#this issue is memorable if nothing else

[em1i2a3]

The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and everyone else are in this story. Fluff and Smut, that’s it, that’s the tweet lol Oh and also Reader and Bob have an established friends with benefits relationship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it before you tap it…or don’t I mean…All up to y’all lol), Biting/Marking, Praise/Worship Kinks (because sometimes we all need that), Bob gets a little dominant in this fic, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Scratching, Choking (if you squint, it’s not extreme though, like just holding), Breast Worship.

Author's Note: This is like a combination of two requests because it made a lot of sense to just combine them in a nice little wrap. Both were from anon users so if these were your requests, thank you! (Requests were: Bob getting a confidence boost in bed, and Bob liking the act of marking the reader/biting the reader)

Word Count: 9,119

You and Yelena weren’t supposed to be back at the compound for another week.

But missions had a way of unraveling differently when the two of you were left to your own devices–strategic, relentless, and just a little bit impatient. You didn’t linger. You didn’t overcomplicate. You didn’t sleep much, either, which probably explained the record time.

You’d cleared the final objective in less than forty-eight hours, ghosted the cleanup crew, and caught the first unmarked flight back to the States before anyone could slap a new assignment on your desk.

Efficiency had its perks, and so did chronic sleep issues.

Because the truth was–if you’d stayed another night in that motel with its scratchy sheets and the whine of traffic bleeding through the windows, you might’ve clawed your skin off. You hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row the entire time you were gone. The bed was too stiff and the air was too stale. You’d tried your usual tricks–white noise, stretching, sleeping pills stolen from the med kit–but nothing worked.

Your body just didn’t settle when you weren’t home.

And it wasn’t even just about your own bed–though you missed the way the pillow fluffed perfectly around your head, the subtle citrus-and-cotton scent of your detergent lingering in the sheets, the familiar groove in the mattress where your weight naturally settled.

It was about his bed, too.

Bob’s.

Because the only real, uninterrupted sleep you’d gotten in the last few months had been tangled up in him–skin warm, limbs heavy, his breath soft against your neck as he pulled you closer and laced your fingers with his beneath the covers. You remembered the way he kissed the dip beneath your ear just before he fell asleep, how he always muttered something quiet against your bare shoulder, like he didn’t want you to know he needed this as much as you did.

But you did know. Because you needed it too.

That was the problem with the whole friends-with-benefits arrangement–it had rules, boundaries, expectations. But somewhere along the way, you stopped following the fine print. Somewhere along the way, you started looking forward to him more than the orgasm. You started memorizing the shape of his hands, the way he curled into you when he thought you were asleep, the sound he made when you ran your fingers through his hair just right. The pillow talk that both of you would have post sex, tangled up within one another–joking about another round before giving in.

You missed him.

Not just the sex, not just the heat of his mouth or the way he whispered your name when he came–you missed all of him. His nervous smiles. His soft voice. His quiet steadiness. You missed the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you wanted him back. The way he understood that the only reason you weren’t in a relationship with him was because you hated the pressure that it came with, and how you just wanted to be–because labels just complicated things.

And you hadn’t told anyone–at least not willingly. But Yelena knew. She always knew. The girl could sniff out repressed feelings like a bloodhound, and her raised eyebrow and pointed remarks whenever Bob entered a room had gotten more pointed with time. And Bucky…Bucky didn’t say anything, but he watched. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze when you sat next to Bob at the kitchen counter, or when you reappeared from ‘relaxing in your bedroom’ wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours.

Still. None of them had said a word. Not directly at least, and the both of you were immensely grateful for that.

The elevator doors hissed open at 2:04 a.m., depositing you and yelena into the compound’s dim, and mostly-silent common room.

The air inside was nice and cool against your burning hot skin, it was crisp with the faint scent of fresh laundry. Everything felt still, as if the whole building itself had decided to turn in for the night completely.

Except for Bucky Barnes, apparently.

He was sunk deep into the corner of the oversized grey sectional, one arm slung over the back, the other nursing a steaming mug of coffee–you could tell because of the lingering odor of the roasted beans that stuck to the air. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of your boots–just glanced up, eyes cutting over the rim of his mug as the glow of the television flickered across his face. The screen was playing something low-budget, or at least it looked like it–judging by the terrible stick on mustaches and the VHS tracking lines.

”You’re back early,” Bucky said, sipping from his mug.

“No, you’re just up late,” Yelena shot back, dropping her bag on the ground before veering toward the kitchen without missing a beat. Your suit–a cross between tactical armor and a flight suit– creaked with each step you took, the joints still tight from hours of wear. You felt grimy and stiff, a little windburned, and very much like a human shaped knot of fatigue.

”What’d they do, drop you into a war zone or the sun?” Bucky muttered, looking you over. You gave him a half-smile.

”Maybe a little bit of both, it was terrible over there.” You replied, turning your attention to the television.

Yelena yanked the fridge open, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline. She pulled something out, and tossed one blindly at you without even checking if you were paying attention.

You caught it without turning, fingers wrapping around the chilled plastic in mid-air.

”Still got it,” Bucky said with a low chuckle, grabbing the bowl of popcorn beside him as Yelena walked around you and dropped herself onto the open space he had made for her.

”I never lost it Barnes.” You replied, cracking open the cherry flavoured electrolyte drink, hearing it fizzle. Yelena chugged half of it in one go, before reaching for the remote that was on the armrest.

”What is this?” She asked, pressing a few buttons absentmindedly, flipping through the menu with obvious disdain, “This is what you stay up late watching? Are you eighty-five?”

”No, I’m a hundred and ten thank you.” Bucky shot back, yanking the remote from her hands, “It’s also a classic.” He mumbled.

”It had bad editing and worse acting,” She retorted, lunging across him to snatch the remote again.

You smirked, shaking your head as they dissolved into bickering over how insufferable Yelena is when she hasn’t gotten enough sleep. The whole room felt hazy, soft-edged in that post-mission, too-tired-to-function way, but it also was safe and familiar, and you were grateful to be home.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder, taking a sip from your bottle, before turning toward the hall.

”Where you headed?” Bucky called after you, half-distracted by Yelena’s attempt to reach his outstretched hand that had the remote in it.

”Shower, and sleep. Maybe pretend to be dead for a few hours.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Yelena chirped, before throwing herself over Bucky who let out a yelp, as you left him to his own demise.

Your mind was already elsewhere. You were thinking about Bob.

Mulling over the fact that this was the longest you’d been apart–almost a full week without seeing him, touching him, or hearing him. Without the little comforts you weren’t supposed to be attached to. His voice low in the dark, his fingers tracing letters into your stomach and asking what he was spelling. The stupid way he whispered your name before nuzzling himself into your neck and peppering kisses along your skin.

You had planned on surprising him in the morning. Maybe knock once on his door, and slip inside without saying anything. Maybe you’d crawl into his bed beside him and wake him up with your mouth on his neck just to see if he’d pull you in close and wrap those long muscular arms around you like he always did.

Because a week was just too long, and you’d missed him more than you were ready to admit.

You padded softly down the hall, the compound’s hush closing in behind you like a slow exhale. Even the low chatter of Yelena and Bucky was swallowed by the distance, replaced by the click of your boots and the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents.

Your hand grazed the cool metal of your doorknob.

You were still smiling to yourself, still replaying the plan in your head—how you’d toss your gear on the floor, shower off the grime of the last two days, slip into something barely-there, and sneak into Bob’s room just after sunrise. You’d press your lips to the warm edge of his jaw and whisper something teasing just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, sleepy and flustered and already halfway gone before he could even open his eyes.

You turned the knob and pushed the door open, and froze dead in your tracks.

The first thing that hit you was the heat. Your room always ran a few degrees warmer than the rest of the compound–partly because of the old HVAC in this wing, and partly because you liked it that way. It was cozy.

The second thing that got you was the sight of Bob.

He was asleep on his stomach, sprawled across the middle of your bed like he had slowly melted into it. His broad shoulders stretched across the mattress one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped loosely across it like he had purposely fallen asleep like this–with his face smushed into the corner of it. The sheets had twisted around his hips–barely clinging to the edge of the dark grey boxer briefs he was wearing, the elastic just visible beneath the soft crease of his lower back. His hair was a mess of light brown, mussed-up locks, pointing out every which way like he had run his fingers through them a few times.

The soft glow of your bedside lamp–the kind that automatically flicked on to its lowest setting when you entered–cast him in warm amber. His skin looked almost sun-kissed in it, flushed faintly at the back of his neck and the slope of his spine. He was breathing slow and deep, so still and peaceful it almost felt wrong to look at him too long.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, but your heart had already stepped into the room.

Bob was here. Asleep in your bed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And something about that–about the ease of it–unraveled you more than anything else had all week.

You slowly eased the door shut behind you, careful not to let the latch click too loudly, and took one silent step inside. The scent hit you next. Not just the familiar blend of your detergent and body wash–but something softer, earthier.

Sage.

You turned your head slightly, and there it was–your little ceramic humidifier, the one shaped like a curled-up fox, softly misting by the dresser. The blue glow around its base was steady and calm, casting soft shadows across the wall behind it. You hadn’t used it in weeks. But now it was on. Filled. Set to the exact setting you always used when you had a headache or couldn’t sleep.

Your brows knit gently together.

Your gaze drifted lower–to the corner of the room where you normally threw your clean laundry in a pile you meant to fold but never did. But the pile looked…Different. Smaller. Neater. Not folded, exactly, but gathered. Arranged in the exact order you usually pulled from. Undergarments on top. Tanks and sleep shorts just beneath. Even your favorite oversized tee–the threadbare Stark Expo 2019 one–was sitting on top, freshly laundered and smelling faintly of lavender-softener.

”Well…I’ll be damned.” You whispered to yourself, because you didn’t remember doing all of that before you left. You slowly shrugged your bag from your shoulder and set it down near the desk, careful not to make a sound. Your eyes lingered on the little details around the room–how the cord for your phone charger had been looped up neatly instead of left in a nest on the floor, how your glass of water had been refilled with ice and placed beside your nightstand book, how even the trash can had been emptied.

He hadn’t just been waiting for you.

He’d been looking after you.

You toed off your boots and unzipped your suit with aching, quiet fingers, each movement deliberate. You peeled it off your body, layer by layer, until you were left in just a sports bra and a thin pair of cotton briefs. You crossed the room slowly, the floor cool under your bare feet, and slipped into the en suite with a practiced ease, fingers grazing the wall as you flicked on the light.

You immediately noticed the warmth–thick and faintly humid, clinging to the corners of the tile like the room had been wrapped in a blanket not long ago. It smelled like steam and soap and something else. Something sweeter.

You stepped towards the shower and breathed it in more fully.

Raspberry and basil.

Your shampoo. It was a weird scent combo, one you’d picked half on a whim and half because it somehow stuck in your head every time you used it–bright and green, but soft, with just enough fruit to make someone lean in and ask what it was. You hadn’t brought any with you on the mission.

But now… it was definitely lower than you remembered leaving it.

Your fingers brushed the bottle on the corner shelf. Same with the conditioner. Same with the body wash. All just slightly more empty than they should’ve been. The labels slick with residual condensation, freshly handled.

Your gaze flicked to the sink.

There were tiny flecks of stubble around the drain–barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Not quite enough to be careless. Just enough to suggest he’d shaved in a rush and hadn’t cleaned up every last piece. Bob always got a little flustered around mirrors. Too many thoughts. Too many selves. You didn’t blame him for not scrubbing them all away.

You leaned on the counter, steadying yourself, and your eyes landed on something else.

His toothbrush, tucked neatly beside yours, with the bristles still wet. You stood there in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at the two toothbrushes resting side by side like they’d always been meant to share that ceramic cup.

Bob hadn’t just been sleeping in your room.

He’d been living in it.

Showering here. Shaving here. Moving around your space with the kind of familiarity you only afforded yourself. Like he hadn’t just been borrowing your room–he’d been waiting in it. Curling himself into the folds you left behind. Slipping quietly into the corners of your routine without disturbing the rhythm, like he’d always known how to match your pace.

And maybe that was what made your chest ache the most.

The realization that he must’ve missed you just as much as you missed him.

Maybe more.

You reached for the shower handle before the weight of it could settle too deep in your bones. The pipes didn’t groan like they normally did, the water just rushed out hot and steady from the spout, steam blooming instantly against the mirror. You peeled off your sports bra and underwear, letting the warmth wrap around your tired limbs as you stepped under the stream.

You tilted your head back, letting the water run down your scalp and over your face, washing away the grime of the last forty-eight hours in one long exhale. Your fingers found the raspberry and basil shampoo, and you worked it into your hair, the scent unfurling in the steam like something sacred. You scrubbed until your scalp tingled, until your shoulders started to loosen under the weight of water and familiarity.

Then came the conditioner, and the bodywash. Each ritual was a little slower than usual, like you were moving through molasses. Your body still felt heavy, but your mind was beginning to quiet. The mission was over. You were home. And Bob was here.

You turned off the water and stepped onto the warm tile, steam curling off your skin in soft ribbons. The mirror was almost completely fogged now, but you wiped a space clear with your palm, squinting slightly at your reflection.

Right at your hip you could see the faint marks of where Bob had bit before you had left, he had said it was something for you to look at when you wanted to think of him. He had this weird thing nowadays where he liked seeing and making little marks on you so you thought about him more than you already did.

A few fresh cuts traced the edge of your shoulder and collarbone–scrapes from the last scuffle, nothing major. A deeper bruise bloomed under your ribs, the kind you’d probably feel more tomorrow. You touched it lightly, then imagined what Bob’s face would look like when he saw it.

He wouldn’t say much. He’d just look. Quiet, brows drawn. Probably reach for you and press his hand there with too much care, like he thought touching it too firmly might break something else.

You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your body, using a smaller one to pat your hair dry until it stopped dripping. Then you fluffed it with your fingers–messy and soft, but clean–and stepped out into the bedroom.

He was still sleeping, curled around your pillow, the sheet tugged a little lower now, just enough to reveal the defined line of his waist and the way his spine curved like a comma. You let your eyes linger for a breath longer, then padded quietly to the corner of the room where he’d left your clothes.

The sleep shorts were exactly where he knew you liked them. The old blue t-shirt–the one that had started out as his and somehow ended up permanently yours–was still warm from the dryer.

You slipped the cotton over your head and let it fall just past your hips, then tugged the shorts on. The waistband sat soft against your skin, familiar and easy.

You stood there for a second, just breathing, before folding up your towels and stacking them neatly on the edge of your desk.

Without another sound, you padded across the room and eased onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The familiar dip of it welcomed your weight, and you tucked yourself close to his side, your knees brushing the outside of his thigh.

For a long moment, you just watched him.

His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks, and there was a tiny crease between his brows like even in sleep he was thinking too hard. The slope of his nose was soft from this angle, and the corner of his mouth was slack, open just enough to let out the faintest exhale.

You leaned forward slowly, and bit his shoulder, gently.

Right on that spot you knew was sensitive–where the muscle met bone, where he always twitched a little whenever your lips lingered there too long.

“Mmph–Ow?” He groaned, more confused than hurt, shifting with a sluggish twist beneath your mouth.

You grinned and pressed a soft kiss to the spot. “Hey, Robert.”

Bob flinched at the sound of his full name, then jolted upright halfway before fully processing–head lifting, eyes wide and blinking blearily through the low amber light. His arm buckled slightly beneath him as he tried to catch himself, sheet slipping further down his waist.

“Wh–What the hell–Y-You’re—you’re back?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

You laughed, hushed and breathy, and cupped his shoulder to steady him. “Careful, you’re about to fall off the bed.”

He blinked again, jaw slack, still halfway tangled in the blankets and now completely upright. “You–you weren’t supposed to b-be back ‘til Friday.”

“I wasn’t,” You murmured, leaning in closer, brushing your nose along the line of his neck. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

His breath hitched as your lips ghosted over his pulse point.

“Jesus,” He whispered, his hand finally rising–tentatively–to cup your waist like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were real and he wasn’t hallucinating that you were here. You kissed his shoulder again, then nudged your nose against his ear

“Missed me?” Bob let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh–still breathless, still flustered.

“I–I’ve been sleeping in your room like some sad l-lost dog for four nights.” You smiled against his skin.

“I noticed.”

“I wasn’t trying to–like–move in or anything, I just–your pillow still smelled like you and I–” He cut himself off with a quiet groan and buried his face in your neck. “God, this is embarrassing.” You smoothed your hand along his spine, fingertips dragging lightly through the dip of his lower back.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s sweet.” He went still at that, and then returned his eyes to you, his blue irises shimmering in the dim lighting.

”Yeah?” You smirked, nodding.

”Very sweet.” Bob’s cheeks flushed with that familiar, helpless shade of pink, as he ducked his head slightly, eyes dropping, but you reached for him before he could retreat into himself again. Your fingers curled gently under his smooth chin, coaxing his gaze back to yours, and then, with the softest pressure, you turned his face fully toward you.

His eyes searched yours for the briefest second–barely a breath–before you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed or careless or clumsy. It was deliberate. Slow at first. Lips brushing lips, once–then again. The kind of kiss that says I remember how to do this. I missed this. I missed you. You angled your mouth against his, deepening it with a quiet sigh that tasted like relief and heat and the week you’d spent without him.

And Bob–God, Bob melted.

Like every bone in his body gave up the fight.

He kissed you back with this kind of overwhelmed gentleness, like he didn’t know how he’d gone a week without this and now he never wanted to let go. His hands found your hips–tentative at first, then a little more sure. He took the pillow and threw it off the side of the bed, before tugging you closer across the bed until you were flush against him, your thigh slotted between his legs.

His lips parted, and yours followed.

Tongues brushing, slow and wet and warm, the kiss deepening with each pass. You felt his breath stutter against your cheek when you nipped at his lower lip, felt the quiet rumble of a groan that built low in his chest and echoed into your mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently–just enough for him to gasp into you.

And then he pulled back, barely. His forehead resting against yours, his mouth still parted, pupils blown wide.

“D-Don’t you wanna get some sleep?” He asked, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “You’ve gotta be–exhausted.” You gave a slow smile, your lips still ghosting his.

”I’ll sleep once I’ve got your hands all over me again.” Bob barely registered the words before instinct overtook him.

Your breath had just finished ghosting over his lips when his hands suddenly clutched your hips tighter, and he moved–rolling fully over you with a low, needy groan, pressing you flat against the mattress in one fluid, desperate motion. The way his body stretched over yours, warm and solid and half-draped in nothing but those threadbare grey boxer briefs, made your breath catch with something between a gasp and a laugh.

He was already panting softly, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until the second it was offered. His mouth crushed against yours, wetter now, hungrier–kisses landing messily on your lips, your cheek, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to start. His hands roamed beneath your shirt without hesitation, dragging up from your hips to your waist, thumbs skating along your ribs like he knew exactly where you wanted to be touched–because he did.

“Y-You’re too dressed,” He mumbled against your mouth, voice ragged and impatient. “How’re y-you still dressed?”

You giggled, tilting your chin back as his lips moved down your neck. “You’re not exactly making it easy to take anything off.”

“’Cause I missed you,” He whined, shameless now, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt and tugging it up in soft, slow inches. “God, I-I missed you and y-you smell like–” You ran your hands down his back, nails grazing his spine.

“Like my shampoo that you’ve been using?” You teased breathlessly, interrupting him. Bob froze for half a heartbeat, then nuzzled deeper into your neck with a groan that was far too pleased.

“Told you I missed you,” He whispered. “You were everywhere in this room but not in it and I just–crap, I needed something.”

His hands slid fully under the shirt now, palms spreading wide over your stomach, smoothing over old scars, faint bruises, soft skin. And then, as gentle as ever, he pulled the shirt up and over your head with one smooth motion and tossed it aside onto the floor.

Lit only by the bedside lamp, his eyes roamed your bare skin like he hadn’t seen it in years. His hands followed his gaze, mapping every familiar slope like he was making sure nothing had changed while you were gone. He cupped your chest with a low, smooth sigh, brushing his thumbs gently over your nipples until you arched into him.

“Still like that?” He murmured, teasing and a little breathless.

“Always,” You whispered. Bob leaned in slow–eyes still dark and wide, lips slightly wet and parted–and pressed a kiss right between the swell of your breasts, leaving a little saliva mark. Then he put another just a little lower, and another.

Your breath hitched as his mouth found the delicate skin at the top curve of your breast, and he sucked gently–just enough for you to feel the sting start to bloom beneath his tongue. His hands cradled you, thumbs brushing under your ribs as he worked his way over the flesh, kissing, mouthing, biting just lightly until you were arching beneath him.

Then he took your nipple into his mouth.

A low, broken moan spilled from him the second his tongue flicked over it–like he couldn’t believe how good it felt to be this close again. He sucked slowly, then a little harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your back bow and your fingers tangle in his hair. His hips rutted forward–slow and clumsy at first, then more deliberate. You felt the hot, heavy pressure of his cock through his briefs as it ground against your core, the friction heady and frustrating in the best way.

“God…” He gasped against your skin, mouthing down the side of your breast now. “I-It’s like y-you’ve been gone for y-years.”

