#*gives her drawer bread*

[luveline]

Just re-watched the prison Reid arc and whew! Can I request post prison Reid getting to meet his new baby for the first time with a civilian reader? Like he was arrested while reader was still pregnant and she gave birth right before he got out? Maybe have a Diana cameo cause I just love her🤭

ty for requesting! fem, 1.6k

“Do you want me to take him?” 

You give Diana a grateful smile. “Is that okay?” 

Diana is reedy like Spencer, tall and skinny, but strong, too. She treads the carpet in her moccasins and holds out her arms for the baby, shushing him softly as you pass him over. You’ve had to look after her these last few weeks in a way you weren’t prepared for, but she’s looked after you in turn.

She’s almost completely lucid today. The good news has its hooks in her. 

You look out of the window again. The baby coughs in Diana’s arms, a clearing sound after feeding. If she’s gentle with him he’ll fall asleep before Spencer gets home. You aren’t sure what to do, let him sleep or wake him. What would Spencer want? 

I want to come home, he’d said, choked up over the phone, so badly. I’m so sorry. 

“Are you sure you won’t call him Walter?” Diana asks. “Spencer likes that one.” 

“I’m sure, Diana. He liked Jasper, so…” You bite the tip of your tongue until it aches, refusing to cry again. “So I went with Jasper. I hope he doesn’t mind.” 

That morning when Emily told you he was coming home, you cried like you’ve never, ever cried. So hard that the baby woke up in his cot across the room and cried with you. 

You’d cried a lot after Spencer was arrested, and worse when he was imprisoned. You cried like a baby the day you went into labour because you knew you’d have to do it alone, when Spencer promised he’d be there with you, that you wouldn’t have to do any of the scary parts alone. 

It didn’t take long to stop. You’d grabbed Jasper with your cheeks soaked in tears and rubbed his back, that small stretch of warmth under your hand like a lifeline. In a way, Jasper being Spencer’s has made this easier. You’ve had a part of him. It just wasn’t enough to get over missing him. Every bit of joy —you have a baby now, your beautiful boy— has been swiftly followed with an aching sort of grief. Spencer missed his first cry, first bath, the very first time he opened his eyes. You can’t go back. 

“They said three.” 

Diana doesn’t seem concerned. She’s missed Spencer as much as you have, and you know her worry for him has made her more poorly than she’d otherwise be most days, but the baby helps. “I’m gonna find his bear,” she says. 

You bend down, trying to see the corner of the street through the window. Then you remember the last time you left her alone in the kitchen and flinch. “Hey, Diana?” you call. 

She’s checking the drawers for the bear. You’re not sure why she thinks the bear would be there, but perhaps that’s where she put it. “Can I make you a cup of tea or something?” you ask her. 

“You’re spying on me.” 

“Spying implies you don’t know what I’m doing.” 

She pats the baby’s back. “I can see why you and Spencer get along.” 

It’s a little more than getting along. 

She finds Jasper’s bear atop the bread bin, sitting at the kitchen table with him, the bear sat across from him, though Jasper’s already sleeping again. 

You put the stovetop kettle on to boil and realise with a start that you can make Spencer a cup of tea at the same time. Your smile is unfailing, then. He really is coming home. The kettle begins whining while you recover his favourite mug from the cabinet, untouched the entire time he was gone. 

“How many sugars today?” you ask. 

“Was that the door?” 

“What?” You’re putting the mug down before you can compute. 

“Angel?” 

You feel a rush of emotion all over at the sound of his voice. You try to call back to him, but you don’t manage anything more than a catching gasp as you push out of the kitchen and find him at the door. Right there at the end of the hall. 

Pale, tall. Arms already opening, half a step as you run at him. He doesn’t complain when your chest knocks against his. He doesn’t say anything at all. 

“Hi,” you breathe, pressing your nose to his shoulder. Your eyes stay open —it’s like panic without the fear. He’s really here in your arms. 

He squeezes you tightly. So tight you can’t breathe for a second. Then he gentles, his hands rubbing up and down your back out of sync, face falling into yours. 

In the kitchen, Jasper makes a croaky crying sound, a stirring Diana calms immediately. 

You attempt to pull away. Spencer will want to see Jasper, of course. He hadn’t met his own son. It was all he could talk about for weeks before he went away, and yet—

Spencer just rubs your back. After another half a minute like that, he asks, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” You clear your throat.

“Yeah? No one would tell me anything specific, I was worried you might not be alright.” 

“Everything went fine.” He holds you to his chest. He smells like cheap soap. “I didn’t– it was really okay. He was easy, like he knew I couldn’t handle any complications.” 

“And he–?”

You recognise the undercurrent in his voice. It’s the same thing you felt when they put Jasper on your chest for the first time. “He’s perfect.”

“All ten fingers?” 

You pull away. Immediately, Spencer’s taking your face into two hands, his eyes pouring into yours with an intensity that worries you. “He has all his fingers and toes,” you say quietly, “how about you? How’s your leg?” 

He doesn’t seem to be able to answer. Jasper makes another noise and Diana’s chair creaks. You turn with Spencer’s hand on your side, watching as she brings Jasper to the door. 

“Spencer,” Diane says, like she just saw him yesterday, “you’re late.” 

“Sorry, mom.” 

He always sounds younger when he talks to her. 

“Will you take the baby? I was just making some tea,” she says. 

Spencer nods but doesn’t move. 

“I’ll take him.” You kiss Spencer on the cheek. Remember you haven’t for weeks and kiss him again. “It’s okay.” 

You hold your arms out and take Jasper against your chest. Spencer takes a step forward, stops, hesitating, but when you turn to him with a comforting smile the band holding him back snaps. He crosses the room, breath pulled like he’d stopped as he cranes his head to see his baby. 

“Three weeks old today,” you say softly, tipping Jasper back so Spencer can see his face. “He missed his daddy, you know.” 

“You can’t know that.” 

“Of course I can. I’m his mom, Spencer… And who wouldn’t miss you?”

Spencer shakes his head gently, reaching out to caress Jasper’s full cheek. 

“Jasper,” Spencer says. 

“He’s been a great baby so far. Doesn’t give me much trouble. He cries all night, of course… but all babies do. He goes down after a while. I’ve–” You swallow the heat of missing Spencer like a barb dragging against the inside of your throat. “Told him you’re coming home. I told him every day, I promise.” 

“M’sorry,” he says, pained. 

“I know, Spence.” You nudge him. “Time to hold him, honey.” 

He’s more eager than you thought. It’s almost like he’s worried you won’t let him have the baby, but it’s like you told him on the phone: Spencer made a stupid mistake, and you still love him. He never should’ve been going back and forth like that, but you get why he did. Wouldn’t you want Jasper, one day, to care about you in the same way Spencer loves his mother? You forgave him the moment he apologised. 

“It’s alright,” you say, slotting Jasper from your arms to his, guiding his hand behind Jasper’s delicate neck. “Just hold him. He missed you.” 

Spencer sniffles. “I missed him too,” he says. 

“I know.” 

Diana realises eventually that Spencer being home is a big deal. It’s not her fault, not understanding, but the new baby, her relocation again, her nurse barely gone, and Spencer’s sudden homecoming, it’s probably too much to deal with. She finds you, Spencer, and Jasper on the couch in the living room and frowns at him heartily. “You won’t hug your own mother?” she asks.

“You’ll have to hug me around the baby,” he says, sorry. 

She agrees to this without fuss. She caresses his cheek as he’d done for Jasper as she pulls away. 

“Thank you for helping out, mom,” he says. 

“It was all Y/N, Spencer. You know mothers. We’re strong.” 

Spencer looks at Jasper, still sleeping, and then to you, a shade of adoring in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “I know,” he says. 

You curl into his side and take a breath. For the first time in weeks, you let your body relax, finding it sorer and angrier than you’d left it the last time you had the chance to check in. 

Spencer brings the side of your face to his lips to kiss your weary cheek. 

[harrysangel23]

Sucker*

A/N: I've returned! As an apology for not posting for a little, I wrote the fic to be a little longer! It's def full of absolute filth so enjoy! (please tell me I'm not the only one who kept thinking of Duplicity when reading this)

Pairing: Slightly mean dom Harry x Sub reader

Warnings: spanking, oral (F&M receiving), fingering (f receiving), food play, spit play, dirty talk, degrading, P in V, no protection, spanking, and aftercare (I think that's everything)

WC: almost 6k

18+

Harry had returned from his short grocery run, about to put them away before his attention was caught. His angel still lounging by their pool. 

It was clear from in between the time he first left the house and returned that she had gotten into the water. Her hair slightly damp as she laid on her back, soaking up the sun. 

What was also abundantly clear, was the sweet she had perched between her two lips. He could see as she swirled what seemed to be a lollipop between her lips. Her cheeks indenting from the hard suctioning she was creating, reminding him of how glorious it felt when she did that to him. As the sucker was finally pulled from between her lips, it left a miniscule trail of her own spit before it broke, and she swiftly reached her finger up to her chin to wipe the saliva, once again reminding him of how she would do the same after getting a lick onto him. 

Making himself known, as curious to see where he could take this, he opened the sliding door, stepped into their backyard and made his way towards her. 

“Enjoying yourself angel?” He grinned as he finally reached her, her own reaction reflecting his as she sat up even more to give him all her attention.

“Hi babe!” She beamed up at him, “I’ve been loving this weather, so nice out.” He found it hard to keep his eyes on hers as her body was hardly covered. 

She wore a red bikini, the color matching her complection. Despite it being a string set, it held her tits up perfectly, the strings adorning her sides indented into the skin, making him hungrier for her. 

“Sure is, do you want to help me inside with the groceries pet?” He noticed her eyes darken for a moment from the nickname he normally used in bed before she scrambled to get stand up with him. He nearly groaned at the way her tits bounced as she did so.

“I’d love to!” She excitedly smiled before leaning up on her toes to give him a quick peck on the lips. She then placed the sucker back between her lips before grabbing his hand and making their way towards the door. 

Harry, found the short walk to be even shorter, as his attention was dialed in on her ass. The bikini did next to nothing to cover her up, her plump ass jiggling with every step she took. As she released his hand to open the door, he couldn’t resist sneaking in a cheeky slap to her ass before she whipped her head around with a squeak, taking the lolly right out of her mouth. 

“Harry!” She looked at him in shock, still moving her body into the home, making her way towards the kitchen. “What the hell was that for, you perv!”

“Just looked too good not to sweetheart.” He smirked at her, watching her face grow red.

She busied herself taking the food items out of the bags, as an attempt to somewhat avoid his cheeky shenanigans. The sucker she was still sucking on though was not doing her any favors. 

She grabbed the bread, moving towards the pantry. She took her sucker out of her mouth, the slight slurp was ringing through harry’s ears and she bent over to slide the bread into the drawer, her bottoms scrunching up between her ass, revealing more skin. She quickly turned right up as Harry, once again, couldn’t help himself as he laid another smack, this time on her other cheek. 

“Harry! Enough!” If her face wasn’t red enough before, it surely was now. All Harry could do in defense was simply shrug, the same smirk plastered on his face. She playfully glared as him as a warning before her sucker made its way back into her mouth. 

Harry grew more jealous of the sucker as they both continued putting the newly bought food away. He could give her something much more enjoyable to suck on and leave both of them happy.

He imagined her getting on her knees as he leaned against the counter. The sucker long forgotten as her mouth slurped him down, leaving saliva to drip down her chin and decorate her breasts to make them shiny. He could feel himself grow more excited simply at the thought of it. 

However, he was soon pulled from those thoughts as she bent down, her tits spilling out of the red fabric that did a poor job of keeping them covered, and she grabbed the bag of chips she had dropped. He had enough. 

He made the short steps towards her as she stood back up, slightly shocked to see how close he was to her from his previous spot. He ripped the chips from her hand and tossed them onto the counter before grabbing her neck with his hand. 

“I don’t appreciate the teasing pet.” His voice was low, he stared into her eyes, slowly dragging them down to her lips where they were puckered around the sweet treat. He reached his other hand up, grabbing the stick and slowly pulling it out of her mouth. She made an effort to make the same slurping noise as it was pulled from her, as a way to collect the sweet juice it left and her own spit. The string it left from being pulled was smeared onto her chin before he leaned forward to lick it up. He dragged his tounge from the bottom all the way towards her lips. He eagerly began kissing her, his tongue dragging along hers. She whined as he pulled away, the lolly now being placed into his mouth. 

“I-I wasn’t teasing you, you’re the one teasing me!” She stated, exasperated. 

“I don’t think so angel. I’m not the one lounging around, slurping around sugar on a damn stick, with my ass and tits out, bending over and begging to be fucked.” The hand on her thorat tightening as he felt her swallow thickly.  

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose!” She stated back to him. 

“Purpose or not, I’ll give you something to suck on.” Her bikini bottoms had to be drenched by now. If not for the slapping on her ass, noticing him oggoling her body, this had done it. “I’m going to finish putting away this shit since you are seeming to be a distraction. When I’m done, I better see you in our bedroom, kneeling before the bed. Is that clear?”

“Yes daddy.” He groaned before pulling her forward to smear his mouth onto her lips. He pulled away, releasing his hand from your throat. She turned around to make her way to the staircase but was briefly stopped by yet again, another smack on her ass, letting out a little yelp. 

“And keep the bikini on puppy.” She shuttered before nodding

Her feet quickly carried her towards their bedroom, immediately kneeling before the side of the bed. She kept herself busy with floating thoughts of how good he’s going to feel down her throat. 

Soon enough, she had heard his heavy steps climbing up the stairs and carrying him to the bed before he sat infront of her with his legs spread. Her mouth nearly drooling at the sight of the tent in his pants. 

She looked at him, noticing what was once her sucker, still in his mouth. His jaw clenched as his lips were wrapped around it. She grew slightly confused at a second sucker placed beside him on the bedding. 

Still sucking on the lolly, he began undoing his belt, the clanking of it making her grow more excited. He sat up slightly to then pull his pants and boxers down, leaving his thick cock to spring up after being released from the restricting clothes. 

“You wanted a sucker pet? Now you got one, get to work.” He spoke around the lolly, glaring her down as he waited for her to touch him. 

She clenched to thighs to help relieve some tension. She leaned forward, spitting on the head of his cock. She admired the way it dripped down the veins before she stuck her tongue out to lick the trail it left. She continued licking stripes up his length, getting him wet with her own spit.

It didn’t take long out before her own need took over and she took him into her mouth. She started with just the tip, lapping her tongue around it, tasting precum. She moaned at how salty he tasted before sucking his head. The vibration and suction made him move his hand to her hair and tug at it lightly. 

“Good girl, now take more honey, it’s all for you.” She didn’t waste any time as her lips that were wrapped around his tip moved further down. She bobbed her head creating a pace as her tongue stroked at the vein on the underside of his cock. Her salavia was quickly building up as it soaked his dick and began making its way out the corners of her mouth. Like he had pictured, it slowly dripped onto her breasts the more she moved her head up and down and slurped at his cock. Her tits slightly jiggled as her movements increased making him moan loader around the sucker. 

Hearing his moans only drove her to work faster. She brought her lips all the way down to his base, her hands moved to his balls, feeling her salvia that had dripped down before she smeared it around them. Pulling off his cock she moved her head to suckle on his balls, hands keeping his cock occupied. 

When she felt they were wet enough, her mouth attached to his member again, taking him down her throat. She clenched around him as she gagged, his hands in her hair keeping her held down as he groaned. She began bobbing her head faster hearing him slurp around his own sucker. 

“Keep it up pet, M’gunna cum for ya.” The wet sounds were heard though their ears as she kept taking him down her throat, satisfying his lengthy cock and moaning around it as his words. 

She kept bobbing her head and soon felt his release fill her mouth. The salty substance nearly dripping out her mouth as she pulled back and swallowed it with pride. Harry was heaving as she lapped at his cock, getting every last drop she possibly could. She leaned back when she felt her job was done before looking back at him with a dazed expression. 

“Good girl.” She nuzzled his thigh at the compliment, almost shying away from his intimidating gaze. She turned her head to look at him as he peeled the now gone sucker from his mouth. The empty sick was held in his hand as he grabbed ahold of her hand, helping her stand on her sore legs. He moved her to the bed, making her lay on her back as he placed the stick on their nightstand. He reached for the other lolly that still sat on their bedding before removing the wrapping, placing it next to the stick on the stand. He brought it closer to her mouth, “Open up darling.” Despite her confusion, she obeyed as the sweet treat was placed on her tongue and the taste of cherry was filling her mouth. 

He took a moment to stand back up and just admire how she looked laid out for him. The red suit still in tact, her tits still restrained in the fabric, the bottom with a noticeable darkened spot that wasn’t from swimming, and her lips wrapped tightly around the sucker. He climbed onto the red to rest above her, forearms holding himself up as she gazed at him with wide eyes. 

He slowly moved his one arm from the bed, his other supporting his body, as he peeled the fabric covering her breasts to the side so her tits were completely out at this point, her nipples hard from the cold draft. 

His hand grabbed at the one breast, giving it a rough sqeeze before flicking against her nipple. His thumb slowly circled before bringing his mouth down to replace his finger. Harry’s mouth was sucking around the sensitive area before pulling back. 

The sucker in her mouth was removed with a pop before his mouth was on hers again. With roughness, their lips moved against each other, teeth clashing and spit being exchanged between their mouths. Soon though, she felt a new object circling her nipple, its coolness making her flinch as she felt the tacky substance being left on her. 

He pulled away, moving back down to lap at the residue left on her nipple from the sucker, slightly nipping at the bud as he moved to give the other side the same treatment. 

He moved the sucker back up to her lips, getting the hint she allowed herself to tongue at the sweet treat as much as she could before it left her lips once again. He moved it to her other nipple to let it get the same treatment. 

It circles slowly, before he pulls it back and brings it down to slightly slap the nipple. She released a gasp at the unexpected feeling of it, clenching her thighs even tighter. He pops the lolly back in her mouth as a holder for it as his mouth reaches down to suck and lick at her bud, while his hand occupies her other breast by roughlly sqeezing it and pinching her nipple. 

She whines as a sign of protest, and he finally leans up to take the lolly out of her mouth. 

“Whats the matter puppy?” He still teased her with keeping his fingers focused on flicking her nipple. 

“I need you on my pussy daddy.” With the sucker pushed into her cheek to speak, she spoke softly to him. His eyes widened at her forewardness, normally it takes a little more for her to be so open, but he doesn’t mind this newfound confidence. 

“Let’s take a look then hm?” He moved his body down between her legs as he moved her legs up, her knees resting on her chest and pushing her breasts closer together.

 From the position she was in now, her bottoms had nearly been swallowed by her cunt. The darkened spot on display as her puffy pussy was being restrained against the fabric. He groaned at the sight, taking his finger to slide up and down the wet spot as her arousal that leaked through the bikini was spotted on his fingers. 

He grabbed the bottoms, pulling them to the side so her pussy would be fully out like her tits. Her excitement had leaked to her ass at this point. Her juices were visible as they shone in the light in their bedroom. 

“Oh puppy,” He tsked at her mockingly, his breath hitting her cunt making her ache even more. “Looks like you did need me, this poor pussy is leaking all over my sheets.” He placed kisses around her thighs, nipping every once in a while. She needed to feel something, as her body took over and went to shut her legs but he stopped that immediately. “Nuh uh. You keep these up and open otherwise I’ll make a new arrangement for you. Is that clear?” 

She nodded but that was not good enough for him as he gave her a light warning slap on her thigh. “Yes I-I understand.” 

“Good girl.” Harry slightly sat up as he reached for the sucker in her mouth plucking it out and settling into his previous position. “I need you to stay good for me while I enjoy my treat puppy. I love seeing you laid like this for me, but I’ll have no choice but to move you around if you can’t listen okay?”

 She let out a restrained ‘okay’ as a way to hurry him along to touch her. Much to her liking, he began, but not what she was expecting. 

Keeping his gaze on her cunt, the sucker was dragged though her arousal. The first touch to where she needed him the most and it made her suck in a deep breath as it kept moving up and down through her lips. 

Once he thought the sucker, collected enough of her arousal, he moved it to circle her clit. As a shock to her from the feeling, her legs moved to close together again and her hands to reach for his hair and his movements were abruptly stopped. 

“What did I just tell you pet?” His gaze was dark, he glared at her unapprovingly. His hands reached to rip her legs apart and her hands from his hair. 

“I-I’m sorry, it just felt good. I won’t do it again daddy, I’m sorry.” She eagerly rushed out, feeling completely overwhelmed by not getting enough touching from him. 

“This is your last warning. Don’t make me tell you again.” She nodded, apoligizing once again as her hands rested on the backs of her thighs to keep herself spread for him. 

He resumed his work, letting the sucker circle her clit, before he moved it back down to collect her juices and smear it along her cunt. She felt her breathing pick up the feeling of at least something touching her cunt. The circling of the sticky treat on her cunt was enough to drive her mad. 

Harry decided to finally put her out of her misery as he pulled the sucker away from he clit, still letting it slide through her folds, as he leaned down at pressed a light kiss on her nub. His tongue soon came after, licking gentle stripes against her. He began lapping at her more as her soft moans were being heard. The taste of her slick was already addicting to him, but the slight hint of cherry flavoring was enough to make him spend hours going down on her.

She thoroughly enjoyed watching as he licked at her like a starved man. Moving the sucker covered in her juices back to her clit to circle it, his mouth moved to her folds. He leaned back to spit on her, making her gasp before he moved the sucker to rub it across her pussy before leaning down to lick it all back up. 

She was in heaven. She simply couldn’t help herself as her hands moved to pull his hair and keep him in place. However, Harry was not fond of this whatsoever. She soon she realized her mistake as he stopped and removed himself from her cunt. 

“W-wait, I’m sorry daddy! I won’t do it again, I-I didn’t mean to, I promise! It just felt so good, I promise I’ll-” 

“I don’t care. Since you can’t fucking listen like I asked, this isn’t going to go your way.” He graveled at her. When she attempted to speak up again, he was quick to reply. “Get on your hands and knees pet.” 

With her eyes cast down, she shamefully moved to where he wanted her. He also moved, quickly getting off the bed, and opening their nightstand drawer. She knew what he was grabbing the moment he reached for it and her thoughts were confirmed when he pulled it out. The handcuffs they used often were in his hand as he moved to tug her arms. He clasped the one around her wrist, circled the band around the headboard, before pulling her other arm up and clasping the other wrist. 

“Is that too tight pet?” His voice slightly softer as he rubbed her back, waiting for her response. 

“No daddy, it’s just right.” She answered him. 

“Alright. This is for your own good pet, I have to train my puppy somehow.” She shuttered just from the sentence alone. 

Her back was arched, arms pulled up as her head hung inbetween, and her ass was on full display for him with the red bikini bottoms covering nothing at this point. He grabbed her by the thighs to pull her legs apart, and her drenched pussy was soon in his view as well. He made a noise in the back of his throat at the sight before pulling the ties of strings of her swimsuit, causing it to fall onto the bed. 

“I need you to keep your legs right where they are pet, otherwise I’ll tie those down too.” He voice was deep, making her aware just how turned on he was too.

Before she knew what was happening, a hard smack was placed on her ass, making her yelp out, but she made herself stay as still as possible. His hand came down again, this time on her other cheek and she could feel her excitement start to drip. He continued to spank her ass, and the more slaps she recieved, the more drenched she became. Angel could feel it begin to leak down her thighs, and soon enough, Harry had noticed. 

Taking the sucker that was placed into his mouth before her spankings, he removed it as he spoke. 

“Jesus Christ angel, you’re leaking fucking everywhere. Didn’t realized getting spanked turned you on s’much, not so innocent are you hm? Little slut for me pet?” His degrading tone was doing nothing to help the problem between her legs, if anything, it was increasing how horny she was. 

“M’ such a slut for you daddy please! Please do something, I need it so bad!” Her voice was urgent, she couldn’t help it, she felt so deprived and he was doing nothing to help her but get her more worked up. 

“Such a good puppy I have. Just calm down, and I’ll help this poor pussy, give it a few kisses. It’s leaking juices everywhere baby.” Kneeling behind her he was quick to lick the trail of her excitment that ran down her leg before he indulged in her cunt. Before he could do that, he reached around her bringing the sucker to her lips. “Go on and suck it f’me baby.” 

She did as she was told, she began eagerly licking at it as her lips wrapped around it to attempted to keep the treat and her saliva in her mouth. It was pooling up and she struggled to swallow with her head down. He plucked it from her, plenty of spit stringing along with it and dropping onto the pillow below her. 

“Such a slobbery puppy, hm? Both holes are just so messy.” She didn’t bother responding, as her own moan cut her off by his tounge licking a stripe through her pussy. The sucker, placed on her clit once again as it was moved in circular motions, stimulating her. It took all the power in her not to move too much, her hands were clenched, nails digging into her palms as her whines grew. 

He pulled back to breathe as he let the sucker do some more work for him, letting it glide through her lips, and smear all her juices around her pussy. It was absurd how horny it made her for him to be using the sucker on her. 

He took her by surprise when the lolly that was just on her clit, moved to her folds and was pushed into her. She gasped loundly at the feeling of it being thrust in and out of her. Harry watched as the sucker pulled out of her, so many juices covering it before he placed it in his mouth, moaning at the taste. 

He plucked it out and brought it to her hole to do the same actions. She was so turned on, and it was clear from the noises of the sweet treat going in and out of her cunt. He thrust it in one last time before it was pulled, and instead of it being brought to his mouth, he reached around to where her hair was, pulled it as a way for her head to be brought up and brought it to her lips. She opened her mouth but before he placed it on her tongue, he let the sucker trace her bottom lip. Her own juices transferred before the sucker was placed on her tounge and she could taste herself. 

Harry became extremely aware of how hard his cock was as she gazed at him with wide eyes as her lips were wrapped around the sucker that was covered in her own arousal. He pulled the treat slowly, watching her lips morph around it as it was pulled before he licked the remaining juices off her lips and left her with a kiss. 

His hand left her hair causing her head to fall back down and he returned behind her. He was elated to see she still was dripping. Wasting no time, the sucker was proptly brought back to her folds, he continued to let it run through them once again before he pulled it back and let the sucker smack her cunt. It wasn’t very hard of a hit, but it still felt incredible. She whined more, needing him to tongue at her again and lick her juices up, she just wanted to cum so bad. 

Harry, however, was preoccupied with smacking her cunt with his sucker. The juices covering the sweet left a string everytime he pulled it back and it just was arousing for him to see. It took nearly all her strength to keep her legs open when he moved the slaps to her clit. He’d circle it before placing multiple pats onto the sensitive nub. 

Right before she was about to speak up, he placed the sucker on the nightstand ontop of the wrapper. His large hands smoothed over her ass before smacking them letting out a heavy sigh at the way they jiggled as he did so. His grip on her ass moved to her thighs, speading them more apart before he dove back into her cunt.

He was relentless as her whines were loud, as if that egged him on. He ate her out like a starved man, continiously lapping at her folds, placing kitten licks on her clit before sucking it into his mouth. The more he dove into her the more excitement started to leak, even he couldn’t keep up with it. More and more of it ran down her thighs, his hands moved to tightly grope her ass before he tounge dug into her folds and into her hole. She cried out from how good it felt to have him indulge in her. When she started feeling a familiar knot in her stomach he pulled back, his breaths coming out in heavy pants. He entertained himself with squeezing her ass, watching the flesh turn red under his touch. 

“Such a juicy little cunt baby. Love how you are so drenched more me, like you can’t get enough. It’s all puffy too, just begging me to lick at it” Working himself up from speaking- not just her- his hand laid another smack on her ass. “Just love your fucking body baby, love this fucking cunt, all mine isn’t it puppy? Your sopping pussy s’all for me isn’t it?” 

He watched as her juices shined in the lighting, bringing his hands from her ass to pull her lips apart. “Y-yes sir! All for you daddy.” He seemed pleased with the answer, keeping her pussy spread apart as he spat right on her cunt, watching the spit slide down to her clit before his tounge lapped back through her. She moaned, loving the feeling of his tongue on her once again. 

The handcuffs definitely had made marks on her wrist at this point from her tugging but she didn’t mind, if anything she liked it, made it all the more exciting. 

Harry took his fingers and allowed them to play with her clit while he tounged at her hole. She loved the combination, felt so good and she could feel her knot growing in her tummy once again, and decided to speak up. 

“Daddy, I- M’gunna cum, can I please cum?” Her sentence came out with a pant as it was hard to focus with his tongue lapping around her sensitive area. 

“No puppy, you’re gunna hold it like a good girl f’me. I wanna keep enjoying my sweet treat a little longer.” She was growing frustrated, she wiggled her hips as his mouth suckled at her clit but that only earned her a warning smack on the ass. 

“B-but daddy I can’t hold it! It feels too good, please daddy!” 

At her winey tone, he pulled himself away from her cunt, laying a harsh smack on her ass as he spoke up. 

“You don’t talk to me like that. I told you to hold it, so you’re going to hold it.” This time, instead of her ass, his hand came down right on her puffy pussy and she let out a yelp at how good it felt. “You have a choice puppy,” He spoke again before placing another slap to her cunt, the wetness making an audible noise against his hand. “You either hold it and wait for a little longer, or you don’t cum at all. What's it gunna be hm?” He placed another smack to her cunt. 

“I’ll hold it daddy.” Tears filled her eyes at frustration, she wasn’t sure if she could pull this off. His hand moved to rub his fingers through her folds, collecting all her juices before two fingers were pushed in. She tensed up at the feeling, the lolly and his tongue didn’t fill her up nearly as well as his cock but his fingers were a good start.

“Good girl. Now you just relax and let me enjoy my treat hm? Such a juicy little cunt.” His fingers were pulled out, and returned to her clit and his mouth continued its job lapping her up.

It seemed like torture as he kept groaning at how good she tasted, the feeling of his tongue and mouth pleasing her. The knot in her stomach was growing by the minute, she slightly moved her hips, swaying her ass slighlty and he kept busy on her cunt. He didn’t seem to mind as his tounge collected every drop of her arousal before he pulled off her. 

His cock was painfully hard just from the taste of her and he couldn’t take it anymore. His hand gave it a few strokes before he let it slide against her cunt, collecting her juices that continued to leak from the weepy hole. His hand reached up pulling the ties from around her neck and back, allowing her top to join her bikini bottoms on the red. 

“Just licked you all up puppy, and your pussy managed to slobber up right away, must’ve been anticipating my cock,” He teased himself and you as his allowed the tip of his cock to keep sliding in and out before he spoke up again. “Are you ready for my cock baby? By the way your cunts dripping, I have a pretty good idea what it wants.”

“Yes daddy! I’m ready for your cock! Please, please I need it!” He smirked at her begging and couldn’t keep her waiting any longer. 

He slowly pushed his cock in, loving the feeling of her tight cunt gripping him. Once he bottomed out, he didn’t hold back, he pulled back and harshly slammed right back into her causing her ass to jiggle. He growled at the sight, gribbing her ass and using it as leverage to pull her back into him as he kept repeatedly slamming into her. 

“How’s that feel puppy, this what you wanted?” He quickly slapped her ass before groping it again to keep pounding into her, picking up his pace as he felt his own orgasm approach. 

“Ye-yes thank you daddy! Your cock feels so good in my pussy, needed it so bad!” Her words only encouraged him more. His balls slapping against her cunt as her ass jiggled with each thrust and slap they endured. Both their moans could be heard through the room, sweat collecting on both their bodies. 

His one hand left her ass, the other still keeping it in a tight grib as he strummed on her clit. She mewled out as his motions grew faster and messier. 

“Daddy please, can I cum? M’so close I can’t hold it daddy, please!” 

“Yeah baby, you can cum. Wanna see your cunt soak my cock. Go on and cum for daddy, angel.” She let out a sigh of releaf as she felt the knot in her stomach keep growing.

The feeling of his cock relentlessly pounding her, the grip on her ass, and his fingers playing with her clit, she couldn’t take it anymore as her cunt spasmed around him, finally cumming. He felt her clench around him, continuing his pounding as he was reaching where he needed to. 

“Good fucking girl, so good f’me. Love when your cunt squeezes me like that.” She moaned as her orgasm continued to flow through her, her cunt still being abused by his cock thrusting in and out before he roughly pulled out. His hand furiously stroked his length before spurts of his cum landed against her ass and pussy. “Jesus Christ pet. What a sight.”

 He brought his hand down, smearing his own release against her pussy. She whined and wiggled as he touched her overly sensitive clit. 

“Sorry baby,” He left a chaste kiss on the side of her ass, pulled himself up as he grabbed the key for the cuffs. Once he helped her out of them he frowned at the harsh marks left on her wrists, lightly tracing his fingers along the markings. “I thought you said it wasn’t too tight angel?”

“It wasn’t I promise, I really didn’t hurt much, I promise honey.” She pressed a kiss on his lips to assure him as he let out a sigh.

“Next time you tell me if it does okay?” She nodded before laying flat on her stomach. “M’gunna run to the bathroom and help ya clean up baby.” In a flash, he grabbed a wet cloth and a glass of water before returning. He made sure to be extra careful when cleaning her up before tossing the cloth and climbing into bed with her. 

His arms pulled her to rest on top of him, his hands careful of her ass that he reminded himself to get a cream for before they went to bed. Her head laid against his chest as they rested together. 

“Y’can sleep a little baby. We’ll rest and then we can get up and make some dinner, how does that sound angel?” His voice was much softer than it had bed during the steamy sex they just had. 

“Sounds good H.” She leaned up, pressing her lips to his as they moved together, it was sweet and slow, nothing messy like before. They parted with a soft smack before she curled into his side and closed her eyes.

[ilovemarvel97]

Delirious

Elizabeth Olsen x G!P Reader

Summary: Lizzie wakes up to find her wife burning in fever beside her.

Word Count: 6,627

Warnings: (18+), smut, reader has a penis, fluff

Note: A little something before part 4 of “Written in Our Souls.” This is my first attempt with smut. I hope it’s not so bad. 

---

The sunlight peaking through the curtains is what woke up Lizzie.

She groans with the brightness but open her eyes to check the time, and realizing it was almost time to get up.

She turns on the bed and see Y/N, her wife sleeping soundly with a little frown beside her.

She smiles lovingly and move closer. When she touches her face she realize the heat. Y/N is burning, and she just realize how her cheeks are red. 

���Babe. Babe, wake up! You are burning.” She caress Y/N cheek.

A soft groan escapes Y/N’s lips, but her eyes remain closed, her brows furrowing even more.

Lizzie sits up instantly, the sleepy haze from moments ago now completely gone. She cups Y/N’s face gently with both hands, brushing her thumb across the flushed skin. “Y/N, come on, talk to me,” she says, worry thick in her voice. 

Y/N shifts slightly, murmuring something incoherent before finally blinking up at her. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.

“Hey,” Lizzie whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to her damp forehead. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t… want to bother you,” Y/N mumbles, her voice hoarse and dry.

Lizzie frowns deeper. “You’re never a bother.” She reaches for the thermometer in the drawer beside the bed and presses it gently against Y/N’s temple. As it beeps, Lizzie brushes back the strands of hair stuck to her wife’s sweaty forehead.

She glances at the number.

102.8°F.

“Okay, no. That’s too high,” she mutters, already moving off the bed and heading to the bathroom. She grabs a damp cloth and fills a glass with cool water.

Back at the bedside, she presses the cloth to Y/N’s forehead and helps her sit up slightly. “Drink this for me, baby. Just a little.”

Y/N obediently sips, leaning into Lizzie’s touch, her body weak and trembling slightly.

“You should’ve told me you were feeling sick,” Lizzie murmurs, voice soft but firm.

“I thought it would go away,” Y/N replies, barely above a whisper.

Lizzie just shakes her head, sitting beside her again, one hand still gently caressing her cheek. “Well, now I’m on nurse duty. You’re not moving from this bed unless it’s to see a doctor. Got it?”

Y/N gives her a small, tired smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

Lizzie chuckles despite the worry. “Don’t ‘yes ma’am’ me. You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“I love you,” Lizzie whispers, her lips brushing over Y/N’s temple. “You don’t get to scare me like that.”

Y/N hums, her voice sleepy again. “Love you more.”

Lizzie stays there, holding her close, determined not to let go.

Lizzie sighs softly, brushing her fingers down Y/N’s arm as she watches her drift off again. She glances at the time and groans—today was supposed to be packed. An interview and a full-on magazine photoshoot.

But screw that.

With one last kiss to Y/N’s forehead, she slips out of bed and grabs her phone from the nightstand. She walks to the kitchen, the soft tapping of her fingers the only sound filling the space now. She sends a quick text to her publicist:

"Need to cancel today’s interview + shoot. Y/N’s sick, and I’m not leaving her side. Hope they understand. We’ll reschedule. ❤️"

Within seconds, a reply lights up her screen:

"Of course. I’ll take care of it. Hope she feels better soon!”

Lizzie sets her phone down with a sigh of relief and ties her hair up in a messy bun. She pads barefoot into the kitchen and starts pulling things from the fridge��eggs, bread, fruit. Y/N always liked her scrambled eggs with just a bit of cheese, and toast with a ridiculous amount of butter. 

As the eggs sizzle in the pan, Lizzie hums under her breath, glancing toward the hallway every so often like she half-expects Y/N to appear despite how sick she is. She sets the toast down on a plate, adds some strawberries on the side, and preps a small tray—water, meds, the breakfast, and a little folded napkin with a doodled heart in the corner.

Balancing everything carefully, she walks back into the bedroom and sets the tray down on the nightstand. Y/N stirs slightly at the smell.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Lizzie murmurs, sitting beside her again. “I made you some breakfast so you can take something for that fever, okay?”

Y/N opens one eye, voice rough but soft. “You didn’t have to…”

Lizzie raises an eyebrow. “I canceled everything today. You’re stuck with me, babe.”

Y/N’s lips twitch into a tired smile. “Best nurse ever.”

“Damn right.” Lizzie tucks a pillow behind her back, helping her sit up slowly. “Now eat. Doctor’s orders.”

Y/N leans into her touch again, clearly drained, but grateful.

Y/N picks at the edge of her toast, her brow furrowing as something clicks in her foggy mind.

“Wait…” she murmurs, her voice still raspy. “Did you cancel mine too? I was supposed to be in the studio today.”

Lizzie, in the middle of slicing strawberries, pauses and glances back at her. “Yeah, I did.”

Y/N blinks, surprised. “Liz…”

“You had a full day booked,” Lizzie continues softly, setting the knife down and walking back to the bed. “Vocal tracking, right? New single?”

Y/N nods slowly.

Lizzie sits down beside her again and tucks a warm hand over hers. “I texted your manager and let them know you were sick. Told them you needed rest and that you’ll reschedule as soon as you're better.”

“I didn’t even think about it…” Y/N murmurs, guilt crawling into her voice. “That track’s on a deadline. The label’s already breathing down my neck.”

Lizzie lifts her hand and presses it gently to Y/N’s chest. “Breathe. It’s okay.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’ You wouldn’t be able to sing a note in this state. You’re burning up, baby. You’d hurt your voice trying to push through it.”

Y/N bites her lip. “I just hate letting people down.”

Lizzie’s gaze softens. She leans in and kisses Y/N’s cheek, warm under her lips. “You didn’t let anyone down. Your health comes first. Always.”

Y/N sighs, leaning into her touch, voice barely a whisper. “You really canceled both our days for me?”

“Of course I did. You think I’m gonna leave you home alone, sick and sad, while I go smile for a camera and talk about how ‘balanced’ my life is?” Lizzie chuckles, rolling her eyes. “You are my balance, babe.”

A tiny smile tugs at Y/N’s lips, even through the haze of fever. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“I dare you,” Lizzie teases, brushing her nose against hers. “But only after you finish breakfast and take your meds.”

“Ugh, bossy.”

“Loving,” Lizzie corrects with a wink. “Now eat, rockstar. Then, you’ll take your meds and back to sleep”

“Yes, boss” I give her a grin.

After making sure Y/N finished breakfast and took her meds, Lizzie helped her lay back down and tucked her in with an extra blanket and a forehead kiss. Y/N was out within minutes, her body finally allowing her some real rest.

Now, a couple of hours later, Lizzie stood in the kitchen, hair back in a bun again, fingers flying across her phone screen as she replied to a couple of lingering emails from her team. She stood by the island, reading over a press statement draft when she caught the faint sizzle of garlic in olive oil.

“Okay, back to wife mode,” she mumbled with a soft smile, setting the phone aside and turning her attention to the stove. A pan was heating, pasta water was boiling, and the smell of sautéed veggies filled the space.

She was stirring the sauce when two familiar arms suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind, warm and heavy.

“Y/N?” she asked, startled, but her lips curved immediately into a smile. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Instead, she nuzzled into Lizzie’s neck, pressing a slow, tender kiss just beneath her ear.

“You’re hot,” Lizzie murmured, resting her free hand on Y/N’s arm, feeling her warmth. “Fever still hanging on?”

“Maybe,” Y/N mumbled into her skin, voice still husky from sleep and sickness. “But I felt lonely.”

Lizzie softened completely, leaning back into her just a little. “You could’ve called for me.”

“I missed your skin,” Y/N murmured. Then she shifted, subtly but deliberately, pressing her hips forward so Lizzie could feel the clear message in her touch.

Lizzie’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Y/N…” she warned gently, half a laugh in her tone. “You’re sick.”

“I’m getting better,” Y/N whispered, nipping lightly at her earlobe.

Lizzie turned her head, catching Y/N’s flushed face. “Your fever’s probably making you delusional.”

Y/N gave her a lazy grin. “Delusional for you.”

Lizzie couldn’t help but laugh softly, reaching back to run her fingers through Y/N’s hair. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“So are you,” Y/N whispered, pressing another soft kiss to the base of Lizzie’s neck.

Lizzie inhaled slowly, grounding herself, her heart fluttering. “Alright, alright,” she said gently, turning in Y/N’s arms so they were facing each other. “How about this—we eat lunch, and if you're still feeling better later... I’ll think about it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, playful. “So there’s hope?”

Lizzie grinned and tapped her nose. “Only if you behave and stay hydrated.”

Y/N groaned dramatically, leaning her forehead against Lizzie’s. “Fine. For you.”

“For me,” Lizzie echoed, pecking her lips with a featherlight kiss. “Now go sit. Chef’s orders.”

Y/N sighed but obeyed, padding slowly toward the kitchen stool, her body still warm but her steps steadier.

And Lizzie? She just shook her head with a loving smile, stirring the sauce again, already thinking about how to sneak in a nap beside her girl once lunch was done.

---

Lunch was quiet, filled with soft smiles and light conversation. Y/N picked at her pasta, still not with her full appetite, but she ate enough to satisfy Lizzie’s watchful eye. 

Afterward, Lizzie guided her back to the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs and placing a fresh glass of water within reach. She dropped a kiss to her forehead, then turned to grab her own leftovers from the kitchen.

When she returned, Y/N was lounging with her head tilted back, flushed cheeks and glossy eyes still giving her away.

“Still warm,” Lizzie murmured, placing her hand gently on Y/N’s cheek. “You’re definitely not done with that fever.”

Y/N hummed, her voice still raspy, but there was a different kind of edge to it now. “Nope. But now I’m hot and bothered.”

Lizzie blinked, almost choking on a laugh. “Oh, are you?”

Y/N turned her head lazily toward her, a playful smirk ghosting across her lips. “I’ve got a beautiful wife… taking care of me, feeding me, touching my face like she’s in a damn romance movie…” She let her words trail off, letting the weight of her stare do the rest.

Lizzie sat down beside her slowly, raising an eyebrow. “You’re sick.”

“I’m sick,” Y/N agreed, her voice dropping just slightly, “but not dead.”

“Y/N…”

Y/N reached out and hooked her fingers through Lizzie’s hoodie, pulling her closer until their faces were barely an inch apart. “You make it really hard to rest when you’re walking around being all… soft and gorgeous and in charge.”

Lizzie snorted, trying not to give in completely. “You really are running a fever.”

“Maybe.” Y/N leaned forward, brushing her lips gently against Lizzie’s jaw. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what I want.”

Lizzie closed her eyes for a second, holding in the flutter that tried to escape her chest. She brought her hands to Y/N’s shoulders, thumbs brushing slow circles over her collarbones.

“You're burning up, baby,” she said softly. “This might not be the best idea.”

Y/N gave her a low, lazy grin, and before Lizzie could say anything else, Y/N gripped her waist and gently pulled her right onto her lap.

“Y/N—” Lizzie started, startled by the sudden closeness — and then she gasped, her breath catching the second she felt the firm press of Y/N’s arousal against her through the blanket.

Her eyes widened, and Y/N just looked up at her with flushed cheeks and a crooked, fever-hazed smile. “Told you I knew what I wanted.”

Lizzie’s breath hitched as her hands instinctively landed on Y/N’s shoulders for balance. Her heart was doing flips, her skin warm from more than just the heat radiating off Y/N’s body.

“You’re insatiable,” she whispered, biting down a grin even as her body betrayed her, shifting slightly in Y/N’s lap.

“And you love that too,” Y/N murmured, eyes hooded, hands resting innocently at Lizzie’s hips — though her fingers were curling just slightly, gripping like she didn’t want to let go.

Lizzie leaned in, her lips just barely brushing Y/N’s. “You’re sick.”

“I’m still strong enough to make you feel good,” Y/N replied, voice low and deep with need, her lips ghosting against Lizzie’s jaw now.

Lizzie’s pulse pounded in her throat. Her body was pressed flush against Y/N’s, heat blooming low in her stomach, but her heart still warred with her rational side.

“You’re still burning up,” she murmured, eyes flickering over Y/N’s flushed face, skin hot under her palms.

Y/N tilted her head up, lips brushing along Lizzie’s cheek, murmuring between kisses, “Then cool me down. Ride it out with me.”

Lizzie closed her eyes, torn between groaning and laughing. “You are such a pain in the ass when you’re needy.”

Y/N smirked against her skin. “And yet, here you are… sitting on me.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes, but her hips shifted again — slow, deliberate — drawing a shaky exhale from Y/N’s lips that had Lizzie nearly melting in her arms.

She leaned in, pressing a firmer kiss to Y/N’s lips this time — warm, slow, and full of intent — before pulling back just enough to whisper, “One condition.”

Y/N’s fingers dug in a little, her eyes already darkening. “Anything.”

“After,” Lizzie breathed, dragging her thumb along Y/N’s jaw, “you take a damn nap. Deal?”

Y/N grinned, feverish and needy and completely wrapped around her. “Deal.”

**

Y/N’s fever-warmed hands curled around Lizzie’s waist, grounding her, holding her close like she was something sacred. And in that moment, Lizzie couldn’t bring herself to pull away. Not when the air between them felt so thick and slow, like honey — sweet and heavy with need.

She leaned down, their foreheads touching, noses brushing. Y/N’s breath hitched as Lizzie’s fingers slid up her bare arms, slow and searching, tracing the lines of her shoulders. “God, you’re burning,” Lizzie whispered, her voice low and rough with affection. “But you’re still so damn hot in all the right ways.”

Y/N let out a breathless chuckle, her smile lazy and fond. She leans up to take Lizzie’s lips with hers into a sensual dance. The kiss was soon deepened by Y/N, making Lizzie moan softly into her mouth. Lizzie’s hand holds Y/N cheeks while she reciprocate the kiss hungrily.

“We were not supposed to be doing this” Lizzie whisper against Y/N lips.

Y/N’s hips shifted beneath her, just enough to make Lizzie gasp quietly against her mouth. The press of Y/N’s body — the tension she held in, barely — sent a flutter right through Lizzie’s stomach. Y/N kissed down the side of Lizzie’s neck, slow, deliberate, dragging her lips along her skin there, tasting every inch of it.

Lizzie tilts her head back, surrendering, her hands sliding through Y/N hair. “You make me crazy,” she murmured, voice husky.

Lizzie pulls Y/N head up and kiss her again.

She rocked forward in Y/N’s lap, eliciting a low, aching moan that vibrated right through her. Her fingers tangled through Y/N’s hair, while Y/N hands go inside her shirt, caressing her spine. When air is needed Y/N continue to kiss her jawline, going down to her neck. She bites Lizzie’s pulse point making her hiss and grip her hair tightly. Lizzie pulls Y/N head back “no marks” 

“Okay” Y/N smiles sheepishly and lean up to kiss Lizzie.  

Y/N hands go up Lizzie’s sides, and lift her shirt on the process. 

They break the kiss just to remove the shirt. 

Lizzie barely had time to register the loss of warmth before Y/N’s mouth was back on hers — urgent, reverent, like she was afraid she might vanish if they weren’t touching. Her fever hadn’t dulled her focus, not when it came to Lizzie. If anything, it sharpened it, made every touch more desperate, more intense.

Lizzie felt her breath catch as Y/N’s hands explored — fingers splayed wide, sliding up her now-bare back, pressing her impossibly close. The heat between them was dizzying, a mix of fever and want that blurred the lines between good judgment and raw need.

“You should be resting,” Lizzie murmured against Y/N’s lips, her voice weak even to her own ears.

Y/N smiled into the kiss, cheeky and warm and utterly unrepentant. “This is me resting.”

Lizzie huffed a soft laugh, the sound melting into a sigh as Y/N’s lips brushed over her collarbone.

“You’re impossible.”

“Mm. But you love me anyway.”

Y/N cups her breasts and start to massage them gently. 

A soft moan escaped Lizzie’s lips, her body arching into Y/N’s touch. Heat was coiling low in her stomach, pooling there like slow syrup, making her forget about being the responsible one. 

She could worry about that later — right now, all that mattered was Y/N’s hands on her, her mouth on her neck, her body pressed so close they could feel every shudder, every racing heartbeat.

“You’re so beautiful,” Y/N whispered, her breath warm against Lizzie’s skin. She kissed her neck, her shoulder, her collar—anywhere she could reach, leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses in her wake. “Every inch of you.” 

Lizzie’s skin was fire, burning up from the inside out, every nerve alighted with Y/N’s touch. Her pulse was a wild thing, thundering in her ears as she leaned into each kiss, each caress. 

“Y/N,” she managed, trying to steady her ragged breaths.

Y/N starts to rub her thumbs over Lizzie’s nipples while she kisses her breasts. 

Lizzie’s breath hitched at the touch, her hands gripping Y/N’s shoulders. “Oh god,” she whispered, her body responding to every move, every small touch. 

Y/N’s lips were soft against her skin, moving in a hot, wet trail over her chest, leaving a path of tingling, electric sensations in their wake. 

Lizzie’s gasp echoed in the silent room, a mix of pleasure, surprise, and the sharp edge of want. Her fingers gripped tighter into Y/N’s hair, holding her close, needing the support as her body reacted to each flick of Y/N’s tongue.

The wet heat of Y/N’s mouth was dizzying, driving away any coherent thought, leaving behind only sensation, only the slow, building pressure that coiled low in her stomach. Each suck, each gentle bite was like a bolt of lightning, straight through her. 

Y/N gives Lizzie’s other nipple the same attention, making Lizzie's back arch even more, her body trembling with the growing pressure, the mounting need. The world was reduced to just this — the heat of Y/N's touch, the sound of their breaths, ragged and desperate, blending together in the silent room.

She was drowning in sensation, drowning in Y/N, losing what was left of her control. Every flick of Y/N's tongue sent another jolt through her, a wave of pleasure that built and built, pushing her higher, further, until she was teetering on the edge of control.

She starts to grind her hips on Y/N’s lap, making Y/N groan. 

Lizzie moan a little louder when she finds the right angle that would have Y/N clothed cock brush agains her center. 

The friction was both a tease and a promise, a promise of more that only served to drive them both insane. Y/N’s grip tightened around her waist, fingers digging into flesh, holding her still for a moment even as they both ached for more. 

Lizzie could feel the heat between them now, a palpable thing, making the air thick, making breathing seem impossible. She wanted to close the gap, to give in completely, to find a release that would erase all else.

But Y/N seemed to sense her urgency, her desperation, and refused to let her have it yet. She pulled back, slowing everything down, returning her focus to kissing and biting her neck instead, leaving her teetering on the edge, panting, needy.

There was a hint of a smile in her voice when she spoke, a teasing edge that was both maddening and delicious. “Patience, love,” she murmured against her skin, her hands roaming, exploring. “We’ve got time.”

Lizzie groaned, her body quivering with the effort of restraint. She wanted everything right then, right there, wanted to let go and drown in the pleasure. But Y/N was unyielding, her touch maddeningly slow, maddeningly sweet.

She pulled back, her eyes dark and burning as they took in Lizzie’s flushed face, her parted lips. Her touch was feather-light now, almost reverent, trailing over her chest, her stomach, her thighs. She was drawing things out, prolonging the sweet agony, and Lizzie felt like she was about to explode.

“Bed?” Y/N ask her 

Lizzie could only nod, her mind too clouded with desire to form words. She needed to be in a bed, needed to be beneath Y/N, needed that sweet release that only she could give her. 

Y/N didn’t waste a second. In one swift movement, she lifted Lizzie off her lap and stood, supporting all of her weight effortlessly. Lizzie wrapped her legs around her waist instinctively, letting herself be carried across the room, her body still humming, still thrumming with need.

The bed was soft and cool under her back as Y/N laid her down. She removes her pjs leaving herself only in her top and boxers 

Lizzie’s gaze wandered over Y/N’s form, taking in the lean lines of her body, the strength coiled just beneath the skin. She was beautiful, always had been, but there was something about her now — flushed, a little sweaty from the fever — that made her even more stunning. 

Lizzie reached out, her fingers hooking into the waistband of Y/N’s boxers. She pulled, gently, drawing her closer.

“Come here,” she whispered, her voice soft yet commanding. “I want to feel you.”

Y/N obeyed, letting Lizzie pull her down until she was between her thighs. Lizzie's hands ran over her stomach, her sides, her back, tracing each muscle with worshiping fingers. Every touch was a silent prayer, a plea for more.

Y/N leaned in, capturing Lizzie’s lips in a deep, bruising kiss. Her body was a solid weight, pinning Lizzie to the mattress, making her realize how much she wanted to surrender, how much she relished being under her control.

Lizzie's hands roamed everywhere, desperate and greedy, mapping every inch of Y/N’s skin that she could reach. She was burning up under her touch, every nerve ending set alight.

Y/N kiss down her body, her collarbone, her breasts, down to her tummy. Lizzie’s breath caught at the sight — Y/N above her, kissing a wet path down her stomach, her eyes dark and intense. She swallowed hard, her pulse drumming in her ears, her body taut with anticipation. 

When Y/N reach Lizzie’s shorts she looks up for permission. As their eyes met, Lizzie managed a small, shaky nod. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice a soft, rough rasp, “please.“

Y/N remove her shorts together with her underwear.

Lizzie parts her legs immediately for Y/N, and Y/N groan when she sees how wet Lizzie was. 

The sound that escaped Lizzie’s lips was soft, needy, desperate. Her body arched as Y/N’s mouth descended, as she felt the first tentative brush of her tongue. The sensation was electric, setting her nerves ablaze.

Y/N was relentless, each touch sending a shiver through her, each lick making her gasp and squirm beneath her. She was being consumed, devoured, and she couldn’t think, could only feel — the heat of Y/N’s mouth, the press of her hands, the coiled tension in her own body.

Lizzie’s fingers tangled in Y/N’s hair, holding her close, needing the anchor. “God, that’s so good,” she managed, her voice ragged with pleasure. Y/N’s response was a low hum, vibrated against her sensitive skin, that made her eyes flutter shut, her head tipped back. Her body was a live wire, every touch amplifying the pleasure, building the pressure inside of her.

Y/N worked her up, bringing her closer and closer to the edge, her mouth and tongue relentless. The sounds that echoed around them were shameless, unashamed, mixed with the soft gasps and moans that escaped Lizzie’s lips. But just as she’d start to shiver, just as her body would start to tense in the lead up to her peak, Y/N pulls back. Lizzie whimpers immediately, but before she can protest Y/N says,

“I’m sorry…” Y/N sits up. “I can’t hold it anymore” she removes her boxers and position herself between Lizzie’s legs 

Lizzie watches her, her gaze roaming over Y/N's form, taking in the sight of her - naked and ready. She feels a shiver run through her in anticipation. Her body is taut, coiled tight with need, and the sight of Y/N, settled between her thighs completely hard for her, is enough to make her heart skip a few beats. "Please," she whispers, her voice low, the words almost a gasp.

The touch is electrifying, and a shiver runs through her body. She lifts her hips instinctively, trying to find more of that contact, more of the friction. “Y/N,” she manages, her voice just a little above a whisper. Her fingers grip onto Y/N legs as she pushes inside her. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, and her eyes are locked on Y/N's, pupils dilated with desire. Lizzie bites her lip, trying to hold onto her composure.

Y/N stay still while she removes her top. She throws the piece somewhere in the room, and start to move.

It's slow, tender, and the sensation is overwhelming. Every inch that Y/N pushes in brings her closer, pushes her right to the edge. The heat is all encompassing, and Lizzie can hardly focus, can hardly breathe. She's clenching around Y/N, adjusting to her, wanting more, wanting all of her. Her body is shuddering, her legs shaking, the sensations completely overtaking her. It's too much, and not enough, and Lizzie's hanging on by a thread, waiting for that moment when she finally gets pushed over the edge.

“So sensitive today” Y/N lean down to kiss Lizzie 

Lizzie's lips meet Y/N's eagerly, her body still trembling beneath her, still tight and hot around her. "It's you," she whispers, the sound ragged, desperate. "It's you making me like this." She's clinging to her, her hands roaming over Y/N's back, her spine, her shoulders, holding onto her like a lifeline. Her body is burning, every nerve ending alive, every touch sending sparks through her system.

"I need more," she gasps, and she's not even sure what it is she needs, just that she needs it, needs it now . She rocks her hips, trying to draw Y/N in deeper, trying to chase that sensation until she can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel. Her grip on Y/N tightens, her fingers digging into flesh, wanting to pull her closer, wanting her deeper, harder, faster. Her breath comes in sharp little gasps, and she's making sounds she doesn't even recognize, mewling and whimpering like a needy kitten.

Y/N continues to move slowly, taking her time “you feel so good Liz” 

Every movement draws another gasp, another needy little moan from her. It's overwhelming, the heat and the friction and the way Y/N feels inside her, filling her up in ways that make her feel both whole and empty at the same time. "Oh god," she breathes, her voice strangled and shaky. "You're killing me."

“i know you want me to go faster but I don't think I can with this fever”  Y/N breathing picks up but still slow and steady despite the fever

Lizzie's grip on Y/N tightens, her body arching up to meet Y/N with every slow, deep thrust. "I don't need faster," she whispers, her words breaking apart between shaky breaths, "I just need... I need you, like this, always like this." Every movement feels languid, almost lazy, yet it's exactly what she needs right now. It's gentle, tender, intimate, and it feels like Y/N is worshipping her with every careful thrust. Lizzie's body is burning up, almost as if she's taking on the heat of the fever, but she doesn't care, just wants to

"Please," she gasps, her voice strained with need. It's building inside her, a slow burn that's building with every move Y/N makes. "Don't stop, please, don't stop." The words are barely a breath, a desperate plea, and she's clinging to Y/N, her body tense, her head thrown back, her eyes shut tight. "I'm... I'm..." But the words won't come, the sensations too overwhelming, too all-consuming. Lizzie's body is coiled tight like a spring, and she needs just a little more to send her over the edge.

Y/N brings her lips to Lizzie’s breasts as she continues to move tenderly

Y/N's mouth on her breast is soft, almost reverent, and it's setting off every nerve in her body, sending tremors through her whole body. Lizzie's body is so, so close, just teetering on the edge, and the way Y/N's moving, how she's touching her... it's both gentle and possessive, a quiet claiming. Her hands are holding Y/N hair pulling her more against her chest, her body arching up, trying to draw herself just a little bit closer, trying to find the final thread that would send her over.

“I know you are close my love” Y/N moan as she feels Lizzie tight around her 

"I'm... I'm so close," Lizzie gasps, her words coming out in sharp puffs, her body shaking. She's teetering on the edge, the tension winding tighter and tighter, and she just needs something, a tiny push, a single, tiny push. She's desperate, her heart pounding so hard she can barely breathe, but it's the sweetest kind of torment, a maddening slow burn.

Y/N kiss her desperately as she speeds up as much as she can. 

The kiss is messy, messy and rough, their lips moving in jerky, hungry strokes, like they can't get enough, like they need each other to breathe. The change in pace is sharp, sudden, but it's just what Lizzie needed, the last final push, and she's biting Y/N's bottom lip, her fingertips digging into her flesh. Her body tenses and then clenches hard as the orgasm crashes through her, a wave of raw pleasure that makes her gasp, her breath coming in ragged gasps of Y/N's name. 

Y/N continues to move for Lizzie to come down her high, and when she does, Y/N release inside her. 

“Liz! Fuck!” Y/N moans her name. 

Lizzie's still trembling, her whole body oversensitive, and the aftershocks of her orgasm are making her gasp, little aftershocks of pleasure shuddering through her body. Y/N's name on her lips sound like a benediction, and she clings to her as if she's the only thing keeping her grounded. She feels warm, sated, and for now, nothing else in the world matters but the two of them, together in this moment.

Y/N collapse on top of her, with red cheeks and heavy breath. Her head was pounding because of the fever 

Lizzie catches her, pulling her close, even though her body is still boneless from the previous high. The room is hot, and Y/N feels like a furnace, her body radiating even more heat than before. She holds her, rubbing soothing circles on her back, her fingers tracing the lines of her spine.

**

"You're so warm," she whispers, her voice low and soft. She brushes a lock of hair from Y/N's forehead, her fingers lingering over her flushed skin. "You're burning up."

Y/N shivers a little, the cool touch of Lizzie's fingers a contrast against her heated flesh. "I'm fine," she mumbles, her response half-muffled. The fever has left her exhausted, every joint and muscle feeling weighed down, but she still manages a small, shaky smile. "Just need... a little rest."

Lizzie hums thoughtfully, her hands still roaming over Y/N's body. She can feel the heat radiating from her, the slight shiver that courses through her every now and then. "You need medicine," she says softly, her tone brooking no argument. "And you need to rest."

There's a small grumble from Y/N, more of a token protest than anything serious. She's too tired, too worn out to argue, and a part of her is secretly glad that Lizzie is being so firm. She doesn't really want to move, doesn't want to leave the comfort of Lizzie's arms.

"Don't argue," Lizzie chides gently, her words softened by a small laugh. There's a hint of amusement in her voice, but it's mostly tenderness, her fingers continuing their soothing motions. "Just lie still. I'll get you medicine and water, okay?"

Lizzie tap Y/n butt “pull out for me first baby”

With a soft groan, Y/N complies, slowly pulling out. She's still flushed, still trembling slightly from the fever and the exertion, but there's a hint of a smile on her lips as well.

Lizzie brushes a kiss to her forehead, her touch gentle. "Be right back," she whispers, carefully rolling Y/N onto her back and off of her. She slips out of the bed, her movements graceful despite the heat and her own lingering exhaustion.

“I love you” Y/N murmur 

Lizzie turns back to smile fondly at Y/N. The sight of her there, flushed and tousled, makes her heart skip a beat. "I love you too," she replies softly. "Rest now. I'll be right back."

By the time Lizzie returns with a cool cloth and another glass of water, Y/N’s eyes are already fluttering shut again, her body relaxed, completely worn out. Lizzie places the cloth gently over her forehead and sits down on the edge of the couch, watching her wife with a heart so full it hurts.

She leans down one more time, pressing her lips to Y/N’s temple, lingering there.

“You better be better tomorrow,” she whispers softly, “because I don’t think my heart can handle another scare.”

Y/N doesn’t reply, but her hand reaches out in her sleep, finding Lizzie’s and lacing their fingers together.

And that’s all the answer Lizzie needs.

She stays right there, her fingers tangled with Y/N’s, her body finally beginning to relax now that she’s sure — for now, at least — her girl’s safe in her arms.

---

Lizzie slips out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Y/N, whose face is still buried in the pillow, one arm thrown lazily across where Lizzie had been lying. The sun is starting to creep through the curtains, soft golden light painting lazy streaks across the floor. 

She pads barefoot into the bathroom to grab Y/N’s meds and a glass of water. The chill of the tiles sends a little shiver through her legs, the contrast against the warmth of their shared bed startling in the quiet of the morning.

As she opens the mirrored cabinet above the sink, her gaze catches her reflection.

She freezes.

The thin straps of her tank top have slipped slightly, and it’s then she notices them—dark, blooming marks scattered across her chest and collarbone. Hickeys. Deep, unmistakable, and absolutely not where she told Y/N to leave them.

Her fingers brush over one particularly dark one near the edge of her sternum, and she winces—not from pain, but from the realization. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmurs under her breath, a half-smile tugging at her lips despite her exasperation.

She had specifically told Y/N not to leave any visible marks—especially not where makeup or wardrobe might not cover. And Y/N had nodded with that innocent look, the one Lizzie should’ve known meant trouble.

Lizzie shakes her head and closes the cabinet with a soft click. She grabs the pill bottle and fills a glass with water, still glancing at her reflection. Part of her is annoyed—she’s got filming in two days, and makeup artists are going to have a field day. But another part of her… the bigger part, maybe… can’t stop smiling as she walks back to the bed.

She pauses at the door, watching Y/N sleep.

Lizzie walked quietly back into the bedroom, glass of water in one hand, meds in the other. The early light of morning filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks over their tangled sheets and her half-asleep wife. 

Her lips curved as she approached the bed. 

"You're lucky you're cute," Lizzie murmured under her breath.

Y/N was sprawled out just as she'd left her—completely bare beneath the sheets, save for the stubborn tent they made over her hips. Lizzie paused, gaze flicking down with a knowing smile. Yep, still warm-blooded, even if the fever had finally broken.

She set the glass down on the nightstand and leaned over, brushing soft fingers over Y/N’s forehead and cheek. The heat was gone—thank God. Her skin was cool, a little dewy, but no longer burning up.

Y/N stirred at her touch, a low hum slipping from her throat. “Mmm… Liz…what time it is?”

Lizzie laughed quietly. “It’s 9 in the morning. I have your pills.”

Y/N cracked one eye open, grinning sleepily. “Thank you.”

Lizzie reach for the pills. “You know… you left me looking like a love-bitten teenager last night?”

Y/N blinked, then blinked again. “What do you mean?”

“Playing innocent?,” Lizzie said, voice mock-annoyed but fond as she tugged at the collar of her tank top to show the faint, blooming hickeys. “I went to get your meds and almost jumped at my own reflection. I told you not to leave marks!”

Y/N let her head fall back on the pillow with a groan and a grin. “Okay, in my defense, I was delirious and in love.”

“You were also naked, needy, and whispering things like, ‘I need you to stay close or I’ll combust,’” Lizzie said with a teasing lilt.

Y/N chuckled, eyes slipping closed again. “That does sound like me.”

Lizzie reached for the meds and gently pressed the pills into her wife's palm. “Here. Take these before you start combusting again.”

Y/N took them with a sip of water, then pulled Lizzie closer with a lazy tug at her wrist. “You’re not mad, right? About the marks?”

Lizzie straddled the edge of the bed, cupping Y/N’s jaw gently. “Not mad,” she murmured, brushing a kiss to her lips. “Just mildly scandalized. I married a biter and didn’t know it.”

Y/N smirked against her mouth. “You’re not complaining about the biting when I do it somewhere lower.”

Lizzie gasped dramatically. “Y/N, are you sitll feverish.”

“Less fever, more passion,” Y/N said, eyebrows wagging.

Lizzie rolled her eyes, laughing as she crawled in beside her. She let her hand rest lightly on Y/N’s stomach, teasingly low, her hand slipping beneath the sheets, fingers curling around her wife, warm and firm and already twitching in her grasp. Y/N gasped softly, hips shifting toward her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Lizzie murmured, brushing a kiss to her temple. “But I love how much you want me. Even now.”

“I’ll always want you,” Y/N whispered back, hand slipping under Lizzie’s shirt to find bare skin. “Even when I’m old and gray and half-delirious again.”

Lizzie laughed, low and sweet, and then kissed her fully—slow and deep, the kind that made the world fall away.

[astars-things]

5 moments of British vs Australian 

Lando Norris x Australian!reader 

I'm not from Australia, so sorry if I hurt anyone's feelings. If you are hurt by this story, please send me a dm and I will change it 🫶

1. Language barrier 

You pushed open the door to Lando's streaming room, barefoot, mildly annoyed, and definitely not thinking about his thousands of Twitch viewers. "Babe, where are my thongs?" you asked 

Lando looked up from his monitor, slightly startled, headset still clamped over his ears. He glanced at the chat before smiling. "One, I'm streaming, so come say hi properly," he says into his mic with a grin. 

"And two, wouldn't they be in your drawer?" You squinted at him, confused. "No, those are my G-strings. I'm talking about my shoes." He choked on his drink. "Wait, what? Thongs are underwear!"

You roll your eyes, grabbing one of his hats off the wall and tossing it at him. "You Brits are so dramatic. I was looking for my shoes, not trying to start an OnlyFans. And also, you have had two Australian teammates. I thought by now you would understand" He starts laughing so hard he leans back in his chair, clutching his stomach, his audience in absolute chaos over the whole exchange.

You flip him off as you walk away, He's still grinning hours later.

2. The two Aussie and Lando 

Lando loved to bring you to races, having you there to cheer him on was his favorite part except for when you would team up with Oscar, You'd known him before Lando, grew up two suburbs apart, and your shared love of Aussie slang made paddock weekends feel like home. Lando, however? He looked like a lost puppy. 

Anytime Lando was near the two of you he would almost have a brain sprain trying to figure out what you both were talking about 

Lando sat next to you on his phone scrolling through instagram not really paying attention until he heard "oh god, I went to the servo in Monaco and they sell the Big M choccy milk I almost cried" You said excited that you found your Australian chocolate milk, 

"No way! They've got Big M?" Oscar grinned before continuing on "Are you trying to get on the piss during summer break?" Oscar questioned 

"Hold up what?!" Lando questioned you and Oscar both blink at him. Lando throws up a hand. "Servo? Choccy milk? Get on the piss? do you Australian just have your own language or some shit?  You and Oscar starting laughing watching as Lando tried figuring it all out. "Servo is gas station. Choccy milk is,well, chocolate milk. And 'on the piss' means drinking." You explained 

Oscar adds, "Mate, if you're gonna keep dating her, you've gotta learn the lingo." Lando groans dramatically. "At this point, I need subtitles." You kiss his cheek and whisper, "Don't worry, love. We'll get you a dictionary." 

3. The Australian Translator 

Lando thought it would a good idea for you to join him in todays stream "Alright, chat" Lando says clapping his hands together "We've got Y/n here, and she is from Australia so I'm going to give her some words and she is going to Australian translate them" the chat went crazy some sending in words and some saying 'aussie take over' 

"okay y/n first word is Afternoon" "Oh thats easy arvo" you shoot back immediately. You grinned looking at all the Australians in the chat, you looked at the time on your phone before turning it over "To all the Australian watching this that is dedication" Lando looked at you confused "It would be around midnight for most of them" You add placing a kiss to Landos cheek 

"You next word is u turn" Chat had been spamming this into the chat "Oh chuck a u-ey" you say casually "can you please use that in a sentence babe" Lando asked "Shit you missed the turn mate just chuck a u-ey" You sat there looking at Lando confused as he was nearly on the floor dying with laughter 

4. Fairy bread 

Lando had invited you to a Quadrant video shoot where they were playing a eating game, you sat off to the side on a beanbag watching them eat some weird foods from around the world, because thats content? "hey babe" Lando called over his shoulder between bites, "what's fairy bread?"

You blinked. "Wait, what?" He held up a plate with a single slice of white bread on it, still wrapped in cling film with an Australian Flag on it. "The fact that fairy bread is on the weird food category, I think all Australians watching this video would be offended" you let out a gasp Lando gave a sheepish grin, and Max perked up from across the table. "Fairy what now?"

"Oh my god," you muttered, already getting up from the beanbag, "I have to fix this." You made your way over to the table like you were on a mission, pushing past empty plates and half-eaten bites of whatever the hell the last dish was. You grabbed a fresh loaf of white bread, a tub of butter, and a container of rainbow sprinkles like a seasoned pro.

 Once you finished cutting it up into triangles because it tastes better that way, you handed the bits of bread with butter and sprinkles on it to everyone and stepping back to watching there reactions 

"Holy shit" Max let out mid chew "Jon is going to hate me" Lando said taking another bite Lando looked like he was in heaven, you knew he would be asking you to make this all the time for him now. 

5.  The spider 

"Babe help" Lando yelled from the bedroom his voice sharp with panic. You rolled your eyes, still half-asleep as you stirred your coffee. "What now?" you called back, already preparing yourself for something ridiculous, maybe he lost his hoodie again, or his PlayStation controller was 'missing' under the bed.

"Spider!" he shouted like it was code red. You blinked. "A what?" 

"A huge one! It’s on the wall, watching me like it’s about to lunge!" You padded toward the bedroom with your coffee in hand, raising a brow. "Alright, let me see this demon." 

Lando was standing on the bed, pointing like he was on the front lines of war. "Right there! Above the dresser! It's massive!"  You peeked over and, yep, decent size. Not quite the horror-movie huntsman he was imagining, but definitely a good ol’ Aussie household spider.

"Oh hell no," you said immediately, taking a step back. "I’m not dealing with that."

Lando’s jaw dropped. "You’re Australian! This is supposed to be your thing! Isn’t it, like, in your DNA to karate chop spiders?"  You sipped your coffee casually. "Bub, we don’t all come out of the womb with a spider-slaying license." 

"But you’ve got, like, drop bears and snakes and crocodiles, how is this the thing that freaks you out?" Lando asked his eyes not leaving the spider  "Because," you pointed at the spider dramatically, "that thing has too many eyes and too many legs, and I refuse to engage."

Lando groaned. "This is betrayal. I was relying on your Aussie instincts." You placed your coffee down and shrugged. "You wanted to live the Aussie life, right? This is it. Shared trauma and a spider staring into your soul while you pretend it’s not there." 

He threw a pillow at you. "This is not what I signed up for." 

Laughing, you grabbed your phone. "Alright, alright. I’ll call my mom. She knows how to handle these bastards."  "You’re going to call your mom?!" Lando said in disbelief  "I’m not dying before Christmas, Lando." You sighed with you phone pressed against your ear 

please reblog, like and comment 🫶

[ds-angel1]

strawberry!reader x high school teacher!rafe

because sometimes the sweetest things are the most dangerous. nineteen. held back a grade. too soft for her own good. he’s her teacher. too drawn in to care about the line he’s crossing. secret. wrong. everything they both crave.

strawberry!reader who... always sits in the front row, scribbling in pink ink and decorating her notes with little hearts, not for any boy in class, but because she knows he notices. she smiles when he leans over her desk to explain something, heart hammering like he’s whispering a secret only she gets to hear.

high school teacher!rafe who... tells himself he's just helping her out, that she’s a struggling student and it’s his job, but the way his eyes linger when she bites her lip, the way he memorises the shade of gloss she wears, betray him every time. he’s not watching her like a teacher. he’s watching her like a man who wants things he shouldn’t.

strawberry!reader who... blushes when he calls her “sweetheart” but leans in every time he does it anyway.

high school teacher!rafe who... gives her extra credit assignments just so she’ll stay after school with him.

strawberry!reader who... bakes him things, banana bread, strawberry cupcakes, cookies with heart sprinkles, and leaves them on his desk with a shy little note that just says “for you :)”. she watches his face closely when he takes a bite, and the way he looks at her afterward almost makes her knees go weak.

high school teacher!rafe who... let’s his hand linger too long on her back when he says goodbye after detention.

strawberry!reader who... always brings him homemade muffins and giggles when he teases her about trying to “butter him up.”

high school teacher!rafe who... keeps a drawer in his desk with little things she’s given him, scraps of paper with doodles, a birthday card, even a hair tie she left behind once. he tells himself he’ll throw then away. he never does.

strawberry!reader who... wears strawberry scented lip gloss and lets it smudge on his collar when she hugs him a little too long.

high school teacher!rafe who... always has an excuse, “she needed help,” “she stayed late for tutoring,” “I was just making sure she was okay.” he’s built a fortress of justifications around himself, but every time her fingers brush his when she hands in an assignment, the walls crack a little more.

strawberry!reader who... might look soft, but who has that quiet, desperate need to be wanted, and knows exactly where to find it.

high school teacher!rafe who... knows it’s wrong, but keeps a photo of her tucked into the back of his planner anyway.

strawberry!reader who... wears oversized sweaters that fall off her shoulders, her skirts just a little too short when she leans over his desk to ask a question she already knows the answer to. she’s innocent on the surface, but she knows exactly what she’s doing. part of her craves the way he loses composure.

high school teacher!rafe who... has never felt this kind of possessiveness before. he’s rougher when he knows she’s talking to other guys. he keeps her after class, close and quiet, thumb brushing her lips like he’s daring her to ask him to kiss her again. and she always does.

teachers little pet.

[astraljedi]

No grave can hold my body down (Tommy Miller)

Request: Can you write reader trying to find a way to tell Tommy she's pregnant but tragedy keeps happening. It could follow episode 2 from the latest season. Thank you in advance!

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Reader

Warnings: Spoilers for TLOU, Violence, descriptions of blood loss, wounded characters, death of a parent/love one, grief, heavy themes of loss. NSFW. 18+, scenes contain sexual themes, P in V, minor dirty talk, using sex as a release

Word Count: 6k+

Song: Work Song by Hozier

a/n: Request are open if you want to send something in! This is a continuation of "Safe and Sound" but you don't technically need to read it together. Enjoy!

- No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

My eyes flutter open to the sound of shuffling and a belt buckle clinking so early in the morning. I stretch my body, squinting from the bathroom light spilling across the room. It’s still dark outside, not fully morning yet—Frederick hasn't even started singing.

“Tommy?” I squeak, still stretching my limbs against the cold comforter.

“Mornin’. Sorry, baby, the council’s getting together.” Tommy sits on the edge of the bed, on my side, and presses a kiss to my temple. I reach for his hand, watching how the silver wedding band glints under the bathroom light. We've been married a couple of years now, but every time I see that ring, it still makes my stomach flutter. “Something happened on patrol, but I’ll try and find you later. Okay?”

“Will it take long? I wanted to talk to you about something,” I say, thinking of the sealed, untouched pregnancy test hidden in my bag. I want to take it with him, not by myself.

“I don’t know, but can it wait ‘til later? I really gotta go.” He leans down, gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Try and sleep for a while. I’ll let the chickens out before I leave.”

I sink back into bed, watching him pull on his jacket and disappear out the door. But I don’t fall back asleep—the small bit of rest still left in me is gone. I wait until I hear the front door shut before I get up and pull the pregnancy test from my bag, heading for the bathroom.

The past week has been terrible. At first, I thought I’d caught some awful stomach bug—vomiting day and night, no appetite, and the heartburn felt like it was eating me alive. 

Tommy stayed most nights with me, rubbing my back, bringing me warm soup, doing whatever he could to help me keep something down.

Even Maria had stopped by a few times, but right before New Year's, she handed me a sealed pregnancy test while Tommy was out. “This is sacred,” she said. “Had to pull a few favors, but just to be sure.”

Since Tommy’s Maria’s right hand, we’ve gotten close over the years, ever since I joined the community. “It never crossed my mind,” I admitted, taking the box with shaky hands. It wasn’t like we’d done anything to prevent it... but the idea of bringing a kid into a world full of infected has always haunted me.

Now, I’m leaning against the bathroom sink while the test sits on the counter, face down and terrified of the results. Three minutes have never felt this long. I pick it up and turn it over—two clear lines stare back at me.

“Shit.” I throw the test into the sink and scramble to the toilet, my stomach lurching as I throw up everything inside me. Even after a shower and brushing my teeth, my eyes keep returning to the test. 

I grab it, shove it back into its box, and cram it into the drawer Tommy keeps saying he’ll fix but never does. It takes a minute to get it open, and once it does, I toss the box inside and slam the drawer shut with all the strength I have. If only I could the same with the storm of thoughts brewing in my head. 

True to his word, Tommy let the chickens out and fed them. I stand at the window, watching them peck the ground, the early sun beginning to stretch across the yard. I open the fridge, but even the thought of eggs makes me gag. I settle for bread with a little butter and some tea, since even plain water seems to set me off.

Before the school year starts, I’d already planned to head to town for some trades. I pack my bag with two cartons of eggs and a few bars of my homemade lavender soap, hoping to exchange them for a couple of new bound notebooks for my lesson planning, and maybe any other supplies I can scrounge up.

Town is busier than usual—barrels being rolled through the street, trucks getting loaded, and people moving fast. Had to be a drill, probably connected to why Tommy left so early. I rush to get my trades done, even managing to grab a flannel and a jacket for Tommy in exchange for offering the seller’s kids free haircuts through the first half of the year.

I catch a glimpse of Tommy near the gates talking with a group and watch as he sends them off. It’s like he feels me watching—he turns around and spots me.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask once he’s pulled me into his arms.

“We’ve placed the town on high alert. Might be nothing, but two patrol members found a group of thirty infected using their own dead to hide,” he sighs, eyes scanning the street. I reach up to tuck a loose curl behind his ear.

“Are they okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. They sprinted back to warn us, and we sent out a squad to clear the infected. We just don’t know if there are more, so we’re preparing—making sure everyone’s up to date with protocols.” He nods toward my bag. “Shopping?”

“Just getting a few things before school starts. Got you a jacket too—for when it starts warming up a little.” I show him a peek of the fabric and he smiles. “Do you think you can come home early today? If nothing big happens—I really need to do something with you.”

“I’ll try. Depends on how this all plays out.” He gestures toward the town, and I nod. I understand. Tommy would do anything to keep Jackson safe.

He presses his lips to mine, but we break apart at the sound of bells ringing above the wall.

“Raiders or infected?” Maria asks, suddenly beside us.

“Infected!” someone shouts back. “Five minutes out!”

“Follow the plan. I’ll take the roof, you take Main Street,” Maria says to Tommy.

“Go to the shelter. Now,” Tommy orders. I grab his hand and pull him in for a quick kiss. When we break apart, we nod to each other—a silent promise to stay alive.

I run to the nearest store where people are already being ushered into the basement for shelter.

That’s when I hear a cry from my right. I turn and see Billie—a little boy I had in my class last year—standing alone, crying for his mom. I rush to him and grab his hand. I search for Franny, his mother, but she’s nowhere in sight.

“Hey Billie, we need to hide now, but I promise we’ll find your mom after, okay?”

He nods, still crying, but lets me lead him down into the basement. I find a spot near the back and sit on the floor, pulling Billie into my lap and holding him close.

“We have to be brave, Billie. Okay?”

He nods, curling into my chest. “Are the monsters gonna find us?”

“No. The town will protect us. And Mr. Miller is out there and you can trust him to keep everyone safe.” I squeeze him tighter.

The chaos outside is impossible to ignore—gunfire, shrieking, explosions. Billie cries into me, but I don’t let him go.

“It’s okay, buddy. We’re safe,” I whisper, though even my own heart feels like it’s about to pound out of my chest.

Each crack of glass, each thud or scream from upstairs makes me flinch. The infected have breached the town. Billie covers his ears with his hands, and I close my eyes, trembling every time the gunshots fire again and again.

Please be okay, I think. Please let Tommy be okay.

It takes hours—maybe more than two—for everything to settle, though the gunfire still rings out now and then, putting down those who got bitten. We’re still locked in the reinforced basement, but I’m growing impatient. 

When they finally give the all-clear, the sky is beginning to set, thick with smoke. Fires burn in every corner, cremating the infected. The smell is awful. I pull Billie close, shielding his eyes from the sight.

“Billie!” a voice cries out—and there’s Franny, running toward us. Billie slips out of my arms and sprints to her, hugging her tight. Relief hits me like a wave, and I fight back tears.

“I was with Mrs. Miller! She kept me safe and told me I was being brave,” Billie tells her, pointing at me.

“Thank you,” Franny says, pulling me into a grateful hug.

“Have you seen Tommy?” I ask, but she shakes her head.

“I’m sorry.” She gives my arm a squeeze before heading off to find her husband.

I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing down the wave of nausea rising up again. My eyes scan the crowd, avoiding the bodies. I start to feel dizzy, overwhelmed by every face passing by—until I spot him.

Blood’s dripping down from a cut on his head, but he’s standing. He’s alive.

I don’t think—I just run. He turns at the last second, just as I reach him, throwing my arms around his neck.

“You’re okay,” I whisper, the only thing I could say, again and again. 

He melts into me, his knees buckling and I let him lean all his weight into my arms. His face buries into my neck, and finally, I feel him exhale.

“I got you,” I whisper, and I don't let go.

The nightmare doesn’t stop.

The day had faded into complete darkness, fire overtaking the town at every corner. 

“I’m worried about Joel, darlin’,” Tommy winces as the wet cloth meets his broken skin. “He was on patrol with Dina, and they weren’t answering their radios.”

“The storm’s been the worst we’ve seen. They probably found somewhere to stake it out,” I try to make sense of it.

“I don’t know. I have this feeling that something’s wrong, and it hasn’t settled down yet,” he says. I grab his hands and press a kiss to his rough knuckles. One moment I’m cleaning Tommy’s head, and then Maria comes rushing in.

“Tommy—” Maria rushes into the hall, and I don’t like the look on her face. My stomach drops, like it already knows.

Tommy stands up instantly, and with the look on Maria’s face, he already knows too. “No.”

“It’s Joel,” Maria says, eyes shifting from me to Tommy. 

Tommy’s face is emotionless, his hands in fist by his side. His fear, his gut was trying to tell him and I tried to push it away. 

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

Tommy doesn’t say a word. He lets go of my hand and rushes to the door.

“Tommy.” I go after him, but he stops me, grabbing my arms.

“I need to be alone. I need to do this myself.” His face is emotionless, but he leaves a kiss on my temple. I watch him disappear through the crowd and rub the spot on my chest where my heart is. This can’t be happening.

“Where’s Ellie?” I ask Maria. “Does she know?”

“She was there.” Maria’s voice doesn’t break, but I can feel the walls cracking. “She’s at the hospital.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I rush toward the hospital. 

God, Ellie.

The long night fades to the next day, I’m still by Ellie’s side, reading a book while she’s still out on tranquilizers.

“Hey.” I turn my head toward the door and spot Maria leaning against the frame. “How is she doing?”

I close my book and stand from the uncomfortable chair. “Still out,” I say, standing by her. “I went to see Dina, trying to make sense of what happened, but she said she doesn’t remember.” My hands rest on my stomach and I lean back against the doorframe. My eyes are tired, my stomach growling angrily at me, but I haven’t had the chance—or appetite—to eat.

“Did you see a doctor?” Nothing passes Maria. She points at my hand resting on my non-existent bump. Ever since finding out, my hands keep drifting there. “Does Tommy know?” she whispers.

I drop my hand from my stomach and look back at Ellie. “I don’t think an unplanned pregnancy is the first thing I should tell my grieving husband right now. I haven’t even seen him since last night.”

“At least get checked out by someone, just in case.” She rests her hand on my arm.

“I’m fine, I promise, Maria. All I did was hide. You’re the badass on the roof shooting down infected,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

“I heard you protected Billie. He can’t stop talking about how Mrs. Miller told him he was the bravest of them all.” Maria smiles a little. “You should go home. Ellie isn’t going anywhere, and the doctors have her.”

I look at Ellie, peacefully sleeping on the bed, and I ache for her. Once she wakes up, it’s going to feel like she never left that nightmare. It’s been years, and the look on my daddy’s face—his cold, lifeless body—still burns in my brain.

“You need to rest too. And your husband needs you right now,” Maria adds, but I’m still looking at Ellie.

But Maria’s right.

After she leaves—off to check on Dina—I press a kiss to Ellie’s temple and leave the hospital. I pull my jacket tighter to my body as I walk home. It's a bit farther than the hospital, but it feels longer than usual. 

God, I need a shower. I need food I won’t throw up immediately.

I unlock the wooden front door and shiver from the awful weather outside. I shrug off my jacket, about to turn on the fireplace, but the house is already warm—fire crackling in the living room.

My eyes shift to the kitchen and spot Tommy leaning against the sink, watching the chickens through the window. He didn’t hear me. Doesn’t notice I’m home.

“My love,” my voice is soft but clear, but he doesn’t move a muscle. I take slow steps toward him and rest my hand on his lower back. He flinches—my touch pulling him out of his thoughts. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” I say gently.

He doesn’t speak. He shakes his head and pulls me into his arms. His nose brushes my hair, and his hands tremble against my skin. What I would do to take his pain away—for him not to feel this grief, this life without his brother.

He just had him back, this wasn’t fair. 

We stay like that for a long time, holding onto each other in the aftermath of the nightmare. But only one of us lost a brother.

The town will rebuild, but Joel’s absence will haunt us. And the only two people who were there for his murder? One is out cold, and the other doesn’t remember anything.

“Let’s take a shower, yeah?” I mumble, pulling away a little and guiding him upstairs.

I unbuckle Tommy’s belt, remove his shirt, then help him out of the rest of his clothes. I strip down and turn the water on. He steps in first but then pulls me in under the lukewarm spray.

He crashes his lips against mine, desperate. He pushes me against the cold shower tiles, hands grabbing mine and pinning them above my head. I groan as his teeth bite into my lower lip, then move to my jaw.

He holds my wrists with one hand, the other trailing down my side to my core. My breath catches when he spreads my legs with his knee, fingers circling my clit. I gasp when he plunges two fingers inside me. My hands fight his grip—god, I need to touch him. My head spins from all the sensation. His lips, his tongue meeting mine, the hand holding my wrist up as the other thrust in and out me. 

His lips find my hard nipple and he sucks, his tongue swirling, making my back arch. “Tommy.” I warn him, hips meeting each of his thrusts.

I know Tommy. He craves control—needs it after everything. He needs order, for things to go exactly how he wants. And when they don’t... he has me at his mercy.

He releases my wrists and kneels, tongue landing on my aching clit, sucking as his fingers keep moving in and out of me. I cry out, hands tangling in his now-wet curls. My mouth hangs open as my climax crashes through me—but he doesn’t stop. His groan rumbles through me and I cry out, his tongue sucking my release. 

“Tommy,” I beg, overstimulated and dizzy. He pulls back and stands. He grabs my waist, turning me around, my hard nipples pressed against the cold tile as he grinds his cock against my back. I reach back for him, but he grabs my hands again, pinning them over my head.

“Don’t you dare move them,” he growls, biting my shoulder. I moan, and then he plunges into me—no warning, no time to adjust. I press my forehead to the tile and let him take me. However he needs. He lets go of my wrists and grips my waist, pulling me back into every thrust.

I don’t care if I wake up tomorrow with bruises shaped like his fingers. I’ll always let him use me—to feel and release his anger.

My walls tighten around him—he’s close, right on the edge. His hand slides down and rubs my clit, fast, needing me to come with him.

“You’re gonna take all my cum, right darlin’?” he groans, his thrusts turning sloppy. I turn my head and meet his mouth, tasting myself on his tongue. I shatter around him, eyes shut, forcing myself to keep my hands where he told me. Tommy buries his face in my shoulder and comes right after me, my orgasm triggering his own. My walls clench around him, juicing his cock as he chest falls on my back. 

He doesn’t move. We stay under the water, catching our breaths. He stays inside me for a while. And If I weren’t already pregnant, this would’ve done it.

I wince when he finally pulls out. I turn and kiss him—soft this time. Gentler.

“Let’s clean you up,” I say, grabbing the cloth. I lather the lavender soap and run it slowly over his skin. My legs wobble, but his hands steady me at the waist.

He stands still, eyes closed, letting me care for him. Then he switches, does the same for me—gently washing down my shoulders, my stomach between my thighs. I sigh, still sensitive.

After the shower, I help him into sweatpants and tuck him into bed. I kiss his cheek and lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat drum beneath me.

I’m nearly asleep when I hear his soft sniffles. I look up and see his face wet with tears. My heart shatters.

I cup his cheek, wiping them away with my thumb. He pulls me on top of him and wraps his arms around me.

I don’t say anything. I just let him feel—feel the sadness, the anger, the grief.

Years ago, when he helped me move to Jackson after my dad died, we lay in this exact bed. He held me all night while I cried. Never let go. And now… it’s my turn to do the same. To let Tommy grieve in the same bed I once did. To guide him through the darkness, like he once guided me.

For now, the pregnancy test, this secret will stay hidden in that broken drawer.

Right now, Tommy needs me more than anything.

Three weeks have passed since New Year’s. Three weeks since the whole town was struck with tragedy. The hole Joel’s absence leaves behind is still so fresh—the front of his house overflowing with flowers from the people of Jackson.

Tommy isn’t doing any better. Grief doesn’t have a cure, and it never makes sense. Sadness lingers, always. But right now, he needs a distraction—and rebuilding the town has become that for him.

The test is still hidden in the drawer, but Maria keeps asking. I know she’s only looking out for me, making sure I’m okay, making sure this pregnancy is safe. But how do you tell a grieving husband you’re pregnant when his brother’s body was just laid to rest?

It’s eating me alive. But I have to wait—just a little longer. Tommy barely spends any time in the house these days. He leaves before the sun even rises and comes home late, slipping into bed after I’m already asleep.

But today… today he catches me off guard. I turn around and Tommy’s still in bed, just watching me.

“What?” I ask, giving him a weird look.

He doesn’t answer. He just leans over and starts kissing my neck. I sigh under his touch, letting him pull the oversized shirt from my body. His lips crash down on my nipples, and I wince—sharply, like I’ve been hurt. Tommy pulls back fast, eyes wide.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, confused.

I yank the covers up over my chest and sit up. “No, my period’s supposed to be here soon.” I cringe inside. I hate lying. And I know he doesn’t fully believe me, but he lets it go. Whatever mood he was in, it fades fast.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No, it’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, getting out of bed. He adjusts his boner, trying to play it cool, and disappears into the bathroom. A second later, I hear the shower turn on. I lie back on my pillow, eyes drifting to the ceiling, waiting for my heart to calm down.

In the kitchen, he’s cooking eggs for himself, and I’m trying my best not to gag from the smell. I hide my face behind my coffee cup, fighting the wave of nausea crawling up my throat.

“You sure you don’t want some eggs with your toast?” he asks, pointing to the sad little plate sitting untouched in front of me.

“No. I’m not really that hungry this morning.” Another lie. I’m starving. I’ve been craving pie from the restaurant since last night, and the second Tommy leaves, I’m marching straight to Main Street to get it.

“Have you seen Ellie?” I ask, needing to change the subject.

“Yeah. I went to visit her yesterday. Dina’s getting released today—she’s feeling better, but she still doesn’t remember anything.”

Tommy’s hoping Dina might remember who was behind what happened to Joel—the people who took his brother away from him.

“If she does remember something, it might take a while,” I say gently. “We don’t know what kind of trauma she went through.”

“It’s not fair. I should’ve been there.” He scrapes the eggs off the pan and piles them onto his plate like he’s mad at them. I look away, focusing on my toast, breathing slowly through my nose, trying not to throw up.

“I get it. But you were here, protecting the town. If something had happened here while you were gone, you’d be carrying that guilt too.” I’ve listened to him, let him rant for weeks. But sometimes, he needs someone to ground him.

“I know you’re right,” he mutters, placing his empty plate in the sink—just a little too hard. “But it still makes me angry.”

“And it should. None of this is fair—especially when someone does something this evil. But we can still do what Joel would’ve wanted. We keep this town together.” I stand up, walk to him, and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my forehead against his back. His hands find mine, and he holds them there.

“I hate it when you make sense,” he chuckles. “But I love you. I’m sorry I haven’t been around that much. I know you loved him too.”

“I miss him. And I miss him storming in here, yelling about how Frederick would peck his damn feet in the yard.” I laugh, the memories of him bursting through the door, cursing at that rooster, rushing back all at once.

“He hated that rooster,” Tommy says through a laugh, and then we just stand there, quiet and still.

After breakfast, he heads out for a long day of work, and I head into town—on a mission to get my damn pie. Thankfully, school doesn’t start for another week, and I’m praying that by then, my symptoms will ease up. The idea of being surrounded by kids while trying not to puke at every smell? Not ideal.

At the restaurant, Maria slides in beside me in line. I feel awful. I’ve been avoiding her. I know she’s right—I do need to tell Tommy. I won’t be able to hide this much longer, but every time I try, the words get stuck.

And it’s not that I don’t think he’ll be thrilled—I see the way his eyes sparkle whenever I hold someone else’s baby or one of my students runs up to me in the street. Tommy Miller will make an excellent father. My fear is… is this too much too soon?

“Can you wait until after I eat my pie to ambush me?” I groan. “I’ve been craving this since last night.”

She laughs. “I remember those days.” She nudges my shoulder as we step up to the counter.

“Hi Franny! How are you today?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

“I’m good, hon. What can I get for you two dolls?”

“Can I get two pieces of pie? To go, please—I’m going to see Ellie after this.” My eyes are already sparkling with excitement.

“Doll, I think we’re outta pie,” Franny says with a frown.

Maria glances at me, and the tears well up instantly. “Oh no.” I don’t mean to cry, but the sadness rushes over me and I can’t hold it back.

“Can you check in the back, Franny?” Maria jumps in. “She’s been wanting to bring that pie to Ellie, you know… after everything.”

Franny raises a brow but nods. “Lemme double-check.” She disappears into the back.

“Honey, please don’t cry,” Maria says gently, rubbing her hands up and down my arms.

“God, I’m sorry,” I mumble, wiping my face.

“No need to be sorry. It’s just the hormones,” she whispers.

Just then, Franny comes back holding two to-go boxes.

“You’re one lucky gal. Marvin just pulled these out of the oven. Still warm—for you and Ellie.” She places them in a paper bag.

“You’re a lifesaver, Franny.” I grab the bag like it’s gold.

Maria snorts as we step outside. “That was a dramatic thank-you.”

“Please stop. I’ve been craving this and my stomach can’t take one more piece of toast and butter.” It’s already growling from the scent of pie through the paper.

“You can’t keep this up. You need to tell him,” Maria says quietly. “Franny has three kids—she’s gonna figure it out. So will the rest of the town. He deserves to know before the rumors start and that bump pops out.”

“I’ve tried,” I groan. “And then he starts talking about Joel or he’s stressed with work and the moment’s gone again.”

“There’s never gonna be a perfect time. But think of the baby. You need to get checked. What if something goes wrong? He’ll lose you both.”

That stings. My throat tightens, my chest aches.

“Maria, I love you, but right now… your words are hurting more than helping.” We stop outside the hospital, but I don’t move yet. “I know you’re worried. But I need you to be my friend right now—not the head of the council.”

I slip my arm out of hers and walk away, leaving her standing there by the entrance.

When I step into Ellie’s room after a quick knock, she scrambles up from doing push-ups beside the bed and I pretend I didn’t see it. She’s a fighter, doing what she knows best—surviving.

“I brought you some pie.” I hand her the container and plastic fork. “It’s our secret.” I grin, probably a little too happy about pie.

“You’re the best. The food here is awful.” She fake-gags and I laugh. From the times I’ve visited, her food’s mostly stayed untouched. Even after the end of the world, hospital food still sucks.

I don’t plan to stay until evening, but I can’t bring myself to leave. She’s reading one of the astronomy books I brought, and I curl up on the edge of her bed with my own. The sun’s setting when I finally stand to go.

I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll try to find more books, okay?”

She nods, and I wish I could stay. But my body’s already screaming at me. My lower back aches and I still have to walk home.

Snow crunches under my boots as I walk up to the house. The lights are on, the living room glowing from the fireplace. Tommy’s home.

“Hey, baby,” I say, kicking off my boots and jacket once I’m inside, away from the awful chill. Tommy’s on the couch, his back to me, but he doesn’t answer.

I walk around to face him, a knot of worry forming—and then I freeze.

He’s staring at me, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. His eyes drift to the coffee table and my stomach drops.

Right in the center of the table is the opened pregnancy test box. The plastic stick resting on top.

“You know I peed on that, right?” I whisper. He doesn’t say a word. Just keeps staring at the test that’s been haunting me for weeks.

“Tommy.” I beg him. Beg him to move, speak, scream—anything.

“I came home early to see my wife. I couldn’t find her, so I decided to fix the damn drawer in the bathroom she’s been asking about for months.” He pauses, finishes his drink. “I fixed it, by the way. After I found the box.”

“Please—let me explain,” I say, dropping to my knees in front of him. He chuckles, bitter, in disbelief, still not meeting my eyes.

“The vomiting. Not wanting to eat. Your breasts are huge, I caught myself staring at them more than usual and I know your body—it’s engraved in my brain. It all clicked. But the first thing I thought was that my wife wouldn’t keep something like this from me.”

The hurt in his voice shatters me and the tears start to fall down my cheeks.

“How long have you known?” he asks, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Since New Year’s,” I cry, but his face softens. He reaches for my elbows and pulls me into his lap.

“I wanted to take that test with you. That morning. But then you got called in and I… how was I supposed to tell you after everything?”

“You felt like you couldn’t tell me.” He cups my face, makes me look at him. “You’re my wife. This is our marriage. I deserved to know.”

I nod at his words, knowing he was right. “It’s been eating me alive,” I admit.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he sighs. “It’s been weeks. The stress you’ve been under—ain’t good for you or the baby.”

“I know. And I’m really sorry.”

His eyes meet mine—no anger left, just relief, and something warm. A look I haven’t seen in a while. 

“We’re going to be parents,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. I grab his hand and place it on my stomach, and he smiles.

“I can’t wait to see you wobbling around the house with a bump. It’s going to drive me insane.”

I laugh and press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “All I want is to stop gagging and vomiting at everything.”

Two Months Later

Spring in Jackson is like seeing a different town. The snow’s melted, and animals are out and lively again—chattering, foraging, like they know things are safer now. Flowers start peeking through the soil, soft greens come back to the trees, and it feels like the whole place is exhaling after holding its breath all winter. The energy just shifts.

The mornings still carry that sharp bite, but once the sun settles in, it’s warm enough to finally pull out my comfy, soft midi dress tucked away in the closet for months. I pair it with a light jean jacket to block the wind and my usual boots. The dress flows when I walk, brushing against my legs, but it still clings just enough to show the small, growing bump I keep catching myself running my hand over.

“My littles!” I clap my hands, voice lifting to catch the attention of the little ones gathered by the fence. It keeps them in until the end of the school day, but now it’s time to let them go for the day and meet back with their parents. “Remember to bring flowers and leaves for tomorrow’s activity! And no pulling random flowers without asking an adult first,” I add, giving them a knowing look as I unhook the gate.

They burst out, squealing and shouting as they run to their parents, backpacks bouncing behind them. “See you tomorrow!” I call after them, waving at a few parents too as they exchange glances and little grins over whatever their kids are chattering about.

I stay a moment longer, watching them scatter. There’s something so healing in seeing their joy like that. They are safe within these walls and untouched by the reality of what happens outside those walls. I rest my hand gently on my bump and let the wind brush over me, letting my body relax.

Too caught up in the quiet and in the sun on my face, I jump when strong, calloused hands wrap around my waist—one landing on the swell of my bump, the other tugging me gently back into a chest I know—I gasp and let out a small squeal.

“Tommy,” I giggle, breathless as his lips press to my cheek. “What are you doing?”

“I managed to slip away for the day,” he says, already leaning down to scoop my bag from the ground. “Got something to show you.”

Since we found out, he’s been so careful. Not overbearing, not in a way that suffocates—but in this soft, sweet way that makes me feel loved and cared for. And he always finds a way to rest his hand on my belly, like he’s afraid it will all slip away.

“Is it my flower garden?” I ask, trying not to smile too big.

“Um, no,” he grins, “but I’ll get to it. I promise.” He takes my hand, my bag swinging from the other, and we walk together in the welcoming warm spring weather offers us. “But I know you’re gonna love this too.”

When we reach the house, he drops the bag gently on the porch—but we don’t go inside. Instead, he leads me around back, toward the shed behind the house where he keeps his tools, his projects. I already know the smell of wood shavings and sawdust will hit the second the door creaks open. But he stops me just short, stepping behind me and covering my eyes.

“Have you been hiding a secret from me?” I tease, cheeks starting to ache from smiling too much. 

“I have,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “But don’t worry. It’s a secret that was worth keeping.”

He guides me carefully, slow steps across the floor of the shed. When we stop, his hands slip away from my face. My eyes blink in the shift from dark to light, and then I see it.

A crib.

A wooden crib standing in the middle of the room. 

it’s not brand new—it's the bones of something old, something salvaged. He’s refinished it, though—rounded the corners, replaced the railings, sanded it down until the wood is soft beneath my fingertips. I move closer, hands trembling as I reach out to trace the grain, and I feel the lump rise in my throat before the tears come.

The headboard has tiny carvings—little stars and a crescent moon. So simple, the details and the thought of him doing this himself for our baby made my vision blur.

“This is beautiful,” I whisper, still taking it all in. He steps behind me again, his hand finding the place it always goes now—right over our baby.

“I found it a while back,” Tommy says. “And I thought our baby deserved a safe place to sleep. One made with love from my hands… and a touch of their mama’s love for stars and the moon.”

He presses a kiss to my shoulder, hands still anchored to me like he needs to memorize every second. 

“I know we’ve got plenty of time to set up the room,” he murmurs, “but I couldn’t help myself after I found this.”

I turn in his arms, my own wrapping around his neck. “You’re already the best damn dad. This is perfect, Tommy.”

He chuckles softly, his nose brushing mine. “I’ll be the best damn husband when I finish that flower garden.”

“No,” I whisper, smiling through another tear. “You’re already the best damn husband too.”

I close my eyes as his lips meet mine, and we stay like that for a moment. Soaking it all in. 

It’s been a couple of dark months. Some days still carry the weight of Joel’s absence, the ache of the loss this town suffered when the new year came in like a blade. That kind of pain doesn’t disappear. But moments like this—quiet, full of hope—they keep us grounded. Keep us alive.

It reminds us we’re still here. And there’s still so much left to fight for.

[covenofagatha]

I Could Be A Better Boyfriend Than Him

Ann Perkins x April Ludgate

Ann and April are sent on an errand by Leslie and they bond over their bad experiences with Andy. (Set loosely during season three)

Word count: 4k

Warnings: sex with men (not very descriptive), car sex, fingering, enemies to lovers (not really lovers though), cheating

A/N: I've been rewatching Parks and Rec and couldn't get this out of my head

It’s hard for April to look at Andy in the morning. 

He, of course, doesn’t realize anything is off. He pours cheerios into a bowl—the one bowl he owns—before dumping way too much milk into it so cereal falls to the floor. 

“Hey, babe, look at this!” he exclaims excitedly before slurping at the milk. April tries to look interested, fakes a smile and a thumbs up, and Andy begins lapping up the cheerios like a cat. 

April walks around the kitchen to try to find something to eat herself, not really feeling like cereal, only the only thing Andy has is stale bread in the pantry and a six-pack of beer in the fridge. 

“So, uh,” Andy starts and April turns around to face him. He’s finished his cheerios in an alarmingly short amount of time and there’s a rim of milk around his lips. He moves closer to her and she raises an eyebrow. “Want a repeat of last night before we go to work?” 

April cringes on the inside. Last night was the first time they had sex. 

Andy had taken her out for a romantic date at the Paunch Burger and then serenaded her with his guitar when they got back to his place, singing an original song he’d written for Mouse Rat called “I Just Wanna Have Sex With You” until she’d tossed the guitar aside and climbed into his lap and started making out with him. 

Possibly more to stop the singing than anything else, but the message had been clear. 

He’d picked her up to take her to his room and she’d squealed, a sound she does not normally make, and she was actually excited. Andy was the first person she actually liked and he liked her back and they were going to have super hot sex and she was going to wear his marks on her like badges of honor to the office tomorrow, where she could rub it into Ann Perkin’s stupid face that Andy chose her and April was happier than Ann was, so take that. 

April had fumbled with the one belt Andy owned and then unzipped his khaki shorts and she had hiked up her skirt, the one Leslie called, “Professional, but not too professional,” and reached down between them to give Andy’s now-free cock a quick stroke. He grabbed a condom out of the drawer and gave it to her to rip open with her teeth and then roll it on him.

He had hissed and she had sunk down on him because she was wet already, because he drove her crazy and she had been waiting for this, and then Andy’s face seized up like he was about to sneeze and April’s eyes had flared—surely he couldn’t. 

He sure could. 

Andy twitched inside her and let out a groan and that was it. 

Not even five seconds. 

He lifted her off him and she flopped on the bed next to him, a look of disbelief on her face. Andy pulled the condom off, tied it up, and then shot it like a basketball at the wastebasket in the corner of his room. 

It missed and hit the carpeted floor, thankfully not exploding open. 

And then he turned to her, a look of joy on his face. “That was awesome!” He laughed and April knew he was being genuine, but a doubt crossed her mind—what was she doing here?

Andy fell asleep quickly after that, holding her against his chest, but April stayed awake, staring at the four Mouse Rat posters he had posted on the wall by the closet. 

It was just their first time. They’d get better at it. 

But the fact that Andy hadn’t even seemed concerned that he came immediately after getting inside of her? 

Whatever, she thought and rolled her eyes. 

The next time, it would go better. 

Being presented with the option of a next time, right now in the harsh bright light of day streaming in through Andy’s sliding glass that’s broken, April suddenly couldn’t bring herself to want anything less. 

“Sorry, babe, I promised Leslie I would do, like, some stupid thing for her. I have to go in early,” she says, rolling her eyes like usual at her boss’s antics, however real or imagined, and Andy shrugs. 

Leslie will probably have something stupid for her to do and she’ll procrastinate by seeing how many paper-clips she can throw at Jerry before he notices.

“Well, get ready for tonight, pretty lady, because you are all mine,” Andy says and pecks her on the mouth and she can taste the milk that’s a bit too sour. She wrinkles her nose in disgust but doesn’t say anything. 

The worst thing about the whole incident is that April was actually turned on and she didn’t get any semblance of satisfaction and now there’s still molten heat in her core. 

Not that it matters now. 

April just has to accept that this is what a relationship with Andy might look like. She might need to invest in a vibrator—can she somehow snoop through Donna’s phone? Donna definitely would have good advice, except April refuses to ask for any at all, because she definitely doesn’t actually care about anyone in the office and doesn’t need them knowing anything about her personal life. 

People are the worst. 

“I’ll see you later. Have a good day at work,” April says before grabbing her keys and bag. Andy gives her another kiss and grabs her ass and there’s a spark in her cunt but she pushes him away, not able to deal with more disappointment. 

Work is awful, as usual. 

With the Harvest Festival coming up, Leslie is in even more of a hypomanic mood than usual and when she’s not fawning over Ben or drowning Ann with compliments that make April’s skin burn just listening to them, she’s ordering everyone around and giving them inane tasks that make April want to poke her eyes out with a pencil, slowly, just to show her boss what her insanity has driven her to. 

Even Ron is no fun and April is still pretending to be a little mad at him for telling Andy that she was in the hospital with the flu a few weeks ago, even if it led to a reconciliation. 

Look where that got me, April thinks to herself bitterly. Unsatisfied sex for the rest of my life. 

“Hey, April!” Ann says, stopping in front of her desk. She’s carrying three full binders; surely some errand for Leslie. 

April rolls her eyes. “What?” 

Ann falters. “I was just wondering—” 

“No,” April cuts her off and Ann frowns. 

Leslie steps out of her office and catches sight of them with a loud gasp and April burrows down into her chair, knowing what’s coming next. 

“My two favorite women in the whole world!” Leslie gushes, walking over with her arms held out. April makes a face and Ann beams. “April, you intelligent little mouse.” 

“Ew,” April deadpans.

“And Ann, you beautiful, talented, brilliant, powerful musk ox,” Leslie sighs and Ann tilts her head in bemusement. “I need you two to do something for me.” 

“Absolutely not,” April exclaims immediately. “I’m not going anywhere with that she-devil. Send Tom, or Jerry. Maybe Ann can make out with them, too.” 

Ann exhales slowly. “For the last time, April, I said I was sorry for kissing Andy. It meant nothing and it will never happen again.” 

April wonders if the sex for them was bad, too. 

Leslie purses her lips and looks back and forth between her coworkers. “April, could I see you in my office for a second?” 

April groans but stands up and follows her. Leslie shuts the door behind her and April can see Ann looking a little dejected. 

Good. 

“I didn’t want to say anything—”

“Then don’t. Okay, thanks,” April interrupts and reaches for the door handle but Leslie calls her name. April begrudgingly turns around. 

Leslie softens and bounces on her feet. She looks very much like a child in a gray pantsuit right now. “Look, Ann and Chris broke up and she didn’t realize that he broke up with her and it was very uncomfortable and now she’s devastated—” Leslie shoots a pointed glare at the wicked smirk spreading on April’s face, “—so she really needs some girl-time to get her mind off the whole thing.” 

April’s head drops back with a sound almost like a whimper. “Why can’t you do it? Or Donna? Or anyone but me?” 

“I have three town hall meetings to run and I still have to finalize the list of vendors and Donna is…not here. She called me and told me she’d be late.” 

April wants to stomp her foot and refuse but Leslie’s eyes widen and she looks so desperate that April can’t help but agree. “Fine. But if Ann so much as tries to make conversation, I’m calling the police and telling them she kidnapped me.” 

Leslie looks happier than she does when she gets waffles. “Thank you so much! I need you to go to the store and get a projector, a screen, and a DVD, something family-friendly. I’m thinking that on the last night of the Festival, we do a giant movie in the park for everyone, something that brings the whole thing to a close.” 

April hums. “Okay, got it. Get the scariest R-rated horror movie ever. How's…’The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’? It was my favorite movie as a kid.”

Leslie looks at her for a moment, unable to tell if she’s joking or not, before nodding to herself. “I’ll tell Ann.” 

April follows her back out into the main space of the Parks department room where Leslie repeats everything she just said to Ann, who claps her hands joyfully. April rolls her eyes. 

“I think that’s a great idea, Leslie,” Ann says and April has the urge to mock her. Annoyance is gnawing at April that Ann just got broken up with and this is how she looks, perfectly wavy hair, poreless skin, and a silk red blouse tucked into black pants. 

April doesn’t even look that nice when she tries. 

And now she can’t get the thought of Andy and Ann having sex out of her head and her brows furrow in anger as she tries to push that image out, thinking about anything else. 

Luckily, Jerry walks in, carrying two cups of coffee, and, in likely Jerry-fashion, slips comically on a piece of paper on the floor. Jerry stumbles but puts his hands on the table to catch himself, forgetting that he was carrying two cups of coffee. 

The table is now covered in liquid and it drips onto the floor and Jerry sheepishly pushes himself up. “Aw, geez.” 

“Come on, Jerry!” Leslie criticizes while Tom cackles from somewhere in the background. April can’t help the grin growing on her face. “Clean this up and get back to work.” 

Jerry shuffles his hands and shakes his head at himself. “I’m sorry, guys. Right away, Leslie.” 

“Well, April, shall we?” Ann asks, shifting her weight from one foot to another. 

April makes a big show of sighing and rolling her eyes. “If we must. Better go now so you have more time to make out with everyone.” 

Ann looks at Leslie but decides that it’s not worth it. April leads Ann out of the building into the parking lot, where April realizes she doesn’t know what kind of car Ann drives. 

“This way,” Ann mutters, guiding her over to a light blue MINI Cooper. 

There’s still an uncomfortable wetness in April’s underwear that’s seemed to have gotten worse. She can feel it with every step she takes. 

April slides into the passenger seat and groans quietly because of course Ann’s car smells like a tropical island. Meanwhile, April’s smells like Paunch Burger from her date with Andy last night. 

There must be some sort of unresolved jealousy that April feels toward Ann, probably over Andy. Is she afraid that she doesn’t measure up? Insecure that Andy still likes Ann better? 

That must be it, she decides, and scowls out the window. 

“So,” Ann says eventually, after they’ve been driving for two minutes. April knows because she’s been counting in her head and is going to make Leslie reimburse her for all the time spent with Ann. “How are things with Andy?” 

“Why?” April snaps, and she really needs to learn to let things go sometimes. “Going to sink your claws into him now that you’re not with Chris anymore?” 

Something flashes across Ann’s face and April feels something she normally doesn’t feel, especially around this woman—regret. 

April sinks into her seat and wraps her yellow cardigan around her, as if protecting herself. “Things are fine.” 

Ann reaches over and pats her on the thigh. Her touch is covered by the purple leggings April has on, but April can still feel the warmth of her fingertips. The heat in her stomach grows hotter and April shifts uncomfortably. 

“I am very happy for you both,” Ann says honestly and this time, April squirms. “Andy is a great guy and you are an amazing young woman and you make a good pair.” 

The question climbs up April’s throat and throws itself out before she has a chance to stop it. “How was the sex when you were together?” Her eyes widen, horrified, and Ann looks over at her. 

“Um…why?” Ann chuckles nervously and April wants to roll her eyes. 

“He and I had sex for the first time last night and he—” April cuts herself off, pulling the sleeves of her cardigan over her hands because maybe she can just disappear. 

Ann nods. “Yeah. It was always kind of like that. And then you’re stuck in a state of horniness and after a while, it stops becoming fun to take care of yourself because he should be able to.” 

The thought of Ann taking care of herself isn’t one April hates as much as she should. 

“I don’t know what to do,” April says, admitting it for the first time out loud and to herself. She looks down at her fingers. “I’m sorry about Chris.” 

Ann actually looks surprised at the sympathy and April silently begs her not to make a big deal out of it. “Yeah, well, maybe it’s for the best. He wanted me to be so healthy and run all the time? Ugh.” She shudders and April can’t help but laugh. 

A moment of silence lapses over them, but it’s not as uncomfortable as it was before. April isn’t sure what’s happening to her. 

Just last night, Andy devoured three Paunch burgers in her car and then chugged Sprite so he’d burp really loudly. And April had thought it was the funniest thing ever. 

Now, having an actual conversation with Ann, whom she had always hated, was making April not want to go back to the person she was last night. 

“If there’s anything I can do to help,” Ann offers with a quick glance and reaches over to pat April’s leg again, “just let me know.” 

Her hand doesn’t leave April’s leg and April hates how she can feel the heat seeping into her veins. There’s a tug in her gut and it’s like she felt last night, when she and Andy were finally going to have sex. 

But April doesn’t think Ann would let her down like he did. 

“What are you offering?” April asks with none of her usual bite, sure she’s just imagining things. 

Ann shrugs casually, fingers tapping against the inside of April’s thigh. “I know how hard it can be to date him. I’m just saying, if you want some…relief.” 

April swallows roughly but doesn’t push her hand away. “I hate you. Why would you do this?” 

“Because you deserve better than someone who can barely make it inside you. You deserve to feel good, too, April. It took me a long time to learn that and I don’t want you to go that long without knowing it.” 

Ann’s hand creeps higher and April uncrosses her arms so the yellow cardigan isn’t blocking the hem of her leggings from Ann’s fingers. April’s breathing labors as Ann slips inside her pants and April shifts in her seat to give her better access. 

“This doesn't change anything, you know,” April spits out and gasps when Ann cups her over her underwear. 

“You’re wet,” Ann says quietly, ignoring April’s hostility. April can feel it, the stickiness against her cunt, and her own fingers dig into the door. 

Ann probes at her entrance through her panties and April bites the inside of her cheek to stifle a moan. Ann is still driving and they’re almost to the store and April cannot believe that her mortal enemy has her hand down her pants. 

At the red light, Ann carefully watches April’s face as she peels her underwear to the side and touches her bare cunt for the first time. 

It’s a struggle for April to remain unfazed. Ann’s hand is warm and soft and April is soaked and needy and it’s so frustrating. 

“I want to hear you,” Ann whispers but April shakes her head firmly—she won’t give her that satisfaction. But Ann’s deft fingers slip through her folds and April thinks can hear her wetness and her cheeks burn and a small gasp slips out from her lips when Ann circles around her clit. 

Circling, but never touching. 

April lets out a frustrated grunt and bucks her hips. 

“Say, ‘please, Ann’,” Ann drawls and April thinks she actually hates her more when she’s being vindictive. 

April refuses for another minute—she knows because she’s counting to compare it to sex with Andy—but Ann teases even more, gliding down to press at April’s entrance, not pushing in, and then slicking back up to rub around her clit. 

Eventually, April rolls her eyes and fights to keep her voice as level and sarcastic as possible. “Please, Ann.” 

Ann smirks but follows through and the first touch to April’s clit makes her bite her lip hard. Pleasure already sparks in her core and April rocks back and forth to get more. 

“You really like this,” Ann remarks in awe and just before April retorts, Ann pushes a finger into her. 

April’s mouth drops open and her walls clench around the intrusion. It’s already so much better than Andy, she’s already so much closer. 

But Ann is smug and April needs to knock her down. “You’re still the worst. This doesn’t change anything,” she repeats but Ann just tuts and curls her finger. 

The angle is weird and awkward and Ann is still driving, albeit under the speed limit and sometimes the car swerves dangerously, but nevertheless, she fucks another finger into April. The burn is exactly what April needs and her walls grip around her digits, trying to draw her further in.

Ann is practiced and clinical and her wrist is bent in a weird way but the palm of her hand bumps against April’s clit and her fingertips hit the special spot inside her each thrust and it’s getting April further than anyone else ever has. 

A stupid song is playing on the radio and Ann effortlessly turns into the parking lot with one hand on the steering wheel and April is panting and she can feel the redness in her face. She thinks that she will need to quit her job and move away from Pawnee because she can’t ever walk into City Hall again. 

What if it gets out? What if it gets out that Ann fucked April in her MINI Cooper on the way to the grocery store because they were talking about their disappointing shared ex and current boyfriend. 

Leslie would probably love it. She would throw a party and make them a binder and loudly announce she was coming into rooms they were in. Donna would be cool, April thinks, except for the offhand joke every now and then. Tom would be annoying. Ron wouldn’t care. That’s why April likes him the best. 

And Andy…what would he say? 

Ann parks the car far away from the other cars and April unbuckles her seatbelt and her fingers twist roughly and her palm harshly smacks April’s clit. 

April yelps. 

Her legs are cramping from the awkward position and her lower back starts to ache but sparks are tingling up her spine and her moans are gradually growing more unrestrained. 

April can clearly hear her wetness now and it’s embarrassing and she’ll kill Ann if Ann ever dares mention this again or to anyone else. 

As much as she hates to admit it, April is getting closer, her cunt is throbbing and her clit is pulsing, and she knows that Ann knows, too. 

“Tell me you like this,” Ann demands and April could strangle her and she bites her lip so the words don’t accidentally slip out. 

Ann scissors her fingers and then curls them sharply and her nails scrape against April’s walls and April lets out a noise. 

She slows her thrusts down because she is intent on torturing April. April’s eyes prick with tears and she shakes her head furiously. 

“I’ll stop,” Ann warns and April thinks that they might be more alike than she realized. 

Her fingers are barely moving now and the desperation has fogged up April’s brain and she doesn’t really have a choice, does she? 

“I like this…Ann.” She adds her name as an afterthought because if Ann made her say it, it might cause her to shrivel up and die. 

Ann smiles triumphantly, finally having the cold and mean April Ludgate wrapped around her fingers. 

Literally and figuratively. 

“I still hate you though,” April chokes out to regain some hint of power. 

It’s unconvincing to both of them. 

She’s about to come, her orgasm is building in her muscles, and she’s determined to let it wash quietly over her. 

But she should’ve known Ann wouldn’t have let that happen. 

“Ask for it,” Ann says and April grits her teeth. 

“Let me come,” April demands in a gruff voice and the audibility of her desire shocks her. 

Ann clucks her tongue and curls her fingers again and April is so close. 

“Can I please come, Ann?” April reluctantly mumbles, trying to sound sickly sweet and venomous so Ann knows she doesn’t mean it. 

But Ann apparently doesn’t care if April is faking it because she thrusts fast and hard without moving her palm off April’s clit. “Come for me, April.” 

April’s orgasm washes over her, finally getting the relief she’s been waiting for since last night, and it’s so much better than anything she thinks she’ll ever get from Andy. 

And it’s fucking annoying. 

Ann pulls her hand out of April’s leggings before wiping her glistening fingers on her black pants and April swipes her hair behind her ears and quickly gets out of the car. 

Ann looks as composed as ever while April can feel how much of a mess she’s become. “This doesn’t change anything,” she repeats, because maybe the third time is the charm and this time, she won’t mean it. 

“Okay, April,” Ann says, sounding resigned. “But if you ever need some relief, you know how to ask for it.” 

April’s eyebrows twitch as Ann starts casually walking in the direction of the store and she glowers at her. 

“This is never happening again,” April calls after her and she can hear Ann scoff. 

It’s a lie and they both know it. 

——

It becomes something they just do now. 

Sex with Andy never gets better and Ann is all too willing to bend her over the bathroom sink at City Hall or finger her in her car again or eat her out when they’re the only two left in the office. 

One time, after Ann gets her own office and she starts working for the city government, she wears a strap and makes April ride her. 

It’s the most intense orgasm April’s ever had. 

After each time, April says the same thing: “This doesn’t change anything. This doesn’t mean anything.” 

It gets harder to make it sound believable each time. 

[satoruhour]

POCKET P*SSY!

a/n: idk where this came from. tagging @nc-vb @papersirens @crysugu

wc: 2.8k

warnings: fem!reader, m! masturbation (two scenes), use of fleshlight, unspoken feelings, reader listening in on nanami, f! masturbation, brief clit stimulation & fingering, pet names, ambiguous ending, n*sfw under the cut

nanami kento was an organised, work-oriented man. he submits his sorcerer reports on time, he reports to work right at nine in the morning and clocks out at six o’ clock sharp, his office is prim and proper with all things where they should be and his (various) suits are always pressed and clean, smelling like sandalwood.

so why was the sight of you so compelling and striking that he swears he can hear his heartbeat through the freshly ironed blue button-up shirt? when you’d come to his office in the school to pass him his morning coffee — which wasn’t forced, you did find yourself heading to the café more and more — and the times when you’d engage in simple conversation with him about bread and gojo (negatively).

it was always a breeze to be around you, a fresh air from the intricacies of being a sorcerer. the violence, the bloodshed, the fatigue. but it’s so much of fresh air that sometimes he wonders why he chokes on his words and feels out of breath whenever he talks to you.

nanami has unwillingly checked his phone for the umpteenth time whilst doing his report, glancing over ever so often just to make sure you wouldn’t cancel on that friday drinking outing you proposed to go on with shoko. gojo was undeniably left out of the picture because of his tolerance and the two were the best drinkers in town, but he just wished he could work out the courage to ask you to be alone with you.

but nanami valued his sanity and heart. he wouldn’t know what he would do if he ever lost you to a curse even though you could hold your own, and the amount of sorcerers who are sent out just to die never deserved any of it. but if they didn’t do it, who will?

it’s question after question that’s mixed in with thoughts of you as he stays focused on the blinking cursor of the word document. appear. disappear. appear. disappear. nanami finds that he can’t think of anything else to say in this dumb report, staring blankly yet again at the annoying flickering cursor that reminds him that this was far from done. he glances down to the first drawer of his office table, the brass lock drawing him in. he thinks that he’s not ready.

just as he wants to type his next word with newfound determination, you’re barging through the door with a loud “nanami!”, a big grin plastered on your face with shoko under your arm, trying not to fall under your intoxicating happiness. god knows why you’re so happy, and if he didn’t know better he would think you were already drunk.

“she just got news that her holiday was approved,” shoko nods as she takes a drag from her cig, blowing the smoke into the office.

“please do not blow secondhand smoke into this room, shoko.” nanami’s monotonous voice cuts through the air like a knife and you would think it’s a reprimand, but both of you know the 7:3 sorcerer is just like that.

“why so boring . .” you tsk, a skip to your step when you round the table and peek at the work, and nanami has to ignore the bounce of your breasts under your outfit and the proximity in which you lowered yourself to. he tries to subtly take in your scent, not listening to your question under you wave a hand in front of him and nanami has to break away from his fantasy of you riding him while your tits bounced in his face. filthy.

“nanami? it’s already 6:02, i thought you violently rejected overtime?”

he clears his throat, catching the brief, sly glance of shoko before he turns to you, “y-yes. i do. just give me half n’ hour, ladies, and we can head over to the bar right after.” he didn’t even realise the clock had already striked 6.

shoko puffs out more smoke to nanami’s dismay, “what the hell do you need half n’ hour for?”

“just to clean up this report, promise.” he mutters, pushing up his reading glasses, “i’ll get it done as soon as possible.”

“oh? the great nanami kento doing overtime?” you giggle, reaching over to type a little cheeky “:)” into the word document before waving goodbye a little dazedly as you walk out behind shoko. the pace at which your heart raced matches the man inside at seeing him in his clear, dad glasses.

“you are down bad, girl.” 

“shush!” you swat at her arm and all she responds is with smoke in your face that she laughs and you just huff, heading off back to the morgue where she felt most at home.

nanami never did submit the report on time. he was given a reluctant extension. what was he doing? anything but the report, instead locking the door to his office and lying awkwardly on his office sofa, that was cleverly placed behind a partition wall. it took a bit of discipline — he typed a few words, deleted them, typed some more and realised they didn’t make sense and by now it’s 6:15. he takes one glance to the locked door and to the partition and down to his hard-on with that familiar feeling in his stomach. it’s been long since he’s jerked off, and sure, he has done it mindlessly just to calm the morning wood but it’s been long since he’s gotten aroused by someone.

the man palms himself through his pants, imagining it was your dainty hands instead, a soft groan leaving his lips at the feeling. his pants have never felt this tight, throbbing and just begging to be released as he slowly fishes it out. nanami was big, a pretty little curve to his cock with a tip that’s leaking pre-cum, and he strokes at it, a shaky breath leaving his mouth that it sounds pathetic. here he was, in his own office sofa fully clothed, with one leg digging into the floor and the other propped onto the armrest. 

“f-fuck . .” he swears lowly and starts setting a pace, conjuring up your face as you bob your head over his length while you play with yourself. “right there—”

nanami whines, unintelligible words muttered out as he pumped his cock. he spits into his palm and continues his ministrations with the most lewd noises that have never graced his office before. so many thoughts of you occupy his mind, you fucking yourself back onto him, how sweet your pussy would taste, the sort of sounds you’d make, how you’d feel around him — nanami cums with a quiet, strained groan, hips lifting off the sofa as he spurts his cum all over his suit, and he doesn’t care, too lost in the feeling as he squeezes his eyes shut. the idea of giving you a creampie sounds too good at the moment, how much cum he’d shoot into you, how he’ll watch it drip out—

“fuck my life.” he simply murmurs when he sees the translucent liquid settle in, and yet nanami doesn’t regret it one bit.

the next week is torment. it was particularly difficult, especially after the moodiness you possessed after getting one worded answers from nanami at the bar. he couldn’t even hold eye contact with you, how rude! he was also gone for quite a bit once, coming out of the bathroom all sweaty and out of breath and you wondered if he found a cursed spirit in the sketchy, dingy restroom of the club.

“relax. a thousand yen he’s just stressed out by . . external factors at the moment.”

“but he’s nanami! if anything, that man is internalising all that’s stressing him out,” you groaned into your hands, “also why are we betting on my love life?”

“it’s fun.” shoko defends herself with two hands when you point a finger at her; you go back to your sulking stage soon enough. she merely settles for a hand on your back. “but you’re not wrong. this is just, a little different.”

you only can sink further into your hands when you recall how nanami pulls uncomfortably at his tie, a distraught expression on his face when you asked if he wanted another round of drinks. the avoided eye contact, the conversation mainly existing between them, it was all you needed to know about his feelings of you. the coffees and hangouts meant nothing, and yet you were so clueless at how you’ve awoken something entirely new for nanami that he’s cumming thrice a day just at the thought of you.

another day, another report to fill in. he had dealt with a first-grade curse this time, the casualties, brutal and infrastructure was severely destroyed. it was going to be a hell of a word count, he notes, but what he doesn’t want happening, or rather, the unavoidable, happens. his mind drifts back to you again and everything that you stood for, of your blinding smile and kind gestures. you knew how he liked the right amount of sugar in his coffees and the right place to massage when his upper back was hurting. there was many times he was sure you both had crossed the line of co-workers and lovers, but it was never spoken or defined.

it was a grey area, he admits. tethering along the lines that he wasn’t even sure was there any more: a gaze held longer than usual, a brush of your hand on his, the not-so-secretive glance at your ass, the quick gaze from his eyes to his crotch when gojo makes a dirty joke. it was already between the lines, yet none of you wanted to act on it.

nanami groans into his hands, taking one more look to that locked drawer, thinking it would magically unlock itself and he wouldn’t have to go though the torture of submitting to his desires and unlocking it like a sex-crazed man in the victorian era after seeing a woman’s ankles. it was humbling. but his mind seems to have a different plan, descending into fantasies that he would rather take to the grave than let gojo pry out of him and he shoots up, fumbling for the key hidden under his documents.

within a second, nanami unlocks it and lets out a breath and takes out a box — a hilarious (at the time) but stupid, stupid thing (it was a fleshlight) he let gojo talk him into buying while they were both drunk. but the more he looks at it, the more he wishes to feel your walls around him and his bulge is not going down. he takes out the fleshlight eagerly, looking at it with wide eyes before he swallows and nanami feels like a teenager again.

his heart pounds when he removes his pants. his laptop, open with his undone report and him standing wide-stanced in front of his desk like a loser and his underwear pulled down just enough for his cock to spring up, you would think he was an alien from another planet. nanami does away with all rationale when he slaps his tip along the pocket pussy, thinking it was yours before his tip slips in and he gasps. the sorcerer stumbles forward and he has to rest a hand on his office chair.

“gojo, you fucking dick,” nanami hates that he’s enjoying it. “haah . . shit—” 

he pushes it down his shaft and the instant pleasure is prominent. soon, nanami is moving the fleshlight over his cock, walking with unplanned steps to the sofa. he falls into it easily, hands still pumping the device along his dick and he already wants to cum from the tightness.

“fuuck . . baby,” there are soft pants that leave his mouth, the device already filling up with all of his pre-cum. the slick noises that dominate the room is loud. nanami is too far gone in this, hips thrusting up into the fleshlight with all his might as he imagines it’s you straddling him instead. biting down on his fist does little, sure he was drawing blood from how hard he was sinking his teeth into the skin there. the way he slips inside feels so much better than his hand, and yet there was something missing — your sounds, the sight of your pussy. he needed to know he’s making you feel good. he cums with a cry of your name and mixed in profanities, pelvis basically rutting into the pussy as he shoots his load deep inside. 

and it doesn’t end there for nanami — like a deranged man, he’s grabbing his cushions and stuffing the pocket pussy in between it and the sofa, dragging his tip along the silicone clit. this shit was embarrassing, fucking something fake just so he can simulate the fantasy of being in you, but it felt fucking divine, so much so that the soft “nanami?” doesn’t even reach his ears. he reenters the pocket pussy, body hunched over the sofa as he presses down on the couch cushion and wishing it was your lower back.

the long, loud groan nanami lets out sends a straight chill to your core and you hear it before you see it. you think maybe your chances are ruined, he has someone else and the dancing around each other was done just for fun, but you think a little peek wouldn’t help. your self care sessions are getting a little boring anyway.

the gasp doesn’t reach his ears either when you glance around the partition and you get the sight of your life: nanami thrusting into the sofa while still fully clothed, eyes closed and expression pulled into pleasure. you’re torn between arousal, modesty and relief and despite all that you still listen out for how turned on he was, the gross, dirty sounds of him rutting into something and yet you don’t know what. but you decide to play it safe, flipping back around to rest your back against the walled partition, hand reaching up your skirt and into your panties.

“(y/n) . . baby, g’na cum—” 

your eyes widen, your jaw drops but your hand on your clit never stops, rubbing in time with his thrusts as your other hand is probably making marks on your face by how hard you were trying to stop your moans from coming out. you’re already so wet that your ministrations are all messy and smeared, drawing haphazard circles just for a taste of that high as you soak and soak your panties.

“baby, baby, baby . . o-oh—” you swear under your breath, because who knew nanami kento could sound so damn good? you’re continuing the assault on your pussy, going past your clit and into your entrance and you wish it was his cock instead, but instead he’s fucking a pocket pussy imagining it’s you. too bad you don’t know that. “gonna cum in y-you—”

there’s a little crack in his voice and you involuntarily let out a soft moan and the movements are halted all of a sudden. in your panic, your foot spreads and the bottom of your shoe grazes against the wooden floor and your presence is fully made known, now.

“hello?” man, what the fuck? now they’re really not going to answer. nanami sifts through the possibilities: it couldn’t be any of the men, they know not to interrupt nanami when he’s working. shoko would only for alcohol . . you? you dig a deeper grave by making an incoherent noise in your throat and that’s when nanami’s fear really settles in. he wasn’t hallucinating anything — there really was someone calling out to him the first time and the gasp and now the little moan? but nanami has anything but luck, not being able to catch the person because you’re booking it out of there immediately, not exactly quiet due to the clicks of your heels and you want to go back into that exact grave to die.

you can hear and feel your heart in your throat, back lined with sweat more than it would be when fighting a curse. whilst, there was only one thing on your mind that slowly induces you into a downward spiral; he called your name, your name, your god-given name, the people address you by, he called—

standing by the little zen garden of the tokyo school, you can feel your clit throb and the breath taken out of you as the vision replays again and again in your head and you think yourself stupid for running out of there. but before you can turn back, gojo’s approaching with a big, shit-eating grin on his face and waves to you (“yaga told me to come get you, you’re not busy, are you?”).

swallowing, all you can do is shake your head, but not before you spare a last glance to nanami’s door which is now closed shut. you hear a click.

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Treason | Azriel x Reader

Day 4: Blood w/ Azriel

Summary: You come home early from a trip, only to discover a particular Vanserra warming the bed in your place.

Word Count: ~1.6k

Warnings: Smut, gay sex, naked men, HEAVY angst, cheating, blood, violence (punching), mentions of illness, does not have a happy ending. this is literally just heartbreaking.

A/N: well, azris is now something I’ve written for. this is literally so sad, but gotta have something for angstober, even if I don’t think angst is my strongsuit. hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

It was late when you got home.

You were supposed to stay on your visit to Dawn Court a bit longer, but after falling mildly ill for a few days, you’d decided to cut it off a day or two early and return home. It wasn’t like you were too upset to go see your partner a few days earlier, even if the two of you weren’t mates, you were happy with what you had found.

Or at least you thought you were.

The House was dark when you arrived, the sentient home opening the door for you, quicker than normal, almost. As if urgent, trying to pull you along.

You didn’t want to wake Azriel, assuming he was asleep by now. He rarely got good sleep these days, getting up in the middle of the night to take flights, saying he needed to sort his thoughts. You didn’t blame him. His work wasn’t exactly the best for his mental state.

Sitting down at the table, you waited for the House to give you a meal, per usual, but it didn’t happen.

You waited a few seconds, pausing, and glancing around as if to see the reason for the delay around the room.

“House? Can I…have food?”

You whispered to the thin air, knowing you probably sounded stupid. Hesitantly, you knocked on the wood, raising a brow in confusion, waiting a few more seconds before getting up from your chair with a sigh, deciding that you could just get your own food.

You walked quietly over to the cabinets, hand closing around the cold metal that felt a bit warmer tonight. The House itself felt warmer, almost uncomfortably so. Maybe the House was just having an off day, you couldn’t think of any other reason for its strange behavior.

As if to prove your point, when you pulled on the cabinet, instead of opening, it remained stubbornly shut, as if glued by someone.

Maybe another one of Cassian’s “jokes”.

So you tried another cabinet, the one that held the bread, and it also stubbornly refused to open.

After trying cabinet after cabinet, drawers, and more, you discovered that everything refused to open. It was as if the Mother herself had just decided to make you go to bed hungry.

Sighing, you gave up, deciding to just eat in the morning, quietly starting to pad down the hallway, rolling on the balls of your feet to keep your steps silent, not wanting to wake anyone.

Cauldron knows Nesta would crucify you if you interrupted her beauty sleep.

It was then that you heard it.

The unmistakable sound of sex. Moans and grunting.

You could recognize Azriel’s voice, but not the other one in the room that you and he shared.

You froze in place, almost stopping breathing as a sick feeling twisted in your gut, different from the nasty illness you’d gotten in Dawn. No, this wasn’t a physical sickness, it was a mental one. You tried to convince yourself that your assumptions were wrong, that you were overthinking and this was all just a big misunderstanding.

That you’d be able to fold into Azriel’s warm, strong arms like nothing had happened after this, that he would still be your safe place.

An invisible hand, familiar but alien at the same time, urged you forward, whispering into your ear.

Keep going, it said.

You must see, it murmured into your ear.

It felt like the wind raking through your hair, a gentle caress that was there and gone, a sad melancholy that seemed to already know there was no happy ending to this story. You’d been doomed from the moment you stepped into the House.

And so you continued walking.

You weren’t sure if it was just your imagination or not, but the air seemed to grow thicker, suffocating, wrapping hands around your throat and squeezing until you were almost hyperventilating when you walked. It was warmer here.

Much warmer than the House usually kept it at.

The hallway seemed to stretch on indefinitely, and you walked and walked and walked until the door was standing in front of you, handle staring at you.

Laughing at you.

Your shaky palm enveloped the handle, turning, pushing, unveiling the scene in the bedroom.

In your bedroom.

Your bed.

The other male was below him. Red locks that had a silver gleam in the dim light were strewn above him like a crown on the pillow that his face was shoved into. His ass was in the air, back arched, knees pushing into the bed.

Azriel was bare just like the other male. Kneeling behind him. Hovering over him.

Inside of him.

His hips pushed forwards and backward, a rhythm that seemed to taunt you, a rhythm you’d experienced before, but never quite so frenzied, never so excited or eager like it was his first time all over.

His wings were flared out, casting a deep shadow over the Vanserra beneath him. The Heir beneath him.

The enemy beneath him.

The door had swung open, the knob finally hitting the wall, and immediately Azriel snapped over to look at you, eyes widening.

You didn’t even know if you were crying. Everything felt numb, like a dream you could reach but not quite hold. Your limbs tingled, some sort of anger, or maybe sadness building, an outburst.

You could feel it coming as you watched, eyes dead, face blank.

Eris groaned at Azriel stopping, turning his head to look at him, but catching your eye as he saw you. He inhaled sharply.

The room went cold.

The candle went out.

It went further than just discovering an affair, you knew.

Eris was from another Court.

A Court that currently wasn’t allied with Night Court.

Azriel was essentially committing treason, an act punishable by imprisonment or even death in severe cases. And with Mor’s past with Eris, and how close Rhys was with Mor? There was no doubt in your mind Rhys would be pissed. Mor would be crushed.

Not just treason of the Court, but treason of the family as well.

Azriel seemed to realize this, rearing back away from Eris, the redhead hissing as Azriel yanked out of him. The shadowsinger tried to approach you, pulling a towel around his waist to cover himself.

Another towel was laid on the floor.

They’d both taken a shower in your bathroom.

The bathroom you and Azriel had shared once.

That sick feeling in your stomach traveled up and up, metastasizing through your blood, reaching your head and a blind anger overcame you.

Your head felt white hot, molten, almost.

Magma filled your veins, but not in the usual way it had in the past with Azriel.

His lips were moving. He was talking, saying something. You couldn’t hear over the ringing in your ears.

You didn’t bother trying to listen as that magma slid into your hands, your knuckles and fingers as your fist landed right on his jaw. Just like Cassian had taught you.

Just like Nesta had taught you.

He visibly recoiled, head spinning, Eris was on his feet now, baring his teeth.

You were yelling, words that tasted like iron and spoiled milk and rotten food that had been left out for too long leaving your lips, hands balled into fists again.

Something warm and wet was sliding down your cheeks.

Azriel kept saying something over and over, the same words leaving him, and it was only when a smarter part of your brain managed to finally listen, did you hear it.

“He’s my mate.”

You heard the choked sobs coming from him now and saw Eris rushing to him, trying to comfort him. The instincts in full control.

Then your senses picked up on it, your body kicking into overdrive and processing faster and faster now that your fight or flight had snapped.

They were mated. Freshly.

They had used your away time to seal the mating bond.

You knew you should feel bad for the crimson liquid dripping down Azriel’s nose from another punch you must’ve thrown, not even remembering properly anymore.

You should be happy for them.

But instead, you turned on your heel, walking out of the room into the hallway, only to see Cassian with bleary eyes walking over, visibly confused, and Nesta close behind.

But she knew. You could tell.

By that anger in her eyes that matched what you felt. The silver lurching in her icy blue eyes. She saw you, and murmured something to Cassian, him nodding, and she walked over to your side.

No words were said.

None needed to be.

She knew where you were going already. A place that was always safe, no matter what. The library door wasn’t locked like the cabinets had been. It never was.

You walked in, and that strange presence wrapped around you like a blanket, comforting. You walked and walked and kept walking, the labyrinth of bookshelves giving their condolences as you passed.

You only stopped walking when you reached a small nook, an area with windows of stained glass, moonlight gleaming through them and color splaying out on the floor, onto you and Nesta as you stopped and sat on the floor, back to the wall.

She sat next to you.

You leaned forward, curling inwards, only then breaking open and letting every shard of broken glass spill out of your eyes as sobs wracked your body, shaking you, cracking the stone foundation you’d built yourself on.

The sand that had felt like stone until the storm came.

Until you had to mourn someone who was still alive.

Tags:

@hawke1917

@angstober

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 16

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 6.3k+

Note: fucking hell YN is a bit melodramatic hey?? damn crazy. someone should do something about it.

xxx

The flat is nearly done. Well, nearly is the operative word. You can’t exactly turn a blank canvas into a masterpiece in just one week — not when you’re battling a mountain of flatpack boxes and wrestling with furniture that arrives with more screws than instructions. But I gave it a red-hot go. The sofa’s in place (mostly assembled), the kitchen’s unpacked enough to cook something edible, and the bed actually holds me without collapsing. The boxes are mostly unpacked, though there are still a few corners that feel bare — empty enough to remind me this place is still a work in progress. But honestly? I kind of like that. It gives the space room to breathe. Room to grow.

Speaking of growing, I’m currently drowning in cardboard. The sheer volume of it could probably form its own ecosystem. It’s all shoved into my bedroom right now, stacked like the starter pack of a hoarder’s anonymous meeting. It’s chaos, but it’s my chaos, and I’m strangely proud of it.

Despite the mess, the fridge is stocked with fresh food — no more sad instant noodles for me. And tucked in the corner is a bottle of wine I’ve been saving for a moment just like this. Tonight, that moment finally arrives.

I’m hosting a goddamn housewarming.

A bunch of my friends from The Van are coming over. Here. To my new flat. The place I’ve poured sweat, frustration, and a hell of a lot of laughter into. It feels like a milestone, even if the space isn’t quite finished. Because this — this is my fresh start. And tonight, I get to celebrate that with the people who know me best.

The nerves buzz beneath my skin — the kind that comes from knowing I’m about to open the door to more than just a flat. I’m opening up a part of my life that’s still a little raw, a little uncertain. But mostly, it’s mine.

And god, I’m ready for it.

Will’s been on my mind a lot lately. The space between us feels bigger than this whole flat, and I’m still trying to figure out how to bridge it. But tonight, I’ve thrown myself into every little detail—the perfect candle, the best tablecloth, making sure everything’s just right.

I want him to meet my people, to see this side of me, to taste my cooking—not just grab a quick bite on the run. It feels like a chance to remind him what we could have, if only that distance would close.

He said he probably wouldn’t make it for dinner, caught up with some deadline, but that he’d come by afterward. Knowing Will, I’m still holding out hope for a surprise.

Ruth shows up early, as she always does. I think she likes the idea of getting her hands into something, and she’s always ready to help. So we’re tackling the dinner together. Best friend type shit.

It’s a simple menu — pasta, salad, garlic bread. The basics, can't fuck it up, but Ruth’s made sure we’re not cutting any corners. There’s fresh basil for the pasta sauce, real garlic, not the stuff from a tube, and a block of parmesan for grating. No pre-grated cheese. We’re going for it.

“Okay, we’ve got the pasta and the bread covered,” Ruth says, setting down the garlic butter with a satisfied look. “But have you seen any tongs around here? I don’t see any.”

I blink at her, then look down at the kitchen drawers. “Tongs? Damn I haven't bought tongs yet have I?”

Ruth gives me a deadpan look. “You’re making garlic bread. How are you going to get it out of the oven without tongs?”

I roll my eyes, but she’s right. I’ve clearly missed some basic kitchen essentials in my shopping spree. “Fuck. Tongs,” I mutter. “Let me guess — I didn't buy cling wrap either, right?”

Ruth grins and hands me the fresh basil while pulling out a cutting board. At least I remembered that. She starts to look in my drawers, telling me all the things I've missed. Classic.

“You still need cling wrap, tongs, maybe a ladle... You know, the essentials. The adult things.” She pauses. “And I see you’re still rocking mismatched mugs. Gotta work on that.”

“Right,” I say, glancing at the array of mismatched mugs stacked in a corner. I haven’t quite gotten around to replacing the ugly ones. “Thanks for pointing that out.” I grin at her.

Ruth shrugs and pours some wine into a glass for both of us. “Hey, it’s part of the charm. You’ll get there eventually.”

She heads off to the living room to look at my makeshift bookshelves. I honestly had no idea I owned that many books. I had a box my mum parcelled over to me a few months ago and just never opened it. 

I scramble to put together a shopping list. I grab my phone and make a note: Tongs. Cling wrap. Ladle. Proper mugs.

By the time Ruth’s back in the kitchen, I’m just about to check the oven. She grins, holding up the wine bottle. “You ready for your first official dinner party in this place?”

I laugh, and the nervous energy I’ve been carrying all week suddenly feels a bit more manageable. “Sure. Just don’t judge me when it’s basically a glorified pasta night.”

Ruth shakes her head, clearly amused. “It’s going to be amazing. Don’t stress.”

As the others start trickling in, I’m already half-drunk off the wine, and the kitchen smells like garlic bread and fresh pasta sauce. I’m more than ready for the evening.

I want this — the warmth, the laughter, the feeling that everything is starting to slot into place. The place is starting to feel like a home.

First in is Matt, looking slightly more cheerful than usual. Then Naomi, Sam, and of course, Leon. The last one to walk through the door is Oscar, with his tattooed sleeves and that unreadable smile that always makes me a little nervous. I've learnt his name since the night out. He’s holding a six-pack of beers, a piece of the puzzle I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Even though the flat’s buzzing with activity, I can’t stop glancing at my phone, hoping for a message from Will. He said he’d come by, but so far, nothing. I try to shake off the nerves, but it’s there, just under the surface.

I give Ruth a quick look, and she grins back at me like this is the moment. I’m pulling it off.

“You made it, weirdo,” I say to Leon as I hand him a drink. He grins back, running a hand through his messy hair.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he says with a wink.

“Perfect. You’re just in time for the pasta," I say. "Let me know if it's too burnt. And if you need tongs or ladles, don’t hesitate to ask.”

There’s a round of laughter. The good kind. The kind where you’re not pretending to be someone you’re not. Everyone settles in, the energy rising to meet the occasion, and it feels like the beginning of something — like this could be a regular thing.

Matt immediately makes himself comfortable at the kitchen island, I tell him he should complement my brand new stools and he does. Sam and Naomi are on the couch, Oscar’s standing by the window looking out, his beer in hand, but still very much a part of the group.

I lean over to Ruth, still plating food, and whisper, “This is good. This is really good.”

“See?” she grins, nudging me with her shoulder. “You’re doing fine. You just needed a bit of support, that’s all.”

And just like that, the tension I’ve been carrying all week starts to slip away. Even if things with Will feel like they’re shifting in some unsaid way, even if George is still somewhere in the back of my mind, right now, I’m here. Right here. In my new flat, with my new friends, and the room is full of laughter and light and the smell of pasta sauce.

It’s not perfect, but for the first time in a while, it doesn’t have to be.

xxx

The night goes on with too many drinks, too much pasta, and a whole lot of laughter. Ruth ends up taking over the playlist, making us listen to all kinds of weird indie songs I’ve never heard of. The vibe is relaxed, comfortable — almost like this is something we’ve all been doing for years.

The conversation flows in waves, picking up new threads as we all bounce between topics. But I can’t shake the quiet tug in the back of my mind. Will hasn’t texted in a while, and every time someone mentions “plans for the weekend,” I catch myself glancing at my phone, wondering if he’s about to text me something — anything.

He said he’d swing by. I remember him saying it so casually, like he had a hundred other things to do, like he wasn’t as excited as I was to finally introduce him to this weird, wonderful group of people. He said probably after dinner.

But now is after. Well past the time he was supposed to show up, and still no sign of him.

The flat feels warm, filled with laughter and the clink of glasses. The food’s been devoured, and we’re well into the inevitable post-dinner chaos — too many empty wine bottles on the table, a bunch of half-finished drinks, and everyone drifting into different conversations.

Oscar, fiddling with the tablecloth, turns to me. His voice drops low, quiet but deliberate. “You enjoying it here?” he asks, eyes steady and kind.

His question hangs in the air longer than expected, heavier than the easy chatter around us. There’s something about the way he says it — like a small thing, but with enough weight to make me feel seen. I try not to overthink it.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a slow sip of wine to steady my hands. “It’s good. I’m finally getting settled.”

Naomi catches my eye and grins, always the one to break any tension. “You live alone! How fantastically adult of you!” She laughs, then leans forward, raising her glass like she’s about to make a toast. “So, surely you’re hosting pre’s all the time now?”

I laugh too, grateful for the distraction. Hosting parties still feels a little out of reach — like I’m playing a part rather than living it. “How fantastically adult of me!” I echo, but my words feel hollow, fading too fast. I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Yeah, I guess. I’m still figuring out how to organise the kitchen without tripping over pots and pans.”

Naomi’s grin widens, clearly enjoying the tease. “I bet you could totally host though. You’ve got the place, the vibe… And I’m sure Will would help with all the heavy lifting.”

I force a laugh, trying to hide the flutter of nerves that hits my chest. “Alright, alright, you guys are all obsessed with Will now,” I say, but there’s an edge to my voice I can’t quite mask. “Seriously though, I’ve only been here a week. Let’s not get carried away with the hosting talk.”

Oscar’s quiet gaze meets mine again, and his voice softens, almost thoughtful. “You enjoying it though? Living on your own, I mean?”

I hesitate, the question suddenly too big for the easy smile I want to give. “Yeah… it’s weird. But good weird, you know?” I try for lightness, but there’s a flicker of doubt I can’t shake.

He nods slowly, eyes warm. “It’s a big change. But it suits you, I think.”

His words hit in a way I didn’t expect — simple, but somehow more real than anything else said tonight. My heart skips.

Before I can say more, Ruth leans in with that spark in her eyes I’ve come to trust. “So, when can we meet Will, huh?”

I blink, caught off guard, but the smile still breaks across my face. “Oh, he should be coming soon!” I say—maybe a bit too eager—but it doesn’t matter. I’m excited, though now there’s a knot of worry twisting in my stomach.

Oscar raises an eyebrow, a subtle softness in his expression, like he’s watching a story unfold but isn’t sure where it’s going yet.

Naomi grins at me, all bright eyes and enthusiasm. “Well, we’re all excited to meet him!”

For the first time in a while, it feels like everything’s just right. I’m still figuring things out, but right now — in this warm, noisy, wine-soaked chaos of friends and laughter — it feels good.

Now, if only Will would show up.

xxx

He didn’t show. No text, no call, no nothing.

This is the casual bit, I suppose. He doesn’t want to meet my friends. Doesn’t need to. Not really. It’s fine, I tell myself. It’s all fine.

But even as I say that, it feels less fine than I want it to. It’s the way the night should’ve ended — with Will here, laughing, a glass of wine in hand, mixing into the chaos of the crew that’s been my lifeline since moving here. Instead, it ends with a quiet empty spot in the corner, where he should have been.

Everyone filters out slowly, footsteps soft on the floor as they gather their things. We’re doing that thing where we’ve all hugged and said goodbye, but somehow there’s still more to say before the night truly ends.

“See you Tuesday!” Naomi calls out cheerfully, her voice still light, but somehow, too loud against the silence that’s filling the flat.

I’m wiping down the last of my counter when Leon, already halfway to the door, tosses me a comment over his shoulder. “I’ve got an old bookshelf I’ve been thinking of selling,” he says casually, pausing in the doorway. “If you’re looking for one, let me know. It’s not much, but it’ll hold some books.”

I’m surprised, but it’s exactly the kind of thing I’ve been hunting for. “Oh, yeah, definitely,” I say, smiling a little. “I could always use another shelf. I’ll hit you up tomorrow.”

He grins, gives me a quick salute, and heads out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me standing there for a second, processing how it feels like everyone is offering something these days. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m still settling in, or maybe it’s just them — these people who don’t mind extending little bits of themselves. Maybe it’s not so bad, this whole "being part of something" idea.

Oscar, standing near the door, finishes gathering his coat and keys, then turns to me with a calm smile. “By the way,” he says, his tone always steady, “I've got a social netball game next week. We're down a player. You should come along. Text me if you’re interested.”

I blink for a second, caught off guard by how casually he says it. Netball? Me? My heart races slightly at the idea of joining something new, but at the same time, the idea of being included, of having another regular to show up to, feels oddly comforting.

I laugh softly, shrugging. “Yeah, alright. I’ll text you.”

He nods. “Good. It’ll be fun. Everyone’s a bit rubbish, but we make it work.” His tone softens as he walks out. "And if you need any help with the flat, don’t hesitate, yeah? That’s what we’re here for.”

“Thanks, Oscar!,” I reply cheerily, watching him disappear out the door.

It’s strange, how suddenly, these people I barely knew a couple of months ago have started to feel like… home. Not that everything’s perfect, or figured out, but the little things, the offers, the casual kindness — they build something I can’t ignore.

They're so good at the casual kindness that none of them mention it. Not the fact that Will didn’t show, not the fact that they didn’t meet the guy I’ve been talking about for the past two months. It’s like the whole thing doesn’t even exist. The same casual tone is there when they leave, like it’s just another night of drinking and laughing. Not even a passing mention of him.

I stand by the door, waving them off, giving them the usual goodbyes, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m already retreating inside my head, processing the quiet absence of the night. And even though they’re gone, the quiet lingers. It settles in the corners of my flat, heavy in the air.

I start getting ready for bed, moving through the motions like I’ve done a thousand times before. But tonight, the evening feels heavier, somehow. The fun, the warmth of it all, has melted into something… off. The laughter still echoes in my ears, but it’s already fading.

Seeing everyone was nice. It warmed me up a bit. But Will’s no-show weighs on my shoulders, pulling everything back into question.

He’s been so weird. That’s the thing, right? He’s been so weird lately. Pulling back physically. Not calling, not texting the way he used to. The conversations have been shorter, the energy a little colder. It’s like there’s a wall I can’t get past.

What is it with everyone being weird? First George and now Will?

And maybe that's it. Maybe I’m the one who’s being weird. Maybe I'm the one overthinking it all. Or maybe Will really has just decided I’m not worth it anymore. Whatever it is, I can't shake the feeling that something’s off, and I don't know how to fix it.

And I’m being paranoid, I'm sure of it. I’m reading too much into it. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if he’s already decided I’m not worth it. Maybe he’s figured out that I’m not the kind of person you want to stick around for. Maybe I am just a distraction, a filler until something better comes along. I climb into bed, pulling the covers over me, but it feels too empty. It's become a rare thing to not sleep next to him. Or it became a rare thing, it's been more common again this last week.

I can still feel the weight of the night, the quiet hum of unspoken things between Will and me, filling up the space. I stare up at the ceiling, trying not to get lost in my own thoughts.

But no matter how many times I tell myself that it’s fine, that maybe it’s probably nothing... it’s hard to believe.

I want to be angry at him. I really do. But the thing is, I can’t summon it anymore. That’s the part that kills me. We’ve already done our time of angry, and now… now I’m just left with this thick, suffocating sadness.

I told him. I told him that night, the first time we crossed that line, that I wasn’t ready for anything serious. And he said he wasn’t either. No big deal. It was supposed to be a fun thing, right? Nothing to complicate. But this — this silence, this absence — it doesn’t feel fun anymore.

He helped me move. He helped me move for Christ’s sake. He even roleplayed coming home with me in the IKEA showroom, like we were already living that life. How was I supposed to brush that off like it was some weird joke?

And then there’s Monaco. Monaco. That brand trip invitation had my stomach doing flip-flops. Why would he invite me if he wasn’t looking for something? He even knows I can’t just drop everything and take a week off work, especially after the move. So why make it feel like it was an option?

I cling to the hope that he’s just letting me down gently. That he’s realised we’re not going to work out long term, and he’s sparing me the awkwardness of some big breakup speech. Maybe he’s just trying to soften the blow, make it easier, to not put me in a situation where I feel like I have to argue or beg him to stay.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

Shift in bed, feeling the silence in the room press against me. I try to shake it off, tell myself it’s fine, that I’ll just talk to him when I see him next. It’s all I can do — try to bury the disappointment and hope it doesn’t bubble up when I finally see his face again. But I know, deep down, this isn’t going to go away until I confront it.

What hurts the most isn’t the waiting. It’s the not knowing. Because the truth is, if I knew where we stood, even if it was bad, even if it was over, I could deal with it. But instead, I’m just here, with all this space between us, with nothing but his absence to fill it.

And that? That’s the part I can't fix.

xxx

Its been a week.

Will hasn’t spoken to me all week.

It feels like a punch in the gut, but I can’t help the feeling that something’s shifted. The longest we’ve gone without talking since we met, and there’s nothing — no text, no call, no plans to meet up.

When we met — that stupid party I didn’t even want to go to — he texted me that same night. And then we just… didn’t stop.

It started as relentless. Snarky. Annoying. Like we were both trying to win something, though I’m still not sure what. For weeks — no, months — it was constant. A daily back-and-forth of sarcasm, one-liners, and deeply unnecessary hot takes. The kind of energy that should’ve fizzled out fast. But it didn’t.

It softened, eventually. Less sharp edges, more… rhythm. But it never really stopped. The most we’ve ever gone without messaging was about 25 hours — and even that was because he was on a plane and I was half-dead with a cold.

And now?

After he invited me on a holiday.

After he helped me move flat, kissed me like I was worth living for, learned my pizza order, and figured out exactly what makes me tick?

Now, it’s quiet.

And I don’t know what to do with the silence.

Fucking hell, even a “u up?” text would satisfy this craving I’ve got for him right now. As ridiculous as it sounds, the idea of him texting me — even just to say something stupid or half-hearted — would be enough to quiet the pit of frustration that’s been growing in my stomach all week. Goddamn, I’d even take a “I hate you” as a response to my question of "Where have you gone?".

At least then I’d know.'

At least I wouldn’t be left here wondering. Wondering if I messed something up or if it was him or if I’m just being too sensitive. It’d hurt, sure, but the silence? That’s worse. The quiet stretches out longer and longer, and with it, all my stupid, paranoid thoughts start creeping in. Maybe I said something wrong. Maybe I took the wrong step. Maybe I’m just too much, and that’s why he hasn’t even bothered to reach out.

But no, I don’t even get that. I get nothing. The space between us is thick with unanswered questions.

If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure why I care this much. It’s just a thing, right? Just a guy. We weren’t anything serious. I said it myself: I wasn’t ready for anything serious. But that doesn’t stop the feeling. The one that twists in my chest every time I check my phone and see it’s still empty.

I try to shake it off. I mean, it’s not like I need him to validate me, right? I’m fine. I’ve got my own life now.

But it’s funny how much a single text can feel like it could break the tension in my chest. Even if it’s not the answer I want, it would be something.

Instead, I’m left with the silence, which, honestly, might just be worse than any shitty message he could send.

Still, I keep telling myself it's fine, that he’s probably busy. It’s just a bit of space. Just a bit of time to breathe. But the truth is, I’ve spent the entire week in this weird limbo, where I’m pretending I don’t care, pretending I’m fine. But I’m not.

Still, I try to keep myself busy. I’ve got my new flat, right? It’s not just empty space, it’s mine. And the more I sink into it, the more it starts to feel like a home.

The new flat vibe is pretty damn good, I’ll admit. It’s like the universe is handing me a chance to do something with my life, to build it the way I want to. No more shared walls, no more roommates, no more worrying about someone else’s mess. This is my space. It feels cool, like I’m finally grown up. Like I’m not just floating through life anymore, I’m steering the ship. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I’m crouched on the floor, rearranging bookshelves for the fifth time.

Should I arrange them in order of colour or by authors surname?

I’ve thrown myself into interior design, and honestly, it’s a little embarrassing how into it I’ve gotten. I’m that person now — scrolling through Pinterest boards and flipping through magazines like I’ve got my life together. Who even buys magazines anymore? Me, apparently. Maybe it’s the thrill of having a blank canvas, or maybe it’s just me convincing myself I’m doing something productive while I wait for Will to acknowledge me again.

It’s not just the flat. Somehow, I’ve picked up three new hobbies in the last week. Because of course I have. Why not? I’ve got the space for them now, and apparently the energy too. I’ve started baking — simple stuff, like cookies, but it feels like a tiny victory each time the oven beeps. Then there’s painting. Like, actual painting, with brushes and canvas. It’s therapeutic in a way I didn’t expect. And, just to really round it out, I’ve joined an online book club. Because I have a ton of time to read now, right?

I think I’m doing all of this because I’m trying to fill the space, to prove I’m okay. That I can do this alone, that I can be enough. Because right now, all this newness is really just a distraction from the quiet. The kind of quiet that grows when the person you’ve been waiting for stops showing up.

But at least I’ve got these things, right? New hobbies, a new flat. It’s like I’m learning how to be by surrounding myself with things that fill the silence. I’ve got three types of flour in the pantry, a canvas that’s half-painted in the corner, and a Pinterest board that’s at least 50% living room inspiration. At least it’s something.

I just wish I could shake the feeling that it’s all a little... empty.

Like no matter how many hobbies I pick up or how many magazines I flick through, I’m still just waiting. For Will to text, for him to show up, for him to decide whether or not he wants to be in my life.

Maybe I just want to feel like I’m worth something. Worth his attention. Because right now, all this newness in my life — the flat, the hobbies, the Pinterest boards and the cake experiments — it’s just stuff. It’s all just stuff I’m using to fill up the quiet, to fill up the space where Will’s presence should be.

And then there’s work. God, work. It's is just awful. It’s like every day I’m dragging myself through quicksand, and the more I think about it, the more I want to scream. I moved across the world for this job, and right now, I can’t even remember why I thought that was a good idea. I was so excited back then — new city, new job, new life — but now? Now it’s just a slog.

The people at work are fine, the work itself is fine, but everything just feels so... meh. I felt Will pulling away all last week — the messages slowing, the distance growing in the silences between us. And I just let him, I guess. It’s like he’d already checked out, and I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in.

It’s like I’ve slipped into autopilot. I go in, work on my silly little programs, then come home to stare at the same four walls of my flat, wondering if I’m just wasting time.

The real kicker is when I think back to last week — that week with Will, building furniture, figuring out the best spot for the couch — it makes coming back here feel that much harder. How was it so easy with him? We were in sync. We didn’t have to try; just living together for a few days felt... right.

But now? Now it feels like that was a different life, a different version of me. One who wasn’t dragging herself through a job she feels nothing for. One who had the energy to care about something deeper than painting.

I want that feeling back. That rhythm. But every time I sit at my desk or stare at my inbox, the thought won’t leave me: Why did I come here? And more importantly — where is he?

Work was supposed to be the thing that would make it all worth it — the move, the change, the upheaval. But instead, it’s just another reason to feel stuck.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s easier to blame the job than to admit that maybe I’m just goddamn lonely. It always comes back to that doesn’t it?

Every. Fucking. Time.

I'm sick of going on about it.

I felt so cool when I got this job. So proud of myself. Like I was finally getting what I deserved. A real, grown-up job in a new city. In London, It was the dream, right? I had this whole story about how I’d made it.

They headhunted me. Me! Some young woman from halfway across the world, with no more than a decent CV and a wild idea that maybe, just maybe, I could do this. The company paid for my flights, gave me a sizable bonus — which, honestly, I only just used to furnish my flat. I always thought that money was the start of something big. I was going to fill my new space with things that meant something, that screamed me.

We can ignore the part where it took me eight months to find a flat.

But I don’t talk about it much. I kept it to myself, like a little secret that I didn’t want to admit, even to myself. This whole “new life” thing, I mean. It sounded so easy, so clean when I first thought about it. Move abroad, get a job, settle in. And yet, here I am, restyling my bookshelf again, and trying to piece together what was supposed to be this amazing new chapter.

And George! I couldn’t believe I got to live in the same city as George again. The mate who was there when everything felt like it was falling apart, the one who somehow kept me grounded and floating at the same time. After all this time apart, suddenly, we were both here, sharing the same streets, the same city.

And Look how that turned out.

Okay, I’m being overly cynical now. I say that about George, but it’s better now. At first, I wasn’t sure what to expect — how to slip back into the old rhythm. But after the move out conversation, in the garage, everything felt lighter with him. And then he  sent me a meme out of the blue, and I felt this weird little buzz in my chest. Like we were gonna pick up right where we left off, no awkwardness, just that familiar ease. It felt good.

It is good.

He seems less intense now, less… complicated. Or maybe I’ve just learned to roll with his quirks. Either way, we’re back to sending each other memes and laughing over all the dumb stuff we used to get up to. It feels easy again, and that’s a fucking relief.

And we’ve got that dinner I promised him coming up! After all this time, it’s finally happening. Don't ask why it took two weeks, I’m honestly just excited to catch up, to hang out with him like we used to. No pressure, no weirdness. Just two friends who’ve found their way back to each other. I say that. I still lived with him when it was weird. We didn’t exactly leave each other. But honestly, I can’t stop smiling just thinking about it. Feels like the good old days.

I drag my fingers through my hair and try to focus on that instead of the Will situation. And it works. Mostly.

My head’s too full of questions about Will, too full of the aching uncertainty of what’s really going on with us. I could blame work for all of this, but that wouldn’t make anything easier. It pulses on the back of my brain light a headache that no amount of paracetamol can cure

It buzzes beneath the noise of everything else, stubborn and unwelcome, refusing to let me forget.

xxx

Dinner with George is... easy. Comfortable. I can’t remember the last time I was this relaxed with him. We’re at a nice Italian place near his flat. It's nothing fancy, just cozy. The kind of place where you feel like you’re in the middle of a casual night out, not some rom-com scene.

It’s weird, seeing George not at the flat. He’s always been just... there, popping in and out without any big plans. The whole time we've known each other it's been like that, even living across the UK we used to just, pop in. But now, we have to plan to see each other, carve out time like it’s something that needs scheduling. We’re grown-ups now, I guess. It feels different.

I tell him that, how strange it feels to have to make plans, to check calendars, to figure out when we can actually hang out. It’s all a bit too real. Like, we’ve entered that stage of adulthood where everything is a bit more... intentional.

He shrugs, almost like he’s not bothered by it, but there’s something in his smile that makes me think maybe he gets it. “I’ll give you your key back,” he says, his voice light. “It’s all good to just drop by whenever, yeah?”

It should feel like a relief, and in a way, it is — a reminder that some things don’t have to change. That maybe we can still be friends, like we always have been. No pressure, no awkwardness, just that easy, familiar connection.

I try not to dwell on how different it feels now. The crush is long gone... mostly. There’s a comfort in knowing we’re still friends, even if it feels different now. Even if it feels more like a chapter that’s winding down than one that’s still building. But we’re still here, still part of each other’s lives, just in a new way. And honestly? That’s something worth holding onto.

We’re talking about everything and nothing now, the move, Arthur's new gross habits, Monaco. The whole trip is sounds a bit surreal.

I still think about Will's invite, and I’m still not sure why. I can't go, obviously—work, timing, all that—but it’s the kind of thing I’m sure would been fun if I could go. I tell George this, all casually, just another thing in passing.

So then he asks, “How are things with Will?” The question hangs there for a second, like it’s some innocent check-in, but I can already hear the curiosity in his voice.

I shrug, taking a bite of my pasta before I answer. “Yeah, not really happening anymore. I told you it wasn’t serious,” I say it like it’s no big deal, because, honestly, it’s not. It’s just another thing that didn’t work out. Another almost.

I'm fucking lying to myself, obviously.

I’m sure he can see it on my face. Maybe he can’t, though. Maybe I’m better at hiding it than I think. Either way, I push the thought aside, pretending that I’m not bothered. But it lingers, heavy, as I stab at the pasta with my fork.

George’s expression softens. He leans back and nods slowly. “That’s shit, you know? Even when you don’t expect it to go anywhere, it still hurts when someone pulls away.”

There’s a pause as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “I guess sometimes people don’t always know how to handle things. Or maybe they just don’t know what they want.”

He gives a small, understanding smile, the kind that says he’s been there before, even if the words aren’t perfect. “But hey, you’re not alone in this. And you deserve someone who’s all in — not half here, not half gone.”

I manage a weak laugh. “Yeah, well, it was never gonna be serious anyway.”

But honestly? I thought we were getting somewhere—felt like maybe this time it was real. Guess I was just fooling myself.

George nods, taking a slow sip of wine, eyes still watching me like he actually cares. “Yeah. But sometimes the ‘never serious’ things still sting.”

And just like that, it feels a little easier—not because the situation’s changed, but because someone seems to get it. Even if it’s just George, being George.

The rest of the dinner is just... normal. The kind of night where I’m not thinking about the past, or the future, or anything that’s been hanging over my head. It feels so good to have him back, in this easy, uncomplicated way. We talk about the usual stuff, laugh at the same jokes, and for once, it feels like things are just right. For now, I’m okay with that.

That's me lying to myself again.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00 @migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

newly-mated cassian x reader or azriel x reader finds out his mate is pregnant, and his primal protective instincts go crazyyyy,overprotective isn’t even the word, like if someone looks at her funny he has a knife to their throat. or imagine someone pushes her and she falls and he just beats them to the brink of death

Baby daddy

Let's be real Azriel is protective in general. This man makes it his mission to keep you safe. With all the fears of past and present enemies getting their hands on you... No, he simply won't let it happen. Not on his watch. So add a baby on the way to the mix. That's a recipe for an overly protective fea male.

And it's safety that involves anything and everything. It's not just him having his shadows on watch 24/7. It's not just him having a weapon on him constantly. It's not just him making sure that you constantly have someone watching over you. And no it's not only him growling at Madja when he notices even a slight sight of discomfort on your face during an appointment.

No, it's Azriel putting all the snacks in the bottom drawer because the night he saw you climbing the counter was the night he aged five hundred years and got a handful of greys. "Get off, get off", his shadows are all over you before he even steps forward, "But chocolate chip cookies, Azriel", you say. He's only shaking his head, "No spider mama, nonsense. You ask or you don't get any", and he means it lovingly but you're sobbing so much that he knows there has to be a compromise in this.

Bet you his shadows are spawning in front of you with a glass of fresh herbal water every thirty minutes and you have black blobs just patiently waiting for you to take it. Following you are until you do, "Tell your dad, I'll be peeing all night because of him", you mutter but all you get in response is a cool caress from the dark creatures.

And even if Azriel is not a naturally touchy person his hand is always on your bump now. Even before you're showing. It's there and it never leaves. Slowly stroking your skin. I feel like his brain would explode when he starts feeling a bump forming there. And that his palm is now moving in a somewhat round surface.

It's an ever-watching Azriel. His senses are a thousand times sharper. And it does lead him to step out of line. A baker looked at you funny because you bought four loaves of bread instead of one and asked for an extra butter spread. Well, congratulations the old man is now on the death list and Azriel's dagger is buried in the wooden counter. "You have an issue?", the words are so venomous. And the look. The spymaster look. The shadowsinger look on his face. And the baker only shakes his head. Adding an extra baked good for you. And you're walking down the street munching on it happily. Not noticing the chaos Azriel had awoken behind you. The shadows that are spooking the poor man shitless.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think that he would go as far as to lock you up. He knows his limits. And he knows he can be overbearing. But it comes from the heart. Az had already lost so much. Life had only been taken away instead of giving him anything. So now that he has you. And the baby. That quite frankly his whole world. His whole life. He's living for you two. So nothing is too much in his eyes. More like, nothing is enough in his eyes.

I feel like the people of Velaris would start calling you the goddess of darkness. Because once again half of Azriel's shadow population is with you. Twirling around you as you walk. Covering you from the harsh midday sun. Pouring all around you. And I see his shadows as literally creatures of their own so you would always have these little buddies keeping you company. Dragging the juiciest gossip from all over. And carrying all the baby bits you end up buying. And covering for you when you buy a little bit too much. Shhhh... don't tell Azriel.

And I doubt Azriel would go on long missions or assignments. Like half a day is the longest. No matter what he has to be home by dinner. There's no way he's agreeing to anything that breaks that rule. Because evenings are for him and you, and the baby. With him lying by your tummy, pressing light kisses all over your bump as he talks about his day.

[salmonballsss]

The Violet Hour

(Chapter 11)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 12k

Warnings: Blood, Drinking.

You pushed yourself off the couch and followed after her, finding Agatha already halfway through pulling things out for dinner. A loaf of bread thudded onto the counter, a block of cheese, a can of tomato soup spinning once before she caught it lazily with one hand.

You hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a second. Watching her. It wasn’t fair, the way she made even rummaging through a pantry look good. “What?” she said without looking up. “Afraid you’ll catch something if you step into the kitchen?"

You scoffed and crossed your arms. "Just wondering when you became so domestic. Should I be expecting a pie next?"

Agatha finally glanced over her shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You’re lucky you’re injured," she said dryly, "or I’d make you churn the butter by hand."

You snorted and stepped into the kitchen fully, leaning your hip against the counter. "Churn the butter? What are you, ninety?"

Agatha gave a small, mock gasp and clutched the can of soup to her chest dramatically. "You wound me," she said, flashing you a look over the rim of her glasses. The worst part was—she almost pulled it off. She almost made you feel bad.

Almost.

You tilted your head, giving her your best unimpressed stare. "Oh, please. You’re fine. Besides..." you added, grinning a little, "if you can survive my ‘stupid old ghost towns and witch obsession,’ I think you can survive a little sass."

Agatha quirked an eyebrow at you, setting the can down with a soft thunk . "You know," she said, voice lilting just enough to be dangerous, "you were smiling pretty hard when you were talking to Billy."

You froze for half a second. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

"And yet," Agatha continued, casually pulling a knife from the drawer and starting to slice the bread, "you never smile like that for me."

You blinked. Actually blinked. Did she just—? "You’re pouting," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Agatha’s slicing slowed for a fraction of a second. She glanced sideways at you, her mouth pressed into a line that might, maybe, almost have been a tiny little pout.

"I am not pouting," she said flatly.

You grinned, chest warming in a way that had nothing to do with the fact the stove was now on. "You totally are. Don’t worry. It's cute."

Agatha scoffed, tossing a slice of bread onto the pan with a little more force than necessary. "Cute," she muttered. "If I’d known surviving a hellbeast just meant getting mocked in my own house, I would’ve left you to bleed out."

You just shrugged, the sass coming easier now than it ever had before. "Well," you said, lifting a brow, "maybe if you were actually funny, I’d smile more."

Agatha set the knife down slowly, then turned to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with her arms folded. She gave you a long, slow once over—head to toe—like she was deciding exactly how much she was going to make you pay for that.

You stared right back, refusing to be the first one to break.

For a second, you were sure she was about to launch some scathing, perfectly delivered comeback that would make you regret ever opening your mouth.

Instead Her lips twitched. And she smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a grin.

A smile. 

Soft. Real.

And way, way worse. Your stomach flipped traitorously. "You’re getting cocky," Agatha said, pushing herself off the counter and turning back to the stove.

You shrugged again, heart hammering a little too hard. "Someone’s gotta keep you humble."

Agatha chuckled low under her breath, flipping the sandwich expertly in the pan. "Careful, sweetheart," she said. "You keep talking like that, I might actually start to like you."

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but all that came out was a strangled sort of ha, which only made her laugh harder.

You turned your attention to the soup simmering quietly on the stove, trying very hard not to combust on the spot.

Maybe you were injured. Maybe you had black veins crawling across your side. Maybe you were stuck in a house with a woman who made your stomach do backflips with a single look. 

But at least, for tonight, it felt like you might survive it. Maybe. If you were lucky.

You tried to ignore the fluttering in your chest, instead focusing on the pot of soup that had been bubbling away for far too long. You couldn’t let her get under your skin—not now, not when she was standing there looking like she was plotting some devilish move, a smirk playing on her lips as she turned the sandwich once more.

"What's the matter?" Agatha’s voice cut through the air again, a teasing lilt that made you tense up. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just enjoying the view?" She gave you a sidelong glance, her eyes twinkling with the mischievous glint that had become all too familiar.

You couldn’t help it—you smirked, folding your arms across your chest as you leaned against the counter. "You really think you’re that charming, huh?"

Agatha’s eyebrow arched in an exaggerated fashion, her gaze sweeping over you. "I don't think it, darling. I know it."

You rolled your eyes, playing it off like it didn’t affect you. "Please. The last time I checked, you were just making sandwiches."

“Making sandwiches?” Agatha's voice went all offended as she flipped the sandwich once again, the crispy edges beginning to darken to perfection. "Excuse me, but I do believe this is more than a sandwich. This is a masterpiece."

You raised an eyebrow. "A masterpiece? It’s bread and some cheese."

She smirked, spinning around to face you fully now, her hands resting on the edge of the counter. "Don’t knock my culinary skills."

"Oh, I’m sure it’s delicious, " you teased, the corner of your lips twitching upward. "But are you sure you’re the one who’s cooking it? I’m starting to think you summoned a demon for this meal. Maybe that’s why it’s so… perfect ."

Agatha’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the smile never left her face. "You really are something else, aren’t you?" Her voice was low now, like she was both amused and intrigued. "Maybe you should be careful. I don’t like it when people test my patience."

You leaned in, lowering your voice to match hers, though there was a playful spark in your eye. "What are you going to do? Cast a spell on me?"

"Is that a challenge?" Agatha's lips curled in that dangerous little smirk, the one that made your stomach flip every time she did it.

You held her gaze for a beat longer than you intended, the words on your tongue slipping out before you could stop them. "Maybe I’d like to see what kind of spell you’d cast."

Her eyes darkened, just the slightest flicker of something dangerous dancing behind them. For a second, the tension between the two of you thickened, as if the air was electric with unsaid words. But then, in a blink, it was gone. Agatha broke the stare with a chuckle, turning back to the stove.

"Perhaps another time," she said, not missing a beat. "Now, go sit down. You’re distracting me."

You fought the urge to grin like an idiot, instead choosing to play it cool, even if every nerve in your body was buzzing. "Fine," you muttered, crossing the kitchen to the dining room table. It was hard to ignore how her gaze followed you for a fraction of a second, but you did your best.

You took a seat, eyes flicking between Agatha and the food, your thoughts still swirling with that last moment of tension.

Agatha joined you moments later, placing the perfectly grilled sandwiches on the table along with a steaming bowl of soup. The scent hit your senses like a wall—earthy, warm, and, for some reason, comforting. She sat across from you with a satisfied look on her face as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Go ahead," she said, her tone nonchalant. "You were so eager to test my culinary prowess. It’s only fair you get to taste it first."

You didn’t need to be told twice. The smell was too enticing, and your stomach growled as you picked up your sandwich, taking a cautious bite.

The crunch was perfect. The cheese—melty and sharp. The bread—golden and crispy. You could feel your eyes close in pleasure at the first taste, and you couldn’t stop the hum of approval that slipped from your lips.

"Okay," you admitted, grinning despite yourself. "I’ll give it to you. This is actually really good."

Agatha leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her smug expression returning. "I told you." Her gaze dropped to your half finished sandwich as you continued eating, and her voice dropped, becoming teasing once more. "Now, do I have to convince you to keep complimenting me, or is that the last one you’re getting for tonight?"

You swallowed your bite, raising your eyebrows. "I’m not that easy."

"Oh, I know," she replied with a wink, her tone low and knowing. "That’s what makes it all the more fun."

The banter between you both continued, light and easy, as the meal stretched on. Agatha had a way of drawing you in, her dry wit and sharp tongue making it hard to tell where playful teasing ended and something deeper, more dangerous, began. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward; it was charged, like the kind of tension you could cut with a knife if you wanted to. But neither of you said anything more about it. Instead, the evening drifted on, filled with laughter and that soft, familiar spark of something unspoken.

And for once, it felt normal. A brief escape from the whirlwind of supernatural chaos that seemed to always follow you around lately. Just two people—sharing a meal, teasing each other over sandwiches and soup, sitting side by side in a comfortable rhythm that made you forget about everything else.

Well, almost everything. The back of your mind still couldn't shake the feeling that you were being played, that something was happening beneath the surface that you couldn't fully understand. And yet, despite it all, you couldn't stop the small part of you that wanted to stay.

That wanted to see just how far Agatha would take this.

"Don’t look at me like that," Agatha said suddenly, her voice soft but sharp all the same, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You’re looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out."

You blinked, feigning innocence. "I’m not looking at you like anything."

Her gaze didn’t falter. "Oh, but you are. Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll figure me out in time."

There it was again—the mystery, the teasing, the promise of something more.

And just like that, the playful bickering resumed, with Agatha throwing another small comment in your direction, and you tossing it right back.

The evening would end. But for now, this moment—this quiet, complicated, messy, delicious moment—was enough to let you forget that you were tangled in a web you couldn’t yet see the edges of.

---

Dinner had passed in a blur of soft clinking, low murmured insults, and the occasional dramatic sigh from you whenever Agatha corrected how you cut your grilled cheese. It had been easy. Too easy. Almost normal. Agatha had smirked through half the meal, rolled her eyes at you the other half. You’d bickered lightly. She’d teased you about your terrible posture at the table. You’d called her a tyrant for insisting you eat the crusts.

And somehow… the world outside didn’t seem to matter for a little while.

But that was hours ago.

The clock on the guest room nightstand blinked 12:13 AM in soft, unbothered red light. You rolled over under the covers, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come. Your side ached dully, but it wasn’t just that.

It was the feeling. The buzzing. The wrongness under your skin. Something was off, you could feel it like an electric charge crawling up your spine. The air in the room seemed too thick, as if it were pressing in on you from all sides. The quiet, which you once found comforting, now felt suffocating. There was a tightness in your chest, and the shadows in the room seemed darker, denser, almost as if they were breathing.

You closed your eyes tighter, forcing your breathing to even out. Maybe it was just nerves. Maybe it was the strain of the last few days catching up to you. But that was when you heard it.

A tap.

Sharp. Deliberate. A sound that sliced through the suffocating quiet.

You froze, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. You listened, straining to hear anything else, but there was nothing.

Another tap.

The sound was louder now. Thicker. It almost felt like it was coming from inside the walls.

And then, there was a third tap. No, a scrape .

Your breath caught in your throat. No. No, no—you were imagining it. You were overtired. Stressed. It was nothing. You pressed your palm flat against your chest, trying to calm your racing heartbeat.

But then— A whisper. Not outside. Inside. 

It was low, crawling under the door, slipping around the edges of the walls like some dark fog. A coldness swept over you, the kind of cold that felt like it was burrowing deep into your bones.

Your heart pounded in your chest. The feeling of being watched. The sensation of eyes on you, unseen.

You bolted upright, gasping for air, the breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The tapping grew louder, faster. Scraping now. Something— dragging —across the glass. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t an animal. It was something else. Something deliberate.

You twisted in bed, eyes wide, scanning the window in the dark. And then your blood ran cold.

The vines were There. Thick, dark tendrils slowly crawled up the outside of the house, their shapes twisted and unnatural against the pale moonlight. They were visible, creeping up the sides of the house with a sinister deliberation, like they were searching for something—or someone.

No. Not the vines. Not now.

You clutched your side, feeling the black veins pulse beneath your skin, each beat like an echo of something darker, older. A tremor ran through you. The ache was getting worse, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts, but it was the vines—the whisper—that tore your focus away.

They twitched, sliding closer to the window. You could almost hear them, feel their scraping against the glass, inching toward you with a low, unnatural hiss.

Get out of here, you thought, but you couldn’t move.

Fuck this.

You couldn’t stay in this room. Not with those things outside, not with that whisper slithering around the walls.

You forced yourself to stand, your side burning with each movement. You stumbled, unsteady on your feet, and ripped open the door, slamming it behind you with more force than you intended. The hallway stretched out before you, dark and quiet as always.

You half ran, half limped across the creaky floorboards, desperate to find something, someone . You reached Agatha’s door, a wave of dread crashing over you. Your knuckles trembled as you raised your hand to knock. But then you paused.

The door was slightly ajar.

A cold shiver ran up your spine.

You nudged it open with your fingertips, stepping into the room slowly, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling.

Empty.

The bed was neatly made, untouched since the afternoon. No sign of her. No sign of anything. Just the emptiness of the room, the oppressive quiet.

Panic clenched around your chest, a tightness that made it hard to breathe. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for any hint of Agatha, anything that could explain this. But there was nothing.

And then, from somewhere deeper in the house, you heard it. The scraping sound again. Faint but distinct. Coming from the guest room. The vines.

The whispering.

Something was in the house. You could feel it, the malevolent presence of it. Your heart hammered against your ribs as your breathing quickened.

You spun around, your feet carrying you down the hall with a frantic desperation, each step echoing too loudly in the silence. Your thoughts spun in a panic as you reached the guest room door again. The whisper was louder now, rising from behind the door. It sounded like a voice— no, multiple voices , murmuring in a language you couldn’t understand.

You slowly, carefully, pushed the door open, every muscle in your body screaming at you to turn back. But you couldn’t. Not now. Not with that scraping sound dragging against your nerves.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the sliver of moon outside. And that’s when you saw it.

The vines, slick and black, crawled with deliberate malice across the walls. They twisted like living things, slow but certain in their approach, wrapping themselves around the furniture, the bedposts, the corners of the room. They weren’t just creeping —they were searching . As if they were alive and they knew exactly what they were looking for.

And the blood.

It wasn’t just leaking anymore. It was pouring .

The slow, rhythmic drip-drip-drip from the ceiling had become a cacophony, the drops thick and slow like a countdown to something awful. The blood pooled beneath you, dark and viscous, swallowing the floor, turning the wood into something unrecognizable.

You could feel it now. The air was alive with tension . You could feel something creeping up your spine, a presence—no, a force —gathering in the room. You weren’t alone. You never had been.

The whispers had stopped for a moment, but their presence lingered like a terrible weight in the room. You could hear them even though they were silent now. You could feel them. A soft brush against your mind, slithering, twisting into your thoughts, pulling at the edges of your sanity.

Come closer… 

The voice called your name, but it wasn’t just one voice anymore. It was hundreds—thousands—murmuring, a choir of darkness whispering through your skin. Their breath was like ice against your ear. You could feel them— feel them —everywhere, crawling up the walls, pressing in on you.

It wasn’t just the vines. It was something in the house. Something inside you. The house knew you. And it was calling you.

A sudden, sharp screeching sound made you flinch—like the sound of nails dragged across glass, jagged and grating. You twisted around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Outside, through the window, you saw it.

A figure.

A shadow, barely visible at the edge of your vision, but it was there . You could see the outline—tall, thin, blacker than the night, standing motionless, staring through the glass at you. You couldn’t make out any details, but you felt its gaze. Like it was watching you.

It was a figure you knew, but it couldn’t be. It was just a shadow, a flickering silhouette against the dark wilderness outside. It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t human. 

The wilderness beyond the window seemed to come alive, pulsing with a life of its own, reaching toward the house. The trees in the distance moved , their twisted limbs stretching, almost pointing , as if the earth itself was calling to the figure. The trees whispered with voices—low, guttural murmurs—and the wind carried their words like a song sung backward.

Your breath caught in your throat. The forest —it wasn’t just the house. It was the land. It was all part of it. The figure outside wasn’t just some person. It was a part of this place, something ancient, something that had always been here.

The trees groaned under the weight of something far darker than any storm. The shadows in the woods flickered and swayed like they were alive, their movements too quick, too unnatural. The whispering grew louder, more insistent.

Come closer… 

You couldn’t take it anymore. The blood on the floor, the vines wrapping tighter, the black figure outside. Your heart raced, pounding so hard in your chest you thought it would crack your ribs. You turned toward the door, hands trembling as you reached for the handle, but the vines moved faster now— too fast —wrapping around the doorframe, pulling it shut with a force you couldn’t hope to fight.

The door slammed shut in your face, sending a shock through your body that rattled your bones.

No.

No! 

Your heart pounded, panic surging through you. You pushed at the door, your hands slick with cold sweat, but it wouldn’t budge. The vines hissed, their tendrils slithering across the wood like snakes, twisting and gnashing. And then, from behind you, the blood— it was moving —as though the room was alive. The dark liquid seemed to swirl, pulling toward the center, forming shapes. Distorted, twitching shapes.

And then, just as you thought you might drown in it, the shape of a hand emerged from the blood. Thin, skeletal fingers reaching toward you.

The whispering came again, and this time it wasn’t soft.

It was loud , suffocating, tearing through your mind. They were everywhere now , inside you, filling your ears, crawling through your skin, making you feel them in your very bones.

Come closer. Join us. 

The shadows outside the window grew darker, their shapes stretching toward you, thick and hungry, clawing at the glass, trying to get inside. The figure in the wilderness moved, a sharp motion like a predator.

It’s waiting for you. 

It wasn’t just a voice now. The earth was speaking, too. The trees outside, the floor beneath your feet—they were all alive , murmuring in a language you didn’t understand, pulling at the threads of your sanity, urging you to listen.

The blood was growing, spilling over the sides of the bed now, rushing across the floor in a thick, pulsing wave. You stumbled backward, slipping on the slick surface, barely catching yourself before you hit the wall. The whispers pressed in on you, suffocating, and the darkness in the room deepened.

A scream built in your throat, but it wouldn’t come. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Your eyes were wide, locked on the bloody shape moving toward you on the floor.

And then—the door behind you creaked. Slowly, agonizingly slow, as though it had been waiting for you to turn.

No… Your brain screamed at you to move, to run, but you couldn’t.

It was already too late.

The shadow outside the window— it moved toward you .

You felt a sudden chill, the kind that went all the way down to your soul. The thing outside wasn’t waiting anymore. It was coming. It was going to get you .

They had you.

The blood seemed to pulse, the shadows seemed to twist with a life of their own, and every inch of you screamed to flee. Agatha . You had to get to her. She was the only thing between you and this madness, the only thing that might save you from whatever was happening in this house.

Your legs trembled, barely able to support you, but you didn’t care. You slammed your hands against the door, pushing against the vines that had wrapped around it, pulling them back with more force than you thought you could muster. They hissed and screeched like living things, fighting against your grip. Your fingers burned with cold, the feeling of them crawling under your skin, but you didn’t stop. You yanked, pulled, slammed the door until the vines snapped under your strength.

You burst into the hallway, gasping for air, your heartbeat thrumming in your ears as you staggered down the hall. The walls felt like they were closing in, the floor beneath your feet like it was shifting, trying to pull you into the darkness below. The temperature in the house had dropped, an icy chill seeping into your bones. You could almost feel the breath of something cold on the back of your neck, but you didn’t dare look behind you.

You couldn’t.

Agatha’s voice echoed in your mind. Get to Agatha . It was the only thing that mattered now.

The stairs were a blur beneath you as you stumbled and sprinted down them, barely avoiding tripping over the wooden steps. Every corner of the house seemed to be alive now, groaning, whispering—like the house itself was waiting, watching, hunting you.

You hit the bottom of the stairs, breathing in sharp gasps, your eyes darting around the darkened living room. The fire that had been burning earlier was now reduced to dying embers, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to stretch and twist unnaturally. Every shadow seemed to stretch too long. Every corner of the house seemed darker than it should be. You rounded the corner into the living room— And stumbled to a halt.

There, sprawled casually across the green couch, laptop balanced on her knees, was Agatha. She had one hand curled lazily around a glass of wine, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she scrolled through something on the screen. She looked up at you slowly. Raised an eyebrow.

"Midnight jog?" she asked dryly.

You stood there, panting, trembling, still half expecting something monstrous to come tearing through the windows after you. Agatha clicked her laptop shut and set it aside, studying you more closely now.

Your shaking hands. Your wild eyes. Your heaving chest.

Her amusement slipped a little. Not gone. But... muted. "Hey," she said, voice softer now. She set the wine glass down carefully on the coffee table. "Come here."

You hesitated.

Another whisper curled through your mind. Something tugging at your ribs, pulling wrong. You stumbled forward anyway, unable to stop yourself.

Agatha caught your wrist gently when you got close enough, tugging you down onto the couch beside her. You collapsed more than sat. "Talk," she ordered.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out except a broken breath. Agatha shifted closer, her hands surprisingly warm against your wrist and the small of your back, grounding you.

You clenched your fists. "The window," you rasped finally. "There was... tapping. And vines. And whispers."

Agatha’s face darkened immediately. She didn’t scoff this time. Didn’t mock. "Where?" she asked, already standing. You pointed vaguely upstairs, the muscles in your arm trembling.

"Guest room window," you whispered.

Agatha didn’t hesitate. She moved across the room in two strides, grabbed something off the mantle—something small and silver—and tucked it into her sleeve.

You didn’t ask. You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

"Stay here," she said, her voice edged with something unfamiliar. Not anger. Not fear.

Resolve. 

You stayed rooted to the couch as she disappeared up the stairs, your heart pounding painfully. You heard her footsteps. The creak of the guest room door. Silence.

And then—

A low, thudding noise against the walls. Something heavy dragging. You flinched back instinctively, curling tighter into yourself. Another thud.

Then a hiss—like steam escaping, only wetter. Thicker.

Agatha's voice, low and sharp, barking something you couldn't understand. The air vibrated. The floor under your feet hummed. You squeezed your eyes shut.

The memory of the vines snaking up the window, the feeling of the black veins in your side pulsing, the voice whispering your name in a dozen wrong languages at once—

It all slammed into you. You pressed your hands over your ears, trying to block it out.

You didn't know how long you stayed there. Minutes? Hours? The clock on the wall ticked steadily, oblivious to your spiraling panic.

When you finally heard footsteps coming back down the stairs, you nearly cried in relief. Agatha appeared, looking slightly... rumpled.

Her sleeves were rolled up now. Her hair was a little messier. And there was a faint streak of something—dust? ash?—on her forearm. She crossed the room and crouched in front of you. "You okay?" she asked, and for once, there was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just concern.

You nodded shakily, though you didn’t feel okay at all. Agatha studied you for a moment longer, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face. "It wasn’t real," she said finally. "The vines. The whispers. Whatever you saw."

You blinked at her, confused. "What?"

 Agatha tapped your side lightly—right over where the black veins were etched under your skin. "It’s your wound," she said. "It’s... leaking. For lack of a better word." You stared at her blankly. Agatha pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly trying to choose her words carefully.

"The creature you summoned," she said slowly, "its mark is still inside you. It left of piece of itself in you… and  the piece that's left is feeding you fear. Making you see things."

Your stomach twisted painfully. "So... I'm going crazy?"

Agatha gave a small, tired laugh. "No, sweetheart," she said. "You’re just... haunted."

Haunted. 

Like that was somehow supposed to be better. You let your head drop into your hands, breathing hard.

Agatha sat beside you again, close enough that her thigh brushed yours, her body warm and steady against your side. "You’re not alone," she said quietly. You didn’t know if she meant here, in the house—or in the fight still ahead. Maybe both.

You let yourself lean into her just a little. Just enough to feel the solidness of her against you. For tonight, at least, you could pretend that was enough. You stayed curled against the arm of the couch for a while, breathing slowly, letting the tremor in your chest settle.

Agatha didn’t hover, which somehow made it easier. She stayed seated at the other end, her wine glass dangling between two fingers, half-watching you, half-watching the windows. The storm outside—or whatever you wanted to call it—had calmed. No vines. No tapping. Just a chilly, restless night.

After a minute, you pushed yourself upright, heart still pounding but not wild anymore, and crossed to the nearest window. You stood there for a second, arms crossed, staring out into the garden.

Nothing but darkness and the faint outline of trees. "You expecting to see something?" Agatha’s voice was dry behind you, but there was a warmth to it too. Something lighter.

You shrugged. "Just making sure the house isn’t about to get... eaten, or something." You heard the faint clink of glass as she tipped her wine to her lips again. "You’re very dramatic, you know that?"

You huffed a little, giving the garden one last suspicious glance before turning back to her. "Forgive me for not being totally chill after hallucinating demon vines."

Agatha made a tsk sound under her breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. You flopped back onto the couch, breathing out hard. She sipped from her glass again, lazy, slow, like she had all the time in the world.

You watched her for a moment. Then—without thinking—you blurted "Can I have some?"

Agatha arched a brow, swirling the wine in her glass. "I don’t think mixing whatever black plague you’ve got with alcohol is a doctor approved plan," she said dryly.

You rolled your eyes. "I’m fine. It's one glass."

She kept swirling the wine. The corners of her mouth curved upward. "And," she added, "are you even old enough, pet?"

You sputtered, sitting up straighter. "I’m twenty four!" Agatha laughed— actually laughed—a low, throaty sound that warmed your skin faster than the fire in the hearth.

"Alright, alright," she said, pushing herself off the couch. She moved a little slower than usual, which was the first real sign that the wine was hitting her harder than she was letting on.

You watched her go to the kitchen, grab another glass—something smaller, less fancy—and pour you a careful half glass of wine. She brought it back and handed it to you with a little flourish.

"There. One scandalous drink," she said. "Try not to die on my couch." You stuck your tongue out at her and took a sip. It was better than you expected—warm and rich, the taste blooming across your tongue. Agatha reclaimed her spot next to you, sitting sideways on the couch, one leg bent up, glass cradled loosely in her hand.

The room felt softer now. Dimmer. Like the night had shrunk down to just the two of you. You took another sip, feeling the tension in your chest ease a little more.

"So," you said, trying for casual and probably failing miserably, "what do you do all day? Besides feed injured historians and critique their posture?"

Agatha tilted her head, considering. "Would you believe me if I said gardening?"

You blinked. "...Honestly? No."

Agatha laughed again, leaning her head against the back of the couch. "Smart girl," she murmured. "Gardening’s more of a side hobby."

You sipped your wine, emboldened by the warmth spreading through your veins. "Okay, then. What’s your main hobby? Mysterious woman of Hollow Wood?"

Agatha smiled slowly, lazily, like she was weighing how much she wanted to say. "I collect things," she said finally. You raised an eyebrow. "Books?" you guessed, thinking of the study.

She nodded, taking another long drink. "And artifacts," she added. "Oddities. Stories people forget about."

You tilted your head. "That’s... actually kind of cool."

Agatha chuckled under her breath, looking at you over the rim of her glass. "I thought you’d approve. Little miss history major." You blushed, fiddling with the stem of your glass.

"I’m writing about the witch trials," you muttered, like she didn’t already know. Agatha’s eyes gleamed in the low light. "I know." You grumbled. Of course she knew she just help you with it earlier today! You about faceplamed but you fear that would've just been worse.

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, you just watched each other. Then you cleared your throat, desperate for something— anything —to break the tension curling between you.

"Alright," you said, sitting up a little straighter. "What else do you do? Any hobbies that don’t make you sound like a haunted museum curator?"

Agatha grinned, lazy and slow. "I can cook."

You gave her a look. "Grilled cheese doesn’t count."

"It does if you make it right," she shot back, mock offended. You laughed into your glass, warmth blooming in your chest. God, this was... nice. Weird. But nice.

"You’re not what I expected," you said before you could stop yourself. Agatha tilted her head. "Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?" 

You shrugged, cheeks burning. "I don’t know… some recluse scary writer, I guess."

Agatha smiled, slow and sharp. "You think I’m not scary?" You opened your mouth. Closed it. Took another drink. She laughed, low and smug, and set her glass down on the coffee table. You stared at her for a second, the words slipping out before you could catch them. "I think you’re... complicated."

Agatha’s smile faltered for just a second. Not gone. Just... softer. She leaned back, studying you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t decided whether to solve or leave broken. "You’re not wrong," she said finally, voice quieter now.

You sipped your wine, heart pounding a little harder than before. "You’re complicated too," Agatha added after a beat, and somehow it sounded like a compliment.

You smiled, tucking your knees up against your chest. Another minute of silence stretched between you—comfortable now, somehow. The wine was buzzing pleasantly under your skin, loosening the stiffness from your muscles, from your tongue.

You fiddled with the rim of your glass, feeling the warmth spread lower, sinking into your chest, your thighs. The edges of the room went soft and golden, like a painting you couldn't quite look at directly.

"You’re staring," Agatha said lazily.

You blinked, realizing you were, in fact, staring at her—at the slope of her neck, the careless way her sweater slipped off one shoulder, the slow, languid twirl of wine in her glass.

You coughed into your hand, mortified.

"I think you’re a bit drunk, Ms. Harkness," you muttered, trying to sound braver than you felt.

Agatha tilted her head, a wicked glint in her eye.

"Don't call me that," she said, voice dropping into something low and dangerous.

Your breath caught.

"It makes me feel old," she added, sipping her wine like she wasn’t slowly skinning you alive with her words. You tucked your knees closer, trying to hide the way your thighs pressed together, the way a sudden throb deep in your core made your breath stutter. There it was again—that pull. The heat. The ache.

You looked at her through your lashes, your voice a little smaller now.

"...Should I call you Agatha, then?" You joke softly.

The way she smiled made your skin prickle. "Agatha's fine," she said, swirling her wine lazily. "Unless you want to call me something else." You choked on your drink, coughing violently into your sleeve. Agatha just laughed, the sound low and teasing. God, she was dangerous. Absolutely, mind numbingly dangerous.

"You’re evil," you said hoarsely, setting your glass down before you could embarrass yourself further.

She just smiled wider, looking so goddamn smug. "You’re not the first to accuse me of that," she said, voice syrupy.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, groaning dramatically. "I’m too drunk for this."

"You’re barely tipsy," Agatha teased. She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees, glass dangling from her fingers.

Her eyes found yours again. Caught. Held. "You’re cute when you’re flustered," she said, almost conversationally, like it was just a fact. Heat flooded your face—and lower. Your cunt clenched again, desperate and aching, as if your body wanted to betray you completely.

You hated it.

You loved it.

You looked away, trying to pretend you weren’t seconds from losing your mind. "You’re mean," you muttered.

"I’m honest," Agatha corrected, sitting back against the couch, looking terribly pleased with herself. You exhaled slowly, trying to steady your racing heart.

"Seriously though," you said after a moment, voice still a little shaky. "How old are you?"

Agatha tilted her head again, considering you like she might eat you whole. "Older than you’d think," she said finally, voice smooth as silk.

You narrowed your eyes, pushing back, emboldened by the wine. "That’s not an answer."

Agatha’s smile grew wider, almost fond. Almost dangerous.

"It’s the only answer you’re getting," she said, taking a slow sip from her glass, eyes never leaving yours.

You stared at her.

You weren't imagining it.The way she spoke. The way she moved.  The way she always seemed slightly out of time, like she belonged to another era entirely.

You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of the wet heat pooling in your underwear. Agatha’s gaze flickered down—barely noticeable—then back up. You swallowed hard. The tension crackled between you, thin and sharp and so damn close to snapping.

"You’re not... like, a hundred, are you?" you asked, voice lighter than you felt.

Agatha laughed, low and dark. "Would it bother you if I was?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, eyes gleaming.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You had no idea what to say. She laughed again, softer this time, and reached for the bottle, topping off both your glasses without asking. You took yours with shaking fingers. Agatha clinked her glass lightly against yours, the touch lingering for half a second too long.

"To curiosity," she said, voice dipped in velvet.

You swallowed and echoed her.

"To curiosity."

You both drank. The air between you buzzing now— live wire tight. Agatha leaned back again, stretching like a cat, sweater riding up just enough to flash a strip of bare stomach.

You swallowed so hard it hurt.

"So," Agatha said, studying you with that lazy, predatory amusement. "You’re staying for three more days, hm?"

You nodded, trying not to look directly at the bare skin she wasn't even trying to hide. "That was the plan."

Agatha hummed, tapping her glass against her knee. "Shame," she said, almost idly. "You’re just starting to get interesting."

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting.

"I've been interesting," you said, too quickly, too defensively.

Agatha laughed, eyes sparkling. "Mm. Debatable," she said, but there was no bite in it.

Only... fondness. 

You stared at her, your chest tightening, your thighs clenching together again. Your whole body screamed for her—wanted her—so badly it hurt.And Agatha...

She knew. 

She had to know. She watched you like she could read every secret, every pulse under your skin. Her smile softened a fraction, and for a second, you saw it. The loneliness. The weight she carried beneath all the smirks and sarcasm. You wanted to touch her. You ached to.

But you stayed where you were, hands clutched around your wine glass like a lifeline. Agatha shifted forward, setting her empty glass down. She was closer now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ruin you.

She held your gaze, steady and unblinking, the firelight dancing in her dark hair. And when she spoke, it was barely a whisper "Careful, little historian."

You shivered, the words skating down your spine.

"You keep looking at me like that," Agatha murmured, her voice rich and low, "and I might get ideas." You opened your mouth—to say what, you didn’t know. But nothing came out.

Nothing but the rapid, shallow sound of your breathing. You were one wrong move away from falling headfirst into something you couldn't undo. And god help you— You wanted to. You swallowed hard, the heat in your body climbing higher, pooling low in your belly.

You couldn’t look away from her. You didn’t want to. You gripped your wine glass tighter, heart pounding against your ribs, and before you could chicken out, before you could think better of it, you heard yourself say— "Maybe I like some of your ideas." Your voice was soft, a little shaky, but you didn’t take it back.

Agatha’s eyes darkened immediately. That slow, almost lazy amusement on her face tightened into something sharper. Hungrier.

You watched her carefully set her glass down on the coffee table. Deliberate. Smooth. You could barely breathe. For a long second, neither of you moved. You just watched each other. The fire crackled in the hearth. The air between you throbbed, heavy, electric.

Then—

Slowly, carefully, Agatha shifted closer. The couch dipped under her weight. Your thighs brushed. You sucked in a shaky breath, feeling the heat of her even through your clothes. Agatha’s hand came up, fingers ghosting lightly along the side of your face—so soft it made you tremble. She paused there.

Waiting.

Giving you the chance to pull away. To change your mind.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You tilted your face up to her, just slightly—enough. That was all she needed.

Her mouth met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. Tasting. Her lips were warm, plush, and you could taste the wine on her tongue—sweet and sharp and intoxicating. You whimpered into her mouth, and that was it.

The dam broke.

Agatha’s hand slid into your hair, tugging you closer, deepening the kiss. You gasped against her lips, and she swallowed it down, kissed you harder—hungrier—like she was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy her.

You clutched at her sweater, desperate, needy, pulling her against you. You could feel her smile against your mouth, wicked and greedy, and god—you wanted more. You needed more.

The heat between your legs throbbed violently, your cunt clenching with every messy brush of her tongue against yours. You moaned into her mouth, your thighs pressing together helplessly.

Agatha groaned low in her throat, like the sound of you was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Her hands slid lower, gripping your hips, tugging you closer until you were half in her lap. You gasped again, dizzy, drunk on her, drunk on the wine, drunk on the way she kissed you like she owned you—like you’d belonged to her long before this moment.

Her mouth slanted over yours again and again, deeper each time, her teeth nipping lightly at your bottom lip, making you whine. You arched into her without thinking, hands sliding up her chest, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of her sweater.

You could feel her heartbeat hammering just as fast as yours. Could feel her body tense and trembling under your hands.

She wanted you. You could feel it.

And god—

You wanted her, too.

You kissed her harder, mouth opening wider, letting her in, letting her have you, your hands clawing at her, trying to pull her closer, closer, closer. Agatha’s hands roamed your body—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your ass—until you were shivering under her touch, helpless, completely undone. When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, her forehead rested against yours.

Her breath was ragged.

Her lips were swollen and red.

Her hand was still tangled in your hair. You stayed there for a long second, breathing each other in. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The world had shrunk down to just this.

Just her.

Just you.

And the taste of wine still lingering between your teeth. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was her.

But one second you were catching your breath— and the next you were crashing back together, mouths colliding, teeth knocking clumsily. A desperate, needy kind of kiss.

Messy.

Hot.

Your fingers found the hem of her sweater, curling into it, dragging her closer until your chest pressed against hers, until you could feel every frantic beat of her heart against your ribs. Agatha groaned into your mouth, her hands slipping under your thighs, pulling you fully into her lap without a hint of effort. You gasped at the sudden closeness, at the way your body molded against hers, perfectly, like you'd been made to fit.

Her hands ran up your sides, slow at first, almost taunting, and you whimpered into her mouth, your hips shifting helplessly against her. You couldn’t help it. You needed more. Your hands slid up—over her ribs, across her shoulders—until they tangled into her dark, messy hair, tugging gently, and she moaned low into your mouth, deep and rough and absolutely devastating.

You felt it all the way to your toes. You kissed her harder, letting your wine fogged bravery push you further. You tore your mouth from hers and kissed along her jaw, trailing sloppy, open mouthed kisses down the elegant line of her neck.

Agatha’s breath hitched— and then, to your utter, drunk delight—

A sound slipped out of her. Small. Ragged.

Choked.

Barely there.

But enough.

Enough to make your core clench painfully, enough to make heat flood between your thighs until you were practically trembling in her lap. You kissed her neck again— harder this time—sucking lightly just under her jaw. Agatha’s hands tightened on your hips, dragging you even closer, grinding you down against the firm, strong line of her thigh.

You moaned helplessly, gasping against her skin, desperate to get closer, to be closer, to disappear into her entirely. "Fuck," you breathed against her throat.

Agatha laughed low and breathless, one hand sliding up your back, fingers digging into the curve of your spine. "You're trouble," she murmured, voice wrecked and thick with wine and heat.

You kissed along her throat again, more shameless now, your body rocking against hers without even thinking. "You're worse," you muttered back, dragging your teeth lightly over her pulse point.

Agatha’s hand slid up into your hair, tugging your head back just slightly, just enough to make your lips part with a soft gasp. Her eyes locked onto yours—dark, glazed, starving. "You have no idea," she whispered.

And then she was kissing you again— harder, deeper, teeth scraping against your bottom lip, her tongue pushing into your mouth like she needed to own every inch of you.

You melted against her, your whole body on fire, your thighs shaking with need. You could feel the dampness soaking through your underwear, could feel your cunt throbbing for her, desperate and aching.

Her hands roamed everywhere now—your back, your hips, the underside of your thighs—pressing you down harder against her lap, grinding you against her until you were whimpering into her mouth, clutching at her like you’d fall apart if you let go.

You didn’t know where you ended and she began. Didn’t care. You only wanted more. More of her mouth. More of her hands. More of her. Always more. And when you pulled back just enough to breathe, panting against her lips, her forehead resting against yours, her hands still locked around your waist— Agatha smiled. A slow, wicked, possessive kind of smile. And you realized with a shiver—

You were already hers.

You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

your nails dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer, desperate to keep your mouth on hers, to keep feeling her—tasting her. You were dizzy with it, drunk on her— on the wine— on the heat and hunger simmering between you.

But then— Something shifted. It was like falling through ice.

Your body jerked against hers— and then you were elsewhere. 

FLASH.

The forest.

But not just any forest.

This one knew you.

The trees stretched up like twisted hands clawing the sky, gnarled and black, draped in heavy curtains of moss.

The air was thick with smoke.

The mist clung to your skin like a second layer.

Antlers gleamed through the fog— towering, grotesque shapes worn by figures in dark robes.

Their faces hidden behind bone masks.

Their chants low, guttural, old.

"Venite ad nos..." 

The words rippled through the trees, vibrating the ground beneath your bare feet.

You stood barefoot in a circle scorched into the earth.

Symbols carved deep, pulsing with faint purple light.

You could feel the magic in your bones.

It throbbed under your skin, ancient and aching.

Latin spilled from your mouth without thinking— words you didn’t understand but spoke as if you'd known them forever.

"Dominus noctis, audi me." 

The robed figures bowed lower, their antlers dipping toward the earth.

And across the clearing—

Agatha.

Not dressed like now.

She wore no modern clothes.

Just a long black cloak thrown over simple linens, her hair loose and wild around her shoulders.

And her eyes— God, her eyes—

Violet.

Unholy.

Beautiful.

They locked onto yours, and something inside you remembered. 

You loved her.

You belonged to her.

In that life.

In this one.

Forever.

She stepped forward, the mist parting around her like it feared to touch her. She reached for you— and you met her halfway, falling into her arms without hesitation. The chanting rose louder, frenzied now, a fever pitch that rattled your teeth.

Above you, something vast and ancient stirred in the darkness—something watching.

Agatha pressed her forehead to yours. "You were always meant for more," she whispered, voice breaking like she was trying to save you— or maybe damn you.

The world burned purple around you.

FLASH.

Back to the present— but you weren’t fully back yet.

Your fingers were still clutching Agatha’s sweater, your lips still pressed to hers— but your body seized, convulsing once, twice.

Pain ripped through your skull. And then— you felt it—

Warm and wet against your upper lip. Agatha pulled back instantly, hands clamping your wrists, forcing you still. "Hey," she rasped, voice rough and terrified for once. "Hey, look at me—"

You blinked, disoriented. Your vision swam— the firelight spun around the room in dizzy gold streaks.

Agatha’s hand cupped your jaw, firm but trembling. Your breath hitched when you saw her thumb brush your upper lip— coming away slick with thick, black blood.

The same tar dark gunk you'd thrown up days ago. "No, no—" you whimpered, trying to pull back, heart hammering wildly in your ribs, but Agatha held you steady.

"Shh," she whispered, voice low and almost fierce. "You're alright. Just breathe. You're alright." You gasped against her palm, your chest heaving, your mind still reeling from the vision. The black blood dripped slow and viscous down your chin, staining your shirt, smearing her hand.

Agatha's eyes were huge, dark pools, scanning your face like she could will you back into your body. You tried to say something—tried to apologize, to explain— but all that came out was a broken, shuddering sob. Your nails were still dug into her shoulders—hard enough to bruise—but she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t even flinch. She just gathered you against her, pressing your forehead to hers, breathing with you.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

"You’re alright," she murmured again. "I've got you. I've got you." You clutched at her sweater, gasping, trembling, the black blood still weeping from your nose. And behind your eyes— Still there, burning — the image of the woods. The antlers. The chanting. Agatha’s violet eyes across the mist.

The raw, undeniable certainty— You hadn’t just studied witches.

You had been one. 

You had loved her once. And somehow, impossibly— some part of you still did. You shuddered violently, your face pressing harder into Agatha’s neck. She rocked you gently, one hand cradling the back of your head. Neither of you spoke.

Not yet.

The only sound was your ragged breathing— the faint crackle of the fire behind you— and the slow, steady thud of Agatha’s heart against your chest.

Holding you here. Holding you together. For now.

You were trembling in her arms. Still tasting blood. Still feeling the ghost of the woods pressing into your skin. Still dizzy with the memory of a life you couldn't possibly have lived. Agatha held you tighter, the rough knit of her sweater scratching your cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just breathing. Just surviving.

But the longer you sat there, the hotter it burned. Confusion. Fear.

The ache.

You jerked back finally, tearing yourself out of her hold. Agatha let you go instantly, her hands falling away like you’d burned her. You stumbled a step back, wiping at your mouth, at the black sludge still oozing sluggishly down your chin. "What the hell is happening to me?" you whispered.

Agatha didn’t answer. Her hands clenched at her sides. You shook your head, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. Your throat clogged with grief. With fear you couldn’t name.

You pointed a shaky finger at her, voice cracking. "Is this you?" you demanded. "Are you—" Your breath hitched. "Are you doing this to me?"

Agatha flinched. Actually flinched. And something in your chest twisted at the sight. She looked— not angry. Not defensive.

Just... stricken.

"I’m not—" she started, voice rough, but she stopped herself. You laughed, a broken, bitter sound. The wine still buzzed under your skin, making everything feel too close, too bright, too raw .

"I don't know anything anymore," you said, voice shaking. "I don’t know what's real. I don’t know who the hell I am. I see things—feel things—every time I get near you. And now I'm puking up black tar and speaking Latin and—" Your breath stuttered. "—and I don't even know if I'm losing my mind or if you’ve been lying to me this whole time."

Agatha was silent. Watching you. Still. Too still.

It made you want to scream.

"Say something!" you snapped, voice breaking completely now. Agatha’s mouth twitched like she was about to— but then she just shook her head.

Like it wasn’t that simple. Like no answer she could give would fix what was breaking open between you. "You're not crazy," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "And I'm not hurting you."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat. Tears stung the corners of your eyes—hot and fast and unwanted. "But you're not telling me everything either," you said, voice trembling. "You know something. You know why this is happening to me."

Agatha's jaw worked—tightening, relaxing, tightening again. She looked away first. Looked at the fire instead of you. "I know enough," she said quietly. "To be scared for you."

The words gut punched you harder than anything else she could have said. You wiped your mouth again with the back of your hand, feeling the sting of embarrassment, anger, grief swirl under your skin.

Agatha said nothing. And that silence— that infuriating, suffocating silence— was somehow worse than any lie she could have told.

Your chest heaved. Your side ached with every breath. The black veins pulsed painfully under your skin, screaming that something inside you was wrong, broken, unraveling.

And she was just— standing there. Silent. Stone faced.

Safe.

While you felt like you were falling apart piece by piece. "Of course you won’t say anything," you choked out, taking a staggering step backward. "Because that’s what you do, isn’t it?"

Agatha’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t move. "You lie," you hissed, your voice rising. "You dodge. You deflect. You hide in this stupid house like the world’s already ended!"

"Stop," Agatha said quietly. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"You act like you’re so above it all—so clever, so fucking untouchable—but you’re just scared," you spat. "Too scared to tell the truth. Too scared to even face it!"

The words were pouring out now, too fast, too raw to stop. "And you know me," you shouted, your voice cracking apart at the edges. "I know you do. Because I’m having these—" You clawed a hand through your hair, trembling so hard you could barely breathe. "These visions ! And you’re in every single one of them!"

Your voice broke on the last word. "You’re always there," you whispered hoarsely. "Staring back at me. Like you remember." Agatha didn’t deny it. She didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, her face carved in stone, her hands curled into fists at her sides.

The fire cracked sharply in the hearth, the only sound between you. "I can’t do this," you muttered, backing up another step toward the hallway. "I can’t stay here."

"You’re not leaving," Agatha said immediately—too fast, too sharp. You barked out a humorless laugh, swallowing down the bitter taste of bile and wine and rage.

"You don’t get to tell me what to do," you snapped, shoving past the couch. Agatha moved to block you without hesitation, her body between you and the door like a wall.

"You don’t understand," she said, voice low, nearly shaking with something you couldn't name. "It’s not safe for you out there."

"I don't care!" you shouted, the words ripping out of you like claws. "I don't care if it's not safe! I can't breathe in here! I can't think—"

"You think the beast is gone?" she cut you off sharply, stepping closer.

You stumbled a step back but kept your chin high, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt.

"You think it isn't waiting for you?" Agatha said, her voice cold and cutting now. "You summoned it. It's tied to you. You walk out that door, it’ll rip you apart before you even make it to the street."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because you didn’t have an answer for that. Your body shook with exhaustion, your side throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but the anger was still burning too bright to stop. "You think I don’t know fear?" you whispered, your voice ragged. "You think you get to be the only one who's scared?"

Agatha said nothing. The silence stretched again, taut as wire. "I trusted you," you said, voice breaking. "I don't even know why. I don’t even know you."

Agatha’s mouth opened. Closed. Like the words were too big, too dangerous, to say aloud. And maybe they were. But you didn’t wait around to hear them. You shoved past her again, your shoulder slamming into hers harder than you meant, sending a sharp ache jolting through your wounded side.

You didn’t care.

You stormed down the hall, your bare feet slapping against the hardwood, the whole house seeming to shrink and twist around you with every step. Behind you— "Don’t," Agatha said, voice low, dangerous.

You ignored her. Reached for the front door. Fumbled with the lock. Your fingers were shaking so hard you could barely turn it.

The door creaked open— And then you were yanked back, spun around so fast the world blurred. Your back hit the wall with a dull thud, the breath punched out of your lungs. Agatha pinned you there, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your wrist so tightly it made your whole arm throb.

You gasped, heart crashing against your ribs, blinking up at her— And froze. Because her face was inches from yours. Her eyes boring into you. And for a second— just a second— you saw it. A flicker. A flash of something not quite blue. Not quite human.

Violet.

Burning.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse hammering wildly. But when you blinked again, it was gone. Trick of the light. Wine. Fear. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. "You can’t leave," Agatha hissed, her voice raw, like it was being torn from somewhere deep inside her. "I won’t let you."

You struggled, half hearrted, more out of instinct than any real intent to fight her off. "Let go," you rasped, chest heaving.

"No," she snarled. The hand by your head slammed flat against the wall, the sound echoing through the foyer like a gunshot.

You flinched. "You don’t understand," Agatha said, low and feral. "You walk out that door, and it’ll tear you apart. I can’t —" Her voice broke. She leaned in closer. So close you could feel the heat rolling off her skin. So close you could taste the wine on her breath.

"I can't lose you again," she whispered. You stared at her, your heart thundering in your ears. Again.

Again?

The word rattled around in your skull like a bullet, leaving everything else in its wake shattered and senseless. You swallowed hard, the fight bleeding out of your limbs, leaving you shaking with something else now. Something hotter.

Something hungrier .

Agatha’s hand loosened on your wrist—but didn’t let go. Her eyes searched your face— wild, desperate, furious. Waiting. Daring.

Your breathing was a mess. So was hers. Your bodies, still pressed too close, radiated heat. The kind that crackled. The kind that burned.

For one terrifying, electric moment— you thought she was going to kiss you again. Right there. Right against the goddamn door.

You wanted her to.

You hated yourself for it.

You loved yourself for it.

Your hand twitched against her chest, caught between shoving her away and pulling her closer.

She saw it. You knew she did. Because her lips parted—just slightly—like she was about to say something. Something that would wreck you. But she didn’t. She just stood there, pinning you to the wall, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping her alive. And you— You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare blink. Didn’t dare do anything except feel your whole body thrum with the knowledge that whatever existed between you was bigger than both of you.

Older. Hungrier. And it wasn’t finished yet. Not even close. You hated her. You hated her for lying. You hated her for knowing things you didn’t. You hated her for looking at you like that— for standing so close—

for daring to care .

Your body was trembling, your side ached, your lip was still wet with the aftermath of that cursed black blood— And you still wanted her. Maybe that was what broke you.

Maybe it was the fear. The confusion. The anger twisting hot and wild through your veins. Or maybe it was just her. Standing there, breathing just as raggedly as you. Not moving.

Waiting.

You surged up before you could think about it—before you could stop yourself—and slammed your mouth onto hers. Agatha jerked back half a step, stunned. Her hand slid from your wrist to your hip, gripping hard. You kissed her like you were drowning. Like you hated her for every secret she kept. Like you wanted to devour her just to finally get to the truth. Agatha made a soft, startled sound against your mouth—half gasp, half growl.

You felt her hesitate. Felt the split second war inside her. Then she snapped. Her hand fisted into your shirt, yanking you closer, and she kissed you back like she could burn the fight out of you. You groaned against her lips—frustrated, furious, needing more—and she swallowed it down like it was something precious.

Your fingers tangled into her hair, tugging hard enough to make her gasp against your teeth. And still— even as her hands slid hungrily down your back, even as her mouth moved over yours like a woman starved— you were muttering against her skin.

"I hate—" You gasped as her teeth grazed your lower lip. "I hate that you never explain anything—"

Another kiss, harder now, bruising.

"I hate that you always just look at me like—like you know —" Her mouth was on your jaw, your throat, her breath hot and desperate. "And you never—" You gasped when her fingers dug into your hips. "Never fucking tell me—"

She growled low in her throat, dragging you flush against her body, and the feel of her—solid, wild, real —made your head spin. Your nails scraped across her shoulders, clutching, grounding yourself against her.

Agatha’s left, veiny hand slid up under your shirt, not quite touching skin yet, but close—so close you could feel the heat of her palm burning through the thin fabric. You shuddered under her touch.

You hated her.

You needed her.

You hated needing her.

You moaned softly, biting down hard on your lip to keep from saying more, but she caught your chin, tilting your face up to hers, forcing you to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, her cheeks flushed, strands of dark hair falling loose around her face.

"You think you’re the only one who hates it?" she rasped, voice wrecked and low. You stared at her, chest heaving. Her hand trembled slightly against your jaw.

"You think this is easy for me?" she whispered, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, almost tenderly. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to breathe around it. So you kissed her again.

Harder.

Messier.

Drunker on her than you were on the wine. She met you halfway, groaning low in her throat as she pushed you back against the wall, her body caging yours in completely. Detaching Herself from your lips, her head moving down as her mouth was on your throat now, teeth scraping lightly at the sensitive skin there, and you gasped, your hands flying up to clutch at her shoulders again.

You could still taste the wine on her tongue when her mouth claimed yours again. Bitter and sweet and dizzying. You didn’t care. You wanted more. You raked your fingers through her hair, tugging, desperate. Agatha’s hands slid down to your thighs, gripping tight, dragging you up so you could wrap your legs around her waist—and you did, clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in a world made of shifting, lying shadows.

You could feel the vibration of her moan against your chest when you sucked lightly at the corner of her mouth. And she— She kissed you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Like you were a promise she was too broken to keep but couldn’t bear to let go of. And even through the haze of it— even through the anger and the hurt and the raw aching want— you knew:

This wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Not until she told you everything. Not until the lies were burned down to ash between you.

But for now— You clung to her. You clawed at her sweater, desperate for more skin, more heat, more proof she was real. Agatha’s mouth never left yours—not for a second—as she fumbled the hem of her sweater, ripping it over her head in one swift, impatient motion.

You pulled from the kiss, your hands flying up to touch her—bare skin, warm and flushed, the faintest marks of age and strength under your fingertips. Your nails scraped across her ribs and she growled , low and dangerous, pinning you harder against the door, grinding into you like she wanted to leave bruises, reminders, warnings.

You kissed her back just as feral, just as desperate. "I hope you choke on all your fucking lies," you gasped against her mouth, the words ripping free before you could think better of it.

Agatha froze. For one heartbeat—one crackling, unbearable heartbeat—her whole body went rigid. And then— You felt her smile against your lips, slow and razor sharp.

"You," she rasped, voice rough with the threat of breaking, "have a smart fucking mouth." You were panting, glaring up at her, your thighs tightening around her waist like you were daring her to do something about it.

"And enough of that—" She ducked lower, her mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, the thudding pulse in your throat, the tender slope of your collarbone, hot breath making you tremble. " For now. " You shuddered when she said it, her voice wrecked with restraint she was seconds from losing.

