#The real housewives could never

[the-halfling-prince]

Finally watching 19 Dolls and Counting and I'm losing my mind here. The acting? The dialogue? The background music in some scenes? Literally the same level of seriousness as Aspen Heights and Realm of Arragara. Girl put her entire soul into making Aly... Like that.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Could you write something where Danny is a teen dad to de aged Ellie? Bonus points if he lives in Crimr Alley and beats the Joker to a pulp for hurting his kid

Danny is trying his best.

It's not easy being a father at age sixteen. It's not easy having to leave his home in fear of what his parents will do to his clone-turned-daughter.

It's not easy watching her every day, wondering if her core will break down further, and instead of just de-aging this time, she'll end up dead. It's not easy worrying about her health in the most crime-infested city with a terrible job and relying on his pitiful check or the funds his sister can sneak to him.

But nothing good in this world is easy, and he wouldn't trade Dani for anything. Yes, she had lost her memories and acted like a real two-year-old, but he adored watching her eyes light up as she relearned the world.

Danny loved her to bits, and even buying her those cheap coloring books and crayons from the dollar store made Dani smile brighter than any star. They may struggle to pay rent and bills or buy food, but Danny can always scrape by, keeping her warm, fed, and house.

He worked at three different dinners, each part-time, since none of them were legally allowed to hire him full-time because of his age. Danny didn't have a single day off, but he had a few hours every day with Dani, which was enough.

While he worked, he asked his next-door neighbor to watch Dani. Now, it may not be the best thing to trust a stranger with his daughter but said neighbor is a ghost and one of the friendly kind.

Danny met her when he first moved in. Apparently, her haunting was one of the reasons the rent was so cheap. She never gave him her real name, but she stayed with Dani all day and had enough ectoplasm to physically touch things. Danny could sense her intentions with his core and knew her motherly adoration for Dani was authentic.

Privately, Danny called her Three since she haunted apartment three, and she sort of looked like she stepped out of the nineteen-thirties, complete with an attractive Transatlantic accent. She was an up-and-coming radio co-host, taking a segment to read stories to housewives before being murdered in her home.

Three never said why or how it happened, but she had been haunting the apparent complex for so long; her lore was well documented among the locals.

They say one of the Waynes had killed her after learning that his wife had fancied Three. But it was never proven and it became another theory that the rich would laugh at every once in a while.

(Three's face always twisted whenever she heard the name Wayne. Her hand would always reach up for a heart-shaped locket she refused to take off even in death.)

Since most people couldn't see ghosts unless exposed to ectoplasm for enough time, the stories of her attacks on anyone trying to get close to her apartment snowballed out of control. Danny thought it was unfair how evil they made her sound. Though it's true she had a strong distaste for men, she had a soft spot for children.

Danny had just been through the wringer; he had double shifts, one stacked right after the other. One of the dinners had let two people go after they had been arrested for moving illegal substances, and Danny had to cover until they found a replacement.

A woman had yelled at him for almost thirty minutes straight about a wait time for her surprise party of fifteen. A man threw up on their counter, and to top it all off, a kid had run into him while he was carrying a tray of food, causing him to spill everything.

Thankfully, the mother was horrified and apologized profoundly, but it had been almost too much for him. So when he was sweeping up broken plates and saw Three franticly flying at him screaming about some clown, well, Danny was doing his best.

And his best was fighting things far stronger than he.

____________________________________________________________

Jim Gordon's early afternoon gets interrupted by the Joker only three minutes after he is supposed to head home for the day. After escaping from Arkham a few months ago, the clown went to the ground, and everyone was nervous about what he was planning.

Jim's team hadn't heard any whispers or had any idea what the Joker was up to, which made everything worse. Usually, when something big and wrong was going to happen, they would catch at least one thing beforehand.

That's why the sudden broadcast of the lunatic had everyone jumping out of their skins.

"Good evening, Gotham. I want to welcome you to tonight's show. It's going to be killer." Joker cackles. He has somehow hacked into almost every screen in the city, his white devilish face appearing on TVs, phones, tablets, and even roadside advertising.

His voice echoes through the city as Jim barks at his employees to trace the signal.

"Recently, I felt it necessary to remind everyone that one is never too young to have a funny bone." The Joker continues, holding up a plush toy to the camera. He waves it a little, pressing the ginning bunny as close as possible so people can see its mouth has been sewed into a sickly wide smile. "I'm sure a few of you have noticed that certain school buses never arrived home."

The blood in his veins goes cold. How many buses? Which school? What kids were they? How old? Why had they not heard of the kids not arriving until now?

There are too many questions and nowhere near enough answers. Jim hates how useless he feels playing this sick man's game.

"But not to worry! You'll see your little ones again! After being guests on my very own game show! Every thirty minutes, one lucky child will get to compete for your amusement, and if they survive, they get an extraordinary prize-!"

His words are cut short by a dark figure flinging itself at the Joker and punching him to the ground. Thank every dark cloud in the sky that the Bat was on the case.

"Basty! Have you come to play- wait. You aren't Batsy." Joker's delighted tone melts into anger as the figure straightens to a young teenage boy.

"You have my daughter. Give her back." The teen tells the clown, voice flat and cold. "Three said your goons took her from her balcony."

"My boys take a lot of people." Joker laughs hoping up a flower. With a press of his finger, the teenager is covered in Joker Vemon. Jim's heart falls as the boy stumbles back, rubbing at his eyes. Joker laughs harder until the kid picks up a chair and slams it onto his head.

There wasn't even a chuckle from the boy. Huh.

"You have my daughter. Give. Her. Back."

"Or what?" The Joker taunts, snapping his fingers. There are sounds of people moving, likely the goons. "Kill him."

The boy doesn't seem to react to the men rushing at him. Someone knocks the camera stand over, and the view of the fight is taken away as it rolls on the ground. Thankfully, it ends up pointed at a wall, where they watch the shadows of the teenager and the Joker's goons fight.

It's hard to tell who's winning, with all the shadows blending together whenever they get close, but the fact that he hasn't heard the kid drop yet means he's holding his own. Jim's eyes narrow at the wallpaper, trying to figure out why it looks so familiar.

It hits him just as a little girl phases through the wall. Yes, phases, as if walking through it like a ghost. This would make sense since -

"That's Nightowl Apparemtents!" Ricky, the new cop from Crime Alley, cries, echoing Jim's thoughts.

"It's what?" Asks Sara

"Nightowl apparements. It's the oldest place in Crime Alley and one of the most haunted. They said a lover of a Wayne was killed there. She kills anyone who tries to rent the place. They do ghost tours occasionally, but no one dares to her hallway. That wallpaper is famous because it's the only one in Gotham with the original founding families' symbols." Ricky explains, watching the little girl tilt her head and then start to flout. Everyone shivers as a second figure bleeds out of the wall behind her.

This one is much more blurry, but the faith outline of a beautiful woman covered in blood hovers behind the girl staring at the fight. She's dressed in clothes that Jim is sure was decades ago, and unlike the little girl, she makes him feel very unsafe.

The ghost of Apparement three. Barbara had gone through a paranormal phase when she was fifteen and dragged Jim to all the haunted places in Gotham. Nowhere had made him feel as uneased as Gotham's cemetery- the most haunted place- but those apartments were a close second.

The ghost spots the camera, sneering at it and Jim actually jumps back.

"Oh, gods!" Ricky shouts, turning his head away. "I'm so sorry for looking into your eyes without permission!"

"It's not a telephone! It can't hear you, Ricky!"

"That's not the point, Sara!"

"Daddy!" the little girl cries, holding up her finger. "I got an ow-ow."

At once, the sounds of combat stopped, and then the screams began. It's nothing like Jim has ever heard. He's been on the force long enough to know what a human in pain sounds like, and those sounds—well, he prays that the Joker had decided to bring in animals.

If it makes him sick to his stomach he is worried about the regular people watching.

The little girl doesn't look away, tilting her head to the side like a curious child of two would and still holding her tiny up. After a moment, Jim realizes the screaming has stopped. There is silence before Joker falls beside the girl, beaten beyond recognition.

If it weren't for his purple sit, Jim would have thought him a goon.

The little girl doesn't blink an eye as the teenager rushes to her, kicking the Joker.

"Let me the ow-ow." The teenager demands, taking her hand in his. There is a moment of tense silence as the woman's ghost louts around him with a sneer. "A papercut! You gave my daughter a papercut!"

The ghost woman screeches, rage in every part of her cry. Jim feels his heart beating out of his chest, frozen in absolute terror as she reaches down for the Joker and drags him through the floor.

The man's screams are heard even through the muffled flooring.

"Holy shit," Sara breathes, voice trembling.

"This is why no one with a brain messes with Nightowl's ghost," Ricky hisses, rubbing at his cross. "How that kid go it to attack the Joker and not him and his daughter-"

The teenager gathers the toddler into his arms, his image fading with a hiss.

"-That was a ghost. The teenager that beat the Joker to near death was a ghost." Ricky swallows. "I am never stepping foot down that street again."

Somewhere in Gotham, a woman is sweating bullets after the feed is cut by Batman, who arrives with the rest of the Bats minutes afterward.

"Say, Mom, wasn't that the boy you were yelling at today in Teddy's Diner for Uncle Ron's birthday."

The woman's eyes swing back to the TV, where the waiter's face is frozen on the screen, his green glowing eyes almost staring into her soul. "Yes.....yes it was."

"Oh crud. I think we're cursed now, Mom. Way to go."

[formulawolff]

“tending to my love” - t.w.

pairing: fem!reader x toto wolff

word count: 1.1k

warnings: reader is sick, a few curse words here and there, fluff so sweet it may give you a cavity

a/n: this request was sent to me a longgg time ago by an anon! so anon, i hope you enjoy soft toto tending to the love of his life <3 and i hope y'all enjoy the coziness! <3

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how are you feeling? have you taken medicine? has theodore checked up on you?

letting out a slight cough, you reach for the mug on the nightstand. carefully, you bring the heated cup to your lips, steam billowing into your nostrils.

the liquid is soothing, easing the ache in your throat as it flows down, the warmth flourishing into your chest.

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the mug clinks as you place it back on to the coaster. three gray dots appear, signaling you that he was not quite finished with his series of inquiries.

there's about five more minutes of this meeting and then i am taking the rest of the day off. if you need anything while i'm out, don't hesitate to let me know. would you like any sherbet or sorbet for your throat?

a giggle bubbles up, yet it crescendos into a cough, your lungs burning as you bury your face into your elbow.

once your coughing fit ceases, you begin to type a reply, thumbs gliding across the screen.

still feelin' pretty shitty. all i am in need are of some cuddles ;((

his responds instantly, and you feel the corners of your lips curl into a wide grin.

my poor schatzi. don't you fret, the moment i'm home i'm going to cuddle the shit out of you.

i hope that didn't come out wrong. you know what i mean.

i know what you meant, love. can't wait to see you. x

once you're finished with your text, you shove your phone back underneath the covers. snuggling back into the comforter, your thumb hovers over the spacebar of your laptop, resuming your favorite netflix show.

although this was about your second time rewatching the infamous series, you couldn't get enough. it was your version of real housewives or keeping up with the kardashians, as there was never a shortage of drama in the world of formula one.

since you were sick, you couldn't imagine anything more comforting than watching your boyfriend work. especially since you couldn't be there by his side in the office. you wouldn't admit it, but there were times you fell asleep to the show when the two of you were apart.

which, was the case currently, as the waves of heat from the comforter were oh so cozy. especially in your current state.

yet, you needed to resist.

it wouldn't be too much longer until he was home.

only about fifteen more minutes and he would be in bed with you, wrapping you up in those comforting arms.

meanwhile, toto wolff curses under his breath, balancing his work bag, a small tote of groceries, and keys in one hand. the other presses on his car door, slamming it shut as he fidgets with the keys. clicking a button, the car chirps in response, signaling that it was locked.

who knew that leaving work early to take care of his sick girlfriend was such a crime?

sliding the key into the lock, his wrist rotates. his free hand grasps the knob, opening the door. setting his work bag to the floor, he slips off his shoes, the tote of groceries still in hand.

making a quick pit stop in the kitchen, he places a quart of sherbet in the freezer, sliding a couple bottles of gatorade in the door off the fridge.

now, he could finally reunite with his love.

the austrian trudges up the winding stairs, ensuring that his steps were a little heavier than normal. this was habitual, his way of letting you know that he was home and on his way to you in the bedroom.

however, he doesn't hear you call out for him.

a tiny dose of panic sets in, but he fights his way through it. you just had a cold. it was nothing major, mainly respiratory. there was no reason to fret too much.

when it came to you though, toto found himself in a constant state of worry.

if anything happened to you, oh fuck. that was a thought too heavy to bear.

the moment he enters the bedroom, his heart swells.

you're buried in the comforter, hoodie of your sweatshirt pulled on, lips parted as your chest rises and falls. your laptop is only a few inches away, the sounds of voices filling the space. there's the rumble of an engine here and there, a noise that the team principal knew all too well.

the sound of a formula one engine.

carefully, he sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. his hand connects with your cheek, thumb tracing tenderly along your heated skin.

"did you miss me, schatzi?"

his voice is soft, brimmed with adoration. he doesn't expect you to stir, but you do, lashes fluttering, nose wrinkling in the process. at the realization that he was there, along with drive to survive still playing on your laptop, you pop up, hands instinctively reaching out.

the sound ceases as you nearly slam the laptop shut, "h-hi."

"good evening," a chuckle rumbles in the austrian's chest, "how are you feeling?"

"tired."

"i bet," raising the comforter, the team principal shuffles under the covers, pulling you against his chest.

"how often do you do that?"

"do what?" nuzzling into collarbone, you inhale traces of cologne that linger, grateful for his familiar scent, "i don't know what you're talking about."

"you know what i mean," he tuts, "do you watch that to sleep?"

"sometimes," you shrug, "it helps me sleep."

"well i'm here now," his lips graze your temple, peppering kisses all over, "i'll be here to take care of you when you wake. do you need anything?"

"no," shaking your head, your lids droop, the sleep settling in once more, "you're all i need."

"i love you," his heartbeat is steady, guiding you closer and closer to the edge of slumber.

"and i love you, toto. thank you for leaving early to take care of me."

"always," a hand slips underneath your hoodie, massaging gentle circles into your back, "i'll always be here. there is nothing more important than tending to my love when she's sick."

"you promise?" you can barely form the words, but they come out anyway.

"yes," toto nods, "i promise."

as you doze off, the team principal can't help but bring you in even closer.

sure, it was a risk, being in such close proximity to you.

but it was a risk that toto was willing to take.

if it meant that you were content, then that's all that mattered.

after all, if he caught your little bug, then it meant that he would get to spend more quality time with you.

and that idea alone was more enough to make it all worth it.

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[almostfoxglove]

THE PRETTIEST

written for @quinnnfabrgay-writes & @hauntedhowlett-writes' #MONSTERSMASH2024 challenge

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Max Phillips x f!Reader CREATURE: GHOST + MAX PHILLIPS WORD COUNT: 4.3k CW: Smut (piv), voyeurism/non-consensual voyeurism (he's invisible and reader doesn't know he's watching), Max is a bit of a creep okay he's doing his best here, protective!max, jealous!max, enough manager speak that I got tech startup flashbacks.

SUMMARY: After a restructuring at the company, Max finds himself dead—this time for good—and haunting his old duplex. Lucky for him, you move in.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

Of all the hell holes where one might waste eternity, Max is pretty sure his vacant duplex is the worst of them. Six rooms, two floors spined by a spiral staircase—all boring and hollow and dusty. Disgusting. How difficult would it have been to let him haunt the office? He could’ve leered over all those pathetic little office drones, driven them crazy forever. Fucked with their desk chairs, their hard drives, mixed up all their coffee mugs. Not that Max has mastered the art of affecting the material world yet, but he will.

Petty? Sure. But you can’t blame a guy for feeling a little owed after all management’s little reorganization. His relocation to the goddamn fucking afterlife—and to this prison of an apartment where there’s no one to subjugate or fuck, no less. 

What a waste of his potential. His talents.

Who knows how long he spends stuck alone in this place until someone shows up, but eventually people do. The real estate agent—Doreen and her little beehive hairdo, her eyebrows always penciled on too thin—and, over what Max estimates to be about three weeks, a parade of nobodies she tours around, preaching godless, truthless sermons of the duplex’s good bones and the good life they could have in these dreary fucking rooms. He’d be proud of her sales pitch if he weren’t so goddamn pissed.

He tries, he really does. Yells often, I’m right here, Dor-een, honey, right fucking here! And waves his arms in front of her face, but he can scream as loud as he likes; nobody hears a thing. 

For the first time in his many lives, people walk straight through him. 

There might be, possibly, some karma in that. 

Max doesn’t care for it.

It’s misery until the day Doreen brings him you.

Come on, Max whines, slouching lazily on your couch. Curled up with your bedsheets cloaked over your head, you rot on the cushions beside him, four hours deep in a Desperate Housewives marathon, oblivious to his company: your usual Sunday routine.

As usual you don’t hear him, don’t see him either. Sitting right beside you, making no dents in the pillows, his glossy dress shoes kicked up on the coffee table. Still he finds himself complaining, one hand gesticulating wildly at the screen, You’re killing me, baby. It’s obviously the fucking neighbor! Guy’s got a box of death under his pool!

Meanwhile you just sit there, enthralled as Eva Longoria struts about in her tiny skirts and tiny shoes. Max tells himself the only reason he stays in the room when you watch this garbage is for her and all the other pretty housewives or to leer at what bits of you peek out from your duvet each time you reach for your tea on the coffee table—a wrist, your elbow, and when you knock over the popcorn bowl and slip the sheets from your head, the lovely hollow of your perfect neck. Truth is, if you were to quiz him, he’d be able to cite the plot of the whole season beat for beat.

Not that he’s enjoying this, this—this garbage. Never.

No fucking way. He’s just perceptive. Has an excellent memory.

Plus this is the one way he gets to be close to you. Such a pretty little thing, taunting him without ever knowing it. That sweet mouth, those clever eyes. Showering with the bathroom door sometimes cracked like you know he’s here and dying to peek through the veil of your jasmine-laced steam. Chewing the ends of your pencils while you sketch out some masterpiece on looseleaf that you never get around to painting.

Sitting on your couch, at your dining table, at the foot of your bed while you brush out your hair after a long day—it’s the closest Max gets to feeling like being stuck here might not be hell, just purgatory: always a breath away from the thing he’d like to touch, but at least he’s not simmering in battery acid or being flogged. He’s had his share of blood-bag roommates—brief fascinations that drained so quickly—but you? You’ve lived in Max’s apartment for three months and he’s no less drunk on you than he was the day Doreen toured you around. Can’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe it’s the longing, the forest fire that sears through his ice-box chest every time your eyes skim his face by accident, never lingering. 

What can he say? Max is a man, after all. Under all the blood and monster.

And you’re the prettiest creature he’s ever seen.

When the show cuts to commercial you mute the TV, immune to the serpent-tongued promises of liars like him. Lured by nothing, by nobody. Already slinking from your bedsheet cave, all bare legs and cute little ankles striding out of the room, leaving him with the ghost of you, the smell of your perfume kissed into the duvet.

What he wouldn’t give for the chance to sell himself to you. He’d charm you all the way to your perfect knees.

In a way, you and Max are the perfect couple. You’re free to do as you wish, and he’s free to watch you every second that you spend at home, miserable the moment you leave for work in those tight fucking pencil skirts. No better than a dog, he spends his vagrant hours of isolation alternating between puppy-eyed pouting and anxious pacing, tortured until your evening return. 

How did he ever live here alone? Alive or otherwise. He can’t remember now. There are too many rooms, too few sounds, too few breaths, too few footsteps. He misses you. Your bedhead and pajamas, your blanket nest in front of the TV, the cute way you answer the phone. 

Today, you don’t come home till eight fifteen—and Max has spent thirteen hours losing what’s left of his mind.

Baby, he sighs, rushing for the front room at the first turn of the lock, a grin stretched to dimples in his cheeks. Seems even if you can’t hear him, Max can’t help talking to you, perhaps childlike in his belief that someday you will. Where the hell have you—

His sentence hacks itself in half, drops to silence, because you’re blushing when you come in, eyes shyly downcast, one hand shaking the rain loose from your hair, tendrils clinging to your cheeks. “Here,” you say, and for a beat Max thinks you’re speaking to him. His mouth drops, stunned. 

