#it has been SHOULD he do the thing he does and can he do it without actually doing more harm than good

[starrbishops]

⟡Baby, I'm Yours⟡

(Bob Reynolds x f!Reader)

Summary: You have sex with Bob for the first time. (sequel to Risk but can be read standalone)

Word Count: 4K

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, established relationship, SMUT, "what are we gonna do ride Bob" 😏, oral sex (f recieving), fingering, p in v, missionary, cowgirl, multiple rounds (super stamina woohoo!) unproteted sex (wrap it up kids), Bob Reynolds has a big dick fight me on this, references to masturbation and wet dreams, aftercare, Bob's eyes glow when he cums (I warned you all)

a/n: So I finished writing this and then made this silly little textpost and uh. people liked it a lot so i'm proud to present you the basis for it. Just wanna say from the bottom of my heart Bob Reynolds is a little shit from Florida and yes he IS mostly submissive and he DOES whimper during sex but he is NOT an innocent baby boy and he CAN and DOES fuck. Okay rant done enjoy the sex.

You spend the next few minutes wrapped up in each other’s arms in the dim lamplight, kissing and giggling and just being together. It’s intimate, a kind of safety Bob hasn’t felt maybe ever. It's exhilarating, like something out of a dream. You’re really here, kissing him, touching him, wanting him. The thought just plays over and over in his mind. He’s so preoccupied by you, he’s barely aware of the growing hardness in his pants. Which you quickly become aware of.

You pull away mid-kiss, and Bob furrows his brow, worried he did something wrong. Even in the darkness, he can see the confusion on your face. “Um, Bob…” you trail off, not sure how to point it out. Then it hits him.

“Oh!” he scrambles back, grabbing a pillow to cover his lap. “I am so sorry, that, I did not mean to do that, I-”

“Bob.” you chuckle, a reassuring smile on your face. “It’s okay. I was just…surprised.” Bob laughs nervously in response, still clutching the pillow. 

“Do you want to?” Bob tilts his head at your question.

“Want, want to what?”

“Have sex, Bob.” you say, flat out. You’re never one to beat around the bush, you get straight to the point. It’s one of the things he likes about you. 

Still, his brain needs a moment to catch up to what’s happening around him. “Oh, um, do you? Want to?”

You nod. “We don’t have to, I mean, I don’t want to pressure you into-”

“I do!” he exclaims. “Want to. Have sex with you. Now. If you want to.”

You just smile, crawling over to his side of the bed. You unclasp his fingers from the pillow, taking its place in his lap. On instinct he wraps his arms around your waist, resting them just barely on the small of your back. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to touch you, or should be. You kiss his jaw, gentle and soft, testing the waters. Bob’s breath catches as you do so, and you continue, trailing down his jawline to his neck, pausing at the conjunction of his neck and shoulder, where you begin sucking a bruise into the skin.

Bob releases a broken moan, his hands gripping onto your hips. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, and get a sense of just how big he is. The Sentry Project changed a lot about him, you know that. It’d crossed your mind that it might have affected him down there, but it still surprises you just a bit. Or maybe he’d always been like this. He’s just as incredible to you, powers or not.

Satisfied with yourself, you pull away from Bob’s neck, grinning at the darkening bruise forming there. He moves a hand from you to touch it, as if he’s making sure it’s real. You take his hand in yours, placing it on your face. 

He looks up at you with a hungry gaze, before moving in to devour you once again. Robert Reynolds kisses like a man starved, gorging himself on your affection for fear it’ll vanish once more. You hold him tight, kiss him back as hard as you can. A reassurance, a promise that you’re not going anywhere, not now, not ever if you had it your way.

“Take your clothes off,” you pant out between kisses. It’s not meant to be an order, but Bob certainly takes it as one, immediately rushing to pull off his baggy sweatshirt, followed quickly by his t-shirt underneath. Bob is the last guy anyone would expect to be jacked, but here he is.

You run a hand along the line of his abs, Bob shivering under your touch. “You’re beautiful, y’know?” you whisper, kissing his cheek as you squeeze his shoulder. He chuckles, nervously muttering something under his breath. “You are.” you insist, pulling back to face him. “Not because of your body, but because you’re you, okay?”

He nods, gazing up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars for him. You’re not sure how to respond to his look of absolute adoration except to once again kiss him senseless. 

He starts tugging on the hem of your shirt, a request. You’re still in your tactical gear, crumpled and dirty from your mission. You pull back, getting to work on removing your various holsters and hidden knives, Bob assisting you to the best of his ability.

“You have so many knives.” he points out, adding number five to the pile that’s begun forming next to where the two of you sit.

“You never know.” you quip as you find your last one, moving the pile over to Bob’s nightstand as he starts yanking your shirt up.

“Only fair.” he points out with a smirk. You raise your arms over your head, allowing him to tug off your suit, leaving just your bra covering your top. You reach behind yourself to unclip it, only for Bob to swat your hand away. “I got it.” he insists, taking only a moment as he unfastens it, tossing it somewhere in the room.

He takes a second to take in the view, his mouth hangs open in the shape of a smile, not sure whether to gape or cheer. He quickly puts his mouth to better use, kissing a trail down your collarbone to your breasts, one hand on each pressing them together as he lavishes them.

“Can I eat you out?” Bob’s voice interrupts the silence, peering up at you from between your breasts. “I-I’m not that great, but I want to try. Please.”

You nod, rolling off of him and laying on your back while Bob settles himself between your legs, busying himself with tugging your pants off. “Have you done this before?”

“Hm?” he snaps out of his focus at the sound of your voice. “Oh, yeah, I just, never really got to do it properly, y’know? Take my time.” He tosses your pants away, fingers hooking under your underwear before pausing. “Do you still want to?”

“Bob, I want you between my legs five minutes ago.” he grins and yanks off your underwear, not even tearing his eyes away from your pussy. Even hidden beneath his shaggy brown hair you can see his dark blue eyes are blown out with lust, lingering carnal desire evident on his face.

Bob doesn’t bother with words. He just goes to work, gripping your thighs in his large hands and licking a stripe up your cunt as you moan, your hands tangling in his hair as he begins to lap at you. It’s messy, imprecise, but god it feels so good. He’s learning, noticing what gets the most reaction and keeping it up. He sees how your breath catches when he just barely flicks his tongue against your clit, filing it away for later. 

“Fuck, Bob, baby…” you pant, gripping his hair like a lifeline. “Not great my ass, you liar…”

Bob interrupts your jokes by sucking on your clit, earning another sudden moan from you before he stops suddenly, perking his head up. “Can I use my fingers?”

“Hell yeah.” you manage to breathe out. He nods and lowers his head back down, this time moving his hand from where it digs into your thigh to swipe through the wetness of your folds. He coats his index finger in your arousal, looking straight in your eyes as he licks it off. 

“You taste so good.” you mumbles as he slowly inserts his finger into you, a choked out moan escaping your throat. Bob’s a big guy, and more than once you’ve imagined those massive hands of his fingering you. Reality is ten times better than any fantasy.

He starts slowly, putting what he's learned into practice and continuing to alternate licking and sucking at your clit while he presses his finger in and out of you. You jerk against his grip, back arching as he hits that perfect spot within you. His grip on your thigh just tightens, and he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. “I got you.” he mutters, adding another finger and speeding up his pace, making sure to hit the spot that seems to make you go wild. It works, judging from the strings of expletives and moans that continue to escape you.

You can feel the knot in your stomach tightening as you writhe under Bob’s touch, every move sending licks of fire through your body. “Bob, Bob, ‘m so close, baby, please…”

Bob cuts you off with a moan between your legs, the vibrations reverberating through you, pushing you closer to your high. His eyes shut in pleasure as he devours you, the sound of you moaning out his name better than any high he’s ever felt.

“‘So close, Bob, please…” 

He takes it as a sign, sucks on your clit even harder, opening his eyes so he can watch you fall apart under him. And you do, crying out his name, one hand with a death grip on his hair and the other gripping the pillows so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t exploded into feathers. 

He keeps it up through your orgasm, slowing down the pace of his fingers and switching from sucking to gentle licks on your clit as you come down. “Jesus fucking Christ, Bob,” you pant, gazing down at the man between your legs.

“Did I do good?” he asks, his voice earnest and hopeful. It’s quite the contrast, the feeling of ecstasy still buzzing in the bones, the sight of your slick all over his chin, compared to the genuine worried look in his eyes as he asks the question.

“Yes, Bob, that was good.” you half-laugh. “I don’t think I’ve cum that hard in a long time.”

He grins, satisfied with his work. “Nice.” he crawls up your body, gingerly pressing a kiss to your lips. You taste yourself on him, the flavor driving you even crazier, making you more desperate for him. You lightly tug on his lower lip, earning a deep groan from Bob.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” he mumbles, the kiss becoming a collision of lips and teeth, the two of you stick with saliva and arousal. “You’re so perfect, and you want me.”

“Want you so bad, Bob.” you mutter into his mouth between kisses. “Want your cock, please.”

He moans, pulling away to look at your face, eyes dark with lust, lips kiss-swollen and wet, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “Say it again.”

“God, need your pretty cock inside of me, Bob, baby, please-” he’s smashing his lips against yours again, one hand working on tugging his sweatpants off. He sits up, you joining in assisting him. He pulls his boxers down with them as he finally rids himself of the wretched garments, his cock laying hard and leaking against his perfect abs. It’s better than you could’ve imagined, long and girthy, veins running along it. A small part of you worries about walking tomorrow, but the part of your brain that is so goddamn horny overrules it.

“I got a condom somewhere, I think.” he’s saying, although you barely register it as you stare at his length.

“You’re good!” you snap out of it, Bob turning back to you. “I’m all clean, IUD, you’re good.” you clear your throat, a bit awkwardly, “I’m not planning on being with anyone else, so…”

“Oh my god,” Bob grins, settling himself back on the bed before pulling you into his lap, “I’m clean too, and I don’t want anyone but you. You’re perfect.” he presses a kiss to your temple.

You chuckle as you recall something. “Remember how John was saying we should ride you into the sky?”

Bob looks confused, but nods. You lean in, whispering in his ear. “This is what I was imagining.”

His hands grip your hips, a stuttered breath escaping against your shoulder. He can barely get the words, “oh yeah?” out.

“Yeah.” you whisper, nipping at his neck, before pressing a kiss to it.

He’s hot against your aching cunt as you raise your hips, aligning yourself with his hardened cock. The pre-cum leaking from his tip mixing with the abundance of arousal dripping between your thighs. “Y-you ready? I know it’s kinda a lot, I mean, it always was, and then Sentry, well-”

“Bob, you’re perfect.” you look him right in the eyes, giving him a kind smile, as if he’s not about to fuck you raw. “I want you. All of you.”

He nods, clearly psyching himself up. He’s had flings before, and he knows he’s a lot to take. The Sentry Project enhanced all of him, and he’s doing his best not to hurt you. “Just tell me if you need to stop, okay?” You nod, and with a sharp inhale you begin to lower yourself, the head of his cock breaching your entrance. You gasp, and he pauses, making sure you’re okay. You just nod fervently, unable to form sentences at the feel of him stretching you out. It’s a little painful, which you expected, but the pleasure far outweighs the fact that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. You continue, brow furrowed in concentration, whimpers escaping Bob beneath you at the feel of your hot cunt squeezing around him.

“Fuck, your pussy feels so good, hooooly shit,” he groans as he shuts his eyes in pleasure, doing his best not to cum when he’s only halfway in you, “you’re so fucking tight, oooh my god, are you okay?” 

You nod, nails digging into his shoulders as you pause, trying to adjust to the feel of him in you. Even only halfway, the stretch is more than you’ve ever had before, and it feels fucking incredible. You start to understand the meaning of being cockdrunk for the first time. 

With a final groan, you settle on Bob’s lap, his cock sheathed in you completely, panting at the feel of you around him. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, head hanging in the crook of your neck. For a few moments, the only sound is your intertwined breaths, your bodies hot and slick with sweat against one another as you sit there.

You roll your hips experimentally, a small moan escaping at the sensation. Bob’s head rolls back against the headboard, his grip on you even tighter than before. You’re gonna have bruises of his handprint for days.

You start slowly, rising and lowering onto his thick length. “Fuck, Bob…” you moan, eyes rolling back as you lose any sense of time and place, the only thing left the feeling of Bob’s body pressed against yours, Bob’s cock splitting you open as you bounce in his lap. 

“You’re gonna kill me, fuck…” he groans into your neck as you quicken your pace, the need for him growing. He bites on your collarbone as another moan escapes his chest, thrusts quickening. He kisses the spot he’s marked, sucking a bruise into it. “You’re so good, so perfect…”

“All yours, Bob.” you pant, one hand turning his face to look at you. “I’m all yours, baby.”

The sound Bob makes borders on animalistic, a whine escaping his lips as he kisses you, sloppy and desperate. “I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips, “I’m yours forever.”

The lewd sound of wet skin slapping echoes throughout his room interspersed with Bob’s whines and your cries. You look like an angel above him, the golden light illuminating your glassy eyes as you moan with pleasure, your tits bouncing with each movement. You can already feel your second orgasm coming, and from the expletives escaping Bob, he’s fast approaching his as well. And then you notice.

“I-is something wrong? You okay?” Bob murmurs, noticing your confused expression.

“Y-your eyes, Bob, fuck…” 

He doesn’t even realize till now that his eyes are glowing. It’s another thing the Sentry Project changed about him. It happens when he gets too caught up in something, uses his powers, gets frustrated or angry. He’d never realized it happened in situations like this. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” he tells you, clenching his jaw as he tries to hold it together, his eyes buzzing with light, the lamps in the room’s brightness going in and out. “Should I-where should I-”

“In me.” you moan you rapidly bounce yourself up and down, “fuck, Bob, fill me up, please!”

“So good to me, so pretty,” he murmurs as he desperately tries to hold out from his high, his grip on you bruising, quickly losing control of himself as he unwinds. “I’m gonna give you everything. It’s all yours, baby, all for you.”

“Fuck, yes, Bob! Please, please please please-” your babbling moans end with a last scream of his name as you cum, cunt clenching around him as you take him as deep as possible, pelvises flush against each other. Something about the golden glow of his irises, the low rasp in his voice, the words themselves, it all sends you crashing over the edge, an incoherent, animalistic noise escaping you as you cling to Bob, pressing your forehead up against his.

 Bob whimpers, the glow from his eyes illuminating your face as you cum, the way your eyes roll back, the debauched expression you wear. It’s enough to send him over the edge, his eyes buzzing with light as he cums. With a cry of your name, Bob tumbles over the edge, arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. You feel the warm spurts of his cum within you, painting your insides, claiming you for himself. The two of you sit there, panting and sweating as you come down.

“Oh my, fucking god, that was amazing.” he looks up at you, a tired, fucked out expression on his face. “You’re amazing.”

“So are you.” you smile, removing your nails from where they’ve left red crescents on Bob’s shoulder blades, moving to cup his cheek. “So good to me, baby.”

“I-I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks, one hand running down to your waist. 

You shake your head. “Well, I can’t really feel my legs, but I did expect that, so…”

“Sorry.” he says, though that smile on his face says otherwise. He’s proud of himself.

“‘S alright.” you sigh, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. He whines, shifting his head to kiss you properly. He’s still inside of you, and you can feel his cock, still semi-hard within you. Even after two orgasms, you look up at him and want more, wanting to feel him, for the feeling of his skin on yours to never leave. “I could go again, honestly.”

“Really?” he laughs, a little surprised at both your stamina and the fact that you still want him. He sighs, one hand running along your jaw as he feels himself already growing hard once again. “I can’t say no to you.”

“So, yes to round two?”

“If I ever say no to that question, shoot me.” he grins, wrapping his arms around your hips as he rolls you both over, his cock staying in you the whole time. “How’s this?”

You yelp a little from the change in position, landing on your back and wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders once again. 

You’re still sensitive from your first two orgasms, and Bob is aware of that.“I got you.” he whispers into your shoulders, rolling his hips gently. “I’ll take care of you. Promise.” He goes slowly, his eyes locked on yours as you pant under him, head falling back against the pillows.He kisses you again, hungry and desperate, as he sets his pace, dragging his cock out before pushing back in once again. Bob is gentle with you, considerate, a man with the power of a thousand suns turned docile above you.

“So many dirty dreams about you, baby, you’re so much better than any of ‘em.” Bob mutters into your shoulder. He looks up at you, a little unsure, although his pace doesn't change. “Is this a dream? Are you here?”

“I’m here, Bob.” you moan, giving him a small smile as you run a hand through his hair. “I-fuck! I’m here.”

You look like heaven, messy hair framing your face, mouth gaping, eyes shut as you throw your head back. You’re all he wants, everything he needs. He could stay here forever, taking care of you, fucking you, whatever you want. Just as long as you neer stop giving him those sweet smiles, screaming out his name just like that as he fucks you.

“Bob,” you call his name in a breathy whisper, “more, please, baby.”

He nods, speeding up his thrusts, pushing into you with more force. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass as you pull him deeper into you. He breaks eye contact to look down at where your bodies connect, gazing at the sheen of your arousal around his cock, the white ring forming at the base of it. A mixture of both of your cum spurts out around where he’s entering you, and the sight somehow manages to make him even harder.

He’s moaning again, and before you know it his hands are on your face, pulling you up to kiss him as his thrusts grow harder and shallower, barely pulling out before slamming his full length back into you. “Fuck, Bob, yes, just like that, yes!” You scream at the sensation. You couldn’t give a fuck if the others hear when Bob Reynolds is on top of you, pounding his pretty cock into you, whispering dirty nothings in your ear.

One hand leaves your face and returns to the spot between you, rubbing gentle circles on your clit. “Come on, baby, give it to me, please.” he practically begs, dark blue eyes once again shining above you. “Need you to cum for me, come on my cock, please.” You do as he says, the coil in your stomach snapping once more, ecstasy washing over you, your cunt clenching around Bob’s length. Bob curses, pressing his lips against yours as he thrusts as deep as possible, filling you up with his cum once again.

“Fuck.” you groan, barely able to lift your head. “That was cool. The eye thing.” 

“I didn’t know I did that.” he admits, rolling off of you. A small gasp escapes him as he watches his cum spill out of you, sticky and wet between your thighs. “You just look so perfect full of me.”

You smile, taking a deep breath as Bob quickly runs to the bathroom, returning with a warm towel that he uses to wipe you down. “Y’know, I never took you for a talker.”

“What, during sex?” he asks, as if he’s not literally wiping his cum off of you.

“Sex takes some of your brain cells out of you, huh?” you joke, sitting up on your elbows.

Bob chuckles, giving a small shrug. “I think that’s just what you do to me.”

After he’s carried you to the bathroom to pee, gotten you a glass of water, you settle yourself on his bare chest, running your finger along his collarbone as he shuts out the lights.

“You’re amazing.” you tell him between yawns, your eyes closing, exhausted by your activities. “Even if I can’t sit for a week.” you mutter, and then you’re out, breathing slowing as you drift off.

Bob ust smiles at the sight of you, resting against his chest, comfortable and content. Never in a million years did he think he’d have something like this. A home in the tower, a family in the team, and a love in you. “You’re perfect” he says to no one, pressing one last kiss to your hair as he wraps an arm around you, shutting his eyes for the night. “And all mine.”

[peachesofteal]

Like Real People Do previous + masterlist Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au CW: none just prickly Simon

“What the fuck is this?”

