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notmanagingmymischief · 6 days ago

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a bunny and other pets

Author’s note: The majority ruled for dom!agatha so here you go.

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Warnings: dirty talk, dom!agatha, praise kink, sex

Plot: a woman comes by to buy a bunny from the animal shelter you work at. and let’s say, the bunny is not the only pet she gets.

MEN AND MINORS DNI!

You work at a small animal shelter, it was supposed to be a part time job during high school, but somehow you liked it too much to give it up. So you’re still there, eight years later.

Tuesday afternoons are usually slow, but lately most of the days are. The high season of people returning pets after Christmas is thankfully over. It’s always painful to see the animals back in the cages and you always curse the people who don’t think their Christmas presents through.

You are wiping down cages when the bell above the door rings. A woman walks in, she’s wearing an expensive looking clothes and she’s looking around like she is already annoyed that no one has rushed to her side immediately.

“I want a rabbit,” she says. No greeting.

You blink, cursing your gay heart from almost leaping out of your chest. Hot women with authority have always been your issue. You walk towards her. “Of course. Any kind in particular?”

She scans the room. “No. It’s not about the kind. I just… I’ll know him when I see him.”

Her voice has an edge to it and you wonder why she’s behaving like this. Should you be worried about the rabbit?

You lead her to the back where you keep the rabbits. She stops in front of a small lop-eared white one with brown spots. He stares back at her, entirely unimpressed.

“This one,” she says, barely above a whisper. “This one is mine.”

You pause. People say things like that all the time in shelters - He's perfect or She looks like my old one. But this… the way she says it feels less like a choice and more like a realisation. You study her, and for a moment, her mask cracks. There is something raw behind her eyes. Loneliness, maybe.

She also seems slightly unhinged, but the loneliness gets to you more and your next words are out of your mind before you can stop them.

“I can help you get him settled. Supplies, carrier, hay, all that.”

She nods briskly. “Yes. That would be fine.” She watches with a piercing gaze, her blue eyes so intense, and you stare back. There is something unspoken between you and you don’t even know how to explain it. She mesmerises you so completely that you can only follow her like a puppy to the front of the store, all wide eyed.

At the counter, she slides you a business card with one manicured finger. Agatha Harkness. No title. Just a name.

Before she leaves, you stare at each other. You see invitation in her eyes, a challenge, a danger. What she sees in your eyes, you don’t know.

Your colleague Sam catches you staring at the card as she leaves.

“Since when do we do house calls?” he says, smirking.

You shrug. “Since now, apparently.” You may be completely out of your mind, but the woman might be the most interesting thing that has happened to you in a while and you’ll be damned if you don’t chase the feeling.

~~~

The next day drags, a blur of cleaning, clipping nails, trying to keep the terrier in kennel 3 from chewing through another water bowl. By the time your shift ends, your feet ache and your patience is frayed.

Agatha’s house is tucked into the hills just outside of town, and definitely not what you expected. You expected something modern, minimalist, but the house is old, decorated in a way that makes your heart soar. It’s a house you’d want for yourself one day. You’d think an old witch lives there.

Agatha opens the door barefoot, a glass of red wine in hand, dressed in a sweater that looks cashmere and a pair of leggings that could’ve been painted on.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she says, stepping aside.

“You paid in cash,” you reply, holding up the carrier. “Figured you meant it.”

Inside, everything is too quiet, even though a music is playing from a record player in the corner of the living room. And you suddenly understand the loneliness in Agatha’s eyes. You set up the rabbit’s enclosure in a sunlit corner of the living room and the rabbit immediately hides. It’s going to take him a few days to settle. She watches you from the couch, sipping her wine and smiling faintly.

“I’ve decided to call him Señor Scratchy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… formal.”

“I think he appreciates formality,” she says, swirling her glass. “Speaking of which, I never got your name.”

“Y/N,” you say quietly and turn on your knees towards her.

She hums. “Agatha, pleasure.” There is a beat of silence and she looks at you with an almost curious expression. “Would you like a glass? For all your trouble?”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. But something about her loneliness clings to the walls, and you don’t want to walk back into the night just yet. You want her loneliness and your loneliness to keep each other company. “Sure. Just one.”

You make small talk, weather, animals, nothing deep. Her laugh comes easier with the wine, and yours follows. She sits back, rubbing her neck with one hand, and sighs.

“Are you alright?” you ask and even though you only wanted to drink one glass you’re already on your second and you want her to tell you things and share things and to make her laugh again. Sappho would be proud of you.

“I’m so tired.”

Without thinking, you say, “I could give you a massage, if you’d like. I mean… just if it helps.”

She tilts her head at you, amused. “Are massages standard with bunny deliveries now?”

You laugh, a little embarrassed. “No. Just… a favor.”

She turns slightly, pulling her hair to one side. “Alright then. Knock yourself out.”

You stand up and walk behind her. For a second you freeze, suddenly aware that you’re about to touch her, but then your fingers press gently into her shoulders. Her muscles are tense, knotted. She lets out a soft hum and your knees almost give out.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs.

“Thank you,” you say and continue removing the tension from her shoulders and when she moans, you feel it everywhere in your body. What the fuck did you get yourself into? Has the movie Carol left the screen and became your life?

You get out a particularly bad knot and she groans and says: “Good girl.”

You pause and there is a good chance the whole world has stopped moving because heat settles in your lower belly and in your cheeks and your hands freeze.

The words hang in the air.

She tilts her head back, just enough to see your face, your lips parted, your flushed cheeks and most likely blown out pupils.

And then her smile changes, just a little, but you feel it deep in your bones. This is the biggest gay panic of your life.

She doesn’t turn around completely, just enough so you can see her profile, her mouth curved at one corner.

“You’re blushing,” she says, voice low, velvety.

“I’m not,” you mumble, which is definitely a lie.

Her laugh comes, light and amused. She leans back into your hands, stretching like a satisfied cat, and you proceed with the massage.

“I think you like it,” she says. “Me calling you good.”

Your fingers freeze again for half a second. She notices.

Agatha lets her head roll to the side, hair slipping over her shoulder, glass still loosely in one hand. “Oh, don’t stop now. I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

Your breath hitches. You force a shallow breath out of your nose and focus on her shoulders again, pretending this isn’t some strange, wine-tinted dream.

“You’re awfully shy for someone who came into a stranger’s house after dark,” she murmurs.

“You paid me to,” you say weakly, but even you don’t believe your own defense. That is so not the reason you came.

“Mm. Yes. And here you are, giving me a massage and blushing.” She watches you with her head tilted curiously. “I have to say… this is all very random. I got a bunny from you yesterday and now you’re here. We don’t even know each other.”

You hesitate. Is she going to decide now that it’s too weird and send you home? You need to do something to make her realise you’re worth it.

You exhale sharply through a nervous smile. “Do you, um… need anything else from me?” you ask, letting the double meaning hang in the air just long enough for her to catch it. You hope she feels the pull the same way you do. The movie-like tension.

She turns fully then, the hem of her sweater slipping down one shoulder. Her eyes meet yours and then dip down, slowly, before returning to your face.

“I suppose that depends,” she says, eyes half-lidded now. “On what you think you're offering.”

You swallow loudly, but refuse to look away. You will not back out and go home to your lonely apartment and endless shifts where the only petting you do is when a dog climbs on your lap.

“Anything,” you whisper.

She cocks an eyebrow at you and lets the tension build before motioning for you to sit next to her. You sit closer than before and take a sip of your wine.

“You look like you’re waiting for a permission to breathe,” she muses and puts her glass on the table.

You give her a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

“Oh no,” she says, leaning in just enough that her perfume curl around your senses. “You’re not. You’re being so polite. So good.”

Her voice wraps around the word like silk and you press your thighs together, a movement that doesn’t go unnoticed. You watch her raise her eyes back to your face.

“I mean it,” she continues. “You’re sitting here with your hands in your lap like a schoolgirl.

It’s… dangerously adorable.”

“I—“ You try to say something clever like “would you like my hands elsewhere?”, but your mouth doesn’t seem to remember how sentences work.

Her fingers brush yours for a second and then she turns forward you, one leg up onto the couch, angling herself so that her entire body faces you.

“I bet you’d do anything I asked right now,” she says slowly, cocking her head.

Your mouth goes dry.

Agatha smiles like someone discovering a new favorite toy. “Wouldn’t you?” she asks, softer now, like it is a secret between you. “If I told you to kneel?”

Your breath catches. Your cheeks burn. You nod before you can stop yourself.

Her smile deepens, pleased, almost triumphant.

“You’re very sweet,” she says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Her touch is feather-light, maddening. “I didn’t expect that. The way you looked at me in the shelter? I thought you didn’t trust me.”

“I didn’t,” you whisper.

“And now?”

You swallow hard. “I think I’d let you ruin me if you asked nicely.”

She laughs, delighted, and her eyes shine with mischief.

“Oh, darling,” she says, fingers trailing down your arm now. “Who said I was going to ask nicely?”

You’re literally unable to speak. She sips her wine again and then shifts closer. You’re sitting there with her pressed against your side, playing with your hair and suddenly she’s near your ear, her voice almost a whisper.

"Tell me something," she murmurs. "If I asked you to be still... would you?"

You nod before you even know you’re doing it.

"And if I asked you to speak?"

Your lips part, but she lifts a finger, brushing it across them, silencing you gently.

“Not yet,” she hushes you. “You’re too pretty like this. All quiet and obedient.”

You whimper quietly. It slips out of you, humiliating and honest.

Agatha’s eyes light up.

“There it is,” she purrs. “That sound. You don’t even know what you want, do you?”

You shake your head. You don’t know what you want, but you know you want anything she’d ask of you.

She leans in, her lips inches from your ear again.

“Good,” she murmurs. “That means I get to decide.”

Your breath hitches. You sit there frozen, desperate, buzzing beneath the surface. You want her hands on you. You want her voice in your ear. You want her to tell you want to do and be called a good girl.

She pulls back just enough to look at you again, her expression soft but no less dangerous.

“Would you like that?” she asks. “To stop thinking for a little while? Just... do what you’re told?”

You nod again, slower this time. Everything inside you screams yes.

Agatha’s smile returns, full and wicked and soft all at once.

“Then finish your wine,” she says. “And wait for me like a good puppy.”

And just like that, she stands up and walks out of the room.

Leaving you there, flushed, breathless, and entirely hers.

~~~

Minutes pass. Maybe more. The silence stretches long and intimate. You stare into the dark red swirl at the bottom of the glass and finally lifted it to your lips, finishing the wine like she’s asked. A simple act, but it feels like something more. Like a vow.

Your body is too warm, your thoughts slow. You place the glass down on the coffee table with a soft clink and fold your hands in your lap again, still, obedient, exactly how she seems to like it.

And then, her footsteps. Slow. She returns, but not exactly the same.

Agatha let her hair down. It tumbles over her shoulders, soft waves brushing bare collarbones. She’s shed the oversized sweater. What remains is a dark silk camisole with shorts that shimmer faintly in the dim lamplight. She looks effortlessly hot.

And she is looking right at you.

“You waited,” she says.

You smile softly. “You told me to.”

She curls her lips at that, as if the answer pleased her more than you could understand.

She approaches slowly, circling the couch instead of sitting back beside you. She moves like she is hunting. As if she doesn’t know she’s already trapped you.

“I’m still not sure what to do with you,” she murmurs, standing behind you now. Her hands come to rest gently on your shoulders, where you touched her earlier. Her fingers squeeze softly, tracing the same knots you worked on before.

“You’re a strange little thing,” she goes on. “Soft, careful… and yet you’re here, in a house of a woman you don’t know, aren’t you?”

Her thumbs press in slightly harder. You shiver, trembling under her hands.

“You knew something might happen, you felt the tension, too… You wanted something to happen.”

“I didn’t know what I wanted,” you whisper.

Her voice drops low behind you, so close it ghosts over your neck. “You do now, though. Don’t you?”

You swallow. “I think so.”

She chuckles and comes back around, sitting down beside you, even closer now. Her thigh pressed fully into yours and she reaches up to tilt your chin toward her. The touch is gentle, the look in her eyes is not.

