#I’ve truly gone off the deep end now

[thyknife]

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 3

in which spencer reid spends a rainy day teaching inexperienced fem!reader how to touch him. of course, her efforts don't go unrecognized, much less unrewarded

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings: inexperienced reader, softdom!spencer, sub reader, oral m receiving, reader swallows lol, a truly sickening amount of praise, like really, you JOKINGLY refer to each other as dirty sluts, r has longish hair, spit mentioned once, thigh riding (moans loudly), its filthy idk what to tell you, i feel like i've crossed the desert on foot i don't even know what else is in here, your honor they're in love, i take you to dinner first, this part is stupidly long a/n: had a fucking field day the three separate times i had to rewrite this el oh el... but think i like how it turned out?! anyway, if u like this PLS lmk bc writing it took a small piece of my soul, and yes there will be a part four!! take care of yourselves!! i love you!!!

You give Spencer half a minute or so before knocking on his door for a second time. 

It’s miserable outside, and though the hallway you’re standing in now isn’t terribly cold, you’d much prefer to be in Spencer’s apartment, where it will be the same toasty 68.5 degrees as always. Not that the heating will magically dry you. And not that you’ll be there for long, if the date you’d scheduled last week goes on as planned. 

You’re getting worried, about to knock for a third time when the locks finally click and the door opens to reveal a disheveled Spencer Reid—not at all looking ready for a date. You take in his ensemble; blue checked pajama pants, FBI Academy crewneck, the usual questionably paired socks. He’s rubbing his droopy eyes, which slowly widen as he notices your attire. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, our date! I mean—you look really nice. I look… like this. Why don’t you come in while I get ready to go?”

He holds the door open a little wider and you step through, relishing in the familiar warmth as you pull your hood down and excess water droplets spatter on the ground. 

��When did you get in?” you ask, hanging your raincoat up on a hook. You know he’d wrapped up a case yesterday evening, but you’d gone to sleep before the team left Cincinnati. 

Spencer pauses in the middle of the room, staring at the antique flooring like he forgot what he was doing. 

“Uh… four hours ago.”

“Wh—four hours? Spencer, you must be exhausted.”

He laughs awkwardly, running a tired hand over his face. 

“I mean… I’ve definitely felt better.”

You kick your soaked shoes off and cross the room until you’re toe to toe with him. Immediately his hands settle on your waist and yours find his arms. His eyes are kind, and he’s clearly pleased by your presence despite his lack of energy. 

“The weather’s terrible, anyway. Let’s just go out another day.”

His features have softened and you can see how tired he truly is—not just in his bleary eyes, but the way his fingers grasp weakly to you, the way his head bows slightly. It seems bone-deep. 

“But I haven’t seen you in a week. I don’t want you to go home.”

Your lips twist. A clap of thunder rolls in the distance and the rain starts coming down even harder against the windowpanes. 

“We could hang out here. We can take a nap!”

Spencer sighs—half resignation, half disappointment. 

“But we made such good plans,” he laments. 

You kiss his cheek. 

“Plans that can be rescheduled. The bookstore will still be there next weekend.”

It takes him a moment to settle into the idea, but you watch the exhaustion win. 

“Okay. But no nap. I want to be awake for you. Coffee?”

You nod enthusiastically, beaming at the prospect of getting to spend the day doing nothing with him. Spencer mirrors your grin, before pressing a kiss to your head.

“You’re so cute.” Heat creeps into your cheeks and you can’t think of a satisfactory reply, but in the end you don’t need to, as he tugs gently on your hands. “C’mon. Tell me what mug you want.”

The kitchen counter bites into your palms as you lean with your back to it, watching Spencer putter all around the kitchen as he works on the coffee. It makes you tired just to watch. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap? Caffeine isn’t a substitute for sleep, you know.”

“I do know,” he agrees, measuring coffee grounds. “But other than last night, I actually slept fairly well this week.”

“You seem exhausted.”

“I… am tired in lots of ways. Not all of which can be resolved with more sleep.” he admits.

Your heart drops ever so slightly at the way his voice weakens as he looks through the fridge. Sometimes you remember there are still things you don’t know about him—sides you haven’t met. His work side is one of them, and it more than a little intimidates you.

“Bad case?” you ask, voice quiet and crackling with nervous energy. 

Spencer nods, approaching and setting a carton of milk on the counter behind you—caging you in with his arms in the process. It’s hard to find the words when he’s this close, but you manage to stumble through them. 

“Do… do you wanna talk about it?”

Spencer hums, tilting his head before gently saying, “not right now. But thank you for offering, lovely.”

“Okay, well—if you change your mind… if there’s anything I can do to make you feel better…”

Finally he stops with the teasing—the unabashed staring at your lips, the faux-attentive nods—and drops his head to your level to kiss you properly. It’s obviously an attempt to get you to shut up, you’re not dumb enough so as to miss that—but you don’t really care why he’s doing it so long as he does it at all. 

“I feel pretty great right now, actually,” he murmurs against your lips, a hint of a smile coloring his words. “Do you want sugar in yours?”

“Um…”

Your eyes dart helplessly between his as he pulls away and you struggle to un-fluster yourself enough to answer his simple question. Spencer seems to delight in this. The longer it takes you, the bigger his perfect smile gets. 

“You took too long. You’re getting sugar.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” you plead later on the couch, for the third or fourth time, setting your mostly-empty mug on the coffee table. 

His eyebrows raise. 

“I’m sure, honey.”

“But I want to help,” you pout, pulling your knees into your chest. Spencer regards you for a moment from the other end of the couch, before beckoning you closer wordlessly. 

“You are helping,” he assures you, gently grabbing your wrist as you crawl into his lap. He rubs soothing circles into the delicate skin with his thumb. “You being here and being you is plenty.”

It’s the closest you’ve been to him since before he left, and while you’ve all but given up on asking him to sleep with you, it doesn’t mean you don’t think about it multiple times per day. It’s especially difficult to keep your thoughts PG when you haven’t seen him in a week, and his hair is all messy, and he’s got his pajamas on, and you’re in his lap, and he’s looking at you like that. 

“What are you thinking about?” Spencer murmurs, likely concerned by your lack of response and the glazed-over look in your eyes. You reanimate, averting your gaze to the spot on your thigh he’s now rubbing absentmindedly. 

“Nothing. I just missed you.”

“I missed you a lot, too.” You don’t even have to look up to know that his brows have twisted into a pleasant sort of bemusement, like you are a particularly complex puzzle—you can hear it as he continues speaking. “I’m still not used to having something external take up so much of my attention while I’m trying to do my job. I’ve never had that before. Not something good, anyway. It’s like every time I leave, I’m thinking about you more than the time before. And I was already thinking about you a lot.”

The corner of your mouth twitches as he rambles. 

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he chuckles. “You prove to be incredibly distracting even when you’re hundreds of miles away. Do you know how many nights I almost called you before realizing it was one in the morning?”

A slow smile spreads over your face. 

“Oh? Whatever could you have been calling about at one in the morning?”

You’re teasing him, and it works. He blushes adorably. 

“Um… probably exactly what you’d expect. In hindsight I think it’s best that I refrained.”

“What?” You grin, incredulous, forgetting your shyness and leaning closer. “You totally should’ve. I’ve never had phone sex before. I would’ve done it.”

“No, you wouldn’t!” Spencer laughs. “It would have just been me talking to myself with you on the other line. I don’t think phone sex is really up your alley.”

“Shut up,” you laugh as your lips meet. He smiles into the kiss. Before you get too lost in it, you pull away, leaning back when he tries to follow you. “I think you’re over-complicating it. It’s just dirty talk, right? I can totally do that. It’s just, like… blah blah blah, dirty slut, something something…”

You trail off as he gives you a look. Poker faced—aside from the slightly narrowed eyes sparkling with humor. 

“You want me to refer to you as a dirty slut?”

Maintaining eye contact is an uphill battle—you crack in a matter of seconds, resting your forehead against his and closing your eyes stubbornly. 

“No. For all you know I want to call you a dirty slut.”

It’s ridiculous, but he recognizes the bravado for what it is, still smiling slightly as he rubs your hips. 

“Right. I apologize for assuming. But just for future reference, I don’t want to be called that, and I don’t think I’d be comfortable calling you that, either.”

“But you can call me other stuff,” you remind your boyfriend, pulling back and still not looking at him. 

“Yeah? Like what?”

And just like that, you’re shy again. 

“I don’t know… nice things. I like when you’re nice.”

“I like being nice to you.” It’s so sincere-sounding that you meet his gaze, examining his face. His eyes are clear and soft on you, the only source of warm light on such a grey day, as his hands keep running slow lines over your sides. “Kiss?”

And how could you ever deny him anything? 

As has happened before, the kiss starts out innocent enough. And it’s not that it gets particularly heated, or anything—it’s just that it doesn’t end, and after a few moments your mouth slips open and so does his and that’swhat gets both of you worked up over a period of minutes. Pressure and heat that you’re becoming accustomed to build between your legs, and you don’t even notice that you’ve begun rocking back and forth in his lap until Spencer is attempting to still your hips with patient but assertive hands. 

“Honey, that’s—slow down, sweetheart.”

Finally he gets a grip on you and you realize as soon as you stop moving that there had been friction occurring—and you’re pretty damn sure you know what you were grinding against. 

Your whole body feels hot with arousal and embarrassment. 

“Oh my god—I’m sorry,” you mumble, moving your hands from his shoulders to cover your face. “That was an accident, I—”

“It’s fine,” Spencer assures you, squeezing your waist gently. “I just wanted to make sure you knew what you were doing because I know we haven’t… gotten there, yet.”

A moment passes—your hands fall to the FBI stitching across his chest, studying the letters without really seeing them. You haven’t gotten there yet… but why not? Why haven’t you touched him, or even seen him? You think back to the few times he’s touched you and realize that you had been too busy with either your own insecurities or pleasure to genuinely consider how it might be affecting him. He says your name gently, drawing your attention. 

“You okay?”

You nod haltingly, brow furrowed as you think. 

“I—yeah. I was just realizing that I haven’t, like… touched you, yet.”

It’s silent for another long second, and you glance up, to where he’s studying you with a dissonant kind of relaxed scrutiny—a knowing confidence that probably comes with a lot more experience than you have. 

“Do you want to?”

Woah. 

Usually you have to beg on hands and knees and prepare a slideshow presentation before he agrees to doing anything sexual in nature. He’s never so overtly invited or initiated it before. Not that you’re complaining by any stretch of the imagination.  

You nod shyly, still fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. 

“If you want to, I can show you how. But it’s also absolutely okay if you don’t.”

Show you how? 

Your brain is melting into sludge at the idea. 

“I do,” you admit, meeting his gaze again. It’s kind, and you know he really wouldn’t be upset if you said no—but now that you’ve thought about it, you feel deeply compelled to try. 

“Okay. Come here, first.” You lean forward expectantly, eyes fluttering shut as his hand finds the back of your neck and he pulls you into another soft kiss. By the time your lips separate again, your head is spinning. “We’re just trying something, okay? You’re allowed to stop whenever you feel like it. Really low stakes. Got it?”

You nod, still close enough that your noses brush as you do. 

“Got it.”

He presses one more chaste kiss to your lips before pulling away and leaning back into the couch. 

“Scoot back a little, angel.”

Wordlessly you do so, heart pounding with nervous excitement as he lifts his hips and slides his pajama pants down just enough to where he can comfortably pull himself out, and—

Your breath catches. 

Now, you may be about as virginal as they come, but you weren’t born yesterday. You’ve seen porn, you’ve received unsolicited nudes—it is the 21st century. Yet never before have you thought to yourself; wow, that dick is the pinnacle of beauty. Perfect. Breathtaking. But there’s just no other way to describe him. 

So that’s what hits you first—how unexpectedly pretty it is. 

The size sinks in a quick second later. 

You can’t tell with perfect accuracy how many inches he is, but you’re pretty damn sure he’s big. That’s meant to fit inside of you?

No, no—that’s a consideration for another day. Right now you need to stop staring like an idiot. You glance up at his face, and he’s sporting a cocky little half-smile which lets you know you’ve been caught. Motherfucker he’s so hot. It’s unnerving. 

“Do you have something you’d like to say?” he asks politely, quite obviously containing his amusement. But you can’t summon a sufficiently sarcastic response. 

Your voice comes so soft when you reply, “you’re pretty.”

Spencer melts, eyes impossibly softening. 

“Pretty?” His smile is earnest now. He strokes your cheek and you can’t not lean into his touch. 

“Mhm. I want to, um…” your lips twist to the side as you look back down, finding he’s not gotten less intimidating since you last checked. “But what if I’m bad at it?” you whisper. He chuckles, brushing hair over your shoulder.  

“It’s kind of a hard thing to be bad at. And I’m gonna help you, okay?”

It’s the honesty with which he speaks to you that makes you feel so safe. There are no hidden intentions or words that seem to mean one thing but really mean another. Spencer wants you as a person more than he wants you as a body and that’s been clear since the first time he touched you. You take a deep breath. 

“Okay. What do I do?”

“First, you’re gonna spit in your hand.”

You look up, alarmed. 

“You want me to intentionally get my spit on you? Is that not your worst nightmare?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not super worried about yours,” he teases. “But if you’d prefer, I can spit in your hand.”

“Actually, mine is fine,” you laugh nervously. 

Hesitantly, you do as instructed, even though it seems frankly bizarre. 

“Good. Now just wrap your hand around it, like this.” His voice is quiet, focused as he guides your hand downward. Your heart rate ticks up again as he encourages you to wrap your hand around the base of his cock. He feels much warmer than you’d expected—his skin is silken beneath your touch but he’s undeniably hard and that sort of eliminates any sense of him being fragile from the equation. 

“It’s gonna be less sensitive down here—and then, up here—” he slides your hand back up, covering your thumb with his own and swiping it just below the head of his cock on the underside. He hisses and you look up in fascination. “That’s the most sensitive part.”

Without further instruction, you do it again, keeping your touch light and watching his face for a reaction. His drawn brows twitch, furrowing deeper for a second, and his lips part. A heavy exhalation passes between them and quickly builds into a breathy laugh. 

“What?” you murmur, over-eager to please and very nervous to do something wrong. 

“Nothing. Just feels good, that’s all.”

“Don’t laugh,” you pout. Of course that makes him laugh again, and he leans forward to kiss your head. 

“I’m laughing at myself, angel. I’m a grown man fighting for my life from a handjob that you’ve barely started. I knew it would be different with you but I didn’t realize it would be this different.”

Heat rises in your cheeks and you look away. 

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not lying,” he urges, grabbing your free hand and encouraging you to uncurl your fingers. His thumb traces circles in your open palm, before capturing your entire hand in his. “Do you feel how much softer your hand is than mine?”

You frown, attempting to feel whatever it is that he’s pointing out. Despite the fact that you think he has very nice hands, you realize he’s right. By no means would you say that they’re rough, but you can tell where his gun normally sits in his hands, where his fountain pen rubs against his fingers. “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Anything you do is going to be perfect because it’s you.”

Spencer drops his hand to your leg, rubbing it soothingly. The other moves to cover yours—the one wrapped around him. 

“You’re gonna help me, right?” you ask quietly. Some adventurous part of you is very excited about this as an experiment—fascinated by the reactions you’ve already gotten from him and eager to push it. 

“I am. Little bit tighter, honey. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

You do as you’re told, and he’s murmuring more praise—slowly encouraging you to begin moving your hand with his own. A shaky exhale catches your attention, drawing your gaze to his face. His eyes are, of course, cast downward, but his expression is hypnotizing. Those lips remain slightly parted, and suddenly you wonder if he makes noises like you do. In that moment it becomes your life’s mission to find out. 

For a while you continue letting his hand guide your movements, but he keeps things so slow for your sake that you’re getting impatient. You forgo his direction, picking up the pace but trying to keep the rhythm he’d instilled in the motion. His hand slackens around yours. 

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself. The hand on your thigh rubs achingly deeper into the flesh. “Angel, what are you doing?”

“I want it to feel good.” Suddenly shy again, you slow down. His hips stutter, which you think may be a sign that it was working. “Am I—was that bad?” Spencer looses a breath, looking almost… frustrated?

“No, I’m just—I’m weirdly close to coming.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Well,” he mutters, “not usually. Mostly it’s embarrassing.”

You giggle, a release of some tension, and begin pumping your hand again. His breath hitches and he finally looks up at you, meeting your eyes with his own lust-glazed ones. Heat pools deep between your legs. 

“I want you to come,” you admit quietly as you twist your wrist, brushing that spot underneath the head of his cock again. His jaw literally drops, and a look that is part confusion, part pleasure, twists his features. You see the surprise sparkling in his eyes and it only spurs you to keep talking. “I’ve never seen how you look when you do, but I’ve imagined it. I bet you look so pretty when you come, Spencer. ‘Nd then I would know that I can make you feel good, too.”

“You… you are making me feel good,” he assures you. The way his brow furrows and his  lips are parted give you a feeling that’s entirely new. Normally, you’re the one falling apart under his touch—but when it’s the other way around there’s a whole new kind of pleasure in it for you. You feel kind of powerful. Maybe even close to confident. 

“Really? I’m not this quiet when you touch me.”

“I’ve ha—ah—had more practice not making noise.”

“But why?” you implore, ignoring the fact that he’s slept with other women and enjoyed the sounds they made, and opting to brush your thumb across that extra sensitive part he definitely shouldn’t have told you about. His hips buck up and he hisses, which is immensely gratifying to you. 

“Because I like to listen.”

“What if I do, too?”

In a moment of divine inspiration , you cover the tip of his cock with your hand, swirling beads of pre-come over your palm. Spencer moans and his hips jut up into your grip. It’s a beautiful sound, just as you’d hoped. 

“Jesus, fuck.”

You understand why he seems to enjoy touching you so much. It’s so rewarding to watch as his breathing picks up and pleasure contorts his face—to watch him get messier and messier and lose his composure a bit more with each stroke of your hand. It’s so simple but Spencer looks at you like you’re exercising some arcane deviant power over him and he’s not sure he should be enjoying it as much as he is. 

Distantly you think about how it felt when he had his hands on you—and then, in clearer focus, how it felt when he went down on you. Both were perfect, but something about his lips so gentle on the most intimate, vulnerable part of you had felt like ascension. Maybe it was the emotional component, or maybe it just felt fucking good. Regardless, it seems an irresistible thought. 

You keep stroking him until his head is lolling on the back of the couch as he groans.

“Spencer?”

“Yeah, baby?”

He sounds so destroyed it makes you clench around nothing. Without any indication that you’re going to do so, you stop touching him, and the speed with which he lifts his head again is almost comical. Immediately, while he’s utterly defenseless and desperate, you ask, “can I use my mouth?” 

His eyes widen, and then shut, as he processes your request with a tiny shake of his head—probably trying to clear the haze of pleasure from his mind before he answers. 

