#everything dissolves everything forms

[shisasan]

Maybe this is how God exists - not as a being, but as the loving force of everything learning, expanding, remembering. Maybe love isn’t about gravity, but about what lingers, what ripples outward, what continues even when we’re gone.

[wanderestless]

it would be so cool to live my life instead of being trapped in eternal knock-on effects of being the scapegoat for the first 22 years of my existence

[gloomwitchwrites]

How about some silliness.....reader/you is superrr drunk from a night out with friends or high from anesthesia and the guys are trying to take care of them and we are all like "get your hands off me or my husband will kick you ass!" Or "omg you're so hot are you single??"...and they are just dying laughing like "I am your husband!"

I just watched one too many tik toks of this 😂🤣

Oh, I love this. I don't think I've actually seen these videos before (at least on TT) but I do know what you're talking about. Maybe I've seen it more in other media? Like movies and television? Anyway, I understand what you're asking for, so I hope you enjoy what I've cooked up!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): swearing, established relationship, fluff, mild alcohol use, shenanigans due to drunkenness & anesthesia

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John stands beside you on the passenger side of the car. The car door is open, and all you need to do is slide inside. Instead, you’re arguing with him, insisting that you can get in yourself, and that you don’t need help.

“You just had surgery,” chides John.

“Minor surgery,” you correct.

“It’s still surgery.” John sighs, and then places his hand on your back. “Let me help you.”

“Hands off, sir. You’re not my husband.”

John does not move his hand. “I don’t remember us getting a divorce, love.”

You wave him off and John snorts. “He’ll kick your ass,” you insist. “Punch you right in the nose.”

John’s stern demeanor cracks, dissolving into a wide smile and a soft chuckle. He shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m your bloody husband. You’re stuck with me. Forever.”

“I’m serious,” you say. Turning, you attempt to jab him in the chest with your finger. Everything tilts, and you only hit air.

John sighs, exasperated. “Get in the car, love.”

“No,” you groan, pushing at his chest. You surrender to him, allowing John to help you into the front passenger seat.

“I hope you remember this after the drugs wear off.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

You’ve been out with your friends all evening, and you have no idea what times it is. It’s dark, and you didn’t leave until the bar closed, forcing you to make an exit. Someone called for a car, and you all piled in, dropping each of off one by one.

As you enter the dark bedroom, you kick off your shoes, slightly stumbling to turn on the bedside light. You turn it on, and immediately wince. Vision swimming, you rub at your eyes, and then notice the massive lump in your bed.

“Turn off the bloody light, will you?” mumbles Johnny.

A devious plan forms in your head.

You climb onto the bed, crawling toward him. Noticing, Johnny turns toward you, eyes dreary with sleep.

“What?” he asks just before you flop your entire body onto him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

“Hi,” he deadpans.

You wiggle over him, pressing the tip of your nose against his. “You seeing anyone, handsome?”

Johnny arches an eyebrow. “Did you hit your head or something? I am your husband.”

“Lucky me.”

Johnny blows raspberries. With one good shove, he flips you onto your back on your side of the bed.

“Go to bed. You’re drunk.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Your liquor-addled brain tells you to do it.

Across the bar is danger, the kind you want to play with—to sink your teeth into. Why resist temptation when it’s clear that the masked man across the bar can’t seem to take his eyes off you? Every time you glance in his direction, his gaze is focused and intense, daring you to approach him.

Which is exactly what you do.

He follows your every step, even if there is a slight sway in the way you walk. As you approach, he leans back in his chair, legs widening as if in welcome. It’s easy to reach out, to place your hand on his shoulder, to straddle his thighs, and stare into his eyes.

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” you slur. “Plan on going home with anyone?”

“I am,” the masked man replies.

“And who might that be?”

“My wife.”

You turn in his lap, looking around at all the other patrons in the bar. “Don’t see her.”

“Course you don’t,” he chuckles. “Because she’s sitting in my lap.”

You blink. “Is she?”

“You’re my wife,” he whispers.

“I am…aren’t I?”

He shakes his head. “I’m cutting you off.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

The alcohol is an enabler. You shouldn’t have had as many drinks as you did, but this is a party, and you’re not the one driving.

Why not have a bit of fun?

“Hi.”

Kyle arches an eyebrow. “Hi,” he replies, drawing out the greeting in slight confusion.

You cozy up next to him, shoulder brushing against shoulder.

“So,” you begin, head tilting toward him like you’re about to whisper all your secrets. “I’m going to be a bit bold…”

“Go on.”

“But I think you’re cute. Wanted to know if you’re seeing anyone.”

Kyle’s single raised eyebrow becomes two. There’s a long pause, so long that you notice the absence of conversation.

Kyle’s confusion cracks, becoming a wide smile, followed by his adorable, familiar laughter. “You’re taking the piss, love.”

“I’m not joking.”

He laughs harder, clutching his chest like he can’t breathe.

“I’m your husband,” he manages to say between wheezing breaths.

“I know,” you reply. “Just checking to make sure you’re still loyal.”

He waves his hand in the air before him. “You’ve had enough. Give me that.” He plucks your beverage right out of your hands.

“Excuse me,” you protest, but Kyle is already downing it.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @miaraei @cherryofdeath

@fern-reads @tulipsun-flower @miss-mistinguett @ninman82 @eternallyvenus

@beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx @chaostwinsofdestruction @weasleytwins-41

@saoirse06 @glassgulls @ravenpoe67 @sageyxbabey @mudisgranapat

@lulurubberduckie @leed-bbg @yawning-grave81 @azkza @nishim

@voids-universe @iloveslasher @talooolaaloolla @sadlonelybagel @haven-1307

@itsberrydreemurstuff @z-wantstowrite @keiva1000 @littlemisscriesherselftosleep @blackhawkfanatic

@sammysinger04 @kylies-love-letter @dakotakazansky @suhmie @kadeeesworld

@keiva1000 @jackrabbitem @arrozyfrijoles23 @lovely-ateez @waves-against-a-cliff

@ash-tarte @marispunk @gingergirl06 @certainlygay @greeniegreengreen

[dmitriene]

simon riley has a home, not a particularly big house in quiet neighborhood, a place where he doesn't wears his gear and doesn't has a knife pocketed at his thigh, where he doesn't hides under another identity, remaining just simon, a sated man with a sweet wife and a chubby baby at his hip, a civilian life he's so desperately tried to seek and that you gifted him.

home with a bright, spacious kitchen where you stood each morning together, with simon's hefty form cloaking you from behind, thick hands trailing under the satin of your nightie, bunching the fabric on your front, where you're pressed against the wood of the kitchen counter, your cat walking on top, before meowing lightly and jumping off onto the floor, knowing that it's best for her to leave you two to be, furling into another room through half opened door.

baby sleeping in the crib, peacefully, a soft lulling melody wafting through the chilly air of the room that keeps your girl sleeping tight, door closed slightly to muffle any possible sounds from disturbing her sleep, your mellowy sounds that slip past your parted lips when simon teases his thick fingers against your sopping folds, cupping your warm pussy beneath the cotton of your panties, swiping across your slit and gathering the oozing slick there.

a family, the one simon would protect with everything he has, to keep you, his sweet wife, always by his side, with your pretty finger adorned by the sparkly, wedding ring that matches his, cooling against your swollen clit where he can't stop teasing you, spreading your folds to the morning air, dripping wet and taking every inch of his girthy cock gracefully, spasming around the girth he feeds you, squeezed tight in your thin, gummy walls.

muffling your hiccuping cries, simon's hips bouncing against your ass, squeezed in his rough palm through the fabric of your nightie, fat supple and spilling from his fingers, as his heavy balls press and slap against your folds, drippy with your slick and his tacky precome, matting the tangle of fuzzed curls of hair on his pelvic and meaty thighs, muscles tensing with webbing heat in his soft belly, rolls of skin rubbing against the small of your back, as he folds himself over you.

he kisses the molassed whimpers from your lips with his searing mouth, pummels into your pussy when your gooey walls flutter and clench, rippling, stuffed full of the thick girth that grinds against your small, sens spot and makes you claw painfully at the wood of the counter, simon's hand gathering your wrist, tying them together by his fingers, the same that currently flick across the small bundle of your nerves, swollen, full of pumping blood, when you cry out loud in the soft furl of his lips.

your darling girl still asleep, cat curled against her small form, tail draped over her slowly breathing body and prolonging her sleep, unable to hear the heavy breaths coming out from the kitchen and the breathy giggles simon completes to devour off from your lips, with his clashing teeth's and greedy tongue, despite your panties being sodden and his cum trailing down the underside of your doughy thighs in viscous, glistening globs.

a home, with a smell of fresh breakfast curling and dissolving into the air of the room, as you stand behind the stove, watching the two sizzling pans as simon busies himself in helping your baby brush her teeth, cradling her against his chest, as she babbles groggily, already all over his ears, as he chuckles hoarsely, bundling her against the bend of his elbow, walking back to the kitchen with a cat meowing at his feet, hungry too.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[mariasont]

Sugar, Spice, Spencer's Advice - S.R

everyone expects spencer reid to fall for purely intellectual types, but what they don't know is your ability to remember his rambling lessons and your diligent googled research makes him feel irrationally turned on

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader warnings: established relationship, some suggestive content, brief mention of food-play (non-graphic, discussion only), spencer being protective, fluff af, spencer's negative outlook on sugar/food (super brief), teasing/banter, flustered spence wc: 1.4k request: here!

You’re happily licking at your ice cream cone, eyes soft with uncomplicated happiness, and Spencer thinks he’s becoming entirely too familiar with this feeling. It’s habitual. To observe you is like revisiting his favorite passage in a beloved book, each time discovering nuances he’s missed before.

He’d given in the instant your expression had turned imploring — big, pleading eyes, soft pout — your most effective weapon. Spencer has abandoned all pretense that he can resist your nightly sugar-driven rituals.

He’d pondered briefly the psychological undercurrents of your craving, but each theory usually ends up dissolving when he’s confronted by the smile you give him when he caves.

His attention drifts back just as your feet land on the dashboard. Spencer half-smiles at the sight of those slip-ons, your comfy choice through the entire day of painfully predictable romance movies. He was pretty sure he lost the plot somewhere around hour two — another mistaken identity plot twist, seriously? — but keeping track of said plot wasn’t really the point anyway. 

He’d watch paint dry if it meant hearing you laugh like that, but thankfully you usually pick slightly better entertainment. Usually.

Spencer reaches over instinctively, his hand finding its place on your thigh, patting twice for good measure.

“Hey, feet off the dash, please,” he says. “Airbags deploy faster than you think, and personally, I’m pretty attached to the current arrangement of your features.”

His mind trips over the calculation against the embarrassment of sounding like an overbearing parent. He’s not even your husband yet. Yet.

But you immediately drop your feet without complaint, settling into a position that looks decidedly safer. Spencer breathes a little easier. He gives your thigh a grateful squeeze, his thumb brushing back and forth just once in a wordless thank you.

You tuck your legs beneath you, body angled toward him, elbow planted on the center console, cheek resting in your palm. 

“My face appreciates you looking out for it,” you tease gently. “Always looking out for me actually. Is there anything else I do that’s, like, secretly super dangerous?”

Spencer’s eyes catch yours, and he lets out a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, lifting his hand from your thigh to sweep his thumb along the edge of your mouth, collecting the vanilla ice cream that’s smeared there. “As far as dangerous decisions go, I’d say your habit of leaving candles burning unattended ranks pretty high. One of these days you’re going to burn the whole place down, sweetheart.”

“But you said most fires from candles happen because of flammable stuff near them, not just leaving them burning,” you remind him sweetly, nose wrinkling with affection. “So really, as long as I keep things away from my candles, I’m totally safe. And I always listen to you about that.”

His heart flutters with messy pride and affection that makes him feel embarrassingly sentimental. Sure, conversations about Marcel Proust or string theory aren’t exactly your cup of tea (he’s pretty sure you’d turn your nose up at the mere thought), but there’s this distinctly genuine and wonderful way you navigate the world. 

You absorb everything he says — half-formed ideas, scattered facts, fleeting memories — in a way that weirdly puts eidetic memories to shame. 

It’s dizzying, actually, the way you’re smiling at him right now, effortlessly beautiful and clearly unaware that he’s suddenly acutely conscious of how his pulse is pounding. 

He loves you, he knows he does, deeply, and apparently by the way his face flushes hot and his breathing quickens, he’s more turned on by your quiet brilliance than he ever expected.

“Okay, so candles are covered,” he says with mock seriousness, “but what about all my advice on not talking to strangers or, I don’t know, not accepting free candy from mysterious vans? Are those making the cut too?”

“Come on, Spencer, you taught me better than that,” you say proudly. “I know all about risk assessment now, if someone seems sketchy or pushes too hard, it’s probably a danger sign. And,” you add with a satisfied smile, “that’s why you’re the only one allowed to take me for sweets. Want a bite?”

Spencer eyes the melting ice cream warily, the overly sweet scent doing nothing to tempt him, it’s essentially frozen sugar, after all, objectively terrible for him. The mental list of reasons to politely decline is endless.

But the knowledge that your lips have just been there sets off a chain reaction, desire eclipsing logic. Suddenly, he’s more than willing to abandon nutritional morals for the vague promise of an indirect kiss. Though, admittedly, he would much rather prefer the direct approach. But he’s fairly certain that running into a telephone pole would rank even higher risk wise than unattended candles or dashboard hazards. 

So, instead, he ducks his head, taking a careful bite, instantly regretting it when the sticky sweet cold paints his cheek.

Your giggles ripple, making him smile sheepishly as you shift closer. He expects your thumb, mirroring his earlier gesture, but then your lips brush against his cheek, your tongue catching the vanilla drip. Every ounce of rationality deserts him into one helplessly smitten mess.

“You know, saliva actually cleans better than wiping,” you announce thoughtfully. “So, you’re welcome, Spence.”

He’s half certain he’s never mentioned anything about saliva enzymes, but then again, he’s so thoroughly distracted by you most of the time he might’ve. It sounds exactly the kind of oddly specific detail he’d share.

“Okay,” he manages, unable to suppress a smile. “Where exactly did you learn that one?”

“I googled it.” You tilt your head. “Like, I thought food-play might be fun to try with you?” You shrug lightly, expression utterly innocent as if discussing something far less suggestive. “But then all these articles said it can get kinda gross and messy, and honestly, Spencer, I realized you’d probably just stress about germs and clean-up, and there’s no way I’d enjoy it if you weren’t totally relaxed and happy.”

Of all the things he anticipated you might say tonight, casually mentioning food play research was not on the list. It lands like a dropped grenade, exploding into fragments of thoughts he cannot possibly hope to piece together.

His cheeks burn hot as images — sticky and indecent images — flood his mind without permission. Vanilla dripping slowly down your collarbone, lips parted in invitation, eyes sparkling with that innocent curiosity he adores.

But beneath this sudden rush of desire lies something even softer because he can almost see it — your earnest expression as you scroll through webpages, considering all the possible complications, all the ways he might react. 

Spencer’s chest aches in a way he can’t pinpoint, a vulnerability spreading through him that he rarely allows himself to feel. He’s not used to people taking such gentle care of his anxieties, treating his quirks as something precious rather than burdensome. A small, quiet part of him wonders if he deserves this kind of thoughtfulness, this careful, intentional love you offer without hesitation. He wants to believe it, wants to let himself trust it completely, but the tender astonishment that grips him right now makes it hard to think straight.

“You know, angel, next time just come straight to me, okay? I promise my answers are better, and less traumatizing, than whatever you’ll find online.”

“Well, don’t blame me when you start getting texts at two a.m. about my random questions.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you. “I think we both know that if my phone goes off at two a.m., you’re probably not looking for statistics.”

You smile at that.

“I mean, yeah, probably,” you concede. “But honestly, Spence, I did read this thing about late-night dopamine spikes or whatever and —,”

He doesn’t think. He can’t think. The moment the car is in park, his body moves on its own, leaning across the console, hands gently cupping your face as he silences your adorable scientific ramble. He’s never felt such urgency, such an intense, overwhelming need to kiss someone as he does right now. It’s impulsive, reckless, completely out of character, and yet he feels no regret. Only relief. Only you.