“Say it,” she demands. “Say you’ll do whatever I ask.”

Embarrassingly, you don’t even hesitate. “I’ll do whatever you ask.”

She hums, pleased. “Good girl.”

The words hit you like warm honey. Melting you. Binding you.

She leans forward, lips barely brushing the edge of your cheek.

“Let’s see how much you mean it,” she whispers.

You slowly turn your face in her direction and the look in her eyes takes your breath away. Maybe something in your face has the same effect on her because in the next moment she joins your lips together, claiming you.

When Agatha pulls away, your mind is hazy. Both from the wine and from Agatha.

“Spread your legs,” she commands softly.

Again with no hesitation you do what she’s asked, hoping she is going to touch you now. But instead she nibbles at your earlobe and gives another command. “Touch yourself.”

You close your eyes for a moment and will your cheeks to stop getting so red. But then you slip your hand into your pants and circle your clit.

“Are you wet?” she asks after a few moments of you stroking yourself.

You groan as you hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

You pull out your hand and show her the glistening fingers which she proceeds to put into her mouth, sucking them, circling them with her tongue, making noises that should be illegal.

Agatha raises up and straddles your lap in one fluid motion, her hands sliding into your hair and kisses you deeply. Her body fits against yours, warm. She deepens the kiss and your hands find her waist, tentative, but when her tongue starts playing with yours, you grip her more firmly.

She pulls back, hands trailing down, fingers dragging along the column of your throat, resting just long enough to feel your pulse flutter.

You’re melting. Into her. Into the couch. Into whatever this is becoming.

She kisses and sucks at your neck. “You’re so easy to undo,” she whispers. “So sweet. So willing.”

Her hands wander again, exploring, testing. And you let her. Every nerve in your body turns to her movements, every breath waiting for her next command.

"Lie back for me," she says, already guiding you down.

And you do it, dizzy from wine, from her, from the heat simmering between you. You are looking up at her while she’s still straddling your lap.

You shirt has ridden up and you can feel her hear on your exposed skin. “Agatha…”

She smiles down on you. “What, pet?”

Seeing as you unable to say anything else, she takes your hands and brings them to her breasts. She’s still wearing the silk shirt, but you can feel her nipples harden under your touch.

“You’re so damn pretty,” she whispers as she continues helping you massage her breasts. When you take initiative and use your thumb and forefinger to pinch her nipple, she moans and starts rolling her hips on you. “I cannot believe… I went to get a pet bunny. And I got one more pet to keep me company.”

“Yes,” you whimper below her. “Please.”

“Please what?” she asks.

You stare at her helplessly. “Use me.”

She stops moving, looking at you, her gaze darkened. In one swift movement she climbs off you and pulls down her shorts. You don’t know what to do, shouldn’t that have been your job?

She leans down and grabs your shirt. It’s almost methodical as she slowly undresses you. You thought it would happen organically, but for some reason Agatha wants you both naked as soon as possible. And well, you are not stopping her.

When you’re both done, standing naked across from each other, both slightly breathless, she cannot keep her eyes off you. Your gaze trails along her soft curves and full breasts and you reach out to touch her.

She catches your hand mid air and then pushes you on the couch. “Be good for me, baby,” she whispers and you’re laying on your back again and this time, when she straddles you, you can feel everything. “Why don’t you touch me now? See what you do to me?”

You hesitantly move your hand down and slip your fingers between her folds, both moaning at the sensation. You gather the wetness and circle her clit before moving up and down her folds.

“Ah, so good,” she praises and her hips buckle when you press at her clitoris again. “Why don’t you put two fingers inside, sweetheart?”

You do as she’s asked, sliding two fingers inside of her while your thumb keeps circling her clit and the moan she lets out settles in your lower belly.

“You feel amazing,” you whisper, looking up at her in amazement, it’s truly mesmerising watching her unravel before you. She looks down at you and starts rolling her hips to match your movements. You can tell she’s already close and decide to push her over the edge. “Am I being good for you?”

“Y-yes,” she breathes out and her hand shoots out to the back of the couch so she can stabilise herself. “Very good.”

“You’re using me so well,” you whisper, your mind so hazy that you’re not even surprised at your own boldness.

“More,” she begs through her gritted teeth. “Tell me more about it.” She’s now fully riding you and you’re drunk on her.

“You can teach me how to behave,” you continue. “You can make me your own little…” you lean up to softly pinch her nipple, “obedient,” you mouth latches on to the place your fingers abused, your tongue soothing the nipple and you softly suck at it, finishing your sentence with “pet” just as Agatha comes all over your finger with a load moan.

She collapses on top of you and you take your fingers out of her and clean them with your mouth. Agatha looks up at you from her position on your chest and watches you darkly.

You smile at her innocently and she chuckles.

“You’re a piece of work, you know that?” she asks and you don’t think she expects a reply so you don’t say anything. Suddenly she lifts herself off of you and starts climbing down your body. “Looking all soft and innocent, but boy, do you have a filthy mouth. Little obedient pet,” she mocks quietly.

Soon her fingers find your soaking center and she doesn’t hesitate to push one finger inside.

“How about I tell you something now, huh?” she proposes and dips her head low to lick a long stripe through your vulva. You groan loudly and your hands instinctively reach for her head. “Ts ts, no more touching, put your hands above your head and lay still. Let me have my way with you now.”

Your hands immediately dangle from the back of the couch, but your thighs clasp around Agatha’s head when her tongue starts working and her fingers deliciously move in and out of you.

You come, panting, sensitive, but she doesn’t let you rest. She moves her head away and bites at your inner thigh. “Again.” Her fingers don’t stop their maddening pace and soon you’re coming again.

“What do you think, baby doll?” she smirks up at you lazily. “Do you have another one in you? Can you be my good pet and come again?”

Even if you couldn’t, you would. So you nod and she continues fucking you. Tears appear in your eyes and you furiously brush them away with the back of your hand.

When you come for the third time, she climbs on top of you, catching your jaw between her fingers, tracing your lip with her thumb and smiles at your disheveled state wickedly.

Then, when you think you’re completely ruined and there is nothing else she could do or say to make you even more wrecked, she leans down to your ear and whispers: “maybe we should also get a cage for you. Can’t have Señor Scratchy thinking you’re special.”

Well, fuck.

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notmanagingmymischief · 6 days ago

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[the long sigh i do after i post a fanfic outside of my usual character roster] you gotta build an audience you gotta build an audience u gotta bu

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notmanagingmymischief · 6 days ago

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➢ Face Of An Angel, Body Of A Porn Star

➢ MASTER LIST

PLAYLIST → Perverted Angel Playlist

SYNOPSIS → Ghostface develops an extreme obsession with you, the infamous porn star named soft angel who so happens to be his classmate. The face of an angel and the body of a porn star.

view in light mode for a better reading experience!

(all endings, multiple parts, dead ends)

➢ [◉°] ⌞ Face Of An Angel ⌝

➢ Angel's Inbox

➢ Dispose Mail?

➢ Wrong Fucking Choice

➢ Chatting With Lovesick Anonymous

➢ Dead End

➢ Keep Chatting With Lovesick Anonymous

➢ Don't Block Him Again.

➢ Lovesick Anonymous Will Remember That

➢ Be My Valentine

➢ Body Of A Porn Star

➢ Living Dove Route

➢ Angel's Inbox

➢ Cancel

➢ Lovesick Doll (coming soon)

➢ Dead Dove Route

➢ Hide In Bathroom

➢ Psycho Killer (coming soon)

🖱️ CLICK TO READ CREDITS & UPDATES 🖱️

જ⁀➴ ♡ most dividers, templates, pngs used in this series were made by: @bernardsbendystraws @nicodefresas @kimjiho1 @dollywons @anitalenia @uncoffins

જ⁀➴ I also used Pinterest for the other dividers, gifs, and templates. I can't find the original creators of some of these templates so if it's yours please let me know so I can credit you! The pink streaming template that says starting soon in the first chapter was made by @moshimochico, I found it on Pinterest <3

જ⁀➴ I used PicsArt as well to create some of the pictures. I use the stickers section of PicsArt to add different things onto the templates and photos I've found from Pinterest or Tumblr.

જ⁀➴ I use Emoji Combos for cute symbols, emoji combos or symbol combos જ⁀➴ key words I use for combos: cute symbols, star symbols, arrows, hearts, divider symbols, coquette, scary/horror symbols

જ⁀➴ I use Lingojam for different fonts, it's a font generator and you can use it for anything! there are a lot of different and unique fonts but I mainly use the fancy or basic ones (you have to scroll a bit to see them)

જ⁀➴ I use bbcode & html text colorizer for the colored text. I only used it for the first chapter for the light faded pink but I do plan on using it more for my future chapters. original tutorial by @hanasnx (can be found in his FAQ) → ✩ bbcode & html text colorizer | follow the prompts -> copy the bottom box aka the "html code" -> go to tumblr on desktop -> create post -> click top right gear for settings -> scroll down to "text editor" to select "html" -> paste your clipboard -> scroll up to the select "html" or "preview" to both edit html and see how it looks after you do.

all parts of this series will be under જ⁀➴ ᴘᴇʀᴠᴇʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀɴɢᴇʟ

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notmanagingmymischief · 6 days ago

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i dunno if you listen to hozier, (that man is my pride and joy and im seeing him live for the second time this month iakwjekdks) but masky, and lowkey like, all of the creeps, remind me so, so, much of 'work song.' the fact that their ruthless murderers but y/n is able to see the human in them and understand their hurt, is SO hozier love coded. if youre not a big fan of his, i HIGHLY recommend getting into his music! its basically just poetry with a groovy beat!

I LOVEEE Hozier! I am so jealous that you get to see him live! His music is so gorgeous and beautiful and makes me want to crawl out of my skin with yearning. So, I took the initiative to headcannon the creep’s favorite/most relatable songs:

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

“Dinner & Diatribes”

Jeff thrives on chaos, violence, and the intoxicating high of adrenaline. But underneath the bloodlust, there’s a deep craving for someone who sees him and still wants to play with fire. D&D explains the desire for intimacy and closeness with a significant other, while also having to uphold expectations.

“Hell is the talking type / I’d suffer Hell if you’d tell me what you’d do to me tonight.”

Fast-paced, teasing, laced with lust and a little madness. The guitar feels like a heartbeat mid-chase, or the feet chasing behind you. Seems pretty familiar.

✦ . ticci toby

“To Be Alone”

Toby lives in noise: mental, physical, emotional, and he’s learned to become comfortable in it. But he’s also hiding in it. The line between comfort and pain is blurry. Hozier’s rugged vocals and the pounding rhythm mirror the overload Toby constantly lives with.

“But you don’t know the hell you put me through / To have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you.”

Electric, almost ritualistic. It feels like dancing on shattered glass just to feel alive, even when you know you won’t be able to feel the cuts on your feet no matter how hard you stomp.

✦ . eyeless jack

“In A Week” (feat. Karen Cowley)

This song’s haunting tenderness and obsession with mortality perfectly echo Jack’s strange, clinical intimacy. It’s about death, but also about staying with someone through the rot. Romantic in the most macabre way, just like him.

“I have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me / I have never known hunger like these insects that feast on me.”

Slow, melancholic, and strangely serene. A love song for something dark and eternal. It’s more-so a want for mortality that he lost a long time ago, and imagining that sweetness of death with someone next to him.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

“Work Song”

Masky is made of restraint, guilt, and devotion to a being that couldn’t care less about him buried beneath a cold mask. This song is his heartbeat. It’s about love so powerful, so sacred, it transcends damnation. You are the only thing grounding him, even in death. Is it a savior complex? An obsession? Or just the desire to be wanted for more than his abilities.

“No grave can hold my body down / I’ll crawl home to her.”

A dark gospel hymn. Heavy, aching, and loyal to the bone. He’s not dead, but he’s not alive either. He does things that make him sick, but if he can have a warm hand to hold, maybe it’ll be okay.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

“Like Real People Do”

Hoody is a ghost of who he once was. This song is about loving after ruin—awkward, gentle, and sacred. Someone having the ability to look past his faults, forced or not, he desires that wholly.

