#how she doesn’t want to go back to them- will /never/ go back to them but how she can't help but worry and wonder | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cavillscurls · 21 hours ago

Text

you came? ⟡ you called.

no-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader (feat. miss sarah miller)

It still seems impossible to let you go, especially when life gets tough.

warnings/tags: no outbreak au. joel & reader dated when she was finishing college, and he is in his late 30s. sarah is six. angst. breakups. family drama. classism & the discussions of wealth. right person, wrong time. depictions of depression & anxiety. sarah is involved in a car accident (she is ok!). hospitals. fluff. girl!dad joel. heightened emotions. unresolved feelings. hurt/comfort. ambiguous but happy ending. <3 reader is physically nondescript, but contains an individualized backstory. not beta'd & only slightly proofread. wc: 3.3k

He missed the call.

His baby girl was in the hospital, and he missed the fucking call.

It’s difficult not to feed into guilt as he rushes through the haze-ridden streets across town, pelts of rainwater hitting his windshield. Curses are spewed under his breath, and he feels the burn in his sinuses and the tremble in his chin, how his throat feels thick with every nervous swallow.

It appears they lost some control with how slick the roads have been, is what they’d said when he called back.

The nurse's voice was even and lackluster in a way that Joel knows is irrational to be bothered with, but he’s unable to reason. He doesn’t understand how the rest of the world can keep spinning when his feels like it’s falling apart.

Both kids and Mrs. Watson are alright, but we are concerned your daughter may have sustained a bit of head trauma from bumping into the window, and we took her back for a CT scan to be on the safe side.

He doesn’t blame Margie Watson, even in this irrational state of mind. Sarah and her son have always gotten along well, and she has been kind enough for the last two years to carpool Sarah home with them three days a week when his outrageous work schedule wouldn’t allow the time. It could’ve happened to anyone, anywhere.

Still, he wonders why now? Why his little girl?

His hair is flattened with rainwater when he bursts into the emergency room lobby. He’s not even sure he turned off the truck engine, but that seems of little importance as he stumbles toward the front desk, frantic eyes darting every which way to get a sense of where she may have been taken.

He’s had to do this—the waiting and worrying a parent often does for their child whenever they are upset, or sick, or hurt—many times. And every time, he’s done it alone. It’s overwhelming and all-consuming, and he thinks, for a little while, he quite literally forgets how to breathe. Has to forcibly rise and contract his chest to gulp down the oxygen that keeps his body moving, if only to be certain his baby comes out better for it on the other side.

Sweat pools at his temples. His heart is beating so violently in his chest, he hardly registers the woman at the desk speaking.

“We’ve got you all checked in, Mr. Miller. We also want to inform you that we went ahead and called the second number listed under Sarah’s emergency contacts.”

This gets his attention. His brows scrunch together. “Second—?”

“Joel?”

Air rushes back into his lungs, and there is the momentary sensation of relief. The memories flood, ones that he often tries to repress to no avail.

He blinks once. Twice. He thinks he’s gone absolutely fucking mad.

But then you’re cautiously stepping towards him, the glint in your eyes nearly as frantic as his, arms somewhat outstretched as if you’re ready to take him by the shoulders. Ground him as you have so many times before. Steady him when that feeling creeps in—the one he’s disregarded for decades in hopes that it would magically disappear—and stop the ground from falling beneath his feet.

You were always the stable one. Enduring and confident. All his loyalty and handiness couldn’t make up for what you did to his mind.

You were the calm.

Despite how crazy he was for you, Joel had never fit into your life. At least, not into your family’s mold of what your life should be.

Sarah was only ten months old when you met. It’s funny, measuring the passage of time through the years of his daughter. But she entered the world as the center of his universe, and everything that came to them after was simply pulled in by her orbit.

He wasn’t in any place to be meeting people, let alone dating as a newly single father, coping with an abandoned relationship. But you were so damn smart. So sweet. Your meeting was happenstance, a mutual friend’s birthday party for which he somehow managed to get the time off and a sitter. You were finishing up your degree and planned to attend grad school in-state. A beautiful girl from a wealthy family whom he somehow managed to charm. And even more importantly, you managed to impress his daughter.

He knew after your fourth date, when he had worked up the courage to finally introduce you to her, that this would be no casual fling. And it wasn’t.

A month turned to six, six months to a year, and suddenly, you were interwoven into each other's every waking moment. Joel had forgotten about the stress and heartache of his previous involvement; it was easy to do so when what was right in front of him felt entirely stable, and good, and real.

For his thirty-fifth birthday, you threw him a surprise party. Normally, such a display would not be his forte. But it was a modest enough affair, only the closest of friends and family, all packed into his backyard with Tommy on the grill and Sarah passing out those pointy party-store birthday hats. You’d strung up some lights, ordered a cake from one of the nicest bakeries in town, and even managed to hire his favorite local band to play for the night.

He remembers the bright smile on your lips so vividly, the smooth way you reached for his shoulder and pressed up onto your toes to kiss his cheek and purr a happy birthday, handsome, in his ear.

He bought the ring the very next day.

And when you said yes, bright, teary eyes and the sweetest smile, he was so happy.

It wasn’t much. He got Tommy to take Sarah for the evening and cooked you a three-course meal. Set a nice cloth along the table, even lit some candles. Placed your favorite record on the turntable. And just before dessert, he asked you to dance. Something that was usually begrudging, like pulling teeth to get him to do it, and you sprang up with elation, letting him twirl you around the living room until he pulled you in close, breathed in the scent from your neck, and asked you to marry him.

He felt your body slow, heard the little gasp from your lips, and when you pulled back to look at him, he could tell you didn’t believe him. He reached into his back pocket for the square velvet box, and the rest was history.

He was so fucking happy.

Your parents, however, did not appear to share the same sentiments.

They had always been kind enough, especially when his daughter was involved. But they were a different kind of people than Joel’s parents were, a different kind of people than he was altogether—old money, an ancestral stake in their town. They expected excellence, and there was no denying the pride they had in your smarts, your ambitions. Their view of the world was limited, chained to glory over happiness.

“This all just seems a bit impulsive, doesn’t it?”

“She has so much ahead of her, you can’t possibly expect her to settle down here!”

“We just wouldn’t want this to hold her back.”

The stress of it all had taken a toll on both of you, and the spring before you left grad school, you called it off.

Last he heard, you had taken a job up in one of the Dakotas.

Seeing you now? It feels like a stab to his already churning gut.

“Hey,” he finally hears himself say, but his voice doesn’t sound like his.

“Hey… hi.”

You’re a little out of breath, eyebrows pulled taut on your forehead, and his heart aches at the sight. He’s seen you this way, loving, concerned, more times than he can count. He never thought he’d see it—especially not for him—ever again.

You lift your left hand to rub soothingly across your cheek.

He doesn’t see a ring.

“Thank you, um,” he starts again, feeling all sorts of discombobulated, “you-you didn’t have to—”

You shake your head.

“Of course I did.”

And he looks at you now. Really looks at you, and he feels like you can see right through him. He feels that tightness creep into his throat again, and before he knows it, you’re expelling a shaky sigh and surging towards him. His arms open immediately.

The press of your body is anchoring, and he’s grateful that he can bury his tear-welling eyes in the mask of your hair. He squeezes them tight, focusing on the way you hold him, and the euphoric rush of getting to hold you. He never thought he’d get the chance again.

“Did you see her?” he croaks into your neck.

He feels you nod. “Only briefly when they brought her in,” you explain, softer now, voice wavering just like his. “She was awake. She was okay. Just looked a little shaken up.”

This relieves him. It’s nearly the same information the nurses gave him, but hearing it from you feels different. Genuine, like he doesn’t have to second-guess whether or not it’s worse than they’re making it out to be.

“Didn’t know they still had your information,” he grumbles, shaking his head. He realizes he’s held on too long, just a moment past acceptable, and starts to loosen his arms. “I can ask them to change it—”

“No,” you interject, peering up at him now like he’s said something of great offense. But the sharpness hastily wilts away, and you worry your bottom lip with your teeth, carefully slithering your arms off of him and crossing them over your stomach. You take a single step back, and his chest aches. “I mean, I… I’m happy to stay on as long as you need me to.”

He could ask Tommy. Albeit most of the time, if Joel’s busy, so is he. He contemplates his other options, and not much comes to mind. Then, he considers that this may be your way of asking if there are any other options. The thought, while arguably a long shot, stirs him.

He considers his next words carefully.

“I’m… m’sure she’s glad it was you,” he murmurs, and the crease between your brows softens. “Considerin’ I was no fuckin’ help.”

The crease returns.

“Don’t,” you counter, shaking your head. He knows that look. Knows you mean business. “Don’t do that. You couldn’t have possibly expected this.”

He knows he can’t argue. He’s tried countless times. Instead, he sighs. Hangs his head, props his hands on his hips, and taps an antsy foot.

“What’re you—”

He has to bite his tongue. What’re you even doing here? He wants to ask, but he cowers from the harshness. Braces himself for the fear of even asking.

“I mean… you’re here,” he opts for. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”

He peers up at you through hooded eyes, chin still tilted in shame, and your arms loosen until they finally fall slack at your sides. He wonders how this feels for you, if it’s just as anxiety-inducing as it is for him.

“Yeah, I um. I moved back in October,” you explain, seeming to hesitate before: “My dad’s not doin’ too well.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and then, a deep-set frown. He knows he isn’t your father’s favorite. Hell, your father ain’t his favorite either, but it’s not the news he was hoping to hear.

“M’sorry to hear that,” he says earnestly, and you thank him softly, sniffling.

He has a million questions. He doesn’t think there’s enough time left in his life to ask them all. And he finds himself panicking a little, sifting through each and every one of them, trying to choose the right one.

Just as he thinks he’s landed on it, a nurse in blue scrubs is approaching in his peripheral.

“Mister and Misses Miller?” she chirps.

You both turn your heads, but Joel hears the quiet gasp of air you intake, and sees the way your mouth hangs open, on the precipice of rebuttal.

“Is she ready for us?” Joel asks, never giving you the chance. Never even bothering to correct her himself. There are small wins in this, like the way your eyes flutter over to him in silent inquisition—no ill-will, just curiosity.

The nurse smiles. “Yeah, y’all are welcome to come on back.”

She winds you both through the sterile halls until he sees a sign that reads PEDIATRICS. He’s so aware of your footstep behind him, following closely. He has the momentary urge to reach back, seek out your hand, and with it, your comfort. But he refrains. Squeezes that same hand into a fist, and scolds himself for how foolishly simple it is to fall back into old habits.

The nurse stops at door 241 and taps her knuckles lightly three times before opening the door and letting you both inside.

The familiar sound of Barbie: Swan Lake is on the television. He knows this because it plays through about four times a day in the living room. Although most of the time, it’s accompanied by the unsteady little girl in her tutu in front of the screen, replicating each sequence more and more precisely each day.

This time, he finds his little girl propped up in the bed pressed against the center of the wall. Her wide eyes dart from the screen to him at the sound of the door, and he sees them well with tears.

His heart breaks. Literally, he thinks it’s cracked in two.

“Daddy!” she calls, and it sounds like she’s exhaling some great burden. A relief. A precious smile and hands reaching toward him despite the pain he’s caused in making her wait.

He’s stalking towards her immediately, crouching down on sore knees beside the bed so she can wrap those outstretched arms around his neck. He puts his own around her tiny body, trying not to hug her too hard despite the unbearable need to have her close. Safe. Always safe with him.

“Hey, babygirl,” he mutters, trying to swallow back tears of his own. And she’s brave, so brave in the way her little body trembles, but she never lets them fall.

When she pulls back, he places a lingering kiss on her forehead.

“M’so sorry I wasn’t here,” he says, tilting his head at her sadly. Her lips turn into a pout, and she reaches her tiny hand to take his much bigger one, giving it a squeeze.

“It’s okay, Daddy.”

He shakes his head. “No, it ain't, baby.” He lifts that same hand up to kiss her knuckles, too. “Can you forgive me?”

Her dimpled smile returns, and Joel thinks maybe the cracks have started to heal. “Can we... get ice cream after this?”

Shared laughter echoes across the room, and the levity of her question lifts the final weight from his chest. Too damn smart for her own good.

“Bribin’ me now, huh?” he asks, tsking his tongue. “Yeah… yeah, I think we can make that happen.”

“Then I forgive you,” Sarah says triumphantly, reaching out to give her father another much-needed embrace. The amused nurse places a clipboard of release papers onto the tray table.

“The CT scan and X-Ray came back entirely normal, Mr. Miller. Safe to assume Sarah is just dealing with a mild concussion due to the impact. Dizziness, sensitivity to the light—” she gestures towards the dimmed switch. “You may notice some bruising or swelling around the forehead—ice is your friend until that goes down. Other than that, just continue to monitor over the next couple of weeks. Lots of rest, ease back into high-intensity activities, and give us a call if anything worsens.”

He nods carefully along with her instructions. “Yeah, of course. Thank you.” The nurse offers all three of you a smile before excusing herself, the door thudding behind her.

The guilt lessens now that she’s here, safe, within reach, staring at him with her big-brown eyes and toothy grin. He feels lightheaded, the adrenaline worn off, and the emotional whiplash of the hours events pumping rapidly through his veins.

“Oh, look!”

Luckily, it’s his Sarah who breaks the deafening silence. Over the sound of whirring machines and stale air, she squeals, reaching under the flimsy blanket. The pulse ox monitor on her tiny finger makes him frown, but what she reveals from hiding can’t help but soothe the soul.

“Look what they gave me, Daddy!”

A little white teddy bear, the kind with a tulle bow tie wrapped around its neck, and a permanent smile stitched across its snout. She squeezes it to her chest and smiles widely, and Joel is met with the endearing sight of her two missing front teeth. They had fallen out only days apart.

He leans in close, all serious like. She giggles.

“You gotta name for ‘em yet?” he asks.

She nods her pretty head of curls three times.

“Paddington.”

“Fantastic choice.”

She laughs again, hugs Paddington tight, and Joel tries to be grateful for a moment. Tries to acknowledge all the hurt and sickness happening in the building around him that somehow did not infiltrate this very room today. Instead, he has a beautiful baby girl with only a bump on her head.

Instead, he’s been reunited with someone just as beautiful. Someone he wonders if he’d ever see again had it not been for what transpired today. He glances your way, finding you leaning casually against the wall with your arms crossed and an enamored look in your eye. You straighten a little when you catch him looking, and he feels compelled to shower you in a gratitude he's not sure he knows how to convey. He owes you, for more reasons than just this.

As if she can read his mind, Sarah’s voice picks up, just above a whisper now:

“Daddy…. Honey’s here.”

He feels himself go red to the tips of his ears.

There’s another breath of shared laughter, endearment, and maybe a bit of awkwardness.

Honey.

Just something he used to call you. Something innocent and fond. Naturally, Sarah picked it up, and eventually, she started calling you it too.

He gives you an apologetic look, and the way you peer back—so fragile, so careful in the way you appraise him and his babygirl—makes his tongue feel heavy. Like that name, that title, still festers there. Like he could scream it at the top of his lungs if it meant one chance to use it again.

“I know she is, baby,” he answers instead, squeezing Sarah’s arm tenderly. “You’ll have to thank her for comin’ all this way to check on you.”

Her eyes dart towards you again, and whatever she finds has them slanting back Joel’s way so sweetly. The kind of look no good father is immune to.

“Can she come get ice cream with us, too?”

His instinct is to decline. Soften the blow with a clever excuse, and talk his way out of big questions that seem too difficult to explain to someone so small, the way he always has.

But the words never come. They die on his tongue that still holds memory. Every word he’s ever spoken, every piece of time remnant with you.

He can’t say it. He won’t.

He looks at you, instead. Your shoulders gone slightly rigid, and your brows piqued with subtle curiosity. Like you’re waiting to see where he takes this next. He swallows hard, swallows down the fear, the regret, and anxiety.

“She’s more than welcome to,” he says, and his daughter beams. “If she’d like.”

He sees the stale lights reflect off your eyes, brimming with tears. Notices the way your chin trembles, and how you press your lips together in a hard line, the way you always do when you want to be brave.

He sees a gleam of hope. Memories swaying between the space you all occupy, assuring him that they aren’t just figments of his imagination, but real, and raw, and true. That they live just as deeply in you.

Your lips part, and he holds his breath.

“I’d love to,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

He exhales.

He sees a second chance.

And he has every intention of taking it.

follow @cavillscurlsupdates for fic notifications

consider reblogging/commenting if you enjoyed 🤍

joel miller masterlist

#i’m certain we could all use some fluff rn #this has been in my drafts for a while #joel miller x reader #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #sarah miller #the last of us fanfiction

729 notes · View notes

fuddaround · 3 days ago

Text

HOME › paige bueckers x fem!reader

⌗ summary : paige makes sure to see her ex girlfriend one last time before leaving for dallas.

⌗ warnings : mentions of other people, arguing, toxic, cunnilingus, slut shaming, slapping, strap-on (r!receiving), degrading.

⌗ word count : 4.5k

⌗ kay’s notes : pazzi one is coming trust😓

you’re still fixing your shorts when the front door opens.

no knock. no heads up. just unlocked and walked the fuck in.

you freeze in the hallway, half-dressed, barely done saying bye to the girl who just gave you the worst head you’d had in weeks—and there she is.

paige fucking bueckers.

standing in your doorway like she lives there.

her eyes flick from you to the girl behind you. the one adjusting her top, all flustered and confused, like she just walked into some shit she shouldn’t be a part of.

