#until she woke up again in the middle of the night for her-

[suushiiii]

Everything changed: except it didn't

Leah Williamson x Reader

Summary: The day after the truth or dare game night.

Word count: 2.1k

a/n: Read pt.1 first, before reading this one :)

You slowly stirred awake, the sun peeping through the curtains of your hotel room. You kept your eyes closed because of the early sunlight, which was too bright for your sleepy eyes. You let out a sigh and tried to move on your back, but the solid arm of someone around your waist held you in place. You blinked your eyes rapidly. To let them adjust to the light.

You looked over your shoulder and saw Leah still asleep. Her features looked calm, her breathing slow, and a small smile tugged at her lips. You raised an eyebrow in amusement because it looked like Leah knew that last night happened, even in her sleep. You carefully turned in her hold, hoping not to wake her.

You are now lying face to face with the defender, her arm tightened just around your middle, you tucked a loose strand of her hair out of her face and behind her ear. You didn’t say anything. You just stared at her, like she was an extraordinary animal, who let themselves be spotted only just once or never at all.

“You’re staring.” You blinked, taken off guard by the hoarse and full-of-sleep voice of Leah. “You’re awake?” You asked, feeling your cheeks going warm. Leah didn’t respond; she just let out a small sigh, her eyes still closed. After a minute or two, Leah opened her eyes, immediately locking on yours.

“You’re blushing.” Leah murmured, her voice thick with sleep, and a small smile tugged at her lips. “I’m-” You started, but closed your mouth again, because Leah just raised an eyebrow. You groaned and buried your face into your pillow, hearing Leah giggle softly.

“Did you just giggle at me?” You huffed, but your pillow muffled the words. You lifted your head, meeting Leah’s bright blue eyes once more. “I did. It’s cute when you’re flustered.” Leah teased, and you groaned again, but you stopped immediately. When Leah’s arm, which was still around your waist, pulled you closer to her.

You let out a startled yelp, your hands resting on her chest. “Good morning.” Leah hummed and kissed your temple. “Morning.” You said with a smile and rested your head on her shoulder. “Did last night really happen?” You giggled softly and lifted your head from her shoulder, meeting Leah’s eyes again. “I don’t know.” You teased with a smirk, something in Leah’s eyes shifted.

“I could remind you that it did happen, especially what happened after the movie.” Leah murmured, tilting your head with two fingers, your face inches apart from hers. “Mmhh, what did you have in mind?” Leah’s lips twitched up into a smile and moved, now hovering over you.

Her nose brushed yours, and she still had the smirk on her lips. “Well, I could kiss you like I did last night, after we had watched the movie.” Leah teased, her lips brushing your jaw and her breath hot against your skin. “Leah… we’re not doing this now, we just woke up.” You groaned and buried your face in her shoulder.

“You have always been a morning person. What changed?” You pulled your head back so you could meet Leah’s eyes again. “Oh, I don’t know? Maybe because I didn’t sleep until two in the morning.” You said with a smirk, your arms wrapping around her neck. “Yeah, that’s on me.” You giggled softly and pulled Leah down.

Your lips met in a soft kiss. Leah’s hands rested on either side of your head, her lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, neck, and throat, nipping just a little. “Leah…” You groaned and felt Leah’s lips smirk against your skin, before tilting her head. “Yes?” Leah hummed, a mischievous look in her eyes. “We need to get breakfast.” You whispered and gently pushed Leah back, who rolled off you and onto her back next to you again.

“You are no fun.” Leah whined with a pout on her lips, rolling onto her side, facing you. “I’m a lot of fun; otherwise, you wouldn’t have kissed like they did in the movie yesterday.” You shot back with a playful smile, moving closer to Leah, who wrapped her arms around you with a small smile.

“That was sheer pressure. You told me that no girl would love to be kissed like that. So, I needed to prove you wrong.” Leah whispered in your ear, and you felt your cheeks getting warmer, because that indeed happened yesterday. “Okay, maybe I was wrong.” You said with a sigh, letting your head rest on Leah’s shoulder. “You weren't only wrong, you enjoyed it.” Leah hummed, kissing your temple, and you groaned.

“You’re enjoying this way too much, that you’re right.” You said with a pout and buried your face into her neck, while Leah circled with her hand on your back. The two of you lay there, under the covers, Leah whispering sweet things in your ear, a few kisses shared. “We should probably get out of bed for breakfast.” Leah hummed, but didn’t put any effort into moving from the bed.

“Do we have to? We can order room service.” You suggested, earning soft giggles from the blonde defender, who shook her head, even though she loved the idea of room service. “You know the answer to that.” You groaned and rolled away from Leah, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. “Do we tell the others?” You looked over your shoulder and thought about it.

“No. I want this to be just for us. No teammates teasing us, especially Beth.” You answered honestly, standing up from the bed. “Okay, just us.” Leah agreed with a hum and stepped out of bed as well. The two of you changed around each other; Leah showed some physical affection by kissing your shoulders when you were changing your T-shirts or hugging you from behind while you brushed your teeth in front of the mirror.

“Ready to go?” You nodded when you slipped your shoes on, took your phone from the nightstand, and walked through the door. Leah let the door close with a click, her hand slipping into yours, fingers intertwining.

The two of you reached downstairs, and you pulled your hand from Leah’s, not wanting to let the others see. “Look who finally decided to show up?” You let out a startled yelp, jumping back, but Beth wrapped her arms around you and Leah. “Good morning, Beth.” Leah chuckled, pushing Beth’s arm off her shoulders.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest, afraid that Beth had seen you walk hand in hand with Leah just now. “y/n!” You snapped out of your trance, Beth’s fingers snapping in front of your eyes. “Sorry, what?” You felt your cheeks going warm once more and looked at Beth. “How did you sleep?” Beth asked her question again because you hadn’t heard it the first time.

“I slept like a lamb.” You said with a giggle, your eyes landing on Leah quickly, who was talking with Kelly and Georgia. “Good to hear, because today will be a long day.” Beth chimed before walking away, leaving you confused. “A long day?” You murmured to yourself because last time you checked, today was going to be a free day. You shook your head and headed to the table where Leah was standing, already two plates in her hands.

“So, you slept like a lamb?” Leah teased, and you snapped your head up, glaring at her, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “You heard that?” You groaned because you thought that Leah was too far away to overhear your conversation with Beth. Leah just nodded her head, handing you your plate, and the two of you walked together to the table where the bread was.

“I thought we had a free day today?” You murmured, and Leah looked at you, her eyes telling you that she thought that as well. “We do.” You shook your head, putting some fruit on your board. “Why do you ask?” Leah now asked, confusion in her eyes. “Beth just said that it will be a long day.” Leah shook her head, letting out a groan.

“I swear, if Beth has something planned, I will throw this piece of bread straight at her face.” Leah stated, waving the piece of bread in her hand dramatically. You stifled a laugh and rested your head on Leah’s shoulder, who was putting some fruit on her plate. “You-” Before Leah could get the rest of the sentence out, Beth, Choe, and Keira stood in front of you, and all three had the same suspicious looks in their eyes.

“I don’t like this, not one bit.” You murmured in Leah’s ear, your head still resting on her shoulders. “What now?” Leah asked with a groan, meeting the eyes of Beth, who smirked from ear to ear. “You two are close.” Beth hummed, making you and Leah both frown in confusion, because you two were always close.

“That’s nothing new.” Leah answered, her voice was steady, and she was trying so hard not to wish that the ground could swallow her whole right now. “No, but now it’s something else.” Keira stated, her voice laced with suspicion. “How?” You were confused about why they were behaving this way.

“Ohh, you know.” You turned your head back to Keira, who had a smug look written all over her face. “Ever since your dare yesterday, the two of you have been acting different.” You and Leah both raised an eyebrow, clearly not knowing what Keira meant. “Ohh, c’mon,” Beth practically scoffed, but the smile tugged at her lips.

“the two of you were late for breakfast,” Leah opened her mouth to argue, but Chloe held up her hand, not giving Leah the chance to talk. “you held hands, but let go off each other the minute you walked into the room, hoping that we wouldn’t see.” Beth pointed out, her finger pointing and moving from you to Leah. You tried to keep your calm, but it was impossible when you were getting interrogated by your teammates.

Leah, on the other hand, was her usual calm. Composed person. Not blinking too many times at a question, or shoving her hands deep in her pockets. Leah just stood there, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her usual calm stare, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Are you guys done? Because all the things you pointed out are things y/n and I always do.” Leah finally said, her eyes darting from Beth to Keira, to Chloe, and then back to Beth again. “Well….” Beth’s voice filled the room again, both your and Leah’s eyes snapped up to meet Beth’s, already afraid to hear what she was going to say.

“you never let anyone wear your sweaters, not even y/n.” You looked down at the sweater you were wearing, and it was indeed Leah’s sweater, the one she had never let anyone wear. “I-we-” You tried to come up with a good excuse, but nothing came out of your mouth.

You met Leah’s eyes, and you saw the defeat in her eyes. You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and turned your head to the others, then opened your eyes again. “Okay, yes. After what happened last night, something had changed between me and Leah, but-” Before you could speak more, you saw Beth and Keira handing both a £20 note to Chloe, who took the money with a graceful smile. Both your and Leah’s mouths fell slightly open, puzzling the pieces together.

“You-you bet on, if we would turn into more than friends?” You uttered in disbelief. “Ohh, c’mon, we all have seen the looks you have been giving each other.” Chloe stated, putting the money in her pockets. “Well, lovebirds, enjoy your breakfast.” The three of them left you and Leah dumbfounded, both still shocked about what had just happened. “Okay, what just happened?” Leah shook her head, her mouth still slightly open, and you buried your face in your hands, groaning softly.

“Well, we lasted,” You looked at your phone. “20 minutes keeping our relationship to ourselves.” You said with a sigh, putting your phone away. “We are never living this one down and you,” Leah said, turning her face to you with a smile. “You are the only one, who’s allowed to wear that sweater from now on.” You smiled at her and pulled her into a hug, but instead, Leah’s lips landed on yours. “What-” You tried to say, but Leah silenced you with another kiss. “Don’t ruin the moment.” Leah hummed against your lips, brushing her nose against yours.

[maikorian]

REASSURANCE      -      CLARK KENT

summary: taking care of a super baby isn't all that easy. sometimes you need a little support to keep you going.

warning: none just some fluffy goodness

authors note: thanks for the request anon! also thanks so much for a 100 followers! i didn't think i'd ever reach that number and im so grateful to you all!

word count: 3.5k

You've heard about it from other mothers around you. How exhausting things would get after giving birth. The endless sleepless nights. The clogged ducts. The mood changes. Even your friends warned you about it. You foolishly thought that you'd be able to push through it. You had Clark after all. He's the best husband and support pillar that you could ask for.

You thought that if you could just suck it up that everything would be fine. That's until the second week of postpartum hit. Everything went downhill from there.

The first week was fine. Elanie was a quiet baby. At least that's what you thought at first. She didn't fuss much when you first gave birth to her. Even the doctors and nurses were surprised by how little she cried. She latched on pretty easily and fell asleep without much noise. Everything went smoothly until a week after you brought Elaine back home.

She wouldn't stop crying. Neither you or Clark understood why. She had a big pair of lungs, that's for sure. No matter how much you fed or rocked her in your arms, she wouldn't stop at all. You felt like you might just go insane. Then you handed her to Clark and it miraculously stopped. She just… stopped crying.

After that things started to change. Clark helped take over most of your workload. He changed her, bathed her, put her to sleep. He ended up being the one to wake up in the middle of the night to soothe Elaine when she woke up. Most of his focus was either on work or taking care of the baby. It definitely took a lot of weight off your shoulder but at the same time it gave yourself time to think. You didn’t really give yourself much time once Elaine was born.

Right now you were in the kitchen washing the dishes while Clark put Elanie to sleep again. You should be happy, right? Elaine was finally getting the sleep she needed. Then why was there that twisting feeling in your heart? You weren't sure what it was. Jealousy? Anger? Frustration? You couldn't understand. Why did Elaine fall asleep so easily with Clark but when you tried, she wouldn't even sleep for more than an hour? What were you doing wrong? Did she not like you?

Why…

Why…

“You're gonna end up breaking the plate from how tight you're gripping it.” You jumped at the sound of Clark's voice coming from right behind you. The plate slipping from your hands and crashing into the sink. It instantly shattered, the glass breaking off into pieces. “Fuck– God dammit!” You huffed, wincing at the loud noises.  You were silently hoping that Elaine wouldn't wake up from the noise.

You waited with a bated breath. Anticipating the loud cries from Elaine's nursery. A few seconds passed and you heard nothing. That's weird. She should've woken up. Even when you dropped something simple like a fork, she would've started crying up a storm. The fact that she's quiet is odd enough. “If you're wondering why she's not up yet, I bought her some baby earmuffs.” Clark softly spoke.

“Earnuffs?” You wondered. Clark nodded his head at you with a tired smile. “Yeah, I called Ma’ a few days ago. She said that I went through the same thing when I was around Elaine's age. Apparently ear muffs did the trick.” Ah, right. Elaine isn't fully human. She's still got kryptonian blood running through her. Even though she's only a few weeks old, her powers might have started acting up now.

How could you have not figured that out? The problem was sitting right in front of you. You should've been able to figure it out. “O-Oh… That's good.” You mumbled. You began picking up the broken shards of the shattered plate. Maybe if you figured it out sooner then she would've fallen asleep in your arms as well? Were you even doing things the ‘right’ way?

You had only picked up a few pieces before a warm pair of hands stopped you. “Here, I can do that.” Clark warmly spoke. He tried to pry the glass out of your hands but you held onto it tightly. “No, it's fine. I can do it. It's my fault. I dropped it.” You sighed, gathering the broken pieces and tossing it in the trash can.

Clark isn't blind. He may wear glasses but it's only to protect his identity. He can see the bubbling tension in you. Your movements are a lot stiffer. And with how tight you're holding onto those shards, you might accidentally– “Gh! Not this again…” A small drop of blood began to drip from the palm of your hand. The flow of more blood slowly becoming more prominent as you set the now bloody glass piece aside.

You clutch your hand in pain. It stings like hell. Your hand trembles as you hold onto it tightly. Crap, you don't want to get blood all over you. It'll be a pain to clean. That would be another addition to your already growing chore list. You flick the tap on and run your bleeding hand under the water. It hurts for sure but you try your best to ignore it.

Clark moved before you could even process it. He pulled your hands away from the sink. Staring down at the small cut on your hand. “Let me take care of you.” You still at his words. You've heard him say it to you countless times and yet they still have their intended effects. You relax under his touch. He holds you as if you’re made of glass. His larger hands encasing yours.

Clark guides you towards the kitchen island and sets you down on the stool. You don’t speak. You just sit there quietly. “I’ll get the first aid kit. Stay here.” You feel the warmth of his lips on your forehead for a moment. His steps echo softly in the kitchen as he grabs the first aid kit that's stored in one of the upper cabinets. Your hair loosely covers your face. The bright overhead lights peeking through the gaps.

You take that time to observe your current state. Your hair is a mess. You can’t really remember the last time you’ve fully done your hair care routine. You can feel how greasy it’s gotten. Physically, you feel heavy. Pregnancy had taken it’s toll on you. Your thighs are thicker and so is your stomach. The extra fat from the pregnancy still lingering even though you’ve already given birth. The stretch marks on your thighs peek over the hem of your oversized shirt that you’re wearing.

You don’t feel like you. Pre-pregnancy you and post-pregnancy are two totally different people. Is this another ‘miracle’ of pregnancy? What a joke. Your finger pokes at the extra fat and your mind begins to wonder. Would Clark even look at you the same way after this? You’ve heard of those horrifying stories from different women. How their husbands wouldn’t touch them after they gave birth. Does he still like you even if you’re like… this?

Clark cuts off your thinking as he comes back with the first aid kit in hand. “Let’s get you patched up, sunshine.” He sits on the stool next to you. He holds your hand in his lap, carefully disinfecting the cut. Clark dabs the cotton bud soaked with disinfecting alcohol on your cut. You try your best to stifle the pained noises that threatened to slip past your lips. “Shh, shh… It’s okay. I know it stings a little. Jus’ a lil’ bit more.” He murmurs.

The air is somewhat tense. You don’t know what to say. It’s hard to think with that faint buzzing noise in your head. Come to think of it, you haven't eaten lunch yet. Or dinner. It’s already late. Way too late to cook anything. But you’re still kinda hungry. The sound of your stomach growling is enough proof. “You didn’t eat yet?” You shake your head. You can sense the disappointment in his body language. “I’ll order us some pizza. You need something in your stomach.”

“I had a baby in me for 9 months. I think my stomach needs a break.”

“What your stomach needs is food.”

Clarks firm on his decision. His tone says it all. It doesn’t take long for him to dress your wound. Your injured hand now wrapped up in a few layers of gauze. He doesn’t let go of your hand though. Not yet. His finger traces the lines on the palm of your hands. It’s a soothing gesture. “What’s going on?” Ah, straight into it. He doesn’t try to sugarcoat it. Clark is the straightforward kind of guy when it comes to your health.

You, on the other hand, tend to be on the more reserved side. You try to sweep any of your worries under the rug. It’s an unhealthy coping mechanism and yet it’s the only one you know.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

Clark's hand shifts to grip the bottom of your chin. His index finger and thumb tilting your head up to face him. “Don’t. Don’t do that.” He pleads. The gentleness behind his tone nearly makes that emotional wall of yours start to crack. “You’ve been acting off for a few days now. You’re quiet. You barely eat. You don't sleep.” All of his words hit their mark. Even though he’s only telling the truth, the fact that he’s right has your body feeling ten times heavier. It’s the guilt.

He pulls your stool closer to his. There’s barely any space between you. He has you caged in but not in a threatening way. Clark is careful. He doesn’t invade your space. He knows your behavior well enough. He waits for you to come into his space. There’s no pressure in any way. You could get up and walk away if you wanted to but you don’t. You don’t leave because you want to tell him what you’re dealing with. It's just difficult to put it into words.

“I… I think I’m a bad mom.” Your voice cracks in the middle of your confession. Clark holds his tongue. You need someone to listen and he’ll be your person. “You pull it off so well. Being a dad is like second nature to you. Elaine doesn’t cry when you hold her. She doesn’t fuss when you change her diaper. She actually falls asleep when she’s with you. B-But with me? She doesn’t– All she does is cry and I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. The only thing I can do is feed her but sometimes I don’t think it’s enough.”

Your shoulders sag. Your body gives out and you lean into Clark's touch. His arms automatically shift you onto his lap. Tears start to well up in your eyes and it blurs your vision. One tear starts to flow and another follows. It’s not long until the sobs start to rock your body. Every single tear that drips down your cheek is filled to the brim with sadness and anxiety. “What am I doing wrong? I don’t get it. I’m doing everything I can, it’s just… It’s not enough. I… I want to be a good mom.” You choked out.

You cling onto Clark like a lifeline. You can feel yourself falling apart. The cracks you’ve been desperately trying to hide grow deeper until it eventually reaches your core.

Clark stays silent. He lets you cry out every single bit of frustration and sadness you’ve been holding up in your heart. He doesn’t care one bit that your salty tears are soaking into his shirt. He could always wash it. All that matters to him now is comforting his wife that he’s been unintentionally ignoring. Ever since Elaine was born, things started moving so fast that it was hard for him to play catch up.

“You're not doing anything wrong, sweetheart.” Clark whispers into your ear. “You're not a bad mom. You hear me? You are the best mom Elaine could ever ask for. A bad mom wouldn't try to put her kid to sleep. A bad mom wouldn't watch over their daughter while she's sleeping. A bad mom wouldn't care for their daughter like you do.” His thumb brushes away the thick droplets of salty tears. He's holding you firmly in his arms. Providing you a solid body to rest on.

“You try for her. That's what makes you a good mom. You do everything you can to make her safe and loved. That's what any kid would ever want.” His words are like a warm blanket that covers your trembling shoulders. He tucks your head under his chin. Clark's hand gently moves up and down your back in a soothing motion. It helps calm down your stuttered breathing. The hiccups slowing into deep breaths.

You don't stop him when he lifts you up into his arms. Strong arms holding you firmly to his chest. It still surprises you from time to time how casually he can do it. He easily carries you towards the bedroom and sets you down on the bed. The soft mattress greeting your tired body. The exhaustion wears you down like a heavy weight. 

Every part of your aches and hurts. Your back. Your chest. Your hips. All of it.

The thick sweater you're wearing is pried off by Clark, revealing the loose camisole you have on. Although you're dead tired, your hands instinctively move to cover the exposed parts of your skin. The stretch marks that mar your skin peeking through the gaps of your fingers. It’s hard to hide it though. Your hands can’t do much to hide it all. Clark shifts his gaze to your exposed legs, focusing on the way you tried to conceal them. It doesn’t take long for the pieces to start to click together.

Oh baby…” Clark crawls onto the bed with you. You don’t expect him to place your legs on his lab. His large hands wrapping around your knee and bringing it to his lips. “m’so sorry, baby. My beautiful, wonderful wife.” He plants kisses starting from the tops of your knees and travels up your skin until he reaches your soft, plush thighs. “Should’ve paid more attention to you. You’ve been hurtin’ for a while now haven’t ya’.” It’s not a question but a statement.

His pours every once of his love through his lips. Peppering your stretch marks with gentle kisses. Your cheeks turn pink at the sight.

“C-Clark, you don’t have to–”

“I want to.” Clark firmly spoke.

He lifted his head to lock eyes with yours. There’s nothing but honesty in him. It’s clearly written all over him. “You've been working so hard even though you should be resting. You carried Elaine for 9 months and pushed her out of you. The least I can do is give you all my love.” He holds your thighs in his hands. He doesn't let a single spot on your skin remain untouched.

He does the same to your stomach. Lifting up the loose camisole and kissing you there. Every kiss he leaves behind is covered with a blanket of praises. Praising you for being so strong for him and Elaine. You're the strongest woman he knows even if you don't have powers. His wife. His sunshine.

Your heart skips a beat when he finally reaches your neck. Clark towers over your frame. It's not hard considering how big the man is. His finger taps the underside of your chin and your head moves on its own, revealing your bare neck to him. “m'pretty girl. Can't believe I get to call the most gorgeous woman my wife.” He whispers and places a kiss on your neck.

You instantly melt under his touch. Your weak spot was your neck. Clark knew this and took every chance to take advantage of it. He holds your head still, pressing long and deep kisses along the skin where your neck and shoulders meet. “I love you. y'know that right? I can't stop myself from lovin’ you. You managed to carry an entire human being in ya’ for nine months.” Clark murmurs against your skin.

You fully relax under his touch. Taking in the feel of his lips brushing along your skin. Your hands slowly wraps itself around his neck and brings him closer to you. “You want more, baby?” Clark asks. All he needs to do is to look at your face to get an answer. The pout and pleading eyes. “Don't worry, you'll get all the kisses you'll ever want.” At this point, Clark has already memorized all the sensitive spots in your neck. The map he needs is already ingrained in his head.

You squirm when his lips graze along the ticklish spot on your neck. “H-Hey! Watch it mister." You playfully warn, hands pressing back on his shoulders. There’s this glint behind Clark's eyes. One that says thats he’s in the more teasing mood. “Oh, are you ticklish there? Let me test my theory.” You don’t have the chance to stop him before he starts attacking your neck with endless kisses.

A soft squeal slips past your lips. You can’t even escape because of his hands pinning your body down on the bed.

The sound of your giggles is like music to Clark’s ears. He can’t remember the last time he’s heard that sort of airy laugh from you. Taking care of a half human half kryptonian doesn’t leave much time to relax like this. He sucks in all those sounds of yours like a sponge

“C-Clark! Stop it!” You snort, lightly smacking him with a pillow. It doesn’t have any effect on him of course but it’s the effort that counts. He lifts his head from your neck just to catch a glimpse of that elated expression on your face. “Now there’s that pretty smile that i’ve been lookin’ for. Absolutely gorgeous.” Clark grins.

Clark’s ticklish kisses leave your lungs out of breath and face bright red. The fact that he’s whispering sweet nothings in your ears doesn’t help the redness in your cheeks. It almost seems endless. “Love you.” kiss.  “My perfect–” kiss. “beautiful–” kiss. “strong wife.” He’s breathless by the time he pulls back. Clark looks like he’s drunk off your love. “How did I get so lucky with you?”

“I feel like I should be the one asking you that.”

Clark lazily shakes his head. “Nope, I should. You’re perfect. Every single inch of you. I don’t care what anyone else says, you are the most perfect woman I have ever known.”

“Now you’re just lying.”

Clark rolls his eyes at you and plants another kiss, this time on your lips. “When have I ever been known to lie to my precious wife?”

“Mmh, I have a few. Like the time you said you didn’t watch Criminal Minds without me.” Clark's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. He was definitely guilty of watching a few episodes without you.

“I wanted to know what happened to Emily!”

“So did I!”

Clark groans and flops onto his side of the bed. His entire body easily takes up half of the bed. His arms wrap comfortably around yours. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. Judging by how sluggish his movements were, you aren’t the only ones who’s dead tired right now. It’s already pretty late. Neither of you have to start going to work yet but dealing with a half kryptonian baby requires at least a weeks worth of sleep. Unfortunately you can’t afford such a luxury.

Clark shifts on the bed, he easily navigates your body to lay perfectly tucked against his. Your head is tucked right under his chin. Arms loosely wrapped around your waist. He has one hand slipped under the back of your camisole, loosely tracing random shapes on your back in a comforting motion. “We still haven’t finished season seven…” Clark sleepily mumbles.

“Mmh, we’ll finish it next time.” You yawn, burying your body closer to his. You don’t need the duvet when you have a literal human furnace right next to you keeping you warm through the night. “Promise?”

You can’t help but snort a little. “Yeah, promise.” You let yourself finally relax after the relentless hours of running around the house trying to make it look semi decent. The smell of his cologne fills your senses. It’s hard not to fall asleep from that. The strings of exhausting tugs at your bones, pulling you deeper into the depths of the void.

Clark leaves one last lingering kiss on the crown of your head. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Rest that pretty head of yours.” It’s the last thing you hear him say before black spots form in your vision. The sleepiness winning you over before you even knew it.

taglist: @karolamurdock@mollymal@yesshewrites1

[euphoriaishername]

Who Said Best Friends Don't Break Up?

Part 7: Some Silences Are Meant To Break

It had been four months.

Four months since the blow-up.

Four months since the dinners stopped including you.

Four months since the laughter had one voice less, and one chair remained quietly unfilled.

You never came to the company. Never to dinners. If someone asked, you gave the same calm answer—"I'm busy." And no one pushed.

The days passed. Unforgiving, uneventful, and completely normal—at least on the surface.

You woke up on time. Went to work. Answered texts from the others. Laughed when someone tried too hard to make you smile. Ate your meals.

Replied “I’m fine” more times than you could count.

But when Dino’s name came up—directly or not—you changed the subject. Your voice lost all emotion. Even Jeonghan stopped trying after a point. Joshua watched you quietly, a knowing ache in his chest, but didn’t push either.

You had buried the name “Chan Oppa” so deep within you, it almost didn’t sting anymore.

Almost.

They knew you needed space more than anything.

You moved on with your life. Your job. Your routines. You smiled, you laughed again—but not all the way. You lived like you’d sealed a door behind you that no one dared knock on.

And Dino?

He continued. He danced. He laughed. He bantered with the members like nothing had shifted.

But something had.

He didn’t show it at first—not even to himself. But slowly, silently, the guilt grew roots under his skin. Every time your name slipped into conversation—however briefly—it lingered too long in his head. He told himself it was fine. That he made his choice. That you were the one who turned your back.

Then came the restlessness. The silence that followed his late-night fights with Yeri. The way her voice sounded more like a demand and less like warmth. The manipulation—subtle, sugar-coated—seeped in deeper each time she twisted things into being your fault.

“She’s always in the way of us.”

“Do you still miss her?”

“Why do you look guilty every time I ask about her?”

And he didn’t know how to answer, because he didn’t miss you in the way Yeri feared. He missed the friend. The late-night talks. The comfort. The familiarity. The you that grounded him.

Bit by bit, it frayed.

Bit by bit, her claws showed.

And bit by bit, Dino began to see it all.

Until one night—it snapped.

The breakup was ugly. She screamed, cried, swore it was you who ruined everything. That you brainwashed him. That she was the one trying to fix what he was too blind to hold onto.

But he wasn’t blind anymore.

Her performance didn’t move him.

He walked out, and this time, he didn’t look back.

But the aftermath lingered. She called. Texted. Tried to guilt him. Threatened to show up at the company. Every trick in the book.

And Dino?

He stayed quiet. Endured it all. Let the storm pass.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not at first. Not when the breakup was fresh. Not when his energy started dipping, or when his answers became shorter, quieter.

Until the fatigue was too much to hide.

It was Hoshi who noticed first—catching Dino staring blankly at his water bottle during break.

“Chan,” he said, nudging gently, “are you okay?”

Dino looked up. Blinked. Lied—“Yeah.”

But that lie crumbled fast when Seungcheol joined in. “You’re not eating right. You’re not sleeping either. Talk.”

The dam cracked. And with a long, exhausted breath, Dino let it out.

“We broke up,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Me and Yeri.”

That silenced the room. Even Woozi stopped fiddling with his phone.

“I should’ve seen it earlier,” Dino added bitterly. “She was… twisted. Manipulative. I didn’t see it until too late.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Seokmin—softly—asked, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Dino shrugged. “I thought I deserved it. I thought it was karma.”

And somewhere in the middle of the quiet that followed, every one of them knew:

He didn’t just lose a girlfriend.

He lost you.

And that loss was the one thing he had no idea how to undo.

It had been a quiet evening—comfortable, even.

Joshua had come over with Seokmin and Soonyoung, the way they usually did when they didn’t want you to be alone on your day off. They barged in without warning, armed with bubble tea, snacks, and that easy, familiar energy that always managed to ease your chest just a little.

You didn’t question it. You didn’t need to. It had become routine.

You were all gathered in the living room. A half-watched variety show was playing in the background, though no one was paying attention to it anymore. Soonyoung was curled up on the floor, teasing Seokmin about his fashion sense. Joshua had his spot beside you on the couch, casually sipping his drink, and you'd leaned just slightly toward him—not close enough to cling, just enough to say you were there.

The light banter continued for a while, until something shifted.

Joshua exchanged a glance with Seokmin. A small, knowing look that you caught.

And then he said it, "Chan broke up with Yeri."

The words were soft. No buildup. No sugarcoating. Just placed on the table like a card no one wanted to play.

The room stilled for a moment—Soonyoung stopped mid-laugh. Seokmin didn’t even look up.

Joshua looked at you, his tone careful, gentle. “It was recent. He didn’t tell anyone at first.”

Silence settled.

Your voice cut through the silence, "Why?"

Joshua’s gaze didn’t waver. He expected the question. Maybe even braced for it.

Joshua leaned forward slightly, voice steady but soft. “He didn’t tell us why at first. Just said it was over. Then later said he realised she was in the wrong. But… he’s been different lately. Distant, quieter.”

Seokmin glanced at you. “We weren’t gonna say anything unless you asked. But… you deserve to know.”

Joshua’s thumb rubbed your wrist gently, grounding. “It ended badly, Aera. She didn’t take it well.”

You asked confused, "What do you mean by she didn't take it well? What did she do?"

Joshua said, his voice calm but edged with something restrained, “Even after the breakup… she didn’t stop.”

Soonyoung frowned. “She’s been texting him constantly. Calling from different numbers when he blocked her.”

Seokmin ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “She even came to the company once. Waited outside just to talk to him.”

Joshua’s jaw tightened. “She cried in front of the building. Said she couldn’t live without him. That he was ruining her life by leaving. She’s clinging to him, Aera. Desperate. Obsessive. Saying she’ll ‘change,’ but only if he promises to cut you out completely—again. Telling him it’s you or her. Still.”

“She showed up at his apartment one night,” Soonyoung added, voice lower now. “Didn’t even text first. Just stood outside for hours. Said she’d wait till he came back to her.”

Joshua exhaled sharply. “But this time, he didn’t budge. He didn’t give in. She wants him to hurt you. Emotionally. So she could watch.”

“Where’s he?” you demanded, voice sharp, unyielding.

At your sharp words, Joshua’s eyes followed you as you stood up, the anger flaring beneath your calm exterior all too familiar now.

Seokmin shifted uncomfortably. Soonyoung looked down at his hands, avoiding your gaze. None of them answered immediately—and that silence said more than anything.

Joshua stood too, steady but quiet, trying to gauge how far you'd go this time.

“He didn’t tell us,” he said after a beat, voice low. “He left early today. Didn’t say where. Seungcheol tried asking. He didn’t answer.”

Soonyoung sighed. “He’s keeping to himself. Has been for days.”

Seokmin glanced at you, hesitant. “He doesn’t want to talk. Not to any of us.”

Joshua’s gaze didn’t leave yours. “And if you find him right now, Aera… what are you going to say?”

“Nothing. Just knock some sense into him,” you muttered, arms crossed, tone laced in dry sarcasm again. “And perhaps an offer that I’m available anytime to curse that woman for him.”

Joshua gave you a flat look, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back both a sigh and a smile.

Seokmin blinked, slowly turning to Joshua. “She’s… joking. Right?”

Soonyoung raised both brows. “You never really know with her.”

Joshua exhaled, letting his hands fall to his sides as he shook his head lightly. “You say that like you didn’t cry yourself into silence over him months ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Joshua stepped closer, more serious now. “We’ll knock some sense into him, if that’s what he needs. But Aera… you sure you’re the one who wants to be the first to talk to him?”

His voice was calm, knowing. Not pressuring, not accusing. Just honest.

"You’re not over it. He’s not over it. And maybe that’s the only thing that still makes sense between you two."

You looked at him in the eye, replying with a dry tone, "Nothing's been making sense since a long time. Why do you think I'm standing right now?"

Joshua gave you a look—long, quiet, unreadable for a moment. Then his lips parted, just slightly, like your words had hit a mark he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit out loud.