“I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask, and neither should you.”

Tender, breathless intimacy. Like whispering in the dark and not expecting an answer, but being pleasantly surprised when someone whispers back.

✦ . ben drowned

“Movement”

Ben is obsession, rhythm, and screen-central horror. Anything he enjoys, he enjoys so potently you’d think he couldn’t live without it. This song is raw, hungry admiration—mesmerized by the things he admires and having unwavering affection for it.

“When you move / Honey, I’m put in awe of something so flawed and free.”

Sexy, powerful, like watching a storm from inside the eye.

✦ . clockwork

“Foreigner’s God”

Clockwork is torn between her rage and the humanity that lingers beneath it. This song reflects her inner war—the feeling of not belonging, of worshipping something that feels too good to exist in her world. It’s the idolization of a better life.

“She feels no control of her body / She feels no safety in my arms.”

Holy desperation. A tragic reverence for love she thinks she doesn’t deserve, but craves wholeheartedly. There’s something so tragic about a girl destined to be hated now craving love.

✦ . laughing jack

“Someone New”

Jack is manic love, fast and unpredictable. This song’s whimsical tone hides deep loneliness—he wants to love, to feel, but it never lasts. Whether as the toy or as himself, he’s always searching for that perfect someone who will cherish and adore him above all else.

“To somehow escapes the burning weight, the art of scraping through / The dark caress of someone else, I guess any thrill will do.”

Bouncy, charming, and tinged with bittersweet ache. The age-old tale of a clown meant to perform, but getting tired of the performances. He wants something real and tangible, something more than the constant.

✦ . slenderman

“No Plan”

Slenderman doesn’t do emotion in the human sense—but this song speaks to his ethereal detachment. He watches the world fall and feels something ancient and slow stir constantly, but it’s always the same question of why. His purpose, his craving, his desire to tear apart and ruin.

“The screaming, heaving fuckery of the world / Why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain.”

Apocalyptic and majestic like a god feeling love for the first time in millennia. There is no reason for him, he just is, purpose only to wreck and destroy.

꩜ .ᐟ

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notmanagingmymischief · 6 days ago

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Good God You’re A Sweet Thing

Chapter Seven: Two Corpses We Were, Two Corpses I Saw

notes: this is gonna be the last chapter for a few weeks since school is kicking my ass!! requests are open though and I'll get through those once exam week is over😋

word count: 3095

prev: chapter 6

summary: the babies are in a studio and we get a fun little Andrew POV

Andrew

Friday

I sat on the leather sofa in the studio, my leg bouncing as I checked my messages once again. That week, me and Bea had organised to meet at the studio after she finished work to just run through In A Week together. The last time we ever sang it together was at one of my gigs in 2012 at the same pub we first met at, sharing one mic, awkwardly adjusted so we could both still sing into it, her craning her neck, and me squatting slightly. Admittedly, we probably could've had our own microphones but she dismissed it with a ‘where's the fun in that?’.

I checked my phone once again. Bea said she'd message me when she got off her shift which would be finishing in 2 minutes. I picked up my guitar again, idly strumming a few chords to warm up my fingers as I waited, the sound echoing throughout the room. It wasn’t often I had time to stop and play anything for fun any more; being on tour for the past few years meant days were filled with soundchecks, interviews and gigs.

My phone lit up with a text and my heart soured for a second. I hated to admit to myself that I still looked forward to her messages, that my cheeks still heated at her words. I picked my phone up, expecting to see Bea's name attached to a message where in fact it was just a text from Alex, wishing me luck and to use a condom. I rolled my eyes.

A moment later the long awaited message from Bea pinged through.

B: Shift over. I'm omw :)

A: see u soon

I laid my phone down and sighed, feeling my face heat up. God… the things this woman did to me. Every time she spoke, her words glided across my ears like swans over a glassy lake, every time she laughed, her joy wrapped its arms around me in a warm embrace, and every time her body touched mine, I was met with a tingling heat that spread throughout me, reminding me of a time when our skin would be pressed against one another for hours on end, our fingertips exploring every inch. I drifted off into the depths of my memories, unearthing thoughts I fought to suppress every time I saw her.

A creak of the door opening snapped me out of my reverie, my head shooting up. Bea was stood in the doorway and she looked heavenly. Her work's navy blue polo shirt covered her torso with the baby pink embroidery of Aoife's logo, and on her bottom half she wore a pair of leggings… those godforsaken leggings. They clung to the tops of her thighs and traced down her legs until they flared out at the knee and put more decadent images in my mind. I cleared my cloudy mind as I registered what she was saying. “You mind if I change into something that's not…” Bea looked down at her body, gesturing to her clothes, “this?”

“Ehm yeah… sure.” My voice was croaky and my face hot with what my brain had conjured up moments earlier. I crossed my legs, attempting to hide the obvious tent, growing in my trousers. “There's some toilets down the hall.” She nodded and spoke her thanks, placing her guitar case against the wall and turning around, walking out the door again, offering me a glorious view of her ass.

Stop this Andrew, I said to myself, standing up from the stool and walking a lap around the studio to cool off. Think of Alex wearing lingerie or something… is that weird? Who cares? I just can't have Bea see my fucking hard on. She's definitely not gonna like me back after this. Stop overthinking Byrne.

I heard the click of the bathroom door unlock, snapping me, once again, back into reality. A quick glance down at my crotch showed my boner had reduced to a satisfactory height before I picked my guitar back up, pretending to occupy myself as Bea walked back into the room, this time in an even more jaw dropping outfit. It was almost as if she was doing this just to drive me mad. A pair of baggy bootcut jeans hung dangerously low on her hips, her hip tattoos almost completely visible, a thick belt their only hope of staying up. Her shirt clung tight to her, beginning just above the belly button and stopping below the first swell of her breasts, a star emblazoned across the front, pulled taught by the stretched fabric.

“Andrew?” Her words drifted foggily to me.

I really needed to start paying attention. I shook my head, opting to keep my eyes on her face, which was equally as beautiful but helped me be a bit less horny. “Sorry.”

“Where should I put this?” She asked, tilting her head in a way that made her look like a puppy as she held her bag up.

“Oh, just chuck it over there with my stuff.” I gestured to my unceremoniously heaped jacket in the corner.

The room we were in was quite plain, with a low sofa I'd previously been sat on, a couple of stools and the equipment they'd supplied us with: a mic stand, microphone, and 2 amps. Bea surveyed the room, eyeing up the singular microphone. “Just like old times, eh?” She remarked, a twang in my chest resounding with the aching memories of our love.

“Yeah… just like old times.” I echoed her words, with a small smile, directed towards her. The same grin was written across her face as we locked eyes across the room. Even from this distance, I could see the steady blue of her irises, like an ocean I would happily drown in, her pupils searching my face. And those lips, still stretched out with her smile, were flaky because of the cold weather. I remembered their caress, the heat of her breath in my mouth. Her splatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks had faded over the winter months from the abysmal lack of sunlight in Ireland this time of year, but she was sunlight enough. It seemed that nowadays, after getting so used to her presence in the week before, every room lacked her.

Bea was the one to break the thick silence between us, giving a small cough, clearing her throat. “I haven't really sung in a while.” Her voice seemed almost nervous, as if she was giving a confession.

“That's okay.” I shrugged. “Oh actually-” I strode across the room, closer to her, and to my bag, and withdrew a sheet of paper, scrawled with both our handwriting, mine scrawling and cursive, hers round and scribbled. “I got the lyric sheet… in case… y'know.”

She smiled. “Not patronising at all.” Despite her words, she still took it from me, eyes scanning over the page.

I shrugged sheepishly, scratching the back of my neck, a nervous habit I only noticed I did when Bea had pointed it out over the week she stayed at mine.

She looked up from the paper at me under her mascara coated lashes. I cursed myself at the image that flashed across my mind of her looking up at me from a slightly lower point in a completely different context. Bea offered me an awkward thumbs up, one she gave when she wasn't sure what to say next but wanted to keep going with what we were doing. I took this as a cue to walk over to the mic and adjust it to what I thought was a suitable height for both of us- just under my chin, just above her eyes.

I stood in the centre of the room, watching Bea as she took a swig of water from a bottle she'd dug out of her bag. I saw her throat bob up and down and averted my eyes to the ragged red carpet. I was definitely going to write a song about this later. Bea bounded over, song sheet in hand and a smile upon her lips. “Let's do this.” I picked up my guitar, giving her a nod before playing the opening part of In A Week. I had to admit, I'd been a little rusty before today, so I'd spent the past few days drilling myself of the hand movements along with the lyrics. I flicked my eyes to Bea, noticing how her gaze was focused on my hands, picking the strings of my acoustic. I lowered my mouth to the microphone and began to sing my first verse and chorus.

I have never known peace

Like the damp grass that yields to me

I have never known hunger

Like these insects that feast on me

A thousand teeth

And yours among them, I know

Our hungers appeased

Our heartbeats becoming slow

We lay here for years or for hours

Thrown here or found

To freeze or to thaw

So long, we'd become the flowers

Two corpses we were

Two corpses I saw

Bea leant her head upwards, lips level with the microphone… and mine. I could feel her soft breath fanning across my stubbled cheek before she joined in, her voice twining with mine like climbing vines across an old stone wall.

And they'd find us in a week

When the weather gets hot

After the insects have made their claim

Our eyes met as we climbed to the top of the chorus, the words staying as true as the first time we wrote them.

I'd be home with you

A small smile played on her lips as I plucked out the small instrumental before she took a deep breath to continue, the lyric sheet lowered next to her hip.

I have never known sleep

Like the slumber that creeps to me

I have never known color

Like this morning reveals to me

And you haven't moved an inch

Such that I would not know

If you sleep always like this

The flesh calmly going cold

We lay here for years or for hours

Your hand in my hand

So still and discreet

So long, we'd become the flowers

We'd feed well the land

And worry the sheep

Her voice sounded exactly like it used to, soaring with the words. I bent back down, joining in with her again.

And they'd find us in a week

When the cattle show fear

After the insects have made their claim

After the foxes have known our taste

I'd be home with you

We both took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering shut, mine trained on her, preparing ourselves for the overlapping lyrics. We separated into our individual parts, singing over each other. Once we joined back together she opened her eyes again, as our voices became softer.

And they'd find us in a week

When the buzzards get loud

After the insects have made their claim

After the foxes have known our taste

After the raven has had its say

Her eyes met mine, blazing like a bonfire, full of joy, full of passion. I don't think she'd ever looked so beautiful. Then again I thought that most of the time.

I'd be home with you

There was a moment of stillness. A moment where all I could see was her. Nothing else mattered but her. Bea. Beatrice. With her warm blue eyes, a heart full of fire, all of her was perfect.

Bea

Andrew's hazel eyes stared into mine as he leaned closer. His breath was hot as it caressed my face, causing my heart to jump. I tilted my head up, his lips inches away. The tips of our noses brushed and all I could think about was him. Andy. Andrew. With his voice of honey, his soul of pure kindness, all of him was perfect.

Andrew

My hand dropped from my guitar in defeat, surrendering to her. It found its way to hold her waist, sliding across the bare skin. She let out a small noise in her throat, making me cave and give in to her. I flung the guitar off from my neck before pulling her into me, her body curving up into mine. Her vanilla perfume snaked up and pulled me down, her lips ghosting over mine.

A harsh rap at the door sounded causing Bea’s shoulders to jolt. She was clearly as shocked as I was at the interruption as she took a step back, her face pink with the blush creeping up her cheeks. I let out a deep breath before turning to the door, walking over and opening it to reveal a small quaking intern with a tray of two mugs and a pile of biscuits. “Um, the coffee and hot chocolate for you Sir Mister Hozier.”

I tried to unclench my jaw and put on a more friendly exterior. “Thank you.” I nodded, taking the tray with the hand that wasn't gripping my guitar and closing the door behind the intern with my foot.

I turned to see that Bea had migrated to the sofa. Her face was still flushed and her eyes were averted to her hands. She looked up at the slam of the door. “I think we nailed the song.”

