#I should draw barb more me think | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

masorciereviolette · 12 days ago

Note

hello, can i request an angst & comfort agatha x gf reader who is considerably young — they have been dating for over six months and the day to meet the reader’s parents arrives. however, at a certain point in the night, the mother says something totally mean to her daughter and agatha doesn't like it (although she isn't being treated well either). she also begins to notice how the reader's parents treat her very badly compared to her brothers — agatha gets "angry" at the reader for not telling her that she was treated with such disdain by her parents. they fight, but apologize after a few days.

I couldn't think of anything about what to do with the parents, if you have any ideas, I'd appreciate it.

thank you so much, stay well 🫶

You Should Have Told Me

Pairing: AU Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Miscommunication, Hurt, Toxic Family, Soft Angst, Comfort, Reassurance, Happy Ending.

Word count: 6k

A/N: Thank you for this request, truly it was amazing to write.

Link to Masterlist

You know it’s been coming.

Eight months is a long time to avoid the inevitable—especially with the way your mother’s texts have gone from “we miss you!” to thinly veiled guilt-trips, laced with passive-aggressive barbs about how “family used to mean something.” Your father isn’t much better—three calls this week, all under the guise of checking in, though each ends with the same loaded question “So… when are you bringing her home?”

You’d dodged it with tight smiles and vague promises for months, using work, distance, and “timing” as excuses. But even your youngest brother texted you last night, asking if your new girlfriend was actually real or just an elaborate lie to keep your family at arm’s length.

So, you cave. Not because you’re ready. Not because it feels right. But because you’re tired of the weight sitting on your chest every time your phone lights up with their names.

You find Agatha in the kitchen, barefoot, reading something on her tablet while sipping from the mug you bought her last Christmas. You hesitate in the doorway, watching her for a second—tucked into the soft, slow rhythm of your shared morning. She looks peaceful.

You don’t want to ruin that. But you shift your weight, and the sound draws her attention. She glances up, taking in your expression, and immediately puts her mug down. “What is it?” she asks gently, the way she always does when you look like you’re carrying something too heavy.

You fidget with the strap of your bag, fingers curling around the frayed edge like it might anchor you. “So… my parents want to do a dinner,” you say, not quite meeting her eyes. “They’ve been asking. A lot.”

She tilts her head. “You don’t have to go if you’re not ready.”

“I know,” you reply quickly, then hesitate. “But I think it’s time. I just… I don’t want it to be a thing.”

Her gaze softens. She doesn’t push. She never does. Just steps forward and kisses your temple, lingering there like she knows you need more than words. “If that’s what you want,” she murmurs against your skin.

You nod and lie through your teeth. The drive into Westview is quiet. Not awkward, not tense—just the kind of quiet that settles when you both sense there’s something heavy in the air, but neither wants to touch it yet.

You queue up your softest playlist and lean your head against the window, watching the trees blur past as Agatha drives. Her hand finds your thigh for a few moments at a time, then returns to the wheel. She doesn’t speak much, giving you space in the way she always does when she knows you’re bracing for something.

You pretend the knots in your stomach are excitement. That the nervous flutter in your chest is anticipation and not dread. You pretend a lot on the way there.

She wears all black, of course—always sleek, always elegant—but she softened the look today with a deep navy blazer, one you told her months ago made her eyes look like the sky right before a storm. A simple gold chain to complement it all. You catch a glimpse of her in the reflection of the window and quietly say, “You look beautiful.”

She glances over at you, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Agatha reaches across the console, her fingers lacing with yours. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles once, twice.

“You’re sure about this?” she asks softly.

You hold her gaze for a second too long before turning back to the road ahead.

“Yeah,” you lie again. She doesn’t see the way your hand tightens just slightly in hers.

She has no idea what’s waiting for her on the other side of town. No idea how much you’ve buried. How much you’ve endured. How deep the scars go when it comes to the people who raised you. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be looked at like a disappointment, even as you bend yourself into something you barely recognize just to keep the peace.

Not yet.

But she will.

And when she does—it’ll break something open in both of you. The houses on your childhood street haven’t changed. Still painfully identical, still manicured to the point of suffocation. You can already feel the weight of it pressing into your chest the moment Agatha pulls into the driveway, her car far too sleek, too dark, too her for a neighborhood like this.

You see the curtains twitch before you’re even out of the car. “They’re watching,” you murmur.

Agatha glances at the window, then at you. “Let them.”

You almost smile. Almost. She helps you out of the car anyway, her hand warm and steady against your lower back. It should be comforting. It is, for a second—until the front door swings open and your mother appears with that perfectly pinched smile you’ve known since you were old enough to understand fake. “You’re late,” she says before anything else.

“Nice to see you too, Mom,” you reply with a practiced edge in your voice. Your father lingers in the doorway behind her, nodding stiffly. “We started dinner prep without you.”

Your mother’s gaze flicks to Agatha. The smile tightens further. “You must be Agatha.”

Agatha steps forward, extending a hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N .”

She accepts it with that awkward air of someone unsure whether to shake or sanitize after. “Well. You’re older than I expected,” she says with a light laugh. You freeze.

Agatha doesn’t hesitate “Only by twenty-one years,” she says smoothly. “It’s a pleasure.” Your mother blinks, clearly not expecting her to be direct. You wish the floor would swallow you whole. Inside, it’s worse. The scent of roasted vegetables and over-seasoned meat hangs thick in the air. Your brothers are already sitting in the living room, half-watching a game and pretending not to notice the tension bleeding into the room with your entrance.

“Whoa,” your younger brother says, looking Agatha up and down. “Didn’t think you were serious when you said she was… y’know. Older.”

“Please,” your other brother snorts, “I thought you were just trying to make Mom mad.” You keep your mouth shut and smile tightly. Agatha’s hand finds yours as you sit down at the table. The dinner starts off… fine.

Your parents are polite in that overly rehearsed way, their voices dipped in artificial sweetness. Your brothers continue with their usual jokes, but tonight the jabs are sharper, more pointed. Agatha doesn’t say much at first. Her hand stays on your thigh beneath the table, grounding you each time your father talks over you or your mother redirects the conversation anytime you speak.

Her smile is warm but reserved—the kind she wears when she’s observing, reading the room like a script only she can see. You know that look. She’s not impressed. The conversation circles around jobs, promotions, your brothers’ lives. Your achievements are brushed aside like passing clouds.

Then your mother turns her attention to you mid-way through passing the bread, voice casual and careless “Well, some of us gave up our silly little dreams and actually did something practical. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Your fork slips and clinks against the plate.

Your brothers laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all week. Your father doesn’t even blink. Agatha does. Her hand stiffens on your leg. She turns to your mother slowly, brows raised. “Interesting definition of support.”

The silence is instant and searing. You push your chair back slightly. “I’m just gonna… get some water.” Agatha watches you leave, eyes unreadable. You return a few minutes later, cheeks flushed from trying not to cry in the bathroom. Agatha is sitting very still, her wine untouched, her jaw tight.

Your mother is smiling like she just won a game no one else was playing. You sit. Say nothing. But you can feel it. Something has shifted. Your father continues speaking—about how your brother got a bonus for a job he half-assed. He cuts you off twice mid-sentence. Your younger brother leans back and makes a joke about how you always “overreact.”

Agatha clocks it all. And you can feel her restraint fraying with every second. Then it happens. Your brother looks between you and Agatha and laughs, “Still can’t believe someone like you pulled her. Thought she’d go for someone more… accomplished.”

The words are meant to be playful. They land like a gut punch. Agatha’s smile vanishes. She sets her wine glass down with precision and turns to your brother, her tone smooth but dangerously calm. “It’s fascinating how easily you all dismiss the most extraordinary person at this table.”

Silence. Not a stunned one. Not apologetic. Just awkward. Your mother exhales a short laugh. “Well, I suppose love makes people overlook certain things, doesn’t it?”

And that’s it. Agatha turns to you. Her expression softens, just for you, only for you. But her voice is firm. “We’re leaving.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. You grab your bag with shaking hands and follow her to the door. Your family doesn’t stop you. But the moment the door shuts behind you, she stops walking. “You didn’t tell me.”

Her voice is low, not cruel—but sharp. A truth you weren’t ready to face. You blink at her. “What?”

Her eyes flash—not with anger, but hurt. “You didn’t tell me they talk to you like that. That they treat you like you’re some kind of burden. That you’ve been letting them tear you apart like that for years.”

“I didn’t know it would be like that—”

“Yes,” she interrupts, voice trembling now. “You did.” You flinch like she’s slapped you.

Agatha looks away, breath hitching. “I would’ve protected you. I would’ve gladly walked through fire for you—but instead, you just let me walk into that house blind.”

You can’t take it anymore. Your throat is tight. Your chest aches “Maybe I just didn’t want you to see how pathetic they make me feel.” Her expression cracks. Just slightly.

You shake your head, overwhelmed. “You should go. Just go back without me. I’ll find my own way back home tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“I said go!” You snapped. She stares at you.

And then, for the first time in your relationship, Agatha turns and walks away. You hear the car door close. The engine starts. Then it fades down the street until it’s gone. You stand there on the curb, blinking hard against the cold bite of the air.

Your hands are shaking. Your heart won’t settle.It’s too quiet now. The kind of quiet that presses in from all sides—familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. You’ve stood here before, haven’t you? Right in this very spot. After fights. After disappointment. After every time your parents reminded you, in a thousand subtle ways, that you’d never quite be enough. But this time, it’s different. This time… she actually walked away and that breaks something in you.

The breath you were holding crumbles out of your lungs like it’s been ripped free, and your knees buckle before you can stop them. You sink down right there on the sidewalk, hands clutching your jacket, your head bowed and you cry.

Hard.

Messy.

Not the quiet, controlled kind you’ve mastered over the years, but the real kind. The kind that comes from somewhere deep, buried, forgotten. The kind that doesn’t care who sees or hears or judges. You bury your face in your hands and sob until your chest aches, until the world feels too loud, until everything you’ve spent years holding together finally slips through your fingers.

They always do this to you. And now Agatha’s gone too. You don’t know how long you sit there, shaking and broken in front of the house that never felt like home. But by the time the porch light flicks off behind you, your tears have soaked into your sleeves, and your heart feels like it might never stop hurting.

Maybe twenty minutes have passed. Maybe more. You aren’t sure. Time has been bending in strange ways since the moment she drove off. You’re still sitting on the curb, arms wrapped tight around yourself, phone gripped uselessly in one hand. You haven’t called anyone. Won’t. Can’t. Pride anchors you where you are, even as your entire body trembles from the cold and the weight in your chest.

You try to breathe, but it’s like your ribs are caving in, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. You wipe your cheeks, but the tears keep falling anyway. Silently now. Tired. Defeated. Your parents’ porch light flicked off a while ago. They didn’t come out to check on you. Not even once.

You pull your knees up and rest your forehead against them, trying to steady yourself, trying to pretend you’re not breaking apart in the middle of the sidewalk like you’re seventeen again and just got told, yet again, that your feelings were “too much.”

The truth is, Agatha didn’t get far. She barely made it halfway out of the neighborhood—two turns down, past the faded welcome sign and the house with the sagging porch swing—before her hands started shaking too hard to keep them on the wheel.

Her foot hovered over the brake for longer than she’d admit. The fury was still there, burning just beneath her skin—at your parents, at your brothers, at you, even, for not warning her, for letting her walk into that house blind. She was angry. Hurt. She hadn’t expected to feel so unwanted. Not just by them—but by you, in some impossible, hidden way. Like you’d chosen to protect them from her instead of protecting her from them.

But then she pictured you standing there alone. Right in front of that house. Shoulders drawn up. Trying to hold yourself together while everything around you pulled you apart. And just like that—the anger cracked. Not disappeared. Not forgiven. Not forgotten. But cracked. Because whatever mess this was, whatever heartbreak you’d both just stepped into together, she could not leave you in it alone.

