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3verythingiknowaboutlove · 1 month ago

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say yes to heaven

how spencer and you deal (or don't deal) with the fact that he doesn’t want a baby anymore after coming home from prison, and you really do.

MDNI | angst

word count: 2226 warnings & tags & stuff: bau!reader, avoidant reader, avoidant spencer, no happy ending (wtf), reader wants a baby, one line about reader not having a certain religious belief, they like almost have sex, spencer undresses reader, lots of talk about a condom, they dont really fight at all?, very underdeveloped/bad description of quantum immortality author's note: heyyyyy guyss whats up..... this is a different vibe to my regular stuff and i fear it may be really ooc?? i don't know how to feel but i literally have to post or i'll go even more crazy sooo here we are!! have a delightful day, let me know your thoughts if you have any, ily!!!

Antique shops, you and Spencer have decided, are the hidden gems of this nation yet to be appreciated enough by the general public.

Each town or city you visit is bound to have one, and going to them has become a little celebratory tradition. In the early mornings after cases are solved, right before the plane ride home, you take a look around. You’re typically the first and only ones in the store, wandering with intertwined hands and sipping on ‘2 extra foamy cappuccinos with an additional shot of espresso, please’ and occasionally, but not necessarily, choosing something to take back to D.C.

You’ve been trying your absolute hardest to fill your home to the brim– sometimes with objects, and other times with words, or touch, or the ever so valuable and fleeting concept of shared time– in effort to replace what had been lost in that three month long period when it was completely devoid of tangible, fresh love.

It’s today you’re wandering through a quaint, very cluttered shop in western Oregon, the Pacific visible from the store’s windows.

Wheels up in an hour. Don’t be late. Hotch’s text buzzes in your pocket, but you barely glance at it– there’s something about the Oregon coast that reaches into your heart and gives it a gentle massage, enveloping you in a refreshing lack of urgency.

Spencer, in his own peaceful world, is staring at a tall wall of books. He reaches out to pick up a dusty rendition of Moby Dick, carefully cracking it open to the first few pages to check the publication date, brow scrunching as he reads. You go to peer over his arm to check as well, when something catches the corner of your eye. You let go of his hand to inspect.

A bassinet. Dark wood, surface polished to a faint sheen, with intricate little waves engraved on the sides, like the ocean’s misty outreach had come all the way into the shop and placed this here for you to see.

You weren’t exactly sure when this now familiar ache had started; this deep, internal desire felt in your stomach for a little hand to be gripped around your pointer and for tiny onesies to fill your laundry basket, but you’re sure, with every fiber of your being, that you want it to be there.

“Spence,” you say softly, voice jarring in the otherwise stillness of the shop. “Come look.” He carefully closes the book and puts it back where it was and pads over, looking down at the bassinet. His eyebrows raise slightly.

“Wow. It looks like it was made in the 80s, maybe even earlier. You won’t find any level of detailing more recently than that, it’s too labor intensive for modern production methods. Good find.”

“I know. Should we get it?” you ask, biting a smile. He quickly meets your eyes, brow raising slightly.

“Do you want to?” he asks, voice even.

“I mean, I just think it’s really cute, with the waves and stuff.” you say bashfully, nudging it with your toe so it rocks back and forth. Spencer swallows, adam's apple bobbing.

“Yeah, I just…” Spencer hesitates. “I don't think we’d be able to bring it on the jet. It would probably snap in half if we held it in the wrong way,” he says, making your brain race even though he hasn’t said a single thing that should cause it to do so.

“Oh.”

You blink.

“No, yeah, you’re totally right. It’s too inconvenient. You should get that copy of Moby Dick instead. That edition looked cool, with the forward explaining all the names,” you say gently, pushing a smile, nudging him back towards the shelf. He goes, shooting you one last glance as you move to observe a few clocks hanging on the wall.

Spencer doesn’t reach for your hand again when he comes back.

…

The house is quiet when you arrive back home, hours later. Spencer sets his bag down by the door, and yours goes next to his to be dealt with later.

Exhaustion from the case is heavy in your limbs; the long flight and the sleepless nights are seeping into your bones, but Spencer seems perfectly intent upon kissing it better. You rest your forehead on his chest, exhaling softly, contentedly, as he presses kiss after kiss into your hair. He gently rests his hands on your waist and pushes you against the door– not as an act of dominance, like if someone were viewing you two from afar might assume, but one of simple convenience.

His hand reaches up to tilt your chin to the position he wants. Before leaning in to your neck, he pauses.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to go to bed?” he asks. “You didn't sleep last night.” You shake your head, giving his cheek a small peck of your own.

“It’s one of those tireds where I can’t even think about sleep ever again.”

A small smile grows on his face.

“I bet I can change that,” Spencer offers, knuckles skimming over your waist. You smile and let him tug you upstairs to your room and guide your hips to sit on the bed. His hand cups the side of your jaw, as always, lips moving to press against yours in a soft, affectionate display of his adoration. His other hand moves to your waist, squeezing, and you shiver a little in response, making him hum gently.

His hands go underneath the hem of your top. “Okay?” he asks. You nod, lifting your arms to help. His eyes take their time tracing over you, but never in a way that couldn't be defined as sweet. His hand leaves your cheek and goes to the bedside table, sliding open the drawer. It draws toward the front left corner, as it always does, when it pauses. He turns to look at you, hesitating.

You, whose legs are now pulled up to your chest, chin resting on them. You stare at the yellow light of the lamp you and Spencer picked out months ago reflecting against those countless little squares of foil.

Your lips are drawn inwards, between your teeth, unable to help your mind from racing to other realities, ones where every detail is the very same, except Spencer chose not to open that drawer tonight.

…

Spencer explained the basis of quantum immortality to you a long time ago, in the early stages of your relationship, at a time so late in the night where a regular person would never be able to form coherent thoughts, let alone thoughts like these.

You were slumped over the kitchen island, peering at him as he wandered around, silently marveling at the preciousness of your boyfriend the world seemed to take for granted as he tried to get you to understand how cool this concept was.

“There’s also an interpretation of quantum mechanics proposed by a physicist named Hugh Everett which involves a ‘many worlds’ concept: essentially, it suggests that every possible outcome of an event creates its own branch of reality, meaning an infinite number of parallel worlds exist, each containing a version of events where everything that can happen, does happen,” he starts, widening his eyes for dramatic effect. “So quantum immortality is rooted in the concept that when we die in one timeline, we essentially just move on to the next one where every detail is the same except… well, you don’t die.”

He went on to emphatically talk about some guy’s cat in a box, but how this time, in a thought experiment that demonstrates this theory of immortality, you’re the cat.

You had pretty much lost him when he got to that part.

…

You blink, shoving the memory from your mind.

“You’re staring,” you point out quietly.

