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purple-obsidian · 1 year ago

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appearances (18+, dick grayson x fem reader) wc 6.7k

⭓ this post contains sexual content and is not suitable for minors. special shoutout to @janybabyy for helping me edit this monstrosity. reader is a member of the titans, afab, uses she/her pronouns, and has an established friendship with dick.

Dick's arm is draped around your waist, holding your body close while his enchanting laughter rings in your ear, reacting to a story being told by the other couple sharing the elevator.

"I'm telling the truth! Swear on my life, he actually said that!" The man across from you says, grinning and chuckling. A soft ding grabs your attention, and you clear your throat, looking up at Dick with a soft smile.

"Well, this is our floor. We'll see you in the morning!" You promise, letting Dick pick up your suitcase for you and lead the way. You make your way down the hallway, reading the room numbers as you get closer to the one the receptionist scribbled on your key card. You feel exhausted, and after a long day of pretending to be a happy couple with your teammate, you're happy that it's finally time to rest. You retrieve the room key from your pocket when you finally reach your door, and open it wide for Dick so he can carry your bags in.

You flick the light switch on, taking in the cheap carpeting, generic artwork, and a single queen bed centered on the far wall. "Um... Dick?"

"Hm?" He turns to you, looking just as tired as you feel, no longer fronting as an excited newly-wed. "What is it?"

"Didn't you request a room with two beds?"

His bright blue eyes dart to the singular bed, shoulders slumping in defeat when he realizes there was a mix up in your reservation. "Shit. Lemme call the front desk."

"They're probably full," you comment, letting yourself fall into one of the chairs by the window, sinking down with a tired sigh and kicking off your heels, "Between the convention and the concert this weekend, I'll be shocked if they have any other rooms free."

Dick ignores you, setting down your luggage and walking over to the corded phone on the bedside table. He picks up the receiver, punches the button for guest services, and waits patiently for them to answer. You take a deep breath, relaxing and letting your mind wander as he speaks with the operator, who confirms that there are no more rooms available.

Dick hangs up the phone with a grumble, glancing behind him to look at you.

"Told you so." You chide, a playful grin on your lips.

"I'm sorry," Dick plops himself down on the side of the bed and groans. "There isn't even a pull-out couch."

"We'll be fine," You tell him dismissively, yawning and stretching your hands over your head, "It's only a few nights."

"I can sleep on the floor if you'd be more comfortable that way," He offers, rubbing his eyes.

"As long as you keep your hands to yourself, we'll be fine."

The first night you share a bed, Dick does keep his hands to himself. You're both so exhausted that you fall into a deep sleep almost immediately, making your proximity less awkward. You toss and turn here and there, but otherwise, the night goes on without issue.

The second night is another story.

After another long day of working undercover as newlyweds attending a couples conference, you and Dick are at each other's throats over a disagreement regarding the innocence of the man leading it. You both act your part all day. You kiss his cheek when others are looking. Dick makes an pointed effort to be handsy, ensuring he's touching you in some way whenever appropriate. But once you're in the privacy of the hotel room, the masks come down, and you are at each other's throats, arguing in hushed tones and bickering over what you observed today.

"Why the fuck did you invite me along on this mission if you didn't want my opinion?" You ask harshly, fumbling with the clasp of your necklace as you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, attempting to remove it so you can shower.

"I couldn't have come alone! It would have been suspicious, and Donna was busy, so you were my only option!"

"Gee, thanks Dick. That makes me feel real good about myself." You hiss, fumbling again with the tiny clasp, "Why couldn't you bring Wally?"

"You know our suspect is homophobic, if I showed up with a man as my partner there's no way I'd be able to get close enough to him!" Dick notices you struggling with your necklace. He sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, "Need some help with that?"

"Fuck off," You mumble dismissively, giving up your efforts, "Screw it, I'll just leave it on."

You reach for the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head, throwing it angrily to the ground. Dick watches, eyes widening a little, unable to stop himself from checking you out and admiring the lacy bra you're wearing, his anger diffusing.

"You mind? I need to shower, give me some privacy," You snap, waving your hand at him dismissively.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Dick growls, coming up behind you, sandwiching your body between him and the vanity, “Hold still.”

You huff, but relax and accept his help remove the chain. His hands are warm against your neck, quickly unclasping the lock and setting the necklace down next to you. You choose to ignore the way his eyes wander, admiring your reflection in the mirror.

“Thanks,” You grumble, your annoyance quickly subsiding, but you keep your eyes narrowed at him.

Maybe you are a bit stubborn.

“Yeah, yeah. Just hurry up, okay? I gotta shower too,” He reminds you before leaving the bathrrom, stealing one last glance at your half naked body and closing the door behind him.

Feeling bitter, you take your time with an extra long, extra hot shower, shaving your legs, exfoliating, deep conditioning your hair, not caring if you’re being petty. You linger, too, lotioning your whole body and applying your hair products, not missing a single step in your routine.

When you finally exit the steamy bathroom, Dick is sitting at the small desk in your room, doing something on his laptop. You walk out in your robe, smoothing your freshly washed hair and making your way over to your suitcase.

“Took you long enough,” Dick comments, giving you a pointed side-eye.

“Sorry,” You mumble, rummaging around for your sleep clothes, “All yours now.”

Waiting until he finishes up and locks himself in the bathroom, you quickly change and crawl into your side of the bed, cozying up to the pillow that smells faintly of bleach. You relax, listening to the muffled sound of running water coming from the bathroom. He's quick enough that you're still awake when he's done. Dick exits the bathroom, hair dripping wet, wearing nothing but his boxers.

"You used all the hot water."

You peek an eye open to glare at him, resenting his accusation, "It's a hotel, Dick. It's going to take a lot more than my twenty minute shower to make the whole building run out of hot water. Maybe you just don't know how to work the faucet."

You notice him shivering, and a pang of guilt eats away at you. But you stand by what you said.

"You took at least 30 minutes. And are you kidding me? You think I'm the type of guy that can't figure out a faucet?"

"Well, no, before this little trip of ours, I didn't think that. But seeing as you can't figure out our guy is guilty when the evidence is laid out in front of you like Thanksgiving dinner, my opinion on your intelligence might be changing."

He grinds his teeth, popping his jaw and clenching his fists at his side until his knuckles crack, "Shoulda brought Wally."

You lift your head so you can glare at him with both eyes, but Dick is already grabbing the comforter and sheet to yank them off the bed, leaving you shivering and exposed.

"Whatthefuck?!" You shriek, pulling your knees to your chest reflexively at the rush of cold air.

Dick jumps onto the bed, pulling the blankets over both of you, and with little effort he pulls your body against his, "I'm fucking freezing." He hisses through gritted teeth, "And I'm about to make it your problem.”

The chill radiating off of his stone-cold chest and body quickly seeps through the thin cotton of your t-shirt and sleep shorts. Flinching, you shiver and claw at the edge of the bed to pull yourself away from him. "Dick! G-Get off of me! This isn't f-funny!" You stammer in desperation.

"No, it isn't."

You long for the satisfaction of smacking the smirk off of him. You can't even see his face since your back is to him, but when you hear his taunting, you just know the cocky bastard is smiling. His strong, cold arms force your back to go flush with his chest again as he wrestles with you, utilizing his jiu-jitsu skills to pin you under him and prevent you from escaping his grasp.

"GET. OFF!!" You yell again.

Dick promptly slaps his right hand over your mouth, bringing his lips to your ear and shushing you. "Remember, we're in a hotel. People could hear you if you screamed. Last thing we need to do is blow our cover."

You groan and struggle to shake your head free of his hand, which is fruitless, but Dick takes pity on you and removes his hand after watching you struggle for a moment.

"This is assault, you know," You growl at him angrily, "You're h-holding me against my will."

"Oh please, I've done worse to you during training. You're fine. Just let me hold you for a minute until I can warm up. You owe me that much," Dick holds you closer to him, and he isn't lying, He really is as cold as an ice cube. Keeping you pinned against the bed, he holds you, fearful that you'll shy away and refuse to share your body heat. But you know when you're beat. The soft spot you have for him trumps your annoyance, and you accept your fate.

You really didn't mean to make him suffer, you just took a tad longer washing yourself than normal. Could it really be your fault that there was no hot water? You take these next few minutes of discomfort to ponder the specifics of hotel plumbing, doing anything to distract yourself from the chill.

Dick notices the subtle shift as you try to relax your body and regulate your breathing. There's something in the way you feel, your body going from tense and combative to calm and still under him, that makes his heartbeat stay elevated, even after he finally starts to warm up.

'She trusts me.' He thinks to himself, 'Or at least, she knows when to give up.'

Several minutes pass by, neither of you asleep, but not speaking. Only the sounds of your breathing are audible in the stillness of the hotel room. Dick starts to feel guilty, now that his body temperature is back to normal, and lifts himself off of you to lay on his back.

"I'm sorry," He says quietly, brows furrowed in thought, "I shouldn't have done that."

Now it's your turn to seek body heat. You let out an involuntary whimper, so soft that you're hoping Dick didn't hear it. "Wait," Your hand finds his chest in the dark, and you pull yourself up so your head is laying directly over his heart, "You might be all warmed up, but I'm still cold."

Your feet, which weren't touching him before, are particularly chilly, so you take this opportunity to press them against his bare leg. Dick tenses in response, but he doesn't push you off of him.

"I deserve this," He whispers in a tone of defeat.

"You're so dramatic," You whisper back.

"And you're more stubborn than the Bat."

"Ouch."

"Am I wrong?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Exactly," He says with a hint of pride.

"Just shut up and warm up, I'm tired," You try to sound firm, but despite your best efforts, your voice sounds sleepy and content.

"You know, maybe I should keep a hold of you all night, to stop you from tossing and turning."

"M'not that bad," You grumble, "You'll survive."

But you soon fall asleep on his chest. Your breathing gets slower and deeper, and you finally relax into a pleasant slumber. Dick isn't far behind you. He is scared to admit to himself how good it feels to have you in his arms. He chalks it up to the fact that he's been pretending to be your husband since you got here, denying anything deeper, and lets his mind shut down and rest, falling asleep to the soft sound of your breathing.

Several hours later, you wake with a start, eyes popping open as you suck in a deep breath. You were having a bizarre dream, but thankfully your less-than-graceful awakening hasn’t seemed to of bothered your teammate, who you realize has shifted in the night. He’s now spooning you, his arm around your waist and his face nuzzled against your neck.

A heat creeps into your cheeks as you hazily register the intimacy of the position you’re in. You carefully attempt to untangle yourself from him, but you quickly realize your arm is asleep, and you curse to yourself as the uncomfortable pins-and-needles sensation prickle your nerves.

You wiggle your arm, the blood flow slowly returning, not noticing how your movement is making your ass bump against the man behind you.

Dick’s eyes flutter open, awakened by the soft swaying of your body as you struggle to get your arm functioning like normal. He mutters your name groggily, and you curse yourself for waking him.

"Sorry, Dick. I'm warm now, you can let go of me," You say softly.

In his half-asleep state, Dick exhales an audible groan, moving his arm so he can stretch out. You think you're free, but he quickly replaces it back over your waist before he pulls you snug against his body. "Could we stay like this? Feels nice." His voice is hoarse and gravely from sleep, which triggers a dangerous shift in your thoughts. His strong arms feel good wrapped around you. He smells good. You're comfortable, now that your arm is awake, and you notice something poking at your lower back when he pulls you even closer to him.

The heat you felt in your cheeks travels down to pool in your belly, and you resist the urge to squeeze your thighs together to relieve the ache you feel.

'Stop it. This won't end well. He's hot, but he's your friend. Just your friend...'

You capture your lip between your bottom teeth and close your eyes, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, we can stay like this," You finally say, "But you need to tell your little friend to calm down."

"Hm?" Dick perks up at your comment, trying to make sense of what you said while his brain is still not fully awake.

"You're hard. It's distracting."

"Woah, hey. Who are you calling little? That's a low blow, you wouldn't even have any way of knowing that."

"I can feel you right now Dick. S'gross. We can cuddle if you want but I don't want your hard-on stabbing me while-"

"This feel little to you?" He interrupts, shifting you higher so he can grind his boner against your ass, with only his boxers and your silky sleep shorts separating you.

It doesn't. Now that he's doing it intentionally, you realize how much he's packing down there, which makes you stammer a little as you squirm against him, trying to quell the arousal building in your abdomen. "Jeez- okay, point taken. Now quit it," You chide, hoping you sound firm.

"Sure you want me to quit?" He's fully awake now. You can tell by the confidence in his tone when he taunts you, "Something tells me you're enjoying this. I've seen the way you've been looking at me."

His lips are merely an inch from your ear as he whispers to you, making your heart beat faster in your chest and your brain starts to panic. "Of course I've been looking at you differently. We're pretending to be a couple. We're undercover. It's called acting."

"Can I tell you a secret?" His hand starts to play with the hem of your shirt, rough hands barely brushing the small bit of exposed skin as the fabric bunches up on your waist.

"W-what?" You ask, briefly wondering if you're dreaming.

"Donna wasn't busy," He murmurs, running the tip of his nose up and down your neck slowly as he tries to entice you. "I wanted you here with me."

"That's a lie," You chide back without much thought. You know Dick and Donna are best friends, there's no way he would choose you over her for a mission like this, right?

Right?

He ignores your accusation like he didn't hear it. "You really want me to stop?" Dick presses his hand against your stomach, caressing your soft skin and nudging his nose against the shell of your ear, his breath fanning over your neck and making you shiver. "Tell me to fuck off and I'll let you have the bed to yourself."

"I... I mean...y-you don't need to, I don't want... don't sleep on the floor, please."

"Because you like this? Don't you?" His hand sneaks further up your torso, until his fingertips brush against the underside of your breast. "Don't tell me these past few days haven't felt right to you. I barely feel like I've had to act."

"Are you kidding? We've been bickering every moment we're alone!" You argue back. You're grateful for the dark, which hides how wide your eyes are from how he's touching you.

"Don't mean about the mission. I meant you and me. Having you on my arm. Calling you mine. The way you kiss me- I wish you'd kiss me like that when we're alone, instead of fighting," He admits, tentatively grinding his hips into your ass as he speaks. "You looked so pretty in that dress, earlier. That color looks amazing on you."

This is a lot for you to process. Sure, Dick is attractive. You'd be stupid to deny it. But he's your friend, has been for a while. You work together, and you've tried to not let your mind go down that path, not wanting to mess up the opportunity of a lifetime, to be a hero and work alongside him and the other Titans. But when he talks about how right these past couple days have felt, you have a hard time denying it. Yeah, you were acting, but it did come easy. His smile is heart-warming. His touch feels safe. And having him wait on you hand and foot has made you feel pretty special, even if you were under the impression that it was all performative.

Dick pauses his movements when you take a while to respond to him, second-guessing himself. He says your name softly, before asking, "Am I making you uncomfortable? Do you want me to stop?"

The answer is no.