“oh,” paige says. flat. emotionless. “you’ve been busy.”

you don’t answer.

you’re too busy trying not to argue with her right there.

the girl mumbles something awkward, grabs her phone off the table, and slips past paige without even looking at her. the door shuts soft behind her.

then it’s just you and paige.

your heart’s still racing. your lips still swollen. and she’s just standing there with that look on her face.

arms crossed. jaw locked. eyes burning.

“you fucked her,” she says.

“you’re leaving,” you shoot back.

wrong move. her eyebrow lifts.

“you know damn well that’s not the same thing.”

you roll your eyes. grab your water off the counter like you’re not shaking inside.

“you didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t say shit. what, you thought i was gonna sit around and wait for you to come crawling back?”

she steps closer.

“i wasn’t gonna come crawling.”

“clearly.”

you both stare at each other for a second too long. it’s heavy. old.

you’re both breathing hard. and not because of the girl who just left.

“why are you here, paige?”

“you know why.”

you snort. look away. sip your water even though your throat’s dry as it possibly be could be.

“what, one last fuck before you go play house in texas?”

“nah,” she says. “i wanted to see if you’d say that shit to my face.”

you look back at her. and there it is.

that look.

the one that used to make you fold mid-argument and drop to your knees without a second thought.

you hate how fast your body remembers.

she notices. of course she does.

“did she make you cum?” paige asks, voice low. loaded.

you don’t answer.

“nah,” she smirks. “she didn’t. you’re still wound up. i can see it.”

“fuck you.”

“you tried.”

you slam your cup down. too hard. water splashes onto the counter.

“get out.”

she doesn’t move.

just watches you. eyes soft now. like she knows she’s already won.

“i’m not here to fight, baby.”

“then what are you here for?”

she walks over. real slow. stops in front of you, close enough to feel her breath.

“you already said it.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking ‘til she touches you.

thumb brushing your jaw. hand sliding into your hair. soft, but not gentle.

never gentle.

“one more,” she says. voice barely above a whisper. “then i’ll go.”

you swallow.

“one more fuck, and you leave for real?”

“if that’s what you want.”

you stare at her. chest tight. throat burning.

because you don’t want her to go. and you hate yourself for that.

but you nod anyway.

because you do want her.

and she knows it.

her hands are on your hips before you can blink.

strong, sure. like she’s done this a thousand times. probably with a thousand girls.

she lifts you up like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing without her, and sets you on the kitchen counter. hard enough to make the cabinets rattle.

your thighs spread on instinct.

and she steps between them like she never stopped belonging there.

you don’t say anything.

just breathe hard as her hands slide under your ass, squeezing until you whine into her. its like she’s pissed that someone else got to touch you. taste you. fuck you.

her mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and heat. you kiss her back just as rough. desperate. angry. dizzy from the way her lips move like punishment.

she pulls back, breathing heavy, lips slick with spit.

“so,” she says. low. dangerous. “you let that bitch fuck you on our couch?”

you look away. jaw clenched.

wrong move.

her hand snaps up. grabs your chin. not hard, but enough to make you face her.

“answer me, baby. use your words.”

you blink at her. your whole body’s on fire.

“yeah.”

she smirks. slow. mean.

“that’s crazy.”

her fingers trail down, brushing the hem of your shorts.

“you ride her face?”

you flinch.

“paige—”

“nah, mama. don’t start actin’ shy now. you looked real bold when she was zipping up her jeans. so go ahead. tell me what you let her do.”

you squirm. her fingers press harder. not inside, not yet. just enough pressure to make you feel every damn word.

“she ate me out.”

“how long?”

you breathe through your nose. feel your pulse in your throat.

“not long.”

“yeah,” paige scoffs. “figured. probably didn’t even know how to hold your thighs right. probably had my girl so uncomfortable.”

you bite your lip.

she leans in, mouth brushing your jaw.

“did you cum?”

you don’t answer fast enough.

she slides one hand into your waistband. knuckles pressing into your pussy. not moving, just sitting there.

“did you cum, baby?”

“no.”

“fucking knew it.”

she kisses your neck. bites it.

“she ever make you beg?”

“no.”

“make you cry?”

“no.”

“make you say please like a good fuckin’ girl?”

you shake your head, eyes glassy.

paige grins.

“thought so.”

then her fingers slip under your shorts completely.

no panties again.

“damn, ma,” she breathes. “you’re so fuckin wet.”

you gasp when her thumb finds your clit, already swollen and aching.

“see what happens when you stop fuckin around and let me handle it?” she murmurs, dragging her mouth along your collarbone. “pussy’s throbbin for me.”

her fingers slide lower. she teases your entrance. just circling. not giving in yet.

“you gonna let her see you like this again?”

“no.”

“you moan for her like this?”

“no.”

“you save it all f’me, huh?”

you nod. frantic.

“say it.”

“saved it for you.”

“that’s right, baby. my pussy.”

her fingers push in slow.

and your whole body folds into her.

she shoves her fingers in deeper. slow at first. deep. steady. then rough.

your hips jerk. you choke on a moan. her hand grips your throat, light but warning.

“keep fuckin still.”

you nod, trying. but she curls her fingers just right and your body bucks.

“needy ass bitch.” her voice drops. full of heat. venom. love. “you let someone else warm me up? really, baby?”

you gasp.

she slaps your tit. quick. sharp.

your back arches off the counter.

“answer me.”

“i—i didn’t mean to—”

“nah,” she spits. “you meant to.” her fingers slam into you harder. your thighs shake. you claw at the counter.

“you wanted someone to touch you,” she growls. “you just picked wrong.”

“paige, fuck—”

she slaps your other tit. watches it bounce.

smirks.

“look at you. such a fuckin mess for me.” her thumb finds your clit again. circles slow.

“you like that? huh?”

you nod.

“yeah, you do. such a slut, aren’t you? sittin here drippin like you didn’t just cum for someone else.”

“i didn’t—i didn’t cum—”

“damn,” she laughs. dark.

“you let her eat you out and you didn’t cum?”

you shake your head. tears welling.

“then why the fuck you let her touch what’s mine?”

you don’t know what to say. you don’t even care.

“you wanted to feel something,” she mutters. “but this the only thing that ever made you feel, huh?”

she thrusts deeper. faster. you scream.

her hand claps over your mouth.

“shut up.”

your eyes roll. you nod.

“that’s right. take it.” her fingers keep going. relentless. you’re so close it hurts.

“gonna cum?” she asks.

you nod, frantic.

she pulls out.

you whimper.

“aww,” she mocks. “poor baby.” she taps your clit. soft and taunting. your legs tremble.

“you don’t get to cum yet.” slaps your pussy. just once. you jolt.

“slut.”

you bite your lip. sob.

she pushes her fingers back in. slower this time.

but deeper. crueler.

“you know why i do this?”

you blink up at her. lost. wrecked.

“’cause nobody else can.” she kisses your jaw. your ear. “nobody else will.”

you moan. desperate.

she licks your neck. grins against your skin.

“you gonna cum for me now, baby?”

you nod. crying. grinding against her hand.

“you better make a mess.” her voice is thick. rough. serious. “i want it on my fuckin fingers. on the counter. everywhere.”

you cum hard. loud. shaking. clenching around her like your body was waiting for this all damn week.

and she doesn’t stop. she fucks you through it, hand tight on your throat. your eyes flutter. body going limp.

“my nasty little whore,” she whispers. “always knew how to make a scene.”

you’re still shaking when she pulls her fingers out.

slow. wet. dripping.

she kisses your forehead, soft and warm.

too gentle for how she just ruined you.

then she picks you up. arms under your thighs, chest to chest. like you don’t weigh a thing.

you bury your face in her neck. you’re still twitching. still soaked. she smells like sin and safety.

“you good, baby?” she murmurs.

you nod against her skin.

“words.”

“yeah,” you whisper. “i’m good.”

she carries you into the bedroom. lays you down easy. like you’re breakable.

paige brushes your hair back. kisses your cheek.

lets you breathe. lets you settle. then sits on the edge of the bed, hand on your thigh.

“what’s the color?” she asks.

you blink up at her. already floating.

“green.”

“you sure?”

you nod, “green, mama.”

her jaw tightens like she’s proud and she’s starving.

“you want more?”

you nod again, “please.”

she leans down, kisses your mouth slow, “good girl.”

she kisses you once more. then stands up, eyes raking down your body like she’s starving.

“look at you,” she says. low. thick. filthy. “laid out for me like. i only wanna see you like this for me.”

her fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.

pulls ‘em down slow. slow like punishment.

her eyes never leave yours. not even when she drops to her knees.

“this body?” she mutters. “this shit’s only mine, mama.”

your thighs spread on instinct. she licks her lips.

“fuck,” she whispers. “you’re so pretty when you’re ruined.” kisses your inner thigh.

“bet she didn’t even look at you like this.”

a kiss higher.

then a bite.

you gasp.

“bet she didn’t worship this pussy.”

her tongue presses to your clit, light. a tease. a warning.

you whimper.

she pulls back. grins. “yeah. that’s what i thought.”

then she devours you.

mouth locked. tongue ruthless. not sweet. not soft. just raw.

she eats you like she’s pissed. like she needs to make you forget anyone else ever existed.

your hips jerk. she throws her arm over your stomach. holds you down.

“don’t run, baby. take it.”

her tongue circles, flicks, drags over your clit.

you’re already shaking. already crying.

she moans into you. moans. like she’s the one getting off.

“fuck, ma,” she breathes. “tastes like you missed me.”

you grab at her hair, mind gone.

“she didn’t even know what to do with this, did she?” another slow lick.

you sob.

“you let her try?” she spits on your pussy. sloppy. filthy. rubs it in with her tongue.

“but you saved this mess for me.”

your thighs close around her head. she slaps the inside of your leg.

“open.”

“yeah. that’s it, mama. let me ruin you.”

she starts sucking your clit. hard. wet. relentless. no rhythm. just chaos.

you’re already close. too close. you cum with a scream. loud. raw.

but she doesn’t stop. just keeps licking. teasing. working her fingers in now. slow. two deep.

you cry out. your whole body jolts.

“one’s not enough,” she mutters. “this pussy’s just so greedy, huh?”

you nod. crying. shaking.

“fuckin perfect. all of it.” she kisses your stomach. your hip. then goes right back to sucking your clit while her fingers curl inside you.

you cum again. it rips out of you. like your body’s got no choice.

she still doesn’t stop. over and over.

“you’ll never let anyone else touch you again,” she growls. tongue dragging down. “they don’t deserve you.”

you try to pull away. she grabs your thighs. pulls you back to her mouth.

“don’t you dare.” she slaps your pussy again, making you cry out.

“take it, slut.” she grinds her tongue into you. you’re soaked. ruined. gone.

“my mess. my girl. my fuckin pussy.” each word is a followed with a kiss. a thrust. a claim.

“say it.”

you sob, “yours.”

“louder.”

“yours.”

she kisses your clit one more time. soft, like a thank you.

and you collapse. eyes fluttering. body twitching. completely gone.

you’re still shaking when she climbs off the bed.

your thighs glistening. twitching. pussy pulsing.

you whimper when she moves away. voice all broken. soft.

“where—where are you going?”

paige smirks. glances over her shoulder.

walks to your drawer. her drawer. where the strap’s already waiting.

“calm down, baby,” she mutters, digging it out.

“actin like i’m not about to ruin you again.”

your breath catches. eyes wide. pupils blown.

“but i want you now,” you whine, so soft. so sweet.

she raises a brow.

“oh, now you want me?” straps it on slow. cock heavy, mean-looking. snug against her hips.

you nod, lip trembling. “please.”

she chuckles. low. condescending.

“you don’t even know what you’re beggin for.”

walks back over. lazy. cocky. like she’s got all night to break you.

you spread your legs, still leaking.

“look at you,” she mutters. grabs your hips, flips you over. you yelp.

she presses your face to the mattress.

“needy fuckin brat.” spits on her hand. strokes the strap. lines it up with your soaked pussy.

“you sure you can take it, mama?”

you nod. whiny again, “please, i need it.”

“oh, you need it?” she leans down. mouth by your ear. grinds the tip against you. not in. just teasing.

“say that shit again.”

“i need it. i need you. please, paige—”

that’s all she needed.

she pushes in slow.

you gasp. arch.

she grabs your waist, pulls you back onto it.

buries it deep.

“there you go,” she growls. “take it. just like that.”

you’re already moaning. can’t help it.

“f-fuck, it’s big—”

she laughs. dark. “nah, ma. you’re just tight. ain’t been fucked right in a minute, huh?”

you whine. nod into the sheets.

she starts thrusting. slow at first. deep. rough. her hips smack your ass, rhythm mean.

you’re sobbing again. back arching.

“what happened to all that shit you were talkin earlier?” a slap to your ass. sharp.

you cry out.

“you was bold when she had her tongue in you.”

another slap, “now you’re just my whiny little slut again.”

“i am—i’m yours—”

she grabs your hair. yanks your head back.

bends over you.

“say it like you fuckin mean it.”

“i’m yours,” you cry. “all yours. nobody else—”

“that’s right.” she lets go. slams her hips in harder.

“this pussy’s mine. this body’s mine. this fuckin mouth—” leans down, kisses the side of your face.

“mine.”

you’re clenching around her. it’s too much.

you can’t stop whining.

“shhh, baby,” she coos. mocking. gentle. fucks you through every moan.

“you wanted this. remember?” drives it in deep. holds it there. you scream.

“you fuckin asked for this.” pulls out. slams back in.

your legs give out.

she grabs your waist, holds you up. makes you take it.

you’re babbling. nonsense. praise. desperate apologies.

“you look so pretty like this,” she mutters.

“gettin fucked dumb. can’t even think straight.”

you sob. eyes rolled back.

she slows, just a little and rubs your lower back.

“you good, mama?”

you nod. barely conscious.

she kisses your shoulder. then starts up again.

paige slows down just to watch it. her hands spread across your ass, big and possessive. thumbs pressing into the dimples on your lower back.

“god damn, baby.” she moans like she’s the one getting fucked. like your ass alone could get her off.

grinds her hips into you, slow and deep. drags the strap all the way out just to slam it back in. your whole body jolts forward with the impact.

she stares down, eyes glassy. obsessed. you’re leaking down your thighs. ass flushed, moving with every thrust.

“look at this fuckin ass,” she breathes. rakes her nails down your sides.

you whimper, barely holding yourself up.

she smacks it. loud. sharp. the sound bounces off the walls.

you moan like it’s your name.

“you know how long i missed this shit?” another slap. harder. she grabs both cheeks after, spreads you wide.

“nobody else gets this view,” she mutters. “nobody else even deserves it.”

your face is buried in the sheets, crying, ruined.

“you been walkin around actin like this ass don’t belong to me,” she says. starts fucking you harder. deep, cruel strokes.

“but i know it does.” she’s panting. voice cracked.

you’re babbling again, sobbing into the bed.

“you hear that?” slap. grind. thrust. “that’s mine, mama.”

her hands stay on your ass. one gripping, the other slapping. then both squeeze hard enough to bruise.

you whimper into the sheets, “too much—”

she grabs your hips. yanks you back. the strap drives in deeper than before.

“don’t care.” her voice drops. deadly calm. “you wanted me, remember?”

you nod. choking on your moans.

“wanted to fuck one more time before i leave.” another hard thrust. your legs almost give out.

“this what you wanted, right?” she pulls out. slaps your pussy with the tip.

you sob.

“answer me, slut.”

“yes—fuck—yes.”

“yeah you did.” she slams back in.

you scream.

“nobody ever gonna fuck you like this again.”

her hands trail up. grabs your tits from behind. pinches your nipples.

“not like me.” she bites your shoulder.

you shiver. melt.

“they don’t know this body. and won’t ever knownit like i do.” her hand reaches down. rubs your clit slow while she fucks into you hard. over and over. like she wants to imprint herself inside you.

“you know why you keep lettin me back in?”

her voice is ragged. desperate.

you shake your head. can’t even speak.

“’cause this pussy belongs to me.” she leans forward, cock buried deep. grinds into you. you feel her everywhere.

“this ass—” grabs it again, spreads you wider “all mine.”

you’re losing it. legs twitching. body soaked.

she starts fucking you faster. rough. hard. unrelenting. her hips slamming into your ass like she wants to live there.

“cum for me,” she growls. “make a mess all over my cock.”

you try. you fight it.

she slaps your clit. just once.

you explode. scream into the sheets. body collapsing.

she doesn’t stop.

“that’s my girl.” thrusts slow now. deep. lets you feel every inch.

“fucked dumb. used up. perfect.”

you can’t move. can’t breathe.

she finally slows. pulls out. watches your hole twitch. open. dripping.

“so so beautiful,” she whispers.

she leans down. kisses the small of your back.

“you still mine, baby?”

you nod into the mattress, “always.”

she lays over you, still in the strap. lets you feel her weight. mouth against your spine.

“my good girl.”

you’re still shaking when she rolls onto her back.

chest rising slow. cock still strapped in, glistening with you. hands behind her head. eyes smug.

“come sit, mama.” voice low. taunting. like she didn’t just break you for the billionth time.

you blink down at her. ruined. but something in you switches. snaps.

you crawl up. slow. straddle her waist. reach back and grab the strap.

her brows raise, “you got more in you, huh?”

you line it up. sink down. both of you gasp.

“fuck,” you whisper.

“yeah,” she grins. “that’s it.”

you start to move. hips grinding slow.

she doesn’t touch you yet. just watches.

“look at you,” she mutters, “bouncin on my dick like you ain’t just get your soul snatched.”

you roll your eyes, “you act like you’re the only one who knows how to fuck.”

she laughs. smug, “prove me wrong then.”

you start riding harder. hands on her chest, using her for balance.

