#can’t wait to write this!

[amazingmsme]

Hello! ❤ I know it's pretty old but I really loved your "Fuck off and let me sulk" Castlevania fic! In celebration of prompts being open could I ask for something with ler!Sypha?

(Lee!Trevor Belmont and Lee!Alucard.)

Sypha's friends are being broody and grumpy and they seem determined to stay that way. Honestly, she's never seen anyone more in the need of a good laugh. Thankfully, she has an ace up her sleeve - she gleefuly and theatricaly becomes "The Tickle Monster" and is ready to terrorize her friends into having some silly, childish fun. Bonus points if there's a tickle chase involved. And if Trevor and Alucard are super embarassed about it.

Never apologize for telling me you love a fic, especially if it’s an old one cause those tend to stop getting attention or praise. I’m so happy you like it, it was so much fun to write and I enjoyed every second of it!

This is such a cute prompt, I’ll definitely write this for you! There’s a criminal lack of castlevania content on here & I plan to change that!

[apricatt-art]

them!!!

[karalovesallthegirls]

Also have another “first words spoken to you are on your skin” soulmate AU idea where Kara is a journalist assigned to shadow the controversial CEO of L-Corp for the day. It’s a big deal for her to get this assignment, so of course she trips the second she’s near the other woman and tries awkwardly to redeem herself.

The CEO stares at her almost in shock, and then says nothing. At all. Ever, for the entire day.

Kara spends hours following Lena Luthor around trying to fill the silence, but no amount of questions get her to talk. Lena almost seems to be running away at some points - like she’s trying to lose her? - and the few times she’s managed to catch her actually talking to someone she goes silent the second she sees Kara.

She asks around if Miss Luthor is usually like this and everyone looks at her like she’s crazy. Apparently she’s the only one who gets the silent treatment. By the end of her first day shadowing she’s walking away with half a page of observations and not a single quote. Miss Grant is going to kill her.

But that’s okay. It’s fine, this isn’t over. She has four days of shadowing ahead of her and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t finish this with a quote from the woman herself. It’s only a matter of time.

[calmlb]

save me beast skk, my codependent babies

[endlessartpumpkin]

"He hums, sleepily. His gaze is trained on the fireplace now, seemingly mesmerized by the flames dancing there. But when she drapes a blanket over him he drags his gaze up to meet hers."

A young Time and Malon from this beautiful fic by the amazingly talented and lovely @adrift-in-thyme! <3

[smilebug]

i love @enden-agolor ‘s forest deity fic so much that i decided to draw their first encounter while i catch up on the chapters 🥹

[blue-jos10]

‘wow dr minyard how are you so calm and patient even with the insane ones?’

‘i’ve had practice.’

[rrat-king]

weird bad kid’s headcannons that are cannon To Me with little to no explanation:

fabian gets stress related stomach ulcers/has a very sensitive stomach in general

adaine is tall. in my head as tall as fabian and def way taller than aelwyn(which aelwyn hates cuz like. she’s a baby why is she so tall)

gorgug is just. covered in stretch marks. dude probs grew like a foot in a year his back is like. all stretch marks

this is part of my anti-medicine applebees campaign but kristen has this corn paste she makes as like a healing ointment thing(one of the only things she still holds onto from her mom) and everyone fucking fiends for it cuz it does wonders for soothing scar tissue

riz has v sensitive eyes especially to light (goblins were originally nocturnal, which also could explain his odd hours) so he steals fabian’s snazzy uv protection sunglasses

adaine steals the stolen glasses from riz sometimes cuz she’s sensitive to light after she has visions (they really hardly count as fabian’s glasses anymore)

fig got really into doing her nails in middle school but now that she plays the bass it is a constant battle between wanting to do cool designs and knowing that they’ll get destroyed when she plays (one of the nice things about being a teifling tho is that her nails are way stronger now and grow a lot faster)

to compromise she just does gorgug’s nails instead

riz and kristen will have little competitions of who can pop the most joints and everyone else. hates it it’s terrible to listen to (especially fabian, he will leave the room if they start)

yeah just. my guys

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Finarfin Fades.

No one expects it, no one’s faded in Valinor since Miriel. The War of Wrath is won and he comes back, waving off the courtiers, well wishers, and congratulators with his usual grace, and walks into the palace of Tirion. To rooms abandoned since their owners left so long ago. Winding deeper and deeper his feet take him to what was once Finwë’s favourite garden.