Is this it? Can you finally see him?

“Come in, come in,” you say.

Then a man steps in behind you, shuts the door behind his hulking form, and if there were any blood to speak of in his veins, Max is certain it’d boil at the sight of him. Tall and empty-headed, dopey as a dog, stomping his blocky, muddy shoes all over your hallway. Yours and Max’s. Getting goddamn filth on your hall carpet. Given just a few material cells, Max’d have this guy dead before he makes it to the living room, wouldn’t even bother drinking him. This breed of dumbass isn’t worth the mess.

But he’s useless. Less than a gnat. Sentenced to watch you trail this motherfucker who wouldn’t know Tom Ford from his Brioni into your kitchen, jackets shedding and small talk traded—boring, boring, boring, but you laugh when the guy makes a shitty joke about the weather. 

This guy, this nobody, gets to make you laugh while Max never even gets a chance to try.

On second thought, maybe this is hell after all.

“S’a nice place,” the dumbass says, laying his knockoff blazer over the back of a barstool. Cheap stitching. Terrible, too-thin lapels.

You look about the room as if standing in it for the first time and for a moment your eyes pass right over Max, whose long-dead heart winces. Yelps. If you could see him, there’s no way you’d entertain this guy. This nameless little worker bee. Max would make you laugh properly, how you laugh when something funny happens on TV or when you get a letter in the mail from your brother. Sudden and twinkling, often ending in a snort. Adorable.

Shrugging, you turn into your fridge and say, “Yeah, I like it,” and exhume two slim cans of vodka seltzer to set on the kitchen island.

Thank you, Max says, his arms crossed over his chest.

The dumbass’ brows flicker up as he regards your offering. Idiot. What was he expecting from a girl like you, a PBR? These are delicious. Elegant. Calorie wise. Max understands. Max would drink that with a smile and a thank you. 

Or maybe he’d skip right to drinking you.

Sensing his hesitation, you crack your can and take a sip. “They’re not as bad as they look,” you say, a nervous chuckle bittering your lips as you watch your date open his can and bring it to his nose to sniff. “Sorry. I don’t have anything else.”

You can do so much better, baby, Max sighs. You’ve got better right here.

Against his will, the hours pass. The evening goes on. You and the dumbass only drink half a can each—him with a half-snarled lip and you with a self-conscious twinge—but somehow by nightfall he’s got you scooching your barstool closer to him, allowing his slimy hand to rest on your thigh. 

Max bristles. Seethes. Don’t do it, he pleads to you, unheard. He’s not gonna fuck you right, just look at him. Send this idiot home and watch TV with me. Do anything but this guy, baby, anything but him.

You bend in slow motion and it’s agonizing, the tilt of your head as you press your lips to his. The wet slurp of his mouth taking the second you meet. A terrible kiss, though you’re polite enough not to flinch. Breaking from the prod of his pink-slug tongue to offer your neck, his mouth immediately moving, and fuck baby, it’s like you’re trying to kill him all over again. Drive a stake straight through Max’s blackened heart by giving up what he longs to claim.

In an instant, anger births itself from the hollow of his chest. His hand shoots out in useless violence, swinging as if to strike a seltzer can from the countertop and knowing it won’t do a lick of good as ire devours him, igneous and fervid, searing hot as life in his icy hands.

The can jumps from the counter and clunks to the floor, its contents gluggluglug-ing across the tiles.

“The fuck?” Max hears the dumbass gasp as he leaps from his barstool, eyes bugged wide and child-like and weak. You freeze, lips pink and swollen, staring down at the emptying can. 

It’s a shame neither of you can see the way Max smiles. 

Now that’s what I’m talking about, he crows. Finally a little substance around here! 

This is good. No, it’s better than good. This is the rush after a promotion, after the deal that closes out the quarter over target. The look on every sad sack’s face knowing they lost and he won.

This is the bite that finally breaks skin.

Maddening, burgeoning, addictive.

He’s real again. A goddamn Beetlejuice for you, baby. He’s gonna scare this fucknut out of here and have you to himself. First was the can, next is you, and he’s gonna kiss you so much better than that. In celebration, Max kicks one foot to send the can soaring across the kitchen floor and watches his shoe pass right through it, aluminum undisturbed on the floor. No, he mutters, kicking again. No, fucking—come on, you worthless piece of shit—

Your nervous laugh is too far away to comfort him. Distant too is your voice saying, “My room’s this way,” and the shuffling of your footsteps as Max loses his shit on the seltzer can that now refuses to budge no matter the swell of his outrage. By the time he snaps from his incensed trance, your barstools are empty. He blinks, breathless with muscle memory—his lungs wheezing because they remember wheezing, not out of need.

Baby? he calls out.

But you reply. A murmur too lusty to be a giggle—Max’s body coils up at the sound, taut and needy, and carries him toward the sound. He forgets, briefly, who you’re with. Believes he’ll find you in your bedroom alone beneath the covers, hands fluttering as you bring yourself to the edge of release. How beautiful you’d be, gasping in pleasure. He might close his eyes and pretend it’s him drawing out your every breathy, needy sound.

You’ve left the bedroom door cracked, and though in death he’s no longer bound by silly things like permission, Max has since you moved in found himself in the habit of respecting closed doors. Walls are chalk outlines over which he’s free to step, but he doesn’t, not if you’ve closed the gate. He’s not a monster. Or not a total monster—whatever, semantics. Point is that he only spies on your showers if you’ve cracked the door. Indulges in the soft moments of you sleeping only when you’ve left him that sliver of room.

Like the room you’ve left him now: slender and tempting, this stripe of your bedroom wall. A Degas print in a copper frame, the wooden post at the foot of your bed. 

Your sweet voice cooing here, like this, and the creak of your mattress.

Something black and silty sinks in Max’s stomach when he steps inside. Not the rage from moments ago. Something darker, heavier. Jealousy. Half-sheeted by your duvet, the dumbass you’ve brought home rocks above you, his shirt gone, his beefcake arm blocking the view of your chest, and though you’re making all the right sounds it’s obvious this isn’t any good.

He’s not fucking you right.

Your hands clawing at his back are too stiff. Your yeses a beat too slow. As the idiot pants—thrusts choppy and graceless—Max watches your hand tap his shoulder blade as you breathe, “Flip over.”

“What?” bumbles the guy, his hips stalling. “Oh shit—fuck yeah. Okay.”

Another grunt, then he rolls off and Max gets a glimpse of you—your red bra lacy and see through, your nipples so pretty underneath. It just isn’t right, the awkwardness of this colossal douchebag as he settles on his back and you ruck back the covers to straddle him, not at all breathless, hardly even flushed, your hair all messy at the back from disappointing friction.

“Shit,” the guy gasps as you sink down on him, clamping those boorish hands onto your waist.

You don’t even whine, not even as you start to rock, though his breathing gallops beneath you. Guy looks two seconds from nutting while you look years away from anything even loosely resembling an orgasm—your rhythm changing often as you try and fail to find a pace that suits you. “Christ—oh my god, ” the guy groans.

Max sucks his front teeth, tongue soiled with venom.

“Touch me,” you sigh, bouncing now. The curtain of your hair shivering down your back. 

This guy fucks like he’s never touched a woman before. At your request his knuckles only pale, fingers pinching you tighter. That’s not what she means, Max growls. Touch her fucking clit, you pin-dicked imbecile. Can’t fucking please a woman, should be fucking ashamed—

His pointless ranting is cut short by a sudden moan as the guy lifts you off him in time to come all over his stomach, chest rapid in its heaving, upper lip snarled in pleasure he doesn’t have the goddamn decency to return to you. For a long moment you hover above him, waiting, but his head just slumps back against the pillow, satisfied. 

Done.

He’s actually done. Motherfucker.

When you crawl off him to sit back against your headboard—arms crossing over your stomach self-consciously—Max sees red. Sees fire. Sees the roiling magma at the center of the earth where someone oughta make this fucker take a nice hot bath. 

He’d do this right. He’d fuck you properly, have you coming apart at the seams, go down on you until you beg for his cock and edge himself for as long as it takes to have you screaming his name. Can’t you see that? Can’t you feel him here, right now? Can’t you feel how bad he wants you? Can’t you imagine how much better he’d be? How good he’d make you feel?

Letting out an airy chuckle, the brute wipes the back of his hand across his sweaty brow and pushes himself to his feet. Redresses with a goddamn smirk on his face—not one of cruelty, but it might as well be. He thinks this is a job well done. Time to go home. 

A peck to your lips, then he’s rattling on about calling you, seeing you again, maybe Thursday? Friday? While you just sit there, blinking up at him in disbelief. “Sure,” you say, dazed and not quite thinking. “I’ll call you.”

Yeah, she’s not calling you, Max snarls, following the guy out of the room. Watching as the jackass plucks his jacket from the back of your barstool, steps over the mess of seltzer without a thought to clean it up for you, and waltzes right out the door. Not a care in the goddamn world. 

Though he hears you get up shortly after to use the bathroom, you don’t emerge from your bedroom and Max doesn’t disturb you. He spends that time in the kitchen, grabbing and grabbing and grabbing at the dish towel hung over the handle on the oven door, trying to pull it off. 

For at least an hour, his hand glides through the towel as if it’s water, not a flutter or sway in the fabric. Not even a brush, a compromise. It just hangs there, indignant. Mocking him. Deaddeaddeaddeaddead. Maybe it’s the Senior Sales Manager in him, the apex predator at the top of the food chain—but Max can do this all night. He’s not backing down, not letting a stupid fucking towel get the better of him. That lazy curtain of terrycloth will disintegrate before he waves the white flag. 

Beyond the picture frame windows that stare out into the barren, colorless street, the sun has shied to navy blue, letting out the round-mouthed moon, and you have not emerged from your bedroom for hours. He wants to check on you, ask if you’re okay. Frankly, baby, he’s getting a little worried. On the next sweep of his hand, the towel gives up the ghost; Max pulls it from the oven handle, marveling at the toothy fabric. He’s holding it, really holding it, all on his own. 

Thank fuck he’s not haunting the office. If any of those bull-brained fucks saw him now, as he kneels on your kitchen floor, he’d have to die all over again. Somehow. The technicals aren’t important—what’s important is that no one’s here to see him on his fucking knees, mopping up the spilled drink. Something like joy burbles in his chest when he reaches for the can and seizes it, placing it safely on your counter. The floor dry and shining again, clean. 

Max folds the towel carefully and returns it to the rack. 

As if on cue, the bedroom door croaks down the hall and you emerge. A huge t-shirt slumps from your frame; you’ve tied your hair up, put your glasses back on. Dressed down for the last dregs of night, rubbing the back of your hand in one eye, tired. 

You look so, so tired.

I’d rub your shoulders, baby, Max sighs quietly and though you won’t hear him, it still—after three whole months—doesn’t feel any less right to hope.

He steps out of your way as you round the corner into the kitchen with a yawn, hands clasped behind his back, cheek dimpled and eyes alight. Just like he wanted, just like he hoped, your eyes fall immediately to the floor where the can is missing, the spill wiped. Lashes flickering—the towel dark at the hem on its handle, the empty can on the counter. Your brows pinch low over your nose, curious. 

Pretty good for a dead guy, Max grins.

How sweet, that lifting flinch at your mouth’s sharp, pink corner. The soft hm you make in reply. It’s not much, but this strange, fluttery feeling in the dark cavity one might wrongly call his heart? It doesn’t feel half bad. 

Not bad at all.

He’s getting better at it. Not great, but the projections look good. Give him a little time, he’ll have this whole place dancing. Put on a big show, announce himself properly. 

In the meantime he practices when you’re not looking. Small stuff—he opens cupboards. Shuts them. Hits start on the dryer when you forget to press it yourself. Some days he wastes reaching for things and coming up empty, but now again his luck sparkles. Things move. Bend to his will. Isn’t long until he can hold it for a while—gathering the matter to run the vacuum around, or reorganize your pantry. A tidy house makes a tidy mind, baby. No good living in a dump. You’re so busy, always cracking around like a ping pong ball, and hell, it’s not like Max can leave this place, get a little air in his idle lungs.

He likes being useful to you. Likes that tiny smirk on your lips when you find something fixed or organized for you, even though you likely chalk it up to having forgotten that you did it yourself. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need the credit. Isn’t that strange? How often he smiles at you? How perfect he finds the taste of your name.

Winter has arrived like a secret—whispered about for weeks and then suddenly let loose on the world. You come home from work in the evenings with icing sugar hair. Usually unbothered, far as Max can tell, but today you stagger in flushed from the cold and dark in the eyes.

Shit, baby, Max says when he sees you. Bad day?

Sniffling, you drop your coat right there in the hall, let it puddle over your shoes, and stalk off on a mission, barreling into the kitchen. The fridge door rips open, casting blue-white light over your face, and you must feel a hell of a lot worse than you feel because you don’t even blink at the contents inside. All the shelves wiped clean, the bottles arranged with the labels facing out, those wilted, bad greens deposited in the compost. You just reach in for the half-drunk bottle of Riesling that to Max smelled mostly like juice and swipe off the lid.

You chug on your way to the couch, leaving the fridge door open behind you.

Max closes it when you’ve gone, the TV already switched on in the living room, the lilting strings of the Desperate Housewives theme song swimming through the air. When he turns the corner he finds you wrapped in the throw blanket he now knows the texture of—supple and velvet, weighted and warm—with the wine bottle nestled in your lap. 

A silver tear hangs on your cheek. 

Really bad day, whatever it was. 

He wants to ask. Wants to pull you into his arms and pet back your hair. Wants to lick that sadness from your skin. 

Maybe this isn’t the show he’s imagined. Not much of a reveal—but you look so small right now, alone on your couch. Wine splashing in its bottle as you bring it to your lips, not bothering to wipe that tear away. If Max had a heart that beat, it’d stutter as he watches you. Helpless isn’t something he cares to feel.

No time like the present. Max sighs, scrubs a hand down his face as he ticks his jaw to one side, and nods. Alright, baby, he relents. Hang on.

On his way to the bathroom he cracks all the knuckles on his left hand, rolls his neck, swings his shoulders. Stretches himself long and limber like he’s about to run—but this is it. Curtain’s coming up. Time to find out if one glimpse of him sends you sprinting for the hills. Though he casts no reflection, Max stands before the mirror hanging over the sink and straightens his tie, corrects his lapels. Old habits, but it never hurts to look good.

Hand waggling, then, over the tissue box on the counter. He slaps himself hard, sending a delicious ripple of pain across his cheek. Come on, he begs. Don’t play hard to get.

The box lifts.

Here he comes: tissue box in hand, stalking tall and proud down your hallway with his chin up, shoulders back. Gets the momentum rolling, doesn’t hesitate, just waltzes in.

Your head snaps in his direction, eyes round and brows rising. To you it must look like the tissues float through the air to your side. Max steps back with butterflies jittering in his bones. 

Don’t be scared, he pleads. It’s just me.

With your head cocked to one side you consider this, though you’ve not heard his voice. Probably for the best. Came out a little softer than he meant it to, a little needy, and that’s just not becoming of a man like him. He has a reputation to uphold, even now. 

After a long, bludgeoning pause you click your tongue, swiping one white tissue from the box to turn over in your hand. Deliberating. Then your face cracks, possessed by a slithering smirk. Your gaze flickering so close to him it’s almost as if you’ve looked him in the eye. 

Deep in his chest, Max feels a strange throb—his stirring heart—as you say out loud, 

“I knew someone was there.”

dividers by @saradika-graphics - tag list & some mutuals!

@ak-vintage @thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @harriedandharassed 

@burntheedges @jolapeno @la-eterna-enamorada29 @iknowisoundcrazy @guiltyasdave

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @sweetpascal 

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @helenanell

@pedgito @pastelpinkflowerlife @jessthebaker @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours 

@noisynightmarepoetry @kyberblade @beezusvreeland @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack 

@pedrospatch @yopossum @toomanytookas @sawymredfox @galway-girlatwork

@ppascalrain @bbyanarchist @amanitacowboy @milla-frenchy @schnarfer

[sillysillygoofygoose]

Older! Toji Headcanons x Fem Reader... Part 3!

Househusband! Toji! MDNI 🙄 slight nsfw at the verryyy end.

Househusband! Toji, who never imagined he'd be in the position he's in. He assumed that if he ever were to settle down, he'd want a more traditional route for his family. A pretty little wife, all done up, taking care of the babies and somehow always pregnant. However, that 1950s fantasy came crashing down on him one night after getting home from a particularly rough "assignment."

Househusband! Toji, who confessed to you about his less than ideal career choices after a hard night and three glasses of Jack Daniels on the rocks. Honestly, you were not at all surprised. However, you were not at all pleased either. You thought he was money laundering, not assassinating people. The creeping fear of losing him upset you much more than the gut-churning crimes themselves. The ordeal turned into a screaming fight, leaving him to sleep on the couch.

The next morning, he wakes up to you, standing over him, twisting the sizeable twelve carat diamond on your left ring finger. The ring that is connected to your heart.

"Jesus Christ, sweets. Trying to give me a fucking heart attack?" He grumbles, voice low with sleep.

"Quit your job. I'll take care of everything, you can stay at home. Just quit." You have no time for his sarcastic antics, blurting out a dismissive, unrelated response to his moody tone.

He laughs. You're standing over him with a pout dancing on your pretty lips... and he laughs?

"You know I can't do that. It's dangerous and... we need the money." He attempts to bribe you, bringing in the financial aspect of him being unemployed to distract you from your unshakeable request... well, demand.

"No. No, we don't. I just got that big promotion. You're quitting. I'm really not asking." The more stubborn he becomes, the more your dainty features are contorted with anger. He's genuinely amused at you putting your foot down. Don't get it twisted. You're no pushover... but you find it hard to stand your ground when Toji gives you that look.

"Uh-huh surrreeee. You really can't make me quit, princess." Really, he's just antagonizing you. He likes to push, likes seeing you roll your eyes in annoyance. Instead, your response is not as gratifying as it usually is. You simply shrug your shoulders, turning your back to him on your heels.

"It's me or the job, Fushiguro."

Fushiguro. Your shared last name dropped off your tongue with the same venom of a black mamba.

Playing dirty. Being cruel. Even a pinch manipulative. However, it scared him enough, his sly smile immediately dropping as you walked away.

Househusband! Toji, who was dead set on the fact that he could never be domesticated. Yet, life seems to always shock him as he realizes he's standing in the kitchen, hands on his wide hips, skimming through a cookbook, picking out what to make his beautiful wife for dinner.

Househusband! Toji, who basically runs up to you like a lost puppy when you get home, gathering your smaller frame up in his big arms.

"How was work, pretty? Missed you all day. Come, I made your favorite."

Househusband! Toji, who unironically wears the "Queen of the Kitchen" apron that you bought him as a gag, proudly hanging it up after a long day of preparing food and spiffing up the living room.

Househusband! Toji, who leaves on trashy reality TV reruns while he tends to the house, furthering his Kardashians obsession and getting him hooked on 'The Real Housewives of Beverley Hills'. When you come back from a particularly uneventful day, he resites the drama he overheard while vacuuming.

Househusband! Toji, who built and grew his own garden, stating that he wanted fresh vegetables to incorporate in his recipes.

"Nothing but the best for you, baby."

Househusband! Toji, who runs purely off of your praise. A kiss on the cheek when he welcomes you at the door, an adoring stare directed at his jerry-built garden bed, a hum of pleasure while digging into a new recipe. His favorite form of praise, however, is when you let him rest his head on your chest, kissing him and thanking him for all of his work around the house. It's nice to be appreciated.

Househusband! Toji, who can't shake the thought of bending you over and breeding you after you teased him about how good of a stay at home dad he'd be. Taking care of the family from inside of the house might not be as bad as he originally thought.

Hope you enjoyed! Xoxo

[famousstatesmanbearroad]

SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY (Cody Rhodes, WWE)

• Summary: You made many enemies throughout your career in World Wrestling Entertainment. Some of which you despise so much it makes you sick to your stomach. But the more you two hate each other, the more the sexual tension becomes too intense to ignore.

