Hey there, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm but quick, his expression serious and distant, almost cold. You let go, your own smile faltering slightly as you glanced at Cooper. Nicholas excused himself almost immediately, returning to his script as if he was still lost in Lyle’s world. You raised an eyebrow at your best friend.

“He always this… serious?” Cooper chuckled. “He’s in serious actor mode right now. Give it time, he’s actually an unbelievable goof once he’s done being all ‘Lyle Menendez on trial.’” You shot him a skeptical look.

.

You ended up visiting the set a few more times that week. Cooper always made you feel welcome, but Nicholas? He was always in the zone—focused, methodical, brooding. There was something almost intimidating about his presence, even though you knew it was probably just him getting into character. But still, it didn’t make for easy conversation.

.

One afternoon, you sat beside Cooper during a break, watching as Nicholas sat a few feet away, quietly reviewing his lines again. You nudged Cooper. “Does Nicholas ever… like, smile? Or even talk off set?” He snorted. “Told you, once he’s out of character, he’s cool. He’s just locked in right now.” You leaned back. “Sure, but it’s been days, and I feel like I’ve barely heard him say more than ten sentences to him. I’m starting to think either he hates me, or he’s got a permanent serious face.” Cooper just grinned. “Give it time. He’ll warm up. Trust me.”

It wasn’t until later in the week that you finally got to see what Cooper had been talking about. It was late, and most of the cast and crew had already cleared out for the day. You were waiting for Cooper to finish up with a quick scene when you noticed Nicholas walking toward you, hands shoved into the pockets of his suit pants. He plopped down on the bench next to you, and he looked worn out, his usually composed expression softening as he leaned back and let out a sigh.

“Long day?” You asked. He laughed dryly, a sound that was low and tired before replying. “You have no idea.” He looked over at you, and for the first time, his face softened. “I feel like I owe you an apology.” You blinked. “for what?”

“For being… distant. Weird. Cold, even,” he said, running a hand through his dark curls. “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just… I needed to focus.” You frowned. “On the role?”

“Yeah, on the role… but also, I just went through a breakup,” he admitted, his eyes flicking to the ground as if saying it out loud made it harder to hold back. “I was kind of using that energy to dive into Lyle’s head. You know, put it all in the work. I didn’t want to get distracted. Especially not by… well, by a pretty girl on set.”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a strange warmth creep into your chest. “A pretty girl?” Nicholas gave a small, sheepish smile, finally meeting your gaze. “Yeah. You.”

“Wow,” you said, pretending to be offended as you put on a mock-serious tone. “So what, you’re saying you don’t hate me? Or my music?”

His eyes widened, panic flashing in them. “No! God, no. I don’t hate you, and I definitely don’t hate your music.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s not it at all. I just… didn’t want to get in my own way, you know? Especially after the breakup. I thought if I let myself get distracted, I’d fuck everything up. But it’s been eating at me. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I was pushing you away.”

The honesty in his voice surprised you.“I get it. I really do. I’m just glad it wasn’t personal. I was starting to think maybe you thought I was annoying. That you hate me or my music.” He grinned, visibly relaxing for the first time. “Trust me, neither. I’ve actually been dying to talk to you, but I’m terrible at switching gears. It’s hard for me to get out of character when we’re filming.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” you teased lightly, nudging him with your shoulder. “I guess I’ll take that as a compliment. Being a distraction doesn’t sound too bad.”

He laughed, the tension finally lifting between you both. “You’re more than a distraction. That’s why it’s been so hard to focus around you.”

Suddenly, the distance that had been between you two these past few days didn’t seem so far anymore.

“Friends?” you asked, extending your hand. He smiled, shaking your hand firmly but gently.

“Friends. For now.”

After that conversation, your dynamic with Nicholas shifted dramatically. What started as a tense, awkward distance between you two morphed into something much warmer. You found yourselves hanging out more, both on and off set. Cooper would tease the two of you endlessly, claiming he was the reason for your sudden ‘best friend’ status.

You quickly realized how sweet Nic was—thoughtful, always paying attention to the smallest details. Whenever you sat around with the cast, he’d ask if you wanted a snack or offer you his jacket when the set AC was too cold.

It became this easy, light friendship. But there was something else there. You knew it, and by the way his gaze would linger on you when you laughed or the casual touches that became more frequent, you had a feeling he knew it too.

Then one day, as you were scrolling mindlessly through social media, you saw your name trending—again. Your new album had just hit the charts a week ago, and it was all anyone could talk about. One song in particular, a love song that was a bit more sentimental than your usual style, had skyrocketed to number one on Billboard. Everyone was dissecting it, trying to figure out who it was about, but you’d stayed quiet. Part of you wasn’t even sure if you’d admit it, especially to the person it was written about.

That night, you were at Nicholas’s place at the hotel for a small get-together with some of the cast and crew. The two of you had slipped away to the balcony for some fresh air, away from the noise and chatter inside.

“So…” he started, leaning against the railing with a crooked smile. “I, uh, listened to your album. Pretty much the whole thing.” You looked up at him, grinning. “Oh? What’s the verdict?” “It’s incredible, honestly,” he said, sounding genuine. But then, he hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. “But there’s this one song—uh, the last one? ‘Silver Linings?’” He raised an eyebrow, clearly fishing for something. You felt your heart skip a beat. Of course he’d pick that song. “Yeah?” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, even though your stomach was doing flips. You knew where this was going. “What about it?”

“Well… I might be totally off-base here, but… the lyrics…” He trailed off, his cheeks growing into five shades of pink. “I mean. Call me crazy but, was that song… about me?” Of course he would pick up on it. You hadn’t exactly been subtle in your songwriting, but you didn’t expect him to ask about it, especially like this. He had that hopeful, boyish grin on his face now, like he was waiting for you to admit it.

And honestly? You were tired of dancing around it.

Instead of answering, you closed the space between you, pressing your lips to his. Nicholas reacted instantly, his hand slipping to the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer. His other hand rested on your waist, grounding you in the moment as your body melted into his. There was something so gentle yet eager about the way he kissed you—like he’d been holding back for so long and finally allowed himself to let go. His thumb brushed the nape of your neck, sending pleasant jolts of anticipation down your spine and warmth in your stomach. When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. You stared up at him, breathless, fingers still clutching his shirt. “Does that answer your question?”

present day

Nicholas was lying beside you, both of you in matching pink pyjamas, that he’d insisted on getting when you went shopping together. You were curled up in the crook of his arm, head resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. His fingers absentmindedly traced shapes on your arm, the simple motion soothing.

“You know,” he began, his voice soft in the quiet, vast room, “I never thought I’d be the kind of guy to wear matching hello kitty pyjamas with my girlfriend.”

At this, you laughed, lifting your head to look at your boyfriend. “Don’t act like you didn’t pick these out.” “Fine,” he conceded, brushing a hand through his messy curls. “I did. But only because you look cute in them.”

“Right, because that’s why you’re wearing them too?”

“I wear them because I’m committed to the bit,” he joked, pulling you closer so he could press a kiss to the top of your head. Nestling back against his chest, you let out a soft sigh. “Do you ever think about when we can stop hiding this? Us?” his fingers stilled their movements and rested on your arm. “Yeah, I think about it a lot too,” he admitted. “But… we’ll get there. We’ll figure it out.”

“I know… It’s just so hard sometimes.” You whined. He must have sensed the frustration your tone because he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, “I know, baby.” His voice was soft, soothing. “But until then, I get to have you all to myself, like this.” Nicholas smirked, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip. “Not the worst deal.”