I grinned. I did have to admit we sounded much better than what I was expecting. “Yeah…” I nodded, lowering the tray onto the table in front of the sofa, along with my guitar, leaning against it. I lowered myself down to sit next to her. “Before you got here I ordered some drinks up. Hot chocolate for you.” I pointed to the lighter brown beverage closest to her.

“Oh thanks.” She grinned, awkwardly, taking the hot chocolate into her hands and blowing on it. “We did much better than I was expecting.”

I smiled. “Y’know what? I was just thinking about that.”

“Twinning.” She said in a singsong voice, causing me to grin, and my heart to skip a beat. I had no idea how I was gonna survive a 7 month tour with her and not end up doing something I'd regret later.

I took a sip of my coffee and setting it down, clearing my throat. “My mam is very enthusiastic that we're seeing each other again.” With a start I realised the double entendre of my words. “Not in that sense… hanging out and stuff, like.”

Bea let out a small chuckle. “I know what you mean. It's like when you say you slept with someone, meaning like in the same bed or general area,” she waved circles with the hand not holding her mug, “not like… sex.”

“No I hate that because there's no other way to say it.” I smiled. “Anyways, she wants you to come round for Sunday lunch at some point. Is this weekend too close?”

She tilted her head again, Christ, she was so adorable. “I don't have anything on so sure. As long as you pick me up. I am not driving through those country lanes… perilous.” She shook her head, remembering the time she'd so courteously offered to drive me to my parents house when we first got together: the journey consisted of her having to drive up a verge to pass a car, almost hitting a deer and stalling the car half way up a steep hill.

“I was going to offer anyways.” I furrowed my brow. “Also, you don't even own a car.”

She laughed into her hot chocolate, taking another sip. “Good point that…”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a whirlwind of laughs and music. Being with Bea was as easy as breathing, like she was the oxygen I needed to breathe. After running In A Week a few more times we were ready for the performances and she sounded better than ever.

As the day drew to a close, an amber light was cast across the studio. I stole glances at Bea as we packed up. I didn't know if it was just my mind playing tricks on me but she seemed much happier than before.

“I hope I was okay today.” She said as she swung her bag onto her shoulder.

I scoffed, hoisting up my guitar case into my arms. “Okay?... You were incredible.”

“Thanks.” A smile broke out across her face.

As we gathered our things and headed out of the studio, the crisp evening air hit us. Bea shivered slightly, pulling her arms around her. Without thinking, I shrugged off my own jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

"Andrew, you’ll freeze," she protested, though she didn’t push it off.

"I’ll be fine. Layers.” I said, looking down at the vest, long sleeve, button up and hoodie I had on and then at the small top she was sporting.

I'd purposefully chosen a studio close to her flat so that she wouldn't have to walk home too far. In hindsight I would have preferred it to have taken a longer time so I could have spent it with her. Before long we arrived at her place.

“Thanks for today. Made me less anxious about the whole thing.” She said, turning to me, her hands tucked into the pockets of my jacket, absolutely swamping her.

“Not at all.” I shrugged. I knew how nervous she got and had hoped the rehearsal today would somewhat put her mind at ease. “I'll see you Sunday then?”

She nodded. “Yup.” Bea shifted on her feet, looking uncertain before pulling me into a hug, her arms snaking around my waist and her head nuzzling into my chest. I took a sharp breath, praying she couldn't hear how fast my heart was beating before wrapping my arms around her shoulders. I fought the urge to bury my face into her incredibly soft, vanilla smelling hair, one that matched the perfume I'd smelt on her body earlier today. Before long, she pulled away, grinning up at me and fishing her keys out of her pockets “See you Sunday.” She said as she turned and ran up the stairs to her flat. It struck me that she was still in my jacket but I decided not to care, she looked better in it anyways. I stood for a moment, dumbfounded on the pavement before my legs took me to the car. What an evening…

notes: well well well... leaving you on that😘😘 the next chapter will be out in like a month dude. school is kicking my ass but I finish late July sooooo. the one shot requests are gonna be posted soon though- just need some sort of break in my writing routine. also feel free to send in requests!!

tags: @effervescent-fool @lifemod17 @unreal-unearthed @shortqueershakespeare @cervidaewasteland @man-i-love-folklore @padfootagain @h0e-zi3r

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notmanagingmymischief · 6 days ago

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Good God You’re A Sweet Thing

Chapter Six: A Willow Dancing On Air Before Covering Me

notes: guys I'm low-key in a writing slump. im having a rly hard time writing chapter 8 so like maybe send some fic requests in😋

word count: 2,103

summary: gossip and dancing

previous: chapter 5

“He hugged you!” Helena screamed as I finished my debrief the next morning over breakfast.

“Well I hugged him. Like… I initiated the hug. But he hugged me back.” I explained

“Okay and you're not only playing Coachella but doing the rest of the tour with him oh mY GOD!” She got up out of her chair and began dancing around the kitchen. “And I'm going to Coachella with you and ALEX.” I giggled as I watched my best friend dance around excitedly, her blonde hair flowing and her arms waving wildly. She'd been so excited since I told her what was happening and it was almost contagious. I felt my face light up and my heart pound, not only for my proximity to Andrew over the coming months, but also the fact I was pretty much living my childhood dream.

“I'm so excited!” Helena squealed, flopping back into her chair across from me, her head in hands and a dreamy smile on her face. I giggled at her expression, her eyes sparkling as she stared off into space. She'd always been a hopeless romantic, especially when it came to my love life and the fact she'd be with Alex for a few weeks was making her even more lovesick. “Do you know what you'll wear on stage?” She asked

I shook my head. “No actually… I'll ask Andy what he wants me to wear.” I grabbed my phone.

“Ooh Andy.” She picked up on the nickname. “Haven't heard that in a hot minute.”

“Shut up.” I grumbled before typing a message to Andrew.

B: hey, what do you want me to wear on stage? x

A: anyrhing u want love x

I rolled my eyes at his spelling. Despite being one of the greatest poets of our generation, over text, his English was abysmal. I felt my cheeks turn a soft pink when I saw him call me 'love'. Of course he added an 'x', he was affectionate with everyone, and I'd added one too. It was so Andrew, but it made my heart skip a beat regardless.

“Did he answer?” Helena peered over the table, trying to get a look at my phone. I turned the screen around for her to read the messages. She eyed me up and down judgmentally. “And you're still not sure if he likes you. Are you blind?” At that, I pointed to the glasses resting on my nose. “Fuck off.”

Later that day I climbed aboard the bus, taking me to the centre of town, dressed in a black pair of baggy sweats and a light pink hoodie over my black dance leotard. Over my shoulder was a Trinity College tote bag, holding my jazz flats, water and snacks, ready for the next 2 hours of chaos trying to get a bunch of 4-7 year olds to dance. The city streets were full as usual, people of all ages bustling around, living their lives as they walked past. I enjoyed people watching probably more than the average person. As a kid me and my mum would sit on the top deck of buses to have a nosy into other people's back gardens or into windows, seeing tiny glimpses of others lives.

I squeezed into the nearest free seat on the bus, setting my bag down beside me and pulling my headphones over my ears and pressing play on my Spotify. I'd never admit it to him but I was a regular listener to Andrew's music. Maybe I just loved his voice but something about his songs just lured me in like a tall, lanky siren. I couldn't help but think if any songs or at least lyrics were about me- he wrote most of his songs while we were still together so I imagined at least one was inspired by us.

By the time I got to my stop, my mind was full of Andrew: his deep voice, his woody smell, his goddamn body. I shook my head as the cool air sobered my thoughts up. It was another 5 minute walk to the dance studio which let me cool down and once I got into the mirror lined hall filled with the 10 menaces I helped to teach once a week, any trace of Andrew was completely out of my head.

“BEA!” they all shouted as I entered the room, turning their heads from the circle Emma, our teacher, had gathered them into.

“Hey girls.” I greeted them, a smile on my face. I set down my bag and began unlacing my docs before slipping off my layers and pulling on my jazz flats and sheer wrap skirt before walking over to join the circle where they were all stretching in the straddle or box splits depending on their flexibility.

I slid down to the splits, laying my stomach flat on the floor, propping my chin up on my hands. One of the older girls, Amelia, was doing the same next to me, obviously proud she could do it better than all the other girls. Across from me, Livvy's head was about a metre away from the floor. “I did it!” She loudly announced.

“Well done angel.” I congratulated her before we moved on to pointing and flexing our toes.

Once the warm up was done we all got on our feet, shaking our bodies out and wrangling them into a line. We started off trying to teach them jazz squares- a tragedy, then moved on to side gallops which were much easier for them. After the first hour, we were all exhausted and sat down for our break with our water bottles and snacks.

“Now, Bea has some exciting news, doesn't she!” Emma announced turning to me.

My head rose up, a blush covering my cheeks. I had to tell Emma I'd be gone for a few months starting in a couple of weeks so she knew I wouldn't be attending dance class. I however was not expecting her to make me tell the kids. “Um yeah… so in a few weeks I'm going to America.” I said, not completely lying, but prepared myself for a barrage of questions. As expected, about 9 “why?”s were said.

I sighed… might as well explain it all. “I have a friend who I recorded a song with a long time ago. And now he's quite famous and he's asked me to perform with him.” I did leave out the part of us being exes to avoid more awkward questions.

“Is he a rockstar!?” One of them exclaimed.

“You're gonna be famous. Are you still gonna teach us when you're back then?” Another said

“Please don't abandon us.”

“I'll miss you.”

“You should bring us with you.”

“How long are you gone?”

“Bea, Bea, Bea, how famous is he?”

“Can I see a picture of him?”

I tried to answer all their questions and failed so decided to get my phone out and showed them a video of Andrew performing Jackie and Wilson- one of the more tame ones- which had them transfixed for all of 30 seconds but it was enough to stop their outbursts of questions.

Once I finished with all their excitement we got back to dancing and in the blink of an eye we were finished with the lesson and everyone was packing up. I laced my boots up again, opting to keep my sweats off and my hoodie unzipped over my shoulder due to the stifling heat now in the room.

The cool air was welcomed onto my hot skin, sweat beading off of it. I pulled my headphones on, looking forward to my shower when I got home, and hearing Andrew's melodic voice in my ears. The walk and the music took me back to when I used to perform myself in university.

I paced up and down the halls backstage, my mind racing. It wasn't like I'd never performed at all, but the idea of doing it in front of Andrew and all my friends terrified me. I knew they wouldn't make fun of me or anything but if I messed up, they'd all remember it, whether they chose to verbalise it or not.

My body was clad in a beautiful leotard- my breasts covered by a piece of lycra and a pair of short shorts on my bottom half. Over the top was draped an intricate piece of mesh, covered in rhinestones and fake pearls. Woven into my braids were gold ribbons, mirroring the golden flecks across my face and the laces woven into my flats.

My phone in my hand lit up with a message from Andrew causing my heart to flutter and my cheeks to heat.

A: hey baby how you feeling

A: just got to the theatre

A: youll be amazing my love x

B: I'm shitting bricks

A: youre incredible

B: it's just stage fright I think

A: I can meet you at stage door

A: wait outside for me

I stuck my head in the changing room, muttering about how I was going outside to get some air before walking down a few stairs and out onto the back street of the theatre. It wasn't a large building, having a capacity of about 800 people but it was still daunting. My other shows were performed to just families from my dance company but this time people were coming for the sake of watching a performance.

I leant my back against the brick wall, making sure I was stood in the cleanest patch of pavement as I could so as not to spoil my shoes. Taking a deep breath of the cool air into my lungs, I closed my eyes and waited for Andrew.

After a few minutes I heard the familiar footsteps of my boyfriend. We'd only been together for 3 months or so but being with him felt natural, instinctual, like it was all I was meant to do. I opened my eyes to see a cloud of curly hair bobbing along, attached to the skinny frame of Andrew Hozier-Byrne, dressed in a white dress shirt, tucked into his black trouser.

“You didn't have to dress so fancy. Jeans and a t-shirt would've done.” I remarked, my voice quieter than usual with nerves as I pushed off the wall.

He leant down and scooped me into his arms, lifting me slightly off the ground. “I know but it's not every day your girlfriend is performing.” My heart sung with his thoughtfulness, how he knew these things meant so much to me. “You look beautiful by the way.”

A grin spread across my features as I broke away from our hug slightly to look at his face, clean shaven and framed by his growing curls. “Thank you.” I blushed.

His hand trailed down my back, fiddling with a loose end of ribbon in my hair as his eyes scanned my face. “You're gonna do amazing.” He muttered. I smiled weakly, not knowing what to say, my stomach sick with nerves. He pulled me back into the hug, knowing that all I needed was his physical reassurance. “God, I love you.” He muttered softly into my neck, so quiet that I could have imagined it. My body tensed in his arms at his words, not quite sure what to do. No one had ever uttered those three words to me, yet from his tongue they sounded so natural, so real.

He felt the way my body changed, completely removing himself from my touch. He always stepped back, any time he thought he'd overstepped somehow. It was sweet really but right now I needed his body on me. He began to make excuses, apologising and asking if it was too soon but I cut him off with one motion. I stepped towards him and planted one hand in his hair, the other against his chest as I connected our mouths in a quick yet fierce kiss.

“Say it again.” I muttered, my breath against his lips, all thoughts of the performance out of my head.

His voice was thick and husky as he repeated it

I looked up at him, his pupils dilated. “Again.”

“I love you Bea.” A small whimper sprung free from the back of my throat at his words.

“I love you Andrew.” I said before joining our lips again, my lipstick smudging against his face.

That night, as my leotard was pulled to the side and my body worshipped, the only words on our tongues were professing our love.

And I still loved him.

notes: 😝😝

tags: @shortqueershakespeare @unreal-unearthed @cervidaewasteland @effervescent-fool @lifemod17 @man-i-love-folklore @shifting-philosopher

next: chapter seven

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notmanagingmymischief · 6 days ago

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whatever here that's left of me is yours

summary: life gets too much sometimes.

rating: explicit (18+)

tags: emotional hurt + comfort, anxiety, established relationship, comfort sex (idk?), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex

words: 2,130

note: my first hozier fic and my first x reader fic as well so don't have high expectations. mainly write just for myself, thought i'd give posting a go!

fic under the cut ❊

He's sitting by the window, staring up at the stars that light up the early night hues of soft blues and grey, guitar and notebook left haphazardly to the side. It gets dark so early nowadays. He hates the days you don't work from home. Which four out of five days of the week. Sometimes three, and those are the best weeks. But you working more means that when he tours you can take more time off, or negotiate to work away from home more. So he deals.

But it's late. Much later than normal. You are normally home by 6:00, 6:30 at the latest. But it's 7:00. By now, he's normally pouring you both a glass of wine while you make dinner together. He should have his hands around your waist and be pressing kisses to your neck while you chop up vegetables and tell him all about your day; and you should be hugging and leaning on his arm while he cooks at the stove and tells you all about the idea he just can't put into a cohesive verse. But the kitchen is draped in darkness, and he hasn't heard anything from you.

No phone call while you rush out the office "I'm so sorry baby, last session ran way over time," with the sound of papers quickly being put away, a laptop being slammed shut and the jingle of your keys in the background. And no quick "just leaving now see u soon <3" text either. And you didn't answer when he called just to check in.

He tries his best to push down that rising wave of anxiety that twists and turns in his stomach. The worst, the very worst, scenarios all come to him at once. He takes a shaky breath and tries to focus on the sound of the heavy rain coming down… it's probably just really bad traffic, because of all the rain he tells himself. But that only invites other scenarios and images into his mind. You've been late like this before, but something is different tonight, something is off. He can't place it, but he decides to by the window for you, just because… just because he can't help but worry.

He's rubbing his hand against his arm tentatively when your headlights finally turn into the property at 7:30. He feels every muscle in his body relax and he makes his way to the door to meet you outside in the pouring rain. There is nothing he wants more than to be holding you to him as soon as possible.

He pulls the door open just as your car comes to a stop at the end of his long driveway.

"I was about to call search and rescue," he joked casually, masking the anxiety that had been wracking him for the last hour.

The rain was so heavy his hair was practically soaked by the time he made it over to the car, and it was so loud he didn't hear your broken sobs until he was standing only a few steps away from your open car door.

You frantically wipe your eyes as you dig through your car "dammit I can't find my keys," you mumble quietly.

"Darling… hey…"

"Andrew please don't-"

"Here," he passes you the keys, "they must have fallen out when you opened the door."

"Oh, thanks."

He holds out his hand for you to take. You stare at it for a moment, knowing what comes next.

And it comes hard and fast.

The second his soft hand is wrapped around yours, you stand up out of the car, he squeezes it tightly, and everything comes undone. Your body finally giving up at the touch of safety.

Your legs give out and he grabs onto your arms to break your fall, as he sinks down onto the gravel with you. Your whole body is shaking, sobs that you feel like you've been holding in for so long leave you. He holds you close. So close. He rests his head on top of yours. You curl into him, and he rubs your back, uttering sweet soft things you can barely make out, all you can seem to hear is ringing, and the sound of pouring rain.

But the softness of his voice brings you down. The feeling of the gravel digging into your skin. One of his hand running up and down your back. And eventually the world starts to have sound again.

You make out something about going inside and you nod against his chest.

He helps you up, his hands gently on your arms, while you hold onto him like a lifeline; taking big shaky breaths, tears still streaming down your cheeks while he guides you inside.

You watch the droplets at the ends of his hair fall while he grabs you a glass of water; you're following him around, holding the too-long sleeve of his sweatshirt tightly. He leads you to the couch, hands you the water and kneels in front of you, taking your free hand. Your sobs have calmed significantly, grounded by the smell and comfort of the place you both call home. You take in the warm dim lights, the guitar laying on the couch, the candle burning and the feeling of his hand in yours.

"What happened darling?" He squeezes your hand, "talk to me."

You shake your head, struggling to even put into words what's happened. Because nothing and everything has happened at the same time. "…it's just… it's been a lot. Everything."

He nods, reaches up and tucks a piece of your wet hair behind your ear, "I know."

A tear rolls down your cheek silently, your eyes blink fast. "…I'm so sorry."

"Please darling," he takes your other hand and brings them both to his lips gently, "you never have to apologise to me. I love you."

"I love you," you echo back to him, voice still trembling. A beat. "…Kiss me."

He does. His hot, soft, warm lips meet yours. He pulls you carefully down to the floor with him. The glass of water he had poured you spills, but neither of you notice. You slide a hand under his shirt, and your palm stops right above his heart. You pull back from the kiss, resting your head against your forehead, and you focus on the steady, solid beating of his heart under your hand.

He's here, he's real.

He places his hand over yours, the fabric of his shirt separating keeping your hands from each other. You don't know how long you sit straddled in his lap on the floor, eyes closed and breathing to the rhythm of his heart.

But eventually his mouth finds yours again and you're tugging at his pants. His hands slip into your waistband, two long fingers slipping into you with ease. You fall against his shoulder as he slowly starts pumping in and out.

"Relax baby," he whispers, voice soft, low and husky, "just tell me what you need… let me take care of you."

"Need you," you breathe out, as he slips another finger in, "Andy…"

His other hand fiddles with the buckle of his belt, then the buttons and zip of his pants, and he shifts you back a little, not once stopping or haltering the gentle, but firm pace of his fingers sliding in and out of you.

You whine at the eventual loss of his fingers, but seconds barely pass before he is inside you. Every muscle in your body relaxes. He peppers kisses to your neck, across your collarbone, to your shoulders; muttering sweet somewhat nonsensical things as he does. Your hands find his wet hair, lacing your fingers through his damp curls as he lays you back against the carpet, and brushes the hair out of your face, his cock still inside you. He starts to move so slowly, so gently. You reach for his hand, the feeling of your fingers intertwined together keeping you grounded, focused on the sensation of him thrusting in and out of you.

You find yourself fixated on his eyes, the hair falling around his face, his eyelashes when he closes his eyes with pleasure, all of his overwhelming beauty. And in that moment, you know everything will be okay.

He moves faster, his hand breaks it's hold with yours to move down between you both, and you can't help but gasp, gripping onto his shoulders tightly, your head resting in between his shoulder and collarbone.

A quiet "I love you," stumbles out from him as his thumb works you to your peak, and his pace becomes more frantic, "my beautiful girl… come for me… let it all go. Let it all out for me."

You hold onto him tighter, letting your body succumb to him completely.

"Just like that darling," he praises quietly as you climax beneath him, but doesn't stop his movements even for a second. "Let it all go. Everything. Need you to let everything go for me baby." You bury your face in his shoulder, muffling your moans into his skin, and he continues to thrust, increasing the pressure on your clit as he rubs in circles. He brings you to heaven again, and again.

"You too… come too…" you breathe against him.

"No condom," he reminds you gently, pulling out and replacing his cock with his fingers.

He's still hard and you ache at the loss of him, but before you can say anything he moves to lay beside you, and the new angle somehow lets his fingers in deeper. You can't form words. You feel so sensitive, you think you've come three times already, but he's clearly not happy with that, evident with the continued, and devoted working of his hands. You bury your head into his bare chest, and your hips thrust to meet his movements.

"There's my girl," you hear him say, and at that, you fall apart. Screaming his name as he brings you to one last orgasm.

As soon as you do, the rest of the tears you feel like you've been holding in for god knows how long come spilling out. He pulls you close, "I've got you… I've always got you…"

You eventually end up in the bedroom, he orders from your favourite pizza place. You lay on his chest, listening to the sound of his heart while his hands comb through your hair gently, your body feels numb, tired but there's an aspect of peace too. Neither of you have spoken yet. He gets up out of bed when the food arrives. When he comes back he's balancing two pizza boxes, a bottle of wine and two glasses. With no hands left he resorts to having the push the door open with his leg, and almost drops one of the glasses in the process. You can't help but smile.

You sit crossed legged on the bed, only wearing underwear and one of his new merch samples he was sent this week for the new album.

"I like this one," you say softly, motioning at the jumper, "it's comfy."

"Yeah?" He passes you a glass of wine. "I feel like the logo should be in the middle."

He looks up to see your look of disapproval at his suggestion, and he smiles, "okay then, I'll approve it just for you."

"…Are you getting nervous?" You asked, alluding to the looming album announcement in a few weeks. It hangs over the air like a cloud, sometimes one of those nice hazy clouds, other times a thunder cloud. You've known Andrew for years, and every time an album announcement has rolled around he becomes a very anxious version of himself. Second guessing the track list, wondering if maybe the album needs 6 more months before it's ready, what if the name is wrong. And then all the meetings about numbers and data and charts and optimising release schedule and press, and it all just gets a bit too much when he's already panicking about showing the world his new creation.

"I'm actually okay," he starts, "it's ready to be out in the world and I'm proud of it," he reaches for your hand, "and I've got you."

You smile a little.

But despite your attempt at distraction, your dramatic entrance from earlier still seems to loom. "…I don't want to talk about it. Not yet. …But thank you for tonight"

He just gives your hand a squeeze, and there's that silent affirmation of love in his eyes.

"So… Saturday, does a day-trip to Dublin sound okay? Really starting to think I'm going to need a whole new wardrobe for this press run."

You giggle, and there it is - his favourite sound in the world.

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notmanagingmymischief · 7 days ago

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I’m a simple man I truly am.

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notmanagingmymischief · 7 days ago

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The real barbie is Y/n.

Y/n’s a doctor, a cop, a scientist, an agent, vet, hero, villain, astronaut, lawyer, spy, criminal, artist, chef, engineer, psychologist, architect, journalist, firefighter, event planner, mechanic, photographer, musician, actor, interior designer, bartender, fashion designer, barista, florist, forensic scientist, flight attendant, profiler, tour guide, translator, etc.

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notmanagingmymischief · 7 days ago

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I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory

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notmanagingmymischief · 7 days ago

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notmanagingmymischief · 7 days ago

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notmanagingmymischief · 7 days ago

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A little death

Softcore In which you provoke his jealousy, and he learns a lot more about himself.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 8.3k…. yeah Content: Jealous spencer, bratty reader, dom!spencer, fingering, edging, overstimulation, squirting again (do NOT look at me i am just a girl), and voyeurism if you squint bc someone overhears them a/n: don't you just looove it when they match each other's freak

Spencer doesn’t get jealous.

Jealousy, he believes, requires a certain level of entitlement. He’s never really had that. Never let himself believe he owed anyone’s affection, let alone their attention when his romantic history is threadbare at best, sparse enough that he could count past relationships on one hand and still have fingers left untouched.

Even calling them relationships feels generous. Fleeting moment of interest sounds more accurate, a handful of clumsy encounters that never made it past the shallow end of connection. False starts, quiet exits. Nothing solid or lasting. Certainly nothing that ever made him feel like he had the right to be possessive — not since he learned, in the cruelest of ways, that love and loss could be spoken in the same breath.

So no, he doesn’t get jealous. He’s never been presumptuous enough to think that someone could be his to lose in the first place.

Yet what he feels right now is something uncomfortably close to it.

It’s inconvenient, very uncharacteristic of him. And when he catches himself spiraling over things that defy reason, he attempts to pin it down with logic. The empirical part of his brain would call this a reaction to perceived threats to his social attachments. A primal response encoded in his DNA for survival and mate retention, which is nothing more than an evolutionary glitch. A relic of human competition.

A defense mechanism.

A biochemical reaction.

But knowing the terminology doesn’t stop the twist in his stomach as he watches the pretty curve of your smile settle on that overgrown boy scout of a man.

And you’re not even his.

Not in any official capacity. Not in any way that grants him the right to feel this way. Still, there’s something aggravating in the notion of another man soaking in your attention.

"I'm serious," a confidently smooth voice declares.

His gaze flicks to the side, just enough to catch Detective Palmer standing a little too close beside you. The same man who had spent the past two weeks slipping in offhand flattery towards your way whenever the opportunity came.

Unprofessional would be a strong adjective to describe what’s happening in this tight space when there’s technically nothing wrong with a little friendly praise. But Spencer has seen enough human interaction — has studied enough human behavior — to know the difference between a compliment offered in good faith and one laced with ulterior motives.

Motives that aren’t as pure as they appear. Surely, you see it. You must see it. He refuses to believe that someone as sharp as you is oblivious to the way Palmer’s shoulder barely brushes yours under the guise of casual proximity. But then you tilt your head and let out the loveliest laugh. A sound Spencer has never been on the receiving end of.

And his vision starts to blur.

“No, you’re not,” you chide. Teasingly, he notes. A hand on your hip, the other clutching a file. You’re currently in the middle of clearing out the desk everyone has been using for the past couple of days.

“I am,” Palmer counters. “Think about it. Steady hours, less travel. You wouldn’t have to worry about flying all over the country.”

“I don’t mind the travel.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to have some stability?”

“Stability?”

“And a place where your work doesn’t get buried under a mountain of paperwork.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be able to focus on what you do best without all that bureaucratic red tape.”

“Well, I happen to like politics,” you say, slipping a another document onto your growing pile.

“No one likes politics,” the man scoffs lightly. “People tolerate it, and I don’t take you for the kind of person who enjoys tolerating things.”

The prickling sensation burns behind his eyelids now. Spencer can’t decide whether it’s from his contacts settling uncomfortably out of place, or if he’s forgotten to blink while listening to this nonsense. It gets even worse when you shift your weight, subtly pushing your hip against the edge of the table.

He can’t tell if the curve of your mouth is leaning toward a smirk or a frown. “I’m actually more patient than I look.”

Palmer clearly sense an opening. “Patience is one thing, tolerating missed chances is another. Especially when a better opportunity presents itself.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what you’re saying is I should quit my job and settle down in a quiet little town where, oh I don’t know, you’ll take all the credit for my work?”

Even your sarcasm seems to delight the man. “Not at all,” he grins widely. “I’m saying I’d make sure you get all the credit you deserve.”

The stack of papers in his grip slaps against the table with a deliberate thud. Two sets of eyes snap toward him. One pair burning a pointed hole into his skull, and the other narrowing in awareness that someone else is very much listening to the conversation.

Spencer keeps his head down.

“We should discuss this somewhere else,” Palmer proposes, eyeing him once more before shifting his attention back to you. “Tonight. Over dinner.”

His reflex betrays him. His head lifts before he can stop it, eyes finally landing on the man he’s been stubbornly avoiding.

And he immediately wishes he hadn’t. Because Palmer is… pretty decent to look at. Polished. Light, neatly trimmed hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confident set to his jaw that speaks of someone who’s never had to work too hard to hold attention.

He also seems young. Not inexperienced, exactly, but young enough that the difference is painfully noticeable. Young in a way Spencer can’t help but acknowledge, with the easy confidence of someone closer to your age than his own. Closer to the kind of man he imagines people expect you to be with that it would be easy to find you together in one of those chic little restaurants this town probably prides itself on.

But you’re awfully quiet, and he wonders if even half of his existence resides in your mind right now. He finds himself waiting for your answer too, against his better judgment, as he sweeps up stray papers and photographs scattered along the surface.

“Unless… you have someone waiting for you back home?”

His fingers press into the worn edges of the papers and skirts around the table. A quiet shift in orbit as he walks just within the edges of your periphery.

Your gravity pulls him without permission, an invisible thread compelling him into alignment. A cautious step left, another hesitant drift to the right. By the time his shadow spills gently across your shoulders, he isn't sure you’ll acknowledge his presence — or if you’ll pretend not to feel anything at all.

“So, do you?”

You clear your throat, then offer Palmer a shrug.

“No, I don’t.”

He quickly falls off your orbit.

“Perfect,” Palmer chimes, extremely pleased with your answer. “I’ll pick you up at Seven.”

Spencer crosses the short distance toward the door as your eyes follow the taut muscles of his back.

“Sure. Seven it is.”

He stalks out of the room without a word.

Time is supposed to be constant. Linear. A dependable, predictable stream moving forward at exactly the same pace. But it starts to feel uneven after he left the precinct. Minutes stretch themselves thin while seconds snap by in disorienting bursts, turning the hours into something unbearably long and frustratingly fast.

At five fifteen, Spencer steps into his hotel room and heads straight for a cold shower, hoping the water might wash away the tension clinging to his skin. It doesn’t.

At five forty-seven, JJ calls him about the team heading to the local bar for one last night out before flying home tomorrow. He politely declines.

At six twenty-two, he opens War and Peace he had stuffed into his bag for the trip, but the words slip past his focus.

At six thirty-eight, he gives up entirely, his feet pulling him into restless loops across the carpeted floor.

By six five zero hour, he’s already knocking on your hotel room.

It takes exactly forty-two seconds before the latch clicks and the door swings open — then he forgets how to speak.

You’re standing there in a blouse and slacks he’d seen you wear earlier this week. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet somehow the familiarity feels different. A few buttons at your neckline remain undone. Your hair is styled differently, and though he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of makeup, he notices how your lips are a shade warmer.

There’s no question in his mind that your beauty has always captivated him, but then his eyes catch on the delicate stretch of skin along your cleavage, and suddenly his mouth turns sour.

A deep scowl knots between his brows. “You’re really going?”

Your chin lifts up at the judgement in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“With Palmer. You’re actually planning to go?”

Silence, then you square your shoulders.

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

He does. In fact, he has at least half a dozen reasons that are all perfectly logical and justified, but there isn’t a way to voice them without sounding like a jealous fool. So he settles for the simplest objection he can manage.

“You barely know him.”

You’re clearly not impressed by his argument. “He seems nice.”

“You think he’s nice when he’s trying to sell you the idea of staying here?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to offer.”

He can't decide which is worse. The thought of you entertaining another man or that you might actually be considering something bigger than that. A different job. A different city. A whole different life, one that unfolds without him in it. There is no mistaking the tension carving itself across his face.

“Why are you doing this?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Why do you care?”

His breath pulls in sharply through his nose.

A fairly good question, and he can’t think of an answer. At least not one that wouldn't cross a line you've both silently agreed not to cross. He knows the rules with you — he helped make them. Casual. Unattached. Simple in theory, but infinitely complicated in practice. You don’t owe him the space you take up in his thoughts.

If anything, he’s the one who owes you. For letting things be what they are even when it doesn’t always make any sense. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he started taking everything for granted, or when he stopped wondering if you’d stay and started assuming you would.

He realizes how precarious that assumption is. The notion carries his feet forward until he looms over you, close enough to feel the gentle warmth rising from your skin. Close enough to remind him it’s been nearly a month since he’s spent any real time in your proximity. A month defined by long, relentless cases and a tension that hasn’t faded since the night he confronted you for stepping too close to danger.

A danger he thinks hasn’t exactly passed. Not entirely, because the risk isn’t concealed in some reckless threat. It’s in this room.

In the careful distance between your bodies.

In the doubt that lingers between unspoken truths.

In the quiet hesitation of his next breath.

“Because it’s late,” he decides to answer, “and you don’t really know this town.”

A flimsy excuse. One so weak that even he feels embarrassed the second it leaves his mouth.

Your lips twitches. “I think I’ll manage.”

“You don’t know what he’s expecting.”

You fail to hold your disbelief with a tiny scoff. "And you do?"

He knows nothing for certain, only what he suspects when he lets his thoughts stray too far. What he does know is that he’s never been good at expressing his feelings without making it sound accusatory or desperate. And with aggravating clarity, he realizes he’s already toeing that line. The thin line he crosses meekly as he makes the decision to close the door before he can think better of it.

An audible click echoes in the room.

He sees a myriad of emotions travel through your pinched expression. There’s a slight tightening around your eyes, a faint crease forming between your brows. Still, he closes the silver of space between you, drawn by a need he can’t quite articulate and tries to quell your confusion. Skims a wide palm over your arm with more weak excuses on his tongue.

“He’s not good for you.”

Neither is he.

“He doesn't deserve you.”

Neither does he.

It’s irony in its purest form, laid bare unapologetically in its cruelty. He knows he doesn’t have the right to say this. That if he was any better than any other man, any less selfish, he’d be the one stepping aside. Although he’d argue that logic has never done much to stop him when it comes to you.

And you look as conflicted. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards. Stop is all it would take for him to put back the distance. He’d call it a night and walk back to his room even if it left him wondering what he could have done differently.

But the tension in your stance unravels in quiet increments, each taut line of muscle easing under the rough pads of calloused fingers. Though your body relents before your mouth does. That much is clear. Stubborn is the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part to let out words that contradict the softness he feels beneath his hand.

“It's dinner,” you assert. “I can handle myself.”

Your voice comes out softer than expected, and he would pull back if you weren’t leaning toward him a fraction closer. So he hums agreeably in a way that isn’t agreement at all and trails his hand upward, unhurriedly in its journey, until it brushes the base of your throat.

Warm breath fans over his face when he thumbs over your pulse. “I mean it.”

"Mhm.”

He can tell there's very little resolve left in you. Your eyes are hooded, depriving his lips of the attention they were given. The last shred of defiance that kept you upright is gone.

“You do realize you have no right to act like this,” you manage, aiming for composed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He treats it like permission to flush his body against yours.

“I know.”

"You can’t just… walk in here and go all alpha male on me or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

The term feels absurd the moment it leaves your mouth.

“I’m aware,” he slowly replies, tries to soften his tone.

“You also need to let go of this ridiculous idea that you get to make any decision for me.”

He acknowledges that too, of course. Although it hardly feels like a decision when your body’s already answering for you, leaning closer despite your stubborn protests. His thumb drags along the side of your neck, right over the place where your pulse kicks the hardest.

“Should I leave then?”

He will if you ask him to, without a doubt.

He’ll question his own sanity if it comes to that.

But after painstakingly long seconds, after watching the resolve slowly dim from your dainty eyes, you gradually shake your head — to his utmost delight.

He selfishly grabs your jaw and kisses you.

There’s no time for pleasantries. No time for careful touches when every nerve in his body has been screaming your name.

His lips part like he’s been holding his breath for too long, slotting his tongue against yours while hindering your movements with fingers holding your cheek, which is unnecessary because you give in without hesitation. Wholeheartedly, like you always do. Surrendering to the rhetorical desperation of a taste you haven’t had in a month.

He tastes like smoldering tension. He tastes of a man fighting a feeling he can't seem to agree with, even as every stolen breath betrays him.

The very breath you drink — humid air thick with shared saliva. Wet in every sense. Glossed on every inch. Your mouth, your teeth, your chin. Spreading a different kind of wetness between your thighs the moment his other hand trails along the waistband of your pants.

He dips his fingers inside, bypassing layers of fabric until your mouth falls open in shock at how suddenly deep those long fingers delve between your folds.

He presses his middle finger inside you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nipping at his lower lip, and he chastises you by inserting a second finger.

You’re not even that wet. Damp, preferably. Enough to let him in, not enough to mask the awkward stretch. Although that hardly registers when he’s too aware of the tender patch of nerves he knows will have you drenching his fingers in seconds.

You melt against his chest instantly, and it’s very much embarrassing to admit how quickly you always fold for him. One moment you're fighting off his petty arguments and the next thing, your hips undulate to chase friction, grinding down into the curl of his hand with no shame at all. Your pride barely has time to protest before it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of his fingers working you open.

You're being absolutely ravaged. He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can reach, while his fingertips press into your walls as deeply as your pants allow. The confinement barely seems to matter — it’s enough to make your knees buckle, worse when he picks up the pace. Faster than usual, more urgent than his usual rhythm when he asks for sex. He normally takes his time upfront, teases, tempts.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s ragged. Focused.

You notice it in the tension of his forearms, the way they flex with each thrust of his hand, how he moves with a kind of voracity that could be mistaken for hate if you didn’t know him better.

But hate is too strong of an emotion to ever explain the scorching jealousy radiating from him.

"Don’t—"

He curls his fingers upward.

"Go—"

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"Don't want you to see him."

Your legs shake, the bones melted beneath your skin as he reduces you to this pliant mess. You don't know what to say to that — you're not even sure it's something you could put into words without making a complete fool out of yourself. So instead you shift, just enough to rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm.

Because that's what he wants anyway. It’s what he’s offering, in the only language he knows. Touch, control, denial. And you’ll take it as long as it distracts you from having to respond to his admission.

But it’s then that he stops moving his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still.

“Stay.”

You ball your fist in his shirt. “Your hand is inside my pants in the middle of a goddamn hotel room. I’m not going anywhere.”

You can practically feel the tension roll off his shoulders in waves, but then he pulls his fingers out, and a wounded sound slips past your lips before you can stop it.

“Spencer…”

“Come on, let’s move to the bed.”

You’re grateful he’s holding you up, because your legs feel one good shudder away from crumbling. Every step is clumsy and floaty, like your body’s lagging half a second behind your mind, as if sensation is still catching up to motion.

You don’t even remember your clothes hitting the floor, only that his hands were everywhere. Your shirt comes off. Then your pants. The cold air bites your thighs, cool against the heat of your skin. By the time he sinks onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, you’re stripped completely bare.

The soft cotton of his shirt clings to the sweat rising on your back, and you squirm when a certain hard pressure brushes your ass. This isn’t the position you expected to be in, slotted between his thighs while being the only one lacking any fabric at all. But you don’t complain. You melt into the way his large hands slip between your arms to cup the soft weight of your breasts. Your body goes slack as he rolls stiff nipples between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth press of his thumbs.

You’re nothing short of liquid when his lips brush your ear and tells you to open your legs, a command you follow as easily as breathing. By the time his hand travels between the supple skin of your thighs, you’re already pool of aching heat.

Every nerve in your body seems to funnel down to that one point. Your clit swells shamelessly beneath his fingertips, and the sheer sensitivity makes your head spin. You feel it pulsing, and keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts to wet the rest of your sex, dragging his fingers through every swollen ridge.

You shudder when a finger prods your hole.

But he does nothing with it. Just stays there motionless, making you keenly aware of how empty you still are.

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, glossy lips finding the side of his neck, tongue dragging along the skin just to feel the way his throat bobs beneath you. Your way of pleading. A signal he usually listens to. Only this time he leaves your cunt untouched, choosing instead to let his fingers tap lightly on your clit. He saviors the stiffness under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets.

You feel quite the opposite.

The scrape of his stubble burns against your mouth, but it’s nothing compared to the spark of frustration curling tight in your belly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

He is. Even he can admit to that—though he’d rather bite his tongue than call it what it is.

“Define purpose.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t play semantics with me. Is this about him?”

He hates how easily you read him.

Hates more that you’re not wrong.

“Thought we were already past that,” you observe.

He doesn’t say anything, but the tension rippling beneath your lips speaks volumes. You suck the exposed flesh on his neck where his little mole resides.

“What—” you huff, words trembling as starts to l stroke your puffy little clit, “did you finally decide I needed reminding? Is that what you’re doing?”

Is that what this is? He didn’t have an exact definition in mind when he started this. No plan, no clear intent, just the magnetic pull that always exists between the two of you. He was going to touch you the way he always does when he can’t help himself.

But then the coil in his chest tightens again. The image of you with that smug excuse of a man still clung to him like smoke — too much smile handed to someone who didn’t earn it. Which is why his touch became measured, his rhythm a shy satisfaction that isn’t enough to break you open, but close enough to remind you where your body fits best.

His focus leaves your clit and shifts behind you, hooks your legs over his to lock them securely in place with his calves. The slight flare of your pupils doesn’t go unnoticed before he cocks his head.

“What if I am?”

Your smile reminds him of a match just before it lights. “Are you punishing me right now?”

The flame in your eyes sears low, and he’s not sure he should play with fire.

Punishment wouldn’t be the right word for it anyway. There’s no retribution in what he feels. No malice, no need to correct. Hurting you is the last thing he wants to do. But you’ve placed the match right in his hand, and if you ask him to strike it, he doubts he’ll be able to stop the burn. It’ll be consuming, a wildfire racing through every carefully drawn boundary to smoldering ashes scattered between your bodies.

He’ll scorch every inch of you with the excuse you gave him until there’s nothing left but smoke and the heat of his name in your mouth.

“Is that what you want?”

You wiggle under the weight of his hand. “You know I’ll take whatever you give me.”

True enough, but what he wants to hear the need blooming along every frayed nerve in your body when you can’t seem to stop yourself from grinding your hips as he trails down your inner thigh.

“Be more specific,” he presses. “Tell me what exactly.”

You huff and try to reach for his lips. “Want you to make me cum, old man.”

A gentle slap falls onto your clit.

“Without the attitude.”

He swallows your gasp as you jolt at the shallow sting. “Fuck—okay,” you mutter, trying to keep a shred of control even as your knees inch further apart. “Will you make me cum?”

“Where are your manners?” He hums, and drags a long finger along your clit with infuriating patience. “I think you can do better than that.”

You groan and let yourself sink further against his chest. “You’re seriously gonna edge me over politeness?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just draws another excruciatingly slow circle over your sensitive nub so light it leaves your breath faltering. He counts the seconds in your sighs, measures the quiver of your hips, then meets your increasingly desperate gaze with eyes that fall short of the jeer in your voice, because while your body pleads, he knows you have something sharp tucked up your sleeve to use against him.

And while he’s weak to the way you’ve always twisted him, he’s even weaker to the things you do without trying. The act you play so effortlessly. That faint, practiced whine you let slip just before you wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes.

“Please, Spencer?” You whimper. “Will you please make me cum?”

The sarcasm drips so thick he could wring it from your tongue. He wonders if he should drink every last drop and savor the sweetness that coats your words, but the sudden shrill of your phone cuts through the air, its screen lighting up on the far edge of the bed.

You both glance toward it simultaneously as he presses his mouth to your ear. “Are you expecting someone?”

The laugh you let out is incredulous. “I was until you decided to barge in here and lock me in place.”

His eyes drag over the length of your body tucked between his legs, knees conveniently hooked on each of his thighs. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, how your pulse flutters beneath his palm resting across your collarbones. He’s holding every trembling muscle of you still as his other hand swirls over your aching clit, yet his mind seethes with the memory of why he had decided to knock on your door in the first place.

It’s that flicker of spite that has him reaching for your phone, and sure enough, the word Detective glares at him across the screen followed by that grating name — those syllables that shouldn’t hold weight but dig like splinters all the same.

“He’s probably waiting for me in the lobby,” you jest, and jealousy, he realizes, is something he’s entirely capable of feeling. Even though he’d suspected it all night, no amount of logic can dull the ache that comes with the confirmation.

It isn’t just a primal response encoded in his DNA for mate retention that drives his actions.

It’s far more complex than a mere defense mechanism, woven with threads of genuine emotions that goes beyond the physical.

And biochemistry can’t explain the visceral satisfaction he feels when your body softens the moment he finally buries two fingers deep to the knuckle.

It doesn't account for the way you shudder around him, for the helpless roll of your hips that tells him he's exactly where you want him to be. He observes the tension in your jaw falter, the way your breath catch in a rhythm he now knows as well as his own. But even that doesn’t fully settle the unfamiliar thing gnawing inside him. So he clutches your phone and presses the device into your open palm, even as his other hand remains buried between your damp thighs.

“You should answer it,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Tell him you won’t be coming down.”

“What?” you heave. “I can’t answer right now.”

“Sure you can, it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his middle and ring finger against that unbearably soft spot along your walls, and a choked sound punches out of you before you can stifle it while the insistent buzz of your phone continues to mock you.

“Go on, answer it.”

“He’s—I—” you stammer, trying to summon some coherent protest but your thoughts are hopelessly scattered, all mush and molten heat. A free hand reaches back to clutch at his thigh. “I don’t—fuck, stop doing that. I can’t think straight.”

“Do you really want me to stop?”

The lull that follows is cruel. His fingers slow to a near crawl, and the absence of intensity makes the growing ache so much worse. You roll your hips once, twice, trying to urge him without giving him the satisfaction of words, but he stays painfully still as the ringtone on your phone keeps hissing, then it stops. A brief silence. And just as your heart starts to settle, it begins again, that repetitive chime clawing at your nerves.

You grit your teeth, shame burning under your skin as your shoulders slump.

The word scrapes along the roof of your mouth before you can stop them.

“…no.”

“Answer the call,” he insists, lips pressed on the side of your flushed face. “The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll let you finish.”

You glare at the phone in your hand before lifting the device to your ear, and the moment the line opens, his fingers resume their rhythm. Perfectly timed with the soft “Hello?” on the other end.

You inhale a sharp breath.

“Detective... Palmer?”

Your brows screw in a wince at how your voice pitched higher than intended.

“Yeah, hey, I’m calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m in the lobby.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing a moan so hard it burns your throat. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, “I—I got held up.”

“Held up?” Palmer’s voice tightens with worry. “Are you with someone? Everything alright?”

Spencer’s lips skim softly beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting over your pulse just before he plunges his fingers deep enough to send your eyes scattering upward. Your vision blurs, the dimly lit room tilting dangerously around you. You don’t even realize you haven’t responded until he nips gently at your neck with an amused smile tattooed on your skin.

“You might want to answer him.”

You blink hard.

“I—yes. I mean no—I mean…” you gasp, arching sharply as the heel of his hand rolls against your clit in tandem with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. I just… I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin as you struggle to breathe evenly.

“You sure?” Palmer asks. It’s hard not to miss the sudden edge of suspicion in his tone, carefully tucked behind forced concern. “You sound a little off.”

You don’t even have the energy to care how obvious you’re being. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, pressing your forehead into the scratch of unshaven jaw to regain some semblance of dignity. You'd have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this pathetic, strung out on the edge of pleasure with someone’s fingers buried deep inside you while another man’s voice lingers in your ear. Your pride, what little of it remains, is dangling by a thread. And pride is the one thing you always thought you could keep intact around Spencer. He’s a smart man, observant. But soft in all the places that made you believe you could stay one step ahead.

