Hello there! I'm Christa/Kriszta (I'm fine with either spelling). Here you can find anything Sebastian Moran (MTP) related; Fanarts, analysis, shitposts, you name it. (If you like him moot me, I'm kinda insane about the man)
My other interests are Berserk, LPS, Yellowjackets, The Hunger games, Moral Orel, Wuthering Heights, AOT, Hannibal and Ethel Cain-, these I rarely post about on this blog, if I do at all.
Please don't repost/use my art without permission and credit. (As if people wanted to use it lol)
Basic dni list in other words bigots don't interact, I'll block you anyway
Hashtags:
#moranrambles - everything Moran-related that isn't complicated/long enough to be called analysis, shitposts, etc
#moransrifledoodles - all the art I post on this account
#moransrifleanalysis - analysis
#moransriflefics - fics
#chris's inbox - answered asks
#christa yaps - me talking about non-Seb related stuff
I take fanfic requests! Rules here.
I also have a discord server (must be at least 16 to join). Ask for invite in comments or dms.
stay alive u beautiful ass bitch and push thru or else iโm stealing moran from u. no but srsly take care of urself and if u ever need a break we totally understand<3 love u queen stay strong asf
Let's not go that far eh? I need him to stay remotely sane (lie my obsession with him is killing me I need him in my life)
Can you write fic where readerโs love language is act of service or just being present for the Moriarty Gangโฆlike full on fluff about her appreciating them ๐ฅบ๐
The smallest mercies
The rain in London didn't just fall; it inhabited the city, a grey silk curtain that muffled the clatter of carriage wheels and turned the cobblestones into slick, dark mirrors. Inside the Moriarty manor, however, the world was amber-hued and smelled of beeswax, old paper, and the sharp, clean scent of Earl Grey tea.
To the outside world, you were a ghost in the machine, a silent partner to the revolution. But within these walls, you were the quiet heartbeat that kept the gears turning when the weight of their sins became too heavy to carry. You didn't ask for grand declarations; your love lived in the small spaces,the refilled inkwells, the mended coat sleeves, and the simple, grounding act of just staying when the rest of the world felt like it was crumbling.
Here is how each of them reacts to being loved by you.
William James Moriarty
The Scene
William often forgot that he had a body. To him, he was a vessel for a mathematical crusade, a mind that existed in equations of blood and social reform. He would sit at his desk in the dead of night, the candle flickering low, his eyes stinging from the strain of tiny bridge-handwriting.
You never interrupted his thoughts with chatter. Instead, you would slip into the room like a shadow, moving with a grace that didn't jar his frantic mind. Your love language was the soft clink of a fresh porcelain cup being placed on a coaster,never directly on his maps. You would gently pry the dried-out pen from his cramped fingers and replace it with a warm cup of tea, your hand lingering on his shoulder for exactly three seconds.
He would look up, the crimson of his eyes softening from the cold fire of a mastermind to the weary warmth of a man. He wouldn't say 'thank you',the word felt too small for the way you tethered him to the earth. Instead, he would lean his head back against your stomach as you stood behind him, closing his eyes and letting out a long, shuddering breath. In that silence, he wasn't the Lord of Crime; he was just Liam, allowed to be tired because you were there to hold the light.
Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love
ยท He notices everything you do.
William's mind is wired to observe, calculate, and remember. He sees every small act,the way you warm his chair by the fire before he sits down, the way you leave his favorite pen exactly where his hand will find it, the way you turn down the lamps when you notice his eyes straining. He never mentions it aloud, but his gaze follows you around the room with an intensity that makes your skin warm.
ยท He tries to refuse you at first.
Not because he's ungrateful, but because guilt gnaws at him. "You shouldn't trouble yourself over me," he says the first few times, his voice soft but firm. You ignore him completely and keep doing what you're doing. Eventually, he stops protesting. He learns to simply... accept. To let himself be cared for, even when he doesn't feel worthy of it.
ยท He returns your acts of service in subtle ways.
William shows his love through quiet provision. Your favorite book appears on your nightstand when you've had a hard day. The fire in your room is always lit before you retire. The garden path you like to walk is mysteriously cleared of leaves every morning. He never takes credit,he simply folds these small kindnesses into the architecture of your life like variables in an equation, solving for your happiness without ever asking for recognition.
ยท He becomes protective of your time.
William is fiercely territorial about the moments you choose to spend on him. If someone interrupts when you're playing with his hair or massaging his temples, his eyes flash with something sharp and cold. "Not now," he says, and his voice leaves no room for argument. You've accidentally become the only person who can make the Lord of Crime drop everything just to exist in the same space as you.
ยท The first time he let you see him break.
It happened after a particularly brutal mission,one where a child died despite all their planning. William locked himself in his study and didn't come out for hours. When you finally entered with tea, you found him sitting in the dark, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking silently. You didn't speak. You simply set down the tray, sat on the floor beside his chair, and rested your head against his knee. He didn't look up, but his hand found your hair, and he held on like you were the only thing keeping him from drowning. In the morning, he was William again,composed, brilliant, terrifying. But something had shifted. He looked at you differently now. Like you'd seen something no one else was allowed to see, and you hadn't run.
Albert James Moriarty
The Scene
Albert lived his life behind a mask of perfect, aristocratic bronze. Every smile was a tactical maneuver; every polite nod was a lie. He carried the weight of the initial spark,the fire that started it all,and the guilt of what he had asked his brothers to become.