So why is it so hard to say out loud?

Nervous, Dick shifts away from you and retracts his hand, guiding you onto your back so he can see you properly. The look of uncertainty on him is rare. The man's confidence is nearly impenetrable, but now he's got a sinking feeling in his stomach, worried that he just crossed a line that you didn't want him to cross.

"Dick..." You mutter, shifting around to help him so you're face-to-face. His features are barely visible, illuminated only by the soft red glow of the digital clock on the bedside table. But you don't need the light to see him. His face is permanently etched into your mind, handsome and chiseled, your brain filling in the gaps left by the darkness.

You're running out of time. You can make out his expression fall, sense the change in energy each moment you leave him hanging. Deciding to take the future implications out of the picture, like how it will affect your dynamic on the team, how awkward this might make things in the future- you ignore all of that, and ask yourself, 'Do I want to sleep with him? Right Now? In this moment?'

The vigilante's confidence returns when you finally lean in to capture his mouth in a kiss. You bump your nose against his, and he chuckles, relieved as his hand finds your cheek to guide your mouth to his again.

The feeling is surreal, kissing him. You feel like you knew him pretty well before this trip. You know how he likes his tea. You know his favorite places, and understand his subtle, snarky humor. You're even familiar with his scent, after many missions and even more training sessions, physical contact is not anything new between the two of you.

His taste is new. His lips are foreign, but gentle, skilled, like he knows exactly what he's doing when his kisses you, relishing in the feeling, slow and sensual as his tongue slides across your bottom lip, teasing you until your part your lips and allow him deeper. Dick pulls you on top of him, relaxing on his back, his hands holding you by the waist, itching to trail lower and grip your plush ass that's been teasing him all night.

The needy almost-moan that escapes his throat as he exhales is new, too. You've heard him express pain and discomfort, you know what sounds he makes when he's hurt, recognize his brash grunts while fighting, able to judge how badly he's hurt by the sounds he makes. But the noises he's making now aren't like those. They seem more raw, more intense, and he's doing a good job of making you swoon.

His taste, his noises, being the object of his desire, this is all new territory. The surreal feeling doesn't go away, even as his kisses get more intense and his hands start to wander. You're straddling him, forearms resting against his chest while you two make out. He laps at your mouth, tongue against yours, encouraged by every little sigh and broken whimper that you make.

You're grateful for the darkness. It helps quell your insecurities, and you push the doubts about your decision far away. With your hands against his bare chest, you're able to feel his heart beat, strong and even, solidifying the feeling of closeness between you.

"You're so soft," He whispers between greedy kisses. His fingertips caress the exposed skin of your lower back, becoming increasingly more annoyed by the clothing that's keeping your skin from him.

A brief feeling of guilt plagues your mind, knowing your skin is extra soft because of the long shower you took earlier, with the goal of annoying him. Who knew that taking the time to exfoliate and use lotion would end up doing the opposite, spurring him on, making your skin that much more enticing.

You sink your hips down, rubbing yourself against the tent in his boxers. "You're so hard." You say back to him. You meant to sound teasing, but his all-encompassing kisses have you breathless and panting.

Dick chuckles at you, also breathless, finally letting his hands grip the silky material of your sleep shorts, squeezing and massaging your ass. You push yourself up a bit to look down at him. The red numbers of the alarm clock cast an eerie glow over the side of his face, the other half dark in shadow. But you still detect the obvious lust in his gaze. He squeezes you, grabby hands slipping under your shorts to feel you better and force your clothed cunt to grind against his throbbing erection.

"You have no idea how hot you are," He blurts out, bucking his hips up to drive the point home. "You in that dress this morning, fuck, if you were mine for real... I wouldn't have let you leave this room before fucking you senseless in it."

His low, urgent tone, gravely and strained, sends a jolt of heat to your cunt, your arousal soaking through your underwear. Hearing him, Dick Grayson, NIghtwing, say such things about you? And you can tell he means it. He's a good liar, but you know him well enough by know to tell he's being sincere. You open your mouth, unsure what to say, but he's already rambling on, hands traveling from your ass back up to your waist, easing your shirt up and over your head, careful not to mess up your hair.

"The neckline is what did it, I think," he continues. His pupils dilate when he drinks you in, straining to see as much of you as possible. You're sitting up now, shuddering when his warm hands cup your breasts, handling them like you're made of glass. "I couldn't stop staring. I wasn't the only one, either."

"Dick-"

"I've been thinking about this ever since. All evening. Been going crazy." His thumbs brush over your nipples, which are already hard from the arousal you feel building inside. "Got me all worked up. Like a teenager with a crush."

You bring your hands to his, resting over them as he fondles your chest. The gentle squeeze you offer encourages him to keep going, moving your hips to rub against him, searching for some friction to satisfy your need.

"I doubt the dress did all that," You challenge.

"Yet here we are."

"You pleased with yourself?" You yelp as soon as the question leaves your mouth. Dick chose that moment to pinch your hardened buds between his thumb and pointer fingers, squeezing and toying with them, moving his hips against you when your grinding falters.

"Yeah, I am."

Dick removes his hands from your chest to pull you flush against him, grabbing your left leg to help flip you over so you're on your back, settling on his knees between your legs. This shift in control has your mind racing, still wondering if this is all just a dream. If it is, you aren't ready to wake up.

Dick's sitting straight up, smirking down at you, reaching for your ankle. He guides your leg up so your foot is next to his head, and places a slow, wet kiss against your ankle bone.

"Let's get these off of you." He takes your other leg, lifting it in the same manner, so he's able to remove your shorts. You raise your hips to help, allowing him to take your remaining clothes off and toss them to the other end of the bed. He kisses the same spot on your other ankle and rests your legs on either side of his head while his strong hands caress your calves. It almost feels like he's showing you a new martial arts technique, the way he moves and is so at ease manipulating your body. You're used to it, to humbling yourself around him and letting him share his skills, never too proud to learn from a friend and mentor. You swear you've actually been in a very similar position with him before, too, just with more clothing. And also, several spectators.

His warm, fervent kisses continue down towards your knee, slowly savoring every inch of skin he can reach, and adjusting his position once he cannot. Your chest rises and falls quickly in anticipation, nervous but excited to see this new side of him.

This isn't something you were expecting to happen this trip.

You stifle a needy moan when he reaches your inner thighs. Muscular body now flush against the bed, he licks at the sensitive skin there, just inches from your pussy that's dripping for him, aching for attention.

"H-Holy shit..." You curse, moving your hips to try and get his mouth closer to where you need him most. If him kissing your leg feels this sensuous, you're weak over the idea of having his mouth on your core.

Dick hums in satisfaction at how worked up you're getting. Peeling his lips away from the soft skin of your thigh, he purses his lips into a small 'o' to blow a breath over your slick, feverish skin.

You're mortified at the loud whine that departs your lips, shivering in both chill and embarrassment. Your legs tense, squeezing together reflexively around his head.

Dick mutters your name, cursing under his breath at your reaction. He carefully pries your legs apart again, holding them in place, kissing your inner thigh again.

"Huh. You liked that?"

"Please, Dick, you're teasing me."

You feel his lips curve into a smile against you, leaving your thigh and licking a slow, long stripe along your pussy, catching some of your slick on his tongue. Your breathing hitches, eyes closing again, moaning his name with your hands on either side of your head gripping the pillow.

The tip of his nose nudges against your clit before he kisses you there, the same way he was kissing your mouth a minute earlier. Slow at first, building up to using more tongue, testing different movements until he feels your legs quiver. The heat you felt before has grown to a roaring fire, your lower body sensitized from his attention and aching for more.

His tongue flicks over your sensitive nub over and over in a steady rhythm. It becomes harder and harder not to wiggle against him. He's still keeping you in place, but his grip isn't harsh, at least not until he finds just the right angle. Your hips jerk almost violently when he presses his skilled tongue harder against your core, your hands flying to his head to grip his hair. "Oh fuck... please... shit shit sh....." You tremble, words fading away to nothing while your teammate keeps eating your cunt like its his favorite dessert.

Muffled hums and moans are mingled with your sighs and gasps. His tongue dips down to lap languidly at your entrance. You feel painfully empty at this point, ignoring the bewilderment you feel deep down about how easily Dick has reduced you to a whining mess. Fingernails scratching his scalp, your inner muscles convulse and tense, nerves alive with every touch and heated kiss.

Dick is a curious guy. He always has been. It's what makes him such a good detective, and an even better hero. And right now? He's curious about you, making a mental note of what noises and gasps he can coax from you when he moves his tongue faster or slower. He experiments with quick, feather light licks to tease you, then uses more pressure, rubbing his tongue flat against your soft skin and moving in circles, noting your reactions to each technique. His saliva drips from his mouth to mix with your slick, which he greedily licks back up, no shame in his enthusiasm.

After several torturous minutes of him working you, he's got your legs quivering and your mind fuzzy, your pride long forgotten, unable to resist the urge to plead for more.

"Please?" You beg him, "I just want... fuck, please, Dick, I need it."

His hands grip you tight for a beat before he releases you. "I need you too, baby, fuck, feel how wet you are." You offer no resistance when his hand takes yours and places it between your legs. "Touch yourself, yeah... there you go... play with that pretty pussy for me, hm?" His deep voice vibrates in your head, sending a fresh rush of lust through your veins.

Pushing himself up, Dick reaches over you towards the bedside table to retrieve the goodie bag that the front desk was handing out for the couples retreat.

"Glad we can actually put this stuff to use," He mumbles, face better illuminated now that he's next to the alarm clock. He retrieves a condom and a single-use lube sample from the deep red gift bag, and you groan in embarrassment again.

"Shhh, hey, just keep touching yourself. It's fine, unless you brought other condoms?" He asks, already guessing your answer.

"Why would I bring condoms? I wasn't expecting this to happen," You reply, watching him rip the foil wrapper.

"Huh. Me either." He slips his boxers down his thighs, letting his cock spring free. You squint, trying to see the outline of his junk in the dark. He looks big. Big enough that when he slides the rubber over his shaft, it only makes it about 3/4th of the way down.

"It's kind of tight," He informs you, now opening up the lube sample and working the viscous liquid over himself. "But I'm pretty good about making big things fit in tight spaces."

The grin on your face is instant, cringing at his joke and shaking your head. "Would you shut up and fuck me, already?"

"Gods, yes."

His reply sounds pained, filled with longing, enough that you briefly question how long he's wanted this. You want to ask, but Dick is a man of his word, and before you can utter your question out loud, his hands are pressing your legs against your chest, knees over his shoulders, positioning you so he can slap his heavy cock against your clit.

Rubbing his tip against your wet folds of skin, you angle your hips a little better and guide him inside. Your slick heat swallows him up greedily, his cock bottoming out in one swift thrust.

You cry out at the sudden sting of him stretching your aching cunt. Hands gripping the sheets to ground yourself, your eyes water and your mouth hangs open, the feeling enough to wipe your mind clear of anything other than him and how he's making you feel.

He offers a brief kiss to your whimpering lips, "Shhhh, I know, babe, I know, feels good... fuck... feels too good.”

Nestling closer to you, Dick settles so he has access to your neck. His hips are still, giving your body time to adjust from the abrupt intrusion. His warm breath tickles your ear between the sweet love pecks he presses into your skin. “You know, if we really wanna sell ourselves as a couple, maybe I should give you some hickies, mark up that pretty neck of yours.”

The muscles in the back of your legs burn from the stretch. The position you’re in doesn’t accommodate deep breathing, so your voice is weak when you warn him, “Can we not talk about work right now?”

“Right. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, when you’re pissed at me again.” He latches his lips onto your neck, withdrawing himself from you halfway before easing back in, slower this time, pausing again once he's fully buried.

"H-h-how... mm...d-dude, you're huge," You gasp, feeling his tip kiss your cervix, pushing your body to its limit.

Dick tenses, his solid body going rigid. His next statement seem imbued with an undertone of challenge, "Don't call me dude while I'm inside of you."

"Sorry I- shiiiit...." you lose your words when he starts moving again, pumping into you slowly, rolling his hips into yours while he sucks on your neck, leaving your skin damp with his saliva. Finding them again takes a minute. "M'sorry I didn't c-come up with a list... I mean, why would I be prompted...to... write out the things that are... are off limits when we're fucking?"

The words are forgotten as soon as you say it. His memorizing pace has you feeling alive with warm tingles, concentrated most where your bodies meet. You clench down on his thick cock, more arousal dripping out around him. You can feel your body release more wetness again, doing its best to accept what's being given as his soft raven hair tickles your cheek.

"We can make that list together, babe." His promise is murmured against your throat, "Maybe during our one-on-one counseling session tomorrow with the alleged con artist himself."

"W-wh...huh? What, oh... mmmm.... fuck, Dick.... what list?" You flex your feet and curl your toes, babbling and whimpering at him. You can't move much with how he's pinning you, completely at his mercy. Even though you've never slept together before now, you have complete trust in him, having put your life in his hands more times than you can count. Nightwing has never failed you as a teammate. And Dick certainly has never failed you as a friend. So even now, as he ruts himself into you with purpose, pushing your body to its brink, leaving dark bruises over your neck, you know he doesn't plan to fail you as a lover. If only for one night.

The speculation on whether this heated exchange will be a one-time thing or the start of something more is a worry for later on, not for right now. Right now, this god-like man is fucking himself into you harder and deeper, being much less gentle than how he handled you earlier.

"Feels s'good, tight little pussy is squeezing me, bet you haven't been fucked this good before," He rasps, giving your tender neck a break and resting his forehead against yours while he flexes and undulates, putting his abs, back, entire body into it, hitting spots deep inside of you that you didn't think were even there.

Your cries of pleasure get louder as the minutes pass. Keeping his pace steady, Dick moves his hand over your mouth for the second time this evening to muffle your desperate please for release.. "Shhhh... remember what I said," He taunts, "We can't blow our cover. People come to retreats like this because their marriage is failing. No one here is having sex as good as this."

If you were more aware, you'd point out to him that he just went against his whole justification for giving you love marks. But he might as well be speaking an alien language. The deep timbre of his words do, however, send a chill down your spine, pushing you over the precipice, your orgasm crashing over you hard.

Your eyes water even more and blur your already limited vision. Convulsing under the weight of him, you gasp against his palm, tasting yourself, eyes wide in the glow of the dim red light.

"That's it.... shii-iii-iit..." His body stills, and he closes his eyes, struggling desperately to stay off his own orgasm. You welcome the break, pleasure still pulsing in your core, flexing and wiggling your legs to alleviate the stiffness from the prolonged time in such an intense position you aren't used to.

Dick moans your name and shudders, "I need more."

"M-more?" You stutter, intoxicated from the post-orgasm haze.

Pushing himself up and off of you, he sits back on his knees again, cock slipping from your swollen cunt. Dick graciously lowers your legs, guiding them around his waist before leaning over you again, carefully slipping his arms under yours against your back to cradle you closer to him. You cling to him with trembling limbs, letting him move you how he sees fit.