His breath was ragged now, teeth sinking into the underside of your breast to leave another mark–deeper this time, and you could feel it purpling as he pulled off. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He finally pulled back, lips swollen, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His gaze roamed down your body again–hungry, frantic, and impossibly tender all at once–until it landed on your hip. His thumb skated over the spot.

”I-It’s gone,” He murmured, almost to himself. Your brows furrowed faintly, pushing his hair out of his face.

”What is?”

“The mark I left.” He glanced up at you, a little shy, a little sheepish. “The one I bit into you before you left. I thought maybe it’d still be there…”

You let out a soft laugh, cupping his hot and flushed cheek. “Well, yeah, it healed. It’s not like you can’t give me another one.”

That made his breath hitch.

His eyes darkened just slightly as they dropped back down to your body. “Yeah?” He murmured.

You nodded slowly. “I liked looking at it when I missed you.”

That shy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that said he was blushing way harder on the inside than he was letting show. Then, without another word, he slid down your body, pressing a few scattered kisses along your stomach until he reached the dip of your hip. He nudged your sleep shorts just enough to expose the skin he wanted, the cotton bunched under his thumbs as he settled between your thighs, his breath fanning warm over your bare skin.

“I’ll make you another one,” He whispered, lips hovering. “Same spot. So you remember.”

The words were almost respectful–but the way he said “remember” made your stomach clench. Like he wanted to brand the memory into you.

Then his mouth sealed over your hip with purpose.

You felt the wet press of his tongue first, lapping softly at the curve of your hip. Then his lips closed over the spot, sucking gently at first–just enough to make your breath catch–before his teeth scraped down with delicate precision. A faint sting bloomed beneath his mouth as he bit just a little harder, pulling the skin between his lips and sucking until heat flared beneath the surface. His hands held you steady by your hips, thumbs pressing into the sensitive dips beside the bones as his mouth worked the mark deeper.

It wasn’t just about the pain–it was the way his tongue soothed the sting after, the way he breathed against you like he was trying to worship this piece of you. Your fingers slid into his hair, jaw slack, body arching into his hold as a slow whimper slipped from your throat. Just like him you enjoyed the process, it was something Bob found out he took pride in doing, it was something only the two of you knew about and that was just scripture at this point.

Then, finally, he pulled back.

Your breath stuttered. His eyes were glassy with heat, lips slick and swollen, pupils wide.

“L-Look,” He whispered hoarsely, leaning aside just enough for you to lift your head and follow the trace of his finger. The mark was already starting to darken–a perfect bloom of bruised skin, flushed deep and raw at the center, fading at the edges like a watercolor stain. Right over your hipbone, exactly where the last one had been.

Your mouth curved into a smug, breathless smile.

And Bob looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You could feel him throbbing against your thigh–hard, heavy, leaking precum in his boxer briefs–and you swore his pupils dilated even more when he saw you smile. His hands trembled just slightly on your hips, the press of his fingers tightening like he wanted to sink into you then and there.

Then, his voice–raspy, shy, so damn sweet it made your chest ache:

“C-Can I take these off?” His fingers tugged lightly at the waistband of your sleep shorts. “W-Wanna…Wanna u-use my mouth. I mean–on you. Go down on you. I–God, I just wanna taste you, I missed you so bad I–” You nodded before he could combust, your hand cupping his cheek again as your thumb brushed across his flushed skin.

“Yes,” You murmured. “Please, Bob.” He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut. His hands slid lower, slow and reverent, thumbs catching beneath the waistband as he eased your shorts down your legs.

The cotton left your skin with the softest whisper of friction, and then he hooked them around your ankles, slow and careful like he was undressing something sacred.

He didn’t throw them right away. He held them for a second—bunched in his hand—before finally letting them slip from his fingers and fall somewhere behind him with a soft thud. His gaze flicked up.

You’d opened your legs for him.

And that alone nearly broke him.

His breath hitched audibly, chest rising sharp as his hands found your thighs and pushed them open further—just enough for him to settle between them. His pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering as he took you in, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t quite remember how to form the words.

But then he did speak.

Barely louder than a whisper.

“F-Fuck… you’re already wet…”

His eyes were locked on the slick sheen between your thighs, his voice shaking with awe and arousal. “I-I didn’t even touch you yet.”

You smiled, breathless, threading your fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this since I left.”

A groan caught in the back of his throat. He dipped his head low, kissing your inner thigh with reverence, lips soft and warm as he moved closer. Another kiss, higher now. Then another. A gentle scrape of teeth. He sucked lightly at the skin just above your knee, then further up–just below the edge of your heat–where he bit down softly and hummed against you.

“G-Gonna mark you here,” He murmured, voice raspy. “Only I’ll know it’s there.”

You felt the nip, the suction, and the soothing stroke of his tongue right after. A shiver ran through your whole body.

He moved higher, lips brushing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then gently slid your legs up–guiding them over his shoulders with hands that couldn’t stop shaking. He adjusted slightly, nestling his chest between your thighs, the warmth of him blanketing everything.

And then he looked up at you, utterly flushed, breath unsteady, eyes glassy with lust.

”I-I’m gonna take my t-time…I w-wanna s-savor you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and then he lowered his mouth.

The first lick was slow. Flat and deliberate, his tongue dragging up your folds with aching precision. His groan vibrated into you, low and desperate, like your taste knocked the air from his lungs.

He did it again, slower this time–parting you with careful fingers, exposing your clit, and flicking his tongue over it with gentle laps that made your hips twitch. His hands slid up under your thighs, holding you down, anchoring you as his mouth worked with focused hunger.

He kissed your folds like he loved them–soft and wet, teasing swirls of his tongue punctuated by firmer, sloppier sucks to your clit that had you gasping and writhing. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his mouth, like your pleasure was feeding him.

And then–his fingers joined the fray.

He eased one inside you slowly, watching your face the whole time, the stretch just right as you clenched around him.

”Mmm…P-Perfect…” He whispered, barely audible over your breathless moan. He added a second, curling them expertly. You felt the exact spot he was searching for as he pressed deeper, stroking in tandem with the suck of his mouth on your clit. The pace built gradually, maddeningly patient. He knew your body too well. Knew the rhythm that made your thighs start to tremble, knew when to ease off just a little to keep you right on the edge.

He licked you like he was starving, but careful. Worshipful. Like every stroke of his tongue was another way of telling you he missed you, needed you, belonged to you.

One of your hands gripped the pillow behind your head, and the other continued to tangle in his hair, fingers twisting in his soft curls as you gasped out his name.

“B-Bob–”

He groaned again, rutting slightly into the mattress, his own arousal completely unchecked.

“T-That’s it,” He rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “S-Say it again. Lemme h-hear it while I’ve got you falling apart on my mouth.”

And you did.

Because he earned it.

And you were already so close, the coil in your stomach burning with every wet, deliberate flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers pressing into that perfect spot again and again–

Until everything snapped.

Your back arched. Your thighs shook around his head. His name spilled from your lips again and again like a prayer as your climax crashed over you–hot, electric, and overwhelming.

But Bob didn’t stop.

He moaned into you deeply, slowing only enough to ride out every pulse, every shudder, licking you through it with open-mouthed reverence until you were trembling under him, breathless and overstimulated.

Bob stayed nestled between your legs for a long moment, his cheek resting against your thigh like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you just yet. His chest heaved softly, trying to catch up with the rhythm your body had demanded from him.

And then—still dazed, still breathless—he lifted his head.

His fingers slipped from you slowly, soaked and trembling. He held them up for a second, watching the wet glisten in the low light like he still couldn’t believe how much of you he had, how deeply you let him in.

Then–slowly, modestly–he brought those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

One at a time.

He sucked the taste of you from his knuckles with a low, helpless groan, like he was starving, like your pleasure was some kind of sustenance he hadn’t been able to live without all week. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes fanning his cheeks as his lips sealed over the pads of his fingers and pulled back with a soft, slick pop.

Then he looked up at you again–totally flushed, lips wet, curls wild and clinging to his forehead. And he smiled. Just a little. Like he couldn’t help it.

“God, you taste so good,” He rasped, voice nearly broken from the effort of holding back. “Y-You always do. I c-could stay down here forever…”

Your heart gave an answering throb–not just at the words, but the way he said them. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about lust or pleasure or instinct. It was something needful, something devotional.

He pressed one more kiss to your thigh. Then another. His mouth moved slowly, lips soft against your overstimulated skin, kissing up toward the inside of your knee. He nuzzled into the crease where your thigh met your hip, resting there again like he was grounding himself.

“You’re…You’re s-so beautiful,” He whispered, almost shy. “I-I missed every inch of you. E-Every sound, every taste, every time you grab my hair like that–I missed all of it.”

Your fingers stayed tangled in his curls as his eyes met yours–blue and wide and still a little dazed, pupils rimmed with something darker, deeper. You stroked his scalp gently, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” You said softly. Bob blinked like he didn’t understand the language.

“You’re so fucking good to me, Bob. That mouth of yours should be illegal.” You tugged his hair lightly for emphasis. “You take your time. You listen. You always make me feel like I’m the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

He whimpered at the comment, his cheeks going a deeper shade of red..

Then, quietly, with that fragile edge still in his voice: “C-Can I…Can I be inside you now?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes. God, yes. I want you.” He didn’t say anything after your “yes”—he didn’t have to. The air shifted the second the words left your lips. Almost in a trance, he pushed himself up on trembling arms, body sliding from between your legs just enough for his hands to tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, dragged them over the swell of his hips, and pushed them past his thighs. They caught for a moment on the curve of his ass, then fell to the floor with a soft thud. You could feel your mouth water at the sight of how hard he was–thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, his cock curved toward his belly with a kind of desperate heaviness.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask if you were sure again. Didn’t stutter.

He just moved.

Climbed up over you with deliberate grace, his skin flushed and hot, his mouth parted as he kissed a slow trail up your body. Over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs. Each kiss was lingering, lips wet and reverent, like he was soaking you in. He kissed the underside of your breast, then the curve of your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then–

Your mouth.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss you don’t come back from.

His lips opened against yours, his tongue brushing yours, breath catching like he couldn’t get close enough. One of his hands cradled your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye, and the other curled beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist until your hips aligned.

Your hand slid down his back, dragging your nails softly along the ridge of his spine. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered between kisses. “So hard for me already. God, I missed feeling you like this.”

He moaned–full-throated, broken–and rutted into you once, the tip of his cock slipping along your slick folds, just barely brushing your clit.

“I’ve got you,” You whispered, cupping his face. “You’ve always been mine.”

That did something to him. You saw it in his eyes–the shift.

The way the stutter disappeared. The way his jaw set. The way his gaze sharpened like lightning behind glass, the little shimmer of gold behind the ring of blue.

It wasn’t just Bob now, it was also the Sentry.

When he looked at you now, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was awe. Command. Like he could tear through the world but would rather be on his knees between your legs, or buried inside you, trembling with the effort of holding himself back just enough not to worship you into pieces.

“Please,” You breathed. “Need you inside me.”

His voice was lower now. Clear. Quiet. Controlled.

“Spread your legs a little more.”

You did, instantly. The commanding tone–still soft, still reverent, but sure–went straight to your core.

He guided himself forward with one hand, the other still cradling your thigh. And then–slow, deliberate–he pressed in.

The stretch was perfect. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, and his eyes fluttered shut, forehead dipping down to press against yours. He groaned, low and long and helpless as your walls clenched around him, welcoming him home.

“Mmm… So tight… So wet… I forgot how good this felt,” He whispered, his voice wrecked but steady. “You feel like you were made for me.”

”I am…” You responded, your hands threading through his hair, “No one fucks me like you do. No one fills me like you do, Bob. You’re so deep already and you’re not even close to bottoming out…You’re just so fucking perfect.” Bob’s eyes fluttered closed at your words, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he pushed a deeper inside you, until he was fully seated–hips flush against yours, breath shuddering like he was trying not to lose it.

His voice came out strained, barely above a whisper.

“You know that’s gonna get to his head, right?”

Your breath caught, and a slow, knowing smile curled on your lips. You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just tilted your head slightly, brushed your nose against his, and played it innocent.

“Hmm?” You asked softly, letting your hips roll up ever so slightly against him, just enough for both of you to feel the perfect stretch again. “What will?”

Bob groaned–deep, desperate–and dropped his forehead against your shoulder for a second like he was trying to physically hide from the pull inside him.

“The way you talk,” He rasped. “The way you say I’m perfect. T-That I fill you just right. You know what that does to him…”

You kissed the curve of his jaw, slowly. “Do I?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes now shimmering with something gold at the edges, flickering like lightning underwater. That flicker. That edge. The Sentry wasn’t in control–not yet–but he was listening. And Bob knew it. Felt it.

“I-I don’t think you realize how close he is sometimes,” He murmured, one of his hands sliding up your side, over your ribs, until it cupped your throat. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there–warm and firm, like a tether. “It’s like…Like you say the right thing and it just flips a switch.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching as his thumb brushed under your jaw.

“Maybe I like flipping it,” You whispered. “Maybe I want both of you.”

That broke something.

Bob’s pupils blew even wider, mouth dropping open slightly as he stared at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen.

And then he moved.

In one swift motion, he slid your legs over his shoulders, folding you tighter beneath him. The new angle had his cock hitting deeper–hot and full and unbearable in the best way. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for purchase as he drove forward with a slow, powerful thrust that made your back arch off the mattress.

He groaned, long and low, hips beginning to snap into you with more force now, still controlled–but rougher. Needier. His grip on your neck stayed steady, anchoring you, his other hand gripping the edge of the mattress like he needed it to keep from breaking apart entirely.

The kiss that followed was messy–hungry and open-mouthed, more teeth than lips. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth with urgency, nipping your lower lip between groans that sounded more like growls now. His hair was falling into his face, damp with sweat, and your nails dug into his shoulders, raking down his back when he hit just the right spot again.

“Oh my–fuck, Bob–” You cried out, legs trembling where they were braced on his shoulders. He was fucking you deeper now, each thrust dragging moans from your throat that echoed in the warm, hazy dimness of the room.

“You wanted this,” He gritted out against your lips. “Y-You wanted him. This is what happens—fuck—w-when you tease him.”

You moaned at the words, high and desperate, your nails leaving crescents in his skin.

“God, yes, that’s what I wanted–want both of you–don’t hold back—”

That lit something behind his eyes.

His hand squeezed your throat gently and he kissed you again, rougher this time, teeth catching your lip before dragging it between his.

“Then you’re gonna take everything,” He growled against your mouth, “Everything…You hear me?” You nodded, gasping, legs clenching around his shoulders.

“Yes–yes, Bob–please—”

And he gave it to you.

All of it.

The Sentry’s strength and language. Bob’s tenderness. That perfect, devastating mix that only you seemed able to call forward.

His thrusts slowed for just a second—just enough for him to look down at you again, to see the way your mouth hung open, the way your eyes fluttered, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed a breath. His hand was still resting there, warm and firm around your neck, and now he adjusted—his fingers splaying wider across your pulse point, thumb brushing up to trace your jaw, not to control you, but to feel you. To feel the way you beat under his touch. To know you were alive beneath him, trembling and taking everything he gave.

“Feel that,” he whispered, voice hoarse, lips inches from yours. “Your pulse…fuck… it’s so fast.” His thumb pressed just slightly beneath your ear, right where your heartbeat thrummed the loudest. “You do that to me too. Every time.”

Then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Dirty. Starved.

His tongue slid over yours, wet and insistent, lips parted wide as he devoured the sounds you made. He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was the only place he could breathe. It wasn’t clean—there was nothing neat about it. It was spit-slick, breathless, interrupted by moans and the shiver of his hips driving into yours. His body pressed you deep into the mattress, your legs still curled up over his shoulders as he leaned forward to pin you there—completely under him, beneath him, owned by him.

His hand never left your neck. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t tight. But it was grounding. Possessive. Like he needed that connection as much as he needed to be inside you.

“Y-You feel so fuckin’ good,” He panted into your mouth, hips jerking deeper, the head of his cock nudging places inside you that made your vision blur. “Clenching so tight around me—so fucking warm—I c-can’t…”

His voice cracked.

And then his hand slid down your body.

Still shaking, still careful. He found your clit with two fingers, thumb slipping low, and began to rub tight, perfect circles–just like he knew you needed.

“Come for me,” He whispered. “Please. Please come for me—I-I need to feel it.”

You whimpered, your body jerking beneath his, the stimulation dizzying—too much and just right at the same time. The stretch of him. The wet heat of his mouth still ghosting your lips. The slow, brutal way his fingers worked your clit with focused desperation.

And then it hit you.

The orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike–sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, voice cracked and strangled, legs tightening around his shoulders as you pulsed around him. Your entire body arched, back bowed off the mattress, hips lifting to meet every thrust with frantic desperation as pleasure shattered through your core.

“Oh…Oh my–” Bob choked, the way your walls spasmed around him making his rhythm falter. “God–you’re s-so perfect–I can’t–”

He buried himself to the hilt one final time and came with a deep, broken groan, his whole body shuddering.

His forehead collapsed to your shoulder, hand still clutching your throat, not tight–just present. Just there. His hips jerked twice, thrice–instinct driving him as he moaned into your neck, hot and helpless. His cock throbbed inside you, spilling deep with every ragged, breathless cry he let out, each one softer than the last.

He didn’t move for a long moment–just stayed there, trembling, his full weight settling over you. His lips pressed into your throat. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still shaking.

And then–you felt it.

Another slow thrust.

Not desperate. Not sharp.

Just a gentle roll of his hips, pressing his cum deeper inside you, pushing it further with quiet reverence.

“J-Just wanna…Make sure you keep it in you for a bit,” He whispered hoarsely, breath hitching as your body clenched again around the overstimulated head of his cock. “You feel so good when you come…” You moaned softly, your fingers stroking through his hair as he pulled back just slightly–just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Blue and clear, with no gold in sight. Just Bob. Just yours. You grinned, breath still coming in short, shallow waves as he looked down at you–his hair tousled, skin flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet. You reached up, cupped his jaw gently, and traced your thumb across the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t suppose that means you’re trying to knock me up, huh?” Bob’s eyes widened instantly, that unmistakable Bob expression washing over his features—equal parts scandalized, panicked, and completely enamored.

“Wh–I–I didn’t–I mean–was that–oh my God.” You burst into a soft laugh, biting your lip as he stammered, his face flushing deeper with every attempt at forming a coherent sentence.

“I’m kidding, Bob, you know I’m on birth control,” You whispered, giggling, dragging your fingers slowly through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Jesus, you’re cute when you malfunction.”

He gave a low, breathless groan and shook his head like he was trying to will his brain back into function, but then he leaned down and kissed you again–this time slow, warm, melting into the shape of you with that unmistakable Bob tenderness.

It was his kind of kiss.

Not the Sentry’s. Not some thunderous, desperate thing.

But soft. Full. Devoted.

Like you were something he’d missed every second of the week you’d been gone and needed to relearn with his mouth–your taste, your sighs, the way your bottom lip always trembled just slightly when he kissed you slow enough.

You sighed into it, and his hand slid from your throat to cradle your cheek again, thumb brushing just beneath your eye as his forehead touched yours.

“I–I could’ve said something better than ‘don’t you wanna sleep,’” He mumbled, sheepish, his lips still ghosting yours. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”

You chuckled again and nudged his nose with yours. “You say a lot of dumb things when you’re half asleep and hard.”

Bob gave a mortified little noise in his throat and hid his face in your neck, but not before you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips.

You felt his hand drift down your arm, then settle on your waist as he drew small, grounding circles against your skin. His voice was quieter now, steadier–like the heat had cooled just enough for the weight of it all to settle in.

“Do you need anything?” He asked gently. “Water? A warm towel? Another orgasm?” He said it half-teasing, half-hopeful, with a lopsided grin you could feel against your skin.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed, your fingers lazily dancing across his spine.

“Just this….This is perfect” You whispered.

And Bob–sweet, sincere, utterly yours–wrapped his arms tighter around you and whispered back, “Okay.”

[aria0fgold]

I honestly fr just despise that SIU Director nameless ass npc and his shit-eating grin plastered on his face nearly 24/7 as if he has accomplished anything noteworthy when in reality he's just a lapdog taking orders from his nameless faceless boss and doesn't know any better but obey and go "It's just as you planned" like a yes man that feels good bout himself when he hasn't even done anything on his own other than be an obedient dog, lil piece of shit, I hate that man so much. I hate him more than his boss whoever it is, at least his boss is being a threat by doing stuff behind the scenes, but my guy is literally just on that damn phone every scene we get of him, pathetic.

[shy-writer-999]

How many dreams to say "I love you?" (ii)

Summary: Zoro can’t stop dreaming about you, his best friend and crewmate. When his dreams start to wander from themes of romance and tenderness, he finds himself splitting at the seams. How long can he keep up this balance of night and day before he starts to go crazy?

Part 2 of 3 (or 4). ~5k words. CW: Mostly smut / PWP! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Poor, pervy Zoro. Non-consensual voyeurism, masturbation, toys, kissing. NSFW content - minors stay away!