“don’t worry,” you pant. “i will.”

she reaches up, grabs your tits. squeezes. plays with them, “these still mine too?”

you slap her hands away, “you wish.”

she grabs them again anyway. harder.

“nah, mama. they always been mine.” leans up, mouths at one. sucks hard. you moan, grind down rough.

“you’re so cocky for someone i made cry like a lil bitch ten minutes ago.” she pulls off your tit with a pop. smirks. “you’re still crying.”

you are. you don’t care. you’re still fucking yourself on her.

“maybe ‘cause you talk too fuckin much.” you dig your nails into her chest.

she laughs again. cocky. feral.

“keep runnin your mouth, baby. all you do is prove how much you love this dick.” she grabs your hips now. helps you grind. just to watch your face crumble.

you try to stay mean. but it’s too much. she’s too deep.

you stutter out a moan. hips slowing.

“tired already?” she taunts. “thought you had somethin to prove.”

“shut up,” you breathe.

“make me.”

you lean down. kiss her hard. bite her lip.

she moans into your mouth. hands still on your tits. still playing. like they’re hers.

“fuck, ma,” she groans. “this pussy was made for me.”

you bounce harder. faster. chasing it now.

“you ain’t shit without me,” she whispers. “just some messy lil slut that needs my dick to feel whole.”

you hold onto her chest, “and you ain’t ever gonna fuckin leave me alone.”

she grins. wild. possessive.

“never.” her thumb finds your clit. circles it.

you gasp.

“you’re mine, mama. all of you.”

you start falling apart again.

body jerking. mouth open.

“cum on it,” she growls. “right now. let me feel it.”

you do. hard. violent. you scream her name, claw her biceps.

she grabs your ass while you’re twitching.

presses you down. keeps you there.

“fuckin knew it,” she whispers. “can’t fuckin leave me.”

you collapse on her chest. shaking. wet.

“i hate you,” you mumble. voice hoarse.

she kisses your temple. “i know, baby.” grins. “i hate you too.”

you’re still on her. chest to chest. breath ragged.

cock still buried deep inside you.

she’s got one hand on your ass, squeezing. other in your hair. but you’re glaring.

“so who the fuck was that girl?” your voice is cracked. still breathless, but angry now.

paige blinks. scoffs.

here we go.

“seriously?” grips your waist tighter. ruts her hips up once. sharp.

you moan. slap her shoulder.

“don’t fuckin dodge it, bueckers.”

she laughs under her breath. that condescending one.

“you were literally getting fucked when i walked in.” another thrust. deeper. “and you’re seriously worried about me?”

you flinch. gasp. but you don’t stop riding. if anything, you slam down harder.

“you didn’t look bothered,” you spit. “walked in like you still owned the place.”

“i do have a key still.” her voice is flat. eyes sharp.

you grip her shoulders, nails digging in.

“you fuck her?”

she grinds up into you slow. smirks, “you want the truth?”

you hesitate.

she leans up. mouth to your ear. thrusts slow, brutal.

“nah. i didn’t. but i could’ve.”

your whole body tenses.

“fuck you.” you start riding again. angry. fast.

she groans. loves it.

“you’re so full of shit,” she mutters, palming your tits again, rough.

“actin jealous while this pussy’s still mine.”

“you don’t own me.” you’re breathless. grinding hard.

“nah?” she sits up. wraps her arms around you.

starts fucking up into you, rough now.

“then why you still let me in here?” kisses your jaw. your neck.

you moan, try to pull away.

“why you still let me fuck you like this?” bites your collarbone.

“because i love you, dumbass!”

that makes her pause.

just for a second.

then she slams up into you again.

you cry out. nails in her back.

“say that shit again.” her voice is low. cracked.

“i love you.” you’re sobbing. grinding on her like you need it to breathe.

she groans. throws her head back.

“fuck, mama.” hands on your ass again, bouncing you.

“you love me like this?”

slams up harder.

you nod. gasping.

“you love me when i fuck you like i hate you?”

another thrust. mean. deep.

“when i own you?”

you sob out a yes.

“you love me when i’m a fuckin problem?”

“always,” you cry. “always, paige.”

she pulls you down. kisses you hard. all teeth and tongue.

“mine,” she growls. “mine forever.”

you fall apart in her arms again. crying into her mouth. clenching around her.

“say it back,” she demands.

“yours,” you breathe. “always yours.”

she fucks you through it. slow now. deep. possessive.

“i love you.” she whispers as she kisses your neck. “don’t ever forget it.”

she wipes you down with your favorite towel.

the one she bought you. kisses your thighs like an apology she’ll never say out loud.

wraps you in her arms after, still naked.

still inside the mess of it. you’re both quiet. just breathing.

“i’m gonna fuckin miss you,” you whisper.

barely more than a breath.

she pulls you closer.

“i never stopped.”

you blink.

“what?”

“missin you,” she mumbles, lips against your shoulder, “even when i was right here.”

you turn to face her, press your forehead to hers.

“don’t be soft now,” you whisper. smile cracked, eyes glossy.

she shrugs, “too late.”

you kiss her. slow. tired.

she stays the night, arm over your waist, face buried in your neck. you both pretend it doesn’t hurt. just for a little longer.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers fanfic #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #kay’s fics ⊹ ࣪ ˖#kay writes ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ #wlw #lesbian #wlw smut

781 notes · View notes

heesimp · 3 days ago

Note

could u share how stepdad hoon and reader started their sexual relationship? who came onto who…did reader resist….feeling guilty to be enjoying it….stepdad hoon lowkey forcing…

I imagine Sunghoon married his wife out of convenience and because she was exceptionally easy fuck. He didn’t care about love and romance, or any of that bullshit. He just wanted available pussy and got hard on knowing she’d drop to her knees without him asking.

He knew she had a daughter in her last year of college but never formally met her. It’s not like he’s forgotten about it per se, but he figures the two of you aren’t close because his wife never brings you up and you never came around.

And when you did, something similar to electricity seemed to conjure up whenever he was in the same room with you.

His wife is fine and all, but she’s gotten so used to being married to a hot and wealthy man that she uses his money to fund her lavish lifestyle. It irritated him at first, because who is she to spend his money without asking? But you start to come over to their house during breaks. Winter holiday came around and being next to your bedroom 24/7 felt like an urge he was itching to scratch, never mind the fact that his wife slept next to him every time he had those thoughts. And when you weren’t home, it tortured him to imagine you wearing those shorts and push up bras you love so much. Sunghoon would fuck her in lieu of your body and wished he could be fucking you instead.

Truly, Sunghoon didn’t know who was the predator and who was prey. You act so innocent but don’t dress like you are. You say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and treat him like a true member of your family when your mom’s around, but you look at him like you want to devour him alive. He’s pretty sure you know he wants you too, but Sunghoon knows he does a better job at hiding it.

During your spring break, you elect to go home instead of a girl’s trip under the guise of not having money. Which is bullshit. Sunghoon could front the bill and wouldn’t complain either. But he told you that your mom’s out of town and won’t be back until after you leave for uni again. It seemed like a no brainer to come home that week and see what happens.

One movie turned into two, and suddenly you were sitting on his lip with your pussy wrapped around his hard dick.

“We waited too long for this,” Sunghoon says against your mouth without remorse. He leans his head back against the couch and flexes his naked abdomen when you clench around his dick. He starts to put his hands on your waist but you push them away and kiss him hard.

“Let me do all the work, Daddy.” Sunghoon moans. “You do so much for me. Let me make you cum. Just relax.”

“I’m relaxed, alright.”

With your feet planted on either side of him on the couch, you ride him until he’s gushing inside of you. He’s looking up at you like you’re some kind of angel, and you look at him like you’ve won a game. You don’t stop fucking his cock until he forcibly pushes you off of him, but that doesn’t deter you from acting like the nymph he knows you are.

You scramble to your knees and push him back down onto the cushion, slipping his wet cock into your warm mouth. He nearly orgasms again when you hum around him, licking up the remnants of his cum as your fingers gently massage his balls. Your throat constricts around him like you’re trying to take him down all at once. Sunghoon is so fucking impressed and can’t help but think how much better you are at sucking dick compared to his wife.

Eventually, your mouth releases his cock and he watches you bend your head down while stroking him. He grunts when your mouth sucks on his balls and enjoys the feeling of your tongue dancing between his sack. He loves this feeling so much and wishes he could bottle it up. Sunghoon loves that you’re so fucking horny all of the time, and you show it by getting on your knees for him in a way no one has ever done before.

Sunghoon refuses to cum a second time before you get the chance to first, though. You find yourself clinging onto his chiseled, naked body for dear life as he carries you to his bedroom and pushes you against the bed he shares with his wife. It makes you even better and Sunghoon can see just how turned on you are from the prospect of how taboo and dirty this is. He thinks you like being his little secret and he’ll do anything to make sure your pussy is satisfied.

“Daddy’s cock is big, hm?” he tuts. He pushes his hard tip in and pulls it out, pushing and pulling over and over again until you whine. “Or is my stepdaughter’s pussy too tight?”

“Both!” You scream. “Your cock is so big, Daddy. Bigger than I’ve ever had.”

“God,” he moans, sinking right into your hole. “This is so wrong, but I think you like being a dirty slut, don’t you? My baby loves knowing she can get my cock whenever she wants.”

“Wanna fuck you all the time,” you babble when he thrusts in and out of you. His dick is so warm. It’s too good for you to ever let go.

He brushes your damp hair from your forehead and kisses you there. “My stepdaughter is so fucking gorgeous when she’s naked. You’re so messy and pretty when you’re under me.”

You’re close. So close. But he pulls out and pushes you onto all fours until he’s buried to the hilt again with his big sack resting against your clit. It makes you moan like never before and Sunghoon nearly bursts when you arch even further as you push your breasts against the soft mattress beneath you.

So he fucks you like that, hands on either side of your hips while he raises himself to balance his body as he fucks into you from behind. His balls clap against your soaked cunt to the point that he can feel your cum making him sticky. Sunghoon doesn’t stop until he’s cumming too, but even then his thrusts are still ongoing.

Neither of you care that you’re both overstimulated. Sunghoon keeps going and going, pushing your mixed cum in and out of you. He feels it dripping down his balls but doesn’t care about that right now.

Over the course of the week, you and Sunghoon go at it like never before. The sex between the two of you is cosmic and euphoric, like two addicts who need each other to survive. He never uses a condom and you never ask him to put one on, consequences be damned. There isn’t an inch of this house you two haven’t had sex on.

And he’ll admit it. The idea of cheating on his wife with his step daughter keeps him hard.

#enhypen x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon smut #enhypen smut #enha hard thoughts #enha hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #stepcest series

575 notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 2 days ago

Note

hi mae!!!! i was wondering if you could write any marauder x reader where it's the readers first time and during she begins to not enjoy it as its kinda painful for her and wants to stop, and the marauder of your choosing is just very lovely and reassuring about her not wanting to continue. i love all your writing!!! xoxo

Love you, thanks for requesting <3

cw: mature content mdni, afab reader, implied inexperienced/virgin reader

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 825 words

You keep James close. There’s safety in his embrace, in the gentle press of his lips against yours, and you crave that solace right now. You hold his face in your hands, making sure he doesn’t retreat far enough to see your face or to leave you here by yourself.

You want a partner, not a witness.

“You feel so good,” he says, voice dropped about two octaves since you got him out of his clothes in the dimming light of his bedroom. “So perfect, angel.”

You keep your hips still and kiss up at him half desperately.

James groans. “Oh, god. You’re so perfect. How’s that feel?”

Your kisses turn breathier, your tight chest not taking in quite enough air. You let him cup your breast in a loving hand.

“Angel? Talk to me, m’love.”

You don’t feel confident you have the breath to speak. You don’t know why you can’t just do this.

The next exhale you send out pushes James away.

“Stop,” you say, voice already breaking.

To James’ credit, he follows your instructions immediately. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I want to stop.”

“Okay. Okay, lovely.” You cover your face with your hands as James sits up. The slight movement of him inside you isn’t enough to hurt, but the feeling makes you tighten anxiously anyway. You hear him hiss. “I’m just going to pull out, alright?”

It’s a funny sensation when he does, loneliness and relief both at once. You try not to make a sound as tears turn your skin slippery beneath your fingers.

“What’s the matter?” James’ tone is gentle, devastated in a way you think he’s trying to hide but can’t. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” you choke out.

Impossibly, his voice quiets further. “Did it hurt?”

A tiny sob jostles its way out of you. You nod without moving your hands.

“Oh, sweetheart.” James sounds gutted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper.

“What’re you sorry for? Hey, can I touch you? Is that alright? You can say no.”

There was never any doubt in your mind that you could, but you wouldn’t want to. You nod again, and in an instant James’ warm hands are soothing up your sides. The loneliness dissipates.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do it,” you say, still unwilling to move your hands. “It didn’t hurt that badly, I just—I freaked out.”

“Angel.” James sounds like he might be chiding you, if he could bring himself to do it. He takes your hands, and as it turns out, you’re perfectly willing to have them moved by him. His gentle touch has your face coming out of hiding, bearing witness to his crushed expression.

“Please don’t apologize,” he begs. “I don’t want to hurt you at all. I definitely don’t want to scare you.”

“I know that.” Your voice is frail. “It wasn’t your fault.”

James’ brows hook. “I think I probably had some role,” he says, dropping a tender kiss to your cheek. “Does it still hurt?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if it did? You won’t hurt my feelings.”

He’s absolutely lying, but you’re telling the truth. “It doesn’t, James. It barely even hurt when it happened.”

Your boyfriend makes a soft, sad sound. “Still.” He places a kiss next to your nose like he’s planning to soothe you inch by inch. “Do you think you might be bleeding?” You’re unsure. “Can I check?”

You hum your consent, albeit somewhat nervously. James kisses you in thanks. He reaches a hand down between your legs, bringing it back up to find only the sort of wetness you both intended. He wipes it off on his own leg, kissing you again. Kissing, kissing, kissing.

“We can try again,” you start to say. “Maybe not today, but—”

He shushes you. “We don’t have to, lovely. I mean, if you want, of course we can give it another go, but don’t feel like you have to.”

You feel a sort of shrinking in your chest. A quiet, vicious insecurity darkens your thoughts. “You don’t want to?”

James’ eyebrows jump. “Do you?”

“I…”

“Sweetheart.” He rubs your hip, brown-eyed gaze soft. “You said you got freaked out, right? I mean, it’s understandable, I would have too, but when I have a bad experience with something I usually want a bit of a break before going at it again. Don’t you want a breather?”

“Oh.” Your voice quiets. “I don’t…I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “Take your time, lovely, I’ll be here. You just have to say the word, yeah?”

Your reply is a low hum. You finally muster the courage to go to him. You sit up to put your arms around James’ shoulders, your warm chests pressing together. He envelops you without hesitation.

“It wasn’t a completely bad experience,” you mumble into his skin.

You can practically feel the bloom of his smile as he presses it into your forehead.

553 notes · View notes

cameronsbabydoll · 2 days ago

Note

I AM SO OBSESSED W SCC RAFE YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! could you write something about scc reader overheard someone saying that rafe is cheating? maybe they said rafe was checking someone else out. and scc just assumed it was right and swallowed it because she never questions rafe but he noticed she’s putting up distance between them and the kids also noticed then how would he react? I LOVE ME SOME GOOD ANGST

cw: mentions of cheating but it’s not true also use of the word “bitch” by rafe

you weren’t even supposed to hear it.

just passing by — holding your baby’s bottle in one hand, laundry basket tucked against your hip — when you heard it. rafe’s name. a hushed laugh. something like, “he was totally looking at her ass.”

you froze.

you didn’t ask. you didn’t say anything. you just swallowed it down. like everything else.

because you never ask rafe questions like that. you never pry. never accuse. and if he was? what would you even do?

so you just… started pulling back. gently. subtly.

you didn’t sit close on the couch that night. didn’t text him during the day like you usually do. didn’t even say anything when he came home late again. just smiled a little. nodded. said “okay.”

but he noticed. immediately.

“what’s with you?”

you shook your head. “nothing.”

“you’re actin’ different.”

you waved him off. “i’m fine, rafe. really.”

and the kids noticed too. especially your daughter — perched on the arm of the couch while you fed her baby brother, frowning as she whispered, “mommy, why didn’t you wait for daddy to come home tonight?”

rafe hears her. his jaw sets.

he doesn’t say anything right away. but his eyes don’t leave you.

and eventually—when you’re folding towels in the bedroom, trying to keep it together—he steps in, shuts the door behind him, and says, low and sharp,

“what the fuck did you hear?”

you blink. flinch. try to shake your head again, but he’s already walking toward you.

“you’ve been off all week. won’t even look at me. won’t touch me. won’t let me near you. so tell me what the fuck happened.”

“…someone said you were looking at another woman.”

you say it so quietly. like it hurts to admit. like you already convinced yourself it was true.

and that pisses him off.

“you think i’d cheat on you?”

“…i don’t know.”

“you think i’d throw away all of this for some random bitch at the bar?”

you look down. your throat feels tight.

and his voice drops—less angry now, more sharp and hurt.

“so that’s all it takes? some nobody says somethin’ and now you don’t trust me?”

you whisper, “i didn’t want it to be true.”

and that’s what stops him.

because your voice cracks on want, and your hands are shaking as you fold the last towel, and he can see it now—how scared you are to even ask him if it was true.

he exhales through his nose. jaw clenched.

and then he’s pulling the towel out of your hands, tossing it on the bed, dragging you into his arms. wrapping you up even when you go stiff.