“…Because you're not done with him either,” he said softly.

The air shifted. Seokmin and Soonyoung, both leaning against the kitchen counter, went quiet. Joshua took a step closer, voice gentle but direct now.

“You act like you’re fine. Like you’ve moved on. But the second you heard he was hurting, really hurting… you stood.”

He searched your eyes—calm, steady.

“You’re angry. You're stubborn. But not heartless.”

There was a pause. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

“You’re still his best friend,” Joshua said finally, with quiet certainty. “And even after everything, you still want to be there for him, even if it’s just to knock some sense into him.”

Seokmin exhaled, nodding to himself.

“Then let’s go find him.”

You grabbed your car keys with a sharp motion, already heading toward the door. “He’s lucky I’m showing up out of concern and not vengeance.”

“Remind me again—same difference, right?” Joshua called after you, grabbing his own things and following close behind.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

The fire in your step said it all.

This wasn’t over.

And Lee Chan was about to find out exactly what it meant to be cared for by Kim Aera—even if it started with a verbal storm.

Joshua’s gaze flicked toward the speedometer for a second.

“You’re holding the wheel a little tight,” he murmured. Not judgmental—just an observation.

From the back, Soonyoung leaned forward slightly between the front seats. “You only drive this smooth when you’re trying really hard not to explode.”

Seokmin whistled under his breath. “That’s not even the scary part. The scary part is… she’s following every rule. Like, textbook driving. That’s not our Aera.”

Joshua glanced sideways again, voice low but clear, “Trying to keep it all in your hands doesn’t mean you have to strangle the wheel, love.”

The indicator ticked gently as you signaled a turn, perfectly timed, perfectly paced.

Joshua rested his hand lightly on the center console—not touching you, just near. “If you need to stop for air before you see him, say it. Doesn’t matter how far we’ve driven.”

Seokmin leaned his head back with a quiet mutter, “At this point, I’m more afraid of how calm she is than if she actually yelled.”

Soonyoung quietly added, “Yeah. Because this silence… it’s the kind before the sky breaks.”

You spoke, looking at the road ahead, "Do you want me to speed? I can do that much better."

Joshua’s head turned sharply toward you, “Aera,” he said, his voice low but firm. “That’s not funny.”

Seokmin immediately sat up straighter in the backseat. “No, nope, we’re not doing that today—keep it smooth, soft baby steps, okay?”

Soonyoung let out a nervous laugh. “You speed and I’m walking home, I swear—don’t test me.”

Joshua didn’t take his eyes off you. His voice wasn’t scolding, but it had weight. “You’re not proving anything by pressing that pedal. You’re already doing better. Don’t mess that up for the sake of some heat in your chest.”

A brief silence followed.

Then Joshua added, a little softer, “I know how easy it is to hide behind control. But speeding won’t calm you. It’ll only make us more worried.”

You replied unbothered, "The reason why I give my keys to you or someone else before I repeat that episode again."

Joshua’s head tilted a little, that familiar unimpressed older-boyfriend expression settling on his face as he folded his arms in the passenger seat.“Great,” he muttered dryly, “so you do have a built-in rage-o-meter, and it’s your own hands on the wheel half the time.”

From the backseat, Seokmin poked his head forward between the seats. “She’s like one of those AI cars that shuts down when it overheats—except her version is throwing the keys at Joshua-hyung like ‘emergency protocol activated.’”

Joshua didn’t even crack a smile at Seokmin’s joke. He leaned a little closer to you, voice low but firm, “That’s not funny, Aera. It’s smart you give the keys away—yeah. But it shouldn’t even get that far. You shouldn’t have to regulate yourself like that every single time.”

Soonyoung, quiet all this time, sighed as he rested his chin on the front seat.

“Next time just call us before you lose your mind, not after. Or I’m setting your GPS to our place automatically. You can’t even fight me on that.”

“Honestly,” Seokmin added. “We’ll wire your car to only start when we approve the trip.”

Joshua, finally easing a bit, just gave your arm a soft pat.

“You joke about it. But we’re not. And you know we’ll always take your keys—even when you don’t say a word.”

You muttered bitterly, "I won't be trying for a long time. The last time overspending fines took my complete bonus. I don't earn to spend on fines."

Seokmin let out a loud laugh from the backseat. “Exactly! That’s what I’m saying. One more overspeed fine and they’ll start calling you Miss Formula One.”

Joshua didn’t laugh. He just shook his head slowly, but there was a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to smile.

“You’re not rich enough to keep doing that, and I’m not patient enough to keep watching you spiral like that either.”

Soonyoung added, leaning forward, “Your bonus disappeared overnight, and we nearly lost our minds with you. Next time, you pay your fine, and we charge you extra in hugs.”

Seokmin grinned. “No refunds on those. They come with scolding, a lecture, and at least three people storming your apartment.”

Joshua looked over at you again—eyes softer now, but steady.

“I’m glad you’re joking again. But… just slow down, Ari. We don’t need you driving your emotions like your car. We already lost you once to that.”

Then gently, “We’re not losing you again.”

Your eyes lit up with quiet recognition as you leaned forward slightly, squinting into the night.

“Naa, I'm still here and perfectly fine,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone, a small, tired grin tugging at your lips.

The distant lights of the Han River glimmering softly like stars spilled across the earth. The hum of the engine was the only sound between you and the others as you drove along the familiar stretch.

Then, with a firm point toward a dimly lit bench tucked under a cluster of trees by the riverside, you spoke again—calmer, but certain.

“Aha. That’s the place.”

Your voice lowered slightly, softer. “He’s probably here.”

Joshua followed your gaze out the window, then looked back at you, his voice gentle but grounded.

“Alright. Park carefully.”

You exhaled slowly and looked at him blankly, "Dont you think you gave too little faith in my driving? I'm still a good driver. One rash episode doesn't make me bad."

Joshua gave a small huff of laughter, the kind that slipped out when he wasn’t trying to argue but couldn’t let you off the hook either.

He tilted his head, watching you with that familiar fond-but-deadpan look.

“A good driver, huh?” he echoed. “Sure. Until emotions get involved. Then it’s Fast & Furious: Kim Aera Edition.”

From the backseat, Seokmin muttered with a grin, “I still have trauma from that U-turn last year.”

Seungkwan added under his breath, “I prayed that day.”

Joshua gently placed a hand on your wrist before you could shoot a sarcastic comeback, his touch grounding.

“We know you're good, Ari. Just… park slow tonight, yeah?”

His eyes lingered on yours a moment longer, soft but steady.

“Let’s not make him the second person we come here to check on.”

You grumbled looking away and starting to park the car, "Whatever."

[mimiyanna]

I love my wife so much~!

[slutzforbueckers]

WHATEVER SHE NEEDS

♡— pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

♡— warnings: smut

♡— synopsis: paige wakes you up in the middle of the night just to fuck.

♡— a/n: okay so this was a request, i couldn't find it in my inbox but i remember getting it 😭

you’re barely awake, barely conscious of the way her lips were dragging up the side of your neck. letting out a soft groan, you started to stir which only made her hold you tighter and whimper:

“baby?” 

she pressed her hips into your ass again, teeth grazing your skin in the way that always made you moan. you stirred again, coming around enough to open your eyes and look over your shoulder at her. “what’s wrong?” 

“i need you, need you to touch me.” she said softly, hips still grinding against your backside. you let out a soft chuckle because of course, leave it to paige to wake you up because she was horny. you shifted in her arms so that you were facing her. despite the fact that it was almost pitch black in the room and your eyes were still blurry from sleep, you could see the desperation and need written all over her face. 

you didn’t ask what time it was, you didn’t really care. all you cared about was the fact your girl needed you and who would you be if you didn’t give into her? definitely not yourself. you hand snaked over her hip and gave her a gentle squeeze, leaning in closer until your nose brushed hers. “show me where you need me, baby.”

paige didn’t say anything as she wrapped her hand around your wrist and guided your hand between her thighs. you pressed your fingers against her clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make her breath hitch. any other time you would’ve teased her longer but you could imagine how long she was awake before she finally woke you up, how long she’d been waiting. 

she lifted her leg and draped it over your hip as your fingers trailed down and pushed her panties to the side. you could tell how wet she was by how wet her panties were and when you finally slid your finger through her slit and felt how wet she really was, you let out a quiet hum. as your fingers circled her clit, you tilted your head and finally kissed her—swallowing her small whines. 

you slid your fingers down and eased your fingers into her cunt. she was so wet that the sheet barely muffled the sound of your fingers fucking into her. there was still enough friction to make her moan and drop her head on your shoulder, her arms wrapping around you again. 

“fuck, baby—” she moaned, hips rocking forward as you pressed your fingers deeper. you hummed against her head, loving how needy she was for you, how easy it was to turn her into a whining mess. 

“you’re so wet f’me, drippin’ all over my fingers.” you teased her, and maybe some other time she would’ve told you to shut up or something but she was too turned on to care now. all she cared about was getting that orgasm she so desperately wanted. 

you shifted the angle of your hand so you could press your thumb to her clit, adding on to her building pleasure. paige let out a louder moan—something close to a sob—as she jerked in your arms. “ohmygod—needed this so bad, needed you.” 

“yeah?” you breathed out, as if you couldn’t tell she was telling the truth. you twisted your arm a little and with that your fingers shifted, brushing against her spot perfectly. 

“right there—don’t move.” she cried out as her thighs started to tense. you groaned at the way her pussy started to throb around your fingers, signaling she was getting close. your free hand found it’s way to the back of her head and you let your fingers grasp onto the blonde strands, tugging her head back until you could see her face again. 

“that feel good, baby?” you asked, brushing your lips over hers. paige nodded quickly, her brows drawing together and her lips parting. her stomach tightened with every slow drag of your fingers, chest heaving with every circle pressed to her swollen clit. she never stopped grinding down into your hand, chasing your fingers as much as she could. 

you could tell she was close—right there at her breaking point—by the way her eyes were rolling back, how her hand had closed around your arm tightly, how her walls felt tightening around your fingers. you knew her body like the back of your hand—so good you could probably get her off in your sleep. 

“i’m cumming—shit, yesyesyes.” paige choked out, body stilling in your arms as her orgasm hit her like a freight train. your fingers didn’t stop moving inside her, you were making sure you pulled every last bit of that orgasm out of her. your own breathing was heavy and shaky as if you were the one being pleased, and maybe in a way you were.

“fuck, paige. cum for me, baby, just like that.” 

paige let out a guttural moan as you started to push her towards the line of overstimulation. you didn’t push her too far and started to slow your fingers to a stop, pulling them out carefully. she let out a soft whimper and opened her eyes as she felt your hand coming up from the sheets. 

your eyes met hers as you placed your fingers in your mouth. you made a show of moaning around them and letting your eyes roll back. paige felt her stomach flutter again—even though she just came, she was ready to go again. “you’re gonna kill me,” she whispered. 

you let out a soft chuckle and brought your hand up to her cheek, those same wet fingers that were in your mouth now brushing against her skin but she didn’t really care. you ran your thumb over her bottom lip before leaning in and speaking against her lips, “not before i ride you.” 

she let out a soft groan and you didn’t give her a chance to say anything else before you were kissing her, tongue immediately sliding between her lips. paige let out a hum at the taste of herself on your tongue. 

in the midst of kissing you, paige slid her leg back and ran her hands down between your bodies. her fingers grasped at your panties and she tugged them down the best she could, you helped her the rest of the way. 

the sheet had been kicked off of your bodies, revealing your skin to the cool air in the room but both of you were too hot to really register the cold. you started to press her back into the mattress, rolling with her body and settling between her legs. paige broke away from your lips as she felt your wet cunt on her thigh. “you always get so wet for me.”

“only for you.” you whispered back. your hands were sliding up her shirt and hers were sliding up your thighs. she gripped your hips and tugged you forward until your pussy was right on hers. paige let out a moan as you lined your clits up, hers still being sensitive from her previous orgasm. 

after you were satisfied with your position, you carefully rocked forward—hissing at the way your clits slipped together perfectly. she ran her hands over your ass and started to guide your hips down, mewling from how sensitive she still was. 

even though you were just as turned on as she was, she was much louder than you were. you leaned down and pressed your lips to hers again as you found a slow rhythm, muffling the sound of her moans the best you could. the drag of her slick folds against yours had you moaning low in her mouth and her hips rutting up to apply more pressure. 

the sound of your bodies meeting was loud and obscene, bouncing off the walls like a mocking echo. you broke away from the kiss and just rested your forehead against hers, eyes fluttering shut with a quiet moan. “you feel so fucking good.”

paige nodded her head quickly—at what? she didn’t even know but it felt like the right thing to do. her hands were gripping your ass hard as she pulled you against her, her body arching off the bed a little as she felt herself starting to get overwhelmed by the pleasure. you trailed your lips down her chin and neck, breathing heavy through your own moans. 

“want you to cum on me—pleasy, baby, need you—.” she babbled, saying anything that came to mind as she got lost in the feeling of her orgasm creeping up her spine. you let out a soft huff through your noise, chest heaving as your hips unknowingly rocked harder and faster. hearing her beg sent a jolt through your core, pussy gushing as you closed your mouth around her peaked nipple.

paige let out a strangled noise of surprise when she felt you start to suck, thighs shaking around yours. her body soon realized that’s all she needed for her orgasm to pull her under—her back arched with a very loud moan. “m’cumming, oh my—”

her hips bucked wildly, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent moan as her entire body trembled beneath you. all you could do was moan against her as you chased your own high. paige’s body felt like jello now, she couldn’t move a muscle—all she could do was lay there and moan as you used her to get off. 

it wasn’t long before your orgasm started to approach. your hips stuttered and lost rhythm, jerking wildly against her. “fuck, fuck—m’gonna—” you choked, eyes fluttering shut as your stomach clenched hard. “gonna cum, paige—gonna cum all over you.”

she brought her hand down on your ass hard, causing your body to jerk on top of her. your hips jerked one last time before you fully collapsed on her chest, both of you sweaty and slick, panting hard. her arms wrapped around you and held you close to her body. 

the both of you laid there for a moment to catch your breath and you could feel her heartbeat start to fall into a steady beat, yours syncing with hers. you let out a soft, breathless laugh, that was more a huff than anything, and lifted your head enough to give her lips a soft kiss. “thank you,” 

“for what?” paige asked, eyes blinking open to look at you. 

“for waking me up, duh.” you laughed as you rolled off of her and laid on your back. paige moved with you, tossing her leg back over your body like before and laying her head on your chest. “what time is it?” 

paige shrugged and lifted herself up enough to reach across your body and tap one of the phones on the nightstand. when the phone lit up and showed her the time she winced and looked back at you with a sheepish look. “it’s 3:25.” 

“3:25?!” you looked at her shocked, not expecting it to be that late. you looked over at the phone to make sure she was reading the numbers right and sure enough, she was. you let out a soft groan and let your head loll to the side. “i have to be up in an hour, i’m gonna kill you.” 

she gave you a sheepish smile and leaned over your body, pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. “well, you did say not before you rode me. i die a happy woman.”

[m4rv3l-girl]

Slowly…

Bucky and Y/N have been dating for a while, but have yet to explore anything more intimate than making out like teenagers. Maybe things will change when Bucky finally faces his fears.

Warnings: smut. Oral f!recieving. Protected p in v sex. Slight fear of intimacy. Touch starved Bucky?

The hum of the Stark Tower HVAC system was basically white noise.

Bucky Barnes sat sprawled across the couch, one arm looped loosely around Y/N’s shoulders, the other cradling a steaming mug of chamomile tea. Both of them contently sleepy. The windows stretched tall across the living room wall, casting gold-tinged light from the setting sun over the exposed brick and sleek furniture, remnants of Tony’s compulsive over-design.

Y/N, nestled into Bucky’s side with a blanket tugged over both of their legs, sighed softly. Her head was tucked perfectly beneath his chin, like it belonged there. Bucky liked that. He liked that a lot more than he’d ever admit aloud. Especially since Sam would absolutely never let him live it down if he caught wind of Bucky Barnes being the little spoon. Again.

“You know,” Y/N said, voice low and thoughtful, “you’re actually not as terrifying as everyone makes you out to be.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, lifting his mug in mock salute. “Thanks, doll. I’ll make sure to update my LinkedIn.”

She laughed against his chest, the sound vibrating into his sternum and tugging a rare, genuine smile from him. “No, seriously. You’re... sweet. You hold the door open. You bring me coffee just the way I like it. You’re weirdly obsessed with The Great British Bake Off.”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“Oh, come on. You cried when Rahul won.”

He groaned, tilting his head back against the couch and covering his face with the vibranium hand. “I didn’t cry. I just - had feelings. That’s normal. Rahul is a very talented man.”

“You’re soft.”

“I’m six feet tall and made of war crimes.”

She snorted. “You’re my soft war crime.”

“Jesus Christ.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. The kind that only came after months of slow trust-building, of soft confessions over late-night tea, of tentative hand-holding and the quiet awe in Bucky’s eyes when she didn’t flinch away from the cold press of metal fingers. It wasn’t perfect, Bucky still had nights where he woke up gasping, sweat-soaked and angry at ghosts only he could see, but Y/N never left. Never treated him like he was broken or dangerous. Just… human.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed being seen as human until she came along.

“You ever think about…” Y/N began, then paused, fingers tracing idle shapes along his thigh. “Us. Like, going further?”

Bucky blinked, the words taking a second to register through the sleepy haze.

“Further?”

She tilted her head to glance up at him, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Like… more than just kissing on your couch and pretending we don’t both want more.”

Oh.

Bucky’s breath hitched, but not from discomfort. Not exactly. More like the entire world had suddenly gone still and very, very focused.

He’d thought about it. Of course he had. He was a hundred and six years old, not dead.

But there was always a wall. Not one she had built. Y/N had never rushed him, but one he’d carried with him since Hydra carved up his mind like Thanksgiving turkey. Intimacy meant vulnerability. And vulnerability had always gotten him hurt or used.

“I do think about it,” he said finally, voice soft. “All the time, actually.”

Y/N shifted slightly, giving him room to see her expression. She looked open. Patient. Like she wasn’t expecting anything except honesty. That helped. That grounded him.

“But I also think about messing it up,” he admitted. “I think about what if I freeze up? Or what if I have some flashback in the middle of it and ruin everything?”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything,” she said immediately. “You could never ruin this.”

He wanted to believe her. Hell, part of him already did. But old instincts didn’t die easily. He reached for her hand with his metal one, letting their fingers twine together. That felt real. Solid.

“I guess I just need to know you’re okay with taking it slow. That you don’t feel like you’re waiting for me to turn into someone else.”

Y/N’s smile was soft and fierce all at once. “Bucky, I didn’t fall for the Winter Soldier. I fell for the guy who leaves sticky notes on the fridge reminding me to drink water. Who calls Sam ‘bird brain’ like it’s a love language. Who watched all three Lord of the Rings movies with me even though he thought Frodo should’ve just used the eagles.”

“Don’t tell me I was wrong.”

She laughed, then leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m okay with slow. I’m okay with whatever pace you want. I’m here because I want you.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, tension he hadn’t realized he was holding bleeding from his shoulders. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then yeah. Maybe we take that step. Sometime soon.”

A beat.

The quiet stretched out like a warm blanket, thick with anticipation. Bucky’s thumb traced the line of her knuckles, and the room felt too hot and too cold at the same time. He knew he could say no. He knew she’d understand. But the way she said it - so gentle, so earnest - he couldn’t find the words to refuse.

“Soon,” she murmured, reading the hesitation in his eyes. “Whenever you’re ready. I just - I want you to know that I’m here. That I want to be there for you, every step of the way.”

Bucky nodded, his throat tight with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel in so long. It was strange, this feeling of safety, of belonging. It didn’t sit easily with him, but it was growing more familiar with every beat of her heart against his side. He swallowed hard, trying to find the right words.

“You make it easier, doll,” he said finally. “You make a lot of things easier.”

Y/N leaned into him, her arm curling around his waist. Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and mint toothpaste. The scent was comforting, like home.

“I’ll always be here for you, you know that,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. “For all the hard parts. And the easy ones too. For the baking shows and the bad jokes and the quiet nights just like this one. I’m all in, Bucky. Whatever it takes to help you feel whole again.”

The weight of her words settled into his chest, nestling in alongside his beating heart. It was a heavy burden, but somehow, with her, it felt lighter.

They watched the light change outside the window, the sky deepening into shades of purple and pink. The sounds of the city grew distant, swallowed up by their shared warmth. Bucky’s arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, and she curled into him, her hand coming to rest over his heart.

It was a promise. A silent vow.

He took a sip of his now lukewarm tea and sighed, the warmth of her against him a stark contrast to the cold metal of his arm. It was moments like these that made him feel alive, made him realize that maybe, just maybe, he could have a life beyond the shadows of his past.

“What’s the first thing you’d wanna do?” he asked, turning to look at her. Her eyes searched his, looking for any signs of doubt or fear. But all she’d find was the truth. The reality was that, at present, their sex life was non-existent.

Y/N thought for a moment, her expression softening into a smile. “I don’t mind….what would you want to do..?” She didn’t want to commit to something that he wasn’t comfortable with.

Bucky considered this.

"I just want to be with you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "I want to hold you, and kiss you, and just… explore. Nothing crazy, just… us. Getting to know each other that way."

Her smile grew, lighting up the room even as the shadows grew longer. "That sounds perfect," she whispered.

The air was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with desire. He could feel the pulse of her heart beneath her palm, and he knew she felt his too, a steady rhythm that grew stronger with every breath they took together.

They sat for a while longer, just watching the day turn to night. Bucky's mind raced with the possibilities of what this could mean for them, but he forced himself to stay present, to enjoy the simplicity of their entwined fingers and the warmth of her body.

Eventually, Y/N sat up, her hand slipping away from his heart to rest on his cheek. She turned to face him, her eyes searching his, looking for any trace of doubt. But all she found was a man who was ready to take the next step.

“Okay,” she said, her voice steady. “Let’s go slow. We’ll figure it out together. No pressure, just us getting to know each other more intimately. I’m here, Bucky. We’re in this together, remember?”

Bucky nodded, his pulse quickening at the thought of what lay ahead. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to be this open with someone, to let go of the fear that had become second nature. But with her, it felt possible.

They stood up, and he set the mug of tea down on the side table with a gentle clink. Y/N reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. She led him to the bedroom, her movements sure and unhurried.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn just enough to allow the fading light to cast a soft glow over the bed. Bucky felt his heart rate spike as she turned to face him, her gaze never wavering from his own. She stepped closer, her hand sliding up to his chest, then around to his neck.

Her touch was tentative at first, a gentle question. But as Bucky leaned into it, she grew bolder, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing against his lower lip. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath, and she leaned in to capture his mouth in a kiss that was sweet and full of promise.

Her other hand slid down his side, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt. Bucky’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, the heat between them growing with every second. The kiss deepened, and he felt the first stirrings of something he’d almost forgotten - desire, untainted by fear or duty.

When they broke apart, panting slightly, Bucky opened his eyes to find her smiling up at him. She reached for the hem of her shirt, her movements slow and deliberate. He watched as she lifted it over her head, revealing the soft curves of her body.

He took a deep breath, his metal hand hovering over her bare skin for a moment before he let it rest gently on her waist.

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for the answer to the unspoken question. Bucky nodded, his decision made.

They moved in unison, Bucky helping her to remove the rest of her clothing, his movements slow and careful, as if handling something fragile and precious. Each piece of clothing that fell away revealed more of her, and with it, a part of her soul that he hadn't seen before. Her trust in him was palpable, a silent demand that he not break her. And he knew, with a sudden fierceness, that he never would.

Her skin was warm under his touch, and she shivered as he traced the outline of her collarbone with his thumb. He felt his own heart racing, a thunderous beat that echoed in his ears.

They lay down on the bed, the mattress giving slightly under their combined weight.

Her eyes never left his, the same gentle expression on her face that had been there since the moment she’d brought it up. He felt the pressure of her hand, the softness of her skin, and the way her breath hitched as he kissed her again, his metal fingers brushing against the softness of her stomach. It was a strange sensation, this mix of cold and warm, of hard and soft, of past and present.

Bucky’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but he pushed them aside, focusing only on the here and now. He didn’t want to think about the past, didn’t want to ruin this moment with the specter of his former life. This was about them, about what they were choosing to build together.

He leaned over her, pressing tender kisses along her neck and collarbone, feeling the thrum of her pulse beneath his lips. Her skin was like silk, and her scent was intoxicating, a blend of warmth and vanilla that he’d come to associate with home. Her breathy sighs were music to his ears, each one a silent encouragement to explore further.

Her fingers danced over his shoulders, her nails lightly scraping against his skin as she guided him closer, urging him to explore. His heart hammered in his chest, a reminder of the life he had reclaimed, the humanity he had fought to keep.

Their kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if they were both trying to convey the depth of their feelings without words. Bucky’s hand traveled up her side, feeling the curve of her hip, the softness of her skin, the warmth that emanated from her core. He was acutely aware of every touch, every breath, the way she arched into his mouth when he kissed her just right. It was as if he was mapping out a new territory, one that was uncharted and full of wonder.

The room was filled with the sound of their mingled breaths, the rustle of fabric, the quiet sighs that escaped their lips. Y/N’s hand slipped under his shirt, her fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin. He stilled for a moment, waiting, but she didn’t pull away.

Bucky felt something unlock inside of him, a door that had been sealed shut for so long he’d almost forgotten it was there. It was a rush of sensation, of need, that made his head spin and his heart race. He kissed her again, harder this time, his hand sliding down to the small of her back, pressing her closer.

Y/N’s legs parted, inviting him in, and Bucky’s heart stuttered in his chest. He’d never been this intimate with someone who knew all of him, who had seen the darkest corners of his soul and chosen to stay. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He took a moment to breathe, to steady himself. He didn’t want to rush this, didn’t want to scare her away with his intensity. But when he pulled back, her eyes were dark with desire, matching the pulse in his veins. She didn’t look scared. She looked hungry.

They moved together in a dance that was both new and familiar, their bodies speaking a language that didn’t require words. He felt the heat of her skin, the softness of her curves, the way she molded against him as if they’d been made for this. It was a revelation, a reminder that he was more than the sum of his parts.

Bucky’s hand slid up her thigh, his thumb brushing against the lace of her underwear. He felt her shiver and knew that she was just as ready as he was. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. This was it. The moment he’d feared and craved in equal measure. But with her, it didn’t feel scary. It felt right.

Y/N’s hand reached for the hem of his shirt, her eyes never leaving his. He raised his arms, letting her pull it off. The cool air of the room kissed his bare skin, making him shiver. She traced the lines of his abs with her fingertips, her eyes taking in every inch of him with a mix of awe and affection.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, her voice a warm caress against his ear.

Bucky felt a blush creep up his cheeks, a rare and welcome sensation. He’d never been one for compliments, but coming from her, it felt like the most profound truth he’d ever heard. He kissed her again, his hand sliding up to cup her breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm.

They moved together, exploring each other with gentle touches and whispered sighs. Bucky’s mind was a blur of sensation, each new discovery a revelation. The way she tasted, the way she felt, the way she made him feel. It was like coming home after a long, cold war, finding warmth in the most unexpected of places.

He felt her hand on the elastic of his sweatpants, and he stilled for a moment. This was the part that had always been a minefield before. But she didn’t look up at him with fear or hesitation. Just love. So he let her continue, his breath catching in his throat as she touched him, skin to skin.

Y/N’s hand was warm and sure, and Bucky couldn’t help but gasp as she touched him, her thumb rubbing against the sensitive skin just beneath the waistband. The fabric was the last barrier between them, and the anticipation was almost too much to bear.

With a trembling hand, Bucky reached down to help her, his heart racing as he pushed his pants down. The coolness of the air against his skin was a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies, and he watched as she took him in, her eyes wide and filled with a hunger that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t been in decades.

They kissed again, a kiss that was more than just a meeting of lips, it was a declaration of trust, of love, of the shared hope that this could be the start of something beautiful. He felt her hand slide down, her fingertips dancing against his skin, until she reached the bulge in his boxers, and he let out a soft groan that seemed to resonate through the very core of his being.

Her hand was tentative at first, exploring his hardness with gentle strokes. But as Bucky’s grip tightened on the sheets and his breathing grew ragged, she grew bolder. Her touch was a whispered promise of what was to come, a gentle reminder that she was here for him, that he wasn’t alone.

He slid his hand down to cover hers, their fingers intertwining as they found a rhythm that sent shockwaves through his body. The warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin, the way she looked at him - it was almost too much to handle. But he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, craving more.

With a tremble, Bucky reached for the clasp of her bra, his metal digits fumbling slightly. But she was patient, smiling up at him as he finally managed to free her from the garment. Her breasts were perfect in his eyes, the soft mounds fitting perfectly into his palms. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, watching as they pebbled beneath his touch, and she gasped into his mouth. The sensation of skin against skin was electric, sending currents of pleasure through him that he hadn’t felt in what felt like an eternity. He’d been so afraid of this moment, but here it was, and it was nothing like he’d feared. It was gentle, it was kind, it was everything he’d hoped for.

He broke the kiss to kiss his way down her neck, her chest, her stomach. He took his time, savoring each new inch of her that was revealed to him. Y/N’s breath hitched as his mouth reached the apex of her thighs, his tongue tracing a line along her inner thigh before dipping closer to where she was wet and waiting for him. He felt a small twist of doubt and self consciousness, he hadn’t actually done this since the 40s.

Her legs fell open to encourage him, and Bucky took a moment to breathe her in, to appreciate the trust she was giving him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She assured. He kissed her gently, his tongue teasing against her slit, her taste a rich mix of sweetness and desire. Y/N’s body arched off the bed, and she let out a soft moan, her hand sliding into his hair to guide him, to show him just how she liked it.

Bucky took his cues from her, his touch gentle and explorative. He’d never been with someone who knew the extent of his past, who had seen the monster he’d been made into. But here she was, her body open to him, welcoming him in. Her thighs trembled around his head as he worked his way down. His tongue found the spot that made her gasp. She was wet, slick against his mouth and he groaned, his cock pulsing with every soft whimper she made.

He could feel the tension coiling in her, tightening like a spring. Her hips began to move in time with his strokes, her breath coming in short and sharp gasps. He didn’t know how to do this, not really. But he knew he wanted to make her feel good. So he listened to her body, her sounds, her whispers of need. He focused on her reactions, learning what she liked, what made her squirm, what made her moan.

Small, quick flicks of his tongue over her clit seemed to send her reeling.

Y/N’s hands tightened in his hair as he worked her over, her body shaking with the force of her restrained pleasure. He could feel it building, the way she moved against his mouth, her legs tightening around his head, her breaths turning to pants. Her nails scraped against his scalp, a delicious pain that only served to drive him on, to make him want more, to make her feel more.

And then she was coming, her body shuddering with the force of her orgasm, her muscles clenching around his tongue. Bucky felt a surge of pride, of accomplishment, of pure, unadulterated joy.

He pulled back, kissing his way back up her body, feeling her pulse throb against his lips. She was beautiful, so beautiful, laid out before him like this. “Bucky,” she breathed, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with pleasure. He leaned over her, his forehead touching hers. “You’re sure?” he whispered. She nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Bucky reached for the bedside drawer, his hand shaking slightly as he pulled out a condom. He’d had them there for months, hopeful and terrified, but they’d remained untouched. The foil packet crinkled in the quiet room, a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the wake of their shared intimacy. Y/N watched him, her eyes never leaving his face, her trust in him unwavering. He rolled it on, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest, the echoes of fear that had haunted his every intimate moment. But as he positioned himself over her, her legs wrapping around his waist, he knew he could do this. For her, with her, he could overcome his worries.

He pushed inside her, slowly.

The world outside the window had gone dark, but the room was bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Her eyes were wide, watching him with a mix of excitement and concern, and he knew he had to get this right. For her, for them. Her heat enveloped him, and he felt his own walls crumbling, the last of his barriers falling away. He’d never felt this connected to anyone before, not like this. It was as if they were two lost pieces of a puzzle finally finding their place.

Their movements grew more frantic as the passion built, their kisses deep and desperate. Bucky felt the ghosts of his past trying to claw their way back in, but he pushed them away, focusing solely on the woman beneath him. Her nails dug into his back, her legs tightening around him as she matched his rhythm, urging him on.

The sounds of their bodies moving together filled the room, a symphony of sighs and gasps and moans. Each thrust was a declaration of his need for her, each kiss a promise to keep her safe. Bucky’s heart thudded in his chest, a drumline of hope and desire. He’d been so afraid of this moment, but here it was, and it was nothing like the horrors he’d anticipated. It was raw and real and everything he’d ever dreamed of.

Her nails scored down his back as she arched up to meet him, her breaths growing shallower, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. Bucky felt the tension in her body, the way she tightened around him, the soft mewling noises that escaped her throat. He’d never felt so alive, so present in the moment. Each stroke was a promise, a declaration that he was here, with her, and nothing else mattered.

Their bodies moved in harmony, a dance that transcended the chaos of the world outside. His metal hand found hers, their fingers entwining as if to anchor themselves in the present. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his touch, the way she clung to him as if he were her lifeline. And maybe, in a way, he was.

The world narrowed down to just the two of them, the only sounds the slap of skin and the harsh pull of their breathing. Bucky’s eyebrow was furrowed. He watched her face, the way her lip got pulled between her teeth in concentration, the softness of her cheeks flushed with passion.

Her breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed as she neared the precipice again.

Their passion was palpable, a force that transcended the physical, reaching into the depths of their souls.

Her eyes flew open, meeting his, and in that moment, something changed. He saw her, not just the woman he desired, but the person who had seen his darkest moments and chosen to love him regardless. And she saw him, not as the damaged soldier, but as the man who had fought to survive and come back to life.

Their movements grew more deliberate. Bucky’s rhythm slowed, his strokes deepening, as if trying to etch himself into her very being. He felt her inner walls quiver, a sign that she was close, and he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. But he wanted to give her everything she needed, to show her just how much she meant to him.

