#like i can’t go a day without thinking about you i think
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
piastrisun · 2 days ago
Text
next in line.
pairings: lando norris + verstappen female reader.
summary: your brother announces his first baby, suddenly everyone’s eyes are on you. the teasing starts as harmless fun, but life has other plans.
faceclaim: lila moss.⠀warning: none.
request: for a smau idea, can you do verstappen!reader that just found out that her brother's gonna be a dad and is just excited maybe a reader x lando? and the grid teases her telling her she's next?
notes: so so happy for max, i’m sure he’s gonna be an amazing dad. and to make clear, i do not support kelly’s actions but i respect her as max’s partner and mother of their kid. also, i’m really sorry this took so long, i didn’t had my laptop :( but i do now!
Tumblr media Tumblr media
liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and others
ynverstappen i’m going to be an aunt, AGAIN!!! congratulations to the best brother in the world and my sister-in-law for blessing us with a tiny human. can’t wait to meet my future favourite little one. 🤍
tagged maxverstappen1
view all comments
username this got me thinking she was expecting as well, the GASP i let out 💀
maxverstappen1 best brother in the world? finally getting the recognition i deserve
username the fact he commented this first, so unserious 😭😭
username1 i was so moved by the caption and now i’m laughing
maxverstappen1 ik houd van je, kleine zus!!! (i love you, little sister)
ynverstappen ik hou altijd van je, you’re going to be an amazing dad!! (i love you too)
username2 FAVES
username3 my most parasocial relationship are them because i feel like they’re my cousins
kellypiquet thank you!! 🥹 baby can’t wait to meet their favourite aunt
ynverstappen stop it i’ll cry
username they’re so sweet with each other
username4 OMG congrats to your family!!! can’t wait to see the cutest baby pics
landonorris i’m next in line to become an uncle
ynverstappen i hope you’re ready for all the babysitting we’ll be doing!!
username5 wait... does this mean lando and yn are next?
username6 imagine the chaos if they had a baby too 😭😭
maxfewtrell chaos? more like pure excellence the world’s not ready
landonorris couldn’t agree more
ynverstappen you’re BANNED from my posts
username7 do you guys think i still have time to reincarnate in that baby?
username8 MOVE, it was my idea first
danielricciardo aunt for now, mum next?
ynverstappen delete this immediately
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
YOUR CHATS: MAMMA’S FAVOURITE GROUP.
Tumblr media
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
ynverstappen added to their story.
Tumblr media
replies to your story
landonorris just say the word babe
ynverstappen STOPPPP
landonorris i meannn, i was already planning our baby names list, but take your time
ynverstappen keep the list, i’m busy trying to decide between napping or rewatch criminal minds
maxverstappen1 we’re just preparing you for the future
ynverstappen future? i was planning on sleeping past 11 AM, thank you very much
ynverstappen but sure, let’s add kids to the list!
victoriaverstappen you’re next! the family is ready for some mini-you
ynverstappen okay that is kinda cute
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
YOUR CHATS: TEAM BABY.
Tumblr media
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
Tumblr media
liked by francolapinto, carlossainz55 and others
landonorris four years with my person, my best friend, and the love of my life. here’s to many more!! i love youuuuu
tagged ynverstappen
view all comments
lnfour nice number that one
ynverstappen beyond grateful for you every single day, love you more than anything!! <3 ♥︎ liked by author
landonorris love youUuUu
maxfewtrell you two have made it 4 years and not killed each other? impressive
ynverstappen jerk, we’re literally the best couple
username SPEAK UR TRUTH 🗣️
username2 seeing you two together makes me believe in love and what
carlossainz55 yeah, how’s that baby talk going?
ynverstappen can we just enjoy the anniversary without being bombarded about children
landonorris hey!! it’s a valid question
sophiekumpen watching you grow together has been such a joy ♥︎ liked by author
landonorris we couldn’t have done it without all your support 🩶
username3 this is the cutest thing i’ve seen all day
username4 sooo, where’s the baby update?
georgerussell63 you better be sending out wedding invites soon... you know i’ll be waiting ♥︎ liked by author
username5 lando liked this omg
username6 OH IM SO EXCITED
maxverstappen1 maybe we can get the baby a matching anniversary onesie
landonorris don’t tempt me!!
username6 you’re worse than the actual mother 😭😭
alex_albon he is and we appreciate it
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
Tumblr media
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
landonorris added to their story.
Tumblr media
replies to your story
maxfewtrell she has that pregnancy glow
landonorris she says: fuck off
maxfewtrell so lovely as always 🥰
charles_leclerc is the shrimp carrying a baby shrimp?
landonorris i don’t think so but stay tuned!
charles_leclerc 🫡
ynverstappen shrimp 😭😭 you’re unbelievable
landonorris you’re MY shrimp, tho
ynverstappen i know i love u
landonorris special shrimp
ynverstappen yes
landonorris mama shrimp
ynverstappen too far babe
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
ynverstappen added to their story.
Tumblr media
replies to your story
danielricciardo i’m assuming shrimp is code for ‘future mum’ now?
ynverstappen lando’s been calling me shrimp since FOREVER
danielricciardo for obvious reasons, you kinda look like one
ynverstappen you’re relentless
oscarpiastri you can’t escape forever, you know
ynverstappen i can and i WILL
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
Tumblr media
liked by landonorris, username1 and others
ynverstappen we <3 new york
tagged landonorris
view all comments
alex_albon this feels like a soft launch for a baby announcement
ynverstappen in WHAT world
alex_albon i don’t know, everyone says new york is romantic
ynverstappen no one has EVER said that
carlossainz55 you two look like you’re scouting locations for a babymoon
ynverstappen STOP GIVING HIM IDEAS
landonorris i do like the sound of that ♥︎ liked by author
ynverstappen no you don’t
username she says that and yet likes all the baby related comments 😭😭
landonorris do you think we’ll get a discount if we book the babymoon now? asking for a friend
ynverstappen i’ll throw you in the ocean
username2 LMAOO he’s not even subtle about it
maxfewtrell baby’s first visit to the empire state? 👶🏻
landonorris give us nine months, mate
username3 savannah slow down
username4 y’all are a little too cute and i love it
username5 REAL like those are my parents
oscarpiastri if you name the baby after me i’ll babysit for free. think about it
landonorris oscar norris-verstappen it is!!!
ynverstappen first of all, my last name would go first
ynverstappen second, you were my favourite, oscar
ynverstappen and i remark WERE
oscarpiastri got it miss
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
Tumblr media
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
YOUR CHATS: TEAM BABY.
Tumblr media
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
Tumblr media
liked by danielricciardo, ynverstappen and others
lando.jpg muse
view all comments
username he has called her his muse a million times and it gets me every time 🥹
ynverstappen love love love ♥︎ liked by author
lando.jpg 🖤
danielricciardo your family portraits are coming along nicely. just missing one thing…
lando.jpg i’ll admit that would make a good christmas card ♥︎ liked by ynverstappen
username2 u don’t even TRY to be subtle, huh? lmaooo
username3 someone pls tell him he’s not slick 😭😭
username4 you two are the cutest
username5 okay dad in training, we see you!!
username6 they can’t escape baby talk even online i’m CRYING
username7 husband AND dad material, i don’t make the rules ♥︎ liked by author
username8 him liking this he’s NOT real
username9 this man is ready, someone call yn
charles_leclerc dog dad today, human dad tomorrow 👀
ynverstappen tomorrow’s a bit ambitious, but thanks for the timeline
username she’s not saying no—
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
Tumblr media
─── ⋅ ☆ ⋅ ───
Tumblr media Tumblr media
©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 25’.
802 notes · View notes
animamii · 3 days ago
Text
even while locked up, Toji will make Valentine's day special for you. He already has a letter sent to you every day leading up to the 14th. Some of them sweet, romantic. Others just straight up dirty. He also has Shiu get you some things, spending the money he has in an offshore bank account.
February 1st
There's a ring at your doorbell, and you sleepily open the door.
"Shiu!" You happily greet before you realize he's holding one of those giant ass bouquets of roses. One of those ramos buchones with the pretty gemstones and your initial spelled out with baby's breath. Flashy as hell. "What's all this?"
"Jus' read the damn letter," he nods to a red envelope, a cigarette dangling out his mouth but away from your precious gift. Toji would kill him even from the inside if he were to find out Shiu got even the slightest of ashes on his girl's gifts. You take the envelope, tracing your name written in Toji’s bold, messy scrawl. You barely close the door before sliding your finger under the seal.
Didn’t forget, baby. I never do. First day, first gift. You better love it. Had Shiu pick out the biggest, most ridiculous thing I could find. My princess only deserves the best, right?
February 2nd
The letter today is simple. Too simple.
Baby, I hope you didn’t think I’d only spoil you with flowers.
Your stomach twists in anticipation. Later that day, you hear a knock. This time, it’s a delivery service. You sign for a package, confusion written all over your face—until you open it. Inside is a velvet box. You slowly open it, and it catches the light, casting rays of color—a necklace, a gold figaro chain with a diamond pendant. Looking closer at the pendant makes your breath hitch.
His initials.
You press your lips together, heart thudding. The note beneath it is shorter this time.
Wear it. Every day. I’ll know if you don’t.
February 3rd
On your front porch it a tiny pink box with another letter perched on top. You open the box first, the whole collection of a lip gloss you wear, one Toji said was his favorite because he loves the scent and the taste when he kisses it off your lips.
I was gonna wait, but fuck it. You know I don’t have patience. I’ve been thinking about you too much, baby. Can’t sleep. Can’t focus. All I can think about is that pretty mouth of yours.
You don’t even finish reading before you slam the letter shut. Your face is on fire. He’s ridiculous. But your fingers linger on the page, gripping it tight. You’re not going to reread it. You’re not.
February 4th
Another gift. This time, it’s a designer perfume. You spray it on your wrist out of curiosity, inhaling the scent—rich, warm, deep. A little spicy yet still sweet. Just like you. A folded note is stuck in the packaging.
This is how I want you to smell when I have you under me.
You hate the way your breath catches. The way you tighten your grip on the bottle, as if that’ll stop the way his words sink under your skin.
February 5th
Shiu hands you the next letter without a word. You expect something dirty again, but instead—
You been eating, baby? Sleeping? You better be taking care of yourself. I’ll be real pissed if I find out you’re not.
You blink at the paper, stomach twisting. You don’t even like that he makes you feel this way. Cared for. Wanted. As soon as you look up, Shiu hands you the bags from behind his back. It's takeout from the place you always went to with Toji. Your favorites are inside, every single thing down to the drink. You knew Toji meticulously picked out each menu item. In the other bag Shiu hands you is self care items. Your creams and serums and even the face masks you force Toji to wear with you.
February 6th
You shouldn’t be looking forward to these letters as much as you do. But you do. This one is short.
You dream about me? Bet you do. Wonder if you wake up wet, missing my hands.
You rip it up, toss it in the trash.
Then, minutes later, you dig it back out, smoothing out the pieces.
You hate him.
February 7th
Another knock at the door. Another gift. This time, it's a dress—silky, short, scandalous.
The note?
Wear this when you come see me.
Your breath catches. He hasn’t mentioned seeing you yet, hasn’t even implied it. But now, it lingers in the air.
February 8th
A different kind of letter today.
If I was there right now, what would you do?
You should throw it away.
Instead, that night, you sit on your bed, staring at it in the dim glow of your bedside lamp, heart pounding in your chest.
February 9th
A small box sits outside your door in the morning. This time it's a velvet pouch. You pull the string, letting the contents slide onto your palm—an anklet, delicate gold with a tiny charm dangling off the chain. This one matches your necklace, his initials are on this one too. You don’t even hesitate this time. You clasp it around your ankle immediately.
This one's gonna be dangling over my shoulder soon.
February 10th
Shiu shows up again. Another box.
Inside? Lingerie.
Red. Lace.
The note is just one line.
Think about me when you put it on.
February 11th
You better be missing me, baby. I know you are.
This time the gift is a whole outfit. One of those flowy white maiden-style off the shoulder dresses, pretty sandals, and even an innocent enough white bra and panty set with cute little bows.
It doesn't go with the letter, which leaves you a tad bit confused.
February 12th
This letter is filthy.
Explicit enough that you don’t even know how he got it past whoever checks his mail.
You have to sit down after reading it.
And take a very cold shower.
February 13th
Another envelope. You open it, expecting a letter. But nope. Just a single ticket to Italy for February 15th. Weird.
February 14th
A single rose sits outside your door, a final letter tucked beneath it.
You should know by now to lock your windows, ma. Don't know what kind of scary men could climb through your window.
What the?? Slowly you turn around, and there he is, in the flesh. All smug and cute like he knows he did a damn good job at surprising you.
"Happy Valentine's Day princess."
490 notes · View notes
livelaughlovesubs · 3 days ago
Text
Head empty, only thinking about my fav’s creaming on my fingers.
Tumblr media
It was such a nice way to get him all horny and messy for you in public, without too many risks. All you had to do was sneak your hand past his waistband, down that soft ass and inside his underwear. Next thing on the list was to tease that pretty boy and watch him stutter during an important conversation. His nails dug into his palms, face heating up as he fake coughs, trying to cover up his gasps as he excuses himself. Glaring at you but not slapping your hand away~
Or in some random bathroom stall! Make him bend over with his hands on the door as you fuck him on your fingers, purring at him to stay quiet if he doesn’t want to get caught. Calling him a dirty pervert when he fails and moans out loud. You say that, but you are obviously the one who wants to get exposed! Just to see him cry out of humiliation… even so he can’t stop begging for more while pushing his hips back ♥︎
Though it wasn’t only fun in public. It was also a spectacle when he’d straddle your lap, arms wrapped around your neck in a deadly grip. Those kiss-swollen lips right next to your ear while he whimpered for you to fuck him harder, to please put it in. Teary eyes with a dazed look as you made him cum the third time that day with only your fingers. Mocking him for being such a needy whore, creaming all~ over himself like some virgin. How much longer were you going to overstimulate him?
Maybe if you are feeling extra mean, you’d make him finger himself on your shared bed. Sitting in front of him and watching as you gave him commandos. Telling him to spread his legs more, to push another finger inside, or to beg more lewdly. At first he was so shy, so hesitant to show you all these embarrassing parts. Yet after some time he couldn’t think of anything else but the heat in his core, the need to be filled and fucked until he forgets his name ♡♡~
Wet squelching sounds echoing through the room as his whined out prayers reached your ears, hearts in his pupils and fingers knuckles deep inside his abused hole. He felt so tired, his eyelids so heavy, as if he was on the verge of passing out. A melting expressing plastering his blushing face, with glossy eyes and shiny tears. His body was trashing around, squirming and shaking with pure desire. And that useless dick was squirting with his precum. At the same time, he was begging you with such a sweet and debased voice. Pleading for your dick, and for you to absolutely wreck his insides.
“Please, plea~se..! Hnnghhh, I need you so bad, so- ahh♥︎ so fucking bad…! Ngh, f-fuck me, ruin me ♡♥︎♡”
Your favourites~
Tumblr media
647 notes · View notes
moonstonejpg · 2 days ago
Text
ours (k.bakugou x reader)
"your hands are tough, but they are where mine belong in"
sum. bakugou is having a bad week, thankfully his girl is always there to make the bad days a little better
cw: a little angst, fluff at the end!
i hate hate hate paparazzi!! loosely based off of this and the song ours by taylor swift
Tumblr media
It had been a rough week for Katsuki.
First, the hero rankings were announced, and he found himself at #15—not even in the top ten. And he swore it didn't bother him, that the rankings were just a stupid popularity contest. But you saw the way his shoulders slightly slumped in disappointment and the way his fists clenched so hard that the half-moon imprints of his nails in his skin stayed for hours after you had smoothed his fingers out.
It broke your heart to see him like that—and then yesterday he got into a silly fight with Izuku, one that was filmed and taken way out of context by thousands of people on the internet. Which in turn prompted the resurgence of people saying he didn't even deserve to be on the list at all, let alone at #15.
bakugou is mentally unstable lol
i worry about his gf tbh, those anger issues are a huuuge red flag
right?! i hope that poor girl gets out of that
she seems so sweet, he’s probably threatening her or something
It was just one hit after another for him.
And now, as he stares out the window at the crowd of paparazzi with a clenched jaw, the only thought in your mind is how this is strike three. All he wanted to do was take you out for a nice dinner to thank you for being so supportive this week, but he couldn't even do that without a swarm of media leeches waiting outside.
"Kats, we don't have to go. We can just stay here." You say quietly, worried eyes set on his tense shoulders.
"No," he growls, "I'm not letting them ruin this too." He positions himself in front of you before taking a few hesitant steps out the front door of your shared apartment building.
His warm hand envelopes your own, fingers threading through before tugging you behind him, half shielding you with his large body. The flash of the cameras and the noise of the crowd makes your vision blur, but Katsuki is moving fast, fingers tightly gripping your own while his gaze is laser focused on the awaiting black car parked on the other side of the street.
Everything is moving so fast, the shouts of the various reporters melting together around you. But you can't hear a word they say, the sound drowning out any specific words, until—
“Why him?”
And you nearly miss the step below as you freeze. The question has you rearing back as if you'd been hit, your eyes dancing towards the sound of the question. You see him right away, a male reporter who is nearly frothing at the mouth for a reaction. The reporter leans forward, eyeing you hungrily as he waits for an answer. And usually, you wouldn't give them any time of day, the daily harassment towards you and every other pro-hero and their significant other almost daily a good enough reason toignore any of their probing questions. But how could you ignore this?
“Why him?” you parrot back, white-hot anger burning through your body at a rapid rate. You don’t think twice before you’re ripping your wrist out of the blonde's hand and taking angry strides towards the reporter. You're nearly toe-to-toe with the man, and while he is a full head taller than you, he shrinks a bit from the look on your face.
Katsuki comes up beside you, gently tugging at your wrist.
“It’s not worth it.” He says lowly, looking down at you with something like sadness tinged in his eyes. And your heart cracks, picking up on the one thing he isn’t saying but you know he’s thinking.
That he’s not worth it.
And you can’t have that, you can't have Katsuki thinking that he isn’t worth any of this, because he is. He is worth everything, and despite being in each other’s lives for years now, the fact that he still doesn’t see that is devastating.  
Your body begins shaking from a mix of anger and adrenaline as you look at the crowd around you. A slow hush falls over the crowd, as if they are waiting with bated breath to see what you have to say.
“Because he is the kindest human I have ever had the pleasure of knowing; kinder than any of you will ever be. And what has he ever done to you to make you so obsessed with twisting every move he makes, every word he utters into something that makes him look like the bad guy? And for a quick buck? You all should be ashamed of yourselves.” After shooting a glare around the crowd, you keep your chin high as you grab a stunned Katsuki’s hand and drag him towards the car.
You gently push him in, keeping a hand smoothed over the back of your dress as you crawl in after him, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary.
The car ride to the restaurant is eerily quiet, and as the adrenaline begins to leak out of your body, your brain catches up to what you did. And yeah—they did need to be told off, but you start to wonder if this is something that will get him into trouble.
You weren’t a hero and you didn’t have a lick of media training, why did you think causing a scene would be a good idea? The thoughts spiral in, and you want to bury your face in your hands as dread slithers its way into your stomach.