“if i wanted someone else, i wouldn’t have married you.”

he grips your chin, makes you look up.

“don’t you ever let someone get in your head like that again. you hear me?”

you nod. still a little unsure. still holding back.

but when he kisses you — slow and firm and low against your lips — you feel your knees go soft again.

504 notes · View notes

myblogystuff · 2 days ago

Text

Dark feather and purple…

I froze in shock. The raven I’ve been feeding for weeks didn’t just talk to me, did it?

I scanned my surroundings. No one else was there. I look back at it.

“Speak,” I say firmly.

“My lord,” the one I named Eddie, said with something human-like in his eyes. He had a scar where his beak met his skin, I always wondered what could be the origin of such a scar.

“A neighbor plots against you. The wealthy man and his shiny spouse–”

“Still feeding the birdies I see !” yelled my next door neighbor suddenly. His loudness startled my feathered friends, making them fly away towards the old tree in my backyard.

His name was Gabriel, he was the humblest of them. I wouldn’t go as far as to say he was my favorite neighbor, but at least he doesn’t bother me with : “your house doesn’t match the local aesthetic” or “It’s your fault we lost title of the most beautiful neighborhood.”

“These creatures are smarter than you might think, Gabe.” I say.

“Are they now ?” he answers, smiling.

“Oh yes ! You’d be surprised.”

“Right then, just remember to interact with humans too,” he shouts while walking away waving.

“Now, where’s the fun in that,” I say, half joking, half serious. It made him laugh anyway.

I turn my head toward the imposing tree, but my feathered friends are nowhere to be seen.

“They’ll return to me tomorrow,” I whisper to myself.

My attempt at an ordinary day was a failure. Questions swirling in my head : why did he call me “My Lord” ? Why would they warn me ? Who are they talking about ? “His shiny spouse ?” Was the bird talking about Mrs. Christopher Peck, Brenda, or Mrs. Disco Ball as Martine used to call her.

My mind spirals as I think about these people, they are so superficial, so fake, and so condescending…. I felt myself get more and more irritated as I pictured them plotting to get rid of me while sitting in their newly renovated kitchen, with their designer furniture in their newly refurbished home that has shiny green lawns adorned with flowers imported from who knows where?!

My heart fills with hate as I remember clearly that they never liked us, Martine and I. We weren’t like them.

Bold of them to plot against me. Rage is pumping through my veins as I realize that, since the… since Martine, all I did was mind my own business, go to work and feed the ravens. I never asked anything from anyone. And yet they find the audacity to come to me, and speak ill of OUR house, the one I built with my beloved. Why ? Just so they can get a piece of paper and A PLASTIC TROPHY ?!

But now, it’s gone too far, I won’t let them get their way, I will strike first and hard. But first I need to get more details from my friends, tomorrow.

My digital clock reads 2:40 am. I cannot sleep. I cannot wait until tomorrow. I get out of my bed and look through my window. All the lights are out, this week, more aesthetic lampposts are being installed. How convenient, I think.

As if possessed, I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen. My vision gets hazy, my head is spinning.

When the dizziness stops, I find myself near the front door, my hand gripping the large purple kitchen knife that Martine got when we moved in. It has always been her favorite color. I smile, remembering her telling me how she wanted the kitchenware to be different shades of purple.

“Kill ‘em all, Rocky,” whispers a voice. It cannot be her…

My head turns towards the living room. My hands start shaking, my heart is pounding in my ears. She's here, sitting in her favorite armchair, smiling at me. Martine, light of my life. Anything for you, Queen of my heart.

Her image leaves my mind as the dizziness comes back, only a bit stronger this time.

When I open my eyes, I am outside. Eddie and his friends are perched on my picket fence, the moonlight reflecting in their dark eyes. The sound of their wings fluttering, as they fly away, pierces through my brain and gives me a splitting headache.

I open the door to our house, my heart light as a raven’s feather. My hand still gripping Martine’s purple kitchen knife, although this time it feels…slippery. My face too is wet, so is my shirt. As I look down, I understand: it is blood, not mine… I did it.

I ignore the feeling as I rush to the living room to see my beloved.

“I did it, my love,” I yell. “I slit Mrs. Discoball’s throat open, Martine,” I add, laughing hysterically.

“And her husband, I STABBED HIM ! AGAIN, AND AGAIN…” I kept repeating, out of breath, stabbing the air, as his lifeless face appears again between my eyes.

I turn to see Martine’s reaction, expecting her to congratulate me, but I am met with emptiness and silence. My eyes land on a purple cremation urn. Reality hits like a train and I fall to the ground.

Everything is black. I hear an echo, a voice that gets closer.

“He’s alive, he’s waking up !”

I try to open my eyes, vision foggy. The voice speaks again.

“Don’t move ! Hands behind your head !”

“I… I…who…” I stutter as the surrounding silhouettes become clearer. Police officers !? What are they doing here ? Why are they handcuffing me ?

“You are under arrest for the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Peck,” declares one of them.

“Murder?… no… it’s not…” I blink a few times, looking around me. My shirt is stained with blood. On my right is an officer putting Martine’s purple kitchen knife in an evidence bag. “No! Don’t take that ! She needs it,” I hear myself say.

As they drag me out of our house, it all comes back: the ravens, the warning, the plotting, Martine.

“I didn’t murder anyone, it was self-defense.” The officer holding my arm stopped walking. “Those rats were plotting my demise,” I add looking him in the eyes before explaining, “the ravens told me, they heard them speak and warned me.”

He looked at me as if I was speaking in tongues. A second man grabbed my other arm, and they started walking again.

I can’t let them take me away from her. I try to break free, but they are way stronger than me, so I decide to convince them.

“If you don’t believe me, ask them,” I plead, pointing my head toward the ravens feeding from yesterday’s crumbs. Their eyes were empty. “Speak ! Your lord commands it !”

Startled, they flew to the old tree.

The officers push me inside the car, and it drives off. My eyes glued to our window, where she used to wave at me every morning when I left for work.

Epilogue

“What happened here ?!” Gabriel asked Mrs. Shirley.

He was on his way back from a night shift when he saw a police car leaving his neighbor's home.

Looking around the neighborhood, he noticed the police tape surrounding the peck house.

Mrs. Shirley decided to stay safely tucked behind her picket fence. Eyes glued to the Peck residence, she was holding her newspaper as if her life depended on it.

With a voice laced in sadness, she explained: “I guess he finally snapped, the police said he infiltrated the pecks' home during the night and that he….” she gripped the newspaper even tighter. “Oh lord, If you'd seen the way he screamed at those damn ravens.”

“Why the pecks?” said Gabriel, more to himself than to Mrs. Shirley. Still she answers.

“No idea. Poor guys, they'd even collected money to help him renovate his house.” Turning to the nurse, she explained that: “when I was over last week for a coffee, Brenda confided in me that what they truly wanted was to get him out of the isolation he's inflicted on himself since Martine.”

“I truly believed he could’ve gotten better. But I guess you never know what’s on a person’s mind.”

You always got strange looks whenever you fed the neighborhood ravens. “I give them food, they give me company,” you’d say. One day, a raven excitedly comes up to you and whispers, “A neighbor plots against you, my lord.”

#i was going to name this Plots and Ravens but decided on no title at all.#writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr

50K notes · View notes

baepsays · 2 days ago

Note

Hi there!!! I absolutely love your Cat-Satoru series (and literally all of your other works too) and I was wondering if we could get a oneshot where Suguru and reader get into a fight so reader doesn’t come around for a while and cat Satoru gets really sad and misses them until they make up?

hi bb thank you sm <3 oh I am loving writing silly stuff about them hehehe I'll try to reflect your vision through my words best to my abilities ^^

Suguru hates fighting with you. Because he knows how petty you are, and how much pettier you can get. Unfortunately for the both of you, he is no less petty.

He holds grudges like he holds a mean grip on your waist in crowded places. So what happens is that poor Satoru gets caught in the crossfire. And the poor thing never understands, despite amazing comprehension of human language, why are you two even fighting in the first place?

If you asked Satoru whether fighting over bedsheets was a valid reason or not, he'd say a big—"MEOW!"

‘NO WAY!’

I mean that day when he woke up under his favourite coffee table, after an amazing nap, to you and Suguru shouting at each other, he just sat between you two with his head tilted and nose twitching.

"YOU CANNOT JUST KEEP USING THESE BLACK SHEETS! I WANT SOME COLOR! AND SILK IN SUMMER IS THE WORST!" You pointed at the bunched up black and shiny sheets on the bed.

"YOU CANNOT JUST CHANGE THEM WITHOUT ASKING ME?" There was a pile of pink cotton sheets right beside the black silken ones.

"Oh. So now I have to ask you before doing you a favour and changing your sheets to better ones?" Sure your voice lowered, but that did not mean you were feeling any more clam than before.

"This is my bed. So yes. You should've asked." Suguru stated as a matter-of-factly.

"Hmm. Alright then, sleep well on your sheets all by yourself." And that was all you said before you headed towards the door with your bag in your hands, with no intention of coming back for at least a few weeks.

What pissed you off more and made that week turn into two weeks, was when Suguru yelled from behind you, "YES I WILL!"

And all that was left in Suguru's apartment was his black silk sheets, your scattered belongings, the beeping noise of the rice cooker, and a very disappointed Satoru who could not run fast enough behind you.

The first few days, Satoru was hopeful you'll drop by at least to see him, but he spent three days by the large windows in the living room, and the bedroom balcony, to realize you're not dropping by anytime soon. And like that almost two weeks were about to pass.

And rolling around in your clothes, or pillows was not working for neither Satoru nor Suguru.

"Meowwwww." Satoru butted his head to Suguru's, who spent his weekend lying on the couch, eating barely anything, and smoking more than what he usually does. Work on Monday was equally shitty, teaching kids suddenly became headache inducing.

"What do you want, Satoru?" Suguru grumbled and changed the show playing on his tv.

"Meowwwww meowmeow." If someone looked close enough, it almost looked like this white fluffy ball of meows was pouting.

Suguru sighed in response, as he has been for the past week, to Satoru's howling meows, and tantrums. "She won't just show up if you meow enough to make my ears bleed."

"MEOW! Meow meowmeow!" Satoru was truly a cat of many abilities, because why is giving relationship advice to his hopeless owner? 'CALL HER! Just call you dumbass!'

"Yeah well she is not responding to me." Suguru changed to another show.

"MEOW! Meow, meow meowmeow." Which translated to something like, 'YEAH DUH! Go over to where she is hiding.'

"Please Satoru. Just go to bed to wait by the window like you always do or something, I'm on the verge of losing it." He just turned the tv off, and laid flat on his stomach, face smooshed in the couch cushions, and ignored Satoru.

"Meow." Satoru jumped off the couch and walked away from Suguru's pity party. 'Hopeless.'

He walked with intention, to find Suguru's phone. Which was charging on his nightstand. Satoru maneuvered carefully from the floor to bed, then bed to the nightstand, tapping his paw all over the phone.

He had no clue what he was doing, all he knew was that sometimes when you were away for work or anything, Suguru would hold the strange box near Satoru and you'd talk through it. And he desperately needed to hear your voice right now, and also convince you to come back.

Somehow Satoru managed to call Suguru's emergency contact, which fortunately happened to be you.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri-

"Hello?" Your voice sounded groggy from the other side, Satoru was not sure whether it was because you cried like you do while watching sad movies, or like when you played the strays with him and then cried while hugging him. Or that you were just sleepy.

"MEOW!"

"Satoru?"

"MEOW! MEOWMEOWMWOW MEOW!"

"Is everything alright? Where is Suguru? Did you call me by yourself?" You were starting to feel worry creeping into your chest.

"MEOWWWW MEOW." Satoru at this point, what sounded like, was basically crying.

"Are you two ok?" You immediately got off your bed, and reached for your pants and jacket.

"MEOWWWWW! MEOWWWW." Satoru did not mean to worry you, but if his meows were about to get you back here, then sure.

"I'LL BE THERE IN 15 MINS!" And with that you hung up the phone, to grab your keys, then drove down to Satoru and Suguru's place.

When you haphazardly got to Suguru's door, to open it with the key he gave to you—Satoru was sitting there, in front of the door, waiting patiently for you to arrive. As if he understood your panicky scramble, when you told him you'd be there in 15 mins.

“Meow! Meow!” He quickly tangled himself in your legs, as you stepped out of your shoes.

“Hi Toru, how have you been?” You crouched down to pick up the cat in your arms, which he gladly obliged. No place better than your arms.

He felt just a bit more thinner, his fur felt rougher than usual, and the way he was nuzzling and purring in the crook of your neck, it was clear how much your presence was missed. You did not mean to ignore Satoru in the midst of your fight with Suguru, but your pride held you back from opening the front door with the key you were given. Even when you made it that far, you just could not step in.

Upon walking into the living room, you saw Suguru lying on the couch. His clothes, and hair looked disheveled. There were visible bags under his eyes. And now you could match the pleading tone in his texts, that he's been sending for the last few days, ro his pitiful state.

You cleaned up the living room, turned the tv off, gave Satoru somlove and treats. And went to the bedroom to grab a blanket for Suguru, where you found his bed which was not made, and was decorated with the cotton sheets that started this entire thing.

So you cleaned up the bed, grabbed a blanket for yourself and Suguru, and fluffy enough for Satoru to sleep on as well—and headed to the couch.

In the morning when Suguru woke up, to Satoru’s butt and tail in his face, he was ready to kick the poor kitty out of his house, when he felt arms tightening around him. He found your face shoved into his chest, holding him tightly, legs tangled up with his, and Satoru’s head resting on yours.

“You're gonna keep staring?” Your voice rumbled through his chest, as you asked him the question without looking at him. It took him some time to gather the courage to speak to you.

“I am so sorry baby.” His arms tightened around you, and he rolled over to have you lie on top of him, as he nuzzled his face in the crown of your head.

“I know. I am sorry too.”

“You don't need to be. I was way out of line.” You just needed to understand where he was coming from, Geto Suguru does not function as a unit, but he is learning. He learned how to have Satoru in his life, and he's now learning how to have you in his life.

“Meowwww.” The moment was broken by a hungry cat’s whining, who required food and your attention. So Suguru once again faced Satoru’s fluffy butt, and tail that made his nose itchy.

“SATORU, I AM SO CLOSE TO LOCKING YOU OUT IN THE BALCONY!” Suguru screamed at him, and went to grab him. But alas, couldn't match Satoru's agile, feline movements.

“Meowmeow meowwww.” And it made you realize just how much more you kissed these two than what you thought. As you sat on the couch, watching Suguru run after Satoru.

‘Catch me if you can, loser.’

ADVENTURES OF CATORU & SUGURU.

a/n: dividers by @/enchanthings-a. not proof read.

334 notes · View notes

chipthekeeper · 3 days ago

Text

Today I had the displeasure of reading the words “we get it vel is sad and gay can we move on” and several other similarly ridiculous things on twitter a website not to be named, so I spent my whole 45 minute drive home just absolutely fuming with the need to defend my girl. Most of you know I've already done this in a broad sense before (defending her as a character and as half of a complicated relationship on her appreciation Friday), but let me focus in on what we’ve gotten from Vel so far in season two for now. Because yeah, it might not have been exactly what I was hoping to see, but it’s meaningful as hell and Faye is doing a fucking incredible job and deserves to be applauded for it.

Look. Even if all she was doing was being sad and gay, I would be here for that. You know this. Those are two of my most favorite qualities of her. But let’s not pretend that all she’s doing is “mourning her gay situationship” and forget why we’re seeing her in this arc in the first place. She’s Mon’s cousin and closest confidant, and she’s Chandrilan. Stuck between these two facts is a conflict for Vel. She HAS to be at this three-day-long heteronormative child wedding from hell because someone she loves needs her support, but she hates every second of it. She hates this place, these people, this culture, probably even the clothes on her back. She looks uncomfortable just about every second she’s on screen in this arc, ESPECIALLY in the third episode.

See?

Something you may or may not have noticed – even I didn’t really register it until I started thinking about all of this because watching three fucking episodes all in one night made them all blur together – but Vel DOESN’T ACTUALLY SAY A WORD IN THE THIRD EPISODE. She has no lines. Vel’s extreme stress and discomfort are conveyed only through Faye’s body language and facial expressions. To complain about this and cry about her only being “sad and gay” is a huge discredit to the performance and I simply won’t stand for it.

Like yes, she’s sad and gay but why can’t we take a second to think about what that means? Look at her circumstances, even leaving out the Cinta of it all for a second. This is a person who must have realized at a very young age that she was not only different but very likely going to either live a completely miserable life or be a disappointment to her very wealthy family and her society at large, and being back here in the middle of it all for an occasion like this hurts fucking deeply even if it’s a weird tradition and she wants no part in it. I can tell you this for a fact because I have fucking lived it. As a gay person, I have no desire whatsoever to take part in a traditional religious marriage or wedding ceremony like the one my sister had a couple years ago, but being at her wedding and the party that followed was overwhelming and painful because I spent so much time thinking something along the lines of “even if I had someone in my life to do this with, these same people – my family – would never celebrate my love this way.”

Now, is that what Vel’s thinking about as she stands next to the other unmarried women (i.e. teenage children) watching her niece’s first dance with her new husband? Perhaps not. But the way she breaks down after seeing Cinta sure looked an awful lot like how I looked sitting outside in the dark and the rain, drunk as I’ve ever been, while my sister’s reception carried on behind me.