Part 2: A double life is unsustainable.

As much as Zoro told himself that he learned his lesson—don’t eavesdrop on conversations that are clearly not meant for your ears—the dreams about you didn’t stop.

Days went by and he could find no reprieve from the phantom version of you at night. Torture wasn’t the word for it. Agony, more like. He was in agony. Every night.

While the swordsman affirmed to himself that the dreams were a non-issue, and that they’d inevitably stop soon, you were rapidly starting to infect every single facet of his life.

This duality was maddening—at night, he’d answer to a fantasy world with you, where you treated him like some precious thing, called him ‘baby’ or ‘honey,’ and kissed him. But during the day you were his crewmate, friend, and nothing else. He’d smile at you like usual, sit by you at dinner, and tell himself that nothing changed.

This was a half-truth. The only thing that had changed was Zoro. You were behaving typically, maybe a bit quieter than usual, but he told himself that he was overthinking it.

The issue was that you wouldn’t leave him alone at night, and each of your sickeningly heart-melting smiles during the day was making his heart do that twisting thing. He couldn’t stand it.

Zoro didn’t know why his brain wouldn’t abandon this fixation with you—it had almost been a week; how much longer would this keep up? How many more tender moments would he share with you at night before he went insane during the day? If he got to a breaking point, what would fix it?

The dreams were festering inside of him. Confounding this effect was that the quality of sleep he was getting was atrocious. It’s like he wasn’t able to rest properly at night because the dreams were so concerningly lucid—he felt like he almost wasn’t dreaming at all, just living in an alternate reality, a reality turned upside down, where you loved him and smothered him in affection. A reality where he liked that.

Zoro had no one to confide in about his troubles—you were the person who he was the most emotionally close to. If he could have told you, he would have. But he was worried that it would change something. What would blurting out his dreams and baring these hidden thoughts accomplish, other than make you uncomfortable?

If he did that, you may get the wrong idea. He wasn’t trying to come onto you, he wasn’t in love with you, didn’t have feelings for you, etc. Zoro didn’t think he was capable of romantic love, it just wasn’t in the picture for him and never would be. But that wasn’t the issue here, he told himself. In Zoro’s mind, the problem was that he was being tormented by you at night and couldn’t help it. He was at a loss for what to do.

You were one of the highlights of his days, even before the dreams started. Now he could feel himself, more than ever, looking forward to those moments and latching onto them during the day. He harbored the suspicion that his brain would memorize your face more each time. The dream version of you kept getting more lifelike, more brilliant, more real. It was uncanny.

After the first three nights, Zoro started to brace himself. He knew what was coming when he fell asleep. He knew you’d be there waiting for him in some new scenario.

DREAMS 5, 6, & 7: “You’ve been a bit spacey recently.”

The fifth dream Zoro had about you was one where you held his hand (literally, just you holding his hand, nothing else). Your hand was warm and soft—it felt like it was made for him, like you were made for him. You ran your thumb across his skin and squeezed his hand through your intertwined fingers.

It was a short dream. When he woke up, he could still feel your hand on his. If he kept his eyes closed, if he stayed still, he could feel your fingers, your weight, maybe even your breath against his neck…

When he woke up, he was befuddled. Seeing you on deck the following morning, he glanced down at your hands. Would they feel the same as they did in his dream?

The next night, in the sixth dream, you studied his face quizzically.

“What’s wrong babe? You’ve been a bit spacey recently.” Your eyes explored his face imploringly.

He said something in response. He couldn’t remember what it was, and it was of no consequence. After you studied his face more, you remarked, “Zoro, you have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.” He flushed even in his sleep and woke up moments later to a quicker heartbeat than was normal. This was seriously starting to concern him. As mundane as these sequences were, they were abnormal and confusing.

Were these dreams some subconscious manifestation of a nascent health problem? Or was he not training hard enough? Perhaps this was some form of self-performed punishment for being so distracted by your presence? Maybe he needed to double down on the stoicism and the ascetism.

The seventh dream was also mundane. You were wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of his sweatpants; you kissed him and told him he smelled good. He had seen you wear his hoodies before, in real life. You always had an excuse (“mine are all in the washing machine, can I wear some of yours?) and he always looked at you more than normal.

There was something about you in his clothes that stirred him inside. He didn’t know what was up with that. Something squeezed inside of him at the sight of your face peeking out of his hoodies, your limbs filling up his shirts and sweats; he couldn’t put his finger on it.

The morning after the hoodie and sweatpants dream, Zoro woke up perplexed. His dreams, in the wake of the conversation he overheard, stayed relatively romantic. They weren’t straying from themes of tenderness and endearment (well, except that first dream, the shower sex one).

The romance is what baffled him the most—he had never looked at anyone with romantic intentions before, so why was his brain throwing it at him? Why you, in particular? It was mystifying, suffocating, and excruciating.

There were floodgates inside of him, pooled up dams of emotion, burgeoning romance, desires and fears, and your conversation with Nami sent a shockwave through those walls. They began to crumble, and new cracks showed every night.

Zoro tried not to worry, but he had an understanding that this odd trend of (what was it at this point?) six nights consumed by you was only sustainable so far as the dreams stayed this way—tender and, above everything, mundane.

He was a regimented man. He stuck to a clear and concise schedule, as far as waking up, feeding himself, working out, etc. But the dreams threw a wrench in his daily routine. The negligent quality of sleep he was getting, even after only six days, was starting to have quite the effect on him.

He was barely keeping it together by the six-day mark, dark circles deepening into sunken rings under his eyes. He concluded that he couldn’t handle anything farther than these dreams of kisses and cuddles. If the dreams changed—if they got explicit, he told himself—then he’d start to really lose it.

Emotional turmoil be damned, he could retain a sense of normalcy as long as his waking hours went on as usual and nothing else changed. He may be exhausted, but he could cope. He hoped the dreams would fade into absurdity, cease, and leave him the hell alone.

This was a self-deluding hope.

DREAM 8: Breaking point

The next night, Zoro dreamed that he was walking around the ship aimlessly. He did a lap around the deck, meandered lazily through the galley, and checked the crow’s nest. It seemed like the whole thing was empty. Where was everyone?

He sauntered to check out the sleeping quarters. All the doors were open, the lights were off, and the cabins were empty, except yours. Your door was ajar and the light was on—he felt an overwhelming sense of curiosity. As Zoro walked towards your door, time seemed to alter. He moved in slow motion, laser-focused on your cabin, approaching slowly with bated breath.

As he got closer, he started to hear something.

It was a mix of sounds. There was a wet sort of clacking sound, first, and when he got closer to your door, he also heard faint gasps and gentle moans. His heart beat faster. He reached the door—it was only a couple inches open. He knew way lay ahead.

The sounds were getting louder. He leaned in, staring through the miniscule gap between the door and doorframe, to see what was happening. His hand was poised on the doorknob, ready to push it open.

When Zoro saw what was happening inside, he froze.

You were lying on your bed naked, thighs spread, propped up on your pillows. Your face was contorted into an expression of bliss, mouth agape just slightly, brows pinched together, eyes closed. His gaze travelled down to fix on your breasts, a perfect pair in his opinion. But your arms looked like they were moving, so his gaze trailed down farther. He saw clearly now that you were touching yourself.

You were moving one finger very slowly in and out of yourself; your sensitive spots were red and inflamed, juices seeping out and covering your thighs and hand. He listened to your labored breathing and heard the messy sounds echo through the room.

When you stuffed another finger in yourself, he heard you murmur something, but he couldn’t quite make out what you said. He leaned closer, his proximity to the door threatened to push it open.

You let the sound out again. He heard it this time.

“Zoro.”

Your moan was quiet and needy. He was mesmerized—you moaned his name again and moved your fingers faster. Your pitch increased, your body tensed up, you were so wet that arousal was pooling beneath you, saturating and staining the sheets.

He thought you were about to orgasm when you stopped suddenly, drawing your fingers out of yourself with a gasp.

Reaching to the side, you picked something up. Zoro’s brain registered it with a considerable lag—that was a vibrator. That was your vibrator. He saw it once on accident, when he offered to grab some of your laundry and put it in with his load.

That must have been months ago. When he walked into your room and looked for your hamper, the vibrator caught his eye, sitting on your bed as plain as day. You had forgotten that it was there. He found himself blushing and pretended like he hadn’t seen it. But now it made an appearance in his dream—how sick and twisted.

You pressed the toy into your entrance, pressing it inside yourself with it for a few moments before you pulled it out again. Every thrust of your wrist was coupled with a keen of his name.

The vibrator was dripping wet. A string of your arousal connected the tip of the vibrator to your core and his eyes followed as you brought the toy to your clit. Pressing a button, the vibrator sprung to life, filling the room with a low whirring and pulsing sound. You whined his name again and pushed the vibrator back and forth on your sensitive nub, toes curling in pleasure. Your other hand crept down and snuck a finger back into yourself.

Zoro was hypnotized by the sight of you getting off with both your vibrator and fingers, evidently touching yourself to the thought of him. Your moans got louder again, along with the obscene sounds emanating from down there. He could feel his erection. He was painfully hard.

You started to writhe and squirm.

“Zoro, fuck,” you mewled, tone pathetic and desperate. “Fuuuucccck me, Zoro, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Your thighs started to shake.

It seemed like you were about to cum. He wanted you to cum, wanted to see you cum from fucking yourself with your fingers and toy to the thought of him—but right when you started moaning the loudest, right when you were one good pulse away from screaming his name, Zoro woke up. Of course.

Upon opening his eyes, he was immeasurably frustrated. Any time that these dreams, sexual or not, seemed like they were coming to a climax, he’d always wake up. It was like his brain was telling him to go fuck himself. And he was about to.

He couldn’t take it anymore, it was like his mind was playing games, like it was edging him or trying to piss him off. He was rock hard, about to cry from frustration, wishing more than anything that he could just have you, but knowing that would and should never happen.

Zoro had been telling himself that the dreams were just an aberration, a mistake, that he could forget about them during the day because they only were a nuisance at night, and nothing really happened in them that would impact his day in any meaningful way. But the narrative of the dreams not impacting his day didn’t hold up when he started to fist his cock while thinking about you.

He was forced to face the facts—the dreams were getting worse to the point where they started to bleed into his waking hours.

The morning after Zoro dreamed about you masturbating, he had to step away. Seeing you walk around the deck, interacting with you and watching you walk away… it was too much.

He went to the bathroom, locked the door, and palmed his growing erection until he couldn’t hold back anymore. Unzipping his pants and sneaking a hand into his underwear, he started to touch himself.

Maybe it had just been too long since he orgasmed (or even touched a woman). Sure, that’s what all of this was. His brain was grasping for straws because he was too repressed, right? You were there in front of him every day, so his brain had to make do—this was just a matter of proximity, nothing more. This is what Zoro coddled himself with, soothing his worries for a few moments. It had just been too long.

While he squeezed and stroked his aching length, he could barely keep in the feral grunts and groans threatening to leave his mouth. He bit his lip. Every time his fist grazed his angry, leaking tip, his cock twitched. It felt so good, but it would feel even better, if only…

At first, he tried to not think about you while doing it. He felt guilty enough as it was, having explicit dreams about his closest friend. But when his hand was wrapped around his shaft and precum trickled down his fingers in clear rivulets, the image of you touching yourself seared in his brain, unrelenting and arousing.

“Zoro.”

His name had sounded otherworldly when it parted your lips, coated in tones of lust and desperation. Just like the dreamscape he entered every night, composed of only thoughts, his thoughts in this moment could stay internalized too, couldn’t they? Kept private? This could be a one-time thing, hell, maybe it would make the dreams and nagging thoughts go away altogether. It had been too long, after all. Against his better judgment, the swordsman indulged. Just this once.

Scattered scenes flashed through Zoro’s mind the instant he decided to let his thoughts wander. All of it thundered at once like a maelstrom.

First, the look of your eyes, glossy, rolling back in your head in ecstasy. Then, the image of him shoving his cock in your wet mouth and watching you choke on it. The feeling of scissoring his fingers inside of you, of pulling your hair, of listening to your whimpers while he wrenched orgasms from you, pushing his fingers into your mouth while you sucked on them and made eye contact with him, watching your body writhe and writhe and writhe… every morsel and droplet of your envisioned pleasure fueled the force that was Zoro’s fist on his cock.

It would be hot and sloppy. Filthy.

You’d tell him to “keep going,” you’d dig your fingernails into his biceps, drool from how good it felt, swallow up his inches like nothing—he revered you, craved you, and worshipped you. He needed all of you. Wanted to smell you, taste you, hear you, and have you. He was getting carried away.

What if you walked into the bathroom right now? The door was locked, obviously, but the mental image of you stumbling across him like this gave him some sort of nasty thrill. If only you approached him, sunk to your knees and opened your mouth, petted him and praised him—

When the swordsman came all over his hands, he felt vile. He felt like a hypocrite.

He always called Sanji a pervert and derided him for his lack of control around women, and now here Zoro was, getting off on a dream he had about his own friend and crewmate. And what’s worse is that he didn’t look away in the dream when he saw you touching yourself. He didn’t even try. (To be fair, it’s not like he had control over what he dreamed about, nor could he control what he did in them, but that was a nonfactor to him.)

Zoro felt like shit.

The next time you talked to him, he turned crimson. He seemed distracted. He had been working out more than usual, so you told yourself it was the post-workout glow. You’d never seen him blush a day in your life, but sure enough, it was creeping up his neck and slowly starting to take over his cheeks.

He tried to forget his trip to the bathroom, but your pretty face made his heart thump and his stomach turn. He tried to forget the mental images his brain conjured up in his rabid state of desire. It was futile. He felt like he was going to be sick.

In your brief conversation after dinner the same day, you asked Zoro if he’d grab a drink with you. “It’s been a while,” you smiled at him, same as ever. “Let’s catch up in the next couple days over some sake. Deal?”

He hesitantly agreed. He missed you—the real you, not the dream version of you. When he said yes, you beamed at him, and his mouth went dry. He needed to get a grip and figure out what the fuck his problem was.

Zoro gave up on talking to you about the conversation he eavesdropped on over a week ago. He felt like he missed his opportunity (which is arguable) and, more than that, he felt like he wouldn’t know how to approach that conversation. What would he say at this point? “Hey, I’ve been having vivid dreams about you and I’m going fucking crazy?”

No. So, he kept it inside. He figured that he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Would he ever admit that he heard the conversation? He wondered about this. Maybe he’d never fess up to it. Maybe he’d keep it to himself, internalize once again. But he was quickly learning that when he tried to stuff these huge emotions back inside of him, they got bigger, louder, more unruly. It was like psychological warfare, except the assailant was his brain.

At this point, the dreams felt all-consuming. He’d get so wrapped up in them at night that he felt like he was in a daze during the day. Perhaps he was being dramatic, or perhaps his brain was desperately struggling to regulate a whopping load of emotions he had never encountered before, or rather, that he had never let himself acknowledge before.

He worried that you could tell something was off with him. You could.

Later, you asked, “Hey Zoro, you doing ok?”

He stuttered out a response, flustered by your presence, falling apart in seconds. It was very unlike him. “Wha—? H-hey, uh, yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”

“Nothing, just checking on you. You’ve been a bit spacey recently.” Your expression was one of concern. He seemed off, not to mention those dark circles of his. Was he getting sick? Was the insomnia coming back?

Upon hearing your words, it was like a lightning bolt hit Zoro. “You’ve been a bit spacey recently.”

What an insane coincidence. You said those very words to him in a dream a few nights ago, after which you complimented his eyes. He froze for a second, then tried to play off his shock with a yawn.

“I feel fine.” He shrugged. It wasn’t convincing in the slightest. “Just haven’t been sleeping the best.”

The paranoia was coming—did you know that he was dreaming about you? Had he been acting weird? Could you tell that he was thinking about you every moment of the day? God forbid, were you starting to form the misconception that he liked you in some romantic or erotic way? Fuck. This was getting ridiculous. Get a grip, man, he told himself.

You tried to ignore how odd he was acting. If he said he was fine, then he was fine.

He tried to convince himself that he was fine. He tried to wait it out and see that his attempt at convincing himself was effective.

It was not.

DREAM 9: A shocking revelation

Zoro’s dream the following night was delightful and concerning.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, fiddling with something. Maybe he was sharpening a sword, refitting a sheath, polishing his boots… something like that. That part was foggy. Behind him, Zoro felt a weight on the bed. He knew it was you.

You scooted close to him from where you were sitting and reached your hands under the hem of his shirt. Your fingers ran over his bare skin, relishing the feeling of his abs and happy trail, every inch of his taut, tanned skin. You reached around his front and wrapped your arms around him. Your palms were warm, and you moved closer, body flush on his from behind. It was not lost on him that he could feel your breasts pressing on his back.

“Zoroooo,” you cooed right in his ear. Goosebumps. “You’re no fun. Pay attention to me. I’m bored.” You were whining.

You tickled him, poked him, kissed his back through the fabric of his shirt. You were all over him and it felt like your hands were everywhere. You were begging him to put down what he was doing and give you his undivided attention.

“Fine,” he responded in mock annoyance, rolling his eyes and putting his things away. He turned, maneuvering his body so he was facing you. “What do you want me to do?”

You pouted. “I don’t know. I’m bored. Let’s lay down and cuddle. Please?”

The scene shifted. You two were lying in bed, facing each other. You were eye to eye, arms thrown over each other. Zoro tucked your hair behind your ear, breathless. He was enamored, entranced by your beauty and admiration. Your hand was placed under his shirt, resting on his side. The skin contact felt electric. You leaned in and started to pepper his face with kisses—a recurring theme in these dreams. He must have really wanted that.

He closed his eyes.

You first brushed your lips lightly over his, and then you moved to kiss all over one of his cheeks, all over his forehead, his other cheek, his chin, his nose, his eyes, his jawline, ending at his lips again. You nuzzled his nose, ran your fingers through his hair—it was like you couldn’t get enough of him. Your lips were soft, meeting his delicately. When you pulled away from him. You held eye contact, an affectionate smile playing across your lips. He smelled you, felt you, and felt enveloped by you.

Zoro leaned in and kissed your forehead. You giggled and pulled him closer.

He could feel himself starting to say something in the dream, working up the nerve to say something that made his heart feel like it would stop. The words were getting caught in his mouth, they felt like they were taking forever to form…

They were words he almost said to you once before in a dream. He forced them out through his cotton mouth and hesitation.

“I love you.”

When the words left his lips, that twisting feeling happened inside of him so intensely that it must have detonated something. Each piece of shrapnel sent bolts of lightning through his body; he felt like he was vibrating, euphoric, every nerve on fire. He couldn’t breathe.

The dream version of you looked into his eyes and nodded. “I know you do, Zoro. I see you.”

Buzzing, Zoro felt like he wanted to rip his heart out of his chest and give it to you. He wanted you to see him, to see every part of him, to bare his soul to you and say ��look, here is everything in me, here is every part of me.’

You were about to pull him into another kiss before he awoke up with a start, sweating and practically shaking.

Zoro’s heart was beating out of his chest. He sat up. Immediately, his first instinct was to check whether or not you were really in his bed. You weren’t—to both his relief and disappointment. He checked the time—3:36AM. Far too early. But he couldn’t fall back asleep now, not when his heart was pounding like this.

Why did he tell you he loved you?

It would be an understatement to say that Zoro’s mind was racing. He recalled that in one of his first dreams he wondered if you would still feel lonely if he embraced you. But if he did more than embrace you, if he gave all of himself to you, what then? What would you feel if he did that?

Would you stop feeling lonely and sad if he gave everything to you, even his heart? Would you give him yours, in return?

He ruminated on the concept of giving all of himself to you. What did that mean, and why did the thought pass through his mind when he was dreaming?

To give you all of him, for you to see every part of him… was that love? Is this what it meant to love? If giving you every part of himself meant spending every moment with you that he could, kissing and caressing you, making you feel better, listening to every word you stored up inside, sharing every word he stored up inside… The realization hit him like a train.

He wanted that. He ardently wanted to fill in the hole that loneliness had carved out of your life. And he realized that there was one in his life, as well. A lacuna of would-be companionship that he had forever thought was out of reach.

Could he give you what you needed? Is that what love is? To share yourself with someone else, to want them, to cherish them, care for them, see them for who they are?

He wanted to give you all of him. He didn’t want you to feel lonely, sad, or distressed ever again. He wanted to always be there, he wanted you to know you could tell him anything, wanted to know you like the back of his hand, and he wanted you to know him like that, too.

Zoro understood now what that twisting, thumping feeling inside of him was. No, it wasn’t arrythmia, or indigestion, or anything of the sort—it had been lying low for months, boiling under the surface. It all clicked into place.

That stirring and twisting feeling? It was the feeling of that lock inside of him breaking into a million pieces. The lock around his heart that prevented him from wanting to love and from knowing how to… it was gone now, obliterated.

That impenetrable lock, the lead chains, the crushing weight of it…  He used to think that the key to that lock didn’t exist. But now that you were here, Zoro realized that you were the missing key. You were the one capable of ripping open that relentless opacity, that stoicism, that brick of pain that he tried to ignore and train away. You had ripped it to shreds, like it was nothing. You did it over the course of many months, many days, and even in his sleep.