“You’re pretty,” Spencer responds. He sits next to you on the bed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You watch as his other hand fiddles with the condom he grabbed, running his thumb over the edges of the wrapper. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “Did I do something?” You shake your head softly.

“Mm-mm.”

“Really? Because we’ve been sitting in silence and you haven’t stopped staring at the condom in my hand for the past two minutes.”

You exhale quietly, internally screaming at yourself to just spit it out.

It’s never been easy, being an agent dating an agent. Sure, agreements have been made to not profile each other, but with so many years of experience, small observations and connections about your partner’s nature are an automatic practice. You know that Spencer takes 3 sugars in his coffee just as well as you know he says your name more frequently and shortens his sentences when scared, almost like he tries to instead convey the appearance he’s mad.

You also know very well that you and Spencer have both been consciously avoiding this conversation like the plague, especially since his homecoming.

You gnaw at your lip, trying to think of something to say, but your mind can only come up with freaky images of cats that are simultaneously alive and dead until observed.

“`M sorry, I was just thinking. Lost in my mind.”

“Thinking about what?”

Relationships that are simultaneously kept and broken until a certain conversation is had.

“Um. Quantum immortality. Who’s that guy? Hugh Jackman?”

Spencer straightens, eyebrows raising a little. “Hugh Everett,” he supplies. His tone is gentle, coaxing. “You’ve been thinking about that? I told you about him months ago.”

He stands as you quietly think of a response, grabbing a hoodie from the closet to tug over your bare torso, letting his hand gently cradle the back of your head after doing so.

“Yeah. I did a little more reading on it. It’s kind of a nice thought I keep going back to. Obviously really, really scary when you think about it for too long. But nice in the sense that there’s probably a version of us out there somewhere where…” you trail off, suddenly extremely aware of the weight of your words.

He glances down to the condom he left on the comforter.

The thick silence that follows feels like it stretches across a thousand timelines, each one probably also filled with countless what-ifs and unspoken words and really bad communication, and at the very root of all of it, fear. That deep, gaping hole in both of your souls.

When Spencer finally looks at you, his eyes are so deep it takes your breath away. So deep that it jars you into just saying it.

“Spencer,” you begin, voice so quiet. “Do you still want kids?”

You find yourself shooting up a silent prayer to whoever is out there looking out for you– God or Isaac Newton or Hugh Everett or Jason Gideon:

Pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes.

When he doesn’t answer right away, you continue– a habit probably picked up from the person standing right in front of you. “I just feel like there was a time where we were almost talking about it, but then it… went away.”

He reaches out to gently take the condom you were now fiddling with and sets it back in the drawer, his hand resting on the edge of the table as if grounding himself. His face is soft, almost glowing in the dim yellow light.

“I know,” he starts, voice crackling at the edges.

You stay dead silent.

“I didn’t mean for it to go away,” Spencer says, the crack in his voice causing you to glance up and see his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

You nod, shakily, though the perpetual ache in your stomach is sharper now, more like it’s a knife stabbing you through the gut.

“I get it,” you say, even though part of you doesn’t want to. “You don’t need to be sorry.” You can’t even bring yourself to think of the implications of what he just said– all you know is that there is something fundamentally different between you and Spencer that wasn’t there before.

“It’s not that I don’t want it. I do. You know I do. But I can’t. Not now.”

You reach out your hand for him to take.

“Spencer,” you whisper. “It’s okay. Really. We don’t have to talk about it any more.”

His lips press into a thin line, and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. Clearly. It wasn’t a statement said to be believed. There was nothing okay, at all, but this isn’t a fight- there’s nothing to fight about. There's just a quiet understanding. He nods, finally, and steps back. “We should get some sleep,” he says, his voice almost too soft to hear.

You watch as he pulls back the covers and slides into bed, still in his work clothes, leaving just enough space for you beside him. After a moment you curl up next to him because, despite everything, doing the alternative would be so much worse.

Spencer's arms wrap around you, his breath warm against the nape of your neck, and you close your eyes and let the silence settle over you both, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back. Something you would have given anything to have not so long ago.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #piper’s works

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cheralith · 1 month ago

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PLEASE MORE OF CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND KAISER 🙏🙏

childhood bestfriend!kaiser who, at age nine, manages to find a spare coin on the ground and decides, for the fun of it, to use it on a nearby capsule machine as he waits for you to finish up inside the convenience store. it contains mini capsules of what seems to be cheap jewelry, and though kaiser cannot be bothered to wear any himself, he decides for the fun of it to just give it a spin since the other machines don't seem worth his money.

he ends up with what looks like a cheap nickel ring with a plastic deep blue gem glued onto its little divot. it's... actually not bad for something so cheap, but it's still cheap enough to notice some flawed intricacies and some irregularities in its pattern surrounding the band of the ring. he attempts to try it on some of his fingers, but it refuses to budge past half of most of them.

you manage to finally finish up paying for your stuff at the register, meeting him outside where you find him squatting down in front of a couple of capsule machines arranging from some quick candy to disposable toys. he holds something shiny between his two fingers as he examines it closely, his concentration on the item making you giggle lightly. that's when he notices you and you ask him what he's holding as you shuffle up next to him.

"a ring," he states simply, letting you hold it between your fingers to let you analyze the toy. "i think it's a little small for me though."

you hum lightly before gently trying it on your left ring finger. to yours and kaiser's mild surprise, it fits quite snugly. "hey, look at that!"

you show off your hand to him, where the ocean blue gem glimmers along the silver band. kaiser stares at it for a minute, taking a liking to how well it goes together with your hand—like it's meant to be there.

he tucks his head away from you, the tips of his ears blushing a light pink. quietly, he mumbles, "... you can have it, then... if you want."

"really?!" you exclaim, clearly delighted. you grin widely, clenching and unclenching your fist when he nods shyly again in affirmation.

he watches you from the corner of his eye, witnessing you glimmer in admiration at the cheap ring, as if it was an actually well-crafted piece made with love and care and thought and not some mass-produced, cheap toy that would most likely break in a couple of days.

so it's surprising how long the little toy has lasted after all these years. there eventually came an age where it could no longer fit any of your fingers without it getting stuck, so you had opted for creating it into a necklace with a matching silver chain. when you had proudly showed off your creation to kaiser at age twelve, his lips purse in bashfulness fronted as confusion. he knew you had worn it for quite a while after he gave it to you, given how he always would steal a glance at your hand to see if you were still wearing it, but to see you go to a length to preserve such a small gift made kaiser feel like he was on top of the world.

you wore the simple necklace for a long time—essentially every day and never took it off unless you were showering or going to bed. even despite the strict "no jewelry" rule at your school, you always had tucked it inside your shirt in secret, feeling like you were carrying a piece of kaiser every where you went since you and him went to different schools (what institution he went to, you didn't know. every time you asked him what school to see if it sounded familiar, he'd just simply reply, "school.")

