#now floating head in a jar

[wingheadshellhead]

tony stark vs the flesh is a prison and being put through every cosmic horror trope known to existence when he's forced to live beyond his mortal lifespan. he is schrodinger's silly rabbit, marvel's little lovecraftian babygirl

[magicdustsworld]

Would you believe if I say husband!Caleb is petty?

You've been in a pretty bad mood since this morning and all of your anger is targeted at him. However, rather than blowing up and taking the whole Linkon city down with you—you are hell bent on giving him the cold shoulder.

Caleb has tried everything in order to weasel back into your good graces; but you seem to not budge at all. Therefore, he does what any responsible, mature husband would do.

He tightens every single jar in the kitchen and places them in the highest rack.

It doesn't take long for the inevitable to occur. Sooner than he predicted, he hears the sound of your frustrated grumble floating from the kitchen. Barely hiding the conceit blooming in his chest, he strolls towards the damsel in distress—you.

"Fuck this," you curse under your breath, trying to twist the lid of pasta sauce jar with all your might.

No luck.

Caleb leans on the door, folding his arms over his chest and one of the most condescending smirks lines his lips. Watching as your expression shifts from stubborn determination to murderous rage in a matter of seconds.

"Got a problem, pipsqueak?"

You freeze for a second. The next, you whip around—death burning in your eyes. "You—" inhaling a sharp breath, voice deceptively low. "You did this on purpose."

Rather than admitting, he lifts a brow, "Did what? Store things out of your adorable little reach? That's just called good kitchen organization."

The corner of your lip curls down into a sneer—blood curdling in your veins. Stomping over to him, you thrust the jar to his chest, "Open it."

For all what Caleb is, he does take the jar from you but makes no effort to open it. Instead, he tilts his head, "No apology?"

"For what?"

"For freezing me the whole morning?" He says, tapping the lid. "You want me to do something then you gotta play nice, pipsqueak."

Again with that nickname...

Your fingers twitch, like you are considering the possibility of smacking some sense into him but choose against it. It is clear that he is enjoying this game he is playing—seeking out ways to prove just how dependent you are on him regarding everyday things. And although you don't want to ask for his help, you have little choice in the matter. Besides, with the way he is looking at you presently, the reason as to why you were mad at him is suddenly lost.

Taking a controlled deep breath, you school your expression into the most fake smile ever and say through gritted teeth, "My insufferable, dearest husband, will you please open the jar for me?"

Caleb grins, twisting the lid off with ease; an act which leaves you infuriated rather than impressed. "See? That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

Instantly you snatch it back, whispering something incomprehensible under your breath although Caleb catches the wisp of a word like jar opener. However, before you can walk away, your husband reaches for your wrist, tugging you back.

"Next time you are mad at me..." He pauses, weighing his next words carefully, "...just say so, hmm?"

With that, he seals his request with a chaste kiss to your forehead.

Your heartbeat seems to have increased by a mile—thumping inside your ribcage so hard that you can hear it. A heat spread over your cheek and ears. You let out a huff to shroud the fluster in your being.

"Next time, I am poisoning your food."

To which, Caleb laughs—that stupidly annoying laughter that makes you weak in your knees—before stealing another kiss on your lips.

"Then I'll just have to eat it, pipsqueak."

I've recently played lnds and I am obsessed with it 🥹

[toytle]

masterpost of ALL my psych fanart EVER!!! (mostly 2022)

tip jar

[ID in alt + readmore]

IMAGE 1: psych fanart of shawn spencer holding a furby in his childhood bedroom, exclaiming, “dude! did you know i had a furby?!” on a red rotary phone.

IMAGE 2: shawn and gus sharing a pineapple drink. shawn is excited abt sharing it with gus while gus looks apprehensive/flustered about it.

IMAGE 3: gus showering, peeking an eye open as a question mark pops above his head. a shadow forms behind the curtain.

IMAGE 4: shawn pulling back the curtain and nonchalantly asking gus a question: “hey are we—stop screaming, it’s just me—are we out of cheetos?” gus shrieks and covers himself up.

IMAGE 5: shawn holding lassiter and gus’s heads in psychic concentration. annoyed, lassiter asks, “does he have to do this every time?” gus responds indifferently, “you get used to it.”

IMAGE 6: shawngus redrawn as twink boutta pounce meme. gus is infodumping about special interest #148, explaining what T-rexes used to sound like, while shawn looks at gus fondly, very much not listening.

IMSGE 7: shawn putting his fingers up to his temples, directing all of his energy at a floating slice of pizza. gus pretends to look shocked, holding the pizza up by a string behind his back. lassiter is taken aback, wondering, “how is he doing that?!”

IMAGE 8: headshot busts of lassiter looking annoyed, shawn and gus looking at each other with a knowing apprehension, and juliet looking serious. 

IMAGE 9: lassiter grabbing shawn by the collar and shoving a finger in his face, angrily saying, “now you listen here, spencer—“ shawn is distractedly looking down at his mouth and smiling like the cat who got the cream. a tiktok screenshot in the background reads: me instigating a fight becuase the guy was hot and i want him on me.

IMAGE 10: juliet, gus, and shawn redrawn as the powerpuff girls applebees comic meme. gus rambles about state capitals while shawn says exasperatedly, “stop talking about states.” juliet turns to gus and asks “do you wanna go to applebees?” gus responds, “sure, hang on,” then turns to point at shawn and says, “fuck you.” shawn crosses his arms petulantly.

IMAGE 11: various shawn doodles. the 1st looks unimpressed and says, “i could solve all of the unsolved mysteries myself. it’s not that hard.” the 2nd is a redraw of a screencap subtitled: [shawn meows]. the 3rd shawn has his hands up in unearned surrender, saying, “i’m staying out of this” while an arrow pointing at him reads: guy that started it. the 4th is a redraw of shawn covering his mouth in a laugh.

IMAGE 12: 2 shawn doodles. the 1st shawn walking in with a speech bubble of a textpost that reads: hi sorry for ghosting you im being tormented by psychic horrors beyond your wildest comprehensions. the 2nd shawn gestures to himself humble-braggingly with a speech bubble of a textpost that reads: talking about your feelings is SO important i won’t do it but you guys definitely should. an arrow points to him reading: local man w/ undiagnosed adhd + autism allegedly “proud of not having to go to therapy.”

IMAGE 13: 2 gus doodles. the 1st gus is leaning over as if to gossip and says, “heard about pluto? that’s pretty messed up.” an edited textpost above him reads: absolutely love it when gus goes “lately i’m obsessed with” and then says the most mundane thing ever. the 2nd gus points to a laptop agitatedly with a speech bubble of a textpost that reads: did it hurt? when i told you google it and i was right.

IMAGE 14: gus is obliviously typing on his laptop as shawn is staring at him in concentration with his fingers to his temples. brain wave doodles are sent in gus’s direction. shawn’s thought bubble is a textpost that reads: it’s so rude when someone doesn’t feel you yearning deeply for them… bestie how much more brain waves do i have to fire at you.

IMAGE 15: shawn is leaning on gus’s shoulder with an airy delight and says with a speech bubble of a textpost: love the way we finish each others sentences. it’s like we’re soulmates or the beastie boys. gus smiles at him fondly.

IMAGE 16: shawn and gus as furbys named shawnby & furgus. shawn is pineapple-themed with a pony bead necklace that says SIKE! gus is blue and purple with busines pinstripes and a purple-pink tie.

[strangerexee]

ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴘᴛ.2

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | NSFW | 18+ | stamina king Bo | backshots | riding | size kink | dominance ("good girl," "show me how bad you want it") | manhandling (he moves her around) | keep going until he’s satisfied | overstimulation (but hot and willing) | mild spanking | praise mixed with teasing) ᴡᴄ : 3ᴋ ᴘᴛ.1

You were still trying to catch your breath, still perched all pretty on that wobbly old stool in the back storeroom, your dress hitched up indecently high, your thighs sticky and trembling.

And Bo Chow. Lord have mercy, he literally just stood there.

Cool as you please. Straightened up to his full height, the buttons of his crisp white shirt stretched just a little across his broad chest, and tilted his head at you.

That little tilt, like he was studying something he was about to break just to put it back together again.

And then, his voice. Low. Sweet. Thick like honey poured real slow from the jar.

"Where you want it, sweetheart?" "Front or back?"

Your whole body shivered. A deep, aching heat rolled through you so thick you almost couldn't breathe.

You should’ve been embarrassed. You should’ve blushed, fidgeted, something.

But you didn’t. You met his gaze, eyes wide, breathing uneven, and somehow, somehow, you found the guts to say it:

"However you want it…sir."

Something dark and wild flickered in Bo’s eyes. Not surprise. Satisfaction. Like he knew all along you were gonna fold for him, and now you had.

Good and proper.

He huffed a little chuckle through his nose, low, raspy, wrecking you without even trying.

"Yeah?" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

Drawled it out slow, almost teasing. His hand flexed loose at his side, like he was thinking about how exactly he wanted to handle you.

The tension crackled in the air, sweet and hot and dangerous.

Bo took a slow step toward you. Boots heavy on the old wood floor.

You couldn't look away, felt frozen in place, heart pounding in your throat.

Without a word, he leaned down, slow and deliberate, and wrapped those big, rough hands around your ankles.

Gentle. Almost careful. You shivered when his fingers brushed your bare skin.

He found your panties, the ones bunched messily around your ankles, and with a little smirk, pulled them back up for you.

Real slow. Real deliberate. Like he was taking his time dressing you, only because it was his pleasure to undress you later.

The soft fabric dragged up your calves, your thighs, until it snapped back into place under your dress.

Bo let his hands linger at your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curves, before he straightened up again.

God, he was so tall. So broad. So dangerous.

And still, still a damn gentleman about it.

"You still got a job to do, sunshine," he murmured, voice syrup-sweet and rough-edged, "Customers waitin’."

He winked, the cockiest, filthiest little wink you ever saw, and then turned and strode for the door without a second glance back.

Left you there. Shaking. Flushed. Soaked through. Panting like you’d just run a mile barefoot.

You slid off the stool with shaking knees, hands smoothing your skirt down, trying to fix yourself, but it was no use.

You felt ruined.

And Bo Chow? He knew it. He wanted you to feel it.

The door swung back open a second later, and he popped his head in, grinning that wicked grin.

"Don't fret, sweetheart," he drawled. "I'll give it to ya later.”

And then he was gone again, his voice still floating in the air like smoke and sin.

You stumbled out into the main store, face hot, hands shaking, body still thrumming with leftover need.

The bell over the door jingled as a new customer walked in.

And there was Bo, already behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag, cool and casual like he hadn’t just had his mouth on you five minutes ago.

You caught his eye across the room. He smiled.

Slow. Confident. Wicked.

You almost dropped the basket you were holding.

Lord have mercy. You were in so much trouble. And you loved it.

The second the store closed and that front door clicked shut, Bo was on you.

No words. No soft coaxing. Just heat, raw and blinding.

He gripped your wrist, real firm but not hurting, and pulled you to the truck outside without a damn care for anything else.

Tossed your basket onto the seat beside you like it weighed nothing.

You barely had time to blink before he was climbing behind the wheel, those big, work-worn hands flexing around it tight enough to make the leather creak.

You sat there, squirming on the cracked leather bench seat, heart hammering outta your chest, sneaking glances at him out the corner of your eye.

Good Lord.

The rolled-up sleeves. The thick forearms dusted with dark hair. The way his jaw ticked when he caught you looking and grinned like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Bo didn’t say much on the ride. Just kept one big hand firm on your thigh the whole way back. Fingers squeezing sometimes, like he just had to remind himself you were real.

His thumb stroking lazy circles on your skin. Low, rumbling hums escaping his throat when you shifted, when your skirt crept higher, when your breathing hitched.

You pulled up to a squat little house on the edge of town, plain and sturdy, just like him.

Before you could reach for the door handle, Bo was already moving.

Rounded the truck, opened your door for you, and when you hopped down, too slow for his liking, he just grabbed you.

Big hands under your thighs, hauling you up against him like you weighed nothing. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders. The muscles there flexed hard under your fingers.

"Don't worry, sunshine," he rasped, lips brushing your ear. "Ain't gonna drop ya. 'M gonna take real good care of you."

He carried you clean into the house, booted the door shut behind him, and didn’t stop moving 'til he had you in his bedroom.

Dropped you right on the mattress, rough but careful, and stood back just long enough to unbutton his sleeves and shove them up his thick forearms.

You stared. Lord have mercy. The cut of his arms. The thick veins. The wide, calloused hands that had already ruined you once today and were about to do it again.

You scrambled up onto your knees at the edge of the bed, reaching for him without even thinking.

And Bo, God bless him, caught your wrists in one big hand, smirking like the devil himself.

"So greedy already, sweetheart?" he teased, voice syrup-slow and mean-sweet.

You nodded fast, bold and shameless now, drunk on him, and whispered:

"Please."

Bo chuckled low in his chest, that filthy sound that made your whole body clench.

He leaned down, gripped the hem of your dress and yanked it up over your hips without ceremony.

You were soaked for him. His eyes darkened, heavy and hot.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "Look at you. Drippin' for me already."

He told you to get on your hands and knees. Of course you listened.

He shoved at your back, real gentle but real firm, until you were braced on your elbows, ass high for him.

You gasped when you felt him, big, hot, hard against the back of your thigh.

You twisted around to look at him, wide-eyed, panting.

Bo just laughed under his breath. One hand gripped your hip, tight enough to bruise, and the other lined himself up right at your entrance.

"Hold still for me, sugar," he rasped. "Gonna make you feel real good."

And then he pushed in, slow at first, just the thick head stretching you open, until you moaned desperately and pushed back against him, needing more.

Bo groaned, low and filthy, and gripped your hips even tighter.

"Greedy lil thing," he panted. "Want all of it, huh?"

"Yeah—sir—" you gasped.

He laughed, a rough, broken sound, and slammed the rest of the way in.

You saw stars. Your elbows buckled, your body rocked forward with the force of it.

Bo grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanked your head back just enough to murmur in your ear:

"Takin' me so good, pretty girl." "So tight around me."

Then he started to move. Rough. Hard. Deep, so, so deep.

Driving into you like he owned you, like you were his and only his, like he was gonna fuck every other thought right outta your pretty little head.

You cried out, loud and gasping and needy, hand reaching back to push against him, as if that would do anything. But not broken. Never broken.

Just wild and burning for him.

Every time his hips snapped against your ass, his hand slid rough over your waist, holding you still, guiding you where he wanted you.

At one point, he gave your ass a light smack, just a quick, sharp tap, and rumbled:

"That's it, baby. Take it."

You moaned, high and breathless, and he laughed, rough and full of filthy pride.

He didn’t slow down. No, Kept you bent just right, his thick cock hitting that sweet, aching spot inside you over and over, kept you teetering right on the edge of breaking.

Every inch of you burned for him. Every thrust punched little moans from your throat. You could barely breathe, barely think. And you loved it.

You loved the way he handled you, like he couldn’t get enough, like he needed you.

"Gonna come for me, sweetheart?" he panted against your ear. "Gonna let me fill this sweet lil pussy up?"

"Yes—yes—" you sobbed, desperate and honest.

Bo groaned low, like he was proud of you, and reached around, sliding two thick fingers to rub tight circles over your clit while he kept pounding into you from behind.

That was it.

The world shattered, heat exploding behind your eyes, your body locking up, clenching around him hard enough to drag a deep, broken curse from his throat.

Bo drove into you three more times, deep, brutal strokes, before he spilled inside you with a low, ragged groan.

You collapsed forward onto the mattress, gasping, shaking. Bo slumped over you, breathing heavy against your shoulder.

He didn’t pull away.

Just stayed there, heavy and warm and solid, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck. Real soft now. Real sweet.

After a minute, he finally leaned back, ran a hand over your back, your ass, your thighs, soothing, praising, claiming.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Took me so fuckin' good."

You smiled, soft and wrecked and stupidly happy, and let him roll you into his arms. Safe. Satisfied. Ruined.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before Bo was shifting under you,reaching up, grabbing your hips, flipping you onto him with zero effort.

You landed across his broad chest, sprawled and gasping, blinking down at him.

He looked wrecked, hair wild, jaw tight, chest heaving. But his cock, Jesus Christ, his cock was still hard.

Thick and heavy against his stomach. Still leaking, still hungry. You swallowed hard.

Bo just grinned, slow and wolfish, and tapped two fingers against your thigh.

"C'mon, sugar." "Ain't done with you yet." "Get up here. Ride me like a good girl."

Your whole body throbbed at the command. You nodded, eager, aching, and scrambled up.

Bo leaned back against the headboard, hands braced behind his head, just watching you with lazy, hooded eyes.

Letting you do the work. Letting you prove yourself. You straddled his hips, reached down to wrap your hand around the base of him, and whimpered a little at the sheer size.

Still so thick. Still so hot and hard it made your mouth water. You hovered over him, breathing fast. Bo chuckled under his breath.

"What's the matter, sunshine?" he rasped. "You scared now?"

You narrowed your eyes, stubborn, and shook your head.

He smirked.

"That's my girl."

You lined him up again, rubbed the fat head against your soaked folds, and sank down slow.

FUCK.

Your body clenched around him, struggling to take it, as if your pussy just forgot what he felt like. He stretched you so wide it bordered on pain, but it felt so good you couldn't stop.

Bo groaned low when you bottomed out, his hands gripping your thighs so tight you could already feel the bruises blooming.

"Tight fuckin' pussy," he muttered. "Jesus Christ. Fit me like a damn glove."

You whimpered, dizzy with how full you felt.

But he wasn’t satisfied yet. Bo loosened one hand from your thigh, licked his thumb, and reached down, slicking it over your clit with rough, filthy circles.

You jerked, crying out, hips grinding against him without meaning to.

"That's it, pretty girl," he growled. "Show me how bad you want it."

You started to move. Slow at first, rocking your hips back and forth, feeling every thick inch of him drag against your walls.

Bo leaned his head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open on a ragged moan.

You rode him harder. Faster. Chasing that hot, electric feeling building low in your belly.

"Boooo." your head tilted back, eyes squeezing shut.

Your hands planted on his chest, fingers digging into the hard muscle, and you used him like he told you to.

"Fuckkk, baby," he grunted. "Look at you. Bouncin' on my cock like you were fuckin' made for it."

You whined, high and broken, but kept going. Kept grinding down on him, riding him so good his thighs flexed under your knees.

At some point, he grabbed your hips and started fucking up into you, meeting your thrusts with brutal, punishing strokes. Had your jaw slack, letting out broken moans.

The slap of skin on skin filled the room. The headboard banged against the wall. You didn’t care.

You chased it, the pleasure, the heat, the way Bo made you feel like nothing else in the whole goddamn world mattered.

You felt yourself getting close again, too fast, overwhelmed but desperate for it.

Bo saw it. Felt the way you started trembling on top of him. He grinned, sharp and feral, and gripped your chin in one hand, forcing you to look down at him.

"You wanna come?" he panted. "Wanna make a mess all over my cock?"

You nodded.

"Please—please, Bo—"

Bo's thumb pressed tight against your clit, cruel and perfect, and he groaned:

"Then fuckin' take it. Show me how bad you need it."

That was it. You shattered again, crying out his name, body locking up around him so tight he cursed under his breath, fucking up into you harder to ride it out.

You collapsed against his chest, shaking. But Bo didn’t let up. Not yet. The man sighed like he was bored.

"Uh uh," he rasped against your hair, wrapping one big arm around your waist, holding you pinned. "Ain't done with you, sweetheart." "Gonna ride me 'til I say we're done."

You whimpered, not from fear, not from pain, but from the raw, burning NEED he dragged out of you.

You wanted it. You wanted him. You nodded into his chest, barely managing a breathless:

"Yes, sir."

Bo chuckled, soft and rough and full of pride.

He grabbed your hips again, started bouncing you up and down on his cock, using your body like his favorite toy.

You moaned, wrecked and shaking but so fucking happy you couldn’t even think straight. You'd give him anything. Everything.

It felt like forever. Bo kept you riding him through two more orgasms, holding you there, stuffed full and gasping, until he finally groaned deep and broken against your neck, hips jerking up hard one last time.

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick, and you whimpered at the stretch, the heat, the feeling of being so full you could hardly breathe.

Bo slumped back against the pillows, dragging you down with him. Panting. Shaking.

You both laid there, sweaty, trembling, ruined, and he ran a heavy hand up and down your back, soothing you.

"You did so good," he murmured, kissing your hair. "Took every goddamn inch of me like a fuckin' champ."

You smiled against his chest, weak and giddy and so, so full, and whispered:

"Anything for you..."

You laid flat on your back, dazed, the sheets twisted under you. Your thighs still trembled from the way Bo had used you, and you could feel his cum already leaking out of you, sticky and warm between your legs.

You barely had the strength to lift your head.

Bo shifted beside you, big and solid and alive, and you thought maybe he was just gonna pass out too.

Instead, you heard him grunt softly.

"Stay there, baby," he murmured.

You felt the bed dip as he stood up, bare-ass naked, heavy steps toward the bathroom.

You tried to lift your head again, but everything was heavy. You flopped back down, whining a little.

Bo came back a moment later, flushed, eyes dark but soft, holding a warm, damp rag in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

He dropped the rag on the bed for a second, reached out, and brushed your hair back from your sticky forehead.

"Look at you," he said, voice low and rough. "Wore you the fuck out, huh?"

You gave a weak, sleepy nod. Bo only chuckled, not unkind, and leaned down to kiss your temple.

"'S what happens when you ask for all of me, sugar," he whispered.

He crouched down beside the bed, gentle but firm. Picked up the rag. And started cleaning you up. Slow, careful wipes between your thighs, soft shushing sounds when you whined at the oversensitive feeling.

He was so tender you wanted to cry, but not from sadness. From how safe he made you feel.

He cleaned every inch of you, your thighs, your stomach, even the sticky patches on your hip where he'd gripped you too hard, until you were fresh and warm and shivering again for a different reason.

Bo tossed the rag into the laundry basket without even looking. Grabbed the glass of water. Sat on the edge of the bed and slid his big hand under your head, lifting you up against his chest like you weighed nothing.

He pressed the cool glass into your hands.

"Drink, baby," he said — voice brooking no argument.

You blinked blearily up at him, exhausted, limp, but you tried. Took a few weak sips.

Bo watched you, unsmiling now. Patient. Waiting.

When you faltered, your hands shaking, he tsked quietly. Took the glass from you with one hand, tipping it back to your lips.

"Uh uh," he said under his breath. "Told you to drink, sweet girl. Need you hydrated for me, yeah?"

The water spilled against your mouth as he tilted it, not enough to make you choke, but enough that you had no choice but to swallow.

You drank it down in slow gulps, the cold water easing some of the haze in your brain.

Bo murmured soft praise against your hair the whole time:

"There you go." "Good girl."

When the glass was empty, he set it aside.

Held you against his chest for a minute longer, stroking slow, lazy circles on your bare back, before pulling away just enough to look you in the eye.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone.

"Bathroom now, baby," he said, voice firm but quiet. "I Need you to go pee for me, alright?"

You wrinkled your nose, sleepy and a little embarrassed.

Bo smirked, saw it all over your face.

"Don't get shy on me now," he teased, flicking your forehead.

You grumbled,soft and half-hearted, but you slid out of bed.

Bo watched you the whole way, arms folded behind his head, cocky and content, until you disappeared into the bathroom.

You heard him chuckle low when you slammed the door behind you. When you came back out, legs still wobbly, wearing nothing but his crumpled button-down Bo gave you, he held out one hand.

You crossed the room like you were sleepwalking. Crawled right back into the bed, right back onto him, like you belonged there.

Bo caught you against his chest, kissed the top of your head, and tucked the blankets up around your bare legs.

"Good girl," he murmured again, a low, private sound just for you.

You mumbled something, half a thank you, half a love letter, but it didn’t matter.

Bo already knew.

He kissed you, slow and deep and tender, his hand cradling the back of your head like you were the most precious thing he'd ever touched.

You sighed against his mouth, soft and full, and melted into him like you were made to fit there.

Bo smiled into the kiss.

"Get some sleep, sugar," he whispered, nuzzling your cheek. "Got work to do tomorrow.”

A/N: I was supposed to post this yesterday...sorry

[drgnflyteabox]

ghost x fem!reader

simon finds a reason to live // stalking, depression, disassociation, simons past child abuse, body horror imagery, you're a single mom, minor sexism-kindaish

Simon's humanity is an external thing, amorphous and disconnected. He might've had a tether as a child, a distinct human softness necessary for survival, but it's since been deadened.

It's not so much a lack as it is a shrinkage. Empathy, emotional intelligence, they come natural at first but terrorize someone, neglect them? They'll turn black and rot as any limb without oxygen.

His father is long dead, he knows this, has read the obituary (full of lies) and pissed on his grave (twice).

And yet his father has the power to strike lightening through the only soft part of him left on any given day, at any given time, at any given place–

His father lives in the way that his heart nearly stops at the shop when the child beside him knocks down a full display of four cheese tomato sauce, glass and red slop crashing to the floor.

Run.

He freezes but his eyes snap to the sound, startlingly loud, mind racing and yet thinking of nothing at all as he feels the fear of god race through him.

Dad's gonna fucking kill you, Tommy laughs raucously.

Simon's never really blamed Tommy, but his voice echoes in his head sometimes too. It does again now, dad's got two tickets for the weekend.

The child takes two steps back, shocked at themselves and the mess and the loud loud sound that has quieted the rest of the store.

He thinks of all the ways he'll step in when the father rounds the corner. Then it's you and his breath goes thin.

"Awe, honey," you say softly. Kindly.

"Oops," the kid says, not a trace of fear in their face.