You glance at the photo. It’s your patient from yesterday in his crib, except there’s a teddy bear stuffed against one of the rails, next to his face. Fuck. 

“I don’t know. That wasn’t there when I left. I would have removed it.” His eyes drill into you, fire blazing in them, hot enough you’re sure it will burn you to a crisp. 

“Do we need to go over the SOP for toys in cribs?” 

“No.” You bite out, looking over his shoulder to focus on the wall. It’s not that parents do it intentionally, they just don’t know. They don’t think about the fact that soft toys, plush toys, can carry bacteria since they can’t be wiped down. You can’t fault someone for wanting their child to have something of comfort. “It must have happened after I left, like I said.” 

“Well it didn’t.” You want to push back. You want to tell him again, that it didn’t happen on your watch. That you’re not stupid or careless or not paying attention like he so clearly thinks, but you don’t. You know how it will go. 

“I’m sorry.” His jaw clenches, lip curling like you disgust him. 

“You’re sorry.” The air is being sucked from this room, the walls trying to go with it, closing in on all sides. “Keona seems to think you’re doing an excellent job, but I’m starting to think she’s just covering for you.” The accolade he gave you last week fades into oblivion, panic taking its place. You can’t lose this job. You can’t. 

“It’s a transition. I’m learning as fast as I can.” Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. He rises from his chair, coming around his desk to lean against it, thick legs stretched out towards where you’re standing, arms crossed over his chest. It could be considered a casual stance, but on him it’s anything but. He lords over you, terrifying and dominant, ready to pick you apart. 

“You need to figure out if this is the place for you before I do.” 

“It is. I can do it.” You rush out, desperate to reassure him. It’s a crack, a very small one, and you scramble to stuff it up, plaster over it to reinforce the wall it’s trying to crumble. “I can do it.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” 

You stare at the fancy lotion for too long. 

Before, you would have chucked it in your cart no problem. Twice even, one for home and one for your work locker. 

But now, your entire existence is built around a budget that’s calculated down to the dime. 

And that budget really does not have wiggle room for a twenty dollar bottle of lotion. 

Still- 

You toss it in your cart. A mistake. An irresponsible indulgence. Something you absolutely should not purchase, but the girl buried so far beneath who she is now, the one who was once reckless and wild and free, she wants that lotion. She wants it bad. She wants a relief, a reprieve, a little treat for the hell that this week has been. 

You really, really wish you hadn’t listened to her. 

“Wait… what?” 

“Sorry, the tag was incorrect.” You stare at the bag of cherries unbelieving. They were the last thing on the belt, bringing your total to a whopping one hundred and forty dollars. Forty dollars over the budget that was already twenty dollars over. 

“Okay.” Thank god for small miracles, there’s no one in line behind you to watch your shame unfold like a car crash in slow motion. 

“Do you still want them?” You do. Riley loves them. She asked for them specifically. She eats them raw from a bowl until her fingers are stained. She feeds them to the mares even though you tell her a million times not to. 

“I mean… you’re saying this bag of cherries is twenty dollars?” The clerk’s smile is sad. 

“They are twenty one dollars and fourteen cents.” The lights in the grocery store suddenly seem too bright, and the noise, the beeping and the intercom and the chattering is too loud. Too much. It’s all too much. Everything. This weight will crush you. Your vision tunnels until there’s nothing else, just you and this cashier and your stupidity. “Miss? Do you still want them?” 

“Yes, sorry. I want them.” She rings them up, total flashing on the reader in front of you. You sigh as you tap your card- 

and then freeze when it makes that dreaded sound. 

The “you’re a fucking idiot if you think you’re buying this bottle of lotion” sound. The clerk is looking at you with sympathy now. Camaraderie. 

“Maybe it was a bad read. Try again?” She tries keeps her voice down, bless her, but she’s also older than dirt so it doesn’t do much. You try your card again against your better judgement. Same noise. Same sinking feeling. You must have made an error somewhere, screwed up the math. 

“Do you have another card dear?” You swallow and shake your head. 

“No, I don’t. I’ll… can we take the lotion off?” This is your fault. Your self indulgence, the little devil sitting on your shoulder who told you to pick that stupid bottle of lotion up and put it in your cart. 

You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Riley’s, and you’re sure as shit not picking it over her cherries. Lesson learned.

“Take the lotion off?” She repeats, you’re assuming to make sure she got it right before she starts pressing buttons on the screen, and you nod. Force a smile. It’s fake but they’re the best shields. “Do you want to run back and grab a cheaper one?” Insult to injury. 

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” Your tunnel vision finally widens when the new total pops up, and your chest loosens with relief. 

For a second. 

Until you see Doctor Riley. Standing in the other line just over your cashier’s shoulder. 

Staring at you, head just barely cocked in consideration. 

Oh my fucking god. 

You lock eyes and freeze, a deer in headlights, a woman tied to the tracks. It lasts for a second and then you look away, silently praying for a tornado to come by and rip the roof off this place, carry you off. 

No such luck. 

Instead, you go through the mortifying motions of loading your cart up with the bags, casually tracking him from the corner of your eye. He finishes before you, thank god, and you stall at the end of the checkout lines until he’s fully out of sight, beelining to the truck lest you get caught in some awful, awkward small talk or worse, more eye contact. 

Great. 

“The British are coming.” 

It’s the long standing joke. Started spreading after they got here, though Doctor MacTavish apparently throws a fit over it, considering he’s not British at all. 

They all showed up together too, an already forged unit, strong alliance to one another that stretches across the hospital. There’s history there, a lot of it, but you worked with John for a while and he was pretty tight lipped. No one ever pushed him, but you and others can’t deny the curiosity. There’s nothing a hospital loves more than gossip. 

“Where?” You still eat with the ED. There’s always at least someone on break at the same time as you, and you indulge in the comfort of your friends. It’s not that you dislike anyone in the NICU, you don’t. They’re all lovely, it’s just the team in the ED knows you. They supported you when you stumbled, when you fell, when you went through hell and came out on the other side. They knew you before, and those precious pieces are long gone. The ED is your last tether to the girl who wants to buy lotion, who rode recklessly and screwed around. 

Olivia jerks her head towards the double doors on the other side of the cafeteria. 

You hope for Price. Instead, you get Garrick and your walking nightmare. “Fuck.” 

“God he’s so hot.” You bristle. It comes out of nowhere, strikes you like lightning until you look over and realize she’s staring at Doctor Garrick and not Doctor Riley. The reaction is nonsensical, and instead of trying to diagnose it, you move on. The two of you reach the end of the line, and Clara behind the counter gives you a big, genuine smile. 

“Hey honey. How’s that baby?” 

“Not a baby anymore, that’s for sure.” She asks this every time. It’s sweet. “How are your grandkids?” 

“Oh you know. Terrors.” You snort. 

“I know your pain.” You wait for Olivia, who clears her throat when she makes it back to your side. 

“Is it just me or… is Doctor Riley staring at you?”  Heat floods your cheeks. 

“It’s not just you. He does that.” You don’t look. The embarrassment from the last time you saw him, the grocery store fiasco this weekend, is still stagnant in your brain, taking up way too much space. She raises an eyebrow. 

“I’ve never seen someone so scary, and hot at the same time. It’s like the fear makes it better.” You swallow that feeling again, and nod. 

“I saw him without a shirt on like two weeks ago.” She squeaks. Just the memory of the bulk of him, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, the well carried layer of fat on his belly covered in hair makes your stomach swoop. 

“You what?!” 

“Yeah I had to wake him up. Needed him at bedside. He’s... huge. Built like a bear, I bet he could take one. And he has a full sleeve.” She gives you a look, and you give her one back. Mischief and malice. “Don’t.” 

“I’m just saying… how long has it been for you? Since before Riley?” 

“Olivia, come on. You know I don’t have time. And even if I did, you’d never catch me sleeping with a provider. Especially him. He’s a dick, and he hates me.” It’s not like you have anything against it, you don’t. You don’t judge. It’s just not for you. There are happy endings sure, but they’re rare, and it’s not worth the headache. Olivia however, is an equal opportunity employer. She sniffs. 

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” 

“I won’t be trying it.” 

You could cry. 

You could. 

You haven’t done it so long and it would be well within your right today, though you won’t. Even if you wanted to, your automatic response is to hold your tears back no matter what, no matter how, and this is no different. 

You spot Mabel on the hill right away. She’s the only one who strays from the pasture when the gate gets loose, always taking off towards the highest point on the property, probably so she can look down on her kingdom. 

It doesn’t help that she hates Blue, your horse, and as soon as you get close, she bares her teeth. 

“We know, we know. You’re in charge. Come on lady.” You reach for her halter, but she side steps away from you, jerking backwards. “Mabel. Stop.” You squeeze Blue with your thighs, urging her forward, closer, and reach again, snagging your fingers into the side of the halter. She tries to pull away again, but you hold her firm. She won’t follow Blue back because following any other horse or even human is beneath her, but if she realizes you’re not going to be giving up, she’ll high tail it back to the barn. You’ve got a good grip, now you just need to wait until she gets the picture. You lift your face to the pink streaked sky. “You know, it would have been a lot easier on me if you hadn’t spoiled the shit out of her.” You chastise the clouds and give them a dirty look. “It’s like I’m still getting bullied by you through your god damn horse.” Mabel snorts, and you glare at her. “Don’t start with me. You’re worth tens of thousands of dollars. I could have sold you.” It’s an empty threat. You’d rather lay down and be trampled. 

She decides she’s had enough and pulls ahead, intention clear, and trots off towards the barn. 

For a minute, a brief, hazy minute, she’s not alone. 

Your sister is there, turned around in the saddle, laughing and telling you to hurry up. The sunset is painting her in a rainbow of pink and coral and orange, glowing on her face, saddle squeaking under her pregnant belly. Mabel’s gait is smooth, smoother than it’s ever been, like it has been for months, since she started to show. You’re convinced she knows, instinctively. One mother to another. 

“Come on crazy Daisy.” She moves Mabel into a canter, and you grit your teeth. 

“Tess,” you’re about to tell her for the seventeenth time that she’s supposed to be taking it easy, but she cuts you off. 

“I’m fine. Hurry up. I’m hungry and Liam is making mac and cheese.” She looks over her shoulder one last time, smile bright, so bright it could blind you, a nearly perfect mirror of your own, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re the worst.” She laughs. 

“But you love me.” 

The minute passes. It slips through your fingers and you swallow, once, twice, three times. 

You could cry. 

You could. 

But you can’t. You have a little girl back at the house who doesn’t need her aunt fucking crying every time shit gets hard or sad or both. You have a responsibility, and that responsibility depends on you to be strong, to be in control, to take care of her and make sure she’s safe, healthy, happy. 

So you are. 

And that’s all there is to it. 

[aetherograph]

I've been listening to the radio all day and the songs have been about:

Alone in the Universe (being isolated for being imaginative and finding a friend)

Girl Scout (wanting to participate in normal life despite disability)

Rose's Turn (despair and anger at living one's life for one's children and desire to live one's life for oneself)

Ghost Riders in the Sky (ghost story)

What I Know Now (anti-suicide)

Simple Joys (what it says on the tin)

Mr Mistoffelees (check out this cat he does magic!)

Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee (come run away and be a travelling actor with me)

Suppertime (that guy saw you dump a body into my mouth, you should totally kill him too)

Home (daughter's plea to her deceased mother, distress at not knowing "which way is home" after a parent dies)

Currently, the Prologue to The Great Comet of 1812 is playing, and it's basically "here's a run-down of the characters in this story".

Genres that have lots of songs about things other than love:

Showtunes

As @moniquill said above, traditional folk music, particularly work songs and maritime songs. Murder ballads are a favourite of mine, which include ghost stories--bluegrass is full of them. A subgenre of this is "cowboy music"; currently, I am real fond of Frankie Laine in this regard. If you are a soprano, look up Hayley Westenra, John Denver, and Loreena McKennit. If you are a lower voice, Frankie Laine, Hozier, and Stan Rogers. Yes Hozier! Half or more of his music is POLITICAL. Butchered Tongue, Jackboot Jump, and Cherry Wine to name a few!

Rap often is about political views or has a narrative. One of my favourite rap songs, #TWERKIT, is lekking done in Patois. I'm actually very fond of rap songs that lek. Taken in their context, they're very much rebelling against racist ideas of what success looks like, and taking pride in not assimilating into the dominant culture but forging your own and having pride in your own.

Early jazz is often about dancing (Jitter Bug) or jazz culture (Are You Hep To the Jive) or has a narrative (Saturday Night Fish Fry) or is about drugs (Reefer Man, When You're A Viper), or even is about something else entirely (Small Fry). I am HUGELY fond of early jazz, especially Cab Calloway's FULL catalogue of music. He was an enormously skilled musician and gifted singer, and unless you listen to early black-dominated jazz you do not understand what jazz IS. It is not Glenn Miller and the Andrews Sisters and The American Songbook and all that sanitised whitewashed stuff. BLACK PEOPLE INVENTED JAZZ. IT IS BLACK CULTURE. LISTEN TO BLACK PEOPLE DO IT. ::gets off soapbox::

Infected Mushroom. Just. Don't know or care what genre they are, I call them "Psychadelia".

Novelty music. Weird Al made a career of this, but listen to Tom Lehrer and whatever Dr Demento music you can. The great man has retired now but he is a great collector of novelty music and broadcast it to the masses for decades and decades.

Oingo Boingo. Literally 90% of their music is political and bitingly sarcastic and musically speaking it is so COMPLEX. It is so so much more than Weird Science and Dead Man's Party. They have a song about The Island of Dr Moreau that is also about fascism (No Spill Blood), they have songs about antisemitism and sharp criticisms of eighties excess and hypocrisy (Capitalism, You Don't Believe What You Write, Insanity, Outrageous). LISTEN TO THEM. They are so so good.

There is a lot of music out there that isn't about relationships. You just have to branch out!

[kenyatta]

“You know,” said Ninheimer, “I’ll tell you–just to watch it do you no good at all. You can’t understand human motivation. You can only understand your damned machines because you’re a machine yourself, with skin on.”

He was breathing hard and there was no hesitation in his speech, no searching for precision.

He said, “For two hundred and fifty years, the machine has been replacing Man and destroying the handcraftsman. Pottery is spewed out of molds and presses. Works of art have been replaced by identical gimracks stamped out on a die. Call it progress, if you wish! The artist is restricted to abstractions, confined to the world of ideas. He must design something in mind–and then the machine does the rest.

“Do you suppose the potter is content with mental creation? Do you suppose the idea is enough? That there is nothing in the feel of the clay itself, in watching the thing grow as hand and mind work together? Do you suppose the actual growth doesn’t act as a feedback to modify and improve the idea?”

“You are not a potter,” said Dr. Calvin.

“I am a creative artist! I design and build articles and books. There is more to it than the mere thinking of words and of putting them in the right order. If that were all, there would be no pleasure in it, no return.“A book should take shape in the hands of the writer. One must actually see the chapters grow and develop. One must work and rework and watch the changes take place beyond the original concept even. There is taking the galleys in hand and seeing how the sentences look in print and molding them again. There are a hundred contacts between a man and his work at every stage of the game–and the contact itself is pleasurable and repays the man for the work he puts into his creation more than anything else could. Your robot would take all that away.”

So does a typewriter. So does a printing press. Do you propose to return to the hand illumination of manuscripts?”

“Typewriters and printing presses take away some, but your robot would deprive us of all. Your robot takes over the galleys. Soon it, or other robots, would take over the original writing, the searching of the sources, the checking and cross-checking of passages, perhaps even the deduction of conclusions. What would that leave the scholar? One thing only–the barren decisions concerning what orders to give the robot next! I want to save the future generations of the world of scholarship from such a final hell. That meant more to me than even my own reputation and so I set out to destroy U. S. Robots by whatever means.”

“You were bound to fail,” said Susan Calvin.

“I was bound to try,” said Simon Ninheimer.

Calvin turned and left. She did her best to feel no pang of sympathy for the broken man. She did not entirely succeed.

- from the short story 'Galley Slave' by Isaac Asimov (1957)

Also want to share this bit from the WP plot summary:

The story is a courtroom drama. It opens in 2034, with Simon Ninheimer, a professor of sociology, suing U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men for loss of professional reputation. He contends that robot EZ-27 (aka "Easy"), while leased to Northeastern University for use as a proofreader, deliberately altered and rewrote parts of his book Social Tensions Involved in Space Flight and their Resolution while checking the galley proofs (hence the title). Ninheimer holds that the alterations to his book make him appear an incompetent scholar who has absurdly misrepresented the work of his professional colleagues.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

These Nights

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, shameless smut (blowjobs, fingering, p in v sex), light angst, tooth-rotting fluff, no use of y/n, pre-established relationship

Summary: There's never a moment where you and Bucky would wish to be apart, so when you are, you have to make up for lost time.

Author's Note: Your honor, I need him to hold me so bad.

Word Count: 3.3k

He’s home late. No later than usual, but late all the same. For about three hours, the only light in your apartment has been coming from the TV. For even longer, you’ve been doing all but nothing, shuffling around and picking things up, glancing at the door in the hopes that it will open, and Bucky will walk through. 

You know he’s never gone longer than he has to be. He tells you all the time, that he’d always rather be home with you than anywhere else.

It doesn’t stop you missing him. From bunching up the blankets until they’re in a Bucky-Shape, using his body wash and wearing his shirt to pretend he’s a little closer than reality. 

But he always does come home. Past midnight, but home.

And you’re always waiting up for him, no matter how many times he tells you not to. 

Bucky calls your name as he opens the door, and you can hear his exhaustion in his voice.

“In the living room!” You call back, and he groans.

“You should be in bed, doll-“

“Then why’d you call for me?”

There’s a brief silence, and you can picture his adorable, grumpy frown. “Shut it. It’s almost one in the morning-“

“You’re up.”

He sighs, moving around somewhere down the hallway. “‘M sorry, sweetheart, we had to run the debrief-“

“I know, Buck. It’s okay,” you call back, glancing to the doorway. “You need stitches?”

“No.” He materialize from the dark, shuffling across the room and flopping over your body, his words muffled as he presses his face into your chest. “Already had ‘em.”

You scowl, slapping his back lightly. “That’s not funny, James-“

“It’s funny.” His arms wrap around you, not moving from where he’s sprawled over your body. “What’re we watchin’.”

“The news.”

He groans. “That’s so fuckin’ boring-“

You shrug, letting your fingers glide up to play with his hair. “I wanted to know if you were safe.”

Bucky pauses, turning his head to give you a sad, open look. It’s an expression he only reserves for you. Where you’re allowed to see all the heavy weight on his shoulders, the adoration he has for you pained on every feature, and the gaze of a tired man that never feels like he’s doing enough. 

He always is.

But no matter how many times you tell him that, he doesn’t believe it. You’ll keep saying it until he does. Just like he’ll keep trying to alleviate your fears until you stop worrying. 

“You know I always come back to you, doll.” He murmurs, taking his hand in yours, and you give him a small smile. 

“I do.” You cup his face, keeping your words soft. “But I love you, James. I’m going to keep worrying.”

He sighs. “Can’t talk you into goin’ to bed, can I?”

“Maybe you can.” You shrug. “Are you going to bed with me?”

Bucky opens his mouth and you slam a hand over it.

“I- Sorry- Did you eat.”

He raises his brows, but shakes his head and you sigh. 