Y/N’s breath was a pant on his skin, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He leaned in, pressing kisses along her jaw, her neck, the soft skin of her collarbone. They were both hurtling uncontrollably towards the edge…

Her body tensed around him, a silent plea, and Bucky knew he couldn’t hold back anymore. He thrust into her, feeling her nails dig into his back as she cried out his name, her body shattering into a thousand pieces. He watched her come undone, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure that sent him over the edge.

With a guttural groan, he followed her, his orgasm tearing through his muscles, leaving him trembling and spent. He collapsed onto her, his heart hammering against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. The warmth of her body was like a medicine to his soul, a gentle reminder that he was more than just a weapon, that he was loved.

They laid there for a few moments, their hearts beating in sync, the only sound in the room the gentle rustle of the blanket around them. Bucky felt the warmth of her skin, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, and the reality of what they had just shared settled heavily on him. It was a moment that had been months in the making, a moment where fear had been vanquished by love and trust.

He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at her. Her eyes were closed, a soft smile tugging at her lips. He couldn’t help but trace the curve of her cheek with the back of his hand, feeling the heated skin under his fingertips. He’d never felt more alive, more human, than he did in that moment.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with a softness that made his chest ache. “More than okay,” she said, her voice a whisper.

He leaned down to kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her lips. Her hand slid up his chest, her touch featherlight and reverent. It was as if she knew just how much this meant to him, just how much of a milestone it was.

They lay there, tangled in the sheets, their bodies still slick with sweat. Bucky’s mind was racing, but in a good way. He’d done it. He’d faced his fears and come out the other side. And she was still here, her arm wrapped around his waist, her breathing evening out as she snuggled closer to him.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice still rough from their earlier exertions. Y/N opened her eyes and gave him a sleepy smile. “For what?” “For making it okay,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “For making me feel like I can do this. Like I’m not just some… some broken toy that nobody wants to play with anymore.”

Her eyes had a glassy pain in them. “Bucky, you’re so much more than that. You always have been. And I want to play with you.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, the sound low and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

——————————————————————————————————

A small gift 🎁🫶 (We’re ignoring mistakes)

[cameronsbabydoll]

military!rafe having a little ptsd shock in the middle of the night? waking up and breathing heavily, eyes kinda teary and immediately going into protective mode seeing his girl by his side in bed; bringing her closer, almost encasing her body in his strong arms thinking "i'm not gonna let them hurt my girl" even though there's no one there.

and when she wakes up she asks him what's going on and tries to soothe him telling him she's never leaving him but he's just staying in that possessive mindset, holding her close

the first time it happened, it was 3:12 a.m.

you woke up to the sound of something sharp—his breath, quick and staggered. the mattress dipped under the force of his sudden movement. you blinked sleep from your eyes and turned your head—

and rafe was sitting up, completely rigid. chest heaving. palms gripping the edge of the mattress like he was going to fall through it. dog tags sticking to the sweat on his chest. eyes wild.

“rafe?” you whispered.

but he didn’t answer. just looked at the wall like it was breathing. like it might lunge. and then—

you watched the shift happen. it wasn’t big. just the smallest turn of his head. just the barest glance down at you, all curled up in your little sleep shirt and clutching the blanket to your chest.

“baby,” he choked out. “baby. baby.”

his hand was on you in a second, big and trembling and too tight, pulling you into his chest, into his lap, like someone was going to rip you away from him if he didn’t anchor you now.

“you’re okay. i got you. i got you. you’re not hurt. you’re not—”

his voice cracked. his arms were like steel around your waist.

“rafe—what’s wrong, baby?”

you were awake now. really awake. blinking up at him in the dim light. you placed both hands on his cheeks and felt how wet they were.

he didn’t answer. didn’t look at you.

“they’re not gonna touch you,” he muttered, voice thick. “not you. not my girl. i’ll kill anyone who—fuck, i thought—i thought they were gonna—”

you kissed his temple. and his shoulder. and ran your fingers through his damp hair, whispering over and over again.

“i’m not going anywhere. i’m right here. i’m with you, baby. always.”

but rafe couldn’t hear that right now. not really.

he was still shaking. still cradling you to him like you were something fragile. like you’d break if he loosened his grip. and under his breath—

“i don’t care what they do to me. they’re not getting near you. i’d burn this whole place down before i let that happen.”

his voice was lower now. growling. half asleep, half haunted. jaw clenched.

you cupped his cheek.

“i’m safe. because you protect me, rafe. you always do. come back to me now, please.”

he blinked slowly. finally, finally looked you in the eye. and when he saw you—really saw you, bare-faced and soft and alive—he kissed your forehead like he was grateful.

“i’m sorry, angel,” he rasped. “fuck, i didn’t mean to wake you.”

“i don’t care about sleep,” you whispered. “i just care about you.”

his arms didn’t loosen.

“mine,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “you’re mine. not even god’s takin’ you.”

and that night, he didn’t fall back asleep until you did.

his hand never left your spine. his breath was still uneven. but his voice—low and constant—kept saying the same thing, over and over again.

“my girl. my girl. my girl.”

[moonstruckme]

Hello! I’m new to your blog and am in the middle of consuming all of it. I have to say EMT maurauders are my fav so far though! If you haven’t done it yet and if it’s not too much trouble, would you be willing to do something with EMT! Maurauders where reader gets a bad bloody nose in the middle of the night and can’t get it to stop on her own so she’s panicking and feels bad about waking up the boys who of course take care of you and make you go to the ER since it won’t stop?

Thank you ☺️ Keep up the amazing work, your writing is phenomenal, I can’t wait to read more 👏❤️

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

cw: blood, mention of hospital

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 986 words

You give yourself twenty more minutes before you wake James. Sidling up to his side of his bed like a child who’s had a nightmare, one hand pinching your nostrils shut and the other holding ice wrapped in a paper towel to your nose. You feel glad that it’s too dark to see all the red staining it. 

James rouses with a reluctant throaty sound. He mumbles your name and takes your hand where it’s nudging his shoulder, content until the moment he feels the cold paper towel closed in your palm. His eyes peel open. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. It feels paramount that he know waking him wasn’t your first choice. Of your boyfriends, though, James is the most likely to help you without making a fuss. 

“What’s this?” In the dark, the cold hard thing in your hand is a mystery. James cups his hand around yours with a small frown. 

“My nose won’t stop bleeding,” you explain. 

His frown worsens. You feel bad. 

But James has no resentment for your midnight ailment; only sympathy. “Yeah?” He feels blindly for his glasses on the nightstand. “Does it hurt?” 

You slide them to his hand. “No,” you say. 

“It just…just started?” 

You should’ve taken him out of the room before telling him. Already, you can see Remus starting to wake, the covers on his side of the bed shifting. 

“Yeah.” You lower your voice, though you know it’s pointless. “About a half hour ago.” 

James is rubbing underneath his eyes drowsily, but at this, his brows draw together. “It’s been going since then?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe. 

“What’s going on?” Remus asks. His voice croaks a little, but aside from that he sounds more awake than James. 

You wince. “Sorry.” 

“It’s okay, dove. What is it?” 

“Her nose is bleeding,” James says through a great yawn. In between them, Sirius makes a half-asleep whining sound, but doesn’t move. “She says it has been for half an hour.” 

Now Remus is frowning, too. “It woke you up?” 

You hum, feeling your mouth pucker in distaste. “It got in my mouth.”

“Let’s see.” Without warning, James turns the lamp on. Both you and Remus rear back as if stricken, and Sirius’ head retreats beneath the covers seemingly by reflex. “Sorry, sorry,” James says, giving you soft eyes as he reaches for a box of tissues. “C’mere, sweetheart.” 

You take his cue to let go of your nose. As soon as you release it, you know it starts bleeding again by the way James raises his tissues in a hurry. 

“Christ,” he mumbles, moving them just slightly to see the damage. “This much since it started? Has it slowed at all?” 

“I don’t think so,” you say, stuffy. 

“How do you feel?” asks Remus. He’s sitting up now, bedsheets fallen around his waist and one hand resting on the lump that is Sirius. “Are you dizzy? Can you breathe alright?” 

“Through my mouth, yeah.” James is still peering at your nose, and it’s making you shrink. He lets you take the wad of tissues from him. “I’m not dizzy.” 

“Still…” Remus looks at James. 

“Yeah.” James sits up the rest of the way, stretching. He lets out another yawn. “Let’s go.” 

“Go to…” you hesitate, unsure “...hospital?” 

James hums in the affirmative, squeezing your shoulder as he gets out of bed. 

A moan of protest comes from behind him. You look to see Remus rubbing between Sirius’ shoulder blades, searching for his slippers on his side of the bed. 

“Get up.” 

“S’too early to be up,” Sirius whines. 

Remus shushes him, at once chiding and soothing. “We’re bringing y/n to A&E.” 

At this Sirius falls quiet. A moment later, his head picks up, puffy black hair and a furrowed brow. “What for?” 

“My nose won’t stop bleeding,” you say meekly. “Sorry.” 

“Angel,” James laughs, coming up from behind you to pass you some more tissues. He’s already dressed. “Stop being sorry. Did you plan this?” 

“No,” you reply, softly. 

“Right. As I thought.” He grins, planting a kiss on your cheek. 

As usual, James has come awake remarkably quickly once he’s set his mind to it. Remus moves toward the closet a tad less energetically, and Sirius appears to have to claw his way out of bed. 

He does it in your direction. 

“You okay?” Sirius asks, studying you as he drags his legs over the edge of the mattress. “Does your head hurt?” 

“I don’t think so.” His concerned gaze melts you to your core. You think you’d admit to anything if it got you a hug right now. “I’m just tired.” 

Sirius cracks a smile, though his eyes are soft with pity. “Well, yeah, baby.” He stands, smushing a kiss into your hair. “It’s the dead of fucking night. Your nose is a real blight on us all.” 

“Don’t talk about her nose that way.” James gives you the hug you wished for, strong arms wrapped around your middle. His chest is warm against your back. “Don’t listen to him, angel; he’s a prat when he’s tired.” 

“It’s fine.” You lean back into James. “It is a blight on us tonight.” 

“Precisely. You get it,” Sirius says, squinting his eyes at James. “I cherish her nose every other day, I’ll have you know.” 

“Get dressed.” Remus emerges from the closet to give Sirius a gentle shove in that direction. He takes yet more tissues, passing them to you seemingly without noticing the handful you’ve already got from James. “Are you ready to go, dovey? Have everything you need?” 

“What do I need?” you ask, worried. 

“Nothing, sweetheart.” James drops his voice at the first sign of fright from you; Remus does the same, both of your boyfriends softening around the edges. “We’ll take care of it, yeah?” He starts taking tissues from you, shoving them into the pocket of his sweatpants. “We’ll take care of everything.”

[too-deviant]

strategic manoeuvre.

— WITH…ART DONALDSON!

contains...babysitter!reader, age gap, 18+ MDNI, art cheats w reader but it is lowkey implied that tashi planned the whole thing, car sex, semi-public sex, head (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, inspired by this post from @traumatrios

You had never been interested in tennis before Art. 

You weren’t interested in sports at all, really — you just wanted to buckle down and focus on your college work, earn some money with an easy part-time job. You didn’t have time to follow sports, or anything else. 

But then you got a call. You had been in the middle of a lecture when your phone buzzed against your notebook, a California number shining up at you and enticing you to pick up. Normally you would’ve let it go to voicemail, but you had recently gone around some of the fancier hotels in your city with flyers, asking for babysitting jobs and posting your number, so you excused yourself with a wave and took the call in the hallway. 

You didn’t know who Tashi Donaldson was when she introduced herself, but the hotel she’d asked you to come to later that night was fancy enough that you didn’t question it. You had done an extensive google search afterwards, of course, but simply raised an impressed brow at her repertoire. 

Then you met Art, her tennis player husband and the father of the lovely little girl you would be taking care of, and suddenly you were pretty interested in tennis. 

It started when Lily had a bad nightmare and you couldn’t get her down — well, it started when you met the guy, palm sweaty in his own as he introduced himself, but it didn’t really start until you had to put one of his old games on the TV for the girl to watch until she fell asleep at your side, tear tracks from her bad dream dry on her cheeks. 

You had been planning on carrying her back to her bed when she was down for the count, but you had been so fixated on Art’s movements; his determined look, his arms, his legs, that you ended up dropping out too. You woke up a few hours later with a blanket over your body and Art standing quietly at the kitchen island behind the sofa. 

“You looked peaceful. Didn't wanna wake you.” He’d said, sipping at his tea, and you knew you were done for. 

Now all of a sudden you had time to watch a tennis match in the morning, play one as background noise while you studied. You had started following his tennis journey right from the Junior Open in 2006 — you didn’t think you'd ever actually see him again, but you could fantasise about it whenever you remembered the smell of his cologne as he thanked you for taking care of Lily, promising a big tip would go straight into your account in the morning. 

(The money went in fifteen minutes after you’d left).

It came as a pleasant surprise when Tashi’s number popped up on your screen once more, a few months later. You had been in your kitchen, and took the call the moment you recognised the digits. 

“We’re a little ways out of town.” She’d said, “But Lily raved about you for days after last time, and we know you better than a stranger. If you can’t make it out here, don’t worry, but we still wanted to try our luck.”

We she’d said. As in her and Art. 

You cursed yourself for lusting after a married man in the uber to the hotel. 

From then on out, you became their primary babysitter. Since they travelled a lot, and Tashi’s mom was with them most of the time, you only really sat for them once every couple of months. The town you lived in was sunny and had a huge private sports centre for professional athletes — a fact you weren’t aware of until Art told you over a cup of tea — so they always came back. You were glad you could count on them coming back — it was like magic, the way your phone lit up with Tashi’s now saved contact whenever the late night bingeing of matches and interviews stopped fueling your infatuation. 

The guilt was almost enough to make you ignore it, say you were busy or just get a new number all together. But you never did. As much as you knew it was wrong, you always dropped what you were doing and drove to that cushy hotel where the receptionist knew your face and let you in with a smile. You travelled that same memorised route to the master suite, knocked on the door and made sure you were standing far enough away from the peep hole that you didn’t look weird and distorted when Art would look through before letting you in. 

It was always Art now. Tashi had greeted you a few times but lately it had always been him — a sick part of you thought she might’ve known about your crush on him, played with it for fun because she couldn’t play tennis anymore. But that was crazy, and you really needed to sort yourself out. 

You would greet him with a smile, push through the small talk, lean up against the kitchen island and watch his shirt stretch around the planes of his back as he made you coffee (On those unlucky days he would be wearing a shirt. Sometimes he would be just done with warm ups and physio and would answer the door half naked and covered in sweat. Those were the good days). Then Lily would come running at you from her room, hug you around your waist and pull you in to play; Art would laugh and grin at you, sliding the coffee cup in your direction and holding your eyes before heading to his room to get ready. 

You would be knee deep in headless barbies and chewed up polly pocket clothes when he and would return, dressed up and ready to go. He would lean down, kiss Lily on the forehead, and press his hand to your back in a silent goodbye. Then he would leave, and you would spend the whole day trying to pull yourself together. 

He was married. He was ten years older than you. He had a child, and was paying you to look after her. 

But he always made you coffee when you arrived — just how you liked it because he remembered. He always checked in on you, asked you how your life was while you nursed the mug that was warm from the beverage and his hands. He would tell Lily to behave for you because We like her, and we don’t want to scare her off. He would let his land linger on your back half a second longer every single time he left. 

But.

But Tashi was the one who would call you. She was the one who made you coffee the first time, told you it was the least they could do for you. She would walk out of her room with Art, smile at you and tell you how beautiful you look in that shirt. She would grin at you before leaving, waiting patiently by the door for her husband to take his hand off your back. 

You were evil. Truly. The guy was married. 

But as evil as you were, you always made sure there was an old game of his playing on the TV when they would return — because then Art would prompt you to stay and listen to him talk about it. And you would have an excuse to lean up against that island and watch him make tea while Tashi excused herself to bed. Hours would pass before he was checking his watch and hissing out an apology for keeping you so late, and then letting you leave. 

The first couple of times he’d simply make sure you got in your uber safely. Then he started calling cars himself, the same ones that would drive him and his family to and from matches, press events. The same sort of service celebrites used, not their babysitters. You didn’t mind — it was a thrill, listening to him ask the person behind the wheel to make sure you got back safely.

(The bar was under the court at this point, but at least you were aware of that).

But tonight was different. In more ways than one. 

In the beginning, all was the same. You were left sitting on the plush carpet of Lily’s room surrounded by lego pieces, a burning in your gut and guilt in your heart. You played doctor, you made dinner, ordered room service after her relentless begging, put on a movie, carried her sleeping form to bed, came back and watched Art play tennis until he returned. 

You had started to run out of games to watch, ones you hadn’t already seen, so settled for an old game from 2006. He was playing against his old partner, Patrick something, and you wondered where the lesser known second half of Fire and Ice had disappeared to after that night. 

Then Art came back, Tashi right behind him, and you smiled at them both over the back of the sofa. Tashi watched the game, something unfamiliar glinting in her irises, before blinking back at Art, “I’m going to bed.”

He responded a little slower, kissing her goodnight and looking back at you, “Tea? This game was one of my most memorable.”

“Even though you lost?” You teased, leaning against the marble. 

He paused, looking back at you. He blinked, “Yeah.”

You drank your tea. You pretended like you weren’t full of shame for standing that inch closer to him. You let him talk until he had nothing left to talk about, and watched him check his watch. You waited for him to pick up the phone and call the car — only he paused by the phone, hand floating just before it, and retracted his steps to the kitchen, “I’m gonna drive you back, if it’s not too much trouble. Saves waking up my driver.”

“Oh.” Your fingers twitched, and you told them to stop. “Sure, of course.” 

Art’s car wasn’t what you had expected. Thinking back on it, he didn’t seem like the sports car type, but his status and riches led you to assume you were about to get into one of the two seats in his Bugatti — you didn’t. The black jeep was expensive enough for someone like him, but close enough to home that you didn’t feel like an outsider climbing into the passenger seat.  

The drive wasn’t all that far — twenty minutes both ways, so Art would’ve been back before Tashi fell asleep if he hadn't pulled into a parking lot five minutes out. 

Your lips parted, eyes following his hands as they slid slowly off the wheel and into his thighs. His chest rose with a deep breath and his jaw constricted when he swallowed. Then he was looking at you, eyes piercing. 

“Lily likes you.”

You were unsure, feet shifting beneath you, the sound encasing the silence of the space and forcing you to stop and blink, “I’m glad. I like her.” 

“Tashi likes you.” 

You weren’t too positive that she would like you if she could feel how you were feeling now — that all too familiar heartbeat pulsing between your legs with every one of Art’s breaths. 

“I like you.” He finished, tilting his head until his temple rested softly on the headrest of his seat. His smile was almost taunting when he undid his seatbelt, “Which is your favourite?”

“What?”

“The games.” He clarified, knowing his question was too broad and that you would have to ask, “The ones you watch every time you’re over. The ones I assume you watch even when you aren’t sitting for us. My games. Which is your favourite?” 

“Oh. Um —“ Slightly distracted by the way he shed his jacket, dumping it in the backseat. He’d lent all the way forward to take it off and his eyes didn’t leave yours once. “I don’t know.” 

“The one you were watching tonight.” He asked then, “What’d you think of it? Honestly.” 

“Honestly?” You swallowed, mortified that you were even entertaining this, “You looked a little distracted.” 

He huffed a laugh, finally looking away and letting you breathe. It didn’t last long, because he was then getting out of the car and rounding the front of it. 

The breeze was cool when it hit you, Art blocking most of it from where he stood in the gap. His hand was still on the handle, but you were busy unbuckling your own seatbelt — the message had been received, you had crossed a line and he was kicking you out of his car. 

But when you turned, legs swinging carefully into the cold, his hand on your knee stopped you from really getting out. Your eyes snapped up to his, and you realised you had been caged — with one hand on the door and one hand on you, Art Donaldson had you right where you had been dreaming of him having you. It felt surreal. 

“My opponent. In the game from tonight.” He breathed, glancing around casually like you were having one of your simple conversations over tea. “He slept with my wife.”

Out of all the things… 

“What?” Your eyes darted between his, but the rest of your body otherwise remained still. Even when his hand on your knee travelled upwards. 

“He’d slept with her before. In college. We weren’t together then.” He was now watching his hand move, like he wasn’t the one moving it, “But then he slept with her again, in Atlanta. After I’d already married her.”

“Wow.” You breathed, mainly because it was the easiest word you could slide out of your mouth whilst holding your breath. His fingers reached your thigh, begged to dip between them. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was quick to respond. Your legs parted on instinct, and at this point you had surrendered to being an awful person — although maybe you’d fallen asleep on the couch and this was all a dream. You didn’t think you’d be able to face Art if it was. You couldn’t even face him now. 

He took the newfound space for granted, stepping between your legs and holding them open with his body. His hand on the door followed him, taking its new place on your other leg. He rubbed up and down your thighs, but you couldn’t look away from his face. 

“I don’t want you watching him play.” He spoke lowly, tracing his fingertips around your waistband, “I’ve seen enough of his games.”

“Okay.” You didn’t hesitate to let out, swallowing the hungered saliva that had built up in your mouth. 

He unbuttoned your jeans, pulled the zipper down — painstakingly slow, but it allowed you time to brace your hands on the seat and the dashboard so you could raise your hips and let him slide them off you. 

You were stuck in your head, but Art didn’t seem to notice since he was too busy folding your jeans and hanging them over the open car door. You dared question it through a heavy breath but he just moved on to your panties, throwing them precariously on the dashboard and exposing your glittering cunt to his bright eyes. 

“We shouldn’t —“ It was a half-assed attempt at reconciling with your guilt, but the fact that you were half naked and spread eagle made it lose its meaning. 

Art shushed you, kneeling down so he was looking at your pussy, “We can, and we will.” Then he glanced back at you, brow arched, “Unless you don’t want to.”

Any sense of rationale had fucked off when he put his hand on your leg, so you swallowed and said, “I want to.”

He wasted no time, licking a thick stripe from your asshole to your clit. You knocked your head back with a gasped moan, bucking into him and hissing when the gear stick poked you in the back when you led back too far. 

You let out a shaky breath as he lapped you up, tongue dipping inside of you before travelling up to that sweet spot and sucking at it gently. You gasped and moaned, hands scrambling between holding yourself up and holding him down. His own were resting on your thighs — his calm and collected demeanour was a drastic contradiction from your own. 

His head nodded calmly between your legs, relaxed in its position — yours, shaky and tense all at once, neck bracing whenever you fell back. His hands tapped soft melodies on your skin whereas yours tightened around whatever was in their old, whether that be the leather of the seats or the blonde of Art’s hair. 

When he finally came up for air, his chin was coated in your slick, and he licked his lips clean before straightening up above you. You watched, paralysed, while he unbuckled his belt, threw it over the door with your jeans, and sent you a look under his lashes that you’d only seen him wear during his tennis matches. 

You had been keeping quiet earlier, but when he bottomed out inside you and started to piston, your mind went wild. Choruses of Oh my God and Fuck!, shouts of Art’s name and whimpers under your breath — it all came tumbling out and you couldn’t even try and stop it. 

Not that you wanted to; your vocality seemed to make him go faster, harder. It made him vocal, no longer calm and relaxed as he had been when eating you out, but loud and gruff. Grunts and moans you had dreamt about hearing outside of a television screen, now being huffed into the air you shared. 

You came with a whine and Art followed not long after, and you settled there for a moment — legs spread in his passenger seat with him standing between them — until you could muster up the strength to push yourself up. 

Five minutes later and you were both dressed, Art’s black jeep parked outside of your apartment building. You hadn’t exchanged any more words, but when you turned to slam the door once you had jumped out, you found his eyes on yours. 

“I have a game this weekend. Two hours out. Tashi wanted you to come. A gift, for all you’ve done for us.” 

(You went to the game. Art won. Tashi grinned like she’d made it happen and then offered to buy you a drink).

divider by @cafekitsune !!

[karaeilish]

౨ৎ wild mustang; b. eilish

౨ৎ military!billie x wife!reader ౨ৎ angst & fluff & smut ` ౨ৎ warnings; slight daddy kink, strap, oral, breeding kink, manhandling…???

⋆˙⟡ being a military wife is hard, especially when separation forces you to bring another man into your house ౨ৎ wc; 4,5k

one year, three months and two days.

that's how long it's been since you last saw your wife. when you last felt her gentle touch, saw her smile live, felt her skin under your fingertips. exactly one year, three months and two days ago, you woke up in the morning, finding your bed unusually cold and her side empty. too empty, as if she'd been gone for hours.

but that wasn't the main thing when you suddenly hear a quiet mooing in the next room. maternal instincts override curiosity and you slowly stand up, blindly searching for your house slippers with your feet. the cool air envelops your sleepy body and you shiver slightly, wishing you could go back to bed and let the warmth of the comforter warm you up again. but it doesn't matter as soon as you enter the nursery, noticing your five-month-old daughter lying in her crib, fidgeting excitedly.

taking your baby in your arms, you left a gentle kiss on her tiny forehead, and the girl smiled, proudly showing her two baby teeth. holding her against your chest, you finally got rid of the fog of sleep in your eyes, now intent on finding your wife.

the journey down the stairs to the first floor was silent, apart from the adorable yawns your daughter let out as she weakly grasped the strap of your nightie with her fingers.

looking around the house, you feel a strange emptiness in your chest that spreads like poison ivy through your body with each passing moment. as soon as your feet touch the floor, you swallow hard, taking a few more steps to lower your child onto the soft couch in the middle of the spacious living room. biting your lower lip, you glance around the space, which is filled with simple but harmonious furniture, some of which billie made herself. a faint smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

as you continue your wife's 'search' through the small house, you come across the kitchen table where you used to eat, noticing a small piece of paper. wrinkled, already scribbled with a pen; apparently one on which billye had already made notes earlier. your eyes narrow at the increasing paranoid thoughts that immediately fill your mind. you remember that you cleaned up the kitchen last night, and billye wouldn't have left trash on the table. she liked order in her house, where her family lived. you shallow.

as you unfold the note, you notice the small written text. billye's handwriting, only more sprawling, shaky, some of the letters unfinished. she was in a hurry, a great hurry, while writing this. and it didn't bode well, knowing her job and her superiors. knowing her dedication to her duty and her country. it was something no one could ever take away.

your eyes finally focus on the text. but you better damn well never read it, because your heart shatters into a million pieces as soon as you read the first few words.

“i'm sorry, my love. i don't know what happened. i don't know when i'll be back. kiss lily and tell her mommy loves her. i'm so sorry, i love you.”

your eyes ran over the lines dozens, hundreds of times until you finally realized what had happened; she’s not here. but what was scarier? how suddenly and spontaneously she left. had something terrible happened? was she in danger? would

she even be able to come home? the questions swarmed in your head, but none of them could be answered by you or the universe. none of them could, because you were a military wife. because she was involved in covert operations.

“gosh” you whisper to yourself as your thoughts dart from one corner of the room to the other. besides your wife, you have a daughter to worry about. or rather, you should worry about your daughter first, but it's so hard to even take a full breath right now, your chest clenched so tightly it feels like it's been pulled with thick barbed wire.

the seconds seemed like an eternity, until you were gripping the kitchen counter with your hand, trying to stay upright on woozy legs. your head was spinning, and so were your thoughts that you couldn't concentrate on any of them for more than half a second. the world seemed like an abyss into which you were about to fall until you saw her face again. her blue eyes, her plump lips. until you knew she was all right.

but now, when there's a baby lying a few feet away from you, your baby who is completely defenseless without you around him 24 hours a day, you realize that you shouldn't feel sorry for yourself. you have no right to. you knew who you were marrying when you said yes to billie, looking into her eyes with tenderness and promise. you promised that you could survive every moment of separation, no matter how long it lasted. no matter how many lonely days you had to fall asleep in a cold bed. she swore that she would come back. no matter what happened, she would come back to you. with a broken head, without a limb, covered in scars, but she would come back to you. you knew it, you always knew it, it's just that sometimes the waiting is exhausting, it ruins the hopes of coming back, the hopes of a happy life, but no waiting lasts forever.

a month ago lily turned one and a half years old. the little girl already speaks some words, understands basic requests, and with such sadness, like you, looks at the pictures of billye, standing on some shelves in your house, as if she really understands that her mother is not around for a long time, even if she barely remembers her.

but you don't consider yourself a single mother, not since the moment your close friend alex started helping you with lily. and no matter how skeptical you were at first, he really helped you, he was always there for you, supporting both you and your daughter. lily loved him, loved him very much, almost considered him daddy, but when she first called him that, you corrected her, explaining that alex was a friend, that she has a mom, she was just far away now. you didn't wanna think about the fact that billie might not come back and alex would really be your daughter's daddy. you loved him, appreciated him endlessly, and were always grateful to him, but he wasn't lily's parent, and he never would be, no matter how much he wanted to.

darkness creeps up quickly, and you both don't notice the sun hiding behind the horizon and the cool evening setting in. lily stops actively crawling, yawning, mostly staring at one point, or lazily trying to climb into your arms. her little head rests on your chest, her fingers grasping the edge of your silk robe.

"let me put her to bed. you're already tired" alex says quietly so as not to wake your daughter, who apparently passed out in your arms in a matter of minutes, and you, knowing that you are wildly exhausted, decide not to resist, carefully handing the girl into the man's arms. he tells you to go to sleep before disappearing to the second floor.

as soon as you were alone, your thoughts were once again filled with the one person you missed so sincerely and deeply. although you probably miss a very different billie. it's been a year and you've both changed a lot.

as luck would have it, you notice the only unwashed plate from dinner resting on the dining table. your perfectionism doesn't allow you to leave it until tomorrow morning, so you get up, dripping a few drops of detergent on the sponge and scrubbing the frozen mashed potatoes off the ceramic surface in a couple of minutes. you're not as tired, but you can still feel your eyes closing, deciding to go to bed as you'd been advised. until the unexpected ringing of the doorbell interrupts your plans. you sigh heavily, not realizing who could have been brought to your doorstep close to midnight.

without much enthusiasm, you open the front door, and your expression immediately changes and the blood drains from your cheeks. you see your wife in front of you. with a different hairstyle, a different build, a more tired face, but still with the same eyes, the same look. a downpour is roaring outside, and it has a strong effect on her clothes, which are now completely soaked, her hair, part of which was covered by her military cap, although her long curls were drenched. for the first seconds, which seemed like an eternity, you were silent, staring into each other's eyes, until billie finally dared to break the silence.

"can i come in?" she asked quietly, but you notice immediately that her voice has changed; colder, rougher, and hoarser probably from the number of times she's had to shout out her companions. you snap out of your daze, muttering an apology to yourself underneath before stepping aside and letting billie pass, then closing the door behind her.

big boots clang on the floor as she takes a few steps and places the heavy bag of belongings on the wooden floor. her gait has changed too; it has become heavier, weightier, her posture is perfect.

but as soon as she inhales the smell of her home, you can see her shoulders relax and a sigh of relief escapes her plump lips. you still stand by the doorway, looking at your wife with tears pinching your eyes. as if sensing this, billie finally turns around, looking at you, seemingly without a single emotion on her stern face.

"baby…" as soon as the word escapes her lips, you cover your face with your hands, trying to suppress the sobs sitting in your chest. you missed her so much, but now that she's a few meters away from you? you're still left with the same nasty feeling that you're thousands of light years apart.

you can hear how hard she's sighing. not out of annoyance, but out of fear. what if you pushed her away and told her to get the hell out of this house? she was afraid.

"please say something" she takes a hesitant step forward and you can feel her perfume, no, her cologne hit your nose. it was intoxicating.

the silence between you stretches for an eternity before you can speak.

"i thought i'd never see you again" you confess, finally removing your hands from your face to meet her intense gaze filled with longing, regret and melancholy. you didn't need to speak, you just read each other's eyes.

she moves closer to you again until she's close enough for your body to be caged between her body and the wall. a forgotten but so familiar warmth spreads through your veins, making your heart beat again, beat for her.

it's only now that you realize how much she's changed. her hair is cut short, but it still reaches to her shoulder blades. her body has grown larger, even in her military uniform you can see how tight the fabric is around her biceps in some places. the veins in her neck are more prominent, her freckles are clearly bigger, her palms are covered in calluses. you feel it when her hands gently touch your cheeks, gently holding your face.

"i'm so sorry, my love" her nose scratches yours in an affectionate touch, letting you feel each other's breaths on your lips. there was so much you wanted to say, but right now those words were enough to make you remember what it was like to feel loved and desired by a woman again.

"i wanna kiss you so badly" billie whispers as her lips hover millimeters from yours. "i beg you."

you give in forward, finally forcing your lips to touch in a languid long kiss. your hands travel up her body, first clutching her shoulders, then wrapping around her neck, scratching her scalp as you pull her head closer to you. her fingers clutching your waist move further to wrap their arms around your waist, tightly, forcing your body against hers. you let out a quiet whimper against her lips as your bodies sink into each other, being as close as seems impossible.

"god, i missed you so much," she moans against your lips, making you clutch harder into her hair. you're lost in each other until there's not a drop of oxygen left in your lungs. you try to pull away to take a single breath, but billie bites your bottom lip, not letting you move an inch away. when she said she missed you, she meant it; not a day, hour, or minute went by that she didn't think of you, or hum to her companions about what a wonderful wife she had. and she never forgot to mention that you gave her a daughter. the most beautiful, beautiful little girl.

"so you're like a milf?" one of the men suddenly asks billye, distracting her from ranting about you. she smiles, running her tongue over her white teeth. "yeah, i'm a mom" she says proudly, popping the last piece of saltless boiled beef into her mouth; it tasted lame, but she didn't have much choice.

"wife was pregnant? bet she's not that hot anymore" the other man's comment, although joking, billye never, absolutely never let anyone insult you in any form. "shut up, asshole, you're talking about my wife" she leans closer, a mischievous smile playing on her face "and man, she looks like an angel—no, like a goddess. every damn day" she made it clear to everyone without exception how proud she was to have you.