And this, to me in particular, is what’s so great about Vel as a character – as a STAR WARS character – and why I will never ever complain about seeing her be “sad and gay.” For the first time ever in my favorite franchise, I get to see myself so clearly. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s also fiercely supportive of her family (the part she likes, anyway) – she takes Mon’s hand in support when she needs it, and she seems ready to snap at Kleya for even being around and creating the possibility of trouble at this function. She’s sad and gay, yes, but she’s on the front line of a fucking rebellion. Just because you don’t see it in this arc because that’s not where the story is focused doesn’t mean that’s not still true, and we’ll see that again come next week I’m sure.

I don’t really know how to wrap this up, but the point is if you’re tired of what’s happening with Vel in this show, you’re probably not paying enough attention. I want more of her and more for her to do as much as anybody (that’s a lie, I want it SO MUCH FUCKING MORE THAN ANYBODY, fucking try me), but there’s already a whole ocean of her character to explore with just what we have, if you only bother to stop and consider it.

#not even 48 hours after the start of the season and i've already had it #lol #anyway great to be home #vel sartha #andor #andor spoilers #my posts #my gifs

209 notes · View notes

steveseddie · 3 days ago

Text

clarity

read on ao3

Steve hoped that coming here would clear some things up for him. It’s why he suggested driving to Indy and going to a queer bar when Robin said she wanted to do something fun for the weekend.

Of course, Steve told her it was so she could meet a cute girl. He never said he wanted to find a cute boy to try to figure out some things about himself. As far as she knows, he’s just being a supportive friend, that’s all.

Only now that Robin has disappeared into the dance floor with a pretty brunette, leaving Steve alone by the bar, he can stop scanning the crowd for girls that Robin might be into and start looking for guys that he might like. Because that’s the question Steve is trying to answer– whether or not he’s into guys.

A few of them catch his eye, but that doesn’t clear anything up– Steve has always been able to appreciate a hot guy when he sees one. That doesn’t mean he’s attracted to them, just that he has eyes. Or at least that’s what he thought until he asked Robin if everyone else did that. Hypothetically speaking, of course.

“I don’t,” Robin said after thinking it over for maybe two seconds.

“No?”

“Nope, like, I know what most girls find hot, but I’ll look at those guys on posters and magazines and I just think they’re– eh,” she said, sending Steve into a spiral for the rest of their shift.

Maybe that’s what he’s doing here, he thinks. Maybe those hot guys are just guys he thinks girls would like. Maybe it doesn’t say anything about him.

He has almost convinced himself of this when he makes eye contact with a guy leaning against the bar. When he smirks at Steve and starts to approach, he feels less sure about it.

He’s seen guys try to hit on Robin a few times, and he’s seen firsthand the uncomfortable and panicked reaction that comes with being approached by someone you’re not interested in at all.

That’s not what Steve is feeling right now.

He’s panicking a little, yes, but his stomach is also flip-flopping in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.

It reminds Steve of how he feels when he’s with–

“Hey, darling,” the guy says, sliding into the stool next to Steve’s.

The pet name throws him for a loop, and he blushes. “Hi, uh, hey.”

“First time here?” The guy asks, giving him an obvious once-over.

“Yeah, I’m here with a friend. She’s– she’s dancing.”

The guy cocks his head, grinning. “Do you want to dance too?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He lets the guy drag him to the dancefloor, lets him put his hands on his waist after guiding Steve’s arms so they wrap around his neck. They’re pushed against each other by the people moving around them, and Steve’s stomach flip-flops again when their chests and hips press together.

Maybe his plan was a good idea. This does clear some things up.

Turns out Steve is into guys. Huh.

He’s definitely into dancing with someone as tall as he is, and he’s into big hands gripping his waist and the scratch of stubble when they move closer and their cheeks press together.

He’d probably be into kissing this guy, grinding against him, dragging him back to his car for more–

Or at least he would if his mind didn’t keep drifting to someone else– the reason why, after years of blissfully ignoring this part of himself, Steve finally decided to explore it.

Eddie. And Steve’s now confirmed crush on him.

He can’t help but think about him when the guy’s warm hands sneak under his shirt, wondering if Eddie’s would feel cold because of his rings. When Steve’s hand tries to tangle in the hairs at the back of the guy’s neck, he’s a little disappointed when he doesn’t find soft, long curls to grab onto. When the guy starts to lean in, his blue eyes sparkling with interest, Steve wishes he could be staring into big brown eyes instead.

“Shit, uh, sorry, I–” Steve stammers out, placing a hand on the guy’s chest.

“Everything okay?” He asks, pulling away.

Steve brushes his hair back. “I can’t– it’s just– there’s this guy–”

“Ah, did you come here to try to forget about him?” The guy asks, he seems a little disappointed, and Steve can’t blame him for that, but at least he’s also giving him a sympathetic smile.

It’s probably what makes Steve want to tell him the truth. "No, I– I came here to try and figure out if I really like him. He’s my friend, I don’t want to hurt him if I’m just– confused, you know?”

“Are you? Confused?”

“No,” Steve says without hesitation. There’s that clarity he came looking for. “I do like him.”

“Well,” the guy says, squeezing Steve’s hip. “You should tell him that.”

With that, he walks away. Steve leaves the dance floor and heads back to the bar. His spot is no longer available, but it’s fine; he feels like getting some fresh air anyway. He scans the crowd, looking for Robin, and finds her still dancing with the same girl. When their eyes meet, Steve gestures towards the door to let her know where he’ll be, getting a thumbs up in return before her attention returns to the pretty brunette.

Shouldering his way outside, Steve steps out into an empty alley. He’s only been there for a few seconds when the door opens behind him and someone else walks out.

“Stevie!”

The flash of panic he feels at being recognized in a place like this is quickly replaced by a fluttery feeling when he recognizes the voice.

He turns around and sees Eddie, and when his breath catches in his throat as he takes him in, from the eyeliner and the cropped shirt he’s wearing to the bright smile he’s flashing at him, Steve feels a little stupid for ever doubting he was into him.

“Hey, Eds,” he says with a little finger wiggle.

“I knew it was you! I’d recognize that Farrah Fawcett hair anywhere,” he says, and Steve remembers he needs to make Henderson pay for spilling that one. “But I gotta say, Stevie, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Steve could say the same thing. Eddie might be the reason why Steve even knows about this place, but he never said he was planning to come here anytime soon. He didn’t even tell Steve he was driving to the city!

Then again, Steve didn’t say anything either.

“Well, Rob wanted to do something fun, and we remembered you mentioned this place– She’s inside, dancing with a girl.”

Eddie whistles. “Get it, Buckley!" He says, and Steve chuckles. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Did you dance too? Pretty boy like you must’ve gotten quite a few invitations,” he says with a wink that makes Steve feel warm all over.

“Oh, uh, yeah, there was this guy,” Steve says, noticing the way Eddie’s finger tightens around the pack of cigarettes in his hand. “We danced for a while until–”

“Until the guy got handsy and you had to tell him you’re straight and only here to support your lesbian friend?”

Steve thinks about the guy he danced with, the reason why he turned him down, how he urged Steve to tell Eddie, and he thinks about the jealous tilt he can hear in Eddie’s voice right now–

“That’s not the only reason why I’m here actually,” Steve says, which makes Eddie pause in the middle of lighting a cigarette. “I– I thought this was a good place to figure some things out.”

“What things?” Eddie asks, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He realizes that the hand that’s holding the lighter is suspended mid-air and brings it to the end of the cig, flicking it and lighting it up, taking a quick drag–

Only to start coughing when Steve says, “Whether or not I’m into guys.”

“You– what?” Eddie sputters in between coughs. “Uh, I didn’t know– uh, did you– did you figure it out?”

Steve’s lips twitch at the hopeful yet cautious look on Eddie’s face. “I did.”

He takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Good, good, that’s– but you know, you didn’t have to come to Indy, Stevie. I could’ve helped,” he says before his eyes widen and he starts shaking his head frantically. “Not like– not like that! You know, like, talking since I’m into guys myself.”

Steve smiles amusedly at Eddie. It was his own feelings that Steve needed clarity on, not Eddie’s, because Eddie always wears his heart on his sleeve. Or rather, his face. Right now, he looks hopeful but a little scared, so Steve decides to make things easier for him.

Anticipation runs through him as he moves closer, pressing Eddie against the alley wall. “I couldn’t talk to you about this.”

“Um, why not?” Eddie mumbles, his eyes widening as Steve presses closer.

“Because I was also trying to figure out if I’m into you.”

Eddie curses under his breath. “And are– are you?”

Lips curling into a grin, Steve reaches for the cigarette between Eddie’s lips and puts it out against the brick wall before letting it fall to the floor.

Then he grabs hold of Eddie’s neck and surges forward, pressing their mouths together. Eddie makes a surprised noise but starts kissing back instantly, his hands settling on Steve’s waist. He shivers when the cold metal of his rings comes in contact with his skin, where Steve’s shirt rides up, much like he figured it would be like.

Steve’s hand shifts to the back of Eddie’s neck where it grabs a handful of hair, fingers tangling in the soft curls. He gives them a playful tug, angling Eddie’s head a little better so he can deepen the kiss.

When he pulls back so they can catch their breath, his gaze meets Eddie’s big, doe eyes, blown and a little darker than usual.

Steve is so glad he waited for this to be the first time he kissed a guy. For Eddie to be the first guy he ever kissed.

He’s also the second, and the third, and the fourth– and after that, Steve loses count. One kiss mingling with the next as they make out against the wall.

“Is this– did the guy you danced with– did you kiss him too? Is that how you–” Eddie mumbles between biting Steve’s lip and licking into his mouth.

“No, he was going to, but I stopped him,” Steve admits, trailing kisses down Eddie’s neck. “He was hot, but all I could think about was you– doing this with you.”

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes, and then he’s shoving Steve’s back against the brick wall, switching their positions. “Stevie– Jesus, I’ve thought about doing this for so long, sweetheart. I hoped, but I can’t believe–”

Steve shuts him up by hitching up his leg and hooking it around Eddie’s waist, pulling him closer. It brings their hips together, and he feels that Eddie is hard in his jeans. Steve isn’t far behind either.

“Motherfucker–” Eddie curses with a wounded noise when their erections brush together. “Stevie, as embarrassing as it sounds, I’m gonna cream my fucking pants if we don’t slow down.”

Eddie’s words do the opposite of what he intended. They urge Steve on, making heat pool in his stomach. He grinds against Eddie again.

“Fuck, Steve, we’re– are you sure you don’t want to– oh fuck, go somewhere else?”

Steve shakes his head. “I know you’ve hooked up here before,” he says, grabbing Eddie’s shoulders for leverage so he can keep rutting against him. “One time when we got drunk you told me and I– fuck, Eddie, I was so jealous. I thought I was just pent up and annoyed that you were getting any and I wasn’t, but– fuck, I was jealous of the guys who got to do this with you.”

“Oh my God, Steve, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Eddie gives in and tucks his face into Steve’s neck, matching the movement of his hips.

“I wanted it to be me, Eds. I wanted it to be me who jerked you off, who– who sucked you off,” he admits, tugging on Eddie’s hair, making him whine against his neck. “Fuck, Eddie. Wanted to be the one you fucked.”

It’s the last part that drags a strangled moan from Eddie and makes his hips stutter, his entire body shuddering as he comes in his jeans.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Steve,” Eddie pants as he comes down. Steve is painfully hard and twitching in his jeans so he does his best to move them so he can get friction from Eddie’s stomach without grinding against his overly sensitive dick.

“Eddie, Eds–” He moans because making Eddie come in his pants is probably the hottest thing Steve has ever done, and while the friction feels good, he needs more if he’s going to come.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Eddie asks, his lips brushing against Steve’s neck, pressing kisses against his pulse point.

“Touch me,” Steve pleads and feels Eddie grin.

“I got you, big boy,” he whispers, letting go of Steve’s waist and pushing one hand between them. He undoes Steve’s pants and reaches inside his underwear to pull out Steve’s cock, wrapping his fingers around it and giving it a few strokes, which are almost enough to make Steve lose his balance.

Because Eddie’s hand is big and his fingers are rough and calloused, but they move expertly, and they feel so good. Steve doesn’t think he’s going to last.

“God, Eddie, I– I’m close,” he stammers out soon enough, his voice breaking when Eddie thumbs at the slit.

“Already, sweetheart?” He asks, half-teasing and half-awed.

If Steve’s brain wasn’t melting out of his ears he’d make a bitchy comment about not coming in his jeans at least this but he can barely string two words together as it is.

“Y–yeah, please, Eds,” He whines brokenly when Eddie speeds up his hand, pleasure building up almost painfully. “Oh, fuck!” He moans as he topples over the edge, his knees buckling as he comes all over Eddie’s hand.

Eddie has Steve pinned against the brick wall, which is probably the only reason why he doesn’t collapse to the ground after his legs stop working. Resting his head back against the rough surface, he tries to catch his breath. Meanwhile, Eddie reaches into his back pocket for his bandana and uses it to clean his hand before tucking Steve back into his underwear and zipping up his pants.

It’s still blatantly obvious what the two of them were up to– their hair is sticking every which way, their faces are flushed, and their clothes are a mess, not to mention there’s a wet spot in the front of Eddie’s jeans. But at least this way, they won’t get arrested for public indecency if anyone decides to step out into the alley for a smoke. It’s already a miracle no one has walked through the door yet. They really should go before anyone does.

“We should head back inside,” Steve says, playing with a lock of Eddie’s hair.

“Er, you go ahead. I’m–” He gestures at the front of his pants, and Steve bites down on a laugh. “Hopefully I’ve got a change of clothes in the van or it’s gonna be a very uncomfortable drive home.”

“Sorry,” Steve says sheepishly.

Something hot flashes across Eddie’s face, and he cups Steve’s jaw. “Fucking worth it,” he says with a low voice and a wink.

Steve wants to kiss him again, but if he starts, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop, and he really needs to head back inside–

“I gotta find Rob, we should be heading back too,” he says, averting his eyes from Eddie’s tempting pink lips.

“Think she got lucky too?” He says with a ridiculous eyebrow waggle.

Steve cocks his head. “Is that why you came here? To get lucky?”

Eddie shrugs, tugging a lock of hair across his face. “I thought– I figured it was a good way to get my mind off– well, you, Stevie.”

“Was it working?”

“Hell no, when I saw you, I thought I was losing my mind, that I was hallucinating you.” A laugh tumbles from his lips. “I’m not sure I ain’t hallucinating this.”

“You’re not,” Steve says, tucking the hair behind Eddie’s ear. “I really like you, Eds.”

“I really like you too,” Eddie says with a giddy smile.

“Hey, wanna come over for breakfast tomorrow? Rob will be there, but she’ll probably want to sleep off her hangover, so we could–” He grabs the hem of Eddie’s cropped shirt, trailing off.

“Sure, sweetheart. I’ll come over,” Eddie says, giving Steve a short kiss. “Now go find Birdie. I’ll see you back home.”

“Bye, Eds.”

Steve watches the way he awkwardly waggles towards the street, laughing to himself, before heading back inside.

Where he bumps right into Robin.

“Dingus! Guess what? I kissed a girl!” She says, aggressively shaking Steve’s shoulders. “A girl kissed me!”

Grinning, Steve offers his hand for a high five. Then he blurts out, “I kissed a guy! Hooked up with him actually.”

Robin’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head. “You– what?”

“It’s Eddie!” He says, and her eyes grow impossibly bigger. "Also, we might be dating now."

At that, her jaw goes slack. She gawks at him before her face scrunches up. “I can’t believe you’ve been gay for five minutes and you’re already better at this than I am. Ugh!” Grabbing Steve’s hand, she starts pulling him towards the exit. “We’re leaving, dingus,” she says, “I need all the details.”

Steve sniggers. It’s a good thing that the drive back to Hawkins is two hours long.

#steddie #steddie fic #steddiebingospring #stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #monse writes

287 notes · View notes

skzophreniic · 18 hours ago

Text

⍣ ೋ cw: heavy choking, breathplay, unconsciousness, /dubcon tones (consensua!!), manhandling, drool, overstimulation, degradation, very rough sex.

⍣ ೋ notes: okay so before u guys start panicking im STILL doing my 1k event i just took a teeny break cuz it started feeling redundant. but it's gonna be the next one thing i post dw <3 based on this ask.

You don’t even remember how you ended up flipped over, facedown into the soaked mattress, thighs trembling so violently you can barely keep yourself up. Changbin didn’t even ask — he just moved you, those huge arms lifting you like you weighed nothing, manhandling you into position.

Your wrists are twisted behind your back now, both trapped in one of his hands — that thick forearm bulging, veins standing out against his skin from how tightly he’s holding you. His other arm?

It’s wrapped under your ribcage, across your chest, caging you in, muscles flexing every time you twitch or whimper, pinning you so solidly you couldn’t move if you tried.

He’s fucking you deep and slow now, cock buried to the hilt, grinding into that ruined, gushing hole over and over while you sob into the sheets — every thrust knocking the breath out of you because there’s just so much of him around you, in you, owning you.

"You feel that, baby?" he pants, voice wrecked and low in your ear. "Feel how easy it is for me to keep you right where I want you?"

He flexes the arm across your chest when he says it — a little cruel show of strength — squeezing until you gasp and squirm, but there’s nowhere to go, no escape, just the endless hot drag of his cock and the suffocating, possessive weight of his arms.

You can feel the power in them — every twitch, every flex — like you’re wrapped up in pure muscle, conquered by it.

Your brain's already slurring in your skull, light-headed from the shallow, stolen breaths — and you don’t even realize he’s squeezing a little tighter around your ribs until you feel the first wave of darkness creeping up behind your eyes.