“Honey,” he rasps eventually, opening his eyes and smoothing a hand over your hair, “you don’t have to do that just because I do. That’s not why I do it.”

“But I want to,” you murmur, shy and mildly embarrassed by what feels almost like a soft rejection. “I don’t think I could do anything, like, mind-blowing, but… I want to try.”

Your face is hot by the end of the sentence, and you can’t meet Spencer’s eyes as his fingers twitch over your hip. A quiet moment passes—but it’s short-lived.

“Okay. Go ahead, baby.”

Wide eyes dart up to his. 

“Really?”

Spencer smiles fondly, brushing an invisible speck from your cheek. 

“I don’t think I’m capable of turning that offer down. Not when it’s you.”

“Okay—um, should I just—” Spencer watches on, finding your sudden enthusiasm completely adorable as you scoot off of his lap and gingerly kneel in front of him. Your eyes are big and glassy as you look up at him, hands set politely on his knees. You squint suspiciously, eyes darting between his face and his cock, now about as hard as it’s ever been due to your toying. He knows it’s probably intimidating for a girl who has never seen one in real life, and he feels kind of bad about it. You do terrible, wonderful things to him that he doesn’t understand. “Wow. So... it looks bigger from down here.”

“Please don’t try to choke yourself,” he instructs hurriedly, leaning forward slightly. “I really don’t need you to do that. It’s fine if you can’t fit it all, I just—” he exhales shakily. Spencer is most definitely strong-willed but he can’t pretend like the sight of you on your knees for him, inches from his aching cock for the first time isn’t impacting his cognition. Most importantly he doesn’t want to make you feel pressured. He’s trying to not let how badly he wants this show in case you change your mind. 

Spencer watches as you psych yourself out—wilting like a thirsty flower. 

“But what if I’m bad at this?” you mumble, hands curling into loose fists atop his legs. Spencer pushes your hair back, tucking it behind your ears. 

“What’s your worst case scenario?” he asks. Your answer is immediate. 

“That I’m so bad you make me stop halfway through.”

Spencer can’t help but laugh again. 

“I’m sorry—I just… honey, you are really underestimating how profound your effect is on me. I just almost came from a minute long handjob. I can assure you that I won’t make you stop halfway through because I’d rather not have your mouth on me. That is… that’s just not going to happen.”

You lean your cheek against his thigh. He might actually pass away. 

“Will you tell me if I’m doing something wrong?”

“Honestly, as long as you don’t bite, you’re in the clear.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and your lips pull into an embarrassed little smile. 

“Great. Thank you for that invaluable advice.”

“Of course,” he smiles. It fades slowly as you take a deep breath and look up at him, obviously steeling yourself, before leaning forward and taking him in your hand again. He watches with bated breath, repeating no sudden movements to himself over and over as your hand moves up and down a few more times and your head lowers. 

You delicately, so lightly trace your tongue from the base of his swollen cock to just underneath the leaking tip, mapping a vein, and his hips buck as you take him into your mouth experimentally. Only the first few inches fit but the sight of your lips wrapped around him, the way you’re looking at him is so unbelievably erotic Spencer knows he won’t last very long.

From a purely technical perspective—he knows he’s gotten objectively better head. Still, something about the way you’re so delicate with him, so soft and timid in the way you lick and kiss and take him into your mouth has him fighting not to come already. Maybe it’s wrong, but knowing that he’s watching you do this for the first time in your life is obscenely arousing. The idea that you’ve never trusted another person this much; that you’re letting him be the one to help you navigate something as new and as important as sexuality. The more he thinks about it, though, the more he realizes: it’s not your inexperience that turns him on. It’s just you. Everything you do is so undeniably you—he recognizes your mannerisms in every tiny motion, in every glance, and it’s killing him. You’re like a dream as you look up at him with big nervous eyes, (no, really, he has had this dream) and he remembers he wants to be reassuring you—not pondering life and human connection. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, groaning and hips twitching as your cheeks hollow, wrapping his achingly hard cock in soft gentle warmth so sweetly it feels taboo. “So good, baby. So gorgeous like this.”

You whine around him, receptive as always to his obsequious praise, and he notices the way your hips wiggle as you seek friction. God, you must like this a lot. Spencer gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail, resting his hand on your head as you begin to bob it. That, he wasn’t prepared for. He’d have been satisfied with just kitten-licks and suckling but he won’t complain about this. It’s slow, and so intentional as you keep watching him for feedback cues. Ever his observant girl, you’re constantly paying attention. Aware of his reactions. He needs to keep telling you you’re good or else you’ll assume you’re terrible. 

“Over-achiever,” he whispers through a little smile as you down even more of him. 

Spencer is for the most part a kind and gentle person. For better or worse he is also a man, and he can’t help but fantasize about getting you all teary and drooly as he holds your mouth open and sees how much of his cock he can push down your throat. But again—kind. Gentle. So when you get a little over-zealous, attempting to sacrifice your comfort for his pleasure, he pulls your head back slightly. “That’s far enough, angel. That’s—fuck. God, you’re good at this.” The words are thoughtless, muttered to himself more than you as he watches through a haze while you look up at him with glassy, half-lidded eyes, slipping him in and out of your warm mouth, a little faster now as you gain confidence. 

You whine desperately around him, like you’re the one nearing orgasm and not him. The sound of your pleasure as you suck his cock makes him dizzy. His hips buck, pressing him a little deeper into your mouth. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he exhales. “Slow down, baby. I’m—” a louder moan from him like you’ve never heard as he thrusts shallowly turns you on profoundly. He’s so much more vocal than you’d have imagined—sonically and verbally. He breathes out a quick, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” pulling your hair slightly, and you’ve never wanted to touch yourself more but you know you can’t focus on both. Instead you work on making him come—you can worry about you later. He says your name, with an authoritative edge to his tone that makes you throb. “Honey, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna come—”

You swirl your tongue around the top of him like candy and he’s done for. Spencer tries to pull out, which only results in cum both in your mouth and on your face. The orgasm is his strongest in recent memory, and he grunts, watching your lips part and a little squeak escape as he comes all over your face—but you keep stroking him all the while. Once he’s 90% sure it’s over, he falls against the back of the couch, breathing heavily and looking down at you through hazy eyes. Oh, he’s going to feel terrible about this in a few seconds—but right now you look fucking perfect. Your eyes are wide, nervous as his essence drips over your face and down your neck—he groans when you swallow cautiously, averting his eyes to the ceiling lest he do another thing he regrets. 

“Baby, I am so sorry,” he mutters, forcibly clearing the haze of orgasm from his mind and sitting up, fixing his pants and looking around before locating the box of tissues on the side table. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” You look up at him attentively as he wipes himself from your face as gently as he can. 

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t ask you first. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Spencer guides your head around by your chin, wiping your jaw and lips. 

“It’s okay, Spence, I—”

“No, it’s not,” he cuts you off, trying to at least turn his guilt into a learning experience for you. He’s not deluded enough to think someone like you will stay with someone like him forever, because sometimes he does things like that, and he’s reminded that there are certainly people out there more deserving of you. At the very least he can clarify that nobody should ever do what he just did to you. “It’s really not nice to do that to someone.”

“Do you care what I think at all?”

Spencer freezes, finally forcing himself to look you in the eye. Despite the fact that he’s mad at himself, he’s sure it’s coming across as being directed at you. And he knows you’re sensitive, especially about this kind of thing. 

“Of course, I do, baby. I’m sorry. Do you want to come back up here with me and tell me what you’re thinking?” he murmurs, cupping your jaw. Hesitantly you nod. The tissues end up on the table—which he will be thoroughlywiping down later—before you crawl back into his lap from the floor. Spencer helps you settle against him, hoping he hasn’t messed this up irreversibly. He keeps his voice quiet as he rubs your leg. “What were you going to say?”

“I was going to say,” you begin, “that it’s fine, because you’ll remember to ask next time. And because… I kind of liked it. I like when—when you do stuff like that.”

It’s a miracle he can hear you with the way your voice drops into an almost-whisper and you’re hiding against his shirt. 

“Like what?” he murmurs. Although he’s not sure he’ll be able to handle the answer. 

“Like… I don’t know. Like you can do whatever you want to me. Like I’m literally yours.” Each word makes you cringe further, but Spencer has to try hard to maintain a cool facade as he processes this. If he’s going to try and be chivalrous, you’ll have to move away from this topic—this revelation—immediately. Thankfully, you seem eager to move on. “So… how did I do?”

He almost laughs. It seems exceedingly obvious how you did, but as per usual, you require verbal reassurance. 

“That was really good, baby. You did well.”

You blossom. 

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie.”

“Was I the best girl out of all of the other girls?” 

I wasn’t in love with any of the other girls. 

Just barely, he manages to stop himself from saying it, pinwheeling his arms on the edge of a very steep verbal cliff. The realization that he’s been in love with you for a while hits him like a truck. But he can’t tell you that right now. He should wait until you’re less vulnerable.

Fuck. 

He really wants to tell you right now. 

“Actually—don’t answer that,” you decide, while all of this happens in his head in less than a few seconds. “I want to go back to pretending I’m the only girl you’ve ever seen in your life.”

“You’re the only one that matters,” he offers, relieved to express at least some portion of the much bigger truth. Then he frowns. “Not that the other women I’ve met don’t lead important lives. I actually know a lot of incredibly influential and intelligent people who are women. I have deep respect for all of them. Am I helping or making it worse?” he rambles. You giggle. He has his answer. “What about you? How do you feel?” he asks after a moment, tenderly, lowly, stroking your hair as you lean against his chest. 

It takes you a moment to deliberate, fiddling with the fabric of his shirt. 

“I feel good. I, um… liked it a lot more than I would have thought.”

“Well, that’s good. Much better than if you had hated every second of it.”

You hum in agreement, and he waits for you to say whatever you’re holding back. It comes sooner than he’d have anticipated. 

“I feel bad about the times before. How did you just… go to sleep after? Were you not, like—insanely turned on? Not that I’m, like, irresistibly sexy, or whatever—you know what I mean.”

Spencer smiles because he knows you can’t see him. 

“I wasn’t doing it to pressure you into feeling obligated to reciprocate, I guess. My line of reasoning was that it would be less intimidating if I didn’t even present it as an option until you wanted to try.”

“Oh.”

Spencer thinks he sees where this is going. 

“Why?” he asks, leaning back and encouraging you to look at him. “Are you insanely turned on?”

“Wh—that’s—I didn’t say that!”

Spencer can feel how warm your cheeks are as he presses his lips to the side of your face. 

“You can tell me if you are,” he murmurs, all smiley as he moves to kiss your lips. “If you want something, you need to ask for it. I’m not a mind reader.”

“Yes you are,” you grumble. “That’s literally what behavioral analysis is.”

Not quite true, but surprisingly, he doesn’t feel the need to explain to you the semantics of what he does for work right now. 

“What got you all excited?”

“You know what,” you mumble, trying to look away again. Spencer doesn’t allow it this time, gently grabbing your jaw. 

“Yes, I do. But I want you to tell me. If you want me to make you feel good, this is how you’re going to convince me that you deserve it.”

You whine wordlessly, looking at him with those big, lust-glazed eyes.

“You wanted me to teach you how to use your words, right? This is it. I’m giving you an opportunity. If you don’t want to, that’s okay. Maybe we can take a nap, like you said earlier.”

“No! I liked—um, I liked all of it. I didn’t know if I would, because I was really nervous. But when I first—you know—and you got all quiet… it was like you couldn’t even talk for a minute. I was kind of proud of that. Because normally nobody can ever get you to stop talking.” Spencer narrows his eyes incredulously, a small smile tugging at his lips. But he doesn’t interrupt—not when it seems you’re finally starting to get more confident in your words. “And I really liked the noises you made. I think that was my favorite part. I liked when you pulled my hair back, and how you spoke to me. And when… when you got me messy and I had to swallow it. I really liked how it felt because I couldn’t think of anything else, just making you feel good. I really wanted to… make you proud, I guess. Is that weird?”

Spencer shakes his head no, a fond smile on his face when your eyes meet his again. 

“No. It’s a pretty normal thing to feel when you’re nervous and wanting to impress someone you care about. And I would have been proud no matter what, for the record. You were being very brave.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, watching him expectantly. Spencer should have known you’re too needy to truly absorb anything he says to you right now. Which is actually pretty cute. Everything you do is endearing to him. 

“Stand up.”

You frown. 

“But—”

“Just stand up,” he demands calmly, preferring to think of himself as firm and not bossy. 

You do, looking rather annoyed and confused as you plant yourself in front of him. 

“Why?”

“You are so full of questions.” His hands slip up the side of your legs, under your skirt, and hook in the waistband of your underwear. Spencer looks up at you meaningfully and you nod, swallowing. 

As he pulls down, Spencer can literally feel the resistance of the fabric clinging to your soaked core. Under his touch the skin of your thighs is warm and soft. He wants to feel it on either side of his face, he wants to hear you whine as his stubble rubs against it, he wants to feel it clamp around his wrist, he wants it between his teeth and he definitely wants it pressing against his hips as he—

But no. 

There will be time for all of those things—especially the last one—later. For now, he’ll reach between your legs just to see—

“Oh, my god,” Spencer half-chuckles, half-groans, upon feeling how wet you truly are for him. He drags his knuckles from your dripping entrance up over your clit, pinching very lightly and earning a squeak from you which he ignores. “You really did like having your mouth full of me, huh?”

“I told you,” you breathe, visibly relaxing some as he continues to play with you for a moment. Then he pulls his hand away again, patting his thigh. 

“Sit.”

“You want me to…”

“Yes,” he says, simply. 

“But is it not going to… am I not going to mess up your pants?”

“You are even more neurotic about messiness than I am. I can wash them, honey. Come here.”

Spencer guides your hips over his thigh, watching your pretty face twist with uncertainty as you fully settle on him. Fuck, he can feel your warmth through the fabric instantly. Already he’s getting hard again. 

“What am I supposed to do?” you whisper, bunching his shirt in your fists. Spencer slides your skirt up higher, revealing the way you’re nestled against his thigh. He spreads you a little further apart, exposing more of your clit to the material underneath you. Immediately you press against him—he watches the delicate flesh rubbing gingerly against him and  his grip tightens ever so slightly. 

“All you have to do is rock back and forth. It’s easy.”

Already you’re starting to do it—but he guesses it’s like earlier where you don’t even realize it’s happening. 

“But… I wanted your mouth,” you admit, quietly, slinging your arms around his neck and burying your face there. 

“Do this for me first. Just get yourself off like this one time and then you can have my mouth. You said you wanted to help me feel better because I’m tired today, right?

“Yes,” you mumble, squirming over him. 

“Well, there are a lot of days when I get back home and I’m tired. I’m gonna need you to be able to get on top of me, just like this, and make me feel better. And I know you don’t know what it feels like to have something that deep inside of you yet, but it’s gonna be a lot. Even once you know how it feels to have me inside when you’re underneath me. I need you to practice for me right now so you’ll be ready, okay?”

You could come from the words alone. You nod, dazed with need as you roll your hips in a circle, pressing his thigh against your clit. 

“Back and forth, baby,” he murmurs, guiding your hips forward with his hands locked around them. “Back and forth, just like this…”

You moan quietly, shamelessly, eyes fluttering as you look down and watch your clit dragging over the darkening fabric. It’s easier if you isolate your hips, grinding down without moving your legs or upper body at all. 

“It feels really good,” you whisper under your quickening breath. 

“Yeah? Does it?”

“Mhm.”

“Good, angel. You look like you know what you’re doing.”

It’s audible now, quiet and wet and dirty. 

“I don’t,” you breathe. He sucks in a breath of his own, stilling your hips with fingers pressed deep into your flesh. 

“Sit up, baby.” You really wish he would stop making you stop, but you don’t want to keep going in case he needs you to quit—so you rise slowly, thighs trembling as you kneel. Spencer groans at the strings of your arousal momentarily connecting your core to his pants before they snap, getting your inner thighs wet. There’s a dark, very wet patch over his thigh, shining like glass. He thumbs over your slick clit absentmindedly as he looks up at you like you’re a miracle. “You’re fucking soaked. I’ve never seen you like this. Is this all from making me come?”

You nod feverishly, hips grinding against nothing in search of friction. He sits you back down on his leg, allowing you to sloppily find your rhythm again. Spencer bounces his leg lightly and you cry out softly, buckling forward. His arms wrap around you, still pressing you down against his thigh as you rut against it. 

“You’re sweet. Maybe I should have known how much you’d like it when I came all over your pretty face. You really like hearing that you did a good job, huh? I bet you like it even more when I prove it to you.”

You moan a “yeah,” barely processing his words. 

“My good girl even swallowed on her first try. Took it so well. And now look at how you’re taking this. You’re gonna love riding, baby. Just going to be another thing you’re good at as soon as you try it.”

“Spencer,” you gasp, overwhelmed by the praise. He’s bouncing his leg at regular intervals and everything is so sensitive.

“I know it’s harder to finish this way, but just one time, remember? And then you can have my tongue for as long as you want. You are my only plan for the day. Just give me one like this.”

But it’s not really harder to finish this way. Then again, you’re so turned on you could probably finish if a breeze hit you just right. Regardless, the thought of him going down on you again pushes you even closer to the edge.

You don’t know how much time goes by like that, you rubbing against him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, him pressing up into you until the pressure is so taut it snaps. There’s no time to warn him, but you suppose you don’t really need to. You writhe against him, caught between wanting to keep going and not being able to take more stimulation. He lifts you up just slightly, trying to separate you from his leg. You exhale deeply as your body relaxes, already close to dozing off against his chest.

“We can’t have you tapping out just yet. I still have to fulfill my end of the deal.”

In the end, he fulfills it three times over, and you end up showing your appreciation in kind one more time—much slower and more comfortably in his bed. He gives you plenty of time to learn what he likes, taking your teasing and coquettish explorations like a champ and never so much as tightening his grip in your hair. Turns out, you don't exactly spend the day doing nothing.

And you do end up taking that nap after all. Just... much, much later. And with less clothing on.

-

part 3.5

[angeltannis]

Was just at my grandma’s house and she keeps the TV blasting loud and I was sitting there trying to work on my Symweaver fic while my uncle was yelling at my mom and my grandma was yelling about the invisible men who steal her keys every night and then I started hearing what I swore was Symmetra involved in all the shouting?? And I looked up from my fic to find that Anjali Bhimani was on the TV show LOL

[ahqkas]

Ex bf theo who was really toxic and was a bad bf but after the break up he matures and tries tonget you back?