Zoro realized that he was in love with you.

He wanted to recognize you completely and absolutely, and for you to do the same to him.

Zoro wanted to take showers with you and take turns shampooing each other’s hair. He wanted to hold your hand in public, feeling and seeing nothing else but you. He wanted to come home after a long day and hold you tight, kiss you and call you sweet names. He wanted to nuzzle your nose every day and drink up every smile like he was starving for it.

To think that you were so sad and lonely you cried? That shattered him. Hearing you be so vocal about it, seeing a different side of you that he never knew before—maybe he never felt this emotion until he met you for a reason. Now that the pieces were falling into place, he saw that it was you. It was always you. It was only you. It would only be you forever.

He did not have another dream about you for three nights.

< previous part | masterlist | next part >

taglist: @riftmage27 @eggrollforyou @imhwajaez @wiyenspanel @xxmysticxxx @moonmaiden1996

a/n: thanks so much for reading! part 3 is going to be a minute - lmk if you want to be on the taglist! i have yet to write (most of) it.

[saintobio]

the art of loving, feat. l&ds rafayel.

pairings. rafayel, fem!reader genre. fluff, smut, established relationship, 18+ tags. artist x muse, hints of abandonment issues, clingy bf!rafayel, allusions to nude paintings, fellatio, cum eating, protected sex, praise kink notes. my third l&ds boy :’) there’s a full blown sylus oneshot coming but for now, i have to write abt our cute fish! i’ll continue the jjk wips on the weekend bcos my l&ds hyperfixation is currently taking over 🤧

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who makes you the muse of his paintings. he loves how he can adore your face while turning his blank canvas into something as colorful as you. it all started when he used to sketch you when you’re not looking. and it’s a habit that he, time and time again, still does. whether you’re reading, sleeping, or simply lost in thought, he finds these moments precious and captures them in his sketchbook. he actually has a dedicated corner of you on his mo art studio, where it’s filled with paintings and sketches of his beautiful girlfriend.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who loves to paint with you. he’ll set up a canvas next to his and guide your hands, laughing together as you create something… unique. look, he’s not making fun of your painting. in fact, he’d say you’re actually very talented. “it’s not bad at all,” he’d claim, “it’s an exquisite art… if i close my eyes.” how mean! but honestly, if you were to sell your artwork, he would still be the first person to buy it.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who gets playful with paint. while you’re on the subject of ‘painting together’, you know how cheeky rafayel is, and when he dabs a bit of paint on your nose or cheeks, the light-hearted paint fight ends in messy, colorful kisses. one time, he even left a purple handprint on your bum, and giggles each time he sees it from behind.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who gets clingy when you’re busy. he’ll sulk if he feels you’re not paying enough attention to him, often wrapping his arms around you from behind and nuzzling into your neck to remind you he’s there. he can very grumpy, too. like a spoiled brat who he didn’t get what he wants. it’s just that he dislikes the feeling of being ignored and abandoned, so the last thing you knew not to do is make him wait too long on your dates or make him feel like your mind is occupied by anything else other than him. because he’d go as far as pretending to be in a helpless situation just so you’d drop everything and run off to him. how silly!

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who surprises you with personalized art gifts. from small sketches slipped into your bag to full portraits given on special occasions. it’s his way of expressing his love, because he’s very grateful of how supportive you are when he has art exhibits. your presence calms his nerves, and he always looks for you in the crowd to find strength in your encouraging smiles.

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who likes to cuddle while discussing his latest ideas. he enjoys your input and loves bouncing ideas off you. his hands like to roam around your body as he keeps you in bed all day, whispering sweet nothings into you ear and making the atmosphere warm and intimate. “i can’t help it!”was his usual excuse whenever you’d call him out for being too touchy. “sometimes, my inspirations come in the form of physical intimacy, you know!”

࣪ ⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who can’t resist kissing you passionately when he’s inspired. he sketches you in intimate moments, letting you lie beautifully naked in bed and with only a blanket to cover the lower half of your body, like a vulnerable mermaid looking to be held by her prince. he’ll pull you close, hands covered in paint, leaving colorful fingerprints and delicate patterns on your skin as his lips capture yours in a heated kiss. he would peel the blanket off you slowly, taking his sweet time as if memorizing every dip and curve to later recreate in his art. his touch is both tender and electrifying. and his expressions, both raw and passionate as he eyes every inch of your body.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who whispers his deepest desires in your ear. his voice becomes husky with emotions, telling you exactly what he wants, and leaving you blushing and eager to feed him the attention he seeks. he’s very needy, indeed. but most especially in bed. he’d often grab your hand, allowing you to brush it against his toned chest and down to his… aching member. it’s begging to be released, you both know it. and so when he guides your head closer to his crotch, you already know what ‘job’ you had to do for him.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who whines a lot while you’re pleasing him, but in a cute way. he’s just very vocal about it. he’s incapable of keeping his little moans whenever he feels your tongue rolling around his tip, your lips leaving open-mouthed kisses along the sides of his length. it’s like suction when you fully take him into your mouth, the image of your head bobbing to suck his cock is extremely vivid in his head. “mhm~ don’t stop.” rafayel loses his mind over it. “my darling, lover girl. you’re so pretty, my baby.” and when you’d allow him to cum inside your mouth, he’s a weak man watching you swallow every single drop.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who respects your boundaries and doesn’t push you to try things in bed that you’re not comfortable with. when you told him he can’t do you raw, he willingly obliged. so, lo and behold the huge box of condoms on his nightstand. he believes in practicing safe sex because you both aren’t ready for that kind of responsibility yet. but that doesn’t lessen the frequency of your activities in bed. in fact, his beloved box of rubbers would easily run out after 2-3 weeks.

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who likes to be praised when doing the deed with you. it’s just innate in him. you have to let him know if he’s doing good, have to let him hear how great he feels inside of you, how pretty he looks when you gaze down on him, and how amazing his hands are in finding your most sensitive places. “raf, you’re the best at this,” you’d moan into his mouth, the sound of skin-slapping echoing across his studio as you feel him racing through his climax, “s-so good, ngh~” he’s one to smile at your little whimpers. “yeah, you like where i’m hitting it, baby?” “haa—i do!” “thought so.”

⁺⋆𖧷 artist!rafayel who wants to be displayed all over your social media accounts. it’s as straightforward as he is—he wants his face to take over your account. he wants to know that you’re proud of him and that you’re showing off your handsome boyfriend whenever you can. he also wants you to interact with his posts, leave comments, and hit the heart button. every. single. time. he gets easily sulky if sees you ignoring his cute posts about you. that’s just how he is, and it doesn’t frustrate you one bit, because he just loves being the center of your world in exchange for treating you the center of his. that was the art of loving rafayel.

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ perv!bsf!rafe & his infatuation for his best friend.

warnings — 18+ MDNI. blurb, not fanfic. rafe being a pervert, mentions of t*pper and k*lce, descriptive scenes of smut & fantasies, naive reader

cherie's note — the things i would do... omg. <3

everyone else had already caught on to the way rafe felt about you, i mean, anybody with eyes could see it. your pervy best friend rafe had grown quite an obsession with you for nearly a year now. poor stupid girl, of course you hadn’t caught onto the fact he had eyes for you. nobody else’d say it out loud though, scared rafe’d smash their face in for even bringing it up.

naturally, he wasn’t good with his emotions — with vulnerability. we all know this, that man has some serious temper problems, not even mentioning the obvious daddy issues at play either. but it was different with you. he’d known you so long that it just came natural.

i mean, god. it’s like you two were already dating, the way he’d be there for each of your demands, buying you anything you wanted, and going out of his way for you. the bottom of his stomach twisted each time someone’d bring up the rumour about you two dating — and he definitely wouldn’t shut it down either, claiming he ‘didn’t know’ when you’d ask him about it — too naive and manipulated to question the severity of the truth behind his shrugged off lie, of course. why would your best friend lie to you?

he’d absolutely lose his shit when he finds out you were still a virgin. drunkenly confessed one night after the both of you had managed to drink an entire bottle from his father’s wine collection, it had opened up a whole new world of never ending fantasies for him, wondering how it was even possible you were still completely innocent and practically untainted.

and with that confession, came the thoughts. rafe’d thought nearly hundreds of times about how he’d absolutely love to be the one to wreck that tight virgin pussy — i mean, you practically owed it to him at this point. without his help, you’d probably still not have had your first kiss. it was on his mind for an entire week straight after you’d told him, finding himself pumping his fat cock within his palm, imagining how it’d feel if it was your wet cunt instead of his hand. it was definitely wrong of him, you were his best friend after all, but that definitely didn’t stop the thoughts from reoccurring.

poor guy wants to fuck you so badly. he’d have to conceal the bulge within his pants any time he’d be around you, thoughts of bending you over and having you drip onto his cock swirling within his troubled mind instantly. he’d do anything, just to feel the soft skin of your ass as you needingly grinded against him.

getting you high was his favourite thing ever — the way you’d practically spew out confessions about how you’d never properly made yourself cum, and about all the things you desperately wanted to try. he’d memorized it all (and definitely jerked off over it a few times but we won’t mention that) he wanted to be the one to take care of you, have your body trembling after ripping three or four orgasms out of your poor pussy, he could only imagine the sweet sounds that’d escape your mouth each time his fingers’d skim against your g-spot, jeez.

ward adored you. you’d come from a good family, and he knew how good of a person you were, especially when it came to rafe. ‘better make a move on her before someone else does’ he’d tell his son, and rafe knew he was right too. you’d be the perfect girlfriend for him, and an even better wife. he’d love nothing more than to fill your sweet cunt full of his fertile seed, impregnating you with his baby. you’d look so cute, all swollen and round after he’d bred you. he needed to have you.

he’d scare off any guy that approached you, making it known you were off limits, and he was willing to do ungodly things in order to have you stay single for him. it’d break his heart, otherwise. he was your best friend, and he was protecting you, right? pretty baby couldn’t handle it all by herself, he thought.

god, he was so whipped. sometimes he’d catch himself doing shit he’d normally never do for anyone, ultimately reminding himself it was for you, and continuing. that man would do anything just to see you smile. he loved you — he was obsessed with you, truly. topper and kelce rolled their eyes even at the simple mention of your name leaving his lips. he didn’t know what he was going to do with himself, that was for sure.

[padmerry]

Stanford Pines: “and isn’t it suffocating?”

This is basically my attempt to understand the issues of the Stan twins’ relationship from teen Ford’s point of view and the reason(s) for their separation. Was Ford really feeling suffocated by his relationship with Stan? If so, why? And when did it start? When did things start to shift in this direction, if once they were just fine? There’s just so much to unpack.

I don’t think I need to point out, to most fans, where the word “suffocating” comes from. It was a very memorable scene, if nothing else, since a lot of people hated Ford for it.

Behold the scene in question:

I think it’s so obvious that Ford was projecting and actually talking about his and Stan’s relationship here that I won’t even attempt to prove that, hahah.

Now, is this Ford... a) talking about his true feelings regarding his and Stan’s relationship when he was young, even before the science fair incident, or b) lying to himself, as he presumably started to do ever since (but only after) the science fair incident?

First, I’d like to invite you to actually listen to Ford’s voice/watch his mannerisms as he says this, here (timestamped). The thing is that... he doesn’t sound very bitter! He doesn’t sound like he’s throwing shade at Stan. Instead, he sounds and looks—pay attention to his eyebrows—like he’s genuinely puzzled. Does Dipper... really think he’s not meant for something more? Why! He’s so brilliant, with so much potential! Just like Ford when he was younger! The poor boy must be really attached to his sister...

Second, I’d like to invite you to not be so harsh on Ford, as he says that it, nor she is suffocating—the relationship Dipper has with the girl, not the girl herself. Not that Ford can’t be mean! He can be terribly mean, sometimes, especially out of spite. But the man has some limits. He wouldn’t say this about his twelve-year-old niece.

Another thing to be taken into consideration is that Ford was convinced Mabel would be fine, since she had “a magnetic personality.” This is a trait he very likely also attributes to Stan! In TBoB, for example, he was convinced of Stan’s ability to make the waitress laugh. There’s a lot of evidence for the fact that Ford had no idea of how badly Stan was faring and/or would fare without him, due to the idealized version of Stan Pines in his head.

That said, here is the behind-the-scenes commentary on Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future:

Alex Hirsch: Ford offers Dipper [an] apprenticeship because Ford sees Dipper as somebody who’s special like himself. And that’s Ford’s great flaw, that arrogance. He believes there are special people and everyone else.

Jason Ritter: And that you can be held back by your siblings, maybe.

Alex Hirsch: Yeah, he believes that attachments are actually weaknesses.

It has been said before Alex is too harsh on Ford, hahah. (If you have actually read enough of his interviews and listened to all his commentaries, like I did, you’ll realize he’s harsh on most of his characters, including Dipper and Stan!) That is, however, something also made canon in J3 in many, many excerpts, and stated by Ford himself quite plainly here:

“I thought being a great man meant being alone.”

And of course, his advice to Dipper in the show itself:

“Don’t let anyone hold you [back].” His choice of words is interesting. “Anyone,” not “anything.”

I do believe this line meant exactly what we think it did, since Ford, for all his “Mabel will be fine,” immediately guessed that she didn’t take it well as a visibly upset Dipper returned to his side:

When did he start developing this mindset, though? Before or after the science fair?

I think some of you might have read the (in)famous TVInsider 2016 interview in which Alex states Ford saw his brother as a “bumbling leech” (ouch!) his “entire life.”

In terms of Stan and his brother’s conflict, we always wanted a moment where Ford saw that he was wrong. Ford’s spent an entire life imagining himself as this lone solitary hero and imagining his brother as this bumbling leech. From a narrative point of view, for Ford to see Stan be the hero finally lets Ford see the true side of his brother that he’s been too blinded by pride to see.

Now, an important fact is that—I think many people fail to grasp this—Ford looking down on Stan doesn’t mean Ford not loving Stan. My boy can and will multitask!

And, of course, “entire life” didn’t actually mean Ford’s entire life! It was definitely an exaggeration on Alex’s part, meant to convey that for most of Ford’s life, presumably from late teen years old to the current age, Ford looked down on his brother.

We know for sure that baby Ford never looked down on Stan, and in fact defended him from the Sibling Brothers in the last Lost Legends comic!

But one thing we also see is how baby Ford already shares, to a certain extent, adult Ford’s ambition:

Another trait, equally important, early on: the tendency to think he was special and/or different from everyone else, for better or for worse. Like one of the very first things Stan told us in his childhood retelling in AToTS, “As if his abnormally high IQ wasn’t enough, he also had a rare birth defect: six fingers on each hand. Which might have explained his obsession with sci-fi mystery weirdness.”

As he grows up, he also grows, understandably, very proud of his accomplishments. In Stan’s words, “Ford’s brains seemed to get more impressive every year.”

He grows to embrace the “freak” part of him more and more, both ashamed and proud of not fitting in. Like Bill so gently phrased it in TBoB: “The ego of a king. The insecurity of a circus freak.” (I take all his words with a grain of salt, of course, but sometimes he hits the nail on the head.)

But what does this mean for his relationship with Stan?

I think the first thing we have to know is that Stan is Ford’s identical twin, something that is heavily alluded to in canon and confirmed by Word of God. The first comment from Alex regarding this matter that I could find was this tweet from 2015. Then it was further confirmed in many episodes of the DVD commentaries (the first ones already mention it) and indirectly implied by Bill on the TBoB website.

Why is this even important? Twins of the same gender, especially identical aka monozygotic twins, tend to struggle with identity issues. Not only the same birthday, but the same face—that without having to share even a name.

The second thing is that they only ever had each other. I talk more about their codependency here, elaborating on the differences between the relationships of Dipper & Mabel and Stan & Ford.

Again, I borrow Alex’s words when asked about Shermie’s role in the family as Stan and Ford’s brother in HanaHyperfixates’ and ThatGFFan’s interview:

In terms of Shermie, I remember asking Rob or somebody at some point, like, “Would Shermie be here, logically? Do we have to see him?” I don’t really wanna see him. I’m not interested in that. I’m interested in Stan and Ford being—sort of having only each other and then losing each other because of their different life paths.

Let’s not forget, too, the only time Ford ever mentions Shermie in Journal 3—“Sherman Pines’s,” surname and all:

The best example we have of this in the show is probably Stan’s line in AToTS, “Those bullies may have been right about us not making many friends, but when push comes to shove, you only really need one.” Stan not only acknowledges their dynamic, but sounds very content with it.

Was Ford content with it, tough? That’s... more complicated.

Like we’ve established, these two were identical twins (unlike Dipper and Mabel, fraternal and of different genders) and only had each other (again, unlike Dipper and Mabel), which not only exacerbated their codependency but also their identity issues. They were used to being two halves of a whole. It’s very telling that in AToTS, “the Pines twins” are both called to the principal’s office, even though only Ford should have been called. They were seen as a single entity.

And don’t get me wrong, Ford has always loved Stan so much. Perhaps part of him even enjoyed the fact his brother trusted and leaned on him so much, depended on him both emotionally and to... get a passing grade.

But for some reason, even before the science fair... things still grew quite awkward. From Stan’s Land Before Swine commentary (DVD extras):

Anyway, cut to high school, the guy’s never kissed a girl, prom is coming up, and he asked me for advice. “Stanley, I know things have been a little weird between you and me with college, but can you talk to me about girls?”

The interesting thing here, to me, is that Ford... straight up recognized the “weirdness” between them to Stan’s face! And the fact Ford felt the need to mention it, as if he couldn’t simply ask his own twin brother for advice about girls without making a sort of acknowledgement first! These brothers once told each other everything... How did things get to this point?

First, notice how Stan says “prom is coming up.” The same prom at which they laughed together and shared a moment of camaraderie after Stan threw punch at himself to share Ford’s humiliation.

Which to me points to the fact it was something gradual, happening little by little, hand in hand with the sweetest moments in their teen years.

Imagine you’re Stanford F. Pines, not yet PhD.

You know you are special. You’re both a genius and a freak. You are always praised by adults around you, by your teachers. This starts to go to your head. You cling desperately to the “genius” part of your identity, so you can be more than a bullied freak. You grow even more ambitious. You can see a future for yourself.

You have a twin brother. You love him more than life itself. But everyone talks, and... aren’t they right, somewhat? Just a little bit right? Stanley isn’t a genius, like you are. That’s a fact. Stanley also doesn’t have ambition, like you have. Stanley isn’t a freak, like you are. It doesn’t mean Stanley isn’t cool! But you are... different from him...

And yet, despite all that, he’s your identical twin brother! You can only ever be one half of a duo. A single entity. Even your name, you share with him. He doesn’t seem bothered by that, but you are. Can’t you just be Ford, for once, no Stan? (Ironically, the fact is lost on you that your brother was always more under your shadow than you ever were under his.)

You start to think that the Stan O’ War isn’t anything more than a beautiful, but ultimately childish, dream. It isn’t very realistic, is it? You could be so much more than that. You could actually make a difference. You could prove everyone wrong about ever calling you a freak. You try to breach the subject with Stanley, but all he wants to talk about is this damn boat. And you care about it too, of course you do, but... Doesn’t he care about anything else?

I can see, so easily, the influence of other people on Ford slowly (and subconsciously) growing, even though his love for Stan didn’t diminish. I can see him noticing the mismatch between his ambition and Stan’s ambition, his academic achievements and Stan’s academic achievements... or lack thereof. Again, this is the teenage version of the little boy getting starry-eyed about seeing his own face in the papers. Except now, the possibility of Stan being there with him... doesn’t seem as likely.

Alex on A Tale of Two Stans (DVD commentary), confirming that the rift between them had started before the principal’s words:

A lot of different ideas that we came up with to suggest, you know, what was the moment where things started to change between them? When they went from best friends—and it felt, as we went to draft, that the right moment would be—sort of—as they’re entering the end of high school they have to make a choice about college and the rest of their lives, they’re speaking to guide counselors. That’s when the world at large is pointing out, “by the way, one of you is amazing!” And the toll that would take on Stan.

Alex being mindful of the difference between love and respect, as seen by his commentary on Stan’s condescending love for Mabel in Land Before Swine:

But this idea that Waddles is sort of a metaphor for what Mabel loves. And Stan loves Mabel but he doesn’t—he doesn’t really think that anything she thinks is necessarily smart or right. You know, he loves like her, ah, she’s my sweet niece, but [Stan’s voice] “she doesn’t know anything.”

I can see, also very easily, Ford having some intrusive thoughts, then immediate guilt over them. For example, after someone mocks Stan for his grades, Ford comforts him while thinking, “but yeah, maybe Stanley could really put more effort in—wait, what? He’s my best friend! I can’t think like that about him!”

Stan’s narration over this scene: “The future was looking bright... for both of us.” Oh, Stan... Ford’s smile looks painfully awkward.

Just notice the difference between Ford’s posture and body language there and here in college!Ford’s picture (and, again, look at Ford’s eyebrows, but also the way he leans in Stan’s direction):

It’s important to remember that this, too—the scene in which Ford smiles awkwardly—was before West Coast Tech.