For once in his analytical life, Spencer lets instinct win, savoring your lips and the small, surprised sound you make against him. He hopes you hear in his kiss everything he can’t yet put into words.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[humanjarvis]

bloodlust

synopsis: you’ve never known real power. sylus lets you taste it.

tags: nsfw & dark (mdni), sylus gravely injures people who upset you, you like it and fuck him in front of their writhing bodies, he then wipes them from existence with his evol, love confessions, avoidant reader is back, reader thinks they're weak, reader exalts sylus, reader needs therapy, size difference, fingering, vaginal sex, kinda? implied to be their first time but u can decide for urself bc what a first time this would be, blood, violence (obviously), sylus is still nice but definitely leaning into the legendary criminal persona, he’s also obsessed with you, i think that’s it?? pairing: sylus x reader word count: 2.7k

a/n: try psychoanalyzing THIS

You’d always known you were a vengeful person. 

From the day you’d started hating your babysitter for insulting your favorite toy, to the time you’d tried to explode your leech of a landlord with your mind every month, you’d been well aware: you did not take kindly to being wronged. 

You had no true power of your own, no—timid and unimposing, you’d been forced to restrict your retaliation to the hypothetical, the mental. Death wishes, prayers for misfortune, and fantasies of karma were your safe haven—the space in your mind where no one could reach you with insult or ridicule, where the judgment of others was your sole prerogative. 

For years, you’d lived this way, worked this way. Discredited and discarded, excluded and exploited, you’d sought comfort in your capacity to think, to imagine. To imagine retribution for those who would never be dealt it—at least, not from your inconsequential hand. 

But this time, your mere imagination would not be enough.

For the last month, a clique of obnoxious coworkers had been harassing you nonstop, stewing in jealousy after your recent promotion. Day after day, they’d tried to break your spirit, and day after day, they inched closer to success. The thinly veiled barbs, harsh criticisms, and shameless attempts to steal your work were eating away at you, no matter how vividly you imagined retaliating in the safety of your mind, dissolving each perpetrator to dust for their needless hostility. 

The dam broke the day they’d found your weak spot, launching a full-on attack on you. Not your skill, not your work, but the unchangeable traits that already kept you awake at night, wishing you could be something greater. Your shyness, your weakness, your simple approach to the world—everything that made you who you were, they’d picked apart.

You don’t recall how you’d gotten home that day—only the wings of a crow fluttering above you as you floated down the familiar streets on autopilot. You’d stepped through the door withdrawn nearly into catatonia, recoiling from sounds and flinching from touches. 

Sylus hadn’t liked that. 

After years of lonely independence—not what you’d chosen but all you could handle—you’re still adjusting to relying on someone else to preserve your honor. Especially when that person has everything you lack: an imposing form, an authoritative voice, effortless assurance, and unrivaled strength. 

Sylus can make your hypotheticals—your unfulfilling, pathetic hypotheticals—into reality. Without lifting a finger, without breaking a sweat. 

So when you return to his home in a shell of dejection, drained of the life you’d graciously breathed into his, that’s precisely what he plans to do.

Someone had upset you—terribly so. The moment he’d claimed you, held your trembling, uncertain form in his, he’d set a very high price for that.

In the back room of Onychinus’s main warehouse, your body tremors in anticipation. Tonight, your defenses are more than psychological. Tonight, for the first time, you’ll know the intoxicating security of capability. 

As you wait for Sylus’s cue, your mind wanders to the aftermath of that day. Once you’d come back to him, looked into his eyes with something more than blankness, he’d approached you. Gathering you into his arms, he’d asked what’d happened—who’d happened—pressing sweet kisses to your temple and lips whenever your voice would break. 

He’d holed up in his office after he’d seen you to bed, compiling all the information he could find—a lot, with his resources—on the three men who’d tormented you. Their names, addresses, roles in the company, aspirations—anything that’d be useful in luring them to his turf. 

And now, he’s asked you to stay out of sight and wait for his signal as he lulls his suspects with the false promise of a good deal. 

Just as you feel the familiar impulse to flee threaten your resolve, a too-realistic caw and the steady flaps of metal wings snap you out of your thoughts. As the omnipresent crow lands on your shoulder, nuzzling your cheek in programmed affection, you walk slowly to the heavy door, steeling yourself before sliding it open. 

In the dim light of the square room, you feel his presence before you see him, his cool authority drawing you to him like a magnet. You come to a soft stop behind his chair, draping one arm over his shoulders, the other on his chest, as he introduces you as his partner. And with a tense, shuddering breath, you tighten your grip on him as you raise your eyes to meet the men who’d nearly broken you. 

Apparently, though, your true reunion has been put on hold, as their careless eyes are busy ogling your body in proprietary glee. 

When Sylus clears his throat, they seem to remember where they are and who they’re with, and three pairs of eyes finally deign to meet yours. Almost immediately, those eyes flicker in recognition, the faces of their owners blanching with nerves.  

And that reaction is the smoking gun—the only evidence Sylus needs to enact their damnation. 

In an instant, crimson ropes with black undertones snake around the men’s immobilized bodies, suspending them in midair before inching up to muffle the groans that catch in their rigid throats. 

Rising from his seat, Sylus bends to kiss your forehead before blocking your view with his back. “Don’t peek, sweetie,” he hums as he extends one large hand, dancing his index finger in a line of X’s. As he moves, hundreds of tiny, twisting cuts appear around each man’s neck, their countless wounds dripping with thin streams of blood. 

Completing his design, he clenches his fist, and the ropes tighten to drain their prey at a much greater volume. 

A few seconds later and he drops his hand, the men’s half-emptied, half-alive bodies hitting the floor in one simultaneous thud. 

From behind the broad panes of Sylus’s back, you're not supposed to see his carnage, the way his victims can’t even beg him for mercy with the blood clogging their windpipes. 

But with your hands on his narrow waist, supporting you as you peek around him in disobedience, the image of what he’s done for you and its surprisingly comfortable weight settle on your now relaxed shoulders. 

It’s not the mess on the floor, but the principle of his actions—the urgency with which he moved to avenge his own.

You want to thank him. You want to worship him. 

Oblivious to the desire thrumming in your heart, Sylus finally turns around, ready to usher you out of the room. When he reaches for you, though, you intercept his arm, panting softly up at him with wide eyes.

Mistaking your expression as terror, he moves to step back, but you shake your head vehemently and tug him toward you, your feet firmly rooted in place on the tiled black floor. 

Wordlessly, you paw frantically at his shirt and belt—anything that can come off—with your usually nimble fingers trembling and clumsy from the rush of energy in your veins. 

As you manage to undo the first button of his shirt, realization dawns on his face, lightening his stormy garnet eyes in a mix of shock and relief. 

“You’re a naughty little thing, aren’t you?” he breathes, his large hand covering yours on his buttons and freezing your advances momentarily. 

With an impatient huff, you look up at him and open your mouth in protest, but he speaks before you can. 

“For a moment, I thought I'd made you fear me again,” he admits with a shaky chuckle. “Evidently I was wrong, and although I'm glad to know that…are you sure you want to do this here, sweetie?” he checks, peering down at you with a searching gaze. 

Finding your voice, you use his loosened shirt to pull him down to your height, caressing his chiseled jaw in your hand. “I want you to take me. Here, in front of all of them. I want them to watch the man who’ll take their lives take my heart in his hands. Will you do that for me?”

He’ll do anything for you. 

And so, softly maneuvering your body, Sylus repositions you to stand in front of him and angles your gaze to the reflective steel ceiling, not allowing the filth on the floor to enter your line of sight. He supposes they can look at you—it won’t matter for much longer, anyway—but he refuses to let you look at them any longer, to let your intimacy be tainted by the memories of what they’d done. 

Slowly, he trails his unoccupied hand down to grope your full breasts, humming in approval when he feels your pebbling nipples. Pinching your right peak softly, he murmurs into your left ear, surrounding you on all sides. “You like what I’ve done, I presume? Are you pleased with me?” 

Moaning softly, you arch back into him, pushing your chest further into his welcoming hand. Tilting your head back as far as his iron grip allows, you turn your face to brush his cheek as his fingers continue working your aching nipple. “It’s not what you’ve done to them,” you breathe against him, “it’s what you’ve done for me.” 

With another moan, you rock your hips back between his legs, feeling the sizable bulge that grows harder with each reaction you give him. 

With the strength in his one free hand, the other still aiming your gaze toward the ceiling, he tears the front of your flimsy dress open, your breasts spilling out in smooth bounces. 

Sylus groans deeply at the visual, his palm coming up to grope and knead your tender flesh between his calloused fingers. 

“Tell me,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the pulse in your neck. “How should I take you, hmm? Hard and fast, so they know I pace you, or slow and deep, so my love is clear?”

Leaving your breast with a last tug at your nipple, he lowers his hand to dip his fingers under the hem of your exposed panties, gliding between your glistening folds. Extending two long digits, he slips them into your fluttering entrance, sliding in and out with ease from the intensity of your arousal. 

As he pumps his fingers inside you, your walls clenching around him in search of something larger, you’re barely able to formulate a response. Luckily, your answer is simple.

“Everything,” you moan to him. “Everything you can give me—I want it all.” 

With a rumbling groan, Sylus gives you a final deep thrust with his fingers, dragging them inside your walls to collect all of your essence. Pulling them out of you with a wet pop, he swiftly sticks them in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digits as he savors your taste. Standing up on your toes, you push your mouth to his, slipping your tongue past his lips to steal what’s left of your flavor. A string of saliva connects you as you part, only snapping when Sylus shifts to free the heavy bulge from his straining slacks. 

Mewling, you try to push your hips back, desperately searching for whatever friction you can find. But with a light tap to your hip, he holds you in place, thwarting your attempt to bring him closer. “Be patient for me, won’t you?” he asks. “I’ve wanted you like this for so long—surely you’ll let me lead?”

And although you’ve vowed against letting anyone lead you, letting anyone take charge of you lest you get burned, you remember the power he’d gifted you only an hour ago, the writhing bodies still littering the floor behind you. His grand display of care, devotion, and understanding. Without a second thought, you find yourself nodding frantically in his embrace, his hand on your jaw briefly loosening with the force. 

With a soft, unnecessary apology, you still, allowing yourself to fall pliant in his hands. Against your ear, you feel his lips curl into a smile.

“Eyes up,” he whispers as he sinks into you.

The intrusion is slow, and thanks to the wetness leaking out of you, you suction in his oversized length with only a slight discomfort. With a gentle push, he fully seats himself inside you, and you both release a breathy moan—yours at the wholeness, his at the tightness.

After one sublime moment, your bodies almost merged with your closeness, he pulls out slowly, leaving just the head of his shaft inside you before surging forward in an all-encompassing thrust. Mouth falling open, you unconsciously tilt your hips back to meet him, and he growls his approval. 

“I’ll give you everything,” he rumbles with another deep thrust. “Everything you want, everyone you want it done to—that’s my promise to you,” he vows, biting your ear. “Not a single being will harm you without paying the price—the price they pay as they look up at us with their last glances, wishing with all they have left to be in my place instead.” 

As he speaks, he quickens his measured strokes into powerful snaps of his hips—pacing you, just as he’d said. His promise and his movements are all too much, and you feel a sweet ache start to spread within your lower belly. 

Trying and failing to match his bruising thrusts, you babble out your admiration, the words that have circled your brain since he’d first told you his plans. 

“Thank you,” you pant, drawing in shuddering breaths. “I-I know I shut down on you sometimes, but I’m not used to having someone to care for me—having someone who can. I’ve only ever protected myself, a-and only ever in my head. I’m not strong enough, or assertive enough, to do anything you do for me and I love you so much for it—love you so much that I’m jealous of you, and it only makes me love you more,” you finish with a whimper. 

At your confession, Sylus grips your hip in his hand and fucks into you with renewed fervor, jostling every part of your body but your head, still securely angled toward the sky. The pounding starts a quake in your legs, and you slump into his strong chest, entrusting yourself to him as he pushes you both over the edge. With a few more sharp thrusts and a stinging bite on your neck, he spills into you in thick, hot spurts, and the sensation has you gushing around him. With an unrestrained cry, you dig your nails into his arm, and he presses impossibly closer to you.

“However much you think you love me, know that it hardly compares to the obsession I feel towards you.” 

As you’re lost in the pleasure of your joint release, murky red and black wisps coil around the figures twitching on the floor, enshrouding them in an eerie haze. With near inaudible crackles, they erode the forgotten flesh of their targets, twisting and curling, bending and snapping, until the floor is cleared of sin. 

Sylus, who’d captured your attention with a devoted kiss in the comedown of your orgasm, slowly releases you once his work is done. Breathless, you hover near his mouth, eager to ask for more, when you notice his firm grip has left your jaw—you’re free to look as you please. 

With his length still inside you, pulsing softly and coated with your combined essence, you twist in his arms, expecting the lifeless shapes on the floor to sully the peace of the moment, to resurface the desolation in you that'd led to their demise. 

But as you peer down at the shiny black tiles, you see nothing but yourselves—a smaller figure entwined in the consuming embrace of a much larger one.

“How do you feel?” a deep voice purrs into your ear. Craning your neck to look at its pleased owner, you sensually press yourself back, burying his already hardening length deeper into its nest. With a soft smile, you claim his lips in an unhurried kiss, tender and reverent and lewd.

When you pull away, he splays a possessive hand over your abdomen. He rests his chin atop your head as he resumes his pumps in and out of you, gradually quickening his controlled movements. 

Fluttering your eyes closed, you breathe in with contentment. The air around you has grown a little lighter with the deletion of those who’d dared to waste it.

[leonsdolly]

Canto V

Plagas!Leon Kennedy x fem! reader

Synopsis: Leon's back from Spain, but there's something off about him.

CW: nsfw 18+, p in v, dubcon, implied somnophilia, breeding kink, bruising, titplay, cunnilingus, creampie, unprotected sex, forced orgasms, overstimulation, lots of spit, choking, reader passes out during sex

WC: 2.4k

It may as well be a universally known concept that when you’re in a relationship with a government agent, you’d better get used to being strangers with the finer details. Who, what, when, where, and why made themselves at home in your vocabulary while you were dating Leon. It was all futile; he couldn't ever tell you where he was going for his next mission or when he was coming back to your grabby hands. Swearing confidentiality with your left hand on the Bible trumps a loving, concerned girlfriend apparently.

Leon had been gone for a few days this time around, and you weren’t sure when exactly he’d be back. You prayed to every divinity who cared to listen that he would come back home safe and sound to you. You did so every time he left. The government calls, he runs, you make your deals with Jesus.

The clock strikes midnight as you flit around your apartment, closing the kitchen and ensuring everything is locked up for the night. You got home from work rather late, and you’re looking forward to falling into a deep slumber, especially since you’ve taken your everything shower, completed your skincare routine, and changed into a cute teddy bear print cami with matching boy shorts. While your heart aches for your absent boyfriend, you throw your shoulders back and keep your chin high, braving another night of sleeping alone in your queen-sized bed. You slide under the covers and turn off your bedside lamp before closing your eyes and ultimately slipping into a welcomed state of unconsciousness.

Scratching, more scratching… Huh? You blearily open your eyes before squinting at the time displayed on your alarm clock - 1:48 am. Did something wake you? You don’t hear anything, yet you have the sinking feeling that something did lull you out of your sleep. You fumble to turn the lamp on - thankfully, there’s nothing standing in the corner of your room or anything else that would have you screaming bloody murder until your lungs collapsed. The covers are pulled aside as you sit up in bed, planting your feet on the hardwood floor. 

Once your feet lightly hit the floor, a terrible shuffling resounds from the living room which makes your blood freeze over. Your limbs are immobilized, but your eyes move towards the door, like you’re in a state of sleep paralysis and your demon’s lurking around the corner. Heavy footsteps grow closer and closer to your door, and you watch the doorknob turn in slow motion. 

The door swings open, and your body dissolves. 

“Leon?” Your eyes blink at him, unsure for a second if he’s the product of a sleep paralysis induced hallucination.

Your lover stands before you with a somewhat dazed expression himself - dark circles engraved below his exhausted eyes, faded bruises on his face, dark veins trailing across his pale skin. He stands transfixed for what feels like forever before he blinks. “Baby.”

The sound of his voice breaks you out of your own stupor, and you launch off the bed and straight into his arms. You bury your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around him tightly. “You’re home.”