"billie…" her name coming off your lips in a way that made her feel like a moan was about to escape her throat. it was unbearable thinking about you every night, breathing heavily and dreaming of your touch as her hand snaked under the elastic band of her boxers.

as soon as your lips separate, you rest your cheek on her chest as her face burrows into the corner between your neck and shoulder. wet lips touch delicate skin, weightlessly at first, but then it transitions to a trail of kisses down from your jaw to your collarbones. billie's body immediately tenses as she hears a strange man calling your name in her house.

"uh—oh…" alex sighs as he catches the picture in front of him. you'd have to be a fool not to realize what's going on here.

billie frowns, removing her hands from your body to turn to face him, her back almost completely covering your more frail figure. her arms cross over her chest, and you can both notice alex's gaze lowering to her arms. to where her uniform is stretched tightly around her biceps.

"and who are you?" billie asks sternly, and you almost can't understand how she went from loving wife to company commander in a matter of seconds. sexy but amazing.

realizing that alex is a little scared, you step forward to introduce them to each other. "billie, this is alex. my… friend. he's helping me with lily—"

"helped" she snaps, and you both look at her in bewilderment. "what do you mean?" you ask quietly, trying not to stoke the fire further.

"he helped you with lily, and now.." she pauses, opening the front door and clearly showing the man that it's time for him to go home. "we don't need your help anymore."

your mouth opens in silent protest, your gaze running between an equally stunned alex and your obviously disgruntled wife. blinking a few times, you grab billye's hand, not hard, but you need her to pay attention to you "you can't kick him out! most of his stuff—" but billie doesn't listen, only boils harder.

"oh, you don't think i can kick him out?" the question sounds like a challenge, and you know better that she very well could kick him out of your house like a yard dog. your eyes narrow as you look at her, realizing that you have nothing to fight back so he can stay.

about a minute passes in silence between the three of you until alex coughs, realizing how much tension is in the air and that he is clearly interrupting something. and he was very reluctant to leave your house with billie's help.

"you know babe, i think i'm gonna go home" he calls you 'babe' on purpose, and before either of you can process it, he's lurking behind the threshold, closing the massive wooden door behind him on his own.

billie's mouth is ajar as she looks up at you. "baby? did he fucking call you baby?" and before her hand reaches for the doorknob, you intercept it, trying to pull her to you, but it's a harder task considering she's standing still like a goddamn rock. you swallow. not a single one of her muscles tensed.

"just leave him alone!" you have to raise your voice, just slightly, so as not to wake your daughter sleeping on the second floor. billie's fatigue is mixed with frustration and anger at the situation at hand, and she has no choice but to push you against the wall with one hand, causing your back to bang against the ceramic brick. not hard, but enough to assert her dominance at this point.

"let me get one thing straight, princess" she places her hands on either side of your head, enclosing you in a makeshift cage. not that you're trying very hard to get out. "you. are. mine" her voice drips with possessiveness, so sweet and long awaited, making your thighs press against each other slightly harder. "you're my wife, my woman, you're the mother of my child" her intense gaze never leaves your eyes, making your lips flush and your pupils dilate with arousal. the way she said those words with confidence and authority, fuck, it was too much for you and your poor pussy.

"and when i go back to my wife after a year of separation, baby, i don't want to hear a word against mine" and as manipulative as those words sound, you only nod slowly, causing a satisfied smile to slowly spread across her face. predator. "that's my good girl."

a whisper is heard right at your ear, and you let the first whimper slip through your lips. this is exactly what billie wanted. to see his sweet little wife again, looking at her like she was the whole world.

"fuck" she exhales heavily, not wasting another moment and lifting you in her arms as if you weigh nothing. your stomach collides with her shoulder as she takes a measured stride towards your bedroom, shamelessly groping your bare thighs. the silk robe and short pajama shorts didn't help in any way, only encouraging your wife to continue spreading her arms.

once you're on the second floor, billie's footsteps become slower and quieter so that the baby in the next room definitely won't hear how much her mommies missed each other. the thought of having to be quiet sent a wave of frustration through your body.

as soon as your back hits the soft mattress, you relax, letting billie hover over your body, leaving soft, then more passionate kisses until her teeth begin to embed themselves in your skin. dark trails blanket your neck and collarbones. you moan in quiet, sweet, unison. she from the bliss of your taste, you from the feel of her tongue on your pulse point. there was nothing you could ever miss.

"you're like a damn drug, baby" she mooed, moving to rid your body of the extra clothing. in a minute you were completely naked, completely for her hungry gaze while she was fully clothed. you embarrassedly tried to cover your breasts with your hands, but she immediately grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head. her one hand was enough to hold both of yours. even if you did try to escape, you wouldn't stand a chance.

"don't make me tie this lovely body up, yeah mamas? you'll be my good girl, won't you?" your body wriggles, your hips rising desperately, wanting to feel even the slightest friction. billie sees it. of course she fucking does. her uniformed body moves closer to you until her knee presses against your bare pussy, which immediately drenches it with your arousal. you try to rub against her, but she lowers her hand, holding your thigh tightly. "answer the question, then you can ride my thigh like the desperate slut you are."

you whined again, again because of how sexy her voice dropped when she talked to you like that. as if you were her goddess and nothing more than a one-night stand. the way she skillfully did it made your legs shake in ecstasy.

"i'll be your good girl, i promise.." you whisper, swallowing hard, knowing she's waiting for the cherished word. "..daddy."

in that same second, your bodies flip so that you find yourself on all fours, supporting your weight on your elbows. billie steps back, starting to fumble through a box lying in the bottom drawer of the dresser. her hands work on the heavy belt buckle, then the zipper of her pants. she doesn't bother to pull down her boxers, attaching the strap right over the thin fabric.

"don't even need lube to stretch this cunt" you feel the tip of her cock graze over your ass, teasing. your arousal started to flow down the inside of your thighs, so she really didn't have to use anything else to slowly plunge the thick nine inches into your tight pussy. "so perfect around my cock."

waiting for your permission, she begins thrusting, slowly at first, watching her length disappear into you, then thrusting sharply into you until she establishes a steady fast rhythm, making sure that with each thrust she enters all the way that she reaches your cervix, causing you to lower your head and bite the sheets to at least somewhat contain the dirty sounds that fly off your lips.

"fuck, so noisy" her left hand goes up to your neck, squeezing and pulling back until your back arches perfectly for her, until you're fully seated on her lap, feeling her cock get in even deeper. her fingers are replaced by her hand, her biceps and brachialis muscle straining around your throat, leaving little room for oxygen to enter. "feel how deep i am, baby? gonna put another baby in you."

her hips moving at an inhuman pace, the headboard of the bed banging against the wall with each thrust. you really had no idea how much more a year in combat had worn down her body, making it steel. but right now all you had in your mind was her cock, buried as deep as it had ever been before.

"will you give me another baby, mama?" she asks, but the question seems rhetorical, given that your mind is completely blank. the way her hand presses against your thigh, leaving bruises under your fingertips. the way her lips hover over your ear, the way her grip on your neck tightens every time she tenses her bicep. it's made your smart head a dumb mess. "can you carry my baby in this perfect body again?"

tears run down your cheeks as you whimper something resembling a 'yes', clutching her hand tightly, resting your head on her shoulder, starting to bounce on her cock on your own as she clutches your body tightly, feeling every shudder. she always knows when you're close.

"come on, my love, cum for me. cum on this cock" her words act as a lever for your body and you unravel on her strap, making no extra sounds only thanks to her other hand covering your mouth as you shake hysterically, stunned by the intense orgasm.

billie slowly lowers you down, back on all fours, her chest pressed against your back as you feel her warm cum filling your pussy, dripping onto the crumpled sheets. your body already seems exhausted while your wife's energy still boils.

"lie on your back, mama, let me see that pretty pussy" she mumbles in your ear, pulling back and slowly pulling out, mesmerized by the way her cum leaks out of you. you move on the bed barely trusting your cotton-wool legs, slowly lowering yourself onto your back, immediately spreading your legs slightly, inviting her in. billie hesitates, positioning herself between your thighs, using both hands to spread them wider, shamelessly gazing at your swollen cunt, covered in her and your own arousal.

she dives in without another word, moaning hoarsely when she feels your sweet taste on her tongue again after all this time, ready to devour you like a starving woman. "fuck, so fucking perfect" she moozes into your flesh, sending electrifying vibrations that make you squirm on the bed, now covering your mouth with your own hand.

"i'd burn the whole world for that pussy, do you hear me?" she pulls back, replacing her tongue with her thumb, rubbing your sensitive clit in slow circles, but it's enough to make your legs shake and your hips rise in search of more friction.

billie bites her lower lip, lifting and pressing your knees against your chest to change the angle, watching your frowning eyebrows for a few more seconds before returning her mouth to your wet folds, licking greedily, plunging the tip into your tight hole, making you shriek, which only encouraged her to push it in deeper.

her tongue worked tirelessly, flattening out in time, circling around the sensitive bundle of nerves as her two fingers slipped into you, pumping at a natural pace as if they were designed to fuck that perfect pussy.

she pushed so deep, curling her thick fingers, hitting that sweet spot that made you see stars. she didn't ask — you didn't speak, coming on her tongue and hand with a strangled moan. her hips flew up, pushing her face further between your legs, and you couldn't hold back a whimper, realizing how sensitive you were right now.

"mm, just like that, that's my girl" she praises, crawling up to hover over your body and leave a deep kiss on your lips, letting. you taste your own release.

after a few seconds she rolls onto the bed next to you, not taking her lips off your neck. "i wanna see our daughter," her melodic voice is muffled against your skin, and you giggle, starting to replay the shared memories in your head until she interrupts them with another nibble on your pulse point.

"and then i wanna fuck that pretty pussy of yours again. and i'm gonna do it every goddamn day, my love."

౨ৎ tags; @billiesbabygirll, @amara-eilish, @st0nerlesb0, @bxllxebxtch mystiquemm, @bilswifee, @dragoneyelashart, @bilssturns, @chrissv4mp, @allyeilishh, @bitchesbrokenpromises, @too-sapphic-to-function, @thefeverburningalive, @peytonglazesbillieeilish, @1nn3rthOughts

[riniworld]

a formed bond.

yandere! emperor oc x fem!reader

warnings|| a small mention of violence, a little suggestive at the start, and an awkward attempt at describing clothes (not yours)

reference|| you, dear, my flower, my wife, she/her.

a/n|| the end is kinda rushed.

taron woke up to the clinks of plates and hurried footsteps, he groaned softly and buried his head back in your shoulder, he hate this day, his birthday, it doesn't have any good memories in it, plus all the nobles that will come kissing his shoe as if they love him.

taron felt you stir awake, he hummed, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder "good morning, my flower, did the sound of those insect moving woke you up?" you didn't look at him but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"no." you grumbled, pausing for a minute. "it is not usual for you to stay in bed until this hour, do you not have duties?"

taron frown, pouting playfully as he move closer to you "so eager to get rid of me, are you?"

with a sigh you sat up, holding the covers over your body, taron flipped over on his back looking at you with a smirk "i have a great view from here." he said teasingly, you looked back glaring at him which only made him chuckle and sat up as well.

his arm circled around your waist as he leaned down and kissed your temple "you are a great view from anywhere." he looked at you tenderly but you can't feel anything other than being uncomfortable at the closeness, his look, his touches, everything that came from him.

"unfortunately i can not stay with you forever, as much as i wish so." he caressed your side with his thumb "i will go take a bath, care to join me?"

you shake your head 'no' the last thing you'd want to do is join him anywhere other than the bed, and even that you're bearly handling.

"sometimes i am convinced that you are just being shy." he said as he scooted to the edge of the bed, reaching out to take his silky red robe from the nightstand, he had put it there last night.

he put it on and threw yours beside you to do the same, when you finished tying the sash around you, he called for a servant, who–in a less than a minute–came rushing inside "yes, your majesty?" the servant said panting softly.

"prepare my bath." taron commanded, his tone is completely different from a second ago, it was laced with coldness, terrifying even. it's alarming how quickly his mood change.

"as you wish, your majesty." the servant bowed down and walked out of the room.

taron sank down into the bathtub with a relaxed sigh, the tension vanishing from his shoulders as the warm water softened his muscles.

He is procrastinating, he doesn't want to step out and see all the decoration, starts the ceremony, at this same date, he killed his parents with his own hands,he's not regreting anything, and he will never do, but it still not a pleasant history.

he sighed again, this time troubled, all of the horrible memories of his childhood returned whenever his birthday did, the hours of training until his hands bleed, the sound of his cries as he begged his father to not punish him whenever he made a mistake, sitting in the corner of the hallway trying to wrap his cuts while no one spared him a glance, but these are also his motivation, he'll celebrate today, not because its his birthday, but because it's the day his parents died in, he'll act all smiley in hopes his father is watching from above, burning in anger because of what he has become without him.

taron was standing in front of a window that overlooked the garden as he was drying his hair with a towel, his secretary behind him was listing the guests names that will attend tonight's ceremony, but taron hardly paid attention to what the man was saying.

"where is my wife?" he asked, his eyes searching the garden from the beginning to the far end.

the secretary paused in the middle of his speech "ah...i last saw her highness in the ballroom where the servants were decorating, your majesty."

he looked to the side in confusion "at the ballroom?"

"yes, your majesty."

taron nodded "go now." he commanded, waving his hand in dismiss, his secretary complied without hesitation.

you were headed to the garden to wind down a bit, but you were quickly caught by the maids who were desperate for help about the decoration, and as his wife, they came to get your help, and now you were trapped in the ballroom with more than fifteen person trying to get your opinion as if you know taron at all.

as you were choosing randomly from colors they present to you, the room got quiet suddenly, the few woman in front of you looked behind you nervously, confused you turned your head to see what everyone was looking at, but you weren't that quick before someone wrapped their arm around your waist, you hold an annoyed sigh as you feel his chest too close against your back.

"what are you doing here, my flower?" he whispered in your ear, his other hand took yours which was holding a red fabric, wine–like color, his eyes paused at how your skin looks against the color of his favorite thing to drink, what a fascinating sight.

"i am helping." you said simply in a flat tone.

"this is not your job, dear. the servants are taking care of these matters." he whispered softly again as he started to caress your hand.

you turned your head to look at him "is this also unacceptable in your rules on me?" you said sassily.

"why, yes of course. you should only sit and be pretty for me,dear. beside.." he looked up at the servants in the room who pretended they're not seeing anything. "exposing yourself to all those eyes...you will make me plug them all from their sockets."

your grip tightened around the fabric, you want to think he wouldn't do such a thing and it's all just a threat, but from all the things you saw him do, this would be the least he can do.

you put the fabric away, your shoulders slumped in defeat, it always work, threatening you about hurting people, what a sweet thing you are.

he pull his hand that was around your waist back, instead taking your hand in his and leading you out of the room.

you spent the rest of the day with taron in every step, stuck in his office while he work, walking the gardens together, and having a treat, he was clingier than before.

you told him you were tired and took a nap in the afternoon, the maids woke you up at eight PM to get ready before the ceremony begin, you were surprised that taron didn't command them to not include you in this event.

while you stretched your arms, you noticed a new dress that have been put beside you, it was a wine–red color, with a few gold here and there, it must be what taron wants you to wear.

"your highness, we will be waiting outside for when you finish dressing you can call us to help you with your accessories and makeup." one of the two maids said politely, she bowed before they two left you alone.

you stand in front of the mirror, adjusting your dress, from the reflection you see taron entered without knocking, his eyes met yours on the mirror and he smiled at you.

he wore a silky white shirt with puffed sleeves, it had a high neck that was tight around his with a thin ruffled white cravat, it was styled with a brooch around his neck, he wore a deep red tailcoat that was patterned with black floral swirls, it tails were split in half, and they were long enough to reach his ankles, he paired them with a tight black pants, a pointy red shoes and a black-ish gloves. his hair was held up in a loose ponytail.

he stepped closer to you from behind until it was just inches separating you, suddenly he put a necklace around your neck, it was a gold necklace with his name carved in the middle.

"i had it done especially for you...so everyone can know whose you are." he said as he locked the necklace from behind.

"i knew you would not just let me attend in peace." you whispered under your breath.

he chuckled "do you think i would let such an opportunity to show the world who you belong to just pass?"

his finger traced up your neck, he took your hair and put it behind your ear "you look gorgeous." he leaned down "this is all for my birthday?" he asked playfully.

"no." you reply instantly. "mm, sure." he said in disbelief.

in an attempt to kick him out you rang a small bell as a signal for the maids to enter, but it was in vain because he stayed anyway and made the whole room thick with tension because he kept glaring at the maids which scared them so the progress of getting you ready got two times longer.

at the celebration his hand never left yours and you didn't get a chance to talk with anyone at all, now you two were standing at the long feast table, he was rambling about some nobility who were "too low" for him to be among them, which you guessed was everyone.

people came to greet him, but he either looked at them with judgment or disgust, a poor man made the mistake of extending his hand to shake and ended up bowing in front of him instead.

but what you noticed the most is him looking all around the place, like he was searching for someone in desperation, and each time he didn't find them, his expression fell slightly.

two hours into the event and he became silent, not that you care this much or you want to think so, it just feels weird for him to shut up suddenly, and what threw you off is him existing the room and leaving you there with all of these people, yeah something definitely is wrong.

you tried to ignore it really, it is not something of your matter, and you should be relieved that he left you alone to breath, but you just couldn't and eventually you followed him out.

after a bit of search you found him sitting in the garden on the dirt, between a white flowers, he was caressing the petals while looking at them distracted, he didn't sense you until you were right in front of him that he looked up at you.

"i did not know you would miss me that fast." he said, the teasing in his tone seemed forced.

"do not make me regret it." you said grumpily.

you crouched down and sat beside him, looking at the flowers around you "your dress will get dirty." he said mindlessly "so is yours." you replied, and he let out half a chuckle.

you two sat in silence for a few minutes until he spoke "i was told that these are my mother's favorite type of flowers." he scoffed "i have never knew her. yet i come here repeatedly to relax."

"how could you not know your mother? did she leave you?."

"no, but she was all about herself, never took care of us." he frowned as he said that.

you looked at him confused at the "us" he used, with a sigh he lay down, the flowers petals brushing against his cheeks.

"i have a brother, he...did not accept my ways of ruling so he ran away." he looked at the stars with sad eyes "i was fool enough to think he might attend today." he paused a little "..he will turn eighteen this year, and i will not be there to witness him becoming of age."

"why not try? i am sure he wish as much as you for you to be with him."

"no, he hate me."

"there is not a sibling who truly hate their sibling."

he looked at you with doubt then looked away again "and risk being unwelcomed? i am not that much of a fool like these nobles who come to kiss my shoe, i will not humilate myself like this." he said with a bit of irritation.

"you said you miss your brother, can you not let go of your ego for him at least?" your tone got similar to his.

he got silent as he frowned more "it is not a matter of ego, if he wanted me there he can send a letter that says so, he knows where is our home." he left no room for an argument as he sat up and extended his arm to you "let us go back." he said softly.

as he led you inside, the memories of his father crossed his mind again, he promised he will not be like him, but little did he know that he became what his father wanted him to, and if he was looking at him from above, he is looking with pride.

[sena-seastar]

Bad Sleeping Habits

Dad!Aemond x Wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond has trouble being firm with your daughter.

A/N: This is just a little drabble I wrote. No beta, so I apologize for any spelling and grammar mistakes!

Aemond had always been a light sleeper, even more so after the birth of your daughter. He had always been the first to wake up and rush to her side anytime she made the slightest noise. So when he heard her shuffling out of bed in the middle of the night, he woke up immediately. He didn’t get up, instead choosing to wait and see what she was up to.

The two of you had been trying to get Daenys into the habit of sleeping in her own bed. To say it was a struggle would be an understatement. The two of you had let her sleep between you a few times, and apparently, she took that to mean she had to sleep in your bed every night.

Aemond didn’t honestly mind it. He loved every minute of it. He knows that once she gets older, he won’t get those moments when he can hold her close and have her sleep in his arms anymore. So he wants to hold on to her as long as he can. 

Aemond kept perfectly still as he felt the blanket at the bottom of the bed being tugged down. He used one of his hands to hold onto it so that it would not completely slip off the bed, as Daenys used it as a ladder to climb onto the bed. He pretends to be asleep, though he cracks his eye open just enough to watch his little girl, in case she slips.

She let out a little grunt as she successfully reached the top. Aemond doesn’t move as she climbs over him, most likely trying to take her usual place between the two of you.

He does his best not to cry out when her knee accidentally digs into the flesh of his thigh. He doesn’t want to frighten his little girl or, even worse, wake you up. So, he does his best to bear the pain.

He waits until she reaches the top of the bed before rolling over to face her. She freezes, her eyes wide open, knowing she’s been caught. Though her shock quickly turns to amusement. Daenys gives him a cheeky smile.

“Why are you out of bed?” He whispers. “Go back to sleep,” he scolds her playfully.

“Nuh-uh,” she shakes her head, making her little silver curls shake side to side.

 Daenys sits back on her heels—a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Aemond lifts his hands, trying to brace himself. He makes it just in time before she throws herself on top of him. Her little arms wrap around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly as she buries her face into his neck. Messy, silver curls tickle his nose. Aemond shakes his head, trying to push her hair away.

“Fine, you can stay,” he sighs, “but your mother won’t be pleased with us in the morning.”

He grabbed the blanket, pulling it over the both of them.

She yawned, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder. “Night, night, kepa.” 

“Goodnight, my little dragon.” He hummed, gently running his hand over her back.

Aemond stared up at the canopy, and once again, he found himself wondering how he had gotten here. What had he done to deserve such happiness? The man had always known he would marry and eventually have children someday. He was a Targaryen prince, after all. Yet he had never imagined it would make him feel so... content. 

“You spoil her too much,” you mumble drowsily.

Aemond turned his head, finding you with your head still buried in your pillow.

“She’s a princess. It's practically in the job description.” He smirked. “Besides, you don't seem to mind when I spoil you.”

“Fine,” you sigh. “But she’s sleeping in her own bed tomorrow.”

Aemond reached over and grabbed your hand. He lifted it, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Goodnight, my love.”

[warpdrive-witch]

Remind Me

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader Warnings: NSFW, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Oral, Grinding, Plot: Agatha picks you up from jail after being arrested at a protest. Smut. Pure fucking smut. MEN AND MINORS DNI! Buy Mommy a ☕️

The door to the holding cell groaned open with a mechanical click, a burst of stale air and flickering fluorescent light bleeding across the cement floor. It spilled into the room like something sour and uninvited. You squinted as the frame widened—like the night itself had blinked awake, and you were the first thing it saw.

“Harkness!”

The name cracked through the stale air like a warning shot—sharp, nasal, and clipped with bureaucratic disinterest. The desk sergeant didn’t look up from his clipboard. He didn’t have to.

A summons. A signal. The sound of consequences catching up to chaos… and letting it walk free.

It took you a full breath to register he was calling for you. Your last name, detached and impersonal, echoing across steel and stone like it didn’t belong to flesh. Before you could even respond, it came again—louder, more impatient this time: “Harkness!”

Your name, barked out like an accusation. Like a command. Like you were both the problem and the proof. You rose slowly from the concrete bench you'd been slumped on for hours, spine creaking, shoulders groaning under the weight of stillness and dried sweat. Your legs protested, stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. Every muscle in your body buzzed with fatigue, but you moved like you weren’t giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.

Nothing was broken. Nothing that wouldn’t fade. But the ache was real. The skin around your wrists stung, raw and red where the zip-ties had dug in deep. Raised welts circled your skin like branding, half-faded but unforgettable. Your shirt stuck to your back—damp with sweat, dried gas, maybe blood. You couldn’t tell anymore. Couldn’t care.

You smelled like protest: Pepper spray. Adrenaline. Smoke. Truth. And you walked like you’d earned every second of it.

Boots hit concrete with a weight you didn’t bother to hide. Every step was deliberate. Measured. Yours.

The Sharpie number on your forearm was half-smeared from sweat and friction, but still visible. Still inked into your skin like a spell. Still there. Just like you would continue to be until people woke up to the insanity around them taking place.

The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel built from fatigue and bad lighting. You passed fingerprint stations and cold metal desks. You passed other faces—blank, bureaucratic, bored. The hum of vending machines and overused fluorescents filled the air like static.

And then— him.

The cop.

The officer who’d slammed your face into the sidewalk during the scuffle, who’d muttered something about “you people” when the zip-tie bit into your bone. He sat behind a glass partition in a side office, half-shadowed, chewing the end of a pen like it owed him something.

His eyes didn’t lift. But his presence soured the entire hallway. As you passed, he muttered without looking: “Stay out of trouble and listen next time.”

You didn’t break stride. Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. You just raised one hand behind you—deliberate, smooth, no hesitation—and extended your middle finger like a quiet act of war. A blessing, even. A fucking benediction. That gesture was a full sentence. A punctuation mark. A signature. One last message to the officer who thought the right to protest needed to be approved by him personally.

The door to the lobby buzzed. A low, grating sound—followed by the clank of an electronic lock disengaging.

You pushed it open with your shoulder. And there she was. Agatha.

Standing just inside the threshold, like she’d been pacing seconds before and froze the moment the door released. A single line of harsh overhead light caught the crown of her head and the curve of her cheekbone, casting the rest of her in shadow.

Her coat was black, unzipped, thrown on in a rush. Her hair was pulled up into a loose knot, haphazard and unstyled—too high, too tight, like she hadn’t meant to come out. Like she hadn’t expected it to be you she was bailing out until it already was. Jeans. Boots. No makeup. Still beautiful. Still furious.

She didn’t move. Not right away. Just stood there, arms folded tightly across her chest, one boot angled slightly out—her weight tilted like she didn’t trust the ground beneath her anymore. Her eyes found you instantly. They dropped to your wrists first, where angry red bands still marked your skin. Then up to your face—your swollen cheekbone, your tear-gas eyes, the smirk you couldn’t quite wipe off your face. And then her gaze hardened. Not in rage. Not in judgment.

In something worse. Fear, choked and weaponized. A gut-punch of helplessness buried under the brittle armor of restraint. Her head tilted just a fraction. Her brow arched just enough. That look. The Agatha Harkness look. Sharp enough to slice through steel. Soft enough to hold your name inside it. Somehow, impossibly, it held both: You absolute idiot and thank God you’re standing. Judgment and devotion in one unbroken, devastating line of sight.

Your lips parted. You had something cocky on the tip of your tongue—something like “Miss me?” or “Wasn’t even the worst night I’ve had.” You almost said it. But before a single syllable passed your lips, her voice cut across the space—low, quiet, final: “Not now.”

It landed like gravity. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just a truth wrapped in warning. An invocation of privacy. Of safety. Of boundaries drawn by love, not law. You stopped. The smirk faded just slightly, tucked back into the corners of your breath.

A pause bloomed between you. Thick enough to carry everything unspoken: the worry in her shoulders, the heat in your ribs, the way you had both seen this moment coming and still hated the fact that it had arrived.

She turned before you could answer, pushing the door open to the parking lot without looking back. The concrete was slick with dew. The air still held a trace of smoke. The smell of asphalt and distant rain filled your nose, wiping away the bleach and stale sweat of the jail behind you. And as you passed her to slide into the car, your thigh brushed hers—accidental, but real. She flinched. Just barely. Just enough.

You climbed into the car without a word. The seat creaked under your weight, the scent of her perfume rising up from the upholstery like muscle memory. She closed the door behind you with the softest click. You closed your eyes for half a second—just long enough to feel the ache settle.

She got in beside you, turned the key, and backed out with a sharp turn of the wrist. Headlights flooded the cracked concrete in front of you, catching the faint haze of rising mist. The tires rolled slow over the speed bump in the lot, then faster once the road widened, away from the building, away from the cuffs, away from everything that reeked of detention and authority and stale coffee breath.

The city was quiet at this hour, not asleep but sedated. Fog drifted low across the asphalt, blurring the orange glow of the streetlamps into watery halos. The roads were slick from earlier rain, and everything smelled like pavement and static.

Agatha said nothing.

The dashboard cast her face in a dim blue wash. Soft shadows sat beneath her eyes, deepening the sharp line of her cheekbone. She looked composed, but not calm. Her jaw was too tight. Her hands too still on the wheel.

You shifted in your seat, restless. Your knee bounced on a melody of its own. Your fingers picked at the half-smeared Sharpie ink on your arm. The numbers were fading fast, blurring into a mess of gray lines and sweat, but you kept rubbing them anyway. Like the act itself might keep you tethered to her voice on the other end of the phone. The bruises on your arms pulled tight when you leaned to adjust your seatbelt. You winced—quietly. Didn’t want her to see.

She saw. She always saw.  Her eyes flicked to you at the next red light. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze lingered on the movement of your hand, your arm, the slight shake in your knee. She didn’t speak. But she didn’t have to.

The silence in the car wasn’t cold. It was thick. Dense with everything she wanted to say but wouldn’t. Not yet. The light turned green. She drove on. Another few blocks passed before her hand moved—slow, deliberate, cutting through the heavy stillness between you. It slid across the center console and found yours.

Warm. Steady. Real. You didn’t squeeze back. Not at first. Afraid to misread it. Afraid this was about control, not comfort. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles. Once. Twice. A soft, rhythmic motion. Not forgiveness. Not approval. Reassurance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your throat tightened. You cleared it, voice catching in the silence. She didn’t look at you, not fully, but her voice came low and edged: “My number is on your skin.”You nodded.

“I said you it might happen. I didn’t even think. Just…Wrote your number before I left the house. I knew it might get bad.” You glanced down at your arm. The numbers were nearly gone.  Her fingers paused. Then gripped tighter. Not painfully. Just... present. “And when I didn’t hear from you for hours?” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack. But you heard it anyway beneath the words. That coil of emotion she wouldn’t let unspool. Not yet. Frustration. Fear. The helpless, gnawing dread ofnot knowing. And something else, too. A flicker. A break in the current. Relief.

You stared out the windshield, the empty stretch of road ahead gleaming with scattered puddles. “I knew you’d find me,”you said quietly.“You always do.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t pull her hand away.

She just kept driving.

The city gave way to quieter streets. The fog thickened, wrapping around the windshield like cotton gauze, softening the edges of the world. The headlights carved a narrow path through it, bright and breathless.

Her hand stayed in yours. You could feel the tremor in her palm—barely there, like something she was holding back on instinct. Rage, maybe. Or the memory of hearing your voice from the other end of a jailhouse phone line, too calm, too quiet, using the word “processed” like it didn’t mean caged.

She took the next turn too quickly. The tires skidded just slightly, and her knuckles went pale around the wheel. Still, her hand in yours never wavered. A streetlight passed overhead. For a moment, her face caught the glare. You saw the tightness in her jaw. The way her lips were pressed thin. The way her eyes flicked to you and then away again like she couldn’t look too long or she’d unravel something she didn’t want you to see.

When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper: “They could’ve hurt you worse.” Her voice was barely above a breath. Flat, restrained. Not numb—but trying to be. You turned your head, slowly, watching the way her fingers tightened against the leather of the wheel. Her other hand was still tangled in yours, thumb still frozen against your skin like she didn’t trust herself to keep moving.

The car was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the tires on wet asphalt. You inhaled through your nose—slow, steady. “They have,” you said finally, eyes fixed ahead. “Not me. But others. Way worse. For generations” Your voice didn’t shake. Not even close. “This?” you added, glancing down at your arms, the bruises just now darkening to a sick shade of violet. “This I can handle.”

She didn’t respond. But her jaw clenched again. You let the silence fill the space between you. Let it be uncomfortable. Let her feel it all.

Because it wasn’t about her. And she knew that. And still—it wrecked her. The drive turned familiar. The houses started to look like memories instead of background noise. You passed the little bookstore she liked, dark now, the yellow awning damp with rain. The corner market. The faded mural three blocks from home.

She made the last turn tight, then slowed into the driveway. The engine ticked softly as she shifted into park. The headlights cut off. Just the amber glow from the porch light now, and the long shadow of the night trailing behind you. She didn’t move to open her door. Neither did you. Her hand still cradled yours, still unmoving. But something in the air shifted—like a held breath exhaled, slow and unwilling. You turned to her fully this time, the side of your body screaming from the movement, but you did it anyway. You turned to her, slow and aching. “I’m okay.”

The words felt small in the air between you, too neat for the wreckage they were meant to contain. Agatha didn’t respond at first. Her hand flexed on the steering wheel—once, then twice—leather creaking beneath her grip. Her jaw was tight. Set. Not clenched in anger, but in preservation. Like her whole body was holding something back.

When she spoke, it was quiet.nNo drama. No theatrics. Just precision. Just truth.

“Your friend called.” A pause. Measured. “Said they took you.” Another. “Said no one knew where.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the road ahead, but her voice came sharp—like frost under fire: “Your friend. Not the police. Not the station.” You heard the emphasis, the edge under it—the insult of being forced to rely on someone who shouldn’t have been the one to tell her. “Then their phone died.” That silence bloomed again—thicker now. Nearly unbearable. “No location,” she said, quieter still. “Just… ‘on the ground. Bleeding.’”

You felt the breath leave her—not all at once, but in pieces, like it cost her something to remember it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. “Three hours of silence.” Her voice hit like a knife honed on restraint. “I had your blood in my head and some asshole at the desk asking me to spell your name like it was a trivia question.”

She let out a breathless laugh—sharp and mirthless. It sounded like something that had been waiting days to escape. “They made me wait.” Her voice lowered, dropped into something dangerous. Controlled. Clipped. Each word like a match struck and held just shy of flame. “While I imagined your body in the back of a van. Head hitting the floor. Face-down. Cuffed. Bleeding.”

The weight of it landed on your chest before you could process it. She shook her head, just once—barely a movement, but loaded almost like she didn’t trust herself to do more. “I looked at every blank face behind every window and asked for you.” Then, finally, she turned. And when her eyes found yours, they didn’t just hold fury. They held proof.