When he returned from the Ministry or a grueling day at MI6, his shoulders were set in a rigid line that looked like it might snap. You were the only one who didn't demand he be "The Count." Your act of service was the ritual of the homecoming. You'd meet him in the foyer, wordlessly taking his heavy wool coat and hanging it near the fire to warm.
One evening, you found him staring into the fireplace, his glass of wine untouched. You sat on the rug by his feet, leaning your back against his knees. You didn't speak. You just pulled a basket of tangled embroidery thread into your lap and began to sort the colors. The rhythmic, mundane task acted as an anchor. Albert's hand eventually found its way to your hair, his fingers stroking the strands with a trembling tenderness. To him, your presence was a sanctuary,a place where he didn't have to be a leader or a traitor. He could just be a man sitting by a fire with someone who knew his darkness and chose to stay anyway.
Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love
ยท He is confused by you at first.
Albert has spent his entire life around people who want something from him,status, money, protection, secrets. Your quiet acts of service baffle him because you ask for nothing in return. "Why do you do this?" he asks one night, watching you mend a tear in his sleeve. You look up, confused by the question. "Because your arm was cold," you say simply. He doesn't know how to respond to that. He stares at you for a long moment, then looks away. His ears are red.
ยท He becomes addicted to your presence.
Once Albert learns what it feels like to be cared for without conditions, he can't go back. He starts seeking you out,not for conversation or strategy, but just to be near you. He'll sit in the same room while you read, or follow you to the garden while you tend the roses. He doesn't always speak. He just needs to know you're there.
ยท He shows his love through fierce protection.
Albert is the head of MI6, and he uses every resource at his disposal to keep you safe. You have a permanent detail of shadows watching you at all times (you've never noticed). Your mail is screened. Your carriage routes are planned for maximum safety. He has a contingency plan for every possible threat to you, filed under a code name that only he knows. He will never tell you this. He doesn't want you to be afraid. He just wants you to be alive.
ยท He confides in you when he can't sleep.
Albert's nightmares are filled with fire and screaming and the faces of his birth family. On those nights, he comes to your room and stands in the doorway, looking younger than his years, looking lost. You never ask what's wrong. You simply shift over and lift the blanket, and he climbs in beside you, curling around you like you're the only warmth in a frozen world. He doesn't always sleep, but he rests. And in the morning, he's Albert again,polished, controlled, untouchable. But you know. You always know.
ยท The first time he thanked you properly.
It was late, and you'd spent the entire day organizing his disaster of an office,sorting classified documents, cleaning his neglected desk, leaving out a fresh uniform for the morning. He came home to find you asleep in his chair, a smudge of ink on your cheek, his coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket. He stood there for a long time, just looking at you. Then he knelt beside the chair, brushed the hair from your face, and whispered, "Thank you." His voice cracked on the second syllable. You don't know if you dreamed it. But when you woke up, there was a fresh flower on the table beside you, and his coat was still wrapped around your shoulders.
Louis James Moriarty
The Scene
Louis was the most difficult to serve, primarily because he viewed caretaking as his domain. He was the guardian, the chef, the one who ensured everyone else was fed and folded. For a long time, he viewed your attempts to help as a challenge to his utility.
But you learned that Louis didn't need someone to do his job; he needed someone to share the burden. You started showing up in the kitchen at 5:00 AM, before the sun had even thought about rising. You didn't try to take over; you simply began peeling the potatoes or sharpening the knives before he could get to them.
The first time you did it, he stood in the doorway, his hand hovering over his scarred cheek, looking genuinely baffled. You just tilted your head and pointed to the kettle. "Tea's already steeped, Louis. Can you check the biscuits? I think I might have left them in a minute too long."
The tension in his face melted into something soft and vulnerable. By letting him 'correct' your minor mistakes, you gave him the permission to relax. Now, the kitchen is a shared cathedral. He works faster when you're there, his movements more fluid. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, he'll press a small, perfect tart into your hand,the one with the extra jam you like,and his eyes will linger on yours, a silent admission that he isn't alone in the shadows anymore.
Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love
ยท He rejects your help at first.
Forcefully. "I don't need assistance," he says, his voice clipped, his scarred cheek turned away from you. He sees your offers as pity, or worse, as proof that he's failing in his duties. But you're patient. You don't push. You simply show up, day after day, and do small things without being asked. Eventually, his walls begin to crack.
ยท He expresses love through food.
Louis cannot say "I love you." The words stick in his throat like fish bones. But he can bake your favorite bread. He can remember exactly how you take your tea. He can leave a plate of warm scones on your nightstand when you've had a bad day. This is his language,the language of flour and sugar and careful, loving hands. Learn to read it, and he will never stop speaking.
ยท He becomes fiercely possessive.
Louis has lost everyone he's ever loved except William. The thought of losing you is unbearable. He doesn't show it obviously,no grand declarations or public displays. But he watches. He notices every person who looks at you too long, every stranger who stands too close. He memorizes their faces. Just in case. You've caught him sharpening his knives after someone was rude to you at the market. You didn't ask why. You just made him tea and sat with him until his hands stopped shaking.
ยท He lets you see his scar.