"Did'ja knock these over, Bram?" you crouch down, careful of the glass, and gently move the boy to the side, "that's okay. Do you remember what we do when we break a glass?"

Simon is still frozen– dumfounded, really. Your patience throws him off.

Fucking moron, his father screams in his head, useless! before he hurts Simon so bad the memory loops and loops, restarting just to torture him.

Fucking moron, fucking moron, useless, fucking moron–

And then you smile sheepishly up at him, eyes crinkling in the corners, and that soft human part of him eternally drifting sticks back to his skin and spreads like a rash.

They don't make you pay for any of the jars, nor do they make you clean up the mess. Still, you crouch again beside your son and explain to him again what to do when he breaks a glass.

Make sure you have shoes on. Don't use your bare hands. Call a grownup.

He's addicted to the sound of your voice. The softness of it, how gently you make sure to speak so that the message is taken in without any kind of fear.

Simon follows your car like the sound of your voice is the warm smell of pie on the windowsill and he's Mickey Mouse floating after it.

Awe, honey, loops through his head. Awe, honey. Awe, honey.

He doesn't make himself known just yet. All he does is note down your address for the next time he's on leave, tells John he's met someone and she's a sweetheart.

When he's back on leave he watches you struggle, and it tears at the new growth of softness.

You work, dropping Bram at school and then spending the day at the office. Then, when Bram is asleep and you've cleaned the house, you open your laptop back up and work a second job.

That just won't do. It takes everything in him not to kick your door down at the weak spot and have you whisper in his ear for a living.

Not yet. Not yet. He tries to loop that, but all he can hear is your sweet voice pleading with the electricity company and it becomes harder and harder.

Please, you say through the bug, I just need four more days. Then I get my paycheck.

Simon thinks about putting his hands around the answering voice's neck when they deny you–

But that's a bandaid solution.

It'll be better to eliminate the problem altogether.

Not the piling bills on your kitchen table that you tuck away when the child goes to school, nor the boss who shouts at you 'til he's red in the face.

No, he'll eliminate the real problem. The way he's seen John do, the way he's seen Gaz take example.

He'll be the man in your life, soon.

[fear-is-truth]

𝓻afe cameron x reader ┊love language — acts of service .ᐟ

your boyfriend walked into the living room, towel slung over his shoulder, still damp from his shower. his hair stuck up in that stupid way it always did when he tried towel-drying it instead of using a dryer. you glanced up from your place on the couch, where you were seated cross-legged with your phone precariously balanced on one knee.

“you’ve got… that thing again,” you said, waving vaguely at your head. rafe frowned. “what thing?”

“the little chicken tuft. it’s like a baby bird trying to take off.” rafe let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing a hand through his hair, which only made it worse. “better?”

“much worse. it’s got a mind of its own now. i fear we may need professional help.” you replied solemnly, setting your phone down and scooting to the edge of the couch.

“i wonder. do you even like me?” though his lips twitched at the corners. you grinned, pushing up to stand on the seats. “mmm. jury’s out. but i’m trying to save your dignity here,” before he could protest, your fingers were threading through his damp hair, smoothing the wayward strands into place. he tilted his head slightly, eyes dropping to yours as you worked with an unnecessary level of focus.

“you don’t have to take this so seriously, y’know,”

“do you wanna look like a pigeon mid-molt? no? then hold still.” he huffed out a laugh, hands settling on your hips as you finished. “there. handsome as ever,” you declared, stepping back and wiping your hands on your thighs.

“that’s all you needed me for? to restore my dignity?”

“partly,” you admitted, smiling, before pointing to the coffee table. “also, that stupid jar of salsa won’t open.” he just shook his head, reaching for the jar and twisting it open with ease. “wow. look at you, big strong man,” you admired the way his biceps flexed. “does it feel good to know you’re way stronger than me?”

“immensely.” handing it back, he added, “do you even try before calling me in for this kind of stuff?”

“i loosened it,” you chirped, setting the jar down and flopping back onto the couch. “c’mere, i need to show you something that’s going to change your life.”

“oh, for fucks sake,” rafe groaned, but still sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“it’s about otters holding hands while they sleep so they don’t float apart,” you explained, pulling up your phone.“sounds riveting,” he deadpanned, but his arm slid around your shoulders as you clicked the instagram reel.

“it is riveting,” you argued, leaning into his side. “you’re about to feel things.”

“i feel like you’re the strangest girl i’ve ever met,”

“thank you. that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” you replied, resting your head against his chest. rafe sighed, somewhere between exasperated and fond, pressing a kiss to your temple as the reel played. despite his complaints, his hand traced lazy circles on your shoulder.“okay, fine,” he muttered after a while. “it’s kinda cute.”

you smiled against his chest, triumphant. “told you.”

[astonmartinii]

other side of the moon - chapter two | formula one imagine

chapter two: a dutchman and an italian in london

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

y/n still has a decision to make, maybe a little visit can sway her vote

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | PREVIOUS PART

the next morning y/n found herself sat on her couch with only brando’s loud purrs breaking the stifling silence. the letter from kimi sat on the coffee table collecting the condensation from y/n’s abandoned glass of orange juice as she continued to mull over the decision.

stuck in her mind, y/n stopped petting brando and stared off into the grey skies of west london. she told herself over and over again that decisions like this should be easy. simply, if she wanted to do it, she would’ve known the first time the offer was floated to her. but she didn’t have that immediate burst of excitement, instead she felt her heart stop and hairs on the back of her neck stand up. in that moment y/n had realised that a place that ignited that kind of reaction in her was not a place she needed to be - therapy had worked it seems.

but then again, if it was such a sure no, why wouldn’t it leave her mind? pictures of her in black alongside the young italian, back at the tracks she loved and around the people she admired flashed across her mind.

three polite knocks rung out across the apartment. y/n wasn’t expecting visitors and the front desk hadn’t notified her of any visits or deliveries. it was probably mrs. granger from down the hall forgetting which door was which again so she ignored it and went back to petting brando.

three more knocks, a little more urgent this time, came ringing through the rooms. brando’s ears perked up as he jumped down from the couch and trotted towards the front door.

“brando, come back here,”

y/n whisper-shouted towards the cat who neglected to heed her warnings. tiptoeing into the kitchen, y/n rifled through her draws for a weapon, settling on a ceramic rolling pin as her weapon of choice. as she crept towards the door y/n could hear some quiet bickering being dulled by the thick door and then a sudden pounding at it. brando meowed in surprise and bolted, likely for his preferred hiding place under y/n’s bed.

“y/n open the fucking door i know you’re in there!”

max verstappen. y/n sighed, lowering the rolling pin and opening the door. much to her surprise the dutchman wasn’t alone, peering over his shoulders was kimi antonelli himself.

“were you going to make me into a pie? move out of the way,” max said looking at the rolling pin and pushing past y/n into the apartment.

“yes, i guess you can come in max…”

max shucked off his shoes and moved into the kitchen, opening the fridge and cracking open a red bull. kimi followed apprehensively, taking his shoes off slowly and placing them neatly by the door.

“see! it’s almost like you knew i was coming,” max said with a smug smile, “now where’s my little boy?”

almost on cue, brando strolled back into the kitchen and immediately started rubbing against max’s legs. the dutchman knelt down and scooped brando up in his arms, red bull long forgotten as he doted on the cat.

“now you’ve tormented my son, do you want to tell me why you’re here?”

y/n asked, arms crossed and with an unimpressed look on her face. looking over to kimi, the italian quickly ducked his head and fiddled with the sleeves of his jumper. max continued cuddling brando, ignoring y/n’s questioning stare.

“i’m giving you two ten seconds to give me a good reason as to why you’ve come to disturb my peace today before i throw you out,” y/n announced. max cleared his throat and straightened his back, much to the chagrin of brando.

“right, okay,” max started, “you gotta take the job y/n. look at his little face,” max leant over and pinched kimi’s cheek, “look at him he’s so young and innocent. think of all the big ugly bullies like carlos and lando, you can’t leave him alone with them!”

“you came to guilt me into taking the job?”

“no!” kimi squeaked, “that was max’s idea. i wanted to come and tell you my reasons myself. i wrote you a letter but i don’t know if it ever made it to you.”

kimi’s eyes locked on the letter on the coffee table and looked back at y/n, eyes getting watery.

“oh. you did get it,” kimi started biting at his nails, “i’m sorry for coming and invading your privacy miss y/ln, we’ll leave you alone now.”

the italian turned to max, pleading with his eyes to go. max held up his hand, jostling brando again.

“we’re not going anywhere kimi, this has gone on far too long. y/n i get that you don’t really want to come back and for very valid reasons, but deep down i know you do. racing is everything to you and i know you changed your mind when you read kimi’s letter.”

kimi’s head shot up, looking at y/n with an unbridled and heartbreaking amount of hope. he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, as if to stop himself from blurting out whatever he was thinking.

“that bullshit article about zak is no reason not to come back. he’s doing it on purpose to keep you from coming back. he’s a fraud, we all know he is. he’s terrified of you, that’s why he takes cheap shots at you. you don’t need to go anywhere near him in the paddock but don’t let him keep you away from what you love.”

y/n sighed, her head in her hands but max just grinned, sending a wink kimi’s way.

“you know i’m right y/n.”

“why can’t you be a mentor? you can look out for kimi?” y/n countered, her words sharp like an animal backed into a corner.

“and have to spend more time with george russell? i’m sorry kimi but there’s only one person worth suffering through that for”

kimi didn’t really seem too bothered by the dig at his new teammate, his eyes not leaving y/n’s, holding onto every word.

“so you’re saying that i should have to suffer through that instead?”

y/n smirked at kimi and took her cat from max’s arms. she sat back down on her couch and motioned for kimi to come and sit beside her. the italian sat cross legged, body angled towards y/n. to his surprise the first thing the brit did was place brando on his lap. kimi let out a soft yelp before brando started nudging his head against kimi’s chin. ”he likes you, that’s a good sign. my brando is an amazing judge of character so i trust he would pick out a good work partner for me”

kimi stopped petting brando so abruptly at y/n’s words that the black cat pawed at his chest to regain the italian’s attention.

“so you think we could work well together?” kimi asked in a small voice, making sure to continue stroking brando’s head this time.

“the annoying one over there won’t leave me alone if i don’t say yes,” y/n said, nodding towards max. the dutchman let out a ‘i heard that’ from the kitchen but left the other two to their discussion. “but he’s also right. i love racing and it hurts me very deeply that i can’t do it anymore. but i also see a lot of myself in you and your letter was so sincere it’s honestly changed my whole world view. i’ve been throwing myself a pity party for three years, enough is enough - and i can’t think of a better racer to be a mentor to.”

“really?”

the smile on kimi’s face was all-consuming, his eyes crinkling and a little giggle escaping as well.

“yes. although i am also impressed you came all the way from monaco to ask me.”

max plucked brando from kimi’s lap and crashed into the armchair, “oh he came all the way from italy actually”

y/n’s head whipped back to kimi who shrugged, whispering a small ‘worth it’ under his breath. max continued,

“he messaged me on instagram - my official account so vic had to text me about ‘this kid who wants to see if you’ll go to london with him’. then he drove all the way from milan to monaco and then we took air max here. he’s a very dedicated one you got there”

“you drove from milan to monaco? do you even have a road licence?”

kimi went to interject but y/n kept going, “it’s so early, when did you drive? you didn’t drive overnight did you?” the silence was answer enough.

“that is so not good for you kimi! right,” y/n stood up, dragging kimi with her, “i don’t have the spare room set up yet so you’ll have to deal with my bed. i have some of max’s clothes here that you can borrow but i order you to go take a nap and in a couple of hours i’ll take you both to lunch.”

kimi followed y/n like a little duckling to her room, hearing max in the background grumble about how he never gets offered a bed for a nap. y/n grabbed some clothes from her bottom draw and handed them to kimi.

“sorry they’re red bull branded, that loser doesn’t wear anything else, we just won’t tell toto will we?”

kimi let out another giggle, heading towards the en suite room to change. at the door he turned to y/n who was plumping the pillows and making the bed.

“thank you for taking a chance on me. i promise i’ll make it worth it.”

“don’t worry kimi. i think we’ll be great together. get a couple hours of sleep and we’ll get some food.”

y/n moved towards the door and gave kimi a soft smile as she closed it. the italian felt an even bigger smile break out on his face and allowed himself to let out a girlish squeal - he just had to text ollie about this.

back in the living room both max and brando had moved to the bigger couch and stared at y/n with knowing eyes.

“what?”

“nothing. just by my calculations it took you a whole two minutes to crumble and start the mother duck act.”

“so you don’t want me to come back?”

y/n poked, max sighed.

“you know that’s not what i mean. but it’s cute, it suits you.”

“shut up,” y/n said, fighting off a blush, “do you want to watch some tv while the little one sleeps?”

max yanked the remote from y/n’s hand and patted the seat. it was just like old times, nearly.

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maxverstappen1

liked by olliebearman, isackhadjar and 803,899 others

maxverstappen1: when in rome

view all comments

user1: you’re not fooling me buster

user2: the way this is defo vic being told to create a diversion

user3: sorry to break it to the gal she’s not doing her best

victoriaverstappen: keep me out of this one

landonorris: rome you say

maxverstappen1: that’s what the caption says does it not

maxverstappen1: can you not send me twitter links you know i do not have the abomination that is that app on my phone

user4: so you haven’t seen all the f1 yuri ??? you’re missing out

maxverstappen1: what is yuri?

maxverstappen1: i’ll google it one sec

landonorris: can we get back to my original point please?

maxverstappen1: manners lando!

landonorris: they butted into our conversation ???

landonorris: you’re not in rome so stop lying

maxverstappen1: you’re right 😟

maxverstappen1: i’m in monaco!

landonorris: YOU’RE IN LONDON WE ALL KNOW YOU’RE IN LONDON

maxverstappen1: nuh uh

maxverstappen1: i literally saw you on my morning run today lando

landonorris; don’t try and gaslight me bitch

landonorris: i saw the twitter account of your private jet it says you’re in the u.k. ?

maxverstappen1: that’s an invasion of privacy lando, i can’t believe you

landonorris: THEN STOP LYING

maxverstappen1: wow, big accusation buddy, you must be learning from george

user5: max will never not bring that up

user6: the way y/n and george used to be so close i wish i could’ve seen her reaction to that whole thing

user7: considering he never said anything in support of her after everything that happened… well i don’t think he would’ve gotten much support from her

user8: george russell and y/n y/ln takes a drag i haven’t heard those names together in a long time

user9: real ones know they were the OG brit ship

user10: yall just can’t let a woman exist can you

user11: lando up in the business sorry mclaren you can’t fool me

user12: i think if y/n does come back to f1 she should be allowed to shoot one man a day there

user13: i agree

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the trio are huddled around a cramped table way in the back of the quaint restaurant. both drivers are meant to be following their meal plans but have both gone for the hearty bowl of pasta recommended by y/n.

“i can’t believe my best friend is going to be back in the paddock, i love you my little italian man,” max sighs happily, ruffling kimi’s hair. “but also i don’t care if you’re going to be in the mercedes garage, i need a united front against george this season i am not letting the shit he pulled last season fly.”

kimi suddenly stopped, fork halfway to his mouth, looking at y/n alarmed.

“kimi, stop worrying, i’ve said yes, i’m not going to back out now,” y/n said, refilling the italian’s glass of water, “but i can’t guarantee i’ll be anything but just civil with george.”

“wait!” kimi yells, mouth full of pasta, “ollie and i have always wanted to know what happened between you two, if we’re allowed to know…”

y/n and max shared a look.

“i didn’t know me and george were such a hot topic with the rookies. i don’t know whether to be annoyed or not?”

“well it’s just me and ollie,” kimi slams his cutlery down and waves his hands, “one time i was wearing some of your merch after an f2 race and i was sat with toto when george came in and he took one look at my shirt and just glared at me. it was very weird but we’d never heard of anything about you two.”

“i mean we haven’t spoken in three years so i’d be impressed if there was still some gossip to go around,” y/n turned to max, “but if it’s anything like the last two races, it won’t take long to kick off again.”

max laughed to himself when y/n grabbed his hand.

“what did you say to him allegedly? that you’d put him on his head in the wall… well it sounds familiar…”

both max and kimi gasp, the younger leaning in, on the edge of his seat.

“oh boys, let me take you back to 2019…”

may 2019.

jimmyz smelt overwhelmingly of sweat. fancy sweat, but sweat nonetheless. y/n was stuck in the sea of bodies, clinging to the arm of mick schumacher and her watery vodka cranberry like her life depended on it. many hours earlier she stood proudly on the top step after winning the formula two feature race by an impressive ten seconds, her dancing partner standing second on the podium.

“i’m going to get a drink, do you want one?” mick tried to shout over the booming music. y/n waved her half-empty glass in his face and gave him a thumbs up. the german nodded and turned, starting his fight to get to the bar.

now alone, y/n let the atmosphere of the club and her earlier victory wash over her. yes, she was doing the typical white girl club dance but she’d earned that right on the track. y/n was lost in the music when mick finally returned, balancing his drink, two tequila shots, two limes and a packet of salt.

“i told you i didn’t need a drink, silly,” y/n yelled in his ear.

“the barman told me podium sitters had to have a tequila shot, jimmyz law?”

y/n took the shot glass from him and one of the limes. mick licked two lines on his hand and poured out the salt. she raised her eyebrow at him.

“what? we’ve done worse?”

she leaned forward and licked the salt from the german’s hand, threw back the shot and sucked on the lime. tequila shots still hadn’t gotten easier. mick beckoned her forward and whispered in her ear, “miss monaco winner, i fear we have an audience.”

y/n pulled back and looked around jimmyz. lewis hamilton was nearby, taking off his comically wet shirt for a captive audience after daniel had insisted on emptying another bottle of champagne on the brit. sebastian vettel had dragged an unwilling charles to jimmyz, who despite the thunder in his eyes, tried to dance along with his teammate. the trio of rookie brits were all off to the side, both lando and alex were trying their luck with the many girls alongside them in the vip booth but george stood alone. he was glaring, y/n thought it was at her but on a closer look, george was attempting to murder mick with his eyes.

“well doesn’t he look like a ray of sunshine,” comments mick, spinning her around again. “i should probably go check on him, that williams was as shit as ever today, he doesn’t take losing very well.”

y/n thinks she hears mick mutter a little ‘he should get used to it’ but elects to ignore it. she lets him spin her once more before making her way over to the booth.

“penny for your thoughts mr russell,” y/n asked, dragging him to sit down in the booth with her. george sits down but puts some healthy room between them and looks around, paranoid.

“leaving room for jesus, georgie? don’t worry, i won’t tell if you don’t?”

y/n laughs at her own joke but george looks less than impressed. y/n face falls as she takes a long sip.

“hey, i know today was tough but you don’t have to take it out on me i’m just trying to talk to you.”

george grumbles something under his breath. y/n looks at him, asking him to repeat himself. george looks out onto the dancefloor, not replying.

“you clearly have a problem, can you spit it out or i can just go back to mick.”

“i’m sure you’d love that”

“excuse me?”

george scoffs and goes to stand up. y/n gets up just as fast, a little unstable on the heels she thought she could handle for just one night out.

“i said i’m sure you’d love to go back out there and rub all over mr nepotism out there,” george shouted spitefully.

“i’m allowed to dance with my friends george. i don’t see what the problem is here.”

george wipes his face in frustration, “that’s the issue - you don’t think. what if people were allowed to film in here. a video of you like that, licking his hand like that - imagine what they would say?”

“i don’t have to imagine when you seem more than happy to say it yourself george.”

“i’m trying to be a good friend, clearly someone has to think of these things if you won’t”

y/n laughs bitterly, “my knight in shining armour, thank you for taking time out of your day to metaphorically slutshame me so i don’t have to.”

george groans and slams his drink down onto the table.

“mick is not just a friend, he is a competitor. there’s a difference. people will say things - that you’re sleeping with him to get an advantage, that you’re using him and his name to get a seat in formula one,” george said, exasperated.

“or is that just what you think?” y/n said, looking up at george with tears in her eyes.

“no! of course not, but people will say that y/n you have to be careful.”

y/n’s tears turned to hot, angry tears, the tequila shot pushing her to say the things she would usually push down.

“let them. if what you say is true, they’ll say it even if it’s not true. who cares? what do you expect me to do when i make it to formula one? take a vow of celibacy and not leave my hotel room every weekend?”

“i’m not saying i agree with it but this is how the sport is right now unfortunately. your image will matter so much more,” george said, trying to grab her hand but y/n yanked it away from him.

“george, people will call me a slut no matter what i do - i’m not going to let it stop me from celebrating when i want to, when i deserve to,” y/n hissed, she’d had quite enough of this conversation, this is not what a monaco winner does to celebrate.

“they won’t respect you if they see you like this,” george pointed to her dress, a short black number that showed off her legs but had a high neck, “they definitely won’t respect you if they see you dancing like that with mick or licking his hand.”

y/n’s head was hot, she needed george out of her sight or this could get ugly. “it sounds like i’ve already lost your respect, or did i even have it to begin with?” george protests, but y/n kept going.

“why do you really want to keep me at home? do you want to have me all to yourself, is that why mick is bothering you so much? or can you not stand the fact that i might beat you next year? a girl you deem a slut might be faster than you? might get a better seat than you faster? i might be a girl and you might think in some fucked up way that you have dibs on me because you’ve known me so long but let it be known, you try and pull anything with me on track and i’ll put you on your fucking head in the wall.”

y/n turned on her heel and stormed out of jimmyz.

present.

“oh shit.”

max whispered while kimi sat with his mouth open, struggling for words.

“we were young there,” y/n goes to explain, “but he ruined that monaco win for me. i think in a weird way he was trying to help but it came out wrong.”

the waitress had come to start clearing away the table and kimi was still gaping like a fish.

“that was so much worse than i was expecting. am i still allowed to tell ollie, i promise he won’t tell.”

y/n chuckled, “you can tell who you want, kimi, i don’t really care. it’s a fun tidbit, maybe if he pulls a fast one again with either of you it’ll be a cute ted’s notebook segment.”

“now that would make the sky prices worth it.”

GQ Man of the Year Red Carpet Live Updates

excerpt of red carpet interview between Y/N Y/LN and interviewer

interviewer: hi y/n! wow you look beautiful tonight!

y/n: thank you so much, you look amazing too!

interviewer: oh! you’ve got me blushing…

y/n: that’s my job!

interviewer: it’s amazing to see you, this is your first public appearance in over three years, we’ve missed you!

y/n: i know, i was nervous for tonight, i thought maybe i’d be on the red carpet and everyone would’ve forgotten who i am…

interviewer: we could never forget you

y/n: that’s too sweet

interviewer: especially when you’re turning looks like these

y/n: i know, three years of religiously wearing sweat pants, i knew i had to dress to impress

interviewer: don’t leave us for the sweat pants for that long i beg

y/n: i think you’ll see me out and about more often don’t worry

interviewer: is that a hint

y/n: it can be… as much as i would love to give you the exclusive darling, i have a contract i have to abide by

interviewer: very intriguing… well thank you for stopping and talking with us tonight

y/n: no worries! i’ll see you around

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the apartment was quiet when y/n returned from the GQ Man of the Year event, max and kimi had only been there for a couple hours the day before, but already the apartment seemed scarily empty. brando slinked up to y/n brushing against the expensive fabric, meowing for food as if y/n hadn’t gotten the notification for his automatic feeder.

“oh stop being so loud, baby,” y/n slumped down on the couch, kicking off her heels, “i might order some food and give you some scraps if you’re nice to me.”

the back of the dress was too complicated to tackle on an empty stomach so y/n resigned to eating cheap takeout in her designer dress. the chicken shop was embarrassingly frequent in her recent orders but she purchased her usual order anyway, not like she had a diet like the others anymore.

after just five minutes of scrolling through twitter, seeing her fans having a meltdown did bring a smile to her face, the bell went. her usual chicken shop was good, but not that good. however, in a good mood, y/n swung the door open with a smile.

“oh. you’re not my chicken shop order.’

“no. i’m not. but you are a mercedes mentor now?” lewis hamilton said with a tenacious smile.

“i’m kimi’s mentor,” y/n reminded him quickly, opening the door enough for him to enter.

“quite a get up you’re in,” lewis said, “quite a way to annouce your return.”

y/n poured a glass of water for him, “technically sky announced my return. you sad you missed me at mercedes?”

lewis smirked and moved around the kitchen counter. he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “what could you teach me?”. the air was thick with tension and the room was suddenly a lot hotter, y/n didn’t know where to look or how to reply. as she stood there, just inches away from lewis with her mouth open, ready to reply, the bell went again.

“that’ll be the front desk with my food,” y/n choked out, moving back towards the door and taking in a deep breath. she took the food from the concierge and slips him some money as a thank you.

y/n placed the order on the counter and flicked her eyes back over to lewis. “i’d say we could share, but this is definitely not vegan. was there a reason you came? i didn’t even think you had my address?”

the smirk again. “i can’t just want to come and see you? in his excitement max was very loose-lipped, but i can’t say i’m too angry about it. i would’ve preferred if you had trusted me with it from the start…”

“no one had my address,” y/n replied.

“max did.”

“max is different”

“how so?”