But now, with West Coast Tech, he finally has something solid. Something tangible. A real way to make a name for himself. And he loves it. Now this is the face of true happiness!

He manages to win even the approval of his famously “not impressed” father!

Borrowing my words from another meta:

Pay attention to Filbrick and Caryn’s shocked faces when it’s revealed to them that Ford’s genius can, actually, earn them millions! Pay attention, too, to the way Ford looks at Filbrick when he’s praised by him. He’s very surprised and ecstatic to receive his father’s approval, a very brief, “I’m impressed,” that wasn’t even expressed directly at Ford. Ford doesn’t act as if it’s something he receives every day or casually. He was in fact feasting on crumbs.

Ford also knew it was not unconditional acceptance. From Ford’s point of view, at least, he was worth exactly just as much as he could earn Filbrick, and Bill’s threat in TBoB (“your father won’t want you returning without millions”) touches on that insecurity.

But... What about Stan?, you might be thinking. That was, funnily enough, the only thing that Caryn (who didn’t smile or praise Ford once) wanted to know, too.

He’s visibly very upset by having his brother insulted like that, and he didn’t know Stan was on the other side of the door overhearing their whole conversation. But he also doesn’t defend his brother, like Stan likely would have, and Stan doesn’t see Ford’s facial expression. He just hears silence from him.

And no, young Ford had zero difficulty in standing up for himself or for Stan, as seen in Lost Legends and as explained at length in my previous analysis. My own interpretation is that Ford finds it harder to defend himself or Stan from things that, deep down, he considered to be true: the fact that his polydactyly made him a freak, as pointed out by Crampelter and the Sibling Brothers, and Stan’s lack of ambition (and lack of future born out of said lack of ambition), as pointed out by the principal. I don’t think he appreciated his brother being called “a clown” at all, in the same way he didn’t appreciate being called a freak, but I also don’t think he could bring himself to disagree with the point being made here.

This moment in the series was also probably inspired by a real moment in Alex’s life that inspired the scene in which Mabel overhead Ford’s proposal to Dipper, according to the commentary of Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future:

This idea of Mabel overhearing Dipper and feeling left out actually came from a real thing that happened between me and my sister. This is a weird anecdote about me and my sister but we did this kind of like, sort of competitive improv games when we were in middle school, very nerdy. And we did pretty good, like, our team made it to the international competition every year, and there was this high school team... [...] We had a pretty good team, but there was a team above us, the high school team, that was like, legendary, that we wanted to be like. And when me and my sister went from junior high school to high school, like, this is going to be our last year to do this sort of competitive improv, and I got a call from the high school team saying “hey, guess what? we already raided your team for the standout members, we’ve taken the people from your team that always do good scores and we’re combining the high school team and the middle school team into a super team and we would like you to be on the high school team. And I was like, “what about Ariel?” And they were like, “well, there’s only seven members per team—” and Ariel was listening on the conversation and I remember her like, bursting into tears because they had basically been like yeah, we got two Hirsches [and] we only want one, and I didn’t even blink. I just said, “no, I refuse to be on this team.” Like, I couldn’t, it was just like, this is so messed up, you’re breaking this whole thing apart, like yeah, it’s a great team, yeah, you guys are awesome, but I’m not gonna do this without Ariel. And I just remember being this awful moment where some external pressure was telling us like, oh, you gotta choose, you gotta make a choice. Um, like, and it was like this very personal thing. And so like, that’s a big part of the inspiration of like, somebody comes and says, like, you but not you.

Based on Alex’s reaction to such a proposal, it’s not a stretch to think Ford’s silence here was indeed telling, from a narrative viewpoint. It was a deliberate choice from the creator.

And then... Oh boy, the swingset talk.

“Joke’s on them if they think you wanna go to some stuffy college on the other side of the country,” Stan says, then proceeds to boast about their future adventures, only to end it all with a painful expression that shows he doesn’t believe what he is saying. He knows what Ford is truly going to choose.

Stan asks him what would happen if the college board was impressed with his experiment. “Well then, I guess you better come visit me on the other side of the country!” Which indicates he clearly didn’t expect Stan to come with him, either.

Then The Accident happens, and Ford reacts accordingly.

It’s fascinating to me that Ford knew exactly what would bring someone like Stan to do something like sabotage his machine. He doesn’t accuse his brother of feeling jealous of his success or of the attention of their father and teachers! Oh no, that’s not your typical sibling drama of competitiveness, nor an easily solvable lack of communication. Instead, he accuses Stan of sabotaging his machine so Ford would stay with him! Which proves he was aware of Stan’s feelings, despite what a good part of this fandom seems to think! And, while it had been just an accident, a dumb mistake on Stan’s part instead of a deliberate act... Ford is right! Stan really couldn’t handle Ford going to college on his own.

He’s right, because we know Stan’s feelings about this. Stan says, in so many words: “Without Ford, I was just half of a dynamic duo. I couldn’t make it without him. And now, thanks to that dumb college, I was gonna lose my brother forever.” I know the “forever” was perhaps Stan being a bit melodramatic (understandable considering his distress) but it also shows us he didn’t expect their relationship to go back to normal, or for the college to be just one passing fancy. He knew it would be just the start of his brother’s career.

And perhaps this is the last thing you’d expect me to bring up at this point, but...

Do you remember this episode? Little Gift Shop of Horrors? It’s often dismissed as non-canon (due to its hidden keyword being “noncanon”), but even if the events in it didn’t actually happen, the characterization remains very much real.

We talk about Ford projecting on Dipper about a relationship being “suffocating,” but Stan was doing some impressive amount of projecting here too, hah, considering that he was more likely than not making up all the stories.

Just. This entire conversation:

Stan couldn’t be more unsubtle if he tried. And of course, Waddles chooses Mabel, his favorite person in the world.

We know whose “favorite person” Stan wants to be...

But again, back to Ford.

Yay, Ford is free of his suffocating relationship with Stan! Free to do things like looking at pictures of Stan with yearning! Writing that he misses Stan in code while yearning! Staring at the Gravity Falls’ lake with yearning because it reminds him of Stan! The last one in particular is very amusing to me because to study anomalies was basically Ford’s dream job and he loved Gravity Falls and... and yet! There is no place in Gravity Falls he would rather stay than the lake...

You might want to read this for the full extent of Ford’s clownery, but just the fact that Ford canonically (per Word of God) carried a picture of baby Stan in the breast pocket of his coat at least as early as his Gravity Falls researcher days to remember his brother by, is... telling.

That is, without even counting the fact that he has actively attempted to replace Stan with Fiddleford, Bill, and then even poor Dipper! Because, again, he yearns! From Alex’s commentary on Society of the Blind Eye:

Ford as somebody who lost Stan is kinda looking for—even though he rejected his brother, he kinda needs, he needs that other person, and he tried to find that in this kinda sweet prodigy and he just pushed him too far.

Yeah, I know. Ford is quite... confusing. What does he want? To use three other people (or triangle) to fill the role of Stan in his life but still reject and stay away from Stan himself? Everything and nothing, at the same time?

And now I need you to bear with me and read this entire excerpt of the HanaHyperfixates’ and ThatGFFan’s interview, most important parts highlighted in bold:

Ford was very much us building backwards. The same way you know a black hole is there by the light warped around it, it’s like, you know the damage someone’s family has done to them by all of their weird tics and behaviors. So who is the character who would result in Stan being this hurt and needy and mad and also longing?

And so we came up with this guy who kinda seemed too perfect. And is distant. He’s aloof, and distant, and he’s too perfect. And it’s like, “oh! I think he’s also aloof and distant from himself.”

I think he is, uh, deeply deeply hiding from his real feelings about things, because at some point early on, he decided that he could run from hurt by achievement and by creation, and has dug that hole so deep that he has no relationships. He doesn’t have friendships, he doesn’t have romantic relationships, he is someone trapped in a tower of his own mind and estranged.

We know Ford has always loved Stan very deeply—and yearned for his company just as badly—through his entire adult life. So what, exactly, changed in old Ford for him to invite Stan to sail away together again, post-Weirdmageddon?

Well. I have some hypotheses.

First, he spent forty years separated from Stan, and then almost lost him forever (or at least their relationship), from a certain point of view. Have you ever heard that saying that you only know the value of something or someone after you lose it? Teen Ford had never lost Stan, and didn’t know how much he would miss him.

On that same note, all those years separated allowed him to develop a personality and identity of his own, and a very defined and strong one at that. (Yes, poor Stan meanwhile spent that time pretending to be Ford. Ironic.) The Stan twins have also managed to be competent at what was once their weak spot, something they relied fully on their brother for. Stan has managed to learn and understand complex physics to fix the portal. Ford, on the other hand (and we’re focusing more on his feelings, here), has definitely learned how to defend himself physically.

Second, Ford was severely “humbled by the narrative,” so to speak. He thought he would get to be the hero, when the hero (at least in Ford’s own point of view, which is the only point of view that matters) was actually his brother. “Stanley Pines was the man who saved the world, not me.” His pride—and Stan’s own pride as a reaction to Ford’s pride, but again, this analysis is focused on Ford—was a great barrier between him and Stan. And on what regards his self-loathing and subsequent thirst for external validation, he has learned to seek love in the right places. His family. Stan.

Stan, who has always loved him unconditionally, who never considered him a freak in the first place, who has always tried to make him feel as if he belonged, if only on an old boat. Stan, who after Weirdmageddon is now his priority, above his scientific ambition, symbolized by the journals he was no longer reluctant to destroy.

Another excerpt from the interview I’ve referenced lastly wraps things up perfectly:

[...] and it’s always sweet to see [Stan and Ford] come together again, because they’re so full of themselves, but they are also both so damaged they desperately need each other.

The codependency is mutual—people really should understand this. I don’t think it ever really went away, not in an emotional, psychological sense, despite the two of them having developed separately for decades, as I have elaborated here. They didn’t return to the same place they started because they have matured as individual persons, but the love they had for each other never did decrease. They know, now, exactly how it’s like to stay away from each other, and they... actively prefer not to.

After all, like Ford himself said, “I don’t just want someone to come with me, Stanley, I want it to be you.”

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

“autistic people’s interests not ‘restrictive’ that be pathologizing language!!!” n then cue example of low support needs level 1 autistic with PhD n it’s like

so right now be in extreme fixation stage of something that stick around long enough be call special interest

extreme enough that it overrode my main special interest for 4+ years. just like that.

here what “extreme” mean:

am active do that special interest moment am wake to moment go sleep. constant. as non stop as possible.

sleep about 2-4 hours a day, n sleep at all because human body need sleep. this be 3rd or 4th night in row where do not go sleep until 6am, 8am, wake up at 10 AM, 12PM. AM NOT TIRED. just want do Thing (ppl who know me irl follow this account so shouldn’t admit this or else get concerned spam but brain even too occupy abt that right now. shh.)

btw this lack of sleep probably reason trigger my GI issues. n it really bad. it look like dysmotility, stomach, intestine, maybe, who tf knows. eat 2 bites for “breakfast” before feel like too full will throw up from be stuffed, but even by dinner time maybe stomach growling but not hungry n can’t eat more than another 2 bite. which then cause severe constipation. etc etc etc whatever. know my lack of sleep definitely contribute to it n idk if go catch up w sleep will fix it or if that be trigger worsen episode that gonna stay for while. even with these consequences, no, can’t go sleep. Can’t.

also my eyes blurry from constant use (bc need for do Thing) n lack sleep. will am be able go sleep? no.

basic activities of daily living (ones that can do) too boring to do. spend time eating chewing, that be time away from Thing. minute or two of go bathroom take too much time away from Thing n am almost rushing back so can do Thing. push off get help shower because that take precious time away from Thing. n upset about interruptions. can’t handle interruptions. can’t handle anything be pull out from my lil world of Thing. do those bADLs not pull me out my internal world of Thing. zero attention elsewhere. most ppl even level 1 & maybe even some of 2 autistics not understand what mean by “too bored by bADL to do them” n they think it just spoiled not want do it but no

this be busiest time of semester (online school). have 3 finals this week n already behind (haven’t studied for 2). it not matter. nothing got done. try listen to audio n 20 minutes later realize been zone out somehow thinking abt Thing again. try open up something link really just few clicks n spend 30 minutes because “oh website loading let me just go look at Thing real quick” n 30 minutes pass bc cant stop. my brain occupied. any information need memorize for school for other things simply not fit no space bc whole entire mode on Thing.

write this post fucking painful bc just NEED get back to think about this thing bc write this post be interruption n in fleeing moments (minutes) of can think about other things been thinking abt write this post. if post sound extra confusing or frantic that because am frantic get back. again reminder this blog (disability) be part of MAIN SPECIAL INTEREST FOR FOUR PLUS YEARS it just get kicked off like that. use to check tumblr multiple times day n now go DAYS without check tumblr. n coincidentally this be time be one of post escape containment so get constant notif one point to 2k before cleared it. now again probably another 2k

hope this post fucking make sense bc brain too occupy to think abt write anything that unrelate

haha fuck! me!

okay to reblog this incoherent post in fact please do bc autistic interest can be EXTREMELY restrictive. it can be this level of restrictive AND MORE. can make you genuinely not able do ADLs n cause health issues from things you not doing n you suffer from it but it not change anything

[doctorsilverhead]

Submissive! Yandere! Optimus Prime x Dom! Female Human Reader Headcanons

Summary: Optimus Prime—leader of the Autobots, a warrior, a protector, a Prime. To the world, he is a symbol of strength and unwavering resolve. But to you? He is yours.

Warnings: Submission, yandere behavior, possessiveness, mild degradation

Like a Loyal Dog, Wagging His Tail Just for You

In battle, he is the fearless leader, issuing commands, standing tall, unshaken by war. But the moment he sees you? That all crumbles.

His glowing optics soften, his frame relaxes, and if he had a tail, it would be wagging uncontrollably.

You barely have to say a word before he’s at your feet, kneeling, massive servos resting on his thighs as he waits for your touch.

“You have returned to me,” he murmurs, pure adoration in his voice, as if you had been gone for years instead of mere hours.

Craving Your Touch, Desperate for Your Praise

The weight of leadership is suffocating. The Autobots need him. The world depends on him. But he? He only needs you.

He practically melts at the slightest touch—your fingers in the seams of his faceplate, nails dragging lightly down the plating of his throat, a soft caress along his helm.

A low, shuddering vent escapes him, his frame trembling under your touch. "More," he whispers, his voice pleading.

He needs your praise. Tell him he’s good, tell him he belongs to you, and he will do anything.

If you call him “good boy”? His whole frame locks up, a shudder running through him as his vents stutter. Prime, he needs to hear it again.

A Yandere in Chains, Bound Only to You

He is obsessed with you. Not in the way a leader protects his ally—but in the way a beast craves its master.

He watches you. Always. His optics track your every movement, memorizing the rhythm of your breath, the tilt of your head, the way your lips move when you speak.

Jealousy? It burns in his spark. Rage? It simmers beneath his plating. But he never lets it show—because you wouldn’t like that. And he wants to be good for you.

But Prime will hurt anyone who touches you. They won’t live to regret it.

"You don’t need anyone else," he murmurs, pressing his helm against your chest, clinging to you like a lost spark. "Just me. Only me. Say it."

And Prime, when you kiss him? His whole body shudders with bliss.

Submitting Completely, Breaking Under Your Command

The strongest being on Earth, the leader of an entire faction, kneels at your feet.

Willingly.

Desperately.

He whimpers when you deny him, shudders when you praise him, melts when you touch him.

"Use me," he begs, optics burning with need. "I exist only for you."

When you tug him by his chin, forcing him to look up at you? His vents stall, his frame locks, and his spark pounds so violently he fears it might shatter.

He Would Kill for You. He Would Die for You.

No one is allowed near you without his permission. No one speaks to you without him watching. No one dares to touch you.

If someone tries to take you from him? They disappear.

You don’t ask questions. He doesn’t offer answers. But the way he clings to you afterward, whispering your name like a sacred prayer? You know.

And Primus, the way he shakes with bliss when you stroke his faceplate and say, "Good boy."

That alone makes the carnage worth it.

You Are His Master. His Goddess. His Everything.

To the world, he is Optimus Prime.

To you? He is nothing without you.

"I am yours," he whispers in the dead of night, curled around you, his massive servos caging you in, holding you as if you might vanish. "Forever."

And Primus help anyone who tries to take him from you.

Next part in headcanons or oneshot??

[misserabella]

two geniuses (addiction)

spencer reid x fem! reader

masterlist! (this is part 5 of the series, check out the rest!!)

summary; after your kidnapping, everything falls apart. spencer’s there to pick up the pieces.

cw; angst, hurt-comfort, fluff, hospitals, drug withdrawal, depression, feelings of emptiness, worthlessness, dirtiness, ptsd, mentions of guns and shots being fired, kissing (yippeeee!!!!), spencer being a sweetheart, pinning, gets a little suggestive but no +18, crying, cuddling…

everything was bright. too bright, and the beeping of the machines around you washed through you like the remains of a lullaby as your eyes slowly blinked open.

you were so hooked up on pain medication that you couldn’t fathom the trauma your body had gone through, but just as you came back into consciousness, all the memories came back. the torture, the sound and feeling of your bones giving up, the smell of your skin burning…

your eyes fell down at the sudden movement of someone else rising from the end of the bed you had been days glued to. spencer. spencer reid was there, puppy brown eyes slowly peeling open before he noticed you were awake, quickly scattering to stand straight with a bewildered expression.

“hey… how are you feeling?” but he was soft. so soft. it almost made you scream. ‘cause you had just gone through torture, someone had broken you, broken you to your core, and spencer was talking to you as if there was still something left that could suffer.

you didn’t answer him, your eyes falling to the nervous fidgeting of his hands, which were strangely all scribbled on.

“uh, right, sorry, it’s just that i was so worried about you not waking up that i couldn’t focus and memorize so i had to write it down and…” your heart skipped a beat, and it almost hurt. he didn’t knew you’d wake up. after four days of unconsciousness, spencer feared you had gone into a coma due to the shock and trauma.

“what are they?” you pointed at the words on his skin.

“they… uhm…, well, they’re ways to help you.”

“help me?”

“yes… with your trauma.” you stared at him in silence and his lips quivered. “torture can lead to permanent physical disabilities and psychologically scar victims, leaving them with profound and long-lasting mental health issues such as post-traumatic stress disorder, as well as anxiety and depressive disorders. although many victims demonstrate extraordinary resilience, resourcefulness and agency, torture can profoundly impact all aspects of a person’s daily life. severe headaches, insomnia, suicidal ideation, being easily frightened, being in heightened emotional states, feeling suspicious, having flashbacks, and involuntary disassociation are some of the most frequently reported symptoms of torture trauma. this can make it extremely difficult for people to maintain social relations, work, carry out basic day-to-day tasks and to participate in rehabilitative programs or administrative and judicial procedures…” you listened to his rambling, his brown eyes everywhere but on you. “i did some research. i…i wanted to help.”

spencer looked at you, and swallowed, cause you looked so… empty. that’s how you felt as well. you didn’t feel sad for what had happened to you, or angry, you felt absolutely nothing.

your stable heartbeat beeped through the room.

your hand reached for his, looking for something, anything. anything that would make it erratic, that would make you feel something. were you still high? was tobias’ effect still lingering? but before you could get too close to him you retracted, fisting the bedding.

“sorry, reid, could we talk another time? i’m so tired…”

his eye shifted, his adam’s apple bobbed.

“sure.” he almost tripped as he stood up. “i’ll let you rest. the team is taking shifts so there’s always one of us around in case you need anything.” you nodded and he mimicked you. he was stiff as a stick, moving like a puppet in strings.

after that you watched as he made his way out of your room, leaving you alone, again. you felt chained to the bed, like you had been tied to that chair days back and it made you shiver, the brand on your chest hurting.

you shifted, bringing your knees to your chest, encapsulating yourself in hopes that no more pain would come, almost expecting it.

it didn’t. but you still hoped so. cause then you’d be distracted by the void on your chest, the brokenness of your soul and of the fact that you loved spencer reid.

your stable heart jumped a beat at the realization.

your skin was on fire, and your sheets were soaked. your whole body was engulfed in tremors and pain. they had offered you something for it but you’d declined.

“no more drugs. no more please.” you’d trembled.

it hurt. everything hurt.

“how can i help? how can i help you, y/n?” morgan insisted, pained by your suffering.

“reid.”

“reid?”

“i need spencer reid.” your teeth clicked. morgan was fast, it was mere luck that spencer —well— that he hadn’t left the hospital that day. —He never did.—

he rushed in, hair disheveled, chest heaving as if he had ran all the way to your room —what he did—. he called out your name and you swallowed as he stepped closer, hands in the air, not knowing if he should touch you, wishing he could. “what do i do? what can i do?”

“hold me. please.”

he was on you on an instant, arms softly surrounding you as he made space for himself on your hospital bed.

“breathe. breathe please, i’m here.” he shushed, one of his hands on your hair as your own clung to his vest.

if it were another person, spencer would have ran the other way due to the sweat and germs and the closeness, but this was you. you. needing him.