He shudders violently before his arms encircle you as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling the smell of your shampoo - ah, figs and camellia, a breath of fresh air from guts and mold. “I missed you… I almost didn't…” His voice is unsteady, wavering in a way that makes you want to never let go of him.

“It's okay, my love. You're home now, you’re safe.”

“I almost didn't make it… You don’t know what happened…” His hands shake slightly as he grips onto you a little harder.

A lump forms in your throat at the realization that he could have very well perished during this mission. It’s not often that he lets you see him in such a vulnerable state, so hearing the fear decorate his tone causes your heart to squeeze painfully. 

“What happened?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Fine, at least tell me where you were. S’not like I can head there and foil the government’s plans after it’s already over. ”

“...Spain.”

You wonder what kind of horrors had transpired in Spain, but you know better than to inquire further. You hold him close and rub his back soothingly, trying to make him feel as loved as possible. “It's over now, right?”

“Right…” A hint of worry colors his tone as he presses a kiss to your head. “Can we just go to sleep?”

“Of course,” you reach up to gently rub the shadowy veins visible underneath his eyes and creeping up his neck. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Guess my body just went through a lot back there.”

You take his arms, turning them over and over and examining them closely for any serious wounds. Thankfully, you don’t see anything except for the occasional minuscule scrape, though the unnaturally dark veins worry you. You’re afraid they may be the result of some sort of vascular impairment, so you make a promise to yourself that you’ll drag him to the doctor’s office soon for a proper assessment. You help him wash up, letting him use your products so he’s soft and smelling like you. You hold each other close in bed, relishing the feeling of finally being able to sleep in each other’s arms after time apart.

Ouch. You wince slightly as you wake up to the sun streaming in through your lace curtains. You drowsily fumble for Leon’s hand to hold first thing in the morning like you usually do, but the space next to you is empty. You certainly hope you hadn’t just dreamed of his homecoming.

“Baby?” You croak as you wince again. Are you naked? And why are you so sore? Your eyes trail down to your arms which are littered with bruises. Eyes wide like cherry pies, you tug the comforter off to discover that the rest of your bare body is marked in a similar fashion - bruises bloomed across your neck, teeth marks engraved in your breasts, handprints stamped onto your hips like someone had been gripping onto them for dear life. Trembling, you slowly raise yourself up to a sitting position. You squirm as you feel slick in between your thighs, how fresh it is, you can't say for sure.

“Leon?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears as you call out for your lover.

You’re dazed as you take a step forward, feeling your body spinning like a ballerina, a delicate little thing that’s been used and abused and stuffed in a box marked FRAGILE. A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, anchoring you to his bare chest- they’re so much warmer than your Leon’s. Your eyes flutter as they gaze straight up into a pair that look like your Leon's except they’re murkier, hungrier. 

Inky blood vessels coagulate underneath his skin, giving him a mottled appearance. They interweave throughout his body like morbid ribbons decorating his limbs for a funeral. He breathes heavily as he squeezes at your already tender body, causing you to whimper.

“Leon, ‘m sore… What did you do?” A low growl reverberates within him as he pulls you back onto the bed, shoving you onto your back. Before you can interrogate him further, his lips smash against yours. His kisses are all teeth and slobber, filled with nothing but the desire to ravage everything you hold near and dear.

“Mine, all mine,” he groans as he latches his lips onto your neck, decorating it with his very own artistic flair. “Mine to keep forever.” You whimper at the way his lips assault your most sensitive point like a wolf ready to tear out the wide eyed fawn’s throat. 

“Fuck, feels so good,” you moan which further ignites that primal instinct in him that wants to give you the greatest pleasure you’ve ever known, all for the sake of claiming you as his very own mate. He squeezes your tits together and spits on them before rubbing it into your nipples with the rough pads of his thumbs. You squeal at the stimulation as he takes a nipple in his mouth, suckling at it as hard as he can before letting go with a pop.

“God, Leon,” you cry out as he continues to suck on your tits. He pushes them together as hard as he can and forces both nipples into his mouth so he can lap at them like a creature who stumbled across an eternal spring in the vast desert.

“Love these tits,” he groans. “Sweet fucking nipples, made to suck on all day and night. To think they’re gonna get even bigger when they're full of milk.” He pushes his face in between them before finally pulling away with a slap to each one, watching them jiggle with a carnal gaze.

“M-milk?” You whimper as he kisses across your abdomen and lowers down to your leaking pussy.

“Yeah,” he pants as he spreads your dripping folds open with his thumbs, inspecting the remnants of the now stale cum he had dumped inside while you slept like an unsuspecting angel. “Your body has accepted my gift.” A tinge of fear courses through your veins at this last line; you can’t put your finger on why it makes your skin crawl, but they don’t sound like your Leon’s words.

“Gift?” You involuntarily moan as he lets himself drool on your pussy before pressing sloppy kisses straight onto your clit. 

“You’ll take my seed.” He starts lapping at your pussy ruthlessly, but not before grabbing your thighs and forcing them to clamp around his head, keeping him fused to your most intimate parts. Your sweet noises overflow the room as your back arches like he’s possessing you, dragging you down to flail around for eternity among the powerful black winds. Your voice turns shrill as you cum on his salacious tongue. Canto V.

When he finally emerges for air, his eyes are now murkier than before - the once serene blue that inspired such tranquility is now charred, tenebrous. “Leon,” your eyes tear up as you gaze down at him with your elbows propping you up.

“Shh,” he smirks as he raises himself up to pump his hard cock a few times before aligning himself with your pretty hole. “My baby, my lamb. Gonna get your beautiful belly all swollen for me. Gonna creampie you as many times as it takes.” He pushes himself inside your sopping cunt as you wail for the heavens. Your pussy allows him to enter with ease, clenching around him like it needed him to breathe - which it did. He begins to thrust into you with all the vigor of a madman.

“So good for me, my fucking girl,” he pants as he continues to pound into you. He leers at the way your tits bounce at each thrust before leaning over to spit on them. Your chest gleams with his saliva as you moan louder than you ever have before, like your throat really is being ripped out by the big bad wolf. His cock reaches deep, hitting all the spots you know nothing else can, and before you know it, you’re cumming all over him as he continues to pummel into you. Your nails dig into his back as you try to claw onto anything that can keep you physically grounded through your orgasm.

He laughs a little to himself as he continues to fuck you despite the fact you just came. “L-leon,” you cry out. “S’too much, too sensitive.”

“You can take it, been taking it all night.” His balls slap against your ass as he leans down to jam his lips against yours, licking into your mouth until your head’s all dizzy again. He rears back to push your legs up against your chest as his cock pounds into you; the new angle’s making your eyes roll all the way back into your head. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs to himself as his breath hitches and he stares down at you losing yourself in the mating press. “That’s a good breeding bitch.” His words are hushed, but they bounce around in your head and yank another orgasm out of you, leaving you sobbing from the overstimulation.

“S’okay baby,” he coos as he kisses your salty tears away and wraps a hand around your smooth throat. “You’re doing so well, accepting my gift.” His eyes unsettle you, damn near pitch black as they peer right into yours. Your battered pussy tightens in tandem with the hand gripping your throat. Your tongue lolls out as you start seeing stars, and he sucks on it. “Give me another one, little lamb.”

“C-can’t,” you slur as your limbs dissolve. You want to give him another one. Want it, want to bear his child, want to exist for him. Want to breathe him, let him pump through your circulatory system. His breathing becomes erratic, damn near hysterical, as he nears his own high. He rubs your swollen clit to bring you closer to yet another orgasm, though you wonder if you’ll live to tell the tale once you reach it. He pounds into you as hard as he can, unrestrained growls falling from his lips as he dumps his load into you. You manage to cum yet again, release so intense on your already wasted form, that it shatters your senses. You’re vaguely aware of someone shrieking, and it takes a while to realize that it’s coming from your own mouth. You did it. Your vision goes black, and you slump into unconsciousness. 

The first thing you perceive when you regain consciousness is the calloused hand gently caressing your face as if you’re a china doll. “Leon?” Your mumble brings him to slowly gaze at you with concern and shame.

“Baby.” He raises his other hand to hold yours with all the love and tenderness he could muster. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore… tired…” You frown slightly as you try to sit up, but he stops you from straining yourself. “What happened, Leon?”

“I’m so sorry.” His eyes are cast downwards as if the floor will be more forgiving than his own lover. “I’m not okay.”

“It’s okay,” you frown as you squeeze his hand reassuringly. “You didn’t hurt me.”

“I could’ve. I thought this thing had resolved itself in Spain.”

“We’ll figure this out together.” You gently tug his arm, signaling to him that for now, you just want him laying with you. He slides into the bed and cautiously rolls you over on your side so that he’s spooning you from behind. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and gives your belly a pat.

[sugarplumfairy777]

𓂃⋆.˚ ۫ ꣑ৎ a short n’ sweet guide on how to induce the void state ft. hachi

—————————————————————————

meet hachi a young girl who one day stumbles on how to induce pure consciousness. this is her journey:

day 1:

hachi spends her first day scrolling through some of her favorite bloggers posts; a little bit after she scrolls through “#void state” and “#pure consciousness” after a few minutes she comes across a post that reminds her of her power and how she can induce the void state like literally R I G H T N O W now hachi is ready and excited to induce pure consciousness, so she lays down and goes through a flow of instructions and BOOM she is now and her most natural and pure form, which some know as pure consciousness, the void state, I am state, or whatever you wanna call it. now if you thought the following while reading hachi’s journey, you do not understand what it means to be god.

-if you thought that hachi’s journey sounds too fake or too unrealistic because she induced her purest form on the first day of finding out about it, you do not understand.

- if you feel bad now that your journey is longer than hachi’s you do not understand, it doesn’t matter if it’s been two weeks since you’ve been on your journey or if it’s been 4+ years it does not matter at all.

-if you thought of ANY limitations or had any doubt or thoughts of how you can still fail or even uttered “b-b-but that doesn’t make sense, that’s not pos—” yeah, uhm I’ll stop you there before you accidentally make a fool of yourself.

what are you talking about, “impossible” “unrealistic” “too hard” nothing is any of those words for you; a god. like seriously stop making my point fly across your head, YOU ARE GOD. period.

now for the curious people who are wondering, “what did hachi do to induce the void state so fast????”:

step 1: recognize your truth

𓂃⋆ the first step is realizing the most important truth: you are god. you are not a body, not a mind, not tied to any rules or limits. you are pure consciousness—infinite, powerful, limitless. there is no separation between you and the universe because you are the universe. everything flows from you. the void state isn’t something outside of you—it’s within you, always has been.

step 2: it’s already yours

𓂃⋆ the void isn’t something you need to “enter.” there’s no effort, no struggle. it’s instant. you are already there because you are it. time doesn’t exist in the void; it dissolves the moment you recognize your infinite nature. don’t overthink it. you don’t have to do anything special. the void is your natural state—limitless potential, pure being. just by knowing this, you’re already connected to it.

step 3: let go of limitations

𓂃⋆ close your eyes if you want, but know it’s not even necessary. all limits, all beliefs, all stories are illusions. they don’t define you. in this moment, drop everything that tells you who you are “supposed to be.” you are beyond all of that. realize the simplicity of it: there’s no need to fight or overcome anything. just let it go. you’re already infinite.

step 4: feel the stillness

𓂃⋆ once you let go of everything, there’s only stillness. this stillness is you. it’s not the absence of movement—it’s the presence of infinite potential. in this space, there’s no need to question, doubt, or analyze. you don’t need to “try” to reach the void, because you’re already embodying it. the moment you stop chasing it, you realize you were already there.

step 5: exist as pure consciousness

𓂃⋆ in the void, you are pure consciousness, untouched by the world, unshaped by time or space. you are everything and nothing at once. feel this—you are the creator of all, and yet, you are perfectly still. this state is simple, yet profound. you don’t have to do anything to maintain it. just be aware of your own infinite nature.

that’s it. the void state is effortless because you are it. there’s no process, no waiting, only instant realization that you are god, and everything is within your power. hachi did nothing but know her powerful and boom— she manifested her dream closet, her dream body, her dream boyfriend and her dream life in general. if she & so many others can—then so can you 🩷 it’s nothing that deep :p

note: the steps are not required duh anything and everything you do whilst holding the intention of inducing the void state is correct and guaranteed you are god so stop doubting. https://www.tumblr.com/sugarplumfairy777/772229618617991168/failure-doubt-limitations

[darkmatilda]

𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after a terrible day at work, you find an unexpected dose of comfort in an absurd late-night conversation with your coworker.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x newbaumember!femalereader, you make a huge mistake at work (unspecified) for which you get seriously chewed out by hotch, too many beds trope, ridiculously long considering the entire plot revolves around a single conversation, gets kinda wild at the end, spencer hits his head, but it’s nothing serious

𝐚/𝐧: the ending inspired by a situation from my life, but don’t worry, my head is fine now (in the general sense of the word) (no one kissed my forehead...) i recommend reading it in bed before sleep <33

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.7 k

"Hotch, but I thought—"

"It doesn't matter what you thought," your boss replied in his typical, emotionless tone, which in this particular situation sent a distinct chill down your spine. Every word he uttered felt like a frozen dagger, driven straight between your ribs and left there, while the coldness spread across your skin in the form of goosebumps. "What you did was not only reckless but also undermined all of today’s hard work by the entire team. They put tremendous effort into locating the unsub and cornering him at that specific location, and because of your decision, he managed to escape. Every additional day this man remains free could cost someone their life—an innocent person."

You stood before him in an empty parking lot across from the hotel where your entire team was staying. It wasn’t exactly the typical setting for delivering a reprimand, but since you were far from the office, there wasn’t a better option at hand. And while you were teetering on the edge of tears—tears you were desperately holding back to avoid appearing like a weak little girl in his eyes—you were grateful for one thing. Grateful that he had chosen to chastise you in private. One-on-one. Away from everyone else.

A moment of silence fell between you, and you tried not to lower your head like a chastised child—but that’s exactly how you felt. Not just ashamed, but overwhelmingly guilty. As someone who had only recently joined the BAU, you’d never made such an egregious mistake before. A mistake that could cost someone their life. Deep down, you had clung to the naive hope that this moment would never come. That if you followed the instructions of those more experienced than you with feigned confidence, something like this could be avoided.

But reality had placed you in a completely different position—one where, for a brief moment, the weight of everything rested squarely on your shoulders. You failed, and the unsub escaped.

The wind around you blew with a certain bitterness, tugging at your hair. It drowned out the sound of your heavy breathing, your racing heartbeat, and the loud gulp as you swallowed. Hotch, saying nothing, studied you with a measured gaze. You couldn’t help but wonder if he regretted allowing you into this job.

“I wanted you to be aware of that,” he said, his tone less harsh now but tinged with a certain disappointment that only deepened the guilt gnawing at you. He nodded, signaling you were free to go. “That’s all I had to say.”

He walked away, and watching his figure dissolve into the darkness in such a dramatic manner, you couldn’t help but let out a laugh. The laugh immediately turned into the beginning of a sob, which you quickly stifled, waving your hand in front of your face. You stood there for a moment, your feet seemingly rooted to the parking lot, as though the concrete were still fresh, hardening around your shoes.

In your experience, failure almost always came hand in hand with a sense of vulnerability, transporting you into a completely different, weaker body, one without any shields. All the achievements of the past few years, including making it into the BAU at such a young age, seemed to melt away, and once again, you were nothing.

You knew you couldn’t stand there all night, but in a way, it felt safer. In the motel, you might run into someone from the team. You might accidentally meet their gaze, and you’d see the disappointment in their eyes. After all those weeks of trying to prove your worth to them, of showing that you even belonged in this job, the last thing you wanted was to face that look.

To muster some courage, you took a deep, slow breath. You needed to slip into your room unnoticed, lie down in bed, hoping that the night would at least slightly cleanse you of your guilt. Hotch was absolutely right. Not only had you wasted an entire day of hard work, but you’d also put civilians from that area in danger. What if tomorrow another person became a victim?

The thought tormented you so much that by the time you reached your door, you were massaging your temples. You inserted the key you had picked up from the front desk into the lock, turned it, and was about to pull the handle… but it was locked. Frustrated, you figured the universe had simply decided to unite all of its forces against you as some kind of punishment. Before you could resort to a tired kick at the door and curl up in a ball in the hallway, you tried again. This time, the door opened without issue.