so when kaiser disappeared from your life for three years, after he had gotten arrested at thirteen for apparently robbing a store (you would shout at the others who rumored about the subject that he'd do no such thing), the piece of metal felt heavier around your neck at times. it felt sore at times, but you still insisted on wearing it every day in hopes that he'd still be somewhere nearby, waiting for you to hand him spare pieces of your dad's bread rolls behind his bakery.

you'd fiddle with it at times while waiting at his bus stop, while you waited on the swings at the nearby park, while you sat on the stairs of your father's bakery... just waiting in hopes of seeing a familiar blonde to hopefully appear before you. you don't know how much time you had wasted in the first year and a half attempting to continue a routine that you didn't know ended without your knowledge... just simply waiting and staring into the open distance while your fingers fiddled with the toy ring strung around your neck.

you stopped waiting for the figment of someone you used to know after the seventeenth month. winter was upon you now and you knew it was getting harder to withstand the chilled air as you waited, waited, and waited. as you swung lightly on the swings that you and kaiser used to eat too much candy with bought with your dad's spare cash, you eventually let the sugar dissolve on your tongue one last time before heading home as the snow began to fall.

you were eighteen, visiting home from the big city on a holiday weekend when you saw him for the first time in years. just shy of the end of your first semester at university, you saw a familiar head of blonde (with now blue tips) hair descending down to the shared tunnel of the subway, face just barely visible from the scarf he wore. you were on the opposite side and had just gotten off at the same platform, and the whiplash you had given yourself at the moment to double check if the person wrapped in a dark blue scarf was actually someone that had disappeared from your life years ago was truly there could've snapped your neck.

suitcase trailing behind you, you had forgotten all about your connecting train and swiftly trailed down the stairs in desperation to see a familiar face you yearned to see for the past few years. you probably looked like a psychopath, but you didn't care, not when you spotted the familiar choppy locks of white gold just a few meters away.

when you called out his name, you proved yourself right given how the figure in front of you freezes when you shout his last name.

kaiser remembers stiffening up at the sound of a melody all too familiar to him just before he transferred through the turnstile to the other station. he slowly turned around to see a face he had spent a good portion of the beginning of his life around, a face that unlike most people in his life, he didn't dread to see with a flow of contempt. but he still felt the apprehension fill his nerves, similar in the way that it did just before a big match.

and it felt nearly impossible to control such a feeling—especially when he spots the shrewd ring still hanging around your neck on a thin, silver chain, its dark plastic gem still glistening at him with a knowing wink in its glimmer.

a/n ; some more of childhood bestfriend!kaiser here, here, and here (yandere warning for the last one). comments and reblogs always noticed and endlessly appreciated :]

#blue lock #bllk #michael kaiser #kaiser #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #kaiser x you #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock fluff #bllk fluff #blue lock ; michael kaiser #mini-series ; cbf!kaiser

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p0orbaby · 2 months ago

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Dancing in the Dark

summary: a tactics coach and a vice captain walk into a bar… have a not so secret relationship

warnings: mentions of sex but nothing graphic

a/n: i asked for requests and someone sent me this gem

word count: 3.1k

Leah texts you at exactly 12:02 a.m., a time she insists is “late enough to avoid suspicion but early enough that we’re not knackered in the morning.” The precision of it is very Leah—practical, calculated, with just the faintest whisper of rebellion. It’s always the same text—Room 308—as if she’s writing it for a stranger who might need the address for their sat nav. She never adds punctuation. You think that’s intentional, a way of keeping it casual, devoid of any intimacy that could be misconstrued.

You’ve stopped bothering to reply. It’s not that you don’t want to see her—want isn’t the word for what you feel when you see her name flash on your screen, but it’s close enough. It’s that typing on my way feels excessive when the answer’s already obvious. She knows you’ll come. You know she knows. And there’s something about that silent agreement that feels like the only part of this whole arrangement that makes sense.

The desk lamp casts a faint yellow glow across the room as you pack up. Your laptop goes into the bag first, followed by the notepad you’ve been using to scribble ideas for tomorrow’s strategy meeting. You pause to carefully align its corner with the edge of the desk—a habit you’ve had since you were a child, though you’re not sure if it’s a quirk of personality or a learned behaviour from years of Catholic school and its draconian rules about neatness.

Your hoodie is next, slung over the back of the chair like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. It’s an old one from university, the logo cracked and peeling, the sleeves stretched from too many washes. It smells faintly of your laundry detergent—a scent marketed as “ocean breeze,” though you’ve always thought it smells more like cheap fabric softener and an overactive imagination. Nothing about it suggests the ocean, or even a breeze. It’s more akin to the air freshener in a Southend-on-Sea rental cottage, the kind with faded floral curtains and a broken kettle. You wonder, briefly, if Leah would find this thought amusing. Probably. She has a way of laughing at things that don’t seem funny until she does.

The hotel corridor is silent, save for the distant hum of a vending machine and the occasional creak of overused floorboards. You walk quickly, your trainers barely making a sound on the patterned carpet—a gaudy, swirling design in shades of burgundy and gold that seems to scream corporate retreat. You keep your eyes trained forward, as if avoiding eye contact with the carpet will somehow render you invisible to anyone who might happen to step out of their room.

You’ve mapped out every staff member’s room, memorised the most efficient route, and calculated the probability of running into someone based on their known habits. Karen from PR always goes to bed early, probably still jet-lagged from the US tour. The physio, Jamie, is a night owl, but he’s more likely to be glued to Netflix than wandering the halls. Leah finds this level of detail ridiculous.

“You’re acting like MI5 is going to raid the place,” she’d said once, sprawled on her bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Her hair was still damp from the shower, a faint halo of gold catching the light as she turned her head to look at you. “You’re allowed to have fun, you know”

She’d been peeling off your shirt as she said it, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, her eyes glittering with amusement. You wanted to argue, to tell her that fun is precisely what you’re having, in the only way you know how to have it: meticulously planned, risk-assessed, and executed with the precision of a military operation. But then her hands had moved lower, and the argument had dissolved into something else entirely. Something much harder to put into words.

Room 308. You knock twice—firm, precise knocks that betray none of the absurd nervousness bubbling under the surface. The kind that makes your palms clammy and your chest feel like it’s trying to audition for a drum solo. The knocks are part of a ritual now, as familiar as tying your boots before a match or double-checking the pitch markings. Three sharp raps, never four, because three would seem impatient, and two would feel too casual, as though you’re dropping by to borrow sugar or ask for her Netflix password.