So she turned the car around. Whipped it around so fast the tires skidded against the pavement. She cursed under her breath the whole way back, dragging her fingers through her curls, heart pounding against her ribs. “Fucking stupid,” she muttered. “So stupid to leave her there.”

But even as she said it, her foot pressed harder on the gas. By the time she saw you again—curled on the curb like some forgotten version of yourself—something in her chest caved in completely.

The soft crunch of tires rolling back into the driveway makes your stomach twist. You lift your head. It’s her. Agatha’s car screeches slightly as she parks at an angle across the driveway, engine still humming when the driver’s side door flies open. She storms toward you, curls wind-tossed and wild, her blouse wrinkled from where she clearly yanked her seatbelt off too fast.

You rise partway—confused, hopeful, afraid all at once—but you don’t say a word. You don’t get the chance. She reaches you in seconds and grabs your arm—not rough, never rough—just firm enough to get your feet under you. “You’re coming with me—” she mutters, voice low, laced with emotion she doesn’t let show too much of yet.

Your lips part, your mind scrambling to push out some kind of protest, something defensive, something anything—but it doesn’t come. You want to argue. You do. Because maybe it would be easier than letting yourself lean into her. Easier than admitting how much it wrecked you to watch her leave.

But the truth? You’re exhausted. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and dulls everything else. The kind of tired that makes you feel like a child again. Small. Raw. And you missed her the second the taillights disappeared down the street. So you nod. You let her lead you by the hand, back to the car, back to safety, back to her.

The ride is silent. Not the soft, comfortable kind you’re used to sharing with her—but a tight, brittle silence. A quiet so sharp it feels like it might crack if either of you breathes too deeply. You stare out your window, blinking hard. Trying to swallow the guilt. Trying to un-hear everything your mother said. Trying to forget the look on Agatha’s face when she realized what you’d kept from her.

Her hands are on the steering wheel, white-knuckled. Her jaw clenched tight. You want to reach out. But your fingers twitch uselessly in your lap instead. Words gather in the back of your throat, desperate to escape—but they stay there. Heavy. Unsafe. Unspoken. She doesn’t look at you and you can’t look at her. Not yet. Because you’re both afraid that if one of you opens your mouth, all of it will come pouring out. And you’re not ready to fall apart again.

Not yet.

Two days have passed. A long. Slow. Ache-filled. Two days. You sleep in separate rooms. She takes the guest room, the one you never bothered decorating because you never thought it would matter. Now it does.

You still hear her moving around in the mornings—her usual routine unchanged, down to the exact rhythm of cupboard doors opening and the soft whistle of the kettle. But when you shuffle into the kitchen, eyes tired, arms crossed over your chest, there’s only one mug on the counter. Hers. You start leaving her notes. Little things. Barely a sentence.

“Left your book on the nightstand.”

“Dinner’s in the fridge.”

“Hope work went okay.”

She doesn’t respond. She reads them. You know she does. They disappear from where you leave them, folded into corners of quiet hope. But no words come back. It’s not anger. Not anymore. It’s something colder. Something more unbearable. A kind of quiet grief that settles between you like fog. She walks through the apartment like a ghost now, present but unreachable, and it leaves you hollow.

You catch her staring at you once—from the hallway, as you’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, pretending to focus. The moment your eyes meet, she looks away, fast. As if she wasn’t looking at all. You cry once, in the shower, forehead against the tile, letting the hot water scald the pain out of your body. You don’t think she hears. You hope she doesn’t.

On the third day, late into the evening, you find her sitting on the couch. Lights low. The TV off. No book in her lap, no phone in hand. Just… sitting. Staring at nothing. You pause in the doorway, watching the way her fingers twitch against her thigh, the way her eyes are fixed on something that isn’t there.

You walk over without saying a word. Taking a seat beside her, leaving a respectful inch of space between you, though every bone in your body aches to close it. She doesn’t turn. Neither of you speak for a while. The silence is different now. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just tired. Shared. Her voice comes out rough when she finally breaks it.

“I wasn’t angry at you.” Your heart clenches. You keep your gaze on your knees.

“I was angry that you’ve been treated like that your whole life and thought it was normal. That you let them do it. That you thought you had to hide it from me.”

You nod faintly, throat tightening. “I’ve hurt people before. Gods know I’ve done things I’ll never be proud of. But if I’d known they were hurting you…” she muttered softly “I would’ve scorched the damn earth.”

You laugh softly—broken and wet and not really a laugh at all. Your eyes burn. “I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you whisper. “Weak. Small. Fucking pathetic….”

She turns to face you, slow and deliberate. Her hand comes up, fingers so gentle as they guide your chin upward until you’re looking at her. There’s so much in her eyes. Anger, yes. But not at you. Never at you. Only pain. And love. So much of it that it nearly unravels you. “You’re not weak,” she says, like it’s gospel. “And you’re never small. Not to me.”

You close your eyes against the weight of her voice, her touch, her truth. “I shouldn’t have told you to go,” you say quietly, voice cracking.

Her hand slips into yours, threading your fingers together like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I shouldn’t even gotten inside the car, let alone have left.”

Your breath catches. And then you nod. There’s nothing left to fight about. Nothing to throw like a weapon. No words left to defend. Just grief. Just truth. Just the quiet aftermath of love surviving something sharp. You lean into her, slow at first. Unsure if it’s okay. But she opens her arms without hesitation, and you go willingly—curled against her chest like she’s the only thing holding you together.

And when the tears come again, they’re softer this time. Slower. Her hand moves up and down your back. Her lips press to your hair. “I’ve got you,” she whispers. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” And she does. More than anyone ever has.

Agatha doesn’t move when the tears start. Not even when your shoulders jerk, when your entire body folds into her like your bones forgot how to hold you up. She doesn’t flinch when the first choked sob escapes you—sharp, raw, a sound dragged straight from the center of your chest like something’s finally cracked open. She just holds you tighter.

Arms firm but gentle, her body shifting to cradle yours without hesitation. One hand strokes your back in long, grounding passes, while the other rises to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling protectively through your hair. She guides you down against her until your cheek is pressed to her collarbone, her pulse steady under your skin like the one thing in the world that hasn’t betrayed you.

You try to pull back. To hide your face, to offer some messy apology for unraveling so completely. But she won’t let you. Her grip only tightens. Not hard—just enough to tell you she’s not going anywhere. “Shh, sweetheart,” she whispers, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ve got you. It’s alright. Just let it out.”

And gods—you do. It comes out all at once. Loud, ugly sobs that shake your whole frame, no longer soft or restrained. Not like the first day, when you’d cried into your own sleeves. Not like the second, when you bit your lip and blinked the tears back until your head hurt. This is something else. Something deeper. Like a damn breaking.

Like every year you spent being silenced, minimized, dismissed—every year you convinced yourself you weren’t worth fighting for—is tearing its way out of your throat in ragged gasps and apologies that won’t form into words. Agatha holds you through it.

Her sweater is soaked within minutes, the fabric bunched in your fists where you’ve clung to her like she might disappear again if you let go. But she doesn’t seem to care. She only presses her cheek to the top of your head, murmuring soft, steady things into your hair. “You don’t have to be strong with me,” she says, barely louder than a breath. “You don’t have to pretend. Not here. Not with me.”

You clutch at her like you’re drowning and she’s the only solid thing left. Your hands fist in the material of her shirt, and she shifts to wrap herself around you completely—arms curling around your back, her body tucking you in like you’re something sacred that’s been broken.

And it hits you—how much you missed this.

Not just her voice. Her warmth. But touch.

Two days of avoiding each other. Two days of cold looks and empty hallways and passing like strangers in the home you built together. It wore on you. On her, too.

You can feel it now, in the way her hands tremble slightly when they move down your spine, the way her breathing hitches when you whimper into her collar. “You didn’t deserve that,” she whispers. “Any of it. They don’t see you—but I do. I see everything.”

Her lips graze your temple, slow and soft, as if kissing you there might seal the fracture “You’re brilliant. And kind. And fierce when you want to be. You shine, baby. You shine even when they try to dim you.”

You’re still shaking. Still gasping between sobs. But her words wrap around you like a blanket, anchoring you with every syllable. Her voice is warm. Steady. A tether in the storm. “I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you from that. But I will next time,” she murmurs. “If there’s ever a next time. If you want there to be.”

Your breath hitches. You pull back just enough to look at her, eyes swollen and red, lashes wet, bottom lip trembling uncontrollably “Why would you want there to be a next time after that?”

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands rise to your cheeks, cupping them gently. Her thumbs wipe at the tears still spilling freely down your face. “Because I love you and to have you means to accept that—accept them” It doesn’t feel forced. Doesn’t feel like some grand confession meant to make you feel better in the moment. It’s soft. Quiet. True.

A truth spoken through everything else—through pain, through distance, through the ache in her eyes and the tremor in her hands. Like the sun peeking through after three days of unrelenting storm. Your mouth parts. You don’t know what you expected. Maybe not that. Maybe not something so beautiful in the middle of something so heavy.

“I love you too,” you whisper, voice hoarse.

And then she exhales. Like she’s been holding that breath since the second she walked out and regretted it. She doesn’t speak again—just pulls you into her arms and lets you melt against her. Her cheek rests against your head. Her hand slips into yours, fingers threading through with practiced ease.

The silence stretches again. But this time, it’s different. Softer. Safer. “You’re not alone anymore,” she says quietly. “You never have to be.” You squeeze her hand, still shaking—but just a little less now. And for the first time in days—maybe longer—you finally believe that might be true.

Her fingers are still laced with yours when you lean in. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. But it’s everything. You move slow enough that she can see it all—the way your bottom lip trembles, the way your breath hitches, the way your eyes scan hers like you’re still trying to find proof she’s really here. That she didn’t leave for good. That after everything, she still wants to be this close.

Your face tilts slightly, seeking hers like you’ve done a thousand times before. But this time, the weight behind it is different. Heavier. Like you’re trying to say all the things you still don’t know how to voice. When your lips meet hers, it isn’t perfect.

Your breath is uneven. Your skin is still flushed from crying, still damp in places where her touch hasn’t yet reached. But Agatha melts into it like it’s the only thing she’s been waiting for since she walked out that door—and realized she couldn’t stay gone.

She doesn’t rush you. Her hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye as her mouth moves with yours in soft, reverent strokes. It’s not heated. Not yet. It’s needed. Desperately so.

You kiss her again. And again. Short, quiet kisses between shallow breaths like you’re trying to stitch something back together piece by piece.

Like if you stop, you’ll come undone all over again. “You still want me,” you whimpered between kisses, your voice trembling like it barely made it out. “Even after all that. Even with them.”

She pauses just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breath warm on your lips, her voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“Of course I do. Always.”

You press your mouth to hers again—longer this time. Deeper. Until the ache in your chest cracks wide open and spills between you. She’s breathing harder now, arms sliding around your waist like she can feel the ground slipping beneath your feet. And then she moves. She pulls you gently, but firmly, into her lap.

You don’t fight it. Your legs shift, one knee on either side of her thighs as you straddle her, arms wrapping around her shoulders. She steadies you by the hips, guiding you down until your weight settles into her, until your chest is pressed to hers and the space between you is gone.

Your hands tangle into the fabric of her shirt, bunching it into your fists, needing the pressure, the feel of her, the proof of her.

“I’m so glad you didn’t leave me baby” you whisper into her mouth, your voice cracking in the middle of the sentence—so quiet it’s barely there, but you feel the way her breath stutters against your lips. She freezes. For a heartbeat, she’s absolutely still.