So absorbed in yourself, your situation, and your grievances, you didn’t even notice that inside, not only was the light on, but there were someone’s belongings—and, most importantly, someone else. It wasn’t until you took off your coat and stepped further into the room (if you could even call it that, it was an exceptionally small space) and came face to face with Spencer Reid that you realized you weren’t alone.

You stopped mid-step, stunned as if the least expected thing at that moment had just appeared before you—a turtle on stilts wearing a cowboy hat, or some other kind of religious prophet.

Quick note—this wasn't the first time you and Reid had shared a room during cases. Specifically, the bed. It all started when you found out he struggled with a fear of the dark, and someone’s presence really helped him feel better. In fact, at first, he insisted on sleeping on the floor, but you couldn't just watch him suffer on that uncomfortable surface every night. And, you had to admit, sometimes after an especially harrowing day in your, let’s be honest, stressful job, it felt nice to fall asleep next to someone.

As usual, it was him who came to you. Late at night, to your room, when he felt like sleeping would be particularly difficult. He was never there from the start…

"It turns out all the rooms here are double," he blurted out hastily upon seeing you, his tone overly explanatory.

When you walked in, he was in the middle of pulling something out of his suitcase. He straightened up, and you noticed he was wearing a loose T-shirt, his hair damp from a shower, and in his hand, he held that familiar white sweater you often teased him about, the one with an embroidered bear wearing glasses.

"I mean, the rest of the team got roomed together too, so we’re not some weird exception. I hope this doesn’t bother you. If it does, well, maybe we can switch somehow… I know Elle and JJ are together, and I think they only have two beds in their room, but maybe... or I could go with Derek…”

"Oh, come on," you waved dismissively, your tone sounding a bit irritated, like you were shooing away an annoying fly. The truth was, you were exhausted from the day and didn’t want to worry about the accommodation on top of everything else.

Reid stopped mid-sentence, his lips slightly parted. You felt guilty again as you had no reason to speak to him like that. He hadn’t done anything to deserve your frustration.

"I'm sorry," you sighed, your tense posture easing a little as you realized you were no longer outside, under the sharp, yet truthful words of your boss. "Really... I'm sorry, Reid. It doesn't bother me at all. Not one bit," you reassured him, sincerely.

He studied you in silence for a moment, his face showing a concerned, analytical expression.

"Actually, we’ve shared a room before," you added almost immediately, forcing a little chuckle. "And not just once. Well, at least now we have two beds…"

"Did you... did you talk to Hotch?"

The question was asked with hesitation, on a breath. Well, it finally meant confronting everything that had happened that day. You looked him straight in the eyes, searching for judgment or any hint of dislike toward you. But there was none. Instead, you found concern and discomfort at the fact that he had even brought up the subject.

"It’s... it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it," he quickly corrected himself, giving a slight nod. "You... you have every right, I don’t expect you to explain anything to me, your conversation with the boss is your private matter... oh God, I feel like with every word I say, my statement is losing more and more sense, and I’m getting more and more tangled in it, isn’t that right?"

He stared at you with furrowed brows, waiting for your reaction. It turned out to be... a burst of laughter. You honestly couldn’t help yourself.

“I hate to admit it, but yeah, you’re right. You completely lost your train of thought. Maybe we should just pretend I’ve only just walked through that door, huh?”

“That’s... that’s actually a very good suggestion. So... so, uh, hi?”

Your lips curved into a smile, this time genuine.

“Hi, Reid.”

He managed to improve your mood in less than five minutes after you’d received a serious reprimand. You were immensely glad to have ended up with him in the room lottery. Shaking your head in disbelief, you began getting ready for bed without a word. He didn’t say anything either, sensing you needed a bit of space after everything that had happened. Speaking of space...

“This room is alarmingly small, don’t you think?” you said, returning from the shower and slowly sliding under your blanket. Fifteen minutes under scalding hot water had helped your body relax, and you no longer felt like you might throw up on your own feet at any moment. “It’s like some sort of exclusive cupboard under the stairs. Still a cupboard, though. Look, I can practically touch you.”

You stretched out your arm to demonstrate. Sure enough, even though you were sitting on neighboring beds, your fingertips almost brushed the fabric of his shirt. Between you was a massive nightstand made of dark wood, the same as the windowsill and the floor. On it sat a slightly old-fashioned bedside lamp with a glass base and a slightly yellowed lampshade. Other than that, there wasn’t much furniture. Not that there would’ve been room for any.

“Do you hear that?” Reid asked enigmatically, sitting up straighter on his bed.

You looked at him, intrigued.

“Listen closely…is that…paper rustling? Morgan drafting his resignation?”

You chuckled. Your coworker had a particular sensitivity to the motels you stayed in and their condition. He firmly believed that since you risked your lives almost daily during dangerous cases and investigations, you deserved accommodations that were at least decent. And that wasn’t always what you got.

“Don’t worry, as long as the shower has hot water, we don’t have to fear him leaving,” you said. “Though now that I think about it, I can’t blame Harry.”

“Harry?”

“Potter. If I lived in such a claustrophobic little room, I’d convince myself I was a wizard too. Can I turn off the lamp?"

You politely asked, as usual, leaving plenty of room for potential conversation. Aware of his fear, you always ensured he felt comfortable with the encroaching darkness. Reid looked at you with a hint of hesitation.

"Maybe... maybe it could stay on for a bit longer? If that's..."

"That’s okay," you finished for him, knowing what he intended to say.

A fleeting, grateful expression crossed his face. Seeing it, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You were glad he no longer felt as ashamed of his unease with the dark. Besides, you preferred the light to stay on too. You were afraid of what the darkness might conceal—the worries and anxieties it could bring… already was bringing.

Mainly, it was the looping words of your boss, the thought of how you'd messed up, and the rest of the team. Well, there was one thing that eased your mind in that regard: knowing that Reid was lying in the bed next to yours and recalling the look on his face when he saw you. He wasn’t angry that you’d let the unsub get away. Maybe the others weren’t as furious with you as you’d imagined.

Or maybe it was the opposite?

Maybe he, as the second-youngest member of the team after you, was the only one showing you any understanding. And the others, perhaps, harbored nothing but disdain, their resentment growing stronger at the mere thought of you…

"You're shivering."

Reid's observation reached your ears as you lay on your side, facing away from him. His voice was gentle, blending seamlessly with the quiet that had previously enveloped the room, not cutting through the sound of your sleepy breaths but accompanying it. Not knowing how to respond, you gave a small shrug. He probably saw it—you could feel his gaze on you. It wasn't intrusive, just a worried glance from the corner of his eye.

"I could turn up the temperature if you're cold. Do you want me to?"

Your trembling had nothing to do with the cold, but admitting that felt like too much. You pulled the blanket tighter around you, trying to steady your restless body.

"Yeah, if you don’t mind," you murmured in response.

It was easier to blame it on the chill. Still, hearing him get up and move toward the thermostat, you felt a pang of guilt for pulling him out of bed. He should already be asleep. There was so much work waiting for you both tomorrow. Another day of the investigation—a case that could have been solved already if not for you…

"I'm afraid…it doesn’t seem to work," Reid said thoughtfully. He fiddled with it for a moment longer before letting out a sigh and returning to his bed, though he didn’t lie down right away. He paused in the narrow space between your beds, and you felt his gaze again, wondering what it meant this time.

"Maybe… I don’t know, would you want my sweater? You know which one. It's…too warm for me, but since you're freezing…”

Reid’s voice was soft, tinged with an almost shy kindness that made your chest tighten. You didn’t need to turn around to picture the small, uncertain smile that likely accompanied his offer. Of course, you knew exactly which one he meant. He had received it as a Christmas gift from Penelope, and it was quite light and breathable. But what truly made it a staple in his pajamas was the adorable bear wearing glasses that appeared on the front. Sometimes, when you slept in the same bed, you could feel the softness of its fabric.

You had just turned toward him, a hint of hesitation in your eyes. You weren’t actually cold—you had been lying about that all along—but still... the offer lingered in your mind. His kindness, followed by the concern. You felt that taking his specific sweater, which was not only comfortable but also... well, his, could effectively calm your trembling limbs and ease your anxiety.

"Would you like to give it to me?" you asked, making sure. "You don't have to."

He shrugged slightly and immediately bent down to grab the suitcase tucked under the bed. The sweater in question was right on top, so he could reach for it at any moment when he felt the need for an extra layer.

"I know I don't have to," he replied, pausing for a moment with the sweater in hand. "But, you know, I want to. It's just a sweater."

"Won't Penelope be mad if you're giving it away like that?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"She’d be furious…" he started, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the edge of your bed, his forehead lightly furrowed. After a serious moment of hesitation, he sat on the bed, as gently as if he feared it would burn him. He stretched the sweater out towards you. "…if I gave it to anyone else. But in this case, she'd probably scold me if I didn’t give it to you."

You took it from him. Though it wasn’t one of those thick, bulky sweaters, it felt surprisingly heavy in your hands.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," you replied after a moment of hesitation, letting out a sigh. "After today."

Reid looked at your face in silence. Suddenly, you started regretting not turning off the lamp after all. His gaze seemed piercing, too piercing. It surely noted every shadow of doubt and shame cast by the subtle changes in your expression.

“That’s what’s worrying you, isn’t it?”

For a moment, you both stared at each other in silence. You sighed, shifting slightly to the side, making room beside you.

“Come on. It’s easier for me to talk when I don’t have someone directly in front of me.”

Surprised, he stared at the small space next to you, shaking his head slightly.

“But… this bed is kind of ridiculously small, don’t you think?”

“I’m not that wide, Reid. If that’s what you’re suggesting…”

“That’s absolutely not what I meant, and I definitely wasn’t suggesting anything,” he quickly explained. “Well, maybe apart from the fact that every tiny movement will risk us both falling off…” He looked at you with an unchanged expression, patiently pointing to the spot next to you and sighed in defeat. “Okay, I feel like I’m not winning this one…”

Well, he had a point. After a while of shifting around, trying to find a position where you wouldn’t keep elbowing each other in the ribs, and after countless accidental jabs and whispered apologies, it ended with him half-lying, half-sitting, leaning against the headboard of the narrow bed, while you lay flat on your back, your head resting on the pillow. His figure cast a gentle shadow over you, making the room feel darker than it really was. It had a calming effect. Or maybe it was just the presence of someone so close by. Or perhaps it was the touch of the soft sweater, the fabric resting between your fingers, in the way one holds a rosary. Maybe it was a little bit of all those things.

"I screwed up today," you said. Though your voice was soft, there was no trace of gentleness in your tone. From the way you were lying, you could see his face, and you noticed his lips part slightly, as if to deny it. "And don't try to convince me otherwise, Reid. I knew that even before Hotch said it to my face."

You heard him sigh softly.

"I guess it wasn't a pleasant conversation."

"Oh, Reid, it was like a horror movie. But I don't blame him for anything he said. I deserved to hear it all from someone else's mouth, not just from my own head." Restlessly, you began to fiddle with the sweater like a stress toy. He watched the movement of your hands, alternating between that and the slight trembling of your chin. "At least the talk with him is over. Now I'm scared... scared of what’s with the rest of the team."

You voiced your biggest worry out loud, and there was a silence as he pondered it.

“I think… I think we’ve talked about this before,” he replied finally, clearing his throat. “About how you’re afraid of what others will think of you. And I don’t want to repeat myself, but... you need to look at it a bit differently. We all started somewhere, we were all rookies. If we got mad at each other every time someone messed up, well, there wouldn’t be a team. Of course, we keep in mind all the mistakes we've made in the past..."

“You're good at comforting...” you muttered bitterly.

"...But we don’t dwell on them unnecessarily," he finished. "We're only human, you know. It’s estimated that each person makes about five to seven mistakes a day. If we assume you live to be about eighty... though of course, I wish you much more than that, that would be between 150,000 and 200,000."

You snorted, listening to those statistics.

“I feel like I’ve already used up half of my lifetime quota today,” you confessed, while also reflecting on the first part of his statement. About the team, who, according to him, wasn’t going to hold a grudge against you…

Reid paused for a moment, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he said after a while. “Just make sure you’re really careful when you’re old. You won’t forget when your grandkids have birthdays.”

“Damn, I think that’s the problem. I’ve got the memory of a goldfish. I’ll probably mix up their names. Or call them all by the same one. The prettiest one, of course. The least common one.”

“Just make sure you get a good calendar,” he suggested. “One that’ll remember everything for you. Dates, names.”

“And the number for the rheumatologist.”

“And the number for the rheumatologist,” he agreed.

You spent a long moment without bringing up any new topics, but laughing quietly about the course of the conversation. If you looked at it that way, this was probably the only time in your life you talked to someone about being an old lady with a questionable memory and joint problems with amusement rather than sheer terror. Although the bed was seriously small, you felt more comfortable than ever before. You were sinking deeper into the mattress, into his side, into relaxation. You wondered if and when, or even if, he planned to go back to his own bed. There was really no reason for him to stay...but was there any reason for him to leave?

“And you?” you spoke again after a long moment. You felt like the only way to keep him around was by saying something. Not that you were desperate to have him stay… “Have you ever messed up on a case? Like, seriously messed up?”

"I could lie and say I haven't," he noticed.

He shifted slightly, likely due to exhaustion, as his back had been slowly sliding down the headboard for a while, until it finally sank into the mattress. His head rested on the pillow right next to yours, closer than ever before. Well, you could only blame the narrow bed for that. Because of the tight space, you had to lie on your side, which meant your breath brushed against his cheek.

"You could. But then I'd ask Elle for the truth, and you'd only end up compromising yourself."

"That's true. That's why I'm telling you. Just promise you won't laugh."

"This sounds serious. Come on, what did you do?" you asked, genuinely curious, a smile tugging at your lips. "Oh, or let me guess."

He lay on his back, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. However, when you suggested it, he slowly and hesitantly turned onto his side as well, so that you were face to face. He probably wanted to see your reaction, the laughter you'd burst into once he told you, whatever it was.

"You have three guesses," he announced. He tried to gesture to you encouragingly with his head, but then, for a split second, his chin brushed against yours. Slightly flustered, he quickly froze again.

For a moment, something changed in your breath. You bit your lip, thinking. His gaze briefly dropped to it.

"Okay, so that’s the first one," you said, taking in more air than you probably needed. You didn’t really understand what was happening, but it seemed like you were running out of oxygen faster than you should have been. "Did you confuse your weapon with a taser?"

"Really, that was the first thing that came to your mind when you thought about a mistake I might have made?" he scoffed. His breath warmed your face in a pleasant way.

"Oh, sorry, but it’s really hard for me to come up with anything when it comes to a genius with eidetic memory," you replied, rolling your eyes. "I don’t know, did you lose some evidence? Something really important?" you suggested, trying to read confirmation from his brown, unusually gentle eyes at that moment. He gently shook his head.

"Now, I honestly don’t know. Okay, this might sound like some soap opera plot, but here goes. Were you supposed to keep an eye on a potential victim and ended up having a passionate affair with them?"

You lowered your voice to a flirtatious whisper as you said the last words.

For a moment, he held your gaze. He met it like an opponent, sending an exciting shiver down your spine. And it wasn’t because of the cold. But then, he submissively lowered his eyes. You let out such a strong burst of laughter that you started to worry if you had accidentally spat on him.

"Spencer Reid, you’re joking with me, right?"

He turned back onto his back again, avoiding looking at your wide-open mouth and amused eyes. You propped yourself up on your elbow, gently nudging his shoulder.

"What kind of... seductress beast are you? Because I don't know how else to call it," you muttered, still shaking your head from side to side. "Wow, I didn’t know this side of you."

"There’s no side like that," he replied defensively, closing his eyes with some embarrassment. "It was... she was an actress who had a stalker..."

"An actress?"

"...and it just happened that way! But it was definitely a mistake. And it wasn’t any... passionate affair, as you called it. I put her in unnecessary danger when we kissed in the pool..."

"In the pool?"

"Oh, why do I even keep talking?" he groaned, pressing one hand to his tightly closed eyes. He suddenly snorted. "Sure, laugh even louder. Gideon and Derek in the next room won't mind if you wake them up."

"Oh, don't change the subject now. You seduced an actress. Was she famous?"