MLIST.  fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[pomegranatelifethis]

The first excitement

The day you found out you were pregnant, Bruce first hugged you tightly, then, with deep seriousness, said, "I will provide the best environment for you and our baby." At that moment, you didn’t fully understand what that meant—until a few days later, when you started noticing that everything you loved and found cute was piling up in the house.

At first, you liked it. Knowing Damian’s fondness for kittens, one day, you casually said, "Little cats are really adorable." The next day, at least five different plush cat toys arrived at the house. Then, you mentioned that you liked the tiny penguin design on Tim’s coffee mug. Bruce heard this, and within a few days, the kitchen was filled with penguin-themed utensils.

But things spiraled out of control when Dick showed you a baby elephant video to cheer you up, and you exclaimed, "That’s insanely cute!" A week later, a corner of the Batcave was overflowing with elephant-themed baby toys. Even Jason walked in, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Even I think this is too much."

At some point, the house became suffocating. In the peak of your hormonal fluctuations, you stood in the middle of the living room, looking around. Plush toys everywhere, tiny blankets, cute animal figures on the walls… And suddenly, your eyes welled up.

"ENOUGH!" you exploded.

Everyone froze. Dick stood still, holding a tiny teddy bear. Damian, petting the new kitten Alfred had just brought him, looked at you. Tim slowly set down his coffee mug. Jason leaned back on the couch, watching the scene unfold with great amusement.

But the biggest reaction came from Bruce. "But… I was trying to create the best environment for our baby," he said, his eyes wide with confusion.

Between hiccups, you cried, "Yes, but our house looks like a toy store! I’m hormonal, I’m exhausted, and everything is overwhelming me!"

Silence. Then Dick bit his lower lip to keep from laughing, but Jason let out a loud, mocking chuckle. "I wish I had recorded this. The mighty Batman, completely lost in the middle of an emotional crisis."

Bruce quickly composed himself and gently pulled you into his arms. "Alright, alright… I went overboard. I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?"

Taking a deep breath, you mumbled, "Just… let’s scale it down, okay?"

That’s when the Batfamily sprang into action.

Tim immediately started making a list. "Alright, we can return the unnecessary stuff."

Dick grinned. "And we can donate some toys. The kids at the orphanage will love them."

Damian, with a serious expression, declared, "The cats stay. They’re non-negotiable."

Jason shrugged. "I’d personally burn half of this, but donation works too."

Bruce sighed and nodded. "Alright, everyone, get organized. We’re sorting this mess out."

In the end, the house became livable again. And you realized that, no matter how chaotic they were, the Batfamily always came together in moments of crisis. And maybe, just maybe, a little extra cuteness wasn’t so bad—at least, in moderation.

The Batfamily’s attempt to systematically resolve the “excessive cuteness” crisis had turned into complete chaos. Tim was sorting out items to be returned, checking his list, while Jason, clearly bored, was tossing some plush toys into the air.

"Let’s donate this one."

"This is unnecessary—trash."

"Can we keep this one? It’s so cute!"

Then, Damian turned to Bruce, holding a tiny plush bat. "I’m keeping this one. Because it makes sense. We are bats."

Jason sighed. "Yes, of course. Because logic is what truly matters here."

Bruce, however, still didn’t seem ready to part with anything. As Batman, he had stopped countless criminals, fought in Gotham’s darkness for years… but now, the real challenge was getting rid of plush toys without upsetting his loved ones.

Noticing Bruce’s hesitation, Dick stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you’re getting used to being in dad mode, you know? Don’t panic. We got this."

Bruce took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright. But… let’s keep a few things. For our baby."

Sitting on the couch, watching the scene unfold, you felt your emotions fluctuating—thanks to your hormones—but at the same time, a warmth filled your chest. Sure, Bruce was going a little overboard, but that was because he just wanted you and your baby to be as happy as possible. And now, the entire family was involved.

Eventually, most unnecessary items were sorted out. Tim and Dick organized the donations, Jason planned to dispose of some in his own way, but Alfred stepped in to ensure everything was properly sent off. Meanwhile, Damian had somehow succeeded in increasing the household’s cat population—there were now three instead of one.

That night, after everyone had left, Bruce sat beside you, resting a hand on your stomach. "I guess I got a little too excited," he admitted.

You smiled and leaned your head against his shoulder. "A little?"

The two of you chuckled softly, settling into a comfortable silence. Bruce’s protective, loving nature could sometimes be overwhelming, but with this chaotic, affectionate family by your side, you knew everything was going to be just fine.

Late into the night, just as you thought you’d finally found some peace, you lay down in bed and closed your eyes. However, just as sleep was about to take you, the bedroom door creaked open. At first, you assumed it was Bruce coming in to say something, but instead, Tim stepped inside.

"I just wanted to make sure… Do you really want to donate the penguin-patterned blanket? Or maybe, you know… we could keep it, just in case you like it?" he whispered.

You sighed, keeping your eyes closed. "Tim, I’m trying to sleep."

Tim nodded but didn’t move from the doorway. "Okay, but… are you really sure?"

Before you could answer, another voice echoed from the hallway. "If you're going to keep bothering her, at least do it quietly, Drake."

Damian stood in the doorway, arms crossed. "Disturbing a pregnant person only proves how useless you truly are."

Tim rolled his eyes. "I just care about her preferences, okay? This is a delicate process."

"How ridiculous." Damian sighed and walked away.

Just as Tim was about to leave, another troublemaker appeared at the door—Dick. With a wide grin, he slid into the room and immediately crouched beside the bed.

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" he asked, his eyes shining with concern.

Bruce stirred, cracking one eye open. "What’s going on?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Nothing! Just checking in!" Dick quickly raised his hands in surrender. "We’re here to help!"

Before Bruce could give him a stern look, Jason’s voice drifted in from the hallway.

"If everyone’s taking turns barging in, I might as well join. What am I missing?"

You buried your face into your pillow and groaned. "Why is everyone suddenly in full-on parent mode?"

Bruce rubbed his eyes and shot the others a sharp glare. "Everyone. Back to your rooms. Now."

Dick glanced at Bruce’s serious expression, then shrugged with a small smile. "Alright, alright, we’re going. But remember, I’m always here for you." He walked out the door.

Tim clutched the blanket to his chest and quietly slipped away. Jason, clearly amused by the whole thing, chuckled. "That was fun to watch," he said before disappearing down the hall.

Finally, the door closed, and silence returned.

Bruce, still half-asleep, pulled you close. "I know they can be a lot, but… they really care about you."

You smiled, resting your head on his shoulder. "I know. But if they keep this up until the baby is born, the real crisis will happen then."

Bruce let out a quiet chuckle, pulling you even closer. "I’ll keep them under control."

But both of you knew that keeping the whole family in check was harder than cleaning up Gotham’s crime.

In the following days, the Batfamily’s overly attentive behavior showed no signs of slowing down. At this point, you had to take a deep breath before entering any room because, without fail, someone would be there—thinking about you (and sometimes overthinking for you).

One morning, when you went downstairs for breakfast, you found Damian standing next to Alfred. As usual, Alfred was calmly preparing a nutritious meal for you, while Damian, brows furrowed, was scribbling something in a notebook.

"What are you doing?" you asked.

Without looking up, Damian replied, "I’m researching the ideal age range to begin the baby’s combat training."

You paused mid-bite and stared at him. "Combat… what?"