“James-“

“I was trying to get back to my best girl.” He grumbles, prying your hand away. “We’ll do pancakes in the morning-“

“Or you can have the Chinese I got you, now.”

Bucky blinks at you. “You got me Chinese?”

You nod, and try to push to your feet. “Lemme go- Bucky-“

He’s on his feet faster than you ever could be, keeping you pinned to the couch as he leans down and presses a deep, slow kiss over your lips. You melt into the cushion, your hands darting up to hold his face, and he smiles against your lips. 

“I’ll get it, babydoll.” He mutters, pressing a smaller kiss to your nose. “But you gotta go to bed-“

“I’ll go to bed when you go to bed.”

Bucky leans back to glare at you, but you just smile right back. That glare doesn’t work on you anymore. You might be the only person in the world who can win a starting contest with Sargent Grumpy, and he knows it, because he gives up with a sigh. 

“Just-“ Bucky sighs, tracing metal fingers carefully over your cheekbones. “Don’t fight it, if you get tired. Alright?”

“Alright.” You whisper, giving him a small smile. “Go eat, Buck.”

He grunts, pressing a final, firm kiss to the top of your head, and ambles out of the living room. 

It’s only a few minutes that he’s gone, but you shuffle restlessly all the same. The smell of him is so much stronger than the shirt or the shampoo. His warmth is so much heavier, and more comfortable, than the blanket. And you’ve been aching for him all night, enough that you’ll probably climb or ride him first thing in the morning, but you can settle for just contact tonight. Only his body pressed over yours, and his face planted back against your breasts. He’s tired. You care about him resting far more than you care about him flipping you onto your stomach and kissing up your spine, maybe massaging his hands on your thighs or swatting at your ass-

“I love you,” he grumbles your name as he returns, Chinese food in hand, and flops back over your body. “’S unbelievable, how much I love you. You gotta know that, doll. I’d so anything for you. Steal the moon, give you a thousand babies.”

You smile at him, tucking yourself into his side as he grabs the remote and switches off of the news. “You like the dumplings?”

“I like you.” He kisses the side of your head, and when you give him an amused look, he shrugs. “And the dumplings. They’re my favorite, doll. Thank you.”

“I know.” You hum, not bothering to look away from Bucky as he eats. He’s yours. You can stare at him—at the sharp line of his jaw and fullness of his lips—all you want. “A thousand babies is a lot.”

He swallows his bite, giving you a tiny grin. “Then we’ll start with just me fuckin’ one into you, and see where it goes.”

You make an incoherent, sleepy sound and Bucky chuckles, tugging you a little closer to his side. He’s taunting you. It’s too late in the evening for you to just straddle him and grind in his lap until he gives you all the attention you need. Rest. Tonight is about letting Bucky hold you against him and eat his Chinese food, grumbling at the TV whenever a character makes a stupid choice and getting high on his chuckles whenever you make a joke. 

It would be nice if he could pretend this was all about him. If he didn’t keep feeding you some of his food, and rubbing circles on your arm that prickle heat over your skin. If every time he kissed you, he didn’t do it a whole lot deeper than he needed to, before biting the tips of your nose and laughing when you whack his chest. Looking so handsome in relaxes in the dark, the tired expression he had when he came through the door long gone. 

Maybe you could touch him. He’s tugged you so you’re straddling his thigh, but that doesn’t mean this needs to be about you. You can feel his semi hard cock, pressed on your inner thigh. If you lean down and take him in your mouth, it can be about Bucky and not you-

“Bed?” He asks suddenly, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been staring at him in the dark. Given the openly amused expression on his face, probably longer than you want to admit. 

You tilt your head at him. “Are you going to bed?”

He shrugs, your eyes narrow, and you slide a leg over his stomach. 

Bucky groans, his hands flying to your hips. “C’mon doll, go to bed-“

“I need you there with me.” You hum, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he sighs.

“I can’t sleep,” he mutters, dropping his brow to yours. “Long mission. And you know I’m not supposed to get in bed ‘less I’m gonna sleep.”

Fuck, that’s true. Some sleep psychology thing Sam made him go to last year, that you’d told all the New Avengers about so they could reinforce it when he was on overnight missions. Unless Bucky knows he’ll fall asleep, he can’t be in bed. Not if he’s going to stop sleeping on the floor for good. 

But he can’t just stay up. The heaviness might be gone, but you can still see the bags under his eyes. And you’re tired yourself, and you won’t be able to sleep without him, but he’ll beat himself up if you sleep on the couch just to be near him. 

So there are two options here. The first one is the meds—strong enough to knock out an elephant, and capable of making Bucky sleepy—and the second one is making him relax. 

The second one is the better option. 

Because then it’s not about you. 

You trail your hand slowly down his chest, holding his gaze as you move. He has time to tell you no. That he’s too tired for what you’re obviously aiming for. 

But Bucky’s eyes just remain on yours, his lips parting slightly as you rub his bulge through his pants, and his eyes darkening with an expression you know far too well. 

Lust.

He mutters your name as you slowly undo his belt, hand flying up to cup your cheek. “You don’t have to-“

“Want to.” You pull his pants down, taking his underwear with them, and start to stroke Bucky’s cock to attention. “Please?”

He blinks at you slowly, a low groan escaping his throat as you lean down to kiss along his jaw. “You’re askin’ me to jerk me off?”

You hum. “And give you head.”

He grunts, his hips jerking at just the suggestion and you smile. “That’s not playing fair, doll-“

“Not trying to play fair.” You lean back, your smile growing at his hooded, ruined expression. “May I?”

His eyes flick down to where you’re slowly pumping him, your thumb rubbing over the tip of his cock, and he grunts. “Yeah. Fuckin’- Have to be insane to say no-“

You crash down, giving him a deep, comfortable kiss and giggling when he groans your name down your throat, his hands skimming feather-like touched up your side as you pick up your pace. 

“Off.” He grunts, tugging at your shirt—his shirt—and you moan as his metal fingers start to roll your nipples with an expert precision. “Gotta see you, sweetheart.”

You lean back to undress, and take the opportunity to readjust entirely. Sliding off of Bucky’s lap to angle yourself to the side, helping him all the way out of his pants before-

“Shit-“ Bucky hisses your name as you take him in your mouth, his hand fisting carefully in your hair. “Jesus, warn me-“

You hum, pausing to look at him under your lashes, his cock still heavy on your tongue, and he groans. 

“Don’t stop- Fuck-“

His hips buck up again as you swirl your tongue around the head of him, one hand still stroking the base of his cock as the other braces you up, and you let out a lewd, muffled moan as he bumps the back of your throat.

“Shit- Sorry, sweetheart- Christ-“

It didn’t bother you. If this wasn’t about Bucky relaxing, you would’ve guided him to just start fucking your face. But you’re doing all the work tonight, so you just hollow your cheeks, relax your jaw, and start to bob up and down. Making him bully your throat and shifting your hand to play with his balls, moaning around him whenever he jerks on your tongue and sucking him off like you’ve been starved. 

But Bucky never gets the memo that this is supposed to be about him. Because suddenly, when you’re licking a strong line up his shaft before dropping down and choking on him, you feel a warm hand massaging your ass and teasing over your panties, right on- 

You pull off of him with a sharp gasp as Bucky rubs your clit, and he just chuckles, running your hair between his fingers. 

“Bucky-“

“C’mon, babydoll.” He drawls, tugging your hair until you’re looking up at him. “Can’t take it as good as you give it.”

You blink at him, almost falling forward as he leaves a light slap on your ass, your hand still mindlessly playing with his balls squeezing slightly. 

Bucky hisses, landing another hit before rubbing his finger back over your clothed pussy. “Play nice, sweetheart.”

You moan, slumping into his body as he slowly pulls your panties to the side, teasing his fingers over your bare, soaking slit. 

“Thought you wanted to suck me off, doll?” Bucky teases, and you twist to bury your burning face in his stomach. “Begged me for it, too.”

“Buck,” you whisper, wiggling your ass in the air and whining when you get another light slap. “I need it, please-“

“I know you do, gorgeous.” He tugs your hair again, making you pull back from hiding. “Keep that perfect mouth on my cock and I’ll take care of you.”

You nod mindlessly, wrapping your lips back over his dick, and you’re immediately rewarded with Bucky’s fingers sliding into your cunt. 

And he didn’t lie. He never lies to you. 

You keep him in your mouth, sucking and moaning around him as he slowly fucks you with his fingers, and you might cum from just his voice. Drawling praise above you and moaning whenever you swallow around him, hisses your name whenever your tongue swirls around him, and-

“There you go,” he hums, his free hand still tangled in your hair as his hips start to jerk up, and you whine around him. “So fuckin’ wet for me, look so pretty when you’re takin’ me like a good girl, gonna fuck you ‘till you can’t walk-“

You moan at the promise, grinding up into the air, and Bucky chuckles.

“Like that, babydoll? Want me to stuff you full of my cock, let me fuck you stupid and sweet-“

He’s starting to slur his words, and you can taste the pre-cum, falling out of your lips with your drool. He’s close. It lights an extra fire in you, and you start to suck him off like there’s no tomorrow. Bucky moans, loud and echoing through the dark, and his fingers in your pussy falter for only a second before his efforts double. His hand twists so he can scissor his fingers in your cunt, his thumb finding your clit and starting to rub rapid, mind-numbing circles. 

The coil in your gut snaps right as Bucky presses his thumb down, and you squeeze his fingers as he pumps you through your orgasm. It seems to spark his own release, because a groan of your name and slightly tug of your hair up is the only warning you get before Bucky’s cum shoots right into your throat. You try to swallow, but his fingers are crooking and rubbing on that spot deep inside of you, and you can feel a second orgasm rising up.

The dam breaks right as he yanks you fully off his cock, tugging you up into a wet, hot kiss and biting on your lower lip. You scream his name as you squirt over his hand, and he groans, already half-hard cock pressing against your stomach as you grind down onto his hand. 

You shudder in his arms, a weak whine leaving your throat as his fingers pull out, and there’s a second where you both just stare at each other in the dark. You’re still aching, and the serum means he can go all night, and he did say he’d fuck you. 

He tips your head back slightly, pressing those same fingers that were just inside you on your lower lips. You hold his gaze as you take them in your mouth, sucking them with just as much fervor as you gave his cock, and he groans.  

“You got more in you,” he mutters your name, voice dripping with lust, and you nod frantically. “Wanna-“

“Bed.” You whisper, pulling back with a pleading look. “Or just here-“

Your words die in a yelp as Bucky stands, keeping you steady in his arms, and marches you right to your room. He kisses you as he stops at the foot of the bed, never breaking it as he lowers you both down to the mattress. The only half second, he pulls away is to pull his shirt off his head and toss in into a corner, before raising your legs up to help you out of your panties. 

He groans at the sight of the mess between your legs, stroking his cock as he kisses on your calf, and lowers your leg down back down to the bed. “So pretty, babydoll. Gonna fuck you so good, promise.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s falling back over you, capturing your mouth in a rough kiss before slowly guiding himself into your pussy. He moans as you flutter around him, leaning back to scan over your face for any discomfort, and you give him is a tiny nod and roll of your hips.

“More.” You gasp, fingers curling on his chest. “More, Bucky-“

He groans, kissing the words out of your mouth, and start to roll his hips, fucking you lazily. Slowly. 

But he picks up the pace. You don’t have to beg or whine for him, Bucky always picks up his pace. Starting with hungrier, deeper kisses and tiny love-bites, before becoming a careful but firm grip on your hips, angling them up to give himself a better angle. 

Then you moan his name, and he slams against that deep spot only he can ever reach. Your back arches off the bed with a gasp, Bucky groans your name as you flutter around his cock, and the speed picks up. The bed creaking under him as he fucks you, really properly fucks you, and you’re flying out of your skin as he groans against your throat, his mouth diving down to wrap around a nipple and sucking. You yank on his hair when his tongue does that maddening swirl and flick, and he start to groan, the sound vibrating thorough your body.

You cum together. Bucky’s lips press right over yours as he pulls out one last time, slams in with a groan, and you come apart in his arms. Your head spins with pleasure as he cums inside of you, kissing all over your face and rubbing his hands in slow circles on your hips as he lets you ease back down.

“Shower?” He grunts in your ear, and you nod, your hands rubbing over his back. 

It glides by so easily, in the soft, comfortable bliss of Bucky’s presence. He helps you to the bathroom so you can pee, turning on the shower and waiting for you to be ready before guiding you into the warm water. By the time you’re both clean the mist has gotten to your head, and sleep is tugging at your eyes. You’d fight it, if you couldn’t feel Bucky humming as he washes your hair. You try to return the favor, but he just keeps you pinned against his chest, kissing over your neck. 

He climbs into bed with you, after helping you dry off. Wrapped around you and out before you can even really register it. He’s a silent sleeper, but you know the difference. He’s relaxed, draped over you, and breathing deeply as you start to drift off.

Home. 

He always comes home.

End Note: I think writing this kickstarted my ovulation.

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@skrph @kanakarbakar @lcolumbia1988 @sebastians-love @jjwasneverhere

@annoyingrebelsoul @strawberrykiwisdogog @panickedbitch @itserickalove @sineminuse

@deerandbunnies

[devswritingcornerorsmth]

Yandere!Hector/Reader Headcanons

i was writing a fic but my computer crashed and deleted 1.7k words of fanfic so I'm making headcanons instead to give me motivation to rewrite the fanfic!

tw: stalking, obsessive behavior, suggestive content, hector being creepy, hector talking bad about himself, mentions of somophilia (nothing ever happens but hector thinks about it), gaslighing, dead dove content

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!! if you find any of the content above triggering, PLEASE do not read!! if you click, read, and become uncomfortable or smth don't blame me, i tried to warn you.

= The first time Hector sees you, he knows that you're the one. Out of everything, you came up to him first, turning on the thermostat to cool yourself off from the heatwave. He did as you commanded, gently blowing out a nice, cool breeze as you worked in your office. He couldn't help but stare at you as you worked, resting his head in his hands.

= He's both excited and horrified when you scan him after so long of waiting and watching everything you do. Hector doesn't introduce himself just yet, staring at you from the grate until you're about to walk away. He calls out for you and apologizes for not saying anything. He greets you and is surprised when you respond positively.

= Speaking with you was the highlight of his week, hell, maybe even his life. Hector follows you back to your room through the vents, watching you get ready for bed before laying down.

= A surge of jealousy goes through Hector at the thought of Betty holding you. It should be him! He should be down there, cuddling you, keeping you, touching you, loving you... But he knew he could never. You would find him ugly and never scan him again, maybe replace him.

= Hector fantasizes when all the objects are Realized, leaving just him and you. They wouldn't be able to stop him from loving you how you should be loved. He thought about when Dorian leaves, how he'd be able to finally sneak out and touch you as you slept. He had to take a moment when he realized how horrible that thought was, covering his mouth as if he were about to vomit. It was your fault you were making him feel like this, but he didn't want to stop feeling like this. You were a drug that could make him sober.

= His stalking grew more intense and bolder, almost getting caught a few times by the other objects. Hector never takes anything; he can't when your clothing is sentient or when your trash hoards it away. He ends up stealing from Fantina's shrine, causing her to scream and freak out, accusing everyone in the gym room.

= Speaking of the gym, it's always nice and cool in there, so you never use Fantina, just him.

= Hector loves when it's warm outside, watching you get all hot and bothered before you have to turn him on and save you from the blistering heat. He will sometimes tease you and not turn on, watching you sweat and walk around in loose clothing. He quickly turns it on when you start heading up to the attic to see what's wrong.

= When you're gone, he makes the house a living hell, turning up the heat to extreme temperatures to make everyone miserable. Everyone becomes irritable and sweaty, blaming you for leaving the heat on. Hector does feel bad when some of the objects snap at you, like Freddy and Mac. Skylar has to step in to calm a few of them down and explain that it couldn't have been you since Dorian, Curt, and Rod saw you leave without touching the thing.

= When/if you confront Hector about it, since he's the HVAC system, he lies and apologizes, his voice shaky. He doesn't want you to be mad at him, please don't be mad at him, he's only doing this because he loves you!

= Whether you believe him or not is up to you, but you tell him not to do it again.

= The other objects start to feel worried. They can sense the change in the house. The objects you're close to tell you to be careful, that something is wrong, and to keep an eye out.

= Hector tells you not to listen to them, telling you that everything is normal. He can see all over the house, and everything is fine! Just stay with him. Stay close to him. Please.

---

it's late and i got a HUGE headache so i miiighhttt post a part two to this if i feel up for it idk jaybe jaybe not.

thanks for reading mwah mwah sorry about creepy hector

[cameoamalthea]

Right? @hollowistheworld

I was like:

I can't believe they killed off Captain Hossein! He was the BEST character! And Lieutenant Kulleruu was evil the whole time? I did not see that coming! (Maybe I should have…) And yes, evil, I do not believe for a second that Nav Bot 337 Alt 66 killed him. NO! They loved each other. Then Lieutenant Kulleruu did something, some malware that forced Nav Bot 337 Alt 66 to kill Captain Hossein. He thought he could just wipe it's memories of everything so that it couldn't tell anyone that it had been forced to do it! But you can't erase love! Or trauma!

And why did Lieutenant Kulleruu do it? Was he in love with Nav Bot 337 Alt 66 and did it out of jealousy or was it just ambition to get the captain's seat?

And now I'm sad cause Captain Hossein is gone and Nav Bot 337 Alt 66 is going to die. And poor Navigation Officer Hordööp-Sklanch has done nothing wrong in his life and does not deserve to be trapped in a wormhole for infinity!

I hope maybe, somehow, he can use his Navigation skills to get the ship out of there even without a navigation unit.

But then the person I was talking to suggested: They'll use the wormhole to rewind time and undo it!

And I was like: Omg! That would be amazing! I hope we learn why Kulleruu did it.

What if he hates bots and hates bot/human relationships.

So he kills Captain Hossein by making Nav Bot do it and Captain Hossein doesn’t know that it didn’t just betray and murder him. Then he forced Nav Bot to forget Captain Hossein. So cruel!

Like making Captain Hossein die by his bot beloveds own hand was punishment for him loving a bot.

That or he was in love with Captain Hossein and it’s a jealousy thing.

But the person I was talking to thought: It's going to be some super convoluted thing where he had stock in a competing bot company or something

BUT I still think it's because Kulleruu was in love with Hossein and couldn't understand why he wouldn't love him back and would choose a bot over him, and if Kulleruu couldn't have him no one could!

I can't believe I'm invested in Sanctuary Moon. Fuck this GrayCris stuff, does the Nav Bot kill Sklanch? Does the whole crew die? Is Captain Hossein really dead? Did Kullervv (sp?) arrange all this so he could be captain? Is he in league with Bookkeeper Bittenmark??? Murderbot is so right, this is a premium quality show, I'd like all 19 seasons please

[caitlinsnicket]

bob likes sucking things. lollipops, icecream, candycanes, anything that will take a while to finish so he'll be calm and focused on something. he chews his gum until it's hard and tasteless, and will chew on ice cubes randomly thoroughout the day just to put his mind at ease. it's not even a task, having his mouth moving around something, but it's the right amount of attention he needs to put out so other things can be done smoothly.

so when he tells you he would pay better attention to the movie you are watching if he had one of your pretty tits on his mouth, he's not joking. and the worst part is that he doesn't even act horny about it: just pulls your shirt down a bit and guides your nipple to his mouth, eyes trained on the tv. you could say something. maybe you should say something, call him a pervert just to see his ears go a little red, but he's honestly watching that damn cop movie, lips latched and tongue moving slowly, his other hand resting on your stomach.

so you let him. you ignore the growing wetness between your legs, the way your thighs move just a little under him, and how warm and wet his lips feel, because he's been begging to watch this movie for weeks now and you don't want to spoil his fun. and for two whole hours, you keep your sounds and movements to a minimum, even when his other hand comes up and starts squeezing your other breast like a fidget toy. when it finally ends and he lets go of your now red, bruised skin with a wet pop, you can't help the little moan that slips out of you.

that's when bob notices your glazed eyes and tense limbs, lower lip red from how you'd been chewing to keep quiet. and his heart skips a beat, of course it does, because he just now realizes that he's been edging his girl for hours, and she didn't say anything!