"I didn’t seduce her..."

"So, she seduced you?"

Reid sighed, resigned.

"Well, I’d put it that way," he admitted finally, quietly, with a certain childish indignation, as if he had simply decided to surrender to the onslaught of your questions. He didn’t reveal much, but after a moment, you learned a few important details about the case, and with some... relief, you realized you didn’t recognize the actress’s name. But why relief?

Suddenly, however, the hysterical amusement faded, leaving you with a genuine dilemma. Reid was still lying on his back, avoiding your mocking gaze and comments. Before you could stop yourself, you lightly touched his arm to get his attention. He nodded questioningly.

"I know this might be a very strange and, above all, an extremely personal question, but what does it take to seduce you?" you asked.

Reid froze, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

"What? What do you mean?"

"I just realized that I’ve probably never seen you actively filter anyone. Consciously, that is. Because sometimes it happens, and you don’t even notice it," he opened his mouth to protest, but you quickly covered it with your hand. Confused, he looked down at it. "Don’t even try to deny it, everyone would confirm it. But I’m trying to imagine the kind of person you would lose your head for, and I’ve got a few conflicting ideas. So, I’ll repeat the question. What does it take to seduce you? Asking for a friend, of course."

Reid flinched as if alarmed.

"What friend?"

"My God, it’s just a figure of speech."

He sighed, and the way he shook his head showed a certain disbelief.

"You’re surprisingly hyperactive, considering the time. Maybe we should go to bed?"

"No, I asked you a question," you protested. "Does she have to be pretty? Smart? Probably both, right?"

He looked at you with the same expression—simultaneously embarrassed, disbelieving, shocked, amused, offended, and above all, thoroughly confused.

"I feel like this question is going to keep you up tonight. So, for the sake of your own sleep, I’ll answer briefly. And I don’t care if my answer satisfies you or not." Reid paused, and you waved your hand, urging him to continue. He sighed. "She just... has to seem... interesting."

"Was there any more evasive answer?" you snorted, disappointed.

"Did you expect an entire essay?"

 "Well, honestly, yes. Last time you talked to me for over thirty minutes about bioluminescence and what causes it. You were able to go on and on about that, but not this time?"

You knew by now you were just teasing him, playing with his nerves as if it were an instrument you'd been mastering since early childhood, attending lessons three times a week and slowly climbing the ranks of your musical career. 

Your conversations often felt like a game of ping-pong, with each of you exchanging comments, remarks, observations, and verbal jabs at a pace that was downright wild. Time completely vanished for you then, feeling as though you could carry on such a dialogue forever.

 "Goodnight," he finally said, without much firmness in his voice. Well, that was probably more out of practicality than a strong desire to end the chat. It was indeed late. "I hope I don't bump into you too many times during the night. Or you into me."

 "So, you're already tired of talking to me?" you asked, feigning hurt. You even tilted your head dramatically.

For a moment, he hesitated to reply, his brown eyes nervously scanning your face, a barely noticeable smile tugging at his lips.

 "Quite the opposite," he finally responded. You raised your eyebrows, not allowing yourself to feel satisfied with his words in case they turned out to be pure sarcasm. "So…goodnight."

As a result of some sort of scuffle, you found yourselves in a rather chaotic position. Well, you were definitely taking up most of the bed, comfortably sprawled in the center. He lay more on the edge, somewhere between lying on his back and on his side. Looking at him and his slightly flushed cheeks, which were quite an endearing sight, you suddenly realized the meaning of his earlier words. I hope I don't bump into you too many times during the night. So he did intend to sleep with you on this narrow bed, when there was a perfectly empty one, entirely at his disposal, just beside you? An unexpected choice, but… you weren’t complaining. In fact, you were kind of okay with it. With a slightly enigmatic expression, you leaned closer to him, intending to say something softly.

 Reid perked up, as although he had officially ended the conversation, he was still curious about what you were about to say.

 "Goodnight," you said slowly, inhaling the scent of his freshly washed hair. You should have moved away, giving him space to settle more comfortably, but you wouldn't be yourself if you didn't add, “Seductive beast."

“God, nothing in life will ever make me regret more than telling you about this,” he sighed, genuinely concerned about that prospect.

You let out a snort and were about to mumble something else when he, with resignation, turned fully onto his back. Well... at least he tried. He was so close to the edge of the mattress that it simply ended beneath him.

You shot up into a sitting position, startled by the sudden noise and the chaos that filled the room.

“Spencer,” you managed to gasp, jumping off the bed to check on him.

It wasn't an easy task; everything was submerged in darkness. If falling off the bed itself didn't sound like one of the most humiliating accidents a person could have, adding to it the fact that he had hit his head on the wide dresser next to the bed made it worse. And, as a result, the nightlight had been knocked over and shattered...

Fumbling, you reached for the light switch, and when the room was lit again, you moved to him. Kneeling beside Reid, who was slowly propping himself up, you gently held his shoulders.

"Careful, Jesus, you hit your head so hard..."

He squinted and furrowed most of his face, letting out a sharp breath.

 "Does it hurt a lot?" you asked, carefully inspecting his head and looking for any serious injuries, maybe some blood... but you saw nothing

Spencer looked at you with a sort of seriousness, as if the pain had suddenly faded.

"What else is it supposed to do, tickle?"

For a moment, the room fell quieter, but it was impossible to ignore the mutual sense of relief that things hadn’t turned out worse. His words threw you off a bit; at first, you didn’t fully grasp their meaning. Instead, you focused entirely on analyzing his face, his body language, his behavior. You were afraid he might have a concussion.

"I have absolutely no medical training, but..." you paused, casting another worried glance his way. Reid was slowly starting to shake off the shock and disorientation. "But judging by how quickly your sarcasm came back, I’d say you’re going to be fine."

He let out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan.

"Doctor of the year, right here…"

Just then, a loud knock echoed on the door. The door to your room

 “Is someone murdering you guys in there or what?” Morgan’s concerned voice called out.

You exchanged glances—both equally confused and, in a way, slightly terrified. Clearing your throat, you spoke up.

“Well, since I’m the reason this whole situation happened, I guess it’s on me to explain to him how it even got to this point,” you sighed. When he didn’t react, you raised your eyebrows. “No objections? No heroic offers to take this off my hands?”

“Not a chance,” he replied curtly, shaking his head before wincing briefly as another wave of pain clearly shot through it.

You told him, worried, to stay down for a little while longer for his own good.

 “And as my mom used to say,” you added, slowly starting to stand, glancing briefly toward the door. Morgan knocked again—or rather, pounded on it hard enough to nearly take it off its hinges.

Taking your time, you rested both hands on Reid’s shoulders in an almost protective gesture. Completely ignoring the surprised look on his face, you brushed your lips against his forehead.

 “A kiss will make it better.”

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @kakamixo @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @aristeia29 @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧

or: natasha not acting like herself at all when it comes to anything pregnancy-related

part of the short n’ sweet universe

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: the header is atrocious. the pictures don’t match at all. also, this one’s more of a quick oneshot than a full, detailed story (mainly because there’s like no plot lol). hope you’ll enjoy reading, anyway :)

fair warning—this entire thing makes sns nat seem like the biggest idiot alive. i promise that’s not the case, these are just some of her worst moments lol 😭

summary: natasha being deep in the pregnancy/newborn trenches; based on following prompt: nat being freaked out about pregnancy things in short n sweet au

warnings: gagging/spitting, smut (brief, part of the plot ig?), childbirth, mentions of blood and bodily fluids

word count: 5.6k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Eyes wide open, Natasha stares at the creation on the plate you just carried into the living room.

She lowers the PlayStation controller and clears her throat. Oblivious, you shift on the couch and stretch out your legs. She pokes your thigh.

"Yeah?", you ask, looking away from the tv screen. She raises her eyebrows pointedly.

"What the fuck is that."

"Oh." You tilt the plate a little to show it to her. She immediately grimaces. "Pickles in fruit roll-ups with some whipped cream on the side!"

"Dear god", she mumbles, trying her hardest not to judge. You're pregnant, after all, but those pregnancy cravings aren't for the weak. "You sound excited, too. Jesus Christ."

You hum, already grabbing one of the rolls and taking a bite. Pickle juice leaks, dripping down your finger and onto the big dollop of whipped cream. Natasha gags quietly.

"You're exaggerating", you say through a mouthful of the sour-sweet-fatty concoction. "Try it!"

"Over my dead body", she says, jumping up from the couch and abandoning her video game. You raise your eyebrows, wiggling a pickle-roll. "Quit that."

"Just one bite", you say. "I'm literally carrying your kid. May as well see what they like."

Natasha points a finger at you. "Don't blame this on them. This is on you."

You frown, taking another deliberately slow bite and savoring it. The oh-so-tough athlete almost loses it.

"It's good", you insist. You get up — a difficult task, thanks to the basketball-sized bump you're carrying around. Yes, Natasha measured it. It's basketball-sized.

She jumps backwards and bumps into a potted plant. You hear your mom's voice from upstairs.

"What are you kids doing?"

"Nothing", you call. You hold out your newest craving and tilt your head, plush glossy lips forming a pout. "One little bite. Just a tiny one."

Natasha stares at it, hesitating. The Red 40 roll-up. The pickle, still oozing juice. The poor whipped cream, now dissolving into a white puddle.

Forget any basketball-injury she's ever had. She's pretty sure this might be the thing that ends her career.

Your eyes light up when she leans in. Teeth first bite down on something soft yet firm. Then, something crunchy. It's sweet and sour and rich and so absolutely vile she reaches for the potted plant.

"Not in there!"

Natasha shakes her head and gags, almost spitting everything out. "You trying to kill me?!"

You scrunch up your nose when a mixture of pickle juice, drool and whipped cream runs down her chin. You grab a napkin and hand it to her, and she spits into it.

"You've literally helped me with a clogged milk duct. I think you'll be fine."

Natasha shoots you a glare. Her eyes are teary, and she's still letting out little coughs and sniffles. "You're bringing that up now?"

"You didn’t seem to mind it, so I think it's worth mentioning", you say, grabbing a new pickle roll and taking a bite. She whines quietly.

"This is worse than your sardines and onions-phase, you know."

You tilt your head. Right, that one. It took you about two weeks until you lost the appeal there. Good thing fatty fish is actually beneficial for the baby, or Natasha would've banned it.

She grabs her water bottle and chugs until it's almost gone. Then she rubs her face and nods at your plate.

"Could you, uh..."

You frown. "Could I what?"

She shifts uncomfortably. "Maybe eat that...somewhere else...?"

You stare at her. Oh, wow. You're the pregnant one, the one who went through morning sickness and swollen feet, the one who can barely sleep at night ever since your belly has gotten this big, but some pickles and roll-ups are too much for her?

Apparently, Natasha didn't consider the fact you're currently visiting your family.

..."Mom!"

Her eyes widen in an instant. She shakes her head, jumping forward and grabbing you. Your mom likes her, sure, but she feels like something like this wouldn't be tolerated anyway.

"I was kidding!"

Muscular arms hold you against her body. You squirm and try to make your way out of her embrace, but she's strong and stubborn (and a little afraid of possible maternal rage), so she plops down onto the couch and keeps you in her lap.

Pregnant and exhausted, you slump into her.

"Screw you."

"I wasn't being serious, babe."

"Sure."

"I promise", she adds. After a beat of hesitation, she tightens her grip on you. "But no more pickles in roll-ups."

You stare at her, battling the urge to call for backup again. Natasha knows you well by now — too well. She leans in and kisses you, ignoring the lingering taste of pickle brine and artificial fruit. You make a noise of protest, but she deepens the kiss, and your resistance softens and turns into acceptance.

Thanks to your heightened sensitivity, it takes about two minutes until you're both flushed and on your way to the privacy of your old bedroom. No matter what, Natasha's won. She's about to get laid and the stupid pickles lay forgotten.

. . .

Naked and skin slick with sweat, you lie tangled in the sheets of Natasha's bed.

It's quiet in her dorm, and cold as well. You're tucked against her side, your belly resting against her hip. She cups it, rubbing gently, and her eyes drift downward. Suddenly, she pauses.

You're far too spent and comfortable to question her reaction, so you just hum. When she pokes your belly button, though, your eyes flit to her face.

"What are you doing?"

"Are you...okay?"

You frown, still not understanding what's wrong. You look at your belly button and huff when you see how it's popped out. Your breath being released so rapidly even makes it billow a little more, and when you inhale, it gets smaller again.

Natasha stares at it, her hand frozen in place. From sprained ankles to busted lips, broken noses to actual bloodshed — she's seen just about everything. But your belly button doing this weird thing? Being popped out? This...growing and contracting? It might be too much.

"You're a pussy", you say, rolling your eyes. "How do you plan on seeing your kid actually be born?"

"You want the honest answer?"

You ram your elbow into her side, knocking all the air from her lungs. A quiet 'oof' sound escapes her, and she reaches between your bodies to get ahold of your arm.

"Did pregnancy make you lose your sense of humor as well?", she asks. You huff again, and your belly button does the thing again, and Natasha visibly recoils. You glare at her. "I'm sorry, it's just-"

"Gross?", you snap. She shakes her head, hoping you're not about to kick her out of her own dorm.

"No, just...unusual?" She swallows. "I thought it stays inside."

"Are you stupid? Genuinely."

This time, it's her turn to look offended. Though, she doesn't have much of a reason for that. She's the one who started this, after all. She could've grabbed a blanket and covered you with it, using the coldness of the room as an excuse. But no.

"You're the one who let 'stupid' knock you up", she shoots back, sinking into the mattress again. You scoff, but don't say anything.

Silence, at least for a few minutes. Then, she sees a little bulge form on the side of your belly. Just like that, she's sitting up straight again.

"Their foot?", she asks, touching the spot. The look you give her answers the question. "Alright, alright. Should've been obvious."

You hum, adjusting your position and resting your back against a couple pillows. It's the only way you don't get out of breath when doing anything even remotely physically demanding.

Natasha's forgotten about the belly button. Her focus is entirely on the baby now, or to be more exact, the baby's kicks against your stomach. Her palm presses against your skin, her breath being held. You tap your fingers against the other side, hoping to coax out another kick.

It works. Her face lights up, and suddenly, you've forgotten about the belly button-fiasco.

More kicks. Against her palm, mostly, and some against the top of your bump. Then, the baby starts turning and shifting. What was once cute and enthralling quickly turns horrifying. Natasha has no idea how a living being this tiny can achieve that, but your stomach is moving like there's an alien inside. Or maybe she just watched a few horror movies too many.

It's shifting, morphing, rolling under your skin. An exorcism suddenly seems like a reasonable option.

She pulls back her hand, eyes nervously flickering toward you. You're fighting to keep your eyes open, though. You're not exactly comfortable like this.

"You're joking."

She gestures at your stomach. "Does that not hurt?"

"It's not nice", you agree, adjusting your position once more. Natasha quickly reaches out to steady you. "But it's not too bad."

"It looks painful", she mumbles, blinking in disbelief. The baby stops for a moment, then continues with the water gymnastics. She rubs her forehead. "No one told me pregnancy could be this..."

"Creepy?"

"Yeah."

You snort tiredly. "Honestly, just give me the damn blanket. I'm done with you for tonight."

"No, no", she suddenly says, shaking her head. She feels bad. Never did she intend to make you want to cover up because of her. "Don't. I'm being an idiot. Ignore me."

You tilt your head and lift your hand to cup her jaw. Natasha looks at you, softening entirely. "Is it really that bad?"

"No", she assures you, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "It's a me-issue. I'm the only one stupid enough to get freaked out by it."

You want to roll your eyes, but she's all over you again. Kissing your cheek, your nose, your lips, touching everywhere and anywhere. Whether she's smothering you in love or distracting you from her stupidity — it's working, unfortunately. She's a charmer and always will be. An expert at smooth-talking herself out of situations she got herself into.

. . .

It's no secret that, when your water breaks, amniotic fluid leaves your body.

Natasha knew that. She'd prepared herself for it. So when she sees it drip down your legs on the way to the hospital, she isn't too fazed. She doesn't even care it's getting on her car's seat. She'll just have it cleaned. Honestly, she's just glad you've made it to the hospital in time.

"Help", you say, one leg awkwardly hanging out the car, tiptoes touching the ground.