He’s so tired.

He’s fulfilled his promise to Fëanaro and Nolofinwë, to avenge them. To make the agony of their final moments - agony Finarfin felt, falling to the floor screaming as fire and darkness consumed his spirit - count for something. Now Morgoth is finally gone, but he’s not the only one.

His brothers, larger than life, larger than death, are gone. With them his sons. Niece. Nephews. Grandchildren. His daughter is never to return. He Saw little Nelyo’s death in his dreams and is sure hopes for the child’s own sake that Makalaurë will be close behind.

Little remains. Even less on these golden shores.

So Finarfin sits on a bench long overgrown with vines and weeds, and watches the sun filter through the thicket, wishing the ghosts he sees in his father’s garden would flesh out.

He sits. He waits.

And by the time anyone finds him, it’s too late.

…at least he’s smiling again.

[mc-tummy-blur]

I’m only just now reading the graphic novel and I gotta tell ya watching the movie first and then reading the graphic novel is the funniest whiplash in art style I’ve ever gotten

Ko-fi

[aquaquadrant]

hey miners and crafters 🗣️ tomorrow evening i will post the final chapter of ‘from eden’

writing this story has been an amazing journey, and it ain’t over yet. i’ve got plenty of future oneshots planned for the HTP au, which will surely not turn into elaborate multi-chapter projects. surely. my next goal is to get the fic (and all my other mcyt stuff) uploaded to A03 so y’all can keep track more easily 😂

howEVER, i’m about to start my final year of vet school, which means nonstop clinical rotations AND my board exam, so i can’t promise when that will come. all i can say is i’ll continue to write as long as i’m inspired, same as mel will continue to make art, and we’ll still reply to asks and tags as we receive them. so it may be slow(er) going, but there’s still lots to look forward to ✌️

(P.S. y’all might wanna make sure you’ve got plenty of time when u sit down to read it. this one is a doozy.)

[str4wberri-mochi]

Drowning yourself in alcohol is not the healthiest way to deal with shit, it does not solve one’s problem at all but rather serves as a distraction with a price.

As a man who had seen the world change and grow right in front of his eyes, he knew emotions were a fleeting aspect of life and took quite pride at the fact of how well he managed his emotions.

But he felt a small void in his heart as he read your text 'Will stay at HOL 2night'.

It was humorous really, how the both of you managed to go three thousand years back in time, lived under the same roof and somehow- just somehow, the brothers still occupy the most of your time.

That just shows your bond with the brothers, doesn't it? And that's nice, he tries to convince himself.

Well since you're not coming tonight, might as well hit a bar right?

And now he's down under six shots, unable to walk straight, and probably red (though he can't tell). He feels a bit guilty, for coming to alcohol as a solution. But not because it crosses his morals- hah, as if he has those- it's because you scold him like a child whenever he drinks too much.

but it's alright, he'd take your scoldings as long as you're looking at him. How cute you look with that sternness in your eyes. He walked out of the bar, unsure why, but he did.

hm?

that's you.

cue a frown.

with satan.

"Hey MC!"

He exclaimed to his full ability while ignoring the demon you held hands with. It's fine he's not jealous.

Solomon isn't a jealous man.

~

[sinsandsweetness]

having extremely dirty thoughts about stepdad!Rick, so i thought i’d share…

GOOD MANNERS & DIRTY SECRETS

(stepdad!Rick x fem!reader)

warnings- 18+, use of “daddy”, overstim, vibrator, squirting… u know the drill <3