"There she goes," Changbin growls, almost fond, as your body starts to sag, boneless under his hold. "That’s it, pretty thing. Just let go. Let me fuck you out of your head."

And he does.

He fucks you through it.

Keeps your body pinned tight against his chest with those gorgeous, powerful arms, fucking you deep, deep, deep until your thighs give out and you’re fully hanging from him — held up only by the brute strength of his body.

He loves it.

He groans into your neck when he feels you lose it — when you start dripping harder around his cock, pulsing uncontrollably, your mind and body giving out completely.

You don’t even realize you’re crying — drool and tears and slick soaking both of you, skin sticking where his forearms press you down — because the only thing you can feel is him. His arms. His cock. His strength.

You flutter in and out of consciousness, gasping for tiny breaths against his bicep, your body milking him helplessly — and he still doesn’t let up.

Fucking you like he’s claiming you.

Fucking you like he’ll never let you go.

"Fuckin' perfect for me," he mutters, tightening his grip again, locking you against his chest. "Made to be pinned down. Made to take it. Look at you— you're fuckin' mine, baby."

And you are.

Nothing but a limp, drooling fucktoy in the chokehold of his beautiful, brutal arms.

210 notes · View notes

formulaonecrumbs · 2 days ago

Note

I love your Lando series with the home videos and I was wondering if you could do something similar with Oscar but maybe instead of you looking after Lando Oscar’s looking after you.

my big brother best friend 👫

older brother!Oscar Piastri x reader

summary: reader has a bad day and calls her comfort person, her big brother, oscar.

warnings: NONE ONLY FLUFF

A/N: i’m hoping this is what u meant, like u wanted an older brother version of osc? iddkkkk i had fun writing this one tho. i wanna see oscar with his sisters so bad. also pls tell me someone got the reference in the title :/ ANYWAYS LOVE U MY BABIIIEESSSS ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

she doesn’t mean to cry on the phone.

honestly, she hadn’t even meant to call him.

it had just been one of those days—where everything that could go wrong does, but not in big, dramatic ways. it’s the kind of day that chips away at you in tiny, sharp little pieces until you’re left holding nothing but frustration and the urge to crawl into bed and not come out. she hadn’t wanted to bother anyone.

especially not oscar, who was always busy and halfway across the world and doing important things like driving actual formula 1 cars and representing big sponsors and being a grown-up. but when the final bell rang and she was walking out of school, shoulders tight and eyes stinging, her fingers had moved before her brain could stop them.

he picked up on the third ring.

“hey, you okay?”

and that was it.

the second she heard his voice—calm and familiar and soft in that particular way he reserved only for her—everything cracked open. she didn’t sob, not really. it wasn’t dramatic or loud. but her voice wobbled, and a choked little breath escaped, and she didn’t say anything for a solid ten seconds.

but oscar didn’t rush her. didn’t say anything except: “where are you right now?”

and twenty minutes later, he was pulling up in front of her school in a car that definitely wasn’t his usual. low-key, nothing flashy, the kind of thing you rent when you’re just trying to blend in. she blinked at him through the window, startled—because she hadn’t expected him to come. not really. not in person. not like this.

he just gave her a small smile and nodded toward the passenger side.

she didn’t ask questions. she just climbed in.

he didn’t say anything right away. just reached over and gently tugged her seatbelt into place, like he used to do when she was small and too lazy to do it herself. then he sat back, hands relaxed on the wheel, and said, “you feel like maccas? or maybe ice cream?”

her voice was small. “can we do both?”

he glanced at her and grinned. “what kind of question is that? of course we can.”

she smiled, barely. her uniform still felt stiff and itchy, and her bag weighed heavier than usual on her lap, like it was carrying every bad moment from the day in its seams. but the second oscar pulled away from the curb, she felt her shoulders drop just a little.

the silence between them wasn’t awkward. it never had been. they were the kind of siblings who could sit in a room for hours without talking and still feel like everything was okay. so he didn’t push. didn’t ask her what was wrong or why she sounded so broken on the phone. he just turned up the music to a quiet hum, kept the heat on low, and drove.

the mcdonald’s drive-thru wasn’t far, and by the time they reached the second window, she had both a large fries and a mcflurry in her lap, plus a chicken nuggets box open between them. oscar pulled into a quiet lot around the corner and parked under a big tree, the branches bare and tapping lightly against the roof like the wind was trying to say something.

she didn’t start talking until she was halfway through her fries.

“i bombed my english essay,” she said, not looking at him. “like, properly bombed it. and mrs. harvey was so… disappointed. like i could hear it in her voice, and then she just kept saying how she ‘expected better’ and how i ‘wasn’t applying myself.’ and then after class, these two girls said i only got into school because of your name and because we’re ‘well-connected’ or whatever. i didn’t even know what to say.”

she stopped, fries forgotten in her hand.

“i wasn’t even trying to cry,” she added quickly, her voice wobbling again. “i didn’t want to. it just… came out.”

oscar didn’t say anything for a second. then he reached over and plucked one of her fries.

“you want me to go full scary big brother and start showing up at your school like a menace?”

she let out a short, startled laugh. “no.”

“because i’ll do it,” he said seriously, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. “i’ll show up in a full race suit. visor down. just point me to the mean girls and let me handle it.”

“you’d get arrested.”

“worth it.”

she finally turned to look at him. her eyes were a little glassy, and there was a red mark near her nose from rubbing it too much. she looked younger than she had that morning, like the day had knocked her back a few years. but there was something else too—something warm and safe in her face, like just being in that car with him had given her space to breathe again.

“you didn’t have to come,” she said quietly. “you’re only in the uk for like, two days.”

“yeah, and you called.”

she stared at him. “i didn’t even say anything.”

“you didn’t have to.” he leaned back against the seat, his hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “i know your voice. i know when it’s good and when it’s not. and if it’s not, then i’m coming. doesn’t matter where i am.”

she didn’t answer right away. she just looked at her mcflurry, then back at him, and then leaned across the console to wrap her arms around his shoulders. it wasn’t a graceful hug—her fries nearly tipped and she banged her elbow into the gear stick—but he didn’t care. he just hugged her back and squeezed gently like he knew exactly how much she needed it.

“thank you,” she said into his hoodie.

he smiled into her hair. “you’re welcome.”

and then, because she was still hugging him and because he could tell she needed something to distract her brain from spiraling again, he said, “also, smarties is the worst mcflurry flavor and you’re wrong for liking it.”

she gasped and pulled back like he’d committed treason. “you take that back.”

“never. oreo supremacy.”

“you’re literally the worst.”

“and yet, i bought you fries.”

she rolled her eyes, but she was smiling now—really smiling. the kind that lit up her whole face. and when he dropped her off at home an hour later, she turned to him at the door and said, “you’ll always pick up when i call, right?”

oscar didn’t even hesitate.

“every time.”

THE END :>

#formula 1 #f1 fic #f1 x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri fic #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x you #sibling au #op81 mcl #op81 angst #op81 x you #op81 x y/n #op81 fluff #op81 imagine #op81 x reader #op81 fic #op81

167 notes · View notes

masorciereviolette · 3 days ago

Note

Could I request one of Agatha Harkness x reader? Friends with benefits to lovers!

Agatha and Reader are friends with benefits but their connection is deeper despite that they don't say it out loud. Reader is the one who takes the initiative, Reader asks Agatha to spent the night together, because they are already sleeping together, so why not actually sleep together in the same bed. Agatha doesn't accept

After that, Reader surprises Agatha with the end of her agreement. Reader wants them to be just friends again without sex.

Agatha accepts but, in truth, she doesn't want to finish what they have even though she pretends it doesn't affect her. Agatha tries to get on with her life and even tries to sleep with other people (maybe Rio) but those encounters don't feel the same as with Reader, they don't feel good

Agatha is still in denial and increasingly in a worse mood. Then Agatha hears from mutual friends that Reader is looking for a real relationship. Agatha tries not to take it seriously until she can't take it anymore, she realizes that she fell in love with Reader and doesn't want Reader to go out or sleep with anyone else

Agatha asks her friends about Reader but they tell her that Reader is on a date. Although Agatha looks for her in all the places she can think of, she doesn’t find Reader so Agatha stays waiting at the door of Reader's house for her to return - begging her to return - because that Reader doesn’t return means that Reader will spend the night with her date

Reader returns late. Her date brings her home and tries to kiss her and Agatha loses control

Angst with happy ending (+ smut)

Sorry if it's too long. Maybe it's worth two requests 😂 so multi chapter(?). I just love your writing. Have a great day/evening 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Never, Just Friends.

Pairing: Au Agatha Harkness x Reader

Warnings: Small Time Jumps, Unresolved Emotions, Hurt, Angst, Pining, Comfort, Minors DNI 18+, Jealousy, Graphic Sexual Descriptions, Happy Ending.

Word count: 10.8k

A/N: Thank you!!! Dude this request was phenomenal to read and more fun to write, stg y’all are literally amazing, please keep these coming✋🏽😭. If yall can’t already tell, climactic romantic tropes are quite literally my kryptonite. Slight POV switching but not too bad.

Taglist: @harknessshi

Masterlist Link

The sheets are still warm from the way Agatha moved against them. From the way her hands held your hips like they were the last thing tethering her to the earth—fingertips digging in just a little too long, a little too desperately, like she didn’t want to let go even as she pulled away.

Her breath had still been shallow against your skin when she collapsed beside you for a moment, her arm slung over your waist, legs tangled lazily in yours. For a heartbeat, it felt like something real. Like something that meant more than it should.

Now she’s already halfway out of bed. The absence of her weight beside you is instant. The cool air rushes in where her body used to be, and it stings. You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket over your chest like armor, trying not to show how exposed you suddenly feel.

Her silhouette is dimly lit by the lamp she didn’t bother to turn off, bent at the waist as she grabs her shirt from the floor. Her bare back is tense, every line of her spine sharp with hesitation. You’re breathless. Undone. And somehow—still not satisfied. Not in the way you need to be “Agatha,” you say softly. She doesn’t turn “I know it’s late,” you continue, voice careful, unsure. “You don’t have to leave tonight.”

She stills, her hand frozen around the bra she just picked up. The muscles in her shoulders go rigid “You could stay,” you murmur. “Actually stay.” There’s a silence that follows—thick, weighted, fragile. It takes everything in you not to reach for her. To ask her again. Beg her, even. But you don’t. You just wait “We sleep together all the time,” you say gently. “So why not sleep, too?”

That gets her. She straightens slowly, back still to you, her breath a little sharper now. Her arms move mechanically as she slides the bra straps up and over her shoulders, fumbling slightly with the clasp behind her back.

You watch her chest rise and fall. Watch her try to compose herself. Then she glances back, just for a moment, eyes flicking toward you with something you can’t name “You know that’s not what this is,” she says finally, her voice low. Measured. Controlled. Like she’s forcing herself not to say too much.

Your heart twists. “I know,” you whisper. “But I want more.”

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. Because it’s already written across her face—conflict, fear, maybe guilt. But not agreement. Never that. She slips her shirt over her head and finishes dressing without another word, without another glance. Her silence cuts deeper than a no.

You nod once, slow and small. It’s enough. Not for your heart. Not for the ache that keeps crawling further up your throat. But it’s enough to stop you from asking again. And that, somehow, hurts the most.

Agatha shifts on the edge of the bed, clearly uncomfortable now. Her back is half-turned to you, and her fingers are fumbling with the clasp of her bra like she’s racing against a clock only she can hear. Her movements are sharp, too quick, like the silence between you has become unbearable.

“I—I should go,” she says abruptly, her voice a little too high, a little too rushed. “I’ve got some early calls tomorrow.”

She doesn’t look at you when she says it. You nod anyway, slow and steady, like your heart isn’t fracturing one quiet crack at a time. Like you believe her. But you know her schedule. You always do. Brunch at eleven, drinks with a friend she doesn’t even like at four.

Nothing urgent. Nothing that should pull her away from you. But you don’t say any of that. Instead, you pull the blanket tighter around yourself, the edges clutched in your fists like they can hold you together. The warmth of her touch is already cooling on your skin, leaving behind a hollow echo that your body doesn’t know how to fill.

She fumbles for her shirt next, pulling it over her head backward. The tag pokes out near her throat. She curses softly under her breath, dragging it back off in a flurry of annoyance, then flips it right and tries again. You watch her—not because you want to make this harder on yourself, but because you can’t help it. Because she’s still beautiful in this state: disheveled, uncertain.

She grabs her jeans next, hopping a little on one leg as she pulls them on, her hair falling in messy waves around her face “I’ll text you soon” she says lightly, flashing a smile that’s too casual, too forced. A smirk meant to play it cool. “We’ll… set something up again. I promise.”

You return it with a smile of your own—tight, automatic, practiced. The kind of smile that’s meant to make everything easier, even when it costs you something to wear it “Sure,” you say. Your voice doesn’t shake. Not yet. You won’t let it. She leans down to grab her boots, tugging one on, then the other, in silence. She still doesn’t look at you. Not once. Not even a glance.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not the excuse. Not even the way she’s be already halfway out the door before her body’s fully dressed. But the way she avoids your eyes like they might tell the truth too loudly. Like if she meets your gaze, she’ll crumble—or worse, you will. When the door finally closes behind her, the sound is louder than it should be. Too final. Too sharp. It echoes through the apartment like something breaking.

You don’t move for a moment. You just sit there, blanketed in fading warmth and growing silence, staring at the same spot on the wall you’ve looked at a hundred times before. It never felt empty until now.

You try to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. But your chest feels tight, too full and too hollow all at once. Your lip trembles before you can stop it. Your eyes sting. And then the tears come—not fast, not dramatic, just soft. Quiet. Unapologetic. They trail down your cheeks as if they’ve been waiting for her to leave. As if your body knew what she’d take with her when she did.

Because you weren’t asking her to love you. You weren’t even asking her to say it. You just wanted her to stay. To want you in the stillness, not just the heat. To want you when there was nothing left to take. But Agatha Harkness always leaves before morning. And this time, she didn’t even say goodbye.

It’s almost two days later before you hear from her again. The café is loud. Too loud. The kind of overstimulating clatter that would usually fade into the background like white noise—comforting in its own way. But today, it feels like every cup clink and every hiss of steam from the espresso machine is a jab to your nerves. The chatter is too bright, too alive. And your heart won’t stop pounding.

You spot her before she spots you. She’s tucked into the corner booth, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown she forgot to take off, her fingers lazily stirring a drink that’s already watered down. She looks… casual. Effortless. Comfortable in her skin in the way only Agatha Harkness ever could be. Like none of this is serious. Like she has no idea what’s coming.

Her hair is half-pinned back, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. She looks soft in the sunlight, radiant and out of reach. You almost turn around, running feels easier. Your hand even twitches toward the door—but then she looks up and sees you.

Her face shifts. Not dramatically. Not in the way people do in movies. Just a small smile curling at the corners of her lips. A spark of familiarity in her eyes. The kind of expression she never gives anyone else. The kind you used to live for. It hits you right in the chest.

She stands when you reach the table, slow and graceful, like always. She leans in without thinking, arms coming around you in that easy, instinctive way that speaks to how often you’ve done this before. You let her. Let yourself be held for just a second, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin—cedar and something warm, something uniquely her.

You pull away, carefully, and sit down across from her. She mirrors you, sliding back into her seat, fingers brushing over the rim of her glass. “Sorry for bailing the other night,” she says casually. “I really did have an early morning.”

You meet her eyes. You nod “Don’t worry about it.” The lie comes out smooth. Polished. You’ve had forty eight hours to practice it.

She relaxes slightly, as if that’s all she needed—permission to believe her own excuse. Her shoulders drop, and she toys with her straw, glancing at you with a flicker of something hopeful “I was thinking,” she starts, her voice lighter now, like she’s testing the waters, “maybe this weekend—”

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” Your voice cuts in gently. Not sharp. Not cold. Just… final. Even. Honest. You watch as her expression freezes, the words hanging between you like broken glass. Her fingers still against her glass. Her lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.

You can see it happen in real time—the shift in her posture, the flicker of confusion that gives way to something darker. But she doesn’t say anything. Not yet. And you don’t move. Because this is the moment there’s no going back from it “What?”

Her voice is quiet but sharp, like she heard you the first time and still needed to ask again, just to be sure she didn’t imagine it.

You glance around the café, suddenly all too aware of how public this is. Of the couple laughing two tables over, the barista shouting out names, the clatter of cups and silverware. But in your world, in this tiny bubble between you and Agatha, everything else blurs.

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, fingers trembling slightly before you curl them into a loose fist in your lap. “The sex. The… ‘benefits.’ I think we should just be friends. Real friends.”

She blinks at you—once, then again—her mouth parted like she’s struggling to catch up. Her brows rise, almost incredulously, like she’s expecting a laugh to follow. A grin. Some sign this is all a joke “You’re being serious?”

You nod, your stomach twisting with the movement. It feels like a betrayal—to her, to yourself—but you do it anyway. Because it’s the only thing left to do. Her smile falters. That easy, cocky grin that so often saves her from sincerity slips from her face. “Is this about the other night?”

“No,” you lied smoothly, though it tasted like ash on your tongue. “It’s about all the nights.” You take a breath, then another “I just… I need something else. Something dependable, real—” The silence that follows is thick, heavy. Like a storm on the edge of breaking.

Agatha leans back slowly, folding her arms across her chest—not casually, not comfortably, but like she’s building a wall between you. Her jaw tightens, her eyes flicker down and away “So you’re saying you don’t want me anymore?” The question lands between you like a knife. Your chest clenches.