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THEODORE NOTT HAD ALWAYS BEEN AN ENIGMA, a puzzle that you never quite managed to solve. during your relationship, his brooding silence and sharp wit had initially drawn you in, but over time, they became the very things that chipped away at your happiness. he was toxic — possessive, distant, and emotionally unavailable. the relationship became a series of ups and downs, with moments of passion followed by long stretches of cold indifference. you spent too much time trying to reach him, trying to make him care the way you did, but in the end, it was clear that he wasn't ready to be the person you needed him to be.

the breakup had been inevitable. it was messy and painful, filled with harsh words and lingering regrets. you walked away shattered but determined to heal, to rebuild yourself without the weight of his darkness pulling you down. months passed, and slowly but surely, you began to find your footing again. life moved on, and so did you — or at least, you tried to.

then, one day, theodore showed up in your life again.

it was the warmest day of early september. you were in diagon alley, browsing through the rows of books at flourish and blotts, when you felt that painfully familiar presence behind you. your heart skipped a beat, a mixture of dread and curiosity flooding your senses. you turned, and there he was, standing awkwardly near the entrance, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

theodore looked different. although he was still the tall, slender figure with the same piercing eyes that once made your heart race, something had changed. his posture was more relaxed, his expression softer. gone was the constant scowl that used to mar his handsome features, replaced now with what seemed like genuine vulnerability.

“hey,” he said, his voice lower than you remembered, almost hesitant.

you blinked slowly, caught off guard by his presence. “theo?”

he shifted on his feet, glancing around the shop before meeting your gaze again. the use of his nickname by you stirred up unforgettable memories inside him. “can we talk? in private,”

you nodded at his request hesitantly and followed the boy, now who seemed like a man. he hurt you badly, and there was no reason for him to talk to you ever again, so why was he seeking you now?

theo’s quiet voice broke the silence between the two of you as you stood in a smaller aisle of the shop. “i’ve been thinking about you — a lot,” he admitted. “there’s something i have to say to you or i’ll go mad.”

you didn’t respond right away, unsure of what to expect. theodore had never been one to easily admit fault, and seeing him now, looking almost remorseful, was jarring. part of you wanted to turn and walk away, to avoid reopening old wounds, but another part — the part that once loved him truly and deeply — wanted to hear what he had to say.

“i know now i was a terrible boyfriend,” he began, his eyes not leaving yours. “i treated you horribly, and i don’t deserve your forgiveness. but i’ve changed. i know it’s hard to believe, but i’ve spent a lot of time thinking about everything i did wrong, everything i took for granted.”

he paused, as if searching for the right words. “i’ve been working on myself, trying to understand why i was the way i was. i didn’t realize how much i needed to grow up until you were gone.”

his words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. you could hear the sincerity in his voice, see the regret in his eyes, but it wasn’t easy to let go of the past. too many memories of broken promises and hurtful words still lingered in your mind.

“theo, i . . .” you hesitated, unsure how to respond. “i’m glad you’ve been working on yourself, really, but i don’t know if i can just forget everything that happened. you hurt me, a lot.”

he nodded and his eyes found comfort on your hands. “i know. and i don’t expect you to just take me back. i just wanted you to know that i’m sorry for how i was. truly. and . . . if there’s ever a chance, even a small one, that we could try again . . . i would do everything differently. i would be better for you.”

theodore nott’s words were raw, unfiltered, and they hit you in a way you hadn’t expected. this wasn’t the theodore you had known — the one who hid behind sarcasm and anger. this was someone who had faced his demons and was trying, really trying, to be a better man. but could you trust him? could you risk your heart again after everything that had happened?

“i need time, theo,” you finally said, your voice soft but firm. “i can’t just jump back into something that hurt me so much.”

the slytherin nodded again, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “i understand. i’ll wait as long as it takes. and if you never want to try again, i’ll respect that too. i just needed you to know that i’m sorry, and that i’m here if you ever want to give us another chance.”

with that, he turned to leave, but not before giving you one last, lingering look — a look filled with all the things he had never been able to say before.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can we have more of domestic Jason but now with him needy of touch? 🥹

the reader got out of bed early to go drink water and he wakes up from a nightmare needing her and he thinks she left him and he starts crying in panic, but then she appears and calm him down with kisses, words of affirmation and lots of love.

Thank u! I love ur writing btw!!

I don’t know if this is what you have in mind, the ending might be a little half-assed but I was half asleep whilst making this 🦦also thank you for enjoying my writing! It really means a lot!

Your side of the bed had barely gone cold which indicated that it hadn’t been long ago that you had left but it was the reason why you’ve left that haunted Jason, who was fresh out of a nightmare and drenched in his own sweat and finding difficulty in calming his uneven breaths.

He had meant to reach out to you for comfort.

Only to be greeted by air just as palm of his hand then hit the lukewarm mattress below.

It was enough to break Jason’s resolve as his innate belief that everyone he ever cared for was destined to leave him- especially you- began to worsen with every passing second the longer Jason allowed himself to be poisoned by the possibilities that you were gone. Disappeared. Or worse yet; taken.

‘Y/n?’ He calls out softly.

‘Baby?’ He tries again, a little louder this time, not having realised that his eyes had started to tear up and blur his vision of his dark room, or that a lump in his throat had started to form, making it difficult for him to swallow down his overwhelming anxiety.

‘Don’t leave me here…please don’t leave me all lone.’ Jason pleads with the darkness of his room as though that would be enough to give you back to him. ‘Haven’t I done that enough?’ He then asks as he clenched the bedsheets between his powerful hands, trying to bound himself to something to combat his discomfort in being left alone with his mind for too long. ‘Being left alone when I was proven too difficult to save? Too far gone to be helped? Am I just that broken to be given just a sliver of happiness?’ He cries out at he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes as he chocked back his own sobs.

Despite building himself a strong body that could endure punishment, the pain of that of an broken heart had been so excruciating it had Jason keeling over in bed, wanting nothing more then to tear it out of his chest as though it burned him; Or was it in fact just phantom pains from a heart that had been hollowed out by the hands of another.

The door to the room opened and golden light flooded in, eradicating the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. ‘Jason?’ Your voice called out and Jason never felt more alive than he did in hearing you say his name in that angelic voice of yours, so much so that he didn’t notice that he had begun to cry harder but out of relief this time. ‘I thought- I thought you left. I couldn’t feel you. I tried reaching for you but you weren’t there.’ He began to say but was cut off when you brought him tightly into your arms.

‘Im sorry that I kept you waiting my beautiful boy.’ You cooed as your fingers reached up to comb through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp now and then to assure him of your presence. Jason didn’t hesitate to bring you into his lap as he buried his head deep into your shoulder, wiping his tears against your sleep shirt, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when he was holding onto you as though you were bound to disappear once he lets go. ‘Where did you go?’ He asks. ‘I got a little thirsty and so I went to get a drink of water.’ You explained, kissing him anywhere that was made available to you.

‘You’ve been strong for a long, long time and I’ve never been more prouder of you for holding out as long as you have with everything you’ve been through, it never fails to amaze me how resilient you are Jaybirdie.’ You felt his breathing even out as he began to lean back into the bed, still holding onto you. ‘You’re truly an incredible man for being able to stand on your own two feet and still find it within yourself to fight.’ You softly told him as you continued to hold him in your arms as he squeezed your waist in response. ‘I’m so unbelievably lucky to have someone like you in my life and I will do everything in my power to make you believe that.’ You promised him.

‘Even if it’s impossible and might take forever.’ Jason says, starting to feel the lull of sleep as it began to weigh heavily on his eyelids.

You smile softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. ‘Even if it takes an eternity I would still find a way to prove just how beautiful you are.’ You replied, nuzzling into him as his bodily warmth began to ease you into a sense of security. ‘You are the most beautiful man I have ever met Jason Todd.’ You moved to look him in the eyes. ‘A butterfly may not be able to see the colour of their wings but that doesn’t retract the fact that they’re undeniably beautiful.’ You added as you pressed a couple of kissed to his forehead. ‘Now gets some sleep my beautiful boy, I’ll be here when you wake up.’

‘You promise?’ Jason asked, biting back a yawn.

‘I’d be stupid to break a promise I made to you.’ You responded, thinking all was said and done when Jason brought a hand up to your face, showing you his outstretched pinky. ‘Pinky promise me that you’ll be here with me when I wake up.’ He says and you smile softly at the inherent innocence of that of a pinkie promise but still went ahead and linked your pinky with his, pressing a kiss to his calloused and scarred hand with reverence before resting it on his chest. ‘I pinky promise that I’ll be here when you wake up. Was that good?’

‘We’ll see in the morning when I get to wake up to you chipmunk.’ Jason replied, holding you more against his chest and fell asleep but you weren’t complying as you soon followed him into dreamland, your pinkies still linked to one another as a reminder of your promise.

[novaursa]

A Lion's Leap (namesake)

- Summary: The king announces the betrothal of his youngest daughter, you, to Tyland Lannister. But even the Lannister Lord is taken off guard, as there has been some miscommunication regarding the proposal.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: under the dragon's eye

- Next part: credit's due

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The birth of your first child was nothing short of a whirlwind for Tyland Lannister. He had spent the better part of the day pacing the length of the corridor outside your chambers, his nerves as frayed as his hair, while the sounds of midwives bustling about and the occasional shout from you reached his ears. The moment he heard the baby's first cry, Tyland let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

When the midwife finally allowed him inside, he approached you cautiously, as though afraid you might throw a pillow at him for causing this entire ordeal in the first place. But to his surprise, you looked radiant despite the exhaustion. You cradled a small bundle in your arms, and as Tyland moved closer, he saw the little face of your newborn son, his tiny fists clenched as if he was ready to take on the world.

Tyland felt a rush of emotions—pride, awe, sheer relief that everything had gone smoothly—but before he could utter a word, you looked up at him with a tired but triumphant smile.

"I’ve decided on a name," you said, your voice soft but firm.

Tyland, still slightly dazed from the whole event, blinked and nodded. "Of course, my love. What shall we call him?"

You took a deep breath and said, “Daemon.”

Tyland’s smile froze mid-expression, his brain doing a complete double-take. "I’m sorry, did you just say... Daemon?"

You nodded, the name rolling off your tongue as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Yes, after my uncle. Daemon Lannister.”

Tyland stared at you, his mind racing to process the situation. Daemon? As in Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, the man whose very presence was enough to send most people running in the other direction? And now, here he was, with his very own son named after that man? A Lannister named Daemon? The gods were truly laughing at him today.

"Ah... well," Tyland stammered, trying to find the right words. "That’s... certainly a strong name. A bold name." He hesitated, glancing down at the baby, who was already squirming in his swaddle as if he, too, had inherited some of his namesake’s fiery spirit. "Are you... sure?"

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Of course I’m sure. Uncle Daemon has always been there for me. It’s a fitting name for our son."

Tyland cleared his throat, still unsure how to react. “Yes, yes, of course. It’s just... a Lannister named Daemon. That’s going to... raise some eyebrows.”

You gave him a tired but amused smile. "It’s a good name, Tyland. Besides, I’ve heard plenty of Targaryens named Aegon. I think a Lannister named Daemon will survive just fine."

Tyland sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Survive, yes. But I have a feeling I’ll never hear the end of this."

And he was right.

It didn’t take long for word to reach your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, who seemed to be having the time of his life with this information. Tyland had just returned to his chambers after speaking with the maester when a servant knocked on the door.

"Lord Tyland," the servant said with barely contained amusement, "Prince Daemon sends his congratulations. He... also sends a gift for his namesake."

Tyland’s eyes narrowed. “A gift?” he asked warily.

The servant handed him a small package, which Tyland opened cautiously. Inside, to his horror, was a tiny pair of leather boots—dragonrider boots, fit for a baby.

"By the gods," Tyland muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course he would."

As if summoned by Tyland’s sheer exasperation, Daemon himself appeared in the doorway not long after, grinning from ear to ear. "So, I hear there’s a new Daemon in the capital," he said, his voice dripping with amusement.

Tyland resisted the urge to groan. "Yes, yes, my son has been named after you. Are you quite done gloating?"

Daemon’s grin only widened. "Oh, I’m just getting started," he said, strolling into the room as though he owned the place. He looked down at the baby in your arms and nodded approvingly. "A fine name for a fine lad. I’m sure he’ll live up to it."

"That’s exactly what I’m afraid of," Tyland muttered under his breath.

Daemon chuckled, clearly enjoying Tyland’s discomfort. "You’re welcome, Lannister. If your son turns out half as impressive as me, you’ll have nothing to worry about."

Tyland shot him a look. "That’s precisely the problem, Daemon."

You, of course, were watching this entire exchange with an amused smile, clearly not as troubled by the situation as your husband. "I think it’s a good name," you said, glancing down at your son. "He’ll grow into it."

"That’s what I’m afraid of," Tyland repeated, this time louder, casting another wary glance at Daemon.

But despite the teasing, Tyland couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of pride as he looked down at his son. Even if the boy was named after a rogue prince, even if it meant enduring endless jabs from Daemon for the rest of his days, this was his son. A Lannister, through and through. And somehow, the name didn’t seem so bad anymore.

Still, as Daemon sauntered out of the room with one last smirk and a parting comment about teaching the boy to ride a dragon before he could walk, Tyland couldn’t help but sigh.

“I should have known,” he muttered, glancing over at you with a mix of fondness and exasperation. “We’re never going to hear the end of this, are we?”

You laughed softly, your eyes twinkling as you cradled little Daemon in your arms. “No, I don’t think we are. But we’ll manage.”

Tyland smiled despite himself, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "I suppose we will. And if he takes after his namesake... I’ll just have to make sure he’s at least a little more... manageable."

But deep down, Tyland knew that was wishful thinking. With a name like Daemon, nothing was ever going to be manageable.

Tyland Lannister had always prided himself on being a composed man, someone who could navigate political intrigues and family tensions with the calm dignity expected of a Lannister. But nothing in his experience—no underhanded dealings, no surprise royal decrees—had prepared him for the sight that greeted him one morning as he walked past the nursery where his infant son, Daemon, was being tended to by the servants.

It started with a shriek. Not the usual fussing of a baby, but the high-pitched, heart-stopping scream of one of the maids. Tyland’s blood ran cold. Without a second thought, he rushed toward the nursery, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

"Lord Tyland!" came the voice of the nursemaid, hysterical and utterly panicked. "Something’s wrong!"

Tyland flung the door open, his heart hammering in his chest, and there, standing over the cradle, were two utterly terrified servants, their eyes wide as saucers. The cradle itself was rattling and shaking as though possessed by some malevolent spirit, and from within came a strange, ominous sound—like the soft crackling of fire and the faintest hint of hissing.

Tyland’s stomach dropped.

"What in seven hells is going on?" he demanded, pushing past the servants to peer into the cradle. His son, little Daemon Lannister, was cooing happily, completely unaware of the chaos around him.

But it wasn’t his son that made Tyland’s blood freeze.

Nestled beside the baby was a small, writhing, freshly hatched dragon, its scales shimmering like molten bronze, with tiny wings twitching as it squirmed in the blankets. The dragon let out a high-pitched screech, startling Tyland so badly he nearly knocked over a nearby table.

"By the gods!" Tyland yelped, stumbling backward. "What... what is that doing here?!"

One of the servants, pale as a ghost, pointed shakily at the dragon. "It... it was in the cradle, my lord! The egg must’ve been slipped in—h-heavens help us, it hatched!"

Tyland’s mind reeled. A dragon egg? In his son’s cradle? Who could possibly— And then it hit him like a slap to the face.

Daemon.

Of course. Who else would have the audacity, the sheer nerve, to sneak a dragon egg into an unsuspecting Lannister’s nursery? His uncle by marriage, Prince Daemon Targaryen, was no doubt behind this madness. Tyland groaned inwardly, already picturing Daemon’s smirk when he found out his little scheme had come to fruition. This was his idea of a gift? A baby dragon?

The tiny dragon let out another screech, this time flapping its minuscule wings in a rather pathetic attempt at looking menacing. It was no larger than a house cat, but to Tyland, it might as well have been Vhagar herself looming over the cradle.

“I need to get him out of there,” Tyland muttered to himself, eyeing the dragon warily as it curled protectively around Daemon’s tiny body, almost like it was already bonded with the infant. “How am I supposed to—”

The dragon let out a warning hiss, baring its little fangs at Tyland as he reached for his son. He froze, hands hovering in midair. Gods, of course it would hiss at me. Tyland had always prided himself on being a man of strategy, but how in the world was he supposed to outmaneuver a newborn dragon?

“Right,” he muttered to himself, eyeing the dragon again. “Nice dragon. Just... let me grab the baby and we can all get out of this unscathed, hmm?”

The dragon blinked at him with those shiny eyes, completely unimpressed.

Tyland, who had faced down far more intimidating foes in court, suddenly found himself at a loss for words, feeling as though he were trying to negotiate with an angry goose. Carefully, inch by inch, he reached out again, trying to gently lift Daemon from the cradle. The baby gurgled happily, completely unaware of the chaos surrounding him.

The dragon, however, was having none of it. It flared its tiny wings, making a noise somewhere between a chirp and a growl. Tyland yanked his hand back, eyes wide. “Oh, for the love of—this is absurd!”

As if in response, the dragon flicked its tail and settled back down, curling protectively around the baby. Tyland’s frustration grew. “He’s my son, not yours!” he snapped at the dragon, fully aware of how ridiculous the situation had become. “You’re barely out of the egg!”

The servants stood frozen in the corner, clearly unwilling to come anywhere near the creature. Tyland sighed, rubbing his temple. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course Daemon would do this.”

Just as he was about to attempt another round of negotiations with the tiny dragon, the door swung open, and in strolled Prince Daemon Targaryen himself, looking as pleased as ever. One glance at the scene before him, and his grin widened.

“Well, well,” Daemon said with a mockingly thoughtful tone, crossing his arms. “Looks like my little namesake has found himself a new friend.”

Tyland shot him a withering look. “This... this is your doing, isn’t it?”

Daemon shrugged, feigning innocence. “I simply thought young Daemon could use a companion. A Lannister with a dragon—it’s almost poetic, don’t you think?”

“Poetic?” Tyland repeated incredulously. “I nearly lost my hand to this thing!” He gestured toward the tiny dragon, who let out another hiss as if to punctuate the point.

Daemon chuckled, clearly enjoying Tyland’s exasperation. “You’ll get used to it. Dragons aren’t so bad once you learn how to handle them.”

Tyland glared at him. “Handle them? I can barely get near my own son without this... this lizard snapping at me!”

Daemon sauntered over to the cradle and casually scooped up the baby, the dragon allowing him to do so without so much as a hiss. Daemon held the infant with a smug grin. “See? He already knows who his real protector is.”

Tyland groaned. “I suppose you’ll be telling me this is normal?”

Daemon clapped Tyland on the shoulder, still grinning. “Completely normal. Congratulations, Tyland. You’re the proud father of a dragonrider.”

Tyland sighed, rubbing his temple. “Gods help me.”

The tiny dragon let out a satisfied little chirp, settling back into the cradle as though it had won some unspoken contest. Tyland shot it a glare, knowing that his life had just gotten a lot more complicated.