“And no one said a word. No one gave a shit that you were missing.” A pause. “That you were mine.” The word landed soft, but final. Like it had already been carved into the bones of the night. She exhaled. Not shaky. Not broken. Just steady—like someone who had made it out of the worst moment of her life and hadn’t forgiven the world for it. “The system didn’t just take you.” Her voice lowered to a level that chilled your skin. “It erased you. For hours.”

A pause so long it bordered on sacred. “Like your name didn’t matter.” She blinked once. “Like I wasn’t standing right there. Demanding it. So don’t tell me you’re okay.” There was no venom in it. Only grief sharpened into something lethal. “Let me be angry first.”

She stared straight ahead.

And you sat there, head bowed slightly, fingers curled loosely in your lap. Sharpie smeared. Wrist raw. Still breathing.

A minute passed. Maybe more. You counted the beats of your pulse like footsteps in your chest. Then, without a word, Agatha opened her door and stepped out. Not loud. Not abrupt. Just done waiting. You watched her walk around the front of the car, her silhouette catching the faint wash of the porch light as she moved—composed rage wrapped in denim and shadow. She rounded the passenger side, pulled the handle, and opened your door. She didn’t speak. Just looked at you. Her face was unreadable—not because she was hiding it, but because the storm behind it was still deciding whether to retreat or rise again.

Still, she was here. Still, she’d come for you. Still, she was holding the door open with one hand and her breath with the other.

You stood. It took effort. Your legs protested the movement.  Her hand brushed your back once, barely there. Not a push. Not support. Just… proof. The gravel of the driveway crunched beneath your feet. The porch light caught the corner of your jacket, your frizzed hair, the shine still clinging to your cheeks from dried gas and sweat.

Agatha didn’t walk ahead. She matched your pace. Shoulder to shoulder. No words. Only the quiet weight of everything she hadn’t said—and everything she already had. She unlocked the front door and opened it.

The house greeted you like it had been holding its breath. Soft light spilled in from the kitchen—left on, maybe out of hope. The air was warm, still faintly scented with whatever candle she must’ve blown out before she left. Rosemary. Smoke. Wax. Home.

You stepped inside first. Your boots met hardwood with a soft thud. The ache in your thighs flared with every movement, and your ribs pulled tight where the bruises were beginning to set in. Sweat still clung to your back, to the backs of your knees. The scent of tear gas and adrenaline followed you like a second skin.

Behind you, Agatha closed the door. The lock clicked into place—clean, final. You didn’t look at her. You didn’t need to. You moved on instinct now. Down the hall. Around the corner. Through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The path was muscle memory now—dim light, familiar shadows, every step echoing louder than it should have. You peeled off your jacket as you walked, fingers fumbling a little at the zipper. Then your shirt, tugged over your head with a wince. Every movement dragged at tired muscles, each one aching in a different register. The fabric stuck to your back, damp with sweat and tear gas and hours of tension. You let it fall in the doorway without looking back.

The mirror caught your reflection under the soft, gold light from the fixture overhead—low, almost merciful. Still, it didn’t hide the truth.

Your skin was flushed, red from heat and movement. Dried tear tracks curved down your cheeks in uneven lines. Your hair stuck out in every direction, curls frizzed and tangled from sweat and smoke and the weight of the night. But what caught your eye first—what made your stomach pull—were the bruises.

Dark. Ugly. Blooming across your arm in shades of violet and rust. The edges had already begun to swell, pooling in thick shadows under the skin. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

You reached forward, turned the water on hot. Steam rushed up almost immediately, fast and thick, wrapping itself around the glass and climbing toward the ceiling. Within seconds, the mirror blurred, softening the edges of your reflection until you couldn’t see yourself at all.

It helped. One by one, your clothes hit the tile—pants, underwear, socks. You didn’t fold them. Didn’t bother. You just wanted them off. Wanted everything that clung to you—the night, the fear, the humiliation—gone.

You stepped into the shower. And the water hit you like gravity. Hot. Relentless. Real. The first few seconds stung, the heat dragging across raw skin, catching every scratch and welt. But then… you exhaled. Not dramatically. Just a slow, shaky breath from somewhere deep in your ribs, like you hadn’t let yourself take one since the moment you were cuffed.

Gas. Dirt. Someone else’s blood. It all swirled down the drain in thick streaks, carried away with the last traces of control you didn’t even know you were still clinging to. You pressed your hands against the tile wall, head bowed, water pounding against the back of your neck. The pressure pushed into your spine, your shoulders, your bruised ribs, until it felt like you might finally collapse.

You didn’t cry. But your shoulders shook anyway. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just from release. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Softly, so quietly it could’ve been imagined, you heard the door open behind you. You didn’t flinch You knew it was her. You reached for the knobs and turned the water off slowly, each movement deliberate, aching. Your hands trembled as you pushed the glass door open, steam rolling outward in thick waves. The room had filled with it entirely, fogging the mirror and blurring the outside world to a haze of silver and light.

Agatha stood by the sink, arms crossed, still in the black coat she hadn’t bothered to take off. Her hair had begun to fall from its pin, a strand curling against her cheek. She didn’t speak. Her eyes caught yours in the mirror first—dark, unreadable. Then they dropped.

To your ribs. To your thighs. To the darkening bruise on your shoulder. The raw, red pressure marks around your wrists. The angry welt stretching violet across your hip.

Her entire body tensed, but she didn’t move. And just for a second, you saw it again—the exact expression she’d worn in the jail lobby.

Not horror. Not pity. Rage, tempered only by awe.

Not awe at what had been done to you— But awe at the fact that you had walked away from it.

She didn’t move toward you. Not immediately. Her eyes continued to scan your body, slow and deliberate, like she needed to memorize it. Every mark. Every place they had dared to lay hands on. Every part of you that hurt.

She stepped forward only when the silence between you shifted from fragile to sacred. Her movements were quiet. Almost reverent. She reached for a towel on the nearby rack. Unfolded it with careful hands. Wrapped it around you in one slow, precise motion—starting at your shoulders, tucking it close at your back.

And then, she knelt. Not fully. Just enough to place herself lower than you. Just enough to bring her eye level with the bruise near your hip, the abrasion across your thigh. One of her hands reached out—hovering just above your skin. Waiting.

She didn’t need to ask. But she did, with her body.

You nodded.

Her fingers ghosted over the bruises. Light as air. Not pressing. Just present. Her voice, when it came, was almost nothing. Just breath shaped into words. "This… they’ll answer for this.” Your throat tightened. You swallowed. Still wrapped in the towel, still damp and shaking.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer now. Not to reassure her. Not even to reassure yourself. Just to mark that you were still here. But she shook her head, rising to her full height with measured grace. “No.” She took a breath, steady and quiet. “You’re hurt. And you’re mine.”

The words rang out low and absolute—like a spell cast not to control you, but to protect you. She looked at you fully now, eyes locked on yours. Every inch of her tall with fury, with grief, with love she hadn't been able to voice while you were missing. “So no—they don’t get to walk away from that.”

And in her gaze, you saw it:

Claim. Sanctity. A rage that bent toward justice, not vengeance.

You stayed like that for a few seconds longer—still damp, wrapped in the towel, her hands no longer touching you but her presence close enough to feel. Then you moved. Not far. Just a few steps out of the fogged bathroom and into the bedroom. You walked slowly, body aching, towel clutched tight around your ribs. Agatha followed without a word, the rhythm of her footsteps deliberate and light behind you.

The bedroom was dim, quiet, safe. Moonlight brushed the edge of the comforter. One lamp glowed on the nightstand. You sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling long and slow. She moved around you—methodical, steady—and pulled a soft shirt from the dresser. One of hers. Black cotton, worn thin from years of wear. The kind that smelled like her skin, like amber and salt. You took it without speaking, tugging it gently over your head. The motion hurt your arms, made your back sore, but once it was on, it felt like being held. Not fabric. Her.

She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass of water. She knelt in front of you again, the glass offered in silence. Her hand brushed yours as you took it. You drank slowly. Half the glass, then set it aside. She didn’t move. “You smell like smoke and injustice,” she murmured then—almost to herself, almost like it surprised her.

You let out a breath of a laugh. Not quite humor. Just something loosening inside your chest. You shifted, resting your hands between your knees. “We were handing out water,” you said, voice rough but steady. “It was calm. Peaceful. People were chanting, walking. Holding signs.”

Agatha didn’t interrupt. “Then they brought the riot gear,” you continued, your gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past the floor. “And the gas hit. I didn’t flinch.” You looked up then. Let her see the fire still sitting behind your eyes. “I didn’t fucking move.”

Her face twisted at that—something sharp and unreadable crossing over her features. Not surprise. Not pride. Something harder. “Of course you didn’t,” she said softly. Her voice was flat, but her body wasn’t. Her shoulders had drawn inward slightly, her hands curling in her lap like she was holding back more than words.

You looked down at your thighs. The bruises. The raw skin near your wrist. “But they saw that as defiance,” you said. “Guess I was easy to grab.” Her exhale was quiet but fierce. Her hand slid along your thigh, slow and grounding, then came to rest on your knee. Warm. Anchored.

“I know why you went,” she said. “I’m not mad.” You turned your head. Met her eyes again. There was something else in her face now—something softer beneath the heat. Something that hadn’t had space to show itself until now. “But next time,” she added, voice lower, almost reverent, “you don’t go without me. Not again.”

There was a beat of silence. Your breath caught somewhere between protest and understanding. “You’d get arrested too.”

“Good.” She didn’t blink when she said it. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flinch. And she meant it. You stood slowly, rising from the edge of the bed. Her shirt—the one she’d handed you minutes ago—hung loose on your frame, skimming the tops of your thighs, still damp from the towel you let fall in a hush to the floor. The fabric smelled like her. Cedar, smoke, and something deeper—clove, maybe. Home.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone. Her eyes tracked you as you moved—every step, every breath. But she didn’t move toward you. Not yet. You stepped in close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough to taste the tension that lingered in the space between your bodies like static before a strike. And then—gently, reverently—you reached for her hands.

Her fingers were warm in yours, a little unsteady. You didn’t rush. You brought them up, guiding them to your waist with a care that felt like ceremony. Her palms settled against your skin. They hesitated for half a second. Then spread—slow, open, searching. “Touch me,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “See? I’m still here.” Agatha’s lashes fluttered once. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She obeyed.

Her hands began to move—not with urgency, but with a sacred slowness. She traced the edge of your hips with the same focus she might have used to trace runes. Her thumbs swept inward, brushing the slight dip just above your pelvis, then up—across your ribs, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch she touched was treated like proof of life. Of endurance. Of return.

She didn’t speak. But her hands said everything. They moved up your sides, cataloging every bruise, every scrape. Her fingers paused at each one—lingering, memorizing. Not because she needed to know where you hurt, but because she needed to know where they had dared to leave a mark.

And then, her mouth followed. She leaned in and pressed her lips to your collarbone, slow and open. You tasted her breath against your skin, warm and uneven. She kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower. Her mouth ghosted over your sternum, then down the side of your ribs, just shy of the bruise beneath. When her lips found the edge of it, she paused. Exhaled. Pressed a kiss there, too. It wasn’t comfort. It was claim. You felt it in the way her lips lingered, in the press of her cheek to your ribs. And then she whispered—barely audible, thick with need. “I need to feel you safe.”

The words hit harder than any bruise. You nodded. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t need to. Your hands moved to her shoulders—strong, steady. You turned her gently, guiding her backward toward the bed. Her knees hit the mattress first, and she sank down without protest, her hands never leaving your waist. And then—gently—you laid her down, pressing her down like a benediction. The mattress dipped beneath your bodies, the sheets whispering around you. She yielded beneath your touch like water bending to pressure—unresisting, unafraid.

She looked up at you like she was trying not to fall apart. Like she was trying to memorize the angle of your face above her. Her breath caught when your fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist, then her forearm. You kissed your way down to her throat, over the pulse beating there like a secret.

Her hands slid up to your sides, not pulling—just holding. Her touch was slow. Devout. Nothing selfish in it. Just devotion, made flesh. You kissed her like a confession, mouth soft but sure. You opened against her lips, let her taste your exhaustion, your survival, your hunger to be seen again outside of pain. She kissed you back like absolution. Like she needed this to believe it was over.

You whispered her name. Not as a question. Not even as a prayer. Just to say it. Just to feel it in your mouth. Agatha exhaled like she had been holding her breath since the second your name came through the phone hours ago—dry, hoarse, and terrified. Your mouths found each other again, slower this time. Her lips parted under yours, soft and seeking, as though she were relearning how to be kissed after hours of holding her breath. Her hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt—the one now clinging to your damp skin—fingertips brushing your waist like they were rediscovering a coastline she used to know by heart.

Your hands moved up her shirt, lifting it just enough to press your palm to her stomach. You felt her muscles jump beneath your touch—tiny, electric tremors. She let you pull it over her head in silence. Underneath, she was bare. No bra. No armor. Just skin—warm, freckled, trembling faintly where your breath touched her.

You didn’t lunge. You looked at her. The pink rise of her nipples. The soft swell of her stomach. The tension still curled in her lower abdomen like a held note. She didn’t cover herself, but her eyes flicked up to meet yours—waiting to see what you’d do next.

You bent, kissed her sternum. Lowered your mouth to one breast and wrapped your lips around it slowly, drawing her into your mouth with purpose. Her breath caught instantly. One of her hands flew to the back of your head, not to guide but to feel—to tether herself to the reality of your mouth on her.

You sucked, slow and sure, tongue dragging against the peak of her until she arched beneath you. A low sound spilled from her throat—half-gasp, half-growl. You moved to the other breast and gave it the same devotion, your free hand sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, fingers following the subtle lines of muscle and tension.

She was already shaking. Not from fear. From release—emotional, physical, holy. You kissed your way lower, slow as sunrise, your breath warm against her belly as your mouth descended. Her thighs parted instinctively, one drawn up at the knee, the other falling open to welcome you in. Your fingers found the button of her jeans and lingered there—not for permission, but to mark the moment. She watched you with parted lips and a flush blooming along her chest, her pupils wide and swallowing the light.

You undid her pants with deliberate precision, the metal catch releasing with a soft click, the zipper rasping down like silk drawn through clenched teeth. She lifted her hips without being asked—composed, compliant, offering. You eased the denim down her legs, the gentle curve of her thigh, the ridge of her kneecap, the vulnerable softness of her calf.  She was laid bare before you. Her underwear was damp. Not just from arousal, but from everything that had built between you since the moment you stepped out of that jail. Her body had been waiting for this—not just release, but restoration. Her breath hitched as you hooked your fingers under the waistband and dragged the last barrier down, watching the way her body responded: muscles twitching, thighs parting further, the gleam of her already-slick folds catching the low light.

When you reached the edge of her, you paused—your lips hovering just above the place where her scent thickened, where heat pooled, where need lived. She looked at you then, eyes glassy and dark, lips parted around a breath she hadn’t let go. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. You licked her slowly. From base to tip. Flattening your tongue and dragging it up her center like you were writing something into her skin—something she could only read with her body.

Her hips jolted beneath you. Not a flinch. A response. Her thighs locked tighter around your shoulders, anchoring you in place, as if her body already knew this was where it had been trying to return all night. You moaned softly into her—the taste of her warm and familiar and wild. Salt and heat. Lightning and earth. You licked again, slower, firmer, letting your tongue press into her like a vow she could feel in the marrow of her bones. She gasped, a sound caught low in her throat, one hand flying to the headboard as if something in her needed grounding—needed anything to keep her from coming apart too fast. The other found you. 

Her fingers slipped into your hair, threading through the damp strands with the kind of pressure that made your spine tighten. She wasn’t pulling, not exactly. Just holding—curling her fingers into the roots like she needed the physical proof that you were real, grounded, there. Her palm pressed flat to the back of your head, her thumb stroking behind your ear. She guided you not with force but with reverence, her whole body trembling beneath your mouth.

You kissed her clit gently, lips sealing around the swollen flesh, tongue flicking once, twice, slow and deliberate. Her grip in your hair tightened just slightly, and a low, broken sound slipped out of her—half need, half disbelief.

You pushed two fingers inside her—slow, steady, unyielding. Her whole body jolted as if struck from the inside. A gasp tore out of her, raw and ragged, sharp enough to leave her throat aching. It wasn't just breath—it was need, it was the wild instinct of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long.

She clenched down around you immediately, tight and wet and pulsing, the heat of her body drawing your fingers in like a promise. You didn’t give her time to settle. You filled her with purpose, curled your fingers inside her with the quiet rhythm of worship, of knowing. The press of you was deep, certain, reverent. You kissed her clit again, slow and soft, then harder—your tongue circling with aching, relentless care. Agatha’s legs trembled violently around your shoulders. You felt it in the way her calves tensed, the way her thighs bracketed your body like instinct and defense and surrender all at once. She tried to breathe through it—but her body was speaking louder than her control ever could. You didn’t want stillness. You wanted the way her hips bucked upward, wild and graceless, seeking more. You wanted the way her voice cracked open, not in language but in pure, desperate sound. You wanted the way her breath staggered as her fingers twisted deeper into your hair, holding you to her like her life depended on it.

Agatha—always composed, always calculated. The sharpest voice in any room. But here, under your mouth, around your fingers—she fractured. Her back arched off the mattress, the curve of her spine a perfect, trembling bow. Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent plea. One hand fisted the sheets beside her, white-knuckled, pulling until the fitted corner snapped loose. Her other hand never left your head. It gripped the back of your skull like she didn’t dare let go, like if she did she’d be dragged under completely.

You pressed harder. Worked her deeper. Tongue circling her clit in unrelenting spirals, fingers curling inside her with divine purpose. You could feel her starting to break—her muscles locking, her core tightening, the low whimper curling in her chest like lightning about to strike.

You watched her fall apart from the inside out. And just as the first cry spilled from her lips, her hand flew upward—reflexive, frantic—covering her mouth like she could somehow swallow the sound. You lifted your head just enough to speak, your voice dark with reverence and heat. “Agatha.” A pause. Her eyes met yours, wide and wet. “Don’t you dare hide those moans from me.” The hand fell away slowly, shame stripped bare beneath your gaze. Her lips parted, but it wasn’t an apology you were after. It was release. And when she did moan—raw, shattered, helpless—you groaned in return. Low. Hungry. Possessive. The sound of her pleasure ricocheted through your spine, setting your body alight. You moaned into her, the vibration of it surging through her clit like a spark to kindling.

Her whole body jolted. “Fuck—” she gasped, the word dragged from her throat like a secret finally exposed. That’s what you wanted. Not silence. Not restraint. You wanted her loud. You wanted her to give herself over to it completely.  You moaned again—because of her,for her—and she cried out, hips bucking against your mouth like her body couldn’t take it anymore. The way you said her name, the way your voice trembled around her, the way your fingers curled just right inside her—it tore something open.

Her voice followed, thick and broken between panting gasps. “Please—don’t—don’t stop—” The words spilled out of her like a dam had cracked wide. Her voice was hoarse with desperation, her body straining for you, toward you. Every muscle in her thighs trembled, her hands fisting the sheets on either side of her hips. Her knuckles had gone white.

Your fingers stroked deep inside her, slow and relentless. Your mouth latched onto her clit again, tongue pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Your name fell from her lips like worship. Her voice caught on it. Broke. “I need to—God, I need to cum—on your mouth, I want to come on your mouth—”

You paused just long enough for her to feel the absence of your tongue. Then you lifted your head—barely—just enough to speak against the slick heat of her. “Is that what you want, Aggie?” you whispered, voice dark and rich with authority. Your breath dragged over her, teasing the edge of her clit. She whined—high and wrecked.

You slid your fingers deeper.  Her head tossed against the pillow, her voice hoarse with need. “wanna cum for you—please.” You moaned at the sound of her begging, the raw edge of it cutting straight through your chest.  She arched off the mattress, a full-body quake that overtook her entirely. Her thighs trembled, locked around your head like she could fuse you to her. Her fingers dug into your hair—not to guide, not to control, but to hold—to anchor her in the only truth she knew anymore: you.

You pulled your fingers out slowly, deliberately, watching the way her body clenched around the absence. Slick coated your knuckles, glistening with the proof of her need, her surrender. But you weren’t done. You leaned in lower, kissed the inside of her thigh once—then again, a whisper-soft press of lips against skin flushed with heat.  You pushed your tongue inside her. Her moan broke apart mid-air, jagged and helpless. She convulsed. The moment your tongue slid into her—deep, slow, possessive—her back bowed hard off the mattress. Her legs trembled violently on either side of your face as you fucked her with your mouth—smooth and strong and steady—tongue stroking deep, then pulling back, then driving forward again with the full weight of your devotion.

“Fuck—” she sobbed, and the sound was wrecked, nearly inhuman. Her voice cracked in half around it. “Mmmf—right there—””

You curled your arms under her thighs and pressed deeper, locking her in place. You moaned into her and the vibration made her choke on her next cry. She broke. Hard. Messy. Loud. Soaking your mouth, twitching under your tongue, gasping your name like it was the only anchor left in the world. Her thighs shook. Her body trembled. And still, you stayed with her. Inside her. Worshipping her with every stroke of your mouth, until she had nothing left to give but your name, whispered again and again like prayer.

You kissed her one last time, slow and deep, letting your tongue linger inside her. You felt the final tremors roll through her body like aftershocks, her thighs twitching, her chest still heaving, one hand still tangled in your hair like she couldn’t quite bear to let you go.

Your palms pressed into the mattress on either side of her hips as you climbed—not over her, but along her—tracing the altar of her body like scripture. Your mouth dragged over the soft plane of her stomach, the fluttering curve of her ribs, the flushed slope of her breast. She shuddered beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight in the echo of what you'd already given her—legs parted, chest rising in shaky, uneven gasps.

Her eyes found yours through the haze, wide and reverent and burning. Not begging. Offering. You leaned down, just enough to let your breath ghost over her lips. “I’m not done with you,” you whispered. A vow against her mouth. Your voice was low, wrecked, raw—full of need, full of knowing. “Not even close.” Your mouth collided with hers in heat and hunger, tongue sliding deep. She tasted like salt and surrender—like skin and aftermath, like the echo of your name caught in her throat. She gasped into you, helpless, and you swallowed it whole. Her hands flew to your back, clawing hard down the damp curve of your spine like she needed to leave marks. Maybe she did.

Your chests brushed—nipples tight and aching—and the contact made you both groan into the kiss. A low, shared sound. Desperate. Devout. You sat back slowly. Moving your body to let her see you. Let her watch. Your fingers found her right leg—slick, trembling. You lifted it gently, reverently, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee. And then, in one smooth motion, you draped it over your shoulder. Her body flexed beneath you, breath hitching.

You leaned against her left thigh, sliding into place like you’d been sculpted to fit her. Not above her. Not controlling. Aligned. Open. Anchored. The angle was perfect—your leg slotted beside hers, your center catching hers with devastating precision. That first touch—clit to clit, slick and swollen—made your whole body jolt. Your mouth parted around a gasp, head falling back as heat shot down your spine like lightning.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You leaned back slightly—just enough to keep her leg curled over your shoulder, just enough to rock your hips into her with deliberate rhythm. Your clit caught against the underside of hers—that ridge—so sensitive, so swollen it felt like it was made to meet yours. Agatha’s breath tore from her throat in a raw cry, her head dropping back, spine bowing off the bed. Her hips twitched, chasing your rhythm. Her fingers dug into your waist—not to stop you, never that—but to anchor herself. To feel.

You circled again. Firmer. Sharper. Each pass of your clit dragged through hers with a heat that bordered on unbearable. The contact was obscene—wet silk, soft friction, slippery pressure that made your breath shudder out in broken pieces. Her leg trembled over your shoulder. Her breath faltered. You kissed her calf. Then your voice dropped—low, guttural, trembling. “Just like that.”

You moved—hips grinding in a soaked, sacred rhythm. Every circle hit that same angle, that same nerve-rich ridge where you met her perfectly. Agatha whimpered. You moaned. The sound of your slick bodies meeting filled the air—wet, rhythmic, shameless. And still, you moved. Again. And again. And again. You leaned into the drag—controlled, wrecked, reverent. The pressure bloomed at the base of your spine, sharp and divine. The angle. The heat. It was all too much and not nearly enough. Your clit caught beneath hers again—right in that aching spot—and her entire body arched like she'd been struck by lightning.

“Ahhh—fuck—” Her voice cracked, hands flying to the sheets, the mattress, you. “You feel—oh God—” You rolled your hips again, your breath catching on the impact. The drag was soaked. The ridge was sharp. The friction was perfect. You cried out—raw, guttural—as pleasure surged through you like fire. You kissed the inside of her knee again, teeth scraping lightly against the muscle as your back arched and your hips snapped.

Your grip tightened—one hand braced on her hip, the other still holding her leg where it crowned your shoulder like something holy. She held on. You found your rhythm—deep, slow circles that made her whimper with every pass. Her clit pulsed beneath yours, slick and swollen, catching you in that divine slide. Her head thrashed. Her hips bucked. “Look at me.” Your voice was rough now, cracked with need. Sacred. Sharp. “I want to watch you while I fuck you like this.”

Her eyes flew open—wrecked, glassy, pleading. But they met yours. Locked. Wide. Glowing. And what you saw there was beautiful. Ruined devotion. Wide-open need. It nearly broke you. You ground down harder. Slower. Let your clit drag through hers in one long, brutal slide that made her cry out, voice splintering in your name. Her mouth opened. But no words came. Just sound. Just you. Your body was fire—burning from the inside out, every nerve wired to hers. Every grind of your clit sent new waves of heat crashing through your spine. You moaned—louder this time, no shame, no restraint—as your climax clawed its way up from your core. “F-fuck—Aggie—fuck—”

Your hips moved faster. Deeper. Tighter circles that slammed your clit against hers again and again until the pleasure went white-hot, ragged, unstoppable. The drag of your bodies was slick and relentless. Soaked. Sacred. Her breath caught. It hit her like a tidal wave—her thighs locking, hands clawing at the sheets, mouth torn wide in a moan that cracked into pieces. She came hard, convulsing under you, her whole body seizing with the force of it. You were right behind her. Your orgasm slammed into you like thunder, blinding and wild. You cried out her name—wrecked, gasping—as your clit spasmed with every beat of your heart. Your body shook. Your vision blurred. The pleasure tore through you like something holy.

You kept circling, trembling, your body grinding through the aftershocks as if you could give her more, all of you. You moved her thigh off your shoulder, kissing it once more. Laying it down gently. You collapsed into her, chest to chest, trembling, your breath hot against her throat. Agatha was gasping, your name slipping from her lips in pieces—quiet, hoarse, like a prayer spoken through tears. Her hands slid slowly up your back, not searching, just holding, like she needed to feel you pressed close to believe you were still real. She was shaking, still whimpering softly into your neck, her legs quivering around your waist, her entire body limp with the weight of what had just passed between you. Your slick mingled with hers in a soaked, sacred mess between your thighs—evidence of need, of trust, of everything you’d just given and taken.

The room around you vibrated with aftermath—wet skin, broken rhythm, the trembling hush of something holy having torn through both of you. The air smelled like sex, like salt and heat and skin, but beneath that, it smelled like home—like her. You kissed her. Not hungrily. Not to claim. But because you needed to. Because the only thing left to do in the wake of what you’d shared was to seal it with reverence. Your lips pressed to hers with the kind of aching slowness that meant everything. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand or devour, but promised. A kiss that said, I see you. I always will. You lingered there, mouths open and soft, letting the weight of the moment settle into the center of your chest like gravity.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words catching on what little breath you had left. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration. It didn’t need to be. It came out like marrow—raw and unshakable, undeniable in its truth. Her breath caught, just once. And then her hands began to move.

They slid up your sides in long, steady strokes. Down your spine. Into your hair. Her fingers cradled the back of your head, firm and sure, like she was taking hold of something she already owned. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her mouth opening beneath yours, guiding rather than asking. “I know,” Agatha murmured against your lips, her voice still frayed around the edges—wrecked, but shifting.

And then she moved. It was subtle at first. Barely perceptible. Just the tilt of her mouth against yours, but you felt it. The shift. The transfer. Something beneath your skin recognized it before you did. Her lips parted beneath yours—and then sealed again—this time deeper, firmer. Her kiss was no longer a reply. It was a command. Her tongue met yours, coaxing at first, then catching. And then she sucked—slow, hungry, deliberate—pulling your tongue into her mouth like she was taking something sacred. A taste. A vow. Your breath. The sound you made cracked open from your chest, half-moan, half-sob. You shivered beneath her, your hands slipping, trying to hold on—but she had you.

Agatha kissed you like she wanted to swallow your pulse. And as your hips trembled up into her, she began to rise. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other slid down, anchoring at your hip. She rolled her body against yours—not aggressive, not forceful—but with the quiet power of someone reclaiming ground that had always belonged to her.

She shifted her weight, one leg sliding between yours, her thigh nudging yours apart again, her breath still catching but her movements gaining precision. You felt her fingers flex against your ribs as she took a breath and exhaled through her nose—steadying herself.

And then she rolled you. It happened in a fluid wave. One moment you were on top—straddling, trembling, kissed open. The next, her hands were guiding your hips and your spine, your body turning beneath hers with the ease of water answering gravity. You landed back against the mattress with a soft gasp, your hair fanned across the pillow, your legs open and wet and waiting.

She followed you down. Didn’t hesitate. Her body stretched over yours in one long, heated press—shoulders shadowing yours, her thighs bracketing your hips. She hovered just above you for a breathless second, her gaze drinking you in—cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, lips swollen from the way she'd kissed you.

You stared up at her like you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your life. Agatha was trembling—but it was a different kind of tremor now. Not overwhelmed. Not undone. It was control, newly returned to her hands. It was power, held gently, like fire carried in open palms. She looked at you like she’d waited her whole life for this moment. Her hair fell forward around her face as she leaned in again, mouth just barely brushing yours.

When your lips parted beneath hers, she didn’t hesitate—she sucked your tongue into her mouth with a low, shuddering moan that made your hips jerk up beneath her, involuntary, aching for her again.  She kissed you like she wanted to live inside your mouth. Like she wanted you silent and shaking beneath her. Each pass of her lips tasted like gratitude. Like a name whispered in a temple. There was nothing rushed about it—just warmth and breath and the shared stillness that follows sacred things. And then, slowly, she pulled back.

Her hand slid down your thigh again, steady and grounding, and then she rose—leaning back on her knees, settling between your hips like she belonged there. You blinked, dazed and open, every inch of your body slick and oversensitive. She looked down at you, and something in her expression shifted. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes roamed over your flushed chest, your parted legs, the shine of your arousal spread across your skin—and something ancient unfurled behind her gaze.

Without speaking, she brought her hand to her abdomen. Her fingers splayed across her skin just below her navel, and the air changed. You felt it first—a pulse, soft and rhythmic, like two heartbeats meeting in the dark. A violet glow flickered to life beneath her palm, faint at first, then brighter. Tendrils of energy coiled outward from her center, crawling across her torso in patterns that looked almost alive. The magic trailed over her hips, down her thighs, up her sternum, like molten silk, casting her skin in otherworldly shimmer. The heat of it rolled off her in waves, thick and heavy. She gritted her teeth, her jaw flexing with the effort of containing it. Every muscle in her body rippled with purpose, tightening as the spell took shape.

Her back arched, and then she gasped. The sound came from deep inside her—a raw, broken groan that fell out of her before she could stop it. Her head bowed. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain as her shoulders shuddered. You could feel the magic converging, sharpening, concentrating in her pelvis.

And then it appeared. Not an illusion. Not a trick. Something real. Summoned from the place where desire and divinity meet. A cock—thick and heavy and irrefutably hers—rose from her body, glowing faintly in the soft violet light of her magic. Veins ridged beneath the skin, hot and flushed, pulsing with the rhythm of her spell. It curved upward as though it had always been there, summoned not just from flesh but from need, from history, from some buried truth made manifest.

She moaned again, quieter this time. Shaken. Her hand wrapped around the base of it, tentative, like she was still learning the shape of herself. She stroked once. Then again. Slow and reverent. Her breath caught on the third pass, her shoulders twitching as her body adjusted to the new weight, the new heat. Her magic shimmered across her chest and arms, trailing after every movement like her skin couldn’t stop singing.

Her arms trembled. Her hips flexed with each slow stroke. She was still getting used to the weight of it, the power of it, the promise of it. "Fuck," she whispered. Her voice broke over the word like it didn’t know how to survive it. Her thumb dragged over the head, gathering her own shimmer-slick, her breath catching as her cock twitched in her grip.

When her eyes lifted to meet yours again, they burned straight through you. You didn’t realize you were moaning until she tilted her head, lips parted, and said your name so softly it sounded like an invocation. There was nothing performative in her expression. Just hunger. Reverence. Love, edged with something wild and claiming. “You’re trembling,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, roughened by sensation. “Look at you... spread open for me.”

The words hit you like a wave. You whimpered, hips canting upward in pure, instinctive offering. The air between you crackled. Her hand kept moving between her legs, stroking herself slowly to full hardness. She groaned under her breath, teeth gritted, her jaw clenched like she was holding something back. Then her fingers stilled, and she leaned forward.

She exhaled hard, and her cock twitched in her hand like it heard you. Her magic pulsed with it. Her whole body seemed to sharpen, realign, steady itself around your need. Then she moved. Slow at first—like a wave shifting its weight before the crash. Her hands slid to your knees, guiding your trembling thighs into place with a touch so gentle it hurt. And then she rose higher onto her knees, the heat of her body pulsing between you. Her cock, flushed and gleaming curved up from her hips like something holy. A weapon forged from magic and want. She held it loosely at the base, breath hitching as she watched the way you fluttered open beneath her.

And then—deliberately, devastatingly—she leaned forward. Her thighs slipped between yours like water seeking depth, parting you with reverence. Her body lowered above yours, the air shifting with the weight of her presence, the gravity of what she was about to do. And then you felt her.

The crown of her length, flushed and slick with need, brushed your inner thigh like a secret you weren’t ready to hold. You gasped. The sensation was maddening—too soft, too searing, too much, not enough. A whisper and a thunderclap all at once.