• Parings: Cody Rhodes X Fem Reader

Warning- Language, 18+ only (minors DNI), Dirty Talk, Smut, unprotected sex, (READ AT YOUR OWN RISK)

You and your brother are known for making enemies everywhere you go. You two can’t help it, however. Being called “The best in the world” doesn’t sit right with anyone who just sees two shallow siblings who run their mouths and don’t care about the consequences.

You and Punk ran around WWE when you two were young. Winning championships, making history, making friends, and making enemies. You made much more in both the men's and women's divisions. The females were jealous, and all they did was sit around and gossip to one another with a camera in their faces as if Total Divas was another name for The Real Housewives.

You didn’t care about making friends, although you did make a few. Some eventually turned into enemies. But there was one person who was at the very top of your list.

Cody Rhodes

Since the very first day you step into WWE and Join Punk’s side, You dislike Rhodes. That dislike eventually turned into hatred. You two even went out of your way to ruin the other day.

He and your brother never got to work together in the same ring, not that you know of, which didn’t make sense on why you and Cody had so much anger towards each other.

What made things worse was his return to WWE. After Rhodes took his balls and left WWE, you continued to do what you do best: make history and make enemies. But his being back was now ten times worse than before he left. As a matter of fact, it was now complete hell.

He’s mature since the last time you saw him. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t getting under your skin because he was. The way Cody looked at you, flashed his smile in your direction, and spoke to you in a way he shouldn’t make you, well, simply punch him in the face.

He was distracting you, something that you are now realizing. He’s distracting you before, but you always shrugged it off and ignored it

This time you can’t.

And what made things worse was the night Sami called you.

As much as Sami annoyed the living hell out of you when he first joined the roster, one thing that man was good at was making you laugh on and off-screen, which is one of the many reasons why you consider Sami a friend.

But he knew your situation with Damian Priest, someone you've been seeing for a while. He was another person who got on your nerves only because he wouldn’t give up on making you his, which, for a moment, you gave him a chance

But as you walk out of your hotel room's bathroom with fresh, clean clothes after taking a shower, your phone, which was laid on your bed, was being blown up Sami himself.

Before you could even read the unread messages, his name appeared, causing you to groan while answering the phone.

“Sami, you better have a good reason why you’re calling my phone, or else I'm going to kill you when I find you!” You spoke with a slight growl through your voice.

“Is it true?” Sami asked, bringing you into confusion. “Because if it is, Damian knows, and he’s not too happy about it.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You asked, unsure what he was talking about. So many possibilities pop into your head, but you haven’t done any recently that would get you in trouble with anyone, let alone Damian

“You and Cody?”

You almost gagged at the name Cody. You rolled your eyes but caught up at the mention of you and Cody. It made you even more confused

“What about me and Cody?” You asked, but instantly regretted hearing what came from Sami’s mouth.

“You slept with him, Y/N? Please tell me that’s not true because he and Damian got into a fight backstage earlier, and Damian is pissed as hell.”

You were taken aback by this false information that was received from you. But you had no clue how to take the information in.

“Who told you this?” You asked.

“Cody said it himself,” Sami said. “He t-"

“Sami?” You interrupted your friend, which he hummed yes in response. “Where’s Cody, so I can find him and murder him.”

That alone answered Sami's questions that you two did absolutely nothing. Even if you two did, you would of told him. But Sami shook his head, even though you couldn’t see it.

“Last time I checked, he was somewhere in the hotel, but I don’t know which room he’s in.”

With that, you hung up; you needed to find Cody one way or another, or else you weren’t sleeping tonight. You place your slippers on and head downstairs to the lobby. You weren’t sure if this idea would work, only the person you were going to didn’t like you that much.

You knocked on Jey’s door, someone you saw entering their room before you entered yours. To your surprise, he answered but had a curious look.

“Where’s Cody?” You asked. Jey smirked at you as he crossed his arms. “You’re looking for your man, Brooks?” He asked, calling you by your last name.

You didn’t have time for his jokes as you rolled your eyes. “Do you want to get punched in the face, Fatu?” You replied, mentioning his government last name. Jey rolled his eyes at your comment.

“He’s the floor above us, letting B.”

You smiled at his answer before walking off to find the closest elevator. Clicking on the number above yours, you waited impatiently for the elevator to open on his floor. When it did, you stomped to his door, banging it so loud you probably woke up others nearby.

The door eventually slams open, revealing Cody, who stands before you. When he realizes this, he flashes a smile at you.

Cody knew that telling Damian this false information would come back to you. He didn’t think it would be this soon, but seeing your face fill with anger made Cody happy.

“What can I do for you today, Y/N?” He asked, crossing his arms. You stormed right at him, hitting him repeatedly. The last time you had put your hands on him was one heated argument when he mentioned your brother, someone you do not play about.

Cody, however, being strong, took your wrist and pinned it against the door after closing once you struck at him.

“Why would you tell Damian you and I slept with each other? You know that’s not true!” You growled at him. All Cody did was laugh, which made you angry even more.

“Come on, Y/N, I did you a favor,” Cody spoke. “You don’t even like him like that.”

You fought with the grip of his hand around your wrist, only for it to be slammed right at the door. “And how would you know that, Rhodes? You know nothing about me?”

“I know a lot more than you think, princess,” Cody spoke, causing you to roll your eyes at him. “Damian is too soft, too much of a good guy even though he plays this bad guy on camera.”

“Oh, like you’re any different?” You scoffed, only for him to smirk at you. “I’m not, you’re right. But I don’t need to try to get you in my room desperately; look how easy it was for you to come over here. You can’t stay away from me like you couldn’t all these years.”

Once again, you fought with him by moving your wrist, only for him to succeed. You weren’t doing, however, to hit him like how you initially tried to. Something in you changed as he spoke to you. It was like now you need to push him back. He suddenly felt a little close to you.

“You need someone that plays the same game you do, someone that keeps you off your feet, someone that makes your entire head and your entire body feel on fire. Damian is not getting the job done.” Cody spoke, lowering his voice as if it was some way of getting his words into you, which it was.

“And how do you know what I want and need?” You spat at him. Little did you know that all of your anger was riling him up.

“Because darling, you and I have played this game for a long time. And the amount of times you left me hard, I know I had the same effect on you and left you soaking wet.”

Your eyes widened at his confession. However, whether you want to admit it or not, he wasn’t wrong. You two have a lot of sexual tension built up between you two that you haven’t even realized yourself until now. And at that very moment, just by Cody kept debating whether he should look at your eyes or your lips, it was turning you on.

“Cody, let go of me.” You spoke lowly. Cody smirked once again, letting go of your wrists. But instead of hitting him, you stood there in front of him, not even moving an inch.

“What happened? I thought you were going to hit me again,” Cody teased. His smile dropped, however, as you looked up at him.

“I hate you,”

“I hate you more,” He replies.

“You make me wanna pull my hair out,” You groaned in frustration.

“And you make me wanna throw you on the bed right now and fuck you senselessly till you stop disrespecting me.”

“Nothing you could do will make me respect,” You spat at him. His eyes darted at you as he licked his lips. He was riled up, half hard by how close you two were. And you were no better. The way he was speaking was making you want him to do exactly what you made him feel.

That’s exactly what Cody was planning on doing.

He attached lips to yours as his arms snaked onto your waist, pulling you closer than before. The kiss was innocent for a moment.

That was until you let out a small whimper, Causing Cody to deepened the kiss. Your back arched against the door as your breast touched his clothed chest. Your fingers messed in between Cody’s hair as the two desperately needed one another.

Your body was on fire. Something Cody mentioned that you needed. And he was giving you exactly that. But you wanted more.

“Are you gonna respect me?” Cody teased as he asks this in between the kisses. All you did was smirk and shake your head. “Never,”

You suddenly let out a moan at the pain of Cody’s hand connecting to your ass. That sound alone drove Cody insane.

His nails dug into the side of your waist as he pulled off the ground. Your legs were now wrapped around him, and you let out pants as Cody's lips kissed down your neck.

Your entire head was spinning. You couldn’t believe that the very moment, someone you truly hated from the bottom of your guts, was making you feel like this. And you know that if you even thought about this days ago, probably longer, you would throw up at the thought of it.

But now here you were, making noises you never thought Cody would ever make you earn while you two made out with each other.

Your back went cold after Cody pulled you off the door your back pressed against. You then felt yourself slipping from Cody’s grip as you fell onto the mattress he put you in.

You look up at Cody. He had crazy written all over his eyes as he trailed down your body. You realize what you wore as you showered earlier and changed into clothes.

An oversized shirt, nothing particular, just plain, and shorts. Cody's hand was wrapped around your ankle. It was like he was in a trance from looking at your body head to toe.

You couldn’t help but tease him a bit, enjoying the way he looked at you. Your feet slide down his clothed chest down to his joggers. You can feel his member throbbing against your feet before you bring it back to his chest. He took a hold of it, kissing the heel of your feet, all while watching you.

“Are you gonna respect me?” Cody asked his previous question to you. You smiled at him and shook your head as you repeated your answer. “Never.”

Cody chuckled as he lowered himself down to him. “Don’t say I never warn you,”’

He kisses you once more, with more lust, while your hand finds his hair again. Your other yanked on the shirt that covered him.

Cody took the hint, pulling off the shirt before placing his lips right on yours again. Your hands roamed around his arms and back, feeling his bare skin. You can feel him shudder against your touch before he begins grinding against you.

You lost track of your breathing as he did this while he worked on his neck. You never felt this needy in your entire life as you began to move your hips against him.

“Cody,” you whispered, though it sounded more like a moan. Cody’s lips pressed barely against your ears, sending you chills. “Tell me what you need, Y/N.” He spoke. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

You knew you were going to regret this later on. But at the moment, you couldn’t care less. You needed him.

“I want you, Cody. Please.”

Cody groaned before kissing you. His hands went underneath your shirt, massaging your skin before he realized you weren’t wearing a bra, widening his eyes a bit.

He took your shirt as it went flying somewhere. His eyes shifted to your chest as your breast laid perfectly on there.

You let out a sigh as his tongue attached themselves to your breast, playing with them and massaging them with his hand. His other hand, however, slid down to the waistband of your shorts. Your breathing got heavier as he slipped them down inside of you, immediately the wetness he created inside your underwear.

“Holy shittt,” Cody shuddered as he gathered your wetness. “I barely touched you, and this is how bad you need me. You wet for me, baby,”

You could help but moan at the touch of Cody rubbing your clit. You couldn’t help but think about the last time someone touched you, which made you smirk.

“I haven’t been touched in almost a year.” You spoke. You bit your lips, almost whining, when Cody suddenly stopped rubbing your clit.

“You’re lying?” He asked, looking down at you. But you shook your head. You might as well give him the complete honesty you thought.

“It was some random guy I didn’t even finish.” You spoke. Cody stared blankly at you. “You haven’t had an orgasm in almost a year, too?”

You bit your lip again as you shook your head. Cody's eyes closed slowly as he remained silent. At first, you weren’t sure what was going on, but Cody let out a painful moan and opened his eyes. If his eyes couldn’t get darker than before, it was now.

“It’s okay, baby; I’m gonna take care of you.” Cody moaned. “Daddy’s gonna take care of you.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as you let out a moan. You had extreme daddy issues but never to the extent where you would be turned on this badly by Cody calling himself daddy.

Your shorts were pulled off along your panties, leaving you completely naked in front of Cody. His eyes never left you as he spread your legs open and began fingering you.

“Mmm, fuck.” You moaned as you began to feel hotter than before. Your hips began to grind his fingers as he rubbed your clit faster.

When your eyes never opened, Cody’s finger slowed down. “Look at me, keep your eyes opened.”

Your whines were needy; you felt him slow down, but the minute you opened your eyes and looked up at him, he flashed his smile, which you still hated.

“Keep your eyes on me, and I’ll give you what you want, okay baby?”

You nodded. But it wasn’t enough for Cody. “Use your words babygirl.”

You were loving and hating the way he was in control right now. Loved it because of how good it felt and hated it because you knew he would keep this over your head for as long as you lived. But right now, you didn’t care as you spoke, “Yes, Daddy.”

Cody licked his lips at you. “Good girl,” he spoke, then suddenly grabbed you by your legs, scooting you closer to him.

Your eyes went wide, followed by moaning as you saw his head dipped in between your legs, as his tongue slid between your wet folds, licking it.

Your moans filled the room as Cody stared up at you, watching him taste your clit. If you didn’t wake up the neighbor from banging on his door earlier, you probably did right now.

“Baby, don’t stop,” You moaned, letting out a cry. You couldn’t move if you wanted to; Cody had your legs held down.

“Calm down, baby girl,” Cody spoke as you struggled uncontrollably underneath his grip. “Just enjoy my tongue. Enjoy me please you.”

You let out a whine when he said this as you threw your head back, moaning. Your hand found its way to his hair, gripping harshly, causing a vibration throughout your body as he groaned in between your clit.

“Cody?” You spoke out. Cody hums in response as his tongue doesn’t stop the work it’s doing on you. “Cody, I’m… I’m… fuccckkk baby."

The words that left your mouth immediately made Cody know that you were close to your climax, something that you hadn’t had in a while. His remembering that made him pressed harder against your clit, nose touching it as his head shook vigorously against you.

You let out a cry of moans as your back arched once, feeling his fingers slide deep into you. You couldn’t take much longer before feeling what may have been one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had in your entire life.

Your body shook before going stiff a bit, then collapsed your back onto the bed, panting. Cody's head appeared from between as he flashed yet another smile, all while panting.

Somehow, throughout this aura stage, you desperately fought against, you managed to make a snarky comment about it.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face, asshole,” Cody smirked when you said this and leaned towards you. “You’re gonna still disrespect me?”

A smirk appeared on your lips. Despite your legs being semi-numb, you being in this semi-aura stage, and Cody being a fucking dick but somehow incredibly attractive, you manage to push him onto the bed as your naked body straddle on top of him. Cody was taken back, but his eyes immediately fell onto your body, how you sat on top of him.

“You’re never getting any respect from me,” you spoke before kissing him. You can taste yourself; he grabs hold of your neck, deepening the kiss.

It got out of control momentarily as you two expressed more frustration. You didn’t realize until a second later that you began grinding on top of Cody.

His hands slid down to your hips, moving you against him. You can feel him throbbing against you, causing you to moan.

“You’re so sexy,” Cody moaned out as you let out whimpers in his ears. “So fucking beautiful.”

You felt butterflies in your stomach as he said this. It felt weird. Having him say things like that to you and receiving butterflies was new to you. He always made you sick.

Now, it was the opposite, but you pushed it to the side as you got off of him and placed his hand on the waistband of his pants.

Cody helped you pull his pants off, along with his boxers. You unintentionally bite your lips at the size of his member.

You finally understood him, understood why he was always so cocky and why his ego was so big. It was as big as his member. And it came out as he looked at you, smirking. You were looking at it longer than expected.

“What’s that matter? Never fuck a big cock before?”

You smirk before straddling back on him. “I can put my clothes back on and leave.” You spoke. Cody smiled at you. “But you’re not.”

You immediately shut him up by kissing him. You felt relaxed as you sat on his member. However, the two of you let out a moan as he moved your hips, grinding you against him.

“I can feel you clenching, and you're not even in me,” He moaned as he looked up at you, enjoying yourself on him. It was the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Your eyes were closed as you concentrated on the feeling of him.

You let out a whine as Cody stopped you, but suddenly let out a loud moan as he rubbed his cock on your clit before inserting himself in you.

Both of you two let out a gasp. A part you thought you could handle the size, but you were wrong. And you weren’t helping Cody either as you clenched around him. “Fuck you’re so tight; stop clenching around me, or else I’m going cum.”

You felt yourself wanting another orgasm as you started bouncing on his member. Moans filled the room as the two looked at each other.

Cody concentrated on you as you looked down at him with your hands pinned onto his chest. His hand was on your breast, massaging it, while his other hand smacked down on your ass, causing you to moan loudly.

“Talk to me, baby,” You spoke as you enjoyed yourself on his cock. Cody smirked as he watched you please yourself. “I love how you take my cock, baby, you’re so pretty.”

Your head threw back. “Your cock feels amazing, fuck!”

“Yeah, that’s baby girl, keep going.” Cody moaned. You could help but scream in pleasure when he held you in place and started fucking in pace.

“Oh gosh, just like that.” You moaned. Cody groaned before sliding his arm around your waist and flipping you over.

You now looked up at him as clapping sounds filled the room with your moans. “Fuck you’re so hot!” You moaned, watching him spread your legs apart and deepen his cock in you.

“Shittt, Y/N,” Cody spoke. “You have no idea how bad I dreamt about fucking your tight pussy of yours.”

Your mind was too dizzy even to comprehend what Cody said. Much less, you couldn’t understand what you were saying. You just wanted to finish.

“Yeah, tell me more,” You moaned as you swore you felt Cody’s cock twitch as you said this.

“The amount of times you left me hard. The way I wanted to fuck your ignorant ass out of you. I even jerk off at the thought of it.”

“Cody, fuck!!” You cried out as you felt your orgasm coming. You started clenching more than before, indicating to Cody that you were about to reach your climax.

He hovers over you, slamming himself in you as he reaches your G-spot. Your legs were numb; all you felt was him and only him.

“Cody, I’m close, baby!” You moaned. The way Cody was moaning in your ears wasn’t helping as your hands flew on his back, nails digging into it.

“I’m gonna cum baby.” Cody moaned in your ears. You kissed on his shoulders, holding on to him. “Cum in me, baby.”

“Yeah, you want me to cum in you?” He said, looking at you. “You’re such a slut, shit, come on baby, finish on my cock.”

Your breast pressed against his chest as you reached your second orgasm. You moaned louder than expected when you felt him shoot himself inside of you, cumming. You thank the lord for birth control; otherwise, you would have been pregnant right there and then.

Cody pulled himself out, and as you felt him leaking out of you, he lay next to you as the two of you panted.

It now hit you. You fucked Cody Rhodes. The guy you truly despised. The guy who made your life a living hell.

Cody looked at you, watching your expression as he realized what had happened. You looked over at him, and eventually, that hatred for him appeared right there when he flashed another stupid smile.

“Are you gonna show me respect?” He asked, fully aware of your answer. You answered anyway, panting still but shaking your head at him.

“Never.”

[niceboyeds]

but daddy i love him (e.m)

pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

summary: sometimes you have to put the gossipers in their place, and sometimes you have to give them something to talk about. inspired by none other than the masterpiece that is The Tortured Poets Department!

contains: bullying, fluff, language, sexual innuendos if you squint, i think that's it but please reach out if i missed anything!

word count: 1.2K

a/n: hi babies I'm baaaack! with that said I'm rusty so please don't hurt my feelings lmao. i have an idea for a smutty pt. 2 if enough of you want it! okay here we go...

(tagging some mutuals so i don’t get lost in the blackhole: @luvmunson @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @munsonology @lightvixxen @ali-r3n @espressomunson 🫶)

masterlist

-----------------------------------

there was always something exciting about being with a bad boy. but then again, there was nothing “bad” about Edward Munson. he may get a bad rap but, aside from his lunchbox goodies, he is a gentleman before anything else. and a damn good lover. 

you sit in the diner with your friends, snickers and snide remarks could be heard all throughout the room and dozens of eyes burn into the back of your head for what felt like the millionth time. unfortunately that’s one of the prices to pay living in a small town like Hawkins.

Eddie is better than you, though, and doesn’t let it get the best of him. and while you know you could never physically fight someone, you still aren’t shy enough to threaten it. you are, to put it gently, less “reserved” with your words, and make sure to put the lonely housewives and their preppy children in their place about their assumptions of him. 

things have gotten worse as your dating life has expanded out beyond the four walls of Eddie’s quaint trailer or the few friendly drunks at the hideout once a week. you and Eddie both craved being together in public and decided long ago that you don’t care who has something to say about it. 

besides, you know who the real Edward Munson is, you don’t believe what the judgmental church-goers or ex-cheerleaders think of you. the only time it gets you is when you can see it hurting him. 

throughout lunch you keep one hand in his, feeling him tense up every so often when he hears his name come out of their mouths. 