“I’m saying,” you construed your next answer carefully, voice softer now, “that I want more than you’re offering. And if you can’t give me that… I’d rather just be your friend than keep pretending this isn’t hurting me. I don’t want to hate you, but if we stay this way I fear I might—”

Her mouth opens like she has a retort ready, like she wants to fire something sharp back at you. But nothing comes out. She looks down at her drink, her fingers tracing the condensation on the glass like it might hold the answer she needs.

You wonder if she feels the same pressure in her chest. That suffocating ache that tells you you’re doing the right thing while it tears you apart “Okay,” she says finally, and the word is so small it barely makes it across the table. “If that’s what you want.”

You nod again, slower this time. Every motion feels like walking uphill through water. You manage a smile—tight around the edges, brittle behind the eyes—but you give it to her anyway. Agatha’s expression goes still. Neutral. Like a mask sliding into place. “So….. friends.”

“Friends,” you echo, and it feels like the word tastes different in your mouth than it does in hers. She nods again, but it’s almost mechanical now. Like she’s trying to practice it. To rehearse for a role she never wanted.

She finishes her drink in silence, the ice clinking softly against the glass. Neither of you says anything else. When she finally stands, she doesn’t touch you. Not a brush of her hand. Not a teasing nudge of her knee against yours. Nothing. She walks away without looking back. And you let her.

You sit there long after she’s gone, staring at the seat she left behind, the ghost of her presence still imprinted in the cushion, in your lungs, in every aching inch of you. You tell yourself it was the right decision. Even though it feels like you just cut out a part of yourself and watched it walk out the door.

Weeks pass. Not a single text from you. Not a half-thought “hope you’re good,” not a late-night question mark, not even a like on her Instagram story. It’s complete silence. And Agatha… Agatha pretends that’s fine.

Because that’s what she does. She pretends. She wakes up with her cheek pressed against the cool side of the pillow, throws on her robe like it’s armor, makes her coffee too strong, and moves through her morning routine like muscle memory. Her makeup is flawless.

Her smirks are still sharp. Her laugh still comes easy—too easy. But underneath all of it, there’s something burning. Low and constant. A slow ache that tightens in her chest when her phone lights up and it’s not your name.

She tells herself it’s for the best. You wanted this. You asked for it. You said friends, and she agreed. She told herself she didn’t need more than that. But the silence? That wasn’t part of the deal.

So she starts going out again. Dull, meaningless dates arranged by friends or stumbled into at events. Glasses of wine with strangers who ask too many questions or not enough. She leans into it, into the distraction, the performance.

One woman takes her to an overpriced French bistro and spends the entire night talking about her vacation home in Italy. She smiles, nods, stabs at her food like it personally offended her. When she leans in to kiss her, she lets her. It’s short, dry, disconnected. Like she’s checking a box off a list.

She never texts the woman back. The next is a woman named Cora, who wears red lipstick and leans too far forward when she talks. Her stories are wild. Her laugh is real. But the moment she brushes her hand across Agatha’s wrist, something twists inside her. It’s not the same. None of them are. Then comes the infamous Rio Vidal.

They bump into each other at an art opening downtown, one of the first times they’ve seen each other since the break up. Its one of those sleek, modern installations full of tortured sculptures and overpriced wine. The room buzzes with chatter, the kind that clings to Agatha’s skin and feels more exhausting than thrilling.

And then she hears that voice “Well, well,” Rio says from behind her. “I didn’t know they let witches into this place.”

Agatha turns, already smirking. “Only the hot ones I fear…..” Rio looks good, almost sinisterly so. Tailored black blazer over a dark satin top, heels that click with every step like punctuation. She moves like she owns the space. Like she always knows exactly what she’s doing.

They talk. They flirt. It’s easy. Agatha laughs more than she means to. Lets Rio pour her another drink. Lets the brush of fingers along her arm linger too long. By the time they end up back at Rio’s apartment, it feels like inevitability. When Rio kisses her—mouth confident, hands roaming, breath hot against her jaw—Agatha doesn’t feel a thing. No thrill. No heat. No ache. Not like she felt with you.

Not like she still feels with you. She breaks the kiss first, gently stepping back, her palm on Rio’s chest to create space she desperately needs “I should go,” she says, breathless but not because of desire. “Early morning.”

Rio cocks an eyebrow, smirking as she leans against the back of her sleek leather couch. “You’re a terrible liar. You’re hung up on someone—I can almost taste it. ”

Agatha doesn’t argue. She just grabs her coat from where it’s draped over a nearby chair, fingers shaking slightly as she slips it on. “Goodnight, Rio.” And then she’s out the door. The next morning, she tries everything to get the feeling out of her system. Coffee. Tea. A strong pour of whiskey before noon. A long shower so hot it scalds her skin. Loud music. Work. A run around the park until her lungs burn and her legs feel like jelly. But nothing works. Because no matter what she tries, the touch left lingering isn’t Rio’s. It’s yours. And it won’t go away.

It gets worse when she hears it from a friend. A mutual friend, no less. The kind who always overshares without realizing it—who means well but doesn’t know when to stop talking. They’re seated outside at a sunny sidewalk café, umbrellas flaring overhead, silverware clinking, the clatter of weekend traffic just far enough away to dull into a hum. Agatha’s wearing her sunglasses, oversized and tinted, but even that doesn’t hide the exhaustion behind her eyes.

She’s halfway through her second cappuccino when she unknowingly spills it, just like that—casual, careless, and cruel in its innocence “She’s dating now, you know?” A sip of mimosa. A swipe of lipstick from the rim of her glass. “Finally looking for something serious.”

Agatha freezes mid-sip. The coffee burns against her tongue, but she doesn’t react. Not visibly. Not yet. “She deserves that,” the friend continues, totally oblivious to the way Agatha’s posture shifts, her spine just a little straighter, her grip on the mug just a little tighter. “Someone to settle down with.”

The words punch harder than they should. Agatha forces a smile. It feels like pulling a rubber band to its breaking point. “Yeah,” she says smoothly, her voice even, her tone betraying nothing. “She does.”

She takes another drink, her eyes hidden behind the tinted lenses, her lips pressed tight. The conversation moves on. Brunch is finished. She parts ways with the friend, gives the usual air-kiss goodbye, waves like she’s unbothered. She even makes it to the next block before she lets herself breathe again.

But her mood?

Ruined.

For the rest of the day, she’s quiet, distracted. The next day, the restlessness sets in. The one after that, she doesn’t even pretend to try. She stops answering Rio’s texts, the ones that ping with a brightness she suddenly finds annoying. She leaves them unread, doesn’t even bother coming up with an excuse.

She cancels a dinner date she wasn’t excited about. Deletes an unopened dating app. Lets her phone sit face-down on her desk for hours at a time. Her house feels colder somehow, even with the thermostat cranked up and every candle she owns flickering like little distractions. The music she plays is too loud and too curated—an attempt to fill the space, to drown out the silence she swore she liked.

It doesn’t work.

Because every time she turns a corner, she thinks of you. Every time her phone lights up, her heart stutters like maybe, maybe, you finally reached out. You haven’t. And when she’s alone, when the noise dies down, when it’s just her and the ache she refuses to name—she does the one thing she swore she wouldn’t.

She opens your profile. Scrolls. Lingers. Refreshes. Just to see if you’re smiling. Just to see if you’re with someone new. Just to see if you look happy without her. But what finally breaks her is a Thursday night, cold and sharp, the city lights smeared by mist on her windshield as she drives in circles with nowhere in mind. The evening feels too quiet, too still, until she picks up her phone and, without thinking, sends a text to one of your mutual friends. Something harmless. Something casual.

“Hey. You heard from y/n tonight?” The reply comes fast. Thoughtless as always. “Oh, she’s out on another date with that finance type woman I think. Sweet. Polite. Took her to that Italian place on Fifth.”

Agatha stares at the message, fingers frozen around her phone. Her heart skips once. Then again. The air feels too thin. Her throat too tight. She reads the message over and over, like it might change if she just blinks enough times. You’re out. With someone else. Again. And this time, you’re at that place— specifically the little Italian spot with the wine you liked, the one you used to walk past together, always saying we should go there sometime, make an evening of it. The same one she never grew the courage to take you to….

Her pulse kicks up. Her skin feels too hot under her coat. She doesn’t even remember turning the car around, but suddenly she’s there—parked across the street from the restaurant, craning her neck to peer through the fogged windows. You’re not there.

She steps out anyway. Paces once. Twice. The air stings her cheeks. Still, no sign of you. So she tries the bookstore. The cozy one tucked on the corner with crooked shelves and handwritten staff picks. You always linger there, fingers trailing spines like secrets. It’s quiet now. Closing.

You’re not there either. She moves quickly now, her panic disguised as urgency. The wine bar. The café with the rooftop you always loved. The bench near the fountain where you often like to sit and talk about nothing for hours.

Empty. All of it. It’s only then that she finally lets herself go to your house. She sits on the front steps , breath visible in the cool night air, her coat drawn tight around her like a poor excuse for comfort. Her hair’s a mess from the wind—loose strands clinging to her lips, the pins long fallen out. Her mascara’s smudged at the corners of her eyes, not from crying—not yet—but from rubbing at her face in frustration. In disbelief.

Her hands are shaking. She clasps them together, digging her nails into her palms just to feel something solid. Something real. Because if you don’t come home alone tonight, If you don’t come home at all…Agatha knows she won’t be able to take it. She can lie to herself about a lot of things. She’s had a lifetime of practice. But not this. Not the thought of someone else holding you the way she used to.

Not the image of your laugh softened under someone else’s hands. Not the finality of knowing she pushed you too far, too fast, and now there’s no going back. Because if you don’t return…Then she’s lost you. Completely. And this time—it’s no one’s fault but her own.

11:42 p.m.

Agatha is still sitting on your front steps. The stone beneath her is biting cold, seeping through her coat and jeans, but she doesn’t move. Her legs have gone numb, her fingers trembling where they clutch the wrought iron railing beside her. She shifts slightly, trying to relieve the ache in her back, but it’s no use—the stiffness has settled in, just like the dread blooming in her chest.

Every sound on the street makes her flinch. The hum of a car engine blocks away. A group of teenagers laughing as they pass, their sneakers scuffing the sidewalk. Someone’s dog barking behind a fence across the street. And none of it is you.

She pulls her coat tighter, tucking her knees closer to her chest. Her hair is a wind-blown mess, strands clinging to her damp cheeks. The air is damp with the kind of cold that clings to skin and makes everything feel heavier. She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there—an hour? Two? Time warped the second she realized you weren’t at the restaurant. Or anywhere she hoped you’d be for that matter.

Now she’s waiting—without a plan, without dignity, without a single excuse for being here except the ache in her ribs and the words she never said when it still would’ve mattered. She’s been rehearsing the whole time—what she’ll say, how she’ll say it. She runs over every version in her head. An apology. A confession. A plea.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

Please don’t choose her. But none of it feels like enough. None of it sounds right. And then, finally—headlights. They wash across the street slowly, the engine quiet as the car creeps toward your driveway. Her breath hitches when the vehicle pulls to a stop, tires crunching softly over gravel.

A familiar silhouette sits in the passenger seat. You. Agatha stands too quickly, her knees protesting the movement. She runs her palms down the front of her coat, trying to smooth out the wrinkles, trying to look composed—but her hands are shaking too hard.

You don’t see her at first. You’re laughing. That laugh she used to think belonged only to her. The one that melted every wall she ever put up. You toss your head back slightly, your eyes crinkling at something your date says. Agatha watches from the shadows, stomach lurching.

Your date—gets out first. She’s tall. Polished. Confident. She opens your door and walks you to the porch with a sense of ease that makes Agatha’s teeth clench. And then she leans in. Agatha sees red. Not rage. Not exactly. Just heat. Panic. Something visceral and splitting in her chest. Something old and terrifying and unspoken. But then you tilt your head, gently—deliberately avoiding the kiss “Thank you for tonight,” you say, soft and kind. “I had a nice time.”

And then your eyes lift.

They land on her standing just behind your date in the dark, her figure barely lit by the porch light. Her face pale. Her shoulders hunched like she’s been holding the weight of the world and only now realized how heavy it truly is.

Your body stiffens. “Agatha?” Her name comes out quiet. Surprised. Disbelieving. You take a half-step back, instinctive, your date completely forgotten. The warmth from the conversation dies instantly.

Agatha exhales a shaky breath, one that almost sounds like a laugh—but there’s nothing funny about the way she looks at you. Like you’re the only thing tethering her to the ground. Your date glances between the two of you, her brow creased. “Everything okay?”

Agatha doesn’t even blink in her direction. Her eyes are on you. Only you. You manage a quick, quiet: “I’ll call you,” but even you know it’s not true. Not really. The other woman hesitates, then nods. She gives Agatha one last look—part wary, part understanding—and walks back to her car.

Then it’s just the two of you. Silence crashes in, thick and breathless. Agatha’s lips part. Her hands twitch at her sides. She looks like she wants to speak, to explain herself, to crawl inside your skin just to be closer—but nothing comes out.

You step forward making your way up the porch, unlocking your front door. You don’t look at her when you say it, but your voice slices through the air “Are you coming in,” you murmur, “or just planning to haunt my steps all night?”

You step inside. And without a word, she follows. You shrug out of your coat with trembling hands, hanging it on the hook by the door out of habit, even as your heart thuds wildly against your ribs. Your shoes come off next, the scrape of the soles against the floor impossibly loud in the heavy silence between you. The space feels too small now. Too intimate. Like your home is holding its breath along with you.

Agatha doesn’t move. She stands just inside the doorway, soaked in moonlight and hesitation. Her coat hangs awkwardly off one shoulder, hair slightly wind-tossed, eyes wide and unguarded in a way you’ve almost never seen. She looks like a storm that finally broke open “I didn’t mean to interrupt your date,” she says finally, her voice low and hoarse.

You glance at her, tired and unimpressed. “Yes, you did.” Her lips twitch in a ghost of a smile, the guilt clear in the tilt of her brows, the faint flush rising in her cheeks. Caught.

You cross your arms, trying to keep your voice steady. “What do you want, Agatha?” She hesitates. Opens her mouth. Shuts it. You see the war behind her eyes—the part of her that wants to run and the part that dragged her to your front steps to begin with. Finally, she draws in a shaky breath.

“I want you.” You blink. Your throat tightens.

“For the night?” you ask, your voice sharper than intended. It’s a defense. A scar.

“No,” she blurts, voice breaking with urgency. “Not like that. Not anymore.” She looks at you like she’s standing on a ledge with no safety net beneath her.

“I know I ruined it,” she says, stepping forward, her voice trembling. “I know you offered me something real, and I—God—I was too scared to take it. I thought I didn’t need it. That I could keep you close without letting you in. But I was wrong.”

She stops in front of you now, barely a foot away. The tension between you is thick, alive “You’re all I think about,” she whispers. “I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe without wondering if someone else is holding you the way I used to. I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone else to touch you. I—” Her voice breaks off completely.

Then, softer than anything she’s said tonight “I love you. I’m in love with you.” The words are raw. Terrified. Honest in a way that steals the air from the room. You don’t answer. Not right away. You just stare at her, the sting of every lonely night and unanswered ache sitting in your chest like a bruise. She watches you too, eyes rimmed with the threat of tears, but she doesn’t dare move “you don’t have to say it back,” she adds quickly, voice cracking. “I just… I needed you to know. Before I lost you completely.”

You take a breath. One shaky, reluctant breath. And then, you take a step toward her “You already did lose me, Agatha.” She flinches like you slapped her “But…” you say, eyes on hers, “I didn’t stop loving you.” Her breath catches, lips parting. “I just got tired of begging for scraps…” you add, voice barely above a whisper.

Agatha nods, a tear finally breaking loose and slipping down her cheek. “You won’t have to again. I swear it. I swear it.” And when you reach for her—fingers sliding along her coat, gripping the lapels, dragging her toward you like you can’t stand the distance anymore—she falls into your arms like gravity itself gave up trying to hold her back.

She doesn’t kiss you gently. She kisses you like she’s been drowning for weeks and just found oxygen. Like she’s starving and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted. It’s desperate. Fierce. Her hands tangle in your hair, pulling you in closer like she’s terrified you’ll vanish again if she lets go for even a second.

There’s no teasing, no hesitation, no games. Just heat. Possession. Truth. She kisses you like she’s furious at herself for ever letting you go. And you kiss her back like you’re done pretending it didn’t kill you to watch her leave. When you finally pull apart, breathless, her hands are still gripping your face like she’s anchoring herself to it.

“Mine,” she breathes, the word not a question, not a plea—just a fact. A vow. And you nod. Because of course you are. You always were. Your back hits the nearest wall with a soft thud, her mouth meeting yours once more. Agatha’s hands are everywhere—your jaw, your waist, the curve of your spine, like she can’t decide where to anchor herself first. She kisses you with a desperation that’s part apology, part hunger, and part something she’s never let herself say out loud until now.

You kiss her like you’re trying to burn every moment of pain out of your skin. Like you’re reclaiming the pieces of yourself that were left behind in every night she walked away. It’s not soft. Not at first. It’s fire. Her coat slips from her shoulders as your fingers work blindly at the tie.

Yours is next, discarded somewhere by your feet. Agatha’s lips move to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you with her mouth “I missed you,” she breathes between kisses, her voice wrecked. “God, I missed you.”

You tangle your fingers in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp. “You don’t get to miss me,” you say, though the words lack real venom. They come out wounded. “You left.”

She pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye. Her chest rises and falls in uneven bursts. Her hands come to cup your face, her thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she blinks “I know,” she whispers. “And it kills me.”