“he just is, okay? i didn’t think anyone would want anything to do with me after the crash. i just wanted to wallow in peace”

“please don’t assume how i feel about you again,” lewis finished his water and moved towards the door, “i’ll leave you to your food, don’t be a stranger in the paddock.”

lewis picked up her hand and gave it a quick kiss and left as fast as he came.

what the fuck. the door shut and y/n was floored. what just happened?

whatever it was, it would have to wait until after she had eaten to be processed. while plating her food, y/n picked up her phone and opened her text thread with max.

i’m serious dude, stop giving people my address.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

fin.

note: oh wow so this series blew up - i'm serious i got such an influx in followers i'm so glad you guys are enjoying it! some new players have entered but you'll just have to keep guessing! one warning, i do go back to work thursday so updates will slow but one of my new years resolutions was to write more anyway!

taglist: @folkloresreputation @hc-dutch @shimmermotorsport @96mcobo @eclipsedcherry @formulaal @czennieszn @gothicwidowsworld @emily-b @suns3treading @henna006 @kazgirl20 @anotherapollokid @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @annimausi @yawn-zi @lulu-1998

[miedei]

the bau come over to dinner at you and roommate!spencer's apartment and make some observations <3 (aka spencer is sososo used to receiving love from you and they can't wrap their heads around it)

drabbles mlist | roommate!spence fic

The BAU team knows Spencer Reid. They know him to be brilliant, sweet, and kind. They also know him to be excessively clumsy, like a puppy unaware of it's now-long limbs.

They see him flounder in the office, in various police departments. They see him knock over chairs, mugs, stacks of paperwork.

They see it so often, that this sight in front of them is truly alien.

Spencer is moving through the kitchen with practised ease. His hands move without his eyes following them, grabbing and organising little jars on the counter. And, of course, he weaves his way around you, as if his body was crafted to work alongside yours.

Emily and JJ sit on the well-worn sofa, each half-heartedly holding up a conversation as they stare unabashedly through the open kitchen door. Their eyes track him as he passes behind you to get to the sink, softly brushing his hand over your back to let you know that he's there. They watch him handle plump tomatoes with care, washing them under the water with deft fingers as he rambles to you.

It's a strange feeling, to watch him so comfortable. To have never seen him in such a state. The two of them love Spencer, and they know he loves them, but this is something they've never experienced with him. They lock eyes, exchanging small smiles as they settle in to watch further.

Hotch and Derek are arguably the members on the team who have worked the closest with Spencer. From the day Gideon recruited him for the team, they've worked case after case with the younger man. Although they are so close, they've never been able to spend much time at his home, usually opting to gather at Rossi's.

It's a shock to finally see inside his apartment, and see this.

The two stand on the balcony, leaning against the railing as they take in the room beyond the french doors. Spencer has now floated to the cabinets in the living room, calling out softly to you as he attempts to locate the dish you're looking for.

"Is it the flat one we got last weekend? The one with the Delft Blue artwork?"

"No, the one next to it! Same size, but different— Oh, that's it! Thanks, Spence."

They observe as you appear in the doorway, delighted smile spreading over your face as you're presented with said dish. You turn back into the kitchen after planting a peck to Spencer's cheek.

The two profilers watch intently, expecting a flush to creep up Spencer's face any second, but— nothing. He barely acts as if anything is out of sorts.

They look on incredulously as Spencer doesn't cease his chattering, now delving into the history of Delft Blue pottery as he wanders back into the kitchen after you.

The endearing sight of Spencer in his home clues them in. This is his element, here in this apartment, with you. The disconcerting actions don't deter them. Instead, they also wander into the kitchen, playing at getting refills as an excuse to glimpse more.

Penelope is seated across from Spencer, Rossi across from you. The small dining table is barely big enough to fit the eight of you, but no one seems to mind. The surface is overflowing with plates, a seemingly random mish-mash of dishes laid out in front of them.

A record is playing softly, a rendition of Hungarian Dance No.5 melding in with the conversations that float around the room.

Both David and Penelope were just in a heated debate about the taste of scotch (she insists it's disgusting, despite allowing him to refill her glass every time), but their attention has been snagged elsewhere, and neither seem to be in the mood to look away.

Across the table, two heads huddle in closely. Spencer is angled towards you, his hands coming out to grasp your cutlery, and repositioning them repeatedly around your plate.

"...and if you place your knife horizontally, then your fork with the tines pointing to the top of the plate and the base of the knife, that means you don't want to engage in the conversation. A Victorian noble would never say it out loud, so they signalled instead."

Spencer is leaning into you without a care in the world, his entire body focused solely on his demonstration. He bends at the neck, bringing his face closer to yours as he shifts the cutlery again.

Rossi can't help but elbow Penelope, gesturing to your face when she looks at him questioningly.

Your eyes flicker from the plate to Spencer's eyes, wholly captivated by his words and movements. The lack of space between the two of you doesn't seem to register, or you don't care about it. Instead, you're listening carefully, interjecting with soft questions as he cycles through multiple iterations of cutlery placement.

The two of them can't seem to tear their eyes away from the domestic little scene. You are comfortable, not bothered by anything as the pair of you reside in your little bubble.

Penelope can't help but grip Rossi's arm when you reach a hand to brush a lock of hair away from Spencer's eyes, but he doesn't miss a beat. The sight in front of them is evidently commonplace, unremarkable to either of you.

It's run of the mill, comfortable and intimate. But not for a pair of roommates. Something else.

[hughes-your-daddy]

UH OH!

paring: quinn hughes x fem reader

warnings: swearing, labour, pregnancy

summary: your summer trip to the lake house ends in one extra person coming home with you.

it all started with a movie night. the whole family together for the first time since everyone made it out to michigan. jack, luke, quinn, ellen, jim and you. all bundled up on the l shaped couch, drowning in blankets and snacks.

quinn lays to the side of you on the l - shaped section, head resting on your chest, unconsciously tracing his fingers over your swollen 8 and a half month stomach.

one of the jurassic movies plays in the background, your eyes starting to droop, ready to fall asleep until a sudden quench of thirst hits you.

slowly, you peel off of quinn, a small pout forming on his lips as you giggle at him.

“you alright sweetie?” ellen asks, as quinn helps push you up from the couch.

“oh, yeh all fine, just need a drink. anyone want anything?” you ask, looking over to the others as they all decline.

you make your way into the kitchen, moving to open the cabinets and grabbing a cup to fill up with some orange juice. opening the fridge, you see some pickles which automatically catch your eye, completely forgetting about the orange juice and grabbing the jar instead.

you move around the kitchen to grab a plate before placing a few pickles on it, moving around to rest your elbows against the island.

so far, your pregnancy has been smooth sailing, all scans were prefect, any tests done came back clear. the nursery was set up at your shared apartment back in Vancouver, jack and luke even coming over for a few days to help paint and build furniture.

you had even gotten close to a name, but without knowing the gender yous didn’t want to commit to anything right now. saying that, yous also haven’t found the right options for a girl or boy, none of the names seeming to sit right with yous.

your eyes float back over to the empty glass, groaning when you remeber why you came here in the first place. pushing yourself off the island you move back over to the fridge leaving your 2 pickles to sit on the counter.

you go to open the fridge, startled by a sudden release of liquid between your legs. frozen, you slowly look down seeing a off-coloured liquid leak down between your legs. you snap back into reality just as you hear

“hey y/n, your nearly done-“

the sound of your fiancés voice rounding the corner of the island, freezing at the sight.

“quinn,” you say meeting his eyes, “i think that’s my waters.” your voice wavers slightly, a twinge of panic settling in your chest.

“shit shit, umm ok,” he mumbles rushing over, taking your hands and walking you over to a bar stool at the island, “your ok, just take a breath yeh?” he settles you on the stool, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“i-it’s still going, why’s it still going? i thought it came all at once? do you think-” you begin rambling, only to be cut off by lips on yours.

“breathe baby. you’re ok,” he repeats, pulling back to look directly in your eyes, “i’m gonna get my mom and we’re gonna go to the hospital ok?” he says, voice calm and smooth. you manage to nod, feeling speechless.

you hear quinn call out to his mom and footsteps plodding down the hall, as all thoughts and panics swim your head.

“quinn it’s too early, im only 8 months, i-i don’t even have any contractions.” you ramble once again only to be cut off by a different voice this time.

“hey honey, you need to take some deep breaths for me,” your eyes focus to see ellen stood infront of you with her hands on your shoulders, “it’s not too early trust me, i’ve done this three times and none of them were anywhere close to their due date.” she sends a soft smile over to you, your eyes wandering over to see jack and luke mopping the floor with paper towels.

“i’m so sorry about the mess-“ you start, ellen interrupting you by clearing your throat.

“the least we can do for you, your bringing our little niece or nephew into the world.” luke smiles up to you, jack agreeing.

“do you have your midwife’s number y/n?” ellen asks, you nodding as quinn goes back into the living room to grab his phone, dialling the midwife.

“quinn, you need to tell her y/n’s waters have broke but there are no contractions yet ok? she’ll probably contact the hospital here to ask whether to send yous over or not.” she instructs quinn with a calming voice,he hands gently rubbing circles over your shoulders.

“why isn’t it stopping?” you ask, feeling a slow but growing puddle in your stool.

“that’s completely normal sweetie, not like the films where it all comes at once.” ellen answers, moving across the fill up a glass of water, “ but you have to keep hydrated ok?” she asks and you nod, hearing quinn back beside you on the phone to the midwife.

“yeh.. ok.. thank you so much.” quinn finishes slipping his phone into his sweatpants, “she said it should be alright to go to the hospital. she rang and they said they have plenty of room.” he says sending a soft smile your way.

besides the panic and worry filling your whole body, there’s a warmth and joy, knowing your going to finally be able to hold your little baby.

“do you think i could change clothes?” you ask, knowing your (or quinn’s) sweatpants are soaked and most likely your hoodie too.

“of course honey, i’ll try and pack a few things for you, i know your hospital bags back in vancouver.” ellen smiles, pressing a small kiss to the top of your head before disappearing.

“you think you can walk?” quinn asks gently, as you nod. quinn takes one of your hands, while jack takes your other arm, weary of the still, very sloppy, wet floor.

“thanks jacky.” you giggle as you can sense he is so confused right now.

“just make sure my little niece is alright yeh?” shoots back, smiling at your chirping.

“we don’t even know the gender yet jack.” quinn says as you get back to the carpeted floor.

“i just have this feeling.” jack smiles before heading back to finish mopping with luke.

“ok, just up some stairs honey.” quinn softly says, the two of you slowly making your way up the flights of stairs to the room yous are staying in.

you make your way across to the bed and quit gently sits you down moving across the room to the set of drawers beside the window pulling out some clothes.

“are these ok?” he asks holding up a pair of his flannel pyjama pants. you match his small smile, knowing they’re your favourite before he pulls out one of his canucks training hoodies and making his way back over to your bed.

he gently pulls your hoodie off, the hem at the bottom slightly wet and throws it into the en-suite to deal with later.

“you wanna keep this on?” he asks, referring to the small cropped tank top underneath, you shake your head knowing it’ll come off anyway, leaving you in your bra before he slides the new hoodie over top. he then starts on your sweat pants peeling off the now soaked one, throwing them also to the bathroom before moving away to grab a towel and dry down your legs.

“your incredible you know,” quinn says, as he dries down your thoughts, you giggle at the random comment making him look up at you, “just wanted to let you know.” he smiles, tossing the towel aside and pulling on the new pants, before helping you back to your feet.

“any contractions yet?” he asks, gently pulling you into his arms and swaying the both of you gently side to side.

“mmh no don’t think so, i think it’s all still braxton hicks.” you mumble feeling that exhaustion come back to you.

together the two of you (mostly quinn) move move around the room only packing essentials into his backpack like phones, chargers and some extra clothes.

“you ready to have this baby?” he asks wrapping an arm around your waist the holding holding his bag.

“i think so?” he hesitantly nod, a small smile appearing on your face.

making your way back downstairs, ellen has managed to pack a few things that she had buggy as presents for the two of you like a few baby grows, nappies etc.

“i think this should do you to for now, we gonna head straight into town first thing tomorrow morning to get you guys a temporary crib until we can figure out how you guys will get home ok?” she asks and you’re set back speechless as she hands another bag over top quinn.

“oh guys, you really don’t have to-“ you start only to be cut off by jim.

“we love you y/n your carrying pur grandchild, yous two only deserve the best.” jim smiles moving around to give you a small hug followed by ellen, jack and luke.

“you got this alright?” luke whispers as you nod.

growing up the new kid in town was hard when you were younger. moving at the age of 12 had a lot of issues with school and friends, but luke made it his personal mission to make sure that wasn’t a problem for much longer. yous two became inseparably quickly before jack joined and finally quinn, you were the same age as jack so you fit in with the brothers easily, getting out in goal when they practiced hockey even though you didn’t.

they became your second family, until you fell for the older brother one summer.

now your being loaded into his car, as the family get ready to follow in their own.

quinn slowly pulls out of the driveway, offering his hand for you to hold to try and ground yourself. he turns the radio on, soft music playing considering it’s around 11:30pm, the streetlights making the road barely visible.

he starts to get closer to the town, seeing the hospital in the distance when a massive contraction hits you out of nowhere.

“quinn.” you let out almost in a whine, gripping his hand tighter, as he rubs his thumb over your knuckles.

“your doing great honey, we’re just pulling up now, keep breathing for me.” he says, pulling into a car parking space before turning the car off and getting out to come round to your side.

your hands move to your belly, gently rubbing underneath to try and soothe the pain.

“you ready baby?” he asks opening the door and reaching over to help rub your belly.

“give me a sec.” you mumble, trying to catch your breath after that contraction, it knocked you right over, “ok, yeh i’m good.” you smile slightly, taking a deep breath before letting quinn help you out the car, both bags already over his shoulders as he grabs on of your hands his other snaking around your waist as you slowly make your way into the hospital.

you manage to get checked in and settled rather quickly due to how quiet it is, the nurse already checking your dilation.

“your already about 5cm which is great, hopefully it won’t be too long of a wait. i’ll be back in around an hour to check you again. if you need anything before then just shout and ill come over.” she smiles, binning her gloves before leaving the room, silence taking over as quinn stands beside your bed, hands in pockets looking like a lost puppy.

“quinn baby,” you smile gently, his eyes locking with yours, concern written all over his face, “c’mere.” you mumble, putting your hand out for him to grab, as his cautiously makes his way over taking your hand and setting himself down in the small chair by your bed.

“you ok? an hour ago you were the one calming me down, but now you look like your gonna cry hun.” you say gently, hand unconsciously rubbing your bump, which is now hooked up to lots of monitors, quinn holding your other with both his hands.

“trust me, the only tears that you’ll see are happy ones,” he lets out a small giggle before looking up to meet your eyes, “just feels like this is happening so quick.” he mumbles, his finger drawing shapes on that back of your hands.

“it is, but just think, it might be nice learning how to do all this,” you say gesturing to your belly, “with your whole family with us. it’s less stress.” you smile, as he brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

“i’m so glad we have my mom and dad,” he lets out a happy huff, seeing your smile, before a knock interrupts you, “speaking of.” he smiles moving to get up and answer.

you adjust the light blanket over your lower half as you are now completely naked, only having your bra still on due to how hot your getting.

“hey guys,” quinn welcomes them, all of them here as they promised, ellen moving across the room to give you a hug.

“feeling any better now?” she asks pulling away as you give her a small smile and nod.

“said i’m 5cm and hoping it should go quick, so we’re just waiting.” you smile as they find seats around your bed, quinn moving to perch on the side of it, so his mom could have a chair.

hours pass from laying in the bed, bouncing on a yoga ball and now walking around the ward. the pyjama pants back on, hand low under your bump, now wearing quinn’s zip up hoodie over your bra as you hold onto your iv drop stand for support as you walk. quinn’s hand lays on the small of your back, slowly guiding you around the ward.

“i thought she said this would be quick.” you mumble slowly waddling along.

“they’re just being a little stubborn baby, wanna stay in your belly forever.” he smiles, moving to gently rub your bump with his other hand coming round to press a kiss against your temple, only for you to pull away, leaning against the wall with a hiss as another contraction hits.

“keep breathing baby, your doing so well.” he whispers, moving behind you to rub small circles on your back under his zip up.

“god it hurts quinn.” you whine, a tear falling down your cheek.

“i know, but your doing so well honey, not long now.” he says pressing a kiss to the back of your neck.

“ok, ok, i wanna go back, this isn’t helping.” you sigh, gaining composure after the contraction. he nods, guiding you back down the hall into your room, where jack and luke have crashed out on the small bench, jim out getting some coffees, leaving ellen on her phone.

“hey sweetie, did that help?” she asks as quinn sets you back down in the bed, putting the iv back by you.

“don’t think so.” you sigh, letting your eyes close for a moment.

soon the nurse drops by again, now 5:20am, as she checks your dilation once again.

“at 9cm now, not long sweetie, i’m gonna get the doctor ready as you should be able to push within an hour.” she smiles, moving to update your chart before leaving.

“it’s really time?” you ask looking up at quinn, as he pushes the hair off your forehead, placing down a kiss.

“yeh, baby, and then after you can get some rest.” he smiles causing a small chuckle out of you.

doctors and nurse begin filling the room, as family are ushered out leaving you and quinn, as they set up the stirrups.

he helps pull the pyjama pants off of you before the nurses get you in position.

“ok hun, when you feel that contraction you’re gonna push for me ok? i’m gonna count back from ten and once i reach zero you can stop but you gotta keep going for those 10 counts ok?” she asks, as quinn hand slips into yours, his other holding the back of your leg as he presses a kiss to your lips.

“you got this.” he whispers before you look back at the nurse, nodding.

as soon as that contraction hits, you begin pushing, pain radiating throughout your whole body, screaming and squeezing his hand to try and subside it.

“incredible job y/n, give me another big one.” the doctor calls out, as you catch your breath, small beads of sweat developing on your forehead.

once again you push and push and push until it feels like you’ve got nothing more to give.

“i can’t quinn, it hurts so bad.” you cry out, quinn coming down to rest his forehead on yours.

“you can baby ok? one more and then the head will be out and the rest is easy.” he says stern but soft, before moving to wipe a few stray tears from your cheeks.

so that’s what you do, keep pushing until you hear the cries of your newborn fill the room, tears of relief falling down onto your cheeks, as they’re placed into your bare chest

“that’s it baby, all done. you are absolutely incredible.” quinn laughs, a few tears on his own cheeks, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips.

“it’s a girl.” the nurse smiles as you cradle her close.

“hiya baby.” your voice wavers as your shaky finger comes to gently stroke her cheek, “she looks just like her daddy.” you whisper, before looking up to quinn who’s eyes are red and brimmed with his happy tears.

“gorgeous like her mama.” he smiles down before being called to cut the cord and having your daughter taken away to get cleaned and deliver the after birth.

the room quietens back down to a comfortable silence, only you, quinn and your newborn baby girl, cradled in your arms as quinn perched on the side of you bed, arm around your shoulders.

“what should we name her?” he asks, gently bring his hand down to brush the small tuff of hair out of her face.

“i did have an idea,” you mumble, quinn’s eyes meeting yours, “elleanor lucien hughes.” you smile seeing tears once again form.

“that’s beautiful baby. absolutely beautiful.” he whispers placing a small kiss onto the top of your head.

“but i guess now we’ll have to have another so jack doesn’t feel left out,” quinn mumbles causing a glare from you at the fact you’ve spent the last 7 hours in labour, “well wait a bit though, yeh?” he says hesitantly causing a smile to tug on your lips.

“i’d love that.”

[bbyseok]

thinking about your boyfriend gojo satoru who starts floating every time you kiss him on the lips, and you finally have your first make out session with him.

gojo satoru x gn!reader, suggestive

“baby, puh-leaseeeee!”

being gojo’s classmate-turned-friend-turned-partner, you’re pretty used to the sorcerer’s occasional pouting ‘n whining, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so desperate before.

you’re in the confines of his dorm room, seated on his bed, facing each other with your legs crossed and knees brushing against his.

it had been like any other lazy afternoon with each other, munching on snacks after the completion of another easy mission when your boyfriend had suddenly grabbed ahold of your hands with a single proposal,

“wanna make out?”

he swears up and down that nothing wonky will happen to his cursed technique once his lips are on yours, but you’re not too sure about that.

you toy with his slender fingers absentmindedly, “i don’t know, ‘toru..”

“sweetheart, you’re telling me you haven’t thought about us making out before?” he huffs and puffs like a kid who isn’t able to stick his hand in the cookie jar, but then again, that sounds just like satoru.

“what? no. i mean- i guess i have…” you try to brush off the fact that you’re getting kinda.. flustered. he’s just so damn insistent about this.

of course you’ve thought about kissing him more.. passionately. it’s just that you also have placed thought in how it might go—with you two up in the air.

a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but it’s not one of those smug, arrogant ones he usually offers his opponents. it’s something more along the lines of mirth and affection.

“sooooooo….”

you roll your eyes. “fine.” his eyes light up and before he can cheer, you add, “but the second something goes wrong we’re stopping.”

“yeah, yeah,” he says, but it’s rushed and hurried—excited. admittedly, you are too, as he shuffles closer with a giddy grin.

his eyes are unwavering in their stare even as the corners crinkle up along with his grin, and it only serves to make you smile fondly in return.

unlike your very first kiss, gojo moves in before you—he leans forward and captures your lips with his. the two of you have never kissed for longer than a few seconds, but then he’s suddenly angling his head to deepen it and your breath is stolen.

where the hell did he learn to kiss like this?

you have no time to gather your thoughts, rather going on instinct as you feel satoru’s hand come up to cradle the side of your face, swiping his thumb over your cheek with a tenderness that makes you melt further into his touch.

gojo makes out with you like he’s been waiting for forever to do this, which might not be so far from the truth. you return his enthusiam, fingers tangling with the snowy locks at his nape.

he’s a bit sloppy with it, but you hazily think that’s a given since he’s never made out with anyone before and holy shit—you’re actually making out with him.

it’s the loud sounds of wet lips smacking against each other, all hot ‘n heavy, that make you blush and feel warm all over.

gojo hasn’t started floating yet, and you only know that because he’s leaning forward even more, crawling and invading your space until its no longer yours, and you have no choice to fall back onto the sheets.

his arms cage you in as he hovers over you now, and his lips leave yours for only a few fleeting moments before he’s kissing you fervently again.

everything is going okay (more than okay), satoru is still in control of his powers, you’re getting a lil’ breathless and—

uh oh.

gojo pulls away only by a few centimeters, lips still brushing against yours, but you can feel his panic as his eyes widen and he’s pulling even further away.

you know you said you’d stop if his powers started getting out of control but you’d be damned if this stopped now, so you grab him by the collar of his shirt and shove him back, a yelp leaving his throat when you straddle his lap.

“there,” you huff out, the edges of a smirk on your lips now that you’ve found a little solution to gojo’s floating problem. you laugh a bit breathlessly, “now you can’t float away from me.”

with his cheeks flushed a pretty pink and his sky blue eyes wide, for once satoru looks like he’s at a loss for words as he blinks up at you. he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure, “well damn, babe, if i had known you’d be this forward i would’ve done this a lot soo-”

you roll your eyes again with a slight grin. “shut up, ‘toru.”

satoru grins too, but you make good on your words by pulling him by his shirt again to effectively shut him up with your lips.

(and, well.. let’s just say something else goes up whenever you make out with him.)

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Obsessed

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ flufffff, can you tell i love obsessive men. a very long ramble so get a snack and buckle up. not proof read ( ._. )""

> ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ 5 Things the boys do that reveals how much they adore their wife

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

ೃ⁀➷ He Paints you Into Everything. Every canvas in his private studio, landscapes, abstract storms, seashell mosaics, contains you likeness or silhouette, whether in bold strokes or hidden in the texture. He claims he doesn’t mean to. He always means to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You slip into his studio barefoot, the silk hem of your robe whispering around your ankles. The scent of oils and saltwater hangs in the air, heady, familiar, a little intoxicating. Sunlight pours through the high windows, casting glints across half-finished canvases and glass jars filled with crushed shells and pigment powders.

At first glance, you think it’s another seascape. Rafayel only paints landscapes. He’s said it dozens of times, lips curled in that soft, mocking smile: “Humans are too noisy to trap in stillness.”

But as you step closer, your breath catches.

It’s you.

Floating in a dreamy, underwater world, suspended in a swirl of iridescent blues and pearlescent whites. Your figure is draped in silk, hair drifting like sea grass, your eyes gently closed as if in some impossible, peaceful dream. Jellyfish coil in the background like soft lanterns. Coral blooms behind you like a crown.

You blink slowly. “Raffy… is that me?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

But then you feel him, bare feet silent on the floor, arms sliding around your waist. He presses himself to your back, resting his chin on your shoulder. His skin is warm, his breath tickling the side of your throat.

“You know I don’t paint people,” he murmurs.

You nod, still staring.

He exhales, and it’s almost a sigh. “But I can’t stop painting you.”

His fingers, still faintly stained with lilac and sea-glass green, tighten around your waist, slow and protective.

“You’re not for sale,” he adds, so quietly it barely registers. “They ask me what it’s worth. I tell them it’s mine.”

Your heart stutters.

And in the silence, you suddenly notice: every canvas in this room, every abstract tide, every storm, every island, holds the faintest shape of a woman. Of you. Not always clearly. Sometimes only a curve, or a silhouette, or the ghost of your profile in the reef.

He’s never stopped. And he never will.

ೃ⁀➷ He Forgets Everything But You. Rafayel vanishes for a major press event he was supposed to attend, again. When Thomas demands an explanation, he only says, “She made grilled prawns. What did you expect me to do, miss dinner with my wife?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doorbell rings during lunch. You glance up from your plate of crisp prawn tempura, and Rafayel doesn’t even flinch. He’s busy balancing another piece between his chopsticks, lips slightly pouty as he leans over the table.

You sigh and rise to answer, robe fluttering open just enough to remind you how little effort you put into dressing. The moment the door creaks open, you’re face-to-face with a whole delegation, his sponsors, dressed in business formal, holding tablets and tight smiles.

“Is Rafayel here?” one asks.

You hesitate. Behind you, his voice rings out lazily from the kitchen. “Tell them I’ve retired.”