"oh no, did i leave my baby hanging? do you need help, sweetheart? huh?"

and, for one, you do need help, because your panties are sticking to your damp skin when you slide them off you to show the mess he made, and you really feel like getting his cock nice and snug inside of you until you melt. but also, he doesn't move or stop looking right into your eyes until you answer him, because he wants to hear you. wants to hear the need in your voice, and see the effect he has on you.

and when you mumble a yes, he goes right to the root of the problem, his pretty cock going hard at the drop of a hat (you're pretty sure he can control it at this point), nudging your clenching hole with the tip just to see if you're ready. and from the way a string of your wetness gets stuck on his cock, he can see you are.

so he fucks you nice and slow, his eyes torn between watching your folds drag around him and your pleading glassy eyes. he's not edging or teasing you anymore, he just wants you to let go and get your release, and so his fingers make their way to your puffy clit, getting wet from the mess of you two combined.

and then, as if you weren't already on edge, his head makes its way to your tits again, his tongue tracing lazily around your skin. when you ask him if he was distracted, he just says he wants to focus on making you feel good, and not lose it and just pump you full of cum. because bob is good at paying attention. he just needs something to suck on.

[seasidefallenangel]

yeah, i feel it coming on, when i've been static for too long

how good are blue lock men at taking off your bra? ft. itoshi sae, otoya eita, chigiri hyoma, yukimiya kenyu, karasu tabito, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, michael kaiser, mikage reo, alexis ness

notes: companion post with my bestie reid<3 you can read his here or by clicking the title, suggestive but mostly funny, reader wears a bra but gender isn't specified

༄ CAN TAKE YOUR BRA OFF BETTER THAN YOU CAN -

sae:  you’re not sure how exactly he’s so good at this. despite his looks and ease of access, he had no interest in relationships prior to meeting you. you can’t accuse him of cheating either because sae would just flat out dump you if he was no longer interested. even when you ask he just gives you a blank stare and asks if it matters. in the end you just had to chalk it up to him being naturally good at everything once again.

otoya: every time he flawlessly unclasps your bra your eye twitches with resentment. you’re both fully aware of why he’s able to do that with such ease, but you won’t bring it up. he just laughs nervously and prays he can make you feel good enough that you won’t think to interrogate him further. at least he thinks you’re hot when you’re mad (just… not when you’re mad at him.)

chigiri: you ask him if he’s so good at this because he wears them in his free time. he does not laugh. honestly though, the worst part about him is how sneaky he is. you never even feel his hand, fingers, not a thing until your bra is suddenly no longer on your body. the worst is when he does it in the grocery store to piss you off as revenge for something you’d done two days prior. to this day you still never see it coming.

༄ GETS IT AFTER A FEW TRIES -

yukimiya: yukimiya is a good boy who always has your best interest at heart, and literally spent time in a lingerie store figuring out how bras work so he could do it with ease during any actual intimacy. dealing with the fabric on a moving body was a bit more difficult than he anticipated, but he’s still good enough at it that it doesn’t really distract or take away from the heat of the moment. 

karasu: he’s been around here and there, but he’s no player or one to have a million situationships at once. it’s not quite muscle memory for him but he’s still familiar enough to get it off of you in a decent amount of time. something to his benefit is that he is touchy, so if he thinks it’s going to be more of an issue tonight he’ll opt to run his fingers across your body to distract you. it’s like the touch of an angel’s wing, so soft and reverent that you can’t even feel him fiddling with the metal clasps. 

isagi: there’s a demon in the back of his head that tells him if he can’t do this properly then he needs to kill himself. there’s absolutely no reason he should be taking it this seriously. you can’t figure out why he looks so stone faced when he’s trying to unhook it until he eventually admits he’s timing himself in his head and trying to shave off seconds it takes him. it’s so ridiculous yet so earnest and so yoichi that you don’t even have the heart to make fun of him for it. 

༄ BECOMES IMPATIENT AND JUST DESTROYS IT -

nagi: he’s actually a more patient person than you think. the only thing that really gets him is menial tasks, complex things for no reason or overly complicated to deal with. those horrible straps and clips of yours fall under every category he hates and therefore bras as a whole are his mortal enemy. there’s a sign on his door that says “bra free area” in messy handwriting and he takes it very seriously. leave that shit in the bathroom.

rin: considering he was a sad, pathetic virgin before you two started dating, it’s very obvious he has no idea how the fuck that thing works. he hates that you even have to wear it all. there’s nothing that tanks his mood worse than making out with you and him seeing that demon when he gets your shirt off. you’ve yelled at him a million times for it and he always just buys you three more to make up for it. just let him do it or he’ll act all broody and upset for the rest of the night.

bachira: too damn excited to do anything properly. he’s literally vibrating every single time you even kiss him, and the prospect of doing anything more has him about to do backflips in the living room. you’re not sure if he knows how to do it right or not - he’s never even tried. he bit the straps off with his teeth once for god's sake. at the end of the day it is off of your body one way or another, and you just don’t have the energy to correct him otherwise.

shidou: the thing with shidou isn’t that he doesn’t know how to - he doesn’t want to. not only does he find the prospect of ripping clothes incredibly sexy, he’s an impatient bastard. if he can’t get instant gratification and a constant dopamine rush then he’s making it everyone else’s problem. cussing him out doesn’t work either cause he’ll just give a loud fake moan and tell you you’re hot when you’re a bitch. there’s no winning here, so get used to it.

༄ … YOU SHOULD PROBABLY JUST TAKE IT OFF YOURSELF -

kaiser: michael kaiser is an asshole and generally never gave a shit about his partners’ needs before you. he can’t take off a bra because he never felt like there was a reason to, and now it’s coming back to bite him in the ass. if you offer to help he just gets even angrier. will literally stop everything and swear for 5 minutes straight under his breath while his fingers get caught in the clasp. if you want to do anything with him, take off your bra before approaching.

reo: not as much of an asshole as a certain someone, but is in the same camp of not needing to ever take it off. people were always throwing themselves at him for a chance to be in the mikage family so the work he had to do was minimal. in a weird way, he likes it when you giggle at his unusually clumsy nature while trying to unhook your bra. it makes him feel normal, knowing you’re so at ease with teasing him. at some point he does learn how to do it properly, but still bumbles around - partly because he likes to hear your laugh, partly because he’s too distracted with how cute you are to pay any real attention. 

alexis: between being far too busy as kaiser’s right hand man, and absolutely loathing the hook-up culture of the world, alexis doesn’t know the first thing about women’s lingerie. at most he picks out pretty colors for you sometimes. you’re always the one to do it because every single time he tries, without fail, he takes so long that his fingers get sore and he starts tearing up. something about “being a bad boyfriend” and “not knowing how to treat you” and you want to shake him and say you don’t give a shit, it’s literally fabric. please don’t ever put him through that again.

[godzilla-barbie]

All in Due Time – Oneshot

Captain John Price x Reader

Summary: “Said you might be barking up the wrong tree, love,” he tells you kindly, but firmly, before adding; “Much too old to be running around with a young thing like you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you seem to be gauging his sincerity. And then you’re laughing again. “How young do you think I am?!” you ask, sounding a little bewildered, maybe even a little flattered, and that should have been his first tip off.

Notes: just john meeting his dream girl who is in fact the same age as him, he swears it. also john

Warnings: none, fluff mostly

Words: 8.2k

The first time he meets you, Price writes you off. Too young, too out of his league, too different from him. The second time you meet, at least one of those assumptions is proven wrong.

“What?!” you laugh at him, sounding genuinely confused. You’re at a mutual friend’s birthday party, their 40th. You’re a friend of the birthday boy’s wife, and John used to serve with the now retired Daniel, more than glad to see his mate making it to the big four-oh. Too many he’d served with didn’t.

John looks at you over the top of his glass, taking a sip before he rests it on the bar of the rented out pub, and turns slightly more to face you.

“Said you might be barking up the wrong tree, love,” he tells you kindly, but firmly, before adding; “Much too old to be running around with a young thing like you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you seem to be gauging his sincerity. And then you’re laughing again.

“How young do you think I am?!” you ask, sounding a little bewildered, maybe even a little flattered, and that should have been his first tip off. John looks you over, doing his best to keep his gaze neutral, but it’s a little hard when he’s looking at one of the prettiest birds he’s ever seen.

“Twenty-five… maybe twenty-eight,” he says matter of factly, waiting for you to give up the ghost and admit he’s guessed right, or at least close.

You only laugh again, throwing your head back and downing the last of the cocktail you’d ordered when you’d initially slunk up beside him.

“I’m thirty-seven,” you tell him, and it’s his turn to be surprised.

“Bullshit,” he says without really thinking, too taken aback to filter his disbelief. You eye him wryly and nod, before pulling out your driver’s liscence and handing it to him.

He eyes it carefully in the dim lighting of the bar as you order another cocktail.

“I believe an apology is in order, ma’am,” he says, genuinely caught off guard. You smile again, and this time it’s like he sees you in a brand new light. You aren’t some pretty young thing looking for… whatever pretty young things looked for when on occasion they approached him.

You shrug.

“Accepted, but you have to buy my drinks,” you tell him cheekily. Price is not normally a man who makes concessions or compromises, but this one he feels he can live with.

“Alright,” he says, handing you back your ID and signalling the bartender, who he promptly informs whose tab your drinks go on.

“I’m John,” he says to you then, holding out a hand, and you take it gently, a gleam in your eye.

“I know,” you tell him. “We have met before.”

John lowers his head some.

“And you remember,” he says it like it's a failure on his part, and to him, it is. Your smile widens just a little, but you lean in and nudge his arm.

“And you don’t?” your eyebrows bounce up again. Price has never spoken so quickly in his life.

“No, I do, I definitely do,” he says hurriedly, watching as your brows go even higher, and your grin turns a little wicked. His head lowers a little further.

“It’s okay, John, you thought I was a sugar baby,” you tease. Price doesn’t quite splutter, but he does open his mouth and close it again, cheeks growing warm.

“I did not,” he tells you, placing his drink back down and pointing at you. You chortle and take a sip of your brightly coloured cocktail. You tell him your name, and he repeats it back to you, tasting it in his mouth like a good whiskey.

“You served with Daniel, right?” you ask after a comfortable, but slightly charged beat of silence. Price nods, humming, but over the music, he’s not sure if you hear him.

“Danny’s smarter than me, though. Got out when he could,” he says with a chortle, picking up his glass again and taking a sip. You cock your head.

“Married to the job, then?” you ask, but despite your rather forward advances so far, you don’t sound searching, simply curious.

John frowns slightly.

“I– I try not to be,” he says, and it’s the truth. When his divorce had been finalised almost eight years ago now, he’d made a promise to himself, more than anyone else, to try and be more present in his life outside or work. He’d bought a house, a lovely little cottage style terrace a little ways outside of London, and he’d fixed it up nicely, given himself work and projects to do outside of the field. In fact, in the past few years he’d had to come to terms with the fact there was nothing more he could really do to his home short of knocking down the walls, and he’d considered buying another fixer upper, selling it on the cheap to a family or something when it was done. “But it comes with the territory,” he eventually goes on.

Your lip quirks just slightly, and you nod, looking away from him and out at the tables and throngs of guests.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably not even remotely the same, but my jobs fairly full on,” you say with the tone of someone who loved their job, but understood all too well the sacrifices it took to keep doing it. John leans back against the bar, and follows your lead, gazing out into the party.

“What do you do?” he asks.

“An events planner. Weddings most often, but all sorts really,” you tell him. When he glances over at you, you have a small smile fighting its way back to your cheeks.

“I love it, I really do, and I’m good at it, but sometimes…” you sigh. “Being pulled away from your personal life at all hours because of something gone wrong, or last minute planning meetings, scoping out venues…” you trail off, waving your hand in a circular motion. “Sometimes it feels like it never ends.”

John hums to himself. In any other context he could be mistaken for thinking he was speaking to a seasoned military officer like himself. You look back over at him, a wistful smile on your face.

“Doesn’t do wonders for the love life, I’ll say now,” your voice is wry, and he can’t help but return your smile at that, lifting his whiskey to you.

“I’ll drink to that.”

You clink his glass with a chuckle, and take a big mouthful of your drink.

“I imagine things are far more hectic for you than just a bride who’s bespoke dress doesn’t fit two days before the wedding.”

“We’ve all got our battlefields love,” he says sincerely, leaning over to you again, this time as if he’s sharing a secret with you. “But I tell you what, I’d take an enemy with a gun over an angry bride any day.”

You laugh at that, really laugh, and he shares a chuckle, but can’t quite drag his eyes away from you. Somehow, he gets the impression it’s been a while since you’ve laughed like that. He’s caught out staring, but you don’t say anything as you turn your body back to him, now closer than he remembers you being and you lean forward, your head resting in your hand propped up on the bar top.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” you say almost shyly. “But do you want to get out of here?”

John hears himself answering before he’s even fully processed your proposal.

–

Price forcibly stops himself from bouncing his leg under his desk, pulling his mind back to the mission reports in front of him. Despite this, his eyes flicker to the small clock on his desk and he lets out a huff, refocusing his eyes on the pages in front of him. It was 4:30pm, and the task force had only arrived back in London last night. Surely he could be forgiven for packing up early, leaving what's left of these reports for tomorrow.

But no. He’d send all his men home early before he left, and he knows for a fact Soap, Gaz and Ghost were still sat at their desks, so until they left, he stayed.

He makes it through the next two hours by placating himself with a cigar, focuses on that instead, and he knows he’ll thank himself in the morning, when he can officially start his leave, and not use up the day finishing off his paperwork.

Soap leaves around 5pm, and Ghost takes off shortly after. Gaz stops in on his way out around the same time, knocking lightly on his door and saying goodbye before he disappears for the next few weeks.

At 6:38pm a series of messages light up his phone.

Text: I’m not sure what you thought I meant when I said I needed the finalised table arrangements for tomorrow to transport to the venue, but that wasn’t a request, Jonathan.

Text: It is completely unacceptable, if you needed help or knew you couldn’t get it done, you should have called me.

Price stares at his phone in confusion. At first, seeing your name on his screen had brought a smile to his face, but as he reads the texts, he can only blink bewildered down at them. It’s strange, despite him being certain these messages are not meant for him, he feels a small twinge of guilt.

He calls you.

“John?! Hi!” you sound breathless on the other end.

“I think you texted the wrong John in your phone, love,” he says, slightly amused, but more intrigued about what the situation you’re in is. There’s some muffled sound on the other end of the line, and you’re quiet for a moment.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, you’re not at work are you?!”

Price chuckles, and sits back in his desk chair.

“Just got back, finished up my paperwork and am all set for leave. You couldn’t have mistakenly told me off through text at a better time.”

He hears your laugh on the other end, but it’s pinched and slightly distracted.

“I’m so sorry,” you say again, now sounding like you were struggling with something.

“Sounds like you’re in a bad spot.”

“Ah, this assistant I hired thinks when I tell him to do something it’s optional,” you huff, sounding like you’re really doing your best not to get worked up. “I have a wedding tomorrow, and the table arrangements needed to be taken up to the venue tonight, but they aren’t done at all, and he won't answer his phone,” you trail off slightly into a mutter, but he swears he hears something along the lines of ‘I’m going to fucking kill him’.

“You need backup, love?” he asks, already figuring out a plan in his head of how he’d help you through this crisis.

“John, you literally just got home,” you say almost pleadingly. He smiles. He didn’t know how to accept help either.

“Where are you, sounds busy?” He asks. You let out a groan, and rattle off the name of a wholesale crafts store. In no more than five minutes, Price is in his car and on his way to you.

The location he arrives at seems closed when he pulls up, but the light were still on, like maybe the staff were cashing up for the night. He approaches the doors cautiously, not surprised when they don’t open, but after a moment he rapps his knuckles on the glass, and a harried looking man pops out of nowhere and hurries over, unlocking a side entrance and poking his head out.

“I’m so sorry sir, but we’re actually closed,” the man tells him. Price gives him a friendly smile.

“I’m here to help my friend, a wedding planner? She–” he cuts himself off when he sees you practically sprinting up from somewhere deep in the aisles.

“Fred! He’s here to help!” you say puffily when you arrive, and the man, Fred, looks back at him with an apologetic expression.

“Sorry about that,” he opens the door wider, and stands aside, letting Price slip in, before he locks the door once more, and turns to you.

“Just give a shout when you’re finished up,” he says warmly, before returning to what Price assumes must be some kind of stocktake.

Your chest is heaving when he looks back at you, and no matter how put-together and professional you appear, you have a frantic look about you.

“John, I can’t thank you enough,” you say sincerely, and for a moment, he swears your eyes get a little shinier, before you’re blinking back any wetness that might be threatening to form. You close your eyes for a moment, and take a deep breath. “Cry later,” you say like it’s a joke, but he can tell from your demeanour that it’s likely true.

“Where do you need me?”

John is used to taking orders, he didn’t always obey them, but that was a different story. However, he finds it shockingly easy to fall into line with you, despite not fully understanding every third word or idea you threw out, but he realises quickly he doesn’t have to. You point to things you need, referring back to your phone frequently, and giving him numbers in exact, describing things he needs to fetch.

Regardless of your clear and apparent stress, you don’t get impatient or stroppy when he returns with the wrong width ribbon, in fact you seem to take a certain amount of relief in explaining to him the difference between a 2.5 inch and a 3 inch, besides the measurements, and what purposes each could serve in any given situation. It’s not information or knowledge he thinks he’ll ever really need, but he enjoys learning it from you, enjoys watching you grow a little more calm by the minute each time he asks you to clarify or re-issue an order.

You leave with about three trolleys worth of items, vases and faux-flowers and other decorative things he didn’t really know the name for. This world, the one you lived in, was so vastly different from his own, yet as you check out, griping with Fred about your current situation, and thanking him profusely, he thinks you’d look at his mission planning and recon and find it a walk in the park.

He helps you carry your things to his car, almost laughing outright when you announce you’re about to order a MAXI cab, but quietly enamoured with the way you don’t argue or try to insist when he tells you he’d driven and will take you wherever you need to go. Like a soldier faced with a sudden unexpected change in plans, you simply readjust your mission parameters, and help him load up the boot.

Once you’re settled inside, you seem to take a moment, pulling your jacket off, smoothing down your hair, and then you look over at him and it’s as though you’re only just noticing his presence for the first time.

“Hi,” you say almost giddily. John can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “I’m sorry if I was bossy,” you say, like you’ve just returned to base and can now process the previous hours worth of events. John shakes his head.

“I’m a military man, love, you give orders, I’ll follow ‘em.”

Your face softens even more then, and you lean across the console, John eagerly meeting you, and you press a soft, sweet kiss to his lips.