"What, you think I was going to stop at one?" He whispers to you, low and eager. He slips his length back inside of you, the lewd squelching noise sounding absolutely filthy, your thighs damp from his sweat and your fluids. "I'm not wasting this opportunity to show you a good time.'"

Your pussy is so sensitive now, every thrust of his hips earning a small pant from you, feeling him fill you up, over and over, making room for himself inside your body with each tantalizing rut of his hips.

You mumble something incoherent, and Dick chuckles, proud to have you in such a state. "What's that, babe? I'm the best you've ever had?" He kisses your forehead, fucking you a little faster, his heavy balls smacking against your ass with each rut.

"This is... just to keep up appearances, right?" You ask, unsure if you want him to agree or not.

Probably not.

Definitely not.

"Of course." Dick promises, knowing full well that he will not be satisfied until he has you creaming around his cock like this every night. Not now. Not after tonight. Being here with you has opened his eyes, and helped him reflect on why he got so intensely jealous when you were turning heads earlier. "It's all for appearances, babe."

if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment!

please don’t steal my work. don't upload it to another site, use it to train ai, or claim it as your own.

⭓ masterlist ⭓

#[purple-obsidian]#smut #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson smut #dick grayson x you #nightwing x reader #nightwing smut #nightwing x you #dc smut #one bed trope #and they were teammates

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natsnerd · 2 months ago

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Answer your fucking phone.

Warnings: G!p Nat, Mentions of Husband, cheating(On husband) Billionaire nat, Mean nat, mentions of spanking, a little stalkish.

Word count: 806

________

Your words is what she liked “Your terms” is what made her smirk, she loved that you knew immediately she would be in control, it put a thrill through her

Natasha put her phone down so she could think about terms, she wasn't going to be soft on you, that would allow you to be a brat and her husband is enough of one for her, she wanted an obedient girl who she could dot on.

After a few minutes of thinking she sent you a list.

The list

I'll give you a 10,000 dollar monthly allowance, if you don't spend all that in one month, I'll give you a spank for every thousand you didn't spend, if you don't spend it, it will be added onto your next monthly payment.

if your going to beg me for something, call me mommy whilst begging, for example "Please mommy, I want this dress"

you'll get a copy of my black card

you will not flirt or sleep with anyone. as long as your spending MY money you belong to me

I'm going to pay your tuition. end of discussion

you must send me a picture of every thing you use for school, if I find them acceptable, you can keep them but if they're cheap? I'm buying you better ones.

no touching yourself without mommy's permission, when I come see you - that is if your comfortable meeting face to face, I want you to wear a dress

Pick a safe word baby, I want you to be comfortable.

If you're comfortable I want to see your writing.

Tell me your kinks, I want to see if you're my good little girl.

I'll add more if I think of more

She smirked and hit send, a satisfied smile crossing her lips as she packed her things back into her purse, she had enough of work and just wanted to go home and take a break.

Her phone did not ping with a notification which annoyed her greatly but she decided to ignore it, she fixed her suit and left her office, walking down to the garage where her Lamborghini sat, enjoying the dark against its skin, the blood red colour matching Natasha's aesthetic perfectly

________

By the time Natasha got home, the sun was starting to set, she parked her car and scanned her security card on the apartment complex entrance before getting into the elevator, the drive here was over an hour and a half so she hadn't had time to check her phone yet, she digs her hand into her pocket to pull out her phone and checks if you've massaged her, a frustrated groan leaves her lips when you haven't, she checks and you haven't even read her message.

One thing Natasha could not stand was being ignored, she understood you were in college but you didn't even have time to reply to her message? Enough was enough. She decided to text you again

“Don't be a brat. I hate brats. Reply to my message now.” Her tone was stern and strict, she wanted you to know she wasn't playing around, she wanted you. She would get you even if it meant driving her ass to your school and spanking you until you understood that.

She unlocked the door to her penthouse and walked in, shrugging her jacket off

“Hello, Mrs Romanoff!” The maid says cheerfully as she pours Natasha a glass of vodka.

“Shut up, whore, I know you flirt with my husband, fuck him if you want, his small cock means absolutely nothing to me” She takes the vodka and walks off, not even noticing the maids face pale as she stuttered out apologises.

She drank her vodka as she checked her phone, you still havent fucking replied.

She was starting to get pissed off, she slammed her glass down on the bedside table and ripped off her tie, rolling her sleeves up and walking back out the penthouse.

She was going to find your school. Your ass would be aching by the time she was done with you.

She checked your social media as she got in the driver's seat, she checked your friends and then your families until she found your college dorm address,

It only took her 15 minutes to get to your dorm, she was very happy it wasn't far, the closer you were to her personal home the more she could see you without her husband thinking she was cheating, she didn't care if he found out but she could not be bothered to go through the whole divorce process.

She checked what dorm your room was and began walking there, ready to spank your ass till her handprint was engraved.

She checked each dorm number before finding yours, a grin coming onto her face as she banged on your door.

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suguruverse · 11 months ago

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idk if anyone has ever talked about this but katsuki REFUSES to buy you flowers from the grocery store. like will not even look at it and will steer you away if he even catches you looking at it.

he genuinely looks at you crazy when you ask him why he’s avoiding the huge display of flowers because he cannot fathom why you would want “those cheap ugly shits” over a bouquet from the florist filled with your favourite flowers.

you pout when he drags you out the grocery store and back home only to wake up the next morning to a fresh bouquet on your bedside table with an obnoxiously large orange ribbon that screams katsuki name and a homemade breakfast from yours truly <3333

#i love writing terrible endings to my little drabbles <333 #🍓 strawberry soda ༊*·˚#extra headcanon but when katsuki gives u presents he LOVES putting his own personal touches on it to make it more heartfelt #bakugou never settle for less katsuki #I LOVE HIM #mha fluff #bnha fluff #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugou fluff #bakugou katsuki x reader

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leyavo · 3 months ago

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Simon Riley x Mute!reader

───⋅☠︎︎⋅───

Simon already knew sign language, it surprised you when he approached you at the shops and relayed your message to the worker. Your notepad and pen are halfway out your bag when he speaks to the worker, telling him that he doesn’t think ya deaf so there’s no need to raise ya voice mate.

You sign him a thank you and go your separate ways. But as Simon’s walking across the car park, you suddenly appear and offer him coffee, a cheap one from the adjoining cafe but that’s the best there was. He takes it, helping you put your shopping in the boot and giving you his number. You scribble your name and number on paper, ripping it from your notepad and passing it to him.

Simon stares at your name and number for the rest of the day. Your neat scribbled writing slanted over the lines, crumpled paper and blue ink. Your text makes it feel like fate, like he’s meant to be with you.

And it’s not long till you’re spending more time together. Moving in to his spacious flat and creating a home.

It doesn’t matter that he’ll never hear his name on your lips, because your gaze lingers on him. You both take extra time and care to understand each other, to live in the present. How your attention is just on him and his on you as his eyes dart from your face to the movements of your hands.

He calls you Mouse, you’re so light on your feet that he doesn’t hear you approach. “Missed ya’ Mouse,” he says as soon as he shuts the front door and toes off his boots.

You might not talk, but you give him verbal cues. Humming whenever you’re satisfied, a low squeak whenever Simon accidentally scares you whilst you pad around the flat in the darkness of night.

Loves that you hum along to music in the morning whilst you make coffee and he stands over the cooker with breakfast. Has loads of your sticky notes stored in his bedside drawer and has one in his wallet with him for all times.

Simon trains a dog, “to keep ya’ company whilst I’m gone.” He does agree it looks a bit like him. A German shepherd, Gizmo because you both love the gremlin films. Funny how he doesn’t like baths either…

Takes Simon a while to get used to the guys voices when he goes back to work. Noticing the loud echoes trailing after Johnny’s words, Kyle’s snorts as he tries not to laugh at whatever story Johnny’s telling him or the drumming of Price’s finger on the table. He can’t wait to collapse into bed in the residential house and savour the silence.

The silence reminding him of you. A quiet comfort he can’t seem to explain to the guys when he retreats to his room early each night.

Your communication whilst he’s away is mostly text, a few video calls just to see your face and some hummed verbal responses. Anything to see the smile on your face.

───⋅☠︎︎⋅───

[Masterlist]

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mggslover · 4 months ago

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Reflections pt. 2

In which Spencer sees himself in a suspect, making him willing to do anything to protect her.

PART 1

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: crime x angst x hurt/comfort Content warnings: post prisoner!spencer (but no spoilers since i’m not on that season yet, can contain inaccuracies), reader cuts longer hair short, guns, reader isn’t the best person, emotional, vague mentions of sa and suicide, kidnapping, fade to black smut (so suggestive content) Word count: 5,8k A/n: turning a supposed to be one shot into a series is more difficult than i anticipated lol. i’m hoping you guys will enjoy this part as much as the first one :) i'd love to hear your thoughts!!

Vibrant flashes of the pixelated scenes on TV reflected against the motel room walls. You were reminded of how your mother always used to say that watching television in the dark is damaging to your eyes. You never doubted her. Never felt the need to confirm her words by looking it up. It’s in human nature to trust one another. It is only when someone betrays you — or when you betray them — that trust gets damaged. You sit on the edge of the bed, mindlessly picking at the loose printing of the Caltech shirt you’re wearing — Spencer’s Caltech shirt — as you watch the umpteenth news segment since you left the state. “Authorities are still on the lookout for a suspect following the poisoning of three men. The men were murdered at a college reunion that took place inside a bar, their bodies found just a street away. These promising young men had bright futures ahead of them, which were brutally robbed by this suspect–“

The screen flickered to your passport picture, showing a list of your physical descriptions on the right.

“She’s believed to be armed and dangerous. Please, come forward if you have any information on her possible whereabouts. The FBI have stated that they will not stop their search until they have the suspect in custody. Justice will be served.”

With a scoff, you grab the remote, the screen fading to black with a simple click of your thumb.

Young promising men, my ass. Hearing that sentence out loud left you with a bitter taste in your mouth, burning your throat as you swallowed. You let out a deep exhale, your body falling back onto the hard mattress with a thud, allowing the darkness to envelop you as your thoughts swirled through your head.

Your whole life you had run away from the things that scared you, preferring to flee than live with the reality of the situation. You’d made the conscious decision to change your behaviour once you had decided to walk into that bar. But one thing led to another, and without being aware of it at the moment, you’d found yourself in the same situation: fleeing. Only this time around, it was different. This time you were on the run. And it wasn’t a question of if, but of when you’d be caught.

Ignoring the remorseless pounding in your head, you roll over the mattress. The cheap sheets rustled underneath you in protest as you threw your legs off the side. Your hand patted the bedside table until you felt the switch on the night lamp, turning it on. The room, as a result, illuminates in a soft, golden glow.

Your eyes adjusted to the light, slowly taking in your surroundings. You noticed a large bookshelf against the right wall that you swore you hadn't seen before. Although your mind had been so clouded these past days that it wouldn’t be strange if you looked over it. Curiosity got the better of you, and with steady steps, you walked toward it. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe. The words played in your head as your fingers grazed against the dusty spines. When the melody came to its natural halt, you grabbed the book that your finger had landed on.

Gone Girl.

You scoffed a breathy laugh, “Obviously.” You held the book mockingly in the air, giving an ironic nod and tight-lipped smile toward the ceiling. “Thanks, universe.”

The irony hit you as you flipped through the pages. Maybe you’re more like the protagonist—Amy Dune—than you’d like to admit. Always having the need to orchestrate the outcome of your life, selfish enough to not care about the consequences it has for others. What if the universe is not trying to mock you, but merely giving you a hint? Were you supposed to change your appearance? It worked for Amy.

Your feet carried you to the stuffy bathroom, the book still in hand. With your elbow, you turned on the light switch, cringing when you saw yourself in the mirror. The only sleep you’d gotten in the past days was in Spencer’s arms, and damn was it a good sleep.

Sleeping with an FBI-agent sounded like a good plan. Well… at least to you. What are the chances of being a suspect in a crime, not being believed by anyone, and then being interrogated by a man who had heart eyes for you? There was no other option than to play into it, and you thanked yourself for taking those theater classes in high school.

However, it wasn’t all a ploy. It affected you to have someone be so gentle with you, to have an absolute stranger care so much for your well-being. And when you kissed him… you knew your heart was involved too.

Still, your brain overpowered your feelings. The second you woke up, you knew you had to leave. They already knew about Natalie, and the more time you gave them, the more dirt they’d find on you. Taking that gun? Call it a precaution. Hijacking a car to get to the motel? Well, you stole it from a hobo. Could’ve been worse.

“God,” you groaned, thinking back on the events of the past few days. You rubbed your eyes and dramatically slid your hands down your face.

Your eyes landed on the nail clipper placed on the sink. This is so, so bad. You placed the book down, then picked the item up, circling the cool metal around your fingers. The ghost of your face reflected back at you in the mirror. Oh, your hairdresser will kill you. But who will care if you’ll be locked away in prison, anyway? At least your humor was still working.

You brought the clipper to the ends of your hair, your thumb pressing down as you cut a lock. The sound sent shivers to your spine, a sour face impaled on you.

“I swear to god Amy, don’t fail me with this,” you mumbled to the sky in a prayer.

-`♡´-

3 Days Ago

Being frustrated was an understatement for the way Spencer was feeling.

Once he left the bedroom, it took him less than a second to notice the slight gap between the cupboard doors. His pulse quickened, he stood frozen for a moment as he felt a tight knot form in his stomach. In a sudden rush, his senses came back to him. He took a leap toward the cupboard, slamming the doors open, and to his suspicion, he found the safe unlocked. His gun vanished in the same way as you had.

He couldn’t help the string of curses that escaped his lips. His hands reached through his hair, tugging at the loose curls as his mind raced in every possible direction, none of them making sense.

How could he have been so stupid? He’s a profiler, for Christ’ sake. It’s his job to read people, to see through their lies. His cheeks heated in embarrassment, recalling the disapproving looks of his team members when he told you that he believed in your innocence.

You were innocent. At least, that’s what he thought. Now he wasn’t sure anymore. An innocent person wouldn’t run, and they especially wouldn’t steal the gun of a federal agent while they’re at it.

He thought back on your arrest. It happened quickly. The team had received a call from someone at the reunion who had been taking a smoke break in an alley near the bar, the first to discover the bodies. Finding you was simple. Your behavior was suspicious on the camera footage. You looked nervous as you walked into the bar, wiping your clammy hands on your dress, scanning the room as if in search of something. When your eyes landed on the three men, your gaze grew cold. It wasn’t difficult to connect the dots when you rushed out of the emergency exit right after the men had accepted their poison-filled drinks.

But now it was a completely different story. You could be anywhere. The uncertainty gnawed at him. He felt responsible for this, even though it wasn’t his decision to let you go. He’d been insistent on getting you out of that interrogation room as fast as he could. The guilt pressed down on him, the pressure on his ribcage accumulating with every second that passed. Every second that he didn’t do anything was another chance for you to run. Spencer had no choice but to call Hotch as he stepped into his Volvo. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t know what you were capable of.