You turn your head, startled. He’s lounging back in his seat now, bare feet on the chair beside him, eyes half-lidded and lazy.

“Tell them my wife made tempura,” he adds, like that explains everything. “I’m very busy being adored.”

There’s silence at the door. The delegation stares. You just smile, gently close it on them, and pad back to your seat.

ೃ⁀➷ He Gets Jealous of Everything. Seashells you picks up? He polishes and stores them in glass boxes labeled with the date and what you were wearing. A stranger who compliments you? He smiles politely, then later throws the guy’s business card into the sea.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re scrolling through your messages on the terrace, legs tucked under you, when Rafayel crawls into the lounge chair beside you like a cat. He’s shirtless, damp from a swim, hair a little tangled. You offer him a bite of your snack. He ignores it.

Instead, he leans over your shoulder.

“Who’s this guy in your comments?” he asks, his voice light but his eyes too sharp. You glance. Just an old acquaintance from when you were a hunter, dropping a harmless “Looking gorgeous as always.”

You shrug. “Just someone I used to work with. It’s nothing.”

Rafayel says nothing for a moment. Then he nuzzles your temple, the scent of sea salt in his hair. “Mm. Nothing, huh?”

You don’t think much of it—until the next day, when you go to reply and realize the account has blocked you. And the comment’s gone. You glance up at Rafayel, who’s lounging in the sun, sunglasses on and humming.

He never admits anything. He doesn’t need to.

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes You Kiss His Paintings. He used to sign his name in paint. Now, every finished canvas is sealed with a kiss—yours, pressed into the corner using the exact lipstick you wore the day you inspired it. Collectors call it iconic. Rafayel just shrugs. “My wife touched it. That’s what made it valuable.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him in the sunroom with the windows cracked open, paint drying slow and fragrant in the humid afternoon air. He’s crouched barefoot over a massive canvas, white shirt riding up his back, sleeves rolled high and streaked with the dreamy colors of ocean light, pearl blue, soft coral, the shimmer of crushed shell.

You approach quietly, knowing he’s in that delicate space between obsession and completion. He doesn’t turn. Not until you say gently, “Is it finished, Raffy?”

Rafayel leans back on his heels, pushing a wavy strand of lavender hair behind his ear. His blue-pink eyes lift to meet yours, and in them: pride. Possession. A hint of something dangerous.

“It was missing one thing,” he murmurs. “But now you’re here.”

You watch as he walks over to the table, picks up a sleek gold lipstick tube, and returns. It’s your favorite shade, sheer cherry, the one he never lets you throw away even when it wears to a nub.

He uncaps it and offers it to you.

You blink. “You want me to…?”

He nods. “Right here.” He taps the corner of the canvas with two fingers. “Your kiss. Just one.”

Your lips part to protest, this is a multimillion-dollar piece. It’ll be in some sealed climate-controlled vault, studied and auctioned and critiqued to death. But Rafayel just tilts his head, smile lazy, voice velvet.

“It’s not real until you touch it.”

So you give in. You always do.

You swipe on the lipstick, lean in close, and press your mouth to the edge of the painting. Soft. Careful. You feel his eyes on you the whole time.

When you pull back, he doesn’t say a word.

He just steps forward, kisses you slow, slow enough to taste the pigment, and then turns back to the canvas like he’s finished a prayer.

“You know they’d pay triple just for that,” he says absently.

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smiles. “Because you’re iconic, darling.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Things Close. He steals your perfume, your hair clips, even a used teacup you left on the balcony. Says it’s for “inspiration,” but really, he just likes the idea of your scent lingering while he works (or sulks).

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re looking for a clean brush in his studio, muttering to yourself as you open one drawer, then another.

Then you pause.

Inside the drawer is a strange little hoard, your old lip balm, a few bobby pins, one of your silk ribbons, even a used teacup you left on the balcony last week. You pick it up slowly, squinting. There’s even a candy wrapper tucked between some pigment jars.

“Rafayel,” you call out, turning to face him.

He’s lounging in the window seat, sketchpad on his knees, not even pretending to look guilty.

“What?” he says innocently.

You hold up the teacup. “This? Seriously?”

He grins. “It still smells like you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re just keeping…trash now?”

He laughs and sets the sketchpad aside, moving toward you.

“It’s not trash,” he whispers as he corners you. “It’s you. I collect you. It makes me feel better when you’re not here.”

And then he plucks the ribbon from your hand and ties it loosely around your wrist, like he’s tagging his favorite possession.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Tracks Your Health Like a Patient File. Zayne keeps a private log of your vitals, moods, and sleep patterns. You think he’s just observant, but he’s cross-referencing it with medical journals at 3 a.m.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find the notebook by accident.

Tucked beneath his copy of Advanced Cardiac Interventions, bound in clean black leather and edged in silver, it looks like one of his clinical logs. You flip it open, expecting complicated sketches of vascular stents or surgical outcomes.

Instead, you see this:

7:42 a.m.

Slept poorly. Rolled to left side more than usual. Possible muscle strain? Check pillow firmness.

8:10 a.m.

Drank only half of tea. Appetite lower than yesterday. Monitor.

8:47 a.m.

Smiled during hair brushing. Slight color return to cheeks. Good.

Your name appears at the top of every page.

You stare at it, stunned. Pages and pages of you, your moods, sleep cycles, appetite, temperature tolerance. Every headache, every restless night. The week you had a sore throat, he recorded it down to the hour. On the morning you cried watching a commercial, he’d written: Stress response? Hormonal? Monitor quietly. Do not press.

You turn another page. This one has no timestamp. Just a scribbled line:

If she ever shows signs of cardiac fatigue, run full scan. No delays. Assume responsibility.

The door clicks open behind you.

“Zaynie—” you start, holding the notebook.

He doesn’t even look surprised. Just walks forward, expression unreadable, loosens his tie. “It’s not a diagnosis log. It’s a care record.”

“You track me like a patient.”

“No.” He takes it gently from your hands, tucks it away without shame. “I track you like someone I can’t afford to lose.”

You go quiet.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, eyes steady behind his silver-framed glasses. “You’re the only case I won’t let worsen. Not even for a moment.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Clears His Schedule Around Your Routine. He’s performed emergency surgeries on four hours of sleep, but will never miss tea time at 4 p.m. with you. His assistants think it’s a personal ritual. It’s not. It’s yours.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’re half-asleep on the velvet couch when you hear the front door click open.

It’s early. You glance at the clock: 3:52 p.m.

Zayne shouldn’t be home for another two hours, he had two consultations and a surgical debrief on the calendar. You even teased him about it this morning, telling him to stop looking at the clock during breakfast like he was counting down.

But there he is.

Stoic as ever, undoing his cuffs and shrugging off his coat with that meticulous grace. He doesn’t say anything as he walks in, just places his briefcase down, rolls his sleeves to the elbow, and starts making your tea.

You blink at him from the couch. “Zaynie. Your schedule—”

“Pushed the debrief to next week,” he says calmly. “The consults can wait.”

You sit up. “You left the hospital for tea?”

He glances over his shoulder as he lifts the kettle. “It’s 4 p.m. I always make your tea at 4 p.m.”

You shake your head, a laugh in your throat. “You’re going to get scolded by the board again.”

He hums, unbothered. “They can manage. You can’t be replaced.”

You watch as he takes out the tea set, the one with the delicate gold rims you picked out for no reason except that it made you feel pretty when he poured from it.

He sets your cup down first, always yours first, then his. Sits beside you and taps your wrist softly, like clockwork.

“You haven’t taken your supplements today.”

You scowl, pouting as you reach for the bottle. “What are you, my doctor?”

He raises a brow. “You married a surgeon. What did you expect?”

You expect a lot of things. But not this, Zayne cutting through a lineup of executives, board members, and patients to be here at 4 p.m. sharp. Not this ritual that feels more sacred than professional.

“I’m not a meeting,” you murmur, sipping the tea.

“No,” he says, leaning back with one arm behind you. “You’re a priority.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Hates When You’re Cold.Zayne keeps your home slightly warmer than normal, always brings your coat before you asks, and has custom-heated floors installed in your dressing room without telling you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The mansion is warm.

Not just comfortable, warm. The kind of heat that wraps around your ankles and wrists like a cashmere hug. You never thought twice about it, not until guests started pointing it out.

“Is it always this cozy in here?” someone had asked once, tugging at their collar. “You could grow citrus trees indoors.”

Zayne just adjusted the thermostat two degrees higher and said nothing.

You only notice now because you’re in the dressing room, barefoot on the plush floors, rifling through your jewelry when you feel it, radiant heat rising from the floorboards. Not the artificial kind, but the quiet, engineered warmth that takes someone weeks to plan and hours to install.

You drop your earrings into the tray and call out, “Zaynie?”

He appears in the doorway like a shadow, black slacks, dress shirt still tucked in from work, silver glasses slightly fogged from the change in temperature.

“Yes?”

“Did you… get the floors changed?”

A slow blink. “You’ve been cold lately.”

“I wasn’t complaining—”

“You shivered twice last week. I counted.”

You stare at him. “You installed radiant heating just because I shivered twice?”

He steps forward, gently brushing a lock of hair from your cheek, then taps your nose once with a gloved finger. “Three times, if we’re being honest.”

Your protest is swallowed when he pulls a soft wrap from behind his back, a designer one, neutral-toned and heavy with warmth, and drapes it around your shoulders like a cloak.

“I also replaced the coat hooks by the door. Yours are lower now. So you don’t have to stretch.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, dipping to press a kiss against the top of your head. “And I don’t like it when my wife is uncomfortable. Even a little.”

You want to say something, something sweet or teasing, but his arms slide around your waist, anchoring you there.

And the truth is… you’re not cold anymore.

ೃ⁀➷ He Has a Room No One’s Allowed to Enter. It’s not a secret. Everyone at the hospital knows: third-floor office, east wing, always locked. Inside? Dozens of framed photos of you. Candid shots. your school ID. A painting you made in childhood. Everything.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The east wing of the hospital is always quiet. Too quiet, even for a place filled with polished tile and pressed coats and the sterile smell of antiseptic. You walk past the administrative offices, nod to a few nurses who smile at you knowingly, and stop in front of the door with no label.

Just a number etched into frosted glass: 3-E.

No one else ever enters this room. You know because you’ve asked, and because when you tried to open it once without him, it was locked. Always locked.

Until Zayne’s on shift.

Today, as always, he’s already waiting inside.

He doesn’t say anything when you enter. Just looks up from the chair by the window, glasses pushed slightly down his nose, and gives you that rare, quiet smile that no one else gets. The one he never makes in operating rooms or at board meetings.

“This isn’t your office,” you say, teasing lightly as you close the door behind you.

“No.” He stands, crosses the room, kisses your cheek. “It’s ours.”

You glance around. The room is dimly lit, untouched by hospital whites. The shelves are filled with little things: your high school award ribbon, a clay heart you made when you were kids, framed photos of you asleep on the couch, smiling with a pastry, reading at the garden table.

One wall is just… you.

Dozens of images. Not just posed photos, but candid shots from over the years, captured quietly, some even a little blurred. One from your university entrance ceremony. Another of you holding a stray kitten. One where you’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen, clearly unaware of the lens.

“They’d say this is unprofessional,” you whisper, half in awe.

Zayne follows your gaze. “They don’t enter this room. They don’t even know what it’s for.”

“Doesn’t the hospital need the space?”

He turns to you, brow slightly raised. “They can build another wing.”

You laugh. But he’s serious. He always is.

You sit on the leather couch, brought in just for this room, and lean into his side when he joins you. It smells like clean books and cologne, like safety.

“They think I’m taking breaks here,” he murmurs against your hair. “And I am. You’re the only thing that resets me.”

You press your hand over his, steady and warm on your thigh. “Even on days when you’re operating for ten hours straight?”

He answers without pause. “Especially then.”

You smile.

Because no one else is allowed in here. Not nurses. Not doctors. Not directors or surgeons or donors. No one.

Only you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Your Wedding Ring on During Surgery. Strictly against protocol. But Zayne wears a thin chain beneath his scrub top with your ring on it, always close to his heart. He kisses it once before every surgery.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It’s early.

Too early for visitors, but the surgical wing lets you through anyway. They always do. You’ve become a familiar sight, soft sweater, low heels, a thermos of tea in one hand and a warm roll tucked into foil in the other. Someone even tried calling you “Doctor’s Wife” once in passing.

You didn’t correct them.

You find him in the prep room, silent and steady, already halfway into his scrubs. His surgical coat is neatly folded beside him. Monitors glow soft green and blue around the edges of the room.

He doesn’t look up when you enter, but only because he doesn’t need to.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low, hands gloved as he ties the final knot at the back of his scrub top.

“I made you tea.”

He finally turns to face you.

For a second, all the tension in his shoulders melts. “You always do.”

You cross the room, careful not to disrupt the sterility, and hand him the thermos. His fingers brush yours, a small, practiced touch, but his gaze lingers longer.

And then you see it.

Around his neck, tucked beneath the high collar of his scrubs, a silver chain glints against his skin. Hanging from it, almost modestly, is the wedding ring.

Your breath catches. “Zayne…”

“It’s safer this way during surgery,” he murmurs, fingers brushing the chain once. “Can’t risk tearing a glove or contaminating the field.”

“You could leave it in a locker.”

“I don’t take it off,” he replies, eyes locking with yours. “It stays on me. Always.”

You stare at him, chest aching.

He steps closer, lifts your hand to his lips, and kisses your knuckles through the gloves. “If something goes wrong in the OR… I want it to be the last thing touching me.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

He gently taps the ring where it rests against his heart. “This isn’t for display. It’s a promise. And I don’t break promises.”

The intercom chimes, calling his name.

He gives your hand one last squeeze before slipping past you toward the surgical theater, every step calm, every movement exact. As if the ring resting against his heart is the most sacred tool he’ll carry in with him.

And maybe it is.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Journal Only You’re Allowed to Read. Each night, Xavier writes in a private, leather-bound journal filled only with thoughts of you. His quiet observations, sketches, and memories line the pages, everything from what color you wore that day to how you smelled when you hugged him goodnight. No one else knows it exists.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Xavier has always been quiet, unreadable to nearly everyone. But buried in the locked drawer beside his bed, tucked beneath mission reports and sleek silver weapons, is a worn, soft-covered notebook.

He writes in it every night.

No one else knows it exists. It doesn’t contain mission details or philosophical musings.

It’s about you.

Each entry is a fragment of a day with you: what you wore, what you smiled at, the exact phrasing of something you whispered in your sleep. He documents it with a near-clinical focus, until the margins start to fill with drawings of your earrings, your hand, the way your lashes curl when you cry.

You once caught him writing.

He froze, half-leaning over the desk, hand hovering above the page.

“I’ll stop,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You asked, “Why would you stop?”

He finally looked up. “Because I wouldn’t want it to scare you.”

You took the journal, read the last line he’d written:

She brought me a piece of cake and fell asleep in my lap. The frosting was on her cheek. I hope she does it again.

You kissed his temple and handed it back.

Now, when he finishes writing for the night, he sets it beside your pillow.

No lock anymore.

Because only you are allowed to read it.

ೃ⁀➷ He Memorizes the Sound of Your Footsteps. Xavier claims it’s for safety reasons, but he can tell it’s you coming from down the hall before anyone else, no matter how quiet. If someone else walks like you? He’ll tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Not her,” he murmurs.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The doors of the Deepspace hunter association HQ hiss open behind him.

Xavier doesn’t turn.

His fingers glide over the interface of the tactical screen, scanning alerts from Sector 9. Silence, for a moment. Then he pauses, his body still, attention snapping to the faint echo of steps approaching.

He listens.

One beat. Two. Click. Tap. Click. Tap.

Too fast. Too light.

“Wrong rhythm,” he murmurs to no one in particular.

The new hunter at the entrance freezes. “Sir?”

Xavier finally turns. His blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. “You walk like someone trying to be unnoticed. My wife doesn’t.”

The hunter stammers something about relaying a message.

“Leave it on the console,” Xavier says, returning to the screen. But the data means nothing now. Not until he hears the right steps.

Twenty minutes later, he hears them, high heels, soft, wrapped in the familiar click of your star anklet charm, and for the first time that day, he breathes properly.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps Falling Asleep in Your Lap, No Matter Where. Floor of the observatory? Mid tea time? Wrapped in a blanket on the rooftop terrace? If you’re there, he’s instantly more relaxed, and unconscious. Only you can wake him. Gently. With a kiss.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You find him curled up on the reading room floor, halfway under the desk, using your folded cardigan as a pillow.

Again.

You huff softly and crouch beside him, brushing a bit of silver hair from his cheek. “Xavi…”

“Shhh,” he mumbles without opening his eyes. “You make good shadows.”

“You’re not even on me this time.”

He shifts, arms snaking out lazily until he finds your lap. Without a second thought, he lays his head there and sighs. “Better.”

You blink. “This is the sixth time this week you’ve passed out in a random room.”

“I don’t pass out,” he says sleepily. “I regenerate. You’re my recharge station.”

You roll your eyes. But your fingers are already stroking through his hair, and he’s already asleep

ೃ⁀➷ He Wears Your Hairpin in missions. He found it on the bathroom counter once, small, simple, glinting with a faint lavender shine. Now he tucks it into his uniform, inside his coat, just over his chest. No one else sees it. But it’s always there. And he always comes back alive.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The black undershirt of his uniform is half-unzipped, hung up beside his jacket after a long mission. You notice it only when helping him undress, right there, tucked just inside the lining near his chest.

Your lavender hairpin.

“Xavier.” You hold it up. “What is this doing in here?”

He looks at it, expression unreadable. “It was on the bathroom counter.”

“Yes, last week.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You left it. It looked like protection.”

“You wore it into the no hunt zone?”

He meets your eyes and finally says, softer, “I always come back when I wear it.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t ask for it back. You tuck it into the pocket of his coat yourself the next morning.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Jar of Your Perfume in His Jacket Pocket. He claims it’s to mask foreign pheromone readings during missions. But when he thinks you’re not looking, he opens the jar just to breathe you in. Even mid-fight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He’s supposed to be on a stealth mission.

But you find him crouched on the balcony at 3AM, jacket over his shoulders, gloved fingers toying with the tiny glass jar he keeps in his pocket.

You know what it is. Your perfume, mixed into a custom oil he once bottled by hand. Just enough to carry your scent with him.

He doesn’t see you approach until you sit beside him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you murmur.

“No.” He doesn’t look at you—but his fingers still on the jar. “This is the part of the mission where I start wondering if I’ll get back.”

You press a hand to his thigh. “You always do.”

He finally turns to you, eyes darker in the moonlight. “Because you’re waiting.”

He opens the jar and breathes in. Then leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your neck, just under your ear.

“You smell like home,” he says quietly.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

ೃ⁀➷ He Brands His Territory. With Elegance. Every dress, every pair of heels, every piece of jewelry you wear at public events is custom-designed and crafted with a hidden signature: a red crow seal pressed somewhere only he knows to look. You belong to him, and everyone important knows it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The gala hall is filled with powerful men and women, each dressed like royalty. Your gown glimmers, slit high, heels sharper than your stare. Still, you fidget. You feel them watching.

Then Sylus appears.

He leans close, voice low against your ear, lips brushing your skin. “You feel them staring, don’t you?”

You nod, uneasy.

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t growl.

He smirks. “Let them. None of them are brave enough to ask what the red crow seal means.”

You blink. “Seal?”

He runs a gloved finger along the back of your dress—stopping just above the zipper. You feel it now: a faint embossed sigil, stitched in blood-red silk.

“They’ll see it eventually,” he hums. “And they’ll know: you’re already taken. Stamped. Sealed. Mine.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Secretly Monitors Every Room You Walk Into. His tech teams set up discreet surveillance in every public space you frequent, not to spy, but to react instantly if you’re ever in trouble. He doesn’t trust the world with you. Only himself.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You had thought it was coincidence, the same man, twice in the café, once again outside the plaza. He hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t approached. Just… lingered.

When you mention it offhandedly during dinner, Sylus stills mid-sip of his wine.

His eyes glow faint red.

“Describe him.”

You do.

He doesn’t ask for clarification.

The next morning, the man is gone. Not dead. Not harmed. But scrubbed from every system, persona, and file. As if he’d never existed.

You ask Sylus about it.

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I built surveillance in your world for decoration? I see what you don’t, darling. And I remove it before it gets close enough to blink.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Makes Enemies Disappear, Before You Know They Were a Threat. You never hear about the journalist who tried to dig into your private life. Or the petty business who made a backhanded comment about you in an executive room. But Sylus heard, and their influence vanished overnight.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You never hear about them.

The journalist who asked one too many questions. The analyst who muttered something sharp under their breath during a conference. The rival heiress who dared to imply that you were just a pretty face on Sylus’s arm.

You don’t notice it, but Sylus does.

He always does.

And he acts before the insult ever reaches your ears.

One week later, the journalist’s platform is gone, shut down by a legal landslide no one saw coming. The analyst? “Transferred” to a silent post on the moon’s edge. The heiress? Her fortune crumbles overnight, and no one dares mention why. It all happens so quietly, so cleanly, like they simply… ceased to matter.

You ask, once.

“What happened to her?”

Sylus hums, unbothered, sipping his wine as he fingers the red brooch on your chest. “Nothing important.”

You lean into him, the warmth of his blazer draped over your shoulders. He kisses your temple without taking his eyes off the skyline.

You never ask again.

Because when you walk into a room now, people look twice, and then bow. Not out of fear of you, but of what moves behind you. What watches. What whispers your name like a silent, invisible crown.

They never see it coming.

But Sylus does.

And he never misses.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps a Private Gallery, Of Only You. Tucked deep in his base is a red-lit room that no one enters but him. Inside: holograms, still photos, sketches, images of you in every expression, mood, and angle. He never brings it up. But when he’s gone for too long, that’s where he disappears to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen the room.

No one has.

Tucked beneath biometric locks and red-lit corridors in one of Sylus’s most secure bases, it’s not listed on any blueprint. Not even his most loyal lieutenants know it exists. But it does.

A space carved out of shadows and silence. The walls? Floor-to-ceiling screens and sketch-strewn tables. Dozens of holoframes flickering in dim light, each holding you.

You, smiling in the garden of your villa. You, asleep with a book slipping from your fingers. You, storm-eyed and laughing, lips painted in defiance. Moments you don’t even remember, captured and preserved like relics of devotion. Holograms move in slow loops, and still sketches, hand-drawn in crimson ink, rest beneath protective glass.

He doesn’t speak about it. Never tells you.

But when he’s gone too long, deep in enemy territory, cut off by war, surrounded by silence and blood—that’s where he goes. Sits in the dark. Watches you.

Not the public versions of you, no.

The real ones.

He doesn’t look at maps. Doesn’t check reports. He stands with his hands in his pockets and eyes on your smile like it’s the only light left in the universe.

And when he finally returns, smelling of steel and victory, he always cups your face like it’s been centuries.

You don’t know why.

But he does.

Because even the coldest man in the world needs warmth to come back to.

And for Sylus?

That warmth is always, only, you.

ೃ⁀➷ He Carries a Locket, A Crimson One. Worn under his shirt, never seen by anyone else. Inside it? A delicate photo of you, smiling, hair windblown, wearing the crow brooch he gave you. You’ve never seen it. He never takes it off.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’ve never seen it, not once.

But you’ve felt it.

The faint weight beneath his shirt when he leans over you. The way his fingers brush against it when he’s deep in thought, lounging with that maddening, crooked smile. It’s small, oval, and warm with his body heat, and he never lets anyone touch it.

He’d never even mentioned it until one evening, when you reached for the top button of his shirt, teasing, playful.

His hand closed gently over yours, not stopping, just… slowing.

“What’s that?” you asked, your voice lilting as you tugged the fabric aside.

His eyes flicked down to the blood-red glint at his chest, half-concealed by shadows. You expected a smirk. A sly remark.

But instead, something quieter.

“A locket.”

You blinked. “With what inside?”

A pause. Then:

“You.”

You laughed softly, thinking he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

Worn beneath his clothes, closer to his heart than even the blade strapped to his side, was a crimson locket, deep as garnet, smooth as glass. Inside, a photo he’d taken himself. You didn’t even remember when. You, laughing. Wind in your hair. His crow brooch pinned proudly on your coat.

He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t warned you.

He just kept it.

You reach for it again, slower this time. His fingers don’t stop you.

“I didn’t know you carried this,” you whisper.

His voice is low, rough with a rare honesty. “They can burn my armories. Wipe my networks. Hunt me across star systems. But no one touches this.”

You press a kiss to the spot just above the locket, over the soft beat of his heart.

No words needed.

Because you know now.

That long before he wore crowns of weaponry,

He crowned you the only thing worth carrying.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

ೃ⁀➷ He Locked You in Paradise. After his last mission, Caleb used his authority to retire you from your job and install you in the Skyhaven penthouse, top floor, panoramic view, full staff, and only one keycard. His. You never asked for a cage. But now? You never want to leave.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started with a mission. A long one. Too long.

You didn’t even hear the shuttle land that night, just the hiss of the pressure seal releasing and the sound of Caleb’s boots crossing the penthouse marble like thunder.

“Where’s your comm?” he asked you before even setting down his cap, eyes sharp, voice too calm.

You’d left it in the bathroom. Just for a moment. But it didn’t matter.

The next day, he filed the retirement papers. Without discussion. Without permission. The same afternoon, he upgraded the locks, biometric. One keycard. His. The others, including yours, were deactivated with clinical efficiency.

You had no job. No schedule. No exit.

Just the view from the top of Skyhaven. And him.

At first, you resented it. You tried sulking. Tried pacing. Tried threatening to “go back out there.”

Caleb didn’t flinch.

He just poured you wine, removed your comm privileges from the Farspace network, and told the staff to prepare your bath. “You’re not a hunter,” he said simply. “You’re mine.”