"If they start young, they could master basic fighting techniques by the age of ten. Of course, we’d have to modernize Father’s traditional training methods. Also—"

Shaking your head, you held up a hand. "No. No, Damian. Our baby will not be training for combat anytime soon. They’ll play with toys, listen to bedtime stories, and—oh, I don’t know—just be a normal child?"

Damian frowned. "But—"

"No."

Alfred smiled softly and patted Damian’s shoulder. "Perhaps we should revisit this discussion in a few years, young master."

Just as you thought you could finally relax, Tim walked into the kitchen, balancing a laptop in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"Hey, you’re up. I made a chart to monitor your vitamin D levels. We need to increase your daily intake because during pregnancy, your bone health—"

You groaned, rubbing your temples. "Tim, please. Just one morning without a health chart while I eat?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded. "Sure. But I’m still going to ask you to check it later. The data is really interesting."

Before you could respond, Dick entered the kitchen carrying a bag.

"Surprise!" he announced, pulling out tiny, brightly colored baby onesies. "I saw these and had to get them for the baby!"

You picked one up—it was bright blue and had “Future Acrobat” written on it.

"Dick…" you said, exhaustion in your voice.

"Wait, I haven’t shown you the best one yet!" He excitedly pulled out a yellow onesie from the bottom of the bag. Across the front, in big bold letters, it read: "Mini Nightwing."

As Dick beamed at you, Jason walked in and observed the situation. He rolled his eyes.

"Great. The kid’s already being pushed into circus life before they’re even born."

Dick shot him a glare. "Hey! Flexibility is important!"

Jason turned to you, smirking. "This is all a bit much. But if you ever want to see the baby in a tiny leather jacket, I’ve got ideas."

Laughing, you shook your head. "Jason, I am not putting a leather jacket on the baby."

Jason shrugged. "Alright. But let me know if you change your mind."

Just as you thought the chaos had peaked, Bruce walked into the kitchen. Everyone immediately turned to him. He raised an eyebrow at the sheer number of people gathered.

"What’s going on?"

Without hesitation, you rushed to his side and tugged on his sleeve. "Please. Get me out of here."

Bruce studied you for a moment, then turned to the others with a sharp look. "Alright. Everyone, clear out."

The group erupted in protests, but as soon as Bruce’s Batman glare came into play, they reluctantly started to disperse.

With the kitchen finally quiet, you took a deep breath. Bruce crossed his arms, watching you.

"Are you really that exhausted?"

You shot him a tired but affectionate look. "Your family is… a lot."

Bruce let out a small chuckle and nodded. "I know."

Smiling, you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. No matter how chaotic they were, one thing was clear—this family cared about you and the baby more than anything. And that meant you were part of the safest—and most insane—family in the world.

[sabrinajenre96]

“When the Storm Brought Her”

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Doctor!Wife!Reader

Setting: Pittsburgh, Nighttime, Home during a Storm

Genre: Fluff, Drama, Family, Hurt/Comfort, age gap

Warning: some mention of pregnancy, labour birth and strong language. Read on your discretion.

Tagging: @ilovechickenwings

Rain lashed against the windows, a steady rhythm that should’ve been soothing, if not for the occasional boom of thunder rattling the walls of their Pittsburgh home. Y/N shifted uncomfortably on the couch, hand resting on her heavily pregnant belly.

"She’s definitely practicing gymnastics in there," Y/N murmured, looking over at Michael, who was lighting another artificial candle in the living room. The power had gone out ten minutes ago, and the storm showed no signs of letting up.

Michael turned, his face glowing in the soft, flickering light. “Well, she’s our kid. Of course she’s dramatic.”

Y/N snorted. “If she inherits your sense of timing, she’ll probably arrive during a lunar eclipse or something ridiculous.”

“I mean… a baby born during a blackout in a thunderstorm? That’s peak main character energy.”

They both laughed, letting the moment of quiet connection settle in. The house was dark, save for the glow of the candles, the hum of rain and wind outside. They sat together, knees touching, talking softly about their baby girl—who she might look like, what her personality would be like, how they were going to survive parenthood.

“I kind of hope she has your eyes,” Y/N said after a moment.

Michael grinned. “And I hope she gets your brains. Otherwise, we’re in trouble.”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly and got up slowly. “Okay, bathroom trip number eight million. Be right back.”

She shuffled down the hallway, but as she turned on the dim battery-powered nightlight in the bathroom, she paused.

“…What the—?”

Warm liquid had soaked her pajama pants.

“Oh no.”

---

Ten minutes later, the first contraction hit hard, making her double over near the hallway wall. Panic licked at her chest. "Michael!" she yelled, loud enough to carry over the storm.

He sprinted out of the living room barefoot, eyes wild until they landed on her face. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I—I think I’m in labor.”

Doctor mode: activated.

He instantly steadied her, walking her back into the living room. “Okay, okay. Deep breaths. How far apart are the contractions?”

“They just started, but they’re strong,” she breathed, gripping his arm. “Michael, we can’t get to the hospital—”

“I know,” he said gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’ll do it here. I’ve got you.”

---

Within minutes, the coffee table had been cleared, blankets and towels layered, water boiled and cooling, emergency supplies brought out from the closet stash “just in case.” Michael moved with calm precision, but Y/N’s hands trembled.

“I know we’re both doctors,” she said, wincing as another contraction rolled through her, “but I’m scared, Michael.”

His eyes softened. He knelt beside her, brushing sweat-soaked hair off her forehead. “You’re doing amazing. I’m right here.”

She groaned, clutching a pillow. “This is your fault.”

“Yep. Totally my fault,” he chuckled. “Let’s just remember this next time we feel like skipping protection.”

“Oh god, you’re going to look down there, aren’t you? This is going to scar you forever.”

“Scar me? Babe, I once reattached a man’s foot. Trust me, I’m good.”

“But this is my vagina we’re talking about!”

He smirked. “And it’s my favorite one.”

She glared at him. “Don’t you dare flirt with me while I’m crowning.”

Another contraction hit, and this time, it knocked the air from her lungs. She gasped, panting. “Michael—I can’t—I don’t think I can—”

“Yes, you can,” he said firmly, hands steady on her knees. “You’re the strongest person I know. One more push. You’ve got this.”

Tears blurred her vision. “What if I’m not ready? What if I mess up? What if—?”

He leaned in close. “You already love her. That’s what matters. And I love you. We’re doing this together.”

She nodded, lips trembling, and bore down with everything she had.

Moments later, a cry pierced the candle-lit silence.

Their daughter had arrived.

---

Michael gently caught the baby, eyes wide and shining. “She’s perfect. She’s—wow. She’s here.”

Y/N sobbed, equal parts pain, exhaustion, and joy. He laid the baby on her chest, and the little girl immediately quieted, blinking up with a scrunched-up face.

“She’s… beautiful,” Y/N whispered.

They spent long, quiet moments just staring at her. The storm raged on outside, but inside the room, time stood still.

“What should we name her?” Michael asked, rubbing a gentle thumb over their daughter’s tiny hand.

Y/N smiled through tears. “Let’s name her after your grandmother. She’d be proud.”

Michael kissed her hand. “Welcome to the world, Clara Rose Robinavitch.”

---

Later, Michael helped Y/N to the bathroom, whispering reassurances as he steadied her every step. While she freshened up, he cleaned and swaddled Clara, who had already claimed his chest as her favorite sleeping spot.