“Just remember,” Daemon added, still smirking, “you’re welcome.”

Tyland could only groan in response.

Tyland Lannister was sitting in the gardens, trying his best to enjoy what should have been a peaceful afternoon with you and your infant son, Daemon. Of course, the key word there was "should." Things hadn’t been quite so peaceful since a certain little dragon named Viseron had entered their lives. Viseron, now about the size of a very large dog, was lounging a few feet away, sunbathing lazily, wings spread wide as if he owned the place.

Tyland glanced at the creature with mild suspicion. He still hadn’t quite gotten over the whole "I almost lost a hand to a baby dragon" incident. Viseron, of course, was completely unbothered, soaking up the warmth of the sun as though nothing could disturb his perfect little world.

You sat beside Tyland, gently cradling baby Daemon, who was babbling happily, completely oblivious to the chaos he had caused by simply existing. Tyland leaned over and gave his son an affectionate look, muttering, "You don’t know the trouble you’ve brought into my life, do you?"

Just as Tyland was beginning to relax, he noticed two familiar figures approaching from across the garden—Rhaenyra and Laenor, who had recently returned to court after their wedding. Rhaenyra, of course, had a gleam in her eye, the kind of gleam that Tyland had learned to be wary of. She was clearly in a mood for teasing.

“Well, well, well,” Rhaenyra called out as she drew closer, her voice light and playful. “If it isn’t the new dragonlord himself.”

Tyland sighed, already sensing where this was going. “Good afternoon, Rhaenyra. Laenor,” he greeted, trying to keep his tone civil and neutral. You, however, smiled warmly at your sister, clearly happy to see her.

Rhaenyra’s gaze immediately flicked to Viseron, who was still sunbathing nearby, his scales glinting in the sunlight. She raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. “So, this is the infamous Viseron,” she said with mock admiration. “I must say, Tyland, I didn’t take you for a man of dragons.”

Laenor chuckled beside her, clearly amused by the situation. “He’s certainly got his hands full now, doesn’t he?”

Tyland groaned inwardly, already regretting not finding an excuse to leave the garden before they arrived. “It wasn’t exactly my choice,” he muttered, glancing at you. “Your uncle saw to that.”

Rhaenyra laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I heard all about it. I can’t believe Daemon managed to sneak a dragon egg into your son’s cradle. You should have seen Father’s face when he found out. I thought he was going to choke on his wine.”

Tyland rubbed the back of his neck, still feeling embarrassed by the whole situation. “Yes, well, I’d prefer if we all forgot about that particular incident.”

But Rhaenyra, of course, was having none of it. She moved closer, eyeing Viseron with a grin. “I think it’s fitting. A Lannister with a dragon. You’ll certainly stand out now, Tyland.”

“I’d rather not stand out quite so much,” Tyland grumbled. “Especially when said dragon seems determined to make my life difficult.”

Rhaenyra’s laughter only grew louder. “Difficult? What’s difficult about raising a dragon?”

Tyland shot her a look, deadpan. “For starters, it tried to eat my sleeve this morning.”

Rhaenyra bit back a laugh, her eyes flicking toward the dragon again. “Well, that’s just part of the experience,” she said teasingly. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, look at him—he’s not so bad.”

Viseron, as if on cue, let out a lazy yawn, revealing sharp little teeth that Tyland was all too familiar with. He shot the dragon a wary glance. “Not so bad? He’s a menace in the making.”

Laenor chuckled, patting Tyland on the back. “Ah, come now, Tyland. You’ve got a son with a dragon, something no other Lannisters can say. It’s practically an honor.”

Tyland groaned, leaning back against the bench as you stifled a laugh beside him. “Honor? That’s not quite the word I’d use.”

Rhaenyra grinned, clearly enjoying the teasing. “And what word would you use? Terrified? In over your head?”

“Accurate,” Tyland muttered.

Baby Daemon, blissfully unaware of the conversation, babbled in your arms, reaching out toward Viseron, who was still lounging in the sun. Tyland’s heart skipped a beat as he watched his son’s tiny hand wave in the dragon’s direction, but Viseron didn’t move—he simply lay there, content to ignore the world around him. At least for now, Tyland thought grimly.

Rhaenyra, her eyes sparkling with amusement, leaned in closer to Tyland. “You know,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “I think Uncle Daemon did this on purpose just to see how you’d handle it.”

Tyland’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t say,” he replied dryly, knowing full well that Daemon had probably laughed himself to sleep after hearing about the chaos he’d caused.

Laenor grinned, clearly enjoying the banter. “Well, you’re handling it better than I expected,” he said, his tone light. “A Lannister with a dragon—who would have thought?”

Tyland sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Trust me, I didn’t ask for this. But here we are.”

You, still cradling baby Daemon, gave your sister a playful look. “He’s doing better than you think, Rhaenyra,” you said with a smile. “And besides, little Daemon seems to love Viseron.”

Tyland gave you a grateful look, though he couldn’t help but mutter, “One of us has to.”

Rhaenyra chuckled, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “Well, Tyland, I look forward to seeing how this all turns out. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be flying on dragonback before long.”

Tyland paled at the very thought. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Viseron, meanwhile, let out a contented huff, as if thoroughly enjoying the idea. Tyland shot the dragon a glare. “I’m watching you, you overgrown lizard.”

But despite his grumbling, Tyland couldn’t help but feel a bit more at ease as he looked at you, his son, and even the sunbathing dragon nearby. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to get the hang of this—chaos and all.

Tyland Lannister had never been more anxious about returning to Casterly Rock, despite it being his childhood home. This time, though, he wasn’t just returning as a dutiful son or the Lord Treasurer of the realm—he was arriving with his wife, your toddler son, and a small dragon named Viseron. To say it was a complicated visit would be an understatement.

"Just remember," Tyland muttered as he straightened his tunic for the third time, "my family is not used to dragons. Or... well, anything remotely Targaryen."

You smiled patiently, holding little Daemon’s hand as he toddled alongside you. Viseron, now the size of a large horse, walked just a few feet behind, his golden-green eyes watching everything with a curious gleam. He had grown quite a bit since his sunbathing days in the King’s Landing gardens, and his presence was impossible to ignore—much to Tyland’s increasing nervousness.

The moment they stepped through the grand entrance of Casterly Rock, the air of formality and anticipation was palpable. Jason Lannister, Tyland’s older brother and Lord of Casterly Rock, was already standing at the head of the table in the great hall, surrounded by a collection of Lannister cousins, uncles, and other relatives who had come to greet them. Jason, naturally, had a goblet of wine in hand and an impossibly smug grin on his face.

"Tyland!" Jason boomed as soon as they entered. "Welcome home! And look at that—our little Lannister prince and his... scaly friend."

Tyland tried not to roll his eyes as Jason clapped him on the shoulder with far too much enthusiasm. "Brother," Tyland said, managing a polite smile. "It’s good to be back."

Jason’s attention immediately shifted to Daemon, who was currently holding onto your leg while giving everyone around him curious looks. "And this must be young Daemon!" Jason grinned, bending down to ruffle the toddler’s silver-gold hair. "A fine-looking lad. And the first Lannister dragon rider, no less!"

Tyland felt his stomach twist as Jason’s gaze shifted to Viseron, who was currently sniffing at a nearby tapestry as if deciding whether or not it was edible.

"Yes, yes, a dragon rider," Tyland said hastily, casting a nervous glance at Viseron. "Speaking of the dragon, perhaps we should—"

But before Tyland could finish, Jason had already raised his goblet high. "A toast!" he announced loudly, drawing the attention of the entire hall. "To Daemon Lannister, the first of our house to ride a dragon!"

The Lannister family, ever fond of toasts, quickly raised their goblets in unison, echoing Jason’s sentiment with various degrees of enthusiasm. "To Daemon Lannister!" they cheered.

Tyland, however, was too busy watching Viseron, who had become increasingly interested in the sound of clinking goblets. The dragon’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing on the shimmering cups as if they were the most fascinating things in the world.

"Um," Tyland began, holding up a hand, "perhaps we should—"

But it was too late.

Viseron let out a high-pitched screech, startling everyone in the hall as he stomped forward, his tail knocking over a nearby chair. The dragon’s eyes were locked on Jason’s goblet, and before anyone could react, Viseron lunged forward, his sharp teeth closing around the rim of the cup.

Jason yelped in surprise, yanking his hand back as Viseron claimed the goblet like a prized trophy. The dragon gave the cup a good shake, spilling wine everywhere, including all over Jason’s immaculate tunic.

"By the gods!" Jason exclaimed, trying—and failing—to maintain his composure. "The dragon just... stole my wine!"

Tyland covered his face with his hand, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. "Of course he did," he muttered. "Of course."

The Lannister relatives, for their part, were watching the spectacle with a mixture of horror and amusement. One cousin was whispering furiously to another, no doubt speculating whether all dragon riders had to deal with such incidents on a regular basis.

You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to laugh as you knelt down to pick up Daemon, who had started clapping his hands in delight at the sight of Viseron’s antics. "Look, Mama, Viseron’s playing!" Daemon exclaimed happily, pointing at the dragon as though this were all part of some grand game.

Jason, however, was not as amused. "Tyland," he said through gritted teeth, wiping wine from his sleeve, "do you always let your dragon do this?"

Tyland gave his brother a tight-lipped smile, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. "No, I generally prefer my wine in a goblet and not in the jaws of a dragon, but thank you for the suggestion."

Viseron, having grown bored of the goblet now that it was empty, dropped it onto the floor with a clatter and turned his attention to one of the nearby tapestries again. Tyland winced. "Perhaps we should move the dragon... outside."

Jason nodded furiously, his expression sour. "Yes, please. Before it decides to redecorate the entire hall."

You were still smiling as you handed Daemon over to Tyland. "Why don’t you take Daemon outside with Viseron?" you suggested gently. "I think it’s best to let them both run off some energy."

Tyland, clutching his son a little tighter, sighed. "Yes, excellent idea." He gave Jason a parting glance. "Apologies for the... incident."

Jason waved him off, though his expression suggested he would be thinking twice about any future dragon-related toasts. "Just... make sure it doesn’t eat anything else valuable."

As Tyland guided Viseron out of the hall, the dragon lumbering behind him, Daemon giggled happily in his arms. "Viseron’s silly, Papa."

Tyland sighed, his heart softening despite the chaos. "Yes, yes he is, my boy." He cast one last glance back at Casterly Rock’s great hall, where his brother and cousins were still trying to mop up spilled wine and repair the damage.

“Welcome to Casterly Rock,” Tyland muttered to himself with a wry smile, shaking his head. “I’m sure we’ll be remembered fondly.”

But despite the dragon-sized headache, as he looked down at Daemon’s bright, happy face and the contented dragon trailing behind them, Tyland couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, the Lannisters would survive having a dragon rider in the family after all.

[grandisknight]

xavier: your lipstick stains

summary: Xavier helps you out with the age-old dilemma of figuring out what lipstick to wear. Although, his personal take is one you’ve never thought of until now.

tags: established relationship, gender neutral!reader, fluff, lipstick, kissing, light evol use/mention, implied/suggestive ending, banter, teasing, one shot, in the bathroom, ‘starlight’ nickname

+ wc: 1.7k | ao3

a/n: inspired by that one moment in his lost signal card bc the lips line(tm) is canon ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

No, not this one.

Too warm, too cool—one would be too glossy while the other barely reflected any sheen coat. How many have you gone through at this point?

If only choosing a shade of lipstick was as easy as counting to three, you would’ve finished getting ready a while ago. A familiar pile of soaked cottons stained in shades ranging from a family of reds to browns sit off to the side of your counter. And currently, a freshly-dipped micellar round was swiping over your lips once more in defeat.

Great, another one bites the dust.

For some reason, today of all days, not a single shade complimented your appearance. The offended tubes of balm were littered in slight disarray, varying in size and color. There were enough of them present that you could line them up into a series of dominos and watch as they fall in succession. Your eyes narrowed at the selection, one of your own curation, in disbelief at the sense of betrayal they quietly emitted.

A pair of gentle taps break your dazed stare.

“Are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while.”

The soft cadence was muffled between the thick wood separating the two of you, and your eyes lift to gaze at the door through the mirror. Past your own reflection, where your lips have seen better days. Right, he was waiting for you.

“Sorry, I promise I’ll be out soon.” You offer in apology, a slight pang of guilt pricking your skin at the sound of it.

It’s just lipstick. Should be something so simple and quick to get over with, yet here you were about to—dramatically so—end it all because not a single shade felt right. “Just, ugh. Doing something.”

“Would you mind if I stepped in? I can help you,” he offers, though makes no move to push the door handle. Patient as ever, a calm that was an opposite to your current storm of frustration.

You contemplate for a moment. But surely, it wouldn’t hurt to get a second opinion, right? A set of fresh eyes in comparison to your wearied ones that have engraved these shades, and your opinions on them, deep into your frontal lobe. So you decided then with a nod what had to be done.

“The door’s open.”

A pleasant creaking noise welcomed in the light from beyond and the man who shouldered it. Xavier was dressed to the nines, cream blazer neatly ironed down to the very creases and onyx turtleneck sneaking up to his Adam’s apple. A dreamy sight, practically glowing and an angel without wings—truly, the date night dress-code for an excursion out of Linkon did wonders.

His shoulders press against the doorframe, arms crossed in thought as he assessed the situation before him. A heartbeat passes in the moment his curious gaze trailed over your figure from head to toe, and away to the messy counter that housed your bathroom activities.

“You look beautiful,” he concludes with a matter-of-fact tone. His brow creases when you don’t even offer him a small smile, sensing the distress radiating from your stare. “Oh. Is something else the matter?”

“This,” you emphasize, pointing a finger to your lower lip. There was a slight stain of previous pigments, a testament to your efforts thus far, and a sigh pushed past it. “I know it might seem a bit silly, but I’ve been struggling with finding something that works.”

Xavier takes a step forward, crossing into the small space as you spun around in succession. Your chests nearly met each other in close proximity and a hand under your chin led your eyes to his. Reflectively, his thumb runs over the plush of the source to your current woes.

He hums. “Even your favorite one?”

“Even my favorite one,” you reaffirm. Your usual shade was a lost cause, which was when you knew that today was definitely not your day.

His eyes never left your lips as he posed another question. “I have one you might like. Would you like to try it?”

“Really?” Your ears perked at the suggestion, curious as to what mysterious shades he would have up his sleeve. “What is it—Mmph?”

A soft press of his lips against yours consume your query, neatly melting into your touch like a puzzle piece finding its match. By instinct, your eyes fluttered shut and arms looped around his neck, quickly welcoming the sudden lip-locking.

His hands smooth themselves over your sides, gently guiding your bodies to push against the counter and attached himself to you with a further dip of his head. The walls of the bathroom do well to echo every ardent press of his lips onto yours—the warmth of his mouth enhanced the light traces of cherry underneath his breath, a familiar taste that undoubtedly belonged to him.

It was only when you began to feel his hands sneakily toy underneath the fabric of your top and tongue push against yours that you pull back, breathless in effect.

“Xavier.”

The first call goes past his ears, his lips dragging past your chin and peppering a line across your jaw. As much as you enjoyed this—you were losing sight of the plot, and needed to pull on the reigns once more in reminder. Both literally and figuratively speaking.

A slight tug to his nape and an emphasis to his vowels, you call out to him again. “Xavier.”

He paused with the second announcement of his name, warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear. Xavier pulls back then, and you could barely make out the ringlets of his steeled blues with how dilated they looked at you instead.

“Sorry,” he breathes. A fleeting kiss to the tip of your nose adds to his apology. “I got carried away.”

“You’re fine,” you reassured, patting down his nape in turn.

Although, your brow raised as the question pushed down your throat from several seconds ago rises upwards. “What lipstick were you referring to? You know, before all of this.” You gesture between yourselves, only just now realizing how naturally his legs were slotted between your own, and lower back leaning into the counter’s edge.

“The color of my lips suit you best.” Xavier responds as if it was the most sensible solution in the world, an edge of sincerity to his simple yet meaningful words. “So, that’s my answer.”

Even so, you snorted, lightly pushing his forehead back with a finger. “Weren’t you the one who said that my lips suited you back then?” Memories of the promotional filming flicker in your mind, and the same happens to Xavier in the way his ears flush.

“Same difference.”

He avoids your teasing gaze, a hand lifted to shyly itch at the side of his neck. It didn’t last long, however, when his eyes twinkled in mirth as they returned to yours. “But, hm. Here's the thing...”

“Hm?” You echoed, though in confusion and a sense of foreboding. Searching his face leads you to your answer, where his now slightly chapped lips curled into a small smile. You swipe over his mouth in amusement. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

He answers amidst your touches, lightly nipping at your searching digit towards the end. “Looks like I’ll need some lipstick recommendations. Don’t you have any for me?”

“I might,” you play along, withdrawing your finger. Your hand cups his cheek in turn, admiring the way his face nuzzled further into your palm in wait. “But we’ll be late for dinner if I show you.”

“That’s fine.” Xavier answers almost too quickly, blinking somewhat innocently to spare some face in the height of your raised suspicions. “I think I’d want some dessert first before we go, anyways.”

"I don't think that's how this works—Ah!"

You let out a surprised yelp at his unsuspecting hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you to sit atop the counter. Your hands steady themselves on his shoulders, in slight disbelief at the newfound shift. A couple of lipstick tubes roll from the sudden intrusion, hitting the floor with light clicks and littering the tiles below.

Your huff matches his chuckle at the disposition you've found yourself in, and you lightheartedly cross your arms with a pout. “I thought you wanted the lipstick?” You quip, reminding him of his own proposal just mere seconds ago. "Now you want to talk about desert this and that."

"Am I not allowed to want both?" He candidly asks in turn, gaze lowered and long lashes kissing the height of his cheeks.

"...You can," you quietly confirm, words suddenly feeling dry at the expense of the heat steadily pricking your skin. Was it always this hot in here? It certainly was now, and you were far from complaining.

The butterflies in your stomach became tenfold as he drew closer to your raised body—one hand mindlessly caressed your thigh as the other gestured off to the side in a soft luminance. A whirr of light wraps itself around one of the closest rouges, seemingly floating in effect.

Xavier calmly uncaps the balm then, waving it around in the air with specks of light floating all about. It stops just before you, barely touching the skin below your cupid’s bow and moves with a faint swipe. “Then, I’ll just have to borrow it from you this way.”

He closes the distance between your faces once more, a kiss so fleeting yet purposeful sealing his promise. Another swipe of lipstick and a planted peck followed in suit—though a third brush of his lips against yours couldn't hide the smile on his face, enjoying the play of events under his crafted direction. He pulls back with a content hum, putting the lipstick aside and smoothing his hands over your thighs once more.

You find yourself staring at his lips, now equally as stained as yours and enhancing the natural hues of his pink. "You got your lipstick, and I got mine," you mused, pursing your lips together in thought. "Are we good to go now?"