Apparently you’d underestimated him. Gravely. You forgot that the same man who knows the weight of every word you’ve ever spoken also knows the weight of your silence, and you’re humiliated by how easily he can reduce you to this pliant mess. Even more humiliated by how badly you want him to keep going while your name abruptly echoes in your headspace.

Spoken by someone else entirely.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s nothing but weakness sitting in your throat. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

Another beat of silence. Then you feel the pointed brush of his nose along your shoulder before gentle teeth latch onto your skin.

“You should get some rest then,” Palmer continues to press, the same way Spencer’s fingers keeps digging into that soft patch of flesh inside. “I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you still flying back tomorrow?”

“…yeah.”

“How about breakfast—”

The relentless pressure of gruff fingers buried in your cunt sends your heels kicking against the mattress.

“I-I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to go. It was nice working with you.”

You barely manage to hear his reply before your phone slips from your grip, landing between the sheets with a muted thud. In the back of your fucked-out little brain, you figure the call must have ended by now — surely he would have cut it off. But the timer keeps increasing. The quiet count of seconds continue to tick away unbeknownst to you.

But not to Spencer. He’s keenly aware of the numbers climbing on the screen.

00:50

00:51

00:52

By the 01:00 mark, he’s already made up his mind.

And he’s not proud of it — as to every touch he’s given you tonight. He’ll call this as instinct, or maybe inevitability, anything but what it truly is: selfish.

Selfish in the way he rams his fingers back and forth inside you, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit with unrelenting force. Selfish in the pace he sets himself with. Selfish in how he reads your body like it’s his to interpret, all written in a language only he claims fluency in.

The curve of your spine bows as you lean back helplessly, mouth parted in a perfect, silent “O”. Your eyes are glassy and fixed on the dull ceiling above, as if it might offer some kind of reprieve from the flood of pleasure he’s practically dragging out of you.

And somehow he’s managed to drag you right to the brink without letting you topple over the edge.

You don’t know whether you want to cry or come. Your hips jerk to chase more pressure, more friction, more anything, as your lips part in a desperate sound that’s slurred and barely audible to his ears.

“What was that?”

“Wanna cum,” you gasp around humid breath. “Please.”

He peers at your phone still laying innocently on the bed, the call blinking at 01:24. “A bit louder.”

You choke on a whimper, and for the first time since you’ve tangled your limbs with him for the past few months, your pride isn’t enough to hold you together.

“Please,” you beg, sounding a little pathetic. “S-Spencer—please, need to cum.”

He makes a satisfied sound of his own the moment he feels you leak around his fingers. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching the slick sheen of your arousal coating even to his wrist. “You’re making a mess.”

“Fuck—yes yes, right there.” Your hips buck shamelessly into his hand. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please…”

He can’t even if he wanted to. You’re chanting his name over and over again like it’s the only word you know, a mantra that sends ripples of heat low and thick in his gut. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper, but he pushes his own desperate need to the back of his mind, focusing entirely on his fingers plunging in and out of your poor swollen hole until he feels you clench helplessly around him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this helpless. The sharp edge of your smart mouth is gone, melted away under the rhythm he’s carved into your body. There’s a flicker of something like pity in his chest, because even if he doesn’t feel like the best version of himself right now, he still doesn’t want to push you too far beyond your limits.

So he starts to pull his fingers from your soaked, fluttering cunt.

Or at least he tries. Because the second he begins to slip away, you grip his forearm with surprising strength, pushing him firmly back between your spread thighs.

God forbid he stops now.

He pulls his legs apart just to drag yours along for better leverage, and focuses on the wet hood of your clit. Three fingers stroke in fast motions, the delicate skin folding and bunching while you weakly claw around his wrist. He wonders if you’re still conscious of the noises you’re making, or if the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes have blurred away any sense of awareness. He wipes them off with a slow drag of his lips and savors the way your clit tense even more under the pressure of his hand, the stiff kink of nerves coiling tighter to its limit.

It only takes a few more flicks until your second orgasm tumbles right through you. Wrecks you out completely — back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist in a futile attempt to slow him down. He probably should, you’re already an overstimulated mess of body fluid. Arousal coating your thighs, drool catching at your mouth, sweat beading along your hairline.

Purges of sensation seeps through every corner of your pore, but now he wonders how far he can wring you dry. His stubble scratches your already blotchy cheek, “One more, give me one more.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing.

“Spence—” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “I-I can’t—Stop.”

“You can,” he hums, and presses a soft peck to your jaw. “I know you can.”

You slowly shake your head.

But Spencer has been in this position too many times that he understands the precise way your body folds when it’s too much. The lack of safe word you both agreed on tells him you’re still greedy for more despite how far gone you look.

“Red?” He asks, doubling his effort on your clit.

You blink through heavy lids, and he presses his mouth to your the shell of your ear.

“Come on, answer me,” he urges. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”

Your nails clutch at his skin. The press of your eyelashes clamping shut accompanies another quiet sob, followed by a firmer shake of your head.

Your answer isn’t clear enough, he tries to question you again.

“Red?”

The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat kisses your chest, and slowly, very weakly, you guide him back to your hole with a wet sigh.

He can’t stop himself from letting out a torn sound that rumbles in his throat. A noise that feels like it extends from a place so deep it feels unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have this much power over him. Shouldn’t be able to tear down every carefully built barrier and unravel him to his very bones with nothing more than the tremble of your thighs and his name clinging onto your lips. Lips that would normally spit fire are incredibly soft as he chases them with his own.

They’re still burning, nonetheless.

It sears through him the moment your mouths connect, a slow spreading heat that starts in his marrow and flows outward like molten lava, sliding down his arms until it lingers at his fingertips where you’re unduly scorching in his palm.

You feel it too, don’t you? It’s impossible not to with the way his hand glides in harsh motions between your legs, building a friction that’s equal parts brutal and addictive. So addictive that you find yourself chasing a numb, blissful escape in the ceaseless waves of sensations that threaten to wash away every coherent thought.

Your toes curl.

Your stomach tightens.

Speckles of liquid spatters across the sheets the more he drags his fingers through your dripping, swollen cunt, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He greedily swallows each gasp in his mouth, tastes your pleasure in every pant.

“Oh fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over his hand. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot into the thighs of his pants where your legs are still slung over him. He couldn’t care less about the fabric sticking to his skin, or the growing discomfort of wet clothes when it’s nothing compared to the discomfort written your pinched brows. He’d actually think you were slipping into another dimension from the way your features crumple if it weren’t for the ghost of a smile curling lazily at your mouth.

He slightly leans back and studies your profile. You’re clearly out of it, but there’s no mistaking the ecstasy etched into every line of your pretty face. A little strange, given everything he’s done to you. Even more out of place is the slurred compliment you offer after a long, dreamy sigh.

“You’re getting too good at that,” you mumble, cheek softly pressed to the ridge of his shoulder blade.

Your voice is uncharacteristically sweet, but he can’t let it stroke his ego when he catches the black screen of your phone lying forgotten on the bed. A quiet unblinking thing, and guilt starts to curl in the space where pride tried to form, souring any sense of satisfaction before it ever fully sinks.

He absently runs a hand along your inner thigh and swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

It earns him a puzzled frown.

You try to blink the drowsiness from your eyes, unsure if you heard him right or if your mind is still swimming too deep to trust the shape of words. But the tight pull of muscle beneath your cheek gives him away, which deepens your confusion because an apology doesn’t seem to belong here. Nor does it fit easily with the usual rhythm of wandering hands and biting retorts that define your interactions.

“Where is this coming from?” You ask.

He hesitates, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, then lets out a long exhale. “I’m not sure when the line cut off.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a high chance he heard… most of it, or enough to know that you’re not alone.”

It’s your turn to play semantics with him. “Define high chance.”

“Somewhere between eighty and ninety percent.”

That’s an oddly specific high range. It’s precise enough to make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.

Your eyes touches his, so close now you can see the enlarged pupils eating at the brown irises. You might think what you’re doing is profiling, but you know it’s more about noticing the little details you’ve come to memorize over time. The subtle shift in his jawline, the tension at the corners of his lips. The patterns are familiar they make his thoughts almost transparent.

And somehow you can read his mind, though you need to confirm if what you’re sensing is mutual, if the unspoken words you’re catching are the same ones circling behind his glossy eyes.

“Were you aware the call kept going the whole time?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause alone feels like an answer on its own. Your brows rise sharply.

“So it was intentional.”

“No. Yes.” He looks away. “Maybe?”

You don’t say anything at first, save for the slow breath you draw in through your nose.

You try to vivisect your own mind while he sits uncharacteristically still, attempting to determine why the possibility of him leaving the line connected doesn’t disturb you as much as it probably should. Why, despite the implications, part of you isn’t shocked.

The answer eludes you, buried perhaps deeper than you care to dig. You’d already tasted the bite of his jealousy long before he stepped foot into your room tonight. Felt it in the taut set of his shoulders whenever Palmer so much as looked at you when the three of you shared space. Even after he’d folded you into his arms and wrung a quake of orgasms from your body, you could still sense it humming under his skin.

But the extent to which this jealousy has driven him to is what baffles you. It’s as startling as the faint thrill fluttering traitorously through your heart.

You huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. “All because he asked me out to dinner?”

It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, guides your legs together until your knees touches and rakes his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in one night — a record, as far as he’s concerned.

Yet it feels like he’s only skimming the surface of what you deserve.

The intricacy of your relationship has always defied easy definitions, but even in the mess of it, he’s never stopped respecting you. While he often questions your judgment or disputes the way your opinions cut so differently from his, you’re nothing less of smart, and perhaps this is where your clever mind finally puts a stop to this nonsense. Drawing a line he’s long since blurred.

He wouldn’t even blame you. He’d decide the same outcome if he were in your shoes. After all, he knows he’s too much of a burden, too wired for disaster to offer you anything but chaos. And no matter how tempting chaos can be, it never leads to anything good.

Goodness, as he’s come to accept, is far from his reality.

Tonight only serves as another proof of how right his presumption is.

The dampness from his wet slacks slides across even wetter sheets as he moves, a clammy sensation that replicates the sweat beading along his palms. His arms loosen from where they’d caged you in, falling away with a hesitant drag until he finally touches your gaze. Your eyes are already honed in on him, but there’s no trace of animosity in those sharp depths. No shards malice. He doesn’t even discern any hint of anger. Your face is soft, head tipped the slightest degree, but it’s the faint curl of your lips — the barest hint of a smile — that truly undoes him.

Along with the trace of fingers placed over his heart. He’s sure you can feel its wild rhythm beating through the thin fabric.

“Thought jealousy wouldn’t look good on you,” you slowly declaim, thumb idly tracing little circles around a button. “I’m starting to believe it does.”

His throat scrapes like sandpaper.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Your fingers worry a stray thread over the seam of his shirt like you’re stitching together all the wrong parts of him as if it makes them right. It’s disorienting, and he can’t decide whether your soft words and even softer touch align with the conclusion already forming in his mind. A conclusion so unlikely that it twists every time he tries to pin it down.

Because if you truly accepted his jealousy, it would mean his worst impulses weren’t entirely unwelcome. It would also validate the possessive instinct he’s buried to claim you as his. And that, in turn, would feed the dangerous notion that he’s entitled to you in ways he has no right to be.

But you’re still smiling, and he’s just a man. A man whose logical brain stands no chance against the delicate curve of your mouth.

The right course of action would be prying the truth between those softly spoken words. Wisdom dictates caution, but fear grips him more fiercely than the cold hand of reason ever could. Terrified that one wrong placed question might send you retreating behind walls he’s only managed to breach, and that dread pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds him in silence as he rides the comfort of your satiation like it grants him the access to stay.

Again, he’s selfish.

Yet it’s a ruinous habit — one that slips over him as easily as breath. Too easy to indulge when you’re letting him with no objection.

You don’t even flinch when he gathers you onto his lap.

Not a single word of protest when his lips touches your hair.

"She sought death on a queen-sized bed." A Little Death—The Neighbourhood

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