Spencer made sure to evade Derek’s sharp glances as he walked through the bullpen, headed straight for the small flight of stairs.

Hotch was standing at the door frame, waiting on him. He never had experienced being scolded by his parents, but this sure seemed like a similar situation. Spencer swallowed, his hands tucked in the pockets of his pants, trying to hide his nerves as he braced himself for the words that were about to follow.

“I’ve informed the rest of the team,” Hotch explained, his eyebrows edged in an irritated frown. “The only reason that you’re on this case is because you could give personal insight into the unsub. We’ll discuss this afterward,” he added in a warning tone, “Behaviour like this is not tolerated.”

“I know,” Spencer muttered, his voice coming out hoarse. I don’t agree, but I understand. “I’m sorry.”

Aaron nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response. His body leaned forward, head tilted as he called the team to gather around the round table.

“Man, you slept with her?!”

Derek hadn’t even properly sat down before the criticizing jabs slipped out. The tone was instantly set, an awkward tension lingering thick in the air.

Spencer’s mouth opened, his fingers flexing, but before he could respond, Emily rose from her seat. “It’s in the past. Right now, we should focus on finding her before she’ll devolve.”

Hotch nodded in agreement. This discussion was pointless; there was no time to lose. “Garcia, can you go over her documents again?”

“Of course, sir. Uh, let’s see–,” her purple colored nails tapped against the keyboard of her laptop. “She hasn’t been very active in the last few years. Most activity was during college. She majored in chemistry.”

Spencer’s heart did a jump at the mention of chemistry. He barely got the chance to ask you about yourself, and he was fighting the urge to ask Penelope for more information, wondering what else you’d have in common.

“Wait a minute,” Spencer wondered out loud when his brain made the connection. “Chemistry.”

“The victims were poisoned,” Rossi noted, connecting the dots.

Spencer suppressed the rising nausea by forcing his eyes shut. His knee tremored, anxiously tapping against the underside of the table. He really didn’t know you, did he?

Hotch’s furrow deepened. “Another confirmation that she’s the one we’re looking for.” He turned to Garcia, “Did we receive the results from the lab?”

“Not yet, sir. But this is interesting though,” her nails continued their rhythmic clicking. “She dropped out of college a couple of months before graduating.”

“You wouldn’t just do that,” Rossi mused. “Can you find any reasoning in her archives?”

Penelope shook her head. “Not really. The whole thing seemed pretty sudden. She had good grades.”

Hotch leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Let’s look at victimology.”

“Okay, so we got Shaun Dallas, Eric Zimmer and Nathan Johns. Tight buddies throughout college and they still seemed to be according to social media. Different majors, none of them chemistry.”

“She seemed disgusted when I brought them up,” Derek added, referencing your interrogation. “Said that nobody in college liked them.”

“Well, they seem like the standard gross jock types,” Penelope commented.

“Does she have any history with them?” Emily asked.

“Uh, not that I can see,” Garcia replied. “I don’t even think they shared any classes.”

“What about them personally? Anything you can tie to her wanting them dead?”

“Let’s see, boy wonder…” Garcia mumbled in response to Spencer, eyes focused on the screen. “Here! I got something.”

Everyone stared at her in anticipation. “Nathan Johns was involved in a Peeping Tom “incident” when he was fifteen. He had a habit of peeping underneath the bathroom stalls in highschool, and one girl decided to press charges with her parents. Claims were quickly shut down though, because, obviously, his father is a lawyer.”

Hotch’s lips pressed into a tight line. “What about the other two?”

“Zilch. Squeaky clean records.”

“Let’s leave that for later,” Rossi suggested. “We have more to say about her MO.”

“She poisoned her victims,” JJ chimed in. “That makes sense with her chemistry background. She’s also shown that she’s meticulous and pays attention to detail.” She continued elaborating, “She managed to poison the drinks without the bartender noticing and she made sure to keep an eye on Spencer as he typed in the code to his safe.”

The team nodded like-mindedly. Spencer bit down on his bottom lip. He didn’t have much of a say in all of this. He didn’t even know why he still tried to make sense of it all. Whether he genuinely believed in your innocence or if this was an attempt at finding a theory that would sooth his mind.

“She’s rather chaotic, actually,” he eventually spoke up. “She snapped during the interview when Natalie Fisher got mentioned. She took my gun while I was in the room next to her. To be more specific, she—“ he cleared his throat, “I woke up and she walked back to me before heading out. It doesn’t match the MO of the killings.”

“What are you suggesting, kid?” Rossi asked, confusion visible on his face.

“She doesn't have to be the unsub.”

“Oh, come on, man. Then how do you explain the dumping of the bodies?” Morgan inquired, his tone laced with accusement. “She went from meticulous to dropping the bodies in the middle of an alley where anyone could pass by. She’s shown dramatic changes in MO before.”

“The bodies could have been placed there to set her up. The unsub must have known she’s disorganized, so positioning the bodies there could be connected to her. If the unsub is as diligent as we’re assuming, he could’ve easily disposed of the bodies in a place where we wouldn’t be able to find them. Instead, he dropped them right in the face of any passersby.”

“Spence, I thought we’ve been over this,” JJ said, offering a sympathetic smile, her hand sliding over the table to reach out for him.

Spencer quickly pulled his hand back, seeing the obvious hurt on his friend’s face. Yes, they had been over this. He was positive that he would snap if he had to go through another “Are you sure you’re ready to be back? The change from prison to society is a huge change” conversation.

“Did she share anything else that makes you think this way?”

Spencer blinked at Hotch's question. The moment was still fresh in his mind. He remembered how nervous he felt when he had asked you to take you to his place. He had replayed the hypothetical conversation in his mind a thousand times, how he would first open up about his past, wanting to make you feel comfortable enough to open up about yours. But when you kissed him the way you did, there was no space for any other thoughts in his mind.

“Reid,” Hotch repeated.

“No.”

“No?”

“She said that she likes the sea,” he shared, the corner of his lip slightly lifting at the memory.

“I feel safe in your arms,” you whispered, your breath tickling his chest as you lay your head on top of it. His arm was wrapped around you, tracing patterns on the bare skin of your arm, wondering if you could feel his pounding heartbeat.

“The only other place I’ve felt this safe is at sea.”

He smiled as he gazed down at you. Then he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Really?”

He felt the movement of you nodding. “It’s the only place that calms my mind.”

The sound of ruffling paper snapped him out of his thoughts. He lifted his head to see Rossi unrolling a large map of the country.

Spencer could feel the prying eyes on him. Geography of the unsub is his strength. He inhaled a deep breath before leaving his chair, reluctantly walking toward the wall where Rossi had pinned the map.

“She told you that she didn’t have a place to stay,” Prentiss stated, her words sounding like a question for affirmation.

Spencer nodded, trying to focus on the case like it was any other. “She walked to the reunion, probably taken by cab, and then we found her walking around the area when we arrested her. So, she has no vehicle.”

“For all we know, she could’ve taken the first plane out of the country,” Morgan interjected.

Hotch clicked his tongue. “We alerted Border Patrol when Reid had called me, which was less than an hour after she had left his house. If we assume she’s chaotic, she wouldn’t be able to book a flight that quickly. The only place you can disappear this smoothly has to be a place in her comfort zone.”

“Can we assume she’s still in Virginia?” Rossi asked.

“I don’t think so,” Spencer replied. “Her picture is all over the state, and Virginia’s beaches are very populated, with a minimum of in the hundred thousands. Virginia Beach, for example, has a population of 453.649.”

“She doesn’t have a car,” Rossi thought aloud. “There are no records of her having a stable job, so she doesn’t have a lot of money in her pockets either. Knowing cab drivers, they won’t want to drive around for hours, which leads us to—“

“Delaware,” Spencer finished.

-`♡´-

A sea breeze gently caressed your face, blowing through your cut hair. With your eyes closed, you cherished the sound of the waves crashing against the shore and the scent of saltwater in the air. It was a nostalgic smell that came with a flood of memories: building sandcastles on the beach, running barefoot across the hot sand before diving into the sea, loud laughter as you splashed the water and got splashed in return.

The flashbacks were a stark contrast to your current predicament. When you opened your eyes, it was dark. The sea in front of you looked black, only reflecting a small glimmer of the moon that hung low in the sky. The sand beneath your fingers felt cold. And there were no sounds of laughter, not even the sound of annoying seagulls. You were surrounded in absolute silence. A crunching noise came out of the darkness. The sound so sudden and intense, similar to being whipped across the face. Though, your head didn’t turn. You knew who was out there.

The sounds grew louder. Sweat started forming on your face and hands. Your fingers trembled as you reached into the pocket of your jeans, the tight fabric cutting into your hand as you pushed deeper until you felt the cool metal of Spencer’s gun.

“Don’t.”

The word cut through the air. Your grip on the gun tightened in an effort to keep your fingers from shaking. No words left your mouth as you carefully tilted your head.

In front of you stood Spencer, exactly as you had predicted. But unlike your predictions, he was on his own. Was he here by himself to personally arrest you? To revel in your loss?

You continued to stare at him, though you weren’t really seeing him. Your vision blurred by the tears that had welled in your eyes. You blinked them away, focusing on his gun, which he held tightly in between both hands, aimed straight at your skull.

“Is that a new one?”

He seemed taken aback by your question, glacing down to the firearm in his palms. When he looked back at you, you stood in front of him, mirroring his stance, gun directed at his chest.

“I like this one better,” you commented, clicking the safety off.

Spencer cocked his head, maintaining his unwavering eye contact. He seemed to be challenging you. You clenched your jaw, anger boiling hotter inside of you.

“Put the gun away,” he strictly ordered, though his tone remained unnervingly calm. It was too calm for your liking. He should be scared. At least show a sign of nerves. Instead he looked at you like you were a joke, like you weren’t capable.

“You’re not going to use it anyway,” he dismissively adds, fueling your anger.

“Yes, I will!”

Your voice taunted as you took a step forward. Your legs trembled at the move, your heart thudded painfully in your chest to the point of nausea. It was difficult to comprehend the next words he spoke, your ears ringing before you even fired the shot.

“You didn’t kill those people,” Spencer declared. The words sounded like he was repeating a scientific fact. Like it was the only possible truth.

He then called out your name.

The word rolled off his tongue like it was crafted just for him to say it. Akin to a gentle symphony. His pronunciation was just as soft and full with longing as it had been when he breathily whispered it into your ear over and over again.

“I would’ve!” you shouted out, shaking yourself out of your thoughts. You strode forward until the barrel of your gun pressed into his chest, jabbing the cold metal into his clothed skin.

He didn’t flinch. Instead of his breathing hastening, it slowed down. His eyebrows drooped as he looked down at you.

“I would’ve,” you repeat just as loudly, digging the weapon harder into him. Pity remained on his face and you couldn’t stop the tears threatening to spill again. Whether it was from frustration or sorrow, you weren’t sure.

“I would’ve, I would’ve, I would’ve!”

The words tumbled from your mouth like a mantra, each repetition feeling like the only way to catch your breath. With every spoken word, you hit his chest, though your punches weaken with every syllable.

Spencer continued to watch you, observing you as he gave you the space that you needed. When you looked up at him, his eyes were glistening, triggering something inside of you.

A sob broke free from your chest. Spencer’s gun slipped from his hand in reaction, falling into the sand with a muffled thud.

“I should’ve…” you choked out, the words a combination of an apology and a confession.

Spencer nodded compassionately, his hands reaching out to gently cup yours.

“Should’ve done it. Should’ve been me.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he spoke reassuringly, carefully taking the gun from your limp fingers and tucking it in his back pocket. His hands quickly returned to yours, without you even registering his movement. “I know.”

“I’m so sorry,” you softly cried. The words weren’t meant for Spencer, but somehow, he understood. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, holding you against the spot where your gun had been only seconds ago.

Sorries became the new prayer you desperately muttered against his chest. Sorries to Natalie. Sorries for being weak. Sorries for not giving her the justice she deserved. Sorries for dishonoring her when she needed you most. Sorries for everything.

The apologies to others turned into a plea to receive them yourself. Sorry for making you so naive. Sorry for making you weak. Sorry for giving you the need to run from yourself.

Your head hung low against him, your grip on his shirt tightening, your lungs constricting like it was painful to breathe.

“You’re angry.” Spencer noted, noticing the change in your posture.

You sniffled against him, not having the energy to lie. “Yes.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your hair. The gesture made your stomach flutter.

You felt conflicted by his kindness. How was he able to hold you so tightly? To choose to stay by your side despite the mess you were.

The delicacy of his touch parallel to the fury still simmering inside of you.

“I am so mad,” you admitted in a resigned breath.

His hand slid from your head to your neck, gently cupping your jaw. “Let it out on me.”

You had to furrow your brows, not sure if you understood him correctly.

“I mean it. Your body is full of cortisol and epinephrine. Stress hormones,” he explained. “You need to be relieved of those.”

His fingertips trailed lightly over your arm, and you followed his touch with your eyes.

“Use me. Let me offer you relief.”

You stood frozen in place, swallowing the breathless laugh that almost escaped your lips, as you noted the genuine look expressed on Spencer’s face.

His eyes bored into yours, the hazel of his irises altering into a darker shade of brown.

Tentatively, your hands moved up his body, and only then did his heartbeat quicken. Your fingers continued trailing upward until you gripped his collar, the fabric soft in your tight grip. His eyes don’t leave yours, mouth just slightly agape as you pull him in closer.

Then you kiss him — hard.

*link to smut (pt. 2.5)

-`♡´-

The ventilation quietly hummed in the back of the motel room from the shower you had just taken. After the intimate moment on the beach, Spencer had convinced you to take him back to the motel you were staying at. “They’re all fast asleep. They haven’t noticed me leaving” he assured you.

It didn’t matter anymore if they knew your whereabouts, you’ve told Spencer everything anyway. How Natalie has been your bestest friend in college. How you were tied to the hip. How you never left each other’s sight — except for that one night…

You had cried in his arms, and he had let you. He held you close as you lay in bed. He comforted you with statistics about guilt and trauma, as you told him why you went to that reunion that night. It marked the anniversary of the week Natalie had died. Of the week you received an email from her: a final note. Telling you by the time you read this, she’d be long gone.

You hadn’t gone to her funeral. Didn’t even receive an invitation. You hadn’t been in contact with Natalie ever since she had called you from that party. You’d picked her up that night, taken her to the hospital, and left the second the doctors told you she’d be fine.

You didn’t tell Spencer this part. You only told him that you expected there to be a memorial at the reunion, a way for you to have a proper goodbye. Your heart had stopped in the same way it had years ago when you walked into the bar and found that there was nothing. Nothing but loud music, colored lights, and drunk people. It was as if Natalie had never existed.