This is the greatest gift Louis can give. His scar is his deepest shame, the physical manifestation of the fire that birthed their revolution. He keeps it hidden behind his bangs, turning his face away from mirrors and photographs alike. The first time he lets you touch it,really touch it, your fingertips tracing the raised tissue,he trembles like a leaf in a storm. "Does it disgust you?" he whispers. You kiss the scar gently and say, "It shows me how brave you are." He cries. He never cries. But he cries then, and he doesn't pull away.
ยท The first time he said "stay."
You were leaving the kitchen after helping with dinner, and his hand shot out and caught your wrist. His grip was too tight,he loosened it immediately, embarrassed,but he didn't let go. "Stay," he said. Just one word. His eyes were fixed on the floor, his scarred cheek hidden by his hair. You sat back down. You didn't say anything. You just stayed. And when Louis finally looked up at you, his expression was so full of desperate, terrified hope that your heart cracked open. Now, "stay" is your word. He uses it often. He means it every time.
Sebastian Moran
The Scene
Moran was a man built of jagged edges and old shrapnel. He didn't know what to do with "soft." To him, affection was a distraction that could get a man killed in the tall grass.
Your love for him manifested in the maintenance of his humanity. After a mission, when he came back smelling of gunpowder and cheap gin, you didn't lecture him. You simply prepared a tub of hot water, some clean rags, and a bottle of high-quality oil for his firearms. You'd sit on the floor of his room, humming a low, tuneless melody while you scrubbed the grime from his heavy boots.
The first time you did it, he tried to scoff, telling you it was "bloody ridiculous" for a lady/gentleman to be cleaning a marksman's mud. But you just looked up at him, wiped a smudge of dirt off your nose, and said, "Everyone needs a clean slate, Sebastian."
He stopped protesting after that. He'd sit in his oversized armchair, nursing a drink, watching you work with an expression that bordered on awe. He wasn't used to being looked after without an ulterior motive. Sometimes, he'd "accidentally" leave his favorite waistcoat with a loose button just so you'd have a reason to sit near him for twenty minutes, providing the quiet, steady presence that kept his war-torn mind from spiraling into the dark.
Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love
ยท He doesn't trust it at first.
Moran has been betrayed by everyone who was supposed to protect him,his country, his comrades, his own blood. Kindness smells like a trap to him. The first few times you do something for him, he watches you with narrowed eyes, waiting for the catch. The catch never comes. This confuses him more than anything else.
ยท He shows love through rough physicality. Moran isn't gentle.
He doesn't know how to be. But he shows his affection by pulling you into crushing hugs, by ruffling your hair until it stands on end, by throwing an arm around your shoulders and hauling you against his side. He's careful, though,you notice. He's always careful. His strength is immense, but he handles you like glass, like something precious that he's terrified of breaking.
ยท He becomes your personal guard dog.
Not officially. Officially, Moran answers to William and no one else. But somehow, he's always wherever you are. Walking to market? Moran is suddenly interested in shopping. Reading in the garden? Moran is trimming roses (badly). Attending a social event? Moran has somehow wrangled an invitation and is glaring at anyone who looks at you wrong. "I'm not following you," he insists, his ears red. "It's just... coincidence." You don't argue. You just save him a seat.
ยท He stops drinking as much.
You never asked him to. You never lectured him or hid his bottles or made him feel ashamed. You just started being there,sitting with him in the evenings, talking about nothing, filling the silence with your presence. And slowly, without him really noticing, the bottle became less important. He still drinks. Old habits die hard. But he doesn't need it the way he used to. He has you now.
ยท The first time he said "I'm glad you're here."
It was the middle of the night, and he'd had a nightmare,the desert, the ambush, the faces of his men as they died. He woke up gasping, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there, and found you already beside him, your hand on his chest, your voice low and steady. "You're safe. You're home. I'm here." He grabbed you and held on like a drowning man, his face buried in your hair, his whole body shaking. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet. "I'm glad you're here," he said, rough and raw. "I'm glad it's you." He's never said it again. He doesn't need to. You heard him the first time.
Fred Porlock
The Scene
Fred was the wind. He could move through a ballroom or a back alley and leave no more impression than a draft. He was so used to being "no one" that he often forgot he deserved to be "someone."
You showed your appreciation for Fred by noticing him when he wasn't trying to be noticed. You would leave small tokens in the places only he frequented,the crook of a high window ledge, the corner of the garden where the foxgloves grew. A single orange, a new whetstone for his knives, or a sprig of lavender for his pillow.
Because he rarely spoke, you stayed silent with him. You would go out to the gardens while he was weeding and simply sit on the bench nearby with a book. You didn't ask for his attention; you just offered your company.
One afternoon, he approached you with a single, perfectly bloomed white rose. He placed it on your lap and stood there for a heartbeat, his young face unmasked and peaceful. "It matches the one in the corner," he whispered, referring to the sketch you'd been working on. For Fred, your presence was a confirmation of his existence. You saw him when he was invisible to the rest of the world, and that was the greatest service you could ever offer.
Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love
ยท He is confused by your attention.
Fred has spent his entire life blending in, being forgettable, being no one. He doesn't understand why you see him. He doesn't understand why you leave him gifts or sit with him in the garden or remember his birthday. The first time you wave at him from across the room, he actually looks behind himself to see who you're waving at. It doesn't occur to him that you could possibly be acknowledging him.
ยท He shows love through quiet offerings.