The door opens almost instantly, as if she’s been standing on the other side, waiting for you. Leah’s dressed in one of those oversized T-shirts she always wears off the pitch, the kind that blur the line between effortless and lazy. This one is black, or it might have been once, but it’s faded now, the fabric soft and worn thin at the seams. The logo across the chest is barely legible—AC__ME—as though it’s been through the wash one too many times. You can’t tell if it’s a nod to Arsenal, a subtle homage to Wile E. Coyote’s endless misfortunes, or one of those niche designer brands that only appear on people with a six-figure salary and a curated Instagram aesthetic. It’s probably the latter. Leah strikes you as the kind of person who’d know what Vetements is and pretend she doesn’t care about it while secretly owning three pieces.

“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let you in. Her voice has this easy warmth to it, like she’s just woken up from the kind of nap that makes you forget what year it is. There’s a hint of amusement in her tone, the faint lilt of someone who’s just thought of something funny but isn’t planning to share it with the group. You’ve always liked that about her—how she can hold a joke in her mouth like a secret, like it’s something she doesn’t owe to anyone else.

“Hi,” you reply, because what else is there to say? Hello feels too formal, like you’ve shown up for a job interview, and anything else—anything softer, more intimate—feels dangerous. Like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff just to see how far you can lean before gravity kicks in.

Her room is a mirror image of yours, down to the garish burgundy carpet and beige curtains that don’t quite close properly. It’s a symphony of stereotypical hotel design, where the furniture all looks like it’s been bolted down as a precaution against theft. But there’s something different about hers, something distinctly Leah. It smells faintly of her perfume, a citrusy Chanel scent you’d once looked for in John Lewis out of curiosity. You’d sprayed it onto one of those paper tester strips, only to feel your lungs contract at the price tag. It smells like sunshine and sharp edges, and now it’s permanently tangled up in your memory of her.

The bed is unmade, the covers thrown haphazardly across the mattress like they’ve been caught mid-escape. One pillow teeters on the edge, a casualty of her apparent inability to sleep neatly. There’s a half-empty bottle of water on the nightstand, its label peeling from condensation. A pair of socks—crew-length, white with a small Nike tick—lie abandoned on the floor near the foot of the bed, one inside out. The room is messy in a way that surprises you. Leah, who is precise and meticulous on the pitch, leaves her personal space in a state of mild chaos. And for some reason, it makes you smile. It’s humanising, like finding out that superheroes still get toothpaste on their shirts.

You step inside, careful not to trip over her trainers—Adidas Sambas in a muted beige tone, scuffed at the edges but somehow still immaculate in their coolness. The door clicks shut behind you, the sound punctuating the silence like a full stop. You turn to face her, and she’s leaning against the dresser now, her hands resting in the pockets of her shorts. She’s watching you, her eyes half-lidded and impossibly blue, the kind of blue that makes you think of open skies and lost afternoons.

“What?” you ask, because the weight of her gaze always makes you self-conscious, like you’ve walked into a room wearing mismatched socks.

“Nothing,” she says, her mouth curving into a smirk. “You just look…” She pauses, letting the sentence hang in the air like an unfinished melody.

“What?” you repeat, a little sharper this time, though you’re smiling too.

“Like you’re trying not to smile,” she finishes, pushing off the dresser and moving closer.

And maybe you are. Maybe you’re trying not to give away how much you like this—the quiet intimacy of it, the way she looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who knows what this feels like. Maybe you’re trying not to admit how much you want to reach out and touch her, to close the space between you with a single step. But you don’t. Not yet.

The sex is unhurried, languid. Leah moves with the same precision she does on the pitch, her hands mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your jaw, like she’s planning her next move three steps in advance. It’s the same deliberation you’ve seen in her during matches—the way she reads the game like it’s written in a language only she understands. But this isn’t a match. There are no spectators, no whistles, no rules, just her and you and the slow, deliberate way she’s undoing you, piece by piece.

Her kisses are deep, focused. They land with intent, the kind that makes you forget your own name, let alone the fragile, tenuous boundaries of this arrangement. Her mouth lingers on yours, then moves to your neck, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. She doesn’t bite, not yet, but you can feel her teeth graze your skin, an unspoken promise that leaves you gasping, your fingers curling into the rough fabric of the hotel sheets.

Her fingertips press into your skin—not hard enough to hurt but just firm enough to leave the ghost of her touch behind, as though she’s marking her territory. They trace the length of your back, down your spine, to your hips. Her thumbs skim over the waistband of your joggers before she tugs them down with a kind of casual confidence that feels maddeningly unfair. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.

“You’re so quiet,” she murmurs, her voice low, teasing. She presses a kiss to your collarbone, her hands slipping beneath your shirt to push it up, her palms warm against your ribs. “That’s not like you”

“I’m—” You try to respond, but her mouth finds a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, and the words catch in your throat.

“Exactly,” she says, her voice smug as she moves lower, her lips trailing down your chest, your stomach, her pace agonisingly slow. She hooks her fingers under the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips instinctively, barely registering the soft laugh she lets out, the sound dark and smooth like melted chocolate.

There’s no rush. Leah’s always like this—methodical, unhurried. She knows how to take her time, how to keep you teetering on the edge until your body feels like it’s no longer your own. She kisses her way back up, pausing to nip at your jaw, your shoulder, the place where your pulse beats just beneath your skin. Her hand slips between your thighs, her touch deliberate, controlled. And you’re gone.

It’s like a tidal wave, slow to build but devastating when it crashes over you. You’re not sure when you start begging—if it even counts as begging, the broken sounds spilling from your lips without your consent—but Leah doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she seems pleased, her smirk pressing against the hollow of your throat as she mutters something you’re too far gone to catch.

At some point, she presses her forehead to yours, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. She murmurs something—low, unintelligible, a slurred mix of swear words and your name. Or maybe it’s not your name. Maybe it’s a prayer. Maybe it’s both. You don’t ask her to repeat it. You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe, your hands clutching at her back, pulling her closer like you can merge into her, like you can stop time if you just hold on tightly enough.

By the time you collapse onto the mattress, tangled in the hotel’s suspiciously rough sheets, you’re vaguely aware of how loud you’ve been. The walls are thin. The kind of thing where you can hear your neighbour’s TV murmuring away or the occasional flush of a toilet. It’s almost comedic, really, the way you’d tried so hard to avoid being seen earlier, only to make it painfully obvious now. You half expect a knock on the door, some irate teammate demanding silence.

Leah doesn’t seem to care. Of course she doesn’t. She lies beside you, her face flushed, her hair falling loose from the ponytail she’d barely tried to secure. She’s smirking, the way she always does after these nights, like she’s just scored the winning goal and nobody else on the team noticed. Her arm brushes against yours as she stretches out, her skin warm and damp, her breathing slow and even.