You don’t notice it at first. You’re too close, too wrapped in the rhythm of her touch and the warm, shaky exhales against your cheek. But then she pulls back—just enough to look at you. Just enough to see you. And something in her face crumbles. Her eyes go glassy in an instant, mouth parting as if the air’s been knocked from her lungs.

“Sweetheart…” she breathes, like your words just broke something in her.

Your heart lurches. “I—I didn’t mean to say that.” But she’s already shaking her head, her hands coming up to cradle your face with both palms, thumbs gently brushing away the tears you didn’t realize had started again.

“You thought I was going to leave you.” It’s not a question. It’s grief. You try to look away, but she won’t let you.

“I don’t know,” you admit in a whisper. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.” And that’s what undoes her. Completely. She leans in and kisses you everywhere she can reach—your forehead, your cheeks, the corners of your lips—murmuring your name between each kiss like it’s a prayer, a vow, a promise she’s scared to break.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, voice thick. “Not ever. You couldn’t push me away if you tried.” You clutch at her shirt again, trying to breathe around the lump in your throat.

“I’m just so scared,” you whisper, eyes squeezing shut. “That you’ll realize I’m not worth all this.”

She stills—just for a moment. And then her arms tighten around you like she can feel you slipping through the cracks again. Like she won’t let you. “Don’t you ever say that again,” she murmurs fiercely. Not cruel. Not angry. Just wrecked. “—ever again.”

You let out a quiet, broken sob and bury your face into her shoulder. “I don’t know how to believe it,” you whisper.

Agatha’s hands cradle your face again, lifting it just enough to meet her eyes. She kisses you softly—so gently, it almost hurts. Her lips linger over yours, not demanding, not possessive. Just there. Anchoring you.

“Then I’ll keep showing you,” she promises. “As long as it takes.”

You fall into her again, curling into her lap like something precious that’s been worn thin from too much use. You press your face into her neck, feel the brush of her lips against your temple. And when her arms wrap around you this time, it’s not just comfort.

It’s a promise.

A shield.

A beginning

You’re still in her lap, chest pressed tightly to hers, when her hands shift—one sliding to your lower back, the other gliding beneath your thighs. You barely have time to breathe before she’s rising to her feet in one smooth motion, with you still clinging to her.

Your arms wrap instinctively around her neck as she lifts you, and your legs lock around her waist without hesitation, like your body knows exactly where it belongs.

You bury your face into the crook of her neck, eyes fluttering closed. Her skin is warm. Her heartbeat is steady, deep under your cheek. She smells like home—lavender, skin, safety.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, breathless but grounded, her arms secure around your waist as she carries you through the hallway. “Always.” You don’t say a word. You can’t. Your throat is thick again. Your body’s too tired. And truthfully, you don’t want to break the moment. You don’t want to let go.

She kicks open the bedroom door gently and crosses to the bed. She doesn’t lay you down immediately. Instead, she stays standing for a moment, just holding you. Your bodies pressed so close it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, the words brushing warm against your temple. “For leaving you to sleep alone. For walking away when you needed me.”

You tighten your legs around her waist just slightly. Your fingers press into the soft hair at the base of her neck. “You didn’t deserve to cry by yourself. Not in this house. Not in that one either.”

You open your mouth to say something, but it gets lost when she tilts her head and presses the softest kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs. “You hear me? I’m not leaving you—not when you need me, not when it gets hard, not even when you’re scared I will.”

You nod into her, your voice barely a whisper “I believe you.” She exhales like she’s been holding that breath for days. Carefully, she kneels onto the mattress with you still wrapped around her, then lowers you both into the bed—your legs staying wrapped around her as you sink into the sheets together. Her hand rubs slow circles over your back as she adjusts you, coaxing your body to loosen, to rest against her.

“I’m here now,” she says softly, pulling the blankets up around your bodies, still holding you. “And you’re safe.”

Her lips find your shoulder. Then your jaw. Her hand slips into your hair again, fingertips tender against your scalp as she whispers, “Sleep, my love. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in days, you believe it. For the first time, you let yourself rest. Because her body is wrapped around yours like a shield. Her arms are locked around you like a vow. And you fall asleep that night not as someone broken—but as someone being held back together by the one person who chose you. Always.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn #comfort #reassurance

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bullet-prooflove · 10 months ago

Note

For Rip Wheeler

“Oh, if all I got is your hand in my hand Baby, I could die a happy man”

Tagging: @1-fuzzy-squirrels @nerdypinupcrystal @babygirl8900 @domquixotedospobresblog @buckysteveloki-me

Companion piece to Thrill of the Chase (NSFW) - Rip has always loved the thrill of the chase.

Rip doesn’t have a heart, at least that’s what they say about him. They see his hard edges, his gruff exterior, the aura of violence and they think there’s a barbed wire where one should be.

For a while even he thinks it’s true. The world has battered him, bruised him, broken him, he doesn’t have the capacity for softness anymore. He tells you that after you fuck him for the second time.

“Don’t expect anything from me. I don’t have anything to give you.”

His relationships have aways been physical, raw, primal. It’s about stress relief, not connection. He assumes it’s going to be the same with you until it isn’t.

There are so many ways you’re different to the women he’s been with before. There’s a softness in you he doesn’t anticipate. You aren’t rough with him like the others, you’re teasing, gentle. When he’s camping out alone, he thinks about the light caress of your fingertips across the scars that line his left shoulder, the tender brush of your lips as you explore every inch of him.

He might fuck but you, you make love.

He tries to fight the fall, really he does but it’s a constant war deep inside of him. He forces himself to leave your bed when he’s finished with you, he redresses in the dark as you sleep, ignoring the urge to climb back into your sheets, to hold you, to love you.

He’s tired, sore and pissed off when he comes across you in the barn. He’s been pulling up hemlock all day in one of the pastures and you’re finishing a check up on John Dutton’s horse Starbuck. The old girl is getting up there these days, she’s starting to have more health problems. There’s going to come a day soon where you make the recommendation to put her down and the thought of that…

It devastates him because the two of them, they sort of grew up together. She was the first foal he birthed back in the day.

You must see the exhaustion in him, the toll of the day has taken. He thinks that’s why you reach for him, why you catch his hand when he walks by. The gesture surprises him because the women he’s been with, they’ve steered clear of his moods, they didn’t walk head first into them.

“Come home with me tonight.” You say as he turns to face you, and he sees the sincerity in your features as you draw him close. “Let me look after you a little.”

It’s the first time that anyone has ever offered him that, that they’ve cared enough to consider his wants, his needs. He’s tired of this war he’s been waging with himself, he’s tired of resisting you. All he wants right now is to curl up in bed, with the woman he’s falling in love with.

“Alright darlin.” He concedes, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek. “If you want me, you can have me.”

Love Rip? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#rip wheeler #rip wheeler x reader #yellowstone

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kiame-sama · 6 months ago

Note

quick question, I was thinking I might make some fanart of your humans are extinct AU. Specifically, I was thinking of drawing up malleus. I was just wondering if you could give me a physical description of his appearance so that I know how to properly visualize him? Love your writing!

(Malleus in my AU has large black/purple dragon wings, a long tail that is barbed on the end and his lower-legs/feet are similar in shape to that of a canine/feline but are scaled. He has scales that frame his face around his eyes similar to smokey eye-shadow, those scales being black with a slight green shine)

- Malleus has a tendency to follow his instincts more than general common sense as his instincts have yet to steer him wrong. It was these instincts that told him the Human would make a very good Hoard member, even before he knew they were Human. Those who are part of his Hoard- new and old alike- are the most precious and treasured beings Malleus has in his life and he would kill for his Hoard at a moment's notice.

- As a Dragon, Malleus is genetically programed to guard and protect that which he considers his Hoard or those he values. Not only does he become fiercely protective, but the presence of his Hoard nearby soothes him and makes him feel a certain sense of peace. Any threat to his Hoard is taken seriously even if it is just a verbal threat or an attempted act of intimidation. Any disrespect directed at any member of his Hoard is disrespect at him, and he refuses to tolerate such behavior. Only his Hoard can sass him without him taking it personally (though only the Human and Lilia would have the courage to sass the Dragon) and he is much more compliant towards requests by members of his Hoard.

- Malleus believes no one is good enough a mate for his Human other than Himself and his Hoard. He primarily believes he should be the mate to the Human as there is a complex binding spell only the Dragon can manage where he uses his own life-force to prolong the life and youth of his Human. He believes this is the proper duty of a mate and he would happily do so for his Human. He is tolerant of the idea of sharing the Human with his Hoard as his Hoard is comprised of those he trusts and cares for most. He knows Lilia wants to breed the Human and have hybrid infants and wishes for the Dragon to do the same. He isn't against the idea in the slightest.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #humans are extinct twst au #yandere malleus draconia #yandere malleus x reader

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not-neverland06 · 10 months ago

Text

The End of the Beginning

Previous Part / Next Part

Cooper Howard x fem!reader A/N: I’m going to use my How About a Nuke? taglist for my Cooper Howard one shots/stories from now on. If you do not want to be on the taglist, please let me know and I will remove you immediately. I’m considering writing some more for these two, let me know what you think in the comments.

Summary: You don’t know how it starts. But you know how it ends.

There’s not a specific moment where you can pinpoint how this whole sordid affair began. Not a true affair, in your own defense. Nothing physical ever happened between the two of you, but what did happen was somehow almost worse.

Maybe it was when Bud first introduced you to him or when you began to eat dinners with his family. It could have been the times he would randomly drop by your home for a drink, you’re not sure. It doesn’t even matter, you know that no matter what it never would have ended well for either of you.

“Mr. Howard, it is a pleasure.” The man in front of Cooper is someone he should recognize, he knows he’s met him before. But his face could blend into any crowd, he’s drawing a blank and failing not to let it show.

“How’re you,” the question trails off awkwardly and the woman beside the man is clearly trying to hide a smile.

“Uh, Bud,” he offers up, his smile waning slightly, “Bud Askins. We met a couple of weeks ago.” He’s grasping at straws, eyes desperate for some sense of familiarity within Cooper’s own gaze. He would feel bad for him, but something about this man sets Cooper on edge.

“Bud,” Cooper offers him the kind of smile he gives every fan and it does the trick like usual. Bud lets out a sigh of relief and shakes Cooper’s hand with a vigor that rattles his teeth. The woman clears her throat, glaring at the back of Bud’s head.

He finally remembers himself and turns towards her. “Right, my apologies.” Bud moves back and she steps forward, her hand outstretched towards Cooper. She’s got a disarming smile which is a nice change from Bud’s overeager one.

She seems happy to have met him, but not the starstruck joy he’s used to. It’s refreshing to not have someone be eagerly shouting at him what his favorite movie of theirs is. She offers him her name and he repeats it, liking the way it feels when he says it. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

She doesn’t get offended by the brusque question. She drops his hand and glances back at Bud, “I work for Mr. Askins. I’ll be helping you in adjusting to your new Vault-Tec life.”

He frowns, brows furrowed in confusion at the way she phrases her answer. “Vault-Tec life? I thought this was just meant to be some ads, a few billboards maybe.” He chuckles, hoping to ease the tone of the conversation, but they don’t buy it. She shares a concerned look with Bud and they glance back at Cooper before whispering something to each other.

Bud listens to her speak, but his gaze stays locked on Cooper. He doesn’t look happy anymore, if anything he looks concerned. Cooper sighs and wonders, not for the first time, what Barb has gotten him into. As if summoning her, his wife pops up behind him.

She wraps an arm through his and he feels himself easing back into her touch, hoping she can provide some clarity. “I see you’ve met Bud and his assistant.” There’s an odd tone to her words when she addresses the other woman.

Her gaze snaps from Bud’s and she shoots Barb a sharp glare. “I am not Mr. Askins’ assistant.” Barb clears her throat and she winces, quickly amending her statement, “If anything, I believe I might be your husband’s.”