Once Y/N returned, Michael helped her into bed, placing the baby in her arms again. They lay together, wrapped around each other and their newborn daughter, waiting for the storm to pass, their hearts full.

“You delivered our baby,” Y/N whispered.

“You did all the work,” he murmured back. “I just had the best view in the house.”

She smacked him lightly on the chest and smiled.

Clara let out a tiny sigh in her sleep.

Outside, the thunder finally began to fade.

By the time the storm broke the next morning, the roads were still slick but finally passable. Michael had already bundled up Clara in the softest onesie they owned, tucked her carefully in a makeshift car seat cocoon lined with blankets, and made sure Y/N was resting enough before even mentioning leaving the house.

“You sure you’re up for the ride?” he asked gently as he helped her into the backseat, Clara nestled safely in her arms.

Y/N leaned her head back, exhausted but glowing. “I delivered a whole baby in our living room. I can survive a 15-minute drive.”

Michael slid into the driver’s seat, constantly glancing at them in the mirror as he pulled onto the road. “I still can’t believe we did it.”

“We?” she teased, eyes half-lidded. “You mean I did it while you cracked jokes about my anatomy.”

“Hey,” he defended, grinning. “I made sure everything stayed sterile, didn’t pass out, and caught our daughter like a champ.”

“Caught?” she laughed. “She wasn’t a fly ball, Michael.”

---

By the time they pulled up to the hospital, the early morning staff was already trickling in. A nurse near the entrance looked out the window, did a double take, then gasped. “Dr. Robinavitch?”

Michael waved, already jogging around the car to help his wife out.

The ER team hurried to meet them with a wheelchair, but Y/N shook her head.

“I’m fine. I’m just here for post-delivery checks.”

“You gave birth at home?” a wide-eyed intern asked.

“In the middle of a blackout,” Michael confirmed proudly. “Meet Clara Rose.”

The nurses melted on sight, cooing at the tiny, swaddled baby in Y/N’s arms. Clara, oblivious to the attention, yawned and wriggled sleepily against her mother’s chest.

Within minutes, Y/N was in a private recovery room, the attending OB doing a full checkup while Michael paced nearby like he wasn’t already a double-boarded doctor.

“Vitals look good. You did a phenomenal job, Dr. Robinavitch,” the OB said warmly. “And so did you, Dr. Robinavitch.”

Michael smiled and squeezed Y/N’s hand.

---

Once cleared and settled, with Clara nursing peacefully and both mom and baby healthy, Michael finally sat down beside the hospital bed.

“You know,” he murmured, “I’ve delivered dozens of babies, and nothing—not one—comes close to that.”

Y/N glanced at him, eyes softer than he’d ever seen. “You didn’t flinch once. Not even when I was cursing you out.”

“I blacked that part out for my own emotional protection,” he joked, leaning over to kiss her temple.

“I was scared,” she admitted, stroking Clara’s cheek. “Not of the pain. Just… of being someone’s mother. Of failing her.”

He took her hand. “You didn’t fail. You brought her into this world with so much strength, and she’ll always know that.”

Y/N smiled through tired tears. “You’re going to be the best dad.”

“And you’re already the best mom.”

They sat in peaceful silence, broken only by the tiny sighs of their newborn daughter. Rain still drizzled softly against the windows—but this time, it was gentle, healing.

Outside, Pittsburgh was waking up.

Inside, a new family had already been born.

[mrspettyferr]

Maybe one of the best surprises I've found in this show that I genuinely did NOT expect, is Sauron's sense of humor, or little moments that made me laugh. He's the Big Bad, the Dark Lord, the Abhorred, and yet--

Just a happy little prisoner watching his She-Elf cause trouble.

"And how close are you and the She-Elf?"

"Don't forget your women."

Kill Mode Activated

"How fares your progress?"

*100% done with your shit*

Halbrand: "Do try not to make any new enemies."

Also Halbrand: *5 minutes later*

Personal Space with Galadriel

VS Personal Space with Everyone Else

Just a Normal Dude, trying to have a good time

I'm sorry but I love him, Your Honor.

[aliidarling]

hey alii it’s your fav riooo!! :3 anyways no more silliness.. can you write where your getting stalked by Michael and he breaks in and fucks the brains out of u, oh and has a size kink/bondage? thank you i love u and your fics!!! 🩷

enjoy the silence

MICHEAL MYERS x fem!reader

nsfw content — pls scroll if uncomfortable

summary: myers decides to break in while you’re babysitting your friends younger brother

warnings: smut, p in v, size kink, bondage, knife play, sadism/masochism, blood

reminder reader doesn’t know the myers iconic mask because this takes place the night of his return in the og movie :)

nsfww content below !!

this years halloween wasn’t like last years, the year before and all the halloweens you’ve lived through. normally it was cheery, bright, with lots of candy and spooky costumes jumpscaring you at every corner. you’d always look forward for october 31st, the scariest day of the year.

your favorite day of the year. you were a horror fanatic, always binge watching horror movies and buying merchandise. friday the 13th was one of your favorite franchises, the slasher and gruesome scenes catching your eye from a young age. ever since then you’d always get excited at the mere mention of horror aspects.

you remembered years ago when the myers incident happened— when the perfect family down the block broke apart and crumbled into mere names you’d see on the newspaper. you were friends with the daughter, having a few classes with the upperclassmen which you two shared.

she was so sweet. always giving you pencils, helping you braid your hair, sometimes walking you home. she was too young to leave the earth. the reminders of that terrifying night rung in your head every halloween, slowly ruining the once colorful holiday for you.

now even fifteen years later, flashes of red and blue tainted the back of your mind as you sat on the couch of your best friends house. you had been ‘hired’ by your best friend to babysit his little brother. you didn’t mind— her brother, kilo, was a sweet boy. he was barely passing second grade, but you weren’t one to judge.

“you finish your homework, bud?” you ask the little boy who sat across from you. he looks up from his papers, crayons at his side with his papers covered in scribbles and his bad handwriting.

“almost!” he smiles, returning back to his homework and doodling. you hum and glance back at the movie playing in front of the two of you, the street lights illuminating the living room subtly through the blinds. you could hear the kids from the streets chatting, the giggling and the sounds of halloween night.

you hear a thud from the kitchen, making you frown. you pat the kids back and tell him to stay out, standing up and walking to the hallway. you enter the kitchen and look around, your eyes catching glimpse of a fallen plate on the ground. you shudder. your friend and her parents weren’t gonna be too happy with you about that.

“hey, kilo?” you call out, grabbing the broom and sweeping it up into a bag.

“yeah?” he calls back.

“i’ll let you keep your ipad in bed if you take the blame for me about this.” you hold up the bag of shredded glass sheepishly, trying to win over the little boy with the bats of your lashes. he hums in thought, tapping his chin before nodding eagerly.

you grin and give kilo a hair ruffle before ushering him up the stairs. he takes two stairs at a time before skipping into his room, the dark blue walls painted and his bed having star wars bedding. it was cute, you could tell his parents loved him.

“night night, kiddo. you need anything i’ll be downstairs, alright? i’m gonna be sleeping in your sisters room tonight.” you tell him gently, keeping up on your promise and handing him his ipad. he giggles and nods, quickly opening it up and ignoring every other word that drops from your mouth. you sigh and walk off, leaving the door open with a small crack. damn ipad kids.

the next hour is calm. you’re downstairs, handing out candy while catching up with your shows in her television. you’re happy she has cable. you’re quite comfortable in her house, you’ve been over so many times a part of you considers it your second home.

the sound of another thud grabs your attention. at first you think maybe kilo was being kilo and caused some ruckus, but you quickly realize it came from downstairs. you get up from your couch and walk towards the kitchen once again, blinking dumbly at the sight of the pantry door wide open. you swore you closed it earlier.