Tears mix with the heat on both your cheeks, your mouths crashing together again before either of you can say something softer—something that might shatter what’s already so fragile. The dam breaks. You stumble together down the hall, still kissing, hands shedding clothing like it’s holding you back from something inevitable. Shirts pulled off, discarded without care. Skin meets skin, and everything feels sharper—like a reminder, like a promise.

She lifts you—literally lifts you—and you let her, legs wrapping around her waist like second nature. Her mouth trails down your neck, nipping, worshiping, claiming. You gasp her name like a prayer, and she groans against your skin like she’s been waiting weeks to hear it again.

By the time she lays you down on your bed, both of you are flushed, breathless, wide-eyed and aching. But this isn’t the same as before. Because when she looks at you now—bare beneath her, hair splayed across your pillow, eyes full of everything you never said—her expression shifts. Softens. And something raw glows behind her gaze.

Love. Not lust. Not curiosity. Not convenience. Love. She leans down and kisses you slow this time. Reverent. Like she’s sorry it took this long. Like she’s not sure she deserves to be here—but she’s going to spend the rest of her life proving that she does “I’m yours,” she murmurs against your lips. “If you’ll still have me.”

You run your fingers down her back, anchoring her there. Right where she belongs “Stay,” you whisper. “Just… stay.”

Agatha pauses, her breath catching in her throat at your whispered plea. She looks into your eyes, searching for any hint of uncertainty or doubt. But all she finds is a steady, sure gaze that mirrors her own longing. With a soft, shuddering breath, she nods, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

She settles her weight more fully onto you, fitting the curves of her body against yours like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. Her hands roam over your skin, mapping the dips and swells of your form, committing every inch of you to memory. Agatha leans in, resting her forehead against yours, nose to nose, breath intermingling with each exhale. "I'm not going anywhere," she murmurs, "Not now, not ever again if I can help it."

Her fingers trace the delicate line of your jaw, the angle of your cheekbone, the flutter of your lashes as you blink up at her. "You're mine," she whispers, "And I am irrevocably, completely, yours." She seals her promise with another kiss, softer this time - a brush of lips against yours, a breath shared, a silent vow. Her heart beats against your own, a steady, slowly building rhythm that syncs with your own as if they've always been one.

You pressed yourself harder into the kiss, arms tightening around her neck, nipping her bottom lip roughly, you pulled away soothing the skin with your tongue “Then prove it-“ you whispered into her mouth, one of you legs dropping from around her waist and slipping deftly between her own, grinding up against her waiting core. Agatha groans into the fierce kiss, your arms pulling her impossibly closer, your teasing nips sending sparks of pleasure-pain straight to her core. When you whisper the challenge against her mouth, she feels a surge of determination, a hunger to prove to you the depth of her devotion.

As your leg slips between her own, pressing against her aching sex, Agatha rocked her hips forward, grinding down to spread her folds against your thigh, her clit grazing your skin on each pass, she moans softly into your mouth. You can feel the slick heat of her arousal coating your skin, the evidence of her own desire stoking the flames of your own.

"Fuck, baby..." Agatha pants against your lips, her hands slipping down to grip your ass, holding you in place as she grinds against you with increasing urgency. "I'll prove it. I'll prove it in every way imaginable..." She claims your mouth in another searing kiss, her tongue delving deep, swirling around yours, tasting every inch of you. At the same time, one of her hands slips between your bodies, fingers cupping your dripping sex, stroking and teasing your sensitive flesh.

Agatha breaks the kiss to trail her lips down your neck, sucking and nipping at the delicate skin as her fingers continue their teasing assault. Spreading your slick folds apart, stroking her fingers languidly against your sensitive flesh "I'll prove it every day," she murmurs against you, her breath hot and heavy on your throat. "Every fucking day, until you never doubt it again...never doubt me again"

Two fingers slipped lower, sinking deep into your tight heat, pumping slowly, steadily. Agatha sets a sensual rhythm, her touch intent on building you back up to that peak "Tell me what you need, sweetheart," she urges, fingers never pausing their sensual dance.

Her thumb circles your clit, rubbing firm and fast, the dual sensations of her fingers delving deep and stroking your most sensitive place pushing you towards your climax. Agatha can feel your walls starting to flutter, your body tensing as your pleasure builds. Your head lolled to the side fully exposing your neck to her assault “Fuck—mommy please—“ you whimpered hips rolling pathetically against her hand chasing her restless pleasure “need you so bad…”

Agatha growls against the column of your throat when as expose more of your delicate skin to her hungry mouth, your breathless plea spurring on the raging lust that's been building inside her "Fuck—" she rasps, sinking her teeth into the tender flesh where your neck meets your shoulder, marking you momentarily as her own.

Emboldened by your begging, Agatha pistons her fingers faster, driving into you harder, the obscene sound of your juices squelching filling the room. She grinds the heel of her palm against your clit with each thrust, a delicious pressure that borders on pain but brings only pleasure "You need mommy to ruin this perfect pussy don’t you sweetheart?" Agatha purrs, voice dripping with filthy promise. “Need me to stuff you so full that the only thing this slutty thing remembers is the feeling of my fingers?"

Her fingers curl against your inner walls, stroking that secret spot inside you that makes your vision go spotty and your toes curl. She rubs it firmly, relentlessly, while her thumb strums your clit with expert precision "Come all over mommy like a good girl…please baby"

Agatha rears back just enough to meet your gaze head-on, her eyes blazing with a fever that threatens to consume you both. She looks like a woman possessed, a woman on a mission to utterly wreck you, to ruin you for all others "Now baby," Agatha commands, punctuating her words with a harsh twist of her fingers, a vicious grind of her thumb. "Come now."

You hands shoot up around her back as you nails raked her delicate skin, leaving a trail of red marks in their wake “Fuck—Mommy I—“ you could form much more of a sentence, breath seizing in your chest. Agatha whimpers as your nails scraped down her back, the sharp sting only fueling her. She grins fiercely when your breath hitches and catches, your body going rigid beneath her touch as your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave.

"That's it, sweetheart. Fuck yes, give it to me—" Agatha growls, fucking you through your orgasm with wild abandon, every thrust pushing you higher, every jolt of her hips driving you closer to oblivion.

Your cunt clamps down viciously around her invading fingers, the rhythmic squeezing and fluttering sending bolts of pleasure shooting up Agatha's arm. She can feel every clench, every spasm, your climax playing out exquisitely across her fingers, painting them with your slick release.

"That my girl" Agatha hums out, pressure building at the base of her spine from the exquisite sensation of feeling you come undone. "Fuck, just like that sweetheart—absolutely fucking perfect” With a final thrust, Agatha buries her fingers deep inside your spasming cunt, grinding against your bundle of nerves, your eyes rolled back in your head as your orgasm crests, pushing you to the very brink of euphoria.

"Good girl..." Agatha praises breathlessly as your spasms slowly start to ease, your walls fluttering and clenching around her fingers as your climax recedes. She leans down to brush a tender kiss against your sweat-slicked brow, a stark contrast to the ferocious passion of just moments before. "Such a perfect, beautiful girl..."

With ragged breath you skimmed you hand up her side rest on her jaw, grip slightly tight. Turning her gaze to your own you leaned up brushing your nose against her own “I think it’s only fair you clean up the mess you made…” you whisper leg slowly drawing from between her own opening your up to her once more.

Agatha settled back between your spread thighs, the loss of your touch against her aching sex making her groan. But tonight wasn’t about her, she knew that. It was about convincing you. Agatha shivers at your commanding touch, your grip tightening almost possessively on her jaw. She turns her gaze to meet yours, Her eyes locking with your own, the air between you charged with lingering lust and something deeper, more profound.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face at your whispered words, the corner of her mouth kicking up in a grin that holds a promise of sin and satisfaction. "You may be right my love—" Agatha purrs, her voice a low, husky rasp in the aftermath of your shared passion. She leans in, brushing her nose against yours in a gesture of intimate familiarity, her breath mingling with your own as she speaks. "And I intend to clean up every last trace..."

With a final, gentle caress of your inner walls, Agatha slowly withdraws her fingers, dragging them out in a way that makes you whimper and squirm. She brings them up between your bodies, coated in your slick, glistening with your climax. She makes a show of suckling your essence from her fingers, her tongue laving each digit clean until not a single trace of your release remains. "Delicious," she murmurs, eyes fluttering closed in bliss. "The sweetest fuckin' nectar..."

She leans down to capture your lips in a deep, filthy kiss, your mixed flavors mingling on your tongue as she presses you back against the mattress. One of her hands tangles in your hair, gripping gently as she ravages your mouth with a renewed sense of hunger. Nipping you bottom lip she begins a trail across your jaw, down your neck and chest stop just at you stomach, stopping to suck a deep claiming mark.

Your fingers tangled in her hair and your hips starting to rock forward softly, her mouth always was a weakness of yours, your nails dug into her scalp in an exquisite blend of pleasure and slight pain. A low, approving growl rumbles from her throat at your touch, telling a story of desperate, aching need.

Your hips start to undulate, rocking slowly against her as her mouth blazes a searing path down your over-sensitized skin. Agatha can feel the heat radiating from your core, the residual warmth of your climax against her belly as you grind yourself against her "How do you want me to clean you up, sweetheart?" Agatha murmurs against your skin teasingly, her breath hot and heavy, her words disjointed and ragged with lingering lust. "Tell me, baby. Tell me just how much you need mommy’s mouth—"

She nips and sucks at the soft skin just below your belly button, pausing to circle the small indentation with the tip of her tongue. Her hands skim up your ribcage, cupping the soft swell of your breasts, palming the tender flesh and rolling your nipples between her fingers until they stiffen into tight, aching peaks.

"Do you want mommy's tongue buried deep in this greedy little cunt?" Agatha purrs, one hand drifting down to stroke through your soaked folds, teasingly spreading them, brushing against your clit as she spoke. She licks a slow broad stripe up your slit, her tongue delving deep to gather your slick on every pass. "Or maybe you want me here…." Agatha continued on, now circling your puckered rear hole with the tip of her finger, pressing teasingly at the entrance. "Stuff it full of mommy's fingers and tongue until this gorgeous body remembers nothing but the feeling of me..."

“Oh fuck—“ you whimpered softly hips snapping forward. Even in the few short weeks apart you’ve truly forgotten just how bad you missed this—missed her. Agatha feels your grip tighten almost painfully in her hair, your fingers pulling the strands nearly to the point of tears springing to your eyes. The sharp sting only serves to ignite the hunger burning inside her, the need to utterly consume you, to claim you in every way possible.

With a low, feral growl, Agatha surges forward, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as she throws your legs over her shoulders. She buried her face between your thighs, inhaling deeply the musky, heady scent of your arousal "Fuck, I love how fuckin' wet you always are for me," Agatha rasps, her voice muffled against your sex.

She doesn't waste any more time, her tongue delving deep into your folds to lap up the slick evidence of your pleasure. Agatha groans at the taste of you, hot and sweet and utterly intoxicating on her tongue. She can't get enough, can't seem to stop until she's tased every inch.

Her tongue swirls around your clit, flicking and sucking at the sensitive bud until your hips buck and writhe beneath her touch. At the same time, Agatha plunges two fingers knuckle-deep into your dripping channel, pumping slowly, steadily, curling against that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Come on, baby," Agatha coaxes, voice heavy with lust as she fucks you with single-minded determination. She seals her lips around your clit and sucks hard, flicking the tip of her tongue against it rapidly as she drives her fingers deeper, fucking you harder, pushing you towards your peak with every thrust. The obscene sound of your juices fills the room, the slick squelch of her fingers pumping into your soaked hole spurring on your impending climax.

Agatha can feel your body tensing, your breath coming in sharp, keening cries as your pleasure builds to a fevered pitch. She doubles her efforts, fucking you with wild abandon, the obscene slap of flesh against flesh echoing through the room as she chases your release with single-minded focus.

Suddenly, your grip on her hair tightens once more as your back arches clean off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Agatha feels your pussy clamp down viciously around her fingers, the rhythmic squeezing and fluttering a telltale sign of your impending climax.

"Yes baby, fuck yes!" Agatha growls against your sex, the vibrations sending shockwaves of ecstasy straight up your spine. "Come on my fucking face sweetheart " She pistons her fingers in tandem with the movements of her tongue, each curl and thrust pushing you closer to the edge. Just as your scream turns into a hoarse, piercing wail, Agatha feels your pussy spasm around her invading digits, milking them, greedily trying to suck them in deeper.

"FUCK! Oh god—!" you cry out, body writhing as your orgasm crashes over you in fierce, unrelenting waves. Your release gushes from your cunt in thick, creamy spurts, flooding Agatha's mouth and chin as she works tirelessly to prolong your pleasure. Agatha swallows every drop, greedy for your essence, starved for the taste of your completion. She laps and suckles until your thighs start to tremble, until your grip on her hair turns to gentle petting as the aftershocks start to ebb.

Finally, as the last waves of your release roll through you, leaving you boneless and spent beneath her, Agatha slowly lifts her head. She keeps your thighs hitched high over her shoulders, her fingers still buried deep inside your fluttering sheath as she gazes up at you with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.

"Just as addictive as I remembered," she murmurs, voice low and sated. She leans in to brush a tender kiss against your inner thigh before slowly, reluctantly, withdrawing her fingers from your still-twitching hole. Bringing them up to her mouth, Agatha makes a show of licking them clean, savoring the flavor of your climax on her tongue.

Satisfied that every last drop has been licked away, Agatha shifts back softly placing your legs down before crawling up to lie beside you, draping one arm across your waist and pulling your limp, pliant body flush against her own. She buries her face in the sweat-damp hair at the nape of your neck, breathing in the scent of sex and satisfaction.

“There’s no place I’d rather be than right here, sweetheart,” Agatha murmurs, her voice low and intimate, the kind of tone that vibrates against your skin more than it touches your ears. Her hand glides slowly, reverently, down your side—her fingers tracing the gentle slope of your waist, the soft give of your hip. The caress is tender, almost worshipful, her palm wide and warm as it soothes the small tremors still lingering in your muscles.

You can’t speak yet. Your body’s still humming, the aftershocks of your intense climax still pulsing through your limbs like echoes. But it’s different now. No longer electric, just… warm. Lingering. Gentle. Like your body finally knows it’s safe to let go.

Agatha feels the shift. She senses the way you begin to melt against her, the way your breathing evens out as your cheek presses to her chest. Her arms wrap tighter around you, holding you close like something she can’t believe she gets to keep. And she cradles you like that—protective, unyielding, reverent. As if you’re something sacred.

As if she’ll never let you go again. You nuzzle instinctively into the crook of her neck, your nose brushing the soft line beneath her jaw, chasing her warmth. You breathe her in—her scent, her skin, her presence—like it’s air and you’d been starving for it.

Agatha tilts her head to press a kiss to the top of your hair—soft, lingering, full of something unspoken and endless. Her fingers resume their slow path down your spine, tracing every curve and hollow with care, memorizing the feel of you beneath her touch.

“I’ve got you, baby—” she whispers, her breath a soothing rush over your ear. “You’re safe with me…” The words settle into your bones like a lullaby. Her voice is warm and steady, a low, calming rumble that sinks into the quiet spaces inside you and fills them with something like peace.

She shifts then, gently guiding you as she rolls onto her back, taking you with her. Your body drapes over hers effortlessly, like you were always meant to fit there. One of her arms wraps securely around your waist, fingers spreading over the small of your back, grounding you. The other rises to cup your cheek, thumb stroking softly along the edge of your jaw before brushing against your bottom lip.

You feel her eyes on you, and when you look up, what you see nearly steals your breath. Agatha is gazing at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. Her eyes are darker, molten with warmth, glowing with a depth of tenderness that makes your heart ache in the best possible way.

“You were so good for me, sweetheart,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “So perfect. So beautiful. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you…” She leans in slowly, giving you time to meet her halfway—and when your lips touch again, it’s nothing like before. This kiss isn’t rushed. It’s not urgent, or desperate, or wild. It’s slow. Deep. Full.

Agatha kisses you like she’s laying down roots. Like she’s planting something in you that will never stop growing. She pours everything into that kiss—every apology she never voiced, every night she spent aching for you, every ounce of devotion she only now feels brave enough to show. It seeps into you with every press of her lips, every sigh, every quiet, sacred pass of her thumb along your skin.

When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests gently against yours, nose brushing yours, breaths intermingling in the soft dark. “I’m not going anywhere,” she murmurs, the promise stitched into every syllable. “And I need you to know I mean that—”She pauses, her thumb sweeping across your cheek. “Not now. Not ever again.” Her fingers trail across your face, gentle as starlight, tracing the curve of your cheekbone, the line of your jaw, the flutter of your lashes as you blink up at her. Her gaze never leaves yours.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, voice breaking just slightly. “And I am irrevocably, completely, yours.” She seals the vow with another kiss. This one is soft—barely a brush. A breath shared. A silent promise. Her hand settles at the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you close.

Your heartbeat syncs with hers as your body fully relaxes against her, chests rising and falling in tandem, the rhythm natural, familiar. Home. Agatha kisses your forehead, then your temple, then your lips one last time before pulling the blanket up around your shoulders. She keeps you pressed to her, arm tight around you, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart.

“I love you,” she says again, so quietly it’s almost a prayer. Wonder drips from her voice, like she still can’t believe she’s allowed to say it. “I love you so damn much.” You respond only by curling into her, your breath warm against her collarbone, your body sighing against hers. And finally, together, limbs tangled and hearts steady, you both begin to drift—safe, wrapped in each other, love settling around you like the softest kind of peace.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #agatha x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #kathryn hahn #rio vidal

209 notes · View notes