Cooper wraps his arm around Barb’s shoulder and draws her closer to him. She smiles and looks up at him but he can’t find it in himself to return it. With each new development in this Vault-Tec partnership he finds himself growing more and more hostile towards the company. There’s just something about this whole idea that has him unsettled.

It’s not that he doesn’t see the need for the vaults, he does. If anyone understands the dangers this war is presenting, it’s him. He’d been on the frontlines, he knows just how bad it’s getting out there. But, the way Vault-Tec is going about everything is unsettling. Capitalizing off the American people’s suffering isn’t something he’s interested in endorsing.

He’s been questioning more and more everyday if that's exactly what he’s doing.

“That’s the confusion, honey,” he glances down at Barb but she’s sharing a look with the other woman that he can’t understand. “I don’t see why I need an assistant.”

She sighs and finally looks back at him. She laces her fingers through his and gives him a comforting smile, “Let’s go talk.”

You watched as Barb dragged Cooper away from you and Bud. You knew this wasn’t going to go over well. You’re not sure why anyone at the company even listens to Bud’s asinine idea’s anymore. You give your boss a discerning look but he’s still staring after his crush, the Cooper Howard.

There must be some cunning snake under the surface of this bumbling baboon. You certainly don’t see it, but someone had to have at Vault-Tec for him to have crawled so high up the ladder. You look over your shoulder at Cooper and, not for the first time, a pang of guilt stabs through your stomach.

Same as everyone else, you idolized Mr. Howard. It was hard not to. He’d fought for your country in the Sino-American War, defending Alaska. And then he came home and instead of protecting America’s citizens, he made it his job to uplift and entertain them.

He was an incredible man, and if you weren’t so worried about protecting your own ass you’d feel bad for what Vault-Tec’s mission is going to do to him.

Barb had brought concerns to you and Bud that Cooper was… slipping. She seemed to think his priorities had shifted and he was growing suspicious of Vault-Tec, and by extension her.

He was right to be suspicious, there wasn’t a day that you weren’t disgusted with yourself for working for who you do. But you also would like to survive this coming nuclear holocaust, so you learned to live with it.

She seemed to think that giving him an assistant, one of Bud’s Buds, would help get him back on track. You’re not sure why Bud had chosen you for the job, but he seemed to think you would be charming enough to snag Cooper’s attention.

You were to bond with Mr. Howard, become his friend and gain his trust. When the time came for him to start questioning you about Vault-Tec and their true intentions, you would say something to calm him.

Essentially, befriend him and then lie to his face and make him think he wasn’t promoting the end of the world. Barb didn’t want her husband to ever learn about the truth of who was really pulling the strings of the war.

Cooper was led back to you both by Barb with a smile on his face. He seemed more open to you now, too, offering you a polite nod of his head which you returned. “Barb, here, seems to think I need myself a personal assistant.”

You laughed amicably and shrugged, “You’re a busy man, Mr. Howard. I’m just an extra set of hands.”

He shook his head and waved you off, “Call me Cooper, please, it seems like we’ll be spending a lot of time with each other anyway.”

You smiled, your gut twisting with disgust when you saw the earnest look in his eyes, “Cooper.”

“Good morning,” Cooper leaned over Barb’s shoulder, landing a quick peck on her cheek. She smiled and squeezed his arm before glancing at the clock and frowning. He already knew what she was gonna say. He was going to be late.

He smiled at her, taking a sip of his coffee. She seemed to notice the look on his face because she just sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to get away with this anymore.”

He laughed and shrugged, “Why not? It’s a part of my signature, I’m always a few minutes late.”

She glanced down at the Pip-Boy on her arm and something seems to have caught her attention. She let out a haggard breath and put Janey’s lunch box on the counter. “Don’t let her leave without this.” She ran to the front door and Cooper frowned as he watched her run around the house, frantically collecting her things.

“Where are you going?”

She was already halfway out the door when she called out a quick, “Work emergency.” He shook his head and rinsed his mug out in the sink. He’s had work emergencies before, none of them so urgent he would have left without saying goodbye to their daughter.

He sucks on his teeth, staring over at the front door. What does she do for Vault-Tec? Had she ever really told him?

Had he ever asked?

His thoughts are interrupted by a series of blaring honks outside his front door. He figures Barb had forgotten her keys in her rush to get out of the house. But when he steps onto the front lawn he sees you parked along the curb, staring expectantly at the door.

You lift your sunglasses up, your lips tilted up into an easy smile and you wave at him. “Morning, Mr. Cooper,” you shout across the driveway.

He scoffs and walks towards your convertible. You’ve got the roof tilted down, a scarf wrapped around your hair to keep the style. You light up a cigarette while he approaches. He leans into the car and stares at you with a disbelieving look on his face.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’ve got a packed schedule today, can’t be late.” Barb’s warning suddenly makes sense now. You, apparently, weren’t the type to let him be a little lazy.

He’d almost forgotten she’d forced an assistant on him. He’s still not happy with it, feeling like he’s being babysat more than anything else.

She’d made it clear, though, that there wasn’t much room for arguments when it came to you. He doesn’t understand why she was so adamant about this. Most wives would prefer their husbands didn’t spend all day with such pretty assistants.

“Barb’s just run out, I’ve got to drop Janey off at school today.” You sigh, face screwing up as he speaks. You flick the cigarette onto the pavement and fiddle with the Pip-Boy you’ve got on your passenger seat. He’s surprised not to see it on your wrist, most Vault-Tec people treat it like a fifth limb.

You screw around with it for a minute before you finally look back up at him. “We can make it, get her out here.” You toss the Pip-Boy in the back and place your hands on the wheel. You give him an expectant look and he realizes you’re not gonna let him argue with you about this.

“Aren’t I your boss, darling?”

You scoff, tone sardonic, “Sure, Mr. Howard.” He sighs and finally heads back inside. Janey is more than happy to ride along with you. Cooper less so. You seem keen on breaking every damn speeding law to get him to work on time. He’s not sure he trusts his life in your reckless hands.

You peel into Janey’s school, practically kick her out of the car, and then you’re off again. “You can slow down, you know.”

You glance over at him, a sly smirk on your lips. “I’m not making you sick, am I?”

He eases up his grip on the door handle and shakes his head. “I’ve worn a power suit, sweetheart, not much can make me carsick.”

You shrug, “Good, then I think I’ll keep going like this.” He shakes his head, slightly miffed by the insubordination, slightly impressed. It’s nice to have someone who treats him like he’s just another regular Joe.

Most of his former assistants kissed the ground he walked on and were terrified to say one word against him. It gets tiring after a while, that sort of behavior. He’s seen plenty of his costars let it get to their heads and turn into someone egotistical and vile to be around. He doesn’t want to turn out like that.

He’s never wanted the fame to twist him into something he isn’t. He has a feeling you don’t let many people walk over you. You also don’t seem to have a problem with being assertive. It’s odd, these behaviors in someone in a position of subordinance.

Makes him wonder if being an assistant is your actual job, or if Bud had demoted you for some other odd reason.

“I really don’t want to intrude.”

Cooper waves you off and shakes his head, “Not at all. I’m inviting you, honey.” You sigh and grit your teeth. You know what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to thank him and accept the invitation to dinner.

But being with him everyday for the past few weeks has made it nearly impossible to keep this up. He’s an incredible man, kind and honest to a fault. He’s got such strong principles, to be openly manipulating those against him makes you sick to your stomach.

You thought you would be able to do this. So many times in your life you’d heard never to meet your heroes. You figured Cooper would be like every other pretentious asshole in Hollywood and you would have no problem lying to his face.

But he is so much more than that. He’s so much better than the people you work with and for, so much better than you.

Still, a job is a job. You don’t do this and you’ll be kicked out of Bud’s program and left out with the rest of civilization to burn up when the fallout begins.

You reason with yourself that by doing this you’re also ensuring Cooper’s safety. As long as he believes in Vaut-Tec, in you, he’ll have a place at the end of the world.

It doesn’t make you feel any better.

“Thank you, I’d love to join you.”

He grins at you and walks off to wrap up his last scene of the day. You let out a long breath, slumping against the concession table and rubbing at your forehead. You’re losing sleep over all of this. Your nails are brittle, hair splitting, and health declining with the amount of anxiety and guilt you’ve been carrying around.

Despite your resolve mentally, you’re really not sure how much longer you can go on like this physically. You’ve always been a horrible liar, especially when you’re lying to people you care about. You should have gotten an Oscar for getting this far with him.

The drive to Cooper’s home that night is silent. To punish yourself, you don’t turn on the radio and force yourself to wallow in self hatred the whole way there. You berate yourself and come up with about five different reasons to get yourself out of being his assistant.

But when you knock on the door and see his smiling face you can’t force a word out. He’s so handsome, cleaned up and his hair slicked back. You could get lost in his eyes when he speaks to you. You force yourself to keep your mouth shut and just eat dinner with him.

Barb keeps sending you appreciative smiles all throughout dinner and you want to stab your fork through her hand. You might be a horrible person for lying to him, but she has to be the worst damn wife you’ve ever met. She claims to be in love with Cooper, to care about him, but the way she manipulates him goes against that.

You don’t get to claim to love someone and then treat them like that. She won’t even let him take Roosevelt! You know for a fact that animals can go into certain vaults, she just hates that dog.

“I have to be a good man gone bad in this one.” Cooper explains to Barb. She’d asked after the latest script changes but she didn’t seem wholly interested as she messed with her Pip-Boy. “I don’t really like it, I’m meant to be a sheriff, not a cold-blooded killer.”

Barb scoffs and shakes her head, “Even good men have to make bad decisions, Cooper.”

Cooper straightens up and glares at her. At his silence she finally looks up, her face quickly becoming guarded at the look on his. “Not all of them,” he argues, voice soft. You and Janey glance between the two of them, this goes beyond a simple script change.

“Well,” Barb goes back to cutting her steak, shaking her head at him, “that’s a very naive way of looking at the world.” She gives him a sharp smile, her eyes empty and cold.

You’re grateful when Janey passes a piece of broccoli to Roosevelt and the both of them are snapped out of their pseudo argument. Barb snaps at the dog and Cooper laughs, you shrink into your chair, wishing to be anywhere else.

When dinner is over, you clean up while Cooper and Barb put Janey to bed. You slide open the door to the backyard and tug a cigarette out of your case. You dig around in your bag for a while, nearly breaking down when you can’t find your lighter.

“Need this?” Fire sparks up before you and Cooper grins as he holds his lighter out. You smile in relief and thank him, sparking up the end and taking a deep inhale. You feel yourself relax slightly, easing off of the meltdown you were about to have.

Little things keep seeming to build and build on top of you. You’re hanging on by a very thin thread and you’re worried about what’s going to happen when it snaps. “You alright, sweetheart?” He seems genuinely concerned and you can’t even look at him anymore.

You take a seat and nod, focusing instead on the stars above you. He’s further out from civilization, he’s got a better view of the night sky than you do from your crowded apartment. “Just been a little stressed out lately.”

He sits beside you and reaches over, his hand lands on your thigh and he squeezes. It lasts less than a second, it’s clearly meant to comfort you but it sets your body on fire and you turn away from him slightly. He frowns, an apologetic look on his face and he backs off.

You can’t find it in yourself to feel guilty. You don’t need to start being attracted to him on top of lying to him. Not when you just scorned Barb for the exact same thing. “I hope I haven’t been adding to that.”

You look over at him and shake your head, “Not at all,” you’re the only reason I’m like this.

He seems to catch onto what you’re not saying. He might not know exactly why he’s stressing you out, but he’s more perceptive than others give him credit for. Still, he doesn’t say anything. He just nods and takes a swig from the glass of whiskey resting in his lap.

“Sorry about earlier.”

“What?” He sighs, giving you a look that tells you not to bother playing dumb. You shrug, “Wasn’t the worst fight I’ve ever had to watch.”