When you get inside the building, you are ushered towards the back of the restaurant by the host, presumably to where your table is located. But before you round the corner, Katsuki is tugging you into a dimly lit closet, fingers making quick work of the lock. Even after the door is bolted shut, he stands and faces it, as you just watch the outline of the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders.
“Kats?” You say quietly, a hand hovering over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I just—”
He shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh pushing its way out of his mouth.  
“No, you—” He shakes his head again, then turns around to face you, his body crowding you up against the wall. His eyes are dark, twinkling with emotions you can’t place. Both of his hands come up to gently cradle your face, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
“Have I ever told you that I love you?”
You blink up at him, confused.
“Not only was that the hottest thing I have ever seen, but—well, that was the first time anyone has stuck up for me before.”
“I would do it again—anything for you really. You’re worth it. And I know that’s hard for you to believe, but you are. They can say whatever they want, but I know in my heart that I do not deserve you, and that you ” You say quietly, eyes locked on his. He smiles, eyes shining, before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your temple.
“Oh, my sweet girl.” He whispers in the dark of the room, thumbs caressing your cheeks.
“I love you Kats.”
“I love you too. Now, how about we ditch this place?” He asks, leaning back to tug at his tie, before bending forward to loop it around your neck. “I think that new ice cream parlor is open. So, sundaes on me?”
You nod, a giggle escaping when he bends down and tugs the ends of the tie, your body falling into him. He lets out a gentle laugh, the sound like a gentle breeze on a hot day. It has your smile stretching across your face, your heart singing in response.
He reaches down to unlock the door, but when he flicks the lock back, nothing happens. Katsuki tries again, but again, nothing happens. It doesn’t budge, not the second time he tries or the fifth, or even the tenth time he tries. On the eleventh try his hand slips from the lock, his eyes colliding with yours.
It’s silent for a few seconds, and then a laugh bursts out of him, followed by another and another. The sound has the grin staying locked in place on your face, relief flowing through you at the change in his mood.
“We—we’re stuck.” He gasps out, hands falling on his knees as he hunches over, deep laughs spilling out of him. It isn’t long before you are on the floor next to him, trying to catch your breath around your own laughter.
Tumblr media
419 notes · View notes
sincerelybubbles · 21 hours ago
Text
mouthful of sunlight (18+)
Some nights, Spencer can’t sleep. His mind runs too fast, too far, tangled in cases, in horrors he can’t unsee. But in the quiet of morning, wrapped in the hush of young sunlight, he finds solace in you—the warmth of your breath, the slow, steady rhythm of your fingers tracing his skin. The comfort is fleeting; distance is inevitable. His absence lingers in the empty side of the bed, in unfinished cups of coffee, in the soft weight of his sweater draped over your shoulders. But when he returns—exhausted, unraveling—you stitch him back together with soft reassurances, gentle hands, and the familiar ease of laughter. warnings: sexual content (who tf am I), very very wordy, mentions of a cannon-typical case, longing, some angst if you squint, mostly reader and spencer being lovesick fools wc: 7.6k
You wake to the sound of rain, soft against the windowpane. The sheets are warm, tangled around your limbs, heavy with the scent of sleep and him. Faint traces of his cologne linger in the cotton, something clean and quiet, the ghost of him woven into the fabric.
Spencer is still asleep beside you.
You turn your head, slow, deliberate - shifting too fast might startle him awake. And there he is, curled into the pillow, his body half-buried beneath the blankets, face softened by the hush of morning. His breath moves through the space between you in slow, measured exhales, lips parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbone.
You could spend lifetimes watching him like this.
The curve of his mouth, the way his curls press against his forehead, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes—the ones you're not sure he knows about yet. You think the mentioning of them would send him into a spiral about aging and lost time but you love their presence. It reminds you of how he's laughed with you in the past, their arrival a notion of his genuine joy. The body keeps score in freckles and scars, and time can be found in the weight of sleepless nights and too many days spent carrying more than he should.
In sleep, he is weightless. The tension he wears so often—creased brows, tight shoulders, fingers restless against his knee—has melted away, leaving only the quiet.
You reach for him before you can think of it, fingers trailing over the ridge of his knuckles where his hand rests on the pillow between you. His skin is warm, his palm lax, open. He doesn't stir so you let yourself press further, sliding your fingertips up the length of his wrist, feeling the slow pulse beneath his skin.
Spencer Reid is always thinking. Always calculating, always predicting, always existing a step ahead, untethered from the present moment.
But, right now, wrapped in the hush of morning, doused in soft rainlight, he belongs here. With you.
The thought is terrifying in its simplicity.
You swallow, pressing your fingers a little firmer against his wrist, grounding yourself in the proof of him. His pulse beats steady against your touch, and you let it lull you, let yourself fall into its rhythm.
Spencer stirs beneath your touch, just the faintest twitch of his fingers against the pillow.
You go still.
A part of you—the part still tangled in hesitation, in old wounds and old fears—worries he’ll wake, that he’ll blink at you with those sharp, knowing eyes and startle away the calm you've fostered. You love Spencer, asleep or awake, but the peacefulness of this moment is something to be cherished. You want to watch him more, to exist in this lulling moment between seconds where life doesn't matter.
He doesn't wake, though, and instead, he shifts closer, instinctive, unconscious. The space between you vanishes, his breath warming your collarbone, his hand brushing against your arm where it lies between you. He is reaching for you without realizing it, drawn in like something inevitable.
And god, that does something to you.
You exhale, slow, careful, and let yourself watch him again, let yourself sink into the quiet reverence of it.
The morning light has stretched further now, slanting through the window, gliding through the messy sprawl of his hair. He is all sleep-heavy limbs, the weight of him pressing into the mattress in a way that drags you forward, leaning against him.
Flesh and bone, heartbeat and heat.
He is here. He is yours.
The way he leans into you even in sleep, the way his fingers twitch like they are searching for yours, even now. The way his body gives him away, whispering the things his lips have not yet said.
You cannot be careless with this. With him. But before the weight of it can settle too deeply into your chest, before you can let yourself spiral, Spencer shifts again—his breath catching, his brow furrowing just slightly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.
You barely have time to think before his eyes blink open, slow and heavy-lidded, thick with sleep.
It takes a moment, his hazy eyes focusing and unfocusing. Still, he sees you. Not just looks, not just registers your presence; he sees you.
His lips part slightly, and for a moment, he only stares, like his mind is still catching up, like he’s still tethered somewhere between dreaming and waking. Blinking like he's not sure if you're a dream. Likely, everything is clouded by sleepy eyes and fading memories of dreams.
Then, his voice, quiet, still wrapped in the softness of sleep, “Morning.”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you do the only thing you can—you lift your hand, still resting near his wrist, and press your fingers over his pulse once more. A quiet confirmation. A tethering.
Spencer exhales, slow, deliberate, and then he turns his hand, just slightly, just enough, so that his palm meets yours.
His fingers curl between yours, and you feel it—the certainty, the weight of something unspoken settling between your ribs.
There is morning, and then there is night.
There is sunlight spilling over Spencer’s sleeping form, gilding his cheekbones, illuminating the curve of his mouth. And then there is the stark contrast of shadow—of sterile hotel rooms, of the sharp, artificial glow of a bedside lamp casting his face in harsh relief.
His fingers, curled loosely around yours in the golden hush of morning, become hands gripping the edge of a desk, knuckles white, trembling with exhaustion. His voice, soft and thick with sleep, morphs into something raw, something fraying at the edges.
"I don’t know how to turn it off."
It takes you a moment to realize what he means.
He’s still in his suit, the fabric rumpled, the scent of cheap motel soap clinging to his skin. There’s a stack of case files beside him, a half-empty cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold. He doesn’t meet your gaze, just stares down at his hands, fingers twitching like they’re desperate for something to hold onto.
"Spencer."
Your voice is quiet, hesitant, as if anything louder might shatter him completely.
"Come to bed."
He shakes his head, exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
"I can’t."
A fight, sharp and cutting. His voice raised, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.
"You don’t get it," he snaps, voice raw, eyes burning. "You don’t know what it’s like to have a mind that never fucking stops—"
"I do," you interrupt, and the way he flinches makes your chest ache.
A pause.
Silence stretching between you like a wound torn open, bleeding into the space between your feet.
Spencer exhales, shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Then why do you keep trying to fix me?"
And there it is.
The knife twisting.
You inhale, but the breath never quite fills your lungs.
The thing is—you don’t want to fix him.
You just want him to rest.
To sleep without nightmares. To let you hold him without feeling like he has to apologize for the weight of his existence. To believe, even for a second, that he doesn’t have to earn the space he takes up.
But you don’t know how to say that in a way that won’t turn into another wound, another reason for him to step back, to pull away.
So instead, you say nothing.
"Fuck. I'm sorry." And it's that simple, really.
Sorry, arms finding each other, whispers of "I know" pressed into necks and soft conversations easing racing minds.
Spencer can't stop the relentless chase of the case in his mind. You can't stop the constant overthinking of being enough, of your body, of desires edging into too much.
Morning. Again.
Spencer, golden in the dawn, the soft breath of sleep still heavy in his lungs. Your fingers ghost over the ridges of his knuckles, tracing the delicate architecture of him, the places where bones knit together beneath skin. Flesh and blood. A body, human and whole.
Then, blood, dark and seeping through the gaps in his fingers, staining his cuffs. Not his blood. Someone else’s. A case. A mistake. A man who didn’t survive the night.
His hands shake as he scrubs them raw in the motel sink, crimson swirling down the drain, his breath coming too fast, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning, like he can feel it slipping between his fingers, the weight of every life he couldn’t save.
You touch his shoulder, and he flinches.
Time lurches.
His head on your lap, hours later. His hair damp, fingers curled weakly in the fabric of your shirt, like holding onto you is the only thing tethering him to the present.
"I don’t know how much more of this I can take."
Morning.
Back in your bed, the light different now, stretched across the sheets in delicate bands. You can’t tell if you’re awake or dreaming.
You wonder if this moment is real, or if it is something you are inventing to survive.
Spencer shifts beside you, a quiet sigh escaping him, and you watch, desperate to memorize the shape of him here, untouched by grief, by the heaviness of what he carries.
You want to wake up to this every morning.
But the truth is, you don’t.
You wake up to the version of him that drinks too much coffee, to the one who is always looking at things that aren’t there, playing scenarios in his head like a film reel stuck on loop. You wake up to the version of him that gets lost in thought mid-conversation, who chews at his nails until they bleed, who flinches awake from dreams he won’t tell you about.
And you love him anyway.
Maybe because of it.
Or maybe you are lying to yourself, pretending love is something you can bear no matter how heavy it gets.
Mornings like this, where he sleeps beside you, still and warm and untouched by the weight of the world—stretch, slow and unhurried, slipping into the day like honey dissolving in warm tea.
Spencer moves through your apartment with the careful quiet of someone who knows how to exist in shared spaces—how to make himself at home without ever taking up too much of it. He is measured, gentle, a man who has spent too much of his life folding himself into small places, and yet, with you, he expands.
You watch him from where you stand at the kitchen counter, hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug, warmth seeping into your palms. The coffee is slightly too bitter, but you drink it anyway, because Spencer made it. Because he takes his with too much sugar and no milk, and you take yours with just a little, and the contrast is something you love.
The morning light catches in his hair as he moves about the kitchen, curling slightly at the ends where sleep left it unruly. He wears his clothes loose in the morning—his pajama pants low on his hips, his sweater slightly too big, slipping past his wrists when he reaches for things. He is soft here, unguarded in the way that makes your chest ache.
You don’t say anything when he hums under his breath, something classical, a song you don’t recognize but have heard him play before on nights when he lets the record spin long past midnight.
You don’t say anything when he pours his coffee with one hand and flips absentmindedly through the book he left on the counter with the other.
But you do say something when he starts reading aloud.
“You know, according to the Journal of Neuroscience, studies show that sleep inertia—”
“Spencer,” you interrupt, smiling into your mug.
He pauses, blinking at you, book still in hand. “What?”
You shake your head, setting your coffee down, stepping toward him until you can reach for the book, plucking it gently from his fingers. He lets you take it, watching as you slide it onto the counter behind you, clearing the space between you.
“We’re supposed to be waking up,” you murmur. “Not filling our brains with research before we’ve even eaten breakfast.”
Spencer tilts his head, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering it. Then, his lips curve, slow and warm. “That’s how I do wake up.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it. You both know that you love when Spencer rambles, miss it when he's gone, call him craving the sound of his voice when he's away on trips. “Come here.”
You reach for him, and he comes easily, stepping into the space you make for him, folding himself against you like he belongs there.
Maybe that’s the point of all of this—not two people standing side by side, but two people learning how to take up the same space, how to move around each other without losing themselves in the process.
Spencer exhales as you press your cheek to his shoulder, hands slipping around his waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater. His arms come around you in return, slow and careful, pressing you against him like he knows exactly how to hold you.
The shape of each other, the cadence of shared breath, the quiet rhythm of a love that is not loud or fast or reckless, but something slow and deliberate.
Spencer is slow to let you go.
Even as you shift, even as you move to pull back, his fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there for a moment longer. You don’t resist. You let yourself be held, let yourself stay.
But then his stomach growls. Loudly.
You grin against his shoulder. “Well, that’s attractive.”
Spencer groans, burying his face in your neck. “I knew I should have eaten before I went to bed.”
You laugh, pressing your hands to his sides. “Come on, genius. Let’s get you some food before you start reading case files on malnutrition.”
He sighs, exaggerated, but finally steps back, rubbing a hand over his face as you turn toward the stove. “I do have a study on nutritional deficiencies and cognitive function bookmarked somewhere.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You have studies bookmarked on everything.”
Spencer shrugs, completely unapologetic, and moves to lean against the counter beside you, watching as you pull out a frying pan. He doesn’t help—doesn’t even pretend to help—but he does reach for the bag of coffee grounds again, refilling your mug and his, making himself useful in the way he always does.
“You want eggs?” you ask, already cracking one against the rim of the pan.
He hums, peering into the fridge. “Only if you make them the way I like.”
“You mean, as you proclaimed the first time you stayed over, the right way?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
Neither of you mention how he burned them immediately after, distracted by kissing you in the early light filtering through the curtains of the kitchen window.
You huff, but it’s all affection, and he knows it.
Spencer doesn’t sit while you cook. He doesn’t retreat to the table or get lost in a book. He stays right here, a constant presence at your side, sipping his coffee, occasionally nudging your hip with his when you get too focused.
When you plate the food, he takes his with an approving nod. “See? Perfectly cooked.”
“They;re just scrambled, picky,” you tease, nudging him toward the kitchen table with your hip.
Spencer grins, mouth full of toast. “I have standards.”
You snort, setting your plate down across from him. “Oh, I know. That’s why you’re dating me.”
He swallows, takes a sip of coffee, and then, without missing a beat, says, “No, I’m dating you because I’m in love with you.”
Your breath catches.
He says it so easily.
No hesitation. No grand declaration. Just a fact, spoken between bites of breakfast, like it’s something he’s known for years.
You blink, lips parting slightly, and Spencer—Spencer, who notices everything—tilts his head, eyes softening.
“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head, covering his hand with yours. “No, I—I just—”
You exhale, glancing down at where your hands meet, at the gentle press of his fingers against yours. Then, quieter: “I love you, too.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, slow, small, but full of something deep, something certain.
“I know,” he murmurs, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. “But I still like hearing it.”
And so you say it again, just for him.
Just because he likes hearing it.
“I love you.” Spencer smiles.
After breakfast, Spencer lingers at the table while you move about the apartment, rinsing dishes, wiping crumbs from the counter. It’s a soft sort of silence. When you pass by him, his hand brushes against your hip, absentminded but full of intent, a touch that says I know you’re here. I know you’re mine.
You catch his wrist, squeezing gently before letting go.
Neither of you speak as you make your way toward the bedroom, but Spencer follows, because of course he does. Because his place is beside you, moving with you, orbiting within the same small universe.
Inside, the morning light has stretched further across the bed, creeping in golden streaks over the fabric. The air is warm with the scent of sleep, of coffee, of him.
Spencer moves first, tugging his sweater over his head and tossing it onto the bed. His hair goes staticky, curls fluffed from the fabric, and you reach out instinctively, smoothing them back into place. He stills beneath your touch, the corners of his lips twitching.
“You’re going to make it worse,” he murmurs.
“Probably.” You grin, carding your fingers through the strands anyway, just for the sake of touching him.
Spencer huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t move away.
You let him slip his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. Let him reach for the zipper of your trousers, sliding it down with the same care you’d shown him.
There’s nothing rushed about it.
Nothing frantic, nothing heated. Just this. Just hands smoothing over fabric, fingers brushing against skin in passing, the quiet, unspoken promise of I know you. I love you. Let me show you.
Spencer tilts his head, gaze flickering down, not to your lips, but to the hollow of your throat, where your pulse flutters beneath your skin. He watches it like a scholar studying something precious like he’s measuring the exact rhythm of you, the precise way you exist in this moment.
And then, with all the patience in the world, he leans in.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he has all the time in the world to memorize you.
His lips brush your jaw first—so soft it could almost be nothing, just a breath, just a thought of touch. Then, lower, trailing warmth along the delicate line of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.
Your fingers find his wrists, not to stop him, but to hold him there, to feel the heat of him seeping into your skin.
You shift—not much, just enough to press closer, enough to let your forehead rest against his, enough to let his breath mingle with yours.
His hands slide higher, fingertips grazing the curve of your ribs, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the fabric like sunlight through frosted glass.
Like he understands, without either of you saying it, that this is the sacred part. Not the wanting, not even the having, but the holding. The staying.
He presses his lips to your temple, soft and sure, and you feel it—the weight of love settling between your ribs, deep and real.
“I want you,” he murmurs, voice low, full of something aching.
You shudder, your fingers tightening around his wrists. “You have me,” you whisper.
Spencer swallows, pressing his forehead against yours again, his hands gripping you just a little tighter as he breathes you in.
You feel his adoration in the way he moves—hesitant, reverent. Like he’s unraveling you thread by thread, pulling you apart just to piece you back together in the way only he knows how.
His fingers ghost over the curve of your waist, not grasping, not pulling, just feeling.
Your breath catches when he finally presses closer, the full weight of him sinking into you, a slow collapse into something inevitable. His body is warm, radiating heat like a fever, like a star burning too close to your skin. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, twisting it tight in your grip, grounding yourself in the weight of him.
He exhales against your jaw, warm and unsteady.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
You do.
And god, it’s unbearable—the way his eyes search yours, wide and dark and pleading.
His breath stutters when you reach up, cradling his face in your hands, fingertips skimming the sharp angle of his cheekbone. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting slightly, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.
“Spencer,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer.
He answers you with a kiss.
Not rushed, not desperate. His lips move against yours, unhurried but insistent, a careful exploration, a patient claiming. His nose brushes yours, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet sounds of longing pressing into the spaces between you.
You sigh into his mouth, and he shudders, his fingers tightening against your ribs.
“Again,” he whispers.
So you kiss him again. And again. And again.
Until the space between you is nothing, until your bodies are tangled in sheets and sighs and whispered names, until everything is breath and warmth and wanting.
His hands find yours, fingers threading together, clinging, pressing, grounding. His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, his body trembling with the weight of this.
“I want you,” he whispers, voice wrecked, shaking, repeating himself.
You tighten your grip on his hands, pulling him closer. “I know,” you breathe. “I know.”