“i wouldn’t be caught dead with that freak!” you hear from a group of your old classmates’ table followed by an eruption of laughter. 

Eddie squeezes your hand three times before letting go, scooting his chair out from the table and excusing himself to the restroom. the friends at your table all look to you for the next move, enough looks of defeat for you to end this once and for all. with a soft smile, you throw a $20 bill on the table and rise from your seat. 

“sorry guys.” you sigh, motioning for them to gather their things to leave as you push in your chair and make your way to the table across the room. Dustin trots his way to the restroom to grab Eddie as you hear Robin say your name softly, urging you to leave it be but everyone knows you can’t.

“hey guys! how are you?” you beam at your old friends, doing your best to smile at them. “Stacy, Lauren, Molly…” you exaggerate her name, informing her you heard her comment loud and clear. 

mumbles of good’s and small nods emit from them and their eyes bounce to one another nervously. “aw that’s so good to hear!” you beam, “i’m doing great too, in case you were curious. ya know, i couldn’t help but overhear you guys chatting over here and i just felt like i needed to come say hi.” their smiles drop immediately as you talk, and you let them sit in their fear of what you’ll say next. 

“yeah, you know what they say… once a bitch always a bitch, right?” silence fills the diner and you hear Max cough to cover her giggle at the door. 

“i’m sorry?” Lauren scoffs, genuinely unable to comprehend the fact that you might be putting them in their place. 

“aw, you should be. because let’s face it, it’s pretty embarrassing that we graduated years ago and you still act like this.” you look at them with pure disgust, knowing they haven’t changed in the slightest. you speak with confidence, your tone still friendly, “and to think you used to truly care for me.”

“w-we do still care for you. we just want what’s best for you.” Stacy chirps as the other two nod along with her.

“what’s best for me? pretending like you’re all some fucking saints walking around and saying you’re praying for me to ‘come to my senses’ as if i have no control over my own life? who i love is my choice, so save your prayers for yourself because you’re the most judgmental creeps i’ve ever met.”

you turn to leave, your sweet group of friends still standing by the door waiting for you, Eddie having joined them just in the heat of your argument. reaching for his hand, you crack open the door and turn one last time to their table. 

“and by the way? i’m having his baby!” their eyes widen with horror and their mouths fall agape as you follow Eddie through the door and giggle, skipping to be directly next to him.  

“woah, woah, woah?! you’re pregnant??” Steve asks, genuinely unsure as you laugh at his question. 

“no, i’m not. but oh my god did you see their faces??” 