He shakes his head and runs a tired hand over his face. “It wasn’t even a fight. That’s what bothers me, she says these little things and sometimes it just goes right over my head.”

You find yourself speaking before you can stop yourself, “It’s only later that you realize she was being cruel.”

He looks over at you and nods. His head tilts in confusion, “You know what I’m talking about?”

You nod, puffing on the cigarette between your fingers before you continue. You feel yourself starting to ease up again, your shoulders finally lowering from their place next to your ears. “Yeah, I’ve got a long list of ex’s like that.” Your mouth snaps closed when you realize what you said.

You probably shouldn’t be saying ex to the man you’re trying to keep with his wife. But he doesn’t get upset, he only sighs. The sound is resigned, like you’re only confirming something he already knew to be true.

“You don’t seem very happy,” Cooper glanced over his shoulder and spotted you. You had your heels in your hand, making your way across his back deck to stand next to him at the pool. You drop the heels on one of his lawn chairs and sit down to dip your legs in the pool.

He stays standing, staring down at you. You look up and offer him a tired grin. You must have been about as sick of this as he was. After a minute he finally sat down beside you. “Can’t say I’m pleased to have all these people in my house.”

You both glanced back at the party. Dozens of Vault-Tec employees streamed in and out of his living room, their voices carrying, even back to where you and Cooper were hidden away. He hated this, feeling out of place in his home.

“None of your friend’s wanted to come?” You glance over at him, a concerned look on your face. He appreciates it, your concern for his comfort, especially considering Barb doesn't seem to care for it at all. She hadn’t asked if he was okay with this, or comfortable with this wrap party. She’d simply gone ahead with it and then sprung it on him.

“Seb was here a while ago but he left.” He scoffed and threw back the rest of his drink. “Can’t say I blame him, if it wasn’t my house I would have left hours ago.”

You shrugs, “Let’s go.” You’re staring at him, eyes wide and earnest like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

He laughs, more surprised than anything, “What?”

You stand up, tugging your heels back on and holding a hand out to him. “Let’s leave. I can’t say I’m very happy to be here either.”

He argues, “These are your coworkers, sweetheart.” But he still takes your hand, getting back to his feet and letting you lead him through his back gate. You tug your keys out of your purse, sliding into your little convertible and giving him an eager smile while you wait for him to follow.

“They're a bunch of vultures, Coop. Let’s just get out of here.” Hearing you use his nickname affects him more than he wants it too. Affection has been few and far between at the house lately, he finds himself leaning into it when you offer it more than he should.

Things are tense between Barb and himself, but he’s still a married man. He shouldn’t get so happy when you call him Coop. And he really shouldn’t be leaving his wife behind at this ridiculous fucking party and getting in your car. But he finds himself going against his better knowledge and following anyway.

He doesn't ask where you’re taking him. He doesn’t even care, he just wants to be near you. You’re kind, you don’t judge him. You leave him feeling a little weightless everytime you snap one of your witty little retorts at him. He’s charmed by you, more than he should be, but he can’t bring himself to be bothered by it.

You’re eating shitty junk food and sipping on Nuka-Cola’s in the back of your convertible. Cooper kind of feels like a teenager again. It’s been a long time since he’s had some decent greasy burgers. Barb doesn’t like bringing fast food into the house and it’s been a while since he and Janey have snuck some on the way home from school.

You’ve parked your car in the desolate parking lot of the closed shopping center. You’re both quiet, staring up at the stars or the bright flashing billboards across from you. Cooper glances over at you and curiosity gets the better of him.

“How’d you end up working for Vault-Tec?” You give him a questioning look and he shrugs, taking a sip from his bottle. “Just doesn’t seem like your sort of company.” You seem too kind for them, too compassionate.

“I, um,” you chuckle, swiping away some condensation that had dripped onto your bare thigh and Cooper follows the movement lazily. “I got swept up in the war time efforts. There were a bunch of campaigns to get women to start assisting during the war.” You rolled your eyes and laughed, “The Nuka-Cola girl roped me in with her patriotism and I found myself at a plant assembling your power suits.”

Cooper’s shoulders tense up and he has to fight off a nasty retort. You catch his gaze and flinch away from it slightly. He doesn’t blame you for all the faulty defects in those suits, but he’d watched good men and women die on the frontlines because of those damn things. It’s hard not to get angry when they’re mentioned, especially because they’d told them the suits weren’t safe. The government forced them into them anyway.

”I know, there were a lot of defects. A lot of people died because of those suits. That’s how Bud discovered me actually, I raised hell with my supervisor. I tried to get them to fix the issue or just stop manufacturing them. We were wasting good supplies on death traps.”

You shook your head and sighed, “It didn’t matter what I said. They never stopped making them. But, Bud, liked my fire. He thought it showed good leadership skills that I was so willing to stand up for what I belived in. He took me to Vault-Tec when he left the suits behind.” You took in a deep shuddering breath, for a moment Cooper could swear he saw tears in your eyes. “I always seem to work for the wrong side.”

He’d been reaching out, hoping to offer some comfort, when his hand stopped. It dropped back down to his side and he glared at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Your eyes widened and you froze, seemingly caught off guard. “What?”

“‘I always seem to work for the wrong side.’ What’s that supposed to mean, sweetheart?” Is this it? The confirmation that he’s been looking for that his fears weren’t unfounded. Had you known this whole time he’d been fighting with Barb and not told him?

He didn't want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. How twisted had his life become that he was putting more faith into you, practically a stranger, than his own wife.

You shook your head, a frown appearing on your lips and eyes boring angrily into his. “That’s not what I said.”

His mouth opened in shock, not quite sure he was hearing you properly. “What? Yes, it is.”

“Cooper,” you snapped, his name sounding harsh for the first time. You’d always spoken so sweetly to him, he couldn’t understand where this was coming from. “That’s not what I said, what is your problem?”

Could he have misheard you? You’d never gotten mad at him before. You would only be acting like this if he really was wrong. He sighed, figuring he should just drop it before he made things worse. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

Your eyes softened and you reached out, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “It’s alright. Let’s just enjoy tonight.” He nodded, leaning closer towards you while you reached forward to turn the radio on. Despite the both of you knowing it was a bad idea, you rested your head against him. Snuggled up together and watching the stars, he could get used to this.

You hear your name, rushed and bordering on a shout. You whip around, frowning when you see Cooper barreling towards you. He reaches you, grabbing you by the elbow and dragging you into an empty office.

You’re taken aback by the aggression in his actions but you’re more concerned when you notice his eyes. They’re bloodshot and his cheeks are flushed, like he’s been crying or was trying not to. You reach up before you can think, hand cupping his cheek and ignoring the minute way he leans into it.

“Cooper? What is it? What’s wrong?”

His eyes are wild, darting all around the room like he’s waiting for someone to jump out and grab him. “It’s Barb. I put a transmitter on her Pip-Boy and I heard her in her meeting. She’s talking about starting the nuclear war, she’s going to fucking kill everyone.” You step back from him, arms dropping to your sides.

“Cooper,” his name is a barely heard whisper. “Why did you have to dig?” It’s over. You knew this was coming. Cooper was too smart not to start digging on his own, even without your reassurances. You’d only delayed the inevitable and hurt yourself in the process. Hurt him.

He frowns and shakes his head, stepping back from you. His face moves through a hundred different emotions, faster than you can process, but you manage to catch a few of them. He’s betrayed, hurt, disgusted by the sight of you. “You knew?” The words are spit out with such venom you nearly flinch from him.

You can feel tears burning the back of your throat and you glare at him, “Why couldn’t you have left it alone?” It’s misplaced anger, you know. You’re mad at yourself for getting involved in this, for dragging him down with you. You’re mad at Barb and Bud and all the fucked up corporations you keep finding yourself employed by. But the anger strikes out at him and you regret it immediately.

“You knew!” It’s not a question anymore, it’s a realization. He shakes his head and he almost looks more hurt than when he discovered Barb. “You’re fucking sick, all of you!” He’s out the door and down the hall before you have a chance to stop him.

You sink back against the wall, wiping at tears that won’t stop coming. Betty finds you, she takes one look at you and then a dissapearingCooper before she’s dragging you into Barb’s office. “You need to wait here for them.”

You don’t argue, there’s no point. You’d failed in your mission and Cooper was beyond Barb’s grasp. Maybe it was for the better, that he got away from her while he could. Dying rather than being trapped in a vault with her might be a better ending for him.

You can’t get that look of his out of your mind, not even while Barb berates you. She nearly fires you, but Bud stops her. She storms out of her office and you just keep replaying that moment with Cooper. You could have played along with him, never let him know you knew about Vault-Tec and just run away with him.

But the thought of living the rest of your short life lying to him makes you sick to your stomach.

Bud calls your name for the inth time and grabs your shoulders. You snap your gaze up to his, finally noticing that he’s been kneeling in front of you this whole time. ”You have to go in early.”

You shake your head dumbly, not understanding what he’s saying. He frowns, eyes desperate and he keeps glancing over his shoulder. “Barb is livid. She wants you gone. We’re gonna have to send you down early.”

“You mean…” you trail off, mind going blank at the thought of being put into cryo months before you were prepared to. You want to argue with him and tell him you need more time. Thoughts of going after Cooper and trying to make him see reason float through your brain.

He seems to track your train of thought because he shakes his head. “We can’t delay this. You go now or you don’t go at all.”

You hadn’t realized just how much Bud seemed to care for you until this moment. The sheer determination on his face that he wouldn’t let Barb bury you would have made you sentimental were it not for the current gut wrenching feeling of heartbreak you were experiencing.

He stands up and glances over at Betty. The worry slowly disappears as a plan starts to formulate within him. “Betty will take her car and get you to the vault, I’ll have people there ready to take you in.” He grabs your arm and yanks you out of your chair. “You need to leave now, before Barb comes back with security.”

He and Betty share a look over your shoulder before she nods. She grabs your elbow from Bud and marches you down the hall. You’re barely present for the walk through the hallways of Vault-Tec. You don’t have time to take in the world around you, appreciate the beauty before it’s gone.

You’re numb. Stuck in a limbo and paralysis of your own creation. When you make it to the vault, Betty leaves you there to be taken in by the guards. They lead you to Vault 31 and march you down the long hall until you reach your cryo pod.

You don’t know when you’ll be released, what the world will be like when you come back out. But you know Cooper will be gone and there'll be nothing left for you.

You step into the pod and let your eyes slowly drift closed.

Your pod pops open with a hiss and your head lolls to the side. There’s an odd buzzing noise before you but you can’t see much of anything. “It will take a minute for your eyes to adjust.”

Your brows furrow as you place the voice, “Bud?” Your hands grope blindly through the dark for the edge of your pod. Your eyes begin to thaw, vague shapes and colors making themselves clear to you first. “If you’re here, how long have I been asleep?”

Odd, you can’t make out his form anywhere, but it sounds like he’s right in front of you. You step down and there’s a loud buzz, like wheels rolling across metal. “Watch out!” You tilt your head in confusion, blinking the rest of the frost out of your eyes and gasping when you see what’s in front of you.

A brain on a fucking vacuum. “Bud!” You shout, completely caught off guard by this new look of his.

He sighs, the sound robotic and staticky. “Yes, it’s me. It’s the only way I could stay alive to monitor the success of my vaults.” Even just as a brain, you can still hear the pride in his voice, “I am proud to say that we have been most successful these past two hundred and thirteen years.”

You can’t respond, winded by how long it’s been since you’ve been asleep. Everything you’ve ever known was gone. Officially.

Your mind drifts to Cooper but you stop it before it gets too far. Even before he found out about your role in Vault-Tec, you were never going to be in the same vault as him. No matter what, the two of you would never have seen each other again.