“I missed you,” you say quietly as you pull back. John smiles wider.

Your one night had turned into breakfast the next morning, had turned into lunch the next day, and dinner the next evening. He’d spent approximately half of his remaining leave with you, and for those short few weeks had fallen into a comfortable kind of routine that felt dangerously easy. John hadn’t shied away from it though. Danger was his life, and while you had spent a lot of time with one another, nothing had felt too fast, nothing felt too out of line. You seemed to fit into each other's lives perfectly, John never complaining when you had to take a call or leave a date early, and you didn’t seem anything more than concerned for him when he was called away four days prior to his leave ending.

Any time he’d gotten to spend with you had felt good enough by way of simply being with you.

“Missed you too,” he says, settling back in his seat and holding his hand out over the glove box, squeezing when you tuck your fingers in with his, and he pulls out of the car park.

He takes you home, to your flat, remembers the way without you having to prompt him, and once you and your cargo are inside, bags and boxes littering every surface of your rather plush kitchen and dining room, you turn to him with a grateful smile.

“Thank you, John, you probably hear this all the time, but you really saved me tonight,” you say with a small chuckle, but your tone implying you think he’s about to leave. Price cocks his head at you, raising an eyebrow.

“You can thank me when we’re done, love,” he tells you, stepping closer, as if to confirm he isn’t going anywhere just yet. “What’s first?”

You look up at him almost exasperatedly.

“John,” you say, firmly now. “You just got back. I’m going to be up all night doing this, and driving them up to the venue at god knows what hour,” you sound like you’re trying to scare him off. Price doesn’t budge.

“Then we should get started, hmm?”

You scrunch your nose at him, and he smiles, dropping a kiss to your lips as he sweeps past you, taking the closest box and beginning to unpack.

–

It’s five hours later when all forty arrangements are finished. You’d changed at some point, disappearing into your bedroom to remove your makeup and replace your work clothes with some sweatpants and an old tshirt. John had felt honoured you’d trusted him enough to carry on unattended, and when you’d returned, you’d wrapped your arms around him from behind and pressed a kiss to his cheek. You’d told him the arrangement he’d just about finished in that time looked ‘perfect’.

“What time is the wedding?” he asks, standing back as you finish fluffing up and counting each piece for the second or third time.

“10am,” you reply, almost on autopilot. “But I need to be there at eight to oversee everything,” you inform him, a yawn interrupting you mid sentence. John hums.

“The families are all staying in town, just outside the venue, I’ve got a room there too. Had to come back when I realised…” you trail off, straighten, then shake your head.

John nods.

“Let's get these loaded up then?”

You nod, tiredly, but you don’t falter nor drag your feet as you help him carry each arrangement out to his car. He watches you intrigued and impressed when you return after the last arrangement is packed with a stack of the flattened boxes from the store, and you pull them apart strategically to brace and support the rows of vases, slotting the cardboard in between and around each one to keep them upright.

When you’re done at last, he closes the boot and looks down at you.

“You’ve done this before,” he states playfully, expecting the gentle elbow you knock him with but taking it anyway as you return to your flat briefly to collect your shoes, your purse and lock your door.

“What's the drive?” he asks when you’re both back in his car, his hand reaching out behind your headrest. You look dog-tired, and you yawn again, but pull out your phone and rattle off the address, some fancy estate in York. It’s almost a five hour drive, but John pats your knee, and sets off as soon as you’re ready.

“You mind if we stop off somewhere quick?” He asks, glancing over at you in the passenger's seat. The roads were clear for the most part, but he was still driving cautiously, taking each turn slowly. “It’s on the way, I promise,” he adds after a moment, and you blink at him owlishly, like you’re surprised he’s even asked.

“John, after everything you’ve done for me tonight, you could stop off at Disneyland if you promised we’d still make it back in time,” you tell him. Price huffs out a laugh, but takes your hand and kisses the back of it.

“Won’t be long at all,” he assures you again.

His home luckily doesn’t take you far off trajectory, but he watches you perk up with interest as he comes to a stop on the street outside, throwing the car into park before he turns to you.

“Won’t be but a moment,” he tells you, then disappears.

You look up at the beautiful home, in a quiet, peaceful little neighbourhood, and you can’t help but smile. It’s not really at all what you’d expected, but you like it. You think if your life wasn’t so full on in the city, you’d like to live somewhere like it.

You watch as a few lights are turned on in various rooms, but he seems to be making his way upstairs, and faster than you really thought he might take, the lights are turning off once more in the same order they were switched on. Then he’s back at the car, carrying a dry cleaning bag that he takes and hangs from the hand hold above the back seat, before returning to the driver’s side and climbing back in.

You’re looking back at the bag curiously, turning to him when you can’t seem to divine through the black zipped fabric what it could be, though you suppose, there’s only so many options.

“Your outfit better not be the same as mine,” you joke, as he buckles himself back in, placing his hand once more on the back of your headrest as he checks behind him, before pulling out.

“Not unless you’re also wearing a needlessly complicated dress uniform,” he chortles, pulling out into the quiet road again and getting you both back on target.

“Needlessly complicated? Maybe. Uniform? Absolutely not,” you tell him with a tone that he thinks suggests he will quite like what you’re wearing tomorrow. You seem to think about something for a moment before you laugh to yourself. “My jewellery might outshine yours, though I certainly didn’t work as hard as you did for it,” you tell him, still chortling to yourself. John scoffs.

“After tonight, sweetheart, I’m tempted to pin one of those medals on you,” he has a laugh of his own when you roll your eyes and harmlessly shove his shoulder.

The drive turns quiet as the roads get darker, and the town passes you by. When he looks over at you only minutes later, you’re fast asleep, and John hums contentedly to himself.

—

Regrettably he has to wake you when you arrive at the venue. He doesn’t have any of the necessary authority to grant him access, but you jump out the car, with him standing closely behind and speaking in quiet words with the security guard at the gate, who greets you kindly and lets you in without so much as checking your ID. John figures you’d been down here over the last few days setting up the venue, that the guy knows who you are.

You climb back in the car, and make your way up the long driveway, where at the top, you direct him to pull off to the side. It was early now, around 4:30am, but still as dark as ever. Another security guard meets you around the side entrance, leading you into a massive ballroom already mostly filled with tables and chairs and place settings and decorations.

It looks lavish, utterly magical, and John can’t help but turn to you as you each carry a vase inside, the security guard trailing behind you also helping you unload.

“You did all this?” He asks. You roll your eyes, but smile at him, and give a small shrug.

“Well, the bride certainly didnt’t,” you tell him, sounding proud. He follows your directions, places each vase at the very centre of each table, back and forth, back and forth, until all forty are set and ready. You stand back, hands on your hips, but a slight slump to your shoulder. You check your phone.

“It’s five,” you say, the tiniest of whines in your voice. John smiles sympathetically at you, and draws you in by the shoulders, kissing your temple as you wind your arms around his middle and seem to fall into him.

“I’m so tired,” you actually do whine this time, almost like you’re on the verge of tears. John adjusts his arms tighter around you and hums, rocking you a little.

“Two of you still have a couple hours before the wedding,” the guard says from somewhere behind him, and John turns his head to send him a small smile and a nod.

“Come on,” he says to you, keeping you close even as he pulls back some, to get you walking again. “Let's get you to bed.”

The hotel is quiet. It’s a local place, with quite a nice pub down the bottom, and once he’s gotten you upstairs and to your room, you all but collapse on the bed.

“What time do you need to be up, love?” John asks quietly, pulling your sneakers off as you lie sideways on the bed, legs still hanging off, an arm thrown over your eyes. You groan a little at the jostling, but otherwise lay completely still like a rag doll, even when he briefly sits you upright again, removing your large oversized sweater, your face pressed into the crook of his neck as he holds you upright.

He knows you're not asleep, your eyes are still blearily open, but he might have been fooled for how quiet you are, how even your breathing is. Once the sweater is set aside, to be folded neatly once you’ve got your head on your pillow, John keeps you in place slumped against his front, gently trailing his hands up your neck to find the clasps on your necklaces. You shift a bit, ticklish maybe, and he can’t help but smile as he locks that information away, and keeps going, removing your simple gold chain, steadying you with one hand while he leans across with the other to place the jewellery on the bedside.

His fingers trace up to your ears, and you shiver again, making him chuckle lightly as you grumble tiredly at him.

“Earrings off?” He asks, receiving a small nod. He goes about that task too, struggling for a moment with the tiny pin and clasp, before finally managing to pull them apart, putting them aside too. His hands drop to your shoulders then, before trailing down to your arms, then finding your hands. He pulls apart from you just enough to bring the backs of your fingers to his lips, kissing each hand gently.

“What time do you need to be up?” He asks again.

You finally move on your own, crawling back away from him, though trying to keep one hand holding his, until you’re forced to let go. John helps you pull the sheets back, settling you beneath.

“Seven-thirty,” you croak, voice a little rough from lack of sleep and stress. John leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead, a little surprised you have the wherewithal to reach out before he can pull back, cupping his cheeks with both hands, and drawing him back to you.

You kiss him a little more deeply than he’s expecting, slowly, soft, like you have all the time in the world, and not mere hours before you need to be up again.

“What was that for?” He asks with a short chuckle after pulling away, his forehead rested against yours.

“For doing all this even though you didn’t have to.”

John swallows for a moment. He could easily tell you otherwise, but you’d both know it wouldn’t quite be true. He was bone tired, had barely slept since his return, and if you’d asked him hypothetically, this would have been the last thing on earth he’d have felt like doing immediately post mission. And yet it wasn’t just his training and drive that kept him going. You were right, he didn’t have to, but there was also no way he wasn't going to.

John smiles, and turns his head to press a kiss into one of your palms.

“I’ll wake you, seven-thirty,” he tells you. You hum.

He leaves you there, retires to the bathroom to shower the day off. When he returns to your dimmed room, he folds both of your discarded clothes and places them on a chair in the corner, grabbing his phone and setting the alarm, before turning out the lamp. The moment you sense him in the bed beside you, you roll toward him, settling in the crook of his arm, and it takes very little effort to mold himself around you, wrap you up, and press a kiss to your hairline.

–

You walk swiftly, even in your high heels, through the ceremony room, checking and double checking every detail, even as guests begin to filter in. It had taken everything in you not to drag John back to your room this morning after you’d both readied, and you’d seen him in that damn dress unifrom.

He may have found it overly complicated, and perhaps not fully comfortable, but you, you found it absolutely delectable. You glance back to him standing toward the back of the room, looking like he was standing guard over it. At last satisfied that everything is in its place and as it should be, you head back toward him, feeling a slight trill when his gaze snaps toward you, then back toward something else.

You falter for a moment, resisting the urge to look back over your shoulder to find whatever he’s looking at.

“John?” you ask as you approach. His attention falls back on you quickly, and this time it stays there, though you can’t shake the feeling that he seems… uncomfortable. “Are you alright?” you lift your hand to reach for him, but hesitate, and in your brief moment of pause, you watch him quickly take in your uncertainty, and even more quickly alleviate it by offering his own hand to you, drawing you closer.

John clears his throat a little and gives you a tight, rueful smile.

“My ex-wife is here,” he tells you quietly, but with a mirthless little chuckle. You blink back at him, not managing to mask your surprise. You have no judgement for him though, the fact that he’d been married previously is simply news to you. You squeeze his hand and lean in closer.

“You don’t have to be here,” you say. John lowers his chin at you, and he gives you an almost sardonic look.

“Messed things up the first time not bein’ here, I’m not making that mistake again,” he tells you, setting off a million butterflies in your stomach. You return his sardonic look though, and roll your eyes.

“You’ve already proven your point well enough by now, if you’re uncomfortable with…” you trail off, and look over your shoulder as subtly as you can.

“Green dress, left side,” he says, and you narrow in on a pretty blonde woman chatting amiably with some other guests. “And I’m not uncomfortable,” he assures you, making you turn back around. “Jus’ surprised to see her,” he adds.

You move around to his side, still holding his hand, and he brings it up again like he had last night, kissing the backs of your fingers, his moustache gently scratching against them. You lean against the wall much more casually than he is, and squeeze his hand.

“Good terms, then?” you ask curiously, now you know he’s not sweating to run out of here. John hums lowly.

“Yeah, by the end,” he speaks in a manner that sounds factfual, but he doesn’t hide the slight melancholy in his voice. You bump his shoulder with your own and nod at the pews subtly.

“She’s noticed you,” you tell him, making him smile down at you.

“I know.”

“You could talk to her, if you wanted,” you suggest. John shakes his head.

“I’ll let her approach me, if she wants. Days not about me. Or her,” he says and you have to suppress a dreamy little sigh.

“You’re a good man,” you tell him, and for a moment, his smile widens into a funny little grin.

“Sometimes,” he tells you, a little cryptically, but you brush him off.

–

The day carries on just as planned.

You rush around from place to place, John never far behind you, except when he somehow knows to stay out of your way, at which point you find him always nearby, but never lingering. You introduce your unknown guest to the bride and groom, both of whom seem happy, if not honoured, to have a ‘distinguished military man’ as their additional helper, and you even spy at one point, the groom roping him into a lively conversation with some of the other groomsmen.

He’s funny, and amiable, and perfect, and you’re forced to smile each time you see him.

Even later on in the night, when you spot the woman in the green dress approaching him on the sidelines.

He hugs her, but steps away quickly, and just like you had earlier, she comes to a lean against the wall next to him. You keep one eye on them as they appear to talk amicably, friendly even, a few smiles and laughs going shared between them.

Maybe for a singular moment you feel jealousy licking at your heels, but it fades quickly. There’s no longing or lingering looks between the two of them, no expressions of regret or sadness going shared. When another man approaches, almost cautiously, John’s ex-wife stands taller again, wrapping her arm around the new man's back and seemingly introducing him.

The two men shake hands, and then you watch on as a friendly, comfortable conversation ensues, only taken aback slightly when John’s gaze flickers past the couple he’s speaking to, and he gestures lightly over at you. Both of his companions turn to look at you, the woman in green smiles widely at you, and you straighten up, about to begin walking over, when somebody grabs your arm gently, and suddenly your attention is elsewhere, drawn to one more small fire you hurry away to put out.

John finds you some time later while you’re seeing off the catering staff. Most of the guests were gone now, the bride and groom certainly having disappeared a while ago, and when you turn to face him, you can see on his face just how tired he is.

“That’s a wrap?” he asks, putting his arm around your shoulder, rubbing his hand up and down over your skin when he feels how cold you are. You nod, and lean into his side.

“Yup, I’m all done. The service vendors will pack the place up. I’m off the hook,” you tell him. John looks down at you with a beaming smile.

“You did beautifully,” he tells you, before lowering his chin. “Sleep for three days?”

You laugh, and lift your own hand up to brush over his chest.

“Absolutely.”

—

It’s a few days later, and you’re lying in bed together, panting a little after your most recent exertions. Your head and half your body lay over John’s, your fingers running lightly over the hair on his chest.

“Would you ever think about doing this again?” you ask, still halfway lost in your thoughts. John looks down at you, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

“Darlin’ I think about doing this again all the time,” he says, making you scoff and smack him lightly. He laughs and leans down to kiss your temple.

“No, I meant– I was thinking about the wedding– would you ever get married again?” You hate how your voice has turned small, how he can probably divine all sorts of things from that alone. John hums, and shifts a little.

“I’m not someone who’s sworn off it, love, but…” he trails off, and when you look up at him, he’s frowning slightly. When he realises you’re looking at him, he smiles, a little ruefully, but you can tell he means it. His arms come around you a little tighter and he drops another kiss to your forehead.

“My jobs not so simple as just being in the army,” he tells you with a small sigh. You frown, intrigued now, and sit up slightly, resting on your forearms beside him.

“You don’t talk about work very much,” you say, prompting him. John nods and hums again, his hand still curved around your back traces up slightly over your bare skin.

“I’m in the SAS, love,” he tells you, making you pause for a moment. You look at him squinting, not that you think he’s lying but you cock your head. You realise he’d never told you, but you were friends with Daniel, you’d spoken about his former military career. You’d asked John when you first met if they’d worked together, he’d said yes.

“Fancy,” you say, recieving a laugh.

“Hardly,” John’s voice is a little tight, but he looks at you again, from where his eyes had wandered to the ceiling, before drawing his free hand over his face.

“I’m away a lot. It’s dangerous. There’s a very real chance one day I don’t come back at all.”

Your heart leaps into your throat and you frown even deeper, only stopping when his hand on your back moves from around you and comes up to smooth out the creases between your eyes.

“Anybody I…” he stops, pausing for a moment before he looks up at you and his hand moves to cup your cheek. ”You, you have to be okay with that,” he says at last, his voice solemn but firm. You place your hand around his own on your cheek, and move it, closing his fist so you can kiss the backs of his fingers like he often did to you.

“I think I’ve got enough to keep me busy, besides,” you kiss his hand again, a small smile blooming across your cheeks now. “I already knew you were SAS,” you tell him.

You watch John’s gaze turn curious and thoughtful. He’s trying to remember if he’d said anything previously that might have tipped you off.

“You worked with Danny, right? You told me when we first met.”

John’s features turn surprised, before accepting, and he wraps his arm around the back of your head and draws you in. You kiss him gently, soft, scrunching your nose a little at the feel of his slightly grown out facial hair.

“And you’ve put up with me anyway,” he says, like it’s been a massive sacrifice on your part. You roll your eyes and poke his cheek.

“John, no man I’ve ever been with has stepped up for me the way you did this past weekend,” you tell him sincerely. “If that’s what you’re like when you are around, that’s all I need.”

John kisses you again, sweeter this time, a peck, but you press back for more, and make him chuckle. You pull back, and gaze down at him.

“The answer is yes, sweetheart,” he says then, voice just barely above a whisper. “I have thought about doing this again.”

–

You move in together six months later.

Sort of.

You keep your townhouse in the city, and he keeps his house just outside of it. He stays with you during the weeks, brings some of his belongings, helps you rearrange your office and sets up a desk of his own. On the weekends and multiple days in a row you could work from home, you go up to his house and relax, he helps you move some things around, and you have more than one drawer worth of clothing in your shared bedroom.

John comes and goes, lucky enough to obtain some regular sort of schedule in that time, and more than a year after you first started cohabiting, you start getting the itch for more.

“Do you want to buy a house?” you ask over lunch. John pauses momentarily, halfway through chewing but he looks over at you curiously.

“We have two houses,” he says. You roll your eyes.

“I mean sell those, find somewhere in the middle ground?”

John frowns.

“Like where?” he asks, sounding slightly suspicious. You pull out your phone, and list off a few of the areas that you’ve been thinking about, somewhere quiet and homey the way he likes, but still close enough to the city it’s not such a hassle for you.

“Sweetheart,” he says in a slightly apologetic tone. “I dunno if we can afford that,” he says honestly. You like that about him. As much as John couldn’t talk about certain aspects of his life, the ones he could were never a closed book to you.

You hum at him. John wasn’t struggling for money, you know that much. His work paid well, it’d have to you think, but you had your suspicions for a while now that your work paid even better.

“Yes we can,” you tell him factually. You gesture at your kitchen. “This place has only gone up in value, and it’s already worth…” you trail off. You didn’t really discuss finances all that much, and now it comes to talking about it, you almost feel self conscious. You’d both agreed that instead of paying half each other’s bills, you’d both keep on paying your own ways, seeing as you spent more or less equal time at each other's homes. “I don’t rent this place,” you say then, realising, you’re not sure if he knows that. It had just never come up.

John’s eyebrows raise.

“You own this?” he asks, trying to sound curious but he fails to hide his bewilderment.

“John I–” you cut yourself off, not knowing how to explain this to him, but settle on facts. He liked knowing those, helped him get a clear picture of his situation and surroundings. “I think I make more money than you– substantially more,” you tell him, your voice almost sounding placating. “We can afford any of those areas twice over,” you say.

John stares at you, his eyes flickering over your face, before he sits back in his chair and, taking another bite of his pasta salad, begins scanning around your kitchen and living room like he’d never seen it before. You worry needlessly for a moment that you’ve insulted him, wonder if maybe he doesn’t like the fact you’re above him slightly on the pay scale. But then he looks back at you, a funny little smirk on his face and he lowers his chin.

“So this isn’t a question you’re asking me to make a decision on,” he says with a chortle in his voice. You roll your eyes and reach out for his hand which he gives happily.

“I am asking you. We sell our places and look for one together, put the money toward that. It doesn’t have to be an even split, I want to live with you properly,” you say. John squeezes your fingers.

“Well, don’t I feel like the kept man,” he chuckles. You roll your eyes again.

“Hardly, although, if you do want to quit your job and be my stay at home boyfriend, I wouldn’t complain.”

John shakes his head, giving you another little laugh.

“Any house we live in would be your house anyway, love. Yours and any little ones,” he says, making your stomach flutter furiously like it often did around him.

“Well, I’m definitely not carting any children back and forth across half of London,” you tell him faux-warningly. John shakes his head again.

“No, no, we’ll find a little place, good schools nearby, parks,” he perks up then, like he’s just remembered something. “We’ll get a minivan,” he tells you with an expression you know means he already knows your feelings on that.

You stare at him blankly.

“Like fuck we will,” you snap petulently, giving him the response he’s looking for and sending his head back with a hearty laugh. “You get one John, two if you behave,” you point warningly at him. John rubs his thumb over the backs of your fingers and leans forward again.

“Three?” He asks, seemingly testing you. You blink slowly at him.

“You can have three if and when you retire,” you tell him seriously.

John, for his part, doesn’t seem put off by this. He strokes his moustache thoughtfully.

“Two in the meantime, then?” he asks. You nod.

“House first. Then ring. Then two,” you tell him. John takes up your other hand too, your left, and raises it to his eyeline, searching like he’s looking for something that you both know isn’t there.

“First two can be in any order, I think,” he tells you, eyes flickering up to yours over your knuckles.

“First two are non negotiable, but can be completed in whatever order you choose,” you tell him, faux-haughtily. He brings your left hand to his lips then kisses over your ring finger softly before releasing it once more and returning to his lunch.

“I’ll sort it, love,” he tells you.

–

Price opens the door at seven in the morning, half expecting the movers to have arrived early. What he finds instead is Soap, Ghost and Gaz standing meekly on the doorstep. He raises an eyebrow.

“Told you he’d be up,” Simon says from the back of the group.

“And who told you where I lived?” Price wonders aloud, not quite glaring at his men.

Soap whistles loudly, looking up at the facade of the building.

“Swanky, Captain, real swanky,” he says, ignoring the question and wiggling his eyebrows.

“John? Is that the movers? They’re early,” your voice sounds from behind him and John steps aside, widening the door so you can see the three stooges on your stoop.

They must have heard the complaining he was doing last week about the first move, carting all his things from his house and into the new one, and heard a cry for help. Despite all evidence to the contrary, mainly the bored look on his face, Price thinks this is Simon’s idea.

“Cavalry’s here, love,” John says as you step into view, your face morphing from surprise into joy as you spot the men outside.

“Boys!” you say happily, bustling your way past John and outside to share hugs all around. Even Simon opens one arm to wrap you up briefly. “It’s good to see you lot again,” you say, stepping back to stand with John.

“Cap was complainin’ about the last move, figured we’d lend a hand with this one!” Gaz says. John doesn’t quite scowl.

“I wasn’t complaining,” he tells you.

You pat his arm, and look back at Gaz.

“Think he almost did his back out with the desk coming down the stairs,” you tell him, earning a snort from Simon.

“That’s the problem with mahogany desks, I hear,” Gaz says with a heavy lathering of faux sympathy.

“It’s not mahogany, it’s pine– it doesn’t matter,” John mutters, stepping back and ushering the three men inside.

Most of your belongings (and John’s) were already packed, each room with a stack of labelled boxes and a directory list. Each of your additional helper’s had come with their own cars, so the boxes get loaded up according to which rooms they belong, and the movers van when it arrives takes all the appliances and heavy goods.

“Fuckin’ hell, look’t this place,” Soap says shortly after you’ve arrived at the new house for the first trip of the day.

“It’s nice isn’t it?!” you say excitedly. Up until the first move last week, John had only seen the place in some extensive pictures you’d sent the last time he was away, although when he’d gotten home a couple weeks back, you’d taken a drive past the outside so you could show him.

“Weddin’ plannin’ really pays off, huh?” Gaz adds with a short impressed whistle. You laugh at that and nod.

“And here’s everyone thinkin’ you’re the one lookin’ for a bit of sugar, huh?” Simon says, sidling up, already with a box in his hands.

You scoff and smack the box.

“It was the only neighbourhood I could find that was close to work for both of us, and had good schools nearby,” you tell the boys as you meander up the front steps and unlock the door.

“Yer goin’ back to school?” Soap asks with no small amount of surprise in his voice. You turn around and look at him, baffled, when John siddles past, a box held in one arm, and he smacks Johnny over the back of his head lightly.

“For children, MacTavish.”

Soap doesn’t appear all that put out, even when Simon pushes past him next.

“You’re lucky you’re good looking, Johnny,” he says with a slight huff, checking the label on his box as he goes. Soap puffs his chest out, looking proud of himself.

“Ye hear tha’? LT thinks I’m good lookin’!”

Gaz eyes him evenly as he too passes.

“Don’t think that was a compliment, mate.”

You get all the boxes into their designated rooms by the late afternoon, order some food, get some beers, and by the time you’re seeing everyone off, you’re bone tired. John finds you in the bedroom, unpacking a few things. You’d made up a ‘go bag’ like he’d suggested, full of the things you use everyday, your phone charger, changes of clothes, your toiletries… and one other thing.

“Okay, I know we said we’d wait, but,” you realise your voice is echoed by his, and you turn around, blinking at each other. Then you realise he’s on one knee. Then he realises you’re holding a pregnancy test.

You blink at each other once more.

[likeanangell]

Thinking about….overprotective girldad!quinn

SYN. When your three year old daughter, Melody, is confused and teary after some girls make fun of her curly hair.

WARNINGS. teasing/bullying

AN. For my curly haired queens! (also peep Demi’s hair :)

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹🧁♡

“they said it’s ugly.”

her voice was so small you almost didn’t hear it.

Quinn’s hands stilled behind her head, gentle fingers frozen in middle of the braid.

you looked up from across the bathroom, mascara wand in hand.

“what, baby?”

melody sat on the counter in her little leotard, pale pink with satin ribbon crisscrossed over her tiny chest. she was all glossy eyes and flushed cheeks, fingers picking nervously at the tulle. her curls were damp from the morning spritz, one braid done, the other barely started.

she had been acting weird about going to ballet practice. You could only guess she couldn’t handle it anymore, and spilled

“my hair,” she said, blinking fast. “some girls said it’s ugly”

your heart dropped. Quinn’s face didn’t move, but you saw the muscle in his jaw twitch.

“what girls?” he asked quietly.

melody shrugged. “just some in the class. they said it looks messy. and one girl said it’s so hard to look at.”

you blinked hard.

your hand lowered.

Quinn crouched slightly, brushing one of her golden spirals off her cheek. “did they say anything else?”

she nodded, eyes filling. “they said uhm … they said their mommies do their hair the right way. and that i should ask mommy to make mine flat.”

melody shifted on the counter, voice thick and shaky. “but I like it…”

Quinn’s fingers clenched at his sides.

he didn’t say anything for a second. just looked at her, looked at you. your eyes were already wet. she didn’t even realize what was happening … not really. she was just repeating things. things she’d heard. things she felt.

“baby,” you said softly, gently rubbing her back. “your hair is beautiful. so beautiful.”

she sniffled. “i know you think that.”

“and you know who else does?” Quinn asked, clearing his throat. “Your uncle Lukey, he has the same hair as you”

melody nodded slowly, “He said I look like a ballerina.”

“you are a ballerina,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “and ballerinas can have any kind of hair they want.”

you felt your throat burn as you watched him finish her braid while she stared at him through the mirror. he was quieter now. a little too quiet.

when melody hopped down from the counter to go grab her coat and shoes, Quinn’s jaw locked again.

“we’re talking to her teacher.” he said low.

you bit your lip. “Qui—”

“no.” he glanced at you. “i don’t care if they’re kids. i don’t care if it’s a ‘phase’ or if they ‘don’t know better.’ someone needs to tell them. i’ll do it nicely. but i’m not letting her think there’s something wrong with her.”

you nodded, wiping your cheeks.

“we could switch studios,” you said softly. “i don’t want her somewhere that makes her like that.”

“she loves it there,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “she loves the music and the teachers. she’s good there.”

you blinked hard, watching melody in the mirror, twirling in her tutu, her curls bouncing with each spin.

“okay,” you said, voice quiet.

and that afternoon, after class, you knelt beside melody while Quinn talked to her teacher, Mrs Greta.

She said that her and the other teachers had no idea that this was going on. They would be having chats with the girls and their parents about the situation.

in the car on the way home, with her water bottle in her lap and her bunny clutched in one hand, melody whispered

“i love you mommy, and daddy.”

Quinn reached back and squeezed her ankle gently.

“We love you more, baby”

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. Hope y’all enjoyed…and for the record I wouldn’t call this “overprotective” but I needed a title

[help-help-i-need-an-adult]

Don’t underestimate this. It nearly killed me as a kid. Neurodivergent baby queer trying to fit in? Yeah, didn’t work so well.

I genuinely LOVE how this is explored in The Handmaids Tale in I want to say season 3?

This is Natalie. I don’t remember her Of- name cause fuck that shit.

She was a good handmaid. She did exactly what she was told. Swallowed the doctrine she’d been forced to live under hook line and sinker. And she told on her walking partner, the main character June, and got a different woman executed as a result. She felt no remorse for this, because in her mind it was the right thing to do and was protecting June.

In response, June wielded her status among the other Handmaids to isolate Natalie. I can’t even blame June for doing so despite where I know that lead. A kind woman was now dead. The Handmaids had to be the one to execute her. June was now farther away from her daughter than ever. I’d probably socially shun the class traitor too.

Anyway.

Natalie was surrounded by people all day every day who shared her values, but was in a different class than them. So she had no genuine connection with them.

She was also surrounded by other women of her class, who were in the exact same boat as her, going through the exact same processes and daily routines and monthly ceremonies and abuse. They were her built in friends and companions. Gilead designed it to be her built in friends and support network. But she sided with their oppressors and had no connection with said built in friends either.

And said built in friends turned on her the same way she had turned on them and she ended up in the middle of a shaming circle.

At some point after that (the timeline in the show being unclear) she snaps and beats the only person who was trying to show her genuine kindness with a can of something at the grocery store. Another handmaid.

She got her hands on a gun and was about to shoot the Aunt in charge of handling her, who had rewarded her for turning on June, but then lead her shaming when June got the opportunity to tell on her. In response, an eye guarding the grocery store shot her. A pregnant handmaid. A very vulnerable class of woman in a very misogynistic society in the one state where she should have been untouchable.

But that just leads to the other side of the coin. The forced isolation that was then forced on June, unofficially for her hand in Natalie’s fate, officially just for being Natalie’s walking partner. “Where else would she be?”

They put Natalie’s brain dead body on life support and tell June to kneel and pray. June can’t leave until there’s a baby.

June is stuck in that room for months.

She isn’t alone all the time. At least not physically. Just like Natalie.

Wives come and go to pray. Other Handmaids come and kneel around her to pray. Aunt Lydia comes and goes to check on her. Doctors come and go to keep the baby alive.

But June is isolated, nonetheless, because she is not permitted to do anything outside of necessary things like eat and sleep. Otherwise, she kneels and waits.

Her knees develop blisters.

Her lips are constantly chapped.

The shadows around her eyes are haunting.

She limps when she walks.

Watching her get up off the floor the first time that episode is painful.

She has lapses in time that are far too real.

She sings the same song over and over again to herself in time to the beeping of the monitors.

Even the woman who held her down while her husband raped her can see she is unwell and is concerned.

And she gets desperate for a way out. Considers killing Natalie and the baby. Reaches into a hazard box and gets a scalpel to do it. Attacks her former mistress when she comes to pray for the baby instead. Ends up cutting herself pretty badly too.

After the attack and hurting herself, the doctor who’s been keeping Natalie going just enough talks to her and patches her up. He says something about what isolation does to a person and June realizes that what’s being done to her is what she did to Natalie.

She goes back to kneeling, and singing in her head. She doesn’t get the scalpel back despite it being put right back in the box she fished it out of.

Once the baby is born, and June is finally free to leave, she chooses to stay behind with Natalie as her body is finally allowed to die off. Sits with her and shows her compassion in a way they didn’t know how to show each other in life. Not in a hellscape like Gilead.

Anyway. It is a great exploration in social isolation and how it can drive a human to their worst.

its crazy how so many people do not understand that social isolation isnt just sitting alone in your apartment all day never speaking to anyone you could be surrounded by acquaintances and friends but have absolutely no genuine connection or shared values so every interaction is shallow its basically just as bad as being alone if not worse

[ssareiids]

HIIII OMGGMG i love ur theme its sauurr cutesie i love it!1!1 i wasnt sure if you take requests or not so feel free to ignore this erm.💔💔

i was wonderign if u could write for spencer reid (PLEASEPLEASPLESE) like definitelt domestic fluff and like it's the two of them baking and uh it goes wrong but reader and spence just giggle like idiots at the mess they made

SWEET ON U!

pairing: s2! spencer x reader

summary: spencer and you both excel in many things in life– just... not baking.

tw/cw: if you're scared of fluff then back off /j LITERALLY NOTHING TO ADD AS A TRIGGER, if smth does count as a trigger here though please tell me.. probably innacuracies in the baking, sorry bakers i had google and a dream

shayli's ted talk: guys i swear i've been writing since my casey oneshot it's just that i'm... i'm employed now🙁.. also I LOVE YEW ANON, guys request things plz... im going through a writer's slump . we dont mention the dilauded here he's happy okay

Today was one of the days that God– or whatever being that resided in the clouds, gave Spencer a day off.

Well, it was more like the day off was forced on him. If you knew Spencer Reid, you knew he didn't take vacations, didn't use up sick days, and would probably win an award for perfect attendance if it existed for the FBI. He had denied himself of a freedom office workers would love to have, up until this very moment.

Hotch has made his words clear, and easy to understand.

"Take a day off, Reid."

Said in that same poker face Hotch always wore, the one that was burned into his eyes with how often he saw it. It was rare for the Unit chief to ever smile, and when he did, no one would be there to see it.

Getting back on track though...

You had a much more positive reaction to his day off, it may only be one day of freedom from case files and coffee mugs that were filled with a caffeine that bordered nowhere near luxury. But you would take it, you just didn't know what to do with it.

When he had first informed you of his day off, you had been overjoyed at the fact you'd finally have your boyfriend to yourself instead of playing a never ending tug of war between the job and you.

The excitement quickly faded when you realized.

You had no idea what to do with him.

I mean, you could just cuddle up all day and sleep the entire day away. But, that wasted alot of time, time that you and Spencer rarely had together.

You then wondered if you should ask him what he wanted to do, but unfortunately, ever since the two of you had begun this relationship– Spencer follows behind you everytime.

Literally and figuratively.

His half awake mind had once followed you to the kitchen when you woke up to go get a glass of water, and let me tell you. Seeing a 6' foot man behind you at 2:00 AM does things to you, and not the good type. You screamed and he screamed back, both in fear.

You knew that he'd go along with whatever shenanigans you had in mind for your couple bonding time, so you brainstorm, maybe not as fast as your boyfriend but you think.

You sit on the couch, criss cross applesauce, while looking down onto the floor. Eyebrows furrowed in deep thought as you scour the files of your mind for an idea on how to spend this rare Saturday.

"You look like me" Spencer tries to joke, it falls flat and slams face first into the floor when you don't respond. Too lost in the rabbit hole you've created to try and say something witty back.

Spencer furrows his eyebrows too, and approaches you warily– slowly, like you were some sort of threat he had to neutralize before sitting down next to you on the couch. "... Are you okay..?" He probes, trying to see if his profiling mind can do him any good in guessing what's up with you.

Then, as if the electrons– or atoms, whatever. Lined up in your brain to form the first idea that would suffice, you sat back up straight. A peaceful glint in your now not squinted eyes as you turn your head to face Spencer.

He looks confused, like... really really confused.

".. Love...?" He tries the pet name as if it would snap you back into reality, and you simply grab his hand before smiling at him.

"We are going to bake."

"... 'Kay."

As you had planned he had agreed to the idea without much second thought. Which was funny since he's so meticulous with the things in his life, maybe he's just gotten used to you bringing chaos into it.

You two had spent maybe about 30 minutes or so wondering what you should bake, you thankfully didn't need a search engine for ideas this time because Spencer was on board with being the recipe holder.

"How about chocolate chip cookies?"

"We don't have chocolate chips."

He responds curtly and you snort before rolling your eyes at him.

"I wonder who's fault is that.." You reply back, and he opens his mouth in protest, but he never actually says anything back knowing that you're right. Giving him a smug grin that said "Exactly."

"How about a Pie?"

"Well... I suppose we do have the ingredients for a normal pie, but we'll also need a variety of fruits, maybe more chocolate, and–"

"SPENCER."

"Okay, let's make a pie."

The two of you retire to your kitchen, getting all the baking necessities and tools out. You didn't even know he had all this stuff in his apartment, and when you asked he said they came with the place when he moved in.

You two learn alot of things about each other through small talk while trying not to get shells in the mixture when cracking the eggs.

You learn that Spencer has a sweet tooth, but you figured that out when you caught him putting 4 packets of sugar into his morning coffee.

Spencer learns that you almost broke your jaw on a jawbreaker once when you were 16, he furrowed his eyebrows and asked why you did it knowing it was called a jawbreaker.

You learn that Spencer has read your favourite book approximately 143 times and counting. You nearly teared up and almost got your salty tears in the melted chocolate.

And Spencer learns that you had a pet chameleon who ran away. He suggested it could still be in the house but just camoflauged, and you threw the cupful of flour at him.

You both stand there in silence, unmoving, like a showdown between 2 cowboys with only flour and sugar at their hands.

Spencer stands there, ruffled in the white powder that now adorns his pyjamas like snow, his face covered in so much of it he nearly looked like a ghost. He only reacts when you start laughing.

You don't laugh gently, or chuckle at the sight. No you laugh like you've just seen the most funniest thing in your life, and in a way... it kind of was. You hold onto the counter and hunch over, laughing like you were hysterical.

He looks over to his back, trying to find a weapon to launch back at you until he lands on the melted chocolate sauce, he glances back at you. Completely unaware of his plans before reaching his finger towards it, ew.. but it'll be worth it.