Imagine Rick snooping through your nightstand, thinking he’ll probably find something fun and naughty, but not realizing it would be a huge, pink, magic wand, tucked way in the back under a couple of vintage playboy magazines. His cock starts to stir in his jeans at the thought of you using it late at night when he’s asleep in the bedroom across the hall. Trying your best to keep quiet, biting your lip and gripping your strawberry patterned pillowcase. Of course, you immediately catch him being a fucking perv, scowling as you reach your bedroom door. About to chew him out for going through your stuff, but you stop yourself. Eyes going wide and swallowing hard when you see your dirty little secret, being turned over and inspected in his palm. Your heart and mind start to race when he looks up at you and raises his eyebrows. Worried that you’ll be in trouble. That he might be angry with you. Well, more so at the fact that you’d been keeping it from him. But he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even give you a second to react before the door is locked and your shorts are on the floor. Your legs pushed right to your chest as he holds you against the plush mattress. With the toy on the highest setting, he presses it right against your clit, over the fabric of your white cotton panties. And you cum so embarrassingly quick that you actually apologize. As if he would mind. As if you needed his permission. And at that thought, along with your pathetic, repetitive, whimpering, “m’ sorry-”, he has to squeeze the base of his cock. Belt already unbuckled and jeans pushed halfway down his ass. He keeps the vibrator on your sensitive bundle of nerves until you’re a squirming mess underneath him. With adorable, little tears, welling up in your innocent eyes. When he notices, he decides to tell you what he what he really thinks. “If you wanna own a fuckin’ toy like this, then you better be able to take it, sweetheart. So cut it out. Enough with the tears, yeah?” And to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t let up when you cum again. Not until you’re physically writhing against his hold, grabbing at his forearm and begging him to stop because you really can’t take it anymore. That’s when he gives you a break. Just long enough to pull your damp panties to the side. A groan slips from his lips at the sight of your picture perfect pussy, all slick and glistening. The wetness that he helped create, sickeningly sweet and starting to drip down your ass. As tempting as a forbidden fucking fruit, he can’t even resist what he does next. Lining his thick, swollen, cock up with your entrance, he pushes in and fucks you hard with the wand back against your clit. Wiping your wet cheeks with his thumb, as your eyes roll back. Your quads starting to shake and twitch at the overstimulation, but you can’t even make out any words to object. Hell, you can barely think, you’re so drunk off his cock. Blissed out from the wand and his attention and his filthy words of praise. Your sweet spot being rammed into with every thrust. “Takin’ it so well, baby. One more. Just one more, sweet girl. I promise.” And he’s trying his hardest not to cum, because lord knows he could have from the sight of you alone. But soon enough, you’re moaning like a damn pornstar, whimpering against his lips as you pull him in close, “Thank you, daddy. Thank you, thank you, thank you-” while you release all over him, soaking the sheets below. And the only thought going through Rick’s mind while he coats your tummy with his pearly, white ribbons, is how fucking precious you are, thanking him for making you squirt all over your stepdads cock.

(this started as a daydream, however I may have gone overboard…)

taglist - (crossed out means I couldn’t tag you) @rickswh0r3 @elnyrae @catt-leya @murder-jacket @miinbun @ankhmutes @eternalrose81 @cl0wnb0yyy

please feel free to comment/reblog if you enjoy my crazy, filthy thoughts <3

[writerfae]

I’m one of those people that lived and breathed the Percy Jackson books when I was younger and therefore regularly forgets that not everyone has read it as a kid

[hirayaea]

IN THE OFFICE

Tara: Sooo~ tell me tell me, who was your first love?

MC: It’s so embarassing! Can I pass please?

Tara: Unfair! I told you mine!

MC: Having a crush on your kindergarten teacher is normal! Mine wasn’t!

Xavier: I’m curious now as well…

MC: No!

Nero: It’s Lumiere, right?

MC: NERO!

Nero: You shouldn’t use that name as your office password, you know? It’s too easy to guess.

/

LATER THAT NIGHT…

Jeremiah: Uh, Xav? Why is your Lumiere costume out of storage?

Xavier: I’m thinking if I should burn it or wear it.

Jeremiah: ???

[eowynstwin]

playing the quiet game

Pairing: Price x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: Dominant/submissive dynamics, established relationship, implied kink pre-negotiation, a LOT of fingering (f!receiving), a lil Price angst Tagging: @dilfconisuer who I teased with this a while back, and fellow Price simps @yeyinde @guyfieriii @alittleposhtoad Author’s Notes: I shit you not, the clock struck midnight January 1st and fireworks started going off in the middle of writing the orgasm. Happy new year! Enjoy the smut.

Now on AO3!

The world is soft and cozy as you come back into it, a little fuzzy from over-washing and dyed in the cool tones of early morning. You’re in that delicious place at the edge of sleep, mind swaying between dreams and reality, body languid and draped on your side across the bed. Touch is the first sense that comes back to you—a warm weight at your back, hips flush with your rear and legs bent along the contours of your own. You shift a little, to give yourself an excuse to settle against it.

“Mm,” John murmurs as he notices you stir, mouth against your neck, nuzzling you slowly with the wiry brush of his facial hair. The hum of his voice is low enough to vibrate between your shoulder blades.

“Mm?” you respond, scent returning next. The new detergent he’s using, gentle and mildly floral, and the fresh pine of the shampoo he washed his hair with last night. The ever-present smokey molasses that’s permanently seeped into his skin. You keep your eyes closed, saving sight for later, imagining that as long as you see nothing, John and the sheets you’re both wrapped up in can be the only thing that exists.

His hand rests on your ribcage, and smooths its way down your hip and thigh. It travels back up again, then retreats—rhythmic, even, fingers dipping and spreading at the curves and valleys of your body. It’s at the same tempo as your breath, which is normalizing as more of your mind picks reality to set up in. You can feel him breathing, too, chest rising and falling against your back, warm exhales fanning across the bare expanse of skin he’s claimed with his mouth and mutton chops.

Down your ribcage, along your hip, and back up. His other arm, you discover as you shift again, is propping him up, forearm wormed into the wedge of empty space between your neck and shoulder and the bed. His knee nudges the back of your thigh.

He paints another soft, prickly kiss on your neck, and rubs his chin and cheek into your jaw. You don’t hide the moan it inspires.

“Keep it down,” he whispers. His hand splays on your thigh. “Thin walls, love.”

You make another noise, lower, somewhere in your throat. His hand is warm on your bare skin, soft and sturdy as it travels along your body, not quite kneading but giving enough pressure to sink in, to meld your flesh like clay with every pass.

“John,” you murmur. “Mm. John…”

“Shh,” he breathes into your ear.

You feel his lips on your neck again, feel his hand divert from its established path to smooth across your belly. The spread of his fingers is wide enough to graze the underside of one breast, and you can’t help the little inhale of anticipation you give. At the same, even rhythm, John drags the flat of his hand down your stomach to its lowest border, and you forget to breathe at all for that little minute before, once again, his touch retreats from whence it came.

His mouth parts on your neck. The hot graze of his tongue meets your skin before the press of his teeth claims the space, and his hand travels just a little lower with the next pass.

Some part of you wonders if you should figure out what John has in mind right now, compare it to what you actually have time for. Off-duty or not, you’re still on base. But then the top of his thigh aligns flush with the back of yours; and you realize, the thought settling into the soft place in your mind between sleep and waking, that he would be doing none of this if he had cause not to. He already knows that you love waking up like this. He knows what circumstances in which he should not wake you up like this. When it comes to you, John Price remains in comfortable, considerate control—and leaves you only with the task of saying yes, please or not now, thank you. He has never asked you to figure out the right place or the right time.

You don’t have to worry about anything. John has already worried about it for you. Your head feels light, airy; you’d think you were slipping back into sleep, if it didn’t suddenly feel like your skin was electrified. It’s a feeling that always comes with letting go and letting him be in charge.

“John,” you murmur again, the breath in your lungs escaping, the sigh mimicking the same one he always draws from you when you finally surrender.

The seal over your skin he has with his lips and teeth gives a sharp pull. “Someday I’ll figure out how to keep you quiet,” he says, low and amused as he disconnects.

The smile that rests against your skin sends sparks dancing across your scalp.

“Don’t stop,” you say, the quiet tone of your voice laced with a yearning you can’t conceal. “Please, John…”

His palm crests the jut of your hip and glides back inward, downward, fingertips skimming the crease of your thighs. The nerves there jump to meet him, buzzing suddenly with too much energy for your still half-asleep mind to moderate. He seals his mouth over a new spot on your neck, dragging the flat of his tongue, blistering hot, along your skin.

“You’re going to leave marks,” you breathe.

“The gear covers them up,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety purr. “Be good for me, love.”

Euphoria blooms hot across your face. “Yes, John.”

He growls a little, pleased with you, and his fingers dip into your panties and between your folds.

The jerk your leg gives is involuntary. John curls his leg further inward to meet it, to keep it pushed upward, as the heat of his broad hand cups your sex. You feel the tip of one finger trace along your perineum, and a whimper makes its way out of your throat before his other hand wraps around your jaw, tilts your head backward. His mouth finds your ear, the stubble pricking at delicate cartilage.