Fred cannot speak his feelings,the words feel too large for his small, quiet voice. So he leaves things for you instead. A smooth stone from the river. A pressed flower in your book. A cup of tea waiting on your nightstand, still warm, made exactly the way you like it. You never see him leave these things. They simply appear, like magic, like proof that someone is watching over you.
ยท He follows you. Not in a threatening way.
In a protective way. Fred is always somewhere nearby when you're out in the city,disguised as a vendor, a beggar, a passing gentleman. You never spot him. You're not supposed to. But if anything ever threatened you, he would be there in an instant, silent and deadly, eliminating the danger before you even knew it existed. He has saved your life at least four times. You have no idea.
ยท He lets you touch him.
Physical contact is difficult for Fred. He's not used to it,not used to being close to people, not used to being perceived. But he lets you braid his hair when it gets too long. He lets you hold his hand when you walk through the garden. He lets you pull him into gentle hugs that last maybe a second too long. He never initiates these touches. But he never pulls away. And sometimes, when you're not looking, he touches the places you've touched him, like he's trying to memorize the feeling.
ยท The first time he spoke to you on purpose.
He'd been avoiding you for days,not because he was angry, but because he didn't know how to handle the warmth spreading through his chest every time he saw you. Finally, you cornered him in the garden. "Fred," you said, "if I've done something wrong, please tell me." He shook his head violently. "No. No, you-" He stopped. Took a breath. His hands were shaking. "You make me feel seen," he whispered. "I don't know what to do with that." You took his hands and held them until they stopped shaking. "You don't have to do anything," you said. "Just let me see you." He nodded. And now, when you're alone, he lets you see him,all of him, the spy and the gardener, the killer and the lost boy. It's the most vulnerable he's ever been. He's never been happier.
Von Herder
The Scene
Von Herder's workshop was a chaotic symphony of clicking gears and the smell of sulfur. Most people found it overwhelming, but you learned the topography of his clutter so you could navigate it safely.
His eyes didn't work, so you became his eyes for the things he couldn't feel. Your act of service was the meticulous organization of his tool bench. You'd spend hours sorting screws by size and weight, placing them in braille-labeled bins you'd fashioned yourself. You made sure his favorites were always exactly three inches to the left of his anvil.
"Ah, my little clockwork," he would chirp when he heard your footsteps. He didn't just appreciate the organization; he appreciated that you never moved things without telling him. You respected the way he saw the world through his fingertips.
When he was frustrated with a delicate mechanism, you wouldn't offer pity. You would simply stand behind him and place your cool hands over his ears to block out the distracting noise of the manor, or you'd read out a German engineering manual in your slow, steady voice. He would cackle with joy, spinning around to catch your hand. To Von Herder, you weren't just a friend; you were the constant variable in his most beautiful equations.
Headcanons: How He Reacts to Your Love
ยท He is delighted by you.
Von Herder finds everything about you fascinating,your footsteps, your scent, the way you move through his workshop without bumping into things. "You have excellent spatial awareness," he tells you approvingly. "Most sighted people are useless in here. You are not useless." This is, from him, the highest compliment.
ยท He shows love through invention.
Von Herder cannot see your face, so he cannot draw your portrait or write you love letters. But he can build. He builds you things,beautiful, intricate, sometimes completely unnecessary things. A music box that plays your favorite song. A hairpin with a hidden blade (for protection). A tiny mechanical bird that sings when you wind it up. Each gift comes with a long, enthusiastic explanation of its mechanisms. You listen to every word, even when you don't understand them.
ยท He touches you constantly.
Since Von Herder can't see, he experiences the world through touch. And he wants to experience you. He touches your face to learn your expressions, your hands to learn your moods, your hair to learn its texture. "You smile with your whole face," he observes one day, his calloused fingers tracing your cheeks. "I like that." You let him touch. You understand that this is how he sees you, how he knows you, how he loves you.
ยท He becomes protective of your voice.
Von Herder loves the sound of your voice,the cadence, the warmth, the way you pronounce certain words. When other people talk over you or interrupt you, he gets genuinely angry. "Let them speak," he growls, his blind eyes somehow finding the offender with unnerving accuracy. "I was listening." You've learned to value your voice more because he values it. To him, your voice is music. To you, his attention is home.
ยท The first time he called you "important".
It was late, and you were reading to him while he worked on a delicate mechanism,some new gadget for Bond's next mission. He was humming along with your voice, his hands moving with perfect precision, when he suddenly stopped. "You know," he said, his accent thickening the way it did when he was emotional, "I did not expect to find someone as important as you here. In this country. In this basement." He turned toward you, his covered blind eyes somehow finding yours. "But you are important now. You understand? You are mine." You set down the book and took his hand. "I understand," you said. He nodded once, sharply, and went back to work. But he held your hand the whole time. He didn't let go until the mechanism was finished.
Moneypenny
The Scene
Moneypenny was the glue that kept the MI6 office from dissolving into anarchy. She was always the one taking care of others, managing the egos of coworkers and the brooding of noblemen.
You realized very early on that no one ever took care of her. Your love language for Moneypenny was the "takeover." On Friday afternoons, when the stack of reports on her desk reached precarious heights, you would walk in, take the pen out of her hand, and point to the door.
"The bath is drawn, there's lavender oil in the water, and I've already handled the filing for the 4th District," you'd say firmly.
She would try to protest,she always did,her spine going stiff as a ruler. "The government's expenses haven't been-"
"I did them this morning," you'd interrupt. "And I found the three-pound discrepancy in the carriage budget. Go. Now."