Your ears had rang. Your breaths came in short pants. With all your might, you suppressed the rising panic attack, using the last bit of strength to walk toward the three men you’d spotted from the start. The men that had done this to Natalie. Who had killed her, although not with their hands.

Naive little birdie, Natalie had always called you. The sweet nickname now sounded more haunting as the three men stared you up and down. Your heart beated in expectancy, but then you noticed their dilated pupils. The way their breath reeked of hard liquor. Their lips still glossy with alcohol as they gave you a sluggish smirk. They hadn’t even recognized you. Naive little birdie.

Spencer had squeezed your hand, bringing you back to reality. “It’s okay.”

You had shaken your head, the memories tearing apart into small pieces in your mind. Quickly, you had finished your story, telling him that after that moment, you didn’t have it in you to walk past everyone again. Too terrified to see the laughs on their faces. Instead, you marched straight to the emergency exit.

The both of you stayed quiet after your confession. The air hung heavy with silence, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable.

“We need to talk about it at some point,” Spencer brings up.

You nodded. Spencer had been kind to you, given you the time to process, but the conversation was inevitable. You hadn’t killed anyone. So someone else had.

“Someone is trying to blame this on you. Someone wants to see you gone,” he softly whispers, his voice cracking with emotion.

The subject made you feel uncomfortable. You had thought about it before. Plenty of times, actually. But every time you did what you did best: ignore it. It wasn’t as easy to disregard when someone was looking you in the eyes, their pain so visible.

Still, you shrugged, brushing aside his comment. “It doesn’t matter. I wanted them gone, and now they are. It doesn’t matter how.”

“It does matter.”

The rise in his voice made you flinch, and he instantly cupped your hands, pulling you back to him. “‘M sorry. I’m just scared.”

It was strange to hear someone be so honest. Spencer had been honest with you from the start. He’d said that he would protect you, and he was still keeping to that promise.

You moved your hand to your hair, wanting to twirl the locks as a nervous habit, but then realized most of it was cut short.

“I guess we can tell your team tomorrow,” you settle on saying, swallowing as you envision their dirty looks.

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows in a questioning gaze, leaning forward as he hid the small, grateful smile that lingered his lips.

You chuckled, feeling relieved by his response. You nodded your head against the pillow. “Really.”

The room returned to silence. Surely now deeply comfortable. No more questions that lingered in the air. The back of Spencer’s fingers lazily traced the side of your face. His warm hand trailed down the skin. His eyes flickered over your face, expression filled with awe as he grazed his fingers through your short locks. “Your hair looks pretty.”

A soft snort escaped you, “It looks horrendous.”

He responded with a breathy laugh, and you can’t help but smile widely back at him.

“I think this suits you better. Not that I didn’t like your other haircut,” he quickly corrected himself, making you chuckle. “I like your face. The longer hair hid it. Now I can see you.”

Your cheeks warmed. Spencer did see you. Not just your appearance — he saw you. He had seen you from the moment your eyes had locked when he and his team had found you and brought you to the station. He had seen you before you’d even seen yourself. The thought of stopping your hiding, your fleeing, didn’t seem so scary anymore. Not when staying would bring you to him.

The comfortable silence was interrupted by a low rumble, followed by a louder one. Spencer’s hand slipped from your hair as he placed it on his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

A bright, childlike laugh bubbled from your chest. Spencer snickered, grinning from ear to ear. He bashfully brushed his fingers through his messy curls. “I havent really eaten since we’ve gotten here.”

“Let me grab you a snack.” You crawled out of bed, legs still a little shaky as you stood up.

“Do you have snacks in the room?

“No, but there’s a vending machine outside.”

He propped himself up against the pillows, his eyes following you as you made your way over to the bathroom where your clothes were bundled up on the tile floor. He let out a small sigh as you walked out of sight.

He naturally timed the minutes till the door creaked open again. You had washed yourself up in the sink, some water droplets still clinging to your neck. Your hair less frizzy now that it had been dampened. You wore your clothes from earlier, though one could tell they had been taken off of you multiple times.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised, grabbing the key and some coins from the cabinet. And he believed you.

The door shut behind you, a cold breeze immediately hugging your skin. The LED lamps brightened the exterior corridor. The vending machine at the end of the walkway shone even brighter, catching your attention.

You walked straight toward it, curiously peering into the transparent door. You pressed the numbers for trail mix and beef jerky — something that could pass for dinner. You inserted the coin, impatiently bending down in front of the opening.

The rumbling sound of the machine was followed by a whoosh of air.

Then a sharp bang echoed through your skull.

Then you were gone.

-`♡´-

Shadows of bright lights flickered in front of your eyes, giving the illusion that you rubbed them too hard.

You forced your eyelids open, and if it weren’t for the fact that you were lying down, you would’ve stumbled. With effort, you scrambled yourself up into a sitting position, taking in your surroundings.

Four tiled walls enclosed you. The room resembled a lab: a sink with a counter to the left, an iron door on the wall right in front of you, and an air vent to the right.

A bitter odor entered your airways, making you scrunch your nose. You turned your head to the left — a little too quickly — the throbbing pain catching up with you, making you groan in pain.

Your hands shot to the sides of your face, trying to hold your head still in an attempt to stop the room from spinning.

A warm liquid coated your fingers. You pulled your hand back and saw it was stained crimson. A gasp left you, followed by a string of whimpers as you felt yourself growing faint.

You spotted a red first aid kit on top of the counter. On your knees, you slumped toward it, taking several breaks despite the distance only being ten feet.

With clammy hands, you clutched the counter, inhaling a deep breath before dragging yourself up. Your body hovered over the table, and you reached your arm out to pull the kit closer to you. You fumbled with the lock on the box. “Open up, please,” you begged to whatever God that was listening.

The acid smell grew stronger, and it was then that you noticed the small vial next to the first aid kit. Its contents contained a light yellow solid. Cyanide — poison.

The metal door creaked open, the sound stinging straight through your skull. You cried out as you fell to the ground. You backed away to the nearest wall, curling your knees to your chest just in time for the door to fully open. “Naive little birdie. You’re awake.”

PART 2.5

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid crime #spencer reid angst #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x oc #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x you #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction

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miserycanary · 1 year ago

Text

A FIXED HEART IN YOUR HAND ᡣ𐭩 previous ⤶

♡⃛ ‘My Hell For Your Love’ alternative ending

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley & fem!reader

synopsis: is it done? hopeless love? How Ghost is after the break-up

tags: :3..

Ghost swears he’s going crazy. In his eyes, the walls are dimmer and everything seems… out of place. He seems out of place. Not when you’re not there with him. “Fuck,” he grumbles, tilting his head back on the headboard of the bed you used to share with him. He knows it’s disgusting but he hasn’t had the courage to change the bedsheets since that day, too scared he’d forget how you smell. Ever since you came over for the last time to take your things, he lost everything in the apartment that reminds him of you— that reminds you guys happened.

It seems like he’s in a worse state than he thought when even Price came up to him, asking him to hang after work shifts. Ghost knew that he was not in the best state and everyone in the base was muttering about it. Seeing as he had nothing more to lose (you were all he had), he agreed.

The bar was filled with cigar smoke and the smell of cheap liquor. It was bustling with bodies grinding on each other everywhere. He had let himself go but his build still managed to attract stares, often getting hit on by ladies looking for someone to fix their daddy issues. And each time he turns them down until he sees a familiar figure. Like a dog, he chases someone who seems to be you but only to feel a pang of disappointment.

The night seems to pass quickly. He’s suddenly in bed with the girl who looks like you. He knows it’s wrong to play with her, but he needs you— one way or another. It just ended up with him more frustrated. She wasn’t like you. The way she felt, her look, and her voice. Everything was so different.

He didn’t even stay the night, unable to process the fact he laid with someone who wasn’t you. Placing some bills on the bedside table, Ghost takes one more look at her sleeping figure that paints a scowl on his face. Even the way she sleeps wasn’t like you at all. The walk back home was exhausting, with a cigar between his lips and a burden in his heart.

His steps halted when he found himself in the familiar street of your unit. “I’m really going nuts,” he chuckled to himself, peering up to look at your unit that always had its windows open. He was about to risk it all when he heard your laughter and a voice. The sight before him made him lose it. You had a guy over. Someone who doesn’t even look like him! Ghost snaps back when he realizes he let go of his cigar. Looking down at the still burning light, he contemplated. Was it done? Were you gone from him forever? No, right? It’s a one-night stand, convinces himself.

It wasn’t a one-night stand, he realizes. Holding the wedding invitation in his hand 2 years after that. The words printed on the dedication had his stomach churning.

‘To my old friend, Simon,

I invite you to my wedding. Thank you for being with me for many years. You have helped me become who I am today, so I would love if you’ll be there. We promised we’d be with each other during our happiest moment, right?

All love,

Y/N’

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱: the last and final part. Go read the alternative ending! Sorry if it’s rushed!!

dividers by @cafekitsune

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist is open! Comment if you want to be tagged in the next posts.

check out my other works in the masterlist: ୭!

#simon ghost x you #simon riley cod #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #simon riley call of duty #ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost cod #canary’s melodies #RUSHED #simon riley #ghost angst

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jolyfics · 1 year ago

Note

This is my first time requesting something uggghh I'm nervous.

Anyways, I think it would be so cute if your wrote how the jojos would confess to their crushes!

i love the way you write so ik you'll do them justice

𝙞 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪

𝘫𝘰𝘫𝘰𝘴 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

summary: how the jojos confess

notes: THIS TOOK SO LONG MY HAND FELL ASLEEP 😭😭 but really i hope you enjoy it!! i swear i wasn’t being that lazy over easter break

jonathan joestar

i feel like jonathan is the most romantic out of all the jojos

he’d definitely bring you some place nice

like a tree on a hill during sunset

he’d also make it a picnic

after you two talk for a good bit is when he’d speak up

if you agree to his confession he’d let out a sigh of relief, as well as a big grin

6pm, he told you to meet you by the tree where you usually hang out, you adored that tree, it was rural. once you arrived you noticed he was there before you, sitting underneath the tree with a cute little picnic basket beside him. you sat down to his left, he took out some sandwiches you assumed he made and the two of you began eating, quickly falling into your usual banter.

after awhile, he cleared his throat, causing you to look up at him with confusion. “i.. have something i wish to tell you.” he spoke up, he sounded nervous, you had never heard him sound like that before. you perked up, signalling for him to continue. “i have feelings for you, (name). and i hope you’d accept them” you could feel your cheeks heat up, which caused his to do the same.

you nodded, “i do, jojo!” he grinned, a sigh escaping him as relief washed over his entire body. he placed his hand atop of yours, as you both gave eachother an adoring look

joseph joestar

joseph’s a smartass

it definitely starts with him teasing you

then when you ask him why he likes teasing you specifically is when he shuts up

he admits it quite casually

like its nothing

leaving you quite flustered

“c’mon, cutie! give me a smile!” he smirked, he adored the way your eyebrows looked as they furrowed when he spoke. he loved the way your face turned the slightest shade of red and how you tried to hide how he actually got a reaction out of you. he loved it all. “shut up, jojo!” you scoffed, trying to hide the blush that crept up onto your face

“why do you always tease me? why not suzie q?!” you spoke up, you weren’t angry, just genuinely confused. did he like seeing you so angry? he then playfully rolled his eyes. “because i love seeing that look on your face! i mean, who wouldn’t? you’re gorgeous yknow?” you scoffed once more before crossing your arms

“it’s because i love you, (name)! and i know you can’t resist me” he grinned, his usual stupid grin. you looked back over at him. it seemed he was waiting for you to say something to him, instead you placed a small kiss on his cheek. that seemed to finally shut him up

jotaro kujo

it honestly depends on which jotaro

part 3 jotaro isn’t the kinda guy to confess his feelings to you

he’d just hope and pray you had that confidence to speak up first

if you don’t though, and the feeling is getting too much for him to handle he’d trap you in a hotel room and force you to listen to him

very rare to hear more than a few words with him, let alone hear what he FEELS

you sat on the hotel bed, reading a cheap magazine you found in one of the drawers in the bedside table. you were sharing a room with jotaro, you only really shared with him or kakyoin, since you three were the only teenagers with the group. jotaro had just gotten back from being in the bathroom, he sat on the bed to your right.

“(name).” he spoke, his voice soft, yet still with the usual firmness that usually has a grasp over him. you looked over to him, closing the magazine over and placing it beside you on the bed. “yes, jotaro?” he paused, the air seemed different. not the usual feeling you had while rooming with him.

“you’re.. not awful.” his voice was now that of a mumble, as he used the brim of his hat to cover his face. at first you were confused, until it hit you, he was trying to tell you how he felt about you. he just couldn’t get the right words out of his mouth

josuke higashikata (4)

josukes confession is probably the most fun out of them all.

i feel like he’d take you somewhere fun like bowling

you’d be kicking his ass at it

and once you finished up your game and we’re walking home

thats when he’d tell you

and if its cold he might even lend you his coat

you shivered as the two of you walked home after a long day of bowling. you two played about 4 rounds, you won 3/4 of those games, which you were quite proud of. you felt something heavy land across your shoulders, you looked down. josukes coat? you then turned your gaze to him, he seemed to be looking in the opposite direction of you

“thanks, josuke” you spoke up, getting rid of the silence between you too. he hummed, kicking a rock as he walked. “hey, uhh” he paused before speaking up once more. “i gotta tell you something, and don’t get angry at me for saying this!” you chuckled at that, you couldn’t get angry at him

“i.. think i might like you. thats a lie. i know i like you” you pulled his coat closer around you as you grinned, this day seemed to be getting better and better..

giorno giovanna

giorno definitely took you to a fancy restaurant

he is the don, he has that kind of money

he’d probably buy you something fancy too.

he’d just say it outright, like it was something he said everyday

you two sat across from eachother at the fancy restaurant, both of you in your fanciest attire. you two stared at a menu, deciding what to get before the waiter arrived, notebook and pen in hand. once you ordered, and the waiter was gone, giorno looked over at you. he pulled out a tiny box placing it on the table and sliding it over to you

“giorno, no” “i insist, (name)” he interrupted. you sighed, picking up the box and opening it. a necklace lay inside, laced with what you could only assume were real diamonds. you looked up to him in shock. “giorno, i can’t take this..” he shook his head

“you must, you’re the only person i’d want to spend this kind of money on, so please. let me buy you things from now on” he gave a small, meaningful smile towards you, which only made you smile. you took the necklace out of the box, placing it around your neck. “you look stunning, mí amore”

jolyne cujoh

okay. we all know how lesbians are

she’d definitely confess buy playing a song for you, then saying that it reminds her of you

you two would just be in her bedroom

and she’d suggest listening to music

then she’d play the song and say it reminds her of you two

you two sat on jolynes bed, you’d been friends for years, so long in fact, you two had began to develop feelings for eachother. even though everyone around the two of you knew, you two didn’t. “hey.. let’s listen to some music!” jolyne suggested, you nodded. that could be fun, you always enjoyed her music

she grinned, standing up from the bed and heading towards her cd collection. she picked one up, then placed it into the cd player. it took a few seconds for the song to boot up but once it began she then hurried back over to sit beside you in her bed. “what song is it?” you asked, she only grinned at you. “you’ll see”

as the song began to play, it seemed like something jolyne never would’ve usually listened to. you began to recognise the song as time went on, ‘this kiss, by faith hill’ as you began to wonder why she picked this song, she spoke up. “this song, reminds me of us..” her face was slightly red as she spoke

Johnny Joestar

johnny and you were put on a ranch

yous were just together tending to your horses

it was silent, peaceful

that’s when johnny would admit to having feelings for you

it definitely took him awhile to do that

he’s not the most open when it comes to how he feels

you fed your horse, johnny stood beside you, doing the exact same to slow dancer, his horse. it was comfortable, you two enjoyed eachothers company and the silence between you wasn’t awkward in the slightest, at least for you anyways.

johnny was busy thinking about you, he wanted to tell you how he felt, he knew he owed it to you to be honest, but it was just scary. he was afraid of rejection from you. even though he knew deep, deep down that you most likely liked him too

“hey.. (name)?” he finally spoke up, he felt as if his heart was in his throat. you turned to look at him, giving him a hum to continue. “i just wanted to say that i.. like ya, i have for awhile now. i just.. wanted ya to know” he looked away, embarrassed

josuke higashikata (8)

josuke just blurts it out

like its NOTHING

he doesn’t get social cues tbh

it leaves you shocked

like really shocked

you two were probably just sitting in a part when he just says it

you sat on the park bench with josuke, you both had gotten an ice cream, it was a very warm day in morioh, so ice cream was the only solution the two of you had. as you both sat, enjoying your ice cream, you looked over to josuke, who seemed to be enjoying his delicious sweet treat

“isn’t this nice, josuke?” you spoke up, he only nodded enthusiastically, continuing to lick the cone. you chuckled at him, giving him a smile. which seemed to make him stop eating? he stared at you, in an almost creepy way. you’d be creeped out if you didn’t know him

“i’m in love with you” he says, before going back to his ice cream. you stared at him, in shock. “what?” you gave him a confused look, where you dreaming? hallucinating even? did he really just say that to you?