“this is creepy.” you grumble to yourself, stepping forward to slowly close it. once the click echoes, you stand there for another moment, a part of you expecting a loud jumpscare. the silence is anticlimactic and you sigh tiredly, dragging yourself back to the couch.

slumping back against the cushion, you wrap yourself in the throw blanket they have and hum, focusing your eyes on the television in front of you again. the streets have quieted down, leaving only a few determined trick or treaters that you’ve started to ignore when they ring. you’re too lazy to get up.

another few long minutes pass before you hear footsteps down the hall. you stiffen immediately and sit up, peeking over the top of the couch down the hall. no way kilo made those footsteps— they were too heavy.

fuck. did someone break in? it’s halloween night, you wouldn’t be surprised. lots of people always engaged in reckless behavior this night of the year.

“hello?” you call out, sitting up sheepishly and hugging the blanket around you. you peek down the dark, luring hall and shiver. you gulp down your nerves and let out another call. “kilo? i thought i told you to stay in your room, kid.”

silence answers you.

it’s creepy. too creepy. you don’t like this anymore. you want to go upstairs and check on kilo, make sure he’s okay and maybe sleep next to him in his bed. you were creeped out and wanted to make sure he was safe mostly.

a shaky exhale leaves you as you turn back forward, preparing to stand up to make your debut upstairs. you’re met with the terrifying sight of a man over six feet standing over you, his mask staring down at you emotionless.

you don’t scream. no. you stare up at him with a gaping expression, mouth open and eyes wide in terror. your heart skips several beats and your entire world goes radio silent, a ringing noise in your ears. you were paralyzed. paralyzed from fear. you don’t know what to do, your fingers suddenly feel like twenty pounds and your throat is dry.

oh fuck. he’s gonna kill you now, move dumbass!

another long second passes before you quickly move, sitting up and trying to jump over the back of the couch. he’s blocking the front, and his hand comes down to grab your shirt and manhandle you down onto your back again. the couch is a pull out so you’re thrashing around with your legs stretched out, fist throwing weak punches. he easily holds your wrist down and stares silently down at you.

tears fill your eyes, trembling in fear. you try and muster up the courage to speak but each words stays on the tip of your tongue, wavering shakily in your head.

“who are you?!” you finally managed to to shriek, fist clenched and your wrists being held by his large hands. his fingers were thick and long, his body well over six feet with a large amount of mass. the size difference was laughable.

his heavy breathing echoes in your ears, taunting you. he doesn’t answer your question, instead he slowly picks up his knife and drags it down your neck. the tip of his knife catches into your skin lightly and you whimper at the feeling. it stings.

his knife is dragged from your neck to your collarbone, tugging aimlessly at your collar. his movements hold no rush, instead ease and stealth. his mask is staring down at you as you bite your lip, muffling your pained sniffles as the knife nicks at your collarbone.

“why are you doing this?” you croak. he doesn’t answer.

the knife along your skin continues its journey down your stomach until it drifts along your pajama shorts, slowly creeping underneath the waistband and letting it snap against your skin. he’s inhuman, not making a single noise and instead drinking in each of your cries and reactions to his touch.

his grip around your wrists stiffen, gripping you tighter and holding you down firmer onto the couch. your hips squirm weakly before you’re shut up by the small nick he delivers to your soft skin. a silent warning.

the knife against your neck and the rope around your wrists is a reminder to stay quiet and still as he slowly sinks his cock inside you. it’s thick and girthy, the size belittling all the other boys you’ve ever touched. it hurts, the feeling of having your walls getting stretched by his mushroom tip.

a small sob leaves at the feeling, your hands tugging weakly at the rope, pretty tears covering your flushed cheeks. a burn in your pussy aches your lower body, thighs tensing up as he inches his way deeper and deeper. your cunt squeezes him tight and he doesn’t give any reaction other then his fists grabbing the cushion around you tighter, the fabric wrinkling.

“t-that hurts, hey— stop, slow down at least,” you plead pitifully. your voice is smaller then intended, your mouth forming an ‘O’ shape as the thickness has you going silent. you don’t have the bravery to complain any further, not after he pushes his knife a little closer to your neck. you go silent immediately.

the feeling of him sitting inside you still is only temporary before he slowly pushes out, leaving just the tip, before slamming back inside. he’s brutal with the way he buries himself deeply, making sure every centimeter of himself is squeezed tight. a moan you do your best to muffle escapes your throat.

he repeats the action again, slowly pulling out only to slam himself deeper again. somehow his tip presses against your g-spot, making you clench down and gasp. his hands grasp your waist, the difference in his fingers and your torso noticeable— he can almost fit his entire two hands around your stomach.

you were nothing compared to this big, burly man. not with the way he was holding your waist down and slamming his cock in and out, knife discarded by your side. your eyes roll back as you moan, lips quivering and producing noises you can no longer stop. not when he was this good at fucking you.

more slams of his hips had you clenching down, crying out for him to slow down and give you mercy. he was mean, battering your insides and plummeting his cock inside, like he didn’t wanna go a single second without being sheathed inside your warm cunt. he can feel the way your walls squeeze him and a low grunt escapes his throat, squeezing your waist tight.

one if his hands grabs your neck and squeezes, not gentle at all. you can feel your air ways get cut off and your eyes go wide. and your pussy tightens even more, making him cum deep inside. his load is thick and hot, painting your insides the creamy white color. it’s not surprising you immediately cum afterwards, the penetration and the warm stickiness making you cry loudly and release in his cock.

he slowly pulls his cock out and watches as the cream pie leaks out of your pussy, staining the couch fabric a dusty white. you shudder at the feeling of emptiness after being used to being stuffed full. a small hiccup leaves you, trembling still.

you gasp as one of his hands grab your thighs, holding it still while his hand slowly grabs the knife beside you. you stiffen in fear and shake your head, whimpering and pleading.

“please don’t— i was good— don’t hurt me—“ you’re shut up by him squeezing your thigh hard, a silent warning. you shut up, muffling your hiccups and cries. you watch as he slowly drags his knife to your meaty thigh and presses down with a little bit of pressure, making little lines. small droplets of blood drip down your thigh and you want to vomit.

he tilts his head down at you, silently wondering so many things. why were you crying? if you looked closely, he had marked his name. that was no reason to cry.

[deldaydreams]

Twisted Wonderland/ Otome AU

Warning: not really dark themes? Mentioned. Gn reader. English is not my first language.

Notes: it’s been a really long time since. I was going to post this as soon as finishing translating this but my mid-term exams were came up so I couldn’t post anything. Anyway I hope you like this post. I will post Octavinelle part soon.

Summary: : One day, you opened your eyes and found yourself in Twisted Wonderland. And the task the System gave you is to get one of the lead characters love meter to 100% by the end of the main story and reach their happy ending.

Parts : rules , 1 , 3 , 4

Leona Kingscholar

Lonely , grumpy savanaclaw's dorm leader, second prince Leona Kingscholar. I can't say that your first official meeting with Leona will be very good, and the same goes for the percentage of your love meter. First of all, good luck, your job is very difficult. However, after the overblot incident, your job will be a little easier.

Leona does not trust anyone due to his nature and experiences. He is sure that you are approaching him for a reason he has difficulty guessing. He will do his best not to get attached to you. After all you will also prefer someone else compared to Leoana , who has always been the other option throughout his life. So please stay by his side when he tells you to get lost, because deep down he loves being with you. I would also like to point out that being by his side will increase your love meter a lot as he runs away from you.

With Leona, it usually happens when he uses you as a pillow and sleeps (sometimes you swear he doesn't sleep). But you try not to talk too much in this activity, because the last time he bit you because you nagged about being late for class and your friends waiting for you while he was taking a nap . Afterwards he threatened to bite you again (not too harshly) and eat you. Although this unexpected event increased Leona's love meter considerably, you understood the warning that day very clearly. Sometimes you two would play chess. And usually, let's say, you are the loser. Leona loves the facial expressions you make when you are trying to figure out his next move or when you are cornered and lose. He also shows the privilege of being a prince in the later stages of your relationship, both materially and emotionally.

Now let's come to Leona in dark mode. Leona is a possessive lover by nature. Although it bothers him when you spend time with others, he respects you, but she can enter dark mode, especially depending on how he learns about your friendship with Malleus Draconia. In fact, Leona is also aware of the existence of the system. Not talking to him about this system stuff or following someone else's route along with his route can again put him in dark mode. Leona in dark mode is quite possessive. He wants everyone to know that you belong to him. He even leaves clues that others can understand without you noticing. Leona is very cunning and intelligent. He knows that brute force is not enough to possess you completely. He acts like a perfect lover in your relationship. He monopolizes you financially and emotionally . He introduces you to his family on holidays. Even if you don't realize it, these meetings are called engagement meetings in the press. Farena is ready to do anything for his only brother.

Ruggie Bucchi

Laid-back yet cunning, Savanaclaw second year student Ruggie Bucchi. Dear player who chose the Ruggie route, first of all, if you want to increase your love meter, I should mention that a portion of your income will go to buying donuts for this hyena boy. Please adjust your income with him in mind. Everything else aside, it won't be that hard to be friends with Ruggie, but it will take a long time for him to fully trust you and increase his love meter. However, once you exceed that limit, your love meter will increase continuously.

Your time with Ruggie is usually spent eating meals together or listening to him complain about Leona. Listening to him, giggling while he complains... oh, you are really too much for Ruggie... Also, watching him in club activities will increase your love meter quite a bit. Now, I may have said at the beginning that a portion of your income will go to this hyena boy, but that doesn't mean he does nothing. Although he doesn't get gifts very often, this hyena boy saves money to buy you gifts on special occasions. Even though he can't spoil you right now, he promises himself that he will spoil you as he wants in the future.

Now let's talk about Ruggie in dark mode...Ruggie knows he's not the best. After all, your environment is full of people who are smarter, more talented, richer, and more handsome than him. What kind of relationship you have with these people doesn't matter to Ruggie in dark mode, what matters is that Ruggie is inadequate to them in many ways and that you might leave him because of his inadequacy. What if you find someone who can spoil you as you want? Someone who can give you the life you deserve...

At first, you don't notice anything, but the "suspicious accidents" that people around you experience make you realize what's going on quickly. Ruggie doesn't use his unique spell on you, meaning he doesn't use it to a certain extent, but this doesn't apply to others. I think you can get help from Leona when you start to suspect him.

If you don't put him in normal mode before it's too late, he won't hesitate to use his unique spell on you. Ruggie's only wish is to live a happy life with you, even if that means he has to make you his puppet...

Jack Howl

Looks tough on the outside but is actually quite caring, first-year Savaclaw student Jack Howl. Your love meter increases little by little after you meet Jack. This wolf boy really respects you a lot. After all, it is really respectable that you, who is non-magical and from another universe, can deal with so many things. Your friendship will progress in a short time with the right steps.

In your free time, you usually do sports together, forced by Jack. If you are not used to sports, I wish you luck. It will be quite difficult to keep up with Jack, but don't worry, there will be short breaks and motivational speeches and cheers from Jack that he thinks are motivating in his own way. This wolf boy does most of what you want, even if he doesn't want to show it. Even if he doesn't like it. Do you want to play with his wolf form? Okay, but only for 5 minutes. Do you want to stroke his tail? Okay, but don't take too long. Do you want to go shopping with him? Okay, but don't expect too much comment from him. Because when he asked you what you thought about the last outfit you tried on, he praised you in his own way and the store employees looked at you strangely. Even though Jack supports and praises you in everything, his praise can be a bit strange. Also, when you cheer for him or compliment him, don't be fooled even if he tells you that it’s unnecessary or that you're wrong. His tail shows how much he likes it. Jack may lie to you but his tail never does.

Jack has always respected your boundaries and still does. Even though his inner wolf side has completely different thoughts, he manages to control himself. However, if that dark wolf side of his loses control… oh boy. He changes from a gentlemanly man to a possessive, jealous, restrictive person. He questions everything you do. Why were you talking to that boy? Who is he? This can also lead to fights. If you can't get him to normal mode without his love meter going too high, it will debatable whether you'll get a very happy ending.

[yrluvjane]

Father's Daughters

Summary: We all know Sirius Black is good at the baby making part, it's time to how good he is at keeping them alive.

The first time Sirius Black held his daughters, he forgot how to breathe.

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and sweat, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry hornets. Sirius stood frozen in the doorway, his leather jacket still damp from the rain outside, his throat tight as he took in the scene before him.

You were propped up against the pillows, exhaustion etched into every line of your face—but smiling, Merlin help him, smiling like you'd just conquered the world. And in your arms...

Two.

Two tiny, squirming bundles wrapped in identical blue blankets. Two sets of miniature fingers curled into fists. Two perfect noses scrunched in synchronized protest at the cold hospital air.

"Sirius?" Your voice was hoarse, but warm. "Come meet your girls."

His boots squeaked against the linoleum as he crossed the room in three strides, his hands hovering uselessly over the bassinet. "I—" The words caught in his throat. "Fuck."

You laughed—a tired, breathless sound that made his chest ache. "Eloquent as ever."

One of the babies chose that moment to let out a piercing wail. Then the other joined in, because apparently twins did everything together.

Sirius's eyes widened in panic. "Why are they—what do we—are they broken?!"

The mediwitch smirked as she adjusted your IV. "They're hungry, Mr. Black. Perfectly normal."

"Normal," Sirius repeated faintly, watching in horror as you calmly guided one infant to your breast like this wasn't the most terrifying thing he'd ever witnessed. His knees buckled. James caught him before he hit the floor.

"Breathe, mate," James whispered, patting his back. "You're doing great."

"I'm not doing anything!" Sirius hissed, staring at the tiny human currently latched onto your nipple with the determination of a starving hippogriff. "What the fuck is that?!"

You shot him a look—the same one you'd given him when he'd tried to convince you a motorcycle was a perfectly reasonable mode of transportation for a pregnant woman. "Biology, Padfoot. Keep up."

Three Months Later

3:17 AM.

The scream that shattered the silence could have curdled milk.

Sirius bolted upright so fast he nearly headbutted the mobile hanging over the crib. "Which one?!"

"Does it matter?!" you groaned from beneath the mountain of pillows you'd buried yourself under.

Lyra—because of course it was Lyra—was currently attempting to shatter the sound barrier with her lungs. Her sister Cassie, ever the opportunist, had somehow wriggled out of her swaddle and was trying to eat the crib bars.

Sirius stumbled toward them like a man marching to the gallows. "Merlin's balls, it's like living with a pair of drunk pixies," he muttered, scooping up Lyra with one hand while attempting to block Cassie's escape with his foot.

The bottle warmer beeped. The dog barked downstairs (because yes, they'd gotten a dog, because apparently sleep deprivation murdered common sense). Somewhere in the distance, a neighbor started banging on the wall.

Lyra's tiny fist connected with his nose.

"OW— okay, that's fair," Sirius conceded, adjusting his grip. "But if you could not give Daddy a black eye before his meeting with the Wizengamot, that'd be swell."

You appeared in the doorway like a vengeful spirit, hair sticking up in twelve directions, dark circles under your eyes. Without a word, you plucked Cassie from the crib and collapsed into the rocking chair, your nightshirt slipping off one shoulder as you guided her to your breast.

Sirius stared.

"What?" you snapped.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Just... you're really good at that."

You blinked. Then—miracle of miracles—laughed, the sound bright and sudden in the predawn gloom. "That's what you're focusing on right now?"

Sirius grinned, shifting Lyra to his other arm. "Well, I was going to mention how sexy you look covered in baby vomit, but I didn't want to sound weird about it—OW!"

The thrown pacifier bounced off his forehead.

Four Years Old

The kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off in a flour factory.

Sirius froze in the doorway, taking in the scene: two tiny carbon copies of himself standing atop the counter, their dark curls dusted white, their grins unrepentant. The bowl of cake batter they'd been "mixing" was currently upside down on the floor. The dog—the traitor—was licking it enthusiastically.

"...We helped," announced Lyra, her chin jutting out in that terrifyingly familiar Black family stubbornness.

"Lots," added Cassie, nodding so vigorously her flour-powdered pigtails bounced.

You leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, covered in what appeared to be blue frosting. "They insisted it was your recipe," you said sweetly.

Sirius opened his mouth. Closed it. Then—

"Prongs!" he bellowed over his shoulder. "We need backup!"

James appeared instantly—because of course he'd been lurking in the living room waiting for this exact moment. He took one look at the disaster and burst out laughing. "Mate, they're mini-yous. This is karma."

Sirius scowled, but it was hard to maintain when Cassie launched herself off the counter and into his arms, leaving a perfect floury handprint on his favorite leather jacket. Lyra, ever the opportunist, seized the moment to stick her entire hand into the remaining batter.

"Daddy," she said, with the gravitas of a seasoned politician, "cake is important."

You snorted into your coffee.

Sirius looked down at his daughters—flour-covered, batter-smeared, and utterly delighted—then at you, frosting in your hair and a smirk on your lips, and felt his heart do that ridiculous squeeze it always did when he remembered how lucky he was.

"Yeah," he sighed, kissing Cassie's floury forehead before reaching for you. "Yeah, it is."

And if he may or may not have charmed the remaining flour to explode into glitter when Remus walked in later—well. Some traditions were meant to be passed down.

[moonlightcycle571]

Marvel making familiars for his loved ones

So I was thinking about Tawky Tawny (again). The thing about him is that he got so many different backstories or explanations on what he might be, but a common enough theme that we see is that he is a stuffed toy when he wants to be.

So here me out.

Tawky Tawny is Billy’s familiar and helps him adjust to his magic when he wants to use it in his small form. He was originally a toy given to Billy by his parents and later given life by The Wizard.

It came with more benefits. Tawny would eat his nightmares, be able to teleport to Billy’s location so that he could never get stolen or lost, protect Billy by going into his tiger form and all around be a constant warmth on his life.

So imagine Billy doing the same as The Wizard.

A lot of his friends aren’t magic users and don’t have the same magical protection he does, so maybe he gives them some enchanted clothing or pendants. A semi familiar (because without magic you can’t make a magical familiar pact with a living animal) where he just makes them familiars.

He would create stuffed animals, and weave in some magic to make them sentient. Maybe it would start with younger heroes, but when he realises his coworkers in the JL need the help as well, he absolutely would make some for them. They, like Tawny prefer to stay in stuffed toy mode, but will sometimes would want to stretch their paws and go into animal form once they feel like they are in a suitable environment.

Just picture it.

It all started with Raven, and the constant stress she might feel with having to constantly guard over Trigon. She can’t have a familiar because most creatures would suffer if give a link to her because her magic is not compatible like that. Captain Marvel decided to make her a companion. He makes her a little leopard wearing an elegant pink suit with a little top hat.

Raven: Is that a plush?

Cap: I heard you have trouble sleeping, so I got you a friend. I haven’t given them a name or pronouns, so that’s up to you.

Raven: … why

Cap: Trust me, they are for nightmares! Tawny *holds up his tiger plush* tells me they are fun to hunt and makes quite the sweet treat.

Raven: *holding the handmade gift* thank you 🥺

Cue shenanigans where she thinks he’s just trying to be a great den mother, and is a tad naive thinking stuffed animals actually work. Not that she isn’t holding little Ebony Darkness every night and is getting the best sleep she has in years.

Another thing to add is that insomnia and PTSD is a common sight within the caped community. And of course Billy notices that. So, after seeing more and more positive results of his plushies, he makes more and more. It becomes a trend. Younger heroes receive a small teddy of an animal and proceed to get attached to it almost immediately.

Nightwing almost cried when he got an elephant wearing a bow tie . Cap said that he seemed like the type to like them. Now Dick has given Zitka a little sibling to sleep at night with. But then that plush becomes fond of Zitka and gave the og elephant plush sentience.

Starfire absolutely adores her shrimp plush. Said something about being able to see colours together. Wally doesn’t know what to think about getting a turtle, but quickly gets attached, even putting little designs in the shell.

Jason also likes to put in patterns in his sting-ray, which Roy doesn’t get cause he thinks his jelly fish is perfect just the way she is. Lian gets a smaller jellyfish, which makes her happy because all the Outlaws get a sea animal.

All the members of YJ, even the retired ones, get a reindeer. They suspect he knows.

It gets back to the JL that Caps giving stuffed toys to their protoges.

Flash: Hey, Cap, how come we don’t get any stuffed animals?

Captain, exited his work is wanted: You want one!!!

Flash, can’t say no to that face: … yes I do

He gets all exited and makes plushies for all of his coworkers, that he pours a bit of extra magic in his work.

CM, fidgeting infringe if the door:

Batman: what is it Captain

CM: I made you something but then I realised that you wouldn’t really want it but then it could be cool if you did and I didn’t want to overthink-

Batman, stopping Billy’s rant: go ahead

CM, hands him a plush snake wearing spectacles: I thought you would like them. I haven’t named them so that’s up to you

Batman, not knowing where to go from here: … is the name important

CM, offended: It’s the MOST important

Batman sighs and keeps the snake. Naturally he does a billion different tests but finds it’s a snake plush. One that’s handmade. That must have taken a lot of time and effort. Batman keeps George Snaking. No he will not admit that having the snake wrapped around his shoulders is soothing.

And it just spirals from there. Hal gets a Sparrow in a poncho, Plastic man gets a kangaroo wearing the nicest boots, Wonder Woman gets a duck in a fancy dress, Aquaman gets a penguin in swim shorts, J’onn gets a lion in a toga … Guy gets a clown fish.

It has no rhyme or reason. The only common thread is that it’s an animal with some sort of clothing. Cap just says that of course they have clothing, they are distinguished and perfectly civilised individuals.

It all come to a head when the League faces some threat, and they are weakened, only for their plushies to fucking teleport and turn into massive version of their respective animals and saves the day.

Hawkwoman, starring at her bear: I- Mrs Snuggles?

Mrs Snuggles: *shrugs*

Shayera: … I could have been getting bear hugs this whole time

Guy: *looks down* Flippers?

Flippers: *flops on the floor*

Guy: ….

Guy: how come the others get bigger version of their animals

The League of Superpets aren’t that worried about competition. They tried to recruit the plush’s, but turns out they are just lazy. Like, they will beat a butch if necessary, but won’t actively go looking for crime to solve. They act more of a home défense.

The only ones who knew about the sentient plushies where Ma and Pa Kent (their Octopus is extent helpful around the farm), Alfred Pennyworth (he’s the one who actually requested hamsters to help keep the manor clean and keep an eye on his family) and Damian who’s instinct immediacy told him his fennec fox is alive.

Oracle got a capybara. The Capybara is the most powerful one Billy has made, second to Tawny. I don’t make the rules.

Constantine is the only one who never got one. Billy is still salty about him trying to steal his powers. Plus he would prolly sell it.

[justwinginglife]

Was just thinking about all the times Sylus has helped us at work and I feel like Rafayel would be much the same. He also has things he should be doing, places to go, people to see, work to finish, and yet he’d rather slip out of work to go find you because no other place or person could ever measure up to the pleasure of seeing you. And god forbid you shoot him a text that it looks like you’ll be working late tonight. That man needs his time with you and he is getting it no matter what. 

“Hey cutie, I was just in the area, and thought I’d bring you a cup of coffee!” Rafayel enthusiastically waves as he makes his merry way over to you.

“Umm. Thanks babe…hey- I thought you were at an art event a city over?”

“Pshhh, it’s practically next door.”

“It’s…it’s like a 40 minute drive from here.” 

“Good thing I didn’t drive then.” He grins, pointing at the helicopter you’ve just now noticed is flying away. 

You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head at all the theatrics. "I see I'll be apologizing to Thomas later." You accept his coffee and slip your fingers in between his, allowing him to walk you back to your division’s office. "Thanks for the drink, baby. It was nice seeing you, even if only for a minute.”

Rafayel smiles like he’s content just to walk beside you. But he knows he didn’t fly all the way here just for a mere minute of your time. “Hey, you know, I was just thinking- the coffee shop I happened to stop by had this weird back alley behind it and I saw some guys with tiger tattoos carrying these heavy boxes. Kinda strange, isn’t it?”

Your eyes widen with recognition as you recall your briefing from this morning detailing the group of ruffians who’d stolen and tampered with a large batch of Protocores; the one thing every member of this group had in common were their tiger tattoos. “Where was this coffee shop again?”

And before you even realize he’s weaseled his way into your mission, you blink and suddenly you’re in a warehouse, looming over the infamous gang, every member bound and gagged, with barely time to recall how you’d even gotten here in the first place. And why were they already served up to you on a silver platter? These men were dangerous, cunning. That’s why Jenna had made sure to let everyone know it would be a late night. But now, here they were, all tied together in the center of the room, before it was even five o clock, like they’d been gifted to you. No, seriously, someone had put a bow on top of their heads. 

You turn to Rafayel, suspicion swirling in your mind.

He shrugs. “Just as lost as you are.”

“But you went ahead to do recon. Remember? I said let me take care of it, and you were already running three steps ahead of me. Surely you must have something to do with this.” You speak as if you already know the answer, but you don’t. You know it’s highly possible Rafayel helped you, but he couldn’t have been gone for more than a minute before he came bounding back to you to tell you there was a back entrance. With how many gang members there are, each with their own unique skill set, you’re sure there’s no way he alone took down the entire lot of them. Right?

Rafayel subtly adjusts his hand so it’s behind him, wiping a drop of blood from his knuckles on his dark pants. “Not me, cutie. I’m just your recon guy. But it’s very flattering that you think I can do so much in so little time.” He even throws in a dramatic bow to make the situation seem all the more ridiculous. 

He’s right. You’ve seen him fight, and he’s a great fighter, but there’s no way one guy took on an entire gang. You must be too hopped up on caffeine to think straight. You snap back into work mode and call in a team to escort the gang members to jail and seize all their assets. Rafayel watches from the sidelines, proud as ever.

“Whew!” You jog back to Rafayel after doling out a few commands to your fellow officers. “Sorry for the wait, love- hope you weren’t too bored.”

“Nonsense. I thought it was very entertaining -not to mention attractive- the way you bossed all those rookies around.” He gives you a wink.

You blush and change the subject. “So it looks like I won’t be home late after all, do you wanna maybe go somewhere for dinner?”

“Sure thing, cutie. Why don’t you pick a place on your phone? I’ll try anything you like. But I think I dropped my bracelet when I was sneaking around the warehouse. Lemme just do a quick lap and I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Are you sure? I can come with-”

“It’s just a silly, little bracelet; I’ll come right back. And don’t you even think about pre-paying for the meal; you know I always have you covered. Be right back!” He gives you a quick peck on the lips before sending you off towards the car in a daze. 

Once he’s sure you’re out of sight, he slips into the prison bus where the officers are temporarily holding the prisoners until they can be transferred to jail.  “I’m sure no one in here is stupid enough to try anything after our little spat earlier, but I wanted to pay you all a visit anyway in case you get any ideas about escaping. I’ve got dinner plans tonight and if they get interrupted for any reason at all, you’ll be answering to me and I won’t be as generous as I was earlier.” With one last commanding look, the devil in his eyes, he slips out of the bus like he was never there in the first place. 

Skipping over to the car, his demeanor completely changed, he sticks his head through your open window and plants a huge kiss on your cheek. “Pick a place yet, cutie? Where are we going?”

[rollofthed1ce]

y/n cookie is kidnap by cookie kidnappers and they want to get y/n cookie money or they crumble y/n cookie

What will be the ancient cookies reaction (i’m pretty sure rage, mad, and committing murder)

Pure Vanilla:

Immediately goes into panic mode, unable to find you in your hiding spots in his room.

When he finds out that cookies have taken you for ransom. 

He didn’t take it well.

we will go into a murderous rampage, causing absolutely chaos as he attempts to find you.

When he does find where you are held at, he  will “politely” as the cookies to leave so he can crumble them later

After that, except lots of cuddles and kisses when you get back to his castle. 

He will also make a massive sort of nest made of pillows and blankets in his library for the both of you. (Food and drinks are off to the side)

Hollyberry:

Now Hollyberry won’t immediately know you got kidnapped. Instead think you ran off.

But when she finds out, she skips the preparations and goes straight to hunting mode

But here is the thing: the outcome is different if she find you within haft an hour

If she does then she’ll charge straight into the poor souls that thought they’d get money

If she did… barbecue, anyone?

Either way, it ends the same. Stuck at her palace for a while and security increased. But overall, not that bad

At least it’s a welcomed prison home

Dark Cacao:

…oh boy, where to begin?

Well for starters, you royally screwed up when you even touching Y/N. But kidnapped? That’s a death sentence right there.

So after turning the Citadel from “spotless” to  “ok you had to be trying to get to this”, he does find out…

And He

Was

P   I   S   S   E   D 

Good luck to trying to stop a berserk Dark Cacao from getting those cookies absolutely mole-

After retrieving you, you two just stay cooped up in his room for a long while. Doesn’t matter how cooperative you are either him.

Golden Cheese + White Lily

Short answer:

P  R  A  Y , hope you will go to heaven