Her skin clung to yours—slick with sweat and humming with magic, the heat between you thick enough to taste. Her hips hovered just above yours, mercilessly patient, but the weight of her cock hung low, suspended in tension, dragging across your thigh like a vow she hadn’t yet spoken.

The tip of it glistened, leaking warmth in slow, deliberate beads. Each time she shifted, it left behind a searing trail—a streak of wanting—a mark not yet visible, but already burned into you.

Her left hand braced beside your head, palm flat, arm trembling under the strain of control. With the other, she reached between your bodies—fingers steady, reverent—and wrapped around the base of herself like she was holding a relic, not flesh. She adjusted the angle, her knuckles grazing your skin as she guided her shaft down to meet you.

And then—you felt it.

The velvet heat of her cock slid through your folds. Once. Twice. Again. Deliberate. Worshipful. Her tip nudged your clit on the third pass and your whole body jumped, a cry torn from your throat as fire shot up your spine. She groaned above you—a low, wrecked sound, as if it cracked something open in her.

But still, she didn’t push in.

She moved through you slowly, the underside of her length dragging across every swollen inch—thick, heated, reverent. Her palm followed the motion, firm around the base, guiding each stroke with ruthless, aching precision. Each pass made your breath stutter. Each drag sent another jolt through your core—not deep, not even close—just enough to leave you soaked and trembling.

The tip of her, slick and flushed, circled your clit with maddening patience before sliding down again, catching against you, spreading you without entering. She kept her grip steady. Adjusted the pressure. Aligned herself perfectly with every trembling inch. Her knuckles brushed your skin as she moved—controlling the rhythm, controlling herself.

The head nudged again, pressing into your clit in a slow, deliberate arc before dragging back down to rest—just barely—at your entrance. The anticipation coiled, sharp and unrelenting. You could feel it gathering in your belly, your throat, your skin—a need edged in reverence.

Her jaw was clenched. Her thighs shook. Her breath came hard and shallow through her nose, and still she didn’t give in. You could feel it—her restraint. A tremor disguised as control.

“God, look at you,” she rasped. “So wet for me. So fucking ready.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as she grounded herself in the sensation. When she looked at you again, her pupils were blown wide, her face caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets. Your mouth opened but only broken sounds came out. Her cock teased your entrance again, pressing in just enough for your body to part around her crown, just enough to make you sob with need.  

“Look at me,” she rasped.

Your eyes flew to hers. Her gaze was fire and storm—wide, blown, burning with something old and sovereign. The magic behind her eyes glowed faintly violet at the edges, laced with reverence, with need, with the terrible beauty of being known. Her fingers released their grip from the base of her cock and braced instead beside your head, caging you in. You felt the shift. The change in gravity. The surrender of resistance.

With the slowest, most devastating precision, she began to push forward. You felt her enter you inch by inch—her, not a spell or a toy or a placeholder, but Agatha. Her cock stretched you open with reverent force, thick and alive, pulsing with magic and heat. Your body gave way around her, clutching tight and slick, your cunt fluttering in desperation as she filled you deeper than you thought you could take.

The pressure was overwhelming, but not pain. It was fullness. Expansion. A claiming. You could feel your walls adjust to her shape, your muscles trembling with the effort of holding her, welcoming her, keeping her. The sensation tore a cry from your throat—raw and helpless—and your head tipped back on instinct.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, as though the feeling of your body accepting her was the reward she’d waited her whole life for. Then her mouth was on yours—hot, breathless, consuming—as her hips pressed forward in one smooth, controlled motion. She slid all the way in. Not fast. Not rough. Just full. The stretch burned its way through your core, your body breaking open around her, split wide by the sacred pressure of being taken. Her moan spilled into your mouth, ragged and low, vibrating against your tongue. Her body shook above yours, her muscles clenching with the effort it took not to lose control.

She collapsed against you, breasts pressed tight to your skin, both of you slick with sweat and spellwork and need. She throbbed inside you, thick and impossibly deep, every pulse matched by the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. Her thighs braced around your hips, trembling as she held you down with her weight, surrounding you in heat and strength, in the unbearable intimacy of now.

A soft, broken moan spilled from your lips, your mouth grazing her collarbone. “Ahh—Agatha…”

Her breath caught, a low, strangled sound rising in her throat. “Nnh—fuck…” Her hips jerked just slightly. Barely. Just a slow, languid pull of her hips—an inch, maybe two—before she slid back in, deep, deliberate. The stretch renewed, softer now, the ache melting into something wetter, something hungrier, and you moaned again—louder this time, throat open, breathless.

“Ah—god—yes…”

Your voice broke against her skin, trembling against the slope of her neck. She felt it—heard it—and her mouth curved into a smile so gentle, so wrecked, it made your heart seize. “There you go,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence.

She thrust again—slow, fluid, the drag of her cock thick and heavy as she pulled back and sank in deeper, letting her hips roll in a way that made your entire body bow beneath her. Your moan spilled out raw and unrestrained, your hands scrambling from the sheets up her back, trying to hold her closer, tighter, as if you could pull her inside your bones.

She groaned in response—low, breathy, helpless. “Mmmnh—fuck, you feel incredible…”

Her cock slid against every nerve, every tender edge inside you, and her next thrust came with more weight—still slow, still aching, but impossibly deep. You whimpered into the heat of her neck, your lips catching on damp skin as her rhythm built—steady, patient, devastating.

“I’m gonna take my time,” she whispered, breath hot in your ear, voice laced with the strain of control. “I want you to feel all of me… every inch. Every goddamn stroke.”

You moaned again. The syllables dragging out of you like worship. And she gave it to you. One deep, sinuous thrust at a time. Not fast. Not hard. Just full.

She moved like the tide, hips pressing forward in slow, shattering waves, your core gripping her with each stroke, wetter by the second, slick running down your thighs with every deliberate grind. The sound of your bodies meeting—wet, obscene, sacred—filled the room in soft stutters: smack… mmgh… fhh…

“God,” she rasped, biting gently at your earlobe, her hips circling as she stayed buried. “So fucking wet for me already…”

You could barely speak. Could barely breathe. A soft gasp broke from your lips—“Mmh—”—as your head turned into her shoulder, the tremor in your exhale betraying just how deep she’d reached. She pulled back again, then pushed forward once more—deep, slow, consuming—and made your whole body jolt.

“Aahh—Agatha—!”

She leaned in closer—her mouth brushing your jaw, then lower, lips parting against your neck—and sucked just beneath your pulse, slow and deliberate. The drag of her tongue made your breath hitch again— “Ahh—fuhhh—”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered against your skin, voice frayed. “I’m gonna take such good care of you…”

You nodded beneath her mouth, unable to speak—only moaning, low and helpless, as she kept moving. “Nnh… mmh… fuhhh—”

Each thrust was a vow, sinking into you with deliberate pressure, making your body light up, cell by trembling cell. Her cock dragged along every swollen nerve—thick, ridged, pulsing with heat—slow enough that you felt every vein, every twitch of her arousal mirrored through your walls. You were soaked. Slick dripped from the place where you took her deepest, where your body clung to her with desperate, greedy rhythm.

Your moan turned sharp—“Ahh—fuck—Agatha—oh my god—”—your back arching under her weight as you trembled beneth her.

She groaned, low and guttural, a rough sound torn from somewhere deep as you clamped down around her. Her mouth never left your skin—lips dragging upward now to kiss the corner of your mouth, her breath shaking as she murmured into it.

“mhhaahh—shit, baby,” she breathed, hips grinding slow but deeper, “you’re so tight—so wet for me…”

Your answer came in breath, not language— “Mmmh—nnh—tch—” You could barely hold still beneath her. Every inch of you was shaking, your skin buzzing, your mouth dragging open for another moan as she filled you again. The sound of her—the sound of you—was everywhere now. Moans tangled in the thick air, sharp gasps, wet cries. The slick, obscene drag of her inside you. The soft thump of her balls meeting you with each deep roll of her hips, sending shocks through your core that made you cry out, made your thighs tremble wide around her.

And she felt it. All of it. The way your body pulsed around her with every slow retreat, every devastating return. Her rhythm never quickened, not yet—just deep, deliberate strokes that left you clawing at her back, at the sheets, at yourself. She pressed deep again—one long, shattering stroke and bottomed out sending you arching beneath her, your head thrown back in a sobbing moan. “A-ah—Agatha—! I’m gonna—fuck—”

She caught your hips, pinning them down, and stilled inside you buried to the root. Her voice dropped, breath brushing your cheek, dark and loving and absolute.

“No.”

You froze, panting against her shoulder. Her lips ghosted your ear. “You don’t get to cum,” she whispered, voice tight and reverent, “not until Daddy says so.”

You whimpered—clenching hard around her in response, aching, throbbing, already teetering on the edge. The denial cut through the haze like lightning, sharp and grounding, your whole body trembling from the effort of holding back. “Daddy—please—” you gasped, your voice cracking around it.

“No,” she growled again, gently, into your neck. “You’ll wait. Be a good girl and let Daddy take her time.”

She pulled out halfway—your walls clenching, fluttering in protest—then thrust back in with such aching slowness you nearly sobbed. Your hands flew to her back, to her ass, to anything you could hold to keep from unraveling. Her shaft was too thick, too hot, too deep, every vein scraping against the inside of you in a rhythm that bordered on torture.

“You feel that?” she breathed. “Every inch of me—every fucking part of me inside you?”

Your mouths found each other in the mess of it—open, gasping, wet. Lips clashed, tongues tangled. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t composed.

She groaned into your mouth as she thrust again, harder this time—still controlled, still intentional, but the power behind it made your back arch and your thighs tremble. Her cock pushed deep and her balls slapped wetly against your ass with a smack that made your toes curl and your walls clench down tight.

She felt it.

“Fuuuck—” Her voice cracked, hips stuttering before she caught herself.

Your legs wrapped tighter around her hips, locking her in, refusing to let her go. You felt her cock throb inside you, thick and soaked, every thrust now hitting deeper, sharper—wet, messy, sacred. Her hips slammed into yours with rising urgency, the sound of your slick bodies meeting echoing between the broken gasps and frantic kisses.

Your head dropped back against the pillow, a sound catching in your throat— “Hnn—ah—mmnh—” It slipped out helplessly, your body arching to meet her.

“Ahhh—f-fuck, Daddy—!” you sobbed, your voice cracking open as her thrusts drove deeper, each one dragging more sound from your chest than you knew you had. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

She groaned—loud, guttural—as your words washed over her. Her mouth dropped to your throat, lips grazing your pulse, breath thick against your skin. “Yeah? You like how my cock feels inside you, baby?”

You moaned again—shakier this time— “Nnhh—tch—fuhhh—” Your hips twitched under her weight, your legs squeezing tighter as your body began to tremble. “God, yes—yes, I love it, I—fuck—I love when you fuck me like this, Daddy—”

Her pace stuttered, her next thrust rougher, deeper—perfect. “Mmmnnh—shit,” she growled, hips grinding into you. “You were made for this—look at the way you open up for me… this pussy’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yours,” you choked.

She moaned against your skin, the sound rough and filthy and wrecked. “I love fucking you,” she gasped. “I love how deep I get—how tight you are—how you clench around me like you never want me to leave—”

Her next thrust had you screaming—sharp and desperate. She slammed into you again—deep and wet, the slap of her balls hitting you sending stars through your vision—and you cried out, your voice breaking, body shaking beneath her.

“Listen to you,” she panted, mouth dragging across your jaw, lips brushing your ear. “So loud for Daddy. You need it, don’t you? You need my cock. Say it.”

“I need it,” you gasped. “I need your cock—”

She growled again, fucking into you harder now, her pace still controlled but relentless, every thrust sinking to the hilt. “That’s it. That’s my girl. So fucking wet for me—dripping, soaking my cock like you’ve been waiting your whole life to take me—”

Her words drove you wild—your hips rocked up to meet her, thighs trembling, moans pouring out of you like prayer. “Nnnh—ah—ahhh—”

“I can feel it,” she groaned, biting your neck. “The way your pussy’s clenching—grabbing me—like it knows it’s mine…”

You whimpered, nearly crying from how full you felt, how good she felt, how you couldn’t get close enough. Your bodies moved like one—your sounds rising together.

Her voice hit your ear again, raw and breaking. “No one else gets this. No one else makes me this hard. This gone. It’s only you. You do this to me.”

Your head fell back, a guttural moan breaking free. Your voice cracked, legs shaking around her as she rocked her hips again, just as slow, just as merciless.

Her hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head, her body bearing down with all that heat and weight. She kissed you hard—messy, open-mouthed—tongue sliding over yours as another deep thrust made your body arch, your cunt gripping her so tight she groaned straight into your mouth.

“Not yet. My brave girl.” she whispered.

You whimpered, sobbing softly, your body shaking beneath her from the ache of holding back. Every part of you was strung tight, your cunt soaked and pulsing around the heat of her cock, your breaths ragged, mouth open in helpless moans.

And then she pulled back just enough to see you, releasing your wrist.

She braced above you, trembling slightly, and her eyes scanned every inch of your face like she was trying to memorize the way you fall apart just for her. Your hair was a wild halo against the pillow, lips kiss-bruised and parted, breath coming hard and fast. The flush on your cheeks mirrored the heat in hers. Your chest rose and fell in sharp waves beneath her, the soft swell of your breasts brushing against hers with every trembling inhale.

She stared—stilled in that space where worship met want—and her pupils were blown wide, blue and endless. Her mouth hung open, the bottom lip twitching like she was about to say something, then forgot how to form words. She looked down, groaning softly at the sight of her cock still buried deep in your cunt, slick and twitching inside you. Then her gaze snapped back up—eyes glazed with heat, yes, but also something raw. Something more than hunger.

Devotion.

Her breath hitched. You felt it—tight and shaky where her chest brushed yours. Then her voice, low and cracked and full of awe: “God, baby…” Her eyes traced your every ruined, radiant inch. “Just lay there like that. Let me look at you.” Her hips rocked forward again, slow and dragging, her cock pulling nearly out before she slid back in, pressing so deep it punched a moan from your throat.

Your mouth dropped open, head falling back. Your fingers fisted the sheets. Your back arched. “Ahhh—nghhh—”

She groaned at the sound, her whole body stuttering like your voice had gone straight through her. Her hands trembled against the bed, but then she moved—shifted her weight to one arm, keeping her chest hovering just above yours. Her other hand slipped down, fingertips brushing your stomach, then lower, slow and reverent, until she found the base of her cock where it disappeared inside you.

You felt her knuckles brush your swollen lips as she wrapped her fingers around herself again—steadying, guiding. Then she pulled back. Her cock dragged through your slick heat, every vein scraping against the oversensitive clutch of your walls until just the head remained inside you. She paused there, hovering, teasing. Her breath fell hot against your cheek as she looked down between your bodies, watching the way you stretched, watching your cunt flutter open and empty without her.

And then she slid herself along you—up through your folds, thick and slick and unbearably slow—rubbing the head of her cock up your center and catching on your clit with a pressure that made you cry out.

“Mmmppphhhh—” The sound cracked from your throat before you could swallow it.

She moaned at the sound—low, wrecked—and did it again. Dragged herself down your slick folds, nudging at your entrance, pressing just enough to feel the resistance, then slipping back up. Her cock gleamed with you, soaked, pulsing in her hand. “Fuck…” she breathed, her voice unraveling. “God, baby, look how wet you are for me…”

Another pass—slow, obscene. She rubbed herself against your clit again, made you jerk under her, made your thighs twitch and your cunt clench around nothing. You gasped—“Ahhh—nnh—mmh—”—half-sob, half-shiver, your voice catching on the edge of need.

Then, finally, she lined herself up and pushed back in. Her hand stayed there, guiding herself through the tight squeeze of your cunt until her hips pressed flush to yours again, and she moaned—long, guttural, helpless. “Fuuuck…” You sobbed beneath her, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “D-Daddy—” The word fell apart on your tongue.

She did it again. Pulled back with aching control. Rubbed herself through your folds once more—slow, loving, filthy—then pushed back inside, slower this time, like she needed to feel every twitch of your body welcoming her.

And you gave it to her. Every time she slid in, you opened for her. Every time she dragged herself out, you ached for more—hips twitching, coating her cock in wet devotion. Her voice broke at your ear, thick with need. “I could do this forever… tease you, fuck you slow, watch your face every time Daddy slides back in…”

“Shit,” she breathed, eyes locked on your face as she pulled out again. Her fingers wrapped tight around the base, guiding herself back through your folds. You whimpered when the head rubbed over your clit, your voice breaking with it— “Nnh—ah—don’t—please—” She grinned—crooked, hungry, knowing. She lined herself up and sank in once more, all the way to the hilt, slow enough that your whole body arched and your breath caught. “Ohhh—fuhhh—Agatha—”

She groaned. Long. Shattered. “God, baby… you love this, don’t you?” she whispered. “It kills you, but you love it…” Her thrusts slowed again, her hand still on herself, controlling the angle, the pressure, the tease. You nodded, tears in your lashes from the burn of holding it all in. Her lips ghosted across your cheek, her breath hitching. “This drives you just as crazy as it drives me. Say it.”

You moaned against her jaw—“Mmnh—yeah—”—your voice breaking on the inhale. “I love it… I love when you do this to me…”

She pulled out again, ran herself over your folds—your clit, your entrance, back again—her cock soaked and twitching against your skin. “You love the way I fuck you slow. The way I wait.”

“D-daddy—please—” The word tore from you—broken, breathless, soaked.

Her hand still gripped her base, steadying, guiding, shaking. Then she pressed forward and slid back in, slow and devastating, until she was buried to the hilt.

Your whole body seized with it—back arching, a sob of a moan catching in your throat. “Ahhh—nnn—fuck—”

Her eyes dropped to where your bodies met, to where your cunt stretched around the thick base of her cock, soaked and trembling. “You’re so full—fuck—you look so good full of me.”

The words hit like heat. Your chest heaved. Your walls fluttered around her. She held there a beat longer, breathing hard, eyes locked on your face like she was reading every quake of your body, every trembling moan. Then her hand left the base of her cock—slow, deliberate.

And she moved.

One thrust. Then another. Deep. Heavy. Unforgiving. Her length dragged through you with unbearable thickness, every swollen vein and pronounced ridge scraping slow along your walls like a brand. It was too much—it was perfect. A stretch that lit you from the inside out, left your thighs trembling and your cunt fluttering wildly around her. Your slick coated her, dripped down between your legs, wet and hot and endless, every stroke pulling more from you.

Your fingers twisted the sheets. Your breath stuttered through parted lips. Each time she bottomed out, your voice cracked with it.

Above you, Agatha groaned—low, long, aching—her chest beginning to tremble with every thrust. “Shit—ahh—fuck—” “Mmmgh—god—baby—” She didn’t hold back now. Didn’t slow. Her hips rocked into you with rhythm and reverence, every stroke buried to the hilt.

Then she folded over you.

Bracing on her elbows, her chest flush to yours, slick with heat and breathless sweat, her mouth caught your cry as her hips thrust hard. The weight of her ground deep inside you like she belonged nowhere else—like home was something she found in you.

You felt her everywhere. The pressure. The weight. The relentless drag of her rubbing inside you. She slammed into yours, her hips pressing down, claiming. Her skin was hot and tight and trembling against yours, and your legs fell open without thought, trying to take her deeper.

Her balls slapped against your ass—wet, rhythmic, relentless. Each impact hit with a soaked precision that made your breath stutter and your cunt clench around her cock. That sound—obscene and sacred all at once—echoed between you like worship. Like ruin. Like everything she ever wanted was happening right here, in the way your bodies met over and over again.

Agatha groaned behind your ear—“Uhhhn—fuck—”—deep and thick, pulled straight from her chest. Her hips ground into you harder, her weight pressing you down into the mattress like she wanted to leave a mark on your soul.

“God—your pussy’s so fucking tight, baby,” she growled, her voice shredded with reverence and need. “So tight for Daddy…”

Your mouth fell open, your head thrown back. You couldn’t stop the moan that spilled out—high, broken, needy. “Hhhah—uhh—uhnnh—”

You could feel everything—every drag, every pulse, every twitch of her cock inside you. The way she dragged along your walls, the ridges of her veins catching and pulling against every swollen edge. The head—wide, swollen, pressure-heavy—pressed deeper and brushed the place that made your voice snap in half.

Your nails scraped down her back, desperate and trembling, your voice cracking as it left you. “Ah—ghhh—f-fuck—too much—”

She moaned into your skin, low and guttural, the sound scraped from deep in her chest. Her hips stuttered for half a breath, tension rippling through her frame. “Ffhh—shit—baby—”

Then she snapped forward again, grinding so deep the base of her cock pressed flush to your slick folds, her hips rocking in like she needed to carve herself into you. “I know, baby. I know it’s too much,” she panted, her lips dragging across your cheek, your temple, your throat—frantic with reverence. “But you’re doing so good—so fucking good—. You love how full you are, don’t you?”

You whimpered. Your voice failed. Your whole body locked up in answer. All you could do was nod—trembling, wide-eyed, jaw slack—until another thrust knocked a cry out of you. “Hh—ahh—mmgh—fuck—” The burn was sacred. The stretch was heaven. You nodded, head rolling back, jaw slack—until her next thrust forced a sound out of you that didn’t sound human.

“Ahnn—huhh—hahhh—D-Daddy—”

She didn’t slow. She didn’t let you breathe.  “That’s it,” she growled, lost now. “Let me in, baby. Let me have all of you—”

Her cock slammed in again. Then again. Every thrust was heavier now—deeper, like she wasn’t just fucking you, she was planting herself inside you. The drag of her cock pulled a string of slick sounds from your body—lewd and soaked and sacred.

Your legs trembled around her waist. Your arms locked around her shoulders like you could anchor yourself through the storm. “T-too big,” you gasped, voice thin and shaking. “So fucking big—mmmnnh—hurts, Daddy—feels s-so good—”

Agatha moaned again—“Fuck, fuck—”—low and biting, like she was barely holding it together. Her forehead pressed to yours, her breath pouring over your lips, every exhale unsteady. Her voice dropped to a growl. “Shhh… look at you—so good for me, baby, so fucking good—””

She rolled her hips again—slow, so deep—and your whole body jumped. Your cunt spasmed around her. Another gush of slick spilled between you, coating her cock, your thighs, the sheets. “Unhh—nhghhh—c-can’t—can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she breathed, panting now, voice twisted with awe and hunger. “You want this. You want me to fuck you until you can’t think—til you're crying, saying it’s too much—while your pussy just keeps sucking me in—begging me to stay—”

You moaned—long, cracked, desperate—as you clenched down without meaning to, your cunt fluttering like your body had made peace with breaking.

Agatha groaned—“Hhrrgh—shit, baby—you feel that?” Her voice cracked. Her hips jerked again, her cock twitching inside you. “You’re dripping—fucking shaking— and your body’s still begging—still asking Daddy for more—”

Her rhythm faltered—hips stuttering, breath catching—but she forced herself back in. Controlled. Grinding. Her thrusts weren’t wild anymore. They were starving.

Each one came with a moan scraped straight from her lungs: “Ngh—fhhk—hnnh—so deep—” “Mmmnn—tight—tight—fuck—”

The slap of her hips against yours filled the room. Louder. Faster. Filthier. Her balls hit you with every stroke—wet, heavy, punishing. Each smack made your thighs twitch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. Your cries came in waves—shattered, breathless, sobbing sounds. No words. No shape. Just the wreckage of want echoing off the walls.

“So hard…” you gasped, barely audible. “So deep—c-can’t—mmmnngh—so full—”

Agatha kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—open-mouthed and panting. She moaned against your skin, her voice raw. Her hips never stopped. She rutted into you like she was losing herself inside your body. “I know, baby. I know. You’re being so good—taking every inch”

The bed creaked beneath you in a steady rhythm—sharp, hollow thuds that matched the weight of her hips slamming into yours. Each thrust jolted the frame, the soft squeal of wood and motion becoming a relentless cadence. Her cock dragged through your core with lewd, aching precision—thick and soaked, every ridge and vein scraping along your walls like it had been made to fit you and only you. The wet sound of her slipping in and out filled the room, louder now, impossible to ignore—raw, slick, sacred. The weight of her balls slapped against you, adding to the slick echo of your bodies meeting. Slap. Slap. Slap.

You choked on a moan, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open. “Mmf—mmf—nnnh—”

The bed rocked harder, the headboard tapping the wall in time with every movement. Her skin stuck to yours. Her sweat beaded at the hollow of your throat. Your slick coated her thighs, ran down onto the sheets, made every stroke louder. The air was thick with it—sex and heat and magic and the kind of desperation only she ever pulled from you. The mattress heaved beneath you, the bed groaning under the force of her body. Slap. Her balls struck you with the next thrust—wet, firm, heavy. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your breath hitched. “Hnnn—hh—gghnn—” A sob burst from your throat, crumpling your voice in the middle of a gasp. “Uh—uh—uh—ahhh—f-fuck—” you whimpered, each gasp caught on the back of your tongue like you couldn’t quite keep up with her. “Daddy—” Above you, her breath broke into a moan—low, guttural, feral. “Nnnnnnnnnh—fuck—”

Her teeth grazed your neck as her hips slammed forward again, chasing the sound she just pulled from you. “You sound so good when I’m inside you,” she panted, voice hoarse, ruined. “You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded before you could speak, tears clinging to your lashes, jaw slack as your body rocked beneath her. The rhythm of her cock was constant and unholy, the obscene drag of her thickness pulling out just enough to make you cry for her, then slamming back in with a slick slap that echoed off the walls. “Khh—khhn—fuckfuck—” Your voice cracked, dragged raw with the rhythm.

The sound was so intimate it made you cry out, your body convulsing in helpless pleasure. You felt it—the swing and slap against your ass with every deep thrust, every grind that forced her cock as far as you could take. They were hot and tight, bouncing against your skin, again and again, swinging low enough to land perfectly, rhythmically, over and over, until your spine arched to meet each blow. The pressure, the weight—it made your thighs tremble. Your walls clenched around her, clutching with instinctive hunger. “Nnnh—nghh—fuck—Agatha—ahh—”

Agatha let out another moan—drawn from the depths of her chest, broken at the top. “—god, baby—” She bent low, her mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw, sucking in each of your sounds like breath.

Your voice cracked on her name, and something in her broke open. She groaned low, primal, her mouth pressed to your jaw as her hips rolled again. Slap. Your breath hitched. A choked moan escaped—half-formed, soaked in need. Slap. Again. Again. The sound of your slick, her cock, your moans—the rhythm was deafening now.

“Mmmph f-fuck—” you gasped, voice high and wrecked. “—it’s s-so loud—” you sobbed, voice cracking as the bed knocked against the wall, as the slap of her balls hit you again, again, again. “So loud, Daddy—””

Agatha froze for just a beat—like the words gripped her spine and dragged a moan straight from her chest. It rolled out of her low and shaking, not a word, not a command—just a raw, punched-out “Nnh—ah!”, scraped from somewhere primal. Her hips stuttered, cock buried deep, her body trembling from the force of it.

She loved it. The wet slap of her against you, the bed knocking the wall, your cries catching on every thrust—it did something to her. Her moan deepened into your neck, long and ruined, the sound vibrating straight through you. She didn’t speak right away—just groaned again, voice curling out of her like smoke, like surrender and power in the same breath.

The slick wet sound of your cunt wrapped around her cock echoed loud in the room now. Louder than it should’ve been. Louder than it had to be.

Agatha moaned into your skin, deep and drawn out, her hips stuttered for half a beat—not from weakness, but from the way you said it. From the way you meant it. Her grin was sharp, breathless, possessive—pressed against your jaw as she rocked deeper. “You hear that, baby?”  

She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Ahn—ahn—ahn—ahhh—fuck!”

“That’s your pussy,” she murmured, voice soaked in reverence. “That’s what you sound like when I’m inside you. When I’m fucking you right.”  She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Hnn—fuck—” Her voice dropped, low and ruined, right against your ear. “Listen to it.”

Another thrust. She eased in until her thick tip went slack, swelling in your depths, pressuring just enough before she rocked forward.  Slap. “That’s us. That’s my cock, my balls, —Daddy fucking you raw and open—fuck…..” she growled, voice thick with awe, her lips brushing your ear.  She snapped her hips harder, and the slap was louder this time, more deliberate.

You whimpered, your whole body tensing beneath her. It was so obscene. So perfect. That heavy, rhythmic smack against your skin—it drove you wild.  You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You nodded, whimpering, pussy fluttering as her cock dragged slow through you again, thick and pulsing. You sobbed beneath her, helpless and soaked. Her moan hit your ear, rough and ragged, her body trembling above yours. “I love it,” she said, breathless. “No one else gets to hear this. Just you. Just me.”

Every sound matched the sensation: her grinding deep, hitting your cervix with every pass, her balls smacking your skin, the slick, obscene squelch of your core soaked around her. The headboard rattled. The sheets shifted. The whole room sang with it.

“It’s so much,” you gasped, your voice shredded, every breath catching. “So loud—”

“I know it is,” she gasped, rutting forward, her hips finding that devastating rhythm again. “You’re taking it. Like you always do.”

Your cries weren’t words anymore. They were open-mouthed gasps, whines, shattered, aching moans you couldn’t hold in if you tried. “Ahnn—khh—hhhn—!”

Agatha kissed you hard, catching one of those sounds against her tongue, swallowing it like a gift. She twitched inside you as you clenched again.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Sounds so pretty—every fucking sound you make for daddy.”

You tried to speak—but your mouth only opened around air, around need. A whimper escaped instead, thick and trembling, catching on your tongue like it wasn’t sure if it belonged to pain or pleasure. You felt splintered under her—overwhelmed and pinned and dripping with want. You couldn’t shape a single word. Just noise. Just that sound, raw and bitten down, forced from your throat as she drove deeper.

“Open your mouth,” she whispered.

Your lips parted before your mind could catch up. Agatha moaned—a deep, wrecked sound scraped from somewhere primal—before leaning in and spitting into it. It hit your tongue hot and heavy, tasting like salt and sin and the sacred claim she never stopped making. You swallowed instantly. Reflex. Worship. Her breath caught as she watched you do it, her body twitching above yours like she could feel it in her spine.

“That’s my girl,” she breathed, voice shaking. “So fucking good—so sweet like this.”

And then her hips snapped forward.

Slap.

It echoed off the walls like punctuation—sharp, soaking, final.

“Say it,” she growled, voice barely tethered. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

You tried. Tried to speak through the wreckage of your breath, through the tears on your tongue and the moans stuck to your ribs. Your head tipped back into the pillow, mouth open, body trembling beneath her. Your throat gave first.

You sobbed. “You, Daddy. Always—fuck—always—”

Her moan followed instantly—“Nnhhh—fuck, that’s it—”—shuddering out of her like she couldn’t keep it in. Her chest pressed flush to yours, sweat-slick and searing, grinding impossibly deeper as she whispered into your skin.

“That’s right. All mine.” One hand slid under your thigh and lifted it higher, spreading you wide, forcing you open. The angle was brutal. Perfect. She surged again, driving into the softest, deepest part of your body. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to keep.”

Her next thrust was devastating—hard, slow, exacting. You screamed—wordless, holy. A wrecked, high sob tangled with a moan. Your core gushed around her again, drenching her, the sheets, everything. The sound was wet, shameless, sacred.

“Khh—ahhh—mmnfhh—Daddy—fuck—”

Agatha shuddered. Her voice splintered on a groan. “God—baby, you sound so fucking good—so wet—so tight—so fucking mine—”

The bed slammed into the wall now, over and over, in time with her thrusts. Her moans broke free between clenched teeth, and each one only drove her harder. Deeper.

Your cries poured from you like heat, each one higher than the last— “Ahh—mmhh—nnnh—please—please—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. More? Mercy? Her? All of it?

Her hand caught the back of your neck. Her thumb pressed under your jaw—not choking, not cruel—just enough to hold you in place. To feel the moans crawling out of your throat.

You clenched again—reflexive, involuntary—tightening around her your body was trying to keep her there, locked inside, sealed with heat and need. Agatha moaned, deep and guttural, the sound catching at the base of her throat before it cracked on the way out. Her hips stuttered—barely—but enough for you to feel her restraint fracture.

“Fffffuck—” It rasped through her teeth, rough and trembling, her breath dragging across your jaw like she couldn’t speak without breaking.

She pulled back—slow, every ridge and vein dragging through your slick, swollen walls—until your breath caught, and you whined for her, small and shaking: “Nnnh—D-Daddy—please—” —and then slammed back in, hips smacking wet against your ass, her balls landing with a heavy slap.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as your body seized beneath her. The sounds pouring from you weren’t words anymore—just cracked, desperate gasps from somewhere deep inside: “Ghhn—nnnk—fffh—ahhh—”

Agatha groaned—louder now, breathless, strained. She kissed you mid-sound, catching one of your cries against her mouth like it belonged to her.  Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite—like her rhythm had been carved to match yours. She dragged perfectly along your soaked walls, each grind punching a new sound out of you. Your body knew her. Reacted to her. Opened for her.

Her voice broke into your mouth like a spell. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck—you’re right there—” You gasped—nodding frantically, helpless. Too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled beneath her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your center, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Let me feel it,” she whispered, voice trembling with reverence. “Let Daddy feel you break.”

Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as you clamped around her shaft like you never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha groaned so deep it sounded like her soul cracked open. Her hips stuttered mid-thrust, unable to stay steady through the feel of you pulsing around her like that. “That’s it,” she gasped, voice shaking. “Just like that—cum for me—goddamn—you’re perfect—”

You sobbed beneath her, back arched, drenched in heat and sound and the rhythm of your own ruin—every part of you drawn tight and trembling as she fucked you through it, holding you to the edge of yourself like it was a prayer.

Her thrusts slowed, then stilled—hips hovering just above yours, trembling with the effort not to fall. Her cock pulsed inside you, deep and thick, twitching like it was lost without movement. The flush across her cheeks deepened, crawling down her throat like it had been dragged from the furnace of her chest. The fire in her eyes didn’t fade—but it flickered. Drawn inward. Banked behind clenched teeth and a jaw so tight you could see the restraint in every shaking muscle.