"Not quite." Xavier shakes his head, nose nudging the underside of your chin and tracing towards your collarbone. He speaks into the cavern that protects your heart, fingers drumming against you before squeezing lightly.

"I haven't had my dessert yet, starlight."

[walkingintheheartbreaksatellite]

I Want Forever

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Gif credit goes to @londonharry (So sorry! I don’t normally use gifs so I forgot to give credit!)

Summary- Harry and Y/N broke up early into Love On Tour. Harry struggled to truly move on, as did Y/N. With tour over, a lost soul shows up at Y/N’s door one night, ready for forever.

Warnings- angst, smooshiness, you may cry

>>>————————->

September 2021

“Y/N, love, please! I haven’t seen you in weeks! Can’t you take just a bit of time off to come to my next show?”

I sigh into the phone and shake my head, knowing full well he can’t see me.

“Harry, you know I can’t! I’m swamped with school! I skipped 4 assignments and took zeroes for them when I was with you last! This is my future-.”

“And what about our future?! I told you! I want a life with you! You don’t need to be working this hard! You don’t even need to work!”

I scoff and bite my lip.

“Harry, you know I won’t! My career is important! This is what I’m working so hard for! I want to work and I want to be somebody! Not just a pop star’s girlfriend! You’re always gone. If you can’t drop your career for me then you shouldn’t ask me to drop mine for you. I thought you understood that..?”

My heart breaks more and more as he sighs into the phone.

“So that’s it then? You’re just… You’re giving up on us?”

“Harry-.”

“No, no, don’t bother. We should just end it before it gets worse for either of us. I hope things work out for you, Y/N.”

He hangs up and with that, I breakdown. I cry and I cry, praying that this was just a nightmare. But I knew he was right. And without Harry… I could focus…

July 2023

It had been a long week. In fact, it had been a long few years. After the break up, I distanced myself a lot. I got off of social media and threw myself into finishing school and eventually, entered, I got my dream job.

As much as I love helping kids, the ones that are like me and the ones that struggle worse, it breaks my heart. After the break up, I got myself back into therapy to cope.

While I am no longer spiraling, the pain is still there. I never tried to get my things. I never made contact again. I just ran. I ran from everything.

After another long, emotional day of work, I stumble into my apartment and crash on my couch. After giving myself a few moments to scream my frustrations into the couch cushion, I get up and make myself a light dinner before getting some extra work done.

I park myself down at the coffee table with a glass of white wine and a frozen dinner, turning my attention to my laptop when there’s a knock at the door. I glare curiously at the door and hesitantly get up, making my way to the door.

I hesitantly open it and my mouth drops when I see who’s on the other side of the door.

“Harry…”

He looks in my eyes, his face sullen.

“Y/N…���

Before I can really think, I try to close the door but I hear a small ‘ow’ from the other side of the door. I look down and see Harry’s foot in the door. I sigh and let it go, opening it again. He looks at me and pulls his foot back.

“Can we… Can we talk?”

I fold my arms and frown.

“We don’t have anything to talk about. Now if you’ll excuse me-.”

“Y/N, please! Just- Just hear me out!”

He steps forward and I take a step back as he backs me into my apartment and closes the door.

“There’s nothing left to say, Harry. I’ve made my peace. Obviously you have too. So you should just go-.”

He places his hands on my arms and looks into my eyes.

“Y/N, you’re all I’ve thought about since we broke up… I have missed you so.. So much, love. And I know I was horrible to you and I will never forgive myself for that. But I can’t- I need you, Y/N. I can’t take one more day without you…”

Tears well up in my eyes and I shake my head.

“You can’t just come back into my life and say that! You were the one that ended things Harry, you! I supported you through everything! And you couldn’t support me?! My career is important to me! School was important! You were important!”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down before I continue.

“I shouldn’t have to choose between them! And you made the choice for me! And you, you moved on! Multiple times! I-.”

Harry shakes his head, tears spilling down his soft cheeks.

“That’s not true! I- I couldn’t… It was hard, Y/N! I-I made a mistake… I tried to move on but I just couldn’t.. I missed you Y/N. I miss you. And.. I just want you back. I-I know I don’t deserve you, even after all I’ve done… But I just can’t let you go. I refuse to let you go without a fight.”

Before I can say anything, Harry moves to his knees and he takes me hands, forcing me to look down at him.

“Harry-.”

He pulls out a ring box, his hands shaking as tears continue to spill down his cheeks.

“Just.. Hear me out. The last two years, I have done nothing but berate myself for chasing you away. No matter how I tried to move on, you were always on my mind. 3 years. You were with me from the start. And I wasn’t there for you like I should’ve been-.”

I attempt to pull him up and he shakes his head.

“Just wait. Please just let me finish… I made a mistake Y/N… But I don’t want to make another… Please… Y/N L/N… Will you marry me? Will you let be make it up to you? I will spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel like you have to choose. I’ll support you and I’ll-.”

I begin to cry and I drop to my knees as I sob. Harry drops the ring box and takes my cheeks in his hands, wiping my tears away with his thumb as he makes me look at him. His expression softens though his eyes remain teary, and he gives me a small smile.

“I am so, so sorry my love. I will spend every day making sure you know just how much I love you. And I know have a lot to make up for but please.”

I sigh and close my eyes for a minute. I take a deep breath before opening them again.

“Yes… I’ll marry you, Harry.”

His eyes light up and he opens his mouth to speak but I place my finger on his lips, stopping him.

“But I have a few conditions. These past couple years haven’t been easy. For the first few months… I couldn’t stand even hearing your name-… I want to go to therapy. You and me. Couples counseling. And- I want to take some time to heal… You coming back is putting salt in old wounds.”

He lets go of my cheeks and looks down, his sides dropping. I sigh and despite my better judgment, I wrap my arms around his neck and I kiss him. His eyes widen for a moment before he sinks into the kiss, deepening it. After a minute or so, I pull away and Harry looks into my eyes.

“I want you to listen to me, okay?”

He’s quiet for a second before he nods, gesturing me to continue.

“You made a mistake. And you’re owning up to it. I want to be with you Harry, I do. But I think we need to spend some time working through things together before we tie the not.”

He’s quiet for a moment before I hear him grab something off the floor.

“So… Does that mean you don’t want to wear the ring yet?”

I let out a small snort and shake my head. I pull away from him and hold my right hand out to him.

“No, gimmie that! I had been waiting for that! But it does mean that you’ll have to wait a little longer before you can marry me.”

He smiles and slips the ring on my finger and picks me up, twirling me around in his arms as I laugh.

It won’t be easy, but I want forever, and I want it with him.

>>>—————->

I hope you enjoyed lovelies! I would definitely be open to writing more for them!!! Requests are closed for now, until I catch up, but I will let you know when they’re open again!

Tag List

@be-with-me-so-happily @swiftmendeshoran @babyiamperfectforyou @freedomfireflies @kaminokatie @harrysmimi @violetsandfluff @fruitmans @fruitmansrecs @strwbrrydaydreams @rafaaoli @kimmi-kat @erggggggggg

[scoutswritingcorner]

It's Still You

Alastor x GN!Reader

A/n: Part two of ‘Despite Everything’ also a big thank you to my lovely Kuro (@kurosstuff)- They helped me figure this out!!

TW:Crying, talks about murder, a little screaming, angst. DONT WORRY THERE IS FLUFF I PROMISE!!

He didn’t remember when Rosie had guided him to sit down at a table, you sat across from him as Rosie had to leave to go make some tea saying something about “Needing to talk it out”. He would agree but his pride didn’t want to be bruised more than it already was. The way you won’t even look at him, of course he didn’t blame you but it still irked him to no end.

“Darling..” He started but was caught off with a loud scoff from you, “You don’t get to call me that anymore, Alastor.” You hissed venom lacing your tongue and it went right to his undead heart like a knife. He stayed silent for the first time in a long time, The Great Radio Demon was stunned silent and backed down like a kicked dog. But what made it worse was how tears started to well up in your eyes yet you didn’t acknowledge them, only looked at the wall across from you. “..Rosie told me you were still singing around here..you have your own little parlor..” He whispered out the radio effect gone from his voice, you nodded wordlessly.

He played with his cane and looked away from your face, “Why do you care? Have you ever fucking cared, Alastor?” You hissed out finally looking- no glaring at him. “Was our marriage just for show? It felt like it.” He flinched as his ears fell flat on his head at that thought of you thinking he truly didn’t love you. He showed it the best ways he could. “No no, it was never for show. I could never hurt you like that.” He calmly replied, trying not to let anyone see how upset he was at your words. No one could know The Radio Demon had a weakness.

That made you sob out and stand up collecting your things. He stood up as well reaching out for you but you moved away from his reach. “But you did. You killed me, Alastor. I did everything for you, I got the cops off your tail and covered your tracks when you were too damned tired to notice you got sloppy.” You yelled out, “I worshiped you, you were my husband, what else was I supposed to do?” Tears now falling freely down your face as your hands trembled, “I was scared of my own husband during my last moments alive.” 

He froze in place his ever lasting smile had fallen into a deep frown as he slowly walked closer to you. “That was probably my first fucking mistake in a long line of them but love makes you do crazy shit. And I truly did love you..I still do but I’m so afraid.” His shadow curled around your body as his hands finally reached to cup your face, wiping the tears away from your eyes. “I love you as well, my Songbird.” He started watching as you nuzzled into his hands, “I loved you from the moment I laid my eyes on you. I’m sorry for everything I have done..for how I’ve hurt you. You were never my target.” He whispered out, pulling you closer to his body.

“You were my everything, cher..” He leaned his forehead against yours as you let another sob rip through you. “My driving force, the person I wanted beside me at all times..could we try again? If you allow me the chance?” He asked softly, smiling as he felt your hands, your much softer hands than his, had grabbed onto his clawed ones and nodded. “I would like that, Al..I’m sorry..” 

He hummed and gently placed a kiss upon your forehead, “There is nothing to be sorry for. Tu as toujours eu mon coeur, mon petit oiseau chanteur.” He wouldn’t ruin this chance, not again. You both would run Hell side by side.

A/n: This made me fucking cry so much, I hope everyone loves it! Translation: "You always had my heart, my little songbird."

[librababe99]

Weathering the Storm

A/N: Hey Y’all! So I’ve always been someone who lurks, reblogs and enjoys the work that others put out on Tumblr. I have attempted to write things in the past but end up keeping it to myself or scrap the idea altogether— BUT after watching Deadpool and Wolverine my love for those two has hit me hard!  Anyways, here’s a little angsty blurb I wrote for Logan. 

Please let me know what you think! I'm open to suggestions and comments!

- Libra ✧ : *✧･ﾟ:*

Warnings: None.  Word Count: 620

The rain pounds against the window, a relentless downpour that mirrors the storm brewing inside you. You sit on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to hold it together. But it’s hard. It’s so damn hard when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Logan is pacing the room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. You can see the tension in his muscles, the barely contained fury that radiates off him in waves. He hasn’t looked at you since the argument started—since the words that neither of you can take back were thrown like daggers.

“Logan,” you finally say, your voice breaking the heavy silence. He stops but doesn’t turn to face you. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even listening.

But then he speaks, his voice rough and edged with pain. “I can’t keep doin’ this,” he mutters, the words barely audible over the rain. “Every time… it’s like I’m losing you a little more.”

Your heart clenches at the raw emotion in his tone, and you stand, taking a hesitant step toward him. “You’re not losing me,” you say, though the crack in your voice betrays your own doubt. “I’m right here.”

He finally turns to look at you, his eyes shadowed with something that makes your breath catch. There’s anger there, yes, but beneath it, there’s something deeper—something broken. “But for how long?” he asks, his voice rough with a vulnerability he rarely shows. “How long before you walk away? Before you decide you can’t handle bein’ with a guy like me?”

The accusation stings because it’s not entirely unfounded. You’ve both been through hell, and sometimes the weight of it all feels like too much. But the thought of leaving him? Of walking away from the only person who truly understands you? That’s a pain you can’t bear to even consider.

“I’m not leaving you, Logan,” you insist, your voice trembling. “I—” You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. “I’m scared, okay? Scared that one day I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. That something will happen, and I won’t be able to stop it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. I just… I don’t know how to deal with this.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze piercing as he studies you. Then, with a heavy sigh, he steps forward, closing the distance between you. His hand reaches up, his rough fingers brushing your cheek. “You’re not gonna lose me, darlin’,” he murmurs, the anger in his voice replaced by something softer, something laced with the same fear you feel. “But I can’t keep fightin’ this battle alone. We’re in this together, or we’re not in it at all.”

His words hang in the air, a challenge and a plea all at once. You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of the decision before you. It would be easy to walk away, to let the fear and doubt win. But as you look into Logan’s eyes, you realize that leaving him would hurt more than anything else ever could.

Taking a deep breath, you place your hand over his. “We’re in this together,” you whisper, the resolve in your voice stronger now. “No matter what.”

For a moment, the tension between you lingers, but then Logan pulls you into his arms, holding you tight as if afraid you might slip away. You bury your face in his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours. The storm outside rages on, but in Logan’s embrace, you find a sliver of peace—a promise that, despite the darkness, you’ll face whatever comes together.

[becauseimswagman1]

Jealous, much?

Trick Williams x Reader

A/N: This some smutty ass shit y'all. MDNI! Y'all are responside for your own reading exposure.

Warnings: sexy ass Trick Williams, minor coochie touching, unprotected p in v (no glove no love y'all! Come on!), choking, good communication, and dirty talking

-------------------------------------------

You scoffed looking at Lash and Trick in the ring together after his match. He was just reprimanding you about your onscreen relationship with Melo. You’re gonna ask him about this when he gets back, too, cause there’s no way he’s tryna play this game. 

—------------------------------------------

Trick came to the back on cloud nine! He and Lash had finished cutting that promo and everybody was feeling it! They truly had good chemistry, but not better than him and you. His girl, you, Trick loved so much. One day, it’ll be you and him cutting promos and working onscreen together, creating real magic, just like how y’all do outside of the ring.

After getting congratulations from the staff, Trick went to find you. You were the person he wanted to see the most after every show, win or lose. But, you found him before he found you. 

You had this look on your face that meant nothing but trouble, he could tell you were annoyed about something. 

“Heyy~, baby.” Trick wrapped his arms around you, but when you pushed him away, he knew something was seriously wrong, “Yo, which one of these girls done pissed you off? Cause Trick Willy gone handle that on behalf of you baby.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you said, “Can we talk somewhere privately? Too many listening ears around.”

Trick furrowed his brows concerned, “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go back to my locker room.”

On the way there, you thought of how you could phrase what you wanted to say, so you didn’t come off angry. Though, you were angry, coming off that way through tone would just upset Trick and the conversation would be done through screaming instead of understanding. 

“Aight, baby, what’s wrong?” Trick asked when y’all finally got into the room.

“What happened to loyalty?” 

“Bae, what you talking bout? Loyalty? What?” Trick tried to wrap his arms around you, but you pushed him away.

He was confused, you were fine all night. What changed your mood so quickly?

“You and Lash out there… together like that…” you trailed off. 

“Oooh okay, this what you upset about. Bae, that’s just work, it’s nothing else going on.” 

Crossing your arms over your chest once again, you huffed, “That’s exactly what I said about Carmelo and I, but you nearly lost your job tryna stop something that wasn’t anything to begin with. It’s my JOB to have chemistry with him.”

Trick scoffed, “I know Carmelo. That’s not professional what he’s doing. He’s making actual passes at you 'cause you my girl and you know it.”

You cocked your head a little, “I know it? Okay,” you took a deep breath to calm yourself, “Trick, all I wanted was for you to get a taste of your own medicine. To see how you are through someone else’s eyes. Sure, I’ve noticed that some of Melo’s actions are inappropriate and I will talk to him about that. But, you also need to see that Lash’s actions are more than just work-related too and I know you see that. So, you need to get on her before I do.”

Trick nodded his head, “Okay, maybe there were some-” 

You cut him off, “Maybe? Trick, come on.”

Trick sighed, “Fine. There have been some things I picked up on. I just ignored it cause I knew I had someone better than Lash. I knew I had you waiting for me with open arms after every show. You my beginning and end, baby. You the woman I wanna walk down the aisle to see waiting for me. I love you.”

You smiled and sniffed a little, “Baby, don’t make me cry! I love you too.”

Trick wrapped his arms around, successfully this time, sighing with contentment at finally embracing you, “Don’t cry. We got some celebrating to do.”

Pulling away from the hug, “Oh we definitely do. Now, gimme that Trick Willy loving.”

Trick smirked, “Oh? In the locker room? Where everybody can hear you be loud?”

You smirked this time, “It’s not like we haven’t done it in here before, and,” you leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I won’t be the only loud one.”

Trick kept his smirk at your statement. He was excited to see this side of you. 

Lifting the bottom of your dress to slip his hands under it, caressing your ass, “Showtime baby.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips with yours, teasing you just a bit, and then he kissed you with such passion and force, that you almost stumbled backward. Kissing you always gets Trick harder than ever. Even the slightest of pecks causes him to chub a bit sometimes.

He rubbed your ass more, switching between cupping it in his hands and jiggling it. Then, he moved one of his hands to the front of your underwear, rubbing you.

You were borderline soaking through your underwear. You shared the intimate sentiment with Trick with kissing. 

“Wet already baby? Hm? You wet for me?” he rubbed your clit, putting a little pressure on it. 

You were ready to collapse in his arms. You didn’t know how badly his admittance of wanting to marry you had affected you. 

“Please…” you said, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Please, what? Huh, baby? Please, what?” Trick kissed your neck and pressed down a little harder, continuing to rub agonizingly slow. 

“I wanna cum on your dick, baby,” you said, lifting your head.

“Is that right? On my dick?” he pulled his hand from your heat, “Whatever you want baby?”

You looked into Trick’s eyes while tugging down his shorts, “Whatever I want?”

“Already know it.” 

“Good.” you stopped pulling at his shorts, “Take it out.”

The difference in your voice had Trick taken aback. Who did he just awaken?

He listened and whipped it out, stroking it a bit, 

“Now, sit down.”

“Shit….” he mumbled.

When he didn’t move fast enough for your liking, you pushed his shoulders a little, “Sit down, baby.”

Trick quickly went to sit down in a chair like you demanded.

You slid your underwear off and then climbed onto his lap. You grabbed his dick and rubbed it against your wetness, “I love you, Trick.” you said as you lifted yourself up and put the tip in. 

Trick grabbed your hips, attempting to help you slide down all the way, but you weren’t having it. 

“Move your hands, baby.” You were going to teach him a lesson. Coming at you sideways about another man while another woman was pushing up on him and he had the nerve to act clueless. You’ll slide down when you feel like it.

Grinding on his tip had Trick curling his toes, “Fuu…”

You stopped grinding, “What was that?” 