There’s no reason to mourn him now.

Bud rolls in front of you, leading you to the door of the vault. “Hank MacLean and Betty will be here to greet you. You’ll be a part of the Triennal trade, your official entry into vault 33.” He’s rapidly firing off information faster than you can keep up.

You know the protocols, they were drilled into you long before you came down here. For every one of Bud’s Buds they had to marry their way into the vault they were entering. You just prayed Hank was kind enough to give you someone nice to marry, maybe even tall.

The vault’s door is rolling open before you get a chance to prepare yourself. Ten smiling faces stare eagerly at you, you offer them tentative looks. You search among them for Betty and Hank, it takes you a moment to recognize them. To realize that the two old people at the front are Hank and Betty.

They’d been out much longer than you had if the wrinkles were anything to go by.

“Welcome to vault 33!” A big eyed girl shouts at you from behind Hank. You offer her a shaky smile, racking your brain for what you’re supposed to say.

“Thank you,” the words are stilted and you wince internally. “In honor of your welcoming, my vault has sent ahead supplies and crops. My overseer apologizes for not being here to greet you all, but I’m happy to be here!” The words sound scripted, more than you would like.

Betty picks up on your discomfort and ushers you forward. “Come on, you should meet your husband.” You shoot her a scared look but the face she gives you shuts you down. There’s no backing out of this, as much as you might want to. This is your reality now.

“Norm, meet your new bride.”

Well, he’s certainly not tall.

“I still can’t believe you're not pregnant.” You hand Lucy a wrench and she frowns from her place on the floor. She pauses in her repairs of the pipes for a moment to pester you further. “Have you had the doctors check my brother’s sperm count?”

“Lucy!” You admonish, glaring down at her. She shrugs, not finding any fault in the question. You don’t have the heart to tell her that in the three years you’ve been married to her brother you’ve only had sex once.

It was your wedding night, extremely awkward and unpleasant for both of you. Norm wasn’t the type to just easily trust someone he didn’t know and you were still nursing a heartbreak he could never comprehend. He wasn’t a bad husband, he was actually amazing.

You two just seemed to work better as partners rather than husband and wife. You both kept your nightly activities, or lack thereof, to yourselves. It wasn’t exactly smiled upon to not be actively trying to repopulate the earth. But the extremely personal questions about your husband’s sperm and your fertility were beyond annoying.

Still, everytime you even consider trying again with him you think of Cooper and want to cry. “His sperm count is fine. It just takes longer for some couples.” She doesn’t seem like she wants to let it go, but you force her to by shoving her back towards the broken pipe.

You know she’s only been bugging you about it because her time in the trade is coming up. She’s just worried that her relationship will be like yours and Norm’s. She wants kids in a way you can’t bring yourself to and she’s worried her fertility takes after her brother’s.

You understand the fear, but if she asks you one more damn time you’re going to clock her over the head with a hammer. Steph comes up to you both and gives you a placating smile. She must see the murder on your face because she offers to distract Lucy.

You thank her and storm off back to your housing unit. Norm, thankfully, isn’t home when you get there. He’s too perceptive for his own good sometimes. You don’t think you’re mentally there enough to try and lie to him about why you’re upset today.

You decide to just call it a day. You’ll go to bed and when you get up, it will be time for Lucy’s wedding. You can just look forward to that and ignore the issues within your own marriage.

You clutch your bleeding stomach while Norm grabs you and drags you under a picnic table. You both watch in stunned, traumatized, silence as your fellow vault dwellers are slaughtered all around you. Norm’s hand is gripping yours so tight you can feel your bones grinding together but you can’t point it out.

A raider shoots at Bob, the kind old man who would slip you extra jello, and his blood splatters into your open mouth. It’s only a shoulder shot, he could live. But the raider is pulling out his machete and charging towards him. You make to leap out from under the table but Norm yanks you back.

“Norm!” You hiss, but he just shakes his head. Your eyes widen in disbelief, you can’t believe him. Sitting here and watching your friends just die. You could help, you can’t just sit here. You yank your hand out of his and charge out from under the table.

Your arms wrap around the raider’s waist and you both go flying. He lands on top of the wedding cake, frosting smearing across his bald head. You wrestle for his machete, eventually ripping it out of his hand. You thrust it up into his chest and he falls limp on top of you.

You grunt at the impact, slipping on top of Lucy’s ruined cake while you roll him off. Lucy storms down the stairs, holding onto a wound matching yours. She offers you her hand and helps you to your feet. “Norm?” She questions, eyes watering and desperate. You point to where he still sits under the table.

Across from you Steph grabs a gun and starts mowing down raiders left and right. You’re bending over for the raider’s machete when someone knocks into you from behind. You fall forward, head snapping against the concrete and vision going black.

You don’t know how that horrible beginning with Cooper Howard started. When exactly you began to fall for him among your betrayal. But you know how it ends. It ends with you following Lucy MacLean out into the brightness of the Wastelands. It ends with his death and the Ghoul’s birth.

I’m not sure if I’ve put this in my last few posts or not. But, all of my dividers are the creation of @saradika-graphics (give her some love bc she’s amazing)

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #fallout x reader #fallout tv series #cooper howard #The ghoul #fallout x fem!reader #fallout prime #fallout #cooper howard x fem!reader #the ghoul x fem!reader #cooper howard x you #cooper howard fic #the ghoul x you #the ghoul fic

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love-byers · 2 months ago

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(same anon that previously sent an ask about the monologue, because writing all this just got me thinking)

Another thing to take note of is that Mike only talks in the past/present tense, but never in the future tense. He says "I've loved you every day since" but never "and I'm going to love you every day for the rest of my life". He's clinging to the past, he's refusing change. There's a line after where he says "And I’m not ready to lose you -- you hear me??". It's just so clear to me. Once he's ready, he can finally grow and allow new and better things to come into his life, and truly come of age. That's the kind of ending I believe is right for the show and those characters in a more general sense anyway.

OMG IVE NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT THE PAST/PRESENT TENSE STUFF THATS SO TRUE

i've always thought that it seemed like both mike and el were clinging to the past. it starts in the s3 epilogue when el says i love you too. its supposed to be taking the next big step in their relationship, maturing and changing. but mike realizes he doesn't want that, he doesn't want things to change. he doesn't want to get more serious with el. he yearns for the past when he was closer with will and didn't have the pressure of growing up and committing to el. and of course the idea of that scares him bc it makes him question the nature of he and will's relationship.

"And I guess...if I'm being really honest...I don't want things to change. So I think maybe that's why I came in here. To try to maybe...stop that change. To turn back the clock. To make things go back to how they were."

i've analyzed the living hell out of this in a byler way, because it is undoubtedly coded towards byler, but i think there is a bit of mileven here too based on what happens in s4. here's some quotes/moments that made me think mike and el were clinging to the past because they know they have no foundation of a future.

"Bitchin' right?" "Yeah, yeah, bitchin'. Do you come here a lot?" mike is so dismissive of her here it's kind of funny

then there's mike bringing her eggos before their fight. he's trying to make peace with a staple from their past, but it doesn't work, because that's not what makes a relationship strong.

"You can't let those mouth breathers ruin you, ruin us." again a reference to a joke/phrase from their past. something they share, or should share. mike feels like saying that will draw them back together. but it fails

"They're nobodies. And you're a superhero." "Not anymore." i feel like this one speaks for itself lol

and the fact that the song playing over their fight is called "Eulogy", a track that plays during scenes referencing dead characters (barb, bob, el (before mike knew she was alive), billy) and metaphorical deaths, like el moving into the cabin with hopper. "This is your new home." it's representing the death of el's old life in the lab, and finding new beginnings. their fight was the death of their relationship, and even mike knows it. a fight you can't come back from.

#byler #will byers #stranger things #mike wheeler #byler endgame #milkvan is bones #stranger things 4 #anti milkvan #anti mileven

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thegnomelord · 1 year ago

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for the prompt game, if it's still open, maybe 8 with Ghost? maybe with hatefucking and at the point you're both at it's basically a routine but all of the nasty words and cruel moments are really just because you're both brutes that have trouble expressing emotions properly, and all you really want is just some kind of deeper connection with each other, but with your shitty use of words, arguing and eventual growling into into his mouth as you shove him down onto the nearest flat surface is the only way for you to get that. and perhaapps at one point, one of you, reader or ghost doesn't matter, let's something softer and more caring slip through the angry facade? ofc if you already have one for 8 or you just don't like this idea you can im really sorry and you can ignore me, no pressure and I love all your writing :')) <3

Okay anon holy shit this is GOOD! You should think of writing yourself like what I'm seeing in this prompt is good shit :D Play the game HERE

Prompt: "If this is a joke it isn't funny."

CW: NSFW, Sub Bot Ghost, Dom Top MReader, hatefucking, degradation, confessions, soft sex,

It always starts the same; Simon's roughly patting your shoulder and telling you to not cock it up, your equally harsh response for him to keep up with you, rough voices hiding the unsaid 'be careful's. Insults like 'dumbass', 'moron', 'dead weight' crackling over the radio when the other's pinned down by fire, the electric static and suppression fire muting the worry in your voice, the hint of care in Simon's tone.

And it always ends the same; harsh stares across the room while you debrief Price, casualty numbers turning into critiques of the other— you should have noticed the terrorist, Simon should have kept the sniper in mind — prickling barbs and venomed words turning into shoves and punches, leaving bruises on each other's skin instead of the kisses you want to lay down.

Soap loves comparing you to dogs, and that's what you are— animals; talking would kill you both so you end up expressing yourselves through teeth and claws. There's blood on your tongue as you push Simon onto the bed and he pulls you down with his teeth digging into your bottom lip, rough fingers pulling away clothes only to push into bruised flesh, drawing hisses and growls.

'I want you' Ghost wants to say, instead "Stop being a pussy," comes out, blunt nails dragging deep scratches down your back. 'I'm happy you're alive' "You fuck as bad as you fight." Simon tastes blood as he kisses you, both of you struggling to pin the other to the bed.

"Shut up." 'I missed you' you snarl and pin him on his front, trapping his massive arms behind his back so he has no support, his head pushed into the pillows and arse high in the air, your thigh parting his legs. You huff a laugh when you see his cock already hard, hanging uselessly between his thighs. "Slag, good for nothing but taking it up the ass." 'I care for you'.

'You're important to me' Simon swallows the blood and spit in his mouth, jerking in a half-hearted attempt to free himself. "'least ah have a use," he growls, chest stuttering for breath as you bear down even more weight on him. You push your fingers into his mouth to wet them and Simon bites down, loving you with his teeth first, the sting of pain binding you together.

"Yeah, as a cocksleeve." 'I'm sorry' You don't give him a warning, just pull your fingers from his mouth and push into his ass. It's only enough lube to not tear him, but the stretch hurts, burns, and Simon both loves and hates how this roughness makes his cock hard and heart flutter.

"That-hah-" Ghost pants into the sheets, eyes prickling with tears with how he tries to keep them open, body forced to submit to you as your fingers stretch him, fuck him, tenderly brushing against his prostate before pushing to the last knuckle, pain and pleasure burning up his spine. "-that's not true."

Pulling out your fingers you give him a sharp slap on his ass, "Sure is," You use what saliva you have on your hand to wet your cock, swirling the drool in your mouth before you spitting right on his hole for extra wetness, your sudden action making his spasming hole clench and relax reflexively. "Look at how you're clenching." You mount him, pushing your weight down on him until he can barely breathe, cock bobbing against his hole. "Acting like such a bitch!"

You ram in him to put emphasis on the word and Simon bites his tongue so hard it bleeds, resisting letting any noises out. He's never vocal in bed, no matter how hard you fuck him, how many bruises your hips leave on his ass or how many hickeys you lay on his throat, how often your balls slap against his, he never utters more than a low groan.