Her breath hitched—hard and sudden. Not a moan. Not even a gasp. A warning. One she couldn’t bear to give voice to.

And then she shook. Not from weakness. Not from fear. From restraint.

A full-body ripple of heat and hesitation rolled through her like a tide breaking against stone. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then she smiled—barely. Just enough to reveal the crack in her armor. That soft, secret kind of smile she only ever wore when she was on the edge of breaking. The kind that belonged to you alone.

“I don’t—I don’t have a condom,” she said, and the words came out wrecked. Frayed at the edges. Her voice trembled like it hurt to say, like it was a confession she didn’t want to give. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt you—”

But you knew that tone. You knew what came after it.

This was the part of the story you’d rewritten a thousand times—on breath, on trust, on soaked sheets and holy promises. The line between devotion and craving blurred so beautifully here, it left you both trembling. This was the game. The ritual. The ache you loved to live in.

She was your first. She was your only. And she was already shaking from how badly she wanted to stay buried inside you.

You didn’t answer.

You moaned—deep and cracked, a sound that came from the pit of your stomach—and let your legs fall open beneath her, wider than before. A silent dare. A sacred offering.

Agatha’s breath hitched again—this time so violently it punched through her chest. Her hands flew to your thighs, clinging like she needed the contact or she'd fall through you. “You—fuck—” she gasped, her voice breaking. Her head dropped to your shoulder, trembling, her breath ragged against your neck. “You’re not making this easy on Daddy…”

She lifted her head—barely. Her eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent, until they landed between your legs—at the place where her cock was still sheathed inside you, flushed and soaked and trembling. And something broke in her. You saw it.

“You look so fucking perfect like this,” she whispered. Reverent. Wrecked. “So full of me…”

You moaned again—low, guttural, full of possession. Your arms came up around her, locking behind her back like you could hold her in place with will alone. Your chests pressed tight together, sweat slick between you, the heat of her body pulsing like a second heartbeat inside you. The tremble in her thighs grew more frantic. Her breath stuttered into your hair.

“So good—so good—so—fucking—good—” she panted, forehead pressed to yours. Every inch of her was shaking. Every muscle burning with restraint. “I don’t wanna hurt you…”

But her body had already betrayed her.

Her hips shifted—just a twitch—but you felt it. The slow, aching grind of her cock rocked through you—deep, searching. Not a thrust. Not a decision. Instinct. Need. Too old and too deep to be masked. She gasped—sharp and startled—like the motion had shocked her. She shook her head. “No—fuck—” she whispered, almost to herself, like she was trying to anchor her soul to her skin.

She tried to pull back. Not in fear. Not in shame. In discipline. In love. Her hips lifted slowly, deliberately, every muscle in her fighting the pull of your body. Her cock dragged against your walls—thick, soaked, trembling—and the stretch of losing her made your whole body whimper. You felt your cunt clutch at her, fluttering, desperate, slick and aching. Your body didn’t want to let her go. Her thighs tensed. Her shoulders shook. Her breath fractured into your neck. She was slipping.

You felt it. Her cock twitched at your entrance. Her chest quaked with effort. Her mouth opened—maybe to apologize, maybe to say goodbye.

But you didn’t let her. You moved. Your hips surged upward, deliberate. Hungry. You caught her just as the head of her cock began to pull free. Your thighs clamped around her waist, anchoring her with something deeper than muscle.

You knew. You knew she needed this. You knew what she was asking without saying. You caught her. And she gasped—a sound so raw it cracked through the air like lightning. Her hands flew to the mattress, bracing herself. Trembling. Her whole body thrown into chaos by the feel of you tightening around her again.

“Baby—” she choked. But it was already too late. You were clinging to her, soaked and shaking, every inch of your body begging to be filled. Your arms wrapped around her back. Your legs held her in place.

And then—your voice. It rose like a vow between you, trembled in the stillness, and split the world open. “Stay,” you whispered, your lips brushing hers, your eyes locked to the soul of her. “Don’t pull out. Cum in me.”

Her breath hitched like a sob. Her hands braced hard against the mattress like she was trying not to collapse. Her whole body trembled above you, suspended between the ruin she wanted and the reverence she still thought she had to maintain. “Fuck—baby, I can’t—” she moaned, voice breaking apart in your ear. Her hips pressed forward again, helplessly. Her cock twitched deep inside you. “Daddy won’t be able to stop.”

Your voice cracked. “I said don’t.” Her hips twitched—once, then again—small, helpless movements that betrayed her restraint. She hovered over you, every muscle shaking, her cock still buried to the hilt inside your soaked, aching cunt. You could feel her pulse there—thick and frantic—each beat a warning, a plea, a promise she was no longer capable of keeping. She was holding herself back with trembling, white-knuckled effort. But the illusion of control was slipping.

“I wanna come so deep inside you,” she whispered, voice splintered at the edges, her lips brushing your cheek like a kiss she couldn’t quite commit to. “I want it to spill out when I’m done. I want you to feel it all night.”

Your answer wasn’t a word. It was a moan—low, wet, reverent—dragged from your throat like prayer. Your body arched to meet hers, your center clenching around her with instinctive, aching hunger. It felt like your entire body was answering for you.

You couldn’t speak at first. Couldn’t breathe. And then, breathless: “Y-yeah…”

Her breath hitched like the word wounded her—like it split something in her open.

“You want that, don’t you?” she rasped, grinding into you—barely. Just once. Just enough for her cock to drag thick and slow through your desperate heat. “You love it when I talk about it. When I tell you how bad daddy wants to cum inside her girl’s perfect pussy.”

Your whimper cracked through the air like a sob, high and broken and helpless. It echoed between your bodies, filled the room with something raw and sacred. Agatha shuddered. Her hands clenched against the mattress like she was trying to anchor herself.

“Fuck—when I say how bad I want to breed you—”

That shattered something inside you.

She was all instinct now. All ruin. And then—mid-thrust—you cried out: “Daaaaaadddyyyyy”

Your clamped around her with brutal force—slick, pulsing, desperate—and your moan tore loose like your body couldn’t contain it another second. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet. It came out high and aching, the kind of sound only she ever got from you. The kind that made her shake. Her own cry followed—lower, guttural, deep in her chest like it had been buried there and finally broke free. She rocked forward again, unable to stop herself, her body betraying her with every twitch.

“You want me to fill you so full it leaks down your thighs,” she choked, voice climbing, rhythm faltering. “Claim you from the inside out—mark you.”

Her balls slapped wetly against your ass with the next thrust—sharp, filthy, final. The sound echoed off the walls: smack, squelch, moan. The bed creaked. The headboard tapped. Your soaked body made everything louder.

“I want to stay inside you, baby,” she panted, forehead dropping to yours. “Come so deep you’ll feel it tomorrow. I need it—”

That was when the rhythm changed.

No more reverence. No more restraint. No more holding back.

Her hips slammed into you with rising desperation—wet, heavy, obscene. Slap, slap, slap. Her cock drove deep, the sound of her plunging into your soaked heat nothing short of sacrilegious. Every thrust rang through the room like a chant. Her moans broke free without filter now—low and guttural, cracked and pleading.

Her breath stuttered each time she bottomed out, your name tumbling from her lips like a litany—like she needed to say it or lose herself entirely. Her voice cracked.

“God—you feel so fucking good—so fucking tight—”

You couldn’t even think. You were sobbing with every thrust, breath catching, cunt fluttering helplessly around her cock. You were soaked. Slick poured down your thighs, your body begging for everything she had.

And she felt it.

She felt how you welcomed her—dragged her deeper, clung tighter, fluttering open with every thrust like your body had been waiting just for this. Just for her.

Her hands tightened around your hips, knuckles white, anchoring her to this moment like it was the only thing keeping her breathing. Her mouth found your throat—hot, desperate—moaning into your skin like she needed the taste of you to survive. Her hips rolled harder, faster, her cock grinding deep with every wet, shuddering thrust, the bed groaning beneath you both.

“Mmnnnnghh—D-Daddyyy—” The moan cracked from your throat like it had been torn loose from your chest, thick with heat, soaked in reverence. Your head fell back, your lips parted in a ruined O, and your cunt clenched down around her—tight, fluttering, dripping—as her cock dragged deep through your heat.

“F-fuck—s’too big—” you sobbed, voice catching as her hips rolled forward again, thick and unrelenting. “You’re so big—fuck—you're splitting me open—”

That shattered what little restraint she had left.

Her hips slammed forward with a groan, and her cock drove into you—deep. Thicker than you could bear. Harder than you could take. And still you took it.

Slap.

Her balls struck your ass, wet and firm.

Your soaked core sang with the sound of her sliding through you, obscene and perfect.

Smack. Slap. Wet. Slap.

The room echoed with it—your joined bodies loud and desperate, a symphony of slick, moans, and the stuttering bedframe beneath you. The headboard tapped the wall, sharp and rhythmic, as she fucked you into it without mercy.

You were sobbing now, openly, your moans cracked and high and helpless. “Mmmmppph—ahhh—ngghhh—so full—c-can’t—”

And still you clung to her. Still you begged. “make me take it—”

Agatha gasped, like your words pierced her straight through. Her hips rolled forward harder, pounding into you with a rhythm that bordered on reverent destruction. Her cock dragged against every nerve ending inside you—every ridge and vein catching on your walls, scraping you open, carving her into your body with every thrust.

“You’re takin’ it,” she growled, voice ragged with awe. “So fucking deep, baby—God—look at you—squeezin’ me like that—like your body wants me to stay inside forever—”

You moaned so loud it made her groan, your body shaking under hers. “Mmmmnnghh—ahhh—fuck—s-so deep, so fucking big—can feel it all—every inch—”

She was unraveling above you, moaning into your skin, her voice breathless and raw, hips slamming deep inside you. Your slick spilled over her, onto your thighs, onto the bed.

“Y-you love it,” you gasped, your voice shattered but sure. “You love how my pussy pulls you in—how it takes you—how it wants you—”

“Fuck—fuck—I love it, baby,” she cried, hips stuttering. “I love how you open for me—how you beg for it—how your body won’t let me go—”

And she was right. You couldn’t let go. Your walls fluttered, clenching down, milking her cock with every thrust, chasing every ridge like it was holy.

“Fuuuck—” you sobbed, voice breaking into a high, helpless cry. “Harder—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

The bed creaked beneath you, wild and unsteady, as her hips slammed into yours again—wet, sharp, sacred. The sound filled the room, slick and obscene, the rhythm of your bodies raw and unrelenting.

Her length dragged through you with brutal grace—thick and veined and so hot you could barely breathe through it. You felt the tilt of it, the way the thick underside vein caught on your soaked walls with every pull, every push—rubbing you open, making your thighs shake, making your core weep for her.

“Mmmnnnh—ahhh—fuck—right there, right fucking there—” you gasped, your moans slurring into sobs, your hands flying to her back, your nails clawing down in frantic arcs. “You feel so big—s-so big—your cock’s too big—fuck, fuck, please—”

“Good girl” Agatha groaned, voice wrecked, teeth gritted as she slammed into you again, cock throbbing inside you. “ so fucking good—”

“Don’t stop—please don’t stop—d-don’t stop,” you begged again, crying through your moans, your voice nothing but cracked sound and open-mouthed gasps.

“Shhh, I won’t,” she panted, her forehead dropping to yours, sweat dripping between your bodies. “I’ve got you—so fucking tight around me—gonna make me—fuck—”

You whimpered, sobbed, rocked up into her again and again, chasing every inch of her with your body. You could feel it—every vein, every ridge, every desperate throb as her cock dragged through your fluttering walls. That thick vein on the underside—that was what made your back arch, made you scream, made you sob out again, “Daddy—right there—ahhhhhh—”

Her rhythm snapped, her hips tilting just enough to catch that same spot over and over. You choked, your whole body clenching around her as the pressure spiraled again, unbearable and holy.

Agatha growled above you—low, breathless, wrecked. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her shoulders gleamed with sweat, and her jaw locked tight as she slammed forward again, cock dragging through your heat like a live wire.

“I know those sounds,” she panted, her voice a ragged whisper right against your mouth. “That little gasp—right there—that’s the one you make when you’re close, baby. That’s the one that drives me fucking insane—”

“‘M close,” you cried, tears brimming again, your thighs quaking.

She moaned—loud, raw, her voice breaking open in your ear as her hips snapped forward again, rough and deliberate. “Fuck—you feel so good—so fucking wet—I can feel you clenching—you’re right there, I know you are—just a little more—give it to me, baby, let me feel it—”

The sounds were obscene now—your soaked bodies meeting in a frantic, slapping rhythm, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall, your moans a rising symphony of want and unraveling. Her cock dragged deep with every stroke, her balls slapping wetly against your skin.

“Ahnnn—nnnghh—mmmphh—please—please—” You sobbed, clutching at her arms, at her back, your nails digging in as the pressure crested inside you like a tidal wave breaking.

Agatha kissed your mouth and didn’t stop moving. Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite. Her rhythm owned you, like her body knew exactly how to wring sound from yours with every thrust, every grind, every perfect drag of her cock along your soaked walls. Her voice broke into your mouth like a confession. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck, you’re right there—”

You gasped, nodding frantically, too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled around her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your core, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her cock. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Cum for me.”

That was all it took. Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as your cunt clamped around her cock like it never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha didn’t stop. Even as your body convulsed beneath her, even as your walls clamped tight around her cock and your thighs trembled like you were breaking apart, she kept moving—rocking through you with reverent, unrelenting strokes. Her breath caught on every thrust, her voice splintered with awe and desperation.

“That’s it—fuck, that’s it,” she panted, her rhythm fraying, her body grinding into yours like she was trying to leave a part of herself inside you. “You’re taking me so good, baby—look at you—fucking soaked for me…”

Your moans were ragged, helpless. Every inch of you was pulsing, oversensitive, radiant with aftershock. But you didn’t pull away. You pulled her in. Your arms moved across her slick skin, trembling, desperate. Your thighs quivered but refused to loosen. You held her like you were afraid the world might end if she left your body before you were ready—before she was ready.

And Agatha felt it.

Felt the way you clung to her cock, still fluttering, still wet, still begging even as it throbbed with the remnants of release. The way your body flexed in involuntary aftershocks—tight, wet pulls that milked her deeper, pulled her harder, made her gasp like it physically hurt to stay buried inside you and still not cum.

She whimpered at the feel of you—guttural, raw, her whole body stuttering like she’d forgotten how to hold herself together. “Oh my god—” she breathed, voice catching on a ragged moan as your walls fluttered again, sucking her back in with that perfect, maddening grip. “You’re still—fuck, you’re still clenching around me…”

Her hips drew back just enough for you both to feel it—that slick, obscene stretch, that almost-pull that made your spine arch and your mouth drop open in a soft, broken cry. Then she sank in again—slow, dragging, deliberate. Her shaft pushed through the mess she’d made of you, thick and trembling, gliding past every hypersensitive nerve like worship.

The sound of it was devastating—wet, sticky, sacred. A lewd kiss of bodies slick and shaking, heat folding into heat. Your hips twitched as she bottomed out again, and you sobbed—a soft, breathless whimper that turned her bones to ash.

“Ahhh—nnghh—m-mmmhhf—” The sounds tore out of you unbidden, your voice cracking as she rocked inside you with aching precision, her breath catching at your neck.

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing slick skin, then curled around your ribs like a promise. A grounding point. A quiet prayer not to fall apart then dragged slowly down your body, over the swell of your hip, the dip of your waist, until it slid between your thighs and gripped the inside of your knee.

And then she opened you.

Not with haste, not with force—but with reverence. Her fingers spread wide, guiding your leg open, wider, until your body trembled with the exposure. She tilted your hips with one slow pull, adjusting the angle like she was tuning a sacred instrument. And when she moved again—when her cock sank into you, deep and deliberate—you both gasped at once.

“F-fuck—” she choked out, her voice wrecked, her restraint fraying at the edges. The new angle let her slide in deeper—thicker, hotter, pressing right up against that swollen, aching place inside you that made your legs jerk and your mouth fall open in a helpless moan.

“Dadddyyy”

Your voice cracked, and she shuddered.

Her grip tightened, her body bowed over yours like she was praying with her whole form. Her hips rocked forward again, slow but devastating, and your thighs twitched wider under her hands—open, aching, desperate.

She dragged back. So slow it felt like cruelty. Deliberate. Precise. She slipped out inch by inch, gliding slick and thick from your cunt until just the head remained—pulsing, wet, swollen. It caught on the sensitive swell of your entrance, and your pussy fluttered instinctively around it, already aching, already begging .

Your moan tore loose—not pretty, not practiced, but primal. “Nhh-ahhh—fhhuhhckk—don’t—don’t—”

Your hips chased her before you could think, lifting from the bed in a frantic tilt, body arching toward her like gravity had shifted.

Agatha hissed—a feral, guttural sound that rattled in her chest. Her cock twitched hard between your legs, flushed and glistening, so slick with you it looked glazed. Her whole body shook like restraint was becoming impossible.

The air around you thickened—hot, drenched, heavy—as if even the room couldn’t bear the tension.

“Brave fucking girl,” she rasped, voice thinned with strain. “Taking me so deep—so fucking deep— and now you’re just… letting me pull out like this?” She leaned in closer, her breath against your mouth. “Fuck. Knowing I won’t last. Knowing it makes me fucking insane—”

She wasn’t wrong. Her grip faltered, breath staggered, like she was seconds from falling apart. Her hand fisted the curve of your hip, grounding herself. But it was your body that wrecked her. soaking her cock, shining her in the mess of your need, and clenching around nothing like you were trying to break yourself with how much you needed her back inside.

“Fhhuckk—” she groaned, barely able to breathe. “Look at you. All spread out for me… greedy little pussy begging to be filled—”

Her hips rolled forward—slow, steady, claiming. The thick head of her length slid through your slick folds, dragging across every soaked, swollen inch until it caught right at your entrance. She paused just long enough for your body to twitch—needing, fluttering—and then she pushed.

Hard. Deep. All at once.

Your body seized, a strangled cry catching in your throat as her cock slammed in to the hilt—thick, soaked, unrelenting. The breath left your lungs in a stuttering rush, and your walls clamped down on her so tight, so instinctively, it felt like a reflex as old as need.

“Hhhhnn—nnhhhGod—”

The stretch hit you like heat, like revelation. Blistering. Breath-stealing. Fucking perfect. Your legs wrapped around her waist before you even realized—desperate, trembling, refusing to let her go. She groaned at the feel of it, low and wrecked, her hips twitching inside you from the tightness. “That’s it,” she panted, her voice cracked and reverent. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Her next thrust came slow—a long, merciless drag pulling partway out, slick with your need, before sinking deep again, grinding up into your cunt like she was branding her shape into your walls.

You sobbed—sharp and soaked—your nails biting into her back. “Ahh—ahhhnn—f-fuckkk—Daddy—”

She moaned at the sound of her name on your tongue, her whole body shuddering. “Say it again,” she breathed against your mouth. “Fuck, say my name like that again while I ruin this sweet little pussy—”

Your response came as a broken whimper—high, desperate, wet—and she answered it with another thrust. Another brutal, gorgeous stroke that dragged through your core like lightning. The sound of her shaft sinking in—slow, soaked, reverent—filled the room like worship.

Her breath trembled as she rocked into you again, each grind deeper than the last, her rhythm steady but intense—each movement designed to undo you slowly, intimately, until all you could do was moan for her.

You whimpered, long and low, your hips arching, body trembling under the weight of her cock. “Mnnnh—nnhh—please—”

Her hips pulled back—just slightly, her cock dragging against your walls with a pressure that felt like it had teeth. And then she pushed forward again, slow and relentless, like the world had narrowed to the wet sound of her moving inside you.

You gasped—a soft, wrecked little sound that left your mouth open and trembling. Her cock ground into you with purpose, every ridge catching just enough to make your legs twitch beneath her, your back arch without permission.

“Fuck,” you choked, the word falling apart against her throat. Your lips brushed her skin, tasted sweat and salt and something like surrender. “It’s s-so—” but you couldn’t finish. Your breath caught. Your throat closed.

Because she was still moving.

Not fast—never fast. Just intense, deliberate, soaking you in friction so slow it felt like it burned. Each thrust was a promise and a threat, her cock dragging out, then sinking back in like she had all the time in the world to destroy you.

“Daddyyy—” Her name tore loose, wet and high and wrecked.

She moaned at the sound of it—deep, from her chest, like the syllables had lit her nerve endings on fire. Her mouth found your jaw, her lips brushing just below your ear as her hips rolled forward again—slow, wide, obscene. You felt her cock pulse inside you, thick and flushed and so deep you couldn’t tell where your body ended and hers began.

You whimpered again—softer this time, soaked and clinging—because it wasn’t even the pressure that undid you. It was the control. The fact that she hadn’t let herself go yet. That she was holding back—on purpose—just to see how much you could take.

She moved again.

A small thrust. Just the tip. A drag that barely stroked you, but still sent heat rippling up your spine. Then another. A deep, steady push that made your breath catch, her cock sinking into you slow and wet and endless. Your walls clenched, slick and fluttering around her, soaking her in the need she'd spent the whole night building. Another thrust followed—then another—a rhythm, slow but complete, deep enough that your back arched off the mattress, your mouth falling open.

"ffhhhh—fuck—Daddy—" you gasped, your hands clenching at the sheets.

And then she found it. That spot. You felt it when her cock dragged over it—a thick, swollen place deep inside that made your whole body jolt. You spasmed, fluttering around her as if to plead. Your thighs twitched. Your voice cracked on a moan that spilled out half-broken and high.

She felt it too. Her hips froze—just for a breath.

Then she moved again. A full thrust—slow, deep, deliberate. Her cock dragged right over that swollen, aching spot, and you seized beneath her like you'd been shocked. She watched it happen—watched your breath hitch, your mouth fall open, your thighs jerk around her waist.

Another thrust. Then another. Each one deep, steady, unhurried—just to feel you react. To feel how you spasmed around her, fluttering wildly, your moans breaking apart with every stroke. Your body arched helplessly, your hands scrambling for her arms, her shoulders, for anything to hold onto.

"That’s it," she murmured, voice thick with hunger. "—so fucking good when I fuck you just like this—" And then she paused. Her hips rolled forward, cock still buried deep.

She adjusted—tilted her angle just a little—just enough to align the swollen head of her cock against that spot with surgical precision. Her eyes never left your face.  A small, deliberate thrust. Just enough to let the swollen head of her cock nudge that same spot—deep, aching, devastating. The one that made your whole body seize like it had been struck by lightning.

Your spine arched. Your throat tore open. “Ahhh—hnnnnngh—fuuhhhk—” The sound cracked out of you like a sob, soaked and raw, half-swallowed against the damp heat of her shoulder. It didn’t even sound like your voice anymore—just broken need scraped into sound.

She did it again. Then again. Tiny thrusts. Measured. Cruel. Divine. Each one punched into that throbbing bundle of nerves buried inside you like she was branding her name into it. The angle was obscene—too precise, too perfect—and it made you clench in helpless, fluttering waves around her cock, soaked and swollen and desperate to keep her there.

You twitched. Your hips jerked. Your moan came high and strangled, shattered through your teeth like it was being dragged from your lungs by force.

Your body rocked in place, helpless under the weight of her control, the friction of her dragging slow, shallow, maddening strokes that felt like they were splitting you open by degrees. She wasn’t fucking you in thrusts—she was fucking you in fractions, in slow surgical pressure that didn’t allow for escape. Just sensation. Just fullness. Just the aching slide of her cock dragging across that place again—

—and again—

—and again.

You whimpered—wrecked, breathless—as the pressure curled tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling with every grind. Your chest heaved. Your mouth stayed open but nothing came out. Just panting. Gasping. Trembling heat. The edges of your vision blurred with tears. Your hands clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to ground you. Your hips moved. Just a little. An unconscious roll. A silent plea. You didn’t even realize you were doing it—seeking relief, seeking mercy, seeking more.

But Agatha was already there. She growled—deep and guttural, her voice catching fire in the space between you—and grabbed your hips with one hand. The grip was brutal. Final. “Stay open for me.” Her breath shook. Her voice was wrecked with the sound of restraint ripping at the seams. “Take it. Just like this.” You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her cock moved inside you in slow, measured drags—barely there, but devastating—like she had all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.

Your hips trembled in her grip, thighs twitching as you tried to stay still, tried not to writhe under her—because she wouldn’t let you. Her hands held your hips firm, thumbs digging in just enough to ground you, to remind you who you belonged to. You sobbed through clenched teeth, your fingers scrambling for purchase—her back, her arms, the sheets—anything to hold you down as she ruined you.

Her rhythm stayed slow. That deliberate grind of thick pressure against your most sensitive place made your toes curl, your back arch, your core clench like it couldn’t bear the emptiness between each stroke. The weight of it. The ruin. It was too much. And not enough.

“Daddyyyy—” you moaned, her name tumbling out wrecked and helpless.

She groaned at the sound of it. Deep. Unrestrained. Her hips never stopped. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence. “Say my name like that, baby. Let me hear who’s fucking you like this—who’s got you dripping and shaking—”

You gasped, eyes fluttering, the tears finally breaking loose. The intensity was overwhelming—but holy. Her cock ground into that spot again, and your whole body jerked. You couldn’t stop it—your hips rolled beneath her, your body moving without permission, chasing something, anything, everything. Her moan tore free—loud, wrecked, helpless. “Fuuuuck—”

She sped up. Not in distance. Not in depth. Just speed. Just those tiny, punishing thrusts. Again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock hit that same spot over and over until it felt like your soul was unraveling. You screamed for her without words, your moans peaking, catching, melting into hers.

“Mmpphh—ahhnn—A-Agatha—fuck—please—”

“That’s it, baby,” she gasped. “That’s my good girl.” She didn’t let up. Those shallow thrusts grew quicker, sharper—just a little more pull, just a little more force. Just enough to build power. Her hips rocked with ruthless control, her cock dragging back that fraction further before driving in again, each time landing squarely on that spot that had you twitching, sobbing, writhing beneath her like a live wire.

You were keening now—moaning raw and wordless, your breath stuttering out in high, desperate pitches. Each sound was a plea without shape, every vowel broken around the weight of her inside you. Your walls fluttered. Clenched. Gasped for her.

Agatha’s eyes were locked to you, wide and dark and awestruck—like she couldn’t believe the way you looked, wrecked and shaking, stretched around her, soaking her with every thrust. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched your body pulse, your cunt gripping her cock like it knew who it belonged to.

You pulled back. Not much. Just a shift. Your hips arched, spine bowing, breath caught in your throat as your body tried—futilely—to seize control. To find air. To keep from drowning in her. But the second your movement met hers, the second your cunt flexed and fluttered around her cock with that slick, aching need.  She felt it. Her grip, already tight on your hips, turned punishing. Her fingers dug in—possessive, anchoring you like she owned the gravity that held you down. “Don’t run,” she snarled, low and savage, her breath ghosting over your cheek. “You’ll take it—just like this—”

Then she fucked you. Hard. Ruthless, hungry thrusts that left nothing between you—no space, no pause, no forgiveness. Just slick, brutal friction. Just her cock pounding deep and thick and fast, burying itself inside you like she was trying to mark the end of you. The mattress jolted beneath each stroke. Your moans cracked apart, helpless and high, as she chased the sound of you breaking.

Her own moans hitched in rhythm with yours—guttural, choked, holy. She gasped your name like a prayer and a curse, her mouth falling open, her breath stuttering as her heat pistoned into you. Sweat slipped down her spine. Her chest rocked against yours.

And she didn’t stop. She drove into you—loud, soaked, merciless. Her cock slick with everything you’d already given her, now thrusting so deep your legs shook with every impact.

Your voice broke entirely, no longer words, just sound. Sharp, aching cries tangled with breathless whimpers as she fucked you through it—through the overwhelm, through the heat building low in your belly, through the raw, shattering edge of too much and not enough.

She groaned into your throat, ragged and desperate, her jaw clenching as she slammed forward again, and again, and again. “Fuck—fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight—you’re soaking me, baby, you’re—”

A moan ripped out of you before she could finish.

You sobbed against her shoulder, shaking under the weight of her body and the brutal rhythm of her cock. You spasmed around her, fluttering hard with every stroke, and still she kept going, chasing the slick, squeezing heat until your whole body seized up beneath her.

Her hips stuttered. Slowed. Still deep. Still buried to the hilt. Her thrusts shifted again—shorter. Sharper. Targeted. Right against that devastating spot, Right at the edge. She stayed deep, her hips rolling in those slow, ruinous thrusts—angled just enough to keep dragging over that spot again and again. Precise. Relentless. Her grip on your hips didn’t loosen, not even a little. She kept you pinned, trembling and slick, her rhythm steady enough to drive you mad.

You whimpered—soft at first, then louder, less coherent. A stream of helpless sound slipped from your lips with every motion. Moans, gasps, fragments of her name tangled with raw pleas you couldn’t form into sentences.

She kissed you. Not a whisper of a kiss—no, this was a claiming. Her mouth crushed against yours, open and messy, slick with sweat and moans. Her tongue moved with purpose, with need, with heat that stole the very breath from your lungs. She kissed you like she was trying to crawl inside you through your mouth, like the only way to survive was to be in you—flesh to flesh, soul to soul.

Her hips never faltered. That same brutal slowness. That same precision. Her cock moved with surgical intent, grinding into that spot again and again—so deep, so devastating. You clenched with every drag, every wet pass of her catching exactly where you needed it. The rhythm stayed maddeningly slow, each thrust pushing the pleasure further past the threshold of what should’ve been survivable. You moaned into her mouth, and she moaned back—low, wrecked, the sound of a woman losing herself. Her breath stuttered. Her hips rocked again, her cock thick and wet inside you, your slick coating every inch of her with obscene warmth.

She tilted her hips—just a breath, just enough—and everything changed. Her cock slid deeper, impossibly deep, the head angling upward until it caught perfectly, scraping over that swollen, desperate knot of nerves with surgical precision. You seized under her. Your whole body jolted, a cry half-caught in your throat as your eyes went wide.

And Agatha—Agatha felt it.

Her hips stayed locked to yours, her cock buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you—and then her breath shattered. She gasped into your mouth—sharp and sudden—like the new angle had struck something deep inside her. Like it had split her open. You felt it too. The way her cock drove even deeper now, angled just right, the thick underside catching along the swollen nerve-vein that pulsed like it belonged to her. It did. Everything did. Your body arched without asking—hips lifting, thighs trembling, nails digging into her shoulders with a force that barely scratched the ache blooming inside you.

“—fuuhhckkk—” she gasped, voice breaking on the inhale, as if she hadn’t expected you to feel that good. Like the new angle had touched something in her, too—something raw and holy and ruinous. Her head dropped, her chest pressed to yours, and her mouth found your lips again, crushing into you like it was the only thing tethering her to this earth.

She kissed you hard. Desperate. Tongue deep. Mouth open. Breath lost between you. And all the while, her hips never stopped moving.

That same precise rhythm. That same controlled torture. Slow, shallow thrusts that dragged the over your sweet spot with agonizing accuracy, over and over and over again, each one punching the air from your lungs like she was sculpting you into something she could never let go. Agatha moaned into your mouth—wrecked, high, trembling—and you felt it everywhere. It wasn’t just sound. It was a vibration, a tremor that started in her chest and spilled into you, flooding the heat where your bodies met. Her shaft dragged deep inside you with slow, devastating precision, and your whimper cracked open between her lips like an offering. Then she pulled away, lips brushing across your cheek, breath stuttering like she couldn’t believe what she was feeling. You barely had time to brace.

Her mouth dropped to your neck. And that was it. She broke. Her moan punched out of her chest like it had been trapped there raw and ragged, hot and hoarse, muffled against your skin like she was trying to bite it back and couldn’t. It didn’t sound human. It sounded wrecked. And still—her hips kept moving.

Slow. Focused. Punishing. Tiny thrusts that shouldn’t have had power but did—because they hit that spot. Your spot. The one only she could reach. And she hit it again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock dragged across that nerve like it was drawn there by instinct, and your back arched in response, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

Her moans were relentless now. Shaky, high-pitched, desperate. Her hips shifted just enough to pull back, to gain power, and she slammed into you once. Then twice. Then again. Each thrust was thick and brutal and blinding. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You could only feel. “F-fuck—fuck, baby—oh my God—” Agatha gasped, her voice cracking like she couldn’t bear how good you felt. Her grip on your hips tightened like iron, holding you steady while her cock hit that spot with every merciless stroke.

“You feel—Christ, you feel so fucking good—so tight—so wet—fuck.” Her words broke into moans, open and unfiltered. She sounded wrecked, like your cunt was pulling her apart from the inside out.

All you could do was sob under her, your moans coming in a frantic, wet string of syllables that barely made it out of your mouth. You tried to move—just a little, just to breathe—just to ease the pressure—but her hands slammed you right back down. Her hands gripped tighter, holding you down as her hips dragged another thrust through you, deeper this time, devastating.

“Stay,” she growled, voice ragged and raw.

Then she fucked you harder. One deep thrust. Then another. Then another—each one angled with perfect cruelty, hitting that electric place inside you that made your thighs twitch, your nails claw for her back, your mouth fall open in a gasping, soundless scream.

And then—she slowed again. Back to those small, ruinous thrusts. That lazy, agonizing rhythm that had your whole body convulsing. She moaned into your neck—long, loud, nearly broken. Her mouth was open against your skin, panting raggedly, her voice trembling like she was right on the edge of losing control. Each thrust felt sharper, deeper somehow, as if the new angle had split her wide open, too.

You didn’t know when the tears had started—only that your body was shaking, soaked and clenching, your voice long past words. Your mouth hung open, too breathless to moan, too full to beg, your head tipped back against the mattress like it was the only thing still holding you together. Everything below your ribs was pure sensation: wet friction, aching fullness, the relentless grind of Agatha’s cock dragging through your cunt like she owned it—because she did. She hadn’t even let herself move fast yet. That was the worst part. She was still slow. Still deliberate. Still holding back just enough to ruin you by inches.