The next morning, you arrive at breakfast twenty minutes late, a record even for you. You’ve spent the better part of that time in front of the mirror, tilting your head at impossible angles to assess the carnage Leah left on your neck. Hickeys, in various stages of bruise-like blossoming, dot your skin like a battlefield casualty report. You try concealer—two layers, then three—but it only makes you look like you’ve dipped your neck in cake batter. After an extensive wardrobe evaluation, you settle on a jumper with a collar just high enough to obscure the worst of it, but not so high that it screams I’ve made several poor life choices and am now concealing the evidence.

You enter the dining area cautiously, your eyes scanning for witnesses like you’re in the opening sequence of Casino Royale. The room is loud with the sound of clinking cutlery, chairs scraping against linoleum, and conversations overlapping in a way that is both chaotic and oddly comforting. You spot Katie McCabe first, standing by the buffet with a bowl of cereal that is more milk than anything resembling a solid. Her spoon hovers mid-air as she glances at you, then swivels her head in Leah’s direction, who is seated at a corner table, scrolling through her phone like she has never made a suspicious noise in her life.

Katie’s eyes narrow, and her mouth stretches into a grin so wicked it should be trademarked. She sets her cereal down and makes a beeline for you, walking with the kind of determination that belongs exclusively to people with too much time on their hands and absolutely no regard for personal boundaries.

“Well, well,” she says, stepping closer. Her eyes dart to your neck, then back up to your face. “Someone had a busy night.”

You freeze. Instinctively, your hand twitches toward the collar of your jumper, but you stop yourself. Guilty behaviour. Act normal. Be cool. You shrug in what you hope is a convincing display of nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Katie tilts her head, her grin widening. “Oh, don’t play dumb,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward your neck. “What’s that, then? Tactical bruising? Working on a new game plan?”

“I slipped in the shower,” you deadpan. It’s a lie so bad it physically hurts to say, but the alternative is giving Katie McCabe ammunition, and you’d rather die than give her the satisfaction.

She snorts. “Jesus, you’ve got to at least try with these excuses”

You glare at her, but it’s useless. Katie is like a shark in open water—she can smell blood, and she’s circling. She follows you to the table, sliding into the chair next to yours without so much as an invitation. Her cereal sloshes precariously in her bowl, milk dripping onto the edge of the table. She doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care.

Leah, of course, is completely unbothered. She’s leaned back in her chair, scrolling through her phone like she’s reading the football section of The Guardian and not actively trying to avoid eye contact with you. Her hair is still slightly damp from her morning shower, and she’s wearing a hoodie that looks suspiciously like yours. Katie clocks the hoodie immediately and raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Not yet.

“Just to clarify,” Katie says, her voice loud enough to carry to the next table, “are we calling this a team-building exercise or…?”

Leah doesn’t even flinch. Without looking up from her phone, she says, “Mind your business, McCabe”

Katie lets out a delighted laugh, stealing a slice of toast from your plate like she’s earned it. “Oh, it is my business,” she says, buttering the toast with an enthusiasm that borders on offensive. “You lot kept me up all night. Thought someone was being murdered in the next room. Turns out it was just—”

“Katie,” you interrupt, your voice sharp enough to cut through her sentence. Your face is burning, your ears hot enough to fry an egg on.

Katie leans back in her chair, utterly unrepentant. “Relax,” she says, taking a bite of the toast she stole. “Your secret’s safe with me. For now”

She winks at you, a gesture so insufferable you consider lobbing a teaspoon at her head. Instead, you glance at Leah, whose lips are twitching at the edges, betraying the smirk she’s desperately trying to suppress.

You shoot her a glare that you hope translates to I will kill you later, but she only raises an eyebrow, as if to say go ahead, make my day.

Katie’s still watching you, her grin as infuriating as ever. “You’re lucky it was me who heard you,” she says, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Imagine if it had been Beth. She’d have the whole squad doing impressions by now”

Leah finally looks up from her phone, her expression cool, but there’s a dangerous glint in her eye. “You done?”

Katie holds up her hands in mock surrender, her grin never faltering. “I’m just saying. Maybe next time, try keeping it down. Or don’t. Makes for great entertainment”

You slump in your chair, burying your face in your hands. You can feel Leah’s gaze on you, and when you finally peek through your fingers, she’s smiling. Not smirking, not teasing, but actually smiling, like this is the most fun she’s had in weeks.

You make a mental note to kill her later. Or maybe kiss her. You haven’t decided yet.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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anony-mouse-writer · 1 year ago

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grian as the strange man who appears suddenly on gem’s dock with no explanation. no one knows who he is.

no one saw him arrive and he has no car.

he’s never bought anything from the store, and a few locals said they saw him simply cooking and eating the fish he catches on the spot.

the only belongings he seems to own are his fishing gear.

when asked where he lives, he points to the cliff. there is a tiny blue house there, balancing precariously on wooden stilts. the house has never been there and no one’s seen it before, but the local gas attendant pulled up a 40 year old photo of her grandma on the beach, and sure enough, the tiny house is there, a wee speck of color hanging like a barnacle on the cold, wet bluff.

the age of his mysterious little home aside, no one’s sure when he visits it. he’s at his little dock before the earliest ships cast out, and the sickly glow of his lantern can be seen long into the coldest of nights.

the man has pulled the strangest things from the ocean. fish, to be sure, but other, stranger things. lily pads, far from their native biomes. fishing poles, tattered and worn, of various makes and styles- some look positively ancient. boots. giant shells with twisted patterns to match no living thing. a genuine horse saddle once. bowls. a bone that looked just a bit like a human femur.

and books. perfect, unblemished books, nearly glowing with some kind of energy and filled with a script both unfamiliar and unsettling to see.

he opens them each with a breathless anticipation that tastes like brine or maybe tears.

but whatever he sees in them is not what he wants, and each book is tossed aside with resigned disgust and something like despair, before the weathered pole is taken up to cast a line to sea once more.

#short story #im so out of practice writing help #i refuse to edit this because ill just end up shoving it in drafts forever #grian #hcx #hermitcraft #mcyt #op #mouse’s writings

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sleepyjuice · 8 months ago

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weed, sex, beach - jj maybank

summary: you and jj share a joint on the beach and have some good ol’ beach sex.

warnings: 18+!!! drug use (weed), semi public sex (there is no one around but it’s still in a public place), unprotected p in v sex, creampie, squirting, dirty talk, a lil praise kink.

wc: 2064

a/n: this is literally just filthy dirty smut. had me giggling and kicking my feet writing this. enjoy! <3

It was well past dusk, the only nearby light source being the moon which illuminated the dark waves that splashed onto the shore.

It was beautiful, this spot jj had taken you to. No one else around for miles, only you and jj occupying this little sliver of the beach that he claimed was a ‘hidden gem.’

It was, it was peaceful and you could get away from the congestion of your hectic lives for a bit.

“I like it here, jay.” You hummed, head on jj’s shoulder as you both sat on a beach towel, one and a half joints deep.