But somewhere between the soft silks he ordered in your exact size and the new vanity fully stocked with all your old favorite products, between the morning massages, the hand-delivered breakfasts, and the scent of him clinging to your sheets, you stopped trying the door.

Now? You wait for him at the window every night, curled in the armchair in one of his stolen shirts. The sky glows violet with the shimmer of passing ships. Your comm is still offline. The outside world doesn’t reach you here.

But Caleb does.

He always does.

The door opens with a soft hiss, and you don’t even have to turn your head.

Gloved hands slip beneath your knees as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. “I told you I’d be back before sunset.”

“You’re late,” you murmur against his collar.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

And he does, every night.

Because the penthouse may be a cage, but the view?

The view is everything.

And you’ve never been more adored, more protected, or more kept than you are here, locked in paradise, where you belong.

ೃ⁀➷ He Runs, While Carrying You. Every morning, he runs laps around the private garden district of Skyhaven, where only the richest officials live. And every morning, you’re in his arms, giggling in your robe while he jogs with your full weight cradled like treasure. You hate cardio. He makes sure you never have to do it.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Every morning, at exactly 0600, Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet runs his required laps around the gated Skyhaven residential sector. It’s part of his personal discipline, regulation fitness, stamina drills, mental clarity.

But ever since you became his wife, the routine changed.

Because you wanted to be with him, always, but you hated exercise. Hated the way it made your limbs sore, hated sweating, hated the sheer effort of cardio.

You pouted once, half-wrapped in a throw blanket on the penthouse balcony, saying, “I wanna come, but I’m not doing all that running.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Okay.”

The next morning, he scooped you into his arms, like it was a drill, and took off at full pace, jogging smoothly with your full weight held against his chest.

And now?

It’s ritual. His boots pound the stone path as sunrise lights the clouds, your laughter curling around his ear as you rest your cheek on his shoulder. You’re wrapped in one of his jackets, and you hum softly while he breathes in time with his stride.

Guards salute him. Other officials glance and look away. No one dares comment.

It’s not just a run. It’s his workout with you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle.

Caleb smirks, lips brushing your temple as he exhales, “And you’re my favorite dumbbell.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Dresses You Like a Trophy. You don’t just attend his banquets, you dominate them. He reserves exclusive boutiques just for you, takes leave just to sit back in uniform while you model silks and satin, and buys anything you so much as glance at. You don’t even carry your own bags. That’s what aides are for.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You don’t even know how many gowns you’ve tried on at this point, but from your place in the boutique’s mirrored lounge, you can hear Caleb’s answer before you ask.

“Get it, Pipsqueak” he says smoothly, voice low with that self-satisfied purr he only gets when you’re dressed to kill. He hasn’t even looked up from where he sits, one leg crossed over the other, black gloves still on from his uniform, Farspace insignia glinting at his collarbone.

You arch a brow in the mirror, turning to examine the open back of the navy silk gown. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“I saw you step out in it. That was enough.”

The stylist freezes. The aides freeze. Even the boutique manager, who only takes appointments from Skyhaven’s highest elite, keeps her eyes low. This isn’t just any Farspace officer treating his girl. This is Colonel Caleb. And you? You’re his. Everyone knows it.

You shift toward him. “You’re spoiling me.”

He leans back on the velvet sofa, eyes dragging up your body with slow, deliberate appreciation. “I’m dressing my victory. You think I’m walking into my own banquet without showing them exactly what I come home to every night?”

A flush rises in your cheeks, but Caleb just gestures lazily with a gloved hand toward the boutique racks. “Try the white one next. I want them to suffer.”

You do. And when you step out in it, spun moonlight over your skin, slit high enough to tease his attention, you catch the twitch of his jaw. That little shift in posture. The faintest smile tugging at his lips.

He doesn’t say “get it” this time.

He just pulls out his comm and says, “Wrap the collection. She’s taking everything.”

You don’t carry a single box. Caleb’s aides handle it all, silent, efficient, practiced. You only hear him again when he’s behind you, coat brushing your back as he leans in to whisper against your neck:

“Next time, we’ll have the whole atelier flown in. I don’t want you lifting a finger. You’re mine to admire, not to work.”

And when you strut into his banquet hours later, his arm tight around your waist, his voice low as he murmurs sweet praises against your temple, you realize something:

You’re not just his wife.

You’re his masterpiece on display.

ೃ⁀➷ He Keeps All Your Stuff, Everywhere. Caleb spreads pieces of you in all his outposts. A lipstick-stained mug on his office desk. A perfume bottle by his cockpit window. A hairbrush tucked in his warship quarters. His subordinates know better than to ask. It’s not for them. It’s for him. Always.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Skyhaven airstrip bakes under the sun as Caleb descends from the sleek body of his warship, black coat catching the breeze like wings. Officers stand at attention. Engines wind down. But his mind isn’t on them.

It’s on you.

More specifically, on the soft pink lip print still visible on the mug stationed by his cockpit window.

He doesn’t bother wiping it off.

Inside his private wing at Command, the same pattern repeats: a perfume bottle resting beside a case of classified datapads, a velvet scrunchie on the corner of his comms console, a pair of slippers you once kicked off after sitting in his lap during a mission briefing. They’re still there. No one dares move them.

Because everyone in the Fleet knows: those aren’t forgotten things.

They’re claimed.

“Sir,” one bold officer says as he walks past. “You want us to clear the desk before Admiral Talyn arrives?”

Caleb looks up from the mug.

The lipstick kiss stares back at him, barely faded, still perfect.

“No,” he replies coldly. “She can learn to keep her hands to herself.”

The officer goes silent. Caleb continues typing a report with one hand while gently straightening your brush with the other, aligning it so the strands you left behind remain untouched. His expression never softens in public, but if they look closely, they’ll see the way his thumb drifts over the place where your fingers last held the handle.

Later that night, when he’s back at the penthouse and you’re curled in his lap like always, drowsy, spoiled, his, you ask him why he brings your things everywhere.

“Because,” he murmurs, voice low as he presses a kiss beneath your ear, “even when I’m flying over war zones or buried in Fleet intel… I need a piece of you to breathe.”

ೃ⁀➷ He Answers to No One But You. Military brass demand his time. Parliament wants answers. But the moment your call pings his comms, he’s gone. Doesn’t matter if he’s mid-meeting, mid-strategy, or mid-battle. He always answers your voice with one word: “Yes, sweetheart?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The command deck of the Farspace Fleet flagship is locked in tension, holographic maps flickering, lieutenants barking coordinates, and Caleb standing at the helm, arms folded behind his back. His black military coat billows slightly from the ship’s internal draft, the purple and red of his insignia gleaming beneath sterile light.

“Colonel, the intercept window closes in three minutes. We need your—”

A soft chime pings in his earpiece.

Caleb stiffens.

One breath. Then another.

The officer beside him squints. “Colonel?”

Caleb lifts a gloved hand, silencing the room with a single motion. Without explanation, he turns on his heel and walks out of the war room, no hesitation, no urgency, like none of this matters compared to the name flashing across his comms.

By the time the blast doors seal behind him, his voice softens into something nearly boyish. He taps the call. “Yes, sweetheart?”

There’s a moment of silence, then your warm, sleep-softened voice: “Hi. I couldn’t sleep… Are you busy?”

He exhales through his nose, slow and fond, already pulling off one glove. “Not anymore.”

“Caleb—wait, aren’t you in the middle of something—?”

“No,” he says simply. “I’m in the hallway. Alone. And I’d rather talk to my wife.”

Your breath catches. He can hear the tiny creak of the penthouse sheets when you curl deeper into them. He imagines you in that oversized shirt you stole from his closet, blinking at the ceiling like you always do when he’s away too long.

“I just missed you,” you murmur.

“I’m flying back after this,” he replies instantly. “Banquet be damned. They’ll reschedule.”

You laugh quietly, like you don’t quite believe him. He’s already opening a classified channel with his off-hand, rerouting half a fleet to cover his absence.

They’ll survive.

They always do.

But only one person gets his everything.

And she’s already in bed, waiting.

[untolduttering]

Jealousy

Summary: During a morning spent in a quaint town’s market, Sanji gets jealous and self-conscious after watching two different men flirt with you, and handles it with possessive, needy sex.

Tags: Sanji x female!reader, established relationship, nsfw, smut, fingering, piv, penetration, unprotected sex, praise, overstimulation, very emotional, lovey-dovey sex

Word Count: 5.4k

It was a lovely little town that was experiencing such a lovely day. The streets were paved with cobblestone and all the houses sat almost stacked on top of each other, since the island was made mostly of hills. The inhospitable mountains dominated the horizon, their peaks dusted with snow that may never melt, and it made the town all the more quaint in comparison; made even smaller by these beasts.

Sanji had hoped for a market and had run off early to be there when it opened. His instinct had served him right, and had now left him with the best pickings. He ran his hand all over all sorts of fruits and vegetables, homemade goods and crafts. An hour or two had passed, and he’d seen the rest of the crew wandering about. He smiles to himself as he thinks of the way your bright little self had skipped your way to him and asked what you could do for him. He sent you to find some honeydew, grapefruit, and any other food you’d wanted further in, a few things he hadn’t spotted yet but wanted, and knew you could pick the perfect ones.

He turns the jar over in his hand again. Grown, harvested and pickled by the vendor herself. He could see the carrots, pickles, and peppers that floated in a menagerie of spices. It looked quite good, even though he had plenty of pickled vegetables himself. He leans forward to ask her for a price when he hears a sharp gasp cut through the crisp morning air.

He gently places the jar down as he body snaps taut, alert and all too familiar with the noises you make. He spots you immediately, and sees that the paper bag you carried had ripped, spilling some of its contents to the ground.

Already, a strange man is helping you collect it.

“Thank you, thank you, you didn’t have to help. I guess the bag wasn’t all that strong,” you told him as you tried to rearrange everything.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he answered. “Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t be left to struggle alone.”

Your cheeks flush as you drop the grapefruit you were holding. “Oh, uh. Haha, yeah.”

He picks it up as you both stand and Sanji feels an awful pit growing in his stomach. He finally wills his feet to start moving—wondering if he was making this into something it wasn’t—although they do not move as fast as he wishes they would.

The man presses his hand to the small of your back, guiding you as he says, “Here, I can grab you a new paper bag.”

You both disappear for a moment into a stall, and that’s when his body finally decides to listen. He’s right there as he watches you dump and shimmy everything into another bag.

“Thank you, again. So much,” you tell him.

“It’s not a problem, dollface—” he’s cut off quickly by Sanji.

“Yes, great. You know, it’s not appropriate to touch someone without permission, you sicko. Let’s keep our hands to ourselves,” Without further hesitation, Sanji swipes the bag you're holding, adding it to the one he already holds, and scoops you up. He squats down to place you sitting on his shoulder, swipes the man’s feet out from under him, and strides away with ease.

You gasp and giggle. “Sanji! What’re you doing!”

“Saving you from evil men with evil intentions. And it’d be terrible of me to make you carry anything, as well as tire your pretty feet by walking too much.” He places a sweet, chaste kiss to the thigh that sits by his head.

You ruffle his hair and say, “He was just helping. And I offered to help you, I wanted to.”

Sanji sneers as he repeats, “Dollface. Who did he think he was? Doll. Face.” He shakes his head.

“Yeah, that was… I was getting a little uncomfortable.” You swirl a lock of his hair around your finger. “Thank you for saving me, my handsome knight.”

Immediately, Sanji perks up, eyes glowing and smile dumb as he looks at you, “Of course, my love! I’m always here to save you.”

The world despised Sanji at times—he knew that well, suffered enough times for it—so his joy could only last so long.

There was more shopping to be done. A crew of ten required more than the two current bags he had, and a voracious Captain Luffy required… more than the world had to offer, but there was enough to last them till the next stop in this market anyway. Sanji had reluctantly placed you back on the ground, but had yet to relent on the bags. He could handle those just fine, but if a certain Marimo came by, he knew he could hand them off.

Now he’s looking at the spread that one of many fishmongers had to offer. Some looked like one would expect, sizes ranging to the palm of one’s hand to the full length of one’s arm. Scales silver and shining with either brown along its belly, or some blue and yellow stripes along its body. But there were some odd ones he’d yet to ever see. Bright oranges and reds that may allude to venom or poison, teeth too big for mouths and so sharp that in its death they’d cut their own lips. He thinks of how they must taste, what traditional dishes they may be in here, since the fishmonger has the confidence to sell them.

Your fingers have been playing with his, sometimes tangling together as you pressed your palms together, switching back to rubbing his fingers between forefinger and thumb, and then simply dragging yours across his. He hears you try to say something, but now that the morning is closer to afternoon, the gathering of people has turned more into a crowd, and your voice is lost in the jumble of sound.

Without much thought, Sanji disentangles your fingers and pulls you into him, placing your back against the bags in his arm. He leans forward, caging your body in with his, and brings his fingertips to your chin and tilts your head up so that your lips brush against his ear. He notices how often you have to strain to be heard, getting on toes to get closer, and he doesn’t like how hard you have to try sometimes. He always wants you to feel listened to.

“What was that, my love?” he asks.

He feels just as much as he hears the little exhale you give. You wiggle a little against him too, pressing yourself up against his chest. “I, um. I was just saying that those fish look like something Luffy and Usopp would pull up and demand to be cooked, even though it looks like… that.”

He grins and nods his head, fully in agreement. “I was wondering if I should get one of the weird ones, but I didn’t know if it was something we should spend money on.”

“Ooo, if Nami sees that you spent her good money on this,” you laugh. “She’d be so mad.”

“You’re right. I’m just so curious though…” he trails off, deciding to ask the fishmonger all his questions about it. He feels you slip out from under him, understanding what he was doing and giving him the space to do so.

The man is more than happy to answer him, telling him where he caught it, what depth, what it calls it’s home. How to prepare it, what recipes he should look into, the most popular dish it’s served in. Just why the town started eating it at all.

During the conversation, Zoro and Brook wander past, and he snatches their sleeves without pausing, without even looking at either one. He hands the bags to them, along with his chosen fish. He picked three of the more normal type, and one of the special, more exotic. He looks forward to the fun that one should be.

You’d wandered away, distracted by something at the other stalls. When Sanji spots you, he finds you in deep conversation with what seems to be a fisherman. He’s handsome in a rugged, serious way, and he keeps a respectable gap between the two of you, but still leans close—shoulders hunched a bit and head dipped low—in order to hear you. He keeps his hands in his pockets, and something about the way he holds himself is so effortless that it’s charming. The nausea that wracked Sanji from earlier returns.

Someone bumps into you as they pass by, and Sanji watches as the man delicately touches your elbow to move you, placing you closer to a stall and using his own body as a buffer against the crowd. His gaze doesn’t leave your face, and he removes his hand quickly, and Sanji knows it’s because he’s keeping your comfort in mind.

Sanji knows he’s a sort of womanizer, a playboy, but he wonders if he's ever actually looked that… smooth, suave. His own methods tend to be a little over the top, and it works well for him, but this man just looks so cool. Again, effortless. He usually brushes off the way the mosshead calls him ridiculous, that he looks stupid—because what would a dumbass like him actually know—but he thinks that maybe he should put some merit to it now. He wonders if he’s ever been a true gentleman. If all that blushing and giggling he could cause was really because he looked like an idiot.

He meanders his way over anyway, no dramatic plans in mind, but he could never leave you alone with a stranger. He slips behind you and places his hands on your hips, rubbing soft circles with his thumbs. He chooses not to say anything or even listen, simply watches the passing people, letting your conversation with the fisherman, those of the vendors and customers, and little individual groups, wash over him. He’s so lost in thought, thinking of how his reaction from earlier may have been stupid of him—although you hadn’t been upset about it… or maybe you had and he was too busy being an ass to notice—that he doesn’t hear you trying to get his attention. It takes you placing a hand on his cheek, voice firm as you say his name, and up on toes to try and put your gaze level with his.

“There you are,” you say once you lock eyes. “What’s wrong? Where did you go?”

“I’m sorry, I guess I was just thinking.”

“About what? You were frowning awful hard.”

He shrugs. “Nothing, not anything specific. Just… mind wandering. People watching.” He does his best to smile at you and hopes it’s pulling the desired effect.

You draw your eyebrows together and frown, making his stomach twist a little, “He wasn’t really flirting.” You frown deeper in thought. “Well, if he had, I didn’t notice. I just asked him about any weird fish he’s caught, that’s all. I’m sorry if I upset you… again.”

Sanji swallows hard from how badly you’ve caught him out. “No, no, you could never upset me. That’s not…” He runs a hand through his hair, scratching and rubbing his scalp a little.

You rub a thumb across his chin, playing with the hair of his goatee. “Are you okay? Usually you’d… I dunno, be louder, call him rude or something.”

He coughs and tightens the grip of his fingers on his hair. “No, no. I mean yes. It was just a… a conversation, like you said. Didn’t wanna interrupt.”

“Sanji…” You grab his hand, gently pulling it away from his head and rubbing circles into his palm.

“We should get the rest of the groceries,” he says before you can say anymore. He tangles his fingers with yours and urges you to follow him as he walks. “Plenty more to get for such a hungry crew.”

There’s no more following incidents—surprising to him, I mean look at you—something that’s relieving, but his mood has already been ruined, and remains so. Lovely is no longer a word he can use, and he simply goes through the usual motions. Lunch is simple, all snacks requested are made and passed around. All through it, the pit in his stomach grows bigger, a mix of doubt as well as hunger. Each time you’re in his presence, all he wants to do is pin you to the wall and devour you, fill that gaping hole. He can’t stop thinking of how those rotten fucking men placed their hands on you, how that one makes him doubt himself so goddamn much. He just wants you to comb your fingers through his hair and tell him how much you love him.

Sanji feels your eyes on him the whole time. You don’t try to ask him about his odd behavior from earlier again, but you hover in a way you usually don’t. You don’t go out on the deck to sit with Robin, or become roped into whatever shenanigans that Usopp and Luffy create. Instead, you linger outside of the kitchen and watch him cook, rather than following him around or leaning against the counter while you talk to him. And when he decides to look at you, you turn and pretend to start some task. Or maybe continue one you’d actually been doing. He knows you’re waiting for him to tell you what’s bothering him, but he can’t bring himself to say it. He feels pitiful, thinking of begging you to tell him that he’s desirable, that suave, cool, gentleman he desperately wants to be. It’s a ridiculous issue anyway, something he needs to let go. It’s just so adamant about staying stuck as a lump in his throat, a pin in his side.

During dinner, though, you converse with the others as you usually do. It’s when he turns to see you talking with Robin that he feels a sudden wave of indescribable emotion. He watches two of his favorite ladies casually talking and he feels… small. Robin, tall and regal, leaning back with her chin tilted a little up, and her head to the side. You’ve got your chin propped up by your hand, your fork dangling between the fingers of your other, back in a pretty arch as your butt pushes your chair out. A lady. You look like such a lady. It sends him reeling back to when he was a small boy at the Baratie, admiring the women he would serve, having to tilt his head up and push himself on his toes in order to see over the table when he got close enough. His tiny self, his little pounding heart, and trembling hands as he’d stare at them with awe. And he hasn’t grown any bigger. He’s always been just a boy.

It’s after, as he’s finishing the last steps of cleaning the kitchen and dining room, that he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist, and a chin place itself on his shoulder. Immediately, your delightful scent envelops him and he takes a deep inhale.

You press your lips to the side of his neck and leave a long, lingering kiss. “Hey, handsome. How’s it going?”

The last thread snaps and he whips around, hauling you over his shoulder for the second time that day. This time, however, you’re folded over at your waist, rather than sitting.

“S—Sanji.”

Sanji’s hands wander, conveying his needs through the way he palms the meat of your thigh, the curve of your ass. His breathing is too heavy, too full of want, to say anything to you. He presses his cheek to your hip, and in noticing the gap between your top and bottoms, pushes your shirt up so he can press feverish kisses to your skin. He needs you under him, wrapped around him, close and sweating from each other's body heat, melting together. He needs to prove to himself, to you, that you belong together.

You’re both in your shared room in no time. Despite his urgency, he’s careful in the way he places you down and pins you to the door. He shoves his mouth into yours before you can get any words out, his lips trying and begging to get yours open. He places both hands on your hips and slides a thigh between your legs so he can grind you down against it. The sound that slips out of you makes him shiver so hard that he can’t help but whine and kiss you harder, slipping his tongue in and lapping at your mouth.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in and pressing yourself to him with the same sense of urgency. His hands leave your waist once he sees that you’ve gotten the memo and continue to hump his leg, and slips them under your shirt to grope your chest. After a few palm filled squeezes, he tweaks and pinches your nipples, causing you to arch against him, moaning.

You’re so soft, so sweet, so pliant, all for him. It makes that persistent ache in his chest burst, sending his head swimming. He grabs your legs and lifts you, wrapping them around his waist, and carries you to the bed. He lays you back and rocks his hard on into you, whining at that delicious friction, at how he feels your hips rock back.

He can only stand the layers between you for so long and rushes to peel them all off, his hands shaky and artless. The moment your soft breasts slip free his attention is back on them. A wet trail winds down your neck from his open mouthed kisses and little kitten licks. His mouth latches onto a nipple, sucking like he’s trying to drink from you and swirling his tongue around and around. His fingers fumble for what feels like forever at the fly of your bottoms, his hands trembling and useless in their desire for you.

Once his hands finally slip under your underwear and he can dip his fingertips in that place of paradise, his lips detach with a lewd pop as he whimpers. You’re soaked and it’s all for him.

His voice is hoarse as he says, “So sweet, so good. All this for me, my love?”

He brings his slick covered fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, shivering at the taste on his tongue. He hears you whine at his actions and he feels a surge of pride.

Sanji slips your underwear off and dips his fingers back in, pumping them and curling them so it hits that sweet spot. He leans in close to your face, brushing the tip of his nose with yours, focused on the way your face contorts with pleasure, the pleasure that he gives you. No one else, no other fucking man, could make your mouth drop open and pant like this, make that pretty, pretty whine claw out of your throat like that.

He grinds his palm into your clit, determined to throw you over the edge. You arch and cry out, squeezing his fingers so well.

“Good, good.” Sanji swallows audibly, like the action is becoming more and more difficult. “So good for me. You’re gonna cum, right? Cream this pretty pussy all over my hand? Please, baby, please?”

“Sanji, Sanjiiiii,” you whine, his words making you burn and writhe.

“Say it,” he continues. “Say you’ll cum for me.”

“I’ll—I’ll cum for you—I’m close, so close—just for you.”

He kisses you, shoving his tongue back in its rightful place, swallowing all your sweet sounds as you clench and come on his fingers.

As soon as he feels that last pulse, he pulls his finger out to tear himself out of his pants. Somewhere along the way, you’d stripped his top half, leaving it to him to release his aching cock. His underwear is soaked, his tip leaking pearl after pearl of precum, leaving a string to hang off of him.

He shifts you up the bed so that you both lay in it properly now, and he slips his cock inside with ease. His hips buck without his permission, skin slapping loud as he bottoms out with a forceful thrust.

“Sanji,” you moan.

Your walls squeeze him so hard he has to still himself and grips the sheets in order to not come. His breaths punch out of him, ragged from how hard he has to try.

“S-sorry. You feel so good, you always feel so good, I can’t help it.”

Once he feels confident that he won’t come, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close and burying his face in your neck, and starts thrusting again.

You bury your fingers in his hair and wrap your legs around his waist, holding him so tight. You moan and whine, his name slipping out over and over. This whole time, you’ve been saying his name again and again, his name. You didn’t question or hesitate the second he grabbed you and moved you where he wanted. You’ve pulled him in and wanted him, always want him, just as badly.

Suddenly, he’s sniffling and realizes that tears have been streaming from his eyes, pooling into your skin and the pillow below. Before he can stop himself, his breath hitches in a little sob.

“Sanji?” you ask, and he feels you try to lift his head. “Sanji, b-baby, look at me. What is it?”

He shakes his head as he continues to thrust into you. He can’t look at you right now, all flustered and blissed out, he can’t handle it. He can’t let you know what’s wrong. But he can’t resist the way your hands cup his chin, either, trying to lift, and he wants those hands to cradle his cheeks so badly. He lets it happen, shame churning in his gut.

He knows he looks a mess by the way you look at him, eyes wide and surprised. It changes, though, once his tip kisses your cervix again. He can tell you’re trying to focus, but the pleasure he gives you is distracting.

“Oh, Sanji,” you say, caressing his face. “Is it those men—“ You’re cut off by another thrust. “F-from earlier?”

“…No…” he finally answers, clearly still upset from their flirting with you.

“Honey, stop moving for a second, I can’t—” his hips take your breath away once again.

He shakes his head again and again. “I can’t. I can’t stop. I— I love you,” he sucks in a deep breath. “I just love you so much.”

He pulls you into a messy, wet kiss, one that tastes of so much salt. To stop thrusting into you would kill him, he knows that it would.

Against his lips, you do your best to tell him, “I’m yours, Sanji. You know I’m yours.”

He shoves his tongue in your mouth as he whines at your words, tasting as much of you as he can.

“Mine?” he asks, once he pulls his tongue out for a moment.

“Uh-huh. All of me. E—” A sigh. “Everything. No one could love me like you. I love you.”

“I love you. I love you,” he cries back before kissing you again.

He unwraps one arm from around you, moving his hand down to rub your clit; to reward his sweet, sweet girl. He needs to feel you coming around his cock. He needs to feel the way you clench around him, suck him in, like you never want him to pull out. He needs you to claim him with your pussy, to cream all over him. He never wants to be clean of you again; he wants his length, his pelvis, his thighs, to be permanently soaked by you. To be so wholly marked by your cum.