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p0orbaby · 7 months ago

Text

Life Was So Simple Then (2)

summary: you and leah embark on a trip through Europe in an effort to save your marriage

warnings: mentions of smut, some angst

a/n: this took an age, i apologise

word count: 3.8k

part 1

Paris, France

In the beginning, it was all touch. Reckless, intoxicating hunger, the kind that makes you dizzy, delirious, and utterly convinced that love is a bottomless well, some infinite resource you’d never need to ration. Leah had been a storm then—of limbs, of breathless laughter, of contradictions. Sharp cheekbones and soft eyes. Tough, capable hands that could hold you like you were fragile. The faint scent of rosewater, as if she’d stepped out of some ethereal, expensive bath you’d only read about in magazines. You used to lean into her just to catch a trace of it, to inhale and feel tethered.

The hotel room had been unbearably hot. A pre-war walk-up in the Marais, with high ceilings and no air conditioning, a relic of some charming idea of Paris you’d both fallen for. The kind of place with threadbare rugs and cracked plaster, where the windows opened wide enough to make you wonder if they’d ever had glass. Through them, the city spilled in: the low hum of traffic, the brassy whine of someone playing an accordion poorly, the occasional burst of laughter from tourists below. It was sticky-hot, the kind of heat that seeped into your bones and slowed everything down, but you hadn’t cared. Back then, the heat had felt like part of it. Like Paris was conspiring to keep you both in that room.

The silk sheets were damp, clinging to your skin like second thoughts. Sweat, spilled wine, and your combined inability to do anything carefully had turned the bed into chaos. The air smelled thick with salt and the faint, acrid tang of candle wax from the cheap tealights you’d found in a Monoprix. The bedside table was an altar to your excesses: a half-empty Bordeaux tilted precariously on its base, lipstick-smeared glasses, the rind of a Brie wedge discarded onto crumpled room service receipts. The whole room pulsed with you, with her, with the raw intensity of bodies trying to learn each other by heart.

Leah had pinned you down, her hair sticking to her forehead in damp strands. Her hands were rougher than you’d expected, callused from years of hard work, but her touch was precise. Intentional. Her body moved like she was still on the pitch, all grace and momentum, her muscles flexing and contracting with a controlled kind of power. Her skin was slick with sweat, glowing in the soft, flickering light. She’d looked down at you, her lips parted, her chest heaving, and said, “I don’t think we’re ever going to leave this room.”

It hadn’t been a complaint.

Her mouth found yours, hot and insistent, and you’d arched into her, your body a live wire under her touch. She kissed you like she was starving, her teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make your breath hitch. Her fingers slid down, skimming over your ribs, your stomach, lower still, until you were gasping and half-delirious. The sheets tangled around your legs as you shifted, her weight anchoring you to the mattress.

When she pushed into you, it was deliberate—slow enough to make you whimper, deliberate enough to make you swear. She’d grinned, that lopsided, infuriating grin, and murmured, “Patience,” like it was a joke, like she wasn’t driving you mad. Her fingers curled, her rhythm deepening, her other hand slipping beneath your thigh to lift you just so. The noises you made felt too loud, even for Paris, but Leah didn’t seem to care. She kissed your neck, your collarbone, her teeth grazing just enough to leave a mark, her breath hot against your skin.

The room was a blur of sensation: the slick glide of her fingers, the rasp of her voice in your ear, the faint stickiness of wine-damp sheets against your back. You’d clung to her, nails biting into her shoulders, your mouth seeking hers in the dark. Every kiss felt like a promise, every gasp like a vow. She’d whispered something then, her voice low and rough, but you couldn’t remember what it was. Just the way it made you feel, like you were both infinite and small at the same time.

“Are you even listening?”

Leah’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a blade, severing the sultry haze of memory and depositing you squarely into the fluorescent sterility of the Louvre. The light here is stark and unforgiving, flattening everything into sharp lines and pale shadows.

You blink, disoriented, your gaze reeling as it lands on the painting in front of you. Rococo. Instantly recognisable. A confection of pastels and ornamentation, the kind of thing that would probably make someone like Leah, with her minimalist tastes and preference for the functional, roll her eyes. It’s…a lot: naked, writhing bodies in soft focus, faces slack with pleasure or feigned disinterest, all bathed in a gauzy, ethereal light. The women recline on chaise longues, their limbs arranged just-so, like dolls posed by an unseen hand. The men, with their powdered wigs and flushed cheeks, lean toward them in exaggerated displays of seduction. You can’t help but think they all look a bit ridiculous—like children dressed up for a play they don’t understand.

“What?” you say, sharper than you mean to, as though you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

Leah turns her head slightly, fixing you with that unimpressed look she’s perfected over years of dealing with your nonsense. Her patience, once boundless, now feels limited. “I said, ‘What do you think of it?’” She gestures at the painting, her tone hovering between mild curiosity and growing exasperation.

You tilt your head, feigning an air of seriousness, arms crossed like you’re about to deliver a considered critique. “It’s porn,” you declare finally, with all the gravitas of someone pronouncing a great truth.

The snort that escapes her is sudden and involuntary, breaking the gallery’s reverent hush. It’s a sharp, satisfying sound, and you feel a twinge of victory, like you’ve cracked a facade she didn’t even realise she was wearing. “It’s not porn,” she says, half-laughing despite herself. “It’s… art”

“It’s people fucking,” you counter, deadpan. “Artistically.” You lean in slightly, squinting at the powdered wigs, imagining the smell of sweat trapped beneath layers of silk and lace. “Do you think they had bad breath back then? Or, like, mint wigs for occasions like this?”

Leah shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin line that fails to disguise the flicker of amusement in her eyes. “I don’t know why I bother asking you anything”

“Because you love my insights,” you say smoothly, straightening up and flashing her a self-satisfied smile.

“Hmm, that must be it,” she murmurs, already moving on to something else, her footsteps a soft staccato against the polished floor.

You linger behind, your eyes drifting back to the pastel scene. The bodies are too perfect, too composed, every touch choreographed, every expression calculated. It feels like an imitation of intimacy, something meant to evoke passion but failing to capture its rawness. You think about the last time you were in Paris with Leah, how the closest you’d come to art then was an ink-stained receipt for a bottle of cheap red wine from a corner shop, crumpled and forgotten on the bedside table.

Back then, words had felt unnecessary. Sex had been your language, fluent and instinctive, a shorthand for everything you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. You remember the way her body had pressed against yours, the weight of her grounding you, the rhythmic cadence of her breathing lulling you into a sense of safety. Those rare, quiet moments when the edges of the world seemed to blur and dissolve, leaving only the two of you suspended in a fragile, fleeting stillness.

You turn away from the painting, letting the memory fade, and catch up to Leah by a marble statue of some Greek goddess caught mid-pose. Her drapery seems to ripple, as though frozen in the act of defying gravity. Leah stands before it, studying the placard with an intensity that feels almost performative, like she’s trying to convince herself she belongs here in this rarefied space of curated beauty and restrained admiration.

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” you ask, your voice low enough to blend into the gallery’s reverent quiet.

Leah doesn’t look up. Her posture is ramrod straight, her hands loosely clasped in front of her, as though she’s determined to project an air of calm detachment. “In Paris, or the Louvre?” she asks, her tone clipped but not unkind.

“Paris,” you reply, leaning casually against the barrier separating you from the statue, your smirk audible even if she doesn’t see it. “Obviously not the Louvre. We were too busy shagging to even think about sightseeing”

Her lips twitch, the barest hint of a smile threatening to break through, but she keeps her eyes fixed on the placard. “You’re ridiculous,” she says at last, her voice tinged with something that might be affection if you squint hard enough.

“But accurate,” you shoot back, shifting your weight onto one leg and folding your arms, the picture of nonchalance.

Finally, she glances at you, and for a moment, the polished veneer she’s been holding onto slips. Her expression softens in a way that always catches you off guard, as though some small, unguarded part of her has decided to peek out. “I remember,” she says softly, her voice quieter now, less guarded. “It feels like a lifetime ago”

“It was,” you reply, your tone steady, devoid of nostalgia. Time has stretched and warped since then, folding in on itself in ways that make the past feel both impossibly distant and uncomfortably close.

Leah turns back to the statue, her fingers idly brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s a small, habitual gesture you’ve seen her do a thousand times, but there’s something grounding about it. “Do you ever think we should’ve done more back then?” she asks, her voice casual, though the question feels anything but. “Seen more of the city?”

“No,” you say without hesitation. “I think we did exactly what we wanted to do”

She turns fully now, facing you with an expression that’s hard to read. Her eyes, darker than you always seem to remember, hold yours as though she’s searching for something—an answer, an anchor, maybe even a way back to that version of you she once knew.

“And now?” she asks, her voice soft, almost tentative.

It’s not a simple question, and you know better than to give a simple answer. You take a breath, glancing at the statue behind her, its frozen drapery a reminder of how movement can be stilled and immortalised, stripped of urgency. “Now,” you say finally, meeting her eyes, “we’re doing exactly what we need to do”

Dinner that evening is…strange, to say the least. The restaurant is small and intimate in the way all Parisian restaurants seem to be, with tables pressed so close together that conversations bleed into one another. Every flicker of candlelight bounces off polished wine glasses, casting fractured constellations on the white tablecloths. The smell of butter—brown, decadent, almost obscene—lingers in the air, mingling with the faint mineral tang of chilled seafood and the occasional waft of cigarette smoke drifting in from the open terrace.

Around you, the room hums with the quiet murmur of couples in love. Hands reach across tables, fingers brushing in delicate choreography. You catch snippets of whispered endearments and low, conspiratorial laughter, the kind that makes your skin crawl. It’s all unbearably romantic, in that overly performed French way, and you suddenly feel like the only two people in the room who don’t fully meet the entrance criteria.

Leah clears her throat, breaking the silence. “What are you getting?”

You glance at the menu in front of you, its ornate script swimming slightly in the dim light. “Whatever’s least likely to still be alive when it reaches the plate”

Her mouth twitches, almost but not quite a smile. “So, not the oysters”

“Definitely not the oysters,” you say firmly, setting the menu down and picking up your wine glass instead. The wine—something white, dry, and expensive enough to feel sophisticated—slides coolly over your tongue, but it does little to ease the prickling discomfort beneath your skin.

You find yourself staring as she looks back down at the menu. She’s very beautiful, annoyingly so. It’s always something you’ve been quietly smug about. Of course, personality is more important, but having something nice to look at never hurts.

Leah’s beauty is the kind that sneaks up on you. It’s not showy, not the sort that announces itself with sequins and flashing lights. It’s quieter, more deliberate, like the kind of painting that draws you closer the longer you look at it. You’d noticed it in pieces at first—her sharp, clean jawline; the way her eyes, a rich, mossy green, always seemed to catch the light just right; her hands, strong and capable, yet delicate when she wasn’t thinking about them. You used to marvel at those hands, how they could hold a football with an easy, commanding grace one moment and then trace lazy circles on your bare back the next.

Even now, years later, the sight of her stirs something in you. It’s frustrating, really, how much space she takes up in your mind without even trying. Tonight, her hair falls in soft waves, tucked just slightly behind her ears in a way that feels almost incidental, though you know Leah and incidental don’t exist in the same sentence. She’d argue otherwise, of course. She always insists she’s effortless, just lucky in the way her clothes hang right or her skin doesn’t need much beyond a £60 cleanser she swears by but never remembers the name of. Her face is bare tonight, apart from the faintest sheen of moisturiser catching the candlelight. Leah doesn’t believe in makeup. It’s impractical, she says. For weddings or photoshoots, maybe. Otherwise, she’ll leave that nonsense to you.

You’re so wrapped up in dissecting her, in cataloguing the details that still pull you to her after all this time, that you don’t notice the waiter appear until he’s standing by your table. He clears his throat in the most subtle way possible—so subtle it feels rehearsed. His uniform is textbook Parisian service: crisp white shirt, black trousers pressed with a precision that suggests starch, and a dark waistcoat that probably costs more than your bill will, though the fabric looks a little too heavy for the warmth of the room. He’s holding a leather-bound notebook in one hand, a pen in the other, his body language the perfect mix of attentiveness and disdain.

“Bonsoir,” he says, his tone bordering on bored. His accent is thick, exaggerated, like he’s leaning into the stereotype for sport. “Are we ready to order?”

Leah looks up first, her green eyes meeting his with that disarming sincerity she uses when she knows she’s being scrutinised. “Yes,” she says, polite but clipped. “I’ll have the duck confit, please”

“Très bien,” he murmurs, jotting it down. His pen glides smoothly, the way yours never does. You’ve always wondered why restaurant pens write like silk and yours at home feel like they’re actively protesting any attempt to put them to paper.

“And for you?” He turns to you now, eyebrows raised in the kind of mild condescension only the French have mastered.

You panic. You’ve been staring at Leah and not your menu, which now sits closed and unhelpful in front of you. The only word you remember is “escargot,” which you don’t even like. “Um,” you stall, glancing at Leah, who’s no help at all. “The steak. Medium rare. With… whatever comes with it”

“Frites,” he says, without looking up. His tone suggests you’ve failed some kind of test.

“Right. Frites.” You nod like this is exactly what you meant.

“And to drink?”

“We’ll have another bottle of Pouilly-Fumé” Leah says before you have a chance to stutter out more nonsense. It makes you blush. Of embarrassment from the look the waiter gives you, and the way your wife exudes authority in situations that never really require it.

The waiter disappears with the same aloof efficiency he arrived with, leaving you and Leah suspended in the awkward intimacy of your table. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence isn’t heavy, exactly—it’s more like an overfilled balloon, ready to burst if either of you dares to poke at it.

Leah’s eyes flick to you as she picks up her glass, her fingers curling around the delicate stem with a practised ease. You realise, with a flash of annoyance, that she’s completely in her element here. She thrives in these environments, where the lighting is flattering and the service is designed to make her feel important. You, on the other hand, are convinced the restaurant’s entire purpose is to expose you as some sort of culinary fraud.

“Steak, huh?” she says, her lips curving in a faint smirk. “Very adventurous.”

You roll your eyes and take a sip of wine, the liquid cold and sharp against your tongue. “Not all of us have a spreadsheet of ‘acceptable dining choices’ saved on our phones.”

Her smirk widens into a full grin, the kind that softens her face in ways she’d never admit. “It’s called being prepared. I don’t want to accidentally order tripe and have to pretend I’m fine with it.”

“And here I thought you were spontaneous,” you quip, leaning back in your chair. “Living on the edge. Going wherever the wind takes you.”

Leah chuckles, a low, quiet sound that feels like it belongs to a different version of her—the one who’d once chased you around that stifling hotel room in nothing but a sheet, her hair wild and her laughter echoing off the cracked walls. It’s a version of her you haven’t seen in a while. You wonder if it still exists somewhere, buried under layers of polished professionalism and quiet restraint.

“I’m spontaneous,” she says, her tone mock-defensive. “I just… prefer to know what I’m getting into.”

You arch an eyebrow. “That’s not how spontaneity works.”

Leah’s about to reply when the waiter returns, this time with bread. He sets the basket down with the kind of exaggerated precision that makes you wonder if he practises in front of a mirror. The bread is, predictably, perfect—golden crust, soft interior, the faintest whiff of sourdough tang. Leah breaks off a piece and hands it to you without looking, a gesture so automatic it makes your chest ache.

“Why now?” you ask suddenly, the question slipping out before you’ve had a chance to think it through.

Leah looks up, her expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

You shrug, trying to look casual as you scan her face for answers she might not give you. “Retirement. Why now?”

Leah exhales sharply through her nose, a quiet sigh that somehow carries more weight than the clatter of plates or the hum of muted conversation around you. She picks up her wine glass, swirling the golden liquid inside with the same kind of focus you imagine she once gave to corners or free kicks. It’s a small, practiced movement, one that gives her just enough time to think, to arrange her words into neat, measured lines.

She sets the glass down, but doesn’t drink. Instead, her eyes lift to meet yours, steady and unflinching, green as moss and twice as rooted. “Why now?” she repeats, as though testing the question’s weight before committing to an answer.

You nod, suddenly unsure if you actually want to know.

Leah leans back in her chair, her fingers trailing idly over the edge of the tablecloth. “Because it was time,” she says simply, her voice soft but not uncertain. There’s a pause, heavy enough to settle into the space between you but not heavy enough to sink it. “Because I didn’t want to leave it too late. To end up chasing a version of myself that doesn’t exist anymore”

“But you could’ve gone on,” you say, a little too quickly, the words tumbling out before you can catch them. “You weren’t done. Everyone knows that. You know that”

Her mouth twitches, a faint ghost of a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I could’ve,” she agrees, tilting her head slightly, as though she’s conceding a point in an argument she doesn’t really want to have. “But then what? Another trophy? Another medal to stick in a drawer? Another season, another injury, another year away from you?” She shakes her head, and there’s something raw in her voice now, something that catches you off guard. “It’s not enough anymore. Football’s big, but life’s bigger”

She looks down at her hands then, as if she doesn’t quite trust herself to meet your gaze. “And you’re my life. I don’t want to ruin that for the sake of a few extra goals or headlines. I’ve already given so much of myself to the game. I don’t want it to take the rest of me too”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. Instead, you tear the bread into smaller and smaller pieces, your fingers working on autopilot as your brain tries to catch up.

“You’ve always been good at this,” Leah continues, her voice gentler now, like she’s trying to guide you through something you don’t fully understand. “At making me feel like there’s more to me than what I do on the pitch. I think—I know—that’s part of why I fell for you”

Your throat tightens, the words you’d planned to say crumbling into dust. You hadn’t expected her to go here, to lay herself bare like this, not in the middle of a crowded Parisian restaurant with strangers brushing elbows and forks scraping plates.

She leans forward slightly, her elbows resting on the edge of the table, her eyes finding yours again. “I don’t want to look back in ten years and realise I missed the most important thing because I was too busy chasing something I’d already caught a hundred times before”

“Me,” you say, your voice quieter than you mean it to be, like you’re afraid of breaking the fragile sincerity of the moment.

Leah nods, her smile softening into something you can only describe as real. “You,” she echoes.

The weight of her words settles over you, heavy but not suffocating, like a duvet pulled snug on a cold night. For a moment, all the noise around you—the clinking of glasses, the murmurs of nearby tables, the faint hum of the city beyond the terrace—fades into the background. It’s just you and her, sitting across a too-small table in a too-big city, tethered by something that feels bigger than words.

When you finally speak, your voice is steadier than you expect. “You’re going to hate retirement,” you say, the corner of your mouth twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk.

She laughs then, a quiet, rueful sound that seems to light up the space between you. “Oh, I already do,” she admits, reaching for her glass and taking a sip this time. “But if it means more nights like this, with you… I think I’ll survive”

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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uravitypng · 8 months ago

Text

werewolf meguru bachira x (chubby) reader

KINKTOBER: knotting + dacryphilia + marking

word count: 1.3k words / mdni / 18+ i love writing for bachira <33

your roommate is really hot. applying to become roommates with someone who you didn't know led to unexpected problems- like falling for him. his cheerful and eccentric personality drew you in, his amber eyes and his black and yellow hair keeping you there. a very attractive man in every sense. a very attractive werewolf.

decades ago werewolves and other monsters would have to hide who they are but the times have changed and society has progressed. one of the reasons why you're glad you're born during this progressive age is now you can go into sex shops and buy sex toys... monster sex toys... werewolf toys.

you didn't go out of your way to buy a monster sex toy, you just wanted a new vibrator, maybe something a little quieter now you have a roommate but there was a whole section on monster toys. huge, thick, ribbed, knots, it was rather daunting to see all of them. your eyes were drawn to a particular dildo though, thick and with a knot, you guess around 9 inches. you read the label below it and it's a werewolf dildo. in the end you end up buying it but you tell yourself that you might not even use it, you're just buying it because it was cheap. it wasn't, you couldn't even afford to buy the vibrator you wanted as well.

when you get home you throw the dildo under the bedside table, sometimes your eyes drift over to it but it's been weeks and you haven't used it.

you make your way into the living room and turn on the television, throwing a blanket over you. you think about asking bachira if he wants to watch a movie with you, you hear the shower run and look for films while you wait to ask him. you don't hear the shower stop and you don't hear the door opening, already focused on your task of choosing a film. "oooh, what are you watching?"

"i haven't deci-" you turn to look at him and he's wearing his towel, and nothing else. it's definitely not the first time he's done this, it's pretty frequent but every time it floors you. it should be illegal for someone to look so good. "bachira put some clothes on!" you squeak and he laughs loudly at your reaction before leaving and coming back a couple minutes later this time with clothes on. you end up watching a film and that night your hand reaches under your bedside table. it was only fair that meguru touched himself to your muffled moans, it seems you forgot that werewolves have supernatural hearing and you're basically putting on a show for him. he can't hear any porn so he wonders what you're thinking about. little does he know it's about him.

it happens nearly everyday now, once you've started it's hard to stop. stripped down and turning your face against your pillow muffling your moans and making your wrist hurt as you repeatedly thrust the dildo into your pussy. however, unaware to you, your noises get louder, as you get closer you whine loudly and bachira can hear squelching noises and he imagines him getting you to make the noises. as you push the knot into you you whine "meguru" and he cums everywhere, all over his chest and pants loudly. he didn't imagine that. you definitely said his name.

immediately he leaves his room and he flings open your door and and you whelp trying to cover yourself with your hands. "bachira wha-" before you can finish what you were going to say he goes over to the bed and grabs your hands, forcing them away from your body.

"don't cover up. it's rude to tease," he grins and your eyes widen. he grips your wrists in his large hands and licks his lips as he drinks up your soft body with his eyes, making you shiver.

"tease? tease, i-i haven't done anything!" you don't know what he's talking about but you're hyperaware that you're naked and exposed with a knotted werewolf dildo currently in you with your werewolf roommate above you completely naked too, and you can feel his hard cock against you which you're trying not to look at it.

"oh, really, so calling my, whining, my name as you fill up your cunt isn't teasing?" he licks a tear that starts to fall down your face, 'you look so cute'.

your eyes widen and you try and wiggle out of his grasp, " 'm sorry! ' didn't mean to! just like you a lot meguru!"

bachira doesn't try to stifle giggles, making you cry more and he ruts against your chubby stomach. "awe why didn't you tell me? we could of been doing this for ages." he teases but you can hear that he's being genuine. you sniffle and look up at him in shock and awe at his 'confession'. "such a silly girl," he grins as he sees another tear and wipes it with his hand. "it's a good thing i like you too," he kisses your wet cheek. "never knew you were such a crybaby though." he never knew he would be so turned on by seeing you cry either.

"i'm not a crybaby." you mumble.

"oh please," bachira rolls his eyes and without any warning pulls the dildo out of you, making you screech, suddenly feeling so empty. when he sees it he grins wide, not only covered in your juices but very clearly knotted. "awe did you buy this because of me?" you turn your head to the side not wanting to look at him, embarrassed. 'cute'

"do you want my cock?" he asks cockily and you head snaps back to look at him. "i promise it's much better then that small piece of plastic you've been using." he grins and ruts against you again. your mind goes blank as he says 'small,' that toy is anything but small, how big is he?

you nod your head, "good girl." in one swoop he thrusts into you, not stopping as you scream and grab hold of his arms and hold him tightly to ground yourself. he laughs at your reaction as he keeps thrusting hard and fast. he wasn't lying when he said your toy was small. his cock feels thicker than your wrist and is longer than average too, you feel like you're feeling ripped apart but still he doesn't slow down, in fact as you cry more he gets even more feral. "you look so pretty crying for me," kissing your cheeks and soft jaw.

bachira grabs hold of your malleable hips and sinks his fingers into you groaning at the sight and the feeling, using them to pull you towards him and off him, aiding in his movements.

he doesn't even need to work hard for you to come. of course he doesn't you're his 'good little mate' meguru actually growls when he thinks that, shocking you in the process. it seems impossible but his thrusts get harder and it almost hurts but the slight pain is pleasurable. "fuck, fuck," he grabs hold of you so tightly he's going to leave bruises and pushes his knot into you and stuffing you full.

you scream, you cry more than double that you have been, your arms flail and your swear you're going to bleed. "sssh, shhhh, it's okay," he strokes your hair and wipes your eyes. you sniffle and he continues comforting.

" 'ts big," you say through tears.

"i know but you can take it. you're so good for me aren't you?" you nod your head and as you nod your head your neck gets exposed causing bachira to start breathing heavy and you worry that something's wrong. you don't have time to ask about it though because he's instincts are telling him to bite, bite, bite! and that's what he does, he turns your head and bites down hard, leaving a mating mark on you, making everyone know you're his. you gasp but the that blood drips down makes you wince, he licks your mark soothing any pain you have. you're his- forever.

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darlingdaisyfarm · 5 months ago

Note

I remember on ao3 you mentioned you wanted to post Stan and Ford reacting to readers death, I wanted to ask if you could share it please?<3

grief wears your name | Stan and Ford react to reader's death

Grief hits everyone differently and the Pines family is no exception. Old men arent supposed to outlive you

a/n: certainly! thank u for reminding me, tw: death

Stanley

you'd think that a man who’s been through as much as Stan Pines would’ve learned how to process grief by now. but the thing about Stan is, he doesn’t process it, not really. he pushes it down so deep that even he forgets it’s there, until it sneaks up and slams him flat on his ass.

fuck that, fuck everything, fuck this world

hell, he wasn’t supposed to outlive you. not you. not with all the shit he’d done to his body over the years, the cigarettes, the cheap booze, the sleepless nights every time he looked in the mirror. it was supposed to be him first. the old man with bad habits and a lifetime of regrets weighing him down. that was the deal, wasn’t it? you're too young, bright, stubborn, alive, you were supposed to outlast him. supposed to be there when his time came, rolling your eyes at his dramatics and holding his hand as he went. that’s how it was supposed to go, fucking fuck

he got the call from someone he didn’t recognize. a voice muttered words he couldn’t make sense of. your name. your fucking name. his ears rang, his head spun and his fingers gripped the receiver tightly

“what the fuck do you mean, gone?” the person on the other end tried to explain, but Stanley slammed the phone back onto the hook before they could finish. no. no.

you couldn’t be gone.

he saw you last week. he watched you smile at him across the counter, teasing him about his fez like you always did. he swore you winked at him before you left.

and now you were just. . . what? erased from existence?

grief had a way of making him ugly, uglier than he already saw himself. his hands shook as if he’d been drinking all night, but the bottle on the table was full and untouched. even the burn of whiskey couldn’t numb this, so what was the point?

Stanley thought about the kitten he’d brought home when he was ten. it was starving, ribs like piano keys beneath its dirty fur, the meows little animal let out were so pitiful. he'd sworn he’d take care of it, even made a little bed out of an old shoebox and named it tiger. he fed it milk behind his dad's back. tiger died three days later.

Stan felt useless, he couldn’t save anyone.

Stan hasn’t touched the fez since you died. it’s sitting there on the bedside table, gathering dust. you used to steal it all the time, yanking it off his head with a grin. “this thing’s ridiculous, Stan,” you’d tease, shoving it onto your head crookedly. “i’m the boss of scam now. bow to me.” and he always played along, rolling his eyes, calling you a pain in the ass, but you only laughed at that. that laughter was gone.

when Mabel asked him about you last night, he had to get up and leave the room because he wasn't ready for that. she was just a kid, trying to understand why the world was so unfair and he couldn’t give her an answer because he didn’t have one.