He flashed you a satisfied smile as he passed you the joint, his hand rubbing softly up and down your thigh.

You brought it to your lips and inhaled, holding it in a bit longer than usual as you decided this would be your last hit of the night, your eyes feeling heavy and your body loose.

“Atta girl. You done?” He asked, taking the now almost finished joint from you.

Nodding in response, you rested your head against his shoulder, watching the gentle waves move in front of you.

You loved moments like these. Just you and jj and the tranquility of the beach. All the drama this island brought was long forgotten when you got to experience this side of things.

jj finished off the last of the joint, putting it out in the sand below before slowly inching his fingertips up your thighs.

You instinctively opened your legs a bit, allowing him to go higher, a soft sigh leaving your lips. His light touch felt so much stronger and it felt like his fingertips held electricity.

“That feel good?” He whispered against your ear, and you hadn’t even realized you let out a quiet whimper, your mind a beat behind your body.

“Yeah, it does,” he answered for you, chuckling softly, his fingers now undoing the buttons on your shorts, “let me take care of you, pretty girl.” Your head fell back and off of his shoulder, your gaze finding jj’s face as he worked to undo your shorts and pull them off your legs, leaving you only in your shirt and bikini bottoms.

He cupped your pussy through the fabric, and this time you were well aware of the moan that fell from your lips, moving your head down to watch as he slipped a finger through, rubbing a slow line up and down your wet slit.

You didn’t miss the slick sound that his actions created, and neither did he, his dick now fully hard in his shorts as he began rubbing circles on your clit.

“You’re all wet for me, baby. Look at you.” He cooed gently, chuckling when you bucked your hips against his hand, desperate for more of him.

“Need you, jj.” You breathed, completely at his mercy.

Your words emitted a groan from him, his dick now painfully pressing against the seam of his shorts, begging to be released, to feel you.

“I know, sweet girl. Let me see you.” He moved his body so he was in front of you now, but not before he gently laid you down on the towel. Keeping his motions against your clit, he used his other hand to fully remove your bikini, sliding it down your legs.

You shivered as you were now fully exposed from the waist down, the soft ocean breeze hitting your wet pussy and bringing goosebumps to your skin.

He quickened his pace against your clit, your mouth falling open as you shamelessly grew closer to your high. It didn’t take much, the weed very much present in your system had your body feeling extra sensitive and after spending the whole night with jj, you were already fiending for him.

“I know, baby, I know, let go for me, yeah…” he urged you on, sensing how close you were without you having to say anything.

You opened your mouth to say something, but all that came out was a loud moan, your eyes rolling back as you came, his fingers working you perfectly as you rode out your orgasm, thighs clenching and threatening to close due to how sensitive you were.

“Fuck,” you panted, reaching to grab jj’s wrist to pull it away from your now throbbing clit, the sensitivity too much.

He chuckled at your actions, bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick up your arousal that had coated them.

“God…” you breathed, his sensual actions making your pussy ache for more of him.

“Need you to fuck me.” You spoke, not a care in the world.

“Yes, ma’am.” At that, he wasted no time undoing his shorts and pulling them off, the tent in his boxers present along with the wet spot that pooled just where his tip rested, precum leaking eagerly.

He quickly rid himself of his boxers, his hard cock springing free from its restraint and you swore your mouth was watering at the sight of him like this. His tip was slightly swollen, the moonlight gently illuminated his slick precum that was leaking down onto the base of his cock. He was perfect.

He spread your thighs a bit more, positioning his body between your legs, his hand pumping his cock slowly as he slid it teasingly against your leaking entrance and up to press against your clit, gathering your arousal and dampening his cock even more.

You whined at the feeling of him, not usually caring about his teasing actions, but right now, you needed him inside of you. Your pussy ached at the feeling of emptiness, his cock right there and so close to being inside of you had you ready to throw all of your morals away. You were so down bad for him.

“Eager, huh? You need this sweet pussy fucked good, huh?” He teased, lightly smacking his cock against your sensitive clit, a hiss falling from your lips at the feeling.

“jj, please, please.” You begged, not a care in the world. He loved this, though. He loved how much you needed him this way, and he certainly needed you, too. He ached for the feeling of his cock buried deep inside you, but seeing you so desperate for him was one of the hottest things in the world.

“Shh, I got you, baby, I got you. Imma take care of ya.” He assured you, lining himself up with your entrance as he slowly pushed himself in, his mouth falling open at the feeling.

Your body accepted him immediately, taking little to no time to adjust to his cock, allowing him to bottom out almost immediately.

You moaned at the feeling, his tip pressed deep inside your pussy as he stayed still for a moment, relishing in the feeling.

His balls were pressed against your ass, both of you breathing heavily as you waited for him to move.

“Please-“

He pulled back swiftly, cutting you off as he began to finally thrust his cock into you, a loud gasp falling from your lips at his movement.

He found a good rhythm, his hand grabbing onto your thigh and lifting your leg to wrap around his waist as he pounded into you.

He grunted with each movement, your pussy swallowing his cock perfectly, gripping him tightly as he fucked into your wet walls.

“Let me…” he grumbled, stilling his movements for just a second as he grabbed onto both of your legs, bending your knees and positioning you so your legs were bent and your knees were pressed up against your chest.

“Oh, fuck, yeah…” he groaned loudly as he began his movements again, this new position allowing him to fuck you even deeper, hitting parts of you he had never reached before.

You gasped, which quickly turned into a loud moan, reaching your hands up to hold onto his shoulders as he fucked you relentlessly, your tits bouncing beneath your shirt with each movement.

“You like it like this, baby? Like feeling me so deep inside of you?” He grunted, quickening his pace, his tip hitting your g-spot perfectly with each thrust.

“I- oh god, yeah, so good.” You panted, digging your fingers into the skin of his shoulders as if you were holding onto him for dear life.

His movements were hard and quick, and with each thrust you could feel his heavy balls smacking against your asshole, which only brought you closer to your end.

“Takin’ me so well, baby. You’re- you’re perfect, my perfect girl, this pussy is so perfect.” He praised you between moans, his breathing staggered as he attempted to speak through the euphoric pleasure that filled his entire body.

Your pussy clenched around him, hugging his cock tightly as he continued to fuck just the right spot inside of you.

“I’m close, oh fuck… jj- oh god, I’m close.” You whined, your heart rate picking up as you felt your lower stomach twist and tighten, your fingernails now pressing harshly into his skin.

“I know, baby, let go for me. Cum all over my dick for me.” He moaned hoarsely, his own cock twitching as he felt you tighten around him.

It didn’t take much more, his cock hit your g-spot once again, and that was it for you.

Your head fell back onto the sand, eyes rolled back as you came, your pussy clenching so hard onto his cock that it pushed him out, squirt gushing out of you and all over his cock and down his balls, some painting his shirt as well.