“Not going to tell you again,” he murmurs, just a little bit of the Captain leaking into his tone. “Quiet down. Aye?”

A shiver races down your spine, makes a home in your sacrum. You nod, as much as you can in his grip. You understand the shape of his control, the intention of it; he’s not looking for a verbal affirmation, and to give one would incur consequences. You’re not opposed to his consequences—often, they’re as sweet as his rewards. But right now you want to bask in this submission, want to earn what he’s already set on giving you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tracing your lips with his index finger. His other hand kneads your pussy, that same up-and-down motion that he woke you up with, and his mouth returns to your neck, teeth sinking into another sliver of unmarked skin.

You settle into him, push your pelvis forward just a little, hoping he sees it for the offer it is rather than the demand it could be mistaken for. He chuckles against you, and teases one finger between your labia, brushes your entrance before flicking upward to surprise your clit. It makes your leg jerk again, and John only takes the opportunity to wrap around you more tightly. You feel him then, against your ass, in the cleft of it—he’s hard as iron, and ramrod-erect.

You suck your lips between your teeth, swallow, exhale a shaky breath from your nose. Pleasure radiates from the tips of his fingers, from the flex of his palm, as he traces the outlines of your sex at a pace too leisurely for early-morning sensitivity to handle. But you won’t make a sound. You’re going to be good for him. The ache between your legs begins to throb, and John must feel it, because finally he presses the pads of two fingers against your clit.

Your hips jerk against him. Sound almost makes it out of you. A gasp, a sharp inhale, but you swallow it down, and John smiles against you. He releases his teeth from you, presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, and takes up the same rhythm he’s been maintaining this whole time, a slow, steady caress that you want to whine at. His hand slides down to your throat, dwarfing the breadth of your neck—not squeezing, but monitoring. He’ll be able to feel any noise you make.

“I didn’t say you had to be silent, love,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down from your clit to swirl around your entrance—and squelching loud enough to let you both know that you’re drenched. “You just need to remember who that noise belongs to.”

You gasp when he slides a thick finger into you with not a moment of warning. “You—ah—you have to be specific, John,” you whisper, hyper-aware of your walls fluttering around him as he languidly pumps in and out of you. “I can’t be good for you if I don’t know the rules—ohh.”

He pushes in to the knuckle, curls his finger against the spot that has black spots dancing across your vision. Before they can blend together, overtake you, he withdraws, pulls out to circle your clit again, and you only wonder for a moment if this is the new rhythm before he gives the bundle a hard tap before pushing back in again.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, mouth open on your jaw, slipping a second finger into you. You have to clench your teeth to keep your mewl from becoming a moan. “And I did just wake you up, didn’t I?”

The stretch, the burn of new fullness, steals your ability to respond. The slow thrust of his hand picks up just a little, as if he wants to make it even harder for you to reply, but you’re determined. “Mm, John,” you breathe, “Let me be good for you.”

He goes still for a moment, fingers halting inside you, body tense as a drawn bowstring, and then his hand suddenly tightens around your neck—not cutting off your air, but utterly possessive, and he hooks his knee under yours to spread your thigh outward. Immediately he’s pistoning his fingers into you alarmingly quickly, and you only remember to stifle yourself at the last moment, turning a surprised shriek into a series of quick, high-pitched mewls. He thrusts against you, grinds his cock against your ass.

“You’re always good for me,” he growls into your ear, shoving in to the knuckle, flicking wildly against your g-spot. “Even when you’re not. I don’t fuckin’ deserve you, love, not a single thing you do for me.”

You want to refute him—want to tell him everything you give him is just a return on what he’s given you. But you can’t, and the only reason you can’t is that he’s fucking the breath out of your lungs with nothing but his goddamn fingers, meanwhile his cock tucked against your ass is so hard you can practically feel the throb of blood running through it.

And anyway, he doesn’t want you to tell him. This is no morning confessional, no whispered prayer to absolve his greed for you. He isn’t saying this because he thinks he’s taking advantage of you—it’s just the naked truth of what John believes, laid bare as if in offering. It’s the best way he knows how to tell you he adores you.

He’s explained all of this. You’ve told him he needs therapy. He’s laughed, and he’s agreed.