Once his finger is coated in the gooey sweet treat, he smudges it on your cheek, not carefully nor affectionately, he rubs it on your cheek– shamelessly.

You look up at him and pause your laughter, a look of faux offense swirling in your eyes as you try and find something to retaliate against him.

The innocent unbaked pie crust on the pan lay there, unaware of it's fate to come as you peel it off ready to lunge it at him. Spencer reacts just as fast though and gets his own piece of the pie crust

"Uh uh, don't you dare." Spencer says, raising his piece of pie crust like it was a shield against yours. You squint your eyes as if in focus before flicking your share of the pie crust at him.

He dodges, barely, before trying to swat you with his own. You jump back and almost bump into the kitchen island before grinning and reaching for an egg.

"I have a weapon and I am not afraid to use it!" You reply, holding the egg at him as if it was a knife, Spencer plays along and drops his pie crust onto the floor and raises his hands into the air "Ok! Ok! I surrender!" He says, his voice squeaky in defeat.

You two eventually agree to a ceasefire before getting to work on recreating the pie crust that you two had used in your food fight.

This time you work in silence, a comfortable one that came easy after the little playful banter you just had, you worked better this time since you both had gotten used on how to start and how to use all the baking tools.

After the pie crust had been filled with the melted chocolate and had been sent away to the oven, you two both fall back onto the couch.

Or it's more like you land on the couch and Spencer lands on you.

"Ah– hey!"

You shout when you feel his body weight practically jump on you, he grins toothily in his little victory when you let him stay ontop of you, knowing that you really didn't mind.

The two of you sit there in silence, waiting for the timer above the stove to ding so you both can try out your creation, there isn't much conversation.

But you didn't need to talk, your touches on his carefully done hair, and his head buried into your neck spoke enough of the love that blossomed nicely between you two. It got you thinking.

It had you imagining what you would be doing if you never met Spencer, if you never had a sudden surge of confidence to ask the pretty boy at the library out, or if he had rejected you. It had you wondering what fate held for you, the idea of fate itself.

DING! DING! DING!

You nearly push Spencer off of you when you hear the alarm's call, apologizing hurriedly before rushing along to the oven, with Spencer following right behind you, even if he was in the middle of having a very good nap.

He grabs you the oven mittens and urges you to be the one to get the pie, you don't question it, he was clumsy with his hands– half awake or not.

The oven door opens like the gates to heaven, in it's wake an aroma of chocolate and sweetness follows, sending you and Spencer into a momentary trance before you finally get it out of the heated space.

You both try to reach for it until you remember the thing is still... extremely hot.

Neither of you have the patience to wait for the sweet treat, so you leave it out on the fire exit, hoping that the windy breeze of the night cools it down enough, and that there aren't any pie swipers nearby.

The two of you giggle like little kids waiting for the smoke of the pie to dissipate and the heat to finally turn cool. When Spencer announces it's been 15 minutes, you finally grab it back into the safety of your home.

The sound of plates being taken from the dish rack and a knife being taken fills the kitchen alongside your giddiness, you bring it onto the counter with an eagerly waiting Spencer with a knife.

"You sure you can cut it?"

"I'm not 6."

He replies stubbornly before squinting his eyes and focusing on the slice he's about to cut, you look away to pass time as he cuts his own slice, but then look back when you see that he's taking... forever.

"Spence?" You ask when you see he hasn't even made an indent on the pie, raising an eyebrow when you see the focused glint in his eyes usually reserved for crime scenes and cases– not for cutting a pie.

"Shh..." He hushes you with a raised finger before finally making the cut, clean and simple, before handing it to you.

"I cut the pie for you in pi." He says proudly, as the joke flies over your head, which is usually supposed to happen to Spencer, not to you.

"... What?"

"You just don't get it." He shoos you away from the thought with a gesture of his hands.

extra:

"Hey, Spence.. about your joke earlier." You bring it up as the two of you lay in bed, social battery well drained after the events of today.

He only hums in acknowledgement of your conversation starter before allowing you to continue.

"Did you try cutting it for me.. in the size of pi or something? Like... pi as in the number..?"

"ты никогда не узнаешь."

"STOP DOING THAT."

shayli's ted talk: i used google translate for the russian so don't judge me... heh.. ok bye i'm gonna disappear and not write for another month.. maybe..

written by @ssareiids

[diabolicalevil]

How would Primarchs react to falling asleep or cuddling with love interest by accident?

Primarchs reactions to falling asleep with you

gn!reader

honestlyy this is perfect timing cause I've been a lot more sleepy than normal. its probably the summer heat and all those books I pretend to read

Lion El'johnson: Sleep isn't something that comes easily to him, it means complete vulnerability so it's never accidental. He demands that you sleep in his quarters with him watching over you. If you ask him to join you, he'll usually scoff but this once he did concede. It wasn't his best sleep, he was awake almost all of it. Lion told himself he was just keeping you safe but really he was entranced to see a peaceful side of you that he hadn't seen up close before.

Fulgrim: fulgrim loves 2 party!!!! When you left the event with Fulgrim most, including you both, expected things to get frisky. But as soon as you were half out of your formal wear and tumbling into bed you were out cold immediately. Fulgrim had woken first, all smiles as he cradled you. While he lamented missing out on getting to have you he had to admit seeing you content and asleep in his arms was just as thrilling.

Perturabo: If it were anyone else he'd call them pathetic to their face. What a sight it was, you had waited for him so long you'd slipped into sleep. He dare not touch or wake you, and he certainly wouldn't have his sons move you. So he left you uncomfortably tucked into a chair. A small joy to look at as he worked.

Jaghatai Khan: No amount of pleading or bargaining could get this man to rest. you grew to accept this but you, being a baseline, still had to. Getting in a midday cat nap was far easier with Jaghatai gone, presumably racing like hell. Waking up you found yourself curled up at his side, attempting or maybe just pretending to sleep. "I don't see why you like this so much." He remarked, already preparing to leave. While he certainly didn't get it, it was nice that he tried to understand you.

Leman Russ: Despite being the father to thousands of wolf sons he seemingly never tired. Key word seemingly. In the quiet of your shared bedroom it would take at most an hour for him to doze off. Often you would too, being completely surrounded by a massive, searing hot body would do that. Waking up with him after a nap was the closest he'd get to being tender.

Rogal Dorn: Can sleep anywhere surprisingly. Transport ship, on his work table, upright in his armour, whatever works in the moment. He never usually considered his work tedious but even having you chatting to him couldn't make it interesting today. The tedium got to you as well and it wasn't long until you were asleep. Dorn knew he should continue working, but there was no one there to judge him as he scooped you up in his lap and fell asleep with you. he wore the pain glove for the next 56 hours as punishment

Konrad Curze: sleeps upside down and is very upset stupid shit like "blood flow" prevents you from joining him.

Sanguinius: You spend most of your time together in his gardens, marvelling at his plants or, in this case, sleeping in the sun. There is nothing he loves more than cradling you in his wings. He wakes up long before you but not once does leaving even cross his mind. You're the only thing he truly has and he will relish it in this moment.

Ferrus Manus: Unsurprisingly it is hard and annoying to cuddle a man with metal arms. He's usually freezing to the touch and rather than wait until it warms up you sleep on his chest and he lays starfish. He claims it's just a necessity you must tolerate but he does think it's kinda funny.

Angron: The nails are far too loud for him to achieve sleep unless he is completely spent. He does however watch you sleep. Often. He'll hold your hand against his head like a cold cloth to a fever. His voice is too loud to speak aloud and he dare not wake you so he merely kneels by you and thinks. Thanks, apologies, confessions, whatever comes to mind in the moment. The nails punish him for it, but when else would he get a moment to let those thoughts form?

Roboute Guilliman: You were already in his lap while he was working. Just having you next to him is enough to make the work more bearable. When you fall asleep he takes his first break in hours, leaning down to kiss your hair and whisper his thoughts and frustrations to you. All things he tried to keep to himself as to not worry you.

Mortarion: worlds most annoying bastard refuses to cuddle. Shocker. Most you'll get is using his thigh as a pillow. Once he's sure, like 100% sure that you're asleep, he'll start petting you.

Magnus: Surprisingly nice to fall asleep around, he acts as a human dream catcher. He is a little annoyed you clocked out while with him, he had something to say. (Then again when does he not) but quickly finds that watching you lounging in his absurdly large furniture is very amusing.

Horus Lupercal: pillows 🤤 He's got one of the most "strong man" builds of the primarchs, that is to say kinda pudgy. Not to mention his boobing breasts. He was made to take naps on and he knows it. Often suggests it and when you do fall asleep he won't move for anything or anyone.

Lorgar Aurelian: Usually doesn't lay with you, something something holy purity. Instesd he'll sit on or next to the bed and speak with you until and even after you fall asleep. Big fan of reading you scripture.

Vulkan: He's like a furnace so any naps or cuddling won't last long, much to your chagrin of course but he enjoys what time he does get. Likes to cuddle most when you're in his room, far far away from noise or harm. Watching you rest never fails to remind him of what he fights to protect in humanity.

Corvus Corax: Doesn't sleep often but is very easily woken, even by primarch standards. Utterly fascinated by your ability to sleep soundly, vows to have anyone who disturbs your rest sentenced to death by ravens. Alfred Hitchcock Style.

Alpharius/Omegon: sandwich 🤤 For the "this is the other half of my soul" guys they sure know how to bicker. Always arguing one has more of you despite laying in between them. They never fall asleep but they pretend to as you doze off. Instead, they watch you. Intently. Recording every slight twitch or breath and slotting it away in the deepest parts of their memory.

ok thank u 4 the ask anon nap time for meee

[lis-likes-fics]

Shameless

Pairing(s): Spencer Reid x Reader Word Count: 2.2k word Warnings: NSFW, smut, swearing, p in v sex, oral (f!receiving), sort of exhibitionism (getting caught and not caring), idk what else... A/N: So I've had the biggest writer's block since my Valentine's event and I am just now getting back into it so forgive me if I still don't post too often after this. But thank you for your patience, and please bear with me as I get back in the groove. I hope you enjoy this little fic of my favorite autistic man!

Spencer thinks it's worthy to note that he's not nearly as shy as he used to be—and you would agree. When you met him, he was an anxiety-ridden, can't-look-you-in-the-eye, speaks-too-fast-even-he-can’t-keep-up boy that blushed every time you looked at him.

He's still all of those things but at least now he can kiss you without feeling like his heart might give out—just stutter a bit.

But it's not like it's come easily. You've practically thrown him into exposure therapy when it comes to relative public humiliation. He doesn't mean that you actively embarrass and/or harass him like it's some sort of life purpose—of course not.

But it's important to understand that you are Morgan's best friend and roommate. So when you and Spencer start dating—worse, when you start having sex? He learns what exactly that really means. And so does Derek, who stands in the break room with his favorite mug—courtesy of Penelope Garcia—refilling his coffee for the third time in the past couple of hours.

Emily is armed to the teeth, fully prepared to pick on him when she steps into the room to tease him and his wrinkled, un-suave looking shirt. “Well, you look like something the Strauss dragged in,” she smirks, teeth flashing with her amusement when Derek flinches slightly as he sees her looming over his shoulder. “What's wrong with you?”

She steps to the side just to take him in and really revel in this new, slightly unkempt version of the sleek Derek Morgan. His eyes are marked with exhaustion, and he looks at Emily like he might just pass out right there.

“Pretty boy.” The way he says has so much spite that Emily can't help but snort. He'd scoffed and shaken his head and looked off into space like he was plotting.

Emily takes the coffee pot from his lazily offered hand and starts pouring her own cup. “What? Were they talking all night?” She mixes in her creamer, fully unaware of what she's walking into. “What is it that they even do? Stare at each other and play Sudoku? The occasional shy peck on the cheek?”

“Are you sure you've met my roommate?” he asks, the look on his face way too vexed to simply be you and Spencer rambling at 2 A.M.

It's as if she's being summoned as JJ walks into the room, cup empty and hand already reaching for the pot. “The one dating Spencer, right?”

“The only one I have? Yeah, that one,” Derek says, leaning back against the counter with one ankle crossed over the other.

JJ is unfazed by his tone. “What’d she do this time? Or is it just the shoes again?”

“Actually, it's Spencer this time,” Emily corrects.

“Well, what'd he do this time?”

“Actually,” Derek says, “it's both of them this time.”

JJ rolls her eyes. “Who did what when?”

“Say that five times fast.” Emily laughs, much to Derek's dismay. Which makes JJ laugh, much to Derek's dismay.

“If someone says ‘time’ one more–” He cuts himself off, sighing and hanging his head in defeat as the two cover their mouths and laugh at Derek's general dismay.

“So what happened?” Emily says, refocusing the topic at hand because she really wants to know who to thank for her ammunition and why.

~

Really it's his own fault. At this point of their relationship, Derek should know by now that when it comes to Spencer, there's little that will keep you from him. You've been obsessed with the boy since Derek introduced you, head over heels and so deeply protective of him—in a way that's both fun and dangerous to tease.

Spencer adores it. He can't believe there is someone that loses her mind any time anyone even looks at him the wrong way. He has to reassure you that he's okay just so you don't fight a man who happens to shove shoulders with him on the street.

But it also means there is nothing that will pull you away from him when you've got the pleasure to give him pleasure (and vice versa).

Not when you're straddling his lap in the living room, square on his back on the couch while you make out with him until he's dizzy with adoration.

“You have an entire room,” Derek reminds, brow raised as he looks over at you from where you glance at him over the couch.

“Yeah, but we were already out here,” you shrug. It's not a convincing argument but you apparently don't have time to finish it because you're already cradling his red cheeks and kissing him silly again. He's already forgotten about Morgan, holding you to him like there's nobody there, at all.

And you definitely weren't pulled away when Derek opened the door to said room this morning, a question on his tongue when he foolishly forgets to knock. “Did you–”

Spencer startles in the form of a brief shout and a sharp jolt of shock. You don't share that reaction—in fact, you don't react at all, besides the instinctive shift to cover Spencer with your body, which you continue to rock feverishly back and forth atop him in a desperate search for the ends of your pleasure (which doesn't quite exist when it comes to Spencer).

Panting, your hands on Spencer's shoulders tighten slightly as you roll your hips deeply. “What?” you huff over your shoulder.

“I did not want to see this today,” Derek says, not to himself but to you as a half-gripe.

“You're the one who didn't—mmph—knock.”

“I thought he was gone.”

“Can you please close the door?” Spencer's voice shakes from a moan he tries to keep in as he covers his face with his hands, which had once been on your waist that you now miss. His face is burning with embarrassment, flushed red with humiliation and pleasure alike.

Derek doesn't quite pay attention to him, gaze focused solely on you still bouncing on top of him as you allow little moans to slip from your lips. “So I'm guessing you don't need a ride to work?”

“No, he's got me,” you say, looking down at him with źa smile and gently encouraging one hand from his face to see him. He glances at you, warm with exertion, pupils blown wide with lust, smiling down at him in a way that makes him forget about his current predicament. “Right, Spence?”

Spencer would be thinking of cradling your face and kissing you silly, of hugging you until you run out of breath, of holding your hand and staring into your eyes forever or until some cruel force comes to pull him away—if you weren't currently riding his cock like it's the one thing you were meant to do. Instead, all he can think about is how beautiful you look on top of him, how he wants to spread your pretty thighs and devour you, how he wants to make you cum over and over and over again.

“Yeah,” he nods, panting as he goes. “I got you.”

“See?” You smile at Derek, still rocking and still occasionally whimpering between fast, shallow pulls of breath. “All good.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Okay, well, I'm gonna go bleach my eyes before work. I'll see you later.”

You bite your lip looking down at Spencer's half-blissed face (the other half is still still pure embarrassment, because shame would insinuate being ashamed of giving you pleasure and that would never be an option). “Look so pretty, honey,” you whisper breathily, partially forgetting Derek's in the room.

And as such, “And my ears, too, while I'm at it.”

“Oh, wait,” you glance over your shoulder once more to catch his gaze. “Can you get me after work? Spencer's got a thing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, already turning to close the door behind him. As he's doing so, a shocked whimper falls from Spencer's lips when the blunt edges of your nails begin to dig slightly into his chest. “Or maybe I'll just gouge ‘em out.”

~

“Oh,” Emily says, brows raised and lips pursed. “I didn't know our boy got down like that. Respect.”

“Yeah, and I didn't need to know how much,” Derek shakes his head woefully as he takes another generous sip from his mug.

“How much?” JJ echoes. “This is a common occurrence?”

Derek drops his face in one hand, like the mere memory of the two of you and your “activities” brings him pain and despair. “You don't know the half of it, because the kid definitely isn't innocent in all this.”

~

Derek nudges your door open when you answer his knock. Glancing around, he notices a suspicious lack of your boyfriend, usually glued to your hip and at your every beck and call. You're alone at your desk, your fingers still on your computer as you work away on something.

“Hey, I was gonna get somethin’ to eat. Where'd the kid go?” His brow furrows as he glances around for a moment.

You look at him with eyes just a bit too wide, lips pursed as you look at him with far too much attention. You smile a bit, your words so slightly slurred. “Oh, he just went to do the same.”

“Weird, I didn't…” Derek watches you, suspicion in his gaze as he looks you up and down, tucked neatly into your desk. “I didn't hear him leave…” He trails off at the end, studying you suspiciously. Your eye twitches lightly, like you're trying not to close it as your fingers tap repeatedly on the desk.

Derek's grimace is strong. “Aww—c'mon, really? Couldn't’ve warned me or anything?”

You drop some of your façade, the remains more for the sake of his sanity than your dignity—there is nothing at all undignifying about being worshipped by Dr. Spencer Reid. Your mouth goes mostly slack, your eyes get droopy. You have enough handle on your voice for now not to moan in his face when you tightly say, “The knock was your warning. Whoops.”

“‘Whoops’? You let me walk in on you fuckin’, and all you say is ‘whoops’?” He rolls his eyes, not nearly as infuriated as he seems (he's so incredibly glad two of the people who mean most to him are together and happy, just sick of witnessing them together and happy).

Spencer doesn't seem like he's letting up anytime soon either. Within the cover of the desk, he spreads your legs just a bit wider as he leans in ever closer to you. You feel the slightest scratch of the barely-there stubble beginning to grow on his cheeks at the inside of your thighs and have to bite your lip to keep your sounds in.

“We're n-not fucking,” you say. “This doesn't count.”

“It does to me,” he raises a brow and crosses his arms over his chest. It doesn't necessarily feel like all this talk-back is really warranted if he's the one standing there talking to you instead of leaving now that he knows what's actually happening.

“Do you need anything, Derek?” The pleasure is creeping up your spine, and you're not totally keen on cumming on Spencer's mouth while Derek Morgan is staring you down. Is this the first time he's “witnessed” one of your orgasms? No. But that doesn't mean it needs to be a common occurrence.

He grabs the door again. “Are you hungry?”

“We're good,” you nod, your voice thin.

He's beginning to pull the door closed when Spencer pulls away from between your legs, looking up at you with glistening lips. “Wait, I'm a little hungry,” he murmurs to you, a shy smile ready on his lips.

You roll your eyes playfully, one hand coming to stroke gently at the back of his as it gently squeezes your thigh. “Ugh, fine. Derek.” He peeks his head in. “Send me the menu, I'll text you.” He sticks out a thumbs up and closes the door.

You turn back to Spencer, whatever is on your computer long forgotten. You smile, “I hate you.”