“Oh, fuuuckkk…” jj gaped, quickly grabbing his cock and shoving it back inside of you, continuing his previous movements as your pussy continued to flutter and clench around him.

You moaned so loudly, a straight up pornographic sound filling the air as you came, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you continued to ride out your high, the wet sounds of jj’s dick fucking into your soaking pussy was euphoric.

His now soaked balls were warm with your release, smacking against your ass once again, only heightening the sensation you were feeling.

“Fuck, baby, I’m ’bout to cum.” jj announced only a second before you felt his cock twitch inside of you and you felt him fill you up with thick hot spurts of his cum.

He groaned loudly through his release, keeping a steady hand on your upper thigh so he wouldn’t slip out again, the mixture of both of your releases creating a wet mess between you.

“God, you’re so good, so so good.” He muttered as his thrusts slowed, both of your releases now leaking out of your pussy and down onto his balls before he eventually stilled inside of you, taking a moment to catch his breath as his dick slowly softened.

You were a panting mess below him, feeling properly fucked and full of his cum, your pussy clenching around his softening cock as it adjusted to not feeling as full anymore.

He eventually pulled out of you, thick globs of his cum pooling out of your pussy and onto the towel below you.

He leaned down to kiss your damp forehead, peppering a few slow kisses before kissing your plump lips sloppily, having to pull away as he was still working to properly catch his breath.

“That was so good, baby.” He smiled lovingly down at you, pulling up the corner of the towel to somewhat clean you up the best he could.

You sighed happily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him down on top of you, relaxing at the feeling of his body weight on top of you as you held him close, breathing in his scent. Ocean water, sweat, weed, sex and a hint of cologne he had put on hours ago.

“I love you so much.” You hummed, the serotonin from the sex and the weed pooling around in your brain. You couldn’t ask for anything more in life.

“I love you, too, baby.” He spoke against your skin, his legs intertwining with yours.

“Ugh, we have to walk all the way back.” You spoke after a moment, realization hitting you like a ton of bricks. Your legs were jelly, that thought just about ruined the moment.

jj laughed loudly at that, shushing you with another kiss.

“Don’t worry ‘bout that right now, baby. I got you.”

#jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #outer banks #jj maybank prompt #jj maybank one shot #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank fic #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank smut

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moodymisty · 25 days ago

Note

Hello! So, this is based on an ask I sent a little while back, the one about how the reader keeps asking vulkan for various jewellery and basically coordinating it into jewellery lingerie one day, to try and make him snap. May I ask for a little scenario of his reaction, please? Thank you! Have a wonderful day!

Author's note: I ain't gonna just say no to Vulkan like, mmmmm

Relationships: Vulkan/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Size kink, Jewelry, Kind of rough sex but the loving kind, Creampies, breeding kink and tokophobia warning

"Tell me, Master of the Forge," Your smile was wide, teasing; Looking up at him with a mirth he's quite familiar with. "Do you take requests?"

Vulkan laughed, sticking something into the water with a deafening hiss. Steam rises from it- once it's cooled the primarch sets it aside and returns to you his full attention.

"From you? Always, my love."

Vulkan has made you so many things, beautiful pieces of jewelry that glimmer almost unnaturally. He's made you weapons, but he says he prefers not to. He wants to keep you away from such cruelty, and to widen his skillset with delicate little things you love.

"Could you make me an anket? Two, actually, that match?"

He looks at you a bit oddly, before smiling. He reaches for a few things and sets them on the anvil.

"Of course."

Those anklets had been the last pieces you'd needed for what you had in mind, made shortly before he left Nocturne. You stayed, guarded in his home by many of his sons.

Your sons as well soon enough, if Vulkan has his way. Though they already seem to treat you as if that's the case judging by their vehement defense of you and fondness of your guiding words. They're cute, you won't lie.

Putting every piece of jewelry he's made for you on it bathes your body in gold and a gallery of gems both names and not, shining from the dim light you meticulously set up. You glimmer brighter than a stained glass window, a jewel encrusted crown couldn't spit at the feet of how embellished you were in finery.

You know he's finally returned, his men were quite eager to tell you, and after he removes his armor and greets them, his next stop will be you. You need to make sure it's all ready in time, clasping the last of many necklaces around your throat and scurrying to lie in bed.

It takes significant effort to get on the massive mattress, but Vulkan had it lowered off it's frame so the inhumanly large bed is just about on the floor, and rests at the height of a normal bed for you. It's still wide as a sea however, and you splay yourself out in the ocean of blankets and fiddle with the various chains and gems that lay on your skin as you wait for him. You didn't want even a single one tangled or flipped, they had to be perfect.

It should be any moment now, if you timed it out correctly. Your eyes are locked in the door listening for even the slightest movement on the other side of it; Though only when your eyes begin to wander back to one of your bracelets does something change.

"Love?"

You hear his deep voice come closer, through the thick door before he opens it. It gently creaks open, as if he's wondering if you might be asleep.

"I have returned, It's been so long since I last heard your-"

Vulkan enters the room and stalls completely upon the sight of your gilded form. You wanted to say hello, but the look on his face makes your throat close up completely in something nearing fear.

Vulkan slams the door shut and locks it with newfound force, approaching you with speed in his strides. You let out a delighted squeal as he grips your ankle and yanks you to him from the center of the bed, bringing you right into his arms.

"Ah, ah, ah,"

Coherent sentences were long since lost on you, panting mindlessly as Vulkan pushes the fat head of his cock past your loosened, cum filled entrance for the umpteenth time. Each time he pulls out it stays ready for him, bullied open and used to him. Your voice is far past screaming, you used most of it up well over an hour ago. Now it's just a sore, scratchy whimper. The blanket below you is stained with spit, but cradles your head gently.

You were worried that someone might hear, there are guards posted not far in any direction, but Vulkan fucked that concern out of you along with most of your other factulties.

He's had you in so many different ways you've since lost track, now simply laid spread out beneath him on your knees as your face presses against the blankets. He'd hunted these pelts for you, they were one of a million gifts, and now they're stained with cum as he fucks it out of you and it dribbles onto the fur. All of your jewelry clinks against each other and glimmers, and you swear the noise reignites Vulkan every now and again as he stuffs your cunt full of him.

"You look so beautiful like this, the most valuable of all my treasures,"

You grip his hand like it's your only safety, an island of gentleness as he ruts into you like an animal.

"Let me make you my wife. I can make you the mother of my genesons, and I can give you your own to carry as well."

You've never said no to him, you wanted to be his wife, but you still yelled out a million and one enthusistic 'yes!' until he trailed off into sweet nothings that he panted into the air around you. You can hear the sticky, sloppy noises as a cock that is for all intents and purposes far too big for you stuffs it's way into you, cum leaking down your thighs and smearing on your skin. You can feel his heavy balls smack against your clit, only adding to the primal bodies of the room.