"Huh?" Natasha, who's been in the digging through the trunk to get everything you packed, glances at you. She quickly straightens up. "Oh! Fuck, sorry love."

"No, no", Daisy says, returning with a wheelchair. "Get those bags, Romanoff. I'll help her."

"But-"

"Shush", Wanda insists, backing her up. You let her help you into the wheelchair and sigh once you're seated. "All good?"

"Well, I guess."

Natasha, apparently benched from helping her own girlfriend, lets out a sigh and follows behind you. Right as you enter the hospital, she swoops in and steals the wheelchair from Daisy.

You notice how the ride suddenly becomes shaky, if only for a second. There's not much time to focus on that, though. Another contraction hits, and though the pain is still relatively mild, it's enough to make you shut your mouth.

"I'll handle this now", Natasha says. You're waiting in line for the maternity unit admissions desk, and Daisy and Wanda are still hanging around. Daisy frowns. "No, don't give me that look. We don't need a crammed delivery room."

Daisy lifts her eyebrows. Natasha gives her a challenging look in return. You roll your eyes.

"For fuck's sake, just leave", you finally say, making them snap out of it. "Go, go. I'll keep you updated."

"You better", Wanda says, then nods at Daisy. They kiss you goodbye and head out.

You shift in the wheelchair, trying to find a way to make this entire experience more comfortable. But that's not the point of labor, and no matter how much you wiggle around, it's doomed to get way worse before it can get better.

Natasha glances at you, and that's when the realization finally hits her. None of this is a joke. It's not a dream she's about to wake up from. Suddenly, she kinda wishes she hadn't sent your friends away.

"You okay?", she asks, leaning over your shoulder. You shoot her a weak glare. "Alright, got it."

"Just fill out the form."

She nods and does as told. You wait, arms crossed and head leaned back, and look up when she stops writing.

"You're done?"

"I may need a new form."

"What?" You sit up, grabbing the clipboard from her. "Oh my god. How did you manage that?"

Natasha gestures helplessly. Somehow, despite the fact you aren't even engaged, she managed to put 'Romanoff' as your last name.

"I think they call that manifesting."

"I swear to god, I will-" You exhale sharply and put your hand on your belly. "Fix that now."

A while later, you make it into the delivery room. You're about to get on the bed, Natasha helping you, when a fluid literally gushes out of you. She stops in her tracks.

"Please tell me you didn't pee. I'm begging you."

You glare at her, now both miserable and embarrassed. "My water broke, idiot."

"But it already-"

"Yes, yes, I know. It can happen twice."

Natasha raises her eyebrows, but thankfully doesn't say anything. She sits down next to you and kisses your cheek. Her arm wraps around you but you pull away. She frowns, clearly offended. Sure, you're in labor, but you're not one to reject her like that.

You notice the look on her face and roll your eyes. You gesture at her basketball jersey. "You're still sweaty."

She huffs. "Not that sweaty."

"Sweaty enough."

She wants to say 'fuck you', she really does. But you're having her baby, and she'd rather be found dead than cursing out the mother of her child.

Neither of you have gone through labor before, obviously. You have seen videos of it during childbirth class — women screaming in agony, blood, wailing babies — but seeing it on video and actively going through it are two completely different things.

You spend the first few hours doing fine. You talk, watch tv, even manage to take a small nap. Right as Natasha presses her lips to your belly, though (for good luck), you almost shoot off the bed.

"Oh fuck."

She stares at you, alarmed. "What?"

You shake your head and bite back a cry. It's too early to scream, it's too early to scream — you keep repeating that same sentence like a mantra, but lord, is it hard.

Natasha curses when you grip her hand. You're not exactly the strongest person she's met, so this has no business being that painful.

"You're crushing my bones!"

"You did this to me", you mutter through gritted teeth. "Your stupid bones will be fine."

Fair enough. Still, she shifts in pain until your grip finally loosens. She shakes her hand and inspects it. She was wrong: if anything ends her career, it'll be you.

More contractions. More screaming. Natasha, slowly losing her mind because she's worried to death about both you and the baby. Blood, tons of it. Natasha feeling faint. A nurse splashing her with cold water.

Labor seems to take forever until it suddenly goes really fast. The nurses scramble, the midwife says something Natasha doesn't hear. Then, a scream. Tiny but powerful, coming out of a pair of lungs that'll continue to grow for a while. Someone announcing that it's a boy.

Natasha sobs and glances at your baby — and suddenly, she understands why some people say newborns look funny.

It's not like she doesn't love him. All it took was seeing him on a grainy screen months ago, and she was smitten. But he's swollen, and pink, and covered in some weird substance that makes him look icky.

She looks at you when you nudge her. You're exhausted, dark circles under your eyes and your face pale. Baby hairs are sticking to your sweaty temples.

"How is he?"

"Beautiful", she assures you, kissing your cheek. No way is she going to be honest. You've gone through enough — you don't need to hear your girlfriend say your son looks like a shriveled up potato. "He's gorgeous."

You lift your head a little, but immediately let it drop back into the pillow. "Are you blind?"

"Oh, come on."

"He looks like a tiny old man."

"Careful", she mumbles, watching the nurse pat the baby dry and carry him to you, "they're about to put the 'tiny old man' on your chest."

Up close and a quick cleanse with a towel later, he doesn't actually look that much like an old man anymore. Or maybe that's your hormones kicking in. Whatever — you're both in love, feeling like you're floating. You both ignore what's happening around you and instead focus on the little life squirming in your arms.

That is, until you start to feel pain again. Natasha looks at your midwife and frowns, about to interrupt, when she casually holds up the placenta. A bumpy tissue, covered in blood vessels, dark and disgusting.

"What the fuck is that?"

"The placenta!" Your midwife looks way too proud. Seeing the look on Natasha's face, she wiggles the afterbirth a little. That's her favorite part of labor — poking fun at squirmy partners. You give her an unimpressed look when she gags. "Some people eat it."

She stares at her. "You're kidding."

"I'm not! You can also turn it into pills, or tinctures-"

"Tell her to stop talking", she pleads, looking at you. All she gets is a brief glance, though. You're way too focused on the newborn you're holding. "Babe."

"Anna?", you say, absently rubbing the baby's back. "Show it to her up close."

"NO."

"Oh dear." Anna tuts and puts the placenta aside. She takes off her gloves and washes her hands. "Go, focus on your baby. I'll get rid of the afterbirth."

You nod, adjusting the baby a little. Natasha exhales in relief.

Focusing on a tiny baby is much nicer than a bloody, alien-looking organ, after all.

. . .

"There you go", she says, helping you sit down. "Does it hurt bad?"

"I'm fine", you grit. It's embarrassing enough that she has to help you go to the bathroom now. You're not going to describe the pain you feel in detail. "Check on Niko for me?"

Natasha nods. It's been a week since he was born, and you've been home for a few days. It's going fine, mostly. You're healing and adjusting well. Niko is an easy baby too, so far, and you feel lucky. The only issue is that you tore while giving birth, which meant a couple stitches and at least three weeks of pain.

"Call me if you need me", she says, brushing some hair out of your face. She steps out the bathroom and closes the door to give you some privacy, then she makes her way into the living room.

Niko's in his crib, slowly waking up from his nap. He stretches and grunts quietly, his lips briefly pulling into a pout. The moment she takes one look at him, it's over. She's entranced, watching him like he's the most fascinating little human in the entire world. Which he probably is, at least in her eyes.

She scoops him up and places him against her chest. He squeaks, as babies tend to — it scared the crap out of her at first, because he sounded like a damn chew toy. But now, it's almost cute enough to make her tear up.

"Oh, it's so stuffy in here, huh?", she mumbles, bouncing him gently. She walks around the room with him, and when her eyes land on the stroller next to the front door, she's already forgotten about a certain someone who's stuck on the toilet. "You want to go on a walk, bud? Hm? I wouldn't mind getting my steps in for today."

It's not surprising that Niko doesn't react to her suggestion. She kisses the top of his head and carefully carries him to the stroller. Once she's bundled him up in a fleece suit and a couple other warm clothes and blankets, she shrugs on a jacket and steps into the hallway with him.

The door falls shut. You, still sitting in the bathroom, hear the muffled sound.

"No way. Nat?"

Nothing. Silence. You try again, but no response comes. You stare at the door and the finality of it all sinks in.

You, on the toilet, pants down and abandoned. No way to get up. Natasha, gone, taking your infant son on a walk. Mother first, girlfriend second — that's how it's going to be, apparently.

You wouldn't mind it that much if she hadn't left you in this vulnerable position. Walking is difficult enough already. The stitches burn, everything down there burns. Peeing is like a punishment right now. At least you had Natasha to help you.

And now? Now you're stuck on the toilet, helpless and betrayed, silently plotting her murder.

Dumb and poetic is what Daisy had called her right after you'd started putting on the PDA during spring break. Back then, you'd defended her. Said that Natasha isn't dumb, actually defended her. You're not so sure now, though.

Natasha, in the meantime, is unbothered. She's just rounded the corner of the building, Niko still wide awake in his stroller and staring at nothing in particular. She remembers reading that it takes a while for babies' eyesight to develop, so he's probably only seeing blurry shapes.

"You know what sounds good?", she mumbles, suppressing a yawn. He's an easy baby, yes, but that doesn't mean he sleeps through the night. "Coffee. Mhm. Some caffeine."

They enter a coffee shop. You stare at the floor, silently debating whether trying to get up by yourself would be worth it. Maybe you'd make it to your phone, so you could call her. Or you'd get straight to business and deflate every single basketball in her collection. Maybe smash her PlayStation, too.

Natasha orders a coffee for herself and, out of habit, a decaf vanilla iced coffee for you. As soon as she's grabbed both, she freezes. She's had the feeling that she forgot something ever since she left the apartment, and now she finally remembers.

"Crap", she curses, putting one coffee into the cup holder attached to the stroller and holding the other. She starts pushing with one hand, but it's not nearly fast enough. She can't risk spilling coffee all over the baby, after all. "Shit! What did we do?!"

Niko's slowly dozing off again. Screw 'we' — this is not the baby's fault. He's not an accomplice. She can't blame anyone but herself. Who in their right mind would think that a one week old wants to go on a spontaneous walk, after all? He would've been fine at home, maybe with an opened window and a snuggle session in the rocking chair.

She's sprinting now. The coffee is literally one wrong step away from spilling, but whatever. It's iced coffee, and Niko's all bundled up, and it'd probably do less damage than whatever you plan on doing to her.

As the doors of the building's elevator close, she gets a text. You somehow made it to your phone.

You: you're fucking kidding — 11.32am

You: 20 MINUTES — 11.32am

She's sweating, staring at the screen. Six more floors. The messages keep coming.

You: are you aware that I need to pump?? — 11.32am

You: do you know how PAINFUL THIS IS YOU MORON — 11.33am

You: you're sleeping on the fucking couch — 11.33am

Natasha: sorry :( — 11.34am

You did, in fact, make her sleep on the couch.

. . .

There was no doubt Natasha would be a great mom. You knew it from the beginning. Despite the initial shock, despite the dumb comments, despite her sometimes being absolutely clueless — she was trying her best, always.

She picked out baby clothes. She assembled furniture. She made sure to find the best apartment for your little family. And when Niko finally arrived, safe and sound and perfect, you only became more certain that she'd do just fine.

A few weeks later, you're still convinced. Having a newborn is hard. Late night feedings, changing diapers, worrying constantly. Trying to learn the baby's cues, catching up on sleep, needing time for each other but knowing that won't be possible for a while.

It's hard, but Natasha's doing excellent so far. She's balancing school, basketball and parenthood. She cooks lunch and cleans the apartment. She holds you at night, when you're too tired to function, and carries Niko around when he won't sleep. It's exactly why you can't really blame her when she struggles to do one thing.

Diapers. They've been her kryptonite since the very first day. She changes them — but she complains.

"God", she mutters, scooping Niko up and carrying him to the changing table. You decided to put it into the bedroom for now, since you spend a majority of your time here anyway. "Why me?"

"I'm not supposed to get up too much", you say, snuggling into the blankets. "Besides, you've got to change a few of the poopy ones, too."

"Yeah, yeah." She huffs, gently putting him down. "That smell, though. What the fuck does he eat? Taco Bell?"

"He basically eats what I eat, just...in the form of breast milk."

"That doesn't seem right."

You grin, shoving your hand into a bag of Cheetos. "Yeah, I don't think it is."

Natasha hums and slowly opens his onesie. He's still small and fragile, and her hands look huge compared to his body, so changing him feels similar to defusing a bomb. As soon as she's opened his diaper, though, she recoils and gags.

You look at her, frowning. "What?"

"Do you smell that?"

"I'm literally right next to you. Yes, I do. Just change it."

Another attempt leads to another gag. She's tearing up now, her eyes red. "Fucking hell. Buddy, what did you do?"

Niko's merely a month old, so he can't do much more than exist. He makes one of those baby noises that usually melt Natasha's heart, but right now, not even that comforts her.

"He didn't do anything." You give her a lazy glance. "Let me tell you something. Stop complaining and maybe you'll score tonight."

"What?" Her head whips around. "Babe, it's only been a month. You can't yet, you-"

"Yes, but I'm creative." You gesture at the tv, which usually means 'shut up, I'm watching my show.'

Natasha sighs, but something about your promise seems to have worked. She's fighting for her life, but she does it, and realizing she managed to put him into a fresh diaper feels like a victory in itself. You hum in acknowledgment, giving her a quick wink, and she couldn't be prouder as she scoops the baby into her arms again.

. . .

"You're sure?"

"Love, it's been almost three months." You shift underneath her, hands gripping the front of her jersey.

The moment she walked into the apartment this evening, you were all over her. You're not sure what exactly provoked it. Maybe seeing her in her jersey, all sweaty and rugged. Or not being with her like this ever since Niko was born. Whatever it was — it made you grab her and slam your lips against hers.

Natasha hesitates. Again, you haven't done this since you gave birth. Not because you didn't want to, but because it's recommended to wait. If it were up to you, you would've waited a month at most. But Natasha? Natasha's terrified. She's been blue balled for months, sure, and she gets hard at the tiniest of touches. She still prefers that over accidentally hurting you, though.

"Babe, I know, but..." She sighs, burying her face against your neck. You smell sweet, different. Like milk and sugar instead of perfume and bubblegum. "I don't know."

"Can you stop being stubborn and just fuck me?"

She huffs against your skin. Truth be told, she didn't expect you to be this assertive right away — but maybe she should've. Niko is finally asleep, after all. You've got the living room to yourselves. Tomorrow is a Sunday, which means that even if you lose sleep in order to have sex, it won't matter as much.

"Lord", she mutters, sitting up to take off her jersey. You sigh when you see her abs, still defined from exercising all evening. "I'll be gentle."

"Don't you dare", you say, sitting up and taking off your shirt as well. Natasha's eyes zero in on your breasts, softer and fuller, little wet patches on your bra. You roll your eyes and hook your finger into the waistband of her boxers, only to make it snap back.

"Hey!"

"Can you focus?"

Natasha hums, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone. Just like that, you forget complaining was ever an option and lay back down. She crawls on top of you, lips trailing kisses all over your neck, and dips her hand into her boxers. There's no need to touch herself, as she's already so hard it's almost painful.

Her free hand tugs at your sweatpants, silently telling you to get rid of them. You respond immediately, wiggling out of them and removing your underwear at the same time. Natasha makes an appreciative noise, her eyes trail down your body — and she stops in her tracks.

There's never an ideal moment to get labor-flashbacks. The arguably worst one, though, is getting one right as you're about to sleep with your girlfriend.

You give her a confused look, and she swallows. All she can think about now is the nightmare that is childbirth, what being fully dilated looks like, how the baby's head-

"Nat?"

"Huh?"

You raise your eyebrows. "What is it now?"

She quickly shakes her head and leans in, plush lips landing on yours. You exhale softly, cupping her face and kissing her back. Her hand dips between your legs, working you open, and you moan.

Don't look down, she thinks, adjusting herself. She grabs her cock and aligns it with your cunt. Don't look down, don't...fuck.

You give her a deadpan look. She bites her lip, looking a little like a dog who knows it's screwed up.

"Tell me."

"No", she insists, trying to kiss you again. You press your index finger against her lips and push her away. "Baby."

"I want to know", you protest. "Come on."

Natasha sighs and shifts uncomfortably. She rubs your side — you're not sure whether she's trying to calm down you or herself — and looks at the tv next to you. Some old movie is playing, but you muted it. The colors flicker on her face.

"It's just...hard to forget that a baby came out of there."

You stare at her, blinking slowly. Out of all the things she could've said, it's probably the least offensive but also most ridiculous.

"Uh, yes", you say, frowning. "I know that. I pushed that 9 pound baby out of there. Thank you for that, by the way."

"How is that my fault??"

"Are you kidding? You're..." You gesture at her entire existence. "You're a giant! And so is he!"

It's her turn to look offended now. "I don't think it's him being big that was the issue, you know."

You narrow your eyes at her. Oh, you know what she's implying. That you had trouble getting him out of there because you're tiny, and not because he's a 90th percentile baby. That she's completely innocent here, even though she put that baby inside you.

Fine, that baby being put inside you was mostly your fault. But that's not something that needs to be brought up now.

"You're saying it was my fault."

Natasha blinks. If she wasn't in trouble before, she definitely is now. You're not pregnant anymore, thank god, and that cocktail of hormones you'd been high on for weeks after you had Niko seems to have mostly worn off. That doesn't mean you can't absolutely kick her ass, though.

"I didn't-"

"You implied it!"

"Well, you are tiny! Which means that naturally, you have a harder time birthing...bigger babies."

Speaking of bigger babies — right as she says that, you hear yours fuss on the baby monitor. Your head drops into the pillow and you curse quietly. You're annoyed, yes, but you're also wet and needy.

Natasha goes completely still, staring at the little screen. He fusses one more time, then he seems to calm down again. For the moment being, at least. She exhales.

"Alright", she says, parting your thighs and kissing the little scowl off your face. "Let me make you feel good."

"Fuck you."

She smiles and kisses your cheek. "I love you."

"Whatever", you mutter, but moan when she thrusts into you. She feels good, so much better than you remember, filling you up and easing that ache a little. Her hips roll against yours, making the couch creak quietly.

Swollen lips, slick thighs, hands roaming each other's bodies. She's nestled deep inside you, bottoming out with every lazy thrust, and tingles make their way up your spine. You barely notice when she pauses.

"We forgot the condom, didn't we."

[shisasan]

March 16, 1927 Journals of Anais Nin 1923-1927 [volume 3]

[whoreforsexymen]

Love Me (Bar)Tender | NSFW Flash 🫗

(GIF cred: me <3)

Y’all see what I did there? With the title? Hehe. Ok, sorry, I’ll leave.

(I know the gif is technically a sad scene, but y’all can’t tell me you aren’t imagining him pressing his forehead against yours like that in the heat of the moment 😩)

Anyways…

Pairings: Vander x Reader

Pronouns: Female Identifying/AFAB!Reader

Rating: NSFW, 18+, MDNI !! You WILL be blocked!!

Word Count: 498

Tags: Riding, Fluffy Smut, Vander being pussywhipped (kinda), Poetic Smut, Vander is smitten by you (as he should be 😉), Tooth Decayingly Sweet Smut

Notes: I guess I’m just on a roll today. Haven’t touched this account in like 5 years and now here I am— Posting 8 things in one day. Go, me!

(I can see you, minors. Get outta here 🤺🤺. BACK! BACK, I SAY!)

“Fuck— Yeah. Like that, pretty girl.” Vander huffs out. Barely able to breathe, like a fish out of water. With practiced grace, you roll your hips, the fluidity of your movement reminiscent of a seasoned dancer lost in the rhythm, every shift a seamless blend of control and expression.

Vander’s head can no longer bear the weight of how you were making him feel—tilting backward as his neck gives way. It falls against the headboard, the movement slow and weary, a silent surrender to the beckoning of pleasure.

His eyes fall shut, and his breathing becomes erratic—quick, needy, shallow gasps. The only sounds he can manage are strained grunts, desperate groans, and breathless utterances of your name.

Your hips swirl, bearing your weight down on his thighs with your hands. You lean back into them, your movements slow but insistent, each one designed to draw him further into the frenzy—relentless in your pursuit to push him beyond control.

Your own insistent whining mixes with his, a symphonic blend of desperation between the two of you.

His hands are kneading your hips inexorably. Almost as if he’s scared to let go. His nails feel desperate to burrow under your skin with the way he’s clawing at you.

“You’ve got magic in these hips, love,” he says, his voice hushed, as if your motions had cast a spell— urging him to speak.

You can’t speak, your breath ragged and uneven as you picked up the pace, leaving you too consumed by the urgency to form a single word. You needed more. Not just of his words, or the deliciously whiny way he spoke. You were already stretched to the limit, every inch of you aching, yet the hunger within you refused to be sated. You craved more—more of him, as a whole.

If you could, you’d dissolve into him, merging into one single being, where every pulse, every breath, is shared between the two of you—inseparable, bound by desire.

“So good, pretty girl. You’re doing so good. Don’t think I can take much more, love.” He grunts, his eyes fluttering open to find you again, the sight of you cutting through the hazy state of desire he’d been gliding through.

He had been a fool to ever look away—how could he ever let himself look away? You weren’t just beautiful; you were everything a masterpiece could never capture, an intoxicating blend of grace and fire, more captivating than any sculpture or painting, alive and burning with an allure that consumed him whole.

“Fuck.” He grunts, unable to form a single coherent thought, let alone words. Every impulse in him screamed to voice the things he couldn’t hold back, to tell you what was racing through his mind. But your movements—each one more demanding than the last—silenced him, keeping his voice captive, lost in the frenzy of the moment.

“My girl. My pretty girl.” Is all he can muster before you’re both crashing into each others like waves against a cliff.

[r3starttt]

MARKING KINK

PAIRING: sub!vi x reader

CW: kinktober | mommy kink. praise kink. fingering. cannibalism and pomegranates as a metaphor for love type of shit

Your hands cradle her face, fingers trembling with a reverence that borders on worship as Vi's eyes flit across your features, her expression soft yet full of hunger. Her lips, slightly parted, are a breath away from yours, her warm exhale teasing your skin, sending shivers of anticipation down your spine. The small sighs she lets out are a quiet symphony, intoxicating you with their softness.

Your thumb hesitates over the mark on her cheek, tracing the delicate contours of the "Vi" etched there with slow, deliberate care. For a moment, your gaze lingers on it—an intimate acknowledgment of everything she is—before locking eyes with her again. Her gaze is molten, filled with need and desire as your fingers glide down her jawline, savoring the texture of her skin. You follow the curve of her lips, your touch feather-light, until they part slightly in response, inviting you in.

You hover, just close enough to feel the heat of her breath against your thumb, the sensation pulling you deeper into the moment. Finally, you close the distance, your lips meeting hers in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens into something more raw, more primal. Your saliva mingles, the taste of her sending a spark straight through your core.

Your thighs press against hers, anchoring you to her lap as her hands wander beneath your shirt, fingertips brushing over your skin with a desperation that matches your own. She grips you as if afraid you might slip away, her nails digging into your back, the sensation sharp but grounding. Her touch becomes more urgent, tracing patterns over your lower back, down your thighs, as if memorizing the feel of you.

Your hips grind into her, the motion slow but deliberate, each movement perfectly in sync with the rhythm of your tongues, swirling together in an unspoken dance. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing her closer. The kiss turns frantic, messy, full of passion and heat, the wet sounds filling the space between you.

Vi's mouth opens wider, a moan escaping her as she struggles to form words between kisses, her need palpable. There's something desperate in the way she holds you, something almost pleading in her touch. She clings to you, her breath ragged, her body tense with how much she craves you. She needs to feel every part of you, to taste you, to keep you as close as she possibly can. If she could devour you, she would—just to keep you with her.

It doesn’t take long before Vi’s mind dissolves into a haze, her thoughts slipping away, her body yielding entirely to the overwhelming need to have you. She’s desperate—aching to feel you, to be consumed by you, to become one with you. The hunger between you is raw, feral, and all she can muster is a soft, pleading "Please..." But before she can say more, your lips crash into hers, silencing her with a kiss full of fervor. You don’t need her words; the only sounds you want are those sweet, helpless moans that escape her lips, delicate and needy, meant for you alone.

Her voice trembles as she repeats, “Please,” her breath catching in her throat, and it’s enough to make you pull back, abandoning her lips to explore lower, letting your desire lead the way. Your hands slide down her neck, tracing her chest, feeling the heat of her skin as your fingers squeeze the soft, bare flesh beneath them. You savor the vulnerability she offers so freely, every touch claiming her in ways that words never could.

Your teeth graze her neck, nipping at her skin, the sharpness of your bite sending shivers through both of you. She arches into it, her body offering itself with every tremor, and the soft gasp that escapes her lips drives you further. You relish in the slight sting that blooms where your mouth lingers, her skin slowly turning shades of red beneath your touch. You’re painting her in your colors—red, violet, green—the hues of her pleasure and pain blending in perfect harmony. It's as if each bite, each mark, is a testament to how deeply you crave her, how much you need to claim every inch of her.

Your fingers trail down her stomach, nails dragging lightly over her skin, leaving faint, tantalizing scratches in their wake. Her body responds eagerly, her stomach rising to meet your touch, aching for more—more pain, more pleasure, more of you. Every breath she takes is shallow, trembling, as you push her further into the realm of sensation, your lips never straying far from her neck, leaving a trail of kisses, licks, and bites that burn in the most exquisite way. You mark her shoulders, her collarbone, branding her with your love, until all that's left is the red of her skin, each spot a declaration of your hunger for her.

Your hands dig into her sides, pressing into her with an intensity that borders on possessiveness. You pull her closer, your nails raking down her back, feeling the heat radiate from her body as she melts beneath your touch. The soft cries that spill from her lips—those quiet, trembling sounds of pain and pleasure—are the sweetest music to your ears. Each plea for more, each whispered “Please,” only fuels your desire, pushing you to touch her deeper, to bite harder, to leave no part of her untouched by your love.

The need to rip her apart, to tear her open and devour her, courses through you like wildfire. It’s all-consuming, and she feels it too, her body surrendering to the same madness, the same longing. Vi’s hands find their way to you, pulling at your clothes, stripping you bare, leaving you just as exposed, just as vulnerable as she is. She’s frantic, desperate to touch you, to feel you under her hands, her nails mimicking yours as they dig into your back, dragging up your spine, grazing the nape of your neck.

Together, you lose yourselves in the heat of it all—biting, touching, loving each other with a fierceness that words can never capture. It’s a storm of pleasure and pain, an endless cycle of need that neither of you can escape, as if no matter how much you take from each other, it’s never enough. You both savor the way you hurt, the way you love, lost in the beautiful chaos of it all.

“Gonna be good?” you murmur softly, your lips hovering in the valley between her breasts, each word a brush of heat against her skin as you move lower. Your eyes flick up to meet hers, watching the way her breath catches in her throat, the delicate knot of tension that forms between her brows, pulling them into a soft frown. The way her nose scrunches slightly adds to the tenderness of it all—this woman, so big, so strong, so fierce, and yet here with you, she’s something else entirely. Vulnerable, open, beautiful in her quiet surrender.

“Yes…” she breathes, her voice steady and sure despite the overwhelming emotions building between you. There’s a confidence in the way she nods, a promise. She’ll always be good for you, always what you need—gentle if that’s what you desire, or rough if that’s what you crave. For you, she’ll be anything. She’s yours, every part of her, waiting for you to decide.

You give her a slow nod in return, a silent acknowledgment, before your fingers leave the soft curve of her stomach, traveling lower, tracing the powerful lines of muscle that define her thighs. The way her body responds to your touch—her thighs parting instinctively, inviting you in—is intoxicating. Your fingers move gently, caressing her with soft, lingering strokes, each one full of reverence for the woman beneath you.

Your lips follow, pressing warm kisses against the firm flesh of her stomach, retracing the path of red and purple marks that bloom under your mouth. Every kiss, every touch, is a brand of love, desire, and something deeper. You paint her skin with your affection, each press of your lips a reminder that she is yours, that this moment belongs to both of you.

You move yourself up again, intertwining your legs with hers and pressing- aligning your bodies as your arm comes in between fo be the little and only separation. "Breathe, be good for mommy" your voice hits the delicate of her face, and she obbeys with a nod. The breath that was about to hit your skin suddenly cut by your fingers in between the wet of her thighs. Small circles rubbed against her clit that turn her into a mess, desperate and hungry and turning her brain into nothing but you.

The little gasp that leaves her lips is the prettiest sound that could ever exist. And they just keep on longing and coming out more and more and more each time the pads of your fingers follow a new pattern, a new speed. Each time you press harder on her, each time her hand grasps deep into the flesh of your lower back to keep you closer. Each time she feels the need in your own body, simply pressed over her- it's not enough. "Violet..."she needs you. "Please...." Her pretty lips are parted open, hitting the skin of your neck directly, those eyes that shine with a hungry adoration now looking up at you, unless the pleasure blinds her and commands her to close them. She wants to look at you, to remember if you're ever gone.

"My pretty girl" your fingers scissor her folds, playing with the slick of them, the wet that you've created with little nothing. Her moans cut, bucking her hips up as it that'll give her any more friction. It doesn't.

You can sense the pain of it, the craving. Your free hand comes to brush the pretty red strands of hair aside, pressing a kiss on her forehead to cup at her cheek briefly, leading her closed eyed face to kiss you once again. But she can't, she needs to breathe and grasp for air in between those small cries. "Mommy..." it was meant to be another quiet plead, but her mind felt overwhelmed and it became a gasp, a loud desperate plead.

You finally slid your fingers, curling them with ease. "So wet for me, mhm?" her hips moved at an instant, following your rhythm. It was too much, how your fingers were curling so deliciously inside her. The wetness and obscene sounds filling the space between both along those pretty whines you adored. Her stomach clenched at the pure sound of your voice, your quiet praises and guidance. Her fingers gripped tightly at the fat of your hips, letting the pleasure invade both your bodies.

"Cum for me babe" you asked her, grabbing her pretty face once again. Your hand coming dampened after each thrust into her pussy, ridiculously wet. "Can't- Can't, fuck-"

TAGLIST | kinktober: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @prwttiestbunny

vi's taglist: @tlouloser @ilovetaylorrr @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages @crispers @softlikesilk-chiffon

[cosycafune]

SINFUL DEVOTION

0.9k words. you're a deity, something sylus can't have. yet, here the two of you are -- recklessly fucking each other. an impossible power dynamic crackles between you two, but the forbidden sexual deeds make sylus' devotion tragically sweeter. he's the closest he can ever be, but it's almost not enough. you're to be rightfully worshipped, not coddled. 1/??? masterlist.

acts: unprotected sex, mating press, breeding kink, degration, rough sex, praising, creampies, devotion, forbidden love, begging, worshipping, hickeys and more.

a/n: this is supposed to be short bc it's a prologue. I'm actually so obsessed with him, that it hurts.

A deity, the embodiment of the unfathomable, that’s what you are. However, that status is disregarded now – tainted by a devoted Sylus. The strings of fate, intimacy and your sinful hearts swell and suffocate you two. Even though you both carry the gift of destruction, pain, control and leadership, this moment opposed everything you both stood for.

Nonetheless, you and Sylus carry a sexual franticness, insatiable lust and an unestablished base for you both. Desperation, humiliation and longing clings to the two of you. This intimate moment, where you’re folded into a degrading mating press, begging Sylus to pound you harder, dissolved your unreachable status.

Men like Sylus were ones you avoided, but he had sweetened and buttered you enough for you to have him so deeply within your guts – filling you up with his fruitful seed. Over and over and over again, you allowed yourself to be subjected to Sylus’ sexual reign – crying out his name. Worship seeped from your lips consistently, fuelling Sylus’ high ego drastically. 

Even though you sang his name, sex-drunk, he always devoted himself to you – whenever you were both sexually sober.

Currently, your lewd cries are captured by his ears as he glances down at you – grinning mercilessly while he pounds into you. Sylus held no sexual mercy for you, pouring his feelings, his heart, his thoughts and his genuine nature into each thrust. Deep down, you knew this forbidden form of art was his way of self-expression – due to you attempting to resist him. Through your swollen cunt, your cries of pleasure, your troubled breaths and orgasms, you let Sylus almost express his thoughts.

“Sy’, more!” Weeping, painfully overstimulated, you beg for more – overwhelmed by his harshly snapping hips.

“Aren’t… you greedy?” Hazily questioning you, lust-coated, Sylus lazily grins at the power imbalance between you two – relishing your celestial features scrunching.

“P-Please…breed me,” Humiliating yourself, begging Sylus, you gift him desperate, teary eyes – your eyes rolling back at his thick cock kissing your cervix.

“I’ll..destroy myself…just for you, “ Sylus declares through a deep thrust, feeling you tighten around him – fuelling the forbidden fruits that adorn you both.

“Ngh! ‘Gonna cum! ‘Too much!” A trembling mess, you lewdly bellow – vigorously shaking as Sylus sets an inhumane pace. 

Content, he burrows his deepest within you – unwilling to free you from his intoxicating physique. A physique that swells your every thought with his gigantic dick, his crimson eyes, his ivory hair and the yearning that marks him. The end of your world is seconds from drawing near, but Sylus’ presence smearing you is all you could think about – choppily breathing.

“Handle…it!” Gruffing commanding you, moaning, Sylus batters you with his pace – satisfied at you attempting to push some of his ample cock out of you.

“Can’t…hold,” Mentally blanking, your body strangled with warmth, a moan tears out of your throat – leading to you intensely finishing.

Right now, the only thing that mattered to you was Sylus, his cock and the longevity of his pounding. 

“S-Same,” Pricelessly trying to hold out for you, Sylus lowly responds to you – slamming his cock so deeply within you. 

Mellowly, his large balls would pulverise your bubble butt – drawing more attention to your soppy cunt, your mewling and his whimpering and grunting. Yet, this notion encouraged Sylus more – throwing almost everything he had on the line for the addictive taste of you. Sure, the two of you are fucking in one of his bases – surrounded by many dangerous clients that want you. However, he can’t bring himself to care right now – cock-bounding you so deeply. 

Sylus divulged as if you were to crumble beneath him, leaving him with fleeting winds.

Yelping, you jolt at Sylus’ cock hardening into you. Sylus is an absolute mess, panting whilst his furrowed brows knit closer. Longing for more, he drives his cock impossibly in you – watching you mischievously. Not once did he break eye contact, continuing his mean mating press – enjoying the warmth of your fluttering cunt. An hour had skimmed by, but you both refused to care.

“D-Don’t…want to lose you,” Wavering, Sylus mutters – thrusting deeply before he finishes within you. 

Devoted to you, Sylus can't help but grow lonesome – noticing the pitiful truth that lingers: you’re mentally unable to be his. Even as he plugs you with his baby batter, you’re still something greater than he ever is – surpassing him indefinitely.

Someone who’s destined to reconstruct and rule the world. However, Sylus wanted to hold more than sinful devotion.

Love. He wanted you to admit your heart, but you hid behind your painful status.

Collapsing mentally against you, Sylus swiftly pulls out of you – smitten at the sight of your swollen cunt plump and spilling with his thick seed. Naturally, this was your most vulnerable state – but you allowed Sylus to admire it. After all, the two of you have only this moment to express yourselves – before the chaotic night comes to an end.

“Sylus, we…can’t be here for long?” Regally speaking, slightly exhausted, you feel Sylus crumble into your arms – longing to be held.

“‘Can’t we…stay like this a little longer?” Desperate to be held and cared for by you, Sylus slyly begs you – his whiny question swaying you.

“Just a bit, but the deal at the masquerade ball isn’t going to make itself,” You speak, running your fingers through Sylus’ ivory locks – wanting to coddle him all night.

Knowing this is forbidden, you conceal your care behind your exhaustion – desperate to confess to Sylus. However, you’re unable to confess your heart – aware it’ll lead to your status as a powerful deity being your demise.

“If you insist, sweetie,” Vulnerable, a sinner within your arms, Sylus snuggles into your breasts – airily speaking.

Sinful devotion, but at what cost?

__

do not copy, modify or claim any of my works as your own. all rights reserved; cosycafune. 2024. small banners credit: cafekitsune <3

[emthimofnight]

Name ✨Stellar the Hedgehog✨

Age Varies based on what age I draw her, but let's say 16!

Pronouns She/Her

Basic Description The product of Project Stellar—a secret government operation aiming to perfect Project Shadow—Stellar is a genetic experiment combining the DNA of the Ultimate Life Form and the fastest thing alive. Designed to be a living weapon, Stellar was born in a hidden facility where she would have been raised to be an unstoppable weapon for the military. Thankfully, Shadow the Hedgehog (with help from Rouge the Bat) discovered her existence, destroyed the lab, and rescued her as an infant. Shadow then went on to begrudgingly inform his long-time rival, Sonic the Hedgehog, of their newfound child, seeing as she was technically just as much Sonic's problem as she was Shadow's. From there, the duo (along with help from their friends) raised Stellar as their daughter, sheltering her from the knowledge she was created to be a force of destruction for her masters. Along the way, Sonic and Shadow found themselves truly falling for one another, dissolving the barriers they had placed between one another as rivals, finding new appreciation for each other in their new parental roles.

Stellar herself is a bright, warm-hearted person. She has a strong sense of justice and never shies away from standing up for what is right. She takes after Sonic in personality, always cracking jokes and finding it hard to sit still. Despite this, she inherited Shadow's finesse and ability to plan out her choices, not to mention his abilities to utilize chaos energy. She has a love for figure skating, ballet, and make up (thanks to Auntie Rouge!), but don't let her feminine side fool you, she is not afraid to get her hands dirty! She would love nothing more than to spend her day smashing badniks into the ground with her skates if her dads would let her! Stellar loves both of her parents dearly, but sometimes wishes that they wouldn't be so protective of her. After all, what could they possibly have to be worried about?

Extra ✨Stellar's favorite color is red. ✨Her favorite food is chili dogs. ✨She is bisexual. ✨Her favorite flower is lavender, because it reminds her of home! ✨She learned how to skate from Shadow. ✨She calls Shadow "papa" and Sonic "dad". ✨She desperately wants to make her family and friends proud. ✨Her best friend is Camellia the Cat, the daughter of Blaze and Amy. ✨She loves racing Sonic, but is frustrated he always lets her win. ✨She can be VERY impulsive when angered, much like both of her parents! ✨She is SUPER dense when it comes to romance. She has no idea Camellia has been in love with her since they were little! ✨The inhibitor rings she wears keep her powers under control, but they also prevent her from truly mastering them. ✨Her powers are designed after collapsing stars/black holes. Extremely destructive to both herself and everything around her. ✨She has no awareness to the extent of the latent power inside her.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ11:50 PM. DEC 32ST, 2024 * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N shows up at Matt's doorstep at 11:50 PM of New Year's Eve, soaked by the rain and ready to confess her love to him.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　no.

WARNINGS　::　insecurities (just a bit). friends to lovers trope.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

11:45 PM.

December 31st, 2024.

Y/N had never considered herself one for big gestures. She preferred to deal with her feelings by pretending they didn’t exist, tucking them away in the quiet corners of her heart until they faded on their own. That had been her plan for handling her crush on Matt Sturniolo - ignore it, bury it deep, and wait for it to dissolve into nothing.

But the universe had different plans for her.

Instead of subsiding, her feelings for Matt had only grown. They grew with every laugh they shared, every accidental brush of his hand against hers, and every time he looked at her with those soft, oceanic eyes. It felt like the emotions were slipping out of her control, inch by inch, until tonight, when they completely exploded.

Now, she was walking through the freezing rain, her body trembling as water seeped through her clothes. She had never been more determined - or more terrified - in her life.

The Sturniolos' house was a few doors away, its warm glow spilling onto the wet pavement. It was almost midnight, and she knew the triplets and their parents would be gathered inside, celebrating New Year's Eve together. She didn’t care. She couldn’t wait for a "better" time or a "perfect" moment. Her time was now.

It had started hours earlier when she sat in her room with a notebook, jotting down her resolutions for the new year. She wanted 2025 to be different. She wanted it to be clean, honest, and full of things that truly made her happy. But one glaring thing wasn’t right - her feelings for Matt. She couldn’t go another year pretending she didn’t feel the way she did.

The rain fell down harder, and her breath came out in visible clouds as she approached the front door. The cold was relentless, but it barely registered compared to the storm inside her mind.

Her heart hammered as she pressed the doorbell. She could hear Trevor’s nails clicking on the hardwood floor as he bounded toward the door, his excited barking growing louder.

She smiled.

Of course. Having the triplets' parents in Los Angeles for New Year's had meant Trevor was here too.

Drops of water dripped down her face, mingling with her already damp hair, as she clenched her fists at her sides to stop the trembling. She didn’t know what she’d say when the door opened, but she knew she couldn’t leave without Matt knowing the truth.

The clock ticked closer to midnight.

11:50 PM.

Ten minutes until the new year. Ten minutes to change everything.

The door creaked open, and Matt showed up - not surprising, it was always Matt who got the door; Chris and Nick couldn’t be bothered most of the time. He stood in the doorway, his hand on the knob and his expression soft with curiosity.

Trevor bolted out before Matt could say a word, charging toward Y/N. His wet nose nudged her soaked leg, wagging his tail so hard it shook his whole body.

"Hey, boy." Y/N said softly, her voice trembling from the cold as she crouched down to scratch behind his ears. "I missed you."

Trevor barked once, happily, then turned and bounded back into the house, disappearing up the stairs toward the living room, leaving her alone with Matt.

Matt took a step forward, leaning against the doorframe. His brows knit together as his eyes swept over her, taking in the rain-slicked hair plastered to her face, her damp, trembling figure, and the strange look in her eyes - something between fear and anxiety.

"Y/N?" He asked cautiously, his voice quiet but edged with concern. "Hey, what are you doing here? Are you okay? It's almost midnight."

She wrapped her arms around herself, looking down at the wet ground beneath her feet.

"I know, I'm sorry. I just need to talk to you." She said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'll be quick, I promise."

Matt blinked in surprise, his gaze flickering toward the warm glow of the living room. He hesitated for a moment, then looked back at her.

"Okay." He said slowly, though his tone was laced with uncertainty. "But you should come inside. You’re soaked, and it’s freezing out here."

Y/N shook her head quickly, her voice catching as she replied.

"No. I can’t. I don’t even know if you’ll hate me after this, and I... I think it’s better if we stay out here."

Her words and the desperation in her eyes froze Matt in place. He let out a soft sigh, clearly torn, but he nodded.

"Okay." He repeated, his voice low. "Okay, we’ll stay here."

He stepped out fully onto the porch, the rain spilling over the edges of the roof above them. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, and his expression was unreadable as he waited.

Y/N drew in a shaky breath, staring down at her soaked sneakers.

"Um... The first time we met." She began, cringing when her voice faltering slightly. "You completely threw me off guard."

Matt tilted his head slightly, confusion crossing his face, but he didn’t interrupt.

"I had heard so many amazing things about you on the internet." She continued, her words coming out in a rush. "When you and your brothers moved to LA, to my street, I thought I already had this perfect image of who you were. But then I actually met you."

She glanced up at him briefly before quickly looking away, unable to hold his gaze.

"You were more than I ever imagined. You exceeded every expectation I had in my head. You’re... so sweet, Matt. So kind. So human."

Her voice wavered, but she pushed on.

"You take care of people. You’re a gentleman, and you’re so thoughtful, always putting everyone else before yourself. And then we started spending all this time together. At your house, at mine, sleepovers, just... being with you."

Matt’s expression softened, but Y/N kept her eyes fixed on the ground.

"You were always there." She whispered. "And every time you were, you pulled at my heart a little more. You made a home inside it, Matt. You made it warmer. And somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you."

Her cheeks burned despite the cold rain.

"When I realized how I felt, I was terrified. I thought, 'Why would someone like Matt ever feel the same?'"

Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Y/N raised a hand, cutting him off.

"So I hid it." Her voice broke slightly as she added. "I buried it so deep because I couldn’t lose you. I wasn’t ever going to tell you, Matt. I wasn’t. But tonight..."

Y/N took another shaky breath, her fingers trembling as she pushed her damp hair back from her face.

"Tonight." She repeated, her voice quieter now but still steady. "I was sitting in my room, writing down my resolutions for the new year, as I always do, you know that. But then I started thinking about what I wanted for 2025, what I wanted my life to look like, the things I needed to fix, or let go of. And then I realized something." She hesitated, her chest rising and falling as she braced herself. "The one thing I haven’t been honest about with anyone is how I feel about you. And I can’t go into a new year carrying this secret anymore. I just... I can’t."

Matt’s brows knit together as she continued.

"I can’t stop thinking about you, Matt. I think about you all the time. Your laugh, your kind words, the way you’re always so thoughtful. The way you smile at me like I’m the only person in the room. Everything about you, every little piece of you, it’s always on my mind."

Her voice trembled, but she didn’t stop.

"Every time I see something, it reminds me of you. A song, a movie, even the smallest things, like the way the rain smells or the sound of someone laughing across the street. It all brings me back to you. You’re the only thing that never slips my mind, no matter what time of day it is."

Matt’s lips parted slightly, but he stayed silent, his hands still buried in his hoodie pockets as he listened.

"You’re my best friend." Y/N said, her voice breaking slightly. "But I want more. I need more."

Her eyes finally met his, and for a moment, she forgot the rain, the cold, and the fear pounding in her chest.

"I want to be called yours. I want to be seen by your eyes with love, not just as your friend. I want to be held by your hands, kissed by your lips... I want to be yours, Matt."

Tears mingled with the rain on her face as she finished, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"And I'm so sorry for damping all of this on you like that. I know it’s a lot, and I’m probably ruining everything right now. I-I never wanted to mess up our friendship-"

"Y/N-" Matt interrupted, his voice firm but gentle, but she didn’t even hear him, lost in the whirlwind of her thoughts.

"And I don’t want you to feel bad for rejecting it. I know you don’t feel the same way, because why would you? People like you never fall in love with people like me-"

"Y/N."

His voice was louder this time, cutting through her rambling like a sharp blade. She froze, her eyes widening as she finally looked at him.

"Y/N." He said again, softer now, his eyes locking with hers. "You're so silly. People like me fall in love with people like you all the time, actually."

"What?" She whispered, her voice barely audible. Her brows knitted together in confusion, her lips parting as if to say something else, but nothing came out of them.

Matt shook his head, a small, breathy laugh escaping his lips before he leaned in.

His hands found her waist, gripping her soaked shirt as he pulled her closer, and then his lips were on hers. The kiss was everything at once, soft yet intense, hesitant yet confident, warm despite the cold rain pouring down around them.

Y/N gasped softly against his mouth, her hands instinctively reaching up to tangle in his messy hair. His lips were softer than she could’ve ever imagined, moving against hers with a fervor that sent shivers down her spine.

Their mouths opened, their tongues brushing and intertwining in a dance that felt both foreign and natural. The rain mixed with their saliva, the taste of each other blending with the crispness of the winter air.

Matt’s hands tightened on her waist, grounding her as her knees threatened to give way, and her fingers tugged lightly at his hair, earning a quiet groan from him that she felt more than heard.

The world around them seemed to fade away, the cold forgotten as their shared warmth became the only thing that mattered.

And then, like magic, the sound of fireworks exploded in the distance, the vibrant colors illuminating the dark, rain-soaked sky. Cheers and laughter echoed from nearby houses, and Y/N’s mind registered what was happening: midnight.

12:00 AM.

January 1st, 2025.

New Year's Day.

Slowly, they broke apart, their breaths mingling in the space between them as their foreheads rested together. Y/N’s heart was racing, her cheeks flushed despite the chill, and she could see the reflection of the fireworks in Matt’s eyes.

"Happy New Year." He whispered, his voice soft and filled with something she could only describe as love.

She laughed breathlessly, a smile breaking across her face.

"Happy New Year." She replied, her voice light despite the tears still glistening in her eyes.

Matt pulled back slightly, his lips twitching into a small smile.

"So... do you want to come inside now? I think you’ve been out in the rain long enough."

Y/N chuckled, nodding.

"Yeah, I think I do."

He reached for her hand, his fingers warm and steady as they intertwined with hers, and together, they walked inside the house, leaving the cold rain and the past year behind.

© vanteguccir