Her body hovered over yours—forearms braced, muscles tight, sweat dripping from her collarbone onto your chest. Her eyes stayed on your face like she could read every flinch, every twitch, every sobbed breath that fell from your lips. She shifted her weight slightly, and her cock pressed deeper—thick, hot, soaked in everything your body kept giving her. And then she stilled.

The sudden lack of movement made your hips jerk without permission. Your cunt clenched again, fluttering helplessly around her. The need to be filled, to be fucked, was unbearable. And still—she waited.

“Say it,” she gasped, and her voice cracked on the words—wrecked, raw, barely tethered to control. Her grip on your waist tightened, possessive and bruising, like she could hold you in place with just her fingers and her will. “Say you want it—say you want Daddy to fucking breed you—”

You tried to speak, but your throat failed you, too full of breathless sobs and trembling tension. And that silence was all she needed.

A growl tore from her chest—a sound so low and feral it vibrated straight through your ribs—and her hips snapped forward. The slap of her heat plunging back into your core was brutal and wet and final, your whole body jolted from the force of it.

“Don’t make me pull it out of you,” she snarled, and her words hit your skin like a lash. Her cock ground in deep—long, slow, ruthless—dragging against every oversensitive inch inside you, catching on your swollen edges like she wanted to carve the shape of herself into your body from the inside out.

“You want me to cum in your perfect pussy?” she hissed, and her breath hit your mouth like fire, like fury. Her hips stayed locked, buried to the hilt, and the twitch of her cock inside you made your walls flutter again. You moaned—a broken, sobbed sound, high and shivering, your voice catching on the unbearable friction of her filling you. “Nnnh—A-ahhh—!”

She groaned at the sound, her lips curling into a cruel, reverent grin. “You want it so bad—you're shaking for it—so fucking say it.”

Another thrust—hard, sharp, deep—and it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your hands scrabbled for her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself against the storm building behind your ribs. “Open your mouth, pretty girl. Beg for it.”

You sobbed. You were past pride now—your body slick, your cunt aching, your thighs trembling from the tension she kept you locked inside. Her next thrust came slow and punishing, grinding every ridge of her cock against your slick walls, dragging her heat through the soaked, swollen mess between your legs. “I said beg. Fucking earn it,” she rasped, her voice splitting on the edges, straining against how close she was to breaking.

“F-fuhhh—Daaddyy—” The words broke on your breath, a guttural gasp that scraped its way from deep in your chest. Your hips jerked beneath her, legs trembling, cunt already clenching down around her cock like you were trying to drag the orgasm from her by force. You didn’t even realize you were grinding up into her until her hands locked tighter on your waist, holding you steady, making you take it.

Your body was soaked—dripping—slick sliding down your thighs, your cunt fluttering and flushed, too hot, too open, too needy. Every thrust made you arch—your back lifting from the bed, your moans torn out in broken, breathless gasps, each one louder than the last. The sound of her inside you was obscene—wet and thick and holy—the slap of skin, the suck of soaked friction, the quiet gasp that came every time your body clenched and pulled at her cock like it needed more.

Agatha’s breath hitched—sharp and shaking—a broken inhale like the pleasure had caught her mid-thrust and split her wide. Her hips bucked forward hard, slamming deep enough to flatten your spine to the mattress. Her groan cracked—rough, frantic, raw.

“Oh—fuck—baby, I’m close—so close,” she gasped, the words punched out of her. Her rhythm faltered, hips rocking now in rougher, needier strokes—her control hanging by a thread. And then her hand slid from your waist down—down—until it found your thigh.

She shoved it open—rough, sure, demanding—until your legs were spread so wide you could feel the stretch in your hips and the throb of your cunt fluttering open around her. Her palm pressed firm, keeping you there, your body trembling and exposed, laid bare for her to take.

“Open for me,” she groaned, voice cracking, thick with possession. “Let me in—take it—fuck, take all of it. You’re mine. You’re gonna take all of me—every inch—until I can’t pull out.”

Your moan cracked high and raw as your body gave way, the new angle hitting so deep your vision blurred. Her cock slid in to the hilt, thick and pulsing, stretching you wide with every slow, ruinous grind. The sound of it—of her fucking you open—was soaked, filthy, full of slick and breath and gasping. Your cunt sucked her in like you were starving for her. The room echoed with it.

She let out a moan—wrecked and guttural—as she rocked into you again, rougher now, desperate. “I’m gonna fill you up,” she groaned, biting the words into your throat. “Put a baby in you—fuck—stuff you so full they’ll know. Everyone will know. You’re mine—you’re fucking mine—” You sobbed, body spasming under her, your mouth falling open in disbelief. “Yes—Aggie—oh god, yes—please—fill me—”

A fresh rush of wetness coated her cock as she rutted into you. Your body was shaking, thighs trembling, nerves sparking at every contact point. She kissed you then—wet and open-mouthed—her tongue dragging across your cheek, your lips, your jaw.

“You take me so well—fuck—you’re perfect—” Her thrusts were messier now, deeper, sloppy with need. Her breath fell against your ear in shuddering waves. And you couldn’t stop it—the pleading, the hunger, the ache rising up your throat in sobbed, desperate moans. “Please—need to know I’m yours—make me yours—” you whimpered, voice cracking wide open. “Want it—wanna belong to you—please, baby, remind me—remind me who I belong to—”

Agatha’s head snapped down like she’d been summoned. Her mouth sealed over your pulse—hot, wet, desperate—and her groan into your skin was a sound ripped from the pit of her body. Her hips surged forward on instinct, cock driving in so deep your breath punched out of you, your moans dissolving into strangled, broken gasps. “Mine,” she growled into your neck, her teeth grazing just shy of another bite. “Say it. Say it again—”

“Yours—yours—oh my God, Agatha, I’m—”

Her thrusts hit ruinous—hard and shallow and perfectly angled. You were soaked, your cunt a mess of slick and stretch, fluttering around her like your body didn’t know how to stop wanting. Her cock slid through it like she was made for this, made for you, thick and unforgiving, dragging through every nerve-ending she’d ever lit on fire.

Agatha’s hand dragged up your thigh again—pushing, spreading—until your legs were open so wide it hurt, until she could grind deeper, slower, filthier. The sound of it—wet and loud and holy—filled the room. Her body slapped into yours again and again, skin sticking, breath caught, sweat slicking both of you down to your bones.

Her moans were wrecked now—short and guttural and constant, bursting from her throat with every slam of her hips. Her hand braced beside your head trembled, the other still clutching your thigh, pressing you wide, open, made to take every inch of her.

You cried out, unable to hold anything back. “You feel so good—so fucking hard—I can feel you in my stomach—don’t stop—don’t stop—” She gasped. Then again—louder, messier, mouth dragging along your jaw like she was chasing the taste of you. Her magic surged in pulses, crackling in the air, slipping between your fingers, coiling low in your spine like it knew.

“I’m not stopping,” she growled, each word slurred through moans and ragged breath. “You’re gonna take it—all of it—I’m gonna fill you up, baby, fuck you full till there’s nothing left but me. I want you full, round with me—I want them to see who you belong to.” You sobbed. Loud. Soaked. Arching into her like your body was pleading to be taken.

Your orgasm broke. Silent at first. A flash of heat and lightning ripping through your spine—your hips jerking, toes curling, breath seizing like you’d been struck from the inside out.Then came the sound—wet, obscene, sacred. A guttural cry torn from your throat as your cunt clenched tight around her cock and your body poured slick over her. Your magic surged with it—bright, violet, starbursting—casting light against the ceiling, illuminating the soaked sheets, curling through Agatha’s body like a brand. You felt her breath catch against your throat, her pulse jump beneath her skin where it pressed to yours.

Agatha’s lips kissed across your face—your cheek, your jaw, your temple—as if grounding herself in the reality of your body. Her tongue followed in a slow, trembling drag, licking the sweat from your skin like it was the holiest thing she'd ever tasted. The air shimmered—tinted violet and silver—threads of your magic clinging to her lips, to the curve of her neck, to the space between you like spider silk laced with starlight.

She didn’t speak—couldn’t. She only moaned—low, broken, reverent—as her tongue moved down to your neck, licking gently over the skin, her breath hot and shaking. Her hips slowed, not stopping but savoring, every grind of her cock dragging her deeper into your soaked cunt. The sound of it filled the air—squelching, filthy, beautiful. Yours.

Your breath hitched, caught between the rhythm of her thrusts and the heat crawling up your spine. The words slipped out raw, instinctive—low enough that only she could hear. “Baby,” you whispered, voice cracking on want, not weakness. “Remind me.”

Agatha froze—just a little. Just long enough for your hand to curl around her shoulder, your chest arching into her. And that’s when she saw it. The faint bruise beneath your collarbone—just left of center. A shadow from only hours ago—the press of a baton or a boot or a body that never should have touched you. It wasn’t fresh enough to bleed. But it was fresh enough to burn.

She inhaled sharply—like it hit her in the lungs. Her gaze locked there. Her jaw tightened. And then she kissed it. Softly. Once. Then again. Her lips shaking. Your body clenched around her again, fluttering with the weight of what you meant. Not just pleasure. Not just release. “Fill me,” you breathed, your hands curling around her shoulders, anchoring her. “So they know who I belong to.”

That did it. Agatha’s jaw slackened, just slightly— But her moan tore straight from her chest like it had been waiting to be born. Her hips jerked once, deep—reflexive. Her tongue dragged across your neck again before her mouth opened in a gasp that cracked into your skin like thunder

She collapsed into you—pressed belly to belly, chest to chest—skin flushed, breath tangled, soaked in want—like she needed more than friction. She needed contact. She needed you. Her body sank against yours in full surrender, and for a moment, she stopped holding back—stopped pretending she could be anywhere else. Like if she didn’t touch you, she’d come undone entirely.

One hand was already braced beside your head—steady, grounding, trembling under the weight of restraint. The other, still gripping your waist, loosened. Her fingers slid upward—shaking, reverent—as they skimmed the curve of your ribs, your side, your breast… until they reached your face. She cupped your cheek with a touch that felt more like worship than control, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like she needed to feel how ruined you were. Like she had to know it in her bones.

You turned into the touch with a gasp, lips parting around her thumb—and sucked. Slow. Needy. Mindless.The taste of her skin, the tremble in her breath, the way her hips faltered just slightly—it all fed the hunger curling hot and helpless in your gut. She moaned—low, wrecked—and pulled her thumb from your mouth with a slick drag. The loss made you whimper, chasing her without thinking, your mouth still open, your chest arching into her.

Your hand reached for hers—blind, aching, instinctive—and she caught it at once. Her fingers threaded between yours, firm and grounding, then she pushed your joined hand up above your head, bracing them there with steady pressure. Holding you down without force. Her hips surged, fast and wild, fucking into you with the sharp, soaked sound of flesh meeting flesh, louder now, endless, devotional. The weight of her body—all of her—was on you. Not crushing. Claiming. Her nipples dragged across yours with every thrust, hard and aching, the friction a lightning-hot drag of sensation that made her whimper against your mouth.

Her thrusts turned frantic—wild and deep, lost in the rhythm of her need. The bed rocked with every soaked collision of her hips against yours, the wet slap of your bodies filling the air with each devastating stroke. She wasn’t holding back anymore. She couldn’t. Her breath hitched with every thrust, torn from her in half-formed gasps and ragged, broken moans.

“Ahhh—nnhhh—hahh—baby” She sounded ruined. Ruined for you. Each one sounded like it shocked her, like she couldn’t hold them back anymore. She bucked wildly, her thighs trembling, your slick coating her skin with every desperate grind, and she was sliding through it—like lightning made flesh, called home to the storm you had become.

Her fingers unthreaded from yours and cupped your jaw like something sacred. Her thumb brushed your lip—slow, reverent—and then she pulled you into her, kissing you like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Mouths collided. Moans spilled. The taste of her breath, the tremble of her need—it filled you like a spell already cast. You could taste her desperation, feel it in the way she clung to you, like if she didn’t kiss you now, she’d fall apart completely. The kiss broke as she gasped against your mouth, voice shaking.

“My love,” she whispered, wrecked and reverent, her eyes glassy, wide, worshipful. “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

Her whole body arched into you—wild, trembling, possessed—and she shattered.. She slammed deep and then she shattered. The first pulse hit like lightning—hot, thick, claiming—flooding you with an overwhelming heat, and you felt every drop. Felt it rush into you like a spell, like a star being born inside you. The shock of it seized you—your spine bowed, your mouth fell open in a voiceless cry before it cracked loose on a sob of disbelief:

“Ohh—ahhh—Agatha—”

She moaned—loud, guttural, a wrecked whimper that cracked straight from her chest as her whole body locked down against yours.  Her hips jolted, trembling as she spilled into you with another pulse, each one thick and sacred, flooding you so fast and so full your body could only convulse around her, slick and radiant and open.

She was panting against your cheek now, whimpering with every twitch—“H-hhhnn—God—ohh—yes—”—her voice a spiral of disbelief and surrender. Her cock jerked helplessly inside you, sliding deeper as her body rocked with the rhythm of release. It was messy. It was unstoppable.

And it was holy. You could feel it in your bones, like magic. Like she had poured a piece of her soul into you and sealed it with heat. Like a sacred claim that threaded itself through your womb, your blood, your ribs. Like she was pouring a part of herself into you, and the universe was holding its breath. The world narrowed to the rush of her coming undone in you, for you, because of you.

Her forehead dropped to yours, sweat-slick and burning. Her breath tangled with yours. The moans didn’t stop—smaller now, sweeter, every sound peeled straight from her chest like she couldn’t hold anything back.

Even as the last pulse shuddered through her, Agatha didn’t stop moving. Small, soaked thrusts. Slow and instinctive. Like her body needed to feel it deeper. Like she had to work every drop further into you—into the place that belonged to her—and couldn’t stop until she had.

The motion wasn’t about climax anymore. It was about claiming. About connection. About sealing herself inside you in every way that mattered. You whimpered at the sensation—body still twitching, overstimulated and glowing, every nerve stretched thin with aftershock—but you didn’t pull away. You let her move. You let her stay.

And oh—God, the way she moaned.

Quiet now. Wrecked. Her voice broken open at the edges as her lips brushed your skin between panting breaths. Little sounds spilled from her as if her heart couldn’t hold them anymore. You felt her everywhere. Her sweat-slick chest flush against yours, her hardened nipples dragging gently over your skin with every tender thrust. Her breath hitched every time your clenched down, milked her deeper.  Agatha buried her face against your neck, inhaling you like you were air. Her body finally began to still—her hips slowing, her weight sinking into you as though gravity had finally caught her in full. Her voice, barely a whisper. Wrecked. Honest.

“I love you.” She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t pull back. She just held you—in her, around her, with her—and let the words breathe where they belonged: in the space between your joined hands, your joined bodies, your joined futures.

----------

Time had folded in on itself. The air still smelled like sweat and skin and magic, like something sacred had split open and wrapped around the two of you.

Agatha hadn’t moved far. Just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own, her hand still twined in yours above your head. You felt her pulse in her wrist. Still fast. Still real.

Your voice broke the silence—ragged and dry, but smiling. “…I should get arrested more often.”

Agatha’s laugh cracked out low, wrecked, and full of wonder. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, but she didn’t let go. You squeezed her hand. “And yours.”

Her lips brushed your cheek. “Always.”

And that was how it ended—your body still open around hers, her magic still glowing somewhere low and deep inside you, and the weight of her love holding you exactly where you’d always belonged. Even when the world was burning around you, Agatha was there to light the next match.

-----------

Now go ahead and tell Mommy what you think. I may need to ask for forgiveness for this shit.

[lavenderangell]

Heyyyy

I'm George's sister Valerie

I found loa in 2024 since then it's been a roller coaster. I was obsessed with changing my life but it was so hard to stay motivated. My family was poor and I was bullied for wearing old clothes and shoes. I have been bullied my whole life. My self esteem was shit. Deep down I didn't feel worthy of having a good life. I managed to manifest few things over the years but the thing I wanted the most is to enter void. When my brother started having problems with work I knew that I had to lock in. The breaking point for me was the day my brother called me from jail after he didn't come home which isn't something he would do. After that call I said f it all. I will enter void if it's the last thing I will do. I didn't sleep that night. I spent the whole night rampaging. I fell asleep what the sun rise. I woke up to my mom shouting and crying. My brother had come home looking like he had been to hell and come back. He was limping and had bruises all over his body. He had dried blood on his face and his clothes were torn. I'm crying just remembering. I'm so glad he got his revenge. Anyway, my mother and I helped cleaned his wounds and he went to sleep after taking pain killers. Both of my parents looked 20 years older. When my brother woke up from his nap he said that he would enter void. He said that if he enters he will manifest that we have always been rich and we have never suffered. I told him that I want to remember our old life and that he should manifest that I enter void. We were all so tired and we went to bed early.

The exciting part

I woke up in the middle pf the night to pee. Before I open my eyes I know that something feels different. My bed feels soft as a cloud. I opened my eyes and said oh shit. My room was completely different. I just sat there for 2 minutes crying because I couldn't believe that my brother actually did it. I wanted to run to his room to wake him up but I remembered that I had to pee. I put my feet on the ground and I felt this soft rug. I'm embarrassed to say that I got off the bed and rolled on the rug 🙈. I looked around my room and noticed that I had my own bathroom. I did my business and looked in the mirror but my face was still the same. I was almost disappointed then I remembered that I asked my brother to manifest for me to enter void so I ran to bed and lay on my back. I forced myself to stay still until I started to feel like I'm floating. I said "I am pure consciousness" until I fell asleep. When I woke up everything was black then I said "I have everything I want" then I just stayed there because it was so peaceful. I woke up and my room was different again. This time it was exactly what I wanted. I heard little feet on the floor and a bark. It was a puppy! A golden retriever. She's so cute and as soon as I picked her up she gave me lots of kisses. I stood up to check out the rest of my room and I was really impressed because I didn't have an exact picture of the things I wanted but I believed that everything would be perfect. I have a walk in closet full of so many things like expensive jewellery, shoes, clothes and purses. I also have a full length mirror. My jaw dropped when I saw my face and body. I look Unreal now. My skin is clear, my body is hairless, I have dark waist length hair and Hazel eyes, slim thick body. Everything is even better than I could have possibly imagined. I finished exploring my room and when I stepped outside my room, my brother was about to knock on my door and when he saw me and my puppy he said "Valerie what the hell???" Lol. I noticed that his injuries dissappear so I gave him a tight hug and thanked him a thousand times. I went to take shower and spent an hour in there playing with soaps shampoo and all the different shower settings 😂. I checked my phone and it was a Samsung S25. I saw that I was added to so many groups and I had a bunch of new friends 🧡. I went downstairs to have breakfast prepared by our new private chef with my family. My parents look so happy and carefree. I don't think I have ever seen them like this before. Later on i went to hang out wuth my friends and we took pictures for instagram. I saw that i have 95k follwers. I git home and cried again because i couldn't believe that me the girl who had no friends and was bullied has a perfect life now. I go to a private school and I'm the most popular girl in school. In tbe evening, my brother and i just sat in silence. I turned to him and said "is this what happiness feels like?" He said "Yes, we don't have to worry about anything ever again." I'm sorry for giving unnecessary details but I'm just so excited 😊. I'll end here.

I would like to thank everyone in the community. Your posts, advices and success stories kept me going. Lavender, I want to thank you for being there for my brother through the roughest time of his life. You're an angel 😇. Because of you we are now planning a family vacation and I'm going to have a sweet 16❤️. I love you so much 😘

Congratulations Valerie!!!

You guys have been through so much but everything worked out in the end. Some parts of your story made me cry and other parts made me laugh, I really enjoyed reading it and I love how detailed it was :) I could feel your excitement through the screen 💖

Have fun on your vacation! Love you too ❤️❤️

[athenalvss]

NOAH'S ARK ( Jason Todd!)

Summary: For Jason, it's normal that his house is like Noah's Ark, he even loves some of the little animals his girlfriend brings.

pairing: Jason todd x animals lover! reader

a/n: I'm watching Young Justice and I really want to write things related to them, I have an idea for a Dick Masterpiece post

open request — Jason todd masterlist

Jason was already more than used to you coming home with any animal you found there, or bringing home animals from the vet where you worked, finding a stray cat, an injured pigeon or even a raccoon in the bathtub was nothing strange, and when he walked through the door the first thing he would hear from you was an justification.

"Don't ask, Jason. It was raining and he looked at me with those little eyes."

"I just hope you have that compassion for me when you get angry."

But Jason had his limits, although it was hard for him to say no, he had a black list of animals.

No roosters, once after a long night of patrol he had barely been able to close his eyes to sleep when he woke up to the loud crowing of the rooster at 5 a.m.

“Are you kidding me?” he growled, his face buried in the pillow.

You, standing in the doorway with a cup of coffee and the bird tucked under your arm like a baby, simply replied, “It was cold. Besides, it’s singing because it’s happy to be alive.”

Jason mumbled something about how he'd be happy if he could sleep, too, but didn't argue further. The next day, though, the rooster "miraculously" disappeared. You still swear Jason left it on the rooftop on purpose so it would fly away.

The second no come thanks to a goat you found tied up in a vacant lot and, for some reason, you thought it would be a good idea to bring it back to the apartment "just for one night."

She ended up eating his boots, a gun magazine, and urinating on the hallway rug.

“This thing is the devil” Jason said as the goat stared at him from the couch.

“Don’t call her that! Her name is Daisy.”

“Well, Daisy kicked me!”

“Just because you scared her with your presence!”

Despite everything, Jason has a soft spot. And that's dogs. Especially the big, old ones with sad eyes. They reminded him of a dog he once had. Once, you came home with a huge, dirty mastiff with a torn ear.

“I couldn’t leave him there, he was drooling like you do when you sleep.”

Jason became so attached to him that he ended up buying him a new collar and taking him out for walks with a face that said, "I have to," while talking to him as if he were a child:

“Come on, Bobby, don’t bite the mailman… again.”

Plus he likes the look of the dog, no one would go near you with that big dog by your side, that is until they realized Bobby has the personality of a dachshund.

Despite secretly caring for them, there were times when he truly hated them. They broke things, interrupted intimate moments, and constantly reminded them that they were no longer alone there.

One night, after a long day, Jason held you quietly while you were washing the dishes. It was one of those rare moments of calm: his arms around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder, his raspy voice murmuring something like, “I could get used to this.”

You were about to turn around to kiss him when a high-pitched bark echoed from the hallway. "What's up with Bobby now?" you sighed.

Jason shrugged, still holding your waist. "Maybe he saw his reflection again."

Bobby burst into the kitchen as if he'd detected a national threat, skidding across the floor with his massive paws. He planted himself between the two of you with a soft growl, his head pushing between Jason's legs as if to separate you.

"Seriously, Bobby?" Jason looked at him in disbelief. "Are we doing this now, mate?"

The dog responded by sitting right between you, staring at you, and leaving a pair of Jason's socks with holes in them as an offering.

Sometimes your rescues would sneak in right in the middle of their missions. One night, Jason showed up covered in blood, his helmet tucked under his arm, his expression utterly exhausted, like every night, but he didn't come in alone this time.

“Is that… a cat?” you asked, looking at the backpack that was unzipping from the inside.

“He followed me. He kept meowing. He was giving me away where he was.”

“And you brought him home?”

Jason shrugged. “He has eyes just like yours, okay?”

They called him Ghost, because he was so stealthy. Although he did knock over a television once, so the nickname is still debated.

Even though Jason complains… he also spoils them. You've seen him carrying the three legged dog like a baby, or talking softly to some parrots playing in the kitchen. He'd never admit it, but he has secret names for all of them.

Although what he likes most is coming home knowing that there is someone waiting for him.

Sometimes he comes through the balcony window, silent as a shadow, and from there you can already see the scene: warm lights, a half-empty cup of tea on the table, and you, asleep on the sofa with a book on your chest and Bobby curled up next to you.

Other times you're awake, sitting on the carpet with a blanket over your shoulders, surrounded by creatures like an urban version of Snow White. As soon as they see him walk in, everyone reacts as if they've seen the Messiah.

As soon as they see him cross the window frame, the invasion begins: the dogs jump happily, the parrot screams his name, and you wake up with a smile that he feels is more his than anything else in the world.

"Hey, you're back," you whisper as you walk over to hug him.

Jason grunts something unintelligible, drops his helmet, and holds you close as if he could become one with you. In your arms, surrounded by animals he now considers family, he feels something he never had.

Peace.

"I'm home," he mumbles, more to himself than to you.

And in that moment, Jason remembers why he always comes back.

[eurydiceauxenferswrites]

How They Fall Asleep With You- Avengers Domestic/Retirement AUs 

Just sleep, you perverts, lol. I’ll happily update with any character y’all want upon request (while I use MCU gifs, I’m happy to also include non MCU Marvel characters). This is pure wish fulfillment for me; not sharing a bed with my favorite characters, having a normal and functional sleep schedule.

Steve Rogers: Regardless of when you typically sleep, Steve will be ready and in bed by 9 o’clock sharp. If you’re a later sleeper he’ll stay up reading the news until you’re ready to head to bed, no matter how late. He prefers to stay on his back, with his hands folded on his stomach.

It takes you a bit to realize this, but his adaptability isn’t just because he loves you; Steve doesn’t actually sleep more than a few hours a night. He stays awake, staring at the ceiling for hours, just thinking. He tells you not to worry about it, because his enhanced body doesn’t actually doesn’t need all that much sleep, but you know it’s a half truth. So you do what you can to help rest a little easier, cuddling, back rubs, warm milk, whatever helps. He really does appreciate the effort you put in to make him feel loved and, frankly, to feel human again.

Also sorry for those hoping to see our dear Captain in his boxers but he wears long underwear to bed, force of habit, you don’t want to catch your death of cold whilst sleeping after all!

Bucky Barnes: You know that feeling you get when you oversleep and then you absolutely cannot fall asleep again the next night, like your sleep bar is overfull? Yeah that’s Bucky all the time. So he just doesn’t sleep with you, he helps you get ready for bed, kisses you good night, and then leaves the bedroom to do… whatever it is he does at night (he never leaves the house, though, he’s quite a homebody). If you’re a light sleeper you’re often woken up by sounds of video games, or talking, or the smell of cooking. One time you even woke up to a fire alarm because he was making grilled cheese at 3 in the morning.

When Bucky does finally sleep, he’ll crash out wherever he’s sitting, so you’ve found him snoozing on the couch, on the stairs, face first in a bowl of cereal, you name it. You usually give him a kiss, gently slip a pillow under his head, and let him get the his well deserved rest. He doesn’t have any pajamas, just some comfy boxers and ratty old t-shirts.

Natasha Romanov: You thought it was kismet how well your sleep schedules matched. You went to bed at the same time every night and woke up at the same time every morning. Just another reason why you two were such a great couple.

Until the first time you woke up in the middle of the night and realized Natasha was gone, entirely gone, not only from the bed but from the house. That’s when you found out that, actually, Natasha doesn’t have a normal sleep cycle. No don’t get me wrong, unlike our super soldier boys she does get her 8 hours, but she has a polyphasic sleep cycle, its part of her red room training. She only sleeps for 15 minutes at a time at most split intermittently throughout the day. So no, she wasn’t lying when she said she goes to sleep and wakes up with you, she just left out the parts in between. When she’s not in bed with you, she goes jogging, runs errands or hangs out with her other nocturnal friend Bucky Barnes.

Nat is the second most likely Avenger to wear lingerie to bed, silky lacy clingy slips are her go to. She knows how much you love to see her in it, she gets a kick out of watching you flush as she slips under the covers with you. But it absolutely melts her heart that you find her just as beautiful with messy hair and an oversized tee, that you love every aspect of her, not just the polished mask she’s so used to wearing.

Tony Stark: He is very particular about his bedroom specifications (projecting my Sensory Processing Disorder let’s goooooo). The temperature has to be precisely room temp, the AC humming just so, the sheets a the sheets a 45% cotton 55% rayon blend, and the night light at 3260K (within a 10K range), or else he cannot sleep a wink. And even then his sleep schedule is a complete disaster because he when he’s diving into a project he lacks the self control to go to stop his work and go to bed (mood).  He never wakes up at the same time either, sometimes he’s bright eyed and bushy tailed at 5:30 AM, sometimes he’s snoozing until noon.

He talks in his sleep, lol can’t shut up even when unconscious, his muttering range from sweet (“…hey…love you so much, you know? love you…”) to sad (“…no no please just a little more time… I can’t save them…”) to just random (“the pickle is covered in sparkles! inedible, you go to space jail”). 

He’s not entirely selfish though, he shares his toys. Has kitted out your bedroom to be state of the art, you both have an adjustable mattress, an automated light system, even a dumbwaiter for breakfast in bed. Anything you need, gorgeous, just say the word. 

Absolutely wears lingerie to bed, the hottest and most impractical he can find. If the paparazzi plan on invading his privacy again, he’s promised to give them a show they’ll never forget. 

Clint Barton: Clint’s sleep has also been majorly affected by his career, but unlike his partner Nat he still sleeps a normal 8 hours at a time. Clint has cultivated the ability to fall asleep anywhere he needs to. He often dozes on the couch next to you while watching tv. As long as he can feel you next to him, as long as he knows you’re safe, he feels safe too. 

When Clint takes off his hearing aid, he’s a very heavy sleeper, almost impossible to wake up. He’s also a very still sleeper, hardly ever moves around, he does snore however. If that bothers you, feel free to flip him to his side, I promise it won’t disturb his beauty sleep at all. He does have pyjama set, unlike some of his teammates he’s a civilized man.

Thor Odinson: Has the classic rich kid sleep schedule; stays up late, sleeps in until brunch. If you’re the sort who prefers an early bedtime, he’ll do his best to not disturb you when he crawls into bed; although, if you’re a light sleeper, you’ll probably notice his clumsy attempts at stealth. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Thor is definitely a mix of pros and cons. The cons: he snores like thunder and he’s a major space hog. The pros: he sleeps entirely nude. He’s also a cuddler and surprisingly soft for such a muscular man. He likes to slip his arm under your head to support it and pull you close while you sleep (although if you’re the sort that prefers their space while sleeping, YMMV on whether this is a perk or not). Also, if you have insomnia of any kind, he’ll stay up as late as you need helping you fall asleep, whispering Asgardian folktales, or even making it rain just so for the perfect white noise. 

Bruce Banner: Bruce has transformed during nightmares before, so he’s honestly somewhat scared of sleeping in the same bed as you, the last thing he wants is to hurt you. If you insist, he’ll try though (“alright, it’s your funeral”). So far, things have been going well; the worst that’s happened is you’ve been accidentally pushed out of bed once or twice, or woken up by oversized grumbling, but it doesn’t stop him from worrying that one day Hulk will hit you in his sleep (accidentally, of course, Hulk is as soft for you as Banner is). Always puts up a pillow wall when he sleeps. Sometimes suffers from insomnia, takes a lot of melatonin gummies. If you have insomnia, he’ll give you the driest densest scientific literature he can find (well, dry to you, to him its fascinating, but he accepts your lack of interest in advances in the modeling of molecular orbital theory for actinides using machine learning programs or whatever dishwater dull nuclear physics he’s reading about this week). Sleeps with nothing on but a pair of super stretchy pants in case of Hulk emergency. Almost always sleeps in the fetal position.

Sam Wilson: Once again winning the Most Adult award, Sam works hard to make sure he has a consistent sleep schedule because he understands how important it is. He’s usually in bed by 8:30-9 and spends an hour or so reading with a nightlight and maybe a cup of tea until he feels sleepy. He’s not especially picky about his sleeping spaces, with one exception; he expects you to respect the sanctity of quiet time. That means no talking, no running around, no tv, maybe some music if he’s feeing crazy. Cuddling is always welcome, of course, as long as he can still read with you curled up in his arms. If you don’t behave he’s happy to banish you to the foldout couch. It’s nothing personal but it’s important to him that he has a chance to decompress at the end of the day and he knows how to set good boundaries. 

Sam wakes up pretty early, around 6, so he can get a morning jog in and get ready for his day. He’ll always cook for you in the morning  and he’ll even make you breakfast in bed if he has the time. Sam wears pajama pants but typically goes shirtless at night. Likes to sleep on his side, facing you, so you’ll be the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning.

Loki: Not the easiest person to sleep with. He’s very picky, not in specific details like Tony, more that he expects a certain standard of luxury, a bedroom fancy enough for a prince. He’s also a very selfish bedmate, since he’s not used to sharing his space. He’s a pillow hog and blanket thief and also like, ice cold so if you run hot then that’s great for you but if not, good luck lol). Still, he does like sleeping with you, he’s a clingy sort, so maybe take the L and indulge him once in a while. Goes to bed as late as he pleases and considers waking up before 10 to be “early” in classic royal fashion. 

Has a giant sized plushie he squeezes while sleeping (Ah yes. You, your boyfriend, and his 4 foot tall Jeff the Landshark). Wears the most dramatic slinky old timey night robe ever, it has the tendency to start slipping off ;). 

Frank Castle: Frank had been nocturnal for a long time. He’d get restless sleep in the day, in the back of his van or in a safe house, usually in a sleeping bag and a pile of laundry, and of course without changing or brushing his teeth. 

Since moving in with you, he’s tried to clean up his act. He gets in bed and wakes up around the same time as you (assuming you have a somewhat regular sleep schedule, if not he’s in at 10ish and up at 6:30ish), he has pajamas you bought together and always takes a shower right before bed, he’s slowly being re-domesticated. Frank always makes the bed after you’ve both woken up, force of habit from his military training. His alarm clock is set at the lowest level but he still jumps out of bed like somebody’s crashed a cymbal next to his ear, his vigilante past has left him pretty high strung. He’s also plagued by nightmares, of the death of his family, of the horrors he’s seen, of you suffering the same fate. He twists around and whimpers in his sleep, the best way to stop them is to cuddle, nothing helps him sleep like being the big spoon, feeling you safely tucked inside his arms.