“Just don’t stop taking any of it,” you whisper, turning your head, finally opening your eyes to see his face, to drink in the muss of warm brown hair and the fray of uncombed beard. A gentle blue gaze, incongruous with the furor of his hand between your legs, meets yours. “Just don’t stop taking me.”

Dark brows draw together, etching a crease into his forehead. That blue becomes electric. “Never,” he growls, and takes your mouth with his.

His hand leaves your throat to join the other, and a third finger enters you as he resumes the massage on your clit that he’d left off. His tongue sweeps along the ridge of your teeth, probes inward to dance along your own, and at the same time he spreads his fingers inside of you, stretching you so far that you don’t think there isn’t a place in you that he isn’t touching. You think he’s filled your entire body with just his fingers, because there isn’t room in you anymore for your lungs to expand beyond shallow, whining breath. Your legs are shaking of their own accord, muscles twitching every time his fingers brush just the right spot on your clit, and you know he’s realized what he’s found when the flicker of his touch does not leave that spot.

You moan, low and breathy, keeping the sound in the back of your throat. You feel nothing but John, know nothing but the warmth of his arms caging you against his body, the searing burn of his fingers stretching you almost as wide as his cock can. His body is moving with yours, his hips pressing yours forward, shoving you farther into his hands and onto his fingers. The sheets are a mess of wrinkles around your moving bodies, and you finally remember your own arms, your own hands as they’re gripping the fabric without your input.

When your touch finds his forearms, when your nails dig into the broad muscle of them, you feel it coming fast. It’s fluttering around his fingers, pulling tight against the muscles in your thighs. Foreshocks have your body undulating against his, and you know, when his fingers thrust deep and stay there, that he can feel it coming, too.

“That’s it love,” he growls into your lips, kissing you between words. Three fingers curl into you, and you wonder if your body can break apart from the pleasure of their simple pressure behind your clit. “You’re being fucking perfect—I can feel it, fuck—come on, you’ve more than earned it, come for me—”

And all it takes for you then is his words, the rasp of his breath against your mouth, for ecstasy to explode in you from the tips of his fingers, pleasure bursting outward in a shockwave that wracks your entire body. Your breath comes short and quick as it takes you, and you whimper John’s name until he kisses you again, saving you from having to control your own volume as you lose control over everything else. He keeps fucking you as you shudder against his body, keeps up the frantic pace of his thrusting hand and the vice-like pressure he has around your clit, sending aftershocks across your body that keep you shaking and near-sobbing against his mouth. He does not let you get away from it, does not let you escape his hands, and does not stop until you go limp and boneless in his arms.

You come back to yourself, eons later, still breathing hard, panting in sync with John. His hold on you has slackened, arms still around you but loose enough that it’s easy—if not prompt, as it still feels like your muscles are jelly—to turn over to face him. He’s gazing at you, as if he wants to drink you in with his eyes alone, and that gaze is heavy-lidded and content. Neither of his hands have gone southward, searching for his cock or his own release. This is not unusual. He’s told you before that he knows he’ll get his eventually. And you know by now, too, that sometimes John finds more satisfaction in your orgasm than his own.

Every sense has come back to you now. His facial hair is softer than it looks, as you cup the side of his face, and the smell of detergent and shampoo is mingled now with the humid weight of the perspiration you two have worked up. The taste of him—you realized belatedly that he must have gotten up and brushed his teeth before this, because it’s lightly minty—is still on your tongue. His breath is heavy, but even and quieter than yours, obscured somewhat by your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears.

But the best experience is the sight of him—painted in the warming tones of a day starting to get on, t-shirt tight across his chest, skin a little flushed and shimmery with moisture. He smiles at you, blue eyes liquid with open affection, as you stroke his mustache. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I can’t believe you did that with your fucking fingers,” you laugh.

The smile spreads, creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad you let me.”

It’s a softness that he always expresses after he’s done anything to you. Whatever he thinks he deserves from you, he never hides his gratitude for what you give him.

When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a kiss that he lingers in, lips moving softly against yours as one hand comes to rest lightly on the back of your neck. Your elbows don’t want to prop you up for much longer, though, and you have to break away to lay your head back down.

“Good morning, John,” you say, smiling softly.

He shifts, moves closer, eyes tender as they remain settled on you. “Good morning, love.”