Little sobs still fall from his swollen, red lips. Each time he thinks he can stop himself, another one comes pouring out, sneaking along with the drool he has to keep sucking back in. He’s such a sniveling little boy, nose dripping and bottom lip trembling, but he can’t help it when he’s looking at you. He’s just so in love with you. Once you’re coming, he’ll stop. It’ll fix every bad feeling he has inside him, he knows it will.

Your hands haven’t left his face, cradling him so carefully, and each time either of you break away for a quick breath, you murmur such sweet things about him against his lips. That he’s your good boy, that he’s so handsome and thoughtful, that you can’t imagine doing this with anyone else. He can’t believe how lucky he is.

He quickens his pace, both his hips and the firm circles his rubs into your clit. He knows that he’ll come any moment now with so much praise coming from you, so much tenderness and honesty. It makes his head so fuzzy.

He feels your walls flutter and all your words turn into moans that get louder and louder each thrust. You come with your hands slipping into his hair and tugging on his locks so hard that it’s what sends him over along with you. The cum he pumps into you feels almost endless, with rope after rope coming out of him. He buries himself as deep as he can inside you so that it’ll never slip out.

You pant into each other's mouth, trembling in each other's arms, as you come down and try to breathe normally again. Sanji wraps the one arm around you again, and you massage his scalp, guilty over the grip you had on his hair.

As he had hoped, the tears slow to nothing and his lips no longer tremble. After a few more soft kisses, he nuzzles into your throat.

“Are you feeling better?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods his head, enjoying the way his nose drags along your skin.

You drag your fingertips along his cheek, then cupping his jaw with the palm of your hand and rub soothing circles with your thumb. “Such a lovely boy,” you murmur. “You treat me so well.”

Instead of answering, he tries to bury his face deeper into your neck, flustered and trying to hide from the way your words make him feel. Usually, he’d fight it off by drowning you in praise instead, turning all the compliments back on you, but after he’s come, he becomes much more pliant, something you take advantage of often.

“Such skilled, pretty hands, that make me feel so good. I never want you to stop touching me.”

He shifts and wiggles in place, missing the way that you grin.

“And have you ever seen the way you look when you fuck into me? Those powerful thighs flexing, back arched so prettily, making such, such beautiful faces. I love the way you look when you feel good.”

Sanji whines as he squeezes you tighter and hunches his shoulders up. He mumbles something once he settles a little.

“What’s that, my lover boy?” Fingertips drag to his back and tickle him as they stroke up and down.

He lifts his head finally, his cheeks still a fierce red as he shifts to his elbows and pouts. “I don’t… fuck. I make love to you.”

“I’m sorry, no, you’re right. You do make such sweet love to me, and you’re very, very good at it.” You smile and giggle at him, all cheeky, and his heart aches when he sees it.

Slowly, he pulls himself out, and you whine at the loss. He watches as his thick cum seeps out of you, and is quick to scoop it back up and finger it back into you. He needs it to stay inside, and also does so to make up for the emptiness the absence of his cock leaves behind.

Despite his efforts, that creamy whiteness still leaks out around his fingers, and he tries to pump it back in without losing any more. The sight is beginning to work him back up, and the way your hips twitch with each curl of his fingers makes his stomach stir again. His breathing gets heavier and heavier.

He looks back up to your pretty face, and your eyes are screwed shut with your nose scrunched. Little pants fall from slightly parted lips. You always look so divine.

“You okay, pretty?” Sanji asks.

“Y-yeah. Jus’ sensitive.”

“Cause…” Sanji licks his lips and bites his bottom one. “Can you go again?”

Your eyes fly open. “Huh?”

He sees your eyes dart to his rock hard cock and you whine at the sight.

He removes his fingers and starts lining himself up. “I know, I know, baby, I’m sorry, but please? You’re just so good for me and I need to. Look, all my cum’s already spilling out and I gotta fill you up again.”

He sinks his all the way in and watches the way your body quivers and jerks, enamored. “One more, just one more, yeah?”

You nod and wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in place. You pull him close again and whimper, “Fill me again, please.”

“Yes, yes. Can’t have you feeling empty, can we?”

He rocks his hips and goes nearly crazy watching the way you writhe and moan and gasp so loud. So sensitive and barely able to handle it, but doing it anyway because he asked. What he needed to do was cum inside you every morning, so that when you were in town and all those vile men were leering at you and their gazes fell to your thighs—because of course they would, they were such beautiful thighs—they would see his cum leaking out and trickling down and know that you belonged to him. Then they would know to keep their filthy fucking hands off of you.

His thrusts get more aggressive, annoyed at those men all over again, even more determined to fill you. You’re his, you’re his, you’re his. His cries and whines mix with yours, his cock so sensitive, but he’d never stop, not for a moment, not for anything, not when he has such an important job to fulfill. Not when his baby needs him, and only him.

Tears fall from your eyes and Sanji kisses away each one from your cheeks. He knows they’re from pleasure, but even though they make your eyes shine and they compliment your lashes so well, there’s always a little feeling of panic and he needs to soothe you immediately. “You’re doing so good, pretty girl. You feeling good?”

“Y-yeah.”

He rubs those neat circles into your clit once again, and the way your legs shake so uncontrollably makes him feel so in love.

“This okay? Too much?” Sanji’s panting and shaking along with you.

You shake and nod your head, trying to answer both questions at once, too overwhelmed. With a high pitched whine, you get out, “‘m okay.” Another whine and shaky breath. “K-kiss.”

He obliges easily, he wants nothing more; how could he ever say no?

He comes sooner than you, pumping you full just like he promised. It feels so good, it’s everything he wants, and he moans into your mouth the whole way through.

You haven’t come again, though, so he forces himself to keep going through the overstimulation. He’s twitching and shaking, his poor cock feeling so raw, but he’d never leave you wanting. It’s what he needs to do, anyway, if he wants you properly filled. The wet slaps coming from the two of you are loud and lewd, his cum mixed with your slick creating a most beautiful mess of the sheets.

Against his lips, you choke out, “Sanji, Sanji, I’m—I’m—”

“Let go for me, baby, you got it, just let go.”

Crying, shaking, you do as he asks, and the way your walls clench around his cock has him seeing white and biting his lip so hard he’s afraid it may bleed.

“Good girl,” he gasps out. “Good girl.”

You’re back to where you both were before, holding and caressing and soothing until you’re back to yourselves. Sanji can’t bring himself to pull out as soon as he had last time, and murmurs out the promise that he’ll clean you up, that you’ll bathe together, but in a little while. Sleepy and exhausted, you play with his hair as you agree that it sounds good, that you’re more than fine with being held for as long as he wants.

Finally, he feels quite satisfied that you’ve both adequately marked the other as theirs, and that maybe he can sleep without any haunting dreams tonight. He can’t promise, though, and wouldn’t ever think to, that he’ll be calmer about anyone looking at you. If anything, he’s sure he’ll be wilder about it now.

[thelotusrabbit]

STOP THE MUSIC! Part 2

Stop the music!

[Part 1] [Part 3] [sketch]

CW: for live insect consumption (don't worry, they get better)

--------------------------------------------------------------

Constantine warned them that the creatures of the Infinite Realms behaved on a logic of their own.

Never trust your senses.

When the time came for them to ask for help, nobody knew what to expect.

Or, you know, what not to expect.

The summoning ritual itself was weird enough.

Powdered milk for the circle; hard candy, glass beads, and buttons as catalysts, and… real butterflies as offerings.

The chant was even weirder, a nonsensical poetry made from several languages.

When they finished chanting, reality warped inside the circle, as an incomprehensible mass was taking form.

A kid.

Sure, he looked absolutely manic, but a kid.

“What in every sensational?! It hasn’t been flesh in a long time!”

He exclaimed.

There was a beat of silence, long enough to irritate the being.

“You flesh! Earn your keep!”

The kid emoted in an exaggerated way.

His white hair reached the floor, creating a cupola around him. His toxic-green eyes shined like those of a cat, with his pupils so small, they started to doubt he could actually see anything.

His teeth were always exposed, even if he wasn’t talking, and he was wearing what looked like a hazmat suit, too big for the scrawny body.

He was floating a few inches from the ground and didn’t seem to stop moving, always rocking from side to side.

“I uh… hi?

Barry tried to start the conversation.

They needed help with a strange artifact that fell from the Infinite Realms, and apparently, he was one of a few beings that didn’t need a blood sacrifice to be called.

The being lighted up (literally) when the Flash spoke up, his smile widening even more.

“Ho, ho! Oh, where has your poor stomach been? Is it gone, or cat’s got your tongue?”

There was another beat of silence.

“What?”

The being huffed, shaking his head.

At this point, Constantine groaned and stepped forward.

“I hate this part…”

He murmured, before clearing his throat and looking at the kid.

Then, in the whiniest voice a grown man can muster, he exclaimed:

“I don’t believe it, this is rich, it’s rich!”

Oh.

Everybody was too stunned to speak, as Constantine was trying to emote just as much as the kid.

The being nodded, seemingly agreeing.

“But hasn’t this been enough already? Bring out the loot”

Constantine turned around, giving the kid the jar of live butterflies they got.

The being unscrewed the lid and started to eat them out of the jar like chips.

The heroes looked a mixture of weirded out and horrified.

On the other hand, the kid looked pleased.

“Ah, nothing better than a cup of Joe in the morning”

It was the middle of the night.

He was eating butterflies out of a jar-

Constantine took a deep breath in, then started to tap his foot on the floor, as if impatient.

“Listen here now, and sit down. Only you can make due, and due is here to be made, now more haste, go for it!”

The being huffed and put the jar down

“Being employed is miserable”

He murmured, before seemingly turning inside-out and disappearing. Every butterfly that he ate was now peacefully flying around.

Constantine sighed, before rubbing his temples.

The members of the JL were staring at him, having understood absolutely fucking nothing of what just happened.

Batman was the first to step up.

"What happened?"

"He got the message, he's getting the artifact back to it's place."

"How do you know that?"

The blond gave them a deadpan glare, too done for the day.

“Clean up this mess, we're gonna talk about this after I have a drink.”

[Part 1] [Part 3] [sketch]

[moonchildstyles]

strawberry

pomegranate part three: y/n goes on a date and harry has a migraine. but she comes back.

wordcount: 9k

—————

"H? Where are you?" 

Harry, with his eyes reading the label on a can of enchilada sauce, called over the partition of the aisle, "Over here, (Y/N)." 

Just as quickly, he heard pattering footsteps rounding the endcap and heading right towards him. When she had wandered off for laundry detergent and a new book, she had left him with empty hands. Now, she had returned with no laundry detergent, but two books, a bag of chocolate covered fruit, and a jar of honey with the comb floating through the amber. 

"Look, look," she chattered, racing towards him with the jar of honey extended, "It's the kind with the honeycomb in it, look." 

A soft smile touched Harry's lips. He took the jar as if receiving a gracious gift, replacing all of his attention on the label instead of the dinner list he had been working on. 

He hummed a pleased noise at the sight of the honey. "'S like the ones in the video—with the fancy cheese and all." 

"That's what I was thinking!" 

While Harry was interested in making one of the recipes (Y/N) had sent him many videos of, seeing the smile on her face when he dropped the jar in the basket was worth much more. Even when they started down the aisle, (Y/N)'s face in her phone looking up recipes they could try out with her new find, Harry couldn't get that smile out of his head. 

Though it was a delusion he wasn't fond of letting himself live in, he swore something had changed after that kiss a couple of weeks earlier. He couldn't be sure if he was just searching for something special to be growing between them, but it was hard to recall moments that she had smiled at him like that before they had kissed. 

He swore she'd never looked at him with moony eyes like that. That she'd never stretched her grin that wide before. That every time she reached out to him, felt his skin under her palms, that something sparkled in her eyes. 

Harry was inclined to assume those details were things he only saw because he wanted to see them, but she had kissed him back just as intensely. More often than not, sleepovers were shared either in his bedroom or out in the living room of their home, (Y/N) always finding her way into his space, just short of wrapping her limbs around him. Kisses on his cheek was the norm, something shared any time they were to be apart for longer than a few hours. Even their television nights on the couch were dotted with thighs pressed together, legs draped over his lap, her head on his shoulder. She wasn't even soft and sleepy when she started melting all over him, she just wanted to be close to him. 

But, much like the first time they'd done anything more, they hadn't discussed a single moment of that night on the couch. Not when she had been on her knees before him, how he'd confessed to building a home for her right in the forefront of his mind, or the loss of control he had when he pressed his lips to hers just after he'd cum in her mouth. 

Every pining affection he held for her was now turned up to max volume. His nights were plagued by the idea of her climbing into the bed right with him, whether to give into more of his fantasies or just to rest her head on his chest. She was slowly but surely backing him into a corner where there was nowhere for him to run. The space in his heart was becoming cramped the more of her she was able to sneak inside. Harry worried just how much longer he was going to be able to keep his head on straight and react like a normal roommate before he was going to explode and spill all his guts out for her to see.

"H, look!" (Y/N)'s chirping voice brought Harry back to the middle of the supermarket, her phone being shoved in his face. On the screen was a bubbling wheel of cheese with sweet honey and crisped prosciutto, crusty bread dipped into the paste. "Do you think we could do this?! Is there brie here?" 

Peering at her over the top of her phone, a small smile curled the corners of his mouth. He was going to do anything she asked of him, even something as simple as finding a cheese for her. 

Because Harry loved her. He doubted there was ever a time he didn't. 

"'M sure we can find something." 

Her rewarding smile was enough for him. He'd pretend it was just for him.

—————

Harry groaned, rolling in his sheets with his pillow fluffed under his head. Despite the curtains drawn, his eyes pinched shut and noise cancelling headphones over his ears, his bedroom needed to be darker and quieter. If not, he feared his brain was going to squeeze itself out of his ears. 

Work wasn't even that stressful today, especially since he'd worked remotely for the day. There was no real reason that there should be any kind of pressure building behind his eyes. 

He just wanted to sleep. Hopefully, when he woke up this migraine would be over.

A gentle hand landing on his shoulder, pinched that hope out of his mind. Muffled through the silence of his headphones, he heard the syllables of his name. 

Taking in a balancing deep breath, Harry forced his eyes to crack open. He twisted in his sheets, finding (Y/N) hovering above him. Concern swam in her eyes, her lips set in a thin line. 

As he figured, her makeup was swept in pretty pinks and mauves over her skin. Her eyes shimmered with flecks of glitter, lashes fluttering wisps. Her hair was done, twisted out of her face with stray strands framing her face. The heart-shaped locket around her neck dangled down above him.

He didn't have to scan over her to know the dress she had picked out for the night. She had asked him a million times yesterday which one of the outfits she had in her closet would work best for her date tonight. 

For her fancy date. Her first with some blonde-haired man she met on an app.

The reminder was enough to have another surge of pressure bubbling inside his skull. 

Inching one of the cups of his headphones off of his ear, Harry quietly hummed in question. 

"How are you? Are you feeling any better?" (Y/N) whispered, her voice low enough to not trigger any extra pain in his head. 

"Not really," he muttered, his voice graveled from disuse.

Her lips puffed into a pout. "H," she murmured, her voice drawling in a croon, "Is there anything you need? Anything I can grab before I go?" 

A dull throb pounded against his skull. 

"'M alright." 

(Y/N) looked far from convinced. He watched as she pinched her lips between her teeth. 

She didn't say much before she climbed into bed beside him. Her hair piled against his pillow, her breath fanning across his skin as she settled in. 

"Can I stay here before I leave?" 

Her eyes met his with clear intensity. Everything was soft as she gazed at him, brows downturned in concern with her iris melting before him. 

He only nodded, eyes fluttering closed. 

Harry felt her arms wrap around him only a moment later. Her forehead gently rested on his when she pulled him closer, the very tips of their noses grazing one another. For the first time all afternoon, his splitting headache dulled just enough. 

The pile of blankets around his hips felt cold in comparison to her hold. Her fingers driving through the curls on the back of his neck had his muscles melting, his bones loosening after being wound so tight for so long. 

A soft sigh fell from his lips. 

With his eyes still closed, Harry could only feel the heat of her skin as she drew closer. The tip of her nose brushed the bridge of his own just before the touch disappeared, replaced with the soft of her glossed lips landing in the same spot. She dotted kisses down his nose, to the apple of his cheek, to the very corner of his mouth. 

He couldn't help but lean into her affection. He'd missed this—despite only having her kiss once, he missed it like he'd left behind a childhood comfort. Her touch was a balm to his nerves, soothing even his migraine. 

One hand on the back of his neck slid around until she had his cheek cupped in her palm. She thumbed away the sparkling kiss marks she no doubt made in her wake. 

"I'm going to miss you tonight, H." 

Then stay.

His heart ached more than his head when he choked back the instinctive words. Even with the sweet press of her lips and graze of her hands over his skin, she was going on a date tonight. 

This was just how she expressed her care for him now, with all of these barriers of touchy-affection broken down. 

Forcing himself to pull back, Harry cracked his eyes open. He looked at her, sparkling eyes and frowning lips. 

"I'll miss you, too," he confessed, unsure if she felt the weight he attached to his words, "What time do y'have to leave?" 

It was her turn to sigh, the exhale pushing her perfume towards him in a vanilla plume. "Probably now." 

He gave her a smile that he hoped didn't give away just how sad he was. "Excited?" 

(Y/N) nodded, only a lopsided smile touching her mouth. "I'll be home soon, though. Call me if you need me to pick anything up for you, okay?" 

It was Harry's turn to tip his chin in a nod. 

With only the sound of the sheets rustling around their bodies, (Y/N) gave him one last hug before peeling away. She crawled out of his bed with Harry's eyes following her. 

She crossed his room with her dress flaring around her hips. Stopping in the threshold, she turned to look at him once more. 

"I made some spaghetti noodles for you if you're hungry, but if you want something from the restaurant, let me know." Her lips bloomed into a soft smile, though Harry didn't see the same warmth light her eyes. "I'll see you soon." 

"Have fun, (Y/N)." 

She didn't offer any cheeky promise the way she would have only weeks ago when embarking on a date. (Y/N)'s smile lingered on him for a passing moment before she left him be. 

Absently, while lying amongst his sheets, Harry heard her movements through the home. He didn’t have to see her to know that she was tracking down her shoes, spritzing a final spray of perfume, fluffing her hair and reapplying her lip gloss. Usually, he enjoyed watching these finishing touches, he thought it was cute how much effort she put into nights like these—even if he wasn't really a fan of the fact she was out meeting someone else. 

But, tonight, he almost wanted to rise from his bed like a zombie and catch her mid-haste. Stop her and force her to come back to his crypt to keep her forever. 

Nonetheless, the sound of the door swinging open only to be clicked shut a moment later filled the house. 

A throb rang through his head. 

He just needed to sleep.

—————

Slouched under a pile of blankets on the sofa, Harry almost wished he still had his migraine. That way he would have at least been distracted from watching the ticking time on his phone, the minutes pushing the night on later and later. 

And, (Y/N) still wasn't home. 

While he wasn't apt to admit it aloud, Harry knew tonight was the trigger for his migraine. The idea of (Y/N) all dressed up, sitting across from another over candlelight, flirting and playing footsie under the table, had his stomach roiling. He couldn't get himself to regret any moment spent with (Y/N), especially between the sheets or with her on her knees before him, but it definitely had to be the catalyst that was pushing him to take this first date so personal. 

That's what he deserved, messing around with his roommate who only thought of him as such. 

The pint of ice cream he plucked from the freezer was beginning to form a soup in the cardboard confines, unable to stomach any more of the comfort treat. It was nine p.m. and she still wasn't home. 

She would have texted him if she was planning on spending the night elsewhere, though. That was something she always did. She wouldn't have forgotten about him. Right?

Like an answer to unspoken prayers, the sound of the garage door lifting shuddered through the house. Twisting in his spot, he watched as she swept inside, her hair loose from its earlier constraints and her mouth in a thin line. 

(Y/N) didn't spot him at first, most likely figuring he was still holed up in his room. He watched as she dropped her bag from her shoulder, her jaw in a stern line. She definitely didn't have that shy, pleased expression he usually did after a first date gone well. No sheepish smile as she plucked her phone from her purse, no dreamy run of her hand through her hair. No smear of lipstick over the corner of her mouth, kissed away from another. 

He didn't interrupt her as she unhooked her shoes by the front door, the heels creating a mess he would later take care of. Only when she started, bare feet barely stomping against the floor, Harry piped up. 

"(Y/N)?" 

Practically jumping out of her skin, she let out an airy gasp. Her hand fluttered to the base of her throat, eyes wide as she spun on her toes. 

"H? I didn't think you'd be awake." 

Harry didn't want to get ahead of himself, but he swore he saw the tight lines on her face loosen. Her expression folded into curved lines and rounded edges. Eyes lighting as they met his. 

"Sorry," he muttered, a single dimple denting his cheek as a soft smile pulled his lips, "I didn't mean to scare you." 

"It's okay," she immediately waved off, half heartedly tossing her bag into her room before rushing towards his cocoon on the sofa, "How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?" 

"'M alright," he shared, unfolding the edges of his many blankets to allow her underneath, "It went away a little while ago. After I ate." He gave her a pointed glance, nudging her shoulder with his to pull a small smile out of her. "Thank you for that." 

She shook her head. "Of course. I felt bad leaving you, but I'm happy you're better. What have you been doing?" 

Harry felt the presence of the half melted ice cream behind him like a confession. "Nothing really. Jus' watching some movies," he smiled, adjusting his position to keep her from spotting the confection on the side table behind him, "How was your date?" 

Just like that, her expression dropped. A familiar roll of her eyes had her features pinching. 

"He was the worst, H," she shared, melting into the cocoon of blankets he offered her, laying her head back on the cushions of the couch, "The worst." 

There was a traitorous spark of joy that fluttered in his chest. What kind of friend was happy to hear that someone they cared about had a bad night? 

"What happened?" 

With an exasperated shake of her head, she started listing off on her fingers, "Didn't let me talk for more than a sentence. Ordered my food for me without asking. Told me my lipstick reminded him of his mom—but he still thought it was hot, I guess. Asked me how many people I've slept with. And, if I thought he was hotter in person or in his pictures." 

Harry blinked. His jaw fell open.

"And thats just what I can remember," (Y/N) pressed, "I'm scared more happened and I just blocked it out." 

"(Y/N)," Harry started, total awe painting his features, "I... I don't think y'should use that app anymore." 

A breathy laugh fell from her lips. "Tell me about it. I just don't get it, H. I know it's not all men, but why are all men like this?!" Her contradictory question pulled a plume of laughter from his own lungs. "Truly, I don't get it," she went on, "Is it me? Or do they all really think that the best way to get me to sleep with them is to pretend that it's already a done deal? And why do so many of them have something going on with their mom, and don't think it's weird? 

"And on top of that," she continued, raising a finger as if to make the point that much more potent, "if they even get past dinner, it's never as good as they think it'll be! Sometimes, it's fine enough, but most of the time I feel like it's such a waste of my time and I end up coming back here and taking care of myself anyway. Am I crazy or something? Like, are my standards too high?" 

When she looked at him, blinking her fluttery lashes, Harry realized she was actually asking him. 

He was quick to shake his head, attempting to get the image of her tucked away in her bedroom taking care of herself wiped from his brain. 

"'S not you," he cemented, "Definitely not. 'M sorry so many people waste your time like that—and are so disrespectful." 

She rolled in her spot, moving closer to him for comfort. "It's not fair," she pouted, exhaling with exhaustion, "I hope this isn't weird to say, but I'm bored of having to look after myself, you know? I'm putting myself out there, giving people chances, and I still end up taking myself home and finishing the job. They don't make me feel good—about myself, or otherwise. It's exhausting being my own boyfriend." 

Harry's throat ran dry.

What was he supposed to say to this? He supposed they didn't have the same boundaries they started their friendship with years ago, but he wondered if he was even really supposed to hear these things? It felt like a diary entry, not something (Y/N) shared after a date gone wrong. 

It broke his heart to hear her blaming herself. To hear so candidly how exhausted she was having to be the one that took care of her needs, to make herself feel beautiful in the ways that she needed. He hadn't been taking care of her as well as he thought he had been. 

Her words made him realize just how easily he could be dropped into that same category. The pile of selfish men who took advantage of her giving nature and pretty eyes. 

She had made him cum at her hand twice, and not once had Harry even attempted to return to favor. He wasn't much better than a man on an app, was he?

"'M sorry, (Y/N)." 

She waved him off without a second thought. "It's okay, it's not your fault—" 

"It is," he cut her off, meeting her gaze steadfast, "I haven't been good t'you, like I thought. 'M not any better than any of them." 

(Y/N) stayed quiet as she took in his words, mouth in a small gape. 

"I... I haven't been trying m'best to make y'feel good—in any way y'want. I don't take care of you like I should." He hoped so badly she could spot the points he was trying to make; that he could be those things she wanted, as long as she let him try. He'd promise to never make any comparisons to his mom at least. 

"Harry," she started cautiously, "If you mean about the stuff we've done, it's not a big deal. I offer so—" 

"But it is," he said, swallowing around the clog in his throat, "'S not fair. I... I don't know much, but I can try. I'll be—or do—anything y'want, jus' might have to teach me a little." 

She blinked at him. 

Her pretty, pretty eyes glimmered as she took in the honesty in his features. A soft pout has her lips in a gape, exhales fanning between them. Looking at her like this, cheek smushed against the back sofa, Harry wondered how anyone could see her—have the privilege of being on a date with her—and not want to hear any and everything she had to say. He would have groveled on his knees just for a chance to impress her. 

Though, a large, selfish part of him was grateful that the others before him had fumbled their chances. Even if Harry never had a real chance himself, this was going to have to be enough, he decided. These moments tucked away in the privacy of their home were going to have to be enough. 