The way her shoulders would suddenly drop, her professional veneer cracking just enough to show the tired woman beneath, was your reward. She would squeeze your hand, a rare and fleeting gesture of intimacy, before retreating to take the rest she so desperately needed. You were the only person in the world she trusted enough to be vulnerable with, because you proved daily that the world wouldn't stop spinning if she closed her eyes for an hour.
Headcanons: How She Reacts to Your Love
ยท She resists at first.
Moneypenny is used to being indispensable. She's used to carrying the weight on her shoulders. Your offers of help feel like criticism at first,like you're suggesting she can't handle her own job. "I don't need a babysitter," she says sharply the first time you try to take something off her plate. You don't argue. You just keep showing up. Eventually, she stops pushing you away.
ยท She shows love through efficiency.
Moneypenny's love language is making your life easier. She streamlines your schedules, handles your paperwork, deals with the tedious bureaucratic nonsense that would otherwise eat up your days. "You looked tired," she'll say, sliding a completed form across the table. "I took care of it." She never asks for thanks. She just wants you to rest.
ยท She becomes fiercely loyal.
Moneypenny has worked for powerful men most of her life. She's learned to be useful, efficient, and utterly replaceable. But you've shown her that she's more than her productivity,that she deserves care just for existing. This changes something in her. She would burn down the world for you now. Not dramatically, not loudly. She would simply... file the right forms, make the right calls, and watch the flames consume your enemies from a safe distance. "I handled it," she'll say afterward, adjusting her spectacles. "Don't worry about the details."
ยท She lets you see her tired.
Moneypenny is a master of composure. Her hair is always pinned, her dress always pressed, her expression always professional. But when you're alone, she lets the mask slip. She lets you see the dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her hands shake after a particularly brutal day. She lets you brush her hair and rub her shoulders and tell her that she's done enough. She never thought she needed that. She was wrong.
ยท The first time she cried in front of you.
It had been a terrible week,a mission gone wrong, three close calls, and an endless mountain of paperwork threatening to bury her alive. You found her at her desk at midnight, still working, tears streaming silently down her face. She didn't even notice you come in. You sat beside her, took the pen from her hand, and pulled her against your shoulder. She didn't speak. She just cried,ugly, exhausted, broken sobs that she'd been holding in for years. You held her until she stopped, then made her tea, then walked her to her room and tucked her into bed. "Stay," she whispered, catching your hand. "Just... stay." You stayed. You sat in the chair by her bed and held her hand until she fell asleep. In the morning, she was Moneypenny again,efficient, composed, unstoppable. But she looked at you differently now. Softer. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For seeing me." You nodded. You understood. You always would.
โฅ๏ธpearly-whirl| Do not copy, steal or translate my work. you'll be blocked.
Tags: mental health problems, mentions of sh and suicide, vomit, angst, comfort
A/N: I knowww I was gonna take a break, but I wanted to post this last thing I've been working on for a while. Pretty self indulgent, reader is basically a tame version of myself but I left it pretty vague to make it relatable. Hope you enjoy and read with caution if you're struggling. Take care<3
If there is one thing Sebastian hates about his job, it's having to be apart from you for weeks, sometimes months at a time. The worst part is when the mission is too dangerous and it's too risky to send letters. Given his past, heโs a naturally paranoid person, but when it comes to you, those fears grow tenfold- not hearing from you kills him. The week leading up to his leave for Durham, heโs noticed slight changes in your behavior. You ate less than usual. Didnโt bother with playing into emotions you know youโre supposed to feel, responding to everything monotonely. Rejected his advances. He knew what it all meant, the walls were breaking down again. When youโre like this, itโs only a matter of days before itโs unsafe to leave you on your own. For this reason heโs entrusted Moneypenny with keeping you company, giving her a very vague description of the situation. Heโs aware you donโt like anyone knowing, but he figured itโs either this or finding you dead one day. Moneypenny is good at keeping secrets and never pries, it should be fine. He left with a kiss and the request that โYouโll be a good girl while heโs awayโ, to which you gave him a well deserved swat on the shoulder but agreed anyway. A promise only matters so much when your feelings are too heavy to tame, though.ย
He almost missed a target, wrapped up in his concerns. As soon as his part of the job was done, he hopped on the next train home, leaving the clean-up to Fred and Bonde. The manor is eerily quiet when he arrives. Some sort of dark aura fills the space of life. It was expected, given only Moneypenny and you stayed home. Whatโs really unusual is you not flying down the stairs, straight into his arms when he steps through the doorstep. Instead comes an out-of-breath Moneypenny, and the knot in his throat tightens. He speaks before she can begin to explain.
โWhereโs she?โ
โLocked herself in her chambersโ, she pants, seemingly having run all the way from the end of the corridor. He pushes past her, his mind repeating the same thing over and over again. Please donโt let me lose her. Moneypenny follows closely.ย
โShe looked alright this morning, I didnโt think she would-โ, she continues with the details, โI begged her to let me in, but she insisted on being left aloneโ He's more focused on getting into your room. He rattles the doorknob and calls for you. He can hear sobs. Youโre alive.ย
โSweetheart, itโs me. Please open the doorโ, he begs, pressing his ear to it for more signs of life. โPlease. Donโt do anything stupid, for the love of God-โ He remembers he keeps a spare key to your room in his pocket. He wastes no time unlocking and tearing it open.