“grunkle Stan? do you think. . . do you think they’re still watching over us?” how could he tell her he didn’t believe in anything like that anymore? that you were just gone, snuffed out, like you’d never been here at all?

Mabel’s curled in his lap like she’s five again, clutching her sweater-covered arms around her knees, her face a swollen mess of tears and hiccupping sobs. her little voice is hoarse from crying and she tries to explain, through broken words, about the stupid sweater she’d been knitting for you. she just finished it. it was supposed to be a surprise. she was going to give it to you tomorrow.

Stan wraps his arms around her, calls her “pumpkin” in the softest voice he can manage, but it trembles. he squeezes his eyes shut so hard it makes his head hurt, he hopes if he can just keep them closed tight enough, none of this will be real. but it is. it fucking is. and he doesn’t know how to tell a twelve-year-old that the world is this fucking cruel. he doesn’t know how to admit he feels like that little boy again, the one with a kitten dying in his hands and nothing he could do to stop it.

he buries his face in Mabel’s brown hair and mutters some useless lie about how “it’s gonna be okay”

Mabel's face against his chest as she sobbed. Stan held her tighter.

“i made them a sweater, grunkle Stan. i-it’s pink with little stars and they- they said they'd wear it when it got cold,” her sobs swallowed the rest.

what could he say to that? what the hell could anyone say? “they loved your sweaters, kiddo. you know they did.” he wanted to picture you in that dumb pink sweater, smiling like you always did when you wanted to make Mabel feel special. but all he could see was you gone. gone. and nothing he could do would change it

Stanford

when he got the news about you, his meticulously constructed walls crumbled in an instant.

he sat at his desk, the journal open in front of him, its pages blurred by the tears he didn’t realize were falling. his hands shook as he gripped the pen, but the words just wouldn’t come.

he’d been taught from an early age that emotions were illogical. when he was younger, his father had told him to “quit being such a baby” after Ford cried over a broken model ship. that lesson had stuck

he locked himself in his study, the same place he’d last seen you. everything was still exactly where it had been. the chair you’d sat in. the pen you’d picked up and fiddled with while listening to him ramble. he’d always been embarrassed by how much he talked around you, because words came so easily when you were there.

the guilt was eating him from inside

was it his fault?

had he been too focused on his work, too distracted to notice that something was wrong? had he missed a chance to save you?

he needed answers. needed to know. what had happened? why had it happened?

he buried himself in research, poring over every detail of the accident or the incident, as he came to call it. his obsession grew, consuming him. he didn’t sleep. didn’t eat.

Stan found him one night, hunched over the desk, muttering to himself about alternate dimensions and cosmic energy. “Ford, this isn’t gonna bring them back.”

Ford didn’t respond because Stan was wrong.

Ford wasn’t trying to bring you back. he was trying to rewrite the universe so you’d never been gone in the first place

Dipper tries to talk to him one day, pulling at the hem of his vest clumsily. “grunkle Ford, is it okay to miss someone this much? like. . .this much that it hurts? my chest hurts.”

Stanford doesn’t know how to answer that. he doesn’t know how to explain the way grief wraps itself around your lungs and makes it impossible to breathe. “it is, Mason, it means they mattered.”

Dipper doesn’t see how Ford presses his hands to his temples when he leaves.

Ford’s always been good at pretending he’s fine.

Ford’s grief was quieter, but no less consuming. the guilt, the helplessness, the horrible emptiness that stretched wider every time he thought about how he’d failed to protect you.

he couldn’t stop thinking about all the times you’d parodied him, mimicking the way he pushed his glasses up his nose or how he’d say “actually” before correcting someone. “actually, Stanford Pines, you’re so predictable,” you’d giggle, tapping the bridge of your nose in a mocking gesture

you used to drive him insane with it, in good way. his face would flush, his words would stumble, and he’d act all huffy while secretly loving every second. he never told you how much he adored the way you made fun of him

he found one of your notebooks the other day. it was tucked under a pile of his old research papers, pages scrawled with your handwriting. you’d doodled little caricatures of him in the margins, stick-figure versions of Ford with six fingers and exaggerated glasses, accompanied by sarcastic captions like, “the nerdiest but prettiest man i ever knew”

he stared at those drawings until his vision blurred from tears. then he shoved the notebook in a drawer and locked it.

...

Ford disappears the next morning.

he knows it’s selfish, leaving Stan and the kids to deal with all of this without him, a part of family, but he can’t be in that house another second. the walls are suffocating. so he grabbed his coat, your coat, the one you used to borrow when you’d say his was warmer and walked, his feet already knew where they’re going.

the woods. the same path you always loved, where the sunlight filtered through the trees beautifully, where you used to point out birds or mushrooms or anything that caught your curious eye. you’d tug on his sleeve to make him stop and look. and god, you were so beautiful when you smiled at him like that. Ford adored you.

Ford doesn’t remember sitting down in the clearing where you used to spend time together, his knees in the dirt, fists clenched in the grass. he hadn’t cried when he found out, hadn’t even let himself feel it because there were too many faces looking at him like he was supposed to have answers. now there’s nothing but the woods, only memory of you and the sound of his own ragged breathing breaking into loud sobs

Ford cries like a child. raw, aching grief pouring out of him in waves, making his glasses fog up, slipping down his nose and he doesn’t bother fixing them. his body doesn’t know how to process this kind of pain. his hands too busy clawing at the ground, hoping he could dig deep enough to find you again.

Ford Pines, the man who always thought he could think his way out of anything, is completely unmade.

he doesn’t know how long he sits there, crumpled against the base of a tree. his hands tremble as he takes the notebook out of his coat pocket, the one he used to write down little things you’d say or do that he didn’t want to forget. he flips through it now, pages ruined with his tears and it hurts worse than anything else. your handwriting’s there, little notes you’d leave for him.

“don’t forget your glasses!”

“your hair looks cute today <3”

“i love you, Ford.”

he shuts the notebook and presses it to his chest, it's the only part of you he has left.

the stars above didn’t care. the trees didn’t care. the world kept turning, indifferent to the fact that you’d been torn from it.

and Ford was left there in the cold void, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life.

#gravity falls #gravity falls x reader #gravity falls x you #x reader #ford pines x reader #gravity falls smut #stanford pines #stan pines x reader #stan pines smut #ford pines smut #stan pines x you #stanley pines x you #stanley pines x reader #stanford pines headcanons #stanford pines x you #stanford pines x reader #stan pines x oc #stan pines

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fumekara · 1 year ago

Text

ALL THE THINGS I HAVE DONE (Final part)

SatoSugu x Gn reader

Plot: Your relationship with the strongest sorcerers in Japan was falling apart after they yelled at you and broke your heart.

n/a: English is not my first language, there will be a final part of this writing experiment, I am not very satisfied with how it came out. I know this is probably not the ending you were expecting.

Tw: A lot of angst, fluff, comfort, mention of sex, polyamorous relationship, mention of the death of one's pet, the reader has a cat, in this version Geto is a sorcerer.

If you are sensitive to mourning for your pets, do not interact with this fic.

WC: 2K

Click here for part 1 part2

You woke up blinded by the sunlight filtering through your bedroom window. Your eyes were swollen and sore from crying the night before. You felt a lack at the side of your bed and realized that Satoru and Suguru were not with you. Still groggy from waking up, you sat up and turned your attention to the bedside table to your left to check what time it was. You noticed, however, a glass of water, a muffin and a note with a message written on it that you were sure were not there the night before. You take the note in your hand and immediately recognise Suguru's handwriting.

We went out on an errand, we'll be back soon'.

Sighing, you brought the note to your face, as if trying to get something from it, like the warmth of the people who had cradled you and held you in their arms yesterday.

You didn't know where they might have gone, but you wanted to be with them, wanting to understand at all costs what would become of you from now on.

You had met the boys through Shoko, who was a close friend of yours in university days and had introduced you to her friends when you had all gone out together to celebrate your graduation. Although you were a bit shy at first and talked only to Shoko when you were sitting at a karaoke table, you managed to have a rather pleasant conversation with the two boys.

As time went by, you became more and more friendly with each other and went out more and more often with Gojo and Geto, even when Shoko wasn't with you, you enjoyed their company, you liked the fact that Gojo and Geto were so different, but still managed to find their stability in being together. They soon grew fond of you and began to be more open with you, their trust in you had strengthened and they showed genuine happiness in being with you. As a result, you could not help but have feelings for them, which gradually grew as your friendship continued.

You had become friends and remained friends even when Gojo and Geto got together. You knew it would happen sooner or later from the way they treated each other, plus you knew their history, since they had confided in you, during one of the evenings spent together watching movies, that they had been through a lot of bad times together. You were happy for them, really, but a part of you was unhappy that you could not be part of that unbreakable bond.

At the time you were living together, after graduation you had decided to look for a flat in Tokyo to start your career, and since they had a spare room at home, they offered to put you up.

You were sure you would only inconvenience the couple and didn't know what your life would be like knowing you were living under the same roof as them. You hadn't told anyone about your feelings for them, not even Shoko. They assured you that they would be happier to have you as a roommate and that you could never be a nuisance, since you were a close friend of theirs, and that they would never allow you to live in a dingy cheap flat until you finally settled down with your job.

And so you did, you went to live with them and were relieved that they both agreed to let you take Nuko with you. Moreover, living with them was great from day one. When you got up in the morning, you would find Suguru in the kitchen preparing breakfast and greeting you with a 'Good morning love', showing you his beautiful smile as always. Gojo, who to tease you would put some items on the shelves and top shelves and then laugh when you got nervous with him because you couldn't reach them, and every time he would muss your hair with his hand when he returned it to you doing his usual cheeky grin. Sometimes you would fall asleep on the sofa with your legs tangled during movie nights, sometimes both of you and sometimes you would spend evenings sitting on the sofa late into the night talking about silly things, deep thoughts about the most existential questions or the doubts and fears that tormented you.

Even when you managed to settle down in Tokyo and in your job you stayed living with them and they were fine with that.

Everything changed the day they asked you to become part of their relationship. They had both grown fond of you and, although at first you thought they had asked you in order to offer you a friendship with benefits, you realized that the more time passed, the more your triangular relationship turned into something absolutely wonderful. The months spent with them made you feel happy and fulfilled and you felt complete.

But now what was left, what would become of you from now on?.

________

At noon it began to rain and meanwhile you were preparing lunch while waiting for Satoru and Suguru to return. As you boiled the rice, you turned your head towards the bowl still full from the day before yesterday that lay in the corner of the kitchen floor and once belonged to Nuko. You sighed sadly and went back to work, deciding to chop some vegetables.

Suddenly you heard the sound of keys turning the lock of the front door: they were back.

"Hey, Y/N, where are you?" you heard Satoru call out to you. "I'm in the kitchen," you replied, continuing to cut.

Hearing their footsteps heading towards the kitchen, you decided to turn around and not look back. "I'm making saffron rice for lunch," you said not knowing what to do in that situation.

You turned your head slightly for a moment and then returned to what you were doing. You saw them on the threshold of the kitchen door, both slightly wet and Satoru was holding something in his hand, although you saw it in passing without realizing what it was.

You could feel their gazes on you and you were sure they wanted to talk about what had happened in the last two days and that perhaps it would lead to you breaking up.

"Y/N can you come here for a moment?" asked Satoru in an extremely quiet and gentle way. "I'm cutting Toru here," you replied, hoping that would be enough to avoid talking to them until you heard them approaching further. "Y/N, please look," Suguru added in the same tone.

You heaved a sigh surrendering to what now seemed inevitable and turned toward them.

What you saw left you speechless.

Satoru was holding what appeared to be a kitten only a few months old lying in the sorcerer's arms. Both men looked at you with an expression of regret.

You stood for a moment confused by the scene before you. You tried with all your might to say something, but nothing sensible came out of your mouth except a series of quivering babble. "Come here," Suguru told you softly, extending his hand for you to come closer.

You slowly approached them to get a better look, and Satoru gave you the kitten so you could hold it. You heard him meowing and that seemed to awaken you from your trance-like state, and staring at him better you saw that he had Nuko's gray fur. You were so astonished that you did not notice that both men's eyes had glazed over with tears at your reaction to their gift.

"I don't understand...," you said in a trembling voice, "why you...I...I don't...." Unable to finish the sentence, you looked up at them feeling the tears flow down your cheeks.

At this point they hugged you and exactly like you let the tears flow.

"Y/N we are so sorry, for everything, I mean it, forgive us," Gojo said rubbing his forehead with yours as he sobbed undaunted like you had never seen from him. "We didn't mean to say those things to you, you didn't deserve it and we were so stupid to let us talk to you like that, sorry, please forgive us, sorry." You looked into his eyes before he planted a series of kisses on your face wet with your tears.

Suguru took your face in his large hands so that you could see him face to face, and you saw him completely destroyed by the situation you had put yourselves in. "We love you Y/N," he said, "We really love you and we are sorry to have made you feel so long." . Before you could say anything, he softly kissed your lips, letting you both drift away from the intensity of the emotions you were feeling at that moment. He pulled away from you as if to get some air, before returning to kiss your face as Satoru had done.

"We don't want to lose you Y/N, you are the most precious thing we have."

Satoru turned your head and kissed you at the corners of your lips as he wiped away your tears in an attempt to comfort you and then went back to talking. "I know this won't be enough to make us forgive each other, but know that we have talked about it and we both agree that we are both in love with you and don't want to lose you and that we will do everything to get your forgiveness and make you feel loved as you deserve. Even if it takes a lifetime, we will make sure that neither of us will come back to make you feel as bad as we do these days. We want to love you as we love you right now."

"Don't feel obligated after this Y/N, but..." both of them left you some space "please forgive us for everything. Give us a chance to let you know how sorry we are."

You continued to cry as Suguru rubbed a hand on your back to make you calm down and Satoru took the kitten from your hands and then placed it on the ground so as not to overwhelm you.

"You... that's why you went out this morning," you sniffed, "but how?" and leaned down to pet the kitten who purred at your attention.

"Mrs. Momaru had mentioned to us some time ago that her cat had had kittens, and we went to her to ask if there were any left," Satoru told you as they both snuggled with you. You knew Mrs. Momaru; she was your neighbor, an elderly lady with a heart of gold.

"We're sorry about what happened to Nuko, we were hoping she could lift your spirits," Suguru told you uncertainly, "I know she won't be able to replace him, but...."

"I love her," you interrupted him and turned toward them. Now that you had calmed down, you were ready to say how you felt, "I love you guys and I want to be with you, but it will take time before I can forgive you completely," you said and they took your hands gently.

"We understand Y/N," Suguru whispered, kissing your hand.

"We will make sure you never feel this way again, we promise," Satoru said, as they wrapped you again in a loving, desperate embrace and for the first time in a long time you felt at peace.

It might have taken time to forgive them, but there was still hope between you.

Taglist: @qualitygiantshoepsychic @dark1paradise @mel1mak @tatahungry @aish777

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