Her mouth dragged lower, teeth grazing your skin, leaving ghost bites down your neck. Your head hit the door with a soft thud, fingers twisted tight in her hair. You felt her exhale against your collarbone. Felt her lips barely brush the hollow of your throat. And then—hot, guttural, like it cost her something to say "I know you."

Your breath hitched. Her mouth moved lower, dragging down your chest, across your sternum. "Just not this body."

It punched the air from your lungs. A broken noise slipped out of you—somewhere between a sob and a moan—as you clutched her tighter, feeling like you might drown in her, in the wine and the heat and the impossible weight of her words.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because deep down—you knew it was true.

You knew it in your marrow. You knew it from the way your body answered hers like a prayer half remembered. You knew it from the way she kissed you like she was trying to put centuries of grief back inside your mouth. You gasped her name, raw and aching, and Agatha’s hands slid up under your shirt, mapping your ribs, memorizing you like she hadn't done it a hundred times before in other lives, other centuries.

You were dizzy.

Drunk.

Devastated.

And then—

You saw it again Just for a second. Her eyes flashed— violet —deep and blinding like the visions that haunted your sleep. You gasped, clutching at her bare shoulders. Agatha’s hand slid up—fast—catching your face in a rough, almost tender grip.

You barely had time to see her fingers coming—pressing two of them against your temple— Before the world tilted sideways. A shudder racked your body, your limbs going boneless, slumping against the doorframe. The last thing you saw before the darkness dragged you under was Agatha’s face— her flushed cheeks, wild hair, bitten lips— and something like regret burning behind her storm cloud eyes.

"Shh," she whispered, almost broken. "I'll fix it."  Then— Nothing.

Black.

Weightless.

Silent.

Like sinking to the bottom of a lake you’d never surface from.

And Agatha’s voice—the memory of it—following you down into the dark.

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Next Chapter

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Authors note- How do you guys like the longer chapters compared to the usual 4-6k?

[sangrefae]

Do u have any silly gale headcanons we are in desperate need of gale positivity

YES most of them are to do with his siblings tbh.... #1 big brother gale like

he would give posy the world if he could and can never say no to her, so at times his hair will be an absolute wreck bc she insisted on doing it for him and he glares at anyone who says anything to him about it

if posy handed him a fake phone for him to answer he would 100% have an entire fake conversation, voices included

is something of an animal magnet. Animals just.... flock to him and immediately gauge that he passes the vibe check. rory in particular is mad about this bc hes the exact opposite and animals tend to HATE him

surprisingly good at impressions and doing silly voices too. only uses this skill for posy's bedtime stories

afraid of spiders. never says anything bc he has to deal with them anyway but it's important to know

along the same lines, he'll tease katniss for being squeamish and then turn around and be deathly afraid of needles

his favorite color is blue, like you see in flowers like columbines and forget-me-nots

keeps an extensive collection of bracelets and necklaces posy has made for him and wears them every so often. he's tried to make them for her too but she says that he "does it wrong" (aka doesn't use the brightest colors available)

really really prolific with dad jokes. i mean. the whole "look what i shot!" with the bread in the first book was just the tip of the iceberg. he makes it a goal to fill a certain groan quota with rory and vick

a mama's boy through and through

ive talked about it before but his hair is naturally flawless and he's infuriatingly oblivious about it. katniss wants to strangle him sometimes bc of it

taught every one of his siblings how to tie their shoes, including prim

used to collect ribbons and pretty pieces of fabric for prim when he'd see them. still has the habit, but now he just gives them to posy or keeps them in the bottom drawer of his bedside table

[jawsoffate]

Diabolically Yours | part IV (vessel!demon x reader)

Summary: Emma just wanted a simple magical boost to win a writing contest, not a snarky and handsome demon bound to her soul. But after summoning the wrong hellspawn, she ends up stuck with Vessel: a sarcastic, shirtless chaos entity who won’t stop flirting or stealing her snacks. Now they’re magically tethered, emotionally entangled, and dangerously close to something much scarier than a pact gone wrong... feelings.

TW: Contains supernatural shenanigans, mutual pining, steamy tension, and one annoyingly hot demon. Read with care (and maybe holy water on the finals part).

💖 masterlist

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Part IV: Sugar, Spice, and Demonic Advice

The following days were a hands-on lesson in the dangers of mixing summoning rituals with poor attention to detail and badly translated PDFs.

Emma tried to live her life. Write, send résumés, buy bread. Human things. But nothing was exactly simple when you had a demon bound to you by a mystical tie – especially one only you could see.

Going out in public with Vessel had proven to be a daily exercise in self-control. He was there, all the time, walking beside her with that intense, impossible-to-ignore presence. It was like wearing perfume that was way too expensive: everyone thought it was you, but only you knew it came from somewhere else.

"You seriously have to leave the house in that outfit?" he asked as she adjusted her coat in the mirror.

"It's a normal outfit. Business casual. Job interview."

"Business casual? That thing screams ‘hire me, I’m miserable and willing to accept emotional compensation.’"

"It’s what I’ve got. And you’re not even supposed to care."

"I care about your image. We’re a pair now. If you embarrass yourself, I get dragged down too."

"Only I can see you!" Emma rolled her eyes and walked out the door. Vessel floated half a meter off the ground behind her just to be annoying, though no one else could see or hear him. To the outside world, Emma looked like a woman talking to herself in the middle of the street.

Which, naturally, drew stares.

"You should smile more," he whispered as she waited for the bus.

"Careful. That line has caused serial demon murders in feminist novels."

"I love danger."

On the bus, he sat beside her and started narrating the lives of the passengers in an overly dramatic voice:

"That one probably dropped out of philosophy school to open an iguana pet shop. The lady in blue... definitely a retired spy. And the guy with the earbuds? Addicted to true crime podcasts and secretly bakes cakes."

"Can you shut up?" she hissed as quietly as possible.

"I can. But I won’t."

Emma tried to ignore him. At the final stop, as she walked toward the publishing house where her interview would take place, Vessel bounced alongside her like a chatty, inconvenient shadow.

"You should introduce yourself like this: ‘Hi, I’m Emma, and I have an accidental pact with a demon who gives bad advice and hogs the couch.’ Shows personality."

"I’m going to shove you into my dirty sock drawer."

"Delightful. I’ve always wanted to know what accumulated shame smells like."

At reception, while she waited, he leaned close to her face.

"You’re nervous. Your heart rate’s up. Any specific reason, or should I cause a power outage so you can leave the interview dramatically?"

She pushed him – or tried to, since her hand passed right through his shoulder.

"Okay, okay… I won’t get in the way," he said, lounging against the wall. "But if you stutter, I’m making the phone ring and telling them your cat’s on fire. Now tell me that’s not an amazing excuse."

________________

After the interview – which turned out to be a smaller disaster than she expected, which already counted as a win – Emma suggested a strategic break. Nothing like a dose of caffeine to pretend life was under control. Vessel, of course, followed her to the coffee shop with the enthusiasm of someone heading into medieval torture.

“Human cafés. Where beans are burned and emotions are sweetened,” he commented, glancing around with theatrical disgust.

The place was charming, all dark wood and hanging potted plants. The scent of coffee and fresh-baked cake filled the air. Emma was just beginning to relax – until the barista, tall, curly-haired, with a smile that could warm iced coffee, approached the counter.

“Hey again,” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter and smiling straight at her. “Going with the usual? Hibiscus tea with lemon?”

“I am, thanks for remembering,” she replied, with a smile she tried to keep neutral – but it came out a bit sweeter than intended.

“And this time, no sugar. Or... okay, just one,” he winked.

“One it is,” she confirmed, blushing slightly.

Vessel, behind her, made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a barely restrained growl.

“Fascinating,” he muttered. “The power of the human smile. Amazing how your heart rate spikes just because of that.”

“Shut up,” Emma whispered, still wearing a sheepish grin.

The barista handed her the tea with a folded napkin on the side. In neat handwriting, it read: “For a great follow-up after your interview,” with a little star drawn next to it.

“You said you were nervous yesterday... hope it went well,” he smiled again, and Emma felt her face catch fire.

“Thank you. It was... less catastrophic than it could’ve been.”

As she walked away with her drink, Vessel floated alongside her in silence for a moment, until:

“You know that little crush on the barista is pointless, right?”

“He’s nice,” she replied, blowing on the tea and trying to hide her smile. “And he remembers my order.”

“He also writes notes. How romantic,” Vessel crossed his arms, hovering beside the table where she sat. “What’s next, singing to you?”

“Better than your poetic growls.”

“He used to put two sugar packets in your tea until last week. That’s basically a crime.”

“He smiles at me.”

“I smile at you too.”

“Yeah, but you don’t mean it.”

“Exactly,” Vessel said, resting his chin on his hand like he was bored – but his tone gave him away. “And yet, you blushed.”

Emma tried to hide her burning cheeks by dramatically sipping her tea – only for it to be too hot and burn her tongue. She let out a low groan, embarrassed, and Vessel stifled a laugh.

Before she could retort, the barista returned to the table with a small plate and an overly wide smile.

“On the house,” he said, placing a brownie in front of her. “Thought you deserved something sweet after a tough interview. And, well... sweet goes with sweet, right?”

Emma’s eyes widened for a second, surprised, then she gave a nervous laugh.

“Thanks... That was... really kind.”

“If you want to come back later and tell me how it went, I’ll be here,” he winked.

Vessel watched the exchange with a tight-lipped expression that looked suspiciously like disgust. When the barista walked away, he crossed his arms and muttered:

“‘Sweet goes with sweet’? Seriously? That worked on you?”

“Oh, shut up.” She bit into the brownie, trying to hide her smile. “It was cute.”

“It was mediocre. You deserve better flirting. Something with fire, mystery... a hint of danger.”

“Like what, you?”

He didn’t answer.

She laughed, shaking her head, and leaned her elbows on the table.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

“I don’t get jealous. Demons don’t have those weak human flaws.”

“Sure.”

He leaned dramatically back in the chair, trying to look completely uninterested – but his eyes didn’t leave the barista, who was now stacking cups with unnecessary enthusiasm.

Emma bit her lip to stop another laugh.

“I think I’ll come here more often.”

“So will I,” Vessel replied calmly, but with a sharp glint in his eye. “Just to make sure no one adds extra sugar to your tea.”

“It’s not like you have a choice, do you? Wherever I go, you go and all that…”

She took another sip of tea, still feeling the warmth in her cheeks. Maybe it was the drink.

Or maybe not.

[cherrypickinns]

what's in a name?

a last late night conversation, where you confront lauren and start questioning if that's even her real name.

emily prentiss x reader words: 1.8k genre: angst cw: set in when emily was undercover as lauren, reader's role isn't mentioned, feel free to assume. lyric prompt: I will not ask you where you came from, I will not ask and neither should you. honey just put your sweet lips on my lips, we should just kiss like real people do.

a/n: my submission for my beloved @mggslover 's event, lovers1kevent, again congratulations lovely. tried something different so im terrified. ill just hide out after i post don't hmu kekfjrlfk. idk if the stove and fire thingy worked out as I wanted but oh well.

Nightfall fell like a blanket around the cold winter, three steps into the kitchen with just a lamp on. Dim lights remind you of the same moment just a few months ago, hurried hands roaming through kitchen drawers, hoping for just one clue. 

You take a knife, an untoasted piece of bread laid out on a plate, not much patience to turn on the stove so you spread out jam over it. Cold to touch, just like she was before the calamity. 

The thought was scary, not very surprising, but you had your suspicions. You only hoped for them to not be true. 

A clutter shakes you awake, looking around for any intruder or perhaps Declan, maybe he had a nightmare. The sound was brief as if the intruder had only realised the sound they made but you had heard it. 

Slow and tentative footsteps, careful to never make a sound, you try to decipher the direction of the sound. It's hard, now that it's so quiet. 

But then you hear it again, the scraping of a drawer. So you take the knife left on the kitchen counter, yielded in front of you as a warning. 

Just three more steps till you find out who's here but something stops you. You only see a glance of it, but it's all too recognisable. It's her. 

Her expressions are calm but her hands tell a different story. She doesn't dare look up, her eyes glued to the file she's holding open, determined to look at every word on the paper. 

“She must have stayed over,” You think as you see Lauren hurriedly turning over pages. 

Her looking through anything in the house isn't that much strange to you, but it's the middle of the night and her breath quickens at every second that passes. You know there is nothing normal about this. 

But you rest your weapon anyway, making sure to make a sound so she can hear you coming. And as you anticipated, her body reacted instantly, the file being closed and hidden, her hands busying themselves with the water bottle on the table. 

You slowly walk in, suspicion clouding your face. You don't know yet, but she can tell. She can pick out everything you want to say just by seeing your face, but you don't know that, yet.

“Hi.” You say,

“Hey,” she chuckles, “I was just making a sandwich, do you want one?” she asks, a smile betraying her narrow escape, and perhaps even the objective of her arrival, but she doesn't know that yet.

The red color of the jam stares back at you in fluorescent lighting, eyes strained from being open for too long. 

You're not even hungry anymore.

You can sense her now, a presence too heavy to ignore. You haven't looked up in a few minutes but you could feel her staring at you, brown eyes too enticing to ever look into. 

“You should eat,” she says. 

Your eyes close heedlessly, a sharp stab of pain you desperately hoped you never felt, but it was common nature now. You look up and force a smile, not caring much to make it look natural, she can always tell anyway. Another thing that haunts you most days. 

It's very hard to hide from her, but you can never find her, always looking at a distance, never too close or too far.

You’ve told her it's unfair, she only laughs. Cruel.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” 

She smiles, amused, endeared. Cruel.

“So you were sleep cooking?”

You're grateful she can't see you smiling, you don't want to give her the satisfaction. So, so cruel of you. 

“Don't make me laugh.”

“Is that a crime now?”

The garden was more beautiful to you at night, the smell of jasmine was much more prominent but you had to stay away, if you got too close it made you dizzy. 

You hear a sound, but instead of panic a warmth causes goosebumps all over your body. 

You know how you can tell someone's footsteps apart? 

Hers are unmistakable to you, you're positive you can tell her breathing apart from a crowd of thousands. But that's not appropriate to say out loud.

You learned that pretty quick, nothing was to be said out loud, it made it too real. You can't really tell why she comes every time you call, or why you oblige to her insistences, but you do anyway. Why would she kiss you senseless then laugh and tease, why would she let you roll your eyes at her? Why was it fine by you to sleep next to her when no one was home, why did you let everything happen even if it killed you, little by little? 

You’d asked her once, her fingers tracing meaningless patterns on your face, running a line up and down your nose. 

“Memory of a goldfish. Do you know how long that is?” She asks.

“A few seconds.” You answer.

“You think we can be goldfish?”

You laugh, it's music to her ears.

“Strange way of foreplay, but sure.”

She laughs, it's music to your ears.

“Schadenfreude,” You say as you assemble another piece of bread with the jam covering only one side of it.

You turn on the stove, I don't want to eat it cold justifying your actions but you know it's not accurate. Excuses, excuses.

It's because she's talking to you, and a sick need to hear it again and again and again until it grates your ears but that moment never comes. Somehow you're always looking for reasons to extend the time, finding excuses to turn on the stove. 

“Taking pleasure in other's misfortune.” She explains and you roll your eyes, of course she knows.

“Mhm. Good job.” You bite into a separate piece of bread as you wait for the pan to warm.

“Why is that relevant right now?”

“You're a classic example.”

Her eyebrows crinkle in offense and you want to laugh but it only pesters your heart, a rope tightening around your neck. 

“I don't take pleasure in anybody's pain,” She clutches her heart, mock pain, and it's a joke for her, but it's three in the morning. And you're tired. 

“You take pleasure in my pain,” an emphasis on the word ‘my’. 

Her eyes turn knowing, pitiful and sorry and you hate it. You hate that she has the upper hand, that she can tell you're a desperate, pathetic mess. 

“I don't take pleasure in your pain, honey-”

“Don't you fucking honey me.”

You think you can hear your heart beating, you can feel it in your neck, as if it will jump out any minute. The light sound of the clock ticking fills the silence. The pan is too warm now, so you turn down the heat. You don't want to burn your sandwich. 

She knows not to push, it's a known routine now. It stays silent until you take another piece of bread when she speaks again, just like clockwork, memory of a goldfish.

“Why did you turn on the stove if you were just going to eat them like this anyway?”

“I have free will, go away.”

“Just warm them you already have the stove-”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Okay, what's going on? Why are you being so dismissive?”

“Because I can-”

“Y/n.”

You only look at her, it's too hard to string together sentences anymore. This is one of the few select times you're grateful she can read you like a book. She knows what this is about. 

“What's your name, Lauren?”

It's only the second time you've asked that question. The first time the consequences felt too real. Her eyes hold betrayal, anger and every other thing you can think of. 

She should have been confused, dumbfounded when you asked her the first, she should have brushed you off. But she was angry, the biggest mistake on her part.

“What are you asking me??”

“Your name isn't Lauren.”

“How would you know?” 

“Because you don't answer me when I call you Lauren, it's someone else. It's not the same person who responds when I call her honey, sweetheart, angel, just anything else.”

It felt like a dare, who could win the argument, who would say the harshest words, ask the hardest questions.

“You promised not to ask.” It's an accusation.

“You won't tell me your name Lauren.”

“I can't.”

Your head hangs low as you take deep breaths. Fire burns underneath the pan, small and timid like it's tired. You put the sandwich on the stove, not keen on asking anymore questions, they never get answered anyway. 

You don't notice her get up, or walk towards you. You were hoping she'd just disappear, like none of this ever happened. But her hands cup your face and force you to look up. You keep your eyes closed, too afraid you'll recognise the look on her face. 

The same one she adorned when she was looking for answers, begging you to not ask anymore. 

But you're tired.

“You don't have any secrets? What is this then?” She gestures between the two of you, and a shadow falls over your face. It's unkind of her to ask this, it's not a fair question. She knows that, but she asks anyway.

“Are you kidding me? Are you seriously saying that? You?”

“We all have our secrets. You have yours, I have mine.”

A ringing alarm sound breaks your memory. Her hands leave you, hurrying to turn off the sound, to not wake anyone up. 

She flips the sandwich over, and the other side is burnt, too dark. 

“I don't feel real,” You say. It's a quiet admission, only meant for her. You're not even sure if you yourself want to listen to it.

“You're not real, Lauren. Neither of us are.”

You take the sandwich off the pan, soothing your fingers after the hot surface touches your fingertips. 

You look at her and she looks puzzled, it's adorable. The inexplicable urge to kiss her pesters you again, you had vowed not to do it, but she's too close for you to not to, so you reach her lips anyway, just for a second. But she keeps you in place, just a few more minutes, a phrase you've heard too often when sunlight starts peeking through windows. 

You turn the stove off as she lets you go, you take her silence as an apology. You don't think you could take anymore reasonings and explanations. 

...

The everyday noise of the mornings shakes you awake, you can't even tell when you fell asleep. It's only eight am, you've definitely not gotten enough sleep, but you force yourself off the bed.

The housekeeper is in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with the same knife you held last night.

You can't really tell if it was real or a dream, if you imagined a horrible goodbye or if that was it. 

But you hear Lauren giggling in the living room, and you hear Declan’s laugh accompanying hers. 

The dream was real, you know now but you don't try very hard to convince yourself that it was real. It's better off as a dream, you think.

As you look at the scene in front of. you, you think of the same sentence you've thought every morning for the past few months, Memory of a goldfish.

[youronebraincell]

hello! I just came across your blog and fell in love with your work! is it okay if I request a Beth Dutton x soft girlfriend reader where she’s the polar opposite of Beth (wears dresses is shy/kind to everyone) and everyone at the ranch has never seen Beth be so nice and in love openly💞

Sugar and Spice

Beth Dutton x Fem!Reader

Warning: implied sex, hurt/comfort, conflicted feelings, eventual fluff, happy ending

Word count: 3055

You’re the new cook at the Yellowstone.

It's before noon when Beth makes her way down the stairs of the main house. She follows the mouthwatering scent of food into the kitchen. She stops dead in her tracks when she sets sight on an unfamiliar woman. Her eyes rake over her figure.

“Who the fuck are you?”

You turn to look at her from behind the stove, your loose skirt swishing with the sudden movement. “Good morning!” You say with a warm smile. “You must be Beth” You extend your dominant hand for her to shake, but she just keeps staring at you, her eyes weary. You retract your hand and turn back to the stew cooking on the stove. You gently stir the rich liquid. “I’m Y/N. The temporary new cook”

“What happened to Gator?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is, ma’am”

Beth closes the short distance between her and the other woman. She towers over you with ease despite you being almost the exact same height. She stares into your eyes. “If you value your life, Y/N, you will never call me ‘ma’am’ again”

You nod. “I’m sorry, Miss-“

“Nope”

You look at her. “What should I call you then?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me at all” Beth says coldly as she grabs a spoon from the drawer. “But if you have to, call me Beth” She takes a spoonful of the stew with a chunk of beef and a diced potato. She doesn’t blow on the steaming hot liquid before taking the spoon into her mouth. Her eyes flutter close, her jaw sets. You don’t think it was a voluntary reaction. You watch her throat bob as she swallows. She opens her eyes to look at you.

You look back at her.

“Hm. It’s.. edible”

Beth tosses the spoon into the sink.

“Be a doll and wash that for me, will you?”

She doesn’t give you a chance to respond before she’s out of the kitchen. You lower the heat to let the stew simmer a bit. You cover the pot with a clear lid then you wash the things you used to make your dish, including Beth’s spoon.

Once the stew is done, you move onto making the bread from scratch. When you’re finished, you turn off the oven and take out two trays with four small loaves of French bread each. You place them on the counter and take out the last tray.

“Dang it” You curse when you come to the realization that you don’t know how to bring the food outside to the ranch hands. Mr Dutton didn’t show you where the tableware was and you don’t feel right snooping around in his house.

You take a breath and go look for someone who can help you. You reach a room with open doors.

Beth sits behind a desk, her phone pressed to her ear with one hand while the other writes something down on an important-seeming piece of paper.

You hesitantly take a step forward, only to come to a halt when she sets the pen down and raises a finger at you without taking her eyes off of the paper. Beth says something strict and final to whoever she’s on the phone with before hanging up and putting it down. She looks at you.

“What do you want?”

You make a mental note to try and get used to her harsh tone. “I was just wondering if you knew where the tableware was. For the guys”

Beth turns her attention back to the papers on her desk. She turns one page over. “Ask Rip”

“I don’t know who that is..”

“Jesus fucking Christ” Beth mutters before letting out a clearly exasperated sigh and getting up. “Don’t just stand there like a lost puppy. Come on”

You follow her out of the main house.

Beth walks in big strides towards one of the round fence things where the guys ride the horses. It shouldn’t be a struggle to keep up, but it is.

Beth leans against the fence. You stand on the bar at the bottom to make yourself taller. A guy in all black is riding or trying to stay on a wild brown horse. The horse bucks like his sole mission in life is to get the man off him. The man pulls at the reins. The horse neighs in protest. He walks around the post normally now, but you can tell he’s still hot.

You click your tongue twice.

The man hangs on tight as the horse gallops over to you. You reach forward to gently stroke his head. “It’s okay” You say, softly. You run your knuckles up and down the bridge of his nose. You can tell he’s calming down. You use your other hand to caress around his ear and laugh when they both flutter.

“I’ll be damned” The man, who you assume is Rip, says, fixing his sunglasses. “You might be the only person this tough son of a bitch hasn’t tried to bite”

You smile at that.

Beth rolls her eyes. “This is the new cook. She wants to know where the tableware is”

“Jimmy! Show Miss..”

“Oh, Y/N is fine”

“Y/N where we keep the bowls”

A tall skinny guy runs up to you.

Beth pushes herself away from the fence.

Your hand stops mid-stroke of the horse in front of you to watch her walk back towards the house. You can’t help, but let your eyes drift to her ass. You shake your head and quickly turn away.

You work at the ranch longer than you expected.

Mr Dutton appoints you to a cabin not far from the main house. You tried to decline the generous offer, but he voiced his concern about how the drive from your place to the ranch is a waste of time. It doesn’t help that you arrived a whole hour late one day because of a car accident on Maine street.

Your alarm wakes you up at five in the morning. You sleepily reach over to grab your phone from the nightstand to turn it off. You toss it onto the empty side of the bed and close your eyes again.

They open when it feels like you’re being watched.

You sit up and see Beth leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. She’s dressed in nothing, but lace panties and a loose red flannel with only a button in the middle to keep it together.

Your mouth waters involuntarily as you look at the valley of her breasts. “Am I still dreaming?”

A smile tugs at the other woman’s lips before she saunters over to you, swaying her hips.

You look up at her when she comes to stand beside your bed. You don’t flinch when she pinches you.

“That answer your question?”

Your eyes widen when she pulls the covers off of you and straddles your lap. Her arms hang loosely around your neck as she looks down at you.

“Jammies. How cute”

You look down at the plain blue pajama set you’re wearing then back up at her. “What-“

Beth shuts you up by pressing her lips against yours in a passionate kiss. By the time you break apart, you’re breathless and mildly confused.

She grabs a hold of your chin and tilts it up to make you look at her. Her thumbs brushes your lower lip.

“You want this, don’t you, Y/N?”

“I-I can’t. You’re my boss’ daughter.. I-“

“It’s a yes or no question, sweetheart”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes”

Beth holds your gaze while pushing her thumb into your mouth. “Then that’s all that matters”

You have sex with her.

It’s around a quarter before six when Beth gets out of bed and puts her clothes back on. To your surprise, she didn’t walk bottomless to the cabin. You watch her pull a pair of loose cotton shorts over her toned legs. You have the covers pressed against your chest while you sit up and watch her get dressed. It’s cliche and completely ridiculous seeing as she already saw you naked, but still.

Once she’s dressed, Beth leaves the room and eventually the cabin, judging from the way you hear the door slam on her way out. You fall back against the mattress and let out a sigh. What just happened? That’s a question that’ll have to wait for another time because you still have a job to do.

Beth walks into the main house with her brows furrowed. What she did with Y/N was supposed to make her feel good. Powerful. And it did.. just not in the way she anticipated. Fuck. Ninety-five percent of the times she had sex with someone, she did it just because she was horny. She never cared about their pleasure, much less their feelings.

So why does she hunch over and retch into the sink to throw up like she was violently hungover?

You don’t see her again for two days.

You’re stacking up pancakes on a plate when she comes into the kitchen. You turn to look at her, but she doesn’t look at you. Her eyes are fixated on the small basket of blueberries on the counter.

“What’s that?” Beth asks, pointing at the basket. There’s an unsettling edge to her voice.

You turn off the burner and stack the last pancake. “Blueberries” You say once you’ve turned to her to give her your full attention. “I went for a walk the other day and saw a few bushes-“

“I don’t care. Where did you get that basket?”

You look at the basket with a confused expression. “Jamie gave it to me” You wince when you suddenly get a cramp attack out of nowhere.

If Beth notices, she doesn’t say anything. “Of course he did. That fucking little bitch”

You don’t know what that’s about. You take a sip of water from the glass you put aside. Your hands grip the counter when you get another cramp. You breathe out slowly, rocking back and forth.

Beth’s eyes roam over you. “What’s wrong with you?” There’s a hint of concern in her tone despite her clearly being bothered by you for some reason.

You shake your head. “Just..” You breathe out slowly, trying to get your bearings, “that time of the month, you know?” You say with a small smile.

Another cramp has you doubling over in pain.

“Jesus.. Christ!” You exclaim after taking a gasp in between. “That hurt. It’s never hurt this bad before”

“They’re period cramps, sweetheart” The other woman says in a condescending tone as she pours herself a glass of water. “They’re supposed to hurt”

“Nothing in this world is supposed to hurt..”

Beth lets out a humorless laugh. “God” She looks up at her ceiling with a disbelieving smile. “You are so fucking naive. How could someone be this..”

The words start to fade as your vision blurs. You sway slightly. It’s not long till everything goes dark.

Your eyes flutter open when you become conscious again. You let out a soft, disgruntled moan as you stir. You feel yourself laying on a bed. You look around the room. You see Beth sitting in an armchair to your right with her back facing the door.

She stands when you try to sit up. Her hand comes to rest on the back of your shoulder while the other puts the pillow against the headboard so you could lean back. It’s only once you’re situated that she sits back down in the armchair.

“Thank you” You say. “What happened?”

“You fainted. Something tells me you skipped dinner last night” Beth says, her head tilted slightly.

You purse your lips. “I didn’t.. measure the contents correctly” You fidget with your fingers. “There wasn’t enough left for me after I served your family”

“You measured correctly” Beth says, her tone firm and certain. “We had two guests that you didn’t account for. That’s not on you, Y/N”

You exhale through your nose, your eyes downcast. You trace the outlines on your palm.

“You vex me”

You look at her. “I don’t know what that means”

“You make me feel frustrated. Thirty-seven years on this earth and I’ve never met someone like you before. Someone so.. kind. So pure”

Beth sucks a breath through her teeth as she looks away. It’s almost like she’s ashamed of something.

“I didn’t have good intentions when we slept together. I wanted some of your purity for myself. After we were done, I felt like I used you. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve used people like that before, but with you it just didn’t feel right and I’m sorry, Y/N”

“It’s okay” You say almost immediately.

Beth stands up. “No, it’s not okay and that’s the point. I used you. You should fucking hate me”

“I could never hate you, Beth”

Beth is taken aback and it shows.

You wince at your own words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out so cheesy” You glance at the untouched glass of water on the nightstand. You point at it as you look at Beth. “Is that for me?”

The woman nods, not trusting herself to speak.

You take a sip and swallow, allowing the cool liquid to enter your body. You take a few more before setting the glass back down. “I like you. I’ve.. liked you for a while now. I was just afraid that.. if I were to pursue you, I’d get rejected and lose this job. So when you came up to me in bed that morning, I thought that was the one and only way I’d ever get to be with you. So technically we both.. kinda.. used each other. I didn’t mean to at the time, but the longer I think about it, the clearer it gets. Does that make sense? I don’t think that it does..”

Beth chuckles at your rambling. She lets out a sigh then looks at you. “You hungry?”

“A little”

“Come on. I’ll buy you breakfast”

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were taking me out on a breakfast date” You say cheekily before bending down to put on your shoes.

“That’s because I am”

Your head snaps up to look at her.

Beth rolls her eyes out of faux annoyance. “Don’t make this weird” She says with a smile as she walks towards the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs”

You watch her leave the room.

When you hear her descend the stairs, you quietly celebrate the fact that she’s not weirded out by you. You compose yourself when you head downstairs.

You get your coat from the rack and put it on before following Beth outside to her Mercedes S-class.

The drive is spent in comfortable silence until you decide to break it by asking the question that’s been itching to get out since you woke up.

“Did I do something wrong? Before I fainted”

Beth glances at you. “What do you mean?”

“The basket? Should I not have used it?”

Beth purses her lips. “It was my mother’s. Jamie knew that and he still..” She stops herself, not wanting her constant anger at him to ruin your moment together. “I was just surprised to see it”

“I’m sorry. I’ll put it back later”

“No” The other woman says with a sigh. “It’s good that you’re making use of it” She says, a small smile tugging at her lips when she glances at you. “Those blueberry pancakes were damn delicious”

You laugh. “Well, I’m glad you liked them”

That comfortable silence from before settles between you again. You look out of the window at the breathtaking scenery that passes you by. You look down at your hand when Beth interlocks her fingers with yours, her dominant hand resting coolly on the wheel. She grips your hand firmly.

You smile when you look out the window again.

From that moment on, you become her girl. And she let everyone on the ranch know it. Of course you had to break it to your boss, her father, first. You kinda just stood behind her as Beth told him about the two of you. She held your hand behind her back for support while you used the other to fidget nervously with the hem of your dress.

You swallowed the lump in your throat when Beth stepped aside and you locked eyes with Mr Dutton.

“Is she gonna interfere with your job, Y/N?”

You tilt your chin up. “No, sir”

Mr Dutton nods. “Then we don’t have a problem”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding once he leaves. Beth chuckles at the pale look on your face before taking you in her arms.

“Did big bad Mr Dutton scare you?” She mocks in a baby voice as she rests her chin on your head.

“Shut up..” You murmur, nuzzling into her chest.

You feel and hear her laugh before she presses a kiss to the top of your head. You smile.

The entire ranch notices the effect you seem to have on Beth. They’ll never voice it to you, because they’re not that stupid, but you get the impression that they’re grateful that you’ve kinda softened her. They’re still scared shitless of her, and honestly who can blame them, but they seem to be more at ease when you happen to be around her.

You watch from a soft blanket on the grass as she talks to Rip. You know some parts about their relationship. Beth doesn’t seem to talk about it, but she doesn’t have to. You can tell how much he means to her and how much she means to him.

She walks over to you and sits down behind you, her arms wrapping around your shoulders as she presses a soft kiss to your lips. You’re both smiling like fools when you pull away. You turn your attention back to the setting sun. Beth rests her cheek against your head. You lean into her.

“I’m happy to have you in my life, Y/N”

“Me too, Beth. Me too”

You smile when she presses a kiss to your temple.