“Fuck me.” Trick said in the most whiny voice. You’ve never heard him like this. That shit had you dripping more than you already were. You knew you couldn’t deny yourself pleasure any longer, so you slid down. 

Trick finally felt like he could breathe. The teasing was finally over, “Shiit, please move.”

You smirked, now he was the one saying please. Moving your hips was a Godsend on Trick’s end. Your teasing on his tip and your controlling demeanor had him on the edge. 

“Shit… tell me how you feel baby. Tell me how it feels being in a pussy this good.” You bounced on his dick, making a point to come down hard, slamming your ass down on his lap. 

“Feels so good inside you, baby,” Trick wrapped his arms around your back, “Love being inside you, fuck.”

You bounced harder, a slapping noise mixed with yours and Trick’s moans can only be heard. You held your breasts as you rode him, “You wanna cum? I wanna cum. You gonna make me cum?” you asked him.

Trick nodded rapidly, “Yeah, baby. Want you to get yours.” his arms around you tightened, making you go faster. 

“Ooh fuck, fuck, fuck. Keep going, baby. I’m so close.” you moved one of your hands to rub your clit in fast circles, “SHIT! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“Mhm, mhm. Let go for me. That’s right.” 

You twitched in his arms, a creamy ring forming around his dick. You flooding his lap. 

Trick slowed your bouncing down and looked at your fucked out expression. 

“You always look so fucking sexy after a good nut.”

Outta breath, you said, “Time to get yours.” then pushed his back flush to the chair y’all were sitting in together and rested your hands on his shoulders, “Take it.”

Trick planted his feet and started bouncing you again, thrusting up in time to meet your ass against his thighs, “Oh shit, baby.”

“Yeah? You getting close baby?” you slide your right hand up to his neck, applying a little pressure.

Trick felt a new pleasure, he had never been choked before, and the sensation was going straight to his dick. Trick had to slow down to prevent himself from coming too quickly.

“What you doing to me, baby? Fuck, you feel so good!”

You tightened your grip on his neck, “Come on, Trick. Get yours, baby.”

Trick unwrapped his arms and grabbed your ass, spreading your ass cheeks, and truly started fucking up into you. Lifting you, slamming you down, and thrusting up to meet that shit in the middle. 

“Shit, I’m almost there.” Trick’s eyes rolled back and stayed there, pleasure almost becoming too much. “Baby, baby, baby, fuuckkkk I’m finna bust.”

“Me too, baby, me too.” Seeing Trick in this state did more to and for you than you thought it ever could. Seeing him losing his mind like you normally would has you close. 

He moved you even faster on his dick, his moans getting lost in his throat, “Yeah, baby... wanna nut in that pussy.”

“Yeah? You wanna nut in me, baby? Ask for permission!” you knew you were done for if he did this. One hand is still on his neck and the other arm is thrown completely around his neck. You were holding on for dear life.

“Please! Lemme bust in you! Fuuu… please I can’t hold it!” his toes were curled impossibly tight.

“Cum with me Trick! Ohmy-fuck baby Yes!!” you came with a scream, wetting up his thighs and his lower stomach.

Rapidly nodding his head, he came with a long groan. Slowing down, but continuing to bounce you to ride out the high for as long as he could. 

“Oh shit,” Trick rested for forehead against yours, “Felt so good, baby.”

You kissed him as a response. Needing to feel his lips on yours to ground you a bit more from the earth-shattering orgasm you just had. 

And when Trick started to suck your tongue into his mouth, you took that as a sign to go another round, so you ground your hips. 

Trick grabbed your hips tight and stopped you, “Nah, I need a minute. You really wore me out.”

You giggled, “I guess I did, huh?”

He chuckled, “Maybe I should get you jealous more often, huh? Especially if you get like this.”

You smacked his chest, “Boy, hush up. Ain’t nobody jealous… but we both gone get our acts together about this, though.”

Trick nodded, “For sure.”

Getting close to his lips, brushing yours over his just like he did you, “You tell that girl what’s up and I’ll do you like this and more.”

He groaned at the thought, “I’ll make sure she knows her place.” 

You pecked his lips, “Good. Now let’s get cleaned up so we can go home and go a couple more rounds.”

“Yes ma’am.”

---------------------

Taglist that I'm rebuilding: @itsbackwoodsbby @ayeeeitsmiracle @sharmelasworld @megamindsecretlair @femdisa @harmshake @mzv11

(Sorry if I tagged some of y'all without permission. Y'all my favorite writers on this app)

(Let ya girl know if you wanna be added or otherwise)

[hctsummernights]

star shopping

summary: making music has been chris' passion for years, but is that passion enough to keep you to stay? (based off star shopping by lil peep) pairing: rapper!chris x feminine!reader warnings: angst, talks of depression, weed use, arguing a note from lilah 𐙚: hey so i'm sorry for this. (lowercase intended!)

chris sighed, throwing a green celtics cap over his hair and sliding on his sneakers. he knew you were going to have something to say about this, but right now, he couldn’t risk the loss of this new beat. he’d been hitting a wall with making his beats fit his lyrics for weeks now, hence why he was getting ready to go meet with his producer at 11:30 pm, spurred on by the “dude, i swear to god i just hit the fucking jackpot” text.

you raised your brows as you stepped out of the bathroom, towel on your head and plush robe wrapped around your body. “where are you going?” you asked, watching as chris grabbed his wallet and keys. 

“they need me in the studio,” he mumbled. “i’ll be back in the morning.”

“whatever.” you hummed coolly, brushing past your boyfriend (if you could even call him that) to get to your vanity. 

“c’mon baby, don’t be mad. this is the one.” chris insisted, trying to smooth things over. 

“i’m not mad,” you said flatly, smoothing your moisturizer over your skin. “just go. i’ll probably be gone for work when you get back, so i’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

“baby,” chris practically begged, standing near your vanity, but not in your space so he didn’t upset you. “i know i fuck up. i know that i haven’t been a good boyfriend lately. i know you probably don’t want to end up with me, but i love you. you are so much more than gorgeous to me. i want to be with you for the rest of my life. please don’t doubt how much i love you.”

“chris, not tonight. just go.”

“i know i’m not worth your time right now; trust me, i know that. but i also know that i can work on it if you give me time. i can make this album and then we’ll be set, baby, i swear. just let me work on it.”

“you’ve been saying that.” you pointed out, trying to swallow the lump in your throat at the brunette’s words. 

“you’re losing your patience, and i don’t blame you.”

“chris!” you sighed, unintentionally slamming your eye cream down on the vanity. “i’ve been waiting for you to work on it for over two years. two whole rotations around the sun. i believe in you and i believe in your art, but i feel like i’m waiting for something that won’t come. it’s not paying our bills!

chris bit his lip, knowing you had a point. art couldn’t be rushed, but he had been in the process of writing this album for over two years, all while you single handedly paid the bills. the only time that the two of you truly had a connection was when you had sex. you’d look into chris’ deep blue eyes, allowing your hormones to take over and make you feel like maybe everything was okay, despite the fact that you two only had about one true conversation per week. 

“i know.” he mumbled quietly. 

“maybe,” your voice trembled as you began to argue. “maybe my friends are right. maybe i should break up with you. i can’t keep doing this, chris. i’ve worked my ass off to make sure we’re taken care of, and the way you pay me back is by leaving at almost midnight? seriously?”

“ma, you know i’m gonna make it happen one day,” chris pleaded. “as soon as this album comes out, i’m taking you overseas. we’ll go wherever you want, baby. we can smoke and stay in luxury hotels and-” chris was cut off when you interrupted him. 

“that’s what you want, chris. not me. i don’t give a fuck about weed or being overseas. all i want is for this, for us, to be a partnership.” you said, tears rolling down your cheeks. 

for some reason, despite what your instincts were telling you, you didn’t protest when chris pulled you into a hug, burying his nose in your freshly washed hair. “i’m sorry, baby. i know i’m nothing like what you or your family or anyone else wants me to be. but at the end of the day, i would give up my life for you. you’ve given up yours for me. you’ve taken care of me during my bad days, you’ve supported me through everything. i understand if you don’t want to anymore.”

“chris…” you croaked out, voice thick with tears. “i love you, i do love you. i just…miss you. i feel like you’re never home. i miss us.”

the brunette felt like he’d just received a blow to the gut. how could he have been so caught up in some dumb album that he had ignored the most important thing in his life? “i know, baby. i am so, so sorry. i…” chris pulled out his phone, fingers flying over the screen, before he shoved the device back into his pocket. “i’m yours for the rest of the night. shoutout to everyone making my beats, but you’re more important. music’s what helped me when i fell to pieces, so now it’s my turn to do that for you.”

you simply nodded into his chest, not quite forgiving him, but not having the chance to argue anymore either. you didn’t even protest under chris grabbed your hips, lifting you off the vanity stool and carrying you to the door that led from your master bedroom to the balcony of your chicago apartment. like any large city, lights were still aglow on the tall skyscrapers and traffic honked below you, but by some miracle, you could faintly see the stars in the velvety blue nighttime sky.  

“all of those stars have a reason they’re here,” chris mumbled. “i hope i find that reason for me…for us.”

you hummed quietly against in his chest in your robe. things weren’t okay right now, they probably wouldn’t be for a long time, but you were too exhausted to argue. you knew chris loved you, you knew you loved him, but you also knew that you couldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting around for what he might do. 

a/n: yeoWCH....thank you for reading bbys!

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 1

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. 

Guilt is a wild trip, but so is desire. How the hell did you end up in this divvy motel? And now, what's next?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, orange besties 🧡 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings. Now I'm off to disappear for another month, heehee. To anyone who celebrates anything, happy whatever you celebrate. Ily 🧡

@frannyzooey And to you, Kelli… Thank you 🧡 Thank for your help on this chapter, without you it wouldn’t exist. Arguably, without you I wouldn’t exist (my gothic ass) and without you I would certainly not be writing at all. You’re the kindest, most generous, most beautiful person I’ve ever met, you shine so brightly and I love you more than all the Frankies from all the universes put together 🧡✨

Word count: 6.5k

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Chapter 1: Dirt

Guilt, you’re about to find out, is an interesting feeling. 

A viscous, gluey business that sticks to your skin and clings to your frame. It’s a prickling tickle under your armpits, a rigidity in your legs. It’s a tightness in your shoulders, and it pulls on your face. It has a density, and it’s tangible, not only do you feel it, you see it in every mirror, every reflective surface. 

A pervasive, shape-shifting torment that unfurls gradually, and comes in many colorful shades, when you begin to take in the gravity and the ramifications of your actions. 

The first wave is darkened by fear, black as petrol, trickling down your insides when he says his name. 

Frankie.

Like an invitation, an opening. Gaping, abysmal, pulling you in and you remain silent, struggling on the edge of it, grasping for balance. Drawn in, but too stunned to let go and dive in yet.

It’s a violent crimson, next, shame creeping over you when you walk back inside the bar to retrieve your purse. 

Facing Mark is difficult, but talking to him is beyond your strength. You gesture toward the handbag waiting for you on the other side of the counter. He hands it to you in appraising silence, judgmental, surely, and you smile, or you wince, you can’t even tell. With shaky hands, you fumble inside it for your wallet, his green gaze strained on your face. 

You know that your entire appearance gives away the narrative of what just took place in the back lot of his establishment. Your face is flushed, your lips swollen, your hair undone. Your clothes are rumpled and in his eyes, you will from now on and forever be this woman. 

After what feels like several minutes, he takes pity on you, and reiterates his offer. You’re good, he says. Sweetheart. The first pint’s on him. 

You don’t stay long enough for a second drink, however. 

Back outside into the muggy night, you crumble onto the passenger seat of your car. The polyester lining of your skirt clings to the bare skin at the back of your thighs, damp with sweat and what is left of your inconsequential desire, and you feel appallingly filthy, bone-deep disgusting. 

Guilt washes over you in blue waves of regret, welling under your eyelids when you notice that the red truck is gone. And with it, the gaping, abysmal possibilities of another you, reinvented with him. 

The shaking starts as you’re driving, trembling hands gripping the steering wheel. A brutal, chilling comedown, guilt experienced in bright and blinding yellow at the belated realization of your betrayal. 

How easily, how rapidly you forgot, trapped under Frankie’s gaze, coming undone between Frankie’s hands, that your life isn’t truly yours. That it has never been. You’re not on your own, no matter how much you long to be. You have never been afforded the privilege of independence, nor do you possess the necessary strength to break free from your family. 

And who has Frankie betrayed? What faceless, nameless woman has he gone back to? Remorse blends in with envy and resentment, painting green ring-shaped stains in your peripheral vision as you get out of your car and into the lobby of your building. 

Eyes to the floor, you step into the elevator, this oversized coffin lined with mirrors reflecting your image with a silent scoff. There’s dust from the gravel on your leather pumps. 

Inside your apartment, the clickety-click of your heels on the tiled floor bounces off the walls of your skull. You hate that sound, eminently cold and giving away your presence. 

The living-room television is on, probably set to a news channel, most likely broadcasting a financial show in which white men over 50 listen to the sound of their own voice and debate about obscure economical regulations you’re supposed to care about. 

Adrian’s already here. Uncharacteristically early. Friday evenings usually mean late night poker or whatever his own excuse is to get away from your cribless home.

Hoping to go unnoticed so as to avoid him, you take off your shoes, but it’s too late. He calls out your name from the kitchen, his intonation surprised but cheerful. 

Head hanging low, heartbeat picking up, you make a silent dash for the upstairs bathroom, remorse so pungent you fear no shower can ever wash it off your skin.  

Under the scolding high-pressure stream, you scrub your body raw with a soapless loofah, but there is no scrubbing away the feeling of those hands over your skin. 

Eyes drifting closed, you lean your forehead against the anthracite marble of your Italian shower, and let your chest heave around a suppressed sob. 

Guilt, shame, and remorse are powerless to outweigh your want, undeterred, unabated, unquenched. 

Back in the parking lot, it had been a moment before you were able to push away from the side of the truck and stand upright. He stood there, silent and immobile in front of you. Waiting, as if to shield you from the street and the rest of the world. Silence hanging charged and heavy between you, as you wouldn’t offer your name in return. 

When you started moving toward the bar’s entrance, he stepped aside, and that’s when your body moved of its own volition. You took his hand in yours, palm against palm, trembling fingers wrapped around his knuckles.

“Can I see you again?” you asked, pleaded, begged. You didn’t recognize your voice.

He swallowed hard, shook his head at you for the third time, and squeezed your hand in his bigger one. 

“I don’t think so. You know that’s not a good idea,” he said. 

—

Grief settles like dust over the first weeks of September. 

You are surprised, almost shocked, to observe how little your life has changed. You get up in the morning, you shower and get dressed, drink coffee, go to work. You attend meetings about maritime trade regulation, sitting at your father’s side, go over endless spreadsheets detailing import-export profit and loss, you pretend to understand them, and you pretend to care, like a pretty human puppet. 

You come home at night, skip dinner when you can. You lie in bed next to Adrian. You seek out warmth where there is none. You perform sex without satisfaction. 

There has been no question asked. No suspicion, no doubt cast. 

You wear the same clothes, drive along the same roads, walk around the same hallways. 

And no one seems to notice that you are different. That you experienced imperious want and incandescent pleasure. That you carry a secret. Nestled, dormant and quiet, between your lungs, like a wild and unknown creature. 

Whatever part of him you welcomed inside you transformed the hollowed spaces of your existence. It redefined the void, creating a place of your own where to curate your new desires. 

His lips on your lips, your body molded into his, and pressed against your hips, an unfulfilled promise for more. 

In the palm of your hand, the ghost sensation of Frankie’s hold, now forever gone and lost, and your highlighted loneliness feels like a barless prison. On your own, always, again, to divert the old familiar pain of being you.

Weeks go by. The guilt recedes, and sadness takes its place, like clockwork, like physics. Like a new sort of weight coating your limbs. A nostalgic longing without any object. 

In the idle moments of your day, when you’re stuck in traffic, in a meeting, or in a conversation, your mind wanders back to him. The solid slope of his shoulders. The strong span of his back. Muscles bunching up under your grip. His scent, his curls, his taste. An organic trace seared into your being. 

His rebuttal, after he’d given you so much, felt less like a rejection than like a refusal to heed a deeply rooted instinct. 

His stare was no longer hard and cold. It carried only sorrow and loss. 

Does he think of you like you think of him? Does he miss the contact of your skin, or the abandon of your kiss? 

Did he walk away from your embrace with something to keep, like you did? 

Day after day, summer fades into fall, the change hardly perceptible through the consistently sweltering weather. 

Day after day, focusing becomes tricky, finding sleep more and more difficult and your train of thought turns downright maniacal. 

Ava’s calls go straight to voicemail.

More often than not, you start drinking as soon as you come home to fence off the tears of exhaustion, hoping Adrian won’t notice. Another line you had promised yourself never to cross, and under the combined effects of the alcohol and the antidepressants, you feel drowsy and dizzy, increasingly disconnected from your reality. A nagging sting settles on the left side of your lower abdomen. But you don’t mind the pain as much as you mind turning into your mother.

Some days, you think you’d like nothing more than to give way, allow yourself to drown into the proven refuge of self-abuse. Whenever you indulge the thought, soothing images spring to mind, oil on canvas, deep green, tender brown. Ophelia, crowned with wild flowers and rings of violets, sleeping peacefully in a shallow stream. 

When you finally return to the Hole in the Wall, it’s only with the hope of hindering your impending tailspin.

In the parking, after turning off the ignition, you sit in your car for the whole of five minutes, staring numbly at the dark lot where the red truck had been parked.

Mark’s hesitant greeting puzzles you; by now you have lost most of your ability to read people’s reactions. 

You walk to the counter and choose to sit on one of the high stools. Somewhere deep down, you enjoy his distance; you relish the sadistic pleasure of reliving the humiliation you felt standing before him, freshly fucked dumb on a total stranger’s fingers. 

Besides, you’ll take the attention, however uncomfortable it may be.

“Long time no see,” Mark says, and you produce a poorly executed smile. 

“I don’t know… two weeks? I’ve been busy,” you add as a way of apologizing.

“It’s been a month,” he replies curtly.

You try a brown ale, this time, rich and bitter. He busies himself behind the counter, cleaning and wiping, while you drain your glass in silence. You haven’t eaten all day, and you’re drinking too fast. Nausea laps against your diaphragm. It’s the last missing scene from this scenario: you, throwing up in the toilet of his bar. 

You’re considering leaving when he speaks again. 

“Trucker hat dude came by.”

Your head shots up and you glare at him, eyes widening under your pinched brow, a new wave of sickness nudging further up. He gauges your face, twirling a towel inside a pint glass, waiting for your answer, but when you give him none, he goes on.  

