#(publication is the auction of the mind of man)

[astrophileous]

A Well-Kept Secret

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Synopsis: While working on a case in D.C., Spencer didn't expect to hear a familiar name being mentioned as the sole surviving witness. Or, in which the team discovers Spencer's well-kept secret.

Warning(s): established secret relationship, mentions and/or depictions of death/physical violence/gun violence/injury/attack, signs of trauma, survivor's guilt, curse words, hurt/comfort, nudity but it's not sexual, allusions to sexy times, mentions/implied alcohol consumption

Word Count: 5900-ish

Author's Note: hiya! I decided to write this lil piece after seeing the fic challenge posted by @imagining-in-the-margins abt the family/found family trope. I had a lotta fun writing this one and I think it's got potential to be something more. So pls comment or message me if you wanna see me exploring with this idea (either turning it into a series of connected one-shots or multi-parters). Don't forget to like/comment/reblog and give me a follow :) I hope you enjoy! 💞

Criminal Minds Masterlist

When Hotch had notified the team to haul their asses up and drove all the way to D.C., Spencer never expected that it would also entail him having to suffer through a mini heart attack.

The series of attacks around D.C. had been dominating the 6 PM news segments in the entire country. What was initially perceived as a suspected sequence of robberies gone wrong--since the first two targets to have been hit were a bank and a prestigious auction house--soon turned into a nationwide panic as people realized that there was a bigger game at play.

After the third attack was found to have occurred in the headquarters of one of the top, up-and-coming renewable energy startups in the states, the D.C. police finally started to entertain the idea that perhaps they hadn't been dealing with their usual petty robbers at all.

And naturally, that was when the BAU had been called in.

As soon as the team entered the Metropolitan PD bullpen, they were struck with the smell of panic and the sight of chaos.

"Agent Hotchner?" A middle-aged man in a gray shirt and blue tie appeared in front of them. "My name is Detective Mills, we spoke on the phone."

"Of course, Detective." Hotch shook the other man's hand. "This is my team. Agent Prentiss, Jareau, and Dr. Reid. I have two others already at the latest crime scene. What can you tell us so far?"

"As you can see--" Detective Mills gestured towards the frenzied scene behind him, "--the entire D.C. area is going haywire after news broke out about yesterday's attack. The public is demanding the city to be put on lockdown, and I'm getting pressure from above as well. We received information that nearly half the city has called in sick today."

"A classic response to mass paranoia," Spencer noted.

"Well, paranoia or not, I just want to start getting some answers." Detective Mills began to lead the team further into the bullpen. "I have every pair of hands I could spare in this. If they aren't out there chasing leads, they're here interviewing the victims, friends, and families."

"Any luck so far?" Emily asked.

"Nothing more than what you've probably seen in the files."

Detective Mills pushed open the door to an office in the corner, away from the havoc in the center of the station.

"Lieutenant Jeffreys retired a couple of weeks ago. The lucky bastard." Detective Mills scoffed jokingly. "It's the most decent space I can spare at the moment. Think you'll be fine in here?"

"It's more than enough, Detective. Thank you," Hotch replied.

"What about the witnesses from yesterday's attack? Have you had the chance to interview them?" JJ asked as the rest of the team started setting up.

"Some of my men are with them right now. But I doubt they'll have anything useful. Just like the other two cases, the attack happened while most of the office was out. The rest left behind were DOA at the latest scene."

"They're rapidly devolving," Spencer pondered out loud as he skimmed over the case files. "They went from killing a non-compliant security guard during the first attack to executing almost every witness in the last one."

JJ raised an eyebrow. "Almost?"

"It says here there is one survivor." Spencer showed the word he had underlined in the case overview to JJ.

"Yes, there is," Detective Mills confirmed. "I had one of my men talk to her. There's not much she could give us. Thing is, she wasn't even supposed to be there."

"What do you mean?" Emily asked.

"She didn't work in that office. She was a consultant who just happened to be visiting. Poor girl's pretty shaken up. She hid in a supply closet the entire time. She was the one who found the bodies and called 911."

"So, the perpetrators never checked the rooms while they were holding the victims hostage?" Hotch questioned.

"Not according to her statement, no. See, I thought it weird myself. Do you have any idea why?"

"Not sure." Hotch hummed, deep in thought. "Perhaps our UnSubs didn't think to check because they didn't know someone was in there. Detective, you said all of the victims were the only employees of the company who didn't attend the event downtown, correct?"

"Yeah, they were the only ones who weren't listed as attendees. Why? Do you think those people were specifically targeted?"

"Unfortunately, we can't rule out anything yet this early in the investigation," Hotch said. "We need to talk to the witnesses to know more. JJ?"

"On it." JJ nodded. "What can you tell us about yesterday's sole survivor, Detective?"

"Not much. I didn't interview her personally, one of my men did. She works at a consulting engineering firm in town," Detective Mills replied. "I believe her name is... what is it called?"

When Detective Mills mentioned the name, Spencer's heart instantly crashed inside of its cage.

"What?" His hand had stopped scribbling on the board. In a matter of miliseconds, Spencer had crossed the room towards the doorway where Detective Mills was standing. "What did you say her name was?"

Dumbfounded, the detective stared at a dread-stricken Spencer before spelling out the name once more.

"Why? What's wrong?" Detective Mills asked in confusion.

JJ touched Spencer's shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

But Spencer, either too alarmed or merely choosing not to acknowledge both questions, asked instead, "Where is she? I need to see her."

"In the waiting room by the pantry--"

Spencer didn't even wait for Detective Mills to form his complete thought before dashing out. JJ exchanged a glance with Emily following Spencer's sudden exit, perplexed by his odd turn of behavior.

"I'll go get him," JJ announced before leaving the room, chasing after a flurry of wavy hair and a wool-knitted purple vest sprinting across the bullpen.

The roaring commotion inside the station was almost loud enough to rival the intensity of your racing thoughts.

Almost.

At this point, you didn't think there was anything you could do anymore. The vivid images from yesterday's attack were playing continuously in your head. There was nothing you could do to stop them.

Rubbing your eyes from exhaustion, you mourned the loss of sleep that you failed to get the previous night. As if the waking nightmares weren't torment enough, the images had somehow translated even more cruelly into your subconscious. You could barely close your eyes for three seconds without feeling like you had been brought back to that place.

Cold, cramped, and alone. Fearing for your life in the tiny supply closet that smelled more like death than bleach.

At the sound of the door opening, you quickly turned around in your seat to hide your face away from prying eyes. The last thing you needed at that moment was having a complete stranger seeing you fall apart in the middle of a police station.

But when the voice came carrying the sound of your name, it wasn't the voice of a complete stranger you had heard. It was a voice you knew more than you probably knew your own. A voice you loved and a voice you had longed to hear for the past gruesome twenty-four hours.

"Spencer?" You turned back towards the door, seeing the face you adored most in the whole world staring back at you.

"Sweetheart."

At the speed of a lightning, Spencer dropped to his knees in front of you and gathered your broken little pieces into his arms.

Spencer's touch was everywhere. Your hair, your neck, your shoulders. As if he was checking whether you were real. That you were actually there inside his arms, and you were not a simple imagination that his mind had conjured up.

Surrounded by the safety of his embrace, you could feel the shattered pieces of yourself beginning to mend once more.

"Spencer," you uttered his name again as you pulled away, still in disbelief that he was physically there with you.

"I'm here," he promised you as he cupped your face gently.

"Spencer, what are you... How..."

"My team is working your case. We arrived half an hour ago," he explained simply. "Sunshine, why didn't you tell me? I thought you were still in Alaska?"

You had previously apprised Spencer that you would be hard to reach during your trip since you would be spending most of your time at the power plant site where cellphone receptions were scarce. So when an entire day went by without him ever hearing from you, Spencer didn't have any reason to be worried.

Never in a million years would he have ever predicted that you'd be caught in the middle of a hostage situation.

That thought alone caused Spencer to squeeze your hand a little tighter than usual.

"I'm sorry, Spence," you said sincerely. "My trip ended earlier than planned. I arrived back yesterday morning. I actually wanted to surprise you last night. After yesterday's... incident, I wanted to call you, but my phone was shot--"

"Wait, what? You were shot?"

"No! No, baby. Not me. Just my phone," you assured him. "But that's why I couldn't call. I did attempt you once using this station's phone, but it went straight to voicemail."

At the new piece of information, the colors immediately drained from Spencer's face.

"That was you? Fuck. I didn't--I didn't know. I rejected the call because I didn't know it was you."

"Hey." You stopped his guilty rambling with a hand to his cheek. "It's okay. I'm okay. I'm just glad you're here."

And then, because Spencer needed to make sure that you really were okay, he pulled you back into his arms and held you even tighter this time.

"Uh, Spence?"

The sound in the doorway snapped you both out of your mutual reverie. You looked up to see a blonde woman there, staring in an equal mixture of shock and confusion at the sight in front of her.

Spencer begrudgingly untangled himself from your arms before getting up to approach her.

"JJ, do you mind if I do the cognitive for this one?" Spencer asked.

The woman--JJ-- shifted her eyes a few times between you and Spencer. "Um, of course. I'll just go and inform Hotch. Tell us if you need anything."

After JJ's departure, Spencer closed the door again to award you both a much needed privacy.

He grabbed a wooden chair from the corner and dragged it before sitting down right in front of you.

"I need to start the interview now, sweetheart. Think you're up for it?"

Your whole body went rigid for a matter of seconds before you forced it to restart again. It was gone as soon as it came, but Spencer noticed it just the same.

"Look at me," Spencer ordered softly, using his delicate finger to nudge your face up until he was looking straight into your eyes. "I know it's scary. I don't want you to have to relive yesterday either, but it will help us catch whoever did this."

"I've told the police everything I knew yesterday. I was hiding the entire time." Like a coward. "I didn't see anything. I don't have anything else that could help you."

"I know that, sunshine. But as I've told you before, our method is slightly different. We won't be just focusing on what you saw, but also what you smelled, or maybe even heard." Spencer took your hands then, squeezing affectionately. "I'll be here with you the entire time."

The nod you gave him was hesitant, but it was a start nonetheless. You listened intently to Spencer's words and closed your eyes just as he had instructed.

"We'll start at the beginning," you heard him say. "Why don't you tell me why you went there yesterday?"

"I, uh, received a call from my friend, Nick, after my plane landed. We had been communicating back and forth since his company seeked my consultation for one of their upcoming projects," you began. "I wasn't even supposed to work because I had requested the day off. But Nick said it didn't have to be a formal meeting, so I agreed to meet him."

"Tell me what you remember after arriving at the office."

Your mind traveled back to that specific time one day prior. You remembered walking into the place and seeing its unusual state of vacancy even though there was still a good half an hour left before lunchtime.

"I just assumed everyone had gone to lunch earlier and shrugged it off," you recalled.

Spencer nodded his head. "Did anything else strike you as out of the ordinary?"

"No? I don't... I don't know. It was only my second time being there, I'm not sure what was normal and what wasn't."

"Okay. That's okay. You're doing good so far, sweetheart," Spencer quickly interjected, trying to get you to calm down before your distress could turn into a full-blown panic. "Now, what did you do next?"

"I followed Nick into his office."

Nick was keeping his promise true. It hadn't felt like a formal meeting, just two old college buddies reminiscing about the past and discussing possibilities of the future that, of course, included the company's upcoming project which you would be working on with him.

"I excused myself to the bathroom at some point," you added. "When I first heard the commotion, I thought nothing of it. It's like the idea that a group full of armed men had taken over the building didn't even cross my mind. I mean, why would it? I was on my way back to Nick's office when I saw them."

You recalled turning a corner after exiting the bathroom only to see those figures carrying machine guns and shouting at everyone to get on their knees or put their hands above their heads. You remembered sprinting the way you had come from and opening the first door you could reach that just happened to be the supply closet.

"Let's go back to the moment you saw them," Spencer urged gently. "How many people were there? Do you remember any conspicuous detail? Maybe one of them had tattoos or spoke with an accent. Anything that distinguished them."

Taking a deep breath, you tried replaying those crucial seconds slowly in your head.

"There were four of them. I couldn't see much. They were all wearing identical black clothes."

Suddenly, an unexpected piece of memory rushed to the front of your mind. You opened your eyes in shock, meeting Spencer's curious gaze that had been kept intently on you the entire time.

"I think at least one of them is a woman," you told him.

Spencer's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Are you sure?"

"One of the guys said something about... fucking this place up. And then she laughed. I heard her. It was definitely a female laugh."

"Good. That's good."

"Yeah? Do you think it'll help?"

Spencer nodded assuredly, bringing his hand to leave calming strokes on your head. "I know it will. You've done a great job, sweetheart. I'm proud of you."

The praise Spencer gave eased the tension in your shoulders. As if having been granted fresh air after decades of confinement, you were finally able to let yourself breathe again.

Spencer continued his loving strokes on your head. Little by little, the weight of his touch melted the resolve you had built into a pathetic puddle on the floor. Without its mental shield protecting you, your tears sped forward, gathering in your eyes until they spilled on the vast path down your cheeks.

"Hey, hey." Spencer's voice was laden with panic after seeing you start to cry. "Sunshine, what is it? What's wrong? Talk to me."

"I-I just... God." You struggled to get the words out in between sobs. "I'm a coward, Spencer."

"What?"

"All of those people... They died because I was a fucking coward."

Your admission tore into the air before stabbing Spencer right through his chest.

"Sweetheart, you know that's not true."

"But it is!" you cried out, pulling away from Spencer's grounding hold around your shaking body in favor of your own arms. "I was a coward. I ran and hid because I was too scared to die. Too scared to fight. If I had just tried a little harder, I could've called for help. That way, maybe all of those people wouldn't... And Nick wouldn't..."

A haunting image flashed behind your eyes. The image of Nick's limp and lifeless body on the floor, among those of the others. You remembered crying next to him, punching his chest, body, and arm despite having seen the gunshot wound on his forehead. It took you another five minutes before you eventually managed to gather yourself together, found a phone, and dialed 911.

Not that it made any difference. They were all already dead.

Spencer could hear his heart breaking at the sight of you curling into yourself, recoiling from his touch because you somehow believed you didn't deserve his affection at that moment. If Spencer could just transfer all of your pain towards him, he would. Seeing you beat yourself up that way over something that happened and was done to you was the worst kind of torture he ever had to endure in life.

And Spencer had been through more kinds of torture than the general population in the world.

Deciding that he had seen enough of your self-deprecating torment, he reclaimed your hands inside of his palms and urged you to look at him.

"Are you hearing yourself right now?" Spencer asked incredulously. "How can you even think that way? Sweetheart, what happened to those people, to Nick, it is not your fault."

"B-but, if I hadn't run away--"

"Then you would've died, too," he cut you off. "Sunshine, there were four of them with machine guns. No one stood a single chance against them. Those people were there to kill. There was nothing you could've done."

It was a hard pill to swallow, but Spencer needed you to hear it.

He needed you to know the truth no matter how unacceptable it was.

"If you hadn't hid from them, we would've found seven bodies there instead of six. And I--" Spencer took a shuddering breath, "--I would've lost you."

Your shoulders deflated at his revelation. "Spence--"

"So please--" he searched your eyes then, using his thumb to sweep away the remaining tears under your eyes, "--stop holding yourself accountable. I promise I will do everything I can to find those people and make them pay for what they did."

Spencer's vow triggered a new wave of tears that compelled you to sink into his awaiting arms. He let you stay there until you had cried your tears dry. It was something he also secretly needed for himself after suffering through the short-lived horror over the mention of your name in relation to the heinous case. He just needed to make sure that you were okay.

A few minutes passed by with you in his arms. Eventually, Spencer had to tear himself away to finish his job. He asked you to wait as he wrapped up the transcript of your cognitive interview, along with his professional report over it.

"I need to run somewhere real quick. I promise to be back in a couple of hours," he notified JJ as he handed her the interview report. "Tell Hotch for me? Thanks."

Without waiting for his friend's reply, Spencer rushed back to the waiting room before leading you out to take you home.

Back at your apartment, Spencer guided you towards the direction of your bathroom as soon as you had stepped into the threshold.

"Are you trying to get me naked, Spencer?" you remarked playfully after he refused to let you take your clothes off yourself.

"Yes." The gleaming mischief in your eyes caused him to flick your nose lightly. "Just to get you ready for your bath. Get your head straight, will you?"

You scoffed at his back as he turned around to check the water temperature in the tub.

Once you were submerged safely inside, Spencer left the bathroom to give you some privacy. Meanwhile, he began rummaging through your drawers to pull out a change of clothes, a towel, and a clean sheet for your bed.

By the time you exited, Spencer had changed your bedsheets and lit one of your favorite candles on the bedside table. He asked you to sit down on the bed as he kneeled before you, helping you put on the pajamas he had picked out with little prints of sunflowers on them.

None of Spencer's touches were sexual. They swept over your skin with the care of an artist handling their most precious work. When his eyes found yours, you swore you could almost cry from the intense adoration that seemed to shine so brightly out of them.

As he guided you to lie on the bed, you were surprised to see him following suit. He got under the covers with you, pulling you close to tangle every inch of your limbs with his.

"I love you, Spencer," you admitted to his chest, heart heavy with the deep appreciation and overwhelming affection for the man beside you.

Spencer looked down at your confession, finding his favorite pair of eyes already looking earnestly at him. Instinctively, he reached for your chin with his fingers, tugging your face upward until he could capture your lips with his.

The kiss was slow. Careful. Filled with silent promises and discreet reassurances. When you both parted, Spencer didn't pull himself away. Instead, he let his forehead touch yours while his eyes stayed closed.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" you asked quietly.

"Yes, sweetheart. Now go to sleep."

Although the two of you knew his answer was a lie, you both chose to pretend otherwise. You knew Spencer still had responsibilities to fulfill, along with a promise to you that he intended to keep. You knew that when you woke up later that evening, Spencer would already be long gone, and you would be forced to bask in the traces of himself that he had left behind.

But for now, Spencer was still there, in the comfort of your bedroom, lying on the bed next to you. And that knowledge alone was good enough for you to finally drift further into the land of sleep, surrounded by the warmth of Spencer's loving embrace.

"I'm telling you," JJ insisted, looking at her entire team minus Spencer and Hotch. "There was definitely something going on between them. Why else would he request to take over the cognitive for me?"

"Maybe he was feeling generous," Rossi deadpanned, earning an unimpressed glare from JJ.

It had been a full week since the BAU team had arrived in D.C. to investigate the series of gun attacks in the city. Just the day prior, they had successfully made their fourth arrest, bringing this case to yet another satisfying conclusion in the eye of justice.

If nothing else was amiss, they should have been on their way back to Quantico in less than an hour. In the meantime, though, JJ felt obliged to gather her team members in the middle of the bullpen to share her suspicion about a certain scene she had accidentally caught on their first day working the case.

"Pretty boy did seem more emotionally involved in this case than he usually does, though," Derek pointed out.

"Right? Right?" JJ replied almost too enthusiastically. "Come on, aren't you guys at least half as curious as I am about who this mystery girl might be? Don't you wanna try finding out who she is while we're still here?"

They all stared at each other in hesitation.

"Or, we could just ask Spencer directly and let him explain?" Emily suggested, receiving incredulous looks from the other three in response. "Yeah, you're right. What did you say her name was again?"

"I don't remember," JJ answered.

"It must be listed in the files somewhere, right?" Derek immediately sprung into action, reaching towards the scattered case files that might contain the name they were looking for.

"Just to be clear, I am not taking any part in this." Rossi sighed.

"Got it!" Derek waved the offending file in hand, giving it to JJ, who instantly began skimming over it.

"Alright. Says here that her name is..."

JJ read the name aloud when unexpectedly, an answering sound sprouted from behind them.

"Yes?"

Every single one of them turned in shock at your voice. You smiled at their wide-eyed expressions, waving your hand a little awkwardly in the air.

"You!" JJ exclaimed.

"Me?"

Emily nudged JJ in the ribs, making the blonde woman wince.

"Y-you're the witness from the startup case, right?" JJ said, trying to rectify the situation.

"That's me."

"What can we do for you, Miss?" Rossi asked, stepping forward and away from the rest of the group.

"I'm actually looking for Spencer. Do you know where he might be?"

"Spencer Reid? You know Reid?" Emily asked.

Before you had the chance to reply, the man in question came strolling into the bullpen, rambling animatedly to Hotch who was walking beside him. The moment Spencer caught sight of you, though, he immediately abandoned Hotch's side and rushed towards where you were standing.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, of course," you told him, fitting yourself easily into Spencer's side as his arm went around your waist. "Hi, Hotch."

The older man called your name in greeting. "I got your message. You wanted to talk to me?"

"I wanted to ask you--well, all of you, actually--" you glanced around at the other team members, "--if maybe you all would let me treat you to lunch? As a thank you for your hard work on the case."

Hotch nodded in response. "It's fine with me. We don't have to be back until tonight, anyway. Everyone?"

Instead of replying to your offer, Emily voiced aloud the question that was circling everyone's mind.

"You know her?" Emily looked at Hotch before dragging her eyes away towards you. "And you know him? You know each other? How?"

You gazed up at Spencer's eyes, seeing them shining with the same mirth as the one you felt dancing in your stomach.

"I guess this is supposed to be the part where I introduce myself, isn't it?" You chuckled.

Extending your palm, you shook each of their hands while telling them your name, them responding back with theirs even though you already knew who was who long before you had even met them.

"I still don't understand," JJ admitted after you finished shaking her hand. "How did you know Spencer and Hotch?"

Once again, you looked into Spencer's eyes, a question bouncing around in yours. Spencer's nod of affirmation was the only go-ahead you needed.

It's time.

"I'm Spencer's girlfriend."

"She's my wife."

You turned your head towards Spencer in shock.

In front of you, Spencer's teammates were causing an uproar.

"Wait, what?" Emily stared dumbfoundedly.

"You have a girlfriend?" Derek asked in disbelief.

"You're married?!" JJ shrieked.

"Hold on a second," Rossi interjected, holding his palms out as if to tell everyone to stand down and calm themselves. "So which one is it? Girlfriend or wife?"

And that was how you found yourself sitting in the private VIP room of your favorite restaurant in the city with some of Spencer's closest people on earth.

"That's the craziest story I've ever heard," Emily pondered in astonishment.

Rossi, Derek, and JJ were all wearing an identical look on each of their faces after hearing the story of how you and Spencer met: by drunkenly getting married in Vegas after only knowing each other for barely one night when you both weren't even twenty-two yet.

"If someone were to tell me yesterday that there's another member of this team who also went to get married while drunk in Vegas, I would have never even thought of mentioning Spencer's name," JJ mused.

At your curious expression, Spencer explained, "Rossi also got drunkenly married in Vegas to his third ex-wife,"

"Why didn't you two get a divorce?" Emily suddenly asked.

It was something that everyone who knew about your situation with Spencer had questioned at one point or another. The real answer was because you and Spencer had both been reluctant to go through the nasty and lengthy legal process of getting a divorce. Therefore, you decided to part ways without doing anything about it, vowing to only track each other down if one of you ever needed to end the bond because of another impending marriage or any other urgent matter.

But that reason alone was usually not enough to appease people's curiosity. And over the years, you and Spencer had poked fun over that particular fact by coming up with the most outrageous lie you could muster up.

"She wanted to get a divorce," Spencer fabricated smoothly. "I persuaded her otherwise because I had this inkling that someday we were gonna fall in love."

Usually, any other people would coo sweetly at Spencer's statememt.

But these weren't any other people. These people were Spencer's family in more ways except flesh and blood, and even without their profiling skills, you knew they could see right through Spencer's little deception.

"That sounds like bullshit to me. Doesn't that sound like bullshit to you?" Emily asked, turning to JJ for support.

"Yeah, that was bullshit, alright," JJ claimed vehemently, prompting an innocent-looking grin from Spencer and a series of chuckles from everyone else.

"When did you two start dating, then?" Rossi spoke up from one end of the table.

"About two years after Vegas, right?" you estimated, to which Spencer nodded in confirmation. "He strolled into my place of work while he was on a case, and then he asked me out."

Derek sat up on his seat after hearing the new information. "Wait, when was this? Why didn't I know about this?"

"The beginning of my second year in the BAU," Spencer offered. "Elle knew."

"Elle? Elle Greenway? You told Elle but not me?" Derek looked offended.

Spender shrugged nonchalantly. "Elle was assigned with me that day."

"Unbelievable." Derek slumped back down in his chair. "Penelope is gonna freak when she finds out what she missed today."

"Penelope? Oh, she already knows," you told him.

That revelation earned a collective disbelief look across the entire table.

"Yeah... I, uh," you cleared your throat, "I actually just went shopping with her two weeks ago."

"You've got to be kidding me," Emily muttered.

"You told Penelope but not me?" Derek sounded hurt as he pointed his accusatory stare at Spencer. "You even told Hotch!"

"I didn't tell Garcia. She dug through my history and found it out herself. Had to bribe her with candies and chocolates for a whole month to keep her quiet," Spencer grumbled. "And I had to tell Hotch. We needed to add her number to my emergency contact list."

Despite Spencer's concise explanation, Derek still seemed unsatisfied by the whole ordeal.

"How long have you known?" he finally decided to ask Hotch.

"A while," the man answered from his seat at the opposite end of the table from Rossi. "They even babysat Jack a few times for me."

"I don't believe this," Derek scowled. "Pretty boy's got himself a girl for the last six years, and I never knew? Outrageous."

"Technically, we've been married even longer than that," Spencer responded, as if he was unaware of the imminent glower that Derek was sending his way. "Eight years since Vegas."

"That's longer than any of my marriage," Rossi remarked before sipping his drink.

The laugh that resonated upon Rossi's little comment elicited an affectionate smile on your lips.

"So, you live in D.C., then?" JJ asked, at last stirring the conversation away from the topic of your and Spencer's secret marriage-slash-relationship.

"I do, yeah. But most of the time, I live out of my suitcase," you answered. "My firm has clients all over the country. A few overseas, as well. I'm lucky if I even get to have an entire week to sleep uninterrupted in my own bed."

Even then, you truthfully quite enjoyed the work you had to do. You didn't mind having to travel some place new every other week. In fact, you somehow believed that your constant need to travel for your job, and Spencer for his, was one of the reasons why the two of you worked so well together.

Although people might think that two adults who had to travel for a living were a recipe for a disastrous relationship, you and Spencer had so far proven otherwise. Because of your respective schedules, you could sympathize more with the other anytime they had to go somewhere urgent for work. It only made you savor every single second you spent together because of how much precious each one of them became.

The rest of lunch unraveled with the same bucket of smiles, jokes, and laughter. It felt good to finally tell the few people who meant the world in Spencer's life the truth about your relationship. It was also a huge relief to see them opening their arms and welcoming you into the family without an ounce of hesitation.

"Hotch?" Spencer called out after everyone exited the restaurant. "Will it be okay if I stay in the city for one more night?"

"As long as you promise to be back for tomorrow's briefing," Hotch reminded sternly, but the meaningful look he passed over you before he entered his vehicle spoke of a thousand things left unsaid.

"It was so nice meeting you," JJ said as she took you in her arms. "And I'm sorry again about your friend."

"Thank you. And thanks for all of your hard work in catching those guys."

"Of course, it's what we do." JJ smiled as she pulled away. "Invite me and Emily the next time you and Penelope hang out, okay?"

"Will do," you promised.

You watched as every single one of them scrambled into the two black SUVs, waving your goodbye until the cars drove out of your sight.

"I think that went well," you commented before looking up at Spencer. "Do you?"

"I think it went as well as it could."

"So--" you began, circling your arms around Spencer's neck, "--we have more than twelve hours until you're expected back at Quantico. What do you wanna do?"

Spencer nudged your nose with his. "I can think of a few activities we can partake in."

"Really?"

"Really."

Just as he was a hairbreadth away from pressing his lips to yours, you suddenly tore yourself out of Spencer's arms.

"Like getting some frozen yogurts?" you asked giddily, smirking at the dumbfounded look that you managed to put on Spencer's face.

"Fine. Let's go get some frozen yogurts."

Spencer had to hide his amused grin at your elated squeals. He was more than content at that moment to let you produce those addictive sounds at the mere prospect of frozen yogurts.

But later that night, he had a whole different set of activities lined up to pull those same sounds out of you once more.

And it might or might not potentially involve an entirely different yet creative use of frozen yogurts as well.

Spencer simply just hadn't decided yet.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid series #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminam minds #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x y/n #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #criminal minds series #criminal minds oneshot #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #matthew gray gubler #mentioningmargins

[britneyshakespeare]

i told the editor-in-chief i wanna leave bc i just can’t bear having another man i don’t know describing his penis to me and his pelvic thrusts. i told her i wanna leave and she hasn’t responded to my email.

#tales from diana #i sent it to her on saturday... it's thursday night #im mainly leaving bc i have a better opportunity (THAT PAYS BETTER) lined up for the summer #but i kinda wanted to leave before that tbh. ive been sick of reading submissions. it's pure grunt work. it's a fool's errand. #i've always had my complaints about it. within a month of me getting this position i was writing long essays to MYSELF #(and my science professor who was really cool and let me rant to them about poetry and other things but anyway...) #about how the more invested i getinto it. the more i realize... publication is shit? inherently? #it truly IS the auction of the mind of man emily go off #especially at literary magazines. publishing is not a feat that makes you better or worse as a writer #it doesnt teach you diddly-squat. it doesn't help you grow. maybe some find it somehow motivating but i do NOT personally #either when i am approving submissions or submitting my own work. #as joni mitchell would say: i've looked at shitty literary magazines from both sides now. #well. actually theyre not shitty. i enjoy reading them. but the process of how things get published is. Not Great. #it makes me feel shitty how arbitrary the process of what gets approved and what doesn't can be. #literally deciding what work is WORTH VISIBILITY in the world!!! worth validation!!!! worth being deemed GOOD ENOUGH #honey face. pie doll. sweetie butt. you ARE good enough. #now if you excuse me. i'll be running an aimless tumblr side blog w my poetry for the rest of my life. #and also doing other private literary ventures (NOT THAT IVE EVER PUBLICLY SAID WHERE THIS WAS) but yeah #i feel like the least empowering thing about this whole experience. was that it did nothing for me as a writer either. #it drained my energy to even think about poetry 95% of the time bc it was like i was reading dozens of submissions a week #and LOOKING for reasons NOT to upvote things... bc the vast majority of shit gets downvoted anyway so why fucking bother #sorry to all the good poets out there in the world!!!!! #rejection doesnt mean SHIT about your worth. those who rejected you are literally just exhausted and fatigued & can't say yes #it has made me think though. about if i ever started my own journal or a collaborative collection. that'd be fun. #i would only want to do that if i were radically inclusive. bc i hate saying no. and i hate saying no to shit that's good! #which is so much more than ever gets published!!!!! you know!!!!! FUCK whatever this wasn't meant to be a rant this was a penis joke goodnig #goodnight* got cut off but wasnt gonna retype the whole tag

[distorted59]

I need Danish Gremlin Lars headcanons so bad right now plsssss

Hi!!! first of all, I'm sorry it took a little while, hope you enjoy!! <3 and again, thanks for asking!

Loves it when you play with his hands! we all know this man has incredible hands, esp with all that tape around his fingers, lord have mercy.

Would absolutely love to teach you to play the drums

He WOULD tease you with his drumsticks, i fucking know it, this man is a kinky mf.

Like, he would slide one over the inside of your thigh and the other one over your neck and breasts. 

THE TAPE AROUND HIS FINGERS STAYS ON!!! (need i say more)

He’d whisper sweet things to you in Danish, whenever he’s proud of you or when he tells you he loves you. 

ALSO, during sex???? and he’d go all crazy cus it all just feels so, so good???

I feel like he’s quite dominant, maybe in his early years (‘81-‘84) he’d be a little bendable (not literally, but who knows?). But, in the 90’s he’d be FERAL.

Like I said earlier, I feel like he’s a kinky mf. Exhibitionism, he likes to get freaky in public. He loves getting praised, he wants to hear how good he is at something. Pleasing you, playing drums, cooking, mowing the fucking lawn. He doesn’t mind, please fulfill his ego.

Small dick, but the energy is BIG.

Has stamina for DAYZZZZ!!!

He would fuck you on his drumset, i can just imagine him eating you out and hitting the kickdrum while doing so. (IM SORRY I HAD TO)

I feel like early 80’s Lars is a real sweetheart, maybe still a little shy but definitely runs his mouth. 90’s Lars has no fucking filter, he’s cocky, arrogant, gets whatever he wants and takes whatever he wants. 

Loves to just be around you, showing you he’s here. You’d watch him and the boys rehearse and he would squeeze your hand or your thigh, flashing you small smiles and giving you kisses here and there. 

“You still with us, darling?” He squeezes your thigh, smiling with those adorable dimples of his. 

"Hm?" You dozed off a little, but his fingers sliding to the inside of your thigh keep you very awake. 

“Are you enjoying watching us, babe?” Lars grins.

“Oh, yeah.” You nod. “You’re doing great, baby.” 

“You think so?” He smirks proudly, his fingers tracing circles over your soft skin. “You like watching me play?” 

“Mhm.” You hum and smile down at his hand. Already knowing what you two will be doing later. 

He would take you to Denmark, showing you his hometown and places he went to as a kid. His childhood home (which is now a fertility clinic I believe, lol) and his school, where he played tennis as a boy. 

He loves art so he would take you on little museum trips and years later to these auctions where he would sell the pieces from his home for millions of dollars, (SKOM docu).

Loves bragging to people about you. “My girl is great, she’s the prettiest woman i know.” and "Well, my girl loves playing the drums with me." <3

You know those bandanas he wore in the 80’s? Yeah, tying your wrists up with them or putting it in your mouth to prevent you from moaning too loud <3.

He is a little fruity tho. (so threesome with Kirk maybe? yes/no?)

Load/Reload era, this man wore some heavy eyeliner. I can see him asking you for a little help.

He’s in the bathroom, trying to figure out what the fuck to do here.

“Babe, could you help me out here?” He holds up the pencil and gives you puppy dog eyes. 

“With what, baby?” you walk into the bathroom and look at him, slight confusion written over your face. “Is that my eyeliner?” 

“It’s for the new album!” He protests. “We got a new look, ya know?”

“What, cutting your hair wasn’t enough?” You tease him and sit on the sink counter. 

You take the eyeliner from his hands and pull him closer by his shirt, you wrap your legs around his waist and make him look at you by holding his chin. 

“Okay, close your eyes.” 

He obliges and you softly apply the liner just above his lash line. He squints a little and breathes out through his nose. 

“Don’t move, baby.” You scold him. 

“Sorry, It feels a little weird.” a wide smile spreads on his face. 

“Look up for me.” 

He does what he tells you, looking at you before he looks up entirely. You apply some under his waterline, smudging the edges gently with your fingers. 

“All done, babe.” You kiss his lips softly. 

He smiles into the kiss and murmurs a “thank you” against your lips. He checks himself out in the mirror behind you and grins. 

“Wow, I look sexy!” 

“Larzy Poo” - James Hetfield, 2023

#thanks for the ask! #thank you anon #lars ulrich #lars ulrich x reader #lars ulrich headcanons #my headcanons #headcanons #lars ulrich x y/n #fanfic #fanfiction #metallica fanfiction #metallica smut #smut #metallica #james hetfield x reader #metallica oneshot #metallica x y/n #request #requests are open #kirk hammett #larzy poo #distorted59

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

You know I'm not a bad girl, but I do bad things with you

Part of my Birthday Bash!

Request: “how about we do this somewhere more private?” with my love roy?

Roy Kent x Reader

1k words

Warnings: Language, flirtatious dancing, unprotected sex, semi-public sex

Roy held in a groan as he felt you press against him. For once, he was actually having a good time at Rebecca’s charity gala; and you were the entire reason why. From the form-fitting dress you wore, to the hair and makeup he couldn’t wait to ruin at home, to the flirtatious way you giggled in his ear all night, Roy was absolute putty in your hands. To be fair, your boyfriend was pretty much always wrapped around your finger.

But tonight was bordering on torture. After you kept a hand on his upper thigh during dinner and whispered dirty things to him throughout the auction, he didn’t hesitate to let you drag him to the dance floor, something he would never have dreamed of doing before you came into his life. Yet there he was, hands on your hips as you moved against him to the music. His grip tightened with every little grind, surely leaving finger-shaped bruises that would color your skin in the morning.

After a particularly dirty movement against his quickly hardening crotch, Roy brought his lips to your ear. “Oi,” he growled. “You need to fucking watch it, ‘m not going to be able to take much more of this.”

Deciding that his words were more challenge than warning, you upped the ante. You laid your hands on top of his, guiding one up your ribs until it rested just below your breast, while the other found a home just above the curve of your ass.

This time, Roy couldn’t hold back a sigh. “How about we continue this somewhere more private?” His breath tickled your ear and sent a shiver down your spine. “Before we give everyone a show?”

You glanced over your shoulder at him and gave your best pout. “You’re taking me home already?” you whined.

His eyes were bright as he looked at you. After a moment, he jerked his head- not in the direction of the exit, but towards the restrooms. Your heart fluttered as your boyfriend tugged you by the hand and off the dance floor, a man on a mission with only one already soaking thing on his mind.

In a flash, you and Roy were locked in a bathroom, and Roy was helping you sit up on the sink counter. You thanked Versace for the outrageously high slit on your dress as Roy easily tugged the material aside, exposing your already soaking lace panties.

“Fuck,” he groaned as he reached down and touched the sopping material. “This for me, gorgeous?”

“Always,” you breathed as you threw your head back.

Roy sighed as he began tracing circles over your heat, probably ruining this particular pair of panties. Without warning, he brusquely yanked them down, kneeling to pull them down your legs until they were balled up in his fist. With a wink up at you, Roy stuffed them in his pocket and straightened back up. As he captured your lips in a heavy kiss, his hand returned to your core, rubbing your lips gently.

“Roy,” you whined as you spread your legs for him.

With his free hand, he grabbed your hand and brought it to the impossibly hard bulge in his trousers. “What does my girl need?” he teased.

All you could do was whimper and pout with the way his digits teased your entrance. That was enough for Roy; he quickly unzipped his pants and shimmied them down his thick thighs, keeping his eyes on yours as his cock sprung free. You gripped Roy’s biceps as he inched into you, sighing with every little thrust he gave. Fuck, this was worth all the teasing.

“There’s my girl,” he grunted as he bottomed out. “So fucking soaked, just for me.” His mouth found your neck and began planting sloppy kisses on every inch of skin he could find. “Feel so good, babe.”

You moaned in response, wrapping your legs around his waist to try to pull him deeper into you. You wondered if your heels would leave marks on his skin; fuck, you hoped they did. Marking Roy as yours was probably your favorite thing to do. His cock felt delicious, the tip hitting that spot deep inside you, the spot only he could find. Your cunt squeezed him, throbbing with every roll of Roy’s hips.

“I’m close,” you gasped in his ear. “So fucking close, Roy.”

He groaned as his thrusts became desperate. “Come for me,” he demanded, groping your tit through your dress, finding the sensitive nipple with ease. “Fucking come, baby.”

With one more pump that hit you just right, you saw stars and felt your pussy pulse around Roy’s throbbing cock, squeezing and begging to be stuffed. As you began to lose control of your moans, Roy latched his mouth to yours, swallowing all your filthy sounds.

“Dirty girl,” he tutted against your lips. “Only I get to hear your pretty sounds.”

You whimpered into his mouth as your body began to convulse; you couldn’t speak even if you could form words. All you could think about was Roy and his cock and his hands and his tongue and Roy, Roy, Roy.

“Fuck,” he hissed as he began to twitch inside you. “Let me fill you up,” he begged in that wrecked voice that had your walls fluttering. “Please, baby, let me fill that pretty pussy.”

Your nod was weak, almost pathetic. “Roy,” you sighed. “I need you.”

That was enough of a ‘yes’ for Roy. He gripped your hip with one hand while the other pinched your nipple through your dress, losing any sense of rhythm as he thrust mercilessly into you. Your cunt begged to be filled, clenching desperately around his cock. Just as your vision went blurry, Roy’s entire body trembled, and you suddenly felt full. Your pussy throbbed, milking every last drop from Roy, wanting nothing more than to be bursting with everything he had to give you.

The sounds of your soft breaths filled the hot restroom as you collapsed against each other. When your eyes fluttered open, you found Roy smiling gently at you, the lust in his eyes replaced with affection- but only for a moment. He leaned close and kissed your forehead.

“Think it’s time to go home,” he growled against your skin. “Need to take this fucking dress off.”

You giggled and let him help you down from the counter, adjusting your dress as best you could before taking his hand in yours.

“Lead the way, Kent.”

#tally's birthday bash #request ❤️ #he's here he's there he's every fucking where #roy kent #roy kent x reader #roy kent fanfic #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent imagine #ted lasso #ted lasso fic #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso fanfiction

[senorabond]

Rumor Has It: Chapter 2 (Peña x f!reader x Pike)

Pairings: Javier Pena x f!reader; Marcus Pike x f!reader; future Pena x f!reader x Pike

Chapter 2 Summary: You’re reviewing the case file Javi gave you when a memory of your last night in D.C. distracts you. After a bit of a brainstorm, you decide it’s finally time to call Marcus back and get his opinion. He always has the right words.

Rating: 18+ (Minors DNI), Explicit sexual content, additional warnings may be added for future chapters

Chapter Warnings: masturbation (f!reader), flashback, thigh riding, oral sex (f receiving), semi-public/workplace sex (evidence locker after hours), hand on throat for control, Dom/sub dynamic, soft Dom!Marcus, praise kink, you are such a good girl

Reader/Character notes: Reader is fem/afab. Marcus is strong enough to lift Reader up onto the edge of a table (no mention of Reader’s body size, shape, composition, or skin color), Reader has hair long enough for Marcus to brush away from face, Marcus is super thoughtful and thorough when planning for sexy times

Words: ~4.5k

Author's Notes: A huge thank you again to @kilamonster for being my wonderful beta, talking me through my fear of posting dirty talk, and letting me bounce random porny ideas off her. <3

Again, there’s no specific time/setting, I just really wanted to get both Javi and Marcus together in the same story. In my mind, Javi is post-s3 of Narcos, and Marcus is somewhere around/after s7ep1 of The Mentalist.

I learned basically everything I know about the court system from true crime TV and podcasts, so the legalese here is purposefully vague. I have no idea what it would take to prosecute a federal case, lol. However, I did find some interesting information while researching art fraud/money laundering! I’m happy to share links to my sources if anybody is interested.

Masterlist || Previous Chapter

Chapter 2

Later that night, you sit cross-legged on your bed, the various photos and documents from Peña spread out around you. You can see why he was so adamant about Customs involvement – there was enough circumstantial evidence in front of you for some lower-level courts to convict. Peña doesn’t strike you as the type to take chances though, not at this point in his career. If he’s making an arrest, he wants a case airtight, no room for technicalities or sympathetic juries. He’ll have worked with enough federal prosecutors to know what he needs to put bastards away and keep them there.

You think back to your conversation with Peña for what must be the twelfth time since that afternoon. It’s still difficult to reconcile the reputation with the man. Javier Peña, the senior DEA agent, was by reputation a force of nature; women and men alike wanted him and wanted to be him. He is unapologetically brash, arrogant, and always gets his way. If he believes something is worth getting, he’ll do whatever it takes, even if he has to use less than savory channels. 

Javier Peña, the man, is intense, focused, driven, and has some of the saddest, most beautiful, big brown eyes you’d ever seen. He has a level of self-awareness you hadn’t expected. He struggles with asking for help, even if he can recognize his own limitations. 

With a sigh, you take the wire transcript in hand and lean back against the pillows propped up against the headboard. The conversation had thankfully already been translated from Spanish with the original attached for reference. You had basic Spanish under your belt from high school and learned some choice slang from friends and exes, but you didn’t know nearly enough to comprehend the entire conversation on paper in front of you. 

The men were discussing various works of art and their estimated values at auction and on the black market. One of the men, Castano, was insisting he could simply forge a copy of a famous painting since it was “just a bunch of splattered paint” that “didn’t look like anything anyway.” You chuckled to yourself. 

You used to think the same thing about the abstract expressionism paintings you’d seen until somebody actually took the time to explain the meaning behind the movement. Agent Marcus Pike knew a lot about art – it was his job, after all, as head of the FBI’s art crimes unit in D.C. You worked closely with Pike and his squad to close a major case before you put in for the transfer to Texas. The two of you had spent a lot of time together and grown close, developing a mutual professional respect before things had ever gotten personal. 

Your thoughts travel back to the last time Pike taught you something about art. It’s a bittersweet thought, since that was also your last night in D.C., and the last time you saw him. You’d come so close to saying more than you were ready to admit, and certainly more than you were ready to hear in return. 

With a sigh, you drop the transcript on the bed and fall back onto your pillows. That last night in D.C. was also the last time you experienced an orgasm you didn’t give yourself. More than one, actually. 

Your mind floods with images and sensations from that night and, rather unconsciously, your hands begin to retrace the parts of your body Marcus had touched. Fingertips ghost over the crook of your neck and across your collarbone to the collar of your worn t-shirt. Marcus’ t-shirt, actually. You’d stolen it unapologetically when he’d forgotten it at your place and told him it looked better on you anyway. Marcus had agreed, and then shown just how much better he liked it on you.

While your one hand is occupied at your breast, the other busies itself at the waistband of your panties. Eyes closed, you slide a finger over your dampening slit, remembering the path Marcus’ tongue traveled as your breath hitches. God, that man could use his mouth. And he loved to use it on you. You let the memory of that night wash over you…

Washington, D.C. 6 months ago

“There is one thing I need right now.” You feel a bit giddy at your recklessness, but any nerves you might have are quelled when Marcus runs the tip of his nose up your jawline to your ear. 

“And what’s that? Hm?” He inhales your scent and hums with pleasure. Before you can stop yourself, you shift the hand at Marcus’ hip to his crotch. When you feel how hard he already is you release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. 

Marcus inhales sharply through his nose at your touch, then lets out a groan in your ear at your gentle squeeze. “Tell me what you need.” His five o’clock shadow rasps against your sensitive skin as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth. 

“I need you to show me that evidence locker you haven’t shut up about since we met.” 

~~~

Pike stands behind you in the elevator in case you happen upon anybody else working late at the office. The odds are low, except for the contracted private security officers, but you didn’t think they’d want to see Pike’s hardon either. He’s so close, he’s almost pressed against your back while caressing a palm over your ass. You try to keep a straight face, but are practically panting through parted lips.

“You’ve been wanting this for a long time, haven’t you?” Marcus asks, his voice low in your ear as he leans over to push the button for the correct floor. His tone is almost conversational, but you can feel the thread of excitement pulling taut between your bodies. He’d been teasing you with the idea of fucking you in the art squad’s evidence locker for months now, going into great detail about what he was going to do to you – you only had to ask. 

You nod silently in response as the elevator doors close, and Pike grips your waist, grinding his erection into your lower back. “Yes,” your breath huffs out. He likes you to use your words, and strokes your arm with an approving hum. 

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” Your nipples harden at his words and your breath comes out shakily. 

Marcus was the first person you’d ever been with to call you a good girl. You never thought you’d be into the kind of gentle dominance and steady stream of praise Marcus employed with you, but it made all the right synapses fire in your brain and took the experience to an entirely different level. 

You nod again, playing the game, knowing what he wants to hear.

Marcus’ hand splays across your lower belly, the other sweeping gently across your throat and brushing your hair away from your face. He’s pressing into you, the energy coming off him in waves, leaving you feeling heady. 

“Say it for me.” It’s spoken softly, coaxing, but still an unmistakable command. 

“I’ll be a good girl for you.” Your voice has the slightest waver, but ends strong.

Marcus’ hand on your belly inches lower and heat radiates between your thighs. “I know you will.”

The doors of the elevator open with a ding that makes you jump, and Marcus moves back with a reassuring squeeze on your shoulder. Gently, he guides you with a hand between your shoulder blades. You’re on one of the underground levels, where the low ceilings and fluorescent lights are stark reminders that you’re both still in a government building and cameras are watching your every move. 

A security guard rounds a corner and Marcus clears his throat, then moves to button his suit jacket, presumably to hide his erection. How he manages to walk with that thing when it’s hard, you’ll never know. 

The guard waves amiably. “Good evening, Agent Pike. What’re you still doing here so late?” Of course Pike knows the guard; probably knows his kids’ names too. 

“Just had something to finish off first.” Biting your tongue to keep from laughing, the two of you pass the guard. “Oh yeah, tell Rosie good luck at her big match this weekend.” You nearly snort. The men share a brief handshake and you and Marcus round the corner, the door to the evidence lockup just ahead.

The two of you share a heated look and Marcus smirks. He swipes his badge and the door unlocks with a small snick. You’re guided inside a dark room that could be the size of a storage closet for all you can see. Marcus flips one of the light switches, and sturdy floor-to-ceiling shelving units are illuminated on either side, hedging you in like a maze. So far, it looks like any other evidence room, except with mood lighting.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” you mutter, and Marcus chuckles. As he leads you along the shelves towards some unknown destination, long shadows from the meager overhead light throw the long rows and corners into darkness.

He takes your hand and explains, “The lighting, temperature, and humidity are all controlled by a central system. Same kind as in the National Gallery.” You nod, genuinely impressed. 

“You don’t keep all your evidence here, right?” The room was large, but most of the shelving space was taken up by various sized crates and archival boxes. Marcus shakes his head.

“Just the very valuable pieces that need to be kept under special conditions. Any other evidence is kept in a regular lockup.” Marcus stops and you come up short, nearly colliding with his broad back. “Oh,” you breathe, peering around him and knowing this is what he wanted to show you.

The maze of shelving units opens up onto what looks like a miniature museum exhibit. Paintings are hung on the walls or staged on easels and covered with drop cloths. Sculptures are on pedestals in glass cases along one wall, and to your right are a few chairs next to an expansive table. 

Marcus approaches the paintings and proceeds to carefully remove the drop cloths from each work of art. They vary in style, color, expression, and movement. Some of them are encased in elaborate frames, while others are plain, or bare. Now this is what you’d hoped for after all these months hearing Marcus speak of this place in near reverent tones. This evidence lockup could rival most well-funded galleries and museums. 

“Are these all forgeries?” You take a step closer to the nearest painting and inspect it – for what, you’re not sure. “Stolen?” 

“A bit of both.” Marcus sidles up behind you. Your voices remain hushed, private, intimate.

Hands casually in his pockets, he takes you on a tour of the evidence on display, telling you a bit about each piece – what made the art valuable enough to forge or steal, and a few particulars about each case. He is in his element here, the picture of quiet confidence. Passion laces his every word and brings a spark to his eyes that you’d only seen a few times before when you were about to crack a case.

You have never felt more attracted to him.

Coming up to the last painting, you cock your head to the side and give it a quizzical stare. It’s abstract, composed of a muted yet warm palette. The paint is blended with no discernable lines or shapes.

“What is it?” you ask, looking up in time to see Marcus’ dimple appear next to his gentle smile. 

“What do you see?” Marcus steps behind you again, and runs the tips of his fingers up and down your arms.

“I… I’m not sure. What am I supposed to see?” The texture of the paint is layered in some spaces, and there’s almost an ethereal glow emanating from its contrast of light and dark. You feel a bit embarrassed and uncultured. Maybe if you squint or let your vision blur, like it’s one of those magic eye puzzles that give you headaches.

“What I love about abstract art is that there’s no right or wrong answer. I hated it until we studied it in school. I always thought I was missing something, and got frustrated that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.” 

You let out a soft hmm of agreement, but are distracted by Marcus’ voice, hot on your ear, lips close enough to graze the sensitive shell. “It was this quote by an artist, Arshile Gorky, that helped me appreciate it more. To paraphrase, abstraction frees the mind and allows it to explore the unknown. Whatever you see is what you’re meant to see.”

You let your mind rest on his words, buzzing from the energy between you. With a smirk, you say, “I bet you got laid a lot in school.” 

Marcus gives a surprised chuckle. “I did alright,” he admits, and you hear the grin in his voice.

Turning to face him, you run your hands up his chest and under the lapels of his jacket to his shoulders. Marcus sighs, placing his hands on your waist and pulling you closer. That spark in his eye is trained on you now, his pupils blown while they skate over your face under hooded lids. 

“What’s next on the tour?” Your voice comes out a bit hoarse, his gaze almost overwhelming in its intensity. 

Marcus smiles, somewhat mischievously. “Just one more thing. C’mon,” he takes your hand and starts leading you to the large table and chairs. “I think you’re going to like this part.” 

Leaving you at the edge of the table, Marcus goes to one of the nearby shelves and pulls out a large cardboard envelope from a box, nearly the size of one of the paintings. With the flip of a switch, the entire surface of the table illuminates, humming gently from the internal fan. He pulls out what looks to be a sheet of dark plastic film and lays it on top of the table, revealing an x-ray image.

Marcus’ face is like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “This is an x-ray of that painting over here,” he points to the abstract work you’d been standing at a moment before. The x-ray on the table is a ghostly, black-and-white rendering of the muted swaths of paint. “And here,” he lays a second image down on the table, “is another x-ray taken of the same painting at different settings.” 

You nearly gasp. It’s virtually a different image entirely. The abstract painting has been reduced to a haze, overlaying a distinct pastoral landscape. Leaning over the table for a closer look, you feel a pleasantly warm glow on your face from the lit surface. “What the…” Your eyes snap back to Marcus’ face, which is lit up with what you can only describe as glee. 

“So you like it?” His eyes are sparkling and that dimple you love so much has reappeared. “‘Like it?’” You scoff. “I love it, Marcus, this is incredible. But…” you gesture at the images, “What exactly does that mean in terms of evidence?” Marcus comes around to your side of the table.

“The first one is a radiographic image of that painting we looked at, which could have told us if there were any traces of minerals or other elements within the paint used. Modern paint pigments are synthetic,” Marcus pulls the first image closer and gestures to the different shades of gray. “But–” he slides the second image next to the first, with its outlines of rolling hills and fluffy clouds, “Historically, heavy metals were frequently used, like lead and cobalt.” 

Nodding along with the lesson, you put two and two together. “So the heavy metals in old paint would show through on an x-ray, even if somebody has painted over it.” Marcus is beaming at you, clearly happy that you made the connection. 

“Exactly. And then the synthetic paint could be removed later.” Turning to face you, he rests a hip on the edge of the table. The surface light casts dramatic shadows across the contours of his jaw and nose. You mirror his body language and reach out to poke him playfully in the chest. 

“No fair; the FBI gets all the fun toys.” The cool satin of his tie slips deftly between your fingers, and you give it a gentle tug. His gaze is alert and hungry as he takes a step closer, and you can feel your body responding to his proximity once again. Marcus trails a finger across your clavicle that sends a chill down your spine and tingles straight to your nipples. 

“Yeah, but if you ask nicely, maybe I’ll share.” Threading his fingers into the hair at the base of your skull, he pulls gently but purposefully until your head tilts back and you’re forced to meet his eyes. A shuddering breath escapes your parted lips. Marcus leans in and grazes his lips against yours, barely a whisper of a kiss. His tongue traces the sensitive inner edge of your top lip and you nearly let out a whimper.

“Go on, then. Ask me.” He nips at your bottom lip. “Nicely.”

“Please,” you breathe. Marcus’ arm encircles your waist, while the hand in your hair grips a bit tighter. He uses a tight hold on your ass to grind you against the firm thigh he places between your own. Your hands grasp desperately onto his shoulders as your knees feel like they’re about to buckle from the delicious pressure. 

“‘Please’ what?” Marcus prompts gently. You’re pressing back against his thigh now, too lost in the sensation to respond. He withdraws it suddenly and you’re left clenching, all too aware of how badly you need that pressure back. 

“‘Please’ what?” He repeats, more firmly this time. 

“Please, Sir.” You correct yourself quickly, and are rewarded with Marcus’ lips against yours and the blessed return of his thigh. He’s a man possessed, and you whimper into his mouth as his tongue licks inside. The next thing you know, he’s got you sandwiched between the table and his thigh now, your skirt hiked up, juices leaking through your panties as you ride the firm muscles of his leg. 

“Look at you, just beautiful. You’re so hot like this, I love seeing you lose yourself. Does that feel good? Hm?” Marcus presses his hard cock into your hip and groans. “Jesus, I can feel how fucking wet you are through my pants. Are you going to leave your pussy juices on me, so anybody we walk past can see what a good girl you are for me?” 

Your eyes are squeezed shut tight, arms gripping to Marcus for dear life as you continue rutting against him, breath becoming ragged. The friction and pressure are almost too much, you’ll practically give yourself rug burn at this rate. But the onslaught of Marcus’ filthy praise in your ear, his hot, steamy breath against your neck, his tongue on your pulse point – you’re already careening out of control and he knows it.

“Are you going to cum for me, baby?” Nodding, wordless, you scramble to hold onto him as Marcus scoops up one of your thighs and hooks it over his hip with a grunt. “Then you better ask first.” 

“P-please,” you gasp out, “Please, Sir. Please can I cum?” You’re on the precipice, Marcus’ cock almost painfully hard in your hip. 

You gasp when he pulls his thigh away, eyes flying open in shock. “Not yet, sweet girl, hold on for me just a little bit longer. You’re going to cum on my tongue first.” Before you have a chance to protest, Marcus hoists you up fully onto the edge of the light table and pulls up a chair to feast on you. 

You’re immediately aware of the warmth the lit surface of the table infuses into every part of your body it’s touching. The table itself feels sturdy and solid beneath you, but you can’t fight an initial moment of panic. “Um, Marcus…I don’t know if–” It’s a struggle to concentrate as Marcus noses at your clothed pussy. A gentle double tap to the crown of his head is all the signal he needs to check in.

“You okay? Do you want to stop?” Marcus’ face is flushed, but his eyes are clear and laser focused on you. 

“Is this, uh…safe?” You rap gently on the table with a forced air of nonchalance. 

Marcus smiles and strokes the outside of your hip and thigh with his hand. “Totally safe. I triple-checked the specs and tested it out already.” 

You lift an amused eyebrow at that. “Tested it out?”

Marcus’ eyes go round at the implication, his dominant persona dropped. “Not like that! I mean I stacked a shitload of evidence boxes on it and did a– well, ah– a simulation, I guess you could call it.” His self-effacing chuckle is endearing.  He always knows how to make you feel safe and secure during your more adventurous times together. You smile and stroke his hair as he rubs his cheek against your inner thigh, the rasp of his five o’clock shadow sending shockwaves to your pussy.

“I’m very interested in finding out more about this simulation…Sir.” His honorific on your lips is your signal that you’re ready to continue and his grin turns wolfish. With a playful, smacking kiss to the tender flesh of your inner thigh, Marcus slips his fingers into the waistband of your panties. Bracing your calves on his broad shoulders, you lift your ass a little to help Marcus slide the panties the rest of the way off. 

“Open up for me, sweetheart.” Gently, he applies pressure to your knees until you’re completely spread out before him. You might be a little embarrassed being on display if you didn’t know how much he loved you like this: open, vulnerable, and completely at his mercy. The expression on Marcus’ face is practically one of reverence. 

“This is exactly why I wanted to bring you here,” Marcus places open-mouthed kisses up your thighs, sucking and nibbling his way to your center. It’s difficult not to squirm, he’s got you feeling antsy and impatient. “I wanted to see you lit up and on exhibit for me, like the work of art you are.”

You must be quite a sight to behold with the bright light of the table shining from beneath you. To drive his point home, Marcus dips his tongue to your core and collects your gathering slick on his tongue, spreading it and his saliva up to your clit in a broad swipe. Riding his thigh earlier has left you swollen and sensitive; your back arches off the table and you gasp at the sudden contact. 

Marcus holds you open with one hand so his tongue can more freely explore the full length of your slit, while the other alternates between massaging your breasts and rolling a peaked nipple through your blouse. Desperate for more, you unbutton your top enough to pull the cups of your bra down and leave yourself exposed to Marcus’ roaming fingers. 

Your whimpers and shuddering breaths combine with the sounds of Marcus lapping at your seeping cunt. His nose bumps against your engorged clit and you gasp, hips spasming. The hand on your breast disappears, and a finger gently nudges your entrance. 

“I’m going to get you ready for my cock, baby. Are you ready?” You nod wordlessly, and Marcus eases a digit inside you, watching your expression. “Oh, pretty girl, you’re so good, so wet. So tight, fuck.” 

Marcus laves his tongue over your clit and you clench around his finger. “Mmm, you’re going to take me so good, aren’t you?” Soon, he adds a second, working it rhythmically in and out, sucking and flicking his tongue against your clit until you’re panting.

The wet noises made by Marcus’ fingers inside you are practically obscene. When he crooks them at just the right spot, you lose all sense and writhe against him. You can hear a question in his inflection, but the twist and pull of his fingers are distracting, to say the least. He’s leaning over you now, the heel of his palm applying pressure over your clit to replace his mouth. 

“You’re doing so well, I know you can do it. You just need to ask me first.” His fingers inside you are relentless, and you can feel the pressure building inside, pulling taut like a rubber band about to snap. Marcus can tell how close you are and stops with his two fingers buried deep inside and applies his other hand to each side of your neck with just enough pressure to get your attention.

“C’mon, sweetheart, focus for me, otherwise I’ll have to stop.” His fingers are barely moving inside of you, just enough to keep you right on the edge. “You know what to do.”

A sob practically escapes your throat. “Please, Sir. I need to cum. Please can I? I want to be good for you.” It’s impossible to keep the pleading from your tone, you’re so close. Your hips are gyrating of their own accord, feebly fucking yourself on his fingers.

Marcus moves his hand off your throat to cup the side of your face and tangle his fingers in your hair. “Mm, do it. Be my good girl and cum.” Marcus leans down for a final taste where you’re stretched around his curling fingers, then settles his lips around your clit. With a cry, you break and see stars behind your eyelids as your orgasm crashes over you.

“Fuck yes, that’s my good girl. So beautiful like this, so perfect. I can feel you dripping into my hand, baby, you’re so wet. Did that feel good? Is that what you needed?” Marcus praises you through it all, stroking your neck, your breasts, peppering kisses over your mound and belly. His fingers retreat, leaving you fluttering in aftershocks, and you watch him lick your cum from his palm and fingers.

“Thank you for being such a good girl for me, sweetheart. I had to taste you at least one more time before you leave...” Reality falls over the room like a weighted blanket, and you let your engaged muscles go slack against the lit surface of the table, suddenly harsh and blinding. You feel exposed instead of exhibited and you squeeze your thighs together as the final flutters of your orgasm subside.

“Hey, come back to me,” you hear Marcus murmur, and feel him turn your face to meet his. He kisses you slowly and deeply, and you taste your tang on his plump bottom lip. He presses his forehead against yours and you share a couple of breaths. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Additional Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! There is plenty more to come (had to). I'd love to know what you thought -- any and all feedback is welcome! I just want to become a better writer. :)

Chapter 3 || SeñoraBond's Masterlist

#pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #javier peña #marcus pike #javier pena x reader #marcus pike x reader #javier pena fanfiction #marcus pike fanfiction #senorabond writes #rumor has it fic

[starsfic]

Back-Up Poll

Yeah Witches vs Aliens refuses to let me write it.

Summaries:

TMNT, my incarnation: In the wake of learning about Splinter's real identity, Leo and Raph struggle with deciding on how to handle it. (Or, according to @stylishbutdefinitelyillegal, Hamato Saki earns the Worst Uncle award.)

TMNT, my incarnation: After learning that Hamato Yoshi is their human DNA, Mikey sneaks to an art auction of Yoshi's work and ends up learning a bit more about Baron Draxum.

Scooby Doo, my incarnation: The first part of Episode 1, when trying to leave their hometown of Crystal Cove to start their second year of college, the Mystery Gang finds themselves trapped in Crystal Cove.

LEGO Monkie Kid: Modern AU where Azure, the head of security in a fancy casino, meets a beautiful golden man.

LEGO Monkie Kid, based on some Discord ramblings with @draw-of-the-moon and @rain-bow-donkey: Sun Wukong can hear other people's thoughts. This means he has to listen to Azure and Macaque's dirty thoughts about him. Smut.

PJO: The Romans do not take kindly to random people judo-flipping their praetors, and Annabeth is forced to think about the amount of violence in her and Percy’s relationship. (A thing that came to mind when re-reading the books.)

LEGO Monkie Kid: Fairytale AU where Prince Qi Xiaotian finds a beautiful scarlet deer on Flower Fruit Mountain while Prince Red of the Demon Bull Clan goes missing

LEGO Monkie Kid: A year after her husband is sealed, Princess Iron Fan stumbles across the god of marriage Yue Lao and decides to ask who her son will marry. The answer enrages her.

LMK/FNAF: After a nasty argument with her parents, Long Xiaojiao decides to cut herself off financially from them and get a job. However, the only available position is a night guard of an American pizza chain. Shouldn’t be too hard…right?

LEGO Monkie Kid: The costar of famed actor Red Son is terrified of his true form...which is an issue considering they're doing an erotic version of Beauty and the Beast. However, one of the caterers doesn't mind beef. Smut.

Poppy Playtime: The moment that the angel steps into the factory, every toy knows. Dogday, down below, hopes.

TMNT, my incarnation: April O'Neil makes a new friend when staying up late studying at the public library.

#my writing #LMK #Monkie Kid #LEGO Monkie Kid #FNAF #Five Nights at Freddy's #Dawn of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #TMNT #Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #Poppy Playtime #PP #Scooby Doo #SDMI

[kvetchinglyneurotic]

I wouldn’t mind hearing your thoughts on the reality tv fic research you’re doing, if you had any thoughts or observations you wanted to share, be they fic-related or otherwise 🌹

So the reality TV fic is really the first chapter/prologue of a longer fic that covers Jamie's reintegration into the team and developing friendship with Sam in the first half of season 2, while also having some complicated feelings about Amsterdam and his time on Lust Conquers All as Sam and Jan rope him into their effort to get the player auction during at the charity gala changed to something less terrible. While I don't necessarily think Jamie's experience on LCA was itself traumatic, the structure of reality dating shows might poke at some sore spots in a way he might not consciously register, same as the auction did in season 1. 

Unhinged ramble on reality TV dating and how it might affect Jamie under the read more:

(My research was mainly focused on Love Island UK, the real-world equivalent of LCA; however, some of the rules, filming practices, ect. are based on industry norms that I don't know for 100% certain apply to this show) 

There are some aspects of the reality TV experience that Jamie would likely be better equipped to handle than most contestants — while the producers do go out and scout people and I gather that some (or possibly most) of them are social media "micro-influencers," one of the main things they tend to struggle with is not only the sudden rise to fame and the volume of criticism that comes with it, but the fact that it's very temporary fame and they have to reintegrate into regular life and a regular job afterwards. Jamie struggles with depression after leaving LCA, but he clearly didn't put the same stock in it as a career move as most contestants do — his depression is tied to his football career (or rather, his temporary lack thereof) and his dad; LCA was primarily a way to get away from James rather than something he was invested in for its own merits or that he likely expected to have much of an impact on his life in the long term.

He also has an advantage when it comes to contract negotiations. Reality TV contracts are extremely extensive and typically involve the contestants waiving the right to sue in the event of... basically any kind of harm (emotional/psychological distress, injury, illness, death, ect), as well as their right to privacy — many shows specify that they have hidden cameras and microphones throughout the entire house, including areas like bedrooms and even bathrooms, and that they can use, edit, ect. anything they record however they want, including frankenbiting, ie cutting together snippets of audio to form sentences that the contestants never actually said — and their contact with the outside world, as contestants aren't allowed to keep their phones or go on social media. They also often tie the contestants to the production company for several months afterwards, which may involve doing public appearances or even restricting activities related to the show (this is less relevant for something like LCA, but American Idol season 2 contracts didn't let contestants sing anywhere outside the show, even at like. private gatherings with friends and family).

I imagine Jamie's contract would include a lot of these same rules, but unlike most contestants, he has an agent (even if we know the agent kind of sucks) who may have gotten him better terms. That being said, based on the way his agent talks about him going on LCA in 2x02, there is a distinct possibility that he signed on as an impulse decision and actually didn't have anyone look over the contract, so really whether or not he had an advantage here depends on how pre-meditated his decision was at the time. Another area where he has an advantage is purely demographic: he's a white man, and reality dating shows have a massive problem with racism and sexism that affects casting, how the contestants are framed once they're on the show, and even voting behaviour. 

Prospective cast members undergo a very thorough vetting process that involves a background check, medical exam, psychological evaluation, and interviews with basically everyone they've ever talked to, it seems like. How effective the psych eval is in rooting out people who are likely to be negatively affected by the show is debatable — I read an interview with a former contestant on the Bachelor who said she suspects she was chosen because she was emotionally fragile after a recent breakup with her fiancé — and they seem to be more geared towards keeping people off the show who are likely to be physically violent with the other contestants. Jamie fits the profile of someone who might be chosen pretty well, actually: he's combative and has a big enough personality to be involved in drama, but he doesn't actually start physical fights. 

Once contestants arrive, their belongings are searched for any contraband alcohol or drugs, as well as clothes with logos from non-sponsor brands. Shows generally don't allow them to keep their phones or other electronics — Love Island contestants have cellphones that they sometimes use to take pictures and where they instructions via text, but these don't appear to be their own personal phones. (Sometimes contestants appear to be posting on social media during the season, but it's actually someone else running their account.) They're also not allowed to leave the villa except on scheduled dates (some shows do allow the contestants out, but they have to ask permission first). This is... kind of creepy, honestly, but I suspect that with James being on Jamie's case the way he was after he came back to Manchester, the lack of contact with the outside world may have been part of what appealed to him.

Life in the villa is very regimented: two producers live there with them and the contestants are told when to eat and when to sleep. This is another area that Jamie might cope with better than the average contestant, since he'd be used to working with nutritionists and generally having many more aspects of his life than the general person planned out, and the dietary restrictions are likely less strict. While conversations aren't scripted, contestants are often told to go to a specific location and to have a conversation with a specific person about a specific topic, which produces the slightly odd effect that, especially in the first couple of episodes, they spent all their time analyzing their relationships/prospective relationships with people they just met and barely know. I suspect this might be part of why it's hard to build sustainable romantic relationships in this environment — obviously communicating about what everyone wants in a relationship is good, but it doesn't allow for the regular conversations that make up most of the process of getting to know and like another person.

Which brings us to: kayfabe. Kayfabe is a wrestling term which refers to the implicit agreement between wrestlers and their fans to act as though the staged performances are authentic. Part of what I suspected tripped Jamie up during his stint on LCA and got him kicked off is that he's... not great at this part. He'd probably have some form of PR training and he has experience doing brand deals, but ultimately footballers don't have to pretend they're doing anything other than trying to win. Reality dating contestants can't say that they're there to build their brand or win the cash prize; the only motivation they can publicly acknowledge (not contractually, just in terms of coming off well to the audience) is finding love, and I suspect that Jamie was maybe a bit more obvious than he should have been about the fact that he approached it as a competition more than as an opportunity to find a relationship, which I don't think he was actually interested in at that point (or at any point, for the aro Jamie truthers among us).

There's also a bit of a tension between the producers' putative goal of capturing authentic reactions and creating certain storylines. The result is that they try to elicit certain reactions during the talking head interviews without stating outright what they want the contestant to say, and I suspect Jamie and the producers would find each other frustrating to deal with given his blunt approach to social interaction and difficulty with subtext and other forms of indirect communication. Similarly, interactions between the contestants — particularly the contestants of opposite genders — are governed by a set of extremely heteronormative social norms in which the contestants reaffirm their relationships through by, for instance, acting jealous or worried when their current partner is talking to another person as a sign that they're serious about the relationship. In addition to just generally not being a sexist dick even in his prick era, he is, again, just not that great with subtext. Ultimately, I think Jamie attracts the public's ire because he's too obvious about the fact that he's approaching LCA as a game to be won — while viewers are generally aware that reality TV is constructed, the contestants acknowledging that damages their popularity.

And now onto the potentially triggering stuff. First up: the alcohol. Most reality dating shows involve a lot of drinking, although instances of light drinking (eg sipping on champaign, drinking beer on dates) are generally more common than heavy drinking like taking shots or the contestants being shown to be very drunk, though it does happen. Some shows have an open bar, while others control the consumption of alcohol more closely and only give the contestants one bottle at a time. Contestants on Love Island are often shown drinking (usually champaign, or at least something in champaign flutes) from what appears to be an open bar, but I'm not sure which approach they actually use. I've seen some former contestants (on The Bachelor, not Love Island) attribute the frequency with which everyone drinks to the fact that they don't really have anything to do besides interact with the other contestants, get involved in drama, and drink — they don't have personal electronics, obviously, but they also aren't allowed to bring books or other forms of entertainment. Jamie does drink in canon and he goes out clubbing with his teammates, but the consistency with which everyone is drinking and the potential pressure to drink more himself as a result might make it feel a bit more fraught, particularly if part of the reason he doesn't remember losing his virginity in Amsterdam is because James forced him to drink.

Second: consent in reality dating shows is... weird. Once they sign the contract and enter the villa, the contestants pushed — though not technically legally required — to engage in various forms of intimacy which in any other situation would be considered pretty clear violations of their consent. Couples are formed unilaterally: in the season of Love Island that I watched (season 8), the initial couples were chosen by the voting public, and couples are re-formed in ceremonies in which, for instance, a newly arrived man choses between the two single women and the one who isn't chosen is sent home (or vice versa). In essence, only one member of the couple (or neither, in the case of public voting) actually has a say in whether they want to be with the other person. These couples then sleep in the same bed (in a room they share with all the other contestants), and the challenges similarly often involve one contestant choosing another to kiss, offer a lap dance, demonstrate their favourite sexual position, or perform other forms of intimacy (these examples are all from the first challenge of the first episode of season 8). In essence, while the contestants could technically refuse, they probably also wouldn't be on the show for long, and the whole thing is very much built on the presumption of consent to these more "mild" forms of intimacy. 

Other Things: 

Part way through, the men are sent to a different villa where they meet a new set of women, while the women stay at the original villa and meet a new set of men. I imagine the Jamie cheating on Amy with Denise in a hot tub incident probably occurred during something like this. 

For some reason the announcer always calls them "boys" and "girls." He does it for both genders so at least it's not sexist, but I still don't like it. 

If you want to read more about consent in reality TV dating, I found this chapter very interesting: Sreyashi Mukherjee and Dacia Pajé, "'You Can't Force Someone to Want You': Investigating Consent, Tokenism, and Play in Reality Dating Shows," in The Forgotten Victims of Sexual Violence in Film, Television and New Media: Turning to the Margins, ed. Stephanie Patrick and Mythili Rajiva (Palgrave Macmillan) [tried to attach the pdf but I got it through institutional access from my university and it won't let me 😞)

#lust conquers all #jamie tartt #it's so long i'm sorry #asks #i love when someone asks me about something i wanted to ramble about anyway #kvetch oc

[comphy-and-cozy]

Pls I am begging for a fic where the reader works in team’s front office and literally any avalanche player 😌😌😌😌😌

Something to Dream About - JT Compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f)

Summary: Secret relationships are messy. They’re even messier when your boyfriend is a professional athlete playing for the organization you work for. Surely nothing will happen when you have to spend the evening together at the charity gala that you’ve been planning for months… right?

Word Count: 5.5K

Author’s Note: I don’t know who I am but JT Compher has taken over my life. This fic came out of absolutely nowhere.

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Secret relationship, brief alcohol use/mention, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, risqué sex (do I have a thing for this???)

Part 2 / Moodboard / Masterlist

The sound of your heels clicking on the cement echoes through the halls, your pace quickening to reach the door. Your mind is flooded with checklists, to dos, trying to keep all of them straight to write down so they don’t get lost in the abyss.

Reaching your destination and opening the double doors, you look around Ball Arena, amazed at the transformation that’s come over the building in the last 24 hours. The ice has been covered with a wood flooring, decorated further with carpet. Cocktail tables covered in elegant black tablecloths are scattered around, the stage erected on one end of the arena, lights and balloons outfitting it nicely. Above you, two men stand on ladders as they erect a large banner, another man standing on ground level and shouting left, a bit further, that’s too far. Your eyes trace over the words at the center, Avs Fight Cancer, the logo standing proudly at the center of the banner, symbolizing all of your hard work the last few months putting together the annual charity gala. 

Tonight is the night, and all of Denver’s finest will be there, schmoozing and — hopefully — donating even minuscule fractions of their wealth to support the cause that the Avalanche have rallied behind. The entire Avalanche organization will be there, including Joe Sakic and Stan Kroenke, as well as all of the players and coaching staff, mingling with fans and donors alike. As the Executive Director of Community Engagement, the bulk of the coordination falls on you to manage and ensure everything runs as smoothly as possible, and as the hours wane down until the doors open, you’re certainly feeling the pressure.

Pulling out your phone, you jot down the few remaining notes that bounce around in your brain before you’re called to sign off on the liquor delivery. The next few hours pass quickly, you and the events team pulling the last pieces together before the event. When you finally leave to head home to get ready, you’re exhausted and aching but satisfied with the way things had come together and excitedly anxious for the night to come. 

The dress you've selected for the evening is a one-shouldered floor length black number, with a slit going mid-way up your thigh, elegant for the occasion and still classy enough for a professional event. Your hair is done up in a neat bun, keeping it out of your eyes for the running around you’ll undoubtedly be doing. You’re pleased with your appearance, and although looking good tonight is a secondary priority, you’re motivated to make sure you impress in more ways than one. 

The event kicks off, and people begin flooding in, checking coats and perusing the items for the silent auction. You’re doing rounds, glancing over everything even though you’d double and triple checked it all before you’d left. 

A pair of russet eyes catch yours, a smile sent in your direction beneath a thick, freshly groomed auburn beard. You return the gesture, unable to prevent your eyes from sliding down the body attached to that smile, tailored suit hugging the well-kept muscles that lie underneath. 

It’s not the first time you’ve checked out JT Compher in public, but it is the first time you’ve seen him dressed to the nines for a black-tie gala. There’s a moment between you, across the room, temporarily thick with longing, for you can’t cross the floor to be with him the way your heart wants to, kissing him in front of everyone the way you wish you could.

As you glance at him, admiring how good he looks with the rich black of his suit complementing his creamy skin, the conversation you had with him three months ago floods your mind, flashing before your eyes.

You were leaving the office for the day, keys in hand as you walked toward the exit. There was food in the fridge, but you didn’t feel like cooking, so you were debating what you should order for takeout on the way home.

“Y/N, hey, wait up,” a voice called from down the hallway. You paused, turning to see JT Compher jogging toward you, sporting sleek black Colorado Avalanche warmups and a backwards baseball cap. 

“Oh, hi, JT. How can I help you?”

“Yeah, um, I wanted to talk to you about something… if you have a minute?”

You smiled and nodded, placing your phone in your purse and turning to face him to give your full attention.

He swallowed nervously, and you noticed that he was fidgeting a bit, shifting from foot to foot. “Will you — would you like to go out with me sometime?”

You stared at him, defense mode kicking in and immediately assuming he was playing a prank on you. “What?”

“You know, like, for dinner or something.”

“JT, are you asking me on a date?”

A blush rose to his cheeks, accenting the red in his hair, and he shoved his hands in his pockets bashfully.“Well, yeah.”

You were unable to help the way your eyebrows rose in surprise. This man was a millionaire athlete, playing in the best league in the world, traveling from city to city every night — and he wanted to take you out on a date?

He was attractive, you couldn’t deny that, always having a soft spot for the depth of his brown eyes and the way he always managed to stop and say hello to you, his down-to-earth personality making it easy to chat with him every time. But, technically, he was your coworker, and you had a strict rule not to date colleagues. You didn’t interact much outside of events and the occasional marketing brief, but the fact that the same person signed both of your paychecks was enough of a reason for you to nope out of that scenario faster than a Cale Makar breakaway.

“I’m flattered, JT, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you picked your words  carefully, rejection never a strong suit of yours. “We work together, and it could get messy.”

Something shifted in his face, though he remained smiling. You could see his eyes fall as he nodded, “Oh, yeah. I totally understand.”

“I’m sorry.” You smiled, trying to soften the blow and do anything you could to get that fucking look out of his eyes. 

“No worries at all,” he said, quickly, maybe more to himself than to you, before offering another smile, bidding an awkward goodbye, and sheepishly walking away.

From that day, those beautiful chestnut eyes followed you wherever you went, haunting you, as if to tell you that you’d make a mistake not accepting his advances. Whether it was frequency illusion or just a coincidence, he seemed to be everywhere you turned. First, it was a photo shoot for the PetSmart puppy calendar. Then, it was a youth hockey event, which you coincidentally parked next to him for. He showed up in your dreams two weeks later, his same charming and jovial self.

Things changed when you were at home one night, wine drunk on the couch with your best friend watching The Bachelorette. (Even at home, away from work, you found that the tall, ginger contestant reminded you of another tall, bearded redhead.) She snatched your phone while you were aimlessly swiping on Hinge, exclaiming with a slur, “‘M gonna find you a husband.”

Giggling, you watched as she swiped, providing commentary on the various men’s dating profiles, and you gasped when she paused. Smiling up at you from the screen of your phone were the same eyes you’d been trying to avoid.

“Oh, he’s cute,” she said, scrolling through his pictures. His profile included a wide array of photos, including one with his sisters (clearly related, you determined, given the same shade of fiery red hair), a cropped picture of him and some guys on the beach, and a picture of him smiling down at two puppies in his arms. You’d been there that day, trying to ignore the way your heart melted seeing him coo over the puppies, so small in his big arms. 

“D’you know him?” she asked, turning the phone toward you to show the last picture: celebrating a goal, Avs logo standing proudly on his chest as his arms stretched for an incoming hug. 

You nodded, and before you could get a word out, she’d swiped right. You shrieked, her cackle nothing short of maniacal as she held your phone out of reach despite your best attempts to steal it back.

“Elle, no —“

“It’s a harmless swipe, Y/N,” she shrugged nonchalantly. “You can always unlike —“

She gasped, and you both looked down when your phone dinged, signaling that you had a match. You groaned, throwing your head against the back of the couch as you scrubbed your hands over your face. Even if you could undo the match, the damage had been done, for JT had seen the match already.

You managed to avoid him for the next week, embarrassment flooding every time you saw his car in the parking garage and turning down the wrong hallway just to prevent yourself from running into him.

It was a Thursday when life as you knew it changed forever. 

You were reviewing the line items from the liquor vendor for the gala, checking the quantities and the prices. Engrossed in the numbers in front of you, you didn’t hear a certain athlete approach with a confident saunter.

“So, about that date… ?”

You closed your eyes at the sound of his voice. “Hi, JT.”

“Come on, not even a smile?” he grinned. “I know you can’t be that disappointed to see me.” 

The reference, while subtle enough if anyone else had overheard, was glaringly obvious to you, the image of your photos bouncing together on the app with ‘It’s a Match!’ flashing through your mind. You glared at him, then nodded your head toward your office door, signaling him to get inside.

“Oh, we’re doing this right now? I would’ve dressed a little nicer had I known.”

He’s confident, a complete 180 from the way he’d been a few weeks prior, stuttering and nervous like he was a 17-year-old asking someone to prom. His recent 3-game point streak was enough of a reason for the enhanced confidence, though you still hadn’t connected the dots as to the additional factors for the added edge in his game. 

“JT, please,” you said once you’d closed the door, thankful that the rest of your colleagues had left for the day. “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re coworkers,” you said pointedly. 

JT scoffed with a smile. “Coworkers? Hardly. Our jobs barely overlap. We just work in the same building. This is like, best case scenario.”

“I don’t mix personal and professional,” you said, sounding more firm than you felt. 

“What about pleasure and professional?” he asked with a wink. You rolled your eyes, and he added, “Really, Y/N. It isn’t that big of a deal. I can name like, at least three guys that are dating someone who works for their team.”

“That’s not the point! It’s a principle.”

“You afraid I’m a stereotypical hockey bro? Not all of us are just pretty playboys.”

‘You sure are pretty, though,’ you thought to yourself, instead replying with, “It has nothing to do with that.”

“Please,” he added. His voice was a little deeper, more serious. “Just give me a chance. One date. That’s all I’m asking.”

You swore you could feel the actual heat of his gaze on you as you looked away to contemplate. Truthfully, there was nothing written against it in the handbook, and he was correct in stating that your jobs really didn’t overlap that much.

What harm could come of it?

“You will not tell a soul.” Your voice wavered, but you looked him square in the eye as you said it.

A smile broke out on his face as he mock saluted you, and any remaining doubt you had flew out the window at the sight, the light in his eyes filling you with a little too much joy than you’d care to admit. Before you could think twice, he was handing you his phone to input your number. You did, and handed it back to him, looking at him expectantly.

“I’ll change your life,” was the last thing he said before winking and walking out.

That was three months ago, and, true to his word, he had indeed changed your life in the two-ish months that you’d been dating. It had all been a blur, really, after the first date, and as things progressed you’d still sworn him to secrecy despite his every effort to remind you that you weren’t doing anything wrong.

So, here you are, casting coveted glances at your boyfriend across the room at a million-dollar event, except no one in the room knows that he’s your boyfriend, except for JT himself. It’s a secret, weighing heavy on you every time you come into work or have to watch him go stag to an event that you should be on his arm for.

Someone calls your name, and you tear your eyes away from him, turning to address your colleague, Grace, who’s standing beside you with a tablet, ready to have a final run through of your carefully crafted checklist. You review it twice to ensure that everything is in place and that no loose ends are left.

After a brief team meeting, everyone knows their posts, and Stan Kroenke is waiting by the stage, being briefed by another one of your colleagues with a rundown of the night’s schedule.

You catch JT’s eye, and he sends you a quick wink for luck before you take a breath and walk onto the stage. Doing your best to ignore the bright lights, you focus on not tripping before you get to the podium to welcome everyone. You’re nervous, but the words come to you easily as you explain the night’s festivities and introduce Stan, who is speaking after you.

The speeches go smoothly, as planned, and soon enough the time for mingling has begun. Naturally, most people gravitate to the players, wanting photos and autographs, and at this point, your only remaining assignment is to monitor and be available to assist with any issues that may arise. Everything is going smoothly, so you allow yourself to take a breath and let loose, just a little. You grab a glass of champagne, letting the tickle of it rest in your throat as you go to chat with your colleagues and brush elbows with the donors.

You’re not sure how much time has passed, only aware that the silent auction has begun, meaning it must be around 9pm. The music in the rink is a distant background noise, the sound of amiable chatter echoing in the arena. 

“Great job up there.” JT sidles up to you, startling you and causing you to jump. He chuckles before taking a sip of his beer. Your eyes flick to the foam that remains on his mustache, watching the way his tongue darts out to retrieve it.

“Thanks,” you reply with a smile, careful to keep your distance, being in such a public setting. “Been doing this for years but still never gets any easier.”

He hums in response, then lowers his voice slightly. “This whole thing has turned out amazing, babe. I’m really proud of you.”

All you reply with is a look, silently scolding him for the pet name in public. His expression is apologetic, but he doesn’t say anything, instead stepping closer to you under the guise of setting his glass down on the table behind you.

“And for what it’s worth, there’s no way you’re getting out of here tonight without getting fucked, looking like this,” he whispers in your ear. It’s low, murmured hotly, and fire courses through your veins at the words, which is presumably the exact reaction he’s aiming for.

You splutter in response, stepping away from him. “JT —“

“You look so fuckin’ good, baby,” he husks, and you can hear the hunger in his voice. “Can’t keep my eyes off you. Took everything in me to keep my hands to myself.” 

“Don’t… don’t talk like that,” you breathe, feeling the heat in your cheeks despite the fact that no one is near enough to overhear. 

“Why? Do you like it?”

The pang of your heartbeat is loud in your ears as you look at him, shaking your head. He smirks, knows that you’re lying, can see it in the way your breath hitches when he runs a hand over his beard.

“C’mon,” he urges, nodding toward the door to the hall, marked with a sign that says Staff and Personnel Only. 

With a hesitant sigh, you glance around the room. The guests are chattering, laughing, drinking, everything going exactly as planned. It can’t hurt to take a few minutes away, right?

Your redhead grins when you turn back to him with a shrug. The two of you slip into the hallway, and you do your best to walk both quickly and quietly, your heels clacking loudly on the cement floor. 

“JT, there are no private bathrooms down here,” you protest, heart thumping in your chest.

“There’s one,” he grins. “Follow me.”

He leads you away from the rink, down a different hallway from the guest bathrooms. 

“JT, where are we —“

“Shh, only a bit further,” he whispers, glancing behind you before taking your hand.

The next thing you know, you’re standing in front of two large sliding doors, the Avalanche logo carved into the rich wood.

“JT, no.”

“Why not?” he smirks, fishing out his access card from his suit coat pocket. “No one’s gonna find us in here.”

Before you can protest, he’s scanning his badge, the doors sliding open with a beep to reveal the entry way to the Colorado Avalanche locker room. You’ve been in it before, but never with a player, and certainly never alone with a player.

The doors are quiet when they shut behind you, and JT steps up to press his body against you, warm against your back as his hands find a hold on your hips.

“Finally alone with you,” he murmurs. “So I can do this.”

The whiskers of his beard tickle your neck first, soothed quickly by the softness of his lips that press a kiss against your skin. You can’t help the sigh that leaves your throat, feeling too good to ignore.

“And this,” he continues, hands giving your hips a squeeze through your dress before he’s flipping you around to face him.

You meet his eyes, soft despite the obvious heat in them, like melted chocolate in the center of a fresh, warm lava cake. He moves to cup your jaw, stroking your cheek gently with his thumb before he’s leaning in, whispering against your lips, “And most importantly, this.”

The kiss is all you need to make you forget where you are, head spinning with his lips against yours. Your internal moral code that was screaming at you up until five seconds ago has quieted, unable to think or feel anything except JT; any protest you had died the minute he touched you. 

His hands quickly find their place back on your hips, this time reaching behind you to give your ass a squeeze. You can taste the beer on his tongue as it slides against yours, probing, letting the temperature heat up to near scorching levels. He groans into your mouth, colliding with the moan you let out when he massages the globe of your ass in his hand. 

“Stall,” he manages to get out between kisses. “M’stall.”

Slowly, he begins walking you backwards, mouth never leaving your body. You trust him to not run you into a wall, blindly kissing him as your hands find purchase on his jaw. When the back of your knees bump into the wooden bench, you let out a soft grunt and he’s helping to lower you down, making sure you don’t fall.

Once he’s sure you’re seated, he sinks to his knees before you and you bite back a moan at the sight of him kneeling in front of you. With a smirk, he draws the fabric of your dress up your legs, making you shiver as your skin is revealed. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs as he takes your leg in his hand, delicate, kissing your calf. It’s slow and torturous, the way he trails his lips up your leg, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and you know he’d be teasing you for hours if you had more time.

“No panties?” His voice is deep, husky, when he reaches the bare apex of your thighs, eyes unable to tear themselves away to meet yours.

“Mm,” is the response that you manage, for his finger is running lightly through your folds, coating him in your slick, before you can even answer. “P- panty lines. Panty lines.”

“Sure you weren’t just trying to get fucked? Wanted something easy access just for me, huh?” he teases, a glint in his eye as he looks up at you from between your thighs.

“JT, please,” you whine, rolling your hips against his hand.

“Oh, now she wants it,” he smirks. “You’re lucky I’ve been wanting to taste this pretty pussy since I first saw you walk in tonight. God, my girlfriend is a smoke show.”

“M’not gonna be your girlfriend for much longer if you don’t do something.”

“Oh yeah?” he breathes, mouth inches away from where you want him. The heat from his mouth makes you drip even more, throbbing desperately for his talented tongue. “What’s gonna happen when you break up with me and there’s no one to fuck you the way you want, hmm?”

“If you don’t touch me I’ll do it myself,” you threaten, and he chuckles.

“Think I’d really like to see that,” he muses, and you can tell by the glassy look in his eye that he’s envisioning the sight. “Maybe when we get home. But for now…”

His mouth finally presses against your molten center, tongue running over your lower lips and savoring your taste. He groans into you, beard scratching your thighs in the most delicious way. The man was a natural born pussy eater, you couldn’t deny it, knowing just how to maneuver to turn you into a whimpering mess. Your intense attraction to his thick beard only made your desire stronger, something he’d quickly deduced early on in your relationship and frequently took advantage of.

“So fuckin’ wet for me,” he praises you against your core, feeling the slight vibration of his deep voice all the way in your stomach. “Fuck, you taste s’good, sweetheart. So gorgeous.”

He laps at you, wants to take his sweet time but knows he’s racing against the clock, that things will be worse for everyone if you’re gone too long. Undoubtedly, someone will be looking for you, and soon. So, without warning, he plunges two fingers into you to earn a shriek from your lips before you’re clapping your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

Tongue and fingers working in tandem, it doesn’t take long to send you hurtling over the edge, legs shaking on his shoulders as he expertly works you through your high. Your knuckles are white, fisted in the formerly perfectly styled locks on his head, and you hold him against you as you gush against his face.

When he pulls away to grin at you, his thick beard is soaked in your essence and it draws a moan from you, quickly leaning forward to kiss him. The taste of yourself on his beard as his tongue probes your mouth is downright sinful, and you feel yourself throb as if to say, not done yet.

“JT,” you breathe against his mouth, his tongue flitting against your lips. “Fuck me.”

“You were just bitching about getting caught and now you want me to —“

“Need you. Now.”

The snark disappears when he hears the sincerity in your voice, pure instinct taking over as he’s quick to unbuckle his expensive belt, the sound of his zipper sliding down like music to your ears. Your eyes are glued to his length as he pulls himself out of his dress pants, noticing the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he strokes himself.

The locker room, while spacious, isn’t exactly made for this kind of physical activity, so finding a place to lie down comfortably is difficult. He takes your place in his stall, seated, then tugs you into his lap, bunching the fabric of your dress over your waist again once your thighs are nestled on either side of his hips, core pressed firmly against him. You can feel him, hard as steel against you, and you reach between your bodies to wrap your hand around him.

His jaw goes slack, eyes not leaving yours as you pump him, then swipe your thumb over his tip, smearing the precum over his head before bringing it to your mouth. JT groans as he watches you suck the dew off your finger, his own fingers digging into your hips illustrating that he likes what he sees.

“You want it?” you ask with a smirk.

“Fuckin’—” he curses, unable to keep his lips off of you, “yeah, fuck yeah, please, beautiful.”

Briefly, a moment of clarity hits you as the event flashes through your mind, and you remember where you’re supposed to be, in contrast with where you are. In that split second, you’re faced with the decision — be responsible, or give in to your desire. Given the way JT’s lips are pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, his rock hard dick pressing against your naked core, throbbing wantonly against you, it’s not a difficult decision to make.

The sound that your boyfriend emits when you sink down onto him is otherworldly, and you bottle it up, hoping to elicit that sound from him over and over again. 

And you do, moving up and down his length while his hands reach to grip your ass, helping your movements. He lets out the same moan against your mouth when you duck down to kiss him, swallowing the sound. When he shifts his hips, tilting them to press himself deeper into your tight heat, you mimic the sound, crying out a call of his name into the emptiness of the room, echoing out of the empty stalls surrounding you.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice low and sending waves of arousal straight to your pussy. “Feels so good, squeezin’ me so tight, baby.”

You lean in to kiss his lips, swollen and red and downright delicious, and your tongue seeks out his own as your hands clutch onto his broad shoulders for leverage. The sound of you bouncing in his lap has his belt buckle jingling, and he rips it out of the last belt loop before chucking it somewhere on the ground behind you, landing with a dull thud on the carpet. A free hand palms your breast through your dress, and the warmth even through the fabric makes your nipples harden, your back arching into his touch. He’s all over you, in your lungs and on your skin, and in that moment you swear you’ll let yourself be swallowed by him, devoured amidst the low lighting in the Avalanche locker room.

“J,” you sigh, breathless. You hope he can pick up the rest of what you’re trying to say, unable to speak words for the bubble of heat that’s rising in your belly, his dick drawing enough pleasure to render you speechless.

Fortunately, he does, and he’s using his grip on your ass as leverage to coax you up and down, faster, striking the perfect spot within you. One of his hands leaves its post on your waist, snaking between your bodies to find your clit, knowing he’s found the bud when you gasp against his jaw. Fireworks dance in front of your eyes, and you throw your head back, eyes squeezed shut tightly as you swear you can visualize your high, just on the horizon. He applies pressure, just enough, circling slowly to gauge your reaction, looking up at your face like you hung the moon and the stars. When he sees your eyes begin to roll back, he repeats the action, desperate to feel you come while wrapped around him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coos, voice dripping in honey.

He claps a hand over your mouth when you cry out in ecstasy as your peak hits you, rippling through you while your hips falter their once steady movements. Between the fluttering of your heat around him and the blissful expression on your face as you climax, JT’s soon reaching his own, spilling deep inside you in the final waves of your orgasm.

There’s a haze around you for a few peaceful, wonderful moments following, and you smile when you see him grinning at you, holding back laughter. The corners of your lips curl up into a smile, and soon enough you’re giggling along with him.

“Can’t believe you just did that,” he says through his laughter. 

“You started it!”

“Yeah, but you went along with it,” he winks, grunting when he helps to slip you off of his lap. You can feel his cum dripping out of you, thankful that your dress is floor-length and black, hiding any leakage. He dashes away, returning quickly with a wad of toilet paper and a kiss to help clean you up.

“Kinda want to do it again.”

“JT,” you warn as you adjust your dress, smoothing it out to hide any wrinkles. “We need to get back.”

Nerves flutter inside of you now that the heat of the moment has passed, and you suddenly feel guilty for abandoning the event you spent months planning, even if your temporary distraction is a delicious, incredibly attractive hunk of a man. 

“Hey,” JT says, seeing the way your hands have started to wring themselves. His voice is soft and he takes your hands in his, giving them a squeeze. “Everything is fine, okay? You did an incredible job planning this — so good, in fact, that everything is running perfectly smoothly without you, and you are allowed to take a break.”

He’s right, of course, a smug expression on his face when he slips back into the hall ten minutes later, staggering his arrival with yours. His hair has been combed, no evidence that you’d been running your nails through it not 20 minute prior, though you do notice the flush of his lips against the glass of the new beer he’s gotten. The only person who noticed your absence is Grace, but you’re quick with an excuse that you were cornered by Stan, who is notorious for his long-winded conversations. She looks at you, but if she is thinking anything, she doesn’t say it, and you mentally pump your fist that she’s bought your lie.

As you are both approached by Joe Sakic, you have to hide your smile knowing that you’d just fucked one of his players in the locker room just down the hall. You can’t help but feel undeniably smug — and maybe a little bit turned on — that while you chat with some of the wealthiest, most important people in Denver, you can still feel the warmth of JT’s cum inside of you, one bead dripping down the inside of your leg. 

Another hour or so later, the last few remaining guests take their leave. The clean up crew begins their practiced routine, and you make your rounds to ensure that the vendors have their appropriate tips and payment before you head up to the office to wrap up for the night. Grace is waiting for you, to tell you the initial count of dollars raised has exceeded $20,000, and you grin, feeling both relieved and quite satisfied at the culmination of your hard work.

Not much later, you and Grace walk to the parking lot together, and you commend her for a job well done, thanking her for keeping you sane. As you bid her goodbye and slip into your car, you take out your phone, smiling to yourself when you see a text.

[JT:] Meet you at yours? [JT:] I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. 

You chuckle, sending a text back to let him know you’re on your way.

[Y/N:] I’m heading home now [Y/N:] I prefer waffles, by the way [JT:] Lucky for you, I am a waffle extraordinaire [JT:] See you soon, beautiful 😘

You start your car, stowing your phone in your purse as you exit the parking garage. The bluetooth in your car dings with another text from him, and you roll your eyes as the message pops up on the screen.

[JT:] Still want to see you touch yourself like you promised… I’m waiting 😉

#jt compher fic #jt compher imagine #jt compher blurb #jt compher x reader #jt compher x y/n #jt compher fanfic #jt compher fanfiction #jt compher smut #hockey blurb #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl imagines #hockey fanfiction #colorado avalanche fic

[mybeingthere]

Richard Mayhew, b 1924 of African American and Native American ancestry.

Born in 1924 and raised in Amityville, New York, on Long Island’s south shore, Richard Mayhew’s passion for painting was sparked by watching the artists who summered in the environs of Amityville and painted its scenic shoreline. Inspired by these artists, young Mayhew used brushes and paints from his father’s sign painting business to copy what the artists were doing. When Richard Mayhew was 14 years old, one of the artists recognized the young man’s talent and taught him the fundamentals of drawing and painting. Throughout his teenage years, Richard Mayhew made several trips into New York City to study the works of the European and American masters on view at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. By age 17, he had made up his mind to become an artist.

For Richard Mayhew, the essence of reality is more important than its facts. His landscape paintings aren’t the facts of a landscape but the spirit of a landscape. That spirit shimmers through a haze saturated with color.

His emotional and spiritual connection to the natural world has its roots in his African American and Native American ancestry: his father was African American and Shinnecock; his mother, African American and Cherokee. During his boyhood, his paternal grandmother supported his art endeavors and schooled him in the Native Americans kinship with the earth.

After his service as a Montfort Point Marine, Mayhew moved to New York in 1947, a crucial period in American art history. Abstract Expressionism, the first truly homegrown American art movement, was electrifying the public, igniting passionate discussions among the cognoscenti about what constitutes art in the first place and what is its purpose in the public realm. Richard Mayhew, now a student at the Brooklyn Museum’s school of art, with additional courses at Pratt Institute and Columbia, thrived in this fevered environment. The painterly freedom of the Abstract Expressionists had a profound influence on Richard Mayhew, opening his canvases to the wild essence of being that was in kinship with the spirituality of his heritage.

[trashlord-007]

The one and only Lee Dong Wook

(For your ask game)

heyheyhey, I’m pretty sure I know who sent this and Ily <3 [1.1k wc]

Lee Dong Wook x Fem!Reader 

Auction + Mafia AU || His for the night

   “One million.” Sealing your fate, the man you've grown to hate cuts through the crowd, his voice authoritative and unyielding. “I bid one million.”

   Silence falls over the room as everyone turns to look at him. Their stares don’t faze him. Cold eyes linger on you as he drinks in your visage. A shiver crawls down your spine. It’s a look you know all too well. He hasn’t come to play and he won’t back down no matter the cost. In his mind you're already his regardless of the result of some charity auction sham.

   “Sold! To Number 114! If you’ll both please proceed to the back to finalise the transaction. Now, onto the next, we have a star in the making, Ms. Kim…”

   The announcer fades into the background as you brush aside the curtain and enter the dim backroom. Inside are several tables with some of the prior ‘purchases’ setting terms for the date they’re being forced onto. Some seem happy, perhaps riding on the high of philanthropy, while others seem bored. Spending time with fans is a hassle and anyone that has been in the biz long enough knows that.

   And yet you'd give everything to be in their shoes.

   A stout man with round glasses and a pink nose beckons you. While you can’t see him, your attention focused on the looming pile of paperwork ahead, you can sense your suitor hot on your tail. His cologne surrounds you, engulfing you in the memory of him, reminding you of the fateful mistake you made.

   As you slow, your fingers brushing against the metal of the chair’s back, his arm wraps around your side. Jolting away from the sudden contact, you instead bump into his chest. He’s firm and toned and isn’t at all what you might expect of a man in his position.

   When you first met, his charm disarmed you. You like to think you know him better now, that you're privy to his tricks, but there’s something dangerous in his gaze as he stares down upon you, staring right through you.

   Pulling out your chair, he gestures for you to sit. Ever the gentleman, always putting up pretences. He’s a scourge on this Earth.

   “Thank you,” you force out through gritted teeth.

   “Of course, darling.”

   Bile rises in your throat from the harmless pet name.

   Oblivious to the situation, the paralegal begins shuffling through the documents, pulling out the contract he had pre-drafted. “Shall we get started?”

~

   Blood red. That’s the colour painted on your lips. It matches the dark aesthetic of your outfit and complements the eyeshadow your assistant chose for you. It’s a publicity stunt more than a real date and you’re determined to treat it as such. You won’t give him the satisfaction of treating it any other way.

   Slipping on your red heels, you sigh. The contract says you only need to spend two hours with him. That’s two hours too many. Mr. Lee isn’t a man to trifle with, even for just a few hours. If you aren’t careful, you’ll find yourself embroiled within something much deeper, much darker.

   Steadfast in your desire to disappoint, you stand tall and spin once in front of the three-panel floor mirror. You frown. Visually you’ll always turn heads. As such, you don’t bother to dress down. The Chanel black dress hugs you in all the right places. It’s a bold choice, but so is your lipstick, your heels, your clutch – all red as cherries.

   Bringing a manicured nail to your neck, you tap while deep in thought. It needs a little more spice, something to proclaim your elite status. Turning from the large mirrors with an elegant twirl, you sit at your dresser. Makeup products clutter the space, and off to the side is a small lockbox.

   Punching in the code, you grab the first necklace you see. Diamonds and rubies combine to create a centrepiece most will never have the honour of gazing upon in person. You know it’s overkill but you have a sneaking suspicion that your ‘date’ will try to make a show of presenting you a gift. If you wear your best then his own will pale in comparison. Yours is, after all, a luxury piece. It’s the kind of extravagance that leads to a revolution and a royal beheading.

   Donning the sparkling jewellery, you position it over the peekaboo window, letting it nestle between your breasts. You know the paparazzi will capture it on camera before you even have a chance to enter the establishment. They have an unnatural knack for photographing your body before your face, saving the headshots for when you’re almost out of range and settling for unnatural angles of the side or back of your head. If it’ll benefit you now, however, you’ll forgive them their prior trespasses.

   The last thing you want is for anyone to think Mr. Lee had a hand in getting you your most treasured valuable.

   Your phone buzzes on the bedside table. Glancing at the clock beside it, the time reads ten minutes to eight o’clock. The dinner is at nine. At least officially. It’s for charity, though, and you know you’ll be expected to make a show of it: run into an interviewer along the way, give a small speech on how excited you are and how happy you are to support whatever the fundraiser was, spend some time chatting with Mr. Lee before you even reach the table. You’ll need to head out early if you want to leave anytime before midnight.

   With a final, quick touchup and some adjustments to the dress, you grab your phone and slip it inside your clutch. Everything you need for the night is inside: your credit card and ID, a miniature packet of mints, and a small vial of roll-on parfum. It’s the bare essentials. Any less and you’d feel vulnerable… though considering who you’re meeting, it might be better to ditch it all and bring a knife instead.

   Headlights shine through your bedroom window. He’s here. Shoving your uneasiness back down into your gut, you straighten your posture. With your head held high, you descend the stairs one by one, the click of your heels against the marble resounding through the foyer. Once you reach the ground level, the doorbell rings. It’s thunderous. Despite knowing it was coming, it still sends a tremble down your spine.

   It’s just a few hours.

   You can handle him for a few hours.

Send Me An Idol / Character && I’ll Tell You Which AU/Trope Suits Them

#lee dong wook #lee dong wook x reader #kdrama #kdrama x reader #kdrama actor #kdrama actor x reader #kdrama actor fanfic #kdrama fanfic #mafia au #seo moon jo x reader #lee yeon x reader #kactor x reader #kactor #ryu su yeol x reader #grim reaper x reader #yeah i'm tagging characters #sue me

[tozapeloda77]

Hamad's eyes were on the outer perimeter

The crowd was pushing against the fence of the outer perimeter. Their anger had found its way to the batteries and now the lethal dose of electricity imbued in the steel beams was no more. Just like the endless blackouts in the city, one layer of the port’s exceptional status stripped away.

Hamad’s hands unconsciously went over the automatic weapon hanging at his waist. The outer perimeter was quite far off, but from the watchtower he could see the density of the desperate mass swell up to the fence.

“It’s going to be a crush,” sergeant said in his earpiece.

The voice was dry and monotonous.

“We wait until they’re at the trench, then you fire.”

Hamad nodded in silence. The trench was fifteen meters wide and five deep. Well within range of his weapon, it was the only feature between the wall beneath his watchtower and the guard posts at the outer perimeter. No luck for the men there. He wondered if anyone he knew had been posted there today. Soon, the first shots of the day would ring out, much harder to overlook than the inevitable electrocution of the fence.

“Flight control is saying forty minutes,” sergeant said.

Forty minutes to salvation. Although Hamad could not predict what the people would do if they saw the final rocketslaunch. They were working under the assumption that the desperate anger would turn into anguished despair, a transformation that might calm them down, and mean seeing another day tomorrow. Of course, witnessing first-hand the last lucky few escape Judgement Day might incite them to an insatiable anger that would target the collaborators first and foremost. People like Hamad. He was just doing his job, he thought. But he had made up his mind a while ago and would not blame others for condemning him, or going even further than that. Being a veteran of the Republic of Dubai’s Public Security Forces made of him a mass murderer. It was the only way to feed a family for a man with his talents, but he was not a hypocrite and knew he would receive his comeuppance one day.

Hamad did not think of himself as sentimental. That meant that he would not lament the loss his younger colleagues, they had all pulled that trigger at least once by now. But the rockets behind him needed more than just protection. Other than the security forces, there were hundreds of ground crew: those loading the little private cargo passengers were allowed to bring, those in the flight control tower, those driving the fuel carriages loaded up with the preciously scarce rocket fuel needed to get them into orbit. For them, just doing their job was not a euphemism, and Hamad prayed for their sake that the people would run out of steam once the rockets finally took off.

The people behind him were the last batch of world’s best and brightest, if you could believe the propaganda. Soon, unless the crowd got to them first, they would be launched to the Āyāt, a massive generation ship, the last of its kind. Where it would go, Hamad had no idea, but at least two of the nine that had departed before had delivered their passengers to worlds that had, according to the old stories, been like a paradise. It pays to have smart, brave, and morally upright people onboard when you are building a society inside a generation ship, that in however many years it takes to travel needs to rebuild a just human society on another world. You also want good engineers to keep the ship from falling apart. But at least half the tickets for this ship, if not more, had been sold in a terrible auction not far from the port itself.

As Dubai was falling apart around the port, the fact that more than a century ago too much capital had been sunk into the construction of the Āyāt meant that the local elites kept campuses afloat supported by what remained of the rest of the world’s wealthy. In exchange for helping complete the ship, they had secured for themselves a ticket, but with prices soaring, many had done what Hamad had thought to be the wisest course of action: they had sold their ticket for a fortune, enough to live out the last of their days in one of the few safe and stable enclaves left. Why stuff yourself into a cramped spaceship when you will not even live to see the destination? Having no children of his own, he realised, probably made that hypothetical decision a lot easier for him.

Hamad jolted up from his thoughts as a burst of gunfire rang out from the outer perimeter. He now saw people forcing their way underneath and over the fence, and security forces firing at the climbers. Soon, he knew, they would start firing indiscriminately. Once the mass had decided to go forward, the fence was going to come down, and there would be no stopping them.

If anything, there were relatively few locals in the crowd. Of course, a good number of locals was either working at the port or related to one of the workers, and they had mostly avoided the fatalistic allure of the crowd. However, even the ticket auction had drawn people from all over the world, many with no chance to afford a ride, who still came in the faintest hope that maybe they would have a lucky break and obtain access to the ship. Even more had travelled here driven by the more grim but no less fantastical idea of fighting their way aboard a rocket. It was not as if the authorities aboard the Āyāt were above sending stowaways back down, they had done it before. Perhaps people, no matter where they came from, just wanted to be there the day that their fate, alongside everyone else still left on Earth, was finally sealed. To be able to admit to yourself: “this is the last one. We’ve really gone and messed it all up now.”

Without the shade and the ventilation that the watchtower provided, Hamad knew he would not last these hours under the full sun. People had brushed against the fence before the power went on, people were crushed by others, and now the security forces were firing their guns, but at the end of the day he wagered that the sun’s heat would have taken just as many. For as long as he could remember, Dubai had been a bold challenge to the climate, but with temperatures not dropping below 35 degrees year round, demonstrations and riots were always on a timer. The heat incensed the people, but it also killed them without remorse.

When tomorrow the port would close forever, the city had nothing left beside the desalination plants, which would keep running until an essential part broke without a way to restore it. As the last riches of Dubai went to space, there would be nobody organising the expensive food imports, repairing the solar farms, or manufacturing the air conditioners. With his wages, Hamad had bought a carriage from one of the departing families, as much fuel as he could afford, and water. Tomorrow, his family would start driving north, with or without him. The camps in Hellas, if they could reach it, offered better prospects than the desert.

The people were now pushing down the fence with their weight. It started to sag, then sections began to fall over. Some of the crowd ignored the guard posts, which lit up red with automatic gunfire, and ran directly towards the trench. Others rushed the security forces at the outer perimeter, their bodies the shields of those behind them. The anxiety among the last of the passengers in line was palpable.

There were children there, twice-damned. Brought into a dying world and now carried aboard a metal prison where they would spend the rest of their lives. Hamad had no children. His parents were in the minority in Dubai. The world population had been in a steady decline following a prolonged period of stagnation. Famine, war, heat, and pandemics all took their toll, but many people were not having children any more. Those who could afford the pharmaceuticals, anyway.

Exhausted, a group of people had made it to the trench. It had been built to stop vehicles, but it proved a real challenge to climb during the middle of the day. Their numbers grew and grew. Reluctantly, Hamad reached for his rifle. He aimed at first, shooting those who showed initiative. But they could not be stopped. People came crawling across the trench along a wide line, so he switched to automatic and continued working. His head was empty.

The masses droned up against the wall below the watchtower. He could now hear their cries. Some were begging, others uttered prayers. He caught an angry slogan of someone who opposed leaving Earth entirely. An ideology a thousand years out of date. He fired for ten seconds, reloaded, count to ten, reloaded, count to then. They had no ladders but they pushed on top of each other and Hamad knew that with their combined weight they could topple the wall. It sagged, gave way, and people were in the tower. Hamad fired for ten seconds, reloaded, and realised that everything had gone silent.

All eyes were aimed at the rockets. The launch pads were deserted but for the lone rioter who had made it to the closest rocket. She banged on the massive exhaust. Then, with a deafening roar, twelve engines burned to life and they took off. And aboard were the last people who would leave Earth alive.

#lancer rpg #the Fall #the Ten #Escapism (The Dark Forest)

[lavalampstealer]

give me your John juniper headcanons if he survived please

Oh my god I’m so happy someone asked, I’d be DELIGHTED to put these out there :)) this is gonna also lightly cover Handler and Phoenix’s reactions/feelings to him surviving

Headcanon dump below the cut because it’s long

- He would have a massive scar on almost the entirety of the left side of his face from the Mask, making him near unrecognizable

- He would be blind in his left eye and have cataracts in his right

- His hair would be shorter and not as neat as before

- He would be missing his pinky on his right hand

- He would be a devastated shell of his former self and struggle with his identity

- He had placed his entire career, his persona, his whole identity on being John Juniper, world famous actor, but now that he was legally dead and (in his eyes) horribly disfigured, was he really the same person? He had it all, risked everything without a second thought, and now he was left with nothing. All of his wealth and belongings were surely auctioned off or distributed to god knows who or where. He wasn’t close to any of his family, he didn’t have a partner, there was no one for him to go to. Hell, he even burned the bridge with Gibson in a blind rage, his closest friend and confidant for the past [X] years. He had ruined his ties with Zoraxis and he thought the Agency sure as hell wasn’t about to help him. He had been relying on the rush he got from acting and deceiving, and he got so good at it that he couldn’t tell if he was tricking himself or whether his emotions were truly his own. Juniper was alive, but the man who was power-crazed and willing to launch nuclear missiles around the world without a batting an eye was gone. Was he still himself?

- A really good song that I feel matches him perfectly in this state is The Mind Electric by Miracle Musical (right now I’m actually working on an animatic of a specific part of it that especially fits).

- Much to his shock and confusion, the reason he was alive was because the Agency found his body when they went searching for Phoenix and treated him as best they could. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, why would they help him? Were they just keeping him alive so they could force information out of him.. and then what? Kill him? Kick him out into the world? No one would recognize him, not his face at least, and as for his voice it was much scratchier and had lost all of its bravado and smugness. He wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the Agent, that pesky, meddling, self righteous Phoenix who had ruined his plans and his life. He had no clue who their Handler was, he only borrowed his voice to lure them into a false sense of security, but by the way that man glared poisoned daggers at him like he was nothing more than a roach made him want to shrink into nothingness. No one had ever looked at him with that much hate, no, disgust before.

- He’s very conflicted about his emotions towards Phoenix. He recognizes how bad what he almost accomplished was and he feels awful about it, yet he can’t help but despise them because they had slapped him in the face and snapped him out of his star-struck stupor. He was so close, so close to proving to himself to the world that he was the best that he became blinded to the reality of his actions. He still wishes them dead but wouldn’t dare act on those thoughts because 1) he doesn’t care anymore, he doesn’t stand to gain anything from it anymore, he’s just tired. 2) the Agency would surely do worse to him if he offed their best agent. and 3) they were arguing in his favor for some kind of forgiveness or at least amnesty. Why they would do that he has no idea, but he wouldn’t push back if it meant his life being spared or a roof over his head. After all, the Agency couldn’t risk the beloved-actor-turned-mass-felon-turned-dead-man to be recognized in public, for their sake and for his.

- Phoenix is nowhere near close to forgiving Juniper, but they don’t completely despise him either. They can see that the he’s not who kidnapped them and tried to blow them up multiple times, that Juniper is lost. They take a sort of pity on him, and thats not to say that they didn’t go off on him for his actions. They just realize that there’s no use in berating him.

- He now hates that shade of emerald green he always wore because it reminded him of how he was before the Incident, so instead he opts for darker, muted greens or dark grey clothing. He dresses more casually than the suits he used to wear (think jeans/slacks and casual dress shirts).

I definitely want to write a story with him at some point, I love the idea of him losing it all, getting somehow worse and better at the same time, and then coming out on the other side as a decent, if not bearable, person. I wouldn’t call it a redemption arc, it’d be more of a healing/development arc because he wouldn’t be like “Yeah I’m gonna help the EOD kick Zor’s ass! Revenge time!” No, he’d never want to hear from any of them ever again and would rather live out the rest of his life without catching either of their attention. The EOD would set him up with a place where he wouldn’t be noticed by Zor and they’d ‘promise’ to leave him alone (in reality one of his neighbors is a retired Agency contact who gives them updates). He’d take up baking as a hobby and turn it into a local business, specializing in handmade desserts :) just get the man his therapy and let him live out of sight, out of mind.

#this man is NOT a tumblr sexyman he is DERANGED and SHATTERED and ALONE and TERRIFIED #and a tad insane #also in desperate need of therapy #i wouldn’t say let him heal so instead I’ll say let him recover #ieytd #i expect you to die #ieytd2 #i expect you to die 2 #john juniper #broken juniper #lava’s asks

[noloveforned]

putting together stuff for tonight's no love for ned on wlur at 8pm. you can catch a repeat of last week's show immediately after at 10pm to give you four solid hours of whatever it is i do on the radio. as is the new norm, last week's show is below and streaming on mixcloud for those of you with more exciting friday night plans!

no love for ned on wlur – july 21st, 2023 from 8-10pm

artist // track // album // label the certain someones // sad salvation // murderecords 7" singles 1993-1998 compilation // murderecords the edsel auctioneer // slouch // simmer // decoy cheerbleederz // cute as hell // even in jest // alcopop! guardian singles // pit viper // feed me to the doves // trouble in mind the ape-ettes // hearing protection // simply the ape-ettes // snappy little numbers the dad // 2nd best friends // 7 a.m. 7" // unread snooper // pod // super snõõper // third man dr. sure's unusual practice // carol // remember the future? live from the future // marthouse keel her // boner hit // with me tonight 7" // o genesis uppendix // desire's not the one // bliss is solipsis // discontinuous innovation famous mammals // comets for poets // instant pop expressionism now! // siltbreeze private lives // hit record // hit record // feel it andrew savage // thanksgiving prayer // several songs about fire // rough trade prairiewolf // sage thrasher // prairiewolf // centripetal force matthew sage // tilth dawn rustles // paradise crick // rvng intl. laraaji and kramer // ascension // baptismal // shimmy-disc anton lukoszevieze, alexander hawkins and heather roche // variations vii and ix (excerpt) // jack cooper 'arrival' // astral spirits carlos niño // brooklyn zoom, brooklyn zoom // international anthem at public records volume four, december 10th, 2022 // international anthem mike reed featuring marvin tate // call off tomorrow // flesh and bone // 482 music john coltrane // impressions // evenings at the village gate // impulse! napoleon da legend and giallo point // game plan // coup d'etat // fxck rxp billy woods and kenny segal featuring quelle chris // soundcheck // maps // backwoodz studioz kenny g featuring barry johnson // hi, how ya doin'? // g force // arista wendell harrison // the glamorous life // the carnivorous lady // rebirth snoh aalegra // be my summer // be my summer digital single // atrium bernice // underneath my toe // cruisin' ep // telephone explosion ivy // get out of the city // apartment life demos // bar/none bonne idée // it will be back // a dream of you 7" // cloudberry lily konigsberg // at best a #3 // the best of lily konigsberg right now // wharf cat u.s. highball // see you in hell // no thievery, just cool // lame-o the particles // driving me // 1980s bubblegum // chapter music

#wlur #radio shows

[thornfield13713]

Okay.

So, the Alvarez connection isn't quite as strong as previously thought, which might be good or bad depending on the rest of the situation. And 'the old man', whoever he is, seems significant. Maybe I've got this the wrong way around with the Hollow Ground situation - maybe she really is another, previous escapee from the Farm using some of the same genetic material.

But also - huh. Revelation becoming suddenly more interesting when Hollow Ground met her. I suspect that has something to do with Marlene's true identity and real face, and the likenesses between them. Not sure what, though.

And- okay, new hero upcoming. And Captain Blaze is apparently following up on those hints from his scrap with Revelation, that's definitely a good sign. Not sure about the rest of it, though.

It is depressing that all Marlene's efforts have boiled down to 'business as usual', though.

...I am going to go out on a limb and say that Vernon Browne knows a lot more about all of this than he's saying - the name Marlene Hepburn would ring a few warning bells for him if he knew enough to turn up at her funeral and confront her girlfriend then, and if he knows she's a Re-Gene...or possibly something about those records Ortega found that shouldn't exist...then there's got to be something interesting there.

...really not sure about the relevance of this one, but okay, Jake's okay. Though, he too appears to have questions that might be useful in future games.

So, Captain Blaze definitely has some questions. That's a good sign. And he seems determined to keep digging. Also, the Guardians appear to be a heroes-for-hire type outfit, based on that line about the payout, which- might make them unreliable in future. Definitely needs watching, that.

Okaaay, that's...vague. Interesting, but vague. What is she up to? And- wait, she was at the auction? Definitely going to want answers to this one.

Holy shit, that's who Owl married? I mean, they're neither exactly major characters, but still- did not see that coming. And I do wonder what's going on in San Francisco that they've got interested in, and whether it's going to come up in future installments.

Also - okay, they're both working with Argent. That might be a problem if the secret gets out.

Okay. Rahim is also doing his digging, but this concern about his colleagues suddenly 'changing their minds' even when it doesn't make sense, and the attacks he's having - epilepsy or similar, I'm assuming - are...ominous, to say the least.

I do hope I get to make more use of this particular alliance in future - no sense having a public official on-side if you're not going to use him.

...hm. That's ominous. Project Director - but for what Project? Locus is established as a telepath - is this the Farm? And if so-

Well, that 'prize project' is probably Marlene. That's...not going to end well. Shit.

...okay, at least Ortega still has some conflicted feelings about this. Thank you very much for the defence, but I was sort of hoping for a longer epilogue.

This is, however, probably going to be bad for the Rangers as a team. And they weren't doing great before.

Ohhhfuck.

Herald. Daniel, as it turns out. I hadn't thought- But of course it would hit hard, and he's the one person Marlene hasn't had a chance to talk to about this yet. Hasn't had a chance to say that- yes, she regrets it. She resented him then, but she was wrong, she wishes she could take it back - not the museum attack, but how she dealt with him during it.

No idea if she's going to get that chance again, but...I sort of wish I could.

Ohholyfuck.

Wasn't expecting a repeat, but- The love of her life. Damn. And the way she can't even be angry in the face of how terrified Marlene is, and how certain that this is the end. I just- I am so invested in this, you have no idea.

...or?

I was sort of expecting that to be it.

You have no idea what a temptation the 'joining the bad guys' line was, because villain girlfriends is a hell of an idea even if that's probably not what happening, but- Marlene really isn't in any state for it.

Also - holy shit, I did not see this one coming.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

There's hope for them yet!

Admittedly, Marlene is going to be hunted, and if anyone finds out what Ortega's done here, probably so will she, but-

Still. It's a hell of a nice gesture.

#fallen hero #fallen hero: retribution #hosted games

[theroyalsims]

BREAKING: ELEANORE PHOTOGRAPHED - FOR REAL - IN CHAMPS LES SIMS

She’s baaaaack!

After months of absence and complete silence, we finally caught a glimpse of Brindleton’s ex-Princess Eleanore!

It seems like Queen Emilia’s daughter has found a new home in Champ Les Sims. Eleanore was photographed earlier today, leaving a luxury auction house in the country’s capital.

(Above: E photographed leaving a posh auction house in Champs les Sims earlier today.)

This is the first time E has been spotted publicly, following the cancellation of her wedding to Al-Simhara’s Crown Prince Ibrahim. For months, people have speculated about the ex-royal’s whereabouts, some even fearing for her safety. Even though social media has been rife of “Eleanore Sightings,” placing her in Windenburg, Rennaux, and even far away Shang Simla, none of the alleged “sightings” were ever proven true. 

Unlike earlier reports that she’s in hiding, Eleanore looked very much her stylish self during her outing, and didn’t seem to mind one bit that she was being recognised and photographed. It looks like she’s back to her old habits, too! Decked in head-to-toe designer garb, E was seen leaving a very posh auction house, perhaps to buy more jewellery or maybe a fancy new painting for her new flat? 

(Above: Eleanore walks down the street before boarding a black SUV.)

That’s right. Insiders say that Eleanore has acquired a luxury flat for herself right at the heart of the city. One source claims that E has landed a bachelorette pad in the prestigious Millionaire’s Row, where the average monthly rent for a 1-bedroom flat goes for around §9,800-11,500! 

Eleanore wasn’t exactly alone for her shopping trip, either. It looks like she has retained the service of at least one bodyguard. A man, dressed casual clothes followed E the entire time. At first, it seemed like he was just another pedestrian, but a closer look reveals that the man is actually wearing an earpiece, and he was also spotted guarding the door when E went inside the store. 

(Above: Eleanore’s ring finger goes bare - emerald engagement ring is gone.)

So Eleanore has a fancy new flat, a bodyguard, and maybe even a full staff, is now living in the most stylish city in the world, and she no longer has to worry about royal duties? Looks like Eleanore walked away a winner! 

But, she did manage to lose one thing, though. Her gigantic emerald engagement ring is nowhere in sight. No word yet if she got to keep it or if she had to give it back to Ibrahim. 

(Above: E wore a simple blue dress, but amped up her look with accessories including oversized designer glasses, blue pumps, and a matching designer purse.)

Speaking of Ibrahim, unlike E who has now resurface, the Al-Simharan heir to the throne has yet to be seen in public, and seems to still be on sabbatical, as announced by the Palace. With E now finding peace and happiness living the singleton life in Champs Les Sims, here’s hoping Ibrahim is also on his way to finding a better place. 

#ts4 #theroyalsims #ts4 story #ts4 legacy #simblr #ts4 royals #ts4 royalty #ts4 royal family #ts4 royal story #ts4 royal legacy #eleanore #mystory