โIโll be downstairs if you need anythingโ, Moneypenny says with a worried frown, leaving to give you privacy. Sebastian throws her a thanks, making his way to you. Youโre on the floor, eyes red, knees to your rapidly heaving chest. You didnโt keep silent because you wanted to- you were hyperventilating.ย
โOh, Jesus, stop that!โ, he nearly shouts, struggling to keep his calm. He noticed your nails drew blood from your upper arms, heโs trying to pry them out of your grip. You didnโt look at him until this moment. In your eyes he sees the same angry sadness he does in the mirror. He doesnโt have to ask what triggered this. Itโs not always caused by stimuli. He checks if there are deeper wounds anywhere, sighing with relief when he finds none. You kept yourself together at least a little bit.
โCโmereโ, he coos, pulling you to him. Youโre too tired to protest, and canโt do so verbally due to the pressure in your chest. โNeed you to breathe, yeah?โ he whispers, petting your back. You nod, trying your best to calm down. He uses this time to assess the damage. You didnโt bring any sharp objects with you, and nothingโs broken. Thatโs good. You probably locked yourself in here to prevent more harm, keeping your promise to him, he acknowledges with a relieved sigh. Just when you think youโd calm down, you feel your stomach turning. Your jaw tightens and you lapse forward to avoid getting it all over him. He pulls your hair back, watching with increasing sadness as you struggle. You feel like a disgusting mess, refusing to look back at him when youโre done.ย
โLetโs get ya cleaned upโ, he sighs, gathering you in his arms. He takes you to the bathroom, where he sets you on the sink, you brush your teeth and he checks your wounds again. Fortunately, theyโre not deep and safe to take a bath with. He pats your thigh.
โStay here, Iโll heat up some water.โ He turns back by the door. โAnd donโt do anything.โ You give him a thumbs up, staring at the wall across you. The pain in your chest doesnโt seem to wanna go away. The tears keep returning and your breathing is still heavy. Oddly enough, him finding you didnโt help, it just reinforced what you feel. Youโre a burden. At least half an hour passes until he comes back, bringing you back to earth. Silence sits between the two of you, the only noise being the rustling of clothes and your sniffles as he undresses you, pressing kisses here and there. He canโt stop. Heโs grateful youโre still here. He lowers you into the bath he prepared for you, taking to cleaning you. He never says a word, knowing you appreciate actions more.
โI know Iโm difficult.โ You hiccup, โIโm sorry Iโm like this.โ
โItโs not your fault. Weโll work through it.โ He pecks your nose, your eyebrows, your forehead, finally your lips, leaving something akin to a smile on your face. He smiles back lovingly.
โJoin me?โ You ask, tugging on the collar of his shirt.ย
โNow thatโs my girlโ, he winks, discarding his clothes. He slides behind you in the bathtub, settling you between his legs. He takes up most of the space, itโs become quite cramped. You donโt mind his extra warmth.ย
โThank youโ, You whisper, pressing his hand to your stomach. โFor staying with me.โ He rests his cheek on the top of your head, caressing your skin with his thumb.
โItโs the least I can do.โ You smile faintly again. The pain is still there. It will comeย back over and over again. But at least now you have someone thatโs worth staying for.
how am I supposed to feel good๐ about myself๐ when everything I do is wrong๐๐๐ when I'm just an ugly bitch a fucking freak๐๐ and I don't wanna go on๐๐
This is probably my last actual post for a while. My mental health is deteriorating again and my content flopping definitely doesn't help. I'll still be available in dms and will answer asks that don't require effort, furthermore I still accept requests, I just won't start working on them immediately. See ya until next time
The first thing you noticed was the cloud of warmth enveloping you. It felt cosy, and for some reason your body seemed to be acting as if it had had the chance to relax so thoroughly for the first time in ages. You stayed wrapped up in that cocoon of sheets, trying to shield yourself from the morning chill and soothe a migraine. The air was freezing; could it be that the coldest season of the year had already arrived? You tossed and turned in bed, cursing yourself for forgetting to close the window the night before. A few rays of light filtered through the shutters, dimly illuminating the room.
The air rushed out of your lungs and your heart seemed to slow down as you looked around. This wasnโt your room.
Goodness, your room had never been so bare! Feeling your heart pounding, you leapt out of bed and threw open the shutters.
You were blinded by the light. The room was on the second floor, offering a view over some unfamiliar square. Pedestrians and carriages passed along the streets, then disappeared between the buildings and headed who knows where. You stood motionless, paralysed for what seemed like an eternity. Only when a maid in the building opposite opened the windows and looked at you with an equally bewildered expression did you hasten to close the window.
Were you really here? You could have sworn that everything youโd experienced in the last twenty-four hours was the result of alcohol and lack of sleep. You sighed, as a shiver ran down your spine. Why were you in an inn? What had happened last night that you couldnโt remember? What were that manโs intentions? The air seemed to turn to lead. Could it be that he had some interest in you? After all, it would have been a walk in the park for him to make you disappear. In that century, you didnโt exist; you were nobody. If you had disappeared, nobody would have noticed.
You headed for the door, making sure to keep your pace brisk and quick. You turned the handle, surprised to see the door open and the corridor deserted. Perhaps he didnโt mean any harm, you mused as you walked down the corridor. However, you had no desire to blindly trust a stranger, nor to stop long enough to find out whether your paranoia was justified or not.