Eddie chuckles alongside you, and you feel relieved he’s made light of the situation along with you. “yeah, not yet.”

~~~~~~~~

you sit on the couch with Eddie seated directly in front of you on the shaggy carpet. one by one you twirl his messy curls into ringlets with an unfathomable amount of hair products. you feel his once tense body relax against your knees as he twiddles with the frayed pieces of your blue jeans. 

“it’s true, y’know…” he says softly, barely above a whisper. 

“what’s that?” you ponder, curious more-so as to why his tone has saddened during your comfortable silence.

“what they all say. that you’d be better off with someone else- someone other than me..?”

“no, i don’t think they know what the hell they’re talking about.” your hands continue to work on his hair, with only a few sections left you couldn’t allow yourself to leave it be. But you continue to reassure him. 

“Eds, i don’t care that they think i shouldn’t be with you. i want to be with you. I love you. isn’t that what matters? not what all these bored-ass people think, but what we want?” 

“you… you love me?” he turns his head to face you once you drop the final curl back against his head. an ear to ear grin plastered on his face and his eyebrows wiggle. 

“of course i love you, silly. i love you more than i have the words to express.” you tell him truthfully, knowing in your heart that he is the man for you. 

“i love you too. i love you so fucking much.” 

he stands up from his crouching position, pulling you up from the couch with him. your lips instinctively crash into his. 

you interlock your fingers around his neck, trying to bring him closer to you as if you weren’t already impossibly close to him. you sloppily kiss each other before you pull away from him, a small string of saliva still connecting you to him as your lips separate. 

“eww!” you laugh, before pulling him by the hand and dragging him down the hallway to his bedroom. “come on, slow poke!”

“hey! i thought you said you weren’t having my baby.” he teased, bringing up the silly comment you had said earlier at the diner. 

“yeah, not yet.”

[noparadiseinthis]

English is not my first language. Bear with me, Grammarly helps, but it doesn't work miracles

Series: Come away, O human child! Part 2:

She dreamed of paradise

Spencer Reid/fem!Reader

Read part 1 here.

Warnings: explicit domestic violence and abusive relationships. Descriptions of physical violence. Reader is married and has a child.

Summary: Spencer sees a mark on you. He decides that if no one is going to do anything about it, then he will. If only he can convince you to accept help.

Steve was strangely calm on the way home. He had asked the sheriff for permission to take you and Willy away during his lunch break with the excuse that he was worried about the disappearance of women that had been happening in town, just like an ideal husband, but you knew the real reason, he wanted to keep an eye on you.

"Well?" he asked, taking his eyes off the road for a second to look at you.

You knew it was best to let him speak first, so you waited for Steve to start, no matter how tense you were.

"The FBI guy, what did he want?"

"Nothing much, he was just playing with Will, he knew magic tricks."

You didn't mention the terror you felt when you saw that your son wasn't by your side, he could never relate to that, he could never understand the deep emptiness that existed inside you when Will wasn't around. He was all the light you needed.

"And you let some stranger talk to our son? I can't leave you two alone anyway."

Sometimes you didn't quite understand Steve's intentions, even though you knew there was a reason behind everything.

"He's FBI, isn't he?"

It was a risky move, rebutting what he was saying. Luckily for you, it seemed to be a good day, because he did nothing but raise an eyebrow and snort.

"I don't want you two anywhere near that guy."

You just nodded, distracted as you wondered what was so special about Dr. Reid that Steve reacted like that, your curiosity piqued. Was he trying to push you away from one more person before any bonding had even begun? Surely he couldn't have been afraid that you would turn him in since you had already understood a long time ago that no one would help you or even give you a second glance. If I could go back in time, I would have run as soon as Steve showed interest in joining the police. A bunch of conniving vibrators, they were.

"We'll never see him again," you reassured him.

"Well," your husband muttered, "you know why I do it. I have to protect my family."

With a silly, fake smile on your face, you agreed as you stroked his arm, looking through the rearview mirror at Will sleeping in the back seat. You could do this for another 13 years, right? Just hang in there.

•••

Spencer gathered his things from the table, putting them in his bag as he prepared to go to the hotel, hoping to get a good night's sleep and work with more focus and renewed vigor the next day. He spent the rest of the day reliving his interaction with you down to the smallest detail, remembering and recalling her tone of voice, her posture, and her submission when her husband appeared. If was right, his name was Steve.

The policeman in question left the police station for an hour and returned soon after, casting long glances at Spencer, none like yours, who followed him to his hotel room, until he laid his head on the pillow and far beyond that, invading his dreams.

•••

5 days in the same city was a lot on the Spencer scale. Enough to make the UNSUB profile, but not enough to capture him. He lived in the shadows, preying on the most vulnerable people in that small, broken society that was your little town: the women. More specifically, the housewives. Spencer spent these days wondering if you had any job.

"What the hell?" He heard Morgan's voice exclaim with surprise, raising her head to look at the source. That's when spotted William, wandering around outside the glass-walled room they were in. The boy walked between the tables as if he belonged there, but stood out from his surroundings. "Who is he?"

"Cop Steve's son." Spencer murmured, attracting the attention of his colleagues.

"Do you know him? How?" JJ asked.

Spencer shrugged. "Kids like magic. He came here a few days ago, must have run away from his mom again. I thought Morgan had seen him before."

"Well, I didn't see. There's something strange about that boy's father-" Turning away as he spoke, Derek was interrupted by the sound of the door opening and a child's voice shouting happily.

"Dr. Reid!"

As if it were second nature, Spencer rose from his seat to kneel in front of the child and greeted him back with a smile.

"Hey, Willy," he held up his open palm, which made the boy laugh and high-fived him, "What are you doing here, kid?"

"Mom came to bring Dad's lunch again, but I wanted to see you."

Spencer sighed with an understanding smile, looking around at his classmates who stared rather shocked at their very natural interaction.

"And does your mom know you're with me?"

The look he shifted to the floor said everything the doctor needed to know.

"You can't just disappear, young man. Do you know where she is?"

Will nodded. "In the big room with Daddy."

Spencer looked at Hotch, who understood immediately and sighed tiredly before nodding and nodding towards the door, permitting him to leave.

"Let's find her then, shall we?"

William walked out hand in hand with the man, leaving Spencer shocked that a policeman's son was so ill-educated, regardless of his age. Children could be sociable. They should be. That didn't exclude all the evil that lurked outside the house - or inside - the boy seemed the pure image of naivety. Worrying. He couldn't tell you why he cared so much.

"So, Willy, why did you split up with Mom? You heard what she said, she gets worried when you disappear like that."

"Because they were starting over."

"Starting what?" Reid asked, frowning and looking down to see the child's face, who didn't answer. "Starting what, William?" he asked again.

•••

"How did you manage to lose sight of him? For God's sake, this is a police station!" Steve exclaimed furiously, although he growled quietly. He didn't believe in announcing his problems to the world.

"I let go of his hand for a second and he disappeared!" You retorted, your eyes watering as you thought about what he could have gotten himself into this time. "It's not my fault," you continued, hugging your body as if trying to convince yourself.

Your husband snorted, scorn appearing on his face as he approached, and suddenly any courage you had was thrown out of the window. You looked around, at the walls that gave you so little privacy. We're in public, you thought, like a mantra. He didn't do anything in public. He didn't do anything in public. He grabbed your arm. Moreover, his nails dug in, forcing and tearing at your skin as his instinct acted and tried to pull your arm back, but he held back. As he always did. Apart from the pain, all you could think about was what a bad idea it was to wear short sleeves that day.

"What good are you anyway, if you can't even look after my son properly?"

Your eyes were injected with rage and you swallowed, watching the face of the man you once thought would make you the happiest woman in the world. The man who promised you the world while hugging you in a college dormitory bathroom and holding a pregnancy test with a small smile on his face. Eyes crinkled with joy as he stroked your still flat belly and whispered such sweet things. A time when you thought you could face anything as long as you had him by your side. You no longer saw any of that in the man in front of you. He ripped any last shred of hope from your cold, dead hands and then made you dig your own emotional grave, as deep as his nails could go into your skin. You barely felt the pain anymore. You didn't even feel anything, until you heard the familiar voice of the light of your life, pulling you out of that dark pit as it always did.

Quickly, Steve retracted his arm, taking a deep breath and swallowing as he turned to where he had heard his son's voice, his nostrils flaring as he saw who was with him.

•••

Spencer never got a verbal answer to his question from William, but he didn't need one. The scene in front of him said it all, and from the way the boy squeezed his hand tighter, he could tell that Will knew there was something wrong between his parents. Fortunately, the boy was too short to have the same field of vision as Reid. Luckily, he hadn't seen the terrified look on his mother's face, let alone his father's aggressive grip.

Will shouting "Mommy" and letting go of your hand to run to you provided him with a new horizon. It brought back memories. That of trying to be a mediator within a broken family, even in childhood.

•••

Steve never spent much time around William anyway, so when he left quickly, you didn't mind, you were relieved. Noticing that Dr. Reid wasn't going to move away, you sighed, hiding the nail mark against your own body as you watched him enter the room you were in.

"Hey, honey, want to play a little?" you asked, taking your cell phone out of your pocket and handing it to your son, who quickly agreed and went to the corner of the 'big room', as he called it, oblivious to the rest of the world.

"I never knew your name."

You snorted, wondering how that was the first thing he chose to say, but in the end, he did say your name.

"You don't have to hide it, I've already seen it." Spencer continued, making sure to speak quietly so that the child wouldn't hear them and to keep the anger out of his voice.

You swallowed, wondering what you had done to deserve two humiliations in a row on the same day, trying to force yourself to remain calm and expressionless, assessing how much of a risk the mysterious doctor could be to you or your child.

"I'm sorry about William again today, it'll never happen again."

Spencer couldn't stop himself from analyzing you, and what he saw brought him the most mixed emotions. You were profiling him too. You are a profiler for survival, someone who needs to know how to act in every situation so as not to get hurt. It made your head spin, your throat dry and your hands twitch. "It's called empathy. Use it to be a better person," Derek once told him.

"You know this is a crime; I can arrest him right now if you want; this room has cameras, and you're... you're hurt."

To his surprise, you laughed in his face. A bitter laugh. The kind he wished you'd never hear again.

"Are you an idiot, Dr. Reid?" you asked, without any humor. "Is that how you sleep best at night? Look around you, see where we are. In a police station full of men. Do you think you're the first to see something like that in me?"

Suddenly, it was as if a dam broke and you felt the uncontrollable urge to channel all your anger at Dr. Spencer Reid, pointing at the wound on his arm, the little blood already dried. This made the agent sigh. He had never really been able to understand how someone could hurt a person they had sworn to love so deeply.

"Well, the FBI wasn't here before."

You just sighed, pressing your lips together to stop a torrent of tears. He would never know that fear like you did. Even if Steve was still arrested, what would you do next? How would you be able to raise your son in a place like this, where your husband was the model citizen of the city and you were the bitch who put him in prison?

"You just don't understand. Please go away, Dr. Reid."

Go away, and don't you dare even try to give me false hope because I killed them all for my own good a long time ago, you thought.

Spencer couldn't accept that it would end like this. There had to be something, there had to be a way. Not for the first time in his life, he thought that people should come with a manual. It was time to do your job, even if you felt terrible about using your weakness against yourself.

"And is it worth it? Raising a child in such an environment?"

"I've managed to keep Will away for five years. So as long as he's safe, yes, it's worth it," you replied, your back to him.

Spencer sighed, squeezing his thigh as he cursed himself for influencing you like that. All for the greater good.

"Except that he already knows. Kids are a lot more observant than people think."

You turned like lightning.

"What are you talking about?"

You couldn't. You couldn't lose the only certainty you had in life. That Will was your sea of positivity, away from everything that was really going on at home, growing up happily, without any resentment. You swore that when he was born. It was the only promise it would kill you to break.

Spencer hated being the cause of the look of terror on his face this time, but like all the other times in his life when it was necessary, he took courage and started telling.

Taglist (if you want in or out, just let me know):

@yokaimoon @fanfic-viewer

A/n: I was wonderfully surprised by how well received the first part was. I hope you enjoy the second as much. Thank you for your support

[samkerrworshipper]

asthma attacks | leah williamson x reader

based off a req that i got asking for soft boyfriend leah looking after a sick reader!

just a little drabble that’s just some sickness angst and heart warming fluff

Leah was out for the night. Out with Kim and Lia at some music event that they had decided to go to together. It wasn’t abnormal, Leah was out most weekends, with Alex or teammates. You weren’t a partier, you didn’t enjoy being out and about, you were a practised introvert whereas Leah was not. Normally you were fine with it, insisting to your fiance that she go out and enjoy herself, you enjoyed spending your Saturday night’s on your shared couch, digging into a tub of ice cream and watching whatever trashy reality show you could find.

Tonight though everything had felt off, there had been a sudden change in the weather in London, a sunny day now having a storm loom over the skies. It had put you off, but you hadn’t let it show enough for Leah to catch on, you wanted her to have a good night and you knew that if she was worrying about you she never would. So like normal, you helped her select her outfit, opting for a brown leather pair of slacks and a white v-neck shirt that matched up nicely with a black coat. She looked stunning and you made her aware of it, showering her with kisses and stray arms as she made her way out of the door, promising she’d be home by ten.

You’d started your night by ordering pizza, but you couldn’t shake the feeling in your chest, the slow tightening. It was something you’d never experienced and you shook it off as it just being anxiety. You got your blanket fort ready on the couch, prepared to sit in and watch the episodes of The Real Housewives and clicking play. You pressed pause on the show when you heard the sound of your delivery man at the door, leaping out of your blankets and walking towards your door. You cursed when you realised that your wallet wasn’t at the door, remembering that you had taken it upstairs earlier. You rushed towards your staircase, ignoring the feeling of tightness in your chest as you bounded up the stairs, ignoring the lack of oxygen you seemed to have once you made it to the top, ignoring it and rushing towards your bedroom. It took you hardly any time to track down your wallet, you fished out a series of bills, enough to pay for your food and tip the driver generously, you couldn’t help but feel the oxygen in your lungs, or the lack thereof. You ignored it. Rushing to the door in a haste so as to not leave your delivery man waiting any longer, there was this clench across your torso though that was so sudden and so unexpected. You shoved the money towards the man, quickly trading the pizza box with the cash so you could close the door.

You knew this feeling. In all honesty you hadn’t felt it in too long, a bit too long to send you into some false sense of security but now it was all coming into focus for you. You slid down onto the floor of your house, your lungs no longer being able to support you standing up. You dropped the pizza box to the side of you, your arms clutching at your chest, as you wheezed and struggled for air. You should have known when the storm warnings came, should have known to have your puffer on hand. You were royally fucked now, the all so familiar asthma attack beginning to take a toll on your body.

You reached into the pocket of your lounge pants, fumbling around with the buttons as your vision began to blur from the sheer lack of oxygen that was entering your body. You struggled with the buttons, clicking on the phone one and stumbling through your contacts until you managed to find your girlfriend.

You clicked on her name, praying that she would pick up. The only puffer’s that you had lay in your medicine cabinet and bedside table, for the odd panic attack that you would sometimes procure in your sleep, that often had you barreling into an asthma attack.

You listened carefully to the sound of ringing, cursing in your head when the sound of Leah’s voicemail began to play, her voice did wonders to soothe you but once it was over you couldn’t help but feel overwhelming dread. You scrolled frantically, your hands shaking as the searched for someone else, eventually locating Kim’s number and pressing on it, she was your last hope.

You listened dutifully to the sound of the phone ringing, listening as it slowly began to ring out and ust as you were losing hope the sound of music started to bleed through your speaker.

“Y/n? What’s up?”

You wheezed as you sucked in the oxygen to speak.

“A-Asthma attack, n-need Leah.”

You heard Kim swear under her breath, her deep Scottish accent being portrayed in her words. You could hear her yelling at Leah on the other side of the phone, clearly trying to get the attention of your girlfriend. It took some more yelling and bustling for Leah’s voice to finally meet your ears. You were exhausted, your breaths becoming even harder to take with every second.

“Baby, are you alright? Have you got a puffer?”

You gulped, again taking your time to suck in the oxygen so you could reiterate what was happening to Leah.

“N-No, s’ upstairs, c-can’t breathe.”

You heard Leah take a deep exhale on the other side of the phone, and then yell something out to one of her companions.

“Okay, okay, stay on the phone with me. I’m leaving now, I’ll be home soon, we’re only five minutes away. Just keep talking to me okay.”

You nodded at the phone, the realised that Leah couldn’t see you.

“F-forgot about the s-storm.”

It was true, even though you knew it was one of your triggers it had managed to completely slip your mind, you had been too focused on the obscenely sudden change of weather to think about how it could affect you.

“I know baby girl, it completely slipped my mind as well, just keep taking those deep breaths, blow the candles out remember. I’m going to be home soon, just keep blowing out the candles.”

You nodded into the phone, trying your very hardest to obey Leah’s wish and take the breaths that she had told you too. It wasn’t easy, but you tried your very hardest to allow the oxygen to reenter your body, only for it to be taken away by the tightening in your chest and the wheezes that left your lungs with every little breath you tried to take. You need your puffer, and soon, before you lacked so much oxygen that you passed out.

Leah stayed on the phone with you, murmuring reminders to breathe and other similar advice that was nice but didn’t do very much to calm the struggle that you were having. You made sure to murmur to her every once in a while, reminding the woman that you were still alive.

“Y/n/n, keep blowing the candles out, you're doing so well for me sweet girl, you’ve got this, just keep taking those deep breaths.”

Your head was clouding over with a haze, something you recognised as a symptom of your oxygen deprivation, first came the cloud, then a complete daze and then unconsciousness.

“L-leah, need you.”

Your words were breathy, your lungs struggling to scrap together much more than the half words.

“I know sweet, I’m almost there, just pulling into the driveway now, keep breathing for me.”

You could feel the fog that was plaguing your body begin to thicken and you thanked every god that Leah was close by, that tonight she had opted to keep it local instead of going elsewhere. You listened indepthly as you heard the sound of a car pulling in and fast footsteps making their way across the pavement of your driveway and towards the door.

In the flash of a moment the door was slung open, Leah locating you almost immediately on the floor and crouching down beside you.

“Kim, inhaler, bedside table.”

It was then that you spotted Kim and Lia running in behind her, the three of them about as flustered as flustered could be.

Leah pulled her jacket off, slinging the far to large coat over your nearly bare shoulders, the only thing covering your chest being one of your pyjama tank tops. Your body was shivering wildly, with the lack of everything beginning to truly affect your form.

“Hey, hey honey, look at me, keep blowing out the candles yeah? Take those deep breaths for me, Kim’s fetching your inhaler so just hang in for me.”

You nodded at Leah, trying your very hardest to absorb her words and put them into action.

“Lia, wet towel, now.”

Lia nodded, running off towards your kitchen whilst Leah stayed crouched beside you on the floor. It was seconds later that Kim came bounding down your staircase, a inhaler clutched in one of her hands. She threw it to Leah, who caught it with ease and very quickly brought it to your mouth, pressing down on the puffer as to allow you to take in some of the medicine that you so desperately needed. You ran the process a multitude of times, Leah insisted that you take as many puffs of the medication as you were allowed to. As soon as you were done you slumped against Leah, her body coming to rest beside you against the wall of your hallway, slinging her arm around you so she could bring you to her chest, letting you feel her deep breaths and try to copy them.

When Lia returned with the towel Leah pressed it against your head, letting you feel the contrast of the cold. You’d found over time that the cold tended to shock your body into normality, and that sometimes it would assist in helping an attack pass.

It was just a waiting game, waiting for the ventolin to force your lungs to untighten, forcing them to do the job that they were supposed to, that you so wished they would do naturally. Slowly the medication worked, slowly it started to take effect on your body, allowing you to float down from the haze that you’d been in.

“M’ sorry I wrecked your night.”

The other two women had sat themselves down on the wall opposite you two, the two of them sporting equally concerned faces.

“You did no such thing, I should have known that with the storm coming there was a chance you would be affected by it, never should have left your side.”

Leah leant down to your head, pressing a gentle kiss to your hairline that lasted for quite a few seconds.

“Ruined your night though.”

It was Kim’s deep Scottish accent that boomed through this time, being the only noise in the hallway beside the sound of your constricted breaths.

“You did not ruin anybody's night, we wanted you to call us, if you ever feel like that we’d want you to call us, you had a asthma attack, a completely human thing that you couldn’t have prevented. All is well as long as you are feeling fine.”

You nodded at Kim, grateful for the smile that the older woman, your captain gave you.

“I’ll be alright now, thanks to you.”

It was true, without the help of the women you would probably be dead, unable to do much more than collapse on the floor of your house and slowly choke on your own breaths.

“It’s no trouble at all, we’re always here to help if you need, we better get going now, keep an eye on this one Lee.”

Kim reached down to ruffle your hair, helping Lia up and the two of them saying their goodbyes before exiting your house.

Leah continued to hold you in her arms as your breaths evened out, slowly returning to normal as the medication began to fully work.

“M’ so sorry sweetheart, I should have known with the storm.”

You shushed Leah’s worries, a hand reaching up to her mouth to stop her from venting.

“Hey, I forgot as well, neither of us are at fault, it happens. Nothing would have stopped it from happening, it just happened to be that tonight you were out, but you were here, you got here and I’m fine, I’m going to be fine.”

Leah nodded at you, leaning down to press another set of kisses to your face, placing them all over your face and forehead before reaching down to peck your lips.

“Never leaving you again, you are going to be stuck at my side forever.”

You rolled your eyes at Leah’s words, knowing that her protective nature would take over for the next two weeks before it faded and she returned to her normal ways.

“I’m going to have to brush up on my dance moves then.”

Leah snorted, knowing that the day she got you out on the dance floor would be a monumental moment for sure.

“Nope, never leaving this house, going to keep you wrapped up in our bed forever, no more risks for you.”

You rolled your eyes at Leah once again, ignoring her frightfully overbearing boyfriend tendencies that seemed to come into play after every single time something happened to you.

“Sounds like a pretty good life to me.”

[ghoststyles]

Meet Me In Augusta

A quick little check-in for Fairway to Heaven ❤️ inspired by my beefy hunky man at the Masters 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

SMUT. FLUFF. That’s all.

———————————————————————————

When Briar and Harry first got together, she thought she’d won the lottery. A doting, strong boyfriend who puts her needs above his own. He cares for her dog as much as she does, gets along with her family members, and donates to charity regularly. It’s like the heavens handmade him. And yes, the reverse is true on Harry’s part. She’s his dream girl, and the bloody best thing to ever happen to him. But, where he’d truly won the lottery differs slightly:

He won tickets to the Masters.

It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity to attend one of the four major golf tournaments, and when Harry entered his name in the lottery system the year before, he never thought he’d see the day where his bucket list item would be checked off.

Briar is lounging on Harry’s couch, watching old episodes of Real Housewives (NY, obviously) with Gus at her feet and a bowl of popcorn and M&Ms beside her when she hears a completely manly and dignified shriek from Harry’s office. Sitting up in alarm, she opens her mouth to yell back to him, to make sure he’s okay, just as the heavy oak double doors swing open. Shirtless and in his Calvin Klein boxer briefs and socks, Harry sprints down the hall, phone in hand as he leaps over the back of the sofa to stand beside her.

“What on Earth! Harry, you’re scaring me! Is there a mouse? Where are your clothes?” Briar screams, jumping up to crouch on the sofa and cocooning herself in her blanket in case there’s a spider clinging to him.