"Are you serious?" she whispered, eyes dropping to the shape of his lips before skittering back up to match his own. 

He could only nod, his mouth bone-dry. 

She shuffled closer to him, the blankets shifting around her form. Her words were tentative, "You know you don't have to, right? I'm okay with just doing things for you." 

"I know," he murmured, "But I want you. I-It's something new, you know." 

A soft smile decorated her features. "I guess so. All about the learning experience, you are." 

"Something like that," he played along, loosening up at her light-hearted attitude. 

Her hadn't reached through the folds of the blanket cocoon to wrap around his. Her palm was soft, just as the remembered, warm and inviting. Her thumb worked a comforting circuit on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Is there something specific you wanted to try?" she broached, her foot gently brushing against his calf under the quilt. 

"Anything y'like." 

Her lips curled. "Okay," she started, beginning to stand with her grip on his hand tightening to pull him along. "I have an idea then, but only if it sounds fun to you too." 

Harry's heart bumped against his ribs. It took an immense amount of effort to keep his eyes from drifting down her body. "What is it?" 

It was (Y/N)'s turn to grow sheepish, turning away to start leading him towards her bedroom. "You've never... like, eaten anyone out before, right?" 

Was it a bit pathetic that his cock stirred at her words alone? But that was just what it was like being around (Y/N), he supposed. 

"Never," he choked out, quickening his pace to push them along to her bedroom that much faster. His skin already felt heated at even the possibility of seeing what she had under her dress. 

A breathy laugh fell from her lips as she led him into her bedroom. It was a space Harry never really breached, not unless (Y/N) expressly called him in. Maybe that was why the wall of her scent seemingly slapped him in the face, the warm, sugary fragrance intoxicating him like a whiskey neat. 

It brought him right back to the morning between his sheets, nose tucked into her hair as she slid her hand down the length of his body. A shiver ran up his spine at the memory, hand pulsing around her own. 

(Y/N) kicked her thrown bag out of the way, tipping her head to look up at him. "You can relax, you know." 

"'M fine, 'm fine," he muttered as she drew him closer to the plush mess of her bed. 

Rumpled sheets and the thrown back comforter called to him, leaving him to imagine—a bit too vividly—what she looked like when she woke up wrapped up in the silky fabrics. Her satin eye mask was thrown haphazardly over the fluffed pillows, a golden kitten face sparkling in the overhead lighting. 

Before he could move any closer, she rounded in front of him, blocking his path to the mattress. "No really," she said, gazing at him through her lashes, "We don't have to do anything. You take care of me just fine without getting me off too, H." 

He was sure she intended her words to be a passing joke, something lighthearted to ease him into the uncharted territory, but Harry felt his heart do the exact opposite. The muscles of his abdomen tightened, chest stuttering.

"I want to," he said, rushing out the words without much thought. His throat bobbed as she swallowed around the dry lump. "I just... I want it to be good for you. That's all." 

Her teasing smile turned affectionate. Reaching her free hand up to his face, she cupped Harry's cheek in her palm. The pad of her thumb skated over the soft skin under his eye. 

"You're going to do just fine, H," she crooned, tipping her head back in a way that would make it so, so easy to catch her in a kiss. "Relax and have fun, and you'll do fine." 

Relax and have fun, she said. As if he were going away to summer camp and not about to push her dress up and put his face between her legs. 

She must have caught the expression on his features as a huff of laughter fanning from her lips. Rising to her toes, she pressed her lips to his cheek. It was a familiar affection, one she had shared with him much for the last couple of weeks, but the peck felt decidedly different at the moment. It was more, he thought. Especially in the way she lingers, lips brushing the very corner of his mouth as they had earlier in the evening, when she seemed so hesitant to leave him behind for her date. 

It took every effort not to turn his head and line his lips to hers, stealing a kiss. He reminded himself: if she wanted to kiss him, she would have. 

Instead, he fluttered his eyes to a close, leaning into the flush of her touch. 

When she finally drew away, (Y/N) looked at him with her bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Without having to say a word, he would have followed her whoever she wanted him.

Which, for tonight, appears to be her sage and bubblegum colored bed. 

She fell backwards atop the plush bedding, bringing him down with her as her hand was still twined in his. He fell atop her, already breathless as he gazed down at her. 

His mouth ran dry as his eyes met hers. She was entirely too pretty, too perfect, so out of his league. What was she thinking letting him even touch her, let alone inviting him to do more? Was she going to come to his senses and realize who he was? 

Harry hoped not. 

Bringing her hands to the nape of his neck, she curled the baby strands around the tips of her fingers. "Don't look so scared, H," she laughed, eyes searching his own, "You're making me feel bad—like I'm corrupting you or something." 

He shook his head. "Sorry, that's not—I don't... Don't feel bad," he insisted, "You're jus' so pretty, (Y/N). Don't know why you're even letting me be here, with you." 

A blooming smile appeared on her mouth. "Because I trust you, remember," she said, taking him back to those moments between his sheets, when he had confessed so much to her. "And, you're pretty too, you know. Your eyelashes are so unfair." 

A sheepish grin tilted his lips. "Thanks." 

"Just relax," (Y/N) repeated, her smile warming him, "Do whatever feels right, and if I want you to do something different, I'll tell you." 

Harry swallowed, nodding his head. He supposed that was going to be the only way he was going to learn. She couldn't exactly draw him a diagram and what exactly, movement by movement that she wanted out of him. (Or at least, not in a way that wouldn't kill the mood). 

Do whatever felt right, he thought as he dropped his head to the crook of her neck. He pecked his lips against the soft skin. His nose skimmed the column of her throat as he slowly moved, deposited kisses in his wake. His confidence grew as she craned her head back, lengthening her neck and giving him more space to make his mark. 

Though he wasn't planning on being quite as crude (not tonight, anyway), he tried to think of the videos he'd seen or the pages in books he's read. When he'd imagined himself in a moment like this, what had he craved to do? 

A light scrape of his teeth against the sensitive skin was the first in an experimental move. A soft sigh left (Y/N)'s lungs, goosebumps raising around his kiss. Spurred on by her reaction, Harry attempted a small bite to the same space. It was a nibble, barely holding onto the skin for more than a second before he released her to soothe with a lingering kiss. 

Her legs around his hips moved to close around him, caging him right where he was. A good sign, he decided. 

He gained confidence, letting his mouth linger on her throat, the kisses long and leaving small marks or glistening prints behind. A part of him was waiting for (Y/N) to correct him, tell him to do more, or do less. She never did, only holding the baby curls on the back of his neck and giving him the prettiest sounds. 

Even when he dared to dip his head lower and approach the neckline of her dress. The swells of her breasts heaved as she took in lingering breaths. Harry dared to peek up at her through his lashes as he kissed down to the top of her dress, the scalloped edge tickling his chin. He swore he could feel the beat of her heart rattling underneath her sternum.

(Y/N) laid with her eyes closed, lips parted. She looked entirely at peace as he kissed her body, micro twitches of her lips, the soft flutter of her already closed eyes, being the only giveaways to the fact that she was just as present in this moment as he was. 

A slight scrape of his teeth over the top of her breast had goosebumps reaching over her décolletage. A slight shift of her hips occurred underneath his own.

"H?" she breathed, feeling her chest move under his mouth as much as he heard the call of his name. 

"Hm?" he hummed, soothing the soft nip with a kiss of his saliva-slicked lips. 

"Um," she started, finding her voice, "Are you... Do you want to do more? Or just this?" 

"More," he answered automatically, "Yeah, more."

 Her smile was dreamy this time as he raised her head to look at him. "Okay," she started, a bit breathless compared to just moments before, "Are you alright with being on your knees? Or do you want me to move?" 

Harry didn't have to think before he was shaking his head. She wasn't adjusting a single part of herself, unless it was for her comfort or it fit her wants. Otherwise, he planned on taking on everything. If she wanted him on his knees, then that was what he was going to do. 

"'M alright," he said, already sinking to rest on his knees before her. 

Her thighs hesitantly unlocked from around his hips, letting him rest with the cuffs of his knees on the fluffy rug underneath her bed. The hem of her dress dangled before him, temptingly innocent with that same scalloped edging that had just grazed his chin. 

(Y/N) shifted where she laid. Her legs spread wide enough to allow him between, tightening the material of her dress around her thighs. Scooting closer to the edge, her hips were just barely situated amongst the bedding, the apex of her thighs just that much closer to his face. Harry grew incredibly antsy where he sat, hands restless in his lap and bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

She moved so comfortably, reaching for him as if he wasn't one of the most monumental moments of his life. 

"Okay?" she asked, craning her neck to look down at him. 

Harry jerked his head in a nod, decidedly a bit too frantic to match the nonchalant air of her. Though, (Y/N) only laughed, affection twined within the sound. 

"Um," he started, feeling his cheeks heat, "How do y'want me to start?" 

Laying back, she ran her fingers through his hair. "However you want. I'm ready whenever you are—really ready." 

Not allowing himself to process the implication of her words lest she completely burst into flames, Harry braced himself as he placed his hands gently on her knees. Absently, her legs parted that much more, leaving more room for him to make his home. 

"Okay," he shakily answered. 

It was easier said than done to just relax and have fun like she wanted him to. Instinctively, he wanted to pick apart every action, every touch, every breath. But, Harry knew he couldn't do that. If there was one thing—other than his lack of experience, of course—that would make this not pleasurable for (Y/N), it would be any hesitation or fear he had bleeding into his treatment of her.

Even if he wasn't sure of himself, he was going to have to pretend for the time being. He had to trust that if something wasn't right, (Y/N) would tell him and give him the chance to fix it. 

He muttered a quiet Okay to himself before sliding his hands over the cuffs of her knees. Her skin was soft under his palms, every bump, mark and scar that made up her story glided under his touch. Reaching the hem of her dress, he held his breath as he slid his fingertips under the material. 

Carefully, Harry pushed her dress up. As more and more of her skin was revealed, he could feel his own begin to heat. The warmth crawled up his throat the same way his hands moved up to the plush of her thighs. When his thumb grazed the soft inside of her thigh, he released the breath he'd been holding. The air fanned across her skin, drawing a layer of goosebumps to rise over her thighs.

Harry could hear her breathing stutter, the reaction spurring him on. 

Pulling her dress up until his fingertips met the edge of her underwear, Harry paused. 

"Um," he started, suddenly breathless compared to just moments before, "Tell me if you want me to stop." 

Her hands coasted through his hair, affectionate and warm even when she pulled him that much closer. "Okay, just... hurry." 

It wasn't a command, harsh and unforgiving, but Harry acted as if she gave him no choice. Hearing that small, breathy plea was enough to have him working quickly. Any and everything she wanted, she was going to get. Even if Harry did it with sweaty palms and flushed cheeks. 

 As per her request, he surged on. Taking the plunge and pushing her dress up the rest of the way, he left the material to pool at her waist, revealing her panties. They weren't lacy and extravagant, full of glittering thread or intricate beading. It was only a simple pair, covering her modesty in pink-dyed cotton, a red rosette stitched at the center of the waist. 

Nonetheless, the sight took Harry's breath away. No wonder there were people in the world addicted to this act. 

His hands shook as he set them on the bones of her hips. He knew she wanted him to hurry, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to move on from this. Not when he could see the fabric of her underwear clinging to the shape of her core underneath. The folds and lines of her pussy were clear, a small dot of wetness had collected on the gusset, darkening the material to a mauve tone. Just like the blush on her cheeks. 

He curled his fingers into the waist of her underwear, but didn't make any move to pull them down. He moved instinctively, dropping a kiss to the joint of her knee. He didn't linger there long, dragging his lips over her skin. He explored the expanse of her thighs though he kept his gaze trained on her core through the fan of his lashes. The very tip of his nose skimmed over her skin with peeks of his tongue appearing to connect the trail of his kisses the higher he moved up her leg. 

Harry stopped when he reached the leg of her panties, hesitating for only a moment before he surged forward and pressed his lips to the middle of her underwear. Her legs on either side of him tensed and made a move to close, turning him into a wedge between them. He could feel the outline of her beneath his kiss, complete with the bud of her clit pressing into his nose. 

(Y/N) let out an audible beneath at the touch. It was shaking and delicate, just barely loud enough for him to catch, but enough to let him know he was doing something right. 

The single peck he gave turned into a string of open-mouthed kisses, giving into his own desire to earn more of her essence. It was a teasing game, he thought, a game he was playing against himself. His cock stirred in his lap, a pinch appearing between his brows the more he forced himself to restrain. 

The material of her underwear was growing sodden from his affection, something that only furthered when he placed the flat of his tongue against her and gave a lingering lick. Despite being through her underwear, it was still enough to get a taste of her on his buds. 

"Harry," she breathed, voice watery, "I need more, please." 

Hearing the sound of his name wrapped up in her voice, spoken on her breathless tongue, was more than any fantasy could ever hope to be. He felt his eyes roll to the back of his head as he gave a punishing kiss to the bump of her clit. He lingered for only a moment, attempting to crew his head on straight before drawing away.

"Okay, okay," he started, "I can do that, love." 

She spread her legs in response, fingers tightening in his hair. 

He didn't think before he pulled her underwear down. (Y/N) assisted as she lifted her hips and angled her legs to help him pull them down. Once she settled again, she pulled her legs apart without a care. As if Harry wasn't witnessing the most beautiful thing he could imagine ever existing. 

Before him, she was laid bare. Her folds were glistening, parted just enough to show her pulsing opening. The bud of her clit was puffy at the top of her pussy, just where he could imagine his nose going when he dug his tongue inside her hole. Just like the rest of her, she was too pretty, too alluring. 

It was the tug on his hair that reminded him of the real world going on around him. "H," was her quiet whine. 

"I know, sorry," he breathed, shuffling on his knees towards her, his neck craning to be level with her core, "Jus'... You're perfect, (Y/N)." 

He could hear the quiet smile in her voice as she spoke, "Thanks, honey." 

It was enough to have his own puffy lips growing into a lopsided grin, a single dimple on his cheek. Honey. How sweet was she?

Mimicking his actions from before, he pressed his lips to the top of her slit. His chin pressed lightly into her seeping wetness, warm and sticky against his skin. A breathless sigh left her lungs in gentle relief. 

Shuffling on his knees, he hooked his hands around her hips. Instead of drawing away and giving himself a chance to become distracted by her once more, Harry dragged his mouth down the length of her. His breath fanned across her slick skin as he pressed his lips directly to her clit. It was a gentle kiss, though he didn't pull away when her legs tensed around him, thighs moving to attempt to wrap around his head. 

"Right there, hold on," she breathed, her first direction. 

Harry did as she requested, turning his single peck into a string of soft pulling kisses. Parting his mouth just enough, he fit her bud between his lips. He delivered a gentle suck to the pearl, getting his first real taste of her wetness on his tongue. Everything was heady and warm, a previously undiscovered delicacy. He could see himself sitting right where he was for hours on end, attempting to learn every intricacy of her taste. 

Laving his tongue over her clit seemed to be just enough for (Y/N) to peel more noises from her. She tensed against his touch, her opening pulsing against the point of his chin, muscles bunching in her abdomen. A quiet whine dripped from her throat. 

"Fuck, H," she whimpered, filling her messy room with something so pretty as her whining for him. "I-I—More, please. Inside, inside." 

 It was a treat alone to get to taste her, but nothing was like the whipped cream, and cherry on top that was her begging him for more, broken sentences stringing together.

Following along, he drifted away from her clit and dragged his tongue through her parted lips. Her slick collected on his tongue, washing over him and down his throat. It was his turn to let out a rumbling groan. His own pleasure bundled in his middle, urging his muscles to tense and bunch with his cock rising to the occasion. 

But this was all about (Y/N), as far as he was concerned. She was going to come first—in both ways.

He took his time to taste her. He felt the pulses of her opening urging him to do as she requested and plunge his tongue inside, but he wanted a selfish moment to get every taste of her he could. More and more slick seeped out of her as he cleaned her, matching the stuttering of her breathing and the trickling stream of quiet moans she let out above him. 

With his chin wet and nose pressed to her clit, Harry dipped lower on her pussy until his mouth was level with her hole. The tip of his tongue danced around the shuddering entrance, (Y/N)'s fingers curling in his hair, the roots beginning to burn just enough under her grip. 

"H," she cried, a pleading note to her voice. 

He knew what she needed, and he wasn't planning on making her work hard for her pleasure. 

With that, he pressed his tongue inside her. Her walls shuttered and pulsed around him, sucking him inside. He could feel the ridges of her as he writhed his tongue inside, feeling the spongey give just beside her opening. (Y/N) let out a shuddering sigh. 

Harry pressed his face harshly against her, eager to taste more and more of her. His breathing came out heavily, fanning over her glistening skin and pearling bud. Slick noise filled the room as he began making tentative strokes of his tongue through her, pulling back just enough before plunging through once more. 

"Oh my god, Harry," she breathed, plush thighs becoming earmuffs around his head. She pulled his head towards her core with her grip on his hair, nose scrunching against her clit. "Y-You—You're so good, so good." 

If not for his busy mouth, Harry was sure a prideful grin would have decorated his face. But he was much too engrossed in tasting her praise. He could feel the sticky wetness dripping over his chin, beginning to river down his jaw. 

Focusing on the movements of his tongue in hopes of drawing more praise of her, Harry barely noticed the way the grip on his hair changed. (Y/N), with her renewed leverage, moved his head against her, wagging his chin over her slick. She shook his head against her core, a grumbling moan leaving his throat as he felt her walls pulsing around his tongue, her clit throb against the tip of his nose. 

A string of curses fell from (Y/N)'s lips, her plush thighs tight around his head. He could feel her toes curling around his back as she hooked her ankles underneath his shoulder blades. A broken whine croaked from her throat. 

"Harry, I-I'm sorry, I think I'm gonna cum," she bubbled, apparently delusional if she thought she needed to apologize.

Unwilling to pull away from her, he could do nothing other than commit to tasting her to show her that he didn't mind. He wanted to feel her pleasure wash over him, to taste every bit of her release. She had quit her pulling of his hair, her bones going lax, leaving Harry to take over what he was learning she liked. 

He wagged his head against her core, digging his tongue inside her. Shifting his hand over her wriggling hip, he dared to meet the pad of his thumb to her budding clit. She practically jumped out of her skin, her insides snug around his tongue. 

Despite the slight tremor to his hands, he circled his thumb around her clit. There was so much to keep track of, so much he wanted to make sure was perfect and worth it for her. But, he knew everything was a bit messy, a bit off-kilter, not the pristine experience he wanted to give her. Though (Y/N) didn't seem to mind; she appeared to like the messy, clumsy way he was eager to get her off. Even if that meant she was going to end the night with puffy lips and slick thighs. 

"H, honey," she cried, a crackle entering the syllables of the pet name, "I-I'm gonna—" 

He nodded his head against her. Do it, please. I want to taste, please, please, please. 

As if she could hear his thoughts, it took only another circuit of his thumb over her clit and a plunge of his tongue through her pussy that he felt everything tighten. 

Every muscle in her bunched and warmed while her bones went loose. She came around his tongue with her legs wrapping around his head, trapping him just where he wanted to be. He writhed his tongue inside of her, working her through the pulsing, shaking orgasm he was lucky enough to serve to her. 

Every moan and bubble of his name was a fire to Harry's blood, warming him from the inside out. His cock was full and hard in his lap, aching to feel what it would be like to truly be inside her. Despite the distracting fantasy, he stitched his attention solely on her, working her through the pleasure. 

Harry could have sat there on his knees for hours, helping her come down, but eventually, (Y/N) appeared to start floating back down to earth. Her thighs around his head loosened first, her toes uncurling. She cringed away from him once the feel of him was too much, her nerves too sensitive to allow him to keep going. 

The grip she had used on his hair that kept him pinned to her now became the force pushing him away. It took a bit of effort before Harry realized she was wanting him to stop, too caught up in the taste, and feel, and absolute wonder at knowing that he had this effect on her. 

Pulling his head away, Harry looked up at her with swollen, slick lips. From where he sat on his knees, he was granted an angle of her face. He saw her puffy lips parted, slight marks within the pillow of the bottom one where her teeth had sunk in. He swore her skin held a new radiance—the kind he'd never seen on her before, but wouldn't be able to get out of his head for a while. Or ever, really. 

All at once, a wave of something overwhelming washed over him. Here he sat, with the taste of her on his tongue, his heart beating wildly in his chest and skin warm. All while his dream girl sat above him, fanning lashes and pretty lip gloss on her mouth. He didn't have to check to know that her own heart was hammering in her chest. He could feel the heat pouring off of her skin already. She had his mark, however faint and fading, on her neck. 

This was (Y/N). And she was here, with him. She had a beating heart, and stilted lungs. He had a working list of all the things he loved about her, but it all boiled down to the brain in her head and her heart in her chest. The idea that she had thought about him at all, let alone enough to be here with him tonight when there was a world outside waiting for her, had a different kind of bliss blooming inside him.

He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. 

Rising on shaky legs (it appeared the fluffy rug wasn't enough to cushion his knees like he thought), Harry moved on autopilot as he fell atop her. Instead of kissing down her neck, his lips met her cheek. His arms wrapped around her middle, her dress shifting down her waist to make room for the cage of his forearms. 

(Y/N) didn't hesitate before she looped her arms around his neck. 

"H," she crooned, energy depleted, "That was—You're... perfect." 

It was breathless the way she spoke. In Harry's heart, he wanted to believe it was from the same awe that he felt. 

"You," he countered, refusing to draw too far from her skin, "You're perfect, (Y/N). You're... everything." 

It was cheesy and cliche, but his overwhelmed brain couldn't think of anything better. She was everything. She was every bright morning made for easy breakfast, and chilled night made for cuddling. She was the fulfilling nights spent under blankets with only the most comforting movie on the television. She was the best dinner money could buy. She was the feeling of a sweet animal choosing you as its person. She was a rainy afternoon with a new favorite book. She was everything. 

Everything led back to her. 

It was (Y/N) that had paused for a moment before turning her head just enough to match her lips to his. He all but melted into her. 

A moment he had been waiting for. He'd missed kissing her as if he'd been doing it his whole life. Oxygen didn't sound appealing when there was the option of pressing his mouth to hers. Slotting his lips to hers felt like second nature, allowing a soft taste of her mouth, uncaring of the lipstick painted over her pout.

Lips smearing against one another, Harry felt his brows pinch. While it wasn't his ecstasy that had filled the room, the high tension from wanting, aching to give her pleasure was beginning to crash down on him. His arms around her waist tightened, his hands cupping the curve of her waist with denting fingers. 

How was he to go on after this? This night was a turning page, spurring him on before he could have a second thought. 

"I'd do anything for you," he murmured, blurting out his thoughts without hesitation. He didn't even lift his lips from her own, his affections wafting over her mouth. "Not-Not jus' this—I'd do anything for you, (Y/N)." 

"I know, H," (Y/N) smiled, smoothing his hair back, "You're the best friend I—" 

"No," he cut her off, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on her own. He didn't dare open his eyes, lest the courage bubbling behind his ribs be doused. "'S more than that," he confessed, breathless, "I... I care about you s'much. I want to make y'happy, and I don't want y'to have to use your apps anymore. I... I can do the hard work for you—y'don't have to be on your own." 

He clung to her the way he clung to the hope that she was understanding what he was saying. That she was on the same page. Or even reading the same book as him. 

It was (Y/N) that made the move to draw away from him, even when he chased after her mouth. She stopped him with a hand cupping his cheek. 

Her eyes were downturned, lips parted and swollen. "You care about me?" 

He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do at the moment, but Harry couldn't stop himself before the words tumbled out of him: "I love you." 

Her expression softened before his eyes. Something melted swam in her eyes, swirling and glistening. Her skin was warm, plump with simmering blood. Just barely, he caught the very edge of her mouth up turning into a small smile. 

"You love me?" 

"More than anything." 

She tugged him down for another kiss. It was messy and clumsy, off center, but still incredibly perfect. 

"I thought you just like being friends with me," she laughed against his kiss, "I didn't want to freak you out in case you just... you know. Oh my god, you love me." 

"I love you," he repeated, unsure of how she could ever have a doubt over his feelings but determined to wipe them away. "Love being friends with you, but it would be kind of nice to be more." 

Another laugh, this one giddy came from (Y/N). "It would be really nice, huh. Oh, H, I love you too." 

His heart soared, taking over the space at the base of his throat. If he thought he was overwhelmed before, that was nothing compared to the swirling mass of everything brewing inside him. 

She loved him. She loved him like he loved her. 

Harry could only kiss her, could only hug her tight. (Y/N) clung to him just as tightly. 

He could have laid atop her for hours on end, kissing her and keeping her snug against his heart—right where she belonged. But, (Y/N) once again had the clearer brain.

She nudged her nose against his, knocking him to smear his lips over her cheek instead. 

"Do you think we could have a sleepover again tonight?" 

It was his turn to let out a bubbling laugh. As if he was planning on leaving her to sleep by herself tonight. 

"Anything y'want, love." 

—————

strawberries represent perfection; the sweetest at the end of june

thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please sned n any fun ideas you have!

[d-z20]

Neighbourly Care part 4 (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You go over to Agatha and Rio's for help with your Spanish class and they do help but you also get taught another lesson

-OR-

Agatha fuck you in their home office (while you practice Spanish with Rio) and when you make a mistake she stops fucking you until you get it right.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Mommy Agatha, Daddy Rio, more smut, orgasm denial (Rio), squirting, praise, slight degredation, strap on use, even more smut

Words: 4.6k and 80% is you getting fucked

A/N: This one's for all you burnt out gifted kids out there. Also, my Spanish really isn't very good, especially when I'm writing gn!Reader in a gendered language 💀 I'm sorry if it's jarring.