But he wants to; good god Simon wants to tell you how good you feel, how every brush of your cockhead against his prostate has him seeing stars, how much he loves feeling you pound into him, who bodies bound into one by such a primal connection. . . but he can't, his mouth clamps up when he tries and even if he manages to spit something out it just comes out as venom, earning him firm slaps on his ass and your weight bearing further down on him.

You spill into him, pinning him so hard beneath your weight he can barely breathe, only remembering to rub him into an orgasm when your balls are good and empty, cock plugging his hole full of your cum. Your hands are harsh, his panting ringing in your ears until his cock twitches and he cums onto the sheets beneath him, whole body shaking to hold his moans in.

You collapse onto him, just enough sense in your head to roll you two onto your sides so he isn't laying in his spend or suffocating beneath you. Uncomfortable silence rings in your ears as you pant, bile churning in your stomach; This is your usual, soon enough Simon will tell you to shove off, he'll get up, take a piss, and leave.

And this song and dance will repeat until one of you dies.

Even without sight you feel Simon open his mouth, vestiges of harsh words burning on his tongue. Maybe it's post-orgasmic bliss that makes you speak, "Hey," Your hands tighten around his middle, "Stay the night." You curl around him like a lover; something you know you're not.

He shuts his mouth so quickly you hear the 'click' of his teeth, whole body freezing because this is as new for him as it is for you. "If this is a joke," He growls, turns his head just enough for you to catch his glare. "It's not funny."

Your tongue burns with the usual words— 'Only joke here is you' — but you don't, instead a slow and low "I'm not kidding." escapes you, like something forbidden, something to keep secret lest you get divine punishment.

Simon's mind buffers like an old computer, too many thoughts stuffing his head that he can't understand a single one. This is too far removed from the usual, hummingbirds knocking on his skull as a warning. But his body relaxes while he's still thinking, a stagnant breath escaping his lungs. "Fine."

You think of saying something, but it's better not to. Instead you huddle closer to him, still connected in a carnal way but now it feels so much more. . . intimate. Your hands wander over his toros, a gentle exploration instead of a race for release, your fingers carding through his body hair down his happy trail and up again.

Simon's head tils back to give you access to his neck, your lips soft against his skin as you kiss the bruises you'd left, both of your bodies slowly moving to close the small space between you two, urged to share your warmth.

You shift your hips, only realizing you're hard again when Simon moans. Moans. "Sorry," You duck your head, hands gripping his hips to pull out but he stops you, a rough sound in his throat.

"No," Simon doesn't look at you though the blush across his face is easy to spot. "Keep going," Tilting his hips back into yours tears a moan from both of you. Your cum eases the slide in, his walls stretched and pliant, wetly sucking you in like a needy thing.

Another time you'd have laughed at how desperate he's acting, but the low moans and a little "Fuck, just like that," you earn by rolling your hips has your mind shutting off. You can't believe how vocal he's suddenly become, getting louder the slower and gentler you move your hips, your cock slowly pushing in and out of his hole.

You bury your head in his neck and blindly stroke his leaking cock, kissing the skin under your lips, your eyes closed shut as you thrust into him slowly, your tender and slow movements pulling moan after moan out of him. His hand winds back to cup the back of your neck, pulling you up just enough to give you an awkward kiss but it's sweet and raw and so desperate—

You don't notice he's cumming until his walls clamp down on you, Simon whispering "I love you," so soft and quiet under his breath that you don't hear him, too busy filling him up a second time, but your mind buzzes with warmth all the same.

You lay as you were, somehow so exhausted that even moving an inch is anathema to you. Both of you, it seems, if the way Simon's back is warm and pliant against your chest, his breathing slow and steady. Tomorrow you'll need to talk (or do your best substitution of it), but for tonight, you can hug him close and finally have an answer to what it would feel like to have him close without the sex, to just be with him. . .

#Gnome's Prompt Game #cod mw2 #x reader #gnome correspondence #male reader #top male reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x male reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod smut #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #trinckets of the hoard

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ahamkara-apologist · 11 months ago

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finally got the chance to draw so I kinda went ham with drawing up a headcanon sheet for the Eliksni, in which I blatantly disregarded the canon skintones and just had fun (i don't really enjoy how pink they are in canon personally- I think they should have more natural colour variation)

Some notes:

-The freckles on Eramis and Variks are just freckles, they're not due to age. As for the alarming amount of minor scratches scarred into Eramis's neck and, to an extent, Misraaks- those are marks from hatchling claws! They're traditionally considered marks of beauty and wisdom in Eliksni society. Eramis has many to mirror her many litters, while Misraaks only has a couple from Eido

-I drew everyone but Taniks bald because I drew Taniks first and then realized later that it kinda obscured my hcs for their individual head shapes, so their setae is on the bottom. Setae is someting that only fully sexually mature adults develop, and is much closer in texture to a horse's mane than human hair. It also runs all the way down the back of their neck, much like a mane, and in some cases (like Taniks) has barbs or hooks along its strands so that ornaments can be woven into it, which is inspiration that I took from decorator crabs

-Eramis's facial scars were given to her by a Guardian at Twilight Gap, and are deep enough that they cut into her nasal cavity. Luckily, it's right near the nostrils anyways so she isn't impacted too bad, but she does have to be careful about keeping it clear of debris. Deep in her eye sockets, she's also had some electrodes installed that link to sensors in her helmet and give her little buzzes/shocks whenever something passes in front of it to help compensate for being half-blind, but it's a pretty crude device that doesn't work all that well on small objects

-Each Eliksni's ethnicity is written below their names, which is why Eido has a question mark. She's a mixed kid- try to guess which Houses her parents might have been from ::3

-The horns/shoulder spines were extra spikes of mineralized chitin that were common on adults in Riis, and were traits that were lost during the Drift. They often were calcium/mineral stores used to show age and fitness, but since resources in Sol are scarce, they no longer grow during molts. Riisborn Eliksni still have horn nubs, but that's about it

-As for the sexual dimorphism thing: that's more just me musing about how slight it would be with my hcs about their reproduction (which involves females laying fertilized eggs into a specialized broodpouch in the male, who then builds on their yolk supply and gives them the calcium needed to form eggshells, and thus needs to be bigger). When given actual Eliksni with a natural range of bodily variation, it would be near-impossible to distinguish them

#destiny 2 #my art #alien specbio #the eliksni #eliksni #the fallen #eramis #taniks the scarred #misraaks #mithrax #eido #variks

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babyboyhotchner · 3 months ago

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PRINCESS ⋆ CASEY NOVAK

YOUR HONOR, MY PRINCESS

description: casey loves calling you her princess. pairing: casey x fem!reader. wc: 3.8

The first time you met Casey Novak, it was in a courtroom - two opposing forces, both relentless, both unwilling to back down.

You had walked in late, not because you were unprepared, far from it - but because you understood the power of an entrance. The soft click of your designer stilettos echoed against the marble floors, drawing more than a few glances from the jury and even the judge. You were dressed in a blush-coloured, curve-hugging dress, the kind that some might have called inappropriate for a courtroom setting. But you knew better. It wasn’t just fabric - it was armour, a weapon, a carefully calculated statement.

Casey had looked up from her neatly organized legal pad, her emerald eyes narrowing slightly as she assessed you. She was the very picture of discipline, clad in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, her auburn hair pinned back in a way that was both practical and devastatingly elegant. There was no reaction on her face, no raised brow or flicker of amusement - just sharp, professional scrutiny. And then, just for a second, something else. A flicker of intrigue, perhaps, before she quickly masked it with her usual stoic expression.

“Your Honor,” you said smoothly as you reached the plaintiff’s table, sliding into your chair with effortless grace. “Apologies for the delay. Traffic was murder.”

Judge Petrov barely spared you a glance over his reading glasses. He had seen your theatrics before. “Cut the dramatics, counsel. Proceed.”

From the defense table, Casey let out a barely audible scoff. “Glad to see your priorities are in order,” she murmured just loud enough for you to hear, eyes still fixed on her notes.

You turned your head slightly, a slow smirk creeping onto your lips. “Why, Casey, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous of my grand entrance.”

She didn’t even look at you. “I’m just wondering if you plan to present a legal argument at any point today, or if we should just sit back and enjoy the performance.”

Oh, she was good.

The courtroom quickly became your battleground.

Casey was calculated and methodical, every argument laid out with impeccable logic and precision. She wielded legal precedent like a scalpel, dissecting opposing arguments with brutal efficiency. There was no room for theatrics in her world - only the unshakable foundation of the law.

You, on the other hand, thrived in the unpredictable. You spoke to the jury like they were old friends, weaving emotion and narrative into your arguments in a way that made them forget they were even listening to a legal proceeding. Where Casey relied on hard facts, you built stories, turning cases into living, breathing things.

“You can’t seriously expect the court to entertain this,” Casey said one afternoon, irritation evident in the slight crease between her brows. The case was a heated one, and you had just made a rather unexpected move, throwing in an argument that wasn’t in any of your filings.

“Why not?” You tilted your head, the picture of innocence. “Afraid they might agree with me?”

She let out a slow exhale, her lips pressing together in a way that told you she was trying very hard not to lose her temper. “I’m afraid they might mistake your performance for substance.”

You feigned a wounded expression, placing a delicate hand over your chest. “Ouch, counselor. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to hurt my feelings.”

The judge cleared his throat, clearly unimpressed with your back-and-forth, but the jury? They were eating it up. And, if you weren’t mistaken, so was Casey - whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Outside the courtroom, the tension only grew stronger.

Your paths crossed constantly—at depositions, in courthouse hallways, at late-night coffee shops where you both stopped to refuel after hours of casework. At first, your conversations were all barbed wire and sharp edges, each of you poking at the other’s weak spots, testing limits. But slowly, something shifted. The teasing became less about cutting each other down and more about… something else.

One evening, after a particularly brutal case, you found yourselves alone in the courthouse hallway. The trial had been grueling, and though Casey had technically won, you had made her fight for every inch.

“You fought hard today,” she admitted, surprising you.

You turned to her, watching as she leaned back against the cold marble wall, arms crossed but not in a defensive way. She looked tired, her usual perfectly polished demeanor slightly frayed at the edges.

“Well, I had to give you a challenge,” you said, offering her a small smirk. “Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re exhausting.”

“Yet you keep showing up.”

Casey glanced at you then, her green eyes lingering just a little too long. Something unspoken passed between you, something charged and dangerous and completely inevitable.

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she just sighed, pushing herself off the wall. “Don’t stay too late,” she murmured before walking away.

But you both knew that wasn’t the end of it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The room felt suffocating with heat, the heavy scent of leather-bound law books and aged whiskey mixing with the intoxicating aroma of her presence. The golden glow from her desk lamp cast long shadows, emphasizing the sharp angles of Casey’s face, the way her lips curled in that dangerous smirk.

"You really shouldn’t look at me like that," she murmured, her voice low, warning-laced, but still with that signature authority. She leaned back against the desk, arms crossed, her loosened tie hanging carelessly, enticingly, around her neck.

"Like what?" You took a step closer, smirking, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. The subtle, yet unmistakable scent of your perfume curled around both of you, only amplifying the growing heat.

"Like you want something from me."

Your fingers brushed over the edge of her tie, trailing deliberately down its length. "And if I do?"

Her breath caught for just a moment. You saw it in the way her eyes narrowed, how the composure she worked so hard to maintain cracked just a little, revealing the smouldering hunger beneath.

Casey’s voice dropped, thick and rough. "You’re such a goddamn tease." Her grip tightened on your wrist - not rough, but firm - holding you in place. Her thumb ran circles against your pulse, each movement sending a shockwave of heat through your body.

"You like it," you whispered, eyes locking onto hers.

A wicked chuckle escaped her lips, low and dark, and she pulled you in closer, her body just a breath away from yours.