“it hurts.” you shakily breathed out, trying your best to pace your panting.

“i know. i know…” ‘cause what could he say? what more than holding you could he do?

but truth be told it’s just what you needed. this. him. holding you close exactly like this.

“i’m sorry.” surprisingly enough, that was you.

“sorry? for what?” he inquired.

“for everything.” you shook before losing consciousness again.

going back to work was something you shouldn’t be doing right now. but the minimum time hotch obliged you to take off was up and you needed to be back on working.

your wounds were healed up, the physical ones at least.

‘cause you still hadn’t come up to mourning that horrible day, or actually meddling with the emptiness and dirtiness you felt. you hadn’t even cried about it.

the first days were nothing easy, everything silently triggered you, and had you taking breaks to take deep breaths. you reminded yourself of what spencer had told you to do as he held you; breathe, i’m here.

and he was, until he wasn’t. until you pushed him away and stopped talking to him altogether after your withdrawal symptoms had fewered and you could actually handle the pain by yourself, after you could think once again and didn’t let your heart meddle with your actions.

there was silence on your end. static. it was messing with spencer’s head. no comments. no remarks. no snarky comments. nothing. he almost wished you could go back to hating him instead of… whatever this was.

and still, he couldn’t bring himself to ask you. to ask you if you had noticed that he didn’t hate you anymore. if you had noticed how his way of looking at you had changed. ‘cause the truth was that spencer had never been more afraid than the day he almost lost you. and almost losing you had made him realize that he in fact didn’t want to lose you, ‘cause he would be losing a part of himself.

spencer liked you. as more than coworkers or possible friends. he kind of had always known, deep down, it had always been you. you and your stupid intelligence, and pretty smile, and loud voice, and snarky remarks, and plush lips, and soft curves and…

and now you were gone.

you helped in cases, but you only talked when necessary, you never smiled anymore, you hummed at his words, and you hid yourself on large clothes and turtlenecks, as if you couldn’t stand the thought of the world actually acknowledging you. seeing you.

but spencer saw you. he always did. and still does. he saw the pain you so tried to hide, saw the fear every time you held up your gun, the tremble of your hands when shots are fired.

and he doesn’t know how to fix it. he doesn’t know how to take it all away.

but he knows something for sure. and that it is that’s he’s gonna try.

it’s not for another week that it happens. you’d just gotten home from your last case, exhausted, when someone knocks at your door.

your umbrella is still dripping by the entrance, a storm hitting D.C. just as soon as you had landed. you’d scoffed. it was as if the weather had matched the storm in your insides, the clouds in your heart and the unshed tears of your eyes.

hazel eyes meet yours when the door creaks open under the turning of the knob. and before your eyes, stood a soaking wet spencer, shivering under the rain, brown hair adhered to his face, cheeks and nose a pretty shade of red.

“reid? god how long have you been standing out there?” you inquired as you opened the door wider for him to come inside.

“sorry, i just-“ you made a beeline towards your bathroom, grabbing a towel for him to dry off. he didn’t. he was too distracted to feel cold. “i just didn’t know if i should’ve come.” i didn’t know if you would want to see me.

“so what, you just stayed there pondering under the rain?” he looked at you as if he’d been caught, wide eyes zeroing on you. “jesus, spencer.” you sighed. “you sometimes don’t live to the genius title, you know?” he just stared at you. “what?”

“nothing. i just missed you saying my name.” that shook you to your core. you two stood there. looking at each other before you looked away, incapable to keep eye contact anymore. it almost burned.

“what are you doing here, reid?”

“i don’t know.” he replied.

“you don’t know?”

“i just… i just needed to see you.” he sighed.

“you saw me an hour ago, reid.” he shook his head.

“no. really see you.”

“what are you talking about?”

“i see you, y/n. i’m here. why do you keep pushing me away?”

“spencer-“ he took a step forward, capturing your face with his cold hands, the towel falling with a thud to the floor.

“i held you when i found you. i held you when you were in agony in that hospital bed. i’ve held you through your worst, i’ve seen you, y/n. so why. why do you push me aside?”

“you don’t understand. he changed me. he killed me. he… he branded me.” you looked away, feeling tears coming to your eyes. “i’m not the same anymore. i’m flawed. i’m dirty.”

“look at me.” he whispered, and your glassy eyes found his. “never say that again. you’re not dirty. what happened to you was not your fault. and that scar doesn’t make you any less beautiful. cause that’s what you are, y/n. you’re beautiful.” he breathed against your lips. his eyes fell to the plush of them and your mouth opened in a murmur.

“don’t.” you looked to the side, but he brought you back with tender circles on your cheek. “you don’t wanna kiss me. you don’t wanna be with me. i’ll just make everything harder.”

“i don’t care if it’s hard.” he whispered, looking into your eyes with such love that it struck your bones. “i want it because it’s you. i want you, y/n.”

and then his lips were pushing against yours, softly. just a mere peck, but it was enough to break all the walls that you’ve put up around yourself.

he seemed to be the only person capable of doing it, he had always been.

finally, a tear spilled down your cheek, and a sob raked through your body.

“you’re beautiful.” he repeated as you fell into his arms in heavy sobs. he hushed you, holding you tenderly, one of his hands on the back of your head, pushing you against his chest. you could hide there forever. “i’m here. i’m here, okay?”

you pulled from him, lips pressing against his in a proper kiss, a desperate one, where tears were streaming down your face and little tremors raked through your body. he corresponded, matching your fervor, but still holding you carefully, as if you were made out of glass.

you pulled at his clothes, and he gasped against your lips, pushing away.

“y/n…”

“please. please spencer.” you begged, eyes teary, soul shaking, heart thumping. you trusted him. you trusted him with your life. and loved him with your entire existence. yet all you had to give was your body, your lips, your words. it didn’t seem enough. you hoped it would be.

“baby…, no. you don’t have to.” he shushed you, his eyes holding that promise.

“but…”

he silenced you with the softest kiss anyone had ever given you.

“i just wanna hold you. can i do that, angel?” he asked, and you nodded, being rewarded by his precious smile.

“but you’re not getting into my bed like that.” you pointed out.

“like what?”

“spencer, you look like a wet dog.” he opened his mouth in fake hurt.

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.” he hummed, and before you knew he was hugging you and shaking his head against yours so the droplets on his hair would hit you. you shrieked, before laughter spilled from your chest as you tried to push him away.

he smiled and stared at you. ‘cause finally, you were smiling. and spencer made a promise to himself; he’ll try everything on his power to keep you that way.

spencer spends the whole night in your bed, holding you, whispering nothings into your ear, caressing your face, fingers combing through your hair. he holds you when you cry, and kisses your tears away. and when you finally fall asleep he makes another promise; that no harm will ever found you again, not as long as he’s there to protect you from it.

🤍hope you guys like it.

[swordsandholly]

Across the Way

Ch.3: The New Normal

Retired!Ghoap x Fem!Plus Size!Reader

MDNI

Ao3 | Previous - Next

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: You go to Scotland with high hopes for your future. After all, you have the bakery you always dreamed of and a whole new life to live. Plus, the men who own the butcher’s shop across the street seem nice.

Sometimes Simon still feels like he’s in a dream. The world around him seems effervescent - so ready to slip through his fingers at a moments notice. He expects to pass through Johnny, as though the man was never there, that this house and home and world will crumble and he’ll wake to that grey, cracked ceiling above his bunk in the basic training barracks again.

But then Johnny grumbles something under his breath - because the man cannot shut up, even in deep REM - and turns over, hand resting on Simon’s chest. Even in his sleep the Scot knows how to ground him like nothing else. Like a sixth sense.

He can see discomfort in his husband’s furrowed brow. The hand on his chest twitches.

Ah. He’s going to wake up to a bad day.

Simon figures he won’t be going back to sleep anytime soon, so he may as well prepare. Even he isn’t sure exactly how he knows what will be in store when Johnny opens his eyes but he knows. Every twinge and wince expertly memorized with the same precision that made him do so well in the SAS.

Speaking of, Simon checks his phone while he lines up Johnny’s pain medication. Today’s his call with Price. A monthly reoccurrence. Every third Thursday. The old man and his control issues could never let him or Johnny fully go - he insisted to keep in touch. Even if it is just a monthly call. Simon knows the real reason - that Price was worried about how two gung-ho soldiers would settle into civilian life but the man would never admit to such sentiment.

Johnny stirs, a low groan passing his lips as he tries to hoist himself up. Simon presses his hand to his husband’s back, stilling him with a gentle touch.

“Lay back. Let me ‘elp you up.” He murmurs, rearranging the pillows slowly before wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist to pull him into a sitting position.

Johnny presses his forehead into his palm, screwing his eyes shut. A small whimper escapes his throat - the sound breaks Simon’s heart every time.

“Rate it.”

Johnny sighs, thinking for a moment. Taking stock of it all. “…Three…?”

“Love.” Simon levels a look at Johnny. One he knows will get the man cut the bullshit.

“…five.”

“Thank you.” Simon nods, turning on his heel to get the proper medication. It’s a particularly bad day, if Johnny is willing to admit to anything above a two or three. For anyone else that’s a seven easy. Stubborn bastard. Simon opens the cabinet to grab the stronger stuff - their on hand back up.

Johnny tries to take it sparingly. He doesn’t want to grow too much of a tolerance - doesn't want to get addicted. Simon isn’t too worried about that, but Johnny insists.

“‘Ere.” Simon holds out two little pills and a cup of water. “Need ‘elp takin’ it?”

Johnny grimaces but nods. Simon’s gut churns with worry. It’s rare for the man to put aside his pride. To allow Simon to carefully tip his head back, cradling it with tender care as Johnny slowly sips at the glass.

“Thanks…” He seems almost bashful despite this being easily the least compromising position Simon has seen Johnny in.

“We’ll take it easy today. Get some take out...” Simon mumbles, reaching under the bed for the heated blanket. On the worst days Johnny’s circulation in his limbs seems to nearly freeze up. How that happens because of a brain injury the doctors have never been able to say.

“Simon?” Johnny murmurs.

“Hm?”

“Kiss me?”

Simon barks out a laugh. The way he still blushes when he asks after all these years is too cute for words. Johnny can say the most salacious shit with a perfectly straight face and then when he asks for such a simple touch he’s flustered like a schoolgirl.

Of course, Simon would never deny him. It’s impossible to say no to those big baby blues.

“I’m going to let Riley out into the yard. Want t’ take a bath when I get back?” Simon offers as he pulls back, running a thumb over Johnny’s lip and hoping the medication will have kicked in by then.

”Tryin’ tae get my clothes off, Mr. Riley?”

Simon rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t ‘ave to scheme t’do that.”

Johnny clicks his tongue. “I’m no’ tha’ easy.”

“Tell that to the maintenance closet in Hereford.”

“Yer no better.” Johnny grins. “Brazil?”

“Shut it.” He makes a playful cutting motion by his neck. Johnny just laughs at him. Simon wishes, like every time before, that he could have the sound carved into his very marrow.

He clicks his tongue and Riley follows dutifully. They got her an automatic feeder long ago so she’s already had her breakfast. Really it was a necessity - back when Johnny was in too much pain the majority of the time for Simon to step away too long. She’s been so patient with them. She runs around the yard excitedly while he throws the ball a few times to get her energy out. Some outside time will tie her over until he can take her for a proper walk.

The weather’s nice today. Johnny will be disappointed he missed out on so much sun.

Simon turns on his heel to go up and get the water started. They installed an extra large tub not long after moving in. Baths together were a small luxury back in the day - cramming both of themselves into shitty hotel tubs and the base housing showers. They never quite fit - usually Simon’s leg would end up hooked over the side of the bath. Or Johnny’s. Working the man open and loose after a long, hard mission-

He stops that thought I’m it’s tracks. That’s not the line of thinking for today.

Simon settles Johnny in first thing. He’s lighter than he used to be. That extra layer of muscle worn down and away over all that time in hospital and in physical therapy. That scared Simon, at first. The idea that Johnny had become another fragile thing for him to ruin. Something he could break.

It was a selfish thought.

The water is hotter than Simon would usually like as he climbs in, but it’s based on Johnny’s preference. Plus it relaxes his muscles - the stinging in his nerves from misfires in his brain. The tremble in his hands.

Simon takes it all in, gently dragging his knuckles over Johnny’s perfect cheekbone. The tender motion no longer feels foreign, which is strange in and of itself.

“Comfortable?” He asks.

Johnny hums and nods.

They stay quiet while they sit. Johnny always seems to glow in the morning light. Angelic. If Simon were better with words he’d write poems. He tried a few times, though he’d never admit that out loud.

The closest he got were his vows (still not good enough). Nothing can encapsulate what it is to love John MacTavish.

“I worry.” Johnny sighs, pulling Simon from his thoughts.

“Bout what?” Simon turns toward him, lowering his reading glasses.

“The baker. She’s all alone over there y’know?” Johnny sighs.

Simon hums. His big hearted boy. “Y’should be worried about yourself.”

Johnny scoffs. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, cause you’re ‘opped up on goofberries.”

“Oh shut the fuck up.” Johnny laughs.

“C’mere.” Simon turns him so that Johnny’s back is against his chest, grabbing one of the extra shampoo bottles to scrub down his hair.

“Thinkin’ about getting’ rid of the mo-hawk…” He murmurs.

“Don’t you dare.” Simon blurts before he realizes, face heating at the admission. Johnny just laughs at him again.

“It’s no’ very dignified. Doesnnae scream grown-man-in-his-thirties.”

“No. But it screams Johnny MacTavish. ‘ow else am I goin’ t’find you in a crowd?”

“Fair point.” Johnny tilts his head back to look up at his husband, grinning. “More hair fer ye tae grab, though. Proper handle.”

Simon huffs. “See, now that’s just playin’ dirty.”

“Simon Jr. likes it.”

“Please stop callin’ it that. It’s been bloody fuckin’ years.”

“Never.”

Simon rolls his eyes. By the end of their exchange the water has started to get cold. He gives himself a very bare minimum scrub down - the perks of having buzzed hair - before climbing out to grab them towels and fresh pajamas.

Before all of this he’d never considered the importance of comfortable clothes. Layer-able. Soft. Breathable. Easy to maneuver in on a bad day when Johnny can hardly walk - though it hasn’t been that bad for a long while. Strange how needs change and fluctuate.

“D’you want to go downstairs or stay up ‘ere?” He asks, patting Johnny dry while he sits on the side of the tub.

“Definitely down.” Johnny nods decisively, wincing at the motion.

“A’right.” Simon scoops the man up bridal style. Back in the day he would’ve thrown Johnny over his shoulder with ease. These days he has to move slower, keeping Johnny steady so as not to jostle his head and irritate his pain. It’s been good, he thinks, to practice gentile touches for the first time in his life.

It’s easy to settle Johnny onto their large, L-shaped couch. To set him up on a throne of blankets and pillows that envelope his frame entirely. They throw on some rom-com as low background noise. It’s not long before he falls asleep, the medication finally fully taking effect and sending him into one of those deep sleeps that will last until his next dose around lunch.

Simon glances over to Johnny’s peacefully sleeping face. Lips parted, quietly snoring.

Might as well get his call done now while the man’s well and truly passed out.

“The prodigal son returns.” Price announces loudly on the other end of the phone.

“Y’talked t’ me last month.” Simon scoffs.

“Ach, well, have t’ give you some shite here an’ there. Gotta tap down that ego.” He sighs. There’s an edge to his voice despite the attempt at a playful tone.

“Y’sound tired, Cap.” Simon settles into the couch, keeping his voice low.

“You’re no better.” The old man grouses. His voice has only gotten grittier over time, though he won’t admit it to be the cigars’ doing “How’s he doin’?”

There’s always a hint of guilt in his voice when he asks. Even four years later, he can’t let it go - can’t forgive the damage done to Johnny. The best of them. None of them could ever blame him for it. There isn’t any blame to be had.

“Alright.” Simon shrugs to no one. “Bad day today but he’s been better on the whole.”

“Good.” Price sighs. There’s a creaking noise - like he’s settling back into an office chair. “You solid?”

Simon huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Got a new bakery in town. That was enough to have the area properly twitterpated all week.”

“Any good?”

“Actually, yes. Johnny’s taken a shine to the owner.”

“That boy would take a shine to a black hole.”

“Ah, you’d like ‘er. Soft little thing - that’s your whole deal innit?”

Price splutters, Simon laughs. It’s the only thing that can get the Captain off kilter. Throw a live grenade at the man and he’s steady as a rock; mention anything about his love life and he’s no better than a flustered teenager.

There’s a pause.

“Kyle is up for Lieutenant.” Price says.

Simon freezes, swallowing roughly. It’s not that he’s not happy for Gaz - hell the boy deserves it more than anyone - but his thoughts go to Johnny. How he’ll react. He’s been doing so well, these past several months. The news could make him spiral… or he could take it perfectly fine.

It’s a fifty-fifty.

“Yeah, I was worried about how Soap would take it, too.” Price sighs. “Figured I should tell you first.”

“He’ll be fine…He’ll be fine.” The repetition is more to convince himself, really. Simon shakes his head. “Might wait to tell ‘im until ‘e feels better, though.”

“Probably for the best.”

Simon hums.

“How are you doing, Riley?”

“Fine.”

“Y’sure?” Price knows him too well, Simon thinks. Knows how much the military meant to him - how much he needed it.

“I’ve got Johnny.” Simon looks wistfully at his husband, still snoring on the couch in his mass of pillows and blankets. “What else could I ever need?”

Price laughs - loud and full bodied. “You’ve become a sap in your old age, eh?”

“Who’s callin’ who old, here? You’re practically a bloody fossil.”

“Oi, watch it.”

“S’good to talk t’you, Cap.” Simon sighs, sinking further into the couch.

“You too, kid.” Price sighs as well. “I’ve got to go but… do you want me to let you know when Kyle’s ceremony is?”

Simon clicks his tongue. “Yeah. As much as I hate the pomp and circumstance.”

“We all do.”

“Yeah.”

“Take care of each other.” Simon can practically see the way Price is most likely nodding along to the words.

“Always.” Simon nods. He rests his head on the back of the couch, tossing his phone off to the side and staring up at the ceiling.

If he thinks about it too hard - about the SAS and Price and Gaz… that whole life - his chest begins to ache. The military saved him, in many ways. The military gave him his greatest love despite all the fear and strangeness that came with that.

Simon looks over at Johnny’s sleeping form.

He’s worth it.

He’s always been worth it.

Between the three month long coma - the even longer physical therapy - Johnny’s been through hell, to say the least. Truly came back from the dead. What is it, in the grand scheme, for Simon to have to make a career change in order to grasp onto this second chance?

Who knows if he would have even been able to stay in the military if Johnny died. He’d break, surely. He broke the first time Johnny crashed. Fractured upon the second. Died with him on the third.

His therapist says it’s not good for him to romanticize and aggrandize that kind of trauma. She’s probably right but there are worse ways to frame it.

They’re both broken. They’re both healing.

His thoughts drift to you as all things seem to recently. Why do you always seem so sad? Your eyes a far more tired than your age would suggest - the eyes of a woman on her deathbed and ready to go. He’s seen that look too many times in his own reflection not to know it by heart.