But where would you go? What kind of world would you find outside those four walls? And how would it treat someone like you, who was clearly out of place? Pushing all rational thought aside, you crossed the corridor as quickly as possible and slipped down the stairs. Casting a quick glance at the dining area, you thanked your lucky stars that most of last nightโs patrons were either absent or barely awake.
So you left, with no destination other than the desire to get away. Perhaps it was an irrational choice, or the remnants of an ancient instinct driving you to survive. Of course, you werenโt used to living without a home, and if that Moran had actually had good intentions, then you would have been a bit of a dickhead, leaving others to foot the bill. But despite this, you didnโt stop, neither in the face of the unease lingering in your heart nor even when you heard the innkeeper calling out to you.
On Friday mornings, the old man walked down Drury Lane. It was a fact nobody would have questioned: the grass is green, the sky is blue, and every friday at nine sixteen, that old man walked down Drury Lane with the precision of a Swiss watch. Not that anyone would have been interested in questioning it, nor in watching some old manโs morning stroll for more than a few seconds.ย
That day it was rainy, with torrents of water pouring down on the city without any mercy. Normally, after running his errands, the old man would have gone straight home, but not that day. It so happened that, for one reason or anotherโperhaps due to roadworks or a strikeโnot a single carriage was to be seen that day. So the old man stood there, beneath a portico, as if waiting for something to happen.
โAh, fuckโ you sighed with a curse, crossing the road with quick strides and praying with the fragile hope that your foot wouldnโt sink into a fatal puddle. God, you knew the weather in England was awfulโevery media outlet, travel vlog or documentary kept mentioning itโyet you hadnโt expected it to be this bad now that the sky had suddenly gone from clear to bringing down the heavens.
Come to think of it, perhaps you should've thought things more carefully while wandering around the city or before tipping off Moran. But right now, as you were running along the cobbled streets, you couldn't afford to waste a single second crying over spilt milkโinstead, you had to decide what to do.
You retreated beneath a desolate porch, home only to a tannery, a bakery and a few small shops you couldnโt quite make out. The place was deserted, in an almost surreal way now that most people had taken shelter indoors. You sat down on the ground, uncharactely indifferent to what you might find on the pavement of a Victorian street.
Despite the cold, the road was comfortable. Ever since youโd arrived in this place, in this timeline, youโd always been careful not to betray yourself, and now, after what had seemed like an eternity, you had the chance to lift that veil, if only for a moment.
Itโs pleasant, almost comfortable asโ a cloth? You blinked, and there really was a cloth a few centimetres from your face. In front of you, the fabricโor rather, the hand holding itโremained motionless, as if waiting. You looked up to find an old man standing before you. A few seconds of silence passed, so deep that your ears picked up the indistinct fragments of chatter three blocks away.
โโฆ Youโll end up catching a cold, you know,โ he explained, looking somewhat embarrassed at your questioning gaze.ย
You took the cloth, muttering a quick thank you, and then rubbed its rough surface against your skin. The man in front of you seemed to hesitate for a moment. โIf youโd like, I could accompany you homeโ
You shook your head. โIโm not from around here,โ you replied, flinging the cloth vehemently onto your lap as if it had personally offended you.
The old man started. โOh no, I meant I could call you a carriage and take you to your hotel,โ he exclaimed, waving a hand in front of him with fervent vigour.
You blinked slowly, smiling awkwardly. โIโm not staying in a hotel.โ
โThen to your hostel or, I donโt know, your home.โ
โI donโt have either of those,โ you sighed. Your smile turned into a grimace. โLook, thereโs no address I can give you.โ
The manโs expression shifted from confusion to a hint of compassion, though as soon as he noticed your glare, he was quick to hide it. โDonโt worry, anyway,โ you added, swallowing your pride. If you really had to pass for homeless, then youโd see your act through to the end. โIโll just keep wandering around the area thenโโ
โW-wait! You canโt do that! I mean, youโll end up in a workhouse if the police caught you โ He hastened to explain after seeing the bitter note in your gaze. โBesides itโs a miracle you havenโt been arrested yet.
So thatโs why people had been giving you dirty looks ever since you arrived here? At first you thought it was because of your clothes โ after all, that was only natural, given that you were a time traveller or whatever. Seriously, it was only when you found yourself amongst those people that you realised just how ridiculous your everyday clothes must have looked to people of this era, being clearly too cheap and practical to belong to a bourgeoisie, yet at the same time too brightly coloured and expensive to be the clothes of a factory worker. With this concern on your mind, you had therefore snatched the first cloak that came to hand, displayed outside one of the many shacks in the neighbourhood. Those clothes were a curse, a target on your body. So who on earth would have said anything to you for acting out of necessity?
As your thoughts raced through your mind with the same frantic energy of a bird trapped in a cage, you heard a sound to your left. Glancing in that direction, you saw that the old man had moved closer to you and had slumped down onto the ground a few steps away. โAre you all right?โ you asked with concern.
โYes, Iโll keep her company for a while.โ You didnโt object to that. โGoddammit, it looks like itโs never going to stop raining,โ he sighed, probably more to himself than to you.
โIs it often like this, the weather?โ you asked. In the distance, the storm continued to rage; raindrops kept pelting everything in their path, and occasionally thunder rumbled in the distance. In a way, you envied it. Sure, the wind was venting all its fury at that moment. But unlike it, you had no way of giving voice to the turmoil lurking within your soul.