AO3 | Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 5 | 6 | 7 | Masterlist

It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, a growing sense of frustration gnawing at you as you stare down at your Spanish assignment. Your sweatpants are cosy and your cropped vest keeps you cool, but none of it is helping you figure out why this language feels so impossible to grasp.

Your workbook lies open next to your laptop, half-hearted notes scrawled across the page. The conjugation charts mock you, the verbs swimming together into an indecipherable mess. You sigh, running a hand through your hair before grabbing your phone and opening up the messages.

MILFs Anonymous

~13:26

You: any chance i can come over for some help? 😩

You stare at the screen, gnawing at your bottom lip as you wait for a response. It doesn’t take long.

Agatha: Try again, darling.

You: uhhh

~13:28

You: Necesito ayuda con mi español. ¿Puedo ir a vuestra casa, por favor?

Rio: Claro que sí, cariño :)

Agatha: You used Google Translate, didn’t you?

You: Sí 😁

Agatha: We’ll be back from shopping around 4—come over then.

The messages bring a small smile to your face, despite the knot of nerves tightening in your stomach. You can already hear Rio’s warm, teasing tone in the words and Agatha’s steadier, more composed presence offering quiet reassurance.

Your mind drifts back to Thanksgiving dinner. You’d mentioned, almost as a throwaway comment, that you were struggling in your Introduction to Spanish class. It had been enough to spark Rio’s interest—her eyes lighting up as she eagerly offered to tutor you. Her enthusiasm had been impossible to resist, especially when paired with Agatha’s wholehearted support.

“You’re welcome over anytime,” Agatha had said, her voice kind but with an edge of finality that left no room for argument. “You’ll get the help you need.”

And now, here you were, agreeing to yet another visit, the prospect of being in their presence again already making your skin tingle.

The clock ticks on as you attempt to focus on your workbook, but your thoughts keep drifting back to the two of them. You wonder what kind of "lesson" Rio has in mind and whether Agatha will be there to offer her own... unique form of support.

—

When the clock finally strikes 4, you grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, calling out as you head for the door.

“I’m going over to Agatha and Rio’s!”

Your mom’s voice floats in from the kitchen. “Okay, sweetie! Your dad and I are out with Aunt Carol for dinner, so we might not see you when you get back. Make sure you thank them for all their help!”

“Will do!” you reply, slipping out the door and walking the short distance to their house.

Your heart pounds as you approach the door, excitement and nerves intertwining. Before you can knock, the door swings open, and Rio stands there, her eyes lighting up as she sees you.

“Right on time,” she says, her voice a little higher-pitched than usual. She looks slightly flustered, a flush on her cheeks as she waves you inside. “Come in, come in.”

You step through the threshold, noting how Rio shifts on her feet like she’s barely holding still. She gestures toward the hallway, motioning you ahead of her.

“Agatha’s in the office,” she says, her words rushed. Her lips twitch into a quick smile as she guides you down the hall.

The office door is already open, and Agatha’s presence is immediately noticeable. She’s reclining on a sleek leather couch, looking effortlessly casual in a soft rust-coloured jacket and a white top. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and there’s a small smile on her face as she watches you enter.

“Perfect timing,” she says warmly, her tone smooth.

Rio closes the door behind the two of you, crossing the room to sit at her desk opposite Agatha’s. She moves quickly but jumps slightly when she sits, her hand gripping the edge of her desk for a moment as she adjusts herself in the chair. Her cheeks are still tinged pink, and you can’t help but notice the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“You okay?” you ask, sliding into the chair at Agatha’s desk.

“Fine!” Rio chirps, her smile a little too wide. “Let’s get started, yeah? Verb conjugations—your favourite.”

She flips open her own notebook, launching into a rapid explanation of present-tense endings. You do your best to focus, but something about her energy feels off. Her breath catches occasionally as she talks, and her legs bounce slightly under the desk.

Behind you, Agatha doesn’t say a word. You can feel her eyes on the two of you; her calm, steady presence is a stark contrast to Rio’s restlessness. When you glance back at her, she’s lounging like a queen, one arm draped over the back of the couch, her lips quirked in a knowing smile.

Rio’s voice quivers slightly as she explains another verb conjugation, her hands fidgeting with her notebook as though it’s the only thing tethering her to the moment. You do your best to follow along, but the tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Alright,” Rio says, her voice pitching slightly higher than normal. “So for nosotros, hablar becomes—”

“They deserve a break,” Agatha cuts in smoothly, her voice like honey.

Rio immediately stops talking, her eyes darting nervously toward Agatha, who is now sitting forward slightly, her hand resting on her knee. She pats her lap, her lips curling into a gentle yet commanding smile as her gaze lands on you.

“Come here, sweetheart,” she says softly, the words sounding so innocuous yet carrying an undeniable weight.

You hesitate for a moment before standing, your heart thudding in your chest as you cross the short distance to her. Agatha’s hands immediately find your waist, guiding you to sit sideways in her lap. She wraps her arms around you, holding you close as she presses a kiss to your temple.

“Much better,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your skin.

Behind you, Rio shifts in her seat again, her breath hitching audibly. A quiet whimper escapes her, and you glance back to see her biting her bottom lip, her fingers gripping the edge of her desk like she’s barely keeping herself together.

Agatha notices too, of course. Her sharp eyes miss nothing. “Continúa mi amor,” she speaks to Rio, her voice low and lilting.

Rio blinks rapidly, her cheeks flushing even darker as she nods. “Sí, mi vida.”

She fumbles with her notebook again, launching into another explanation about verb conjugations, but her words are stilted, her voice trembling slightly.

Agatha’s hand rests innocently on your thigh at first, her fingers lightly tracing small circles through the fabric of your sweatpants. You try to focus on what Rio is saying, but the warmth of Agatha’s touch is distracting. The circles grow larger, her fingers inching higher with every pass, and soon you feel her hand creeping up toward the apex of your thighs.

Your breath hitches, and you glance up at her. “What are you doing?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Agatha smiles down at you, her expression sweet but laced with something far more mischievous. “Teaching you a lesson,” she replies smoothly, her tone teasing. “I haven’t forgotten about yours and Rio’s little escapade in the hotel room that morning.”

Your eyes widen in realisation, and as you shift slightly in her lap, you catch a glimpse of her phone resting on the arm of the couch. The app open on the screen makes your stomach flip—it’s the controls for a long-distance vibrator. You glance at Rio, who is squirming more noticeably now, her breath coming in shallow pants as her eyes dart between you and her notebook.

“Rio is going to learn to keep her hands to herself,” Agatha continues, her voice low and steady. “And you, sweetheart, are going to learn to control yourself.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, and you swallow hard as she gives you a gentle nudge. “Stand up,” she commands softly.

You obey, your legs shaky as you rise to your feet. Agatha’s hands find the waistband of your sweatpants, her fingers tugging them down with deliberate slowness until they pool at your ankles.

“Mmm, such a good pet,” she hums, her praise making your cheeks heat as you step out of the fabric and sit back down on her lap.

This time, she adjusts your position, guiding you so that you’re sitting more squarely in the middle of her lap. As you settle, you feel something hard pressing against you through her pants, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Now,” Agatha says, her tone deceptively calm as she leans back slightly, one arm draped possessively around your waist. “Let’s see if you and Daddy can do as you’re told.”

You swallow hard, nodding as you try to focus on Rio, who looks just as flustered as you feel. Her cheeks are tinged pink, and she avoids looking directly at Agatha’s hand, which rests high on your thigh. Rio clears her throat, her voice trembling slightly as she continues.

“¿Cómo se dice... they speak... en español?” She asks, gripping her pen tightly.

“Ellos hablan,” you manage to reply, though your voice wavers when Agatha’s hand starts to move. Her fingers trail lazily up your inner thigh, barely brushing the fabric of your underwear.

“Muy bien, cariño,” Agatha murmurs, her lips brushing against your ear. “But don’t lose focus now. Keep going.”

Rio nods quickly, her words spilling out in a rush. “Y... y cómo se dice... we are speaking?”

You open your mouth to answer, but it’s hard to form a coherent thought when Agatha’s fingers are now teasing the edge of your underwear; her touch so light it sends shivers up your spine. Your hips shift involuntarily when her fingers dip below the fabric, and Agatha hums in approval, her grip tightening around your waist to hold you still.

“Estamos hablando,” you finally gasp, the words barely audible as Agatha’s fingers press more firmly against you.

“Perfecto,” Agatha purrs, her tone dripping with satisfaction. “But you’re trembling, sweetheart. Are you sure you’re concentrating?”

Rio looks like she’s about to combust, her leg bouncing under the desk as she stumbles over her next question. “¿Cómo se dice... uh... you are speaking?”

You try to respond, but your voice falters when Agatha’s fingers begin to move in slow, deliberate circles. A soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you feel your cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“Focus,” Agatha whispers, though her actions are anything but helpful. “Vamos, nena. Dime la respuesta.”

You choke out, “Tú estás hablando,” but your voice is barely steady. Rio squirms in her chair, her breathing uneven, and her gaze flickers to Agatha’s hand for the briefest second before she looks away again, biting her lip.

“Very good,” Agatha praises, her voice sending a thrill through you. Then she taps your hip, her fingers stilling for a moment. “Lift up for me, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, glancing at her, but the look in her eyes leaves no room for argument. You rise slightly, your legs trembling, and she reaches into her waistband, pulling something out—a purple strap larger than the one she used on you before. She pulls your underwear to the side before guiding you back down onto her lap.

The moment you’re seated again, you can feel it—hard and unyielding—pressing deeply inside you. Your breath catches at the sudden, overwhelming sensation, and Agatha smirks, her hands settling firmly on your hips to hold you still, ensuring you feel every inch. The pressure against your walls is unrelenting, a heady mix of pleasure and control that sends sparks shooting up your spine. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, each shallow breath catching as heat pools low in your belly, threatening to consume you entirely.

“Now,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, “let’s see if you can finish your lesson without completely falling apart. “Adelante, Río, y no seas fácil con les.”

Rio’s throat bobs as she swallows hard, her wide eyes betraying the tension coiling in her body. Her voice is barely a whisper as she continues. “¿Cómo se dice... we spoke?”

You open your mouth to reply, but Agatha’s hands begin to guide your hips in slow, deliberate movements, each motion sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. The friction is maddening, stealing the air from your lungs as a soft whimper escapes your lips. Your pulse thrums in your ears, and your thighs quiver, every nerve alight with sensation as you struggle to keep your focus, the words slipping through your mind like water through a sieve.

“Ha-habla…mos,” you stammer, but your voice is shaky and breathless.

Agatha chuckles softly, her lips brushing against your neck. “Otra vez,” she says, her tone carrying a hint of mockery. “Try again, sweetheart. Say it louder. Let Daddy hear you.”

Across from you, Rio is barely holding it together. She rocks faintly in her chair, her thighs pressing together as if seeking relief. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and her free hand grips the desk so hard it looks like she might snap the wood in half. Her breath comes in uneven gasps; a small whimper escapes her as she fights to maintain her composure.

“Vamos,” Agatha whispers, her breath warm against your ear as she tightens her grip on your hips, helping you grind down harder against her. The tension inside you builds with every slow, deliberate movement, your body instinctively chasing the friction. A soft, needy sound escapes you, and you shiver as her voice washes over you, low and commanding, grounding you even as she unravels you. “No te distraigas.”

You let out a shaky moan, your head falling back against her shoulder as the sensations threaten to overwhelm you. Your heart pounds, your skin is flushed and hypersensitive, and every touch feels amplified, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Words hover on the tip of your tongue, but they dissolve into broken gasps before you can speak.

Just as your eyes flutter shut, lost in the haze of it all, Agatha reaches for her phone with one hand, tapping the screen. 

“Ughhhh, Aggie, no,” Rio whines frustratedly, her body jerking slightly at the sudden loss of sensation. She glares at Agatha, who raises a single brow in amusement.

“No tan rápida mi vida,” Agatha says smoothly, her voice dripping with authority. “You’ll wait until I say so.”

Rio bites her lip, her cheeks flushed, and you can feel the tension in the room thickening.

But you don’t have time to dwell on it—Agatha’s movements beneath you are maddening, each shift sending a spark of pleasure through you that makes coherent thought nearly impossible. Her hips tilt upward slightly with each slow, deliberate thrust, the firm pressure pushing you closer to the edge with every pass. It’s intoxicating, the way her body presses into you, filling you with a deep ache that you can’t escape. You try to answer the next question Rio poses, but the words come out in a garbled mess, your focus completely shattered.

Agatha clicks her tongue disapprovingly and stills your hips with a firm grip. The sudden lack of motion leaves you aching, your thighs trembling as you try to shift for relief, but her hold on you is unyielding. The throbbing heat between your legs grows unbearable, each second of stillness stretching endlessly. The whimper of frustration that escapes you only earns you a soft mocking chuckle.

“¿Qué dije sobre enfocar?” She scolds, her voice low and commanding. “Answer Daddy, or we stop right here.”

Your face burns with embarrassment as you force yourself to focus, stumbling over the words as you manage to form a proper sentence. Agatha hums in approval, but she doesn’t let you move again just yet.

“Good,” she murmurs, her hand sliding up your side in a soothing gesture. “See? You can behave when you try.”

She waits until Rio asks the next question before finally resuming her movements. This time, her hips push up into you more deliberately, slow and measured, as if testing your resolve. Each thrust presses into the perfect spot, a deliberate rhythm that makes your breath catch and your knees tremble. It’s almost cruel how slowly she moves, dragging out every sensation until you’re teetering on the brink.

Rio’s eyes widen, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She clears her throat and stammers out the next question, her voice barely above a whisper. “¿Cómo se dice... they danced?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Agatha’s hands start guiding your hips again, setting a slow, torturous rhythm that has you clenching your teeth to stifle a moan. The friction is maddening, each grind of her hips sending shockwaves through your body that leave you gasping for air. You feel impossibly full, the steady motion of her beneath you making your head spin as heat coils tighter in your core.

“I—I don’t—” you start, but the words dissolve into a whimper as Agatha’s fingers slip under the hem of your cropped vest, brushing against your nipple.

“Don’t stop now,” Agatha murmurs, her voice like velvet. “You can do it, baby. Say it.”

Your answer is a garbled mess, barely comprehensible as you fight to stay coherent. The thrusts beneath you grow slightly firmer, and she pinches your nipple, drawing a broken cry from your lips. The steady pressure and her soft words blur together, leaving you utterly at her mercy.

Across from you, Rio is trembling, her fists clenched at her sides as she rocks forward slightly in her desperation. She bites her lip, her cheeks flushed as she tries to keep her composure, though her glazed-over expression betrays her struggle.

Agatha notices immediately. Her sharp eyes flick to Rio, and her lips curl into a dangerous smile. “¿Qué crees que estás haciendo, amor?” she says, her voice cutting through the tension in the room. “Stand up. Legs apart.”

Rio hesitates for a moment before obeying, her movements stiff and jerky. She stands with her legs spread slightly, her hands clenched into fists as she tries to keep still under Agatha’s watchful gaze. The air between the three of you feels electric, charged with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

“Good,” Agatha says approvingly. Her focus returns to you, and her tone softens. “Now, let’s finish this lesson with one more question.”

Rio swallows hard, her voice shaking as she asks, “¿Cómo se dice... we ate?”

Your mind is a haze of pleasure and tension, the words slipping from your grasp as you struggle to focus. Each deliberate thrust from Agatha beneath you sends fresh waves of heat through your body, clouding your thoughts and making it nearly impossible to form words. Your hips instinctively try to grind against her, desperate for more, but her firm hands keep you in place, controlling every movement.

“Co-com—” you stutter, but you can’t get the syllables out.

Agatha stills your movements suddenly, her grip on your hips tightening as she tilts your head to meet her gaze. The abrupt stop leaves you trembling, every nerve screaming for relief as the tension in your body builds to unbearable levels

“No te distraigas,” she scolds gently, her expression calm but firm. “Answer Daddy. Now.”

The commanding tone snaps you back into focus, and with a shaky breath, you finally manage to stammer out, “C-comimos.”

Agatha’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. “Well done,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. Then her hands slide back down to your hips, and she resumes the slow, deliberate rhythm that has you gasping for air. This time, her thrusts are more purposeful, each one pushing you closer to the edge, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Your vision blurs, your body trembling uncontrollably as you give in to the sensation.

“You’ve done good enough, sweetheart. No more questions. Now it’s time for you to enjoy yourself.”

Her attention shifts briefly to Rio, who looks like she’s about to unravel completely. “You,” Agatha says sharply, her tone brooking no argument, “will stay exactly where you are. Don’t move. Just watch.”

Rio’s breath hitches, her body trembling as she nods, her eyes fixed on the two of you. Her gaze feels like fire on your skin, but you’re too far gone to care, completely lost in the steady rhythm of Agatha’s movements and the way she keeps pushing you closer, her voice a soft murmur in your ear as you come undone.

Agatha’s hands tighten their hold on your hips, her fingers digging in just enough to anchor you to her. The slow, deliberate thrusts beneath you become a little harder, a little deeper, and the sensation sends shockwaves through your body. Each motion builds the pressure inside you, pushing you closer and closer to a breaking point that feels just out of reach.

“Such a good little slut,” Agatha murmurs in your ear, her voice a molten whisper that makes your toes curl. “You’ve been so good, finally learning some control.” Her lips brush against the curve of your neck, and her teeth graze your skin ever so lightly. “I want you to fall apart for me. Completely.”

Your body arches against her as she begins moving you faster, her hips meeting yours with a precision that’s almost too much to handle. The heat pooling low in your belly threatens to consume you, each thrust sending sparks shooting up your spine. You can’t hold back the moans spilling from your lips anymore, the sounds filling the room alongside Rio’s uneven breaths.

One of Agatha’s hands slips between your legs, her fingers circling your throbbing clit as her other holds you steady. “That’s it,” she coos, her tone laced with both encouragement and command. “Cum for me, darling. Let it take you over.”

Her voice, her touch, her presence—it’s all too much. The tension that has been winding tighter and tighter finally snaps, and the release crashes over you like a tidal wave. Your entire body trembles as the pleasure surges through you, every nerve alight as you cry out, the sound raw and unrestrained. The slick evidence of your release soaks into the fabric of Agatha’s pants, sdrenching her completely and leaving a visible mess against her thighs. She doesn’t seem to care—if anything, it only makes her smirk widen, a flicker of pride in her darkened gaze.

Agatha doesn’t let up, guiding you through every second of it, her hands and movements steady even as your body shakes with the force of your climax. She whispers soft praises in your ear, grounding you as the intensity leaves you breathless and utterly undone. “Look at the mess you’ve made,” she chuckles, her tone almost teasing as her fingers trail lazily over the damp fabric. “Such a good little thing for Mommy.” Her lips brush against your temple as she slows her movements, her hands now soothing rather than controlling. “So perfect. I knew you could do it.”

You slump against her, utterly spent, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Her arms wrap around you securely, holding you close as you come down from the overwhelming high. For a moment, the room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing and Rio’s soft, stifled whimpers from where she stands frozen, obediently still but visibly affected.

Agatha strokes your hair, her voice a gentle murmur against your ear. “You did so well, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.” Her lips press against your forehead.

You let yourself melt into her, your body boneless and your mind hazy with satisfaction. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register Rio’s quiet, needy sigh, but Agatha’s warmth and the steady rhythm of her breathing lull you into a calm, contented state.

She slips out of you and holds you tight, her hands brushing soothing circles over your back as she presses gentle kisses to your temple. When she finally moves again, it’s to slip one strong arm beneath your legs and the other around your back, effortlessly lifting you into her arms. You can’t help but sigh and rest your head against her shoulder, utterly spent but feeling safe in her hold.

As she carries you toward the bathroom, her voice cuts through the stillness, firm but not unkind. “Rio, my love, go order us something for dinner—whatever you want.” Her tone leaves no room for argument, and Rio, still flushed and squirming with pent-up frustration, lets out a soft, frustrated sigh before nodding obediently.

“Fine,” Rio mutters, her voice tinged with both respect and disappointment. You catch the faintest hint of a pout as she heads toward the kitchen, her steps slow and reluctant.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the soft glow of candles casting warm light over the tiles. Agatha sets you down carefully on the edge of the tub, steadying you as she kneels to turn on the taps, adjusting the water until it’s just right. As the tub fills, she helps you undress; her touches gentle but reverent, as though she’s still savouring every inch of you even in this quiet, intimate moment. When she lifts you into the water, you can’t help but let out a contented sigh as the heat soothes your tired muscles.

Agatha slides in behind you, her strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you back against her chest. The steady rhythm of her breathing and the warmth of the water lull you into a peaceful haze, her presence grounding you completely. She holds you close, her chin resting on your shoulder as her fingers trace lazy patterns along your arms.

“You were so good for me tonight,” she whispers softly, her voice low and soothing. “I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” Her lips brush against your temple, and you lean into her touch, the quiet intimacy of the moment filling your chest with warmth.

After the bath, Agatha wraps you in a plush towel, her hands steady as she dries you off, and helps you into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you return to the living room, Rio has returned with bags of takeout, her flushed cheeks, and the subtle shift of her legs betraying her discomfort. Agatha smirks knowingly but doesn’t say a word as she settles you onto the couch, pulling you snugly against her side.

The three of you share the meal together; the atmosphere warm and comfortable despite Rio’s occasional squirming. She shoots Agatha a few pleading looks, but Agatha only raises an eyebrow in silent challenge, her arm tightening around you possessively.

“Eat,” Agatha says calmly, gesturing to Rio’s plate. “You’ll get what you need—just not tonight.”

Rio huffs softly but obeys, though her fidgeting doesn’t let up. You curl further into Agatha’s side, feeling utterly content as the soft hum of conversation and the flicker of the TV fill the room. It’s a quiet, peaceful end to a long, intense evening, and as you drift closer to sleep, you can’t help but feel grateful for the comfort of the two people by your side.

READ THE NEXT PART

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y'all already know what I'm gonna say... please reblog and comment if you enjoyed. I love reading what you have to say about it, it really makes my day <3

asks are open if you want to chat/have an idea you'd like to see

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taglist: @aceday @valarmorghuli @ctrlamira @lezbean-with-a-side-of-dilfs @noturlondonboy @darkangelchronicles @beezlebee16 @kiaralee25 @4theluvofsapphos @lez-zuha @jujuu23 @gaylorvader

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Vil Schoenheit: The Shape of You

Rollo voice) that witch is showing too much bare skin

I noticed that Vil sounds a lot gentler in his Relax in Room vignettes… Maybe he comes across that way when he’s not scolding someone 😭

Rise and Shine!

You stopped in Vil’s doorway, as if bound by a spell, transfixed at the sight of him.

He was a creature of beauty and grace, even in the earliest hours of the morning. Vil knelt upon his mattress, one leg raised behind him, toes pointing to the ceiling. The form reminded you of a gazelle with its sturdy antlers and pointed hooves.

His arms reached behind his head and, elbows bent, he locked his fingers together. A slow exhale as he stretched, releasing the tension that had built up in his body overnight. You saw a swan beating its wings, hear a song blowing free across a flowered clearing.

His arms straightened and swiveled to his front. He shifted to his other leg and foot.

Behind him, sunlight streamed in through a large window. The glass panes bore a lattice of diamonds, painting Vil’s bed with shards of color. His silken top hung loose, the muscles in his chest flexing beneath a layer of milky skin. He was haloed in gold, as if blessed by a godly being of beauty.

You felt like you’ve intruded on something sacred, seen something that you shouldn’t have. Vil’s me time. And more of Vil than you’d ever dreamed you’d be exposed to. Bashful at the thought, you peeled your eyes away.

A question, quiet but hard, rose from Vil.

“Are you certain that you’re fully awake? You still look dazed—like you’ve just woken up.”

“I-I’m awake!” you insisted (unconvincingly, if Vil’s furrowed brows were anything to go by).

Sighing, he drew himself out of bed and strode over. You strained to keep your eyes from trailing to places they didn’t belong. His face—you focused on it. Barren but beautiful, with a delicate pale pink mouth, a straight nose, shapely arches for brows, and long wispy lashes.

You were so lost in him that you almost missed what he was saying.

“Join me for my morning stretches,” Vil advised. “It will do you some good—it gets the blood pumping and helps with circulation. That should help you properly wake up your body.”

“If you think that’ll help… How should I get started, teach?”

“Well,” he replied with a faint laugh, “it seems you’ve still got the energy to be cheeky with me.”

With one hand, Vil gestured for yours. You sheepishly offered it, then the other when he motioned again. The areas where he made contact seemed to tingle and burn, as though his very touch was toxic.

He was, you realized, standing close to you. Maybe too close.

His front flush with your back, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. Just a step, and you'd crash right into him, his heart slamming into your skin and bones. Collison with a wave of poison, dressed up nicely in a shapely perfume bottle.

You swallowed nervously.

“Assuming the correct posture is important. We wouldn’t want to pull or strain a muscle,” Vil explained, guiding you through the motions.

One arm was extended, palm up. The other laid perpendicular on the back of the elbow. Then extended arm closed like the jaws of a beast, and you could feel a pressure building where it clamped down.

“Hold that for fifteen seconds, then switch to the other side and do the same. I will show you the next stretch after that.”

The instructions flitted against your ear, setting your stomach churning. It was like you had swallowed an entire jar of butterflies which swarmed in your gut. You tried to bat them down, tried to ground your thoughts before they floated away again.

“Y-Yes, I understand, thank you.”

“Do you?” Vil smirked. “My, what a fast learner. If only all my students were this obedient, I would have far less grief."

He pressed a quick peck to your temples. You burned, body going slack from the shock. So much for stretching.

Vil only chuckled as he pulled back, brushing slender fingers along your shoulders. "Now then, no time to dawdle. There's another day awaiting us, sweet potato."