Harry is laughing maniacally, and every so often an oh my god leaving his mouth. He nods to whomever he’s talking to on the phone as if they can see him before thanking them and hanging up.

He drops the phone, eyes wide and meeting hers. Grabbing her shoulders, he all but tackles her back to the sofa, signaling Gus to bark at him for hurting his mom. They’re on the settee part of the sofa, Harry’s arms wrapped around her, preventing her from moving, even if she wanted to.

“Harry! Tell me what’s going on right now!” Briar’s shrill voice finally brings him back to Earth.

He peppers kisses on her neck before shouting in her ear, “I’M GOING TO THE MASTERS!”

She doesn’t respond, not because she’s not supportive of his enthusiasm, but because she has no idea what that is. Feigning a smile, she replies, “wow, baby, that’s great!”

Craning his neck, his brows furrow when he meets her gaze, a clear indicator she’s confused.

“Birdie, do you know what the Masters is?”

“Mmmm, is it like MasterChef?”

Harry squawks out a laugh, shaking his head, “No, my love. The Masters is one of the big four golf tournaments for the PGA. When you win, you earn a green jacket and become a member of Augusta National in Georgia. And then you get to plan a celebration dinner. Plus, you win like, $3,000,000.”

“Ohhhh, okay, yes. Uncle Patrick has gone to that, I think. He didn’t win, though.”

Harry’s brows furrow even more, a bewildered look gracing his features, “We’ll come back to that later. I have a lot of questions. But, you enter a lottery to win tickets and I won! Otherwise, tickets are almost a million dollars.”

“A million dollars!? The course better be made of solid gold. I can’t even believe the stuff people spend their money on sometimes.”

“Tiger Woods will be there. He hasn’t played in a few years because of injuries. Baby, I could be near Tiger!” he smacks her ass, eliciting a yelp.

He hops up from his spot on the sofa as he looks outside with the biggest smile on his face, running his hands through his not-so-there curls on his head. He’d shaved it a few months ago impulsively; that was a crisis Briar never thought she’d see the other side of. But his peach fuzzy head grew on her.

“When is it?”

“Second weekend in April. Are you doing anything?”

“Me? Why wouldn’t you take Niall?”

“He and Lydia already have a wedding that weekend back in Ireland. I already asked him.”

“So, I’m your second choice!?” Briar smacks the sofa cushion beside her, faking offense.

Harry rolls his eyes, “You didn’t even know what it was five minutes ago, brat.”

She parrots his eye rolling, leaning down to snuggle Gus. They’re quiet for a moment, letting Harry soak in the news.

“Wait, why don’t you have clothes on?”

“Oh, I stripped them off as they were telling me I got the tickets. I was just too excited,” he responds casually, as if the answer is obvious.

———————————————————————————

So the pair is in Augusta, Georgia, watching Harry’s childhood dream come true. The problem? No phones allowed.

To maintain their traditional values, Augusta National banned the use of cellphones. Briar’s lovely boyfriend failed to remind her of this fact until they were in the back of an Uber heading to the course.

“No phones!? I wanted to document this whole experience for you!” She whines, gently squeezing his wrist.

“Thanks for wanting to do that, Birdie, but it’s okay. My generation isn’t addicted to their phones. We like to live in the moment.”

“Oh my god,” she snorts, punching him lightly. If anyone is on their phone too much, it’s Harry. His entire day is determined by solving the New York Times Connections puzzle. What do you MEAN the theme was ice cream flavors without the last letter?

“What if we get separated? How will I find you?”

“Did you pack your leash?” Harry smirks, waiting for her to smack him again.

“H! Quiet,” she snarls, trying not to look if the driver is listening. “Fine. Do they collect the phones or do they just kick you out if they see it?”

“I think they kick you out and you’re not allowed back, ever. There’s also no running. It’s hilarious. When everyone is trying to follow around the big names, it turns into a speed walking competition to try and beat them to the hole.”

She hums, looking out the window at the gorgeous scenery. She hasn’t spent much time down south, but this trip has changed her opinion of this part of the country. They’ve had beautiful dinners at night on patios and taken walks on historic grounds.

“Good news is, the food and drinks are super cheap, and I think you have some French 75’s calling your name.”

“Yesss!”

The Uber turns, the beautiful gates to the course opening as they pull in. The white building before them is gorgeous and neatly kept, embodying the prestige of the entire event. For a moment, she thinks Harry is tearing up. Harry snaps a photo of the two of them in front of the building to send to Niall and Patrick.

He grabs her hand and squeezes gently as he flashes their credentials to the security guard.

“Lead the way, baby,” Briar whispers, linking her arm with his as they stand outside the car, taking it all in.

Like a kid in a candy store, Harry drags her by the wrist, slaloming through the crowds of people as they all try to make it to the entrance.

Harry looks fucking good today. He’s donning a navy blue sweater on top of a cobalt blue golf shirt. His taupe pinstripe pants are pressed perfectly. His fingers are decked out in rings of all different finishes, and his Prada sunglasses fit his scruffy face perfectly.

The finishing touch, his shoes, are what has Briar giggling to herself. His black Hoka sneakers are throwing off the whole vibe. She tried to change his mind as they packed, but we’ll be walking a lot, and I don’t want my plantar fasciitis to come back!

To make the occasion even more special, Briar let Harry pick out her outfits. She knew he’d pick out her lavender sports dress, a classic piece she whips out when they play on weekends so he’s frustrated and thrown off his game. She’s 3 for 4 on this strategy.

Harry loves the way it cuts at Briar’s strong thighs, and shows a little bit of her back. To elevate the look, she tied a white Hermes scarf around her neck just like Daphne! Her shoes are white Vince Camuto sneakers with no support. She knows she can’t whine later if her feet hurt, in fear of hearing a relentless, I told you so!

Before examining his choices in her suitcase, she zeros in on the lack of underwear and bras. She knows he also picked her floor length, black bodycon dress. He’s really pushing the limits of voyeurism with these picks.

They finally make it past security, thankful they didn’t confiscate her purse, a gift from Harry that is just a smidgen too large for their rules. He leads them to the main clubhouse to grab their first drinks of the day, and maybe even a breakfast sandwich.

They start off with mimosas to ease into the day drinking, because Harry is too fucking old for daydrinking and Briar is a menace when she drinks when the sun is up. By their third round, Harry is full on fangirling as all the players buzz around him. He’s allowed to fangirl all he wants, but when she wants to gush about One Direction for a minute, he covers his ears. Eyeroll.

Briar snaps out of her brattiness, deciding she needs some food in her stomach. As they’re gathered on the 8th hole, she starts to “koala” him, as he so lovingly calls it. She wraps her arms around him from behind, laying her chin on his bicep.

“What’s wrong, Birdie? Hungry?”

Briar lightly bites his arm, looking up to meet his sideways gaze. Part of her hates how well he knows her. She slides her hands in his front pockets, making him wiggle uncomfortably.

“Be good,” he says lowly so only they can hear.

“Okay, Daddy,” she says sweetly, smiling up at him. “But yes, I’m hungry.”

Briar can feel him hesitate, clearly conflicted in what to do next.

“Okay, baby, but,” he pauses. “Tiger is at this hole next, and I’d really like to see it.”

Briar slumps, making a slight hmmph sound. She knows better, and knows how important this is to him, so she shakes it off.

“It’s alright, I can go back to the clubhouse by myself. Will you stay here so I don’t lose you?”

“Of course,” he leans down to gently peck her lips, before his head whips around as Tiger arrives at the tee box just a few feet from them, sending the crowd into a chaotic roar. She reluctantly lets go of his waist, crossing her arms over herself as she walks away.

The crowd has only increased as they arrived, and she’s honestly overwhelmed. A staff member nearby can sense her unsettled demeanor, so he asks if she’d like a ride back to the building.

She smiles at him, “Yes, that’d be lovely! Thank you so much.”

Trey, the worker, doesn't say much, but Briar isn’t one for awkward silences. She tells him about Harry, Wynnewood, and how this is a lifelong dream for him to be here. He nods along, visibly recoiling after finding out Briar isn’t single. She hops off the cart as they approach the doors, and waves a friendly goodbye.

Perusing the snack bar, her eyes are bigger than her stomach. She grabs grapes, potato chips, a turkey sandwich, and even a pudding cup. A nice man helps her condense her items into a cardboard box for carrying. She grabs a fresh squeezed lemonade to finish off her deliciously simple lunch.

Slightly tipsy and overly giddy, she finds a bench to start eating. It’s amazing the different walks of life at this event; the die-hards who don’t care about the glamor of it all, and the ones that are here only as a status symbol. It’s honestly nice not having her phone; she’s a little more in touch with her surroundings.

Taking small bites of her sandwich, she’s startled when another man approaches her on the bench.

“Pardon me, miss. Are you Miss Barlowe?”

Taken back, she nods as she swallows her bite, “Yes, can I help you?”

“Mr. Styles is on the line over there,” he points to the hilariously old fashioned phone stand, where 3 mossy green phones hang on the wooden stand. “He just wanted to make sure you were doing alright.”

Briar smiles, patting her mouth with her napkin and rising to her feet, “Thank you so much. Do I have to do anything to connect to the call?”

“Just press # and it should connect. I’ll be right over there if you have trouble.”

She laughs to herself as she approaches and presses the ‘#’ just as he said, “Hello?”

“What are you wearing right now?”

“Who is this?” She plays along.

“Your handsome, charming boyfriend,” he muses.

“I have a few of those, so you’re going to have to narrow it down,” she fakes a sultry tone.

“Briar – come on, you know I don’t like those jokes,” he mutters.

She laughs, twirling the curly phone cord around in her hand, “I feel like Carrie Bradshaw with this phone, talking to one of my boyfriends.”

“Are you insinuating I’m Mr. Big? I’m Aidan at the very least. The good guy.”

“Of course you’re Aidan. But instead, we get married.”

“Yeah, y’wanna marry me?” Harry can’t contain his grin as he looks around to see if anyone can hear him. “I won’t say yes until you come back here and get down on one knee, Briar.”

“In your dreams, Styles. Why’d ya call anyway? I’m just sitting here eating my sandwich.”

“Just missed you. Tiger got a birdie on this hole, so it made me think of you.”

“Aw, you’re cute. You’re the first place boyfriend today. You were in third yesterday, for reference.”

“Glad to hear that. Finish up your lunch and come find me. I’m gonna go to the 17th hole to try and catch Justin Rose. He’s an old friend from home.”

“Okay, I’ll come find you. Love.”

“Love.”

Briar hangs up the phone, the butterflies in her stomach buzzing. Since returning home from California, she’s never felt so secure in their relationship. He’s balancing fatherhood, work and their everyday life with ease.

Readjusting her skirt, she walks back over to the bench, mouthing a thank you to the worker who let her know Harry was calling. She sips on her lemonade, the ice rattling as she finishes the cup. Tossing the remnants of her meal in the trash, she spots the beverage cart girl. Briar smiles as she approaches her, requesting another French 75 and a Casamigos on the rocks for her lover.

The 17th hole is a hell of a lot closer to the clubhouse, but swarmed with people. It’s going to be a needle in a haystack to find him. Briar scrunches her brows, scanning all the kinda old white men with brown hair. Where is her old man?

Panic sets in for a moment, until she feels two hands on her waist, lifting her off the ground slightly and kissing her neck where it meets her shoulder.. She squeals, reaching for her skirt to make sure nothing is showing. He didn’t pack her any underwear, after all!

“There y’are, Birdie. Wish I brought your leash to drag my cute puppy around. Make everyone jealous.”

“They’d think you need to be sent to jail, actually. Were you able to focus in my absence?”

“Yeah, but I missed your hundred questions and commentary. Is that for me?” he asks, pointing to his drink.

“Yes, but you made me spill it on my shirt,” she frowns, her gaze traveling down to the beads of liquid wicking off the fabric on her chest.

Without a second thought, Harry leans down, pressing his mouth to just over Briar’s nipple to suck up the dribbled liquid. Her eyes widened, in disbelief he just did that. She grips the back of his hair, pulling him out of her bosom.

“H! What the hell are you doing? We’re in public!”

“Mm, I know. I’m so hard right now. And thirsty. Saw an opportunity,” he smirks, his grip now around the back of her neck. “Wanna take you to the clubhouse and fuck you dumb.”

“Harryyy,” Briar whines again. Little does he know all he has to do is slip her skort to the side to reveal her soaking wet pussy. She does her best to drag her six foot tall boyfriend to the treeline, hiding themselves from prying eyes.

“Let’s go. We’ll find somewhere safe. Daddy needs you to do a favor for him,” he says low in her ear, his tongue touching her earlobe. “Did I tell you how happy I am that you came with me?”

“I’m happy you invited me,” she places a gentle kiss on his lips. “Love seeing you happy.”

———————————————————————————

The lovey dovey talk is how Briar got HOODWINKED into sucking her boyfriend’s cock in an administrator’s office at Augusta National Golf Course at the biggest event of the year. The door locked, thankfully, but the amount of foot traffic outside the door has Briar’s head spinning, even more than when his tip touches the back of her throat.

Harry lets out a guttural moan, “Oh my – fuck! Such a good fucking girl.”

Briar is pulling out her signature moves; cupping his balls with one hand, tweaking his shaft with the other when her mouth doesn’t cover it, and swirling her tongue along the ridge of his bright red, plump cockhead.

Briar bats her eyelashes and pulls off just as he gives his sign of completion; his left thigh muscle twitching. Harry’s eyes shoot open as he grips the desk to prevent himself from falling over. He was so, so close.

Before he can speak, Briar stands, pushing him to half lie on the desktop, opening his belt and pants wider. She climbs on the desk to straddle him, staring down at him deviously.

“Wanna ride you, Daddy,” she whispers in his ear. She sits back up, pulling her skort to the side to show him her pussy, spasming and begging to be touched. He reaches out to touch her, but she bats his hand away, instead placing her hand around his neck firmly. “Nope. No touching.”

Harry snorts, knowing anytime she’s tried to be in charge, she fails miserably. He knows she’ll be howling for his help in a few minutes. His smug look is wiped clean as she grips his cock again to line him up with her dripping hole. They moan in unison when he pushes through the tight opening as she squeezes him for good measure.

Briar bounces lightly, the skin of their thighs slapping together. She could listen to the sounds their bodies make for the rest of her life. He bottoms out a few times, puffs of air escaping his nose as he struggles to not cum immediately.

She starts to rub at her clit, her free hand coming up to tweak her nipple. His eyes are closed again, so she takes her middle and ring finger that are rubbing and sticks them past his lips. He moans, lapping up the wetness from her fingertips and choking on them a bit. She smiles before bringing the fingers back to her center and continuing to rub.

“Oh my god, baby. You taste so good,” Harry whines. “Want you to come. Then I’ll come in your little pussy. Don’t know how you’ll hold it all in there.”

Briar cries out, seconds away from tumbling over the edge. She leans forward, gripping the desk above his head. They’re making extreme eye contact now, the tension between them palpable.

“I’m cumming, Daddy. I’m cumming. Your cock feels so big in my pussy,” she cries out as Harry feels a tiniest bit of wetness expelled from where their bodies meet. She twitches, barely able to hold herself up. He sits up on the desk to support her and begins thrusting up into her with his hands wrapped delicately around her body, fingertips digging into the plushy skin of her ass and waist. He captures her lips in a deep kiss, her breath stuttering when he rams himself back into her.

The two remain intertwined, reality hitting them when Briar utters words he never thought he’d hear from her.

“Fuck me, Daddy. Fill me up. Make me yours. Wanna have your babies,” she fires off things he can’t even comprehend. “Want you to make me a mommy. Fuck – want it so bad. Fill me up, please!”

Harry’s breath is knocked out of him as he throttles upward, his tip colliding with her cervix every time. As he topples over the edge, he buries himself in her pussy – his eternal resting place, he’s decided he’ll request in his will – and releases his full load into her. He drops backwards, beginning her down to lie on top of him, his pants now hanging around his ankles.

“Oh my fucking GOD, baby. So fucking good for me,” he says into her ear, a shiver running down his spine.

“Love you, Daddy,” she says quietly, her ear pressed to his chest so she can hear his heartbeat racing.

“Love you so fucking much, Birdie,” Harry sighs, petting her back.

Harry smiles to himself. The diamond ring he has in his bag at the hotel is going to make an appearance even sooner than expected.

He’s sure of it.

[overtake]

old playing cards!!

I managed a fic under 1k. Please clap.

DECEMBER 2022

Daniel’s fingers tap on the glass table and leave smudges from the sweat and oils coating them. He pulls the sleeve of his shirt over his hand and tries to wipe away the evidence, but he only succeeds at blurring the fingerprints into a hazy circle.

He curls his fingers into the meat of his palm instead, hidden safely inside the too-long cotton cocoon, and stares blankly down. Through the glass, he can see his knee bouncing up and down, just centimetres from banging into the table and bruising his skin.

He startles when a bowl lands in front of him. It’s that eco-friendly cardboard stuff they’ve switched to in the factory cafe, and it’s stuffed to the brim with some kind of chicken and rice dish. Just the smell of it makes Daniel’s stomach churn, and he pushes it to the edge of the table. He ignores Simon’s admonishing glare and crosses his arms across his ribcage.

“Well?” he asks. He knows the sim session didn’t go well. He could hear it in Simon’s constant feedback. He could feel it in his corner hesitation, slamming the brakes like he could fuck the sim into an actual wall and subsequently bracing for impact.

Simon doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls something from his pocket and passes it across the table to Daniel.

It takes Daniel a second to register what he’s looking at, and it draws a laugh out of him for the first time that day.

“You still have these?” Daniel asks. He picks up the old deck of cards and pulls them from their package.

It’d been a tradition every race weekend since he’d become Daniel’s engineer for the two of them to play a round of war before every session. Daniel refused to call it a superstition, but it was their thing.

He’d bought this particular deck for Simon as a farewell gift in 2018, a joke packaged in amongst the real gift of the expensive watch that still decorates Simon’s wrist to date. Simon had become temporarily obsessed with the Real Housewives franchise, a secret he told Daniel to take to the grave, and Daniel had custom-made him a deck of cards with the housewives’ faces on it.

The pack has clearly only been opened once, the day he received it, and Daniel delights in shuffling them for the first time. The fresh edges are stiff against his hands.

Simon doesn’t speak until the cards have been dealt.

“When are you headed back to Perth?” he asks conversationally. He’s never been one to speak around the matter at hand. Daniel must have really stunk up the sim, then.

“Tomorrow.”

They each flip their first card. Simon’s eight takes it to Daniel’s three.

“And Max?”

Daniel turns over a queen, but Simon shows a king.

“After the holiday party. Are you really that invested in our winter break plans?”

Simon shrugs, unbothered by the bite in Daniel’s words. “Yes. I think you should spend time with your family, eat lots of Christmas ham, and stop thinking about the sim.”

Daniel finally takes a round.

“Is that your way of saying today was so bad, we can never speak of it again?”

Daniel flips over an ace. Simon rolls his eyes and slaps down an ace with Lisa Vanderpump’s smiling face, and they begin doling out cards for war. “We’ll talk about the data in a bit. I just want to remind you to take it easy, alright? Trust yourself. We both know your talent didn’t disappear. You just have to let yourself breathe a little.”

Daniel bites down on his lip, hoping the sharp edge of his tooth in skin will stop the burn in his eyes. “You almost sound like you care about me,” Daniel teases.

Simon shakes his head, but Daniel can see the bemused glint in his eyes.

“Get fucked,” Simon says solemnly when he wins the war and sweeps the pile into his deck.

They play the rest of the game in peaceful silence.

MARCH 2025

“Ready?” Max asks. His race suit is only half-zipped, allowing Daniel to lewdly admire the way his white fireproofs hug the frame of his body. Max sees Daniel mentally objectifying him and sticks out his chest a little.

“Almost,” Daniel promises. Simon’s only got about two cards left in his pile. He refuses to bring the Real Housewives deck, so they’re using a boring one for now, but Daniel plans on finding a themed deck for every other city this season.

Max collapses into the chair next to Daniel and spins himself in lazy half-circles until Daniel takes Simon’s final card and wins the game.

“Let’s go,” Daniel crows, doing a little fist pump.

“I let you win,” Simon lies, like it’s not a game of chance. Daniel boos him, and Max joins in.

“I didn’t miss you two being teammates,” Simon says, waving his hand between the two of them, which only increases their boos. Simon cracks his neck and stands up from the table. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daniel says, collecting the cards neatly back into the little box. Max offers him a hand up and lets his fingers linger on Daniel’s skin for a second too long, gently tracing over the four card suits tattooed over the puckered scar on his left hand. “Let’s do this thing.”

[storiesofsvu]

Decadent Desires Ch 19

Emily Prentiss x reader warnings: language, alcohol consumption, the usual denial of feelings. It's all coming together now! Only a couple of more chapters to go! I'm super curious to how y'all think things are gonna go down and exactly when the oh moment really will be/what's gonna make them both admit it to themselves.

3.8k

Emily was a little later than she thought she would be, barely making it before breakfast hours ended but the important thing was that she got the food and she made it to your place and wasn’t whisked away by any phone calls. Securing the bag and drink tray she made it through the halls of your building until she was outside your door, knocking on it the best she could with her elbow. It took a couple of minutes, she could hear some shuffling gong on inside, but you finally pulled the door open, your head titling at the sight of her.

“Hey.” She greeted with a warm smile.

“Hey…” you replied, a tiny laugh coming from your mouth, “what’re you doing here?”

“I promised I’d bring brunch.” She held up the bag, “well, lazy brunch.” She surveyed you for a minute, watching the gears turning behind your eyes and it was her turn to laugh. “Oh my god, you really are out of it. Jetlag gets you that bad? I thought you travelled for work?”

“Not often.” You admitted, feeling the heat creeping into your cheeks as you fully remembered the conversation in her office, “and it’s only ever like, a two hour time difference.” You stepped back, letting her into the house and raising your hands to take the tray and bag from her so she could get rid of her shoes and coat.

“You really forgot I was coming?” She asked, swiping the bag back from you and following you into the living room.

“Figured you were off on a case.” You shrugged, dropping back down onto the couch, fiddling with the remote to turn the volume down as you burrowed yourself under the blanket you’d been under before the bell rang. “I’m glad you weren’t though…. I’ve been doom scrolling through three different apps trying to decide what to get delivered for hours without a single thought in my head on what I could possibly want.”

“Well, enjoy some delicious grease then.” Emily suggested with a smile, pulling what she wanted from the bag before handing it over to you.

“Thank you. Seriously.” You eagerly searched through it, pulling out a McMuffin and a hashbrown, your stomach loudly growling. “Would’ve wasted away to nothing without it.”

Emily laughed softly, watching the intricate way you inspected the ingredients of the sandwich, adding both ketchup and hot sauce into it before slipping a hashbrown next to the egg and putting it all back together. You let out a very appreciative groan after your first bite and silently gave her a very thankful look that she didn’t need words to transcribe.  

“I’ve never tried that.”

“Oh my god it’s the best.” You mumbled over a bite of food, swallowing it down “especially when the hashbrown’s extra crispy like this.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I got extras.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a true angel?” You asked and she laughed.

“Not often.”

“Well you are.” You leant in, kissing her cheek gently, “thank you.”

“Of course.” She squeezed at your knee, “I bailed on an arranged date, I had to make it up to you.” She gestured toward the tv, “now, what’re we watching?”

“Real Housewives. LA I think?” You shifted over to your right, nestling into the corner of the couch, your legs extending onto the longer part of the sectional as you adjusted the blanket. “It’s my brain rot show, I can never keep the cities straight. Now c’mon.” You waved her over to you, “make yourself at home, get comfy and put your feet up.”

Emily laughed softly, easily sliding in beside you as you pulled down another blanket to make sure there was enough for both of you. The sectional was wide, the extended portion more than spacious enough for you to both use it without being right up against each other. Not that that mattered, once breakfast was eaten and you just had coffee to sip on (you didn’t miss that Emily skipped coffee at McDonald’s, opting for a local shop a couple of blocks from your place so she could get your preferred seasonal blend) you were nestled right into Emily’s side. Her arm instinctively looped over your shoulders, encouraging you to lean into her. If you squinted hard enough and it wasn’t for the blustery weather outside the windows, it was like you were back on vacation.

With the television playing on, it didn’t take very long before you were drifting off, Emily managing to snag your almost empty coffee cup before the remnants split all over your couch. She was more than happy to let you snooze against her, your heart beat calm, thudding against her own rib cage and eventually lulling her to sleep too. Either one or both of you would wake up occasionally throughout the afternoon, sometimes shifting because of a cramped shoulder or foot, others because your bladder was screaming or because you desperately needed some hydration. The channel got changed a couple of times, flicking between a few options so you weren’t totally sucked into one overdramatic mess of somewhat real reality tv. Otherwise the two of you returned to your little corner of the couch, burying deep into each other’s arms with happy sighs and content little smiles. There wasn’t much of a better way to spend a Sunday.

At one point you woke up with a small yawn, rolling in Emily’s lap toward the arm of the couch to go back to sleep when a piece of your hair suddenly yanked. You thought it must’ve just been caught under your shoulder or her arm, it had been lose earlier, but Emily made a small noise.

“Sorry…” She winced and when you rolled your head back to look up at her she had a sheepish grin on her face and the ends of half your hair in her hands. “I got fidgety, needed something to occupy my hands.”