You looked out beyond the porch, sighing. Setting the sentimentalism aside, this didn't change the fact that, right now, you had nothing to do.
โNot really, โ replied the old man. โThis season is rather peculiar. I suppose youโre not used to this kind of weather.โ
You opened your mouth to reply, you didn't know exactly what. No, you weren't used to it, given that you came not only from abroad but also from at least a hundred years in the future. Even if the geographical difference hadn't affected the climate you were used to, you were sure that climate change would've taken care of it anyway.
But before you could even blurt out the first lie that sprang to mind in a bid to get away with it, someone seemed to have other ideas. That someone being none other than your stomach.
A gurgle who intended to compete with the thunder broke the silence with the brazen temperament of one who is not afraid to be heard, only to be met by more silence. For a moment, in those quiet moments, you wondered whether you should say something or blame it on the storm.
โAre you hungry?โ he inquired. You nodded solemnly, no longer trusting your own voice in the midst of such shame. Feeling the old manโs gaze upon you, you cursed for the first time in your life that an old man could still hear so clearly. โLetโs go and get you something to eat.โ
Despite all your protestsโ Oh, I could surely have made it through the day without eating you didn't have to worry about me, you're too kind but I can manage without it after all I don't need it. And so, there you were in a diner once again, taking advantage of a stranger's kindness against your will. God, how could this old man be so stubborn? Seriously, youโd tried every trick in the book to get rid of him. Youโd started with morality (โEh? Youโre not hungry, you say? Come on, my ears still work just fineโ) to financial practicality (โYou canโt pay me back, you say? Come on, Iโm not doing this for the money!โ).
And so there you were, sitting at a table, staring at the plate that had been served to you as if it were forbidden fruit. You studied the old man, the room and the grain of the wood, as if to prove that your resolve could not be shaken. โNo,โ you said, pushing the plate towards him. โIโve already caused you too much trouble; you take it.โ
You shamelessly threw yourself into it, tucking into a hearty meal after what had felt like a lifetime. And just like that, the fantasy vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Alas, what could you have said? Despite your stubbornness, you were weak in the face of temptation.
โSo why are you here, anyway? he suddenly asked halfway through the meal.
Your mind snapped to attention, having long since forgotten he was there. Did he really have to ask these questions without any warning? โWhere here?โ you asked, hoping to buy yourself a few more nanoseconds so your brain could come up with something.
โHere, in London,โ explained the old man. โThe city has become quite popular in recent years, but... well, you don't look like a traveler,โ he added hesitantly after a brief pause.
...Do I really look that much like a homeless person? โWell, I was here on a trip, but some incidents happened...โ In your mind, you applauded yourself. Although you didn't answer anything, you admired your own confidence. You glanced quickly at the door, praying to a higher power that your ordeal would end soon. What could you do now? While you believed your lies were credible enough, you certainly didn't trust how you'd deliver them.
So you sat there, feeling like a condemned criminal on the gallows whilst hoping for the best. You recounted many things to him, such as how your mother had apparently given birth to you at sea (which is why there are no documents about you basically) and how, after losing your parents at a young age, it was your grandfather who raised you in the countryside, before you decided to set off for London and ended up being pickpocketed.ย
You spoke, blending your longing for your era with your sense of loss, weaving truth and falsehood the best you could. He seemed to take it in his stride, showing you compassionโthough he wasnโt very expressiveโand offering you some comfort when he could. You felt guilty for lying so shamelessly to someone who was clearly good-hearted, but there wasnโt much you could do about it at that moment.
Slowly, the conversation shifted moving on to more mundane topics.
He told you his name, what he did for a living, and how long heโd been in town. You talked about London, your homelands, and his love for cats. For a moment, it felt as though youโd returned to your everyday life, as if you were catching up with an old acquaintance rather than a stranger.
The bell at the shop's door rang. You glanced quickly at the door, having caught a fleeting movement with the corner of your eye.
You felt your blood run cold; your eyes darted to the now-empty plate. No, no, noโwhat were the chances that this could happen?
You swallowed in vain, trying in vain to quell your ever-growing anxiety. Should you run away? Or pretend nothing was wrong? The only thing you knew was that you didnโt want anything to do with anyone from this era.
Your eyes returned to the old man, finding him staring at you in confusion. โIโmโฆ Iโm fine,โ you cleared your throat. How much of your panic had he seen? Given your state, you hadnโt even noticed.
Footsteps approached before a shadow loomed over the table, undisturbed amongst the plates and crockery.
As the silence deafened you, you prayed that fate would be on your side, at least this once. And thus, your last hope was shattered.
"You..." The newcomer scrutinised the old man, seemingly asking him some kind of question. "What are you doing here?"
(A/n): AHHHH thank you everyone for supporting this fic, it really means a lot to me! I didn't really expect people to like this silly fic so much๐ญ I'm sorry if this update was pretty delayed but I decided to rewrite half of this since I thought it was too clichรฉ. Anyways, I know that this chapter is really slow paced but trust the process๐ฅ๐ฅ
The lack of x reader fics are killing me๐คงโฆanyways can I request a fanfic where reader was like ovulating and thought she is checking Sebastian out discreetly but itโs actually so obvious to him ๐๐
Tags: suggestive, tiny bit of dry humping if you squint, wrote it with them being in a relationship in mind but it's not mