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nycbabyjoey · 7 months

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Jinkies!

NSFW 18+ Only

Contains ABDL Content

"Jeepers," Daphne exclaimed as she approached the run-down spooky building. "This place is giving me the willies."

"No one said solving this mystery would be for the faint of heart," Velma replied. "But a series of spooky disappearances in a historically haunted town just before Halloween is nothing we can't handle."

Velma and Daphne stood shoulder to shoulder outside the Mystery Machine with their flashlights armed. Mystery Incorporated had gotten a tip a few days ago about tourists going missing in the Halloween destination town of Yawning Creek, Massachusetts.

"The town gets an influx of tourism around Halloween because of the Legend of Yawning Creek," Velma had explained to the gang.

"Zoinks!" Shaggy quivered. "Is that, like, the story where that scary monster hypnotizes people to walk in the creek where they're, like, never heard from again?!"

"The very same," Velma had responded, ambivalent to Shaggy's usual fright towards any mystery that came across their desks.

It was part of the dynamic that had lead to Mystery Incorporated's overwhelming success rate of solving mysteries over the past couple of years and made them world-renowned crime stoppers. Velma was the brains behind the group, analyzing details, collecting clues, and piecing it all together to unmask the supposed "monster" as just another average person with a grievance. Daphne brought the beauty, which allowed her to get accustomed with people, discover their motives, get kidnapped... only sometimes, and help the crew trap the culprit.

The others contributed as well, but it was Velma and Daphne's strong chemistry that landed the two of them here in front of the abandoned building, following a lead they had picked up from the town historian about the disappearances.

Who could've done it? Was it Mayor Bushwell in an effort to stir even more tourism to Yawning Creek in a sick ploy for reelection? Could it be Sheriff Walker, frustrated at the surge of Halloween mischief that the town's spooky origins attracted? Or maybe even the town historian himself, Old Man Jenkins, sending the girls on a wild goose chase so that they didn't catch on to his scheme to show people the true horrors of the town's capitalized-upon history?

The pair hoped that the answers to where these missing people were could be found here - the abandoned Yawning Creek Daycare Center. It was certainly a peculiar crime scene, Velma thought. But she couldn't afford to leave one stone unturned.

"Let's split up," Daphne suggested.

"Good idea," Velma said. "That way, we can cover more ground. Try not to get kidnapped again."

"Hardy-har," Daphne mocked back.

The two went their separate ways once inside the daycare. Velma went right at the reception area and Daphne turned left.

Velma opened the door to discover a large classroom setting that she suspected could fit nearly twenty students. It was quite a big space for a preschool classroom, fitted with shared tables for all the students, a play area with a chest stuffed full of toys like firetrucks and building blocks, and a reading carpet with shelves of childrens' books behind it. Velma always had an interest in reading, even at that young age. She reminisced about sitting criss-cross applesauce on the carpet and listening to her teacher reading The Rainbow Fish for the class, stopping after each page to show all the pictures.

Velma snapped out of her nostalgic thoughts. It was all very nice, but what did any of this have to do with the missing townspeople? A vengeful mother seeking revenge for the city's decreasing options for childcare? Seems farfetched, Velma figured. I have to look for more clues.

As she made a quick motion to reinspect the classroom, Velma accidentally stumbled on an old-fashioned Farm Animal Noises Wheel, which made a sustained "Mooo!" sound, as she fell to the ground. She caught herself on her two hands and her glasses flew off, sliding across the floor to an unknown destination.

"Oh no, my glasses!" Velma bemoaned. "I can't see a thing without my glasses!"

Velma began crawling on all floors around the Pre-K classroom, attempting to feel out for her spectacles. As she felt around, she grabbed something that felt like a small wooden box. She pulled it close to her face so she could make it out with her poor vision. It was a shape-sorter toy! The one where you had to fit the different shaped pegs in the correct holes. Velma used to love them when she was a tyke! Testing her geometrical knowledge and sharpening her brain was a treat to her at that age.

Velma indulged in her nostalgia by picking up one of the square pegs and placing it in the... wait, which hole did it go in again? Velma sat on the playmat, dumbfounded as she was unable to think of the correct option. She was a genius, after all! After a moment, she tried to jam it through a circle-shaped hole, but it didn't work. She went back to her train of confusion, not noticing as a stream of drool flowed from the side of her mouth onto her bright, orange sweater.

Suddenly, Velma's vision returned as a pair of foreign hands placed her glasses onto her face for her.

"Don't worry," the person said. "You don't have to worry about thinking anymore."

Meanwhile, Daphne searched what appeared to be the infant care area. There were large changing tables and shelves full of fresh diapers. Daphne gagged at the thought of having to change diapers. Gross!

Daphne was not the one to get her hands dirty, literally or metaphorically. Even for Mystery Inc., she wasn't the one collecting clues or putting all the puzzle pieces together; that was Velma. Daphne had the people skills to balance out Velma's analytical mind.

In this abandoned daycare, those skills may not have come in handy as much, Daphne thought to herself. There was no one here and even if they're were toddlers abound, she doubted it would make for rousing conversation.

It was these isolated situations where Daphne usually found herself being kidnapped - a typical damsel in distress. But, Daphne knew she was more than that and so she was sure to be checking every corner for anyone or anything that may be lurking.

She made her way towards a sleeping area where the little ones could be tucked in for naptime. However, a realization hit Daphne - these cribs weren't that little. In fact, they were pretty large! Large enough for Daphne herself to fit in. That must be a clue, Daphne figured. She had found a clue! And not gotten kidnapped! She almost couldn't wait to go share with Velma.

Unfortunately, Daphne celebrated far too early as, all of a sudden, a pair of ropes sprung out from amidst the darkness and wrapped themselves around Daphne's hands and feet, causing her to fall to the ground.

"Eep!" Daphne shouted as she hit the cushioned floor. With a thud, Daphne began to scream, "Velmaahhh-" Her cries for help were cut short by a piece of thick, black tape that came out of nowhere and covered up her mouth.

Daphne thrashed around on the ground while her yells were muffled.

"That's a lovely outfit," a voice said from the darkness, causing Daphne to pause in fear. "But I think it's time for a change."

Daphne's eyes widened as her clothes were magically ripped off her body one by one. First, her iconic long-sleeved purple dress flew forward after tearing at the back. She felt her bra magically unclasp at the back before it flew off into the darkness, followed by her panties. She was left completely exposed by the undressing, which ended with her lime-green scarf being pulled from her neck.

Daphne screamed as the invisible force yanked on her hair, pulling her to an upright sitting position. She tried moving her head around to escape the magic's grasp, but she was helpless as it began tying and knotting her hair. Daphne couldn't make out what it was doing until the pulling stopped and two pigtails fell down on either side of her head.

Suddenly, Daphne found herself laid with her back flat against the floor again as the mysterious force grabbed her feet and pushed them up towards her head, laying her ass bare for anyone who came through the door. She felt as something was slipped under it, but she was unable to lift her head high enough to make out what it was. It felt a little like medical exam table paper on Daphne's butt, but it was thicker. Daphne squealed as her legs were dropped and the rope binding them was undone so that the strange object could be folded up in between her legs. As it was fastened together on either side of her hips, Daphne realized what it was - it was a large diaper!

Finally, the rope that was shackling Daphne's hands and the muzzle that was constricting her mouth fell to the ground. "WHAT THE FU-" Daphne shrieked with tears in her eyes, but as her mouth was open a large pink pacifier flew inside, silencing her once again.

The magic force dragged Daphne by the legs out of the sleeping area and back towards the daycare. Daphne desperately dug her nails into the carpet in an attempt to fight back, but the force was too strong and she wailed as her body was tugged back through the door.

Once she was through the door and the force let go, she turned her body over and immediately spotted Velma. Daphne would have ordinarily been humiliated with her situation - this was certainly the worst kidnapping she had found herself in yet - but she realized Velma was also dressed like a giant baby! Her orange jumper and glasses were missing, leaving her in only a diaper and pigtails. Velma had no pacifier though; in fact, she drooled from her mouth with a vacant expression in her eyes. "Dafdee!" Velma celebrated with her arms raised high in the air at the sight of her friend Daphne.

"Velma?" Daphne managed past her pacifier. "Wha happen'd to-"

Daphne's inquiry was cut short as a figure came out of the darkness behind Velma. "Forn?" Daphne managed.

It was Thorn, the friendly rocker witch from Oakhaven. "Surprised, Daphne?"

"Forn, wha aw you doin'?" Daphne lisped her way through.

Thorn used her magic to pull Daphne's pacifier into her hand at a speed so fast it made an audible pop exiting Daphne's mouth.

"Sorry baby, I didn't quite catch that," Thorn teased. "Try annunciating."

"Thorn!" Daphne yelled in frustration. "Why'd you dress us like babies? We're your friends!"

"Fwiends! Fwiends!" Velma cheered, mindlessly clapping her hands together while bouncing up and down on her padded bottom.

"Friends?" Thorn questioned in disgust. "Ugh, classic Daphne. So sure that everyone must absolutely love you! We did get along long enough to stop The Witch's Ghost, entirely thanks to me! But I'm guessing you don't even remember what you said to me after that, do you?"

Daphne shook her head.

"Really? When I asked to join Mystery, Inc.?" Thorn recalled. "You and Velma laughed in my face, saying that there wasn't room for another girl on the team. You guys boasted about how you had the 'brains' and the 'looks' covered and that I had neither to offer. You told me to go run along and play with my 'little band.'"

Daphne was stunned. "Thorn, that's not how we meant it. You took it the wrong way! Besides, you lead innocent visitors to their demise just because of some stupid vendetta against us?"

Thorn cackled. "Nobody's missing!" she revealed. "See, if you and Velma were as clever as you think you are, you would have investigated to see if anyone had gone missing instead of blindly believing some anonymous tip!"

"That was you?!" Daphne realized, eyes wide. Thorn nodded her head with a grin.

"So now you're going to transform me into some mindless bimbo like her?" Daphne cried, gesturing towards Velma who was unintelligibly making noises with her mouth like "buhbuhbuh" while rolling around on the floor in her diaper.

Thorn laughed again. "Oh Daphne, don't give yourself so much credit. I took away Velma's 'brains', but you - you already have about a grade school reading level. There's barely any 'brains' to take! No, you were the 'looks,' weren't you? Always loving your cute little outfits and believing that being the team slut was actually important to solving mysteries! You'll be in only one outfit from now on - your diaper. My spell makes it so you can't wear anything else. And you won't be able to remove it yourself."

Daphne fumed, both at the accusation that she was stupid and at the prospect of toddling around in thick diapers for the rest of her life! She pulled at the tapes, trying to rip them off to no avail.

"It's not a total loss," Thorn mocked. "You'll still be able to accessorize! They make lots of cute diapers with fairy princesses or unicorns or mermaids on them! We'll see how many men are fawning over you in that getup! I'm sure Fred will find it so hot when you tug on his ascot and ask him to change your stinky diaper!"

Tears ran down Daphne's face. "You can't do this! You ca-" Daphne was once again interrupted by the large pacifier flying into her mouth.

"That's better," Thorn said. "Now, one last spell."

Thorn snapped her fingers and Daphne immediately felt her stomach rumble. She grasped it, clenching every muscle in her body to block what was about to happen. She heard a fart escape Velma's diaper, followed by a giggle. Her counterpart was blissfully content with the spell's effects and didn't fight them, audibly unloading a mess in the backseat of her diaper. Daphne's face turned red from strain, praying to avoid the same fate. But at long last, Daphne couldn't take it and destroyed her diaper, filling it from front to back with liquid mush.

"Oh, how cute!" Thorn derided. "It smells like you babies left me two clues! Now, you two are going to change each others' dirty diapers after a quick game of 'humpies'. Then, I'll bring you two back to Shaggy and Fred where we'll introduce them to the newest member of Mystery, Inc. - me! My crime-solving intuition suspects that there may be a spot for a girl on the team after all. Even if that spot involves changing diapers and warming up bottles for this dynamic diaper duo!"

I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling kids and your Patreon!

#ab/dl #diaper caption #ab/dl caption #diaper humiliation #ab/dl girl #ab/dl fiction #ab/dl story #ab/dl story time #ab/dl babygirl

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romione-trope-fest · 2 months

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Something to Believe In

Fic Title: Something to Believe In

Author Name: voldemorts-tap-shoes/smjl

Selected Trope: Soulmates

Brief Summary: An unusual witness sparks a disagreement between Ron and Hermione about the existence of soulmates.

Word Count: 5286

Rating: M

Any Trigger Warnings: non graphic discussions of death and murder, mentions of suicide

***

Hermione hunches over the desk, her eyes skimming the familiar words for what feels like the thousandth time. Victim: Brendan Hughes. Found alone in his flat. Avada Kedavra. Nothing peculiar about the scene. No witnesses.

She can’t remember the last time she was this frustrated by a case. They’ve been working on this one for over a week with absolutely no forward progress. Any leads they had were exhausted as dead ends within forty-eight hours, so she’s sent Dean and Seamus out to do yet another canvas of the victim’s neighborhood, hoping to find something, anything they might have missed. Meanwhile, she’s back at the DMLE poring over the paltry case file, looking for any insignificant detail that may offer a clue as to what happened.

Ron returns from his coffee run and flops into his usual chair beside her. He sets two paper coffee cups on her desk, the smell of the hot beverages warring with his woodsy cologne over which is the more intoxicating scent. “Anything?”

Forgoing her usual no-caffeine-after-four-pm rule, Hermione takes a large sip of the coffee. If nothing else, letting the nutty aroma hit her nostrils might help distract her from her partner-in-crime-fighting.

“No, nothing,” Hermione replies with a sigh. She flips the case file shut and hands it to him. “Maybe you can work your magic on it. See if there’s a story in there somewhere.”

The pages flutter as Ron gives a perfunctory rifle through them. “I’ve tried. But this is seriously the most boring case ever. Even the bloke’s life was boring. Maybe he Avada’d himself just for something to do.” His blue eyes flicker up at Hermione, pursing her lips in thought, and he laughs. “You’re not really going to check his own wand, are you?”

“Well, it’s about the only thing we haven’t checked,” Hermione says defensively. “You never know.”

“Hopefully Dean and Seamus will turn something up.” Ron sets the file down and Hermione reaches for it again immediately, even though it won’t tell her anything she doesn’t already know. She scans the words again, willing them to make sense in her head. Ron, now idly twirling a quill around his fingers, seems to have abandoned all effort to do any work on the case—not that he actually works here in the first place. He’s generally more helpful than this, but they also generally have more to go on.

Hermione is about to surrender for the day as well, when the sound of heavy, booted footsteps alerts her to someone approaching her desk. “Detective Granger?”

She looks up to find one of the junior Aurors approaching her desk and does a quick glance at the shiny badge pinned to the younger man’s uniform. “Yes, Auror Casey? How can I help you?”

Casey motions to the far side of the room, where a witch about her age is waiting. She’s bundled up in a heavy coat and several scarves, though the weather is mild today, and dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief. “I think you’ll need to talk to this woman.”

“Auror Casey,” Hermione starts, trying to temper the irritation in her tone. It’s not his fault that she isn’t making any progress on her case, but the interruption isn’t going to help. “They’re still teaching you how to take witness statements in the Academy, I presume?”

“Of course.” The young Auror straightens his spine as if to prove his merit. “But she, uh…she says she witnessed that murder you’re working on.”

Ron, who had been tipped back in his chair staring at the ceiling, sits up abruptly, and the legs of the desk chair make a resounding clatter against the tile floor. “That’s great news!” he exclaims. “I mean, not for her, of course, but you know.”

Hermione shoots him a brief but withering look before she turns back to Casey and lowers her voice. “None of our evidence suggests that there were any witnesses to the crime. Are you sure she’s credible?”

She’s never one to turn up her nose at a lead, but Hermione also has no patience for wasting DMLE resources on false claims. For a witness to suddenly come out of the woodwork, she can’t help but be suspicious.

“We haven’t released any details to the press,” Casey replies. “So if nothing else, she knew our victim.”

Hermione sighs but shifts her gaze back to the woman and offers a reassuring smile. It’s not like she has any other work to do on this case, anyway. “Could you set up Ms…?”

“Davis,” Casey supplies. “Lizzie Davis.”

“Set her up in interrogation, please. We’ll be there in a minute.”

While Auror Casey escorts their new witness into one of the interrogation rooms, Hermione gathers up her notes and some fresh parchment to prepare for questioning. When she turns to Ron to ask if he’s ready to go, the amused look on his face stops her short. “What?”

“This is the least excited I’ve ever seen you about a lead,” he teases. “What’s wrong?”

Ron knows her entirely too well. It’s a wonder she’s able to hide anything from him anymore. “I suppose this case has just brought out my inner pessimist.”

“Inner?” he snorts, and Hermione narrows her eyes at him..

“The whole thing has been one giant dead-end,” she huffs. “My gut is just telling me this will be more of the same.” Hermione shrugs and gets to her feet. “But let’s go find out.”

***

The conversation begins the same way Hermione always starts her witness interviews, with basic information about the person in front of her. But she only gets one question further—how do you know the victim, still an easy one—before she’s completely thrown. Her pen hovers over the parchment, halted from writing the answer as she stares back at the woman across the table. “I beg your pardon?”

“He’s my soulmate,” Lizzie repeats, but the words don’t make any more sense the second time.

“You mean you were involved with Mr. Hughes?” Hermione clarifies. “Romantically?”

Lizzie shakes her head, her eyes wide. “Oh, no, we never met.”

Never met? How in Merlin’s name would this woman have any idea that their victim is her soulmate if they never even met? More importantly, how is she supposed to have witnessed his murder? Hermione sighs heavily. This is a waste of her time, just like she was afraid of. “Ms. Davis—”

Before she can get the words out to conclude the interview and offer her opinion on wasting law enforcement resources, Ron’s hand darts out under the table and squeezes her leg just above the knee, dumbfounding her into silence. The witness momentarily forgotten, Hermione turns her head to gape at Ron, but his attention is elsewhere.

“That’s terrible,” he says sympathetically to Lizzie, leaning forward to offer the woman a fresh handkerchief with his other hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It is,” she agrees, taking the kerchief as a fresh round of sniffles surfaces. “Thank you.”

While Lizzie swipes at her teary eyes again, Ron looks pointedly at Hermione. Her shock at his unexpected touch has given way to indignation, and she merely quirks an eyebrow back at him. He’s on his own if he wants to play good cop to her bad cop.

Taking the hint—and finally removing his hand from her leg, leaving it cold—Ron turns back to their witness. “Had you been aware of your connection to Brendan for very long?”

“Brendan,” Lizzie sighs with longing, and Hermione forces herself to hold back an eye roll. “No, I don’t think I realized it until he was gone. But then I just knew.”

“You felt his absence?”

Lizzie nods, clutching a hand to her heart. Ron slides the parchment and pen out from underneath Hermione’s clenched fingers to jot down a note before continuing his questioning. He’s been with her—working with her, she corrects herself—long enough now to conduct a decent interrogation without her guidance, but it’s hard to consider it a worthwhile contribution to the case when the person they’re interviewing is clearly delusional.

“You told Auror Casey that you witnessed the murder,” Ron prods, bringing them back on topic. “Did you have plans to meet Brendan?”

“Meet?” Lizzie asks, puzzled, then repeats, “No, like I said, we never met.”

Ron shoots a questioning look at Hermione as he touches the corner of the case file. She gives him a brief nod in answer, prompting him to reveal, “He was killed in his flat.”

“Yes.” She seems neither surprised nor confused by this fact.

“So…you were there?”

“No. But I saw it.” Lizzie taps her temple with a slender finger.

It’s clear that despite Ron’s silent request to continue the interview, he’s struggling to make sense of what they’re being told. Hermione can practically hear him in her head as he turns to her again with a pleading look. A little help here?

Hermione smirks back at him. She’s your witness now.

Ron takes a deep breath and slides the parchment back to Hermione, who picks up the pen again, ready to take notes on the off chance that Lizzie says anything worth retaining. Ron folds his arms against the table, the muscles in his forearms belying a tension that isn’t evident in the patience of his tone. “Let’s start at the beginning,” he suggests softly to Lizzie. “Why don’t you take me through the last two weeks?”

They spend another half hour with Lizzie Davis despite the interview being filled with increasingly ridiculous claims, and Hermione is not at all sorry to see the lift doors close behind her. She finally lets her eyes roll skyward as she turns to head back to the office. “What an absurd waste of time,” she grumbles as they walk. “Hopefully Dean and Seamus had better luck.”

“What are you talking about?” Ron counters. “She told us who the killer is!”

Hermione stops and glares up at Ron. And here she was, thinking what a good job he had done with a very difficult witness. “You’re not serious.” Ron just blinks at her, and she folds her arms tight across her chest. “Mark Richards—whoever he is—is not a killer. And do you know how I know that? Because Lizzie Davis did not witness Brendan Hughes’s murder.”

Ron puts his hands on his hips, readying his stance for an argument. “Even if she just made up a name to give us, she knew how the victim was killed.”

“He was killed with a killing curse,” Hermione reminds him. “It’s not exactly an earth-shattering guess. And you said it yourself, this case is boring. The crime scene was boring. The details are boring. We could drag any person in here off the street, and they could tell us what happened with as much accuracy as Lizzie did.”

“But it’s not a story for her,” Ron insists. “She knew because they’re soulmates. She felt it.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, of all the ridiculous—there’s no such thing as soulmates.” Hermione starts walking again, in the opposite direction of the DMLE this time with her new target being the coffee cart in the Atrium. She’s going to be awake half the night at this rate, but she needs something stronger than tea to deal with Ron’s outlandish theories.

“No such—” Ron cuts himself off, looking flabbergasted as he follows her. “How can you say that?”

“Honestly, you’ve known me for how long now?” Hermione pauses to order her usual hazelnut coffee from the witch at the cart. “You can’t be shocked by this.”

“I can and I will be,” Ron replies indignantly. He orders a triple espresso, and Hermione shudders at the thought of all that caffeine. “You really don’t believe in soulmates?”

“Oh, come on, you know I don’t believe in Divination and all that rubbish,” she says. “And soulmates? The idea that there’s just one single person out there for everyone—that your match, the person you’re meant to spend your life with, has been predetermined for you—that doesn’t sound crazy?”

“I’m just saying, we’re surrounded by magic.” Ron gestures around them—at the fountain that flows without plumbing, at the interdepartmental memos fluttering past every which way, at the coffee pot that pours itself. “Soulmates is just as crazy an idea as anything else, isn’t it?”

“This from the man who I have seen roll his eyes on multiple occasions about Rose’s mum’s research,” Hermione points out. “So, sure, I’ll give you that one. Soulmates are at least as crazy an idea as the crumple-horned—what is it?”

“Snorkack.”

“Yes, that. And just as likely to exist.”

“So, not at all, you’re saying?”

“Correct.”

They take their drinks from the cart and start back toward the DMLE. “I’ll be the first to admit that Luna has some…interesting pursuits,” Ron concedes, and Hermione snickers. “But soulmates! It’s the magic of love! How can you not believe in that?”

“Okay, let’s say they are real,” Hermione ventures. She’s not sure why she’s even entertaining this argument other than to pass the time back to the Auror offices, though she always enjoys sparring with Ron. “Do you believe everybody has one?”

Ron shrugs. “Nah.”

“Really?” That surprises her. She’s not well-versed in the finer details of Soulmate theory, but the general concept seems to lend itself to a sort of universality. Why wouldn’t everyone have a soulmate if anyone had one? “Then what’s the point?”

“Okay, it’s like Seers. Our Divination professor at Hogwarts—fuck, you would’ve hated her—she made, like, three real prophecies in her life. Real ones—they’re downstairs if you want to go check.” Hermione rolls her eyes again but motions for him to continue. “But then, she was always predicting that Harry was going to die and shit, and obviously none of those ever came true.”

Hermione laughs at the absurdity of his explanation. “I’m sorry, are you trying to explain why soulmates are real by telling me what absolute nonsense Divination is?”

“Divination is only ninety percent nonsense. That’s the point.”

“It’s a terrible point.”

“Okay.” Ron stops and snags Hermione’s elbow, pulling her around to face him. “Where do you draw the line, then? Soulmates can’t be real, but your gut has magical properties?”

“My gut was right about that interview,” Hermione argues as she shakes out of Ron’s grasp and starts walking again. “It was absolutely a waste of time.”

“We don’t know that yet. You haven’t even looked up this Mark Richards character.”

“We don’t even know he exists. Honestly, it’s more likely that Ms. Davis is our killer and she told that story to throw us off.”

“So, killer comes out of hiding and waltzes into the DMLE without a care in the world to lie to the Aurors about a crime she committed?” Ron rolls his eyes as he holds open the department door for her. “And you say my theories are ridiculous.”

“They are, and I’ll stand by that assessment forever.”

Dean and Seamus are waiting back at the office, and they both look up as Ron and Hermione enter. “What are you two arguing about now?” Dean quips.

“Do you think soulmates are real?” Ron fires back in answer.

“No,” Seamus says immediately. “But if Romilda asks, I never said that. She’s into all that Witch Weekly mumbo-jumbo.”

“‘Witch Weekly mumbo-jumbo’,” Hermione echoes, her tone gloating as she looks at Ron. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.” Ron glares back at her but sits down at Hermione’s desk to face her two partners. “Did you two find anything on the canvas?”

“Yeah, actually.” Dean opens his notebook and Hermione is immediately at attention. “We met one of our victim’s neighbors—he wasn’t home the last time we went door-knocking, so we must have missed him. Anyway, Mr. Richards said that—”

“Wait,” Hermione interrupts. Ron looks positively delighted, and it makes her insides squirm. “What is the neighbor’s name?”

“Richards,” Dean repeats. “Mark Richards.”

Hermione’s head spins. What are the chances?

“Go ahead.” Ron pokes her in the ribs, grinning annoyingly at her. “Say it’s just a coincidence.”

“It’s a common name,” she retorts instead, and Ron snorts indignantly.

“And Lizzie Davis is just a lucky guesser, I suppose.”

Seamus raises his hand as if they’re in school, and the confusion on his face matches Dean’s. “Who’s Lizzie Davis?”

“Nobody,” Hermione says firmly as Ron answers, “Our victim’s soulmate.”

Dean’s eyebrows knit together as he slowly closes his notebook again. “Maybe you two should fill us in on your afternoon first,” he suggests.

Ron, still smirking triumphantly, motions for Hermione to answer. She heaves a sigh and explains, “A woman came into the office claiming to have witnessed the murder. She told us this whole silly story about how she and Brendan were soulmates but they never met, and she saw his murder in her mind because of their ‘ethereal reciprocity’.”

Dean and Seamus both erupt in laughter, and Ron’s face falls. “You, too?” he questions, then sighs dramatically. “I’m surrounded by skeptics.”

“Okay, wait, but how does Mark Richards fit in?” Dean asks once they calm down. “Does this woman know him or something?”

“She, um—” Hermione can hardly bring herself to admit it, but it is awfully odd that their supposed witness could have pulled the name out of thin air, common or not. “She seems to think he’s our killer.”

Despite the disbelief among them, Dean and Seamus both adopt a more serious expression. “We’ll see what else we can find on him,” Dean says. “Just in case.”

“You said you talked to him today, though?” Hermione prompts. “What did you find out?”

“Apparently our victim had gotten himself into a bit of gambling trouble with our old friend Ludo,” Seamus explains. “He borrowed some Galleons from Mark to pay off his debt.”

“Let’s see if Harry will put in a word with Mr. Bagman. Maybe Ludo wasn’t the only person Brendan owed money to.” The detectives scatter at Hermione’s instructions, and Ron props his hand on his chin to look expectantly at her. “Oh, stop,” she scolds. “I’m sure the neighbor is just a coincidence.”

Ron chuckles. “Mm-hmm. Just because you can’t explain something—”

“Yet,” Hermione interrupts. “I can’t explain it yet. But there has to be a connection with Lizzie Davis.” Ron opens his mouth to speak again, but Hermione jumps ahead of him. “A real connection. One we can prove.”

“Who needs proof when it’s such a great story?”

“Well, that’s why you’re the novelist and I’m the detective.”

Hermione walks over to Dean’s desk and picks up his notebook to flip through his notes from the afternoon. Ron’s brow furrows as he thinks, turning more serious as he watches her read. “Money is always an odd motive to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, how does our killer expect to recover the debt from a dead person?”

“Fair point. I’m sure I’ll regret asking, but do you have a different theory?”

“Mark Richards is not the killer, but he’s involved with Lizzie Davis. Or was. Things ended badly, and so she decides to frame him for her true love’s murder.”

Hermione frowns. “And the actual killer is…?”

Ron shrugs, unbothered by the absence of this detail. “I dunno.”

“Why is Lizzie still mad at Mark about their breakup if her soulmate is someone else?”

“I dunno.”

“A brilliant theory, as always,” Hermione quips, and Ron sticks his tongue out at her.

“Have you got a better idea?” he retorts, his tone teasing.

“Sadly, no.” She replaces Dean’s notebook and grabs her coat off the back of her chair. “And on that absurd note, I think it’s time to call it a day. See you tomorrow?”

“C’mon, a magical love triangle? Now that is a classic motive.” Ron grins at her. “Just think about it.”

Hermione rolls her eyes as she heads for the Floo. “Goodnight, Ron.”

***

Rather than go straight home, Hermione decides to stop at Flourish and Blott’s before picking up dinner. The bookstore has an extensive section on Divination but relatively few books about soulmates. It seems like even within one of the most speculative branches of magic, the concept isn’t widely accepted. The lack of available reading material on the subject puts Hermione’s mind at ease a little. She doesn’t deal well with the unknown. She’s good with facts and evidence. And if there isn’t any evidence to prove the existence of soulmates, then she’s bolstered in her distrust of Lizzie Davis.

But as much as she doesn’t want to believe the how, there’s no denying that Lizzie knows something about their victim and the murder. It’s impossible that she was there—by her own account, she was vacationing in Tuscany during the entire week of the murder, and the Portkey logs corroborated her whereabouts—so she must have learned of Brendan Hughes’s death by some other means. Possibly even from the killer.

She’ll have to see what else they can find out about their apparently lovestruck witness. Like she said to Ron earlier, there has to be a connection. And an explanation. One that doesn’t involve ridiculous notions of the farthest-flung outlying beliefs of magic.

Until she finds it, though, Hermione is stuck with the inexplicable. She’s never believed in any of this stuff, even before her mother’s death turned her into the frosty cynic that all her friends and coworkers know. It always sounded so ridiculous, like something out of a child’s fairytale or a terrible romantic comedy on the movie channel. Then again, she never would have believed that magic was real either, if she weren’t living it. Maybe Ron is right.

Hermione scoffs at herself. Her thoughts always seem to drift back to him; maybe there’s something to that. Hand-in-hand with the idea of soulmates is the concept of fate, destiny. She had been working in the Auror department with Harry, Ron’s best friend in the world, for nearly two years before the copycat murders forced their paths to cross. Harry could have introduced them any time, but they only met by chance. What was that if not fate?

Not that she and Ron are soulmates—or even some less fantastical version of it. They haven’t even—she can’t bring herself to admit that she has anything but friendly feelings for him, and even those were a very slow thaw from the frozen facade she gave him at first. Every once in a while, she thinks that maybe he’s grappling with the same internal conflict. But if he is, he’s never acted on it. And if he had feelings for her, why wouldn’t he? Act on it, that is.

He could have—and has had, according to Witch Weekly—any woman he wants, though his appearance in the gossip pages has decreased significantly since they started working together. If he wanted more than their current partnership, Hermione would know.

Maybe that’s the problem with her lackluster love life. Soulmates are real, and she just hasn’t met hers yet. The thought releases an audible chuckle, and Hermione slides the book back into place on the shelf. How ridiculous.

Filled with a renewed sense of determination after a good night’s sleep, Hermione arrives early to the DMLE the next morning, surprised to find the office quiet. It’s not unusual for her to be in before Dean and Seamus—and definitely before Ron—but she would have thought given everything that happened yesterday, they might have wanted to get a jump on things.

Maybe they’re already out in the field. The light is on in the Head Auror’s office, so Hermione makes her way across the room to say hello and check in. Harry has his head bent over a case file—hers, it appears—but he looks up as she enters. “Morning, Hermione,” Harry greets her. “I was just about to owl you.”

“Have we had news about the Hughes case?” she asks excitedly as she sits across from him. “Did you speak to Ludo?”

“I did, but the case is closed. So you can take the day off, if you want.”

“Closed?” Hermione blinks in surprise. “How?”

“Well, Mr. Hughes’s gambling debt was a problem, but only for him. Padma’s ruling it a suicide.”

“You’re kidding.” She almost forgot about Ron’s quip yesterday afternoon suggesting just that before they met Lizzie Davis. “But it wasn’t his wand that we found at the scene.”

“Not his Ministry-registered wand,” Harry concedes. “But Padma checked the spell signature against his wand. He’s definitely the one who cast the AK.”

Harry hands her the case file, with Padma’s forensic report on top. Hermione reads over the test results as Ron’s voice sounds from down the hall, carrying easily across the empty office.

“Okay, I thought about it all night, and I’ve got a new theory. There’s not a huge dragon population in Italy, but they could definitely be using Tuscany as a stopping point along a more prolific smuggling route. Lizzie Davis doesn’t necessarily strike me as the courier type, but I can owl Charlie if you want, and—what?” Ron appears in the doorway halfway through his diatribe but stops short as he takes in Harry’s raised eyebrows.

“Looks like your first theory was spot-on,” Hermione tells him as she hands the file back to Harry to finish. “It was a suicide, after all.”

“Oh.” Ron frowns. “But what about Lizzie? And Mark Richards?”

Hermione shrugs. “I guess their illicit love triangle will have to remain a mystery.”

“But—well, can’t you get her on making false statements or something? It’s so unsatisfying when a case ends without an arrest.”

“So you admit that she was lying about being Brendan’s soulmate?” Hermione teases.

“Not about that, but she obviously didn’t witness his murder if he wasn’t murdered.”

Harry smirks. “We could, yeah. Hermione, you’re the lead on this case. Do you want to press charges on Lizzie Davis?”

“If I never see that woman again, it will be too soon.” Hermione rolls her eyes and brushes past Ron to leave the office. “Come on,” she says, tugging at his sleeve. “We can drown your disappointment in a plate of bacon and eggs.”

“Oh, now that’s not fair,” Ron complains, though he follows her without hesitation. “You know I can’t turn down breakfast.”

Once they’re settled in the Muggle diner across the street and Ron has ordered half the menu, the conversation naturally turns back to their now-closed case. “This one is going to haunt me, I just know it,” Ron says dramatically. “Lizzie Davis accused someone of murder. I feel like that deserves a little more digging. Even if there wasn’t actually a murder.”

“Do you really want me to press charges on her?” Hermione asks as she sips at her tea. “With everything she said, I’m inclined to believe she’s less a criminal mastermind and more so just mentally unstable.”

“Because you’d have to be mentally unstable to believe in soulmates?” Ron challenges.

“To be fair, I’ve known you were crazy since the day I met you, so your belief in soulmates doesn’t really move the needle.”

Ron smirks at her, and Hermione is hit with a feeling of deja vu. She likes to think she’s gotten to know Ron fairly well over the past two years, but the look he’s giving her reminds her of the early days of their partnership when he was always three steps ahead of her, and his next words confirm it. “I never said I believe in soulmates.”

“You—yes, you did.” As Hermione plays back their conversation from yesterday, though, she can’t pinpoint where he actually said it. He challenged her beliefs, and argued on behalf of Lizzie Davis’s, but not once did he admit to his own. Ron doesn’t even bother to contradict her now, just waits while she comes to the conclusion on her own. “You don’t believe in soulmates?”

“No.” Ron shrugs and reaches for the little bin of sugar packets, pulling out a handful and dumping them all into his coffee without even tasting it first.

“Then why were you arguing with me so much yesterday?” She knows the answer, of course: it’s just what they do. Finding out that they share this non-belief, though, has her more confused than ever.

“You’ve known me for how long now?” Ron shoots back, echoing Hermione’s question from yesterday. The rhythmic clinking of the spoon against the ceramic coffee mug as Ron stirs in his sugar makes Hermione grit her teeth in annoyance, but he misunderstands the gesture. “You’re not seriously mad at me, are you?” Hermione reaches across the table to still his hand, and he flashes her a sheepish grin as he sets the spoon aside. “Sorry.”

“So all the things you said yesterday—about Divination, and the ‘magic of love’, and crumple-horned snorkacks—you were just messing with me?”

“Not all of it. I believe in love.”

A snort escapes Hermione’s lips. “Has that line ever actually worked?”

“It’s not a line.”

As Ron lifts the coffee mug to his lips, Hermione searches his face for any sign that he’s once again taking the mickey, but finds none. Two years ago, when she met the presumed playboy seated across from her, she might not have believed that statement. But despite the—relatively few, compared to his reputation—women that have flitted briefly in and out of his life in that timeframe, Hermione doesn’t think she’s ever seen Ron Weasley in love.

Taking advantage of Hermione’s silence, he continues, “It’s all around you if you know where to look.” Ron tilts his head toward the counter, and Hermione turns just in time to see the waitress tuck an engagement ring back into the pocket of her apron with a fond expression before ducking back into the kitchen. At the end of the counter, an elderly couple are sharing a plate of pancakes, and Hermione smiles at them before turning back to Ron.

“There’s nothing magical about that, though.”

Ron chuckles. “If you don’t think so, you’ve never been in love.”

She hasn’t, but she’s not going to tell him that. She’s definitely not going to tell him how close she’s coming to falling in love now. “Have you?” she deflects, then immediately regrets it. She’s never given much scrutiny to Ron’s romantic pursuits, and she’s not sure how close she can get without getting burned. This current conversation feels dangerously close to the flames.

He lifts his coffee mug to his lips again, obscuring his expression so that all she can see are his intense blue irises over the rim. “Once.” He doesn’t offer any further details, and she doesn’t press. When he lowers the mug back to the table, he rotates it slowly between his hands, and Hermione finds herself entranced by the motion. “You have to at least believe in it, though, don’t you?” Ron asks, both of them staring at the dark brown liquid.

Her internal monologue from the bookstore last night floats back through her mind, mixing in with the present discussion. “In theory, I suppose.”

Ron laughs, breaking the tension of the moment. “‘In theory’,” he repeats teasingly, “listen to you.” The waitress reappears then and sets several steaming plates between them, but other than sliding a plate of toast to sit in front of Hermione, Ron ignores the food for a moment. “You know you can’t prove everything, Hermione,” he says, more serious than perhaps she’s ever seen him. “Soulmates aside, don’t you ever just feel like something is right?”

This. Us. You.

“Sometimes,” she says instead. “But I don’t always trust it.”

“You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Trust yourself.” Ron tucks into his breakfast and then shoots her a wink across the table. “And believe in a little bit of magic.”

#submission #romione trope fest #soulmates

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oculiaperticlausi · 6 months

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fright fest — open

I heard it's Daniela Carvalho.

Five words.

All it took was five words to shatter his entire world.

At first he had refused to believe it, racing to the scene right as the crime unit arrived. He threw himself at Jake, pleading to just... see. As if all the air would come flooding back because it wouldn't be her face looking up at him, it wouldn't be... her face. Yet, it was. He sobbed. Uncontrollably. Something he had never done in his entire life and all he could do was be grateful, the detective stood in front of him to make sure no one else could see. He swore Jake even muttered to some of the workers to give him a minute. How could he let the confession die on the tip of his tongue and then watched her walk away from him? How can he live with knowing if he had said those three words out loud that she would still be here and not in the back of the van that drove away twenty minutes ago.

Twenty minutes ago.

That was the last time he saw her. He sits on the curb, the flashing red and blue lights driving away from the scene as if... they didn't just rip his heart out and take it with them. He looks down at his hands, rubbing them together as his jaw clenches. His phone is vibrating against the rocks next to him, each sound jolts the hope, the hope her name will pop up on his screen one more time. He knows if he turns the phone around that they will be talking about her as if she wasn't a person, a woman... the love of his fucking life. He closes his eyes, a few tears sliding down his cheeks. His eyes open after a second to spot a pair of shoes in front of him. He wants to tell them to fuck off but he knows if a single word leaves him, his voice will crack.

#atticus mcclain — threads.#verse — marina murders.#marina:starter #marina:frightfest

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gracethyomen · 5 months

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"Complicated"

Now things are starting to get to where we want them. Some Mattalie drabbles in this one, including Matt being a major simp, and just a little creepy.

Summary: Nat gets chatty when the gin comes out, and Team Disaster continues to disaster-law. Matt is a bit of a creeper in this one but not too much, and he doesn't do it with bad intentions.

Warnings: Talk about death, mention of assault, mention of suicide, mention of corruption. Language, mutual pining, catholicism, Matt being a human disaster, Natalie also being a human disaster, but slightly better dressed (sorry Matt).

Nat pressed the stop button on the recording machine with a deep sigh as Karen tried in vain to stop Matt from making her stay.

"We can protect ourselves, Ms. Page." Matt was insisting, standing with his hands on his narrow hips. Foggy followed, pushing his chair back to take Matt's side with a sympathetic look.

"No, you can't!" Karen insisted, hands shaking. "Not from them." Matt and Karen went back and forth a few more times before Natalie sighed and stood as well.

"She can stay with me." She said firmly, "Just for tonight." She added, raising a hand and adding an edge to her tone when she noticed Matt's mouth open to interject. "Until we can figure something out. She'll be safe there."

Karen walked out of the adjoined bathroom in the kitchen, using one of Nat's green hand towels to wring out her hair.

"Thanks again for letting me stay." She murmured, sitting down at one of the rickety chairs next to the card table she called a dining room table.

"Don't mention it." Nat said offhandedly, peeling her blouse off and sighing loudly, pulling a bottle of liquor off the shelf.

Clad just in a bra, stockings and a mini skirt, she plunked down at the chair opposite Karen with a soft groan.

What she didn't know was that about twelve feet above her, there was a man perched on the fire escape above their heads. Wearing a black mask.

"Karen," Nat started, and Matt could hear the soft tinkling of her fingers unscrewing the bottle cap. "Can I ask you one last question? I just can't stop thinking about... tonight." The rustle of her hair as she shook her head, pushing the scent of her vanilla and bourbon perfume into the air.

"Yeah, sure," Karen breathed. "As long as you give me some of that." He assumed she was talking about the alcohol. He could just pick up the scent over the cozy smells of Natalie's apartment. Gin. English was his guess. There was the soft sound of Karen tipping the bottle back and her throat working the liquid down. Then Natalie started talking.

"I just-" She sighed, and he could hear her soft sound of pain and the creak of her elbows on the table. She was rubbing her temples again. Headaches. "Here's what I don't understand. Say I'm the man in charge of the pension funds and I find out one of my secretaries has discovered my illicit activities." Silence, only their breathing. "To make matters worse she's now telling people about said activity. Which I obviously can't have. So I decide to take action. Why don't I kill you?" She asked softly, her tone so at odds with the nature of the question.

"They tried." Karen said, matter-of-fact.

"The second time." Natalie pointed out, and he tried not to think about the sound of her mouth as she took another sip of the gin. The shape her lips must have made. The swell of her breasts above the cups of her bra since she'd taken off her shirt. "In the jail. But the first time... The first time they let you live. Why? What were they trying to do? Frame you?" Nat shook her head again, lifting one hand to touch her temple once more. "Now, the second time. Maybe that's a change of plans. Something doesn't go their way... Something about the crime scene... Whatever. Then two lawyers show up out of the blue before they can get to you. So they figure maybe you hang yourself in your cell and this all goes away."

"Okay...?" Karen leaned forward, probing for an answer.

"Just think about it. That first time they weren't trying to kill you. Discredit you? Scare you? Obviously. But not kill you. They'd only keep you alive if you have something they want. The only thing I can think about is that Union Allied pension file."

Karen's heart started beating faster.

"Did you keep that file?" Natalie finally asked. Not accusatory or rude, simply curious.

"No."

Natalie nodded, fingers twisting around the neck of the bottle. “Okay. Thank you.” She stood, going to the linens closet to find some sheets for Karen to put on the couch.

“For what?” Karen asked tentatively, wrapping her arms around herself at the table.

“For being honest with me.” Natalie called, coming back with a bundle of dark green fabric. “Not many people do that these days.”

Karen nodded slowly, biting her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yeah, what?” Nat breezed, tucking the fitted shit around the arms of her thrifted sofa haphazardly.

“So what’s the deal with you and Matt?” Karen stood from the table, wandering to the adjacent living room and help Natalie with the sheets.

“What do you mean?” Nat tried to act indifferent, unfolding an old throw blanket from the pile of bedding she’d gathered.

“Its just…” Karen sighed. “It seems like he-“

“There’s nothing between me and Matt.” Natalie stopped fussing with the sheets and turned around, something vulnerable and guarded in her eyes. “Let’s leave it at that. Please.” Karen nodded sheepishly.

Matt waited for a change in her heartbeat. Natalie’s. But it was already beating so fast he couldn’t be sure of any changes based on what she had said.

As the silence fell while they got ready to sleep, Matt dropped his head, unsure of what to call the different emotions sitting on his chest.

Long after Nat had finished her nightly prayers… After a few minutes of listening to Natalie’s breathing even out, long after they’d gone to sleep, Matt stood and made his way off the roof of Natalie’s apartment building.

24 hours and a lot of headaches later, Natalie typed up the summary of the case on her laptop, making sure all action involving Karen's case was documented. Inside, she was still reeling. Less than 48 hours after finding the woman covered in blood in a Hell's Kitchen precinct she's working as a secretary for Nelson and Murdock.

"Hey, I was wondering if you could email Hoffman and ask for a copy of Karen's arrest and release papers, please?" Matt asked, entering the office near-silently.

Natalie nodded to herself, not looking up from the computer. "Yeah, sure thing." She assured, masking the confusion and maybe jealousy turning in her gut.

"You okay?" He asked without looking at her, stripping off his suit jacket and shoving the sleeves of his shirt haphazardly up his arms.

"Yeah, just a headache. I'm fine." She shrugged, continuing her typing.

"You get a lot of headaches?"

Natalie sighed. "Yeah, no shit." She snapped, immediately regretting her words. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Matt... I don't know where that came from." She dropped her head into her hands, sighing out loud. "I just-"

"Hey," A hand plunked onto her shoulder, squeezing gently. "Don't stress. I get it, its been a long day. You've got a lot on your plate."

"I know, I just-" She sniffed. "I don't want to snap at you, I don't. Things have just been..." She pushed her tongue into her cheek, shaking her head lightly.

"Wanna talk about it?"

She pushed out a breathy, humorless laugh. "Matt, you don't want to hear about my family drama..."

"I do." He insisted, gently pulling her chair away from her desk so he could sit on it in front of her, blocking the view of the offending laptop. "Keeping all this to yourself isn't healthy, and it sure isn't helpful. I need you on your game, but more importantly, I want to make sure you're okay." His words were so sincere it brought tears to her eyes.

"I missed my niece's black belt ceremony yesterday." She whispered thickly, trying to swallow the knot in her throat. "She wanted me to be there and I missed it. She cried about it after, I just found out today." Matt didn't say anything, didn't condemn her and console her... Just listened. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand quickly, trying to pull herself together. "My sister-in-law. She was supposed to text me the date and time. She, uh, she never did." She choked on a sob. "My niece texted me this morning asking if she did something wrong. To upset me." She gestured to herself incredulously. "She's thirteen."

"It's not your fault," Matt murmured softly, head tilted down towards the floor. "What your sister-in-law does, you can't control that."

"I know that." She agreed, "Deep down, I know that. It's just-" She swallowed. "She lost her dad in 2012, and her mom works too much. She tries to provide for her. She only has so many people she can count on, and she thought I was one of them."

"You still are."

“I just…” She closed her eyes, “She’s all I have left of Derek.” Her hands dug into each other, fingers twisting. “I never got to fix… what was between us. I don’t know why but I always thought I could make up for it with her.” She looked up at Matt again, fighting new tears when she caught the sympathetic expression on his face.

“You…” Matt stood from her desk, opening his arms to offer a hug. “Are one of the most selfless, kind, and caring people I’ve ever met.” Fighting against her more logical thoughts she stood and stepped into his arms, wrapping hers around him. “This wasn’t your fault. Your niece is lucky to have you.”

For a moment she just stood there, letting him hug her until the ache in her chest became too much to bear, and she stepped back.

“Thank you, Matt.” She whispered, clearing her throat and looking away. “You’re a good friend.”

“I try to be.” He shrugged, picking up his cane from the table and tossing his jacket over his arm. “Get home safe, okay?”

She sniffed. “Yeah, yeah, I will.” She stuttered, watching him leave. The minute the door closed she tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling. “You’re pathetic.” She whispered to herself, dropping her head and pulling her laptop closer again. Opening a window to email Hoffman.

a/n: little short one for now while I work on when things start to get interesting. Thanks to everybody who liked the masterlist! I hope you guys enjoy this story.

As per usual this series is dedicated to @abucketofweird their comments are the reason this is posted lol. You’re a sweetheart.

If you liked this installment it’d mean a lot if you thought about leaving a note or even following for more of these two. Have a good day/night whatever time it is.

- Sybil :)

#matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #marvel #matt murdock x oc #matt murdock x ofc #daredevil x ofc #daredevil x oc #daredevil x reader #daredevil #matt murdock #matthew murdock

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quietwingsinthesky · 4 months

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Sending hugs always!

Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm. Samwena!

Please and thank you!

prefacing this with the fact that i am so enamored with the concept of stanford era!sam/rowena. he deserves to get a little corrupted by her <3 anyway, I hope this is a fun read :)

There’s a baby hunter on her trail.

Of course she knows from the moment he picks up her scent. Hunters aren’t subtle men. She wonders if he ever figured out that she wasn’t there to talk to him on the edges of crime scenes purely by curious coincidence. She’s sure his suspicious hackles got raised, if not the second or third time, than the fourth, when Rowena got there before he did (and about three hours after she’d left the place to begin with, an unpaid debt reclaimed in a bloody but spectacular fashion.)

It’s not like she was trying very hard to hide. Rowena wants badly to be found by this one. She can’t resist overly baiting the trap.

When Sam follows her home, gun-toting and full of righteous anger, she’s ready for him. She’s well-dressed for the occasion, after noting exactly where his eyes lingered during their hushed chats speculating about the nature of the crimes he wouldn’t let slip he thought were more unnatural than they seemed and she teased with details only she could know about from committing them. When Sam sees her, his eyes dip first to the deep cut of her dress, and after a few seconds where his lips part and the tips of his ears go pink, he points his gun right there, aiming for her heart.

“Samuel,” she says. Part of her can’t help preening with pride for how easily he found her, even if she was helping. She’d thought it might take another week at least, but he’s gone beyond all expectation. “Why don’t you sit next to me?” She pats the empty space on the couch beside her, which, while enough to fit him, won’t give him any space to himself, just how she wants him. She drags her eyes over him approvingly. Why shouldn’t she have such easy access to him?

Sam doesn’t budge. Stubborn boy that he is. He is incandescent with rage that won’t do him a lick of good should Rowena simply wave her hand. A knife brought to a gun fight is still more effective than a gun to a witch fight.

“I’m going to stop you before you hurt anyone else,” Sam says. There’s the hunter in him, bullheaded to the end. Rowena feels her mouth pinch, her eyes narrow, and the most satisfying thing in the world is seeing Sam’s expression twitch, like her disapproval means something to him and he doesn’t want to let it show.

“I’m already finished. Be a dear, and put the gun down.” Sam ignores her request. She expected nothing else. She smiles. “Come tell me about these visions you’ve been having.” Sam stiffens from head to toe.

“I don’t have-” Rowena places a finger against her lips, and Sam goes quiet. No magic required, just a little suggestion.

“You wouldn’t have lived past my threshold if I didn’t find you fascinating, Sam Winchester,” she tells him. “Now, come sit. Tell me everything. Or are you really going to turn down an experienced witch helping you understand what you see? Are you willing to bet lives on it?” Sam swallows. She’s caught him, and her reward is going to be the sweetest thing she’s ever tasted. Once she softens him up a little, that is.

Sam shuffles forward, gun lowering. When he sits beside her, she gives him one more appreciative look-over.

Oh, she just has to keep him.

“Good boy,” she says. “Now, your visions.”

#ask #fanfiction #samwena #sam winchester #rowena macleod #as always and forevrr i always feel like i cant get rowena’s voice quite right T-T #but i try and thats what matters #anyway. sugar baby!sammy/witchy mentor!rowena so real to me #this also feels like. a little bit vaguely surrounding the prompt word rather than directly inspired by it?#if that makes sense #its the vibes. the vibes are there.

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deandoesthingstome · 1 year

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Night Moves - Deleted Scene

@geralts-yenn

Babe, you sent me a Director's Cut ask about Night Moves and I basically lied to you and said I hadn't saved any other scenes that never made it into the story and I promised you a follow up, so here it is.

I wrote this title on what I'm sure was the first doc I started, and this was probably the first scene I actually wrote before I figured out the crime portion of the story. Also, I may have intimated in the Ask reply, that Alex wasn't as into his desire to control her, but it's not that she didn't want to be controlled, as you will see, it's just that she didn't want him to BE so controlling. Hopefully you understand the nuance i was going for, but ultimately scrapped.

Deleted Smut Under The Cut - no edits or betas

Sex with Walter - not sure how we get here but:

Alex folds herself over his chest, grabbing his chin through his beard and kissing him hot and deep. She is hungry for him, and is a little tired of the careful way he’s handling her. Can’t believe she hasn’t gotten his cock deep inside her yet, She’s going to change that now.

“Where are your condoms?” she whispers into his ear.

Walter grabs her arms and tenses, as if he’s about to peel her off him. “Fuck.” He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at her directly when he admits how unprepared he is.

“It’s okay. I was hoping we could just pull some out of the drawer here. But I can go grab my purse.” Alex kisses him again, gentle and forgiving, ending with a quick peck. “Be right back.”

She hops off the bed and debates a shirt, but doesn’t want to waste anymore time. In the few moments she’s down the hall and back, Walter sheds his underwear and leans back against the headboard, taking himself in hand to stroke and keep himself ready for her.

She peeks her head back in the doorway, hand raised with a full strip dangling down from her fingers.

“No pressure, I just wanted to make sure we had some options,” she grins and he can’t believe this is the same woman who was losing her shit at Rachel a few days ago. She steps in and closes the door behind her. “Is this okay?”

“A handful of condoms?” he scoffs. “Yeah, more than fine.”

“A closed door. You didn’t seem interested in shutting it earlier. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to keep it open.”

Walter ponders what she’s actually asking. A closed door does feel more intimate, but he thinks this is what she wants, so he gives a little shake of his head. “It’s fine. C’mere.”

She pads around the bed again, tearing off a packet and dropping the rest on the nightstand. She holds it out to him with a questioning look and he takes it from her.

“I’ve got it.”

Alex watches him slip the condom out of the foil and roll it down his length, pumping a few times to smooth it out and make sure it’s on snug. Then she climbs back over him on her knees and settles herself on his hips, tucking his sheathed cock forward almost as if it was her own. He gives her a questioning look, like he’s not sure why he just wrapped up if she wasn’t going to slide right on, but she smiles and glances down her belly to where the back of her thumb is teasing her own clit.

When she’s sure he’s watching too, she wraps her fingers around him and pulls slowly, making sure her thumb slips inside on every return.

“Fuck,” he groans and she dips low over him again, leaning her weight onto one knee and shifting onto the other foot so she can lift up and tuck him under her. When she feels his tip at her entrance, she sinks down on him, sitting back onto both knees and holding in place to feel the delicious stretch. She grinds her hips back and forth a little, shifting him around inside her and letting the space open around him.

His hands are on her hips now, kneading and pressing, pulling her with each grind towards him and helping her push away on the return. Walter thinks her tits are amazing and as much as he wants her to lean over so he can get one in his mouth, he also thinks he’d like to just squeeze them again for a bit. He shifts his hands up her sides, cupping her breasts when he reaches them and thumbing over the hardened nipples.

Alex licks her lips at the pleasure of it, hoping he might do more than just tease. But a tease’ll work. She isn’t complaining, she’d just love a little more. As if he could almost read her mind, he slips a hand back to her hip and then down into the space between them, taking a cue from her earlier action and sliding the tip of his thumb over to rub at her pearl. It’s not exactly what she needs, but she can work with it.

“Fuck yeah,” she sighs.

She grinds into his finger and gets his cock deeper in her at the same time. The sharp jolt against her cervix wakes her up and she finally falls forward to capture his lips with her own, keeping his hand trapped between them.

It's a flurry of grunts, and thrusts, and bounces then and it doesn’t take long like this for her to find another little release. But as unlike any other man she’s met he is, in this one way, Walter’s like ‘em all.

The condom dulls the sensation of her walls around him and while he can feel the little squeeze of her orgasm, it isn’t like he can’t resist it. So he does. He keeps pumping up into her and when she pulls back to sit up he chases her with his mouth, wrapping his arms around her lower back and sitting up with her.

He urges her to wrap her legs around him, but she does the unthinkable and actually lifts up off him.

“Everything okay?” he questions, arms still holding her close.

“Oh everything is more than okay. Just wondering if we could switch it up a little?” she bit her lip with a wicked smile.

“What’d you have in mind?”

Without speaking, Alex begins to crawl backwards down the bed on her knees. When she’s clear of his chest, she falls forward on her hands too, but keeps moving until her knees hit the edge of the bed. Walter is confused and thinks she might be getting ready to lower her head to his condom-wrapped cock, but she grins again and shifts a hip out to the side, swinging her head around to look back behind her. When she looks back at him, the lust is apparent.

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and walking around to the end. As soon as his hand meets her hips, he’s lining himself up and she’s pitching forward, ass still high in the air. Once he’s fully seated, Alex grinds back up against him with a continual roll of her hips that he can tell is driving her crazy. He imagines this is what a lap dance would look like if he were sitting with her pressed up against him.

Walter clenches his jaw now, not really wanting to think about the club, or her stripping, or anyone stripping for that matter. He just wants to fuck her raw. He slows down because if he doesn’t he’s going to keep going, harder and harder and he doesn’t want to do that to her. Not on a first time. As if he could be sure there’d be more times.

Though he wonders for a split second if maybe, just maybe, he were to show a woman who he really was, it might make it easier for them to decide upfront if they want to stay or go. But no, never let them see that, he thinks to himself. He’s suddenly snapped out of his internal monologue as Alex peels herself up from the bed back to her knees, draping her arm back to trace around his neck. She grips him as she tilts her head and brings his lips to her neck, then leaves him there while her arm skims down his side to his hand on her hip.

She grabs a hold and drags his hand up her belly and over her tits to place it at her throat and he freezes for a moment.

Alex senses his hesitation and gently presses her forefinger and thumb into the back of his hand, urging him to squeeze.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, leaning her head back into him. “I want this. I’ll tell you when to stop, okay? I’ll tap your arm.”

“It’s not…”

“It is. It’s so good. Please Walter,” she pleads and how could he say no?

And the following morning, though this makes no sense since they were clearly at Walter's the night before, but there you go... LOL! SMDH.

Are you leaving?

I wasn't...

Without saying goodbye?

I didn't want to wake you. I wasn't sure if you'd feel different about this in the light of day, so I ...

Thought you'd slip out unnoticed? That I wouldn't miss you surrounded as I am by all these other guys? Come back to bed. Please.

#walter marshall #walter marshall x ofc #walter marshall smut #walter marshall fanfiction #night hunter fanfiction #night moves deleted scene #mine #deandoesthingstome #geralts yenn asks #charlie answers #ask me about my content

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staysaneathome · 9 months

Text

Turnabout SamurEye

Martin Blackwood stares at the fallen head of the oversized cartoon samurai mascot, and asks himself yet again how he got here.

The simple answer to that question would be “on the 386 bus that has a stop five minutes’ walk away from Global Studios”, but that isn’t quite what he means.

For all that he is a defense attorney, Martin’s always fancied that he has a poetic soul, one that still can’t quite believe he managed to scrape his way through law school and a handful of cases to running his own, meager firm. Sasha always used to laugh and tease that it was a combination of his dramatics and insecurities talking, that Martin was an ace attorney in his own right.

There are some days when missing his best friend and mentor gets easier, but today isn’t one of them.

There is a gentle tug on his suit sleeve.

Robbie’s eyes are crinkled in a smile above their face mask. They sign, “Ready to go check out the scene of the crime, Martin?”

He nods back. “Yes, ah, let me just take a picture of this for our evidence, first.”

They settle back, still bouncing on their heels slightly as he finishes up.

It makes sense they’re excited, he supposes. It’s not everyday that someone gets to go on the set of their favorite TV show, even if the leading actress has just been accused of murdering her coworker.

He probably would’ve taken the case even if they hadn’t badgered him into it with protests of the Blazing Samurai’s innocence, he reflects as they start walking towards the set area. Work has been thin on the ground lately, and the fees for Mum’s care home and renting the office space certainly aren’t going down anytime soon.

“We should get steak after this.” Robbie signs.

Martin blinks, has to mime out the signs himself to ensure he’s interpreted them correctly.

“What? But we just had lunch on the bus! How can you still be hungry after that?”

Robbie raises their chin proudly. “I have a second stomach for steaks!”

Martin gives them a knowing look. “Right. And, er, that wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’ve just discovered that Lynn Hammond, The Blazing Samurai, also loves steak?”

Robbie’s eyes dart to the side guiltily as their fingers trip over the sign for “Noooo”.

“Ah,” Martin can’t quite control his grin at that as he pokes their shoulder. “Objection—the witness is withholding testimony!”

He snickers as they playfully shove his arm, hands a rapid flurry. “Don’t do that outside of court!”

There are wires and cameras everywhere when the two of them arrive on the set proper, large green screens and painted backgrounds propped up against the walls.

Robbie is practically vibrating with excitement next to him, likely torn between their desire to explore and their sense of duty as his self-imposed assistant.

They really remind him so much of Sasha, at times like this.

“Keep a lookout for anything that could be a clue,” He advises. They give him a mock salute.

There’s a large white outline near the base of the director’s chair, a discarded spear next to it. The murder weapon, presumably? It’s big and heavy, couldn’t be picked up by anyone who wasn’t trained for it, like Miss Hammond or even Jude Perry, the victim. That’s what it says in the autopsy report, but…

Martin frowns and kneels down next to it.

Surely, something like this, which is meant to have stabbed through Jude Perry’s torso, surely it ought to have more, well. Blood, on it? There’s a bit of dried bright red liquid on the very tip, but something’s…?

“Martin Blackwood.”

Martin freezes up. No. No, no, maybe, maybe he’s hallucinating things. Yes, that sounds plausible, surely he wouldn’t be here. He’s always been content sitting pretty in his office, while Detective Tonner brought him all the evidence to ruin Martin’s day, please don’t let him actually be—!

“Covering your ears and ignoring me doesn’t mean I stop existing, Blackwood.”

Well, worth a shot.

He takes a deep breath and turns to face the Demon of the Bar, trying desperately to turn his grimace into a polite smile. “Prosecutor Sims! How can I help you today?”

Jonathan Sims does not look happy.

He’s as crisp and ironed as ever, from his starched collar to his pressed cravat to the tips of his shiny, shiny shoes.

Martin feels small and shoddy just looking at him.

“I seriously doubt you could. I’d be better off banning you from the crime scene, so your bumbling around doesn’t destroy valuable evidence.” Sims scoffs. “That would be a welcome relief.”

Ouch. It takes everything Martin has not to wince.

“However,” Sims heaves a great sigh. “The law still states that the defense must have the same opportunity as the prosecution to examine evidence, so I can’t have you thrown off the premises. Yet.”

Yet??

“Yet?!” Robbie signs.

They’ve taken a step to place themself between him and the man who haunts his sleep every night. They are also trying to roll up the billowing sleeves of their apprentice uniform with their fists clenched.

Martin quickly places a hand on their arm and gives his kind-of-assistant-by-adoption a placating smile so they don’t do anything crazy like assault the prosecution.

“So I take it you’re representing the guilty party in this case?” Sims sneers.

“L-Lynne Hammond isn’t the one who killed Jude Perry!” Martin protests. “We’re still gathering evidence, but, but all the character witnesses thus far have shown that she wasn’t the kind of person who held any grudges against the victim!”

Robbie nods furiously next to him, signing “That’s right! The Blazing Samurai could never do that!”

Sims glances between them and Martin with an eyebrow raised.

“And you believe it’s suitable to bring a child along to a murder investigation?” He demands imperiously, one finger pointing at Robbie. “Really, Blackwood, I knew you were irresponsible, but this takes the cake.”

Robbie puffs up indignantly, hands moving almost too quickly to parse as they sign, “I’m not a kid! I’m thirteen years old!”

“Wh-?!” Martin splutters, “That’s not the—! And you, Sims, you were trying to find them guilty of murdering Sasha last month!”

“That—!” Sims sniffs, trying to regain his composure. “That’s different.”

“How?!” Martin cries, trying not to tear his hair out. “They would’ve got the death penalty! The only reason they didn’t is because I found out the real murderer and she decided it’d be funny to frame me as well! If we hadn’t gotten that list of names—”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that, actually.” Sims cuts in, glare hard. “How did you find that list of Nikola Orsinov’s blackmail victims?”

Martin freezes.

“I. Um?”

Prosecutor Sims tilts his head, pinning Martin in place under that stare which thousands of witness have sworn somehow makes them say things they’d never tell another soul.

“Well?”

It’s not like he can just say ‘oh the tween tagging along with me is a spirit medium and channeled the ghost of my dead mentor who’s also their older sister so she could tell me and force Orsinov to confess! Oh and your hair looks really good like that and I’d maybe like to gaze into your eyes constantly and I’ve been in love with you since we were both five so do you wanna go out sometime?’

No. No, no, bad Martin, bad! Just because he’s got a nice face does not make him boyfriend material. Jonathan Sims is a dick, no matter what he was like when you were in primary school together. 17 years of radio silence to you and Gerry have sent that message.

Besides, you learned this lesson with Michael. He was pretty, and funny, and seemed like the perfect boyfriend, and what did he do? He framed you for murder. Yeesh. Why is that becoming a pattern in his life. Better for everyone to not—

There’s a gentle tap on his arm.

He looks down to see Robbie staring up at him, signing “Martin?”

Wait. Hold on. Oh god. How long has he just been staring into Jon’s eyes for?! Sim’s eyes?! Shit?!

The prosecutor is giving him an odd look, his glare morphed slightly to…something else? “Well?” He snaps.

“I…uh…um. Well. You know how, er, Robbie, Sasha is their, was their older sister?” He darts an apologetic glance to them. They hunch into his side slightly.

“I know the relation between the acquitted defendant and the late Ms. James, yes.” Sims drawls, “What of it?”

“W-well,” Martin bluffs. “Sasha and Robbie had a separate hiding spot here in the city, when, when Robbie had come to visit her before. She, she’d left a copy of that list here, a while ago, so Orsinov and Sarah Baldwin didn’t know about it. Robbie mentioned the place off-hand before the last day so I…checked…”

Jon’s glare has deepened to its former disdain.

“Forget it.” He sneers. “If you’ll do nothing but lie, I don’t know why I bother. Still, if you’re going to be that obvious, it’ll be easy to prove the accused’s guilt in court tomorrow. Good afternoon, Martin Blackwood.”

Prosecutor Sims turns on his heel and marches away.

Martin watches him go and tries to ignore the twinge in his chest.

There’s another small tug on his suit sleeve.

He looks down to see Robbie staring up at him with gratitude. They slip one hand into his and give it a squeeze, one hand touching their chin as if blowing a kiss. “Thank you.”

He squeezes back, a tired smile on his face. “Oh, it’s no. No trouble, really. I’m not about to tell anyone about you-know-what just, just willy-nilly.”

Robbie puffs out their chest, hands coming up to sign, “Let’s go prove that mean prosecutor wrong! He’s nothing but a phony anyway, you’ll show him!”

Martin huffs a small laugh at their enthusiasm.

Wait.

Something clicks in his head. He turns back to examine the spear.

Blood is this color when it comes out of a body, yes. But for it to stay this way when dried, and there to be no stains around the white outline of the corpse…

“It’s phony.” He mutters, excitement raising his volume gradually. “It’s—this crime scene, it’s not real, it’s, it’s fake! The blood on the spear, it’s not the right color, and, and there are no other bloodstains or anything, so that means that when Jude Perry died, it wasn’t on set! It had to be somewhere else, and the body was moved here later!”

Robbie matches his excitement when he grins at them, fingers drumming against their neck rapidly.

“C’mon,” Martin says, feeling the thrill of unraveling a contradiction, of getting closer to the truth. “Let’s go see if we can’t work out where the real murder happened.”

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rebornologist · 1 month

Note

Hi Ghostie! (Ramsay) from the To Cup a Face prompt list is hilarious. Can I request Fran for a that one, please? And if you are feeling up for another, maybe (Clean) for Bianchi?

omg hii nonnie!! Thank you for asking for Fran and Bianchi y'all know I love them 2 death eek! >< I wasn't sure if your ask intended for a reader-insert scenario, a scene with the canon characters interacting, or something else, so I tried to keep it vague so one can insert a self or another character. I giggled like crazy while writing these, so I hope you enjoy!

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ ramsay; after the receiver commits a culinary crime, the sender presses two slices of bread against either side of their face, cupping their face to hold the bread in place, and calls them an idiot sandwich.

♡ Fran is notorious for making and eating weird dishes, and it’s not because he’s French and everyone else is racist—people are beginning to believe that he has pica. Chewing ice and swallowing gum is just the tip of the iceberg. In this case, his culinary crime involved some dishes that he discovered in history books. He had the audacity to bake a water pie and make a toast sandwich 1. out of pure boredom and curiosity, and 2. to fuck with people.

“Fran… what do you mean it’s a ‘water pie’?!” His colleague made air quotes to emphasize the absurdity of the concept, eyebrows raised in disbelief as they looked at the completely deadpan illusionist.

“I’m serious, it’s a dish from the great depression.. you should try it.” He replied flatly, gesturing to the pie as if to say ‘dig in!’.

“You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not.” He shrugged slightly, feigning being a victim. “If you want, you can try the toast sandwich instead.”

“Toast sandwich?!?!?!” They pause.

Fran’s eyes narrow slightly, watching his colleague take a deep breath, as if to control their anger.

“That’s it, Fran—” hands scramble to completely deconstruct the toast sandwich, which was just removing the outside pieces of bread and allowing the middle piece of toasted bread to fall to the floor unceremoniously. The mist assassin feels the dry pieces of whole wheat bread pressed against his cheeks. “You…are a fucking, idiot. sandwich.”

“You…may sample that too, if you’d like.” He blinks once as he stares at them blankly from between the slices, and then gives them the slip, disappearing into thin air.

“AUGHH!!!!”

୨୧ ⁺˳₊ clean; sender affectionately wipes a smudge of sauce from the corner of the receiver's mouth, cupping their face in the process.

♡ Bianchi’s love language is acts of service, and she absolutely adores quality time with her loved ones. She can appreciate a good coffee or restaurant date, especially if it’s a fancy location with high quality ingredients and unique presentations. The more fun food places she experiences, the more inspiration she can draw for her own cooking. She doesn’t make it super obvious how good of a time she’s having, and is often seen sitting across from her partner with sunglasses on and what could almost be a scowl, but she just doesn’t realize how blank her face looks. The upside to this is that no one dares hit on her in public. The downside? There aren't really any. She looks good.

Her expression softens, and a low chuckle reverberates in her sternum, swan-like shoulders lifting slightly as she smiles, tilting her chin lower to peer at the person across from her over her sunnies.

“You have something,” she leans forward before finishing her thought, uncrossing her arms to reach across the table and slide her slender fingers along their jaw to cup their face, “let me get it for you.”

Extending her other perfectly manicured hand, she brushes her thumb softly over the corner of their lips, wiping off a bit of cream from the pastry they were eating. As she admires the slightly surprised look on their face, her grin grows more genuine, turning into an upside-down smile, and she snorts back another giggle.

“Th-thanks,” they mumble, blinking at her.

“Mmhm,” she hums, pleased as she wipes the pastry cream off on the napkin before grabbing the fork and reaching over at the dish in front of her partner.

“Here, I’ll feed you the last bite.”

#khr #hitman reborn #katekyo hitman reborn #khr headcanons #khr imagines #fran khr #bianchi khr #bianchi #fran #fran varia

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punchdrunkdoc · 2 years

Text

Just Breathe - Ch. 11

Summary: Six months after the events in Gotham Square Garden, Bruce is struggling to find balance between his role as Batman and his responsibilities as Bruce Wayne. His life is made even more complicated when he learns that someone knows his secret identity.

Notes: This is a multi-chapter, slow-burn Battinson/original female character story with romance, angst, and crime solving!

Also available on AO3

Masterlist

Reference pics and stuff

One week later...

Alfred paused on the landing as the sound of Bruce's laughter reached him. It wasn't a bellowing guffaw, or even a full-throated chuckle. Just a little huff of amusement. But it was the most levity he'd heard from the taciturn young man in...years.

His chest clenched at the thought that maybe - finally - Bruce was healing.

And it was all down to Beth.

She'd brought light into Bruce's life. Or, more accurately, she'd brought life into Bruce's existence. Before she'd come on the scene, Bruce had been so single-minded in his focus - his entire being devoted to the mission to fight the crime of Gotham - that he barely slept; barely ate. Didn't interact with a single soul while not under that mask...

Alfred had been scared that the Bruce he knew - the kind, sensitive, intelligent boy - would disappear, be consumed by the Bat. That there would be nothing left but a hardened vigilante who would give his all to the city which, in return, would either turn on him, or use him up and discard him.

But then Beth had come along and pulled him from that abyss with nothing more than her smile and her innate goodness. These days, Bruce lingered over dinner...because she was next to him. He would eat serving after serving while she chatted to him about nothing and everything. Instead of working himself to exhaustion, Bruce now spent time relaxing with Beth either down in this lair or by the fire in the penthouse, sometimes talking with her, sometimes in peaceful silence.

He was finding balance, thanks to her.

Tonight, Bruce leant against his car, suited up in his vigilante gear but seemingly in no rush to leave. He was apparently too engrossed in the story being told by the young woman curled up in the chair beside the workstation.

"...so then they sent me to this camp for orphaned teens - way out in the sticks. Like the setting of some horror movie. And it was a horror movie, as far as I was concerned. All I wanted to do was sit inside and read a book but they kept forcing me out side. Kayaking. Fishing. Camping! Ugh!

Another huff of laughter from Bruce. Alfred smiled at the sound, and at Beth's exaggerated disgust.

"But then they introduced us to horse-riding...and I loved it. I was in the saddle for hours every day. Until I tried to jump a fence at a gallop and was thrown off. Snapped my right leg and had to wear a cast the rest of the summer. I got my wish in the end - I was stuck inside reading my book.”

“So you were a bit of a daredevil," Bruce commented.

Beth smiled up at him and shrugged. “I guess. I liked going fast.”

Alfred saw the perfect opening to intrude. "So did Bruce," he said, making his way down the stairs. "He used to race cars as a teenager."

Bruce looked at him in surprise. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. You weren't as stealthy as you thought. Thank god, you've improved given your current proclivities." Alfred gestured to the suit.

Beth laughed.

“Did you need something, or did you just come down here to spill secrets about my past?” Bruce asked, but there was no animosity in his voice. Beth’s presence was having a positive influence on their relationship too.

“I just wanted you to know that Samantha Sterling's medical bills have been taken care of, as requested."

"Thank you, Alfred."

Beth looked towards Bruce. ”You did that?"

Bruce shrugged. "She's a victim in all of this. I can't blame her for Newsome finding out about you. So I let her know - anonymously - that you were safe and I paid off a few bills. Its no big deal."

She tipped her head and regarded Bruce fondly. “That was really sweet of you.”

Bruce ducked his head, as if embarrassed by the praise, and pushed off from the car. "I-I better get moving." He shrugged into the oversized coat he used to hide his identity while travelling to and from the tower then clambered onto his bike. He looked at Beth and hesitated. "I'll see you later?"

She nodded and smiled in return. "I'll be up. Happy hunting."

Alfred watched as Bruce sped down the railway tracks and into the night. He turned to Beth, and wasn’t surprised to see that her smile had morphed into an expression of concern. “It doesn’t get any easier, I’m afraid,” Alfred commented.

“Sorry?” she asked.

“Watching him ride off into danger. I’ve been doing it for over two years, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“Was I that obvious?”

He leaned against the workstation bench and smiled down at her. “Just to me. You hide it well from him.”

Beth picked at a thread in her sweater. “I do worry about him out there. But I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to feel that I’m…,” she seemed to struggle for the right words. “That I’m asking him not to go. I get that this is something he needs to do. That it’s a part of who he is.”

“I understand. If its any consolation, he’s being a lot more careful now.”

“What do you mean?”

Alfred paused, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of sharing his fears about Bruce’s previous near-suicidal disregard for his own safety. And about how relieved he was now that Bruce had a reason to come home in one piece every morning.

That was a lot of responsibility to place on Beth's shoulders.

So he told a partial-truth instead, the one he'd been thinking of earlier. “He’s eating and sleeping a lot better since you came to stay with us. That will help keep him alert out there.”

“I’m glad. It’s good to know I’m helping, and not just being a burden.”

“You are the opposite of a burden. You’ve brought light and laughter back to this place. Back to Bruce. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

———

Flashlight beams spearing through a darkened store drew Bruce’s eye as he crouched on a rooftop, searching the streets below for trouble.

He rappelled to the ground and approached the store front from the shadows, recognising the sign above the window. It was Brixman Family Jewellers, an institution of Gotham, that had been supplying its rich denizens and middle classes alike for decades.

And now a couple of thieves were raiding its wares.

They weren’t being subtle about it either, the smashing of glass cases audible from the street. Bruce sped up, and ducked through the alley beside the store to enter through the back door. Emerging into the display room, he made no move to hide his heavy footfalls.

At the sound, the two men spun to face him. One was a short, scrawny man with a long, greasy ponytail. The other was his polar opposite - a hulking beast with a bald head that reflected the light shining in from the streetlamps outside.

The ponytailed thief cursed. “Fuck! Use the gun!” he yelled to his companion.

The bald man dropped his bag stuffed full of jewels and fumbled in his belt for a sawn-off shotgun. He stepped in front of his much shorter partner and took aim at Bruce.

But Bruce got there first. He yanked the gun out of his hands and threw it behind him. Then he hammered a quick 1-2 punch into the man’s face. He collapsed to the ground, out cold.

The bigger they were, the harder they fell.

Ponytail stumbled backwards, ready to run. But Bruce caught him before he could bolt, whipped him around and kicked the back of his knees. He dropped to the floor and Bruce quickly secured his hands behind his back with a zip-tie.

The whole thing was over in seconds.

Bruce spent a few more moments securing the large, unconscious man, then he stepped behind the counter to activate the silent alarm. Satisfied the authorities would be arriving soon, he made his way to the back of the store, grabbing the shotgun on the way to remove the cartridges - just in case the thieves somehow got free.

But when Bruce opened the weapon, instead of the usual shells, he found delicate glass containers loaded into the barrel. He clicked on a flashlight and lifted one up to the light.

It contained a familiar red gas.

“Shit,” he muttered. If the hulking brute had managed to fire off a round, this would have exploded in Bruce’s face, incapacitating him again.

This was far more dangerous than the canisters he’d previously come across.

The weapons dealer had upped his game.

He dragged the ponytailed man into a seated position and showed him the cartridge. “Where did you get this? Who’s the supplier?” he growled.

The man glared up at Bruce defiantly and spat at him. “I’m not telling you shit, freak.”

Bruce punched him, but the man just laughed in response. He got ready to deliver another blow when he heard the other thief stir behind him. Bruce crouched next to the larger man and yelled into his face. “Tell me where you got these?”

Whether it was the lingering confusion from the concussion or the sight of Bruce’s masked face looming into his vision like a nightmarish spectre, the man babbled out an answer over the objections of his colleague. “Jimmy gave us a bunch. Jimmy Summers.”

Armed with a lead, Bruce left the two bound men, just as the police sirens started to sound in the distance.

An hour later, he brought Gordon up to date by the floodlight signal.

“I know Summers,” Gordon responded. “Jack-off-all-trades type of lowlife. Enforcer, dealer, you name it. He was one of Falcone’s crew but I’m not sure who he’s running with now. I'll try and find out.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Bruce murmured, as he walked with the lieutenant down to their vehicles, slowing his pace to match the older man’s limp. He needed to find whoever was supplying Gotham with those gas canisters. If they ended up circulating throughout Gotham, it was only a matter of time before one went off in his face again.

He likely wouldn’t survive the second attempt.

“I take it there are no leads on Newsome,” Bruce asked as they reached the ground.

“Nothing. What about you? Anything on our missing pathologist?”

Bruce thought back to Beth’s smiling face as she’d wished him happy hunting that evening. She’d switched to a more nocturnal schedule over the past week, so she was awake when he was and slept when he did. Which meant they spent a lot of time together.

Only a couple of weeks ago, that would have freaked him out. But it was as if they were living apart from the world, out of step and out of time, where the future - and the potential pain that came with it - didn’t exist. He felt free to just live in the present and enjoy the now.

And he was enjoying it, much to his surprise. Her presence in Wayne Tower made it feel like more of a home. One he actually looked forward to returning to at the end of every night. Where he would see her, have dinner with her, talk to her, or just sit quietly with her in front of the fire while she read and he played around on the guitar.

“No,” he lied, in response to Gordon’s question. “No sign of the doctor.”

Bruce turned to leave, but the crackle from Gordon’s patrol car radio stopped him in his tracks.

“Reports of a high-speed pursuit on Highway 9, past exit 43. Deacon’s crew members driving a stolen black BMW sedan, travelling the wrong way on the northbound expressway. Two collisions already confirmed. Suspects identified by unit 354 as Marlon Jones, Casey Walker and George Ryan. Repeat, all units respond-”

George Ryan.

Bruce jumped on his bike and took off, racing towards the highway, his mind anguished with thoughts of the young boy.

Alfred and Bruce had set up an anonymous fund for George’s single mother weeks ago, helping her provide for her son without having to be at work all hours of the day and night. And they’d found him a new school in a better neighbourhood…

Why was he still hanging with the Deacons?

Bruce screeched to a stop on the overpass overlooking the highway.

He was too late.

The BMW was on its roof, crushed against the barrier on the outside lane, surrounded by cop cars. An ambulance pulled to a stop near the crash site as Bruce looked on, feeling helpless. He watched as the first responders pulled an unconscious figure from the back seat of the car.

A thin, frail boy.

George.

———

A distant thumping noise pulled Beth from her book. She was curled up in the wingback chair in front of the fire. It was a cosy nook in the midst of the sprawling penthouse and it had quickly become ‘her’ spot.

For the past week - since she’d awoken to find Bruce crouched beside her in front of this very fire - she had taken up vigil here every night.

After years of working night shifts during her residency, her body clock had quickly adjusting to the unusual hours the Wayne household kept. She would sleep until early afternoon, have ‘breakfast’, then spend a few hours with Bruce down in the underground lair before he set out for the night. She would watch him tune his car - he was never satisfied with how it was running - or help him trawl through search results and police databases looking for any hints of Newsome.

When he eventually sped away down the railway tracks and into the city, she would return upstairs where she’d try to fill the night hours. She wasn’t used to having so much time on her hands. She was a workaholic, and it was strange being so idle…and useless. She had no purpose right now beyond ‘staying alive’ and it was making her a little stir-crazy.

So she found ways to occupy her nights, and her mind. She played chess with Alfred. She chatted to Dory, the housekeeper. She commandeered the kitchen and experimented with baking. She’d even started teaching herself how to play guitar, using the instrument she’d found propped up against the staircase.

Bruce had caught her with it the other night - much to her embarrassment - when he returned home.

“Your index finger’s in the wrong position.”

Startled, she’d looked up from where she was hunched over the guitar. Her hand was awkwardly wrapped around the fretboard as she tried to mimic the chord being demonstrated on the video on her phone.

Blushing, she sat up straight. “I’m sorry. I was just bored and-”

“It’s okay,” Bruce replied, coming over to crouch next to her. He went to adjust her fingers but she yanked her hand away just in time.

He sighed. “Sorry.”

“No problem. I was just messing around anyway.” She placed the guitar on the floor.

He sat in the chair beside hers. His damp hair was slicked back off his face and he was wearing his ‘off duty’ clothes of a jeans and a black tee.

He picked up the abandoned guitar and demonstrated the correct position. “See?”

She nodded, then watched as he started strumming a random series of notes. It soon morphed into a familiar song, his long fingers gliding quickly and confidently over the strings. “You lied to me,” she said.

“Hmmm?” He replied glancing up from the instrument. His brow creased in confusion as he registered her accusation.

“You said you didn’t have any hobbies.”

He laughed softly. “I guess I do have one.”

“That’s good. I was gonna suggest you take up knitting, but this suits you a little better.”

He laughed again. “I started playing in high school. Alfred said I needed an ‘outlet for my feelings.’ He must have gotten that from one of his psychology books.”

He often shared bits of his past with her during these witching hour conversations. And she ate up every morsel of information.

“It does help me let off steam when I hook it up to the amp and let it rip.”

She laughed and gestured to the high ceilings and the wide open space around them. “I bet it sounds amazing.”

“The acoustics suck, but all I care about is being as loud as possible…so yeah.”

She wanted to ask him to play something else, to plug in the amps and fill the space with noise, but Alfred appeared soon after with food.

Tonight she was reading to pass the time, taking advantage of the extensive library, and relishing the feel of antique first-editions versions of her favourite novels. But that erratic thumping sound interrupted Elizabeth and Darcy’s verbal sparring, and she set off to investigate.

The noise was coming from upstairs, from an area of the apartment she’d left largely unexplored - Bruce’s suite. As she crept down the hallway, the sound became more distinct - it was the muffled slap of a fist hitting a leather bag over and over.

Bruce was boxing.

He’d returned home, but hadn’t come to find her. Instead, he was sequestered away up here, beating seven shades of shit out of an inanimate object.

Something was wrong.

She stepped into his training room. Alfred had included it in her ‘tour’ the first night, in case she wanted to use the equipment for exercise. Not being a fan of that kind of thing, she’d stayed clear of the room since then.

She spotted Bruce in the far corner, beyond the rowing machine and treadmill. He was facing away from her, dressed only in a loose pair of sweatpants. The muscles shifted under his bare, scarred back as he delivered a flurry of punishing hits to the leather bag.

Something was very wrong.

She moved further into the room, not making an effort to disguise her footfalls - she wanted him to know she was there. She took a seat on the benchpress to his right and watched his punches get weaker as he tired himself out.

With one final hit, he staggered into the bag and hugged it to regain his balance. Then he sank down to the floor and dropped his face into his bandaged hands.

She couldn’t bear to see him in such obvious pain. She fell to her knees beside him and wrapped her arms around him, careful to keep her hands tucked into her long sleeves. His muscles were tight and his skin was damp with sweat; she could feel tiny tremors running through him - all signs that he’d pushed his body beyond the point of exhaustion.

“What happened?” Her voice was a whisper.

He didn’t respond. But she felt him start to relax by small degrees, until he tipped his head to the side to rest lightly against her chest.

She wanted to run her fingers through his hair. She wanted to smooth her hands over his back. She wanted…

She wanted to kiss him.

She wanted to take him into her arms and kiss him, and make him forget whatever was tormenting him.

It was at that moment she realised she’d fallen in love with Bruce Wayne.

He’d been a threat to her heart from the first moment they’d met, when she’d been so intrigued by the man under the mask. That threat had grown into a real possibility once she’d seen his true face and gotten to know him.

She’d been teetering on the edge of falling for weeks - maybe even months - despite trying desperately to cling to solid ground. But this past week she’d dropped off the cliff.

The barriers around her heart had dissolved in this place; she was in his world, surrounded by him, immersed in him…it was inevitable.

There were some things impossible to resist.

And loving Bruce was one of them.

Which is why her heart broke seeing him so distraught. She wanted so much to take away his pain with her touch…

But she couldn’t do that.

She’d never hated her gift so much in her life.

After several long minutes, he raised his head again and shifted out of her embrace. He turned to face her and she mirrored his crosslegged position on the floor.

“It was a bad night,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I figured,” she replied softly. “If you don’t want to tell me, I understand. But I’m here if you do.”

He nodded. And began explaining in broken sentences. “There’s this kid. George. I met him a while back. He- he wanted to be part of this gang down in the Hill. I thought I’d changed his mind. Alfred tried… but he was joyriding with them tonight. The cops chased them. The car flipped…”

“Did he…?” She couldn’t form the words.

He shook his head. “He’s in bad shape. They took him to Gotham General. Head injury.”

He clenched his hands into fists, the bandages bloodied from his split knuckles. She gently took one of his hands in hers, avoiding his bare skin. His fingers relaxed at the contact and she started unwrapping the bandages to expose the wounds. “It’s not your fault, Bruce.” It was obvious from the way he’d been punishing himself with that punching bag that he felt guilty. “You’re not responsible for every bad thing that happens in this city.”

“But I could have done more to help him.”

“You tried. Which is probably more than anyone had ever done for him. Sometimes people can’t be convinced to do what’s right for them.”

“He’s just a boy,” he whispered.

And that was the heart of the matter. He saw himself in every traumatised child. With this George; with the Mayor's son; with the body in the mortuary the first night they met…

“I know,” she replied. There wasn’t anything else to say. She doubted any words could help him just now. So she would provide comfort in another way.

The only way she could.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

She ran to collect first aid supplies and made a quick stop in the kitchen before returning. He was right where she left him, staring down at the bloodied ribbons of fabric on the floor. She sat back down in front of him and handed him the crystal tumbler she carried in her left hand. The ice clinked as he took the glass of bourbon from her.

“I’m not much of a drinker.”

“I figured. I would have brought a tub of ice cream with me - that’s my go-to on bad days - but you’re kitchen is woefully understocked.”

He smiled sadly and sipped at the dark liquid.

She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and set about cleaning and re-bandaging his damaged hands. As she fixed the final piece of gauze into place, her eyes caught on the faint scar on his right forearm. Without thinking, she traced her finger over the raised mark.

“Crowbar.”

She glanced up to find him watching her. “What?”

“That scar. It was one of my first nights out in the suit and I was still refining it. Car jacker got me in the arm with a crow bar. I added the gauntlets after that.”

She touched her fingers lightly against the circular dent below his right collarbone. “And this one?”

“Bullet. Got passed the kevlar plating.”

She bit her lip as her eyes roamed over the patchwork of scars marring his chest and arms. “You need to be more careful. You’re only human, after all.” Her resolve to keep her concerns to herself weakened at the sight of his damaged body.

“You sound like Alfred.”

She remembered back to her conversation with the older man. “Well, he worries about you. You’re out there getting battered every night-”

“Hey, you should see the other guys.”

She glared at him. “It’s not funny, Bruce. You need to start taking better care of yourself. This…mission…you’ve dedicated yourself to is making a difference in the city, and what you’re doing is admirable…but you’re only one man. You’ll burn out if you keep going the way you are. And I don’t want to see that. Alfred isn’t the only one who worries.”

He rested his hand on one of hers. “I worry about you too.”

She scoffed. “The only thing I’m in danger of these days is getting a paper-cut from one of your old books.”

“I meant before. I would worry about you being alone in the M.E.’s office. I- I would check up on you at night, to make sure you were home and safe.”

She raised an eyebrow at his confession. “Creepy.”

He looked away and removed his hand.

“Hey.” She put her palm on his face to gently move it back. “That was my turn to make a bad joke. I’m sorry. I- I actually like the idea of someone caring enough to check up on me. So thank you.”

He said nothing, just stared at her with those haunted eyes. She dropped her hand and started babbling under his intense gaze. “I actually did the same. To you. I cyber-stalked Batman. A ton. To make sure you were still alive at the end of every night. I actually joined social media for you, which - if you knew me - is saying a lot.”

“But I do know you, don’t I?”

He was still looking at her intently. She swallowed, aware that something was shifting between them.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice slightly shaky. “Better than anyone.”

“And you know me. Better than anyone. You’ve seen me, in a way no one ever has.” He put emphasis on the word ‘seen’ and she realised he was talking about her ability, and the memories of him she’d read.

Where was he going with this?

She just nodded and bit her lip.

“So…” he said, lifting his hand. “Would it really be so bad if I did this?” He tried to place his hand on her cheek, they way she’d just done to him.

She jerked back before contact was made.

He froze, looking confused. “I guess it would be bad.”

“Of course it would!” she spluttered. “Are you crazy?”

He still looked confused. “But you’ve already seen my entire life-”

She shook her head. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it?”

She answered him with a question of her own. “Why do you care?”

“I just...I hate seeing you shy away from the barest hint of skin. I want you to feel comfortable around me, instead of constantly second guessing every movement. I want you to be able to touch at least one goddam person on this planet!”

Tears sprung to her eyes as she was hit with a barrage of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she thought it was sweet that he was so concerned about her inability to experience touch. The fact that he was willing to sacrifice his thoughts and secrets to allow her that type of connection proved what a good man he was.

But at the same time, she felt an overwhelming sense of rejection. She thought maybe he was starting to feel the same way she did; that he was starting to look upon her with more than just friendly care and concern. That maybe he desired her as much as she did him, and that he wanted to touch her just to feel her skin…

But no. He was just being kind.

This was the perfect illustration of why she couldn’t - wouldn’t - allow him to touch her. She would have the ultimate proof that her love for him was one-sided.

It would be impossible to bear.

But she couldn’t explain that to him without revealing her feelings and insecurities. So she opted for a different truth instead.

“It wouldn’t be fair to you, Bruce. I told you before, I haven’t seen your entire life, or all your secrets. But with enough contact, I would. There would be no equality between us. Every passing thought would be mine. I would know every embarrassing or shameful things you’ve ever done. You would have no privacy at all and you’d start to resent me for that. And…” She tailed off, unsure if she should continue. There was another reason to avoid his touch; it was a valid one, but she worried it might hurt him.

“And what?” he prompted, his voice tight.

She stared down at the floor between them, unable to meet his eyes. “And I would see everything you do when you leave here at night. Every fight; every crime you try to stop; every case you investigate. All the brutality and pain. It would stay with me. And I get enough of that with my own work. I- I don’t think I could handle more.”

It was the truth - something she did worry about. But it felt cruel to admit it aloud. He was offering himself - his touch - out of generosity and compassion, and she was throwing it in his face because she didn’t want to see what horrors his skin might reveal.

“I see.”

She squeezed her eyes shut to stem the tears. He sounded as rejected as she’d felt moments ago.

She tried to fix what she’d done. She lifted her head and took one of his hands in hers. She could feel his warmth through her thin gloves, and tried not to imagine what it would be like to feel the texture of his skin. “I’m so grateful you want to help. But you don’t need to worry about me. I’ve lived like this my whole life. Its just the hand I’ve been dealt.” She shrugged and forced her lips into a smile. “Having you in my life - having your friendship - is already more than I ever thought I’d have. So thank you.”

He sighed and twisted his hand beneath hers until he was holding her in return. “Your friendship means a lot to me too.”

She rubbed her thumb against his and her smile turned bittersweet. “I’m glad,” she replied.

She felt a single tear escape and trail down her cheek, and quickly wiped it away.

———

Bruce sat on the floor and watched Beth leave the training room. She’d claimed exhaustion and said she needed to get to bed. She’d given him one last bright smile and a cheerful ‘Goodnight’ as she’d made her escape.

But he was learning to see through her act.

She was a naturally optimistic person. Someone who tried to make the best out of life. But she wasn’t as sanguine about her circumstances as she tried to let on. Her smile had been brittle tonight, and that tear had betrayed her.

She’d admitted it to Alfred last week: she was desperate for human connection. She was desperate for touch, for something the whole world took for granted. But she was denied it because of her gift.

It was true what he’d told her earlier - he wanted her to have one person on this earth she could be free with. That he was willing to be that person for her. Willing to let her see all of him, if it meant she could experience human contact.

But that hadn’t been the truth in the moment. When he’d raised his hand to cup her cheek, it had been a purely selfish act. He’d wanted to touch her…because he wanted to feel her skin against his.

Tonight had been a nightmare. Watching George’s small, thin body be removed from that wreck of a car had been a moment of helpless terror. He’d returned home feeling angry and guilty and pent up with frustration. He’d taken that frustration out on the punching bag, working it until his muscles had screamed and he’d lost all momentum. But it hadn’t helped.

The only thing that had helped was Beth, when she’d put her arms around him.

It was the first time in years that he’d felt that kind of embrace and he’d collapsed into it, powerless to resist.

In that moment, he admitted to himself how much he wanted - needed - to be touched.

And how much he wanted to touch someone else.

No, not just someone.

Beth.

He’d wanted to touch her, to prove to himself that she was real and alive and safe…and that he wasn’t alone.

And more than that...he’d wanted to touch her, to simply enjoy the feel of her warm, soft-looking, golden skin.

So yeah, a selfish act. One that served only to remind her of what she couldn’t allow herself to have.

A reminder that had made her cry.

He cursed and scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing as the action tugged on the fresh cuts over his knuckles.

He eyed the punching bag, struck by the urge to go a few more rounds. Wanting to punish himself again tonight - for a wholly different reason. But he rubbed his fingers over the bandages so carefully applied by Beth, and went to bed instead.

------

CHAPTER 12

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Taglist: @hollandorks @grunge-n-roses5 @xmxrfx @neptunesands @caramelcandescence @blossomedfloweroflove @wanderdreamer @angelsarecallin @stephenismyking @rabbitdictionary @starshipvelociraptor @yanna-banana @batmanlovesnirvana @bees-fart-too @hypnoash

If you’d like to be added, just let me know...

#batman #The Batman 2022 #The Batman 2022 fic #batman fic #batman fanfic #battinson #battinson fic #Bruce wayne/OC #bruce wayne/original character #bruce wayne x orginal female character #Batman x original character #batman/OC #just breathe

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fridayisbestday · 2 years

Text

"Esther Maisel! What do you think you're doing?"

Lenny caught his step daughter hovering over her couch napping father's figure, marker in hand with a 'shit, I've been caught' face.

"Sorry!Ijustthoughtitwouldbefunny." She apologised in a panic as he walked closer to her.

He sighs, "Gimme" He came down to her level and held out his hand, she snapped the cap back on and places the marker into his hand.

"You shouldn't draw a moustache on his face," He said firmly pointing at her with the capped marker as she looked down at her shoes shamefully, her hands playing with the hem of her dress, "and not draw panda eyes," he baffled, "at least give him a monocle."

Her eyes lit up after realising what he said, then turned back to her napping canvas with the brightest, cheekiest smile he's ever seen, he wondered for a moment if her cheeks hurt.

Esther cupped her hand to his ear and whispered, "What about a unibrow?"

Lenny returned the gesture and replied, "I like the way you think Trouble 1." He whispers into her ear as he handed the marker back to Miss Picasso with his other hand.

3 minutes later...

"He's beautiful!" Esther shouted a whisper and smiled brightly as she stood back with hands on her hips, gazing down proudly at her creation.

"A masterpiece." He whispered proudly, "Now let's bolt before sleeping beauty wakes up."

"Aurora." She corrected as they tip toed away from the scene of the crime.

30ish minutes later...

They're sat on the grass in front of the house making daisy chains, "Princess Lenny." His fellow princess called, holding out a crown made of daisies and presenting it to him with both her hands.

As Lenny (who's completely decked out in daisy made necklaces, rings and bracelets) reaches out to graciously receive his daisy crown, a shout rips from the house.

"WHAT THE FUCK!"

They turned to see Joel angrily storming out onto the porch with scribbles all over his damp red face, looking as though he just came out of the shower with steam coming out of his ears.

The two troublemakers looked at each other, smiles slowly etched across both their faces before finally falling over laughing.

Lenny notices Joel coming over towards them, shit, but before he could say anything, the 7 year old grabs him by the hand and tries to yank him up with all her might, her flats digging into the dirt as she pulled, "We gotta go!"

"Yep." He's then pulled up onto his feet and dragged away hurriedly.

Neither the Maisel's nor the Weissman's could find them all afternoon, but when they arrived for dinner, they found the two sitting on the naughty step with their hands pinching their ears as Midge scolded them.

"But Mama, you laughed!"

"Didn't you like the daisies?"

"That's it! No dessert for the both of you!"

'"No fair!"' They shouted in unison.

"One more word and I'll make it a week!"

They gazed up at their common enemy with daggers in their eyes, then turned to each other and nodded concededly, knowing that she would go through with her threat mercilessly.

""Fine."" They pouted.

#tmmm #catskills #esther maisel #lenny bruce #midge maisel #midge x lenny #midgelenny

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cherryasagiri · 1 year

Text

You Look Stupid Don't You?

Pairing: Jason x oc

Summary: The mansion is filled with so much laughter today.

previous 🌸 next

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The weekend was finally here, the sun surprisingly bright on a fine winter morning. The new year is present, and Nafula is adamant about changing her childish ways and becoming a better mother to her daughter. However, today wasn't the day to eliminate her childish antics. Amena sat on one end of the couch, her legs lying straight with her feet facing her mother, who was sitting at the other end of the couch; her legs were planted on the floor with her upper torso turned to the side, facing her daughter. Both girls were staring daggers at each other, concentration etched hard on their features that never wavered.

Bruce so happens to walk past the living room entrance, glancing at the scene without overthinking it but then was peaked when he noticed his daughter’s facial expression a split second before he turned away. He halted his steps, confusion replacing the usual brooding as he walked back to the scene of the crime. With his eyebrows knitted, he observed the current situation that is currently proceeding on his couch with much curiosity.

Amena stared for a few more seconds before she contorted her face to look like she was eating something extremely sour. Her cheeks were sunken in; her lips were pursed out as far as she could muster while her eyes were closed as tight as she would let them without giving herself a headache. Nafula directly looked her daughter in her eyes, her pupils colored, impressed with how well her daughter was keeping her face awry. She chuckled lightly to herself before moving her upper lip to the right of her face and her bottom lip to the left, pushing her jaw a bit to the side to make the lower half of her face look a little kookier. She crossed her eyes in the middle and used her hands to pull her ear lobes down an inch. Both girls kept their expressions still for a while before Amena switched them up. Now she was sticking out her tongue and placing it on the tip of her nose, her eyes crossing like her mother did while poking her cheeks with both index fingers on each side. Nafula, this time, sticks her tongue out, then uses her middle finger to pull up her nose to show more of her nostrils. Amena tried to stifle a laugh but couldn't help herself; she burst out laughing as soon as her mother made silly noises. The sweet laughter of the minor broke the older woman’s concentration when she, too, commenced giggling.

Bruce watched his daughter and grandchild create absurd faces at each other, his face practically screaming why is my daughter an idiot? His expression slightly softens when memories of the past start to flow. A mundane start to the day as he chose not to go into the office, wanting to spend the day mourning the wife who died a few years ago. However, his daughter would never let him bask in his sadness. He never understood how she could always tell when he wasn’t himself but constantly thought it was an aftereffect left by his late wife. She came bursting into his office, jumped into his lap, and wanted to have a “silly face contest.” It was one of the happiest days of his life. Not wanting to go further down memory lane, Bruce let out a satisfied grunt and a slight smirk before resuming out of the door.

The face contest continues for a while, amusement filling the living room. The sounds made a certain Bat-son’s ears perk up as he followed the mischievous melody. Once he was at the entrance of the living room, he got to see in full mass what he was willing to get himself into. He rushed over to the couch across from where the girls were sitting, situating himself in the middle, then began to make fart-like noises with his mouth. What came after was him puffing his cheeks full of air while sticking out his tongue before taking his hands and balling them into a fist. He gently pushes down his cheeks with his fist lightly, pushing out the air trapped in his mouth. The noise made the girls burst out in a hearty laugh, Dick smiling at the both of them before doing it again.

The mansion was now filled with more voices added to the laughter that Jason couldn’t ignore any longer. He skipped his way out of their shared room all the way down to where the cheerful shrieks grew louder until he saw the culprits of such wonder in his ears. He watched as his daughter was laughing her head off, his wife smiling with amusement, and Dick making more faces to gain more heartfelt giggles from his niece. There was a slight pang in Jason’s chest when he saw the interaction. He didnt fully realize what it was until he started to register the picture right in front of him; they looked like a loving family, and Dick was taking his place as his daughter’s father. Well, that wouldn't last long now, would it?

Jason ran into the room and jumped into the spot next to Dick, so close their shoulders are practically touching. He looked at his wife, the woman already staring, giving him a loving smile. He then glanced at his daughter, whose face was brimming with happiness. The previous feeling dissolves from just a closer look at the happy preschooler. The mostly stoic man takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, all the while thinking of a face to make before he proceeds to deliver the funniest face he can muster. For a split second, the eyes of the other adults widen. They have never seen Jason set aside his pride so much so he would make himself look like a fool just so he could gain a laugh from his family. Amena is already on the couch giggling, tumbling over a bit from the slight loss of balance. Both Dick and Nafula look at each other before bursting out into a heartfelt holler, tears pricking the side of their eyes.

While the three eldest bat-kids continued to make faces at the preschool girl, the youngest of the pack came storming down, wondering why there was so much laughter echoing throughout the house while he tried concentrating on his weekend school work. Once he found the source of the dreadful noise (in his opinion), he never thought to stumble upon the sight of three grown adults making stupid faces to provide entertainment for a child. He sighed lightly, tapping his foot loudly on the ground to gain the attention of everyone in the room. As soon as they all looked at him, he cleared his throat and began to speak, “I was wondering where that irritable laughter was coming from, but all I see here are three adult dimwits refusing to stimulate a child her age with the proper at-home education and instead are making doltish facial expressions that aren't fortuitously interesting or original.” he huffed, glancing at each of his family members to gauge their reactions.

Each adult in question looks at one another before a devilish grin decorates each of their features. Looking at them, partially confused and worried, Damian only groaned loudly when they gave him the most ridiculous face they could assemble before breaking out in impassioned laughter.

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eviltiddyproductions · 1 year

Text

Vincenzo : Episode 1

Oh my god STOP this title card is saurrrrr good

It is giving me the nostalgia of old crime thrillers which used to have these quiet , animated and wonderful title cards.

his hair are styled to the T my god, not a strand displaced. my dumbass wants to ruffle it a little.

and just like that an entire building is down 🫨

all of the shots up until now have been so pleasing to me. the cinematography is so unserious hot!? mind you, I'm four minutes in. 💀

the random ass vertical shot just as i said this

i thought he was the mafia boss? he's a lawyer

the shots are so beautiful HELP

Ohhhh, his boss is dead.

lmao the man just casually eating pasta. that's an Italian baby 🇮🇹

this man is so busy chowing down on that pasta that he cannot see the threat sitting in front of his table

did Netflix change its subtitles again (since i saw this happen with alchemy of souls i have never recovered my trust in them) like i can read! let them be

throw the pasta in this racist's face vince!!!

[foreboding music]

'regret is the most painful thing one can experience in life' bars! saying this before you kill someone and you're giving them a chance is funny but still bars

all of that blatant racism and heat for Vincenzo but can't handle 3 sentences said in Korean

i knew they were going to burn everything as soon as I saw the damn plane 😭

the driver liked that 😂

the score mixed with the silence is actually so good

not a second has been wasted as of it. it's been so pleasing on the eyes

yes!!! snap and kill that cigarette #real #lungsareourfriends

got out of that bathroom so elegantly to kill everybody 😭😭😭

Adrenaline playing let me just

no way they cut to a scene this cute WHO IS SHE I LOVE HER

lmaooo where is this discussion going, is she trying to strongarm him? gotta be the most adorable way I've ever seen

LMFAOOOO she is deadass singing Für Elise while making him take out the cake topper 😂

a string of money coming out she is so unserious 💀✋

wait I know this man

it's candy in my ear !!! cutie !!!

I LOVE HER

Do Bong Soon's dad and Itaewon class villain! Him being here... will this be a hit or a miss 😟

he's mad because she's working for the enemy, it's giving Itaewon Class

I still find it fun as of yet though

lmao is this emotional blackmail. ah we both clocked it 😂

cutieeee

i just watched xo kitty before this so this man getting a free taxi is so funny when my girl was running for her life in Korea when she got out of the airport

lmaooo not this limo man being a kidnapper

he's got really pretty eyelashes

[sinister laugh continues] 💀

honestly kidnappers accidentally kidnapping someone from the mafia is a storyline i can always get behind. you deserve each other!

the old man from alchemy of souls!

[ominous music playing]

superiors being lax after getting an important tip from a junior once again before impending doom

the way i already know what's going to happen to taecyeon like let me not get attached

His hair are so poofy and cute let me run a hand through them 😭

my man who burned like 7000 acres and contributed to 100% of climate change just got kicked in the face and knocked out cold by two casual robbers 😭

a true homecoming

i did not expect this show to be funny

speaking in lower tones with pauses so we know for sure that they're the bad guys doing a business deal

flower of evil detective?!! they really picked one person from each of the 5 kdramas I've watched 💀

he's having the worst day one can have in a new country 😂

the dramatic ass Italian music playing

the piano player 😂 oh wow the tenants of this building are something

lmaooo Vince having the weirdest day in Korea after having an intense I’m the shit, fear me moment in Italy is sending meeee

what is going on in this building

awoop monk jump scare

how does he look THAT good in a blue shirt

lmaooo the chef

everytime water goes out in foreign serials the south asian in me wants to beg people to just keep one bucket in their bathrooms just in case!

do not burn yourself king

the shower doing its own concert with breakdance slay

freezing water is always better than getting burnt by hot water 😭

he gets my pigeon hate omg they’re always outside your window !!!! doing the most 😡

leave sir 🐦 omg don’t use your phone !!

is that his mom? free us from the dumbass narrative of mom leaving child for adoption as heartless. y’all hate women and don’t get it at all

she is correct! this is literally not relevant and y’all are just trying to rile hate for her here. he’s teary eyed. oh no she worked for an abuser ?!!! let her TALK

MOTHER I WILL AVENGE YOU

wait isn’t that lawyer our girl?

eugh annoying perverts. stop taking pictures of strangers challenge failed

get them aunty!

okay opera chef !!! lmaooo the dramatic music playing in this show gets me 💀

nawww he made the chef cry 😭

I'm bonding hard to every 3rd character on the screen like why is the conversation between lawyer dad and mom wrongly in jail making me soft

I know it's actors being actors but I'm so happy to see laywer dad ( Yoo Jae Myung) be soft again. I was ready to fight through the screen with him in Itaewon class.

I love the Mr. Cho actor so much. He truly has the funniest expressions. 😂

NOOOO Mr. Cho. Oh this is nasty

lmao is her dad emancipating from her

#saveMrCho omg

NO NO NO NO NO you cannot do this to me

I am suddenly terrified like I'm already low key devestated

beat his ass sister !!!

lmao the Italian ass entry 😭

help how has he not fallen to his death that's a measuring tape 😭

i need to take a self defense class at some point lol

slayyy

#vincenzo #episode 1 #written update #damn his first day back in Korea is hilarious #that title card is so sexy

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spencer-reids-adventures · 2 years

Note

Okay prompt time! Reid finds an injured puppy at a crime scene and he takes it in. He gets it all fix up and the pup is super sweet and very calming for Reid due to his autism. When Reid has a meltdown, the pup immediately tries to calm him down, but gets pushed away. Though the pup doesn't give up and soon he calms Reid down.

combining these since they're similar!

---

Spencer sees the puppy a few times during the case, always just on the edge of the action, clearly abandoned and alone. He can't stop noticing it, feeling drawn to it. He notices when it barks, and the way it limps, and he notices when someone kicks it, and that's the last straw.

The case is less than an hour from where Spencer lives, so he picks the puppy up and takes it home with him, stopping at the store for food and toys while he makes an appointment with the vet to get its leg checked out. He names the dog Curie.

The vet doesn't find anything too wrong with Curie aside from a banged up leg, which she splints, and some vitamin deficiencies. She tells Spencer everything he needs to know to get the dog back in tip-top shape.

And then it's just the two of them, and Spencer feels like Curie has always been there. She knows how to take care of Spencer when he's stressed, coming to lay close to him and providing him a way to ground himself. She's cuddly and sweet, and Spencer doesn't know how he got so lucky.

He brings her to work with him one day, and when he looks back on it later, he almost wonders if he knew that something was wrong, and that's why he decided to bring her in that day, of all days. Because by the afternoon, he's stressed and overwhelmed, slipping into sensory overload and hanging on by a thread.

"Everyone give him some space," Hotch barks when Spencer finds himself curled up under his desk breathing too fast and feeling like the whole world is crumbling to pieces around him.

Curie's leash is tied to his chair but she immediately goes up to him and starts to nudge him.

"Come here, puppy," Hotch calls. "Let's leave Spencer alone right now, okay?"

Curie does not listen to him, instead pressing her nose harder into Spencer's shoulder before stepping into his lap and sitting down, laying against his chest.

Hotch is about to intervene when he sees the way Spencer relaxes under Curie's touch, and he lets her take control instead, sitting on Spencer and touching him occasionally with her nose. Spencer holds her close, clearly feeling safer with her on top of him.

When it's over and he's calm, she carefully gets off him and sits obediently next to the chair.

"Did you train her to do that?" Hotch asks.

Spencer shakes his head. "It's like she just knows me," he says, and smiles. "It's like I saved her, but then she saved me."

#autistic spencer reid #aaron hotchner #curie the dog #maya writes more than 5 sentences #maya's autistic spencer collection

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subspencer · 3 years

Text

the to-do list

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is worried that she’s not adventurous enough in bed. So, she makes a secret checklist of things to try with Spencer. Based on this request.

Category: Smut, 18+ ONLY, minors dni

Warnings/Includes: switch!Spencer, (sort of?) corruption kink, exhibitionism, mile high club, brief description of oral, unprotected sex, creampie, brief mentions of other stuff but no descriptions

Word Count: 3k

Spencer’s girlfriend has a secret checklist. It could be called a bucket list, of some sort, but really all of the items on it pertain to sexual acts to perform with Spencer, on Spencer, or in front of Spencer. So checklist is a more appropriate term.

The list came into existence after a girl’s night game of Never Have I Ever, in which she discovered there was an embarrassing number of things she’d never done. Some of them seemed nearly impossible to have gone twenty-something years without doing, especially when in a committed relationship. That was made abundantly clear to her when the girls pointed it out, teasing her — and by association, Spencer — for being more than vanilla.

There was no real reason she hadn’t tried those certain things — she wasn’t adverse to the idea of most of them at all. Really, it was just that she never bothered to dip her toes beyond what was familiar.

When Emily, Penelope, and Tara had nearly all ten of their fingers down after a couple rounds, she finally realized she might’ve been coming up short in the sex department. She figured it was about time to find out what she’s missing, so she made a list of everything she needed to try. And one by one, she and Spencer checked the items off.

One of the more simple things on the list, and perhaps her favorite, was giving her first blowjob. It wasn’t something she felt compelled to try with any of the guys she’s been with before, and Spencer, though he was very curious about it, was too much of a gentleman to ask for one.

So when she asked him to sit on the edge of his bed and dropped to her knees in front of him, he didn’t stop to ask questions. His mind went blank the second her fingers undid his zipper. It was Spencer’s first, too, and his fingers knotted in her hair as she took him in as deep as she could, hollowing her cheeks around his cock and swirling her tongue as her head bobbed up and down. Spencer always made pretty sounds in bed, but in this instance she envied his memory because she wished she could replay his moans and gasps from that first blowjob all over again in her mind.

Another favorite was allowing the favor to be reciprocated until completion. She figured she might just be someone who couldn’t get off from oral, because though she always welcomed Spencer to go down, she got impatient every time and pulled his head up by his hair, demanding him to fuck her already. Spencer was one to oblige every request, but he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t overjoyed when one time she never stopped him short.

There were no interruptions, no hands shoving his face away from its rightful place against her, just increasing moans and shaking legs as Spencer was encouraged to give more. She can still remember the half-moon shapes his nails left on her thighs from where he had to grip them so tightly as she rode out her high. And she definitely remembers the almost feral look in his eyes after, because since that first time he insists on doing it again nearly every day.

There were more or less a dozen other items that slowly but surely got ticked off the list.

Handcuffs in the bedroom — fun, but perhaps better saved for special occasions. Or if Spencer was being extra good and deserved a treat.

Various new positions — a reminder to stretch more. And that sixty-nine is not as easy as it sounds on paper.

She let Spencer put a blindfold on her — it was decided they both prefer it more when the blindfold is on him. It keeps him guessing.

Spanking — both of them like this one, either giving or receiving. Surprisingly, she thinks she might like receiving it a little more, and Spencer is always excited to give.

Shower sex — a bit of a logistical nightmare, yet still a weekly staple. It’s slippery, yes, but it’s also relaxing and intimate. And Spencer just enjoys putting his hands on her wet, soapy body.

Sending dirty texts — great, but Spencer prefers taking nude polaroids of her instead. He keeps a few in his wallet for easy access. And because he knows Garcia can’t hack his wallet and find them.

And there were more items that went in the same tune until there was just one left. The one she was most nervous to attempt.

She wondered if joining the mile high club was better or worse if it was on the BAU jet. They’d have ample opportunities to do it, but they’d also be surrounded by their colleagues, and there is no coming back from getting caught.

But the main challenge was convincing Spencer to do it in the first place.

The initial plan of attack was to drop some “subtle” hints. She brought it up for the first time one night in their shared hotel room, right after Spencer fucked her against the bathroom counter, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“We could totally do that in the jet bathroom.”

“Yeah, I guess the basics are the same. Cramped space and a ledge to lean on.” Spencer was completely aloof as he picked up the scattered articles of clothing from the floor, rattling off about the size and dimensions of the airplane bathroom and missing the entire point of the comment.

She mentioned it again a little later, hoping the repetition may help him catch the drift.

“What’s the craziest place you’ve had sex?” she asked, completely catching him off guard as he ate a breakfast of frosted flakes in his kitchen.

“Um.. I don’t know? You tell me,” he shrugged, knowing that whatever the craziest place was, it was definitely with her.

“What about doing it on the jet?” It couldn’t get more obvious.

“We haven’t done that, silly. OH! I’m gonna say it was in my car,” he nodded with a wide grin, confident in his answer that unfortunately brushed past the proposition far too quickly.

It was time to change methods.

The new plan was to see if she could get him turned on enough on the jet to motivate him to do something about it right then and there. It seemed easy enough.

She sat next to him on the small couch, as she always did, and cuddled up to his side as he read his book.

Once everyone was distracted, she snaked a hand onto his thigh, allowing it to rest there long enough for Spencer to get over his initial shock and relax into her touch. As soon as he let his guard down, she moved her hand up another inch or two, watching him squirm again as he fought his mind from wandering. She repeated that cycle every five minutes until it drove him insane, his willpower diminishing in tandem with the proximity of her hand.

When everyone finally fell asleep, she craned her head to press small kisses on his neck, alternating between quick pecks and lingering ones, sucking warm and wet little flecks onto his skin that drew soft sighs without fail.

“What are you doing?” his breath was raspy and low as he muttered into her ear.

“Nothing.” She kept her tone innocent and sweet as she continued to sprinkle the teasing kisses across the column of his throat.

Her hand finally found its way directly on top of the bulge straining against his slacks and gave it a gentle squeeze. Spencer grinded himself into her palm, desperate to feel some friction, his jaw slacked and pupils wide. She dragged a thumb across his length, stopping to rub slow circles over the sensitive tip, drawing out a wet spot at the front of his trousers.

But even with his skin flushed red and his cock leaking and half-near orgasm, Spencer still found the restraint to stop her from jerking him off right on the jet and ripped her hand away, placing it in her lap as if the action could permanently force her to keep her hands to herself.

“I can’t go to the crime scene with cum in my pants,” he hissed, squeezing her wrist tighter.

She smirked at the opportunity, wrapping her warm lips around his ear lobe and tugging with her teeth before whispering with hot breath. “Then put it in me.”

For a second she saw him consider it. His eyes had a dark cast, gaze flickering between her eyes and lips as he swallowed the thick lump in his throat. But then Emily woke up and it was yet another failed attempt.

She resigned to the fact that it just wouldn’t happen, and that the item might remain unchecked on the secret list. So she cleared the idea from her mind, not wanting to keep pushing Spencer toward something he clearly didn’t have an interest in, or to keep embarrassing herself by trying.

And then a couple weeks later, as the team wrapped another case up, she came back to their hotel room to find Spencer sitting on the bed, facing away from the door.

“Hey, baby,” she greeted. When Spencer didn’t respond, she crawled onto the bed behind him, placing both hands on his shoulders and attacking the side of his face with kisses, giggling into his messy curls. “I said hey.”

Still nothing. Her eyes followed his line of sight down to his hands and went wide with realization.

“Spencer, where did you get that!?” She tried to snatch the crumpled piece of paper from him, but he was too quick to pull it away.

“I was looking for gum in your purse,” he explained, reading the sheet over again in complete amusement, “but I found something better.”

Spencer was much too excited about it, bordering on smug, and she rolled off the bed away from him in annoyance.

“Is this what I think it is?” She remained silent, suddenly feeling very insecure about the note. “Did you... did you make a list of things to do in bed?”

“You weren’t supposed to see that, it’s so stupid.”

“Hey, who said it’s stupid?” He tugged on her fingers, pulling her back onto the bed next to him. “I just wanna know where it came from.”

“Well... when I went out with the girls, we started talking about all the things we’ve done…” she paused to see if Spencer could guess where this was going, and of course he didn’t, “... in bed. And I hadn’t even done half of what they have, so I wrote some of them down. I — I wanted to try them with you.”

“So you… you’ve never done these with anyone else?” Spencer’s eyes widened as he pieced the puzzle together. He looked down again at the discarded sheet laying on pillows, his pride swelling at how long the list was. “I’m the first?”

She nodded in assent and no sooner was Spencer pushing her back flat against the mattress, settling his body on top of hers.

“God, that’s so hot,” he spoke into her neck as he sucked purple bruises into it, allowing his hands to roam freely under her shirt. His nimble fingers made quick work of her bra clasp, pulling the hem of the top up to attach his lips to her exposed nipple. He rolled the other in his fingers, tugging gently as she arched into his touch, rolling her hips up to grind against his. He groaned and pushed back, nestling himself perfectly between her legs.

Suddenly his motions halted and he popped his head up, looking at her with wide eyes and freshly ruffled hair. “We haven’t finished the list yet!”

“I — I didn’t think you were interested in the last one.”

“If my girlfriend makes a list of ways she wants to fuck me, I’m interested.”

A devilish grin took over her face. “Well, we fly home tomorrow.”

And true to the plan, they arrived on the jet the next day with at least a vague sense of strategy: wait until everyone is asleep then go at it in the bathroom. It wasn’t the most elaborate of plans, but there wasn’t much else to think of.

Except for the possibility that the others might not go to sleep.

The flight was already halfway through its journey and everyone was still wide awake, and Spencer was growing incredibly impatient. Perhaps even more than his girlfriend, now that he knew this would be part of a long list of things he got to be her first for.

That fact seemed to encourage him, the thrill of forever being her first at something. Never mind that she’d be his firsts, too.

Spencer’s not stupid, he knows that bending her over the bathroom counter while everyone is awake to hear it is a horrible idea. But his willpower doesn’t extend far enough to stop him from dropping his hand to her exposed knee, rubbing it softly just to be able to touch her. It seemed innocent enough in case anyone might see.

He kept his eyes on the open book he was pretending to read as his fingers traced the inside of her thigh, pushing up the hem of her skirt ever so slightly.

He inched his hand up and slowly spread his long fingers apart until they covered the length of her inner thigh. The tips stopping just below her cunt, delicately tracing lines back and forth parallel to the seam of her underwear.

And she quickly discovers there’s no taste worse than your own medicine. There was gentle brushes and concealed touches, all the things that she did to him. But where Spencer would’ve stopped her teasing before it got too far, she wouldn’t have done the same.

She covered up his hands by bringing her own down to her lap, silently encouraging him to continue unseen.

Spencer looked down at her through his thick lashes, bottom lip stuck between his teeth. Looking for more confirmation that she wanted this. The answer came in the form of her shifting subtly down the seat, pressing her clothed pussy firmly against his hand.

His cock twitched against the confines of his slacks when he felt the damp patch on the fabric. His knuckles brushed against her clit and her knees clamped shut, holding him in place as she brought her lips close to his ear to let him hear her soft whines.

He has to put his book over his lap to cover how hard he is, and it almost makes him regret starting this game. Almost.

Because just as she starts desperately grinding against his hand, squirming for more friction, he notices that everyone’s asleep. And then it’s a race to the bathroom, Spencer positioning her directly in front of him to cover his bulge as they stand up.

Their mouths are on each other before the door even closes, her hands wasting little time in going for his zipper. Both desperate to have each other after all the anticipation. She immediately perched herself on the countertop, spreading her legs wide so Spencer could fit in between them, just like in that hotel room. A confused whine fell from her mouth when he lifted her off from the ledge, interrupting her plan.

“No. Like this,” he growled, turning her around and pushing her hips against the edge of the counter, bending her over it. She muttered a “Fuck,” under her breath as he pressed his cock against her backside, knowing he preferred this angle because he could get deeper.

His lips trailed down her neck as he tugged the skirt up to her hips and pulled her panties to the side, running his cock along her folds to gather the wetness that had been pooling there.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet.”

He quickly inserted his thumb into her mouth to stop any sounds from escaping before lining himself up. Her moans vibrated against the digit as he slowly pushed in, stretching her out and letting her adjust before starting to move. Slowly and deliberately, at first, then quickly gaining speed.

She pushed her hips back to meet his thrusts until he pinned them against the ledge with his own, holding them still so he could set his pace faster.

The hand that was resting on her waist came up to her chest, groping at the flesh over her blouse. Her spine arched into his palm, bending forward to give him more leverage to get deeper to that spot inside her repeatedly.

He alternated between a few quick thrusts followed by a deep one, holding himself there for a moment before repeating.

Her cunt tightened around him as he held still against her, applying firm pressure to her spot with the head of his cock.

“Fuck, do that again, please,” he grunted against her neck, pushing his hips into her ass with bruising force to get impossibly closer. A loud whine nearly escaped her lips as he did so, the motion sending her over the edge.

She sucked harder around his thumb, using it to keep her cries at bay as she reached her climax. Her walls fluttered around him as she did, giving him exactly what he needed.

“Remember what you said before, baby?” he hummed in her ear, “Do you still want me to cum inside you?”

“Please.”

Immediately his thrusts became erratic, hips snapping forward a handful of times before he spilled into her in hot spurts, biting down on her shoulder to stifle his moan as he came.

Still heaving from the comedown, he pulled her panties back on, using the fabric to keep his cum from spilling out.

She turned to feverishly attach her lips to his, panting into the open mouthed kiss. When they finally broke apart, both looked completely wrecked with swollen lips, flushed skin, bruised necks. Still, they tried their best to fix themselves, straightening out their rustled clothes and smoothing knotted hair.

Before Spencer turned the door handle, he pulled her side into him, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. “We should make another list.”

taglist: @suburban--gothic @ssa-sarahsunshine @mercy-burning @reidspurple @mediocre-writer @honeyboysteezy @ssa-m-187 @calm-and-doctor @drayshadow @s1utformgg @you-sunshine @altsvu @reidtheprettyboy @goose-eats-god @sonnydoesrandomshit @rigatonireid @muffin-cup @amoeebaa @reidingmelodies

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler smut #matthew gray gubler x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader smut #criminal minds smut #criminal minds self insert

1K notes · View notes

evening-starlight · 3 years

Text

Daddy’s Best Friend

This took two hours to write and it FILTHY lol

All Works Master List

DBF Master List

Word Count: 2401

T/W: Smut, protected sex, degradation, honorifics (Pet, Doll, Sir), absolute FILTH, Oral (Male Receiving), cheating, hair pulling, spanking

Amaris knew this was wrong, coming back to the scene of the crime, but that didn't stop her from knocking on the front door. She hadn't stopped thinking about Tom, about how his lips felt against hers, and how she was curious how the rest of him felt.

Tom was pleasantly surprised when he opened the door and found Amaris standing there, looking frustrated. "Mari? What's up?" He asks, gesturing for her to come inside. She steps inside, close to Tom.

"Look, this is embarrassing, but I just want one night with you. I need to get you out of my system if I'm going to have a proper relationship with Armel. That kiss we did was a mistake, but I can't stop thinking about it. So, one more mistake, and we're done, understood?" Amaris rants, shocking Tom at her boldness.

She was always a bold character, but not this bold. Of course, they shouldn't be talking about this, but the thought of Amaris screaming Tom's name replays in his mind and has been for the last week. Thinking about Amaris's soft lips around him made him harden in his sweats.

Tom's silence makes Amaris backpedal. "We don't have to. It was stupid to ask. I'll leave, and we can forget I even," She's cut off by Tom's lips on her, shutting her up. They kiss for a second before Tom pulls back.

"This stays between us, yeah?" Amaris nods frantically, dying to have Tom's lips on hers again. He grants her wish, kissing her like there was no tomorrow. Their lips work together, creating an emotional frenzy between the two. Amaris's guilt subsides when Tom starts kissing down her neck, slowly pushing her back until she hits the wall.

He settles a knee between her thighs, sucking a spot into her neck. Claiming her as his, at least for the night. Amaris's hands grip Tom's hair, breathing heavily as Tom runs a hand up her shirt, resting on her waist.

Her skin is soft and smooth to the touch, and Tom can't keep his hands off of her, growing increasingly frustrated with the shirt blocking his assault. "Fucking hell," He mumbles before pulling her shirt off in a haste. Tom stares down at her. Amaris's chest heaves, lifting and dropping her perfectly sculpted breasts that are shielded by a dark red push-up bra. "Did you wear this for me?" Tom asks, palming her over the cup.

Amaris lets out a pathetic whine, wanting nothing more than Tom to touch her the way she desires. His hands across her body send fire to her heat, growing with every touch. Tom chuckles, snaking an arm around her back while his lips find hers again. He unclips her bra with one hand and uses both to pull it off her shoulders and onto the floor carelessly. Tom's hands find the mounds and massages until he finds her peaked nipples.

When he tweaks one, Amaris moans loudly into Tom's mouth. His hands make her feel like she's been struck by lightning, amplifying every touch and movement he does. Tom's tongue slips into Amaris's mouth as she continues to moan. She feels like she's on cloud nine, having never felt this horny with anyone before.

"Bed," Tom huffs, grabbing Amaris's hand and dragging her across the house and to his room topless. He picks her up and tosses her onto the bed, earning a giggle in return. Amaris won't admit it out loud, but she loved being manhandled. "Are you certain this is what you want, Mari?" Tom asks again, anxiety seeping into his mind.

"Just shut up and fuck me already, Tom," Amaris says, lifting herself onto her elbows. Tom pounces on top of her, causing yet another giggle to escape the girl. The chemicals pumping through her system make her feel dizzy in the best way possible. She has Tom kissing along her body, and it's everything she's ever dreamt of.

Tom sheds his shirt quickly as Amaris tugs on his, begging him to be as vulnerable as she was. Her mouth goes dry, watching as Tom's abs ripple with a flex as he pulls the shirt entirely off. "Fucking hell," Amaris whispers, reaching up to pet his stomach. Tom chuckles and presses his hand over the top of hers as he leans back down to kiss her.

Her hands on Tom's skin make the man groan. This is what he's been thinking about for weeks, and it's better than he could have imagined. He settles a knee between Amaris's thighs again, pulling a small moan out of her. "Tom, please do something. I want to feel you, please," Amaris begs, desperate for more of Tom's skin on hers.

Amaris's pants are pulled down to her knees as soon as she finishes her sentence, on the floor seconds after. Tom stares down at her dark red panties. "They were a matching set," Amaris says, smiling at Tom. "But someone was too impatient to see them together."

"If I recall correctly, you were the one absolutely begging me to take you, weren't you, Doll?" Amaris whines at the condescending tone Tom uses. His eyes light up at the noise. "Do you enjoy that, pet? Do you enjoy the way I talk to you?" Amaris whines again, not daring to answer when he's exactly right.

She loved being degraded and belittled, and the fact Tom did it without hesitation makes it even more enjoyable. Tom's hand wraps lightly around Amaris's neck, not enough pressure to be considered choking, but enough to show his dominance. "Use your words, Pet. Or you don't get what you came here for."

"Yes, sir. I love everything you're doing. You're making me so wet," Amaris says, hoping her honesty will get her something. Tom hums, running his hands over her body, snapping the panty line against her skin. "Please fuck me, Tom," Amaris begs, rutting her hips against Tom's still clothed leg.

"Patience, pet. I want to enjoy it." Amaris whines in protest at Tom's words. He chuckles and presses his leg against her core harder. Amaris can't help but rut against it, needing some kind of relief from the pressure building inside of her. "Look at you, so fucking desperate for my cock you're willing to fuck yourself against my leg," Tom whispers, bending down to nibble on Amaris's earlobe. His lips find her weak spot, pulling a pornographic moan out of Amaris as he sinks his teeth into the flesh.

His cock was throbbing in his sweats, begging to be released and fuck inside Amaris, but Tom ignored it the best he could. He wanted to enjoy the only time he'd have Amaris in his bed. Enjoying the moans and whines coming from the girl, Tom continues to leave marks up and down her body, Armel be damned. Amaris was his for the night, and he was going to give her reminders of her betrayal. A betrayal she made just for him.

When both adults were verging on frustrated, Amaris reaches between the two and cups Tom's cock through his pants. The animalistic groan Tom emits causes Amaris to whine in response. "Fuck, Pet. Rollover," Tom demands, pulling off her and off the bed completely.

"What? I don't get to see your cock?" Amaris asks, eyes wide and innocent. Tom could see through it. She wasn't as innocent as she let on, even to him. Tom curses, grabbing a fistful of Amaris's hair, guiding her off the bed and onto her knees in front of him. Amaris sits on her knees, eagerly waiting for Tom to pull out his member.

Amaris knew precisely what she was doing and how to get what she wanted. She wanted Tom to fuck her, yes, but she also wanted to know what it would feel like to have her mouth stuffed with him. And the quickest way to get Tom to do as she wanted to was to suck him off.

Tom shimmies out of his sweats and undergarments, letting his cock stand full and erect. Amaris can't help but lick her lips before looking at Tom through her eyelashes. "Look at me like that, pet, and you're not going to be able to walk for the next week," Tom threatens, feeling his cock twitch as he looks down at the woman submitting to him fully.

"Isn't that the point, Sir?" Tom moans lowly at the name that drips from her lips. He didn't think he was a person who would love honorifics so much, but here he was, cock harder than he thought it could get as she calls him 'sir.'

His cock slowly disappears into Amaris's mouth while she maintains eye contact. She was going to absolutely wreck Tom if it was the last thing she did. Tom moans and rests his hands in her hair as she bottoms out. "Holy fuck, Pet." He breaths out, throwing his head back in ecstasy. Amaris continues to bob her head up and down his cock, watching as his breathing picks up and fists tighten in her locks.

Tom was in heaven at the moment. He doesn't know what he did to deserve this treatment, but he's thanking every god he could think of while Amaris sucks the life out of him. Her mouth was warm and soft, her tongue swirling around the tip when she comes back up. This was the most perfect blowjob he's had, and he doesn't want it to stop.

The blow job is cut short when Tom pulls Amaris off, panting as he feels himself being too close to the edge. He wanted to finish inside of Amaris. "Bed. Now." He demands. Amaris stands up and climbs back on the bed slowly, swaying her ass as she does. A loud smack echos through the room as Tom's hand collides with the supple skin of Amaris's rear.

Amaris moans in response before dropping into doggy position, just as Tom had ordered before. Tom rummages around the bottom drawer of his nightstand before coming out with a condom with a victorious smile.

The tension between them was deafening as Tom rolls the condom down his shaft before positioning himself behind her. Amaris whines pathetically as Tom teases his head against her clit. "Look at you. Fucking dripping for my cock." Tom says, collecting juice on his cock. "Fucking pathetic," Amaris whines again, pushing against Tom, which earns another spanking. "I decide when you get my cock, Pet."

Tom continues to run his cock up and down Amaris's slit, saying filthy things that would make a professional pornstar blush. "I want you to fucking beg for me, Pet. Beg for me to fuck you better than anyone has before." Tom barks with a slap on Amaris's ass again.

"Please, Sir. I want you to break me. I want to feel your cock in me for days after. Please," Amaris's begging is cut short when Tom thrusts his entire length inside her, enticing a loud moan. He stretched and filled her like no one else has, or ever will. His cock fit perfectly inside of her, hitting the right spots in just one movement.

Amaris clenches around Tom, earning another moan from the man. She wrapped around him like no other has, and he wanted to savor this moment. But his cock begged to differ. Tom starts a slow, rhythmic pace as he fucks into Amaris from behind. The moans leaving her mouth egging him on to go faster.

As Tom's pace picks up, Amaris starts to lose all earthly grounding. She grips the sheets for some sort of stability but can't get any as Tom rams into her at an ungodly pace. The sounds coming from the room could be heard throughout the neighborhood. Tom's moans push Amaris closer to the edge. He sounded angelic and animalistic at the same time.

Tom wraps a hand in her hair and pulls Amaris up to her knees, continuing his brutal pace. "Look at you. Moaning for me," He grunts. "Who makes you feel this good?" He asks, using his free hand to wrap around and play with Amaris's clit.

"You," She moans out, closing her eyes as the pleasure builds inside of her. She's so close she can taste her orgasm.

"What's my fucking name?" Tom continues, feeling Amaris flutter around him. He knows she's close and wanted to get her over the edge. It isn't until his teeth sink into her neck that she screams out his name as she cums around his cock.

The slick feeling and fluttering walls push Tom closer to the edge. His thrusts falter as he finishes inside the condom. Tom lets go of Amaris's hair, and she falls onto the bed, panting like a dog who's been left outside all day. Tom flops down beside her, catching his breath before he cleans them both up.

Amaris is the first to speak. "That was, without a doubt, the best sex I've ever had." Tom laughs at her confession, resting a hand on the back of her sweaty thigh.

"So why make it a one-time deal?" Tom asks. Amaris shifts her head to look at Tom, a serious expression adorning her fucked-out face.

"Because I'm still with Armel," She counters. The guilt starts to come back. She shouldn't have slept with Tom, but this was the best she's felt in years after sex. Well, the best she's ever felt after sex.

"So? Keep him, and when he can't fuck you right, I'll be here," Tom says cockily. He knew this was wrong, but this was hands down one of the best times he's had sex. It was also the fact that Tom didn't want to lose this post-sex feeling. He felt like he could conquer the world in one breath.

Amaris sighs and moves so she's looking away from Tom again. She wanted to. The sex was amazing. The after-sex feeling had her walking on air. But she was cheating on Armel by fucking Tom behind his back. It's not Amaris's fault that Armel only wanted boring vanilla sex, but it did put a damper on her mood afterward.

Tom helps Amaris get cleaned up, smiling proudly as her legs shake unsteadily as she stands up. They say nothing more to each other as they get dressed, and Amaris leaves with a thousand thoughts going through her head.

Taglist: @queenofallhobos @kingtwhiddleston @cynic-spirit

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