You cum around him again, thighs aching and shaking as even they threaten to give underneath you. Your arms long since had, and soon Vulkan has to use a hand to wrap around your waist and keep you held up, lest you fall to the mattress flat like a limp body. You clench around him with a loud, scratchy cry, almost as if trying to milk his cock for more than he's already given you.

Your jewelry remains still mostly untangled surprisingly, clinking against eachother on your skin as he fucks you. It still shines you imagine, though it's hard to see it. Your thighs and outer lips are slick with juices both yourself and his, mixed together after so long of him mercilessly hammering his hips against yours.

He's always loving, there's a gentleness to him always with you, but you can tell this pushed his limits with you and teeters on the edge of something he has more trouble controlling.

You'd never dream of asking him to stop, this is what you wanted by dressing this way; At least the feral nature. You never expected Vulkan to snap fully, pushing your face down to mount you and growling about filling your womb with the children he's wanted since dawn infinitum.

You aren't complaining, though you also don't exactly have the faculties to do so.

"Relax my love, you wanted this, and now I'm going to fill you until it takes."

#vulkan x reader #fem reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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ameliathornromance · 4 months ago

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“My darling lady,” the familiar rumble sent the stack of coins you had been very, very carefully stacking tumbling down.

You sighed, watching all your efforts slide down and away to become one with the ocean of coins surrounding you.

Standing from the ledge you sat on, you crossed your arms as your Dragon Boyfriend rounded the corner of the vaults and beamed at you. “I’ve brought you something.”

“Again?” You sighed, exasperated.

It’s not that you hated that your Dragon brought you things. It was wonderful and you appreciated every gift he got you, but the lengths he went to sometimes alarmed you.

One time, he came back with a jaw full of gems and jewels worthy only of Royalty and nobles. He’d brought them back just for you to look at, like a cat bringing in a mouse. While they were amazing and you appreciated them dearly… it wasn’t worth gaining your approval.

Although the gesture was nice, he also returned with injuries of his conquest. You could see it in the way he moved, gingerly setting himself down on the bed of gold, wincing slightly as he had adjusted himself to become more comfortable.

His whole under belly had been stained with blood, his wings had little cuts and bruises on them, even an arrow stuck out from under his jaw.

It worried you every time he flew out of the vault. You weren’t worth the trouble for all of these amazing things. All you needed was his love and company and yet he still insisted on bringing you all the riches in the world… as if he didn’t have enough of it already.

This time, clutched between his jaws, he held a small sack… that seemed to be wriggling.

“What’s with that face?” He asked you, gently placing the sack down with the greatest care. “You don’t want to see them?”

“’Them’?” You frowned. The way your Dragon said it made it sound like there was something living he’d brought you.

The Dragon gently nudged the sack towards you using his snout.

Wordlessly, you rushed over to the sack and undid it’s top. The cloth splayed out and revealed- “Kittens!”

All disapproval vanished from you the moment you laid eyes on the tiny balls of fluff that mewed and meowed at you. The three small cats clambered over the cloth and onto your lap.

Each one was a different colour, ginger, black and white. “How did you get these poor things? Don’t tell me you flew with them! They must’ve been terrified!” You pulled them up to your chest, desperately trying to hold onto the three of them.

A proud puff escaped the Dragons nostrils at your approval. He bent his head down towards you. “They were given to me by a Witch whose cat had just had them. She said she didn’t have the space to take care of them and thought you might like them.”

“And no one saw you, did they?” You gave him a warning look as the ginger kitten decided to climb around your neck, tiny claws digging into your skin.

“No, of course not darling.” He leaned down to you, allowing you to place your forehead against his snout. “the Witch lived far out from any kind of village, as Witches tend to do.”

After a moment, you broke apart from your Dragon boyfriend and looked down at the kittens in your arms. The black and white one squirmed in your grip, desperate for their freedom, while the ginger one had decided to make that his sleeping spot and now dozed lazily.

What had you done to deserve this? To receive all of these beautiful things? What made you so worthy? There were probably hundreds of more people in the world who needed this more than you did.

“… You really don’t have to keep bringing me these things, you know.” You said after a moment.

“But I want to,” your Dragon rested on his stomach, head laid down on top of the sea of gold as he watched you try and keep a hold of your gifts. “You are one of my greatest treasures and a treasure deserves treasure of it’s own.”

“Now you’re objectifying me.” You teased, the black kitten wriggling free of your grip, rushing over to a red ruby that sat on the edge of your seat and sniffed it with intrigue.

Your Dragon gave a huff, “that’s not what I meant.” He was silent for a moment as you finally let go of the white kitten who went to go and join her brother sniffing the gemstone.

“Do you not believe that you are a treasure?” He asked.

“Well it’s not like I’ve done anything worthy of being considered a treasure.” You said, bitterly. “Sacrifices to dragons aren’t even considered special if they’re being thrown away by their people.”

Silence fell over the pair of you again. The two kittens had now realised that they could see their own reflection in the gem – but not register that it was themselves reflected back – and had now become crablike as their fur puffed and they swiped at the gem.

“Do you think,” your Dragon growled, “that these animals are any less prized because they were brought here just like you were?”

You whipped your head around to face him. “Sorry?”

“I took them because a witch wanted to get rid of them and I brought them to you, who fell in love with them at first sight.” His amber eyes pierced through you, like he was desperate to try and get you to understand. “Have they done anything worthy to deserve your love?”

“Well, no, not necessarily-”

“So why do you believe that you are any less deserving of all these things?” The Dragon questioned. “Yes, even though you were brought to my vaults as a sacrifice, someone who wasn’t considered to be that special other than to be a meal… but have you done anything worthy of this other than being the object of my affections? Just like these kittens here?” He pointed a claw at the – in comparison – miniscule creatures.

You opened your mouth to protest, to find some kind of objection in his logic. But Dragons are wise old creatures, there was no faulting them when they had a point.

Face burning, you looked away from him earning a chuckle from the Dragon chuckled. “Nobody in this world should feel as though they are undeserving of everything. People may have told you that you aren’t, that you are nothing more than a means to appease me, but that isn’t true.” He rose his head and placed his jaw on your lap, angled so he looked up at you. “You deserve all this and more. I intend to give it all to you.”

You pursed your lips, “does this also mean that you’ll also be more careful when you fly out?”

“Of course, I always am. I want to make sure I come home to you.” The Dragon gave a dismissive snort, “darling, humans know better than to try and actually kill me. All those injuries before were just a result of a… misunderstanding.”

At that, you raised an eyebrow and returned your gaze to him.

Your Dragon boyfriend caved, “okay, perhaps not a misunderstanding, but it isn’t my fault that they wouldn’t give me all their finest clothes.”

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