You let out a small laugh, carefully shifting so you were sitting at a better angle for her to continue the braid, “I, uh.. kinda wanted to ask if you would do it anyways but I thought that might we weird or something.”

“Not weird at all.” She assured, “as long as you waking up to some weirdo braiding your hair wasn’t weird.”

“You’re not a weirdo. If I woke up to Tony doing it, I’d kick him out.” Your body relaxed into her legs, “and.. for the sake of you not doing it, undoing it and doing it over a million times, the pink basket under the table has fidget toys.”

“You have a collection?” She asked, genuinely curious.

“Heather started buying them for me because I kept fidgeting with and breaking her super fancy expensive pens.” You explained and she laughed, “and I’m not allowed to have clicky pens at important meetings anymore.”

“Such a strict boss.” She teased, her fingers softly tickling at the back of your neck, pulling a shiver from you before she dug around for an elastic to finish the first braid.

The afternoon continued much like the morning had, half watching shows, mild chit chat, cuddling and dozing as the skies turned grey and the rain started. The next time you woke up the sun was completely gone from the sky and the side Emily had been pressed into was cold. You were going to just wait a minute, let your brain realize what you were even watching when you heard the tell tale sounds of your pantry drawers being slid open and shut. With a yawn, you pushed up to sitting, looking into the kitchen over the back of the couch.

“Hungry?” You asked and Emily nearly jumped, letting out a small laugh as she stilled.

“Me? Your stomach was making volcano noises so loud I’m surprised you didn’t wake yourself up.”

“We can just order.” You offered and she waved you off.

“Nah. I think I’ve got everything I need I was just looking for your spices.”

“Small cupboard, top right by the stove.” You replied, watching for a minute as she pulled it open and plucked through them, picking out a couple.

Curiosity got the best of you and you stretched out your limbs, a few of them cracking, achy muscles finally feeling relief as you moved off the couch and padded into the kitchen. Your arm snagged around Emily’s waist and you pressed a soft kiss into her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, and hey, we were both hungry and you were asleep. I figured the best thing I could do was snoop.”

“You want wine?” You asked.

“Please.”

Moving seamless through the room around each other you pulled down a couple of glasses, grabbing a handful of ice from the freezer for her glass before you popped a bottle of white, filling one up and sliding it over to her. You opted for red yourself, sliding the white into the fridge and the malbec back into the wine rack before you hoisted yourself up onto the corner of the counter. A happy hum left your lips when you took your first sip of wine, your body relaxing as you watched Emily move through the kitchen.

Every so often she had to ask you where a specific pan or utensil was but otherwise she had everything covered. She would never say that she was a particular whiz in the kitchen, but she could get a pretty good handle down on things, alter recipes to simplify them to what was on hand and go from there. The television was still going in the background, giving some background noise to the experience when the two of you weren’t talking.

You watched with a small smile as Emily popped two butterflied chicken breasts, coated with shake and bake into the oven. She turned back to the island, where she had pulled out all her supplies so she wouldn’t forget anything, glancing through them until she found the jar of pasta sauce.

“You have garlic?” She asked, raising a brow toward you, breaking herself out of her zone. She caught you half staring at her, hiding behind the rim of your glass and instantly felt the heat creeping up the back of her neck.

“Yeah.” You smiled, “powder’s in the spice cupboard, fresh is on top of the microwave.”

She chose the fresh garlic, swiftly crushing it and doing her best at mincing it up before tossing into a pan with some onion and oil.

“You want a hand?” You asked and with an almost shy smile she shook her head.

“Nah. I’m cooking for you; you just sit there and look pretty.”

“The hardest job of them all.” You mocked, a small laugh escaping your lips and Emily felt the blush creeping into her cheeks again.

Twenty minutes later and she was plating up a semi makeshift chicken parm for the two of you, spices added into the jarred sauce, and working with whatever cheese was in your fridge, but it smelt and looked delicious. You refilled both of your wine glasses, settling at the island to eat, groaning over how tasty it was. You teased Emily for never having cooked for you before, saying she was locked in and trapped now. She laughed, a glittering in her eye as she glanced over to you, a warmth blooming through her chest at the way you were looking at her.

Since Emily had cooked you ushered her away when she tried to help with the dishes, filling up her wine glass once more and pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. With the kitchen clean, you flicked the overhead light off, scooping up your wine glass as you crossed back to the living room.

“Think you’ve got a movie in you?” You asked, noticing the way she was flicking through options on the screen.

“Yeah.” She looked up to you, shifting your preferred blanket out of your way so you could take your place beside her on the couch. “Figured I’ve got at least that much left before bed.”

“Did you want to stay?” You asked, tucking yourself under the blanket and nuzzling into her side.

Her scrolling through the app paused momentarily before it continued, “yeah. If that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect.”

**

Tony had been relentlessly bugging you for lunch, dinner, coffee, any kind of hangout since discovering you in Emily’s office. Knowing that he was likely going to press into things you didn’t really want to get into in public you’d finally said that as long as he brought takeout and a bottle of wine he could come over Thursday night. You’d picked through dinner at the kitchen island while you caught up, Tony surprisingly holding back while he listened about your vacation (that you held back plenty of details on) and he took some time to vent about the current NCIS/BAU case that was still open and struggling to move anywhere.

Eventually you dragged him and a fresh bottle of wine upstairs. All of the shopping trips over the past few months had your closets overflowing a bit too much for you liking and you wanted to get a head start on some spring cleaning. Your attention was mainly on pulling things out of your closet as Tony poked around your room as per usual.

“You know, if you know any FBI secrets, you should probably let me in on them.” He started, “I am an agent of the law after all.”

You nearly snorted, rolling your eyes and continued to ignore him.

“I mean, at the very least, should I think about switching departments? You think an SSA gets a better paycheque than us?  I could probably put in for a pretty smooth transfer after this case closes…”

“You’d never do that to Gibbs.” You interrupted, breaking off his train of rambling, “and Emily has family money, the job didn’t make her rich.”

Tony had been your friend for long enough that he didn’t need to be a profiler, hell he didn’t even need to be a special agent to pick up on the way your eyes lit up when you said Emily’s name. How you couldn’t seem to control your smile when you told him stories about the Maldives with a far off look in your eyes that you didn’t even register yourself. He wanted to know more, he wanted to know everything, but he knew you weren’t just going to share it all at the drop of a hat, when it came to things like this, and planting the seeds he wanted to, he had to tread carefully. Even if the seeds had already been growing for weeks already.

“So..” he leant back into an armchair, crossing his arms behind his head, “tell me more about Emily.”

You cast him a look over your shoulder as you tossed another dress into the donation pile, “I already told you; we enjoy our time together. I’ve expanded my repertoire of fancy restaurants in DC, could probably compile a list for you. You want it in order of cost, food quality or first date to proposal?”

“Please,” he teasingly scoffed, “the food is the last thing I’m interested to hear about from your dates.”

“You know I don’t kiss and tell Tony.” You threw a balled up shirt at his face, “especially considering she’s currently your co-commanding officer. I don’t need you looking at her and knowing what she’s into, gross.”

“As entertaining as that might be…” he straightened out the shirt, folding it before adding it to the donation pile, “I was more curious about the other side of things. I mean… this is the longest you’ve been with someone in a few years.”

He caught the way your hands faltered, the dress in your hands nearly slipping off the hanger before you caught yourself, straightening it to return into the closet.

“Trust me, it’s not like that.” Laughing, you turned back to him, hands crossed over your chest, “She paid nearly sixty thousand for that vacation and that’s if the all inclusive comment was true and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Then she tried to pay me on top of that for my time. I’m basically an over qualified sex worker.”

“As a member of law enforcement, I can confirm that you aren’t.” He replied, his hand reaching out as he started to fiddle with the jewelry stand on your dresser, “and if you were, the woman running an entire unit of the FBI wouldn’t be so happily enjoying it. It would be all secrets, dark hotel rooms and NDA’s.”

“Tony, lay off it.” You replied with a huff, turning back to your closet, “I already told you; I don’t have time to date.”

“You spent Sunday night with her,” he offered, “you’re hanging out with me right now. You even had enough time to swing by her office, which is in an entirely different district, in the middle of a work day, with lunch and you were there for at least an hour. Seems like you have plenty of time.”

“It’s not about physical time and you know it. It’s about, the emotional labour, having to be on all the time, getting through the awkward stages, fucking small talk.” Your fingers slid down a plum dress, pulling it out from the row of clothes and you felt your heart leap when you realized it was the dress you wore on your first real date with Emily, the one that was so rudely interrupted by her phone before you could even get a chance to kiss her. You groaned, letting the dress fall back into your closet to be kept, “dating fucking sucks.”

“We’re not talking about casual dating or swiping through apps and having to deal with a million first dates, we’re talking about Emily.”

“What about her Tony?”

“You wouldn’t have brought her lunch if you didn’t like her.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes to being her sugar baby if I didn’t like her. I stopped by because Heather basically ordered me to.”

“So you’re telling me things between the two of you are strictly contractual? Financial and sexual benefit only?”

“Yes!”

The way your heart was suddenly beating in your chest, the worry that was beginning to eat away at your insides was telling you that Tony was onto something. You’d been so surrounded by work it had been incredibly easy to shove your feelings down, only leaning into them when you were out with Emily, as if it was part of the show, part of the sugar baby package. It kind of was after all, the flirtation, the compliments, the making her feel wanted and appreciated, taken care of, it was part of what she was paying you for. You’d said it yourself; companionship was far more than just sex. Even if you had started to slip deeper into the role than you’d originally intended, developing real feelings, it wasn’t like Emily was on the same page, she was playing her part too. Tony was grasping at straws, no matter how hard he wanted to push his fairytale narrative, or how fast your pulse happened to be.

He seemed to be able to read your mind, see the hesitancy in your eyes as his nagging sank in.

“Hey,” he nudged at you with his foot, breaking you from your daydreams, “you can claim whatever you want, but you cannot deny there were more than just two wine glasses in your drying rack.”

“So?” Your brow furrowed, it didn’t matter if Emily had been over at your house, that was nothing new.

“There were also two coffee mugs, two full sets of dinner plates and utensils, which likely means homemade, not takeout. I mean, most situations like this everything happens at hotels, you guys stopped that months ago. That on its own is one thing, but your bathroom tells a different story?”

“Do tell Very Special Agent DiNozzo.”

“Second toothbrush, different set of shampoo and conditioner, perfume that is far too floral for you to ever wear, glasses cleaner on your nightstand and your vision is twenty-twenty. There’s a Yale hoodie on the back of your couch which is interesting considering you went to Georgetown and Prentiss has a Yale degree in her office. You keep two spare sets of keys on a hook in your kitchen and surprisingly, one of them is missing. I would say that’s the most suspicious part of it all, but don’t even get me started on these.” His hand lifted up the cardboard backing containing your starfish earrings and you felt your cheeks heat.

“Guess she saw them in the gift shop at some point and thought they were cute.”

“Bullshit.” He grinned, “when you found out NCIS meant time on the water, you were practically infatuated and wanted to know everything about it. I could’ve married you right then and there.”

“Yeah right.” You scoffed with a laugh.

“We had a movie marathon, I brought Splash and Mermaids, you reluctantly, and rather intoxicated, brought out Aquamarine. You love that movie more than anything and you never tell anyone about it unless you really trust them or care..”

“it’s not like it’s a take to the grave secret.”

“You were down in the Maldives, right on the ocean and got all gooey and starfish eyed, that dreamy smile on your face, swimming every day pretending you were a mermaid, that you were free and you told it all to Emily, didn’t you?”

“It might’ve come up.” You shrugged.

“And instead of her laughing it off or thinking it was childish or stupid she went out and found starfish earrings to buy for you and now you have a permanent and physical reminder of the trip and time spent together.” He placed the jewelry back down on the dresser, “I think the two of you might actually have something here and it would be a shame to waste it away because you refuse to talk about it.”

You cast him a look, one only a best friend of twenty years could fully understand without you saying anything and he shook his head with a laugh.

“I’m just saying, things seem a lot more comfortable and intimate than I would expect from a sugar baby relationship. Did she pay you for lunch?”

“Not with money.” The corner of your lips curved up and a smirk flashed across his face as he made a growling meow noise.

“What about Sunday?”

“I told her not to.”

“My point exactly.” He stepped toward you, softly cupping your face, “you’re happy right now. Happier and less stressed than I’ve seen you in years and I want to see you keep being this happy, don’t deny yourself that, okay?” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, finally dropping his hands, “let the girl who buys you starfish earrings and thinks they’re adorable be your girl.”

“Just help me get these bags out to the car, okay?”

_______________________

@mickey-gomez @momlifebehard @daddy-heather-dunbar @maybe-a-humanbean @rustyzebra @leftoverenvy @kades95 @dextur @supercriminalbean @emilyprentisssluvr @lex13cm @zizzlekwum @emobabeyy @riveramorylunar @scorpsik @onmykneesformarvel @inlovewithemilyprentiss @regalmilfs4me @ara-a-bird @inlovewithmiddleagewomen @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @hopedoesntknow @venromanova @waitaminuteashh @noahrex @imlike-so-gaydude @wittygutsy @cx-emerald-cx cx @momily @nilaues @borinxnovakxprentiss @Soverign @v3nusxsky @mccdreamys-writes @l4yne @obsessedwjill @asolitaryrose3 @lisqueen @mrs-prentiss @whitewinewithice @d33pd3sire-blog @daffodil-heart @maximoffcarter @i-lovefandom @chimnlex @moonlightjxuregui @chestnutninny @gamma-rae-bursts @just-moondust @idkifimasub @gaydragonwitch @dowsedwithbleach @divergentalwaysandforever-blog @m1lfsh4ke

[kalifornia1025]

The Red Circle Pt. 1 (SPOILERS)

First part is up, let’s see what we’re dealing with!

Oof John’s already voicing his frustration over the tech issues; wonder how bad it could be

I both love and hate the sounds of John cleaning the mic, it sounds like he’s digging deep into my brain

Okay, we’re just at the end of a case?

Oh yeah, the mic is definitely bugging out

“My dear companion Doctor Watson” UGH HOW SWEET

What is happening?? WHAT IS GOING ON??

“This is going to be an 8 or 10 parter” OH REALLY John??

NONE OF THE ‘CASE’ RECORDED, that’s actually hilarious

“But was the best adventure yet” how great was it that it makes SHERLOCK say that??

Not them all reenacting the ‘case’ HAHA

Yeah John, Sherlock needs to get back to hanging upside down-WHAT

Oof Sherlock really said “you waffle so much that sometimes your random words help me solve the case” (he’s not wrong tho)

THEY DO MOVIE NIGHTS!!!

Awww Mariana’s meeting up with a friend from Hudson’s, how nice!

God, the irony of voice actors being bad at acting is incredible

Sherlock WOULD be the person asking questions during movies (and pointing out inconsistencies)

I love how you can still hear the ‘movie’ going on even when Sherlock & John are talking

This little exchange

John: “Door knock”

Sherlock: “Very observant”

John: “Is that sarcasm there?”

Sherlock: “Exceptionally observant”

John: “Well done”

Sherlock: “Thank you”

Ah!! Chipmunk voice jump scare!

Sherlock: “Is that right, John?”, John: “It’s right big guy” JOHN CALLED SHERLOCK BIG GUY

I feel John’s pain, I HATE having to explain movies to people

OH GOD NOT A REAL-HOUSEWIVES-ESQUE REALITY TV SHOW

“Good God, put the gangster film back on” SAME SHERLOCK

Awesome how Mariana and Imani are already fans of the reality show

“Why do women like that kind of stuff? It’s cruel, it’s vicious, destructive-KILL HIM, SHOOT HIM IN THE EYE”—I will never get tired of this ongoing joke with John starting a point and immediately contradicting it at the end

The ‘bullets through the bum and balls’ exchange shouldn’t be as hilarious as it is, yet here we are

Oooooh, so THIS is how we get the Red Circle case (hopefully it’ll make up for the ‘unrecorded case’)

THE MUSIC?! HELLO??

“The game is afoot” YES MARIANA WE GET TO HEAR YOU SAY IT

Oof John that mic is REALLY messed up

And that’s it for part 1! I was NOT expecting a hilarious start for this one. I can only imagine what ‘case’ we missed (lol), but Red Circle sounds interesting enough! Also, it’s cute hearing more domestic moments with the main trio. I mean they have MOVIE NIGHTS!! The fanfics were TRUE! Anyway, this is a fun start and it’s just the beginning of our 4-part adventure, so stay tuned….

[eerna]

I would love for you to share your thoughts on Barbie. My problem with it is same I have with Greta Gerwig, I always end up wanting more than what was presented in her movies. I liked lady bird, little women was okey, but I feel like Barbie was a lot and nothing at the same time. I did not hate it, and though it was funny but it was just okey. Also the feminism of the movie felt very superficial.

No prob~ Aside from Barbie, the only Greta thing I saw is Little Women, and lemme tell ya, watching that movie by myself at a cinema and crying my way through it was a formative experience. I think it's because that movie specifically spoke to my experience with romance SO perfectly. Having someone who is your other half, but in a completely platonic way (and how difficult that can be), rejecting any chance of romance that you encounter with anyone, regretting it years later because suddenly you are all alone and can't help wonder what could have been (not out of true romantic interest but shattering fear that you will die unpaired), having to conform to romantic ideals of everyone around you, but still holding onto your own beliefs... Oh man. I think the amount of "JO SHOULD HAVE ENDED UP WITH LAURIE" people in the comment section of every instagram reel I get rec'd shows that it's a theme that is not often presented in media, and one that is niche enough for most people not to understand. It shows the imperfection of one specific female experience that is difficult to understand for some. If you get it, you get it. If you don't, the movie won't beat you over the head with its point.

Barbie is the exact opposite. Its main goal is glaringly simple and universal for women, but it won't shut up about it and beats you over the head with it. I agree with you, it was a funny movie, but any and all attempt at heartfelt honesty were insanely bad. I disagree with the counter-criticism that it shouldn't get dragged just because it's a Feminism 101 movie, because it is a BAD Feminism 101 movie that is a terrible introduction into feminist thought. And the reason for that is CAPITALISM!!! See, the movie is incredibly aware it has to be marketable to as many people as possible to make a shit ton of money, and every single decision made about it conforms to that. That's why the feminism is incredibly surface level and inoffensive ("Women can be sad! Women don't have to be perfect all the time!"). That's why it glamorizes the role of consumerism in the female experience ("The CEO of Mattel is just a himbo doing his best to make women like themselves! If Barbie didn't exist and little girls couldn't buy 10000 differently clothed versions of the same doll, they would never have the imagination to make their dreams come true! Seeing yourself in purchasable products is what creates your idea of your identity!"). The radicalization of men and the male-female dynamic doesn't work because the movie is completely unaware that the Ken uprising plot makes no sense because they are the ones who resemble our society's idea of women more closely - they are both caricatures of housewives and trophy-partners, but also the oppressors who accept patriarchy out of nowhere, without any real discussion of WHY it happens to men or women. It's not a coincidence that the audiences responded the best to the Ken characters - they are simply way more engaging and interesting that the Barbies.

So yeah. My thoughts on the movie can be summed up as "A movie can't be both feminist and a defense of capitalism".

[greenorangevioletgrass]

given the circumstances (part 1) | b.r.b.

pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x actress!reader

summary: your relationship with Bradley goes from 0 to 100 after a little happy accident. [Part of “The Actress & The Aviator” universe]

word count: 5.9k

Warnings: established relationship, language, pregnancy, mention of vomit/nausea, accidental pregnancy, fluff, smut [unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, daddy kink, hint of mommy kink?, breeding kink, size kink, creampie]

notes: they’re back babeyyyy! This is set about 1.5 years after the events in “It’s Classified”, and it fills in the gap of the blurbs I did a while ago. But you don’t have to read it first, this can be read as a standalone. I have missed writing for them so much, and I hope you enjoy reading this! <3

✨ follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass to get notified for my latest words <3 happy reading and please reblog if you liked it! ✨

PART ONE

You’ve been New York-bound for six whole months, doing two shows on Broadway back-to-back. Bradley came to visit you for your musical’s opening night about two months in (and again for your second show, a modern take of Romeo & Juliet), but with your shows and his sudden deployment to God knows where for three months, the time and space apart was killing you.

Which is why you’re determined to take some time off as soon as you’re done, just to be with your stupidly handsome fiance at home in the stupidly sunny California.

Your first month or so was a bliss. You would wake up to the smell of your coffee, and saunter into the kitchen where Bradley would kiss you good morning. There’s no rigid structure to your days, save for the occasional work meetings. Most of your time is spent playing house with your fiance, redecorating the house you both barely lived in before you were called off to work. Wandering around and jotting down inspirations for your new screenplay. Treating yourself to frozen yogurts and manicures. Adjusting to life in the San Clemente neighborhood of Orange County. 

(Bradley made a joke about you joining The Real Housewives soon, which earned him an elbow to the rib. Whatever. He was more Housewife material than you anyway.)

But halfway through your second month, you started feeling lethargic and just… off. You chalked it up to the weather and exhaustion, since you’ve been back to work, going to pre-production meetings for your upcoming movie. You tried to brush it off with vitamins and heartier meals, powering through for a couple of days.

“You sure you’re okay? You don’t look so good…” Bradley looks at you in concern when you shuffle into the kitchen that morning.

You’re really not, but you blatantly refuse to acknowledge that. “I’m fine. Still tired, is all. I just need some…” the coffee scent wafts in the air—the same scent that always woke you up in a good mood these past six months—and you gag. “Oh fuck.”

Bradley’s voice calling out your name sounds distant as you dash towards the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before you puke your guts out. 

“Hey…” he holds your hair back with one hand while the other rubs your back patiently. Staying calm despite his head is running a mile a minute in panic. “What happened, sweetheart?”

Everything feels like hell from your mouth to your stomach, and you groan as you pull the flush. “I have no idea. I just… I could smell the coffee and suddenly…” you motion at the toilet. “I mean, what the fuck?”

He sighs, wiping off sweat from your forehead and brushing the strands of hair sticking on it. “Maybe it’s stress?” he guesses, although they both know it’s unlikely. You’ve been keeping it relatively chill since you got here. “Or a stomach bug? Or…”

You look up to find his brown eyes softly gazing at yours, in worry and concern and… “Or what?”

He grimaces almost apologetically, and you slowly catch what he means.

“No. No way. Nuh-uh.” you shake your head so quickly, you give yourself a headache. “I’m on birth control. I’ve never missed a day…” That’s not true. As the words leave your mouth, you remember the surprise trip Bradley took you to Big Sur one weekend where you forgot both your pills and condoms…

Fuck.

“Babe… What date is it?”

He stammers for a bit, “Um, the— it’s the 18th.”

You do the mental math, counting the time gap between today and the Big Sur trip, and your last period… and your eyes widen. Your head is swirling, and so is your stomach.

“Sweetheart, do you think you might be—”

Before he can say the damned word, you feel the bile rising again. Your pointer finger lifts up in wait, as you bury your face in the toilet and throw up once more.

His heart catches. You’ve talked about having a baby, and you’ve talked about wanting to have one… some time in the future. He didn’t expect it to happen so soon. Butterflies fill his stomach at the possibility of you carrying his baby right now at this very moment, but the sight of you looking so… defeated by your own body is enough to create a nasty pit in his gut.

“What can I get for you, baby?” he asks softly, caressing the back of your neck.

There’s absolutely nothing else to empty from your stomach at this point. It’s basically just water and dry heaving, and your eyes are tearing up from the terrible sensation.

“Ginger ale from the fridge…” you manage between heavy breaths, “...and some test packs from the pharmacy, please.”

“Okay, sure. Got it. Come on, let’s get you back to bed.” He offers both his hands and gently pulls you up. If he’s nervous or excited or both, he does a pretty good job of not showing it. He pulls up some tissues from the bathroom counter and wipes your mouth without batting an eye.

He lays you down on your side, getting you all nice and comfy, before disappearing into the kitchen, returning with a can of ginger ale and a puke bucket, just in case.

“Sweetheart?” his hand is soft and warm on your cheek, and his voice even more so. “Drink up. Hope it’ll settle your stomach a little bit.”

You sit up a little, and take small sips from the can. At least it helps alleviate the bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

“I put your phone on the bedside. Call me if you need me, alright? I’m just gonna run over to CVS. Be back before you know it.” He kisses your forehead, and you make a face in protest.

“I’m gross right now!”

“I don’t care,” he chuckles. “Just rest up. Love you.”