He’ll check on you when he goes to the shop tomorrow. For Johnny’s sake.

~~~

“Simon! How are you?” You smile wide. Always smiling. It’s not bright, like Johnny’s, though. There’s a pull at the edges. It doesn’t always reach your eyes.

“Fine.” Simon says more gruffly than he means to.

You swallow nervously. He can tell he makes you uncomfortable. Squirrelly. You don’t shrink away, though. Brave little thing, he thinks. “Uh, Johnny stay home today?”

He nods solemnly. “Migraine started up yesterday.”

“Oh, I hate that.” You frown. So genuine. “I’ve got some extra white bread. Easy on the stomach. I could-“

“That’s kind, but not why I’m ‘ere.” He cuts you off. It’s rude, yeah, but he’s seen the way you can chatter and has a point to get to.

“O-oh?” You squeak.

He steps closer, setting a little sticky note on your counter with two numbers messily scrawled across it, each labeled as his and Johnny’s. Maybe he should’ve gotten Johnny to write it. At least his twos and sevens don’t look alike. “Johnny mentioned you were woozy, when you first met. Said you have a thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head. “And?”

It’s defensive. Your shoulders are more square than before, lips slightly pursed and arms crossing over yourself involuntarily. It looks wrong on you, if he’s honest.

“And you don’t seem t’ ‘ave anyone around to look after you.” Simon continues bluntly. “If you need anythin’ you give us a call.”

Your expression morphs into surprise, then bashfulness. He takes it in categorically just like everything else. “Th-that’s really sweet… you don’t have to-“

“It’s only right.” He cuts you off again.

It is. You’re a young woman all alone in a new country with some sort of illness. Something chronic based on Riley’s alert. Simon might be cold but he isn’t heartless - not anymore, at least. Johnny saw to that. Even if he doesn’t know what it is, even if you’re obviously smart and independent, there are too many variables for his or Johnny’s liking.

Simon doesn’t know how to interpret the look you give him. It’s grateful. Soft in the same way as when he gave you that little cut of beef. There’s something else on the edges - not quite desperation. Not quite fear. Something that furrows your brow minutely and has your eyes flicking wildly between his.

You’re afraid of an ulterior motive.

“Take care.” Simon nods once, turning on his heel to leave.

“W-wait-“ He feels a tug on the sleeve of his hoodie. When he turns your eyes are wide, shining. “I… uh…”

“Yes?”

You bite your lip, a consistent habit if the chapped skin is anything to go by. You pull your hand back quickly, pressing it to your chest. “S-sorry, never mind…”

Simon doesn’t press. He never does. Far be it for a man like him to try to force secrets out of someone. So, with another good-bye and a nod, he makes his way out of the shop and starts toward the car to go home. At least, he should.

Instead he stops a little way down the street. Far enough he can still see into your shop without you noticing him. He watches the way you pick up the paper carefully, cradling it in your soft fingers. The way you frown at it, taking a deep breath before pocketing it and disappearing into the back of the shop. He can’t place what compels him to watch you. What keeps pulling them both in.

When he pushes the door open, he expects a quiet house. Dark and silent as Johnny sleeps his pain away upstairs. Instead, he’s greeted with the sounds of pots and pans and Johnny’s voice echoing down the hall - singing along to Celine Dion (though he’d never admit to it if asked).

“Johnny?” Simon turns to corner.

“Och, welcome home!” The Scot shoots him a grin over his shoulder.

“You should be in bed.” Simon kicks off his boots and meanders to the kitchen.

“A man cannae cook fer his husband?”

“Johnny.”

Johnny turns, grinning wide. “I’m fine, Si. Really. Trust me.”

Simon sighs, stepping forward and resting his hands on Johnny’s waist. “I trust you. Y’know that. I just worry.”

“I ken, I ken.” Johnny chuckles, planting a series of kisses across Simon’s face.

Simon sighs, leaning against the kitchen counter while Johnny gets back to cooking. So domestic. Still so strange that this is their normal.

“Kyle is up for Lieutenant.” It comes out in a jumble - more uncertain than Simon is used to.

Johnny pauses, hand flexing around the spatula in his grip. It’s so brief you could almost miss it before going back to sautéing the vegetables in the pan. “Good. He deserves it.”

Simon hums, watching, waiting for a reaction. Eyeing his husband with all the scrutiny he can muster. “Price invited us to the ceremony.”

“Aye.” Johnny nods. “We should go.”

“Are… you alright with that?”

Johnny turns, a slight furrow in his perfect brow. “Why wouldnnae I be?”

Simon searches his face - tries to gather any evidence to the contrary. He finds none. Just a genuine look of confusion at what he said.

Good lad.

“We’ll go, then.”

“Hope there’s an open bar.” Johnny chuckles and turns back to dinner. Normal, casual, comfortable.

They’re both healing.

A/N: I’m not totally in love with how this chapter turned out but I’d rather get it out and get to the next than lose motivation bc I got stuck.

[fushiguruuzzzz]

wc 520 . mentions of drinking . mentions of throwing up

the moment sugawara koushi knew he loved you, he felt like he was going to throw up.

that is not to say that was your fault, though. there was not a breath of fresh air in his lungs, and he was sure the singular shot he’d taken (courtesy of the overly enthusiastic noya and hinata — he made a mental note to not let himself be persuaded next time) was taking its effect on him more strongly than he anticipated. the television static creeping in the edges of his mind did nothing to aid his composure, which was quickly diminishing as he caught the way you glowed beneath the dim, warm lights.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, nearly in time with the beat of the song, out of breath from hours spent yelling the lyrics to all the music you liked. he had memorized all of them beforehand, but he would not tell you that. he just loved the way your face brightened and your eyes lit up when you heard him sing along with you, and he feared that if you knew how carefully planned the manner was, the light would contort into something else. something more knowing.

looking back, he wonders how he only realized then. it was not at all normal, the way his hands felt alight as they ghosted over yours, lit into a flame fueled by the smallest traces of your being. how with every important moment came with the meeting of your gaze, how worn hands itched to reach out for you as you stood at his side; the longing for the gentle embrace of your palms anything but platonic.

there, on the muggy summer night surrounded by what would one day be ghosts of the past, you were more beautiful than ever. he was tipsy and you were dancing and he loved you, and he knew it now.

your fingers interlaced with his. “what’cha doing, suga? come dance,” you said, words stretched out like a sultry tune and followed by a hearty giggle.

usually, although a rhetorical question, he would answer you. but you cannot tell your best friend you love them when you have barely realized it yourself, and suga would never dare to profess such a thing to you in this setting. he would die before taking your hand and baring his soul to you in a place as sluggish as there. you deserved far more than that — he wanted to give you more than that. so, instead of telling you that his heart ached as his hands slipped to your waist, he dragged his tired body behind you and moved in sync with every breath you took. he watched you laugh and stumble and breathe light into the room around you, and he waited for the moment it would fill his lungs and take the place of oxygen, and he waited for the moment you would finally realize it. patience was a virtue that suga had no issue practicing, and he was certain he’d turn to dust slipping from your fingertips if it meant loving you when it was right.

gen taglist @sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @kashee-h @fiannee @bubybubsters @lizbix @adoresia @gumims @cinnamxnangel @aldebrana

take this while I work on thdla chapter three lawl

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

I know that there are a lot of feelings right now, and everyone is absolutely entitled to them. The announcement certainly hit hard.

I did, however, want to add a little bit of my own hope into the mix. Maybe it won't matter. But maybe it will help someone feel just a bit better about everything.

For context, someone on Reddit made an excellent point that 90 minutes is plenty of time to tell a great story. Many have been told in less than that. Lion King, Nightmare Before Christmas, Beauty and the Beast, Totoro, I could go on.

I completely agreed with them. But I also wanted to add my own personal spin as well.

When you really get down to it, the plot of season two was truly only compromised of 90 minutes worth of plot between A + C. Maybe even less than.

A lot of it was drawing out a mystery that didn't need to be as long as it was. As much as I love me some putzing and meandering, seeing this entire 90 minute drama go down has made me realize just how weak season two was.

Did I love it? Hell yes.

But I'm also realizing that the plot wasn't tight.

Most of the memorable moments are comprised of seconds of screentime.

Not minutes.

Seconds.

The touching of Aziraphale's hand to Crowley's chest

"Look at you, you're gorgeous."

Hands touching during dancing

The final speech and kiss

Michael Sheen's bitchy little eyebrow raise

Michael Sheen eye fucking Crowley every chance he gets

Just Michael Sheen's quiet, quick acting choices in general

When breaking it down, most of what mattered added up to less than 90 minutes, with the rest of it being unfocused and dithering.

Now imagine 90 minutes. 90 minutes of focus on these two characters. No chance for meandering, no opportunity to wander off. These two will be forced to confront their issues, their grief, their resilience, their LOVE with nothing to pull us away. There won't be time for side characters to take the focus. There won't be time to worry about other relationships or spending time apart.

This is going to be about them because it can't waste time on anything else.

AND ANOTHER THING.

I keep seeing people saying "90 minutes isn't enough time to tie up all the loose ends". And to that I say...

What loose ends?

We really only have two. The second apocalypse and their love.

And to those who say 90 minutes isn't enough to stop an apocalypse, I counter with; season 1 stopped it in 5 minutes while they stood on what was essentially a parking lot. And they were side characters at that point.

In conclusion: we will be okay. Would I have loved six episodes to watch them circle one another? Sure. But I have spent more time reading fanfiction of them than watching the actual show, and those writers have created better scenarios than Neil Gaimen ever could. The kind of stories that would make Terry Pratchett proud.

We will get what we need. Because the people who fought for this love these characters. And because David and Michael would personally square up with Jeff Bezos in a parking lot just to be able to lock lips on screen again and again in a cottage by the sea

We will be okay. More than that, we will thrive.♡🖤

❤.

[iconicstoner]

behind the scenes

gn!bau!reader x aaron hotchner (fluff, confessions)

words: 956

summary: Reader and Hotch have been keeping their love a secret, not even willing to admit it to each other, but when the reader starts having some financial issues Hotch knows he has to do something. The reader isn’t willing to take money from Hotch, but they gladly accept a confession of his love.

“Why did you call me into your office, sir?” you ask, closing the door to Hotchner’s dimly lit office. It’s not the first time you’ve been alone together in his office. Despite what you might want, nothing intimate has ever happened, just many late-night talks; venting to each other, telling stories, laughing, and even the occasional card game. You sit across from him as he slides his stack of paperwork to the side.

“I heard you’ve been struggling with money,” he says bluntly, causing your eyes to widen in surprise. You and Hotch had a confusing relationship. It was obvious to most people the two of you were head over heels, but you would never admit, even to each other, that you were in love. So, you were left to steal glances, let your hands linger when passing paperwork, and lean on each other only after everyone else on the jet fell asleep. With this line of work, anything else was too dangerous.

“Sir, you called me into your office to discuss my financial situation?” you ask quizzically. Aaron rarely called you into his office, not wanting anyone to suspect his true feelings, so this was strange.

“Garcia may have let it slip to me,” he responds, clearly taking this very seriously. You internally facepalm, knowing you shouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone.

“Yes, well the rent at my apartment went up, and on top of that I have student loans to pay off, and it’s just been hard to take care of everything on my salary,” you respond awkwardly.

“I see. I can put in a request for a raise for you if you’d li-”

“No, no that’s fine,” you say quickly, cutting him off. “I know the BAU is dealing with enough budget struggles as it is.”

“I could find the money,” he stares up at you, your features dimmed by the low light. He’d be disappointed if he hadn’t already memorized it.

“Aaron, you cannot give me federal funds to pay my rent,” you say in a hushed whisper, shocked that he would even suggest it. He just smiles.

“Embezzlement? No, I’d like to give you some of my money to help.”

“You can’t do that. What about Jack?”

“I promise, Jack and I are doing perfectly fine. He could go to Harvard for free with the money I have saved.”

“With a father like you, I’m sure he’ll get in.”

“You’re calling me smart?”

“No,” you grin, “but you’re in the FBI, so I’m sure you could guarantee his acceptance.”

“Right, with all the government money I’m embezzling,” he jokes. You just smile, taking a moment to look at him. His smile lines. The faint rings under his eyes from long nights at the office. It was all so perfect. “I just want you to know, I’m serious about this offer.”

“Aaron, my financial situation has been better since I last spoke to Garcia. I’m moving soon and I found a roomate.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says with a small smile, staring into your eyes.

“Will that be all?” you ask, smiling back.

“Yes,” he says reluctantly. “But I have one request.”

“What’s that?” You stand up and Hotch is quick to follow suit.

“You’ll let me visit the new apartment?”

“Of course. As coworkers?” Aaron’s smile fades, his face forming a pensive expression, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch as he swallows thickly, struggling to form a response.

“Yes, of course, as coworkers,” he clarifies. You stare at him, not saying a word, barely struggling to hold your laughter in. He cracks a smile, seeing your expression. “Something to say?” he asks you.

“Maybe you should come over as more than a coworker,” you say slyly, hoping you aren’t pushing the envelope too far.

“I’d like that,” he quickly agrees. Relief floods over you, causing you to smile with glee.

“Is it too soon to kiss you?” You ask playfully, shooting him a wink.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” he says, leaning into you. You grab his tie, pulling him in close. Gently, he presses his warm lips against yours. He kisses you deeper, pressing your back against the office door. His big hands grab your waist, keeping you close. You snake your hands up his chest, wrapping them around his neck. Slowly, he pulls away, leaving you hungry for more.

“We should probably stop, maybe we could continue this when I get the new apartment tour?” he suggests.

“I’d be very open to that,” you reply with a smile. He smiles back, filling your stomach with butterflies.

“I’ll see you then,” Hotch replies, straightening out his suit. You do the same and open the door, revealing Garcia, Morgan, Spencer, JJ, and Emily staring at you with wide grins.

“I knew it!!” Garcia exclaims, high-fiving Morgan as she giggles.

“Never took Hotch for a ladies man,” Emily jokes dryly.

“You must not have been paying attention,” Morgan chimes in, “the guy’s smooth.”

“Right, and I’m sure he learned it from you,” JJ says sarcastically. You laugh at her remark, drawing attention back to you and Hotch.

“Really?” you ask, embarrassed, “even Spencer knew?

“I pick up on body language very well,” he says straight-faced. “Plus, you didn’t think we were all asleep on the jet, did you?” he asks, smiling wide. The whole team playfully laughs and you turn back to Hotch.

“I think our secret is out,” you tell him.

“They were going to learn eventually,” he says with a smile. He cradles the back of your head and gently kisses your forehead in front of the team. Cheers erupt from your friends, causing you to blush, but Hotch doesn’t seem embarrassed, if anything, he’s proud.

[al-1-na]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟕 ~ 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐢𝐩 (req.)

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𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: soft!Rafe Cameron x insecure!Reader

𝐂𝐖: Mature content (18+), explicit sexual content, body image issues (hip dips), praise

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Rafe finds out about you being insecure about your hip dips so he comforts you and tells you how perfect you are.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

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You lay beneath him, heart racing, the room dim except for the glow of your nightstand lamp. His hands, warm and steady, glide along your waist, mapping your curves like he’s memorizing them.

But when he gets to your hips—that part—you flinch. Just slightly. Just enough for him to notice.

His touch pauses.

“What was that?” he asks, voice low and careful, like he already knows.

Your mouth opens, then closes. You look away, suddenly aware of the way your body dips in, of how the curve between your hip and thigh isn’t smooth, isn’t seamless, isn’t the way you’ve seen in every photo, every post, every mirror.

“I just… I don’t like them,” you murmur. “My hips. The dips. They make me look—wrong.”

Silence.

Then his voice, quieter. Firm. “No.”

You meet his eyes. They’re burning, blue and intense and honest.

“There is nothing wrong with you. Not one thing.”

He leans down, kisses just above your hipbone—soft, then deeper, his lips dragging across your skin with devotion. Then he shifts lower, kissing the dip itself. Again. And again.

You gasp, not because it’s overtly sexual, but because no one’s ever done that before. No one’s ever worshipped the part you tried so hard to hide.

“You see a flaw,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “But I see something only you have. Something that makes you real. Something I love.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Rafe—”

“I’m not just saying it,” he says, climbing back up over you, one forearm braced beside your head. “You’re shaped like a dream. These hips, this waist—”

He grinds against you gently, and you feel him—hard, thick, straining against your thigh.

“You feel what you do to me?”

You nod, breath catching.

“I’m gonna show you,” he whispers, “just how perfect you are.”

He pulls your legs apart, slow and reverent, settling between them. You watch as he strokes himself—long and thick and flushed—and then lines up with your entrance.

“You’re so small,” he groans, easing inside. “So tight around me already.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, overwhelmed by the stretch. He doesn’t push too fast, just rocks in inch by inch, until he bottoms out, hips snug against yours.

“There you go,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re taking me so well. Feels like you were made for me.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, and he starts to move—slow at first, deep, dragging along your walls with every roll of his hips.

Then his hand slides down, palms over your lower belly—and he pauses.

“Feel that?” he says, pressing gently. You look down, and your eyes widen—there’s a slight bulge every time he thrusts deep.

“Oh my god…”

“Yeah,” he whispers, reverent. “That’s me. Deep inside you. Filling you up.”

His thrusts get slower, deeper, dragging pleasure through you like heat blooming in your chest.

“Even here,” he says, pressing again. “So tiny. I can see myself in you, baby. You fit me like no one else could.”

You moan, body arching, thighs trembling.

“I love these hips,” he murmurs, trailing kisses from your mouth down your jaw, your neck. “I love this body. I love you.”

And then—his thrusts pick up, rougher now, as you wrap your legs around him.

“You’re gonna come for me?” he pants. “Let me feel it—let me feel how perfect you are when you fall apart.”

You cry out as it hits—tight and sudden and overwhelming. He curses softly into your neck, rhythm stuttering.

Then, with one last deep thrust, he groans your name like a prayer and spills inside you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m right here,” he whispers as you both come down, hands stroking your sides. “You’re everything to me. Every part.”

And as he stays wrapped around you, still joined, still murmuring sweet things into your hair, you realize—

You’ve never felt more beautiful.

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𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @notkiaralol @rcsbabydoll @cokewithcameron @psychocitylights @favzcarpentr @alwaysherother @mavericksice @daryldixon83 @luvinqaidan @43hughes @k4yr14 @asher-420s-blog @soft-starr

[loviingpedri]

birds of a feather - jude bellingham

prompt: going to an amusement park with your lover, jude.

warnings: grammar issues, cursing, not proofread

i love fluff with jude.

credits to owners for all images

putting on your wrist band, your dream date that only seemed like a fairytale finally came true. and, it was with your prince charming, jude bellingham.

nothing like celebrating the champions league win in an amusement park to get all of the energy out. the date has been in planning for weeks and it finally come true. jude was jumping in joy after seeing the bright lights flashing everywhere with a crowd of people of all ages expressing their excitement.

"i haven't been to an amusement park since i was little," he spoke to you while you held his arm. "seems like nothing changed."

"i don't think anything has changed. still brings the same nostalgia." you gave him a brief smile as you were following him to the first ride he wanted to go on.

as he stared in awe, you were looking at the roller coaster in fear. of course, the brave jude chose the ride that flips upside down and with many drops.

"our first ride has to be the most memorable." he held your hand as both of you got into the line.

"i'm not surprised you chose this one. yet, i still kind of wish you chose something not as grand." the longer you stared at it, the more scared you got. jude could sense it since your grip on his hand tightened as people in the ride were going upside down and screaming in terror.

"i know you're scared, but you always got me. i promise it's not as bad as it looks."

"glad the food already digested, or else my stomach would've started doing flips." sharing a laugh, it was finally your turn. you buckled your seatbelt and took a deep breath to mentally prepare yourself. feeling a bit nervous, jude never let go of your hand. his smile gave you warmth and a new sense of comfort. as the ride operator was giving out instructions, your heart began beating very quickly. not in panic, but in excitement.

in a swift motion, the ride seemed to have blasted into the sky. you noticed jude's spark in his eyes with eye contact. all fear went away with you and jude's hands going into the air, still interlocked.

the most anticipating moment crept up. going upside down, you held onto jude, with a "what the fuck" slipping out of your mouth. laughter was heard everywhere during the drop with everyone on the ride was screaming for their lives. the adrenaline faded out with the ride ending. your boyfriend swinging your arms while trying to explore the park.

"holy shit y/n, we have to go on that ride again before we leave."

"definitely. good choice by the way." sharing your smiles, you walked towards the ride with the loudest music playing.

"what can i say, i know good stuff." giving a playful push to his shoulder, the carts were going backwards and forward to the rhythm of the songs.

after waiting for your turn, it was finally time. jude choosing which cart carefully. you got into the cart with him following behind. he was jamming to the song playing as it was the current trending song.

"i'm working lateee, cause i'm a singerrr." he sang the lyrics loudly with an imaginary mic in his hand.

"mhm, my favorite singer actually." giving a boost to his ego, the ride started. it started very slow, but as the lights began flashing faster, so did the ride. jude was squishing you into the little corner with all of his body weight on you. he couldn't control it, nor could he control his laughter. "JUDE! YOU'RE SQUISHING ME."

"i can't help it!" it was true, no matter how much he moved, you were still trapped. seeing the couple in front of you, the girlfriend was also having trouble. with uncontainable laughter, the ride came to a sudden stop. jude was confused and thought it was broken. within a spilt second, the ride began going backwards. it was much better because you were no longer stuck in the little corner.

jude held his hand out to help you get out the ride.

"sorry about that. nothing you aren't used to though." he winked at you.

"it was like carrying a giant baby. guess you at the gym really paid off. it's like you doubled in size, in a good way." jude flexed his arm and kissed his muscle. you rolled your eyes playfully and walked away. he hugged you from behind.

"getting kind of hungry. i see a stand selling churros and chocolate. how does that sound?" you nodded in approval. jude being jude, he wanted to practice his spanish speaking skills. he was showing improvement, and was proud of himself.

sitting down next to jude as he ate to his heart and stomach's desire, a little kid walked past. you whispered to jude that the child was wearing a camavinga jersey.

"i think number 5 is better than number 12, yeah?" he spoke as he took another bite.

"no comment." he looked at you in hurt, but he cannot hide a smile for his life.

zoning out, billie eilish's birds of a feather began to play.

I want you to stay

after throwing away the food, jude sat down again with his arm around your shoulder. putting your head onto his shoulder, you wanted to stay like that forever.

Cause it was always you, alright

he was touching your hand gently. playing with the jewelry you wore. a small smile appeared on his face when he realized it was the jewelry he got you for your birthday.

Birds of a feather, we should stick together

he held onto you tighter, giving kisses on the top of your head. he played with the strands of your hair. in this moment, both of you realized, you were his, and he was yours.

But if it's forever, it's even better

he got up after he felt the food digested. walking to the next ride, making sure to keep you close, always. he was very intrigued with the swings that went into the air. although it looked like a headache, it was the best way to relax like you're in the sky, just like two birds.

getting on the swings, it felt like you were a little kid meeting another kid at the park. most importantly, both of you shared interests and passion. soon, inseparable.

you reached for his hand as the swings rose up.

I'll love you 'til the day that I die

going at a faster rate, jude let out a little scream because he thought he was gonna hit the tree. out of all things, he was scared of going into a tree branch. he never failed to put a smile on your face. both of you synchronized swing your feet throughout the ride. the wind blowing into your faces. it was like blowing all your worries away.

seeing in the corner of your eye, you spot a photo booth. a perfect way to end the night. quickly after the swings were feet level, you grabbed jude's arm and sprinted towards the booth. he wasn't sure what was happening, but put his full trust into you.

approaching the booth, your excitement only grew.

"what faces should we make?" you chose which frame on the photos, while letting the most photogenic person out of you decide.

"i think we should do a nice smile, then a funny face."

"jude, that's only two out of four photos."

"y/n, we can freestyle the last two, obviously." matching your tone, you gave him a little side eye.

the countdown began. both of you showing off your pearly whites.

click!

"funny face!" you said as you stuck out your tongue with a peace sign over your left eye. jude on the other hand, stuck up his arms like his celebration and opened his mouth.

click!

you didn't have time to react, so you cupped his face with your hand and gave him a smooch on his cheek. he didn't complain.

click!

last picture, gotta make it worth it. he turned your face and kissed you lightly on the lips. you could feel his smile, which only made you smile.

click!

without hesitation, he went out the booth to collect the photos. it was perfect. you couldn't have asked for a better date.

"i love you, don't act surprised." the words spilling out your mouth, jude put his hands on his cheeks with an 'o' expression to act surprised. you wiggled your eyebrows at him as you made it towards the exit of the park. a perfect night with your perfect person.

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author’s note: long time no see! this is a product of a laptop and a latte. probably one of my longest works ever. kinda in my motivational era. i'm still surprised i wrote this within like 2-3 hours. thank you guys for the growing support. hopefully, more works coming soon. as always, safe reads!

[clumsybriar]

Keegan P. Russ X Fem! Reader - Sunday Morning

Keegan Russ X Reader

Notes: Reader is Feminine, there is no use of pronouns like She/Her/Hers, no use of (Y/N), POV is 2nd Person POV. (I will be working on some Masculine Readers and Gender Neutral Readers here soon, I have some ideas now its just formulating them and getting them written and doing heavy grammatical checks!)

Word Count: 4,451

Warnings: Sexual Themes in this story, Smut, Minors do not interact! I did do some minor re-reading but grammatical issues could still be present.

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Sunday mornings were slow, the kind of slow that wrapped around you like a well-loved blanket. The world outside still yawned itself awake—birds stretching their wings, the sun spilling lazy gold through the windows, and the air holding the last traces of night’s chill.

 It was the kind of morning made for whispered conversations against pillows, for coffee cups cradled in sleepy hands, for the quiet comfort of simply existing beside someone. And here, in this little pocket of time before the day truly began, nothing else mattered. 

Mornings such as this were sacred for tangled limbs beneath soft sheets, for the way the sunlight traced lazy patterns across their skin. The world outside could wait. Right now, all that mattered was the warmth of the body beside them, the slow rise and fall of breath, the drowsy way fingers skimmed across bare shoulders as if memorizing a love story written in touch. A sleepy hum, a half-mumbled good morning, and then lips brushing over a temple, a cheek, the corner of a smile.

There was no rush, no expectations. Just love, quiet and unshaken, blooming in the golden hush of the morning.

You laid against keegan, your eyes ever so softly glancing out the window listening to the birds greet the morning sun. Your eyes glanced at the clock as you hummed and rolled back around, nuzzling your face into Keegan’s steady rising and falling chest as he breathed through his mouth snorting ever so quietly as he slept a bit longer. It wasn’t often he got to sleep in. always being called to be away on a mission or on base. 

Now things were different. Keegan was once a marine, now a civilian. He decided it was time to retire and here he was, sleeping in as if he was never once a distinguished and highly decorated marine who had seen his fair share of bloodshed and war. Yet here he was, finally granted some peace and quiet as he deserved.

You snuggled closer, sighing softly as his arms tightened around you. It was a sense of comfort and contentment that you had never experienced before, and you relished every moment of it. It was something you were finally growing familiar with being granted moments like this everyday. 

Now you didn’t have to wake up alone or on your own, you had Keegan wrapped up around you snoring like nothing in the world mattered, like he didn’t have to worry about being heard or found as he slept. 

“Mmm,” You whined quietly as your eyes fluttered closed while your face was smashed into his chest as he shifted to lay on his back. 

Keegan peaked his one eye open as he looked down at you with an ever growing smirk on his face. He was devious at times, and right now was going to be one of those moments until he saw how cute you looked tucked into his arms resting on his bare chest. 

Keegan chuckled softly as he held you close to him, feeling his mind calm down as he knew he was here with you always, never having to be pulled away to war ever again. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Keegan muttered, “I’m not going anywhere.” 

You hummed and smiled as you felt his reassurance. It was reassurance that he wasn't going anywhere, but sticking right here. That was all you needed to hear this Sunday morning. It will always set your once panicked and frenzied heart at ease with a sense of contentment. 

You scooted closer, needing his warmth to fill your bones, it had to be his warmth. The warmth that felt like a spring day, cozy and peaceful. A spring day that thawed winter's frozen heart. 

Keegan ran his fingers gently along your back, a soothing, rhythmic motions that made you feel completely cared for and secure. Something he could easily do without any issues. He just knew how to make you feel at home and secure. 

As it was he was practically your bodyguard, one who specialized in killing spiders and keeping men away from what was his. 

You stayed still, allowing yourself to fully relax against him, your head resting on his chest. You could feel the warmth of his skin against your own along with the steady rise and fall of his breath.

Keegan's hand traced lazy patterns on your back, his touch both soothing and possessive. You could feel him watching you, his gaze heavy with affection and desire. You could see in his eyes the mischief that lurked behind those innocent eyes just how he liked to play it, always keeping you on your toes. 

Keegan’s hand slipped down to your rear, his touch lingering there for a moment before giving a gentle, possessive squeeze. He pulled you even closer, his body molded against yours, as if he couldn't stand to be apart from you.

He exhaled deeply, his breath hot against your skin, his own desire growing as he took in the proximity of your bodies. It was a moment of quiet intimacy, the world around you fading away as you both relished the closeness.

You closed your eyes, surrendering yourself to the comfort of his embrace. Your body melted against his, your curves fitting perfectly into the contours of his form. It was a feeling of completeness, as if you were made to fit perfectly into his arms.

He held you close, his hand still on your rear, his touch gentle yet possessive. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, it's beat slow and measured, a calming reassurance that you were safe and cared for.

Keegan’s fingers traced along the edge of your panties, his touch both teasing and possessive. He hooked his fingers in the elastic, lightly tugging at the fabric, as if testing the stretch.

His gaze was hungry, his eyes dark and intense as he looked down at you. There was an air of command in his demeanor, as if he was making a claim on you, marking you as his.

“Keegan,” you mumbled looking up at him as you tried to squirm away now facing the window laying on your side. Keegan was displeased and he tugged you closer and chuckled quietly. “You're up to no good.” 

“Aren’t I always.” he hummed softly as he wedged his thigh between your legs. You let out a gasp at the pressure against your sensitive flesh as it sent waves of pleasure through your body. You could feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of your shirt and panties. His muscles were tense and firm as he had you trapped with your back against his chest. His hand moved to your hip, guiding your body closer, his grip on you unyielding. His mouth found your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of marks against your skin. 

Keegan’s hands guided your hips into a slow, rhythmic motion, his ouch firm and sure. He knew exactly what reaction he would get out of you, and he was succeeding when you let a little sigh escape out of your lips. His hands guiding the movement of your hips over his thighs sent just jolts of pleasure since the pressure was just right. He knew exactly what you needed. 

You could feel his other hand trail up your stomach, his touch possessive holding you possessive as if it marked you as his own. He held you tight, his body moving in time with yours, his breath hot against your ear. 

You arched your back against his chest, your fingers gripping the sheets in front of you, as a low moan escaped your lips. You could feel every contour of his body, the strength and power that he exuded as he held you tightly in his arms.

Keegan didn't let up, his hand still guiding your hips, his body moving against yours in a slow, steady rhythm, as if he was determined to draw every last bit of pleasure from you. His other hand traced along your spine, his touch both gentle and possessive.

Keegan's hand slowly slid under the fabric of your panties, his touch a mixture of tenderness and possessiveness. You could feel his warm, strong fingers against your skin, their movement deliberate and confident, as if he knew exactly what you needed.

He moved slowly, teasingly, his touch both soothing and arousing, leaving you panting and wanting more. It was as if he was drawing out your pleasure, prolonging the moment and making you crave his touch.

“Mmm,” you felt that sigh leave your lips as you stretched your back against him. 

Keegan lifted your shirt, exposing your bare breasts to his gaze. His touch was gentle yet possessive, as he cupped them in his hands, his thumbs tracing slow circles around your nipples. He groaned quietly, the sound low and full of desire. His body pressed against yours, his chest warm and firm against your back. He moved his mouth to your neck, his lips leaving a trail of gentle kisses. 

Your legs tensed involuntarily, your body responding to his touch on pure instinct. You could feel his hot breath against your skin, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck and shoulder. Your own breathing was ragged and unsteady, your body completely under his control.

He shifted his position slightly, his body moving in perfect synchronization with yours, as if he knew exactly how to bring you pleasure. His hand slipped lower, trailing along your thigh, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Keegan's lips found your ear, leaving a trail of soft, tender kisses along the edge and lobe. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin, his touch both gentle and possessive. You could feel the desire radiating off him, the need to claim you, to make you his own, growing stronger with each passing moment.

His hands moved over your body, his touch both soothing and arousing, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

Keegan's voice was soft and low, his words a murmured stream of reassurances and compliments. He cooed in your ear, his tone soothing and comforting, as if he was trying to calm a wild creature. As if you were a wild creature he was trying to tame. 

"You're doing so well," he murmured, his lips gently grazing your skin. "Such a good girl for me." His words had a mesmerizing effect on you, drawing you deeper into the haze of pleasure that he was cultivating.

Keegan shifted his position, placing himself above you, his body hovering over yours. He looked down at you, his gaze intense and possessive. His hands roamed across your body, touching every inch of you as if he was claiming you as his own. You could feel his weight above you, the power and strength of his body overwhelming and arousing. He lowered himself, his chest and stomach pressing against yours, his face mere inches from yours.

Keegan hooked your legs in the crook of his arm, his touch firm and possessive. He moved closer, his body enveloping yours, as he continued to coo at you. His words were low and soothing, his tone almost hypnotizing, drawing you deeper and deeper into the moment.

"So perfect," he murmured, his eyes raking over your face. "All mine." His free hand traced along your waist and ribs, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

The two of you were soon locked together  and what little clothes you had strewn all over the floor as his hips met yours in a gentle rhythmic pace. You could feel every inch of him, the heat and strength of his body against yours, the connection between you both intense. 

He held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he was afraid to let you go. His mouth trailed kisses along your neck and shoulder, his voice low and ragged. “You feel so good,” he muttered, his words barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breaths and moans. 

Keegan wasn't just having intercourse with you, he was making gentle love to you, his every touch and movement a testament to his care and affection. He knew that the morning needed tender, lazy touches and soothing words, and he was determined to give you everything you needed. Especially on a sunday morning, when all of that mattered even more as the two of you begin a brand new week. 

You could feel the difference in the way he held you, the way he moved against you, the way he spoke to you. It was as if he was trying to imprint himself on your soul, to make your connection so intimate and deep that it would last a lifetime.

“Kee—“ You lost the words you were going to utter. 

Keegan chuckled softly as you lost your words, his gaze fixed on your face. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, knew that you were completely at his mercy. 

"Shh," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. "Don't speak."

You nodded in acquiesce, your words lost in the moment, your body completely at the mercy of his touch. Keegan's hand traced along your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, his eyes burning with desire and possession. 

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, guttural growl. "Just let me take care of you, love."

You nuzzled your face into the pillow, your senses overwhelmed by the sensations running through your body. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the rough fabric of the sheets under your skin, the gentle pressure of his hands as he held you tight.

Keegan’s hand moved to your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin, as if he was trying to calm you down, to bring you back to the present moment.

His rough and calloused hand from many years of wielding a gun, found its way on your hip bringing you back to reality. His touch grounding you in the moment. You could feel his weight shift as he repositioned himself, his body molded against yours.

He brought his face close to your ear, his voice low and gruff. "Stay with me," he murmured, his words a command and a reassurance all at once.

You nodded, fighting the lure of the fantasy world, trying to focus on the reality of your bodies pressed together. Keegan seemed to sense your struggle, his hand moving to your chin, his touch gentle but firm as he lifted your face to look at him.

"Focus on me," he whispered, his gaze intense and commanding. "On my touch, my words, my scent. I’m real, love. I’m here with you."

“Ah,” You felt yourself bracing against his chest, your hands seeking the feel of his body. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, the strength and solidity of his muscles under your hands, as if holding on to him was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Keegan wrapped his arms around you, holding you against him, his touch possessive and protective as he moved against you. "That's right," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. "Hold onto me, love."

Keegan shifted positions, moving you both onto your sides, his body still firmly against yours. He guided your leg over his hip, pulling you against him, the pressure both intense and pleasurable.His hands roamed across your skin, tracing slow circles along your waist and hip, as he nuzzled his face against your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

Your whine was low and soft, a quiet plea for more, for him to keep going, to never stop. 

Keegan seemed to understand, his hand moving down your back, his touch firm but gentle, as he pulled you closer, his body pressed against yours from head to toe.

"I know, love," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "I know what you need. Just let me take care of you."

You could feel your body responding to his every move, your core drawn to him like a magnet, clenching around him with each of his deep, powerful thrusts. Keegan seemed to know exactly how to move, how to touch you, how to push you to the edge without letting you go over. His breath was ragged and uneven, as if he was struggling to maintain control, as if he was fighting the urge to let go and let his primal instincts take over.

"You feel so good," he muttered, his words barely audible over your ragged gasps. "You're so perfect, love."

Keegan was relentless in his praise, his words a constant stream of reassurances and compliments. He told you how good you felt, how perfect you were, how much he wanted you...

His hands roamed over you like he was trying to memorize every inch of your body, as if he was determined to make every single one of your nerve ends spark with pleasure. He spoke to you, soft and low, as if his words were just as important as his touch, his voice an almost hypnotizing presence in your ear.

Your lips parted as you gasped. The trembling that ran through your body was like a current of electricity, sparking through every nerve ending, leaving you panting and breathless. Keegan could feel it, could see it in the way you moved against him, in the gasp that escaped your lips as you tried to form words but found none.

His movements became more intense, more desperate, as if he was trying to push you past the limits of your endurance. His hands moved to your hips, holding you firmly against him as he deepened each thrust, his gaze fixed on your face refusing to look away.

Keegan rolled you onto your back, his body pressing against yours as he dug his feet into the bed, creating a solid platform for his thrusts. He held your leg over his hip, his grip firm and unyielding, giving him the leverage he needed to drive himself deeper, harder, into you.

The room was filled with the sounds of your ragged breaths, his low growls, the wet slapping of flesh on flesh as he took what he wanted, needed, from you. You could feel yourself being consumed by him, overtaken by him.

You clung to reality, seeing only Keegan's love and desire for you, a gentle love that he made to you on this lazy Sunday. It was more intense than any moment before in your life because it was just the two of you in that moment.

He kissed and nipped at your neck, his words murmured into your skin, praising you, telling you how good you were, how much he loved you. His grip on your hip was firm, grounding you, and yet sending you spiraling out of control all at the same time.

He could feel your panting breaths against his neck, and he knew you were close. He shifted his grip on your hip, bringing your body closer to his, his movements more purposeful, more intense.He lifted his head to meet your gaze, his eyes locked on your face, as he spoke low and urgent. "Look at me," he said, his words a command. "I want to see your face when you come for me, love." He cupped your face, his thumb rubbing softly against your skin, his touch loving and tender. "Come for me, love," he whispered, his voice low and gentle. "I need to see you let go for me." He held your gaze, his expression intense and possessive, as if he was trying to burn this moment into his memory, to make your pleasure his own.

You felt the bubbling heat building inside you, close to bursting, close to releasing. Your body was coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap. Keegan was relentless, his movements precise and deliberate, as if he was trying to draw every last bit of pleasure from you possible.

His hand moved to your face, his thumb tracing across your cheekbone, his touch tender and possessive. "That's it," he murmured, his words a low, ragged growl. "Let go for me, love. I want to see you lose control.” 

It snapped inside your abdomen, the pleasure washing over you in waves, crashing into you like a tsunami. You clung to him, your arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him.

Keegan was right there with you, his movement becoming erratic and urgent, as if he was being pulled along in the current of your pleasure. His own release was close, you could tell by the way his body tensed and coiled, how his breath came in ragged gasps, and the way his voice rumbled low and primal in your ears.

"I want to see your face," you whined quietly, the words barely audible over the sound of both your ragged breaths. Keegan lifted his head, his gaze meeting yours, his expression intense and possessive and desperate. 

"You want to see my face when I come for you, love?" he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, as if he was ready to snap at any moment.

"Yes!" you cried out, your voice a ragged gasp, your body clinging to him tightly. Keegan's hand moved to your hip, holding you against him, as if he was trying to anchor himself to you.

You could see the tension in his face, his jaw clenched tightly, as if he was fighting to hold back. His eyes were locked on yours, his gaze heated and intense, as if he was trying to burn this moment into his mind forever. His rambling was more than just words, but a stream of consciousness that spilled from his lips, his words tumbling over one another as his pleas became more urgent.

"I need to come for you," he muttered, his voice ragged and desperate. "I need to see you come too. I need to be deep inside you when it happens. I need to feel you around me. I need to hear you say my name when you can't say anything else. I need to kiss you, taste you, feel you, touch you, breathe you. Oh god, I need it.” His words were a list of desires and needs. 

You were on the edge again, already so soon, as if your body had been trained to respond to him, to know and anticipate and crave his touch. Keegan could sense it, could see it in the way you moved against him, the way your breath caught in your throat, the way your body shook with anticipation.

He leaned close, his mouth at your ear, his words ragged and urgent. "I know you're close again, love," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "I can feel it. I can hear it. I can see it."

"Wanna see you cum," you gasped out, your words ragged and urgent. 

"I need to see your face when you lose control, love," he said through gritted teeth.

Your hair was a disheveled mess, framing your face as you panted, trying to catch your breath. Keegan’s gaze was fixed on you, watching every twitch of your facial muscles, every flutter of your eyelashes.

His grip on your hip tightened, as if he was anchoring himself to you, to this moment. His own breath was ragged and uneven, as he fought for control, as he fought back the intensity of his own pleasure.

"Together!" you moaned out, your voice pleading and desperate, as if you could no longer bear to hold back any longer. He seemed to understand, his body tense and coiled, ready to snap at any moment. His grip on your hip was almost painful now, his fingers digging into your skin as if he was trying to mark you, to claim you, to make you his. His head tipped back, his eyes closed, his expression tight and intense

"No!" you begged, your voice thick with need, with desperation. "Look at me!" Keegan's head snapped back down to meet your gaze, his eyes locking on yours. They were dark and intense, full of a possessive fire that made your heart skip a beat.

"I am looking at you, love," he growled, his words short and sharp, as if it was taking all his energy just to speak.

He thrusted deep one last time, the world around you disappearing. The only thing that mattered was the heat between you, the sound of your ragged breaths, the feel of your skin against his, the way he filled you up and made you feel complete.

His hand moved to your face, his thumb tracing across your cheek, his touch tender and possessive.

Then that boiling feeling in both your abdomens boiled over like an erupting volcano. In the heat of the moment words and chants left his lips praising you like you were the goddess that gave him life. 

 "You're beautiful. You're perfect. You're amazing. I love you. You can take everything I have. Oh God, I love you, my love. My beautiful love. My good girl. Oh, my good girl…Good girl…Good girl, My love. My beautiful love. My precious love.” He chanted and chanted like it was a spell he was putting into existence. “My love, my love, my love, my beautiful girl.” 

His chants were a mesmerizing soundtrack to your pleasure. It was as if his mind had disconnected from reality, as if the only thing his brain was capable of processing was you. You could feel the intensity of his emotions, the depth of his love and desire.

He rested his forehead against yours, his breath ragged and uneven, his eyes fixed on your face. There was a tender intensity in his gaze, mixed with a possessive protectiveness that seemed to make him come alive.

You could feel his body tremble slightly as the last waves of pleasure ebbed away, leaving both of you spent and raw. He looked at you as if the rest of the world didn’t matter, as if you were the only thing that existed.

He gently kissed your lips, and in that moment, you knew with absolute certainty that you belonged to him and he belonged to you. It was as if something in the universe had clicked into place, as if two halves had finally been reunited.

You felt his hand on your face, his touch gentle and tender, as he whispered softly against your skin. "I'm yours," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "and you're mine."

A great way to begin a Sunday morning.