And when he moves again, when his lips find yours with a new kind of urgency, you know—you feel it in your bones—this isn’t just wanting. It’s everything.
Spencer kisses you like he’s searching for something.
Like the answer to every unsolvable equation is pressed between your lips, tucked beneath your tongue, hidden in the soft give of your sighs.
And you let him.
Because you know this—this rhythm, this language you’ve built together. The slow pull of hands over fabric, the careful way he unravels you. The heat that grows between you, steady and unrelenting, like a pot left to boil over.
Spencer exhales sharply when your fingers find the sharp ridge of his collarbone. You press your lips there, breathing him in, and he shivers.
Spencer is reaching for you again, already fitting his hands to the curve of your back, already tilting his head to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the place just beneath your ear that makes you sigh.
“We’re going to be late,” you murmur, though you don’t mean it.
Spencer hums, his lips still pressed against your skin. “I don’t care.”
You laugh—a breathy, delighted sound that he swallows with his next kiss, his hands smoothing over your ribs, pressing warmth into your skin.
His trousers slide lower on his hips, and he makes a sound—low, breathless, almost dazed.
And then—“I’m sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, against the corner of your mouth.
You blink, pulse stuttering. “For what?”
“For all the times I haven’t been here.” His fingers tighten at your waist, like he’s grounding himself in the weight of you, in the proof that you are here. “For leaving. For missing too much. For—”
You don’t let him finish.
You press your lips to his, pouring everything into it—forgiveness, love, understanding.
When you break apart, your voice is quiet but sure. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Spencer exhales, shaky and relieved, and then—
Then he laughs, something soft and breathless, because you’ve pushed his trousers past his hips and now they’re tangled around his ankles, and it’s clumsy, and it’s human, and neither of you can bring yourselves to care.
Your own clothes follow, piece by piece, scattered and forgotten, because this is more important.
Spencer is warm everywhere, all golden skin and careful hands and parted lips. He hovers over you, his breath fanning over your cheek, his fingers tracing slow, reverent paths down your arms, your sides, like he’s still memorizing you.
And when you reach for him, guiding him closer, pulling him in, he exhales a sound—soft, broken, something like ah, like yes, like finally.
You sigh into him, arching, meeting him where he waits, and the warmth between you turns molten, turns necessary.
Spencer presses his forehead to yours, his breath uneven, his fingers twining with yours in the sheets.
“I love you,” he whispers.
And you—You're lost in the heat, the smell of him. The gentle movement as there's nothing left but you and him and him and him.
"Ah, Spencer," you breathe, and he shushes you.
"I know, I know."
It's quiet, it's breathy laughs, it's warmth building building buildig until something cracks - it has to, it's necessary, it's perfect and lovely and hot honey dripping down your thighs to gather into something greater, something perfect, something more.
It should be impossible, the way you fit together.
Like something sculpted by hands that knew what they were doing, shaping flesh and bone with deliberate care, pressing you into each other until there is no separation, no beginning or end. A seamless thing. Thread looping over itself, over and over and over into infinity. Until it cannot be separated from itself, until it is one ball of mass and moving and friction.
Heat and pressure and warmth build into something more, more more. Spencer is calling your name as if you are lost, you're grasping his back to remind him you're right here.
He tumbles and you're stuck on the edge, unable to follow. It's a brilliant thing, watching him. Eyes screwed shut, tightly. Breath coming out in spurts and spasms. Love, love, love. Pouring out of him and into you.
It's warm, so so warm, and nearly enough to send you to the place of glass shattering and pleasure fluttering and complete unity.
It isn't until Spencer's hips are faltering that he notices you there, hanging on the precipice of masterpieces yet unknown.
"Oh, lovely. I've got you, it's me. I'm here, I've got you," whispered reassurances pressed into your hair, your ear, your cheek, as he moves.
And you fall after him, tumbling down into something safe and known and foreign and unlearnable.
When you clatter back onto Earth, Spencer is warm against you, chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of shared breath. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—trace mindless patterns against your arm, mapping you the way he memorizes pages, theories, entire histories. As if you are something to be learned, something to be understood.
As if he hasn’t already written you into the marrow of his bones.
Your limbs are tangled in the sheets, in each other, some quiet aftershock of connection humming between your skin. He shifts, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple, the edge of your jaw, the corner of your lips, his breath still heavy with you.
Whole. Uninterrupted.
Until—
A loud grumble splits the silence, echoing off the walls.
Spencer stills.
You blink.
And then—
Your stomach rumbles again, louder this time, an undignified protest against your distraction.
Spencer bursts into laughter.
It’s warm, breathless, human, cracking through the solemn weight of the moment like lightning through a storm. He drops his head against your shoulder, shaking with it, his entire body vibrating with amusement.
“Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with your hands.
Spencer’s still laughing when he rolls onto his back, his hand dragging down his face as he tries to compose himself. He fails, utterly, letting out another breathy chuckle before turning his head to look at you.
“I’m sorry,” he says between soft huffs of breath, his eyes bright with mirth. “It was just—so poetic, so profound—and then your stomach actually growled.”
You peek at him between your fingers. “You're going to give me shit when you essentially did the same thing earlier?" You ask, aghast. Spencer nods his head, cheeky smile overtaking his face.
You groan again, but it’s half-hearted, because Spencer is still laughing, and it’s the kind of sound you’d willingly make a fool of yourself for, over and over again, just to hear it.
"Did you not have any of your stellar eggs?" Spencer asks, pulling away from you.
You both wince as connection is lost, resisting the urge to pull him back in again, to be selfish and keep the warmth of him near.
He stretches, arms raised above his head, back cracking. You stay still, stretched across the bed as he moves into your bathroom and wets a washcloth.
"No, I don't really like scrambled."
Spencer hesitates, at the foot of the bed, one knee propped up on the edge. "What?" He asks, frozen, still as a statue.
"I'll eat them but this morning they were too eggy."
"Too eggy," Spencer mutters, voice aghast, cleaning you before pinching your thigh playfully. "Come on, time to get you to work."
The moment lingers, shifting into something softer, something easy.
And then—
You’re standing in the kitchen, hours later, Spencer in his undershirt, stirring a pot of something that smells like warmth, like home.
Your stomach grumbles again.
Spencer smirks, not even turning around. “Should I start reciting poetry, or—”
You throw a dish towel at him.
||||
There is the weight of Spencer pressed against you in the morning, the heat of his breath on your skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing patterns into your ribs. And then there is the cold side of the bed, the imprint of him faded from the sheets, the silence of an empty apartment that settles like dust in your lungs.
He’s gone.
Not forever. Neer forever.
But the difference between knowing something and feeling it is vast, and this morning, you feel it.
The bed is too big. The air is too still. The coffee is too bitter without his absentminded habit of adding too much sugar to the pot when he thinks you aren’t looking.
His absence moves through the space like a ghost, turning everyday things into echoes of him.
A book left open on the table, spine cracked, a scrap of paper sticking out with notes in the margins.
A half-full mug beside the sink. He always assures you he'll finish it later but never does. You don't mind, savoring the reminder of him when he leaves in the middle of the day with little notice.
The sweater he left draped over the back of a chair, smelling like warmth, like him, like something undone.
You exhale, pressing your fingers to the edge of the table as if grounding yourself, as if it might keep you tethered.
You knew this would happen.
It always does—cases that stretch into days, weeks, phone calls that come at odd hours, the sound of his voice wrapped in exhaustion and apologies, the waiting, the not-knowing.
You reach for your own coffee, cradling it between your palms, letting the heat seep into your fingers.
Your phone buzzes. A message. Short, simple.
Spencer: I miss you.
The breath in your chest stutters.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard, a response forming before you can even think about it.
You: I miss you too. It’s too quiet here.
Three dots appear. Pause. Disappear.
You wait, staring at the screen, willing the space between you to close, even just a little.
Spencer: I’ll call you tonight. Stay in my sweater until then.
You let out a breath, something soft, something caught between a laugh and a sigh. You reach for it, slipping it over your shoulders, wrapping yourself in the remnants of warmth.
It’s not the same.
But for now, it will have to be enough.
||||
The door unlocks with a quiet click.
You don’t move right away.
You should—should stand, should cross the room, should meet him in the doorway. But instead, you sit still, curled into the couch, the weight of waiting still heavy in your limbs, pressing you down.
Footsteps. Familiar, careful.
“Hey,” Spencer murmurs, quiet, hesitant, like he isn’t sure if you’re asleep, if he should wake you, if he’s allowed to break the silence.
You inhale sharply, and that’s what does it—what snaps the moment in two. You push up from the couch, feet hitting the floor, your body moving before your mind catches up.
You are in his arms.
He exhales sharply at the impact, his bag slipping from his shoulder, his arms wrapping around you with something desperate, something relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have.
The scent of him—faint cologne, the sterile bite of too many hotels, the quiet warmth that is Spencer—hits you all at once. You press your face into his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, holding tight.
“You’re back,” you breathe, and it’s obvious, unnecessary, but you need to say it, need to hear it, need to confirm it.
Spencer laughs—soft, exhausted, fond. “I’m back.”
You feel the words vibrate through him, feel the shape of them beneath your hands, the weight of them settling between your ribs.
“Did you miss me?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy thing, your grip tightening on his jacket.
“Not at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him, to see him. His face is tired, his eyes a little shadowed, but there’s something soft there, something bright just beneath the surface.
His lips twitch. “Liar.”
You hum, tilting your chin up just slightly, brushing your nose against his, letting the warmth between you settle.
“Say it anyway,” he murmurs.
So you do. “I missed you, Spence.”
His breath stumbles and he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s homecoming, warmth where there was once cold. It’s touch where there was once absence. It’s the quiet, certain return of something that never really left.
It takes a while for Spencer to let go and, even when he does, he keeps a hand on you. Not even after the kiss fades into breaths, not even after his bag is abandoned by the door, not even after you’ve guided him toward the couch, pressing your hands to his shoulders until he sinks into the cushions with a sigh.
You don’t ask him about the case.
Not yet.
Instead, you move around him, nudging his shoes off with your foot, smoothing his hair back from his face, pressing your fingers into the stiff muscles at the back of his neck. His eyes flutter shut, and he exhales slow, like he’s unspooling one spiraling thread at a time.
“You look exhausted,” you murmur, brushing your knuckles over his cheek.
“I feel worse,” he admits, cracking one eye open to look at you. “I think I might actually be a ghost.”
You hum, tilting your head. Slowly, you press a finger into the center of his chest, thumping it against his sternum twice. “I don’t know, you feel pretty solid to me.”
Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m only part ghost.” He waves a hand in the air, "I hover between realms, or whatever those silly books you read would say."
“Well,” you say, ignoring the dig at your admittedly less-academic reading preferences, pressing your lips to his temple, lingering, “if you were a ghost, you’d be a talkative one. Following me around, rambling about hauntings and historic criminal cases—”
Spencer scoffs. “I’d be a great ghost.”
“Would you?”
“I’d be an educational ghost.”
You snort, letting your fingers trail down his arm, wrapping your hand around his wrist, pressing against the pulse there. “I think I prefer you educational and alive.”
Spencer smiles, but it’s softer now, more worn, and when he leans into you, it’s not just playful—it’s relief.
You shift, curling into him, letting him fold himself against you like he’s been waiting for it for days. He buries his face against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, and you feel the tension still lingering in him, the weight of something else.
Something he’s not saying. So you just hold him.
One hand drifts into his hair, threading through the soft curls, the other smoothing over his back, steady, slow. His fingers flex against your side, gripping, holding, grounding. He sighs, deep, exhausted, pressing closer like he’s trying to escape something.
You kiss the crown of his head. “You don’t have to tell me,” you whisper. “But you can.”
Spencer is quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven, his fingers still pressed into your skin. “The case was a little boy,” he murmurs, barely above a breath. “He lost his—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “His whole family. We nearly didn't find him in time."
It's the most he can give you, the most that the public has probably heard, too, but it's enough to impress upon you the true horrors he's facing.
You close your eyes, tightening your arms around him. “Spencer.”
He shakes his head, shifting just enough to rest his forehead against your collarbone. “I just—I keep thinking about him. How small he looked. How scared.”
You press your lips together, blinking hard, willing yourself to keep it together for him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick. “I know that doesn’t help, but I am.”
Spencer exhales shakily, nodding against your skin. “It helps.”
You don’t know if that’s true, but you keep holding him anyway. Keep smoothing your hands down his back, keep whispering his name, keep pressing your lips to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, like you can will the heaviness away.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur against his skin. “You’re home.”
Spencer lets out a slow, shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I am.”
Spencer doesn't move much, pressed against you, letting himself be held. His breathing steadies, his hands no longer gripping like he’s afraid of being pulled away.
You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek against the top of his head. “You wanna do something mindless for a bit? Watch bad TV? Read a book with no footnotes? Stare at a wall together?”
Spencer snorts, muffled against your skin. “Tempting.”
“I'm very persuasive when I want to be.”
“That’s one word for it.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”
Spencer finally lifts his head, and there’s something lighter in his expression now, the weight of the case still lingering, but no longer pressing quite so hard against the edges of his mind.
He shifts, settling further into the couch, his knee bumping against yours. “You bullied me into watching a terrible documentary about haunted dolls last time I came back from a case.”
Your mouth falls open in offense. “It was informative!”
Spencer levels you with a flat look. “It was ninety minutes of a guy holding up dolls to the camera and whispering ‘Do you hear that?’”
You press your lips together, fighting back a laugh. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t the most scientific—”
“There was a scene transition shaped like a skull.”
“You didn’t have to watch it!”
Spencer gestures at himself dramatically. “I was physically incapacitated by exhaustion!”
You shove at his shoulder, laughing now, and he catches your wrist easily, pressing a quick, warm kiss to the inside of it before letting you go. The gesture is so easy, so thoughtless, that your chest goes tight with it.
Spencer sighs, shifting so he’s half-leaning against you again, pressing his forehead briefly to your shoulder before pulling back. “But,” he admits, softer now, “it was kind of nice. Sitting with you. Not thinking for a bit.”
You hum, tucking your legs beneath you, leaning into his warmth. “I am great at the whole ‘not thinking’ thing.”
Spencer huffs a laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”
“You sure? I distinctly remember you asking me how I manage to not overanalyze things while I was eating a bowl of cereal the other day.”
“That was—” He pauses, brows knitting together. “Okay, yes, but that’s because you were reading the cereal box like it was literature.”
“It was a compelling narrative, Spencer.”
He tilts his head. “The ingredients list?”
“The lucky leprechaun’s backstory,” you clarify.
Spencer just stares at you.
You grin, nudging his knee. “It’s called escapism, genius.”
Spencer shakes his head, exhaling something close to a laugh-sigh, then shifts again, tucking himself more comfortably against your side.
"Unless you're calling me dumb," you muse, not ready to give up teasing him. He takes the bait easily.
"I would never say that-"
"i'm pretty certain that's what I'm hearing."
"Absolutely not." You sit silently, humming dramatically, hoping for a compliment that you're sure is to come. "You're one of the smartest people I've met, actually. That's why your taste in books and documentaries appalls me."
"You're good at groveling, Dr. Reid."
He doesn't answer, chuckling and pressing his lips against your shoulder in response instead.
After a moment, his fingers brush against yours, hesitant for only a second before twining them together. Quiet settles between you again—not heavy this time, not suffocating. Just easy. Just you and him. Spencer squeezes your fingers lightly, voice soft when he speaks again.
“You make coming home easy.”
Your throat goes tight, and you squeeze back. The shift in tone is palpable. You long to linger in the feeling of warmth and safety and the earnest way he mumbles it. “Good,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his temple. “Because you are home.”
Spencer exhales, slow and steady. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”
You don’t move immediately after Spencer settles against you, letting his weight sink into the couch, his fingers loosely tangled with yours. He’s relaxed now, softer, the weight of the week still lingering in his tired eyes but no longer pressing quite so hard on his shoulders.
It’s the perfect time to strike.
You reach for the remote, flicking through streaming options with intense purpose.
Spencer glances at you, suspicious. “What are you doing?”
“Putting something on to help you unwind.”
His eyes narrow. “What kind of something?”
You hum innocently. “Oh, you’ll see.���
Spencer watches as you select a YouTube documentary—one you know is riddled with inaccuracies, one that will absolutely send him into a spiral.
The second the dramatic narration begins, Spencer physically tenses.
You stifle a smile. You watched it when he was gone, something mind-numbing after a long day at work, and have been waiting to see his reaction to the ridiculous claims of the conspiracies.
The documentary wastes no time getting things wrong.
A sweeping shot of pyramids. An ominous, overly intense musical score. And then, in bold, serious tones:
"The ancient Egyptians, known for their fascination with aliens—"
Spencer inhales sharply, head snapping toward you, eyes wide with horror. “Their fascination with WHAT?”
You shrug, biting your lip. “Aliens, love. Keep up.”
Spencer throws his hands in the air. “Ancient Egyptian society was a highly advanced civilization with remarkable achievements in engineering, mathematics, and medicine—why does everything have to be aliens?”
You pat his knee comfortingly. “Shh. The experts are speaking.”
He turns back to the screen just in time to hear the narrator say:
"Some theorists believe the Sphinx was originally a statue of a dog, not a lion."
Spencer physically jolts, glaring at you again.
“A dog?” he scoffs.
You bite back laughter. “I don’t know, Spence. It kinda looks like a dog if you squint.”
He looks betrayed. “It doesn't. I know you don't think it does.”
You hum thoughtfully, pretending to study the screen. “Maybe, like, a bulldog?”
Spencer presses the heels of his palms into his eyes like he’s in pain. Give me the remote. There's a better, actual documentary, about 1940s Germany that I wanted to show you instead of this-” he gestures toward the screen, "garbage."
You grin, nudging his side. “Oh, you love it.”
“I do not—”
A new segment starts, this one even worse, featuring a so-called “historian” confidently stating that the Romans invented cheese.
Spencer makes a noise nearly resembling a laugh and you know you've got him.
“No they didn't," he says, deadpan, shaking his head and clicking off of the video.
You lose it. You cackle, curling into his side, shaking with laughter as Spencer queues up an actual documentary, switching on subtitles for you.
“I hate you,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, his arm still wrapped tight around you.
“No, you don’t,” you tease, leaning into him.
He sighs dramatically, dropping a kiss to the top of your head.
“No,” he murmurs, softer now. “I really don’t.”
And just like that, the warmth settles back between you, easy and earned.
Even if he’s still muttering about the Sphinx as the documentary starts.
You settle down like that, listening as Spencer adds his own interesting facts to the documentary. This is home, wholly and truly, sitting on this couch next to him.
You're sure to ask questions, keep him talking, until he falls asleep, missing the sound of his voice the second he dozes off.