“Did he…” he starts, and his eyes slowly go back and forth between yours, “he didn’t hurt you or anything? Cause if he did, if you wanna press charges, I can—“

“No,” you cut him off, “god no, I’m fine. I’m perfectly ok,” you add unnecessarily when his gaze narrows. 

He pauses for a moment, like he’s the only one who can judge if you are, indeed, perfectly ok, before he faces away from you to put back the clean glasses on the lower shelves behind him.  

When he’s done, he turns back around, props his hands low on his hips, and for the first time since you’ve entered the place, he stands perfectly still. 

“He’s been asking about you.”

Between your lungs, the creature begins to stir. 

“He came back,” you say, surprisingly matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Asked if you come here every Friday.”

Piece by piece, your mind starts swiveling, sluggish and blunt after being successfully dulled out by the past couple of weeks of excessive drinking. You picture his tall figure standing in the small bar, perhaps he sat on the stool you’re sitting on now? Did he lift his cap to comb his hair with his fingers before he spoke?

Mark is talking again, and it’s a conscious effort to bring your attention back to his words.

“Asked if you always come on your own. If I know your name.”

“I never told you my name,” you panic, “what did you tell him?”

“I see your name every week on your AmEx Gold, sweetheart, but I kindly told him to go fuck himself,” he scoffs.

His sardonic tone snaps you out of your drifting daydreaming. Your face immediately hardens. You sit up straight, drawing further away from him and he seems to change his mind. He’s softer when he speaks next. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s the lowdown between you two, you understand? And anyway, I’m not in the habit of discussing my regulars with just about anyone. That kinda goes against the job’s ethics, you know what I mean?”

You shrug away the rational, albeit patronizing explanation with a huff of annoyance. You feel more alert than you have in weeks.  

“When was that?” you ask.

“Last week. Thursday, I think.”

“Shit.” 

Mark lets out a heavy sigh, resembling that of an exhausted father, and he opens the cash register. 

“He left a note for you.”

—

An address. Written in all caps, black ink on a white piece of paper torn from a lined notebook. No phone number, not date, no time… and no name. Just the address. Under the feeble cabin light of your car, the paper looks old, like it’s been carried around tucked inside a wallet for years, and time has turned it yellow. 

The coordinates on the dashboard GPS are identical to the ones on the paper. They were identical back in the parking, at the bar, when you typed them in; they were identical at every single red light you stopped at and checked. And they’re still identical now, glowing in blue letters, cold and synthetic, above the message You have reached your destination.

You raise your head again and stare at the building in front of you. 

It’s a motel. One floor, L shaped, slightly sloping roof. With wrought iron details, a porch hanging low and square wooden pillars demarcating each room, nine of them in total. On the right, underneath a bare bulb, a large ice machine gleams like a beacon for lost time-travelers, next to a pay phone with a cut-off cord and a missing receiver. On the rear end of the building, to the left, above what looks like the reception, a 4 feet tall sign spells MOTEL in red neon letters. 

At its height, the place probably looked nice. But that was a rough 55, 60 years ago, you estimate. Now it’s nearly derelict, with visible cracks streaking the yellowing walls, several broken drainpipes, and a missing number on the door of room 7. 

If you cared about these kinds of things, you’d figure that the diversion of the main road further south is responsible for the motel’s decaying state. 

Your attention is elsewhere, as usual. The parking lot is deserted, save for three vehicles. The red truck is here, parked a couple of places away to your right. Engine off. Empty. 

The drive here from the Hall in the Wall was nearly an hour long. The car cruised along poorly lit, narrow two-lane roads, lined with luxuriant vegetation, dense and confining in the pitch darkness of the suburban night. You’ve lived in Tampa your entire life and have never set a foot in this part of the Bay Area. Technically, you’re not even in Tampa anymore. 

He’s inside one of these rooms, somewhere. Waiting for you, and that thought alone makes your breathing difficult and your hands clammy.

What now? What’s next? Are you supposed to walk up to the reception and ask about him?  A tall man wearing a trucker hat? Frankie?

And what will happen, once you’ve found him?

This is ridiculous. Sordid. It’s gone too far, whatever that is. A motel outside of town. The worst possible cliché. The most degrading place. 

Between your lungs, the creature is clawing at your chest. 

You shift nervously on the creaking leather seat, exhaling long and shaky, no longer repressing the memory of his sturdy fingers curling inside your warmth, of his tongue swirling inside your mouth. The instant intimacy of your furtive encounter, that turning point, when he briefly relinquished his control. 

A chorus of voices rumbles like tumbling boulders inside your head, a cacophony of rules and guidelines, tacit and unspoken, ingrained and internalized. But with every passing minute staring at the bright motel sign, your resolve grows surer. 

The yellow curtains ripple behind the rectangular window of room number 2 and you quickly pull the key out of the ignition. Grabbing your phone from the dashboard, you stuff it inside your purse, which you slide under the driver's seat. 

Eyes locked on the curtains, you make a fast-paced beeline to the door. Around you, the night is bustling with the sounds and noises of the invisible wildlife. Revealing nothing, containing so much. 

With a quick rattle of your heels, you step under the porch, hand extended and ready to knock on the door when it opens for you. 

Oh he’s broad, so much broader than you even remembered, blocking the entire doorway with his frame, blue jeans, black shirt, and this goddamn hat that’s already haunting your dreams and your nightmares. 

Looking down on you, irate, defiant, daring you to push him aside and enter. Behind him, the room is plunged in darkness. Above you, the porch lights cast a warm hue on his face, that fails to soften his expression. The crease between his brow is deeper than your fears. 

You take a step closer, on instinct, but he moves to the side as if to avoid any contact with you and you enter the dark bedroom, carried by your momentum.

Guilt will come back to you later, sporadically, in episodes, but for the most part, you forfeit it wholly when you cross the threshold of room number 2.

He closes the door behind you and flicks up the toggle switch near the door frame. Two quaint lampshades blink to life on the headboard, casting a warm, subdued light. There’s no AC, or he hasn’t turned it on, and the atmosphere inside the room is already stifling, charged with his scent.  

“Took you long enough. Thought you wanted to see me,” he grunts, and the creature purrs inside your chest. 

“I did. I do.”

Stopping in the middle of the room, you turn around to face him. He’s standing tall and firm and mighty, feet planted apart on the carpeted floor, arms crossed over his chest. Yet you note his hands are splayed across his biceps, as if he were attempting to hug himself.

Perhaps that’s when you convince yourself Frankie is not his real name. Somehow, it makes it easier to believe you’re not the object of his ire. 

“Your friend didn’t tell you–”

“He’s not my friend,” you interrupt. “I only got your note earlier. Tonight.”

You let the implication sink in and your gaze travels down to the dip at the base of his neck and back up. The square, yellow bedroom provides you with the brightest environment you’ve ever had the leisure of observing him in. 

He’s beautiful, stunning, really, with unique and complex features. Almost pretty, but in a reluctant way, as if it was irrelevant to the life he’s chosen and led. His face speaks so loud, washed over by so many emotions, frustration, doubt and anger, and that lingering sadness in his dark eyes that tugs at your heart and twitches your fingers. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, tilting his chin in your direction.

Janet Leigh’s face pops up in black and white inside your mind, driving through a curtain of strident violins, skittish eyes flicking between the road ahead of her and the rearview mirror. 

“Marion,” you answer, inexplicably. 

“Marion,” he repeats, and you know he knows you’re lying. 

Unable to hold his gaze, you look away to the side, and he gives you time to take in the surroundings. The medium size bed with a stained, synthetic bedspread, the practical, shipped furniture, an angular chair and a desk surmounted by a rectangular framed mirror, the antique cathodic TV set hanging from the wall in the corner. The brown carpet. The yellow curtains. The painting of the Appalachian. 

And whatever your face says then makes him huff.

“Not what you expected? How did you think this was gonna be? How do you think these things go?”

You look at him again, stunned, lost, hurt maybe, that he should recognize you for what you don’t want to be. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before,” you tell him in a small voice. 

He shakes his head, like you aimed to wound, and unconsciously, your fingers find your sternum, jittery, anxious to appease this wild creature scrabbling against your rib cage. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters hoarsely, shaking his head again, or still, “and you shouldn’t be here either, this is bullshit.”

And he’s right, once more, he is right, neither of you should be here. All the lines you walked, all the rules you abided by, meeting expectations and doing as you were told, and you still end up here, on the outskirts of town, in this gloomy motel. Facing this stranger, begging to surrender to him, with your heart in your hand and your life on your lips. 

Eyes strained on his, you move closer, cautious, with your palms upward, as if he were to jolt and scurry away if you were too sudden. If you tame him, perhaps you will tame the wild creature between your lungs as well.

Drawn to his skin, you brush the tips of your fingers along his bicep, and the taut muscle thrums under the freckled, tanned surface of him.

He’s holding his breath, hardened face, hardened stare, deepening crease, and your fingers skate up along the slope of his arm until they meet his hand. 

He’s difficult to catch, you think, even when willing to be caught, but it’s now very clear what you want for yourself. You want him. 

It matters not that he belongs to somebody else. If you’re here, it’s because he wants you too. Despair and desire have brought you together, combined, conjoined, converging.  

Your hand travels round to the back of his arm, soft and feather-like, up under the hem of his t-shirt, lifting his sleeve. His eyes are boring into yours. You lick your lips, slowly, and lower them to his skin. A light kiss, testing, tender and wet, and underneath it, a tremor. 

There’s a terrible density to his body. He’s tension and heat. Pressing your parted lips to his shoulder, you let your tongue peek out between them. You take in the tangy taste of him, it travels through your body like lava, like syrup, heavy and sticky and sweet and it pools down between your hips.

He’s completely still, eerily so. Emboldened, hopeful, you tug on his t-shirt, tentatively at first, and when he doesn’t stop you, when he unfolds his arms, you pull it off his frame, the hat coming off with it. You suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his naked head full of curls, lush and tousled. You want to run your fingers through them. You know that’s probably not a good idea. 

His chest, broad and solid, fills your vision, and your hands fly to his sternum where you press them, chasing something invisible, roaming up the plane of his chest, as delicately as possible. Your fingertips drum lightly along his collarbone, as if you were seeing him with your hands, as if all your senses were necessary to take in the whole of him. 

His frown turns imploring, his breathing shallow. 

“Tell me your name,” he murmurs, his deep baritone a pleading husk.

“You can call me whatever you like,” you answer, lifting his hand and taking his two first fingers into your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You cradle them with the flat of your tongue, brushing against the callous tips of them, saliva flooding your mouth around the salty taste. A moan escapes you, imperceptible, and his jaw ticks around a curse, something you don’t make out, something in Spanish, you’re too dazed with want, too dumb with thirst. 

Fire licks up your spine when he moves, fast and sure. His hand tangles in your hair and he sharply tugs your head back, his fingers popping out of your mouth with a hanging thread of saliva. His face has become a threat, a warning, a promise. He’ll give you what you want until you regret asking for it.

His mouth crushes yours, teeth colliding, and his tongue is inside you, swirling and licking. 

Like a dam that gives, his strength breaks and sweeps over you, crushing you into his chest with his hold and his kiss, fingers gripping your hair, your ass, and you let him have it, let him bruise your flesh with his need, scraping your fingernails up his arms, on his back. 

You’re smiling into the kiss, with relief and eagerness, squirming into him and he hardens his hold before releasing you, swift and sudden, grabbing your blouse and pulling it up in a feverish movement that you follow, lifting your arms like a docile little girl. A seam of the silky fabric rips around your shoulders. You don’t notice it. 

His face dives into the crook of your neck, the scruff of his beard grating your skin, and he sinks in his teeth, sucking hard and feral, and at first, you melt into it, before you remember. You force his chest away with both palms, whining, urgent, plaintive, “I can’t– can’t have marks,” when what you really want is to be covered in him. 

It makes him chuckle, and it sounds like a growl, so terribly dark, so profoundly disillusioned, that you shiver in the heat of his body. He squeezes your breasts through the thin cotton of your bra, it’s brutal and it hurts like retaliation.

“Get fucking naked, Marion.” 

Drawing away from him, you start working the button and zip fly of your skirt with fumbling fingers, blood beating fast and booming in your eardrums, while he toes off his shoes and undoes his belt buckle. Hard metal, the same one that was scraping against your belly when he was crushing you into his red truck, into white-hot pleasure. 

His skin looks amber and smooth under the mellow lighting, the harmonious muscles you guessed under his shirt on the very first night highlighted in shadows. A soft belly, and a long, sideways scar on his left side. Would he tell you the history of his wounds? Will you ever have the chance to ask? 

Your skirt crumples at your feet, you’re lost in the sight of him, arms falling limp at your sides. Self-consciousness skirts the edges of your lust. This body that you neglect and ignore at best, despise and mistreat if given the chance, will it be worth anything to him? Will he want you like you want him? With determination. Without dignity.  

When he pulls down his jeans and his boxer briefs in one deft motion, your eyes widen, but he’s grabbing your arm already, spinning you around like a doll and throwing you onto the bedspread. He climbs on the bed after you, the mattress dips with his weight. 

His firm hands spread your legs; he’s manhandled other bodies before yours, the skill evident with his dexterity, the experience obvious in his assurance, and you want to be all of them at once, lovers and enemies. 

His hand rubs over your damp panties and you buck into it, trying to raise yourself on your elbows to turn around. You want to see his face as he touches you, see his reaction at the evidence of your arousal, you want to watch his eyes when his cock breaches you, but he presses a large hand between your shoulder blades and pins you into the mattress with a grunt. 

He’s unlike anyone you’ve known before, brisk and rough and domineering, and you blush at your inexperience, at his irreverence, when he yanks your panties to the side and spits on your folds. The sheer obscenity feels like a reward for coming this far.  

Sprawling your arms forward, bunching the slippery fabric of the bedspread in your fists, you brace yourself, the round tip of his cock lining up at your entrance. 

He shoves himself inside you to the base, and you cry out at the blinding intrusion, the strength of his thrust hauling your body forward on the bed. With a harsh grasp, he slides you back down on his length and you bite down another cry, flesh gushing through the splayed fingers clutching your hips. 

Crouching over you, he presses his forehead heavy against the back of your head.

“Don’t move,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “don’t fucking move.”

His cock pulsates angry and swollen inside your throbbing pussy, his chest pressing down on your back with each uneven, shaky breath burning your nape.

Sitting back, he wraps his right hand around the strap of your bra and twists it around his fist, pulling on it for leverage as he begins to fuck into you. The thin elastic bands bite into your shoulders, raspy vibrations echoing from your throat straight into the bedding with each of his rhythmic pushes forward. 

He’s too much, too fast, too sudden. And he picks up the pace, forcing your right leg up with his knee and angling up his strokes, reaching deeper inside your core. He’s going to puncture your body from the inside, and you contract tight and rigid around his length, writhing underneath him, until he leans into your neck, close to your ear with a command, voice low and gravelly. 

“You want it, just fucking take it, then.” 

That wild thing inside your chest is swelling, madly swirling, your slick floods around his drilling length. Closing your eyes, the side of your face smearing makeup on the bedspread, you nod with just enough strength to exhale a breathless yes. 

Yes. Yes, you want it, just like so. You want to be used, shattered, obliterated by this man.

And so you relent. Curling your fists and sinking your fingernails into your palms, as the pain turns to pleasure and he rams into your taut heat, rams against your cervix, bending you backward, spine ready to snap with each forceful shove. 

The room is filled with the explicit sounds and noises of your emerging dirty secret. The relentless smack of his hips against your ass, the lewd squelch of his cock slamming in and out of your cunt, the creaking bedding, his feral groans, your grateful moans.

He’s miles away from you, but that’s what you came here for, drain the sadness from his eyes, make it yours, understand. If you’re only going to have him once, then you want it all. 

But his rhythm is faltering already, and it stops abruptly. He releases his grip on you and pulls out with a loud curse, leaving you empty, for all those things you never wanted in the first place to fill you up again.

You feel his knuckles brushing against the swell of your ass as he strokes himself into his release. He loses his balance, and braces his hand next to your face to catch himself as come spurts hot and rich into the curve of your arched back. 

He slaps his cock into the cleft of your cheeks once, twice, pumping out the last drops of his spend, and he collapses next to you, with a grunt when his back hits the bed, his chest heaving with exertion. 

Unshed tears weigh down your eyelids. Your heart rattles against your rib cage, frantic and irregular. Your blood is thick as molasses, of amber and gold, coursing dense and languid down your limbs, but your nerves are crackling like electrical wires of blue and purple. 

The creature between your lungs has tripled in size and your sore cunt throbs with your suspended orgasm. 

Sunk into the mattress, you’re unable to round your back or turn your head towards him. Everything hurts. Everything is alive.  

Reaching back blindly, you dip the tip of your fingers into the pool of his spend, and bring them back to your lips. Tasting him with delight and a quiet, strengthless moan. 

The mattress moves with him as he shifts on the bed, and you feel the warmth of his large hand covering the expanse of your lower back. 

Before you can relax into it, he flips you on your back with an easy strength, and you wince with the sudden change of position. What a mess you must look like, flushed face, sweat-damp hair, clotted mascara. 

He’s heavy, in his straddle of your thighs. He brings his hand to your mouth, and you open up for him, pulling out your tongue to lick his come-coated palm, wrapping your lips around his fingers as they glide over the hot wet muscle. You swallow his essence with fluttering eyelids, grateful, tears rolling down your temples. 

The soft light catches at the sheen of sweat gleaming over his chest, like he’s made of gold, leaning over you like a magnificent and merciful god, like you’ll grant him everything, and you bask into his radiance, your lips pursed into a new smile around his digits. 

The frown that hasn’t left his brow softens ever so slightly. His throat bobs, corded muscles, pebbled skin, the tension barely relieved. His fingers slip out of your mouth and come to cup your chin, so gentle your mind fails to comprehend. His touch lingers, warm and relenting and it becomes a caress, trailing down the line of your throat and coming to rest over your beating pulse at the base of your neck. 

“Are you real?” he asks, sorrow blurring his dark eyes. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, beading sweat, beading tears. “Make me be.”

He breathes in deeply, and perhaps it’s the first time in years he breathes in so freely.  

“Okay,” he nods.

Slowly, with the tip of his tongue darting between his parted lips, he tugs down your bra to the side. His calloused palm finds the soft swell of your breast, and his warmth radiates through your skin. His hold strengthens, he pinches your nipples with his two first fingers, the ones you took in your mouth earlier, harder, until your mouth goes slack with pleasure and with pain, and you keep smiling at him through it all.

Loose, trustful, pliant, you watch as he drags your panties down along your damp skin and spreads your thighs. He pauses, eyes on your core and you lie still, exposed and opened, feeling no shame. 

His curls, matted with sweat, are stuck in locks to his forehead. Where was he, when you were still hopeful? Were you too young for him, then?