“Oh,” he says. “I can fix that.”

He spreads your thighs a bit once more and dives between them with the enthusiasm of a starving man to a buffet. His tongue laps at you until you moan too loudly, and then he's sucking at your clit like a straw. “Oh, fuck.”

~

The attention of the three agents is pulled to the door when the perpetrator suddenly walks in with a coffee cup in one hand, a wooden stir in the other, and a really confused look when they're all looking at him with varying expressions.

Spencer looks between them, eyes widening slowly as he nervously shifts from foot to foot. “What?”

Emily and JJ look at each other before falling into a fit of surprised laughter. Derek rolls his eyes, walking past the two, and then past Spencer with a small shake of his head.

His gaze follows Derek until he's behind him, confusion etching deeper into his face as he turns back to Emily and JJ with worried brows. They leave next, and Spencer is left to his own confoundment.

“What did I do?”

Criminal Minds taglist: @queermaxwooo @mdanon027 @lilianhallee @hpstuff244444 @thegr8estpuff @niktwazny303 @bubbles2300 @hiireadstuff @chloelmao67 @feyresqueen @hbwrelic @princess76179 @hc-geralt-23 @hits-different-cause-its-you @liza-beth03 @carolina-angel @mournfuldeer Dr. Reid taglist: @swwanlake @imgonnaslurpu @i-live-in-spite @stevendenkiswhore

[bakugoushotwife]

𝖘𝖔𝖚𝖑 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 // 𝖔𝖓𝖊: 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

↳ cw: minors dni, dark content. proceed at your own risk. nothing major this chapter actually. sukuna is himself but a simp. reader is severely confused but is lowkey down for this bc she's me af. dead body warning i guess? ↳ a/n: i am back on my bullshit folks. sorry for the long long wait, my personal life has been a rollercoaster as always so i just haven't had the motivation to do my thang. this chapter is mostly re-establishing the bond so to speak so isn't very juicy aside from the yearning! please enjoy and stay tuned for the last two chapters! ↳ jjk masterlist ↳ series masterlist ↳ previous part

uraume was the only one left standing. they had taken the captured man into the cellars–to be dealt with once sukuna returned—only for the walls around them to collapse seconds later. they could hear his yelling–screaming. they knew it to be pain, and nothing of the physical variety could elicit such a deep response. uraume knew in their heart of hearts that the bandits had succeeded. you were gone. 

and now, so was king sukuna. 

they gasp softly at the sight, a shaky hand covering their mouth. sukuna can’t find it in himself to speak–to move, still clutching the remains of his wife and unborn baby close to him, face slick with his own tears and drying blood. he wants to kill uraume. he doesn’t want anyone that isn’t you. he doesn’t want to see uraume’s own grief and guilt, nor feel their empathies. he doesn’t want the pity–and just as the anger swells in him again–and he thinks he might be able to summon his voice–uraume’s gentle tone shakily speaks.

“we can make sure she comes back.” they said, glimmering tears welling up in their eyes as they survey the damage. their eyes fall on the way sukuna shivers, the new wave of intensity that coats his already terrifying presence and cursed energy. uraume realizes that sukuna is not exactly human anymore—that died with you. “i know of someone. they can tamper with these things. she will return, sukuna-sama.”

sukuna can’t look away from your face. one hand rests on your cheek, spreading the endless pool of your blood to your own silky skin. he strokes under your bottom lashes, the agony mounting in his heart stills a bit at the sentence. there could be a chance to get you back? now…he is no fool, but he would exhaust every option. if there was even a one percent chance, he would roll those dice–risk those odds. or else this world will turn into a carnal bloodbath. there would be no stopping him. if someone as lovely and perfect as you could not live a happy life—no one should. uraume would not lie to soothe his spirits either. his best servant was quite fond of you, and knows even a fraction of the sorrow weighing down their master’s bones. 

“bring them.” he mutters, red gaze still fixed upon your paling flesh. he could not bear to leave you. if this person does exist, then uraume must find them and bring them to him. uraume nods, bowing their head. two tears slip from their cheeks and hit the fractured flooring below them. the castle is in such disrepair it will likely never be liveable—that much was out of his control. or better put, out of his perspective to consider in the moment. the house was full of memories with you, all of your design inputs and floral arrangements you so loved to make. the castle had a wing dedicated to the little ayame, forever his precious baby daughter. the castle still held your very soul, and now– his own remains it seems—the castle is destroyed. the room that you’re in creaks—the walls and ceiling and floor crumbling in on itself. but uraume knows that sukuna will not budge until they return. 

“right away, sukuna-sama.” their voice pitches up a bit, the grief thick in the air. but as quickly as they had come, uraume departs to find this sorcerer they speak of. uraume meets a host of intriguing individuals on their business travels—some become more useful down the line, and some just serve as favors for later. this individual has an incredibly powerful technique—but needs even stronger alliances. uraume knows this can be risky—but they cannot sit idly by and watch this torture. 

they travel for the better part of a day, but make it to the location. they had shared ale in this inn with a fellow weary soul before—and they could only hope that he would be here now. they barge into the bar area, scanning the room for familiar cursed energies and faces. their desperation must have been clear. for the very man that they were searching for approaches them.

“uraume, you look quite panicked!” the soft and feminine voice says, and uraume immediately folds their arms over their chest. 

“kenjaku. i see you’ve selected a new vestige for yourself.” they comment neutrally, though silently wondering what kenjaku had in store from a new sorcerer’s flesh. “this one suits you.”

kenjaku chuckles. “ah, why thank you. that is the highest of praises. you seemed in a hurry—or better yet, looking for someone?” the woman smirks up at uraume, a beautiful young lady fallen victim to the brain inside. 

“i am. king sukuna is in need of your help.” uraume stifles the smirk that tugs at their cheek, knowing that kenjaku longed to ally themselves with the great and feared sorcerer that is ryomen sukuna. 

the faceclaim of kenjaku’s eyes widen three sizes. “oh? is that so? what can i do for the incredible king?” 

uraume looks to the side. “just follow me. it will be easier to explain then.” 

so kenjaku does, suspicion not lost on him entirely. uraume leads the way back to the castle, a chipped silhouette on top of a high hill. 

“something horrible has happened.” uraume says in a way of warning, to get kenjaku to mentally prepare for the sight he is soon to see. it took their journey many hours, but as uraume leads kenjaku back to the room you used to share with your husband, their fears are confirmed. sukuna hasn’t moved an inch, hasn’t relaxed a muscle—they can’t be sure he’s even breathed since they left. kenjaku takes a quick look at the destruction—the body in sukuna’s arms, the emotion thick in the air between them all, and sighs. something horrible truly has happened, and the earth can surely die for it. he knows he has to do something—anything–to save the planet from sukuna himself. he is a powerful ally—the most powerful, to be sure, but that makes him the most dangerous enemy…or threat to anyone, even kenjaku himself. he has to play this the long way.

“master, this is kenjaku, a sorcerer i met a few moons ago. he has experience in these matters.” uraume says as gently as humanly possible. sukuna still flinches somewhat—more of a heavy blink if anything. he begrudgingly turns his head, surveying the traditionally dressed high class woman that uraume addressed as kenjaku. he’s heard the name before—and heard several distasteful rumors to go along with it. 

kenjaku hums. “your wife. when uraume and i met, they spoke of her most highly. what a tragedy…”

“bring her back.” sukuna commands, just before a growl. he doesn’t want a strangers pity. he doesn’t want a stranger assuming how tragic this is–they have no idea what he’s feeling right now. 

“it is not without great cost. and it won’t be immediate. i can only ensure she reincarnates in her original form, with original memories. they would have to be locked away of course, but we can sort out the—”

“what is the cost?” sukuna interrupts, uraume eagerly watching the volley between the powerful sorcerers. he doesn’t care what he has to do. you will return. he will find you and bring you back to him, you will come back home. the gods must laugh at him now, at their cruel jokes. he has never known an emotion as pure and powerful as your love—only his grief could perhaps match it. the gods gave you to him, and they have taken you away. they must forget who he is. he will fight gods. he will fight time and space. he will die a million deaths if it earns him a second of your touch. 

“you must be captured until then. until the woman connects with you again, but do not fret. i can ensure that you are split and protected. you are powerful enough to fragment into one hundred pieces—if you desired.” kenjaku smiles knowingly as he explains, but uraume is the one that feels the most unease. 

“do it.” sukuna says unflinchingly. he would much rather be some soulless emotionless object for the duration of your absence anyhow. this was a win-win as far as he could consider. 

“wait, one hundred is far too many. how could she interact with all of them?” uraume asks, turning their attention to kenjaku. 

“well, she needn’t interact with every piece, just one. but fine…let us do twenty. one for each of the king’s fingers. i think that would be rather fitting!” 

the feared king only nods, his madness and grief making his cold calm even scarier than before. now he has the thin thread of hope that this is not his last time holding his bride. the hope burns in his gut, like cool fire. “enough. stop blabbering.” he murmurs again, lowering his lips to your forehead, now icy. 

“excellent. you won’t feel a thing…” 

and in truth, he does not. he is only aware of his existence—lying in wait of the time he truly desires. your return, and his incarnation reuniting you again. there is nothing but darkness and void of black, his thoughts and cravings for you—until that day. 

“oh shiiiii—did he really eat that thing?” you ask, looking over at megumi fushiguro incredulously. “he just–does things–before he really thinks about it–i’m sorry about him, really!” your sweet voice nervously apologizes for your friend yuuji itadori, your fingers wrapped around his face in hopes you can pry that creepy withered finger out of his throat. 

megumi groans, running a hand through midnight locks of hair. “it’s no use, he’s going to die. no one is supposed to consume that cursed object. it’s the finger of ryomen sukuna.” 

at the sound of the name, something within you pangs. it’s like it has a hint of familiarity, though you’re sure you know nothing of cursed objects and their consumption. you’re no stranger to the creepy—in fact you’re sort of drawn to them. as an avid participant in the occult club alongside yuuji, you found yourself obsessed with the idea of there being more to life than meets the eye. you have a special intrigue with heian era japan—yuuji and you meant to tour some tourist attractions and museums this weekend. that’s it! the name, you’ve seen it in books before. he’s a cursed god, they say—no man, just monster. a feral beast with four arms and eyes that terrorized clans and villages with his ruthless bloodlust and carnal cruelties. some say he is legend, some defend the stance he was a real man–at least he was man at one point, and evolved into the king of curses. but those are books. it’s a fun debate meant to be a fairytale of the past—and here this stoic looking boy is saying that yuuji is gonna die because of this…mythological creature? you glare at megumi, hands still cradling yuuji’s jaw. you go to spit something back at him—how incredulous it was to say such a thing—when yuuji stirs.

his fists ball at his sides, he’s realizing he is in fact alive. his chaos can reign free on the world again until his queen is replaced by his side. then he hears it—the familiar tone, the lilt. never in all of his life could he forget such a song. his beloved. and your hands, so warm and soft against his face. his eyes flutter open, and you still haven’t quite realized it’s not yuuji looking back at you. the look in his eyes tugs at your heart, you can’t quite name the emotion in them, but he can. centuries of longing, grief, and insufferable pain. he smiles though, all cursed and pointed fangs spreading yuuji’s face into an evil grin. he is in a delirious state of mortified joy. here you are. after all of his crying and longing, for all of his challenges shouted up to the gods—here you stand; just as beautiful as the day he lost you, whole and the personification of sunshine. and he would be trapped. sealed, tucked away behind this little boy clawing at his soul to regain control—panicking about sukuna touching his best friend. but nothing could steal this moment from him, his eyes drinking you in with a thirst he can’t yet quench. “my bride…the threads of fate have woven us together once more.”

his voice takes you aback, shock coating your features as you recoil from him. he catches your wrists though, chuckling at the confusion on your face. that was notably not yuuji’s voice. perhaps this way too serious guy had the right idea. but it’s the words he speaks that truly capture you. his bride. that fate has restored you back to each other—but you have only heard of him through passed down history books and special occult club projects—you weren’t even convinced he was real until about right now. what is this about his bride? you tug uselessly, trying to claim your arms back, “i–i don’t know what the hell you’re talking about-” 

“feisty as always~” he smirks, pulling you closer to him. you stumble off balance thanks to his shameless manhandling, crashing against his—yuuji’s—chest. megumi shifts closer, even he is aghast and at a loss on what to do, but he knows gojo-sensei will arrive soon. sukuna presses his face to your hair, inhaling deep, arms locked around your waist, “you don’t remember now, little queen. but you will…” he hums, sniffing at your neck, grinning wider as you squirm.

it’s almost amusing that you don’t recall him right away. that the gods even now have more jokes left to play upon him, his beloved bride obscured behind a blocked path. but ryomen sukuna would move the planets and stars into a new alignment to bring you back to him, now he is just one step closer. he is balmed by the sight of you, alive and so brilliant even now he can hardly stand the sight of your glow. none of these maggots should even breathe near you, the queen of curses. you are too righteous for them all. you will see. and you will bring him back in all of his true glory—then nothing will ever take you from him again. the earth can explode and you will still be in his arms. 

something does awaken. it is not a memory—but it’s tied to one. webs slide around his hands, his wrists, forcing him to turn loose of you. he laughs maniacally, “yes, my little spider—there she is!” you manage to pull yourself back, megumi grasping the hood of your sweatshirt amongst the ruin of the building and now the chaos of sukuna’s return. 

“i didn’t know you were a sorcerer.” megumi states plainly. 

“i don’t know what that means.” you blink at him, heart still racing in your chest. there’s so much going on your brain can hardly process it all at once. sorcerer, sukuna, cursed object—yuuji’s somehow under the boot of all of it. you just shot webs out of your hands for the first time in your life and this once-thought myth of a monster is regarding you with familiarity. more than familiarity, really. before you can react further, a tall man shows up with shopping bags, a blindfold around his eyes. he seems amused by the scene, laughing at a bloodied megumi and snapping pictures of the action. he looks at you with that same amusement, eyebrows raising as megumi explains loosely what’s happened and the remarks sukuna’s made—your own spider-like abilities that seemingly woke from a deep slumber. 

“your cursed energy. it’s linked. to his.” the tall man snickers, shaking his head slightly. “what a case!” 

“of course it is linked to mine. she is my bride reborn. if any of you maggots touch her i will be dining on your bone marrow by noon.” sukuna snarls, already sizing this gojo sensei man up. you don’t know what to make of the situation by the time they’re sparring, only looking at megumi with the hope he may offer some clarification. your hope is for naught.

new terms, cursed energy–apparently you have some. and it is tied to the ancient demon king you thought was meant as a scary bedtime story to make children listen to their parents. 

your life has changed in the course of mere minutes. yuuji reclaims use of his body, and gojo loosely explains what’s going on. he’s very casual about it, which puts you at ease. but now yuuji is landed in their hands as the “vessel” for ryomen sukuna—and you have to come in tow as the soul connection tied to him. 

by the next morning, you find yourself in another realm. almost literally. the campus isunlike  something you have ever seen before—a new uniform and dorm room waiting with your name on it. yuuji and you are to be kept separated for now, until gojo-sensei returns from his meeting at the very least. the head-spinning sensation hasn’t let up, and sleep can’t claim you through your drive of anxiousness. being separated from yuuji truly is the worst case scenario. he’s all you have here. even if…he now comes with a demon that’s obsessed with you. you sit on your bed, looking at the new uniform that would signify your enrollment here at jujutsu tech. gojo’s wish for you to get some rest bounces around your head as you sink down onto your bed. it’s been a brutal eight hours—and your mind is a mess. sleep can’t come soon enough. maybe if you just lay down and close your eyes…

when you wake, it’s not the same room you went to sleep in. no, this is a far more lush bedroom—obsidian walls and gilded archways, marble flooring and windows that seem bigger than normal. you sit up in the bed, lilac silk spilling off your shoulders, black satin blankets and thick furs spread around you. a red sheer fabric billows in the wind of the open window, the smell of burning wood and perfumed oils drifting through the room. you rub your face, heart spiking again at the unfamiliar surroundings—and his voice comes again. 

“this was our room…our marriage bed.” his deep, gravelly tone caresses your body where it lay in the bed. it fills you with a certain longing, a warmth you recognize but also aren’t used to. you whip your head side to side, trying to locate the source. but he isn’t physically there—despite the heat breathing down your neck and his voice purring in your ear. “you look so much better here…right where you belong…”

“what’s happening—where am i?” you narrow your eyes suspiciously. you feel the pressure of a hand brush your cheek. 

“i told you. our room. our home…it is a dream of the past.” he hums, his voice dripping with sorrow. something within you is inclined to trust it. 

“i don’t understand this…past you’re talking about.” you admit, shaking your head. 

“not yet. i will bring you here…i will show you it all until it comes back to you…and you come back to me.” he says, thick voice laced with his undying determination and desire. “i have waited lifetimes just to hear your voice. i will wait as long as it takes for my queen’s return.”

you stare ahead at the ornate mirror, studying yourself in the heian era styled robes, the style of your hair. is this why you have always felt inclined to study it? was your soul always longing for this connection? your brow sets as you ponder this, even your fascination with the occult seems to allude to your previous lifetime on this earth. 

he chuckles, and it is a rich and comforting sound, surely only to you. “you’re thinking hard, little queen. sleep, instead. let me gaze over my beloved soulmate once more.” your face burns with his proclamation of romance, and you tell yourself it’s with embarrassment, not genuine fluster. his voice commands a certain degree of obedience, though you can’t convince yourself he is a threat, despite your best efforts. you lie back, and though you cannot see him, you feel him smile. “good girl. sleep well.” 

and…really…you do. his omnipotent presence seemingly soothes your brain into a deep sleep, buried in the dreamscape of your former bedroom. sukuna watches as promised, utterly intoxicated. he has wondered once or twice if this is reality at all. if this is truly his wife before him, simply waiting on her memories. he remembers kenjaku’s words–that your memories will be sealed. but if your power is showing through already, surely that means your memories will follow. he just has to keep pushing. keep fighting himself and anyone else that may dare corrupt you, defend his wife from any outside threat until she can be properly restored. but for now, he is contented by the sight of your sleeping face, the steady rise and fall of your chest, and the sound of your heart echoing in his ears. it has all been worth it. every moment spent in agony, wishing upon every deity and god that you would find him once more. it has been worth it, just to hear your voice speaking to him, seeing you safe in his domain. it isn’t real…he knows, but your connection to his soul is. he can always keep you safe here, warm and cared for like you were all the way back then. surely it means something, that you haven’t pushed back. you’ve only asked questions, and obeyed his wishes. perhaps it is implicit in you, perhaps deep down you recognize him as safety. either way, you will know you are his. 

and as gojo makes his way back after his meeting with the higher ups with such a grim expression, sukuna knows he will have to go to lengths far beyond to ensure that fate works out in his favor this time.

tags: @neon-crow @skypperlegacy @gis4greenandgreenisgre4t  @alastors-radio  @alltimenogoaway-blog  @tragedyofabrokensoul @gojosukuna2268  @hannas16  @alwaysfreakingout @thepurpleempath @pelicanpizza  @aenishas @satsuk-jjk @catobsessedlady @gucci-basura @eiaaasamantha @asukahiriko @t4naiis @thejujvtsupost @mymelx @maskedpacific @berranurates @enchantingartisanwitch @celena-alanze @shuujin @nikki-demi @ankitavminkook @katthekat1234 @ezpressocookie @elita1 @sc3n3g0re