283 notes · View notes
worseandworsebytheday · 16 hours ago
Note
I had a whole long response typed out and I had to step away and I came back and it was gone so I’m going to have to abridge it because it was a masterpiece of a response and I can’t recreate it. In short elden ring lore is stupid it’s one selfcest god that crafted a bunch of incest demigods (curing mogh and the cursed half brother). The “dungeons” you speak of are mostly just caves and mines with a few legacy dungeons. Some of which are more annoying than interesting. Saying it’s “visually stunning” or whatever is stupid you’re comparing a current game to one over a decade old that honestly still looks great. But even so, simply comparing visuals is hardly a fair argument. Your pot man’s quest wasn’t sad it was stupid. Whack him out of a few holes and then shatter his ass in azula. I felt nothing doing it. Ranni and her ending were at least interesting and her as a character I actually liked. And she lead to the moonlight sword which is a staple of the games. Yes I know bloodborne and dark souls have insane lore but it’s actually good and worth looking into. Your beloved elden ring locations are big empty areas where you will either just wander around doing nothing or get annihilated by a rune bear or T. rex bird every 2 minutes. There’s no engagement. No imagination there. Skyrim had replayability. Multiple quest lines for factions or the open playability to just wander around and make your own story. I’m sorry you lack and and all ability to think outside of a stupidly structured game. The absolutely godawful takes I’ve been getting inundated with the past couple days are avail it’s bullshit I really expected better from all you stupid fucks. You remind me of when I was in highschool and idiots would say halo was better than Metroid because it “defined a genre” completely disregarding what came before. Or that master chief could ever take Samus in a fight simply because he was the newer guy and all they knew. You’re lucky my original reblog got deleted and I’m getting yelled at and this is all I could say back to you otherwise I’d have much better words than you’re a bumbling fucking moron with absolute shit tastes. Go choke on your shit opinions and enjoy your garbage ass fucking game. (I’ll update this post as I remember more things to add on if I do).
When I was mentioning the shitty locations I think I forgot to specifically name drop caelid. Can’t forget FUCKING CAELID SPECIFICALLY.
Also you think the only interesting location in DS1 is he dukes archive?! Motherfucker we got ash lake, the seat of the FUCKING MULTIVERSE. We’ve got, quite literally, hell, izalith. Oh and I don’t know how you got to the archives without passing through anor londo. Because you CAN NOT tell me that place wasn’t fucking stunning. And AND AND the way they BUILT the locations. Seeing izalith and ash lake from the tomb of giants. That not only has LORE REASONS but if you look at the 3D rendering of the maps IT ACTUALLY PHYSICALLY FUNCTIONS AS SUCH. Like literally the world building is top notch and you’re going to downplay ALL OF THIS?!?! Motherfucker get your fucking head out of your motherfucking anus and open your shit crusted eyes at the marvel you downplayed to “one interesting area”. And on top of that “oh boo hop the pot man was so sad” fucking SIF AND ARTORIAS. You want sad fucking...just fucking...now that I took a moment to re skim your response to me now I’m just fucking angry with you you fucking idiot among fucking idiots.
Like really your shit ass Fucking tastes about skyrim are bad enough but to lump bloodborne lore in with elden ring lore and then shit on dark souls world building?? Motherfucker I will physically fight you to the death over this one I’m not even messing around. That’s 3 real games you’ve dragged through the dirt defending the elden trash heap. Fuck all of you.
elder scrolls or elden ring. there is a right answer
Listen I love skyrim, but you have to be a bumbling fucking moron if you think it's better than Elden Ring!!!!
1K notes · View notes
midnight-shadow-cafe · 1 day ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Special Delivery
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Wife!Reader
Warnings: Fluff, possessive Simon, arguments, annoyance (spouse and nonspouse annoyance)
Author’s Note: Simon forgot some stuff at home, you are a firecracker if anyone has ever seen one so here we are. Inspired by one of my favs @bi-writes and her younger!wife x John Price fic
Masterlist | Bi’s Fanfic
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
It starts with a text.
My Ghostie: Forgot my wallet.
Then another.
My Ghostie: And my lunch.
And another.
My Ghostie: ...And the file on my desk.
You stare at your phone, lips pressing into a flat line. Unbelievable. You love your husband, truly, but some days? Some days he tests your patience.
With a sigh, you gather everything—his wallet, his carefully packed lunch, and the stupid file he swore he wouldn’t forget—before grabbing your keys. You could ignore it, let him suffer, but you both know you won’t.
Which is how you find yourself at the base entrance, staring down a soldier who looks entirely unimpressed with your existence. Arms crossed, legs planted apart, like he’s guarding the last bastion of civilization.
“I can’t just let you in, ma’am.” His voice is flat, bored, like this is the most mundane problem he’s dealt with all day.
You, on the other hand, are vibrating with irritation. “Look,” you huff, adjusting the duffel bag on your shoulder and waving the brown paper lunch bag in your other hand. “I’m not some crazy stalker trying to infiltrate your little clubhouse. My husband, Simon Riley, left his wallet, his lunch, and some other important stuff at home, and I’m just here to drop it off.”
The guard doesn’t budge. “Can’t confirm that without proper clearance.”
Your patience is wearing thin. You exhale sharply, then, with slow, deliberate movements, hold up a very distinct leather wallet between two fingers and shake it slightly. “Alright, genius, let’s use some logic. If I wasn’t supposed to be here, do you think I’d just so happen to have Ghost’s actual shit?”
The man hesitates, clearly uncertain. “That… that could belong to anyone—”
“Oh my God,” you groan, resisting the urge to fling the wallet at him. “If I was trying to sneak onto base, don’t you think I’d pick something a little less obvious?”
You go in for the kill. Flipping open the wallet, you shove it right into his face. “Does that look like just anyone to you?”
The poor bastard leans in, eyes locking onto the ID tucked inside. His face blanches.
It’s right there. Simon’s name. Simon’s face. Your husband’s face.
“…I mean, I still can’t—”
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Alright, listen here, Private Dumbass.” You shift your stance, letting the overhead lights catch the big-ass rock sitting pretty on your ring finger. You tap it against the metal of the gate for good measure. *Clink, clink.* “See this? This means I can make your life very difficult.”
The man stiffens. You decide to twist the knife. “I may not have rank here, but I am married to a lieutenant. And if you don’t let me through in the next ten seconds, I will personally make it my mission to have you running laps around this base until your legs fall off.”
He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “You… you can’t do that.”
You smirk. “You sure about that? ’Cause my husband definitely can.”
That does it. With a sigh, he gestures for another soldier to let you through. “Fine, fine. Go.”
“Damn right,” you mutter, marching past him with your head held high.
Smart man.
——
After waiting at the gate for so long, you storm onto the base with a paper bag in one hand and a duffel slung over your shoulder, exuding confidence as your boots click against the concrete. The guards barely had time to stop you before a sharp-tongued remark had them stepping aside, unsure if they were more intimidated by your presence or impressed by your sheer audacity.
Simon’s dumbass forgot his lunch, his wallet, and a few other essentials, and you’ll be damned if he goes without just because he’s too stubborn to admit he needs you. He might be the terrifying "Ghost" to everyone else, but to you, he’s just your husband—the same man who forgets his keys and leaves his socks all over the damn house.
Walking into the common area is like stepping into a lion’s den—if lions had the audacity to gawk at you like a bunch of wide-eyed recruits seeing their drill sergeant off duty for the first time. A few soldiers are loitering, some cleaning their gear, others playing cards, but the moment they spot you, their focus shifts. You can practically hear their thoughts.
Who the hell is this?
Why does she look like she owns the place?
Did we miss a briefing?
The most unsubtle reaction comes from a particularly cheeky Scot lounging with his feet kicked up on a chair.
“Well, now,” Soap drawls, an impish grin spreading across his face. “And who might you be?”
You don’t bother stopping. “Not in the mood, Braveheart. Where’s Simon?”
Soap lets out a low whistle. “Oi, no need to be feisty, lass. Maybe if ye tell me who ye are, I can help.”
You sigh, shift the duffel on your shoulder, and lift your left hand just enough for the overhead light to catch on the massive wedding ring decorating your finger.
“His wife.”
The room goes silent.
Soap’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. His mouth opens, closes, then—“No shit.”
“No shit,” you confirm dryly. “And unless you lot want to deal with a grumpy, starving Ghost, you’ll tell me where he is. Now.”
Before anyone can answer, a deep, familiar voice rumbles through the space.
“Don’t need to.”
The effect is instant. The tension in the room shifts as every soldier in the vicinity straightens instinctively.
You turn just as Simon strides in, the mask covering his face doing nothing to hide the sheer command he carries with every step. He looks at you, and even though his expression is unreadable, you feel the weight of his gaze.
“The hell are you doin’ here?”
You plant a hand on your hip, tilting your chin up. “Bringing you your shit.” You shove the paper bag into his chest before shrugging the duffel off your shoulder and letting it drop at his feet. “Your lunch. Your wallet. And the file you swore up and down you wouldn’t forget.”
Simon catches everything with practiced ease, his gaze dropping briefly to the items before flicking back to you. “…I would’ve managed.”
You snort. “Yeah? And by ‘managed,’ you mean sulking around all day, hangry as hell, making everyone else suffer for it?”
A muffled snicker comes from Soap. Simon’s head *slowly* turns toward him. The room collectively holds its breath.
Soap lifts his hands innocently. “What? She’s got a point.”
You smirk, smug. “See? Even he agrees with me.”
Simon exhales sharply, a sound you know is the closest thing to a fond sigh. Then, before you can react, he hooks a hand around your waist and tugs you in, pressing your body flush against his. It’s firm, grounding, and entirely possessive. His fingers spread wide over the small of your back, holding you there like he’s making sure you’re real.
“You shouldn’t’ve come all this way,” he mutters, voice softer now.
“You love when I show up unannounced.”
His grip tightens slightly. You know you’ve won. His hand moves to your hip, pulling you even closer if that was possible. His touch was firm but gentle, grounding you in a sense. You tilt your head up at him, grinning. “Besides, I know you missed me.”
“You’re a pain in my ass,” he rumbles, though there’s no real heat behind it.
“And you’re lucky I love your grumpy ass.” You grin up at him, reaching up to brush your fingers over the side of his mask. “Eat your lunch, alright? I made sure it’s still warm.”
A long beat passes before Simon finally responds.
“…Yeah. Alright.”
Soap mutters something under his breath, and Simon growls, “MacTavish, if you don’t shut it—”
But before he can finish, you press a quick kiss to his mask-covered cheek. His grip tightens slightly, and you catch the subtle shift in his stance. Oh yeah, he missed you.
“Well, my work here is done,” you say, stepping back with a playful salute. “Try not to forget anything else next time, yeah?”
Simon grunts, his version of a reluctant thank you. But as you turn to leave, you hear him mutter, “Get home safe, love.”
As you turn to leave, you call to your husband, “Oh, by the way—told the guy at the gate he’s gotta run laps for giving me a hard time. Make sure he actually does it, yeah?”
You shoot him a wink over your shoulder before strutting out, leaving a room full of stunned soldiers—and one very flustered Ghost—behind.
You don’t stay to hear the response, but you do catch the sound of Soap absolutely losing it as you step out the door.
Tumblr media
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜
367 notes · View notes
iamnotoriginalphil · 1 day ago
Text
A Study in Forever (Professor!Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)
Tumblr media
Synopsis: Rio returns, expecting you to be gone. Instead, Agatha chooses to teach her a lesson she won't soon forget.
Words: 4.3k
Warnings: Voyeurism, fingering (R receiving), edging, exhibitionism, possessiveness, objectification, orgasm delay, dom!Agatha, swearing
Tags: @sasheemo @buttercandy16 @chlondykebar @midnight-lestrange @babybeeelle @dontsblameme@grilledcheeseandguavajelly @fuckedupforkhahn @latedawnsearlysunsets92
The summer was dripping past in long days and soft nights. Moving into Agatha’s house had been as simple as shoving some clothes in her wardrobe and books on her bookcase. The summer heat had made you lazy without the need to constantly produce work for Agatha. And with that came lounging around the house.
Agatha had spent plenty of time telling you that draping over her couch was not going to work as seduction. And then she’d descend on you and burn you up with her mouth. It certainly seemed to work as a seduction tactic.
It probably helped that the heat left you wearing very little clothing. Shorts, crop tops, bikinis on the few attempts you’d made to go swimming. Each time her hands would be on your skin and you’d forget whatever it was you’d been trying to do. You couldn’t complain, knowing exactly what you were doing when you put on those clothes.
You were lying on her couch, under the fan, a worn paperback dangling from your fingers. Your eyes were closed, feeling the air waft over your bare skin, half asleep in the warm cocoon of the summer heat. Agatha had locked herself in her office under the grumbled excuse of having to actually get some work done. You’d grinned and sent her off with a lingering kiss, knowing she’d come find you sooner or later. She always did. It was like she couldn’t keep away from you.
It was one of the things you loved about her.
A knock sounded on the front door. You startled, the loud noise not something you’d been expecting. It was the middle of the afternoon and you knew Agatha wasn’t expecting anyone. She usually told you to make sure you weren’t wandering around the house half naked. Not that you thought she’d really have a problem with that. Not if she could stake her claim in front of everyone.
You knew she’d been thinking about that whole voyeurism dream you’d shared with her.
You swung your legs off the sofa, knowing Agatha probably wouldn’t have heard from behind the heavy office door she’d shut in your pouting face. Pulling the door open, you weren’t sure what to expect. Maybe one of the neighbours. Sharon had grown especially friendly over the last few weeks.
Rio was definitely the last person you expected to be there.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Her perfect face was marred with a look of disgust. Pushing past your initial shock, you let a smile take over your face, doing your best to do that sparkling thing Agatha accused you of doing to get your way.
“I live here,” you replied.
“So you’re still around,” Her head tilted to the side, “I can’t say I was expecting that.”
“I know,” you said.
“Is Agatha here?” she asked, dark eyes narrowing.
“She’s kind of busy at the moment but I’ll let her know you stopped by,” you said, already beginning to close the door.
Her hand slammed into it, holding it open. You pursed your lips, but let her lean towards you.
“Go tell her I’m here, little girl,” she said, her voice a hiss.
“If she wanted to see you, she’d be in contact,” you said, “I think her silence tells you enough.”
You’d won the war, you’d gotten the girl, you weren’t letting this intimidating woman come in and fluster you enough to steal your place in Agatha’s life. Her hand reached out, curling around a strand of your hair. She tugged on it, hard enough to feel a sharp pain in your scalp. It was nothing like when Agatha pulled on your hair, none of the liquid heat melting through your veins.
“Trust me, she’ll want to see me,” she whispered, pulling you closer to her.
“If I’ve taught you anything, pet, it’s not to trust such a self serving bitch like this.”
A hand slid around your waist, chin digging into your shoulder. You lent back against the familiar body, relaxing at her steady presence. Rio let go of your hair, straightening again as her eyes swept over the picture you made with Agatha. You knew how you looked wrapped up in her arms, comfortable and simply hers. You liked it, having her claim staked in front of someone who so obviously wanted it instead.
“What do you want?” Agatha asked, voice chilling in a way that turned it to ice.
“Since you’ve found someone to stick around, I thought I’d offer my services to teach her exactly how to please you,” she said, her eyes sliding from you to her, lips curling up in a familiar smirk.
“I think I’ve got it covered,” you said, “I’ve heard no complaints from her.”
“Because I have none. You’ve been doing wonderfully, kitten.” Her lips pressed to the vulnerable skin behind your jaw, making you shiver and press back into her. She chuckled, her fingers splayed over the bare skin of your stomach, nails gently dragging over it.
Dark eyes zeroed in on the hand on your stomach, an interested tilt to her head. You felt your breath catch, knowing she was watching you, wondering what she was thinking, seeing exactly how much Agatha wanted you. Your lips parted, the heat you felt under your skin unexpected but not unpleasant.
“You’re not even going to invite me in for a refreshing glass of lemonade?” she asked, gaze dragging back up to your face, “I’ve come such a long way to visit.”
“What do you think, pet? Should we let her in?” Agatha asked, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“One drink wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” you said, grinning when her nails dug in.
The trouble with you was you were beginning to enjoy flaunting your relationship with Agatha. You wanted Rio to see it, to have to face the fact that you’d won, to rub it in her face. Agatha had made her decision and it was you.
She wasn’t needed anymore.
Your fingers tangled with Agatha’s as you led her to the back of the house, knowing it would annoy Rio. You pulled open the fridge door, the lemonade you’d made the day before waiting. Agatha’s hands were on your hips as you poured three tall glasses, ice cubes clinking against the sides. Her lips made a home on your neck. Rio was still watching. Your skin heated but you didn’t tell Agatha to stop.
“We can drink in the living room,” Agatha said after a moment.
She plucked one of the glasses from you, shoving the other across the counter at Rio. She caught it, hissing when some sloshed over the side onto the skin of her hand. Holding eye contact with Agatha, she licked it off, tongue slow as it dragged over her own skin. Her hand tightened around you, dragging you into the living room.
Rio settled on the couch, right where you’d been lounging. She lent back, legs spread, taking a long drink from her glass. Agatha sat in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other. You perched on the arm next to her, grinning when her hand landed on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin.
“You’ve built quite the little love nest for yourself here,” Rio said, her eyes focused on the hand on your leg.
“I don’t think it’s a love nest when we live together,” you replied, fingers winding through Agatha’s hair.
“You’ve moved in?” Her eyebrows raised for just a moment.
“That surprises you?” Agatha asked.
“Only because the last woman you lived with was me,” she said.
The way she was looking at Agatha was like she owned her. She had been the first and she probably had thought she would be the last but then you had come along and ruined all her plans. You weren’t going to let her ruin yours.
“And what a disaster that turned out to be,” Agatha drawled.
“I thought we had fun,” she said, long finger slow to draw along the rim of her glass, “you certainly seemed to enjoy being hidden away with me in very close quarters.”
“Until it became claustrophobic,” she replied.
“And now you have so much space. I’m sure you can go days without seeing one another,” she said, eyes flicking to you.
Agatha’s hand tugged on your leg. You slid off the arm of the chair into her lap. Molten in her hands, you let her spread your legs, forcing them to fall either side of both of hers as you lent back against her soft curves. Her chin rested on your shoulder as her hand pressed into your lower stomach.
“Lucky for me neither of us want that much space,” she said, lips brushing the underside of your jaw.
It was automatic, the way you tilted your head to give her more access. Dark eyes watched as she ran her tongue up the length of your neck before her teeth closed over your earlobe. You whimpered, the flutter of your pulse turning you breathless.
“Isn’t my pet so pretty?” Agatha asked, turning her gaze back to Rio, “how could I want to stay away from her?”
Rio hummed, not quite a proper response. Chilled fingers brushed over your skin, still wet from the condensation on the glass of lemonade she must have put down. Your lips parts and your muscles tightened under her touch. Her chuckle was low, a vibration you felt against you, the kind that said you were in trouble.
Or about to have a lot of fun.
“But I don’t like other people touching my toys,” she continued, hand beginning to trace patterns into your skin, brushing higher and higher up your body.
“I remember,” Rio replied, a rough hum, “but you never seemed to have a problem sharing with me.”
“This one’s different. She’s special,” she said, hand slipping under the hem of your crop top.
In the warm summer air the heat of her hand felt unbearable, and the thought of losing it was inconceivable. Lips pressed to the underside of your jaw. You wiggled in her lap, the low thrum of arousal familiar and comforting, and yet somehow indecent under the watchful gaze of Rio.
“No one’s that special,” Rio said.
“She is,” Agatha hummed, “the first taste I had of her I knew there was no one like her. I’d never get enough. If I could, I’d have her chained to my bed, at my beck and call, this pussy on demand.”
Her fingers played with the button of your shorts. She ignored the small noise you made. The way your breath stuttered out of your parted was ignored too.
“You’ve never tasted her. You’ve never heard what she sounds like when she comes. You’ve never seen the way she looks when she’d begging for her release,” she continued.
Her fingers popped open the button on your shorts. The other hand cupped your breast, over the top of your bra, squeezing it roughly. You made a small mewling noise, arching into her hand. Dark eyes raked over your body, lingering on where the hand was groping you.
“If you’d seen her come undone, you wouldn’t be giving her up either,” Agatha said.
“Are you offering?” Rio asked.
“You’ll never touch her,” she said as her hand pushed into your shorts, slipping into your underwear.
“You sure about that?” she asked.
“Go on, pet. Tell her. Will she ever touch you?” Agatha asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
Her fingers ghosted over your clit.
“No,” you managed to say, trying to sound as normal as possible. You were certain you’d failed from the way Rio’s gaze snapped down to your spread legs.
“And why’s that?” Agatha asked, keeping her voice to a gentle hum.
“Because I’m yours,” you replied.
Her fingers ran through your folds, feeling how wet you already were. Slow to circle your clit, she pressed her lips to yours in a gentle kiss, almost the complete opposite of what this situation had turned into. Your head fell back against her shoulder with a soft sigh.
“You see? I’ve trained her so well. I give her everything she needs. Why would she ever want someone like you?” Agatha taunted.
“You think she’ll stay with you? This young, pretty thing? She can find something better. You know I’m the only one who will stay with you forever,” Rio said.
“I’d rather take my chances with her,” Agatha replied.
She was being so slow with you. A teasing touch, soft and not nearly enough. You whined, turning your head towards her ear, wanting her to hear you. Her fingers dipped back down to your entrance, lingering there until you thought you would go mad.
“You’re free to leave at any time,” Agatha told Rio.
“If this is a game I don’t intend to lose,” Rio replied.
Her finger slid into you, so easily it was almost embarrassing. You whimpered, just loud enough to be heard, hips shifting. The hand she’d trailed up your shirt pulled the cup of your bra down, fingers pinching at your nipple. She was slow to roll it between thumb and forefinger, the hand between your legs stroking your inner walls in a way that was making it hard to catch your breath.
“No game,” Agatha hummed.
“Everything with you is a game,” Rio replied.
She lent forward, eyes growing more intent as they focused on your body. Fire was licking at your skin. Your hands clutched at the arms of the armchair, your nails digging into the soft leather.
“My pet isn’t a plaything,” Agatha said, right as her thumb ground against your clit.
Your moan was loud to your own ears. A sharp inhalation came from across the room. Dark eyes seemed to darken as they focused on your face. Under the spotlight of Rio’s attention, you felt yourself set alight. Your lips parted, eyes squeezing closed.
“Look at her. Isn’t she everything a person could want?” Agatha hummed.
Her thumb was moving in tight circles over your clit and you couldn’t breathe properly. Your hips tried to buck into her touch but without feet on the floor you couldn’t get any traction. Her tongue flicked at your earlobe before she found her home at your pulse point.
“I will admit you found a pretty little thing to occupy your time,” Rio agreed, her voice low. Your eyes fluttered open, finding her focused on where Agatha was kissing you, “but how long can she really satisfy you?”
“Just watch. Once you see, then you’ll understand how I could never grow tired of this,” she sighed before her teeth sunk into your skin.
You cried out, begging for more. She smiled into you your skin, tongue soothing over the bruise she had most likely left on your skin. She slid a second finger into you as her thumb slipped away from your clit. Whimpering, you hid your face against her neck.
“Go on, show her, pet,” she coaxed, “let her see you.”
You turned your face back to let Rio watch you. Agatha curled her fingers in reward, causing you to moan her name. You locked eyes with Rio. Her lips were pressed together, hands clasped, hanging between her knees.
Agatha’s thrusts were slow, the pace maddening. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was making your head spin. You loved when she got rough with you, but this was almost like she wanted to see how far she could stretch your sanity.
“She’s so wet,” Agatha said, “so warm.”
“Agatha,” you whimpered.
“Shh, pet. The adults are talking,” she said.
You shut your mouth, doing as you were told. If you did, then she would reward you. You knew that. If you stopped distracting her, she’d let you come. She’d taught you so well. You would do anything she asked of you.
“See? Such a good girl,” she said, turning her attention back to Rio, “she does exactly what I tell her to.”
“I remember a time when you enjoyed being told what to do,” Rio said.
“I still do sometimes,” she replied, “when my pet has been particularly well behaved.”
“Is she as good as I am?” Rio asked.
“Better.”
Dark eyes, swimming in anger, returned back to you. You couldn’t even focus on her, the thumb back on your clit drawing tight circles, grinding against you until you were panting for breath. Her fingers curled, twisting inside you as her fingers harshly pinched your nipple. You yelped but you were arching into her touch, asking for more.
Rio was leaning closer, gaze focused on the hand in your shorts. You were so close, right on the edge, enjoying the way envy played over the other woman’s face so clearly. There was no way of knowing if she wanted to be you or be Agatha, or both.
“Don’t even think about touching her,” Agatha said, voice sharp.
Your cunt pulsed, loving when her voice became so commanding. Her chuckle was warm against your ear. Rio’s fingers clenched around her glass of lemonade, the ice almost completely melted. She lent back, her chest heaving, a flush still growing high on her cheeks as she watched.
“You’ll never touch her,” Agatha told Rio, “and you’ll never touch me again.”
“We’ll see if you still feel that way when this one has moved on too,” she replied but she didn’t sound so sure.
“Oh she’s not leaving me. She branded herself. She’s mine until she dies,” Agatha replied, and you could hear the smugness in her voice. She was proud of your actions. Even weeks later, her fingers still traced over the words inked on your skin, her name, over and over again until you thought she might wear your skin away.
You loved it.
“And I have complete control over her,” she continued, “don’t I, pet?”
“Yes,” you hissed as her thumb ground down even harder.
You were trembling, holding on for as long as you could. You knew the game she was playing, the example she was making of you. You weren’t going to let her lose face in front of Rio. She needed you to be good, to do this for her.
You would do anything for her.
“You must have spent a lot of time training her,” Rio said.
“Hardly,” she scoffed, not letting up on you for a moment, “she wants to please me.”
“But you enjoy punishment so much,” she said, her voice a caress, trying to taunt her into admitting you weren’t living up to her wishes.
“I enjoy a good girl so much more,” she hummed, “I like a toy that does as she’s told and doesn’t answer back.”
You definitely didn’t always do what you were told and you’d been known to answer back.
“That’s a lie, and we both know it,” Rio said.
“Perhaps, but she does it in such a delicious way I forget she’s pushing the limits,” she said before her lips brushed over your skin.
You were strung tight, trembling, doing everything you could not to fall over the edge. Her fingers were rough, moving in just the way she knew unravelled you. She was making it so difficult for you, and you assumed it was on purpose. She had to make it clear she wasn’t going easy on you. That even under pressure you still did as you were told.
That no one could give her what she wanted like you did.
“But since she’s being so well behaved today, she’s not going to come until I tell her she can,” she murmured, “will you, pet?”
“No,” you whimpered.
Tears pricked at your eyes, holding on so tight it was a physical ache. You were desperate. Her thrusts were fast now palm grinding against your clit. She was unforgiving, harsh in how she was treating you. The other hand was groping your breast, squeezing it, pinching at your nipple. When the tears fell, her teeth sunk into the skin of your neck.
Through the haze of the tears still leaking from your eyes, you saw Rio lean forward again. You squeezed your eyes shut, the heat of her gaze enough to make you breathless and wanton and needy. Agatha’s dark chuckle in your ear only made the whole thing worse.
“Do you see how hard she’s trying? She wants to please me so badly,” she said and you knew it was for Rio’s benefit.
“She is rather pretty when she cries like that,” she replied.
“And all for me,” Agatha said.
The conversation turned fuzzy after that, your entire brain focused on holding back your orgasm. You felt on fire. Every moment it only got worse, closer to turning to ash in Agatha’s lap.
“All mine,” Agatha purred.
You couldn’t stop the whimper that managed to slip past your parted lips. She didn’t reprimand you, her lips pressing to your temple.
“It’s okay, pet. You can come now.”
Your body shuddered in her arms, the relief washing through you. Letting go, you let the pleasure crash into you, the way it had been trying to for so long. You sobbed, pressing your face into her neck. The hand on your breast slipped out from under your shirt, stroking through your hair as she kept your face buried against her skin.
“You did so well for me, kitten,” she murmured against your temple, “you were wonderful.”
She eased you through it. Fingers slowing within you, her lips pressed soft kisses to your hairline. Once you’d stopped twitching in her arms, she slowly withdrew her hand from your shorts. Your arousal glistened on her fingers in the summer sunlight.
You grasped her wrist, pulling her fingers to your lips. You licked along them before sliding them into your mouth, your tongue licking her clean. Hollowing your cheeks, you sucked on them the way you knew she liked.
You dragged your eyes over to Rio, feeling a sense of smugness. You were the one she’d been touching, and you were the one who had put on the show for her. Her own eyes were blown wide as they took you in.
“You can’t find anyone better than my pet because there is no one better. And she’s all mine,” Agatha said, sliding her fingers from your mouth, the arm around your waist tightening, “you can leave now.”
Rio’s eyes snapped to her, the look of anger flashing over her face. You cuddled back against Agatha, pulling your legs up to settle more comfortably against her body. She handed you her glass of lemonade, making sure you drank the entire thing down before putting down the empty glass. Her fingers slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head.
Her lips pressed to yours, kissing you deeply. You were boneless, melted against her, satiated and happy. She tucked your head back against your shoulder.
“Get out of my house,” she commanded, voice hardened as she realised Rio was still there on her couch.
“You bring me here and put on a show then tell me to leave without giving me mine?” she demanded.
“You showed up uninvited. Now get out,” she said.
You sighed as you burrowed closer to her, eyes sliding closed. A lazy afternoon nap sounded like a wonderful idea.
You weren’t sure how long you sat like that with her but when the front door slammed you jerked up. The couch had been vacated and Agatha was glaring out the front window.
“Next time we don’t invite her in for a drink,” you mumbled, finding your place against her shoulder again.
“You didn’t have fun?” she asked.
“I had fun with you,” you replied, “she was surplus to that.”
“Was she? Because I think you liked performing for her. You liked her watching,” she said, the fingers still tangled in your hair pulling.
“I did,” you agreed, “I really did.”
“And yet you still don’t want her to come back?”
You looked up at her, still feeling soft and sleepy, wanting nothing more than to stay in her arms. She wasn’t looking at you, the weight of her gaze having shifted back to the window. You wished you knew what she was thinking.
“Agatha, she makes you unhappy. As long as she does, I don’t want her anywhere near you,” you said.
Blue eyes darted down to you, finding you gazing up at her. The fingers in your hair slid out, gently tracing the curve of your jaw.
“You’d give up ever doing that again just for me?” she asked.
“I have more than enough just from you. Who cares if that never happens again as long as I have you. You’re all I want,” you replied.
She tilted your head up, kissing you until you were breathless.
“Well, I think we made our point, kitten,” she said.
“Mmhm,” you hummed, settling against her again.
“I doubt she’ll be back. She knows there’s no place for her in my life anymore,” she said, fingers carding through your hair.
“I’m all you need,” you mumbled, lips brushing the skin of her neck.
You felt her shiver, fingers tugging on your hair sharply. You kissed the underside of her jaw, feeling her arm tighten around you.
“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted,” she replied, “you were made for me.”
When she lifted you, her arms strong around your body, carrying you upstairs to your bedroom, you couldn’t agree more. You had been made just for Professor Harkness. And you were never letting her go.
200 notes · View notes
oceantornadoo · 10 hours ago
Text
ch11 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)
tw: a little piss bc reader is refused a toilet. some light torture scenes and violence.
“Where. Is. She.” Ghost slams John against the wall, his forearm to John’s throat. The man’s snarling, an unrestrained beast in a mask. The world zeroes in on the gaze between them, the terrible acceptance that they have a shared weakness. A shared weakness who is gone, potentially dead. All they can do is beat the rotted carcass of this feeling until it breaks. 
Thirty minutes earlier
For the past two hours, there’s been something vibrating under John’s skin. It was there when he pulled Gaz by his collar in the store, searching the man’s eyes for deceit. It was there when he eventually let him down, satisfied with the steel reflecting back at him. It was there when someone handed him his wife’s phone, the screen filled with unread text messages from him asking to get dinner and talk it all out. It followed him all the way to the Castle.
Gaz relocates them quickly, saying he has more devices back at home. John’s home, your home, your shared home. The whole car ride John’s knee shakes up and down, nervous energy permeating the air. All he does is replay your last conversation over and over. 
“I am trapped, John.”
“No matter how I feel about you now, I didn’t pick this marriage.” 
“I can’t even tell if you like me for me or my proximity.”
“I need to go to work before I say something I’ll regret.”
The words swarm through his head like wasps, picking at the insecurities he hides everyday. The worries that you wouldn’t pick him in a normal world, that this has been pillowtalk to pass the days. If you love something you’re supposed to let it go, but he can’t decide between being noble and hoarding you until you forget what life was like before captivity. And of course, all of these thoughts assume you’re alive. He hasn’t let himself consider the full possibility that Shepherd has hurt you in ways that would defile your mind and your body, never leaving you whole again. It all coalesces into an evil energy, vibrating under his skin as the London streets roll by outside the car.
Gaz leads John into the security room with words not meant for him. Murmurs to the house staff, directions ordered over ear pieces. They blur and buzz in John’s eardrums, these damn wasps becoming parasites. He’s too old to consider hunting you himself, knows that he has to trust his man, but the urge is there anyways. Thoughts of escalating into straight warfare, bombing Shepherd’s home without any care for the innocents within. 
That’s what he’s thinking about when Ghost arrives, dragging in coattails of vengeance and dread.
Now
“Stand down, Ghost. This ain’t helpin’.” He croaks out against the pressure in his throat. Ghost’s eyes flare, soulless black pits that see too much. They search John’s, within and around, poking and prodding at the emotions he’s been holding in for the hour since he learned his wife is gone. Whatever Ghost finds is enough, John deemed worthy not to die by the loosening of Ghost’s grip. They pant as one, wishing they had never let themself love a woman enough to destroy their dynasties for her.
The world resumes as Ghost turns away. No one mentions the threat, the way John would have let the guilt drown him if Ghost didn’t. John should have pushed harder, should’ve accompanied you to the store instead of letting you go in his shirt with a faint goodbye on your lips. Like you knew what would happen and went anyway, just to see how far his heart could stretch until it tears.
MacTavish is murmuring low calming words to Ghost, unintelligible over the hum of computers and screens. In this room, all pretense is given up, one man’s hand stroking the other’s. To have a half of a soul live outside the body is a dangerous thing, even more when attacks come from all sides. If he squints, there’s a flash of your glare in Ghost’s, the same half-tilted frown hidden by the mask. It’s like you’re haunting him, no, taunting him with the fact that he’s lost you and now he has to deal with your ghost. It’s all his fault, but he lets the pity fester inside instead of releasing it on everyone else.
“Update, Garrick?” Another croak, a near two minutes after the incident. This is why Gaz is his heir - all he does is hand John the nearest iPad without a mention as to what happened. John reads the screen fast, a list of possible abandoned warehouses near Shepherd locations. It makes sense but the timing is all wrong. He’d expected this if things had been quiet, but there was another scrap between Price men and Shepherd men last night. This kidnapping must have been calculated by someone separate, someone like Phil with a solo mission. He should’ve killed the man when he found out he was working (almost) alone with his wife.
“It’ll be somewhere symbolic. Shepherd likes to make a statement.” Garrick mentions. John hands the tablet silently to Ghost, an offering of peace. In the corner of his eye, he can see MacTavish conferring with Mare, the head of the weapons team, speaking a language only the two of them know. The man frowns, then shakes his head at something Mare says. “Dinnae work like tha’.” It travels over the distance of the room, confusing John enough that he walks over to learn what’s happening.
“Report?” Mare is a bit skittish but cool-headed in times of need, the reason he hired the first ever woman on a Price Family leadership team. He trusts her and her chemistry degrees, plus her sense of urgency. “Sir, we’ve just received word that the weapons stores have been compromised.” It’s like a pin drop, other conversations falling silent as she speaks. “Meaning?” He asks, toeing the line of impatience. “Shepherd’s men struck last night, around the same time as the street fight. We believe it was coordinated between that and the kidnapping to hide it as long as possible. They cut the WiFi, so we only found out during the shift change. All the guards were killed and the weapons taken.” 
John prides himself on acting like a real corporate boss, restrained and professional. However, this is his last fucking straw. “You’re saying Shepherd took my fucking weapons, then my fucking wife? How the hell does this happen?” Ghost grunts at the word ‘wife’ but John ignores it, too focused on the situation at hand. Instead of answering, Mare’s eyes flit around the room. Since it was converted from two bedrooms, it fits up to thirty people and is currently at capacity. He can read his employee too well, and knows she’s nervous about the many ears around. While he usually trusts his people with his life, it’s been an odd day and he decides to err on the side of caution. 
“Mare an’ everyone related t’ me, this way.” There’s an elevator to the upper floor in the back of the room. Ghost and MacTavish fall in line, but Garrick seems frozen and unsure. “Gaz, that includes you.” They don’t acknowledge the head nod, brushing elbows as John hits the elevator button. Once all five are in, John hits the emergency stop between floors, leaving them in purgatory. “Speak.” He instructs Mare.
“There’s a mole. It’s the only way they could have gotten in. I designed that facility myself, sir, and there’s no way they could have gotten in with the tools and soldiers they have. Unless our intel was wrong, and I don’t think it was, we have a rat.” Her words echo in the metal chamber. She meets MacTavish’s eyes and he nods in confirmation. 
“Price.” Ghost grunts, his first words in a while. “It’s someone in that room. They’d hav’ to be on yer security.” John nods at his words and turns to Gaz. “How much longer to narrow down locations?” The man still seems flustered by John’s earlier words and needs a nudge to the shin to spit it out. “An hour, tops. We’re thinking of an abandoned weapons facility or church. Something about what he stole, weapons or marriage.” John grunts at the symbolism of it all. “I’m the first one there.” He demands. “Sir, I-” John turns to look his second in the eye. “I’m the first there.” Gaz nods. John turns back to Ghost and MacTavish, staring at him with twin glares of violence.
“Right, men. We got a rat t’ catch.”
-
“You don’t know what I’d do to find ya and keep ya.”
John’s words echo through your mind as you eye Phil, standing in the corner with a water bottle. You haven’t peed since this morning, 12 hours ago, and he knows. Taunting words sung with a Southern accent, promising a toilet in return for the weapon codes. He’s banking on your embarrassment, that you won’t want to piss yourself in this hellhole. Too bad for him you don’t like to listen to what men tell you to do.
“C’mon, sugar. Know ya got t’ go. Give me the codes an’ I got a nice lil’ bathroom for you. Even has one of those bidets.” You shake your head, refusing. Your bladder is pushing against your stomach, tension growing with every breath. It wouldn’t be too bad if he hadn’t kept feeding you water. You think you’re on bottle six now, what seemed like a blessing turned into a curse.
“Fine. Time f’ another one.” He unscrews and steps to your side, checking your handcuffs before coming near your mouth. It’s like he’s under orders not to hurt you physically. There’s been no beatings, no threat of knives or guns. He needs you alive, and you’re pretty sure you know why. The weapons require both a code and an eye scan, something you can’t fake with a dead body. Johnny created the code section and Gaz added the eye scan later, his coding skills a thing of beauty. His quick thinking is the only thing keeping you alive.
Water pours down your throat. He presses down your tongue to force you to swallow every last drop. When he leans over you, it’s like rose-colored glasses have been removed. His blond hair is limp, face sweaty with concentration. Gone is the charming assistant, bright and fun. You bet he needs you to stay alive for his own safety, his life relying on it.
As water slips into your belly, the pressure to pee goes stronger. With a dirty hand, he pushes on your stomach, and you whine in discomfort. He shouldn’t be touching you, especially in a place so sensitive. The loss of body autonomy is your biggest fear, whether it be motherhood or this. Only John would understand, you think, berating yourself for being so stupidly stubborn. That’s when you make up your mind, to still have control over the one thing you can.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re fuckin’ disgusting, you dirty bitch.” The piss soaks your jeans and, with enough force, dribbles on his shoe. Phil jumps away in disgust, eyes hardened into flint as he glares at you. “Fuck you.” You spit out. A glob of it lands near his shoe, making him jump again. You almost pity how weak he is enough to torture a woman for a living. Almost.
“You’re gonna be sorry you did that.” He bites back. Phil glances at the mirror and for the first time in hours, you let yourself feel a lick of fear. You’re pretty sure you know who his boss is, someone too violent for the games you’re playing. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Is what you can muster. Instead of answering, he shakes off his shoe and knocks on the door. When it opens, there’s a person in full PPE, holding a metal tray with a filled syringe. You jolt back, but the chair is bolted to the ground and doesn’t allow you to move.
“Wait, please, Phil-” He’s fast, shooting something into your arm. Everything goes dark after that.
-
Gaz was right. It only took an hour. 
But it takes longer than that to rule out each location. It’s been 24 hours, and they haven’t found you yet.
John insists on checking out every place by himself, as does Ghost. They’re even-keeled enough to split up to make it go faster but insist on Gaz scrounging up more earpieces so they can keep in constant contact. They slept in shifts too, six-hour blocks once it hit midnight, so they weren’t trudging through their search. Johnny stays back to work with the engineers on testing the security system he designed, while Gaz comes along with whoever is searching. The four of them stay on their own radio channel like a task force, acting more military than mafia. 
They start from the inner city and expand outwards. It’s methodical. It’s calculated. It’s the exact strategy Gaz planned months ago when the marriage was proposed. He’s the clearest headed out of all of them but there’s still a bite to his tone, a tension in his shoulders, a furrow in his brow. If John wasn’t so out of it himself, he’d be glad that his right-hand man seems to care for his wife. 
They sweep warehouses top to bottom. John tugs on every alliance he has, every favor owed. They get pledges of loyalty from smaller gangs, who do their own searches as well. It’s so much and yet not enough because John Price does not have his fucking wife in his hands. Your shampoo scent is not in his nose, your laughter is not in his ears, your waist is not in his grasp. You are gone and he is at fault for not protecting you.
“Focus, Price.” They’ve both slept and are now in their third church in the past 90 minutes. It’s abandoned like the rest of them, creaking doors and blown out windows. They’ve gotten into a rhythm now, sweeping the building efficiently. You’re not there. They finish in twenty minutes, Gaz outside on the phone with the rest of the crew. When they emerge, he stands tall at attention. 
“Sir, we’ve got a hit.”
-
“How you feeling, hun?” The world is woozy, half-tilt on a rollercoaster. You sway from right to left, only steadying when firm hands grasp your shoulders. Your eyes flutter, vision blurring in technicolor. You’re somewhere else, with paintings on the walls and carpet on the floors. That’s when you do a body scan and realize you’re not in the clothes you were kidnapped in.
You jerk away from the man touching you. The wooden chair you’re strapped to falls to the floor and takes you with it. He tries to pick you up, moving in a blur of dark grey, but you thrash away like a fish out of water. His touch is poison, and you fear it was him who undressed you, him who saw you naked against your will. “Get away from me!” You screech, vocal cords sore from disuse. The man’s hands are gnarled crooked things, clawing at your shoulders until your chair is straight again. You try to flinch but your miniscule reactions are still slurry from whatever you were injected with. Once you’re straight, you bite back a gasp.
It’s him. The General. Shepherd. 
Square face with a buzzcut. Weathered and old with a cruel gleam in his eye. He sits back down into a chair in front of yours. This one is red leather, squeaking comfortably with weight as he sits down. The man was in the army in a past life, hence the styling of The General. He wears dark slacks and an army-like jacket. The bravado of it disgusts you. A title like that should be earned, not worn like play clothes. You put on your brave face and sneer at him, a cat backed into an alley.
“I see why John likes you.” He looks you up and down like he can see through your clothes. You flinch against your will. “You don’t deserve to say his name.” You bite. He laughs jarringly. “Fucking brat is what you are. Even got Phil under your spell.” That’s news to you. It’s certainly at odds with his behavior. You don’t react, easing your features into a smooth mask.
“I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t have the codes.” He stares at you dead-eyed. “Not necessary. We don’t need the codes.” He’s bluffing. You’re willing to bet your life on the hard work of Johnny and Gaz. There’s absolutely no way, no workaround. That’s when you get an idea.
“Oh yeah? You’re just going to put me in front of the eye scanner and go from there?” He frowns like you’ve figured out his plan. You almost laugh. “Too bad. You’re still missing a step.” That reels him in. Shepherd sits forward, elbows on his knees, searching your gaze for a lie. You raise your brows defiantly. “What, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out?” He squints harder at your words. 
“My brother’s old school. Doesn’t trust technology, or anybody else.” It’s certainly true. Simon’s well-known for not trusting people. Even the General looks intrigued. “What are you sayin’?” He murmurs. It’s like you’re holding a prophecy in his hands. Men are so easy.
“There’s a key.” He scoffs and looks away. “And I’m Robin Hood.” You shrug, leaning back as much as you can into your chair despite the ropes tying you to it. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying, my brother has more checks than you can imagine.” Another truth to reel him in. He scratches an invisible itch on his knee, then gets up. He pulls something from his pocket, and you flinch, thinking it’s a gun. He laughs at your reaction. “Fucking brat.” He murmurs. Shepherd turns to the corner of the room and calls someone, talking in low tones.
When you examine the room, it sends a shot to your heart. You’re in a church. There’s blood red carpeting with paintings everywhere, but it’s not wellkept. There’s dust and no windows, the lighting frail. Perhaps recently abandoned?
Shepherd is back, knife in hand. He thrives on watching you flinch and thrash as he comes closer. You stop when he’s in your face, knife trailing down the length of your nose. “Where’s the key?” You answer without hesitation. “My father’s grave.” It’s the kind of sick shit Ghost would do, and Shepherd knows it. That’s when the knife slips through your ropes, freeing you. There’s a gun in his other hand pointed straight at your head. “You’ll take me to the key. And if it’s not there, so help me God, I’m blowing your brains out on your father’s grave.” You nod, short and shallow.
It’s only halfway up the dilapidated wooden stairs when you hear it. Pounding footsteps and a low British tone. Shepherd was stupid enough to trail behind you, and even stupider to stop at the noises as well. That’s when your years of self-defense classes with Johnny kick in, quite literally. 
You aim a kick to his head. He dodges, of course, but all that body mass has to go somewhere, and quite slowly. It knocks him off balance, a half-step down, giving you enough leverage to elbow the nose. One of the most sensitive places on a man, as Johnny told you. The door above you opens as Shepherd gets one more insult in as he goes down.
“Fuckin’ bastard.”
-
Yes i was thinking of the 21 savage song snitches and rats
Also sorry for comparing motherhood to torture i just really needed to justify reader peeing LOL
Oops shes a girlboss SORRYYYYYY
-
@heretoreadanddrinktea
@peachyxrosie
@joufrance
@galactict3a
@exactlyyoungchaos
@trulovekay
@alleycc
@abox-of-rocks
@orangehibiscus
@mismatchsposts
@nova-willow-541
@throwing-up-butterflies
@grossitsluca
@evans-dejong
@popcornlauncher
@earthcole
@backfromthedeadhehehe
@baduzzxy
@thegreyjoyed
@cutelibrariangf
@dearghostling
@mrsmalfoy1005
@all-by-myself98
@snburntandsad
@baklovers
@rmikaelson01
@leon-thot-kennedy
@the-gods-gloted-but-they-burned
@barcelonaaababe
@brokenandemptyhearts
@sleep101
@ontopofthefridge
@lilynotdilly
@teenagellamaangel
@harperdoodle
@ii-angelsrolltheireyes-ii
@violetisheresworld
@lolwey
@polyfandom-blogs 
@burrowedinnature77
@sharkerino
@ashy-kit
@aikojwhpa
@thriving-n-jiving
@krispymagazinepizza-blog
@grayskel
@rpgsandstuff
@hisuccubus
@lumi-kalyke
@gimmeabreak1
183 notes · View notes
revelboo · 2 days ago
Note
God hi I know it SUPER isnt gonna happen like this obvs but I'm just imagining EIA Shockwave Staring at the Two Sparkbonds in the human and is like Quiet and somehow figures out the second is Megatron and he doesnt say SHIT and is just like "Uhhhh yeah. Human's fine. Soundwave, please stay back so we may talk" and Sounders just like "Mkay" and so Star and the human leave and stuff and Soundwave is like "Query: What is it that Shockwave wishes to tell me" and Shockwave is just like "Bestie idk how to say this but I think Lord Megatron is what the humans call a homewrecker." And Soundwave has to play. SO cool about everything.
🤣 Shockwave is just assuming the other bond is Soundwave’s and he just can’t understand the appeal- thinks they’re both deviants. I’ve started going back trying to add warnings to the first chapters of everything, so folks don’t get surprised if the run into my stories in the wilds of Tumblr
Psst psst @thegarageafterdark aka Storm is one of my writer buddies who convinced me to even consider Transformers smut back in the day and she’s started a Tumblr. She does fated mates Transformers stuff for Bayverse and G1
Tumblr media
Everything Is Alright Pt 129
IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader
• Wincing as Shockwave just stares at you, you’re not about to admit the other bond is Megatron’s. Can’t imagine the Decepticon leader would want that to get out. And Soundwave rescues you by reaching out to run a servo affectionately against your cheek. Making Shockwave stare at him instead, antenna back. You’re pretty sure the scientist just thinks you’re all three a bunch of freaks at this point. If he realized Megatron was also involved, he’d probably literally blow a gasket. “If a spark was to form from a full bond-” Starscream begins and Shockwave growls.
• “Illogical,” Shockwave snarls, turning away with his scanner, studying the readings. Wings lifting in affront, Starscream growls back at the scientist. Not liking the other mech’s dismissive tone. “No sparks are possible with an organic,” Shockwave adds, tone almost angry. Like the very fact that he wanted to spark you is deviant. That he wants you is obscene. Tempting him to lash out at the bigger mech to defend you. Except you might get hurt if he does, worry for you chaining his temper. But it’s something he can’t forget or forgive even if they will need his skills eventually.
• Servo trembling where he’s got it against your cheek, Soundwave wants to take you from Starscream. Press his face against you to feel the beat of your heart, your warmth. Unable to really believe that he can have this without risking everything else he has. And the Seeker scowls at him when he gives in and cups his hands around you, lifting you close. “Little one.” Just needs to hold you, to ground himself in you, because he can repair that broken bond now without any guilt. Can really have everything.
• Gently pinned against his battle mask, you’re aware of the way Shockwave stiffens. Apparently not liking the display of affection. Or you. Pretty sure that he has some sort of issue with you in particular that you can’t figure out. Maybe he’s just xenophobic? And nobody has answered your ‘how long do Cybertronians live’ question which is beginning to worry you. There’s a niggling little worry in the back of your mind about that. Because you’d been in Star and Megatron’s memories and there’d been a lot to parse through, but no real concrete sense of time. Startling when Soundwave retracts his mask and brushes his mouth against your body, apparently not caring about Shockwave watching. Had he been really worried about how long humans live?
• Wings flicking as Soundwave rubs his face against you, venting softly, Starscream wants to be angry still about you and the communications officer. To resent that you love him, too. To ask who you love more even if he’s terrified of what your answer would be. Reminding himself that you’d chosen him. Bonded fully to him. No one can take that from him. “We got our answers,” he mutters, because as entertaining as watching the scientist’s obvious discomfort watching Soundwave is, he wants some quiet time with you. Wants to talk without Soundwave or Megatron listening in. Pretend it’s just you two like it had been back then when he was happiest. Figure out this new dynamic with the other two. His new Trine.
• Following Starscream out into the hall, he’s aware that he’s getting looks. That most of the Decepticons aren’t used to seeing his exposed face. Or it could be you as he nuzzles against your body to make you squirm with breathless little protests. And he stops short when the Seeker stops, wings lifting before Starscream starts laughing. Leaning, he looks down at Rumble and Frenzy and the little human they have in tow, Rumble’s arm around them. “Oh. Hi, boss,” Rumble says as Frenzy tries to pull the human into his arms. Head lifting to stare at Thundercracker, the Seeker carrying plastic boxes full of stuff, his wings flaring like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. And you’re twisting to look too as the other human notices you and waves. “So, we need our own habsuite,” Rumble adds as Starscream keeps laughing.
Previous
Next
183 notes · View notes
covenofagatha · 2 days ago
Text
Do I wanna know? (Part 3)
Agatha and you have a talk about the future
Word count: 4k
Warnings: 69, oral, smut, angst (hopefully not as much), why would you ever talk about feelings/problems when you could just fuck instead
Tumblr media
“What? What part?” you ask, your voice sounding unfamiliar to your own ears. “If it’s the City, it’s fine, that’s not far away, you could even stay here.” 
Agatha purses her lips. “It’s in Albany.” 
Your stomach drops. Two hours away by car on a good day, about four by train. Agatha has a pitiful look on her face and you want to scoff. 
Of course she’s feeling sorry for you. 
“Honey,” she starts, cool and calm as ever and it makes you fucking enraged. She reaches out to touch you again — why does she keep trying to do that? why doesn’t she realize that she isn’t going to fix anything? — but you shove her aside and scramble off the couch, beginning to pace with your head in your hands. 
Is this better than the affair? She still lied to you. She still didn’t tell you about it, she’s still looking to get out. “Why didn’t you say anything?” you demand, pausing to look at her. 
Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t — I didn’t want to before it got real. I wasn’t even sure I was going to go, but my friend reached out and it’s a really good opportunity. The company took me out to dinner last night as an informal interview and I ended up staying the night. I didn’t think you’d come here, I thought you were mad at me or something. Baby, I was really worried about you.” 
In any other situation, you’d feel touched by her concern, but it really just pisses you off even more. This isn’t about you. “I thought you were having an affair,” you say again and her face falls. 
“I would never—”
You don’t even want to hear it. “Look, don’t change the subject, okay? The point is, you did this huge thing without even telling me and now — what? You’re moving to New York?” 
Now she seems unable to meet your eyes, an uncharacteristic shyness radiating off her. “I haven’t even gotten the job yet.”
Your mind starts to whirl with the possibilities. “If you get it, are you going to take it?” 
There’s a thick silence that hangs over you two for a moment and you can see the vein in her forehead pulse as she thinks about it. But her hesitation is all the answer you need. 
“Okay,” you breathe. You don’t even know where your head is at — you’re so fucking mad, but you’re also so relieved that she isn’t cheating, but then now there’s this wrench that could possibly mean the end of things. You’re not going to let that happen. Dropping to your knees in front of her and finally touching her of your own accord with your palms flat on her legs, you earnestly look at her. “We can…we can figure it out, we will figure it out. I can come down on the weekends or you can come here or — I can transfer! I’ll transfer to somewhere in New York and we can get an apartment, just the two of us, and obviously I won’t be much help with the rent because it’s expensive as shit there—”
Agatha pulls you up by your cheeks and kisses you, effectively shutting you up. You lose yourself in the feeling of her lips against yours and you moan softly, everything slipping away for just a moment. In these five seconds, it’s just the two of you and nothing else can come between you. 
But then she breaks away and sighs heavily, resting her forehead against yours. “You just started school here,” she says gently. “I can’t make you give that up. Don’t you like it?”
You shrug lazily. “It’s the first week. I’m not too attached. I’m sure somewhere there will be just as good.” 
“What about your parents? What would you tell them?” 
Why does it feel like she doesn’t want you there? You can’t help the frown tugging on your lips. “I’ll just say that I don’t like it at Westview. I’m sure I can come up with something. They’ll just want me to be happy.” Agatha makes you happy, but there’s a flicker of doubt growing in your stomach.
She cups your cheek and leans back so you’re able to see her eyes. They’re blue as the ocean, full of emotion, and glassy. “Why don’t you give it a few months, hm? I don’t want you to throw away your school and your family just for me. If you really don’t like it, then we can talk.”
“What if I just drop out of school and become your trophy wife? I’ll be such a good one, I’d wear nothing but an apron all day and make your favorite foods and then I can sit on your strap while you eat dinner.” You play it off like a joke, but deep down, you would be more than willing. You hope she says yes. 
Agatha huffs out a laugh and sniffs, tracing a finger down the skin of your face like she’s trying to memorize it. “Wear a short little maid outfit that just happens to ride up and show off your bare cunt when you’re on your knees cleaning the floor?” 
You hum and close your eyes in pure bliss at the thought. “See, now you get it. It would be so perfect, right? 
“So perfect,” she agrees, but her smile lingers until it’s wistful. There’s a longing pang inside you, one that threatens to tear you open, but you push it down. “I know I haven’t gotten it yet, but I won’t take it,” she says quietly after a moment and your brows furrow in confusion. “If you don’t want me to take it, I won’t.” 
Every single morsel of your body is screaming for you to ask her to stay. It would be so easy, and then you could just pretend that none of this — the suspicion, the lies, the sneaking around — never happened. Everything could go back to the way it was before. 
But the slightest fear that she would start to resent you for it creeps into the back of your mind. Sure, she might not mind at first, but over time when her job here gets old and she’s unhappy, she’s going to blame you. She’s going to start to hate you for holding her back, and what if you’re not worth it? 
The last thought hits you like a punch to the gut. Are you enough to keep her content if she stays? Are you enough to keep her happy? 
You’re paralyzed and she’s looking at you expectantly, like it’s an easy fucking decision. You want to complain that it’s not fair for her to put this on you, that she should want to be with you so badly that she willingly gives up the new position for you, but maybe she’s having the same doubts.
The only thing you know is that you don’t want to end up like your parents, with a loveless marriage and a cold, empty house despite the family living in it and the bitter silence of words left unsaid haunting every moment. You don’t want this to become an open wound that festers until Agatha hates you for it. 
“If it’s a better job and if you want it, you should take it,” you say, almost surprised by how eerily calm your voice sounds. 
Agatha looks taken aback for just the slightest moment but nods. “You’re sure?” 
No! Stay with me! I fucking love you! 
“Yeah,” you rasp and she bends down to kiss you again, so sweetly that it hurts. She murmurs something against your lips but you don’t even think to ask what she says because you can’t stop the nausea climbing up your throat. 
You jump back and run to the bathroom before vomiting in the toilet. You sink to the floor, shaking and sweating and trembling, and you’re vaguely aware of Agatha’s hands in your hair, holding it back, and telling you that everything is going to be alright. Is it?
She gets a wet washcloth and holds it against your head while you don’t move from your position, waiting to see if you have to puke again. 
“Had too much to drink last night,” you mutter, feeling like you’re drunk all over again, when she asks if you’re feeling okay. “Thought you were cheating.”  
You hear a heavy sigh behind you and tears prick your eyes. Is she disappointed? Does she think you’re being just a stupid kid? “I wouldn’t, honey. I wouldn’t do that. I promise. I—” She stops and strokes your hair instead.
It feels like there’s something she’s not saying, but maybe you’re just reading into it. 
And then there’s your I love you while she was fucking you, still fresh in your mind. Do you say it again? Do you ask if she heard it? Or just wait until she says it first?
If she does. You can’t get these stupid insecurities and doubts out of your mind and it’s killing you. 
“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up again?” she asks gently and you shake your head. “Come on, why don’t we get you into the shower and then into bed?”
You want to protest just to be petulant, but you’re just so fucking tired. “Okay, mommy,” you say and she sharply inhales, but pretends to be unaffected. Good to know that you can still get to her after you look like you’ve just been through hell. 
She turns the water on and you numbly wait until she guides you up and helps you undress before you step into the shower. You almost buckle to the ground but Agatha holds you up, the sleeves of her blazer getting soaked, but she doesn’t even notice it. 
It’s an awkward position, her on the outside of the tub and you barely standing up inside it, but she rubs your skin and you slowly feel warmth returning to your body. 
You’re about to ask if she’ll get in with you — you see the way she can’t stop looking at your tits and you’re suddenly longing to feel her on you, a reminder that she is yours — when a phone rings. 
Definitely not yours; your phone is always on silent. 
Agatha curses and tells you she’ll be right back before disappearing from the bathroom. The cold feeling starts to grow back in your stomach, creeping up to your throat and gripping tightly. 
“Yes — this is she!” you hear her say from the other room, her voice getting louder as she comes back into the bathroom. You look at her with wide eyes and she gives you a tight smile. “Oh, I did? Well, thank you very much, that is wonderful news.”
The person on the other line starts talking and you can only catch quick muffles of it, but from Agatha’s face, you already know. 
“Of course, yes, hang on just one second,” she says and presses her phone against her shoulder to give you her full attention. Eye contact with her feels like a stab to the gut. “Honey, are you sure you’re okay with this? You can say no.” 
Can you? 
It’s on the tip of your tongue — it would be so easy to ask her to turn it down, so easy to ask her to choose you. She’s waiting for an answer but each drop of water on your skin feels like a chant: no. no. no. You know Agatha’s trying to remain neutral, but you can tell she wants the job, by the way she’s twitching her fingers and the barely concealed pleading look on her face and the way she’s holding her phone so tightly it’s making her veins pop out all bluish and purplish. 
It’s clear that you cannot say no. 
You’re not sure she would ever forgive you, and you’re not sure you would ever forgive yourself. You can’t ask her to throw away this opportunity, not for you. 
“Yeah, I’m sure,” you say hoarsely, feeling a lot like you just signed a death warrant. 
But plenty of people do long distance, and two hours really isn’t that bad. Plus it just means that with all the waiting, the sex will be even hotter. Her moving away doesn’t mean anything. 
And you can transfer at the end of the semester, so really you just have to make it a few months. 
Agatha’s beam is one of pure gratitude and you know you made the right choice, but she’s back to talking on the phone and your little moment is interrupted. “Oh…two weeks? Of course, I can totally do that.” 
A flash of panic bolts through you and you mouth two weeks? at her. She purses her lips and shrugs apologetically, like that’s supposed to make you feel better. 
The rest of her phone call is blurred out by your sudden inability to hear anything but the rush of the water that has suddenly become so loud it’s taken over all your thoughts and you don’t even realize that she’s hung up and cleaned you off and gotten you out of the shower until you’re shivering and naked and Agatha’s wrapping a towel around you. 
“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” she murmurs because you’re now uncontrollably shaking and you think you might be crying a little. “Everything’s going to be okay.” She presses kisses to your forehead and cheeks and nose, muttering the same sort of sentients, while the towel around you slips to the floor when you throw your arms around her and cling to her like she’s your lifeline, like she’s everything you’ll ever need, and she holds you back so tightly you think you might fuse into one being. 
The two of you stand there like that until your skin gets clammy and pruney and your eyes are raw. When you finally pull back, your muscles ache and the front of Agatha’s clothes are absolutely soaked, so you tug on them until she gets the message and begins to strip. 
Her blazer comes off, and then she untucks her blouse from her pants and slowly begins to unbutton it, each time revealing more of her perfect pale skin. You can see the faint outlines of her ribs and then her stomach, the red bites from two days ago still there, albeit faded. 
There’s no mistaking the “M” though. A hot thrill runs through you despite the solemn air between you and a fire starts to flicker to life in your stomach. You reach out to trace your mark as if in a trance and Agatha’s breath hitches. 
Swallowing roughly, your eyes dart up to meet her already-dark ones. “We should talk about the job, right? Figure out what it means for us?” you ask, but even as the words leave your mouth, you can feel the atmosphere shift into something else. 
“Right,” Agatha nods, but she can’t stop looking down at your pebbled nipples — from the cold or from her? 
When she surges forward, clasps your cheeks, and pulls your mouth to hers, you know that it’s both. The kiss is messy, teeth knocking against each other and her tongue invading your mouth and breathing each other’s air, and you wrap your arms around her neck to bring her even closer. She didn’t get to take her pants off yet, but it feels absolutely delicious when she slides a thigh between yours and you grind down onto it. Your nipples brush against the fabric of her bra and you can’t help but moan into her open mouth. 
Fire roars beneath your skin, spreading to all over your body, and you suddenly just need more. You need her to overwhelm all your senses until you can’t fucking think about anything else, not the job, not her moving, not the fact that you could’ve stopped this but didn’t — you just want her. 
She grabs onto your hip to guide you against her leg and you whine as she sucks on your tongue. Her other hand comes up to cup your right breast and roll your nipple and you mewl and jerk against her. She tugs and it feels directly connected to your cunt because you pulse and it only gets worse when she flexes her thigh underneath you. 
“Bed — bedroom, please,” you choke out and her mouth doesn’t leave yours, walking you backwards into the bedroom and not stopping until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 
Agatha pushes you down onto it, the duvet beneath you instantly getting wet from your dripping pussy, and she shimmies off her pants and underwear and sinks to her knees in front of you. It’s a sight to behold, her looking up at you from the floor like she wants to devour you, like she would hang the stars and the sun in the sky for you and it still wouldn’t be enough. The power running through you from the heat in her eyes and the ragged heaving of her red chest and the way she tosses her hair over her shoulder is enough to drive you mad. 
“You’re so perfect,” she breathes and it only makes you wetter. You buck your hips against the bed, trying to get some stimulation to your now-aching clit, but it’s not even close to enough. 
But it’s not even five seconds later when she leans in, inhales the scent of you deeply, and then drags her flattened tongue through your folds, making you keen and arch your back. She is so good with her mouth and she never fails to remind you. 
“Fuck, Agatha,” you gasp, and you usually don’t call her by her name during sex, normally opting for mommy, but you need the intimacy right now. You need to feel like this is real. 
She groans into you and teases her tongue around your clit, never quite touching it, and you bury your fingers in her hair and gently pull on it. Her eyes flick up to yours as a warning and you loosen your grip. Agatha gives you an almost imperceptible nod and rewards you with one long lick to your clit and your head falls back. 
You can no longer hold yourself up when she thrusts her tongue inside you, and you fall back onto the bed, instantly clenching around you. She feels so fucking good, her tongue curling inside your cunt and her nose brushing against your clit, and you angle a leg up on the bed so she can reach deeper inside you. “God, yes,” you sigh, and your orgasm is slowly starting to build up with each roll of your hips and each time your stomach tightens. 
But something is missing — you can’t help your thoughts from straying and you just need more. 
So you stop her and she looks up at you, the entire bottom half of her face and nose absolutely covered with you. Your clit throbs and you sit up.
“I need — I want — wanna taste you too, Aggie,” you whine and you’ve never used that nickname before, but you think she likes it because she lunges up, capturing your lips with hers again, and knocking you straight back onto the bed. 
She nods while still kissing you, whispering, “Fuck, honey, how are you so hot? How are you so perfect for me?” 
You clench around nothing and you claw at her shoulder blades frantically, knowing what you need but not how to ask for it. 
But Agatha knows — she always knows what you want, except for when it really counts apparently. She gets off of you and scooches on her knees until she’s situated behind your head, facing your body. And then she moves to frame your face with her thighs, her glistening cunt hovering right above your face, and she bends over to pry your legs open before leaning down and sucking on your clit roughly. 
You squirm and palm her ass to pull her down to your mouth, and at your first lick through her folds, she moans right into you, the vibrations making you jump. Eating her out while also being eaten out is an experience like no other you’ve ever had. Every single thing you do to her affects her, which in turn, affects you. 
The positive feedback loop has both of you sloppily mouthing at each other’s cunts, mimicking motions while also losing all sense of rhythm, and when she digs her fingernails into your thighs and scrapes her teeth against your clit, you let out a high-pitched sound that has her riding your face furiously. 
Agatha is getting louder too — you can feel it more than hear it, and you are completely drunk on her smell and her taste and how good she’s making you feel. You dip your tongue into her entrance, stroking against her convulsing walls before swirling around her clit and she pauses what she’s doing for a moment to just breathe heavily against your pussy before diving back in. 
All thoughts of anything else are completely out of your foggy mind and you feel like you’re floating, not able to focus on anything else besides Agatha. 
If you would’ve known that your dad having an affair would have led to you having the hottest sex with the hottest woman ever, you definitely wouldn’t have been so mad about it. 
“Oh, god, baby, you’re so good,” she says into your cunt and it only makes you grind up harder. She matches your intensity, riding your face fast, her clit dragging against your tongue. You groan in agreement and her stomach glides against your nipples while hers do the same and you know that it won’t be long before either of you cum. 
She nips at your inner thigh before plunging her tongue inside you and it has your hips bucking. “Fuck — Agatha,” you cry, barely able to keep eating her out because of how stimulated you are. Pleasure is racing through every ridge of your body and your head is spinning. 
“That’s right, honey,” she pants, lathering her tongue all over your clit. “Cum for me.” 
The tension inside you snaps and you cum, riding out the immense wave as she continues lapping at you and you suck on her clit, triggering her own orgasm. There’s a gush of wetness all over your face and she keeps rolling her hips, chasing the last tendrils. 
That was one of the most intense orgasms you’ve ever had, you think, and when Agatha flops down onto the bed next to you, breathing heavily, you think she might agree. 
“Fuck,” you say, completely wiped out, and Agatha chuckles weakly in response, reaching a hand out to rest her fingers against yours, not quite interlocking them. The two of you lay like that for what feels like forever, just soaking in the silence and the comfort of being right next to each other. 
You’re not sure who moves first — maybe it’s a mutual decision, but eventually you slide up to the pillows and Agatha turns around and moves next to you. Rotating onto your side, you hear the sheets rustle behind you and right on cue, Agatha’s arm snakes around you, holding you close enough to her that you can feel her heartbeat against your back and her breath on your neck. 
She kisses the top of your ear and you snuggle back against her. You know that you should put on clothes and clean up your mess, but for right now, you just need to feel her against you. 
“We’re going to be okay?” you ask timidly. It seems like it was so long ago that you were spiraling out of control because you thought she was cheating. 
Agatha’s arm tightens around yours. “We’re going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” 
And you think you might actually believe her. 
@lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen  @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7  @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly @sweetmidnights @n3bula-cats @vyvvycg
301 notes · View notes
softlypaintedseafoam · 3 days ago
Text
as soft as a misty rain
Tumblr media
synopsis. it's all typical sanji; there's no deeper meaning to his actions. until it isn't all typical sanji and there are many meanings to everything he does.
pairing. vinsmoke sanji x f!reader
word count. 1.3k | masterlist
content warning. recently established relationship, allusions that sanji's past is more complicated than he lets on, reader has a defined devil fruit ability
reblogs & interactions appreciated.
one of two reposts i'm doing today with my valentine's day event nearly completed. this fic was a gift for my friend @hash-slinging-slasher-trash and i wanted it over here too
Tumblr media
Sanji has always handled you with care.
There is nothing to realize. It’s an objective fact that has been apparent from almost the very moment you met on Charmed Enclave. Aside from children, there are very specific individuals Sanji will always be gentle with. An enthusiastic softness, eager and ready to serve at the drop of a hat.
I’m not special, you had told yourself, clutching Zoro’s previous warnings tightly. He does this for every woman, with or without a pulse.
It didn’t matter how many treats he brought you, reserved solely for you.
There was no deeper meaning to when he held out his hand to help you down a few steps.
Nor did it matter if he’d push Zoro onto a puddle for you to walk across like a coat taking in all the liquid, amusing as it had been.
It’s all typical Sanji.
The question is raised when it isn’t typical Sanji; that is what makes your skin buzz as Sanj’s fingers thrum across your own. What makes your chest warm as you watch as he wraps a cloth around your palms and your fingers, how he touches you as if protecting a thousand treasures.
“I won’t lie and say the Nervy Nervy Fruit isn’t useful,” Sanji murmurs with a sigh. “But if you can’t feel pain, how are you supposed to recognize your limits? Like the other day.”
You chuckle sheepishly and Sanji’s expression is uncharacteristically sharp, unamused at the display. You are sure he will be sour about your turning off your pain receptors to test the heat of the stovetop a while longer. The blond has been fretting over you like a mother hen even since. “I’ll try to be more mindful,” you promise when your chuckles subside, letting your gaze rest on your connected hands. As of now, you’ve only dulled your senses to a light discomfort. Enough to feel everything without wanting to croak from your injuries. “But this time I was distracted, I normally don’t singe myself when I check how hot the stove is.”
That does little to sway Sanji in your favor.
“I’ll be more careful,” you dramatically let your head hang as if you’re being reprimanded by your boss.
“You’ll make Chopper sad otherwise,” despite his words, Sanji sounds satisfied with the conclusion. “Think about Chopper. That’s what you told me, remember?”
Your shoulders shake with hearty laughter, “don’t use my words against me,” you beam brightly with a hint of challenge. “And you should be thanking me. Quitting smoking is going to help you in the long run. What if they started calling you Black Lung Sanji? What would you do then?” Not to mention with how impressionable the young reindeer is, the last thing you want is to see him attempting to take a smoke break between patients.
With how hectic things tend to get for the Straw Hats, it is too easy to envision.
Sanji’s cigarettes and lighter had to go for the greater good.
As your laughter subsides, a comfortable silence settles over you both.
“So,” you feel possessed to break it. Comfortable as it may be, you fear you’ll drown in it. Sink deeper and deeper in it until you do something foolish, whatever foolish thing that may be. It’s easy to drown as a power holder, it is why you are always careful around the water’s edge. What happens when you find a piece of the ocean you aren’t afraid to fall into, however. You’ve never been prepared for that. “Have you always wanted to become a cook? I know that’s what you were doing before you joined the crew.”
At your query, Sanji’s eyes shine like a child’s, “it is.” As if he’s water flowing over a dam, Sanji tells you about his home in the East Blue. The floating restaurant, the Baratie ー a concept you’ve never certainly thought possible ー and the fighting cooks that reside in it.
He tells you about Zeff and the many cooks that joined his ranks over the years. Laughter falls from your lips as easily as the stories leave Sanji’s. 
The Baratie sounds more like the Waffle House restaurant chain throughout your home island than anything else. At the tail end of Sanji’s story about how a line cook named Peter got into a fist fight with three drunks and a cranky chicken, you finally ask, “what made you love cooking so much?”
“I’ve always enjoyed it, but I’d say my mom is the one who really encouraged it,” he tells you thoughtfully, his hands moving slower against your own as he recalls the woman. He should have long since finished, you know, but you don’t mind that he’s stalled in his ‘wound tending efforts’. It’s nice feeling as if it is only you on the ship when in reality you are just the only ones awake. “I liked making her lunches, not that I was always good at it. But even if it tasted like garbage, she always ate it,” the blond’s dark eyes are miles away from where you sit on the Sunny. “Then she’d ask me to make her something else again.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” you try to imagine what such a gentle person looks like. I think you probably look a lot like her. A good portion of the woman’s character certainly had been imbued in her son. He’s always been gentle and kind, you’ve seen it in how he treats Chopper.
It’s easy to baby the crew’s smallest member, but there is something unique in how everyone does it. Sanji was meant to be a father. It’s a thought that flusters you, but you know it is true regardless. It’s a bit too soon to think about that though.
“It,” Sanji’s gaze doesn’t meet yours as his thumb brushes over the back of your cloth-covered hand. You aren’t able to dwell long on what exactly your newly minted boyfriend means, however, as he continues on. “will probably be easier meeting Zeff than my mother. He’s a stubborn old fart but he means well. You’ll like him. Just don’t believe anything those jackasses at the Baratie tell you about me. I just know they put up that god awful wanted poster of me where everyone can see it.”
A giggle slips from your lips at Sanji’s distressed expression and you recall how he begged for you to pretend the portrait didn’t exist. 
It’s easy to imagine all the cantankerous characters he mentioned growing up with. Zeff, Patty, Carne and you can easily picture the boisterous men hanging Sanji’s wanted poster for all to see like proud parents and uncles. Ones very good at teasing their group’s baby. The men who made Black Leg Sanji ‘Black Leg Sanji’.
“I can’t wait to meet them.”
Sanji pauses at your words before he lips stretch into a dreamy smile and you let yourself arrogantly assume he’s picturing the same things you are. “I can’t wait to introduce you to them.” With that, his tending to your hand is finished, cloth gently knotted so it can’t move. “I’m no Chopper, so he’ll probably have to redo it once he wakes up.”
You smile at his handiwork, “thanks again.” You think that will be the end of your little moment, but rather than let your hand go Sanji holds your fingers a touch tighter.
“Can I kiss your hand,” the cook asks earnestly, dark eyes reserved yet hopeful.
“You don’t have to ask permission for that,” your chest burns a gold the color of Sanji’s hair. It’s unfair how easily he gets your heart pounding like a drum. In spite of your words, he doesn’t lean forward an inch. “Of course you can,” you grumble, eyes darting to a particularly interesting piece of wood in your embarrassment.
The hair of his chin dances across your skin like raindrops.
173 notes · View notes
thebramblewood · 1 day ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
For one night only, Glimmerbrook University and the Council of Sages proudly present Mr. Mysterio's Floating Circus!
Previous / Next
I must direct a massive thank you to @surely-sims and @doctorsimcraft for not only their incredible Simblreen set but also the stunning build and Sims that accompanied it, without which I could never have mustered up such a beautiful backdrop. I added the carousel, but the rest is theirs. Eternally grateful for your generosity and talent!
Morgyn: Have you had enough time to consider it yet?
Caleb: Consider what?
Morgyn: [rolls eyes] You know what.
Caleb: I’m still not sure it’s a good idea. People already gossip. Living outside the Realm — with your vampire lover, no less — will only open you up to more scrutiny.
Morgyn: I’m not a monk, Caleb. I can live wherever I want with whoever I want, and it has no bearing on my role as a Sage.
Caleb: [tilts head uncomfortably] They seem to think it does.
Morgyn: They may be traditionalists, but deep down they know a little modernization is good for the Realm. Besides, there’s hardly another spellcaster waiting in the wings to take my job. They can’t fire me.
Caleb: That won’t stop the general public from clamoring for it anyway.
Morgyn: A small minority maybe. Spellcasters have never been a monolith, and the younger generation is more open-minded than ever. Cross-occult discrimination is at an all time low. Gemma just turned in a paper on it.
Caleb: [grunting with effort] Lilith wouldn’t like it.
Morgyn: Ah, now we get to the crux of your argument. Respectfully, Caleb, I know she’s family, but she’s also selfish and manipulative. Your philosophies are no longer compatible, if they ever were. Would it kill you to admit you’ve grown apart?
Caleb: Yes, she can be cruel, but it’s only because-
Morgyn: She’s jealous, of course. She wants you all to herself. But you’d think after a century you’ve earned the right to your own life. It would benefit you both.
Caleb: What if it’s just too soon?
Morgyn: [chuckles] You may be an old man, and I’m no spring chicken myself, but five years is plenty long enough. I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life.
Caleb: [quietly] But it won’t last forever. You’re keeping old age at bay for now, but one day you’ll have to relent, and then-
Morgyn: That’s a problem for the very distant future. [whispers] Just promise you’ll keep thinking about it.
Caleb: I’ve thought about it.
Morgyn: And?
Caleb: Let’s do it.
Morgyn: Great! There’s an adorable little cottage for sale on the outskirts of Glimmerbrook. We can swing by and see it before you head back-
Caleb: [laughs] You were never going to let me say no, were you?
170 notes · View notes
luckykiwiii101 · 2 days ago
Text
SLEEPING MONSTROSITY
| | IF THIS DOESN’T WAKE YOU UP, NOTHING WILL | |
XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL
ཐི you might just live this life forever…ouch ཋྀ
And for you extra failure desensitised east siders -> CLICK ME!
Hey Upper East Siders.
Lately i’ve been thinking about how big of failure you are. And how you keep coming up with more stupid questions to ask bloggers because you can’t accept that life is just easy. I’d call you sleeping beauty, but unlike you, she actually woke up.
I want you to ask yourself how it feels knowing that even though you have all the power, you still don’t have the will to save yourself. Yet you think it’s all going to be okay. You still think you’re going to eventually manifest your dream life, and that this nightmare will come to an end.
Pardon my harsh words but that’s pathetic. Why? Because you told yourself the same thing months ago, and look where you are. You haven’t gotten anywhere. You may understand the law better but you haven’t done anything with it. And knowledge is useless when it’s held by…well, you. A lazy, hopeless, pathetic dreamer.
What actually makes you think that you’re going to be living your dream life by the time it hits 2027. You’re just staying still, and you’re going to continue to. You’re not on an escalator, you’re on a treadmill. Getting absolutely nowhere.
And as i’ve said before, leave those Pinterest boards on Pinterest. I can’t imagine how painful it must be to doom fully stare at something you know you’ll never give yourself. And save your dreams for nap time because that’s the closest you’ll ever get to seeing them.
The amount of people that have left this app, without their dream lives…and you’re just going to end up being another one of them. Another day you take to procrastinate turns into a week, then into a month, 6 months, a year, two years, five years…twenty.
“I’ll persist later!!!” Yes. Exactly. You’ll persist “later.” Later as in, next week? next month? next year? Seconds turn into minutes, minutes turn into hours, hours turn into days, days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, months turn in to years, and years turn into decades, and decades turn into small little segments of your tragic little life, spent doing what? Trying? Procrastinating? Sulking? Or living the life of your dreams? Call it Russian roulette, but YOU’RE the one holding the gun to your head. Nowhere to run.
“I’ll try to enter the void state again tonight.” Yes. Exactly. You’ll TRY again. And you’ll try again the night after that, and the night after that, and the night after that. and so on…and so on…
But you know what’s the most shocking of all? The fact that you actually believe that everything is going to be okay. “I know i’ll win in the end.” Are you sure? Because you don’t win by staying the same. And that’s all you’ve been doing since forever.
You’re going to wake up tomorrow and make the same decision you’ve been making all your life. You’re going to deliberately and willingly choose to be someone you don’t want to be. As usual. Because that’s what’s comfortable to you. What can I say. You’re only human. And that’s all you’ll ever be.
But for someone like Blair Waldorf, failure is the end of the world. Because she’s uncomfortable with something she isn’t used to experiencing. But it’s only if she gets used to it, that she gets comfortable, and starts to let it in. And take over her. Sound familiar? Because it’s exactly what you’ve been doing to yourself. You’re so desensitised to failure that you read wake up calls in your sleep. Shrug them off, and move on. As if the words on this screen aren’t literally your reality.
If this doesn’t make your heart sink, i’m not sure what will. For some, the pain of knowing this might be too intense to ignore, for most of you, you’ll feel nothing. Your desensitisation to failure will be the death of you. What have you done to yourself…
Ouch!
- gossip girl
XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GIRL | XOXO | GOSSIP GRL
151 notes · View notes
hscherrywine · 1 day ago
Text
Tired Teasing
Tumblr media
Summary: A relaxing night with Harry takes a naughty turn. Some more cute fluffy smut. Harry is a tease and you’re tired.
wc: 2.1k
warnings: none really just some smut, female receiving
Ever since you and your boyfriend, Harry, decided to become serious, Sundays have been your favorite day of the week. The two of you have the day off almost every week and always make the most of it.
The day itself was great - being able to be lazy with Harry and watch some movies. But now it was night and the two of you were getting ready for bed. You took a shower and got cozy in your fresh sheets, excited to read some of your current book read. Harry was somewhere downstairs finishing up some chores he’d promise to do.
If you could capture a feeling, it would be this one. So content with life that nothing could bring you down. Plus part of your nighttime routine tonight was an everything shower because you just needed some “me time”. You felt so relaxed and comforted by your bed.
You lay peacefully on your side, book in hand, curled up under the covers. You were waiting for Harry to come up to bed. Before you knew it, you heard his footsteps padding up the stairs. Within minutes he wandered into your room. You put your book down so transfixed by his being. He walked into your sight line since you were still lying on your side. You watched in awe as he changed from his everyday clothes into something more comfortable to sleep in.
Without even saying a word to you yet, he found his way to bed. His body dipped behind you and your body ignited. He was quick to wrap himself up in you, hugging your body from behind.
“Did you like the show?” He asks and you know he was aware that you watched him get dressed. Your cheeks flush feeling called out a bit, but you know he can’t see because your back is pressed to his front. You’re glad you're not facing each other because you can hear the smirk in his voice.
You don’t respond to his comment. Partly because you had no shame in watching your hot boyfriend strip and another part because you were too tired to engage him. Harry could sense this or something because he didn’t antagonize you much more, he just snuggled himself deeper into your neck like he couldn’t get close enough. You liked when he was soft and clingy with you.
His hands rubbed up and down your arms as he made small talk with you about your days. You loved being able to unwind with him like this. It was all very casual, him pressing mindless gentle kisses to your exposed skin as you talked. Until, he got a bit more carried away and you could tell that he was looking for a bit more.
“Harry…” you start but only trail off. The half of you that is exhausted just want to go to bed, but the other half always melts at his touch. Which one will win? you still don’t know. He keeps going up and down your neck and shoulders showing his affection until you call out his name again seeming slightly aggravated. He stops briefly, but only to get a few words out.
“You always smell so good..can’t stay away.” He mumbles and you feel his breath on you. That’s how close you two were. He reaches up to move your wet hair away from your shoulders to get closer to the spot he knows you love. “Can’t believe you showered without me baby.” He admits.
His affection tonight was undeniably adorable, so you give in. “I was waiting for you, why do you think it took me so long in there?” you tease. Truth is, you did take a long shower tonight, but not entirely for his sake.
“We’re not good at showering together.” He admits breaking away from you. “We never end up clean after those.” He jokes and you know exactly what he means. Memories come flooding back of times the two of had sex in your marble shower. “We’re not good at a lot of things, Harry, we always end up just having sex or something.” you laugh. It’s funny because it is entirely true. The two of you just can’t resist each other it’s like in your pheromones or something. Even mundane tasks like cleaning, doing the dishes, or folding laundry tempt the two of you. Right now is no different. With every delicate touch from Harry, you were getting less relaxed and more worked up and you were unsure if that was part of his plan or not.
“Look at us right now.” you point out “We can’t even relax in bed without being horny.” you scoff.
“Who said anything about that?” Harry asks playing dumb. Not cute. He doesn’t get to purposely rile you up and then pretend like that wasn’t his intentions.
“I know what you’re doing, Harry, and honestly i’m not sure if I have the energy right now.” You confess to him, still facing away. You know he respects your boundaries and everything but you’re shy to admit it.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want Y/N, but what if I do something for you. You know..just so you don’t over do anything.” He suggests. The idea is very tempting. At this point he was already slotting his leg in between your thighs and slowly moving the two of you so you were facing each other more. When you don’t immediately answer, Harry places a kiss away from your back and neck and on your check instead. The sweet gesture has you turning to face him with a smile. The two of you look at each other for the first time tonight all tangled together.
When you look into his eyes, you give in completely. After mere seconds, you are the one making the moves. You lean in the short distance to kiss your boyfriend in the lips for the first time tonight. The action is desperate in itself and quickly deepens. You hand Harry wrapped up in each other find a rhythm with your lips and body. All you can do is moan into his movements.
His hands trail up your back trying to squeeze you closer into him. Eventually they find their way under the hem of your shirt and up to your bra. Without breaking the kiss, he unclasps it like he has a hundred times before.
Slightly in awe you pull away and notice a guilty smirk on his face for what he just did. It’s one of your favorite things that he does. “I’ll never get tired of you doing that.” you says to him. “And i’ll never get tired of how perfect your body is” He compliments. You don’t always agree with the compliments he showered you with. Sometimes you feel like he says things just to make you happy, but the way he delivers them is impossible to make them insincere.
It’s like he can hear your thoughts going round in your head. “I mean it, baby, every time. Everything about you is so perfect.” He rambles. He goes back to his favorite position with his mouth on yours. This time his hands travel back to your back but they take of your shirt instead. His is quick to come off too.
“I know my girl is tired and it’s been a long week, but I just need to appreciate you a little.” he whispers to you. The energy between you two is heating up so much so he is practically above you at this point. He is taking in your body with his eyes even though the two of you are still under the covers. Harry isn’t a huge fan of that and gently exposes the two of you from your bedding. It is here where he notices that the shirt he removed from you was the only thing you wore to bed.
He is slightly shocked by the discovery. “You had me doubting the mood tonight, but here you were all ready for me.” he scolds. You rarely sleep completely naked so this is a surprise for him. He can’t contain himself now running his hands up and down your thighs. Teasing you with a soft touch. He makes the split decision to move from your upper body to focus on your lower half. He did a lot of teasing already when the two of you were mindlessly chatting. He didn’t think he had that much of an effect on you until he revealed what was under the conversation and it became every apparent.
He slowly worked his way down until he was inches away from your core. He was slow to give you what you wanted, knowing that you were struggling without his conceding. He kissed and sucked in your thighs until he couldn’t contain himself. He gently ran one finger up and down your folds just to gather some arousal. He then sucked his digit clean and leaned back up for a kiss.
“Relax for me. I’m gonna make you feel so good before we go to sleep.” He mutters traveling back down to your heat. This time he gently caresses two digits on your labia but careful not do really pay attention to your clit yet. He was too teasing in his actions that you reached your hands up to play with your own tits while he teased your bottom half.
“Normally I’d be upset with you for touching yourself, but just this once you can because you look so hot tonight” he smiles completely enticed by the way your hold and squeeze your own breasts.
“I wouldn’t have to if you just gave me what I wanted.” you shoot back, tired of his teasing.
“And what is it that you want to bad baby?” He asks looking into your eyes and adding pressure on his fingers.
“Mouth. Fingers. I want it all Harry. I need it.” you whine at him. your hands move from your breasts to to clutch at the sheets beside you.
Before you know it, he’s feverishly answering your prayers. Wasting no time at all he inserted two digits into your wetness. The interruption made you gasp especially since you were so sensitive from Harry’s games earlier.
He wanted to be slow and take your time on you tonight since you needed to relax but he knew that it wouldn’t be possible. He abandoned all his plans and dove right into your cunt. Mouth attached and sucking feverishly on your clit and his fingers worked their way rhythmically in and out. Your release was approaching embarrassingly fast, but you knew you couldn’t give in.
You kept your eyes on him buried between your legs. Every time he does this you swear he gets better. You’ve never met someone who loved giving hess as much as Harry does. He out does himself every time. His fingers worked at a perfect pace moving all around your soft walls. they curled against the spongy area inside of you and encouraged your hole to leak and squelch.
In response he would just lick it up and go back to your clit. You were in heaven when he went down on you. You think he even bit your clit at some point to get you closer but you were too pleasured to even realize.
Listening to Harry’s advice about relaxing, you didn’t clench you body as your orgasm approached. You fought the tightening for your limbs and reached a whole new feeling. This was different than any other orgasm.
Harry could read your body like a book and knew you were about to come. He slowed to an agonizing halt only to receive an aggravated groan from you that he just brushed off. He was trying to work you up even more but quickly threw the bit out. The pleasure was too intense to risk at this point. Harry himself was grinding his hips into the bed to try and keep himself from exploding.
Your breaths became shallow and Harry’s grew intense. Your orgasm is seconds away from hitting you and your boyfriend is giving you everything he has.
“You gonna come for me baby? he asks taking his mouth away for a second. The cool air hits your clit and it’s almost enough to put you over the edge. Instead he takes his hands from inside you and rubs your clit with them until you release onto his hands.
He laps up the rest of the area with his tongue snd kisses your pelvis and thighs for a bit while you come down.
Your eyes are even heavier than before when you come down. The adrenaline wears off and you are left tired. “You want me to help you out now babe?” you offer but you can even get it out without a yawn. “Don’t worry about me.” He remind you “Just get some rest now honey.” he says crawling back up next to you.
He wraps his arms around your stomach after pulling the duvet back up to your necks. Between his hold and the sheets, you were ready to pass out.
So much for that shower, you ended up going to bed dirty after all. But all of it was worth it because Sunday nights with your boyfriend are the highlight of your week.
a/n: i swear i can write other things than my usual cute coupley tropes…i just choose not to rn. Also I wrote this while watching the chiefs lose the superbowl.
132 notes · View notes
heaven-s-black-box · 2 days ago
Text
Notes- Blabber Mouth; Anemo Men
x gn!Reader
Return to File
Recovery date: February 9th, 2025
Description: Anemo version of Blabber Mouth
Notes: CW a few suprise pregnancies I put Wanderer in here, but I personally subscribe to trans-man Wanderer because why would Raiden give him a male body? Also, this series is slowly separating from the original prompt and I feel like I'm just making these kids psychic but shhh, babies
Hydro Dendro Cryo Pyro Anemo Electro Geo
Back to directory
Tumblr media
Aether
Kids , he likes them but never really thought they were in his future
I mean, he’s always traveling with his sister, it’s not until Teyvat that he kind of settles down
Abyss!Aether or Traveler!Aether, they meet you and staying here doesn’t sound too bad
Your first is an accident, they make the decision for him
Not that he wanted to leave you anyways
Your second is planned, but your first born beats you to tell him
Aether comes back from wherever he was, helping Khaenri’ah, a commission, ruling the Abyssal Khaeri’ans, and your kid tackles him in a hug
Then, without you saying anything, they talk about reading a story to the baby
And you play mock offense thinking they were reading to you and Aether is trying to figure out what baby
You send your kid off to clean up their toys so you can talk
Aether drops to his knees and hugs your waist
Xiao
It’s not that he doesn’t want kids, he just doesn’t think about it because he doesn’t want another thing he can’t have
He can’t be around people normally, being around an infant? Bad idea
So, you’d have to be anything but a mortal, someone who can be around him despite his debt
Then, he gives it some thought and he’s still really not sure
It takes many conversations for him to see your side of things
Cries the first time he holds your baby
As your first grows up, he tries to figure out how to broach the subject of having another
You laugh when he finally gets it out, face red, and quickly apologize before saying another sounds nice
Your kid is very defensive, and they try defending you from one of the dogs around Wangshuu inn one day
When you ask what’s wrong, because normally the dogs aren't a problem, your kid says they saw the dog scare a baby the other day
Takes you both a second to figure out how that correlates and then it’s a trip to Baizhu
He cries, the first time it wasn’t real to him until he held the baby but this time it’s real from the start
Venti
You guys start talking about having kids, and he’s not even sure he can have them
Like, he’s a windspirit and sure he’s in human form but how far does that extend
So your first born is a bit of a surprise
But he’s so happy, sings to them all the time while your pregnant
He drinks less too, can’t be drinking at Angel’s share when he’s trying to wrangle the little whirlwind into bed
It’s one such night when your little one runs out of their room and into yours
They curl up with you in your bed, and Venti’s trying to convince them to sleep in their bed
They declare they want to sleep with their sibling
You stop reading/pretending to sleep, confused, and Venti just gives in
They make a good point, how could he pull such a protective big sibling away from their little sibling
Venti’s been around enough to know that children can just tell these things
So he just wraps you all up in his wings and you go to Barbara in the morning
If either of your kids are boys, he’s naming him after the nameless bard
Kazuha
Kids… he wants them, he doesn’t want his family line to end with him
But, it’s not really an option when he’s on the run
Once he returns to Inazuma though, he gives it more serious thought
Spending time in the forge, he sees kids run by a lot and watches their awe as they watch him
He brings it up to you, and you have your first born
We don’t know what his friend’s name is, but your first born is getting named after him
Even if he has to alter it a little bit
He likes to write poetry with your kid, it helps their vocabulary, creativity, and fine motor skills
You two also use it to encourage their self expression
So they express their excitement about the friend in your belly
That poem is getting framed, it makes you both laugh
Heizou
Likes playing with the kids in the city and around Ritou
Hasn’t really considered kids of his own
It’s not until he sees you with the kids that he starts thinking about it
I think your first is an accident, but his excitement even surprises him a bit
Not that he thought he wouldn’t be happy/excited
And your kid takes after their father’s investigative curiosity
So you start acting off and they’re running their own investigation
This one is less of a “little kid sixth sense” and more like “mini detective”
They even get Heizou to join in the investigation
But there’s definitely a bit of weird sibling psychic-ness, your first born predicts baby's gender later on
Everyone’s excited, you first born is already planning investigations to do with them
Extra note, but Heizou definitely takes your infants on easy investigations strapped to his chest in a baby harness
Wanderer
I… don’t think he can have kids, I personally think he was not modeled with the required hardware (fully believe his original model was at least a ken doll and and at most fem)
But, between handling the electro gnosis and being around Dottore, I could see him getting the hardware and systems
I do not think he knows he has these systems, mostly because he’s never tried
So your kid is an accident
And Wanderer has a lot of thoughts but, I think he holds the baby and decides that he can do this
First baby’s name is Niwa
This kid has him wrapped around their finger, and he’s happy with one
And now that you two know he can get you pregnant you two are more careful
Your kid asks for a sibling and he’s not one to deny them if you’re okay with it
They’re also the one to tell you, one day they just press a kiss to your tummy before Wanderer puts them to bed for the night
Tighnari’s in the city, so you check in with him before he leaves
I think Wanderer surprises himself with the love he feels for his kids
99 notes · View notes