He dives between your hips, and his teeth bite into the soft skin of your inner thigh. You jerk, palm pushing feebly onto the crown of his head and he freezes, eyes shut, like he doesn’t have enough willpower to let go, like too much of his control has already waned and thawed.

“Please,” you coo, “please. I’ll get in so much trouble.”

And your heart sinks a little with apprehension because, surely, he’ll scoff at you again, but instead he just lets go, bringing his fingers to your swollen folds to part them. 

A small whimpering sound escapes you when he latches his lips around your clit, but the sensation is nothing like what you anticipated. Of his previous roughness, only the bruising digging of his fingers into the plush of your hips remains.

His mouth is warm and soothing, a liquid caress, the touch from the tip of his tongue precise but gentle. He shifts with a soft groan, applying more pressure and you keen, head trashed back into the bed. Instantly, he adjusts his grasp, pulling you closer to his face, suckling on your clit with more insistence. 

The smooth skin of your calves brushes over his shoulders, your heels digging into the muscles of his back and you’re reminded of that first night again, when he swiveled around to meet your gaze, soft sad eyes, hard cold stare. Your orgasm builds up fast, embarrassingly so, encouraged by his heavy breathing fanning the soft curls on your mound.

The wild creature melts into your blood and flows down to your core, branching out to every nerve from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. And when you come, you come sharp and bright, with your hand clasped over your mouth to muffle a loud mewl and your back arched from the bed. 

He forsakes his restored restraint when you recoil from the overstimulation, hardening his hold and fastening his mouth over your cunt to lap up your release, tongue diving in, greedy, burning your walls. 

You’re still shaking with the aftershock when he releases you and rises above your trembling body. Lying his forehead on your belly, heavy head, heavy breathing, sweat dripping on your skin, he stays there until his breathing slows down, falling in rhythm with yours. You reach down for his hair, threading your fingers through his curls, at last, and he gives in, leans into the tenderness of your touch. 

A stray tear slides down into your hairline and it’s over, he’s gone, standing up, his broad back turned to you, gathering his clothes and dressing up. 

The notion of the world around you resurfaces. Outside, tucked away in the heart of the night, countless other wild creatures dwell and carry on, moved by fear or desire, and you lie still in that crushing knowledge. Soon, you will have to leave this bed, confront your solitude to theirs.

You roll to your side and curl up on yourself, drifting with the soft droning from the sleeping creature between your lungs and the sweet soreness thrumming between your hips. 

He’s at the door, putting his hat back on, when you call out his name. 

“Frankie.” 

It passes your lips for the very first time, a long kept secret, a forbidden vow, a usurped oath, and immediately you want to say it again. You want it to be real. You want it to be yours.

Frankie pauses and tilts his head towards the bed without facing you completely. 

“Thank you,” you say.

He opens the door to a draft of air wafting in, charged with the salty, humid scent of the faraway bay. He’s about to cross the threshold, and disappear into the night, when he speaks. 

“The room is paid for til morning. I’ll see you next Friday.”

****

Additional note: I woke up on day and decided to build a multiverse of orange bedroom Frankies 🧡 For those who've read PTMY, can you spot all the clues? This Frankie is really pissed off, though, but I kinda like it. I hope you'll like it too 🧡

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts @your-voice-is-mellifluous @mylostloversbookmarks @readingiskeepingmegoing @lovesbiggerthanpride @youandmeand5bucks-blog @sarcasm-theotherwhitemeat @southernbe @blackvelveteen1339 @anoverwhelmingdin @casa-boiardi @nandan11 @jessthebaker @pedroshotwifey @angelofsmalldeath-codeine @noisynightmarepoetry

[cece693]

Numb (Tony Stark x Gender Neutral! Reader)

Something that I had saved and forgot all about.

Summary: You didn't understand Tony's decision; he'd left you with a gaping hold in your heart. It was easy to feel anger and resentment, but was it really a surprise how things ended?

tags: slight comfort, post-endgame, Tony's dead, reader handles the loss, mourning, last words/message

You stood there, numb, as Tony's heart drifted farther down the lake, a small, fading dot on the horizon. The weight of what you had done pressed down on you, and without a word to anyone, you turned away, heading home. As you stepped into the house and climbed the stairs to your bedroom, everything appeared the same—yet it all felt different. The one piece that truly made this a home was now gone forever.

When Tony sacrificed himself, it was easy to be consumed by anger. How dare he leave you like this, sobbing and begging for him to return, all for the sake of Earth? After everything, after all the times they had wronged him, it was you—the one person who never turned their back on him—who was left behind. That anger still simmered beneath the surface, but now it had dulled into a numbness that spread through your entire being.

Pepper, Happy, and Rhodey had all tried to comfort you, offering words meant to soothe the unbearable loss. But their attempts only made it worse. They didn’t understand—they couldn’t. What they had lost was different from yours. Tony was your husband and he'd failed your wedding vows. Through sickness and health—the battle with Thanos had no place there.

All you wanted was to be alone, to sit with the emptiness that had taken root inside you, to feel it in its entirety without anyone trying to take it away. That emptiness, as hollow and painful as it was, felt like the last piece of Tony you had left.

Looking around, your vision blurred with unshed tears, taking in the sight of the room. It was a mess, but that was typical when living with Tony. The wardrobe door was flung open, shirts haphazardly hanging half in, half out. His favorite jacket was draped over a chair, and a pair of mismatched socks lay abandoned on the floor. It was like he had just stepped out for a moment, like he would walk back in any second with that roguish grin, asking if you’d seen his watch or where he left his keys.

Your eyes moved to the messy bed, and you couldn't help but collapse onto it. Bringing Tony's pillow to your nose, you inhaled deeply—taking in his familiar cologne and the faint scent of oil and metal that clung to everything he touched. As you lay there, your mind replaying happy memories, something caught your attention.

Hesitantly, you reached out and picked it up, your fingers trembling as you recognized the Stark tech design. With a deep breath, you activated it. A hologram flickered to life, and there he was—Tony, looking at you with that familiar blend of warmth and determination that only he could pull off.

"Hey, love." his voice was soft, almost soothing, but there was an undercurrent of sadness. "If you're seeing this, it means I'm gone. And I know you're angry, probably cursing my name right now. Believe me, I didn’t want to leave you. God, I wanted to stay more than anything."

He paused, as if searching for the right words. "But…you know me. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try to save everyone. It’s who I am—who I've always been. I know that’s not an excuse, and it doesn’t make it hurt any less. But I need you to understand that I didn’t choose them over you. I chose all of us. I couldn't bear the thought of a world where you weren't safe."

Tony’s image flickered slightly, and you could see the pain in his eyes. "I hate that I hurt you. But you…you're stronger than you know. And I need you to keep going, to live your life, even without me in it. Because, in a way, I’m still here. I’m always with you."

He took a shaky breath, and his voice softened. "I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you, and I will love you until the end of time. Forever, remember? That’s what we promised. And I’m keeping that promise, even now."

As the hologram continued, you could hear the faint background noise—a gentle clinking of dishes, the hum of a movie soundtrack. Your heart ached as you recognized the scene: it was the last day you spent together. The day you cooked dinner side by side, the laughter you shared, and the quiet intimacy of watching a movie on the couch.

Now everything made sense. Tony’s extra affection, his words of love, and the lingering touches—they were all part of his farewell. It was as if he had known he wouldn’t have another chance to show you how much you meant to him. The realization hit you like a wave. How long had Tony known his fate? How long had he been preparing to say goodbye, knowing he had to make every moment count?

As the hologram began to flicker and lose its stability, Tony’s image took on a more solemn, resigned expression. His voice softened even further, as if he were speaking directly to your heart.

“I have to go now. But remember this—no matter where I am, my love for you will never fade. It’s with you always, even in the darkest moments. If there's an afterlife, I'll be waiting for you.” The hologram shimmered one last time, and with a final, loving glance, Tony’s image faded into the darkness. Clutching the device to your chest, the tears that you have been holding back finally spilled over.

[flnpushy]

A tricky Pushing

It happened so fast. An internet hookup. He wasn’t even who he said he was. The guy was a complete jerk. I fell for his charm, but deep down I knew he was no good. Why did I let him do it? Why didn’t I just walk away…. He was aggressive with me, almost abusive in the back of his truck. Before I could do anything he had me naked…. After the one night stand he ditched me, never to have contact again, I tried to tell him but he ran, there was no getting him back. So now here I am, 9 months later. With his baby in my belly. 

I awoke from this crazy dream. This dream I've had for 9 months now. Hoping this time when I woke up, it wasn’t true. However when my eyes came open, there it was, a big belly hanging from my tiny frame. Ugh… I just want this to be over. Get back to the fun, outgoing, 18 year old girl I was. But this baby had to come out first. I went to all my appointments, and found that of course he had to put a huge baby boy in me. A first time 18 year old mom to be with an 11 pound baby in my belly. I’m so small I thought, I’ve only had sex once, how the hell am I going to push an 11 pound baby out of my tiny pussy? I guess I was about to find out.

After getting pregnant I vanished from people. I didn’t see my friends, my family, or even go outside of my house, except to the doctors. I just wanted to push this baby out and be done. I knew nothing about birth or pregnancy, the doctors said I should seek help to birth or even hire a midwife. I wanted nothing to do with this. It was too embarrassing and I had too much anger to cope with an assisted birth or midwife. I would just do this myself. I tried to end the pregnancy by pushing, reaching inside me and messing with things, hoping to break the water or something. But it was no use. The baby was inside me, and i had no choice but to let it grow….. So much anger, If only I could find that guy and take revenge…..

As I arose for another day of being pregnant alone, It hit me, A hard pain in my gut. I knew it was going to be happening. Finally i thought, I can get this baby out of me. Just push it out nice and fast, and be done.

These pains became more regular. A Couple hours passed. I curled up in a blanket to watch Tv and ride the pains. All i wanted to do was just push, but I knew there was no way the baby was going to just drop out of me. There had to be a dilation thing… right? I truly didn’t know. I stood up from my couch and pulled off my pants, shirt, and panties, exposing my lovely little body. I rubbed my painful belly a couple times and pushed like i needed to poop. This is how you do this? I think…. 

I pushed a few times, I quickly grew impatient. I carried his baby around for 9 months and now its going to be hard to push out! Seriously! I just wanted this to be done. I stuck my fingers up inside me. I reached way in as far as I could fit my fingers. I felt something bulging. Not sure what it was though. I decided to lay back down on the couch. 

Time passed, the pains got worse. It was afternoon, then evening.  Was I even going to have the baby today? How long does this labor thing last? Evening turned into night. I went to bed in pain. Awaking every 15 minutes to searing pains in my belly. Now i was really angry. 

The next morning came. I had been feeling pains for 24 hours now. But things felt different. The burning and stinging deep inside me was gone. Now The burning was inside my vagina. I awoke and immediately inserted my fingers. I pushed in a ways and bumped something. Its was membranous, squishy, and warm. I pushed in a bit more and felt something hard. Was this the babies head? Suddenly i felt a large gush, my hand was soaked and so was the bed below my body. What the hell was that?! Now the pains got worse… Have I done something bad? I thought to myself? I didn’t care. I walked painfully out to the couch and sat down. I was naked and it felt good, But my body didn’t, My vagina area was really starting to hurt. 

“THATS IT!!” I said aloud, “THIS BABY NEEDS TO COME OUT!”

I thought of him again. All this pain for his little bit of pleasure…. UGH!

I then felt like i needed to poop, and badly. I headed to the toilet and sat down. I pushed a few times and quickly realized it wasn’t poop, it was time for me to push the baby out. I made a couple grunts on the toilet before returning to the couch. My body began forcing me to push, it wasn’t very painful yet, and it felt good to push. Each pain made my belly tense up. I put my finger back in my pussy and pushed. I could feel something hard pressing against my finger about 2 inches inside. It must have been the babies head, but i wasn’t sure. When i stopped pushing it receded back a bit. This heightened my frustrations. I stood up, spread my legs wide and pushed hard. I did this for about 15 minutes until i could feel my pussy bulging . I reached down again and felt inside, just within my opening was a head, i could feel a tiny tuft of hair. I knew i was getting close now. Getting closer to being normal again, with no baby in me. Little  did I know the battle was just beginning. 

I continued pushing standing up for about 20 minutes, growing ever more frustrated that the baby hadn’t come out already. Is this baby stuck in me? I couldn’t help it, i reached down and felt inside me again. 

“SERIOUSLY!” I said out loud.

The baby had hardly done anything, not even a centimeter of movement. It had to be stuck. It had to…. But I didn’t know what to do about this. I wasn’t going to seek help… no never. All i wanted was the baby out. I sat back on the couch and pulled my legs up as far as i could, my big belly protruding out hugely in front of me. I pushed a couple times as a bead of sweat ran down my face. 

“UGH!! COME OUT!” I yelled. 

I realized that I could not see what i was actually doing. My belly was much to big for me to actually see my vagina. I got up and found my big mirror from my bedroom. I took it from the room and balanced it up against my coffee table about 2 feet from the couch. Now i could actually see my vagina. I went to push again. But caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror….. I took a hard look at my huge belly and by puffy pussy below it. I thought of him…. I couldn’t truly believe what his seed had done to me. I was angered once again. I pulled back on my legs and began pushing once more. I continued watching the mirror as i went. After about 20 minutes a tiny slit opened a bit in my pussy, I reached down and pulled my labia open, i could see the head now. As soon as my push ended the head disappeared from sight….

What the hell i thought… Its back inside! I had to think about it, i had held a newborn baby when i was younger that my cousin had gave birth to a couple weeks prior. I remember the size of the head. I looked at my pussy and realized….. How on earth is that going to fit….

Didn’t matter…. I needed this baby out!

I pushed hard again. This time the head could be seen with out opening myself up. I pushed hard an held it. The little head stayed there, until i stopped pushing…. Then it slid in. 

“Ugh!!” I said aloud. 

I tried again, once more holding the push, seeing the little head, and then watching it slide back in. Was this how it was supposed to be? Or was the baby already stuck? 

“Get outta there!” I said aloud.

I pushed again and reached down to feel the little head. How could i see it, touch it, but no matter how hard i push it won’t come out?

It was starting to feel like pushing wasn’t effective. But i kept going.

I squatted down holding the couch behind me. I could still see below my belly with the help of the mirror. 

“Mmmmm aaaaaaaa.” I pushed. I could see his little head again. 

“aaaaaa hhhhh.” Another push. More of the head. 

‘Come on little man…mmmmMMMmmmm.” A bit more head, about the size of a silver dollar was showing now. The contraction ended. Almost like a vacuum the babies little head slipped back inside me. I slid back from my squat and sat on the couch. I closed my legs and relaxed, sealing the baby back in my belly. I relaxed for a few minutes and regained my composure to try again. I squatted back down and began pushing. Nothing with the first contraction, not even a sliver of the head. The next contraction revealed a sliver of the babies head, before retracting back inside me again. One more push with the contraction revealed a bit more head, but not much before disappearing again. I became frustrated. Thinking about his baby stuck in my belly. He had it so easy… Now i have to push….

After another hour of making no progress i decided to walk around and push. Maybe moving around would trigger something to happen, or make more room for that little head to squeeze outta there. I grabbed a little mirror from the bathroom that I could carry, this way when i pushed i could see what was happening. I walked around the room, pacing through contractions. When a contraction hit me i squatted and pushed. I did this for awhile, Walking then, squatting to push, only to continue to see the baby slide back in each time. I continued this for a half hour. Finally i ended up back at the couch, full squat, and pushing more again. I began wiggling my hips as i pushed. Trying anything i could think of to make progress. It just wasn’t coming out. Now i was mad. 

I leaned back and pushed with all my strength, i reached down with my hands over my big belly and pulled back on my pussy lips. I tried getting my fingers in and around the babies head as if to attempt to pull it out. But it was no use, the head was to slippery to get a grip on. I was upset and exhausted.

Minutes went by, my body started basically pushing on its own. I had no choice now, there was a baby in me and my body was doing everything it could to push it out. All could do was work with my body and hope the baby came out. About 30 minutes of this passed, finally my pussy was opening farther and farther, slowly letting the baby come forth. Each push shoved the head farther into the opening and attempted to stretch my tight opening. Soon the head was starting to poke out a little bit, but my tight pussy lips continued to grip the babies head relentlessly. The head was now getting ever closer to crown, but still only the size of a silver dollar was really showing in my opening. I needed assistance to get this head to come farther. Maybe how the baby went in could help get it out I thought. I began rubbing myself and playing.

15 minutes passed and i couldn’t hold any longer. I orgasmed. The pressure was crazy as the orgasm contractions slid the baby down a bit more. the head was now pressed so tightly in my opening, it felt like i was going to rip open. The head was now so much bigger in my pussy opening. I pushed a few times but no progress was made. I was getting so close to the forehead of the baby coming through. It was so close, but yet the baby could still slip back in. I was scared to have to go through this again, so i constantly squeezed my muscles to prevent the baby from sliding back. I couldn’t bare the frustration of the baby going back in me now. It was so close to coming out. 

“Come on baby, get your head out!” I yelled pushing as hard as i could. 

This was the case for 45 minutes. Pushing with all my strength, making absolutely zero progress. I was pushing, my body was pushing, But with everything i had the little baby refused to move. 

“COME ON BABY!” I yelled.

I began wiggling my hips side to side and bouncing up and down. Doing anything in my bodies power to release the baby. It was stuck firm. I got up and walked around. the head didn’t move from its position making walking just about impossible. I pushed as i walked hoping for the baby to just fall out of me. But gravity was no help either. I went back to the couch and began to sit down. Thats when i screwed up…..

As is sat down I closed my legs slightly. I felt it…. The slip…. The babies head began retracting back inside. 

“NO NO NO NO!!” I yelped. “AHHHHH!” It was painful as the baby retracted. I watched in the mirror, pushing as hard as i could to stop it. But there was no stopping my body. I watched as the head got smaller and slowly disappeared back inside me. I saw in the mirror as my pussy closed up, sealing the baby back in my belly. I literally was flabbergasted. 6 hours of pushing and i still end up pregnant! I took a break.

30 mins went by. Finally i built up the courage and strength to go at it again. I pushed and things went faster this time. One push had the head in view. The next had the baby back where it was. Finally i made one more big push and i was at crown. Now it was time….. For the ultimate push. 

I dug my hands into a pillow, gritted my teeth, curled my little toes and push with every ounce of muscle mass that my body had. In one huge movement the head popped free. The baby began to rotate. The new push had the shoulders. Finally one last push freed the baby from the tight clenches of my 18 year old womb. I was done. 

[kavehayati]

You know the reason why this feels like such an annoying thing to me is because I’m sooo the opposite of family oriented it’s crazy LOL

I’ll never understand younger siblings whining about their older siblings moving away like I bet yall were nasty and annoying too like wow all those years and you claim to adore the older sibling and post oh woe is me the older sibling abandoned me … girl … the older sibling didn’t have a parental certificate or anything.