"I fucking love it," she confessed, the words rougher now, heavy with need. There was no distance anymore between you, only heat, the kind that burned, the kind that could never be sated by anything but each other.

"But you’re not in control here, Princess."

The nickname fell from her lips like a challenge, a command - a reminder.

Her hands slid down your dress, slow and deliberate, as if to savor the fabric beneath her fingertips, as if she wanted to leave a mark, to claim you.

"You wear this just to drive me insane, don’t you?" Her voice was barely a whisper against your ear. "Wearing my favorite color, knowing exactly how to make me lose control."

The air around you felt charged, every word heavy, every gesture deliberate. The tension that had been building between you for months was finally snapping.

"You should have better self-control," you teased, but your voice betrayed you - thin, breathless, caught in the web of her pull.

Casey’s smirk was dark, knowing. "Oh, sweetheart. You’re the one who’s going to be begging me soon."

Her hands gripped your hips, pulling you hard against her, the edge of the desk digging into your thighs as she closed the remaining space between you, her thigh pressing firmly between yours.

"I’ve been patient for months," she growled, her voice a low rasp as her lips brushed against your ear. "Watching you parade around, flaunting yourself, taunting me in front of everyone." Her breath was hot against your skin. "Flirting with me in front of the whole damn courtroom, just to see if I’d crack."

Her grip on your throat was sudden, firm, but not enough to choke, just enough to remind you of her power.

You gasped, the weight of her touch sending a thrill racing through your veins.

"Guess what, Princess?" she murmured, her lips hovering just over your ear. "You win."

And then, suddenly, urgently, her lips crashed into yours. There was nothing soft about it. Her kiss was a demand, taking everything from you, claiming you, pulling you deeper and deeper under her spell. Her teeth grazed your lips, nipping, pulling, urging you to respond, to surrender, to melt.

And you did.

You didn’t just kiss her back - you submitted.

When she pulled back, there was a brief moment of clarity. Her eyes were molten with desire, a cruel, predatory hunger dancing in the depths. Her fingers found your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at her.

Her thumb brushed over your lips, her gaze locking with yours.

"Pathetic," she muttered under her breath, a slight shake of her head as she looked down at you.

Before you could react, she gripped your chin, forcing your mouth open with surprising force. Your pulse quickened, heart hammering in your chest, breath caught in your throat. You stared at her, wide-eyed, and before you could fully comprehend what was happening, she leaned in - slowly, deliberately - and spit into your waiting mouth.

It was warm, slick, and thick, a tangible mark of her ownership, her control over you.

For a heartbeat, you froze.

Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she waited, her grip still tight on your jaw, forcing you to swallow.

"Swallow," she commanded, the word sharp, final.

You obeyed.

A thrill ran through you as the taste lingered in your mouth, a reminder of who you were with. Who you belonged to.

"Good girl," Casey murmured, her voice low and rough as she leaned in to kiss you again - this time softer, slower, savouring the moment. But there was nothing gentle in it. It was a reminder, a claim, marking you as hers.

You were breathless, your knees weak beneath you. The sensation of her lips on yours was dizzying, overwhelming.

Her voice dropped even lower, the words curling in your mind, leaving an imprint.

"By the time I’m done with you, you won’t remember how to stand, let alone how to breathe."

Her fingers slid back to your throat, pressing, not hard enough to crush, but enough to make your pulse flutter, enough to steal your breath.

"You’re mine now, Princess."

And you knew, deep down, that tonight - Casey Novak would ruin you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The drive to her penthouse was suffocating in its silence, every second dragging out in unbearable tension. The atmosphere in the car was thick with unspoken words, heated glances, and the lingering electricity of what had happened in her office earlier. You could still feel the imprint of her touch on your skin, the way her voice had dropped low and dangerous as she’d leaned in close, her presence leaving you breathless. Now, as you sat beside her, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against your thighs, you couldn’t stop the restless movement of your fingers in your lap. Each stolen glance at her - the tight set of her jaw, the way her knuckles whitened against the steering wheel - only made the ache between your legs worse.

When she finally pulled into the parking garage, the tension between you was palpable, like a coiled spring ready to snap. She didn’t say a word as she stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete floor. You followed her lead, your heart hammering in your chest as you hurried to keep up with her determined strides. The elevator ride to her penthouse was no better, the enclosed space amplifying every subtle shift in her stance. You could feel her heat, her restrained power, as she stood beside you, her lips pressed into a thin line.

By the time you stepped inside her penthouse, the heavy click of the door shutting felt like the finality of a lock snapping into place. The second the sound echoed through the space, she turned to you, her eyes blazing with intensity. Her lips were on yours in an instant, her kiss hot, demanding, and utterly consuming. There was nothing soft about it - her teeth tugged at your bottom lip, her tongue invading your mouth with a ferocity that left you gasping. Her hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against her, the cool leather of her jacket pressing against your arms as her knee slid between your legs. The pressure against your core was enough to make you whimper, the sound swallowed by her relentless kiss.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were red and swollen, her breath coming in heavy pants. Her hands didn’t loosen their hold on you, her nails digging into your skin just hard enough to send a delicious shiver down your spine. “You’ve been teasing me all fucking night,” she growled, her voice low and dangerous, each word vibrating against your lips. “That little dress, the way you crossed your legs in front of me like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. But it’s over now. You’re mine.”

Her grip on your wrist was firm as she led you toward the bedroom, the pace of her steps leaving no room for hesitation. The fabric of your dress brushed against your thighs as you stumbled after her, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor. You barely had time to take in the room - the sleek lines of the furniture, the muted tones of the décor—before she spun you around, her hands gripping your shoulders as she backed you up against the wall.

“Strip,” she ordered, her voice slicing through the charged silence like a whip.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the raw authority in her tone. But the look in her eyes - sharp and unyielding - left no room for defiance. Your fingers moved to the zipper at the back of your dress, the soft hiss of the fabric splitting filling the room. The dress slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but the lace panties and heels you’d chosen that morning without realizing just how much they’d matter now.

“Faster,” she snapped, her gaze fixed on you like a predator sizing up its prey. “I don’t have all night.”

You hurried to obey, kicking off your heels and peeling the delicate lace down your legs until you were completely bare before her. The weight of her stare was almost unbearable, her eyes raking over you with a hunger that made your skin burn.

“Good girl,” she murmured finally, a slow, predatory smile curling her lips. “So fucking perfect. But not nearly perfect enough. You’ll look better covered in my marks.”

Before you could respond, she was on you again, her hand gripping your chin and tilting your head back to meet her gaze. “You don’t speak unless I tell you to,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Understand?”

“Yes, Casey,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips.

Her smirk widened, and she leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear. “That’s what I like to hear.”

She pushed you back toward the bed with an unrelenting force, her hands rough and purposeful. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, she shoved you down, her strength undeniable.

“Lie back,” she commanded, her voice brooking no argument. “Hands above your head.”

Your heart pounded as you complied, your body trembling with anticipation as you stretched out beneath her. The cool air brushed against your skin, making every nerve ending come alive.

She climbed onto the bed, her knees bracketing your hips, her hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. The weight of her body against yours was intoxicating, her power undeniable as she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear.

“You don’t get to decide anything tonight,” she whispered, her voice a dark promise. “Not how hard, not how fast. You’ll take whatever I give you, and you’ll fucking love it.”

Her words sent a shiver down your spine, your body arching beneath her as her hands trailed down your arms and over your chest. When her fingers reached your throat, she wrapped them around it, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. The sensation was heady, the mix of pleasure and control making your pulse race.

“You like this,” she murmured, her lips ghosting over your jaw. “Being at my mercy. Knowing you’re completely mine.”

Her hand slid lower, her nails dragging over your skin and leaving faint red trails in their wake. When her fingers finally slipped between your thighs, you gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily against her touch.

“Pathetic,” she sneered, her voice laced with mockery. “So fucking desperate. You’ll beg for it, won’t you?”

“Yes, Casey,” you moaned, your voice barely audible as she pressed her fingers against your slick heat.

Her smirk widened, and she leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered, “Good. Now, let’s see how much you can take.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Casey’s fingers slid between your thighs, unapologetically exploring the wet heat there, her touch firm and unrelenting. She didn’t hesitate, parting your folds with an ease that had your back arching off the bed. Her lips curled into a smug smile as she felt how soaked you were, the evidence of your need coating her fingertips.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice dripping with condescension. "So fucking wet already, and I’ve barely touched you. You’re practically begging for me to ruin you."

You whimpered, your legs trembling as she pressed her fingers deeper, teasing your entrance but not giving you the satisfaction of her full touch. She was deliberate, controlled, and maddeningly slow, her fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk, but not enough to send you over the edge.

"You’re such a needy little slut," she growled, her free hand sliding up your body to cup your breast, her thumb brushing over your hardened nipple. "I bet you’ve been dripping for me since the moment I told you to strip. Haven’t you?"

"Yes," you gasped, your voice shaking as her teeth grazed your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you cry out.

"That’s right," she hissed against your skin, her lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. "You fucking love being at my mercy. You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?"

"Yes, Casey," you moaned, your voice breaking as she slid a single finger inside you, the intrusion making your breath hitch.

"God, you’re so tight," she muttered, her tone rough with desire. "I could fuck you with my fingers all night and still never get enough of the way you squeeze me."

Her pace quickened, her finger pumping into you with an unrelenting rhythm, curling just right to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. When she added a second finger, you couldn’t stop the shameless moan that tore from your throat, your body writhing beneath her as she fucked you deeper.

"That’s it," she purred, her thumb pressing against your clit in perfect tandem with her thrusts. "Take it like the good little whore you are. Don’t you dare hold back - I want to hear every filthy sound that comes out of your mouth."

Your head fell back against the mattress, your hands still pinned above you as she worked you with ruthless precision. Her mouth was everywhere - biting, licking, sucking - leaving marks in her wake that you knew would linger for days.

"Look at you," she sneered, her voice filled with mockery as she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "So fucking desperate for me. You’re a mess, you know that? Pathetic and perfect, all at the same time."

Her free hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at her as she increased the pace of her fingers, the slick sounds of her movements filling the room. "You’re mine," she growled, her breath hot against your lips. "Every inch of you. Your body, your mind, your fucking soul - every part of you belongs to me now."

Her words sent you hurtling toward the edge, your body trembling as the pressure built inside you, threatening to break. You could barely think, barely breathe, every nerve ending focused on her and the way she was unraveling you piece by piece.

But just as you felt yourself tip over the edge, her hand stilled, her fingers pulling out of you entirely.

You whimpered in protest, your hips bucking in search of relief, but she only smirked, shaking her head. "Oh no, Princess," she said, her tone dangerously low. "You don’t get to come until I say so. Beg for it."

"Please," you gasped, your voice desperate as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. "Please, Casey, I need it."

She laughed, a dark, wicked sound that sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. "That’s not good enough," she said, leaning down to press her lips to your ear. "I want to hear you beg like the filthy little slut you are. Tell me how badly you need me to make you come."

"Please, Casey," you whimpered, your voice breaking as you looked up at her, your cheeks flushed and your chest heaving. "I need it. I need you to fuck me, to make me come. Please, I’ll do anything."

Her smirk widened, her teeth flashing as she leaned in closer, her breath ghosting over your lips. "That’s better," she murmured, her fingers slipping between your thighs once more, this time with an unrelenting intensity that had you crying out.

"Now, be a good girl and come for me," she commanded, her tone laced with dark satisfaction as her fingers worked you with ruthless precision.

And when you finally shattered beneath her touch, she didn’t let up, her hands and mouth dragging you through wave after wave of pleasure until you were trembling and utterly wrecked beneath her.

"You belong to me," she whispered against your skin, her voice a dark, possessive promise. "And I’ll make damn sure you never forget it."

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