Of course he knows what to do. Picture perfect Bradley Bradshaw, who knows how to be caring without being overbearing. Who kisses your clammy forehead after you puke your guts out. Who is literally running to the nearest drugstore to get her pregnancy test packs right now, for fuck’s sake. He’s just… perfect.

You lie back down and smush your face into the pillow, faced with the fact that you’ll never be able to live up to that. And if you can’t… how the hell are you supposed to raise a child? How the hell are you supposed to pull your weight when your fiance can already do it so well?

“Babe?” He calls out upon entering the house a few short minutes later. “I’m back. I got the…” his words trail off as he walks into the bedroom and sees you in tears. His whole features soften up as he approaches you gingerly, sitting by your side. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

You shake your head as you sit up, sniffling a little. “What are those?” You nod at the paper bag he put down on the foot of the bed, hoping it’ll divert the conversation a little. It’s a little too big for just a bunch of pregnancy test sticks.

“The tests. And some snacks I thought might help with your stomach.”

And with that, the tears burn the corners of your eyes again and your lips quiver as they fail to hold back the cries.

“How are you so good at this?!”

He pauses in confusion, and then… it dawns on him. An amused glint appears in his eyes. “Are you… crying because I got a good bedside manner?” 

Your hands fly up to your face, hiding it from view. “I’m not! Shut up!” You really were, but he didn’t have to say it like that… and your reaction only confirmed his speculation. 

Bradley chuckles. God, he loves your silly little antics. “I mean, I had to take care of my mom all through high school, so…” he shrugs sheepishly.

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand. An uncomfortable awkwardness sets in as you remember his late mother’s terminal illness, right in the peak of his high school years. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, baby. I’m just… glad I’m doing it right?” He smiles in reassurance, wiping what’s left of your tears and kissing your nose. He lifts up the ginger ale can to your hand again. “You lost a lot of fluids to make up for. Drink up some more, and we’ll do the tests, yeah?”

You glance at the paper bag again, watching him fishing around… “How many pregnancy test packs did you get?”

“I got three just to be safe.”

You want to laugh, but you probably would’ve ransacked the test kits too, if you were the one to buy it. So instead, you nod slowly, ponderously. “Three is… three is good.”

You know how these test kits work, they’re all the same, but you insist on reading the instructions pamphlet anyway. With two other test kits to spare, Bradley simply takes another copy from another box to read.

“Pee on a stick, wait for up to 5 minutes.” You put down the pamphlet on the counter. “Easy enough.” You sigh like it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. 

And it is. Every tick of the clock feels louder and farther from the one before, and you’re trying your damnedest not to look back onto the counter where the blue-tipped sticks are lined up. Inspecting it up close and see the lines that appear.

You sigh in exasperation, breaking the stilted silence. “I don’t even know what I’m hoping for, if I’m honest. Is that weird?”

He shakes his head a little. “Not at all. This is a weird situation to be in, I think it makes sense if we’re still not sure what we want.”

“Do you know what you’re hoping for?” You turn your head towards him. Maybe you’ll know it when you hear it. 

“Honestly? No.” Yes. He knows exactly what he wants. He just doesn’t want to admit it and freak you out even more. “I’m just thinking about you. About us…”

“What about us?”

“Just that… whatever happens, we’ll figure it out together.”

Bless him. It would be infuriating if you weren’t so comforted by it. Leave it to Bradley to always know just the right thing to say.

And he means every word of it too. Yes, he wants a baby with you now, but you don’t, or if it doesn’t turn out to be now, then… he can stand to wait a little more. For as long as you need.

“How long do we have left?”

Bradley joins your gaze towards the nautical clock on the wall. A silly little gag gift you gave him last Christmas, for your favorite flying seaman. 

“Three minutes and fifteen seconds…?”

“That’s about the average length of a pop song.”

He grins. “Exactly. One pop song, and we’ll find out.”

You nod. Listening to the tick, tick, tick of the clock. It drones on and on, and it seems to lull slower as it goes. Fuck Einstein and his theory of relativity. You pick the first random song that pops into your head and holds onto it for dear life. It’s your only way of keeping track of the time, at this point.

“I took my love, I took it down…” you sing under your breath, tentatively.

Bradley snorts. “It’s a good song.” That’s an understatement. He adores Fleetwood Mac, and this is the first song he learned on the guitar when he was 10.

“Climbed a mountain and I turned around…” you throw him a side-eye, a more than obvious invitation to join you.

Bradley has his eyes closed, though. But he nods along and sings along in his warm voice, “And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hill…”

“‘Til the landslide brought me down.” 

The two of you are singing with your whole chests now, belting out the chorus to drown out your nerves, forcing yourself to stay on tempo even when you feel like rushing it to the end. Right now, it’s more like Nick Miller’s nervous singing from New Girl than a beautiful bathroom jam session, but you don’t care. Bradley is vocalizing the guitar solo part like the back of his hand, playing the air guitar and everything, and you’re so, so happy that out of all the people in the world, you’re doing this with him. 

And at that moment, you realize that your worries earlier today were misguided. Yes, Bradley knows how to take care of you, and he probably knows a thing or two about babies. But he’s on your side. He’ll be pulling the weight with you. Being good parents is not a competition—you know he’ll cheer you on like he is doing right now. He knows you’ll do the same for him, too. 

Well I’ve been afraid of changes

‘cause I’ve built my life around you

But time makes you bolder, even children get older

and I’m getting older too

You didn’t notice it at first, but Bradley also softens up on the final chorus, lost in his own thoughts. He has built his life on self-preservation, protecting himself from the lies of the people he loved, and depriving him of the love and family he’s always wanted. But maybe it’s age or the wounds healing (or you swooping into his life at just the right moment)… but he’s not gonna live forever. He knows in his heart of hearts that he wants this baby. He wants this life with you.

When you ask him to look and tell you the results, he doesn’t even flinch. He just nods, kissing your temple as he reaches for all three test kits behind you. His hand shakes a little as he picks them up, though, flipping to see the indicator side. One line for negative, two for positive.

And there it is.

“They’re…” his throat catches, his face unreadable. “They’re all positive…”

“What?”

He shows you the test kits, two blue lines all across the board. His voice wavers, with tears and smiles at the same time. “We’re having a baby.”

“Oh my God…” you walk into his arms in a daze, still not sure what you’re feeling. Are you relieved because you simply know the answer, or relieved because it’s true? Are you terrified because you want it or you don’t?

Bradley cups your face with both hands, tucking unruly strands of hair behind your ear. His brown eyes brimming with tears, blurry as he admires your beauty. The mother of his child. Gosh, he can’t believe his luck.

“How do you feel, honey?”

It tugs at your heartstrings, just how soft he is. So brave, and so gentle at the same time. You have no idea what kind of parent you would be, but you know he would make a great one. “Shocked,” you admit. He nods. “Scared.” This time, you’re a bit embarrassed, but he completely empathizes. “But…” you put your hand over his, closing your eyes as you lean your cheek against his palm, so warm and soft and right, “…happy.”

***

And after two months of a relatively slow life, things are going from zero to 100 very quickly.

Bradley manages to duck out of work early and take you to the doctor that very afternoon. Everything seems to be in order. The baby is, indeed, there— a 7-week-old blob as big as a blueberry with a heartbeat.

Heartbeat.

Your heart all but stops beating when you first hear it, much stronger than you thought it would. But there it is. Strong. Alive.

There. 

“That’s… that’s our baby…” You choke up, staring at the ultrasound screen in awe. His hand brings yours to his lips for a loving kiss.

Gosh, you must’ve cried about six times that day. Bradley twice as much (He would deny it to his grave, but you kept count.)

And then, once the novelty wears off a little and the new situation sets in… the two of you get to work.

Bradley updates the entire kitchen inventory and goes into a research (or, as you like to call it, a rabbit hole) into what you can or cannot consume during your pregnancy. You’re constantly on the phone with your agent to rearrange your schedule for the next year (he sounds happy that you’re expecting, but a little inconvenienced that he has to move some things around and even cancel your involvement in a few projects). Conversation topics at mealtimes now include baby names, nursery ideas, and childcare plans.

Bradley comes home to you huddled over your laptop one evening, brows knitted in focus. The AC is cranked up to the max in the summer heat, and you’re all bundled up in the throw blanket. He wants to squee over how cute you look. He puts down the takeout bag of Pad Thai on the coffee table.

“Whatcha got there, my little cocoon?”

“Insurance, mostly.” You look up to kiss him briefly, before you continue typing on. “I’ve been talking to them all afternoon, going through the birth plans and sorting everything out. Very exciting stuff.”

“Hell yeah! Paperwork! The thrill of calling up an insurance company on a Tuesday!” Bradley counters your deadpan with an overexcited cheer, flopping himself on the spot next to you with another big kiss. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Well,” you take a thoughtful deep breath, going through your mental to-do list and realizing… you’re pretty much all set. “How about a back massage?” You give him the puppy eyes, as if you needed it in the first place.

“Copy that, Ma’am.” He throws her a lazy salute and tugs the throw blankets off of you. He starts on your shoulders, noticing the tension under your skin. “Jeez, babe. How long have you been hunched over here?”

Before you can answer him, he’s already working the knots on the base of your neck, you don’t even know you were so tense there, and you respond with a resounding moan.

He raises his eyebrows. “I’ll… take that as a compliment, then.” He grins, ever so proud that he’s eliciting these sounds out of you.

It’s not like you were playing it up or anything. You really were tense, and his hands really do feel good. And while it does make you moan and sigh blissfully, it’s hardly your fault that it makes him think of something else, right?

“Baby…” his voice sounds like a gentle warning.

“Yes?”

His hands stop. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh, okay. Would you prefer this instead?” you grunt oafishly, a piss-poor impression of him in bed, “Fuck baby, that’s it. That’s it. Good girl…”

“Hey!” he pokes his fingers to your side and cage you in his arms so you have nowhere to go. Nowhere to avoid his ministrations.

You giggle uncontrollably, squirming as he gets on top of you, peppering kisses all over your face. A mere distraction to his real tickle attacks. “Stop! Stop! Roo-roo!”

He pins your arms over your head, his cheeks tinged pink with mischief now. “Yield?”

“I’m willing to negotiate.” You flash him a coy smirk.

He frowns. Go on. 

You raise an eyebrow. You know what I’m talking about.

He raises his, mirroring you. Interesting…

You tilt your head slightly. Well?

And just like that…

“Deal.” 

Your lips meet each other halfway in a searing kiss. The pregnancy hormones are kicking in in full gear, and you’re needier. Much needier than you already are. You want Bradley all the time, in whatever form he’s in, in whatever situation you are in. He knows this, and he finds this endlessly adorable. He would poke fun at you for that…

If only he wasn’t so god-fucking-damned enamored by you for it.

He tears off your dress, reveling in the sheer sight of you. Your curves growing softer, more pronounced in the past month alone. The very subtle but steadfast roundness of your belly. Your breasts, as they grow fuller and—

“Oh…” you whimper as he rolls your nipple between your fingers.

More sensitive to the touch.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this…” he leans down to kiss you again; on the mouth, and on the neck… his tongue gliding across your collarbones, forming the shape of your mounds, one after another…

“Roo, take me to bed…”

“Or what, lose me forever?”

He grazes the outer parts of your nipple with his teeth and teasingly licks at the hardened tops, and you cry out. Such a small little thing, but you feel the sensation in your fingertips.

Bradley smiles. A soft look despite how the situation is escalating. “C’mere, baby.”

With your legs wrapped around his waist, he lifts you up off of the couch. You think it’s just to get you up on your feet, but then he’s not letting go. “You’re not seriously thinking about carrying me all the way upstairs, right?” A teasing frown sets on your face as he hauls you out of the living room.

“Are you assuming that I can’t carry my beautifully pregnant wife to our room?”

“I’m not your wife yet, you know— oh shit!” He pins you against the wall right by the stairs, one hand cradling the back of your head, ever so caring.

He mouths your neck in teasing, his breath fanning against your bare skin. “No? So I don’t have to perform my husbandly duties now, since you’re not my wife?”

It’s kind of hot… but you can’t help but make a face at his choice of words. “You need to stop watching Downton Abbey. Just say ‘fuck.’ It’s not that hard.”

He pulls away, his comeback locked and loaded and ready to go. “You can’t tell me what to do. Who are you, my wife or something?”

“Ugh!” your jaw falls open in a mock offended expression, and you smack his ass playfully.

In turn, he squeezes yours back. Tight. Possessive. There’s a shift in his gaze, a tiny sliver, a darkening—the kind that makes you feel even more naked than you already are. You look at him with unbridled lust, and he kisses you like it’s the only way he can breathe. Like he’s been holding his breath until he can get his hands on you.

And by God, you would let him have all the air you have left to give.

He carries up to the bedroom slowly, carefully, and you hold onto him tight. Reveling in how strong he’s built, all muscles and abs and everything, and how gentle he handles you as he sets you down on the edge of the bed. The epitome of a gentleman, as he kneels down between your legs.

You can feel the heat emanating from him—or is it you?— and you try to unbutton his khaki uniform. “Baby, don’t you wanna take off your…” your words die out as his chest moves out of reach. There is only his hair between your thighs.

His tongue between your folds.

“Fuuuuck…” you bite through your teeth. And once his finger joins in, you’re done for. 

You make no effort to hold back your obscene moans, but the wet sounds coming from your pussy are still louder. Your face grows hot as the noise bounces through your bedroom walls.

Bradley pulls his mouth away for a moment, smirking devilishly at you from between his legs. “Well well well… What’s got you this soaking wet, honey?”

You bite your lip, trying to keep it together. But you’re teetering dangerously closer to your release, and you whine out, “You, Daddy…”

He chuckles darkly. “Daddy’s got you all worked up, huh?” The use of the moniker has significantly increased since the news of your pregnancy, but you’re hardly complaining. It does hit different now that he’s actually gonna be one. “I’ve been home for two minutes, and you’re already dripping down your legs…” he slaps the inside of your thigh and you’re keeling into it. “So fucking cute.”

He watches you fuck yourself on his fingers and it makes you dizzy. “Please…”

“Please what?” His mustache tickles your clit, and it drives you wild. “Please stop?”

You whimper in protest.

He adds another finger into you, and raises an expectant eyebrow. This fucking asshole. A snide remark sits right at the tip of your tongue, but the only thing that comes out is,

“Please fuck me.”

He stops, straightening up with an intrigued look about him. Then, being a little shit, he comes back up to you with a kiss. “Good girl. There we go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You taste yourself on his lips, his mustache wet from your arousal, too. In any other case, you would be more proactive, more feral in returning his sentiment—tearing off his clothes and stuffing your mouth full of his cock. But lately you’ve been feeling more… submissive. So easily drunk on climax that you just surrender your pleasure to your man, knowing he’ll take care of you. 

Bradley stands up to his full height, towering over you. He toes off his shoes, unbuttoning his uniform. It’s hardly a striptease routine, but there’s something insanely hot about him undressing when he’s about to fuck you.

His shirt drops to the floor, and the white undershirt soon joins. You perk up at the sound of his belt unbuckling, pants rustling down. And as his hard cock springs free from his boxers, you swallow thickly at the sight. 

“You ready?” He pumps his fist around his hard-on a few times, as he settles between your legs, still standing on the side of the bed.

A quiet little please escapes you, and then a gasp, as he pulls your hips to the edge of the bed. Lining up his cock against your entrance. He’s big, and your pussy is still aching after he edged you moments ago. It’s gonna be a tight fit.

“Honey, go slow. Please. Slowslowslowslow… ahh!” His cock slides into you in one swift movement, sending a blinding wave of pain and pleasure as it stretches you out.

He doesn’t tear his eyes off of you. He watches your face fall under his undoing, and he moans. “You feel so good, baby…” he says between heavy breaths. You’re always so strong and bold and ballsy, and it gives him a fucking power trip to see you look so… small taking on his cock.

You let out a pathetic whimper as he starts to shallowly thrust in and out of you.

“What is it, baby?” He coos, caressing your hip gently.

“Y’too big…”

“Too big?” Bradley looks down to level your gaze, a seed of a shit-eating grin plastered on his stupid face. “You want me to stop? Is that what you want?”

“No!” You buck up into him as soon as his hips halt, desperately trying to maintain the pace.

He chuckles, that cocky fuck, before he finally continues driving his dick up your inner walls again. “No? You want me to keep stretching you, then?”

You nod. Every thrust feels bigger, deeper, more than the rest, hitting that spot of pleasure just barely, and you’re willing to do anything to stay there.

“Been so needy since I got you pregnant…” he kisses your neck. “Want Daddy more now that I made you a mommy, huh?”

Fuck. The words—the exact order of the words he said sounds batshit insane. You never considered this kind of dirty talk to be hot, but Jesus…

“God, I can’t wait to see your belly all big and round… your tits too, fuck…” he groans as he squeezes your soft flesh, rubbing your nipples with his thumb. “Gonna be a mommy and show everyone who you belong to, huh?”

“Mmh…” You’ve seen Bradley being possessive, and you’ve seen him tap into his primal side, but not like this. This is a whole other beast, and it shocks you how much it turns you on.

“All mine, huh?”

“I’m all yours, Daddy. I’m—fuck. Fuck!” Your whole body is shaking. The band in your core is wound up so tight, and it’s threatening to snap. 

And through it all, he doesn’t let up. Bradley keeps that rhythm, pounding into you hard and deep. “Shit, that’s it… that’s it, baby. Come on my cock. God, you’re so fucking tight…”

There’s no stopping it now… your pussy gushes and clenches around him, as shocks of pleasure wave through your system. Your mind goes blank, and for a hot second, nothing is registering in your brain. Nothing but your man, as obscenely as he is fucking your brains out right now, 

“Need your cum inside me, Roo…”

“Don’t wanna come anywhere else. Just you, just your pussy…” he breathes out. He’s close, that much you can tell. His pace is erratic and his mouth runs wild. “Gonna keep pumping you full of my cum. Gonna keep fucking babies into you until you can’t anymore.”

You would laugh. You would tease him for being such a caveman about it. But as he comes deep inside you, his hips stuttering one, two, three more times as he rides out his orgasm… you don’t only surrender to the idea; you welcome it. 

Maybe you’re completely fucked out. Maybe you’re going soft and mellow, but nothing—and you mean nothing— is hotter than what he wants to do to you.

What he is doing to you now. 

The room falls into a pleasant silence as you come down from your high. Bradley pulls out of you, and you gush out with your own release and his. His mouth falls open in awe. “Fuck, that’s hot…”

“Huh?” You lift your head from the bed, trying to see what he’s looking at.

“Nah, it’s just…” he shakes his head with a grin. “Good thing we’re already pregnant, huh? If we weren’t, that might’ve just done the trick.”

You roll your eyes as he gives you a sweet peck on the cheek. “I think the dirty talk alone was enough to do it.”

He blushes, a deep shade of red. He absolutely can’t take it when you quote back the things he said to you during sex. “Nope! Not a single word. La-la-la-la…” he closes his ears with his fingers, waddling over to the bathroom comically.

The sound of water trickling into the toilet coincides with your laugh in the bedroom… and then it gets drowned out with the flush. It’s a mundane little snapshot of your intimate lives together.

He comes up to you and offers his hands. “Come on…” he helps you get up. “You go ahead and clean up. I’ll change the sheets.”

Leave it up to Bradley, to always take initiatives to do the small things, like changing the sheets and ushering your ass to the bathroom after sex.

As you clean up and put on some clothes in the bathroom, Bradley singing Take My Breath Away to himself in the other room, you wonder how all of this will turn out. Change is inevitable—your belly is getting bigger, this new stage of relationship is getting more real— and you’re desperate to get a grasp on these things. It’s strange to be so anxious after such a lovely evening. But it’s been so good so far… too good, maybe… and you can’t help but wonder if the other shoe might drop.

“Everything alright?” Bradley pops up by the bathroom door, already in sweatpants and a t-shirt. You must’ve been in there for a while.

You nod absently. “Yeah, just… changing.” And you’re not sure whether you’re talking about the clothes you just put on, or the body you inhabit.

“I think you look beautiful,” he says so simply. Wrapping his arms around you, feeling your small bump. He smiles into your hair and whispers, “My beautiful wife…”

“Not your wife yet…” you remind him pointedly, teasingly. It’s one of your favorite pastimes, keeping him on his toes.

He turns you around to face him, a tender look seemingly permanent on his face whenever he sees you these days. “I mean, you’re here, with me, in our house, carrying our baby…” he kisses your nose, “As far as I’m concerned, that makes you my wife, doesn’t it?”

Well, when he puts it like that… you take a deep sigh, not hating the idea. But not quite ready to concede to his argument yet. “Apart from a piece of paper.”

“Ah well. That can easily be arranged, hmm?”

Truth be told, he’s got a point. The only differentiating factor to your status right now is a little certificate, and both your signatures on the dotted lines. Not a big party or a horrendously expensive dress that everybody would have an opinion on. And to be more truthful, it was never what you wanted in the first place.

You only ever want to be together.

And you’re free to decide how you want to be together.

“Should we just do it?”

“What?”

You look up at him with a tentative smile.

His eyes light up, and his heart leaps. “I mean, sure.” He chuckles. “We can go down to the courthouse. Or, hell, I’ll drive us to Vegas right now.”

It gets a giggle out of you. Of course he would jump at the opportunity to marry you right away. “Or… we can just celebrate it with our closest friends and family? Rent a beach house somewhere, and just… make a fun weekend out of it?”

“And just… what, get a justice of the peace to marry us?”

You shrug with an easy smile. “Or we can make Mav cry and ask him to officiate.”

He chuckles, but trails off as it sinks in. It has never occurred to him that that was an option. He’s always imagined it the traditional way. A church ceremony followed by a reception in a hall somewhere. Walking under the arch of swords. Looking dapper in his dress uniform. But with his work obligations and yours, and all the nightmare logistics of guest numbers and venues and entertainment and the fucking publicity that comes with your fame, both of you are well aware that it’s a hassle. 

And it’s not even the most important part.

The most important part is you. You’d be the one meeting him at the altar. You’d be the one saying your vows and making him cry happy tears.

You would be the one. 

For him.

Forever.

“Let’s do it.” Bradley nods resolutely. “Just you, me, and our closest people. We can get married in our jammies, for all I care.”

“Maybe not jammies…” you roll your eyes in amusement. “I still wanna look nice for our wedding, you know.”

“You look nice in your jammies.” He glances down at your tank top.

“Roo.” You cover his line of sight indignantly.

But he tugs your hand away, eyes still glued to what is arguably one of his favorite sights in the world. Your cleavage. Plays it off really coolly as he teases you. “No, no. I’m serious. You look really nice in your jammies. I really wouldn’t object to—”

You swat his hand, only half-serious. “Bradley.”

“Alright, fine!” He raises his hands in surrender. “So long as I get to call you my wife.”

“Not your wife yet…” you saunter out of the bathroom, knowing full well he doesn’t care.

To be completely honest, you’re not even sure that you do, either.

[slafkovskys]

How did Jack and Quinn know when they were attracted to Angel?

with jack, it’s pretty much the first time they meet and he tries so hard to repress the feelings because this is his little brother’s girlfriend, but, wow. they’re all at his apartment one night, she’s about to fly back to michigan because finals were starting soon and her suitcases are already by the door. luke’s knocked out on the sofa while she’s tuned into the real housewives of a city he didn’t catch when he slices his finger cutting an apple for her.

she hears his curses and is instantly moving luke’s head out of her lap and coving to his aid. she looks so concerned as she’s looking over the tiny, cut on his thumb which he swears is fine. “jack,” she sighed as she runs his finger under the water, “i have a friend whose boyfriend is in med school. you wouldn’t believe what these little cuts can turn into.”

she’s dragging him into the bathroom to clean it properly and it’s when she presses a little kiss to the brightly colored bandaid and sends him a megawatt smile after saying, “all better!” that he knows he’s gone.

with quinn, it’s not until summer where they really get to be around each other more often. it’s barely a week in and she’s been at the lake house every day, quinn can’t help but to notice her, to watch the way her cheeks turn red every time she catches him looking her way. it’s the fourth of july and after a long day on the lake, their friends and family were gathered in their backyard for fireworks.

he could tell that she was getting fidgety and kind of shutting down, so he asks, “are you okay?”

“i-” she gets embarrassed so easily in front of the older man, “i’ve never liked fireworks. they just- the noise scares me. i know that’s lame-”

“it’s not,” he interrupts her quickly and she looks at him with her big eyes. he sends her a gentle grin before nodding his head towards the back door, “c’mon, i have an idea.”

he takes her down to the basement that they had just recently had padded and while everyone is upstairs shooting off fireworks, he’s showing her how to shoot pucks. he even lets her plug in her phone to drown out the sounds from outside and he can’t help but to melt at the smile on her face.

he goes to bed that night with imagine still ingrained in his brain.

it would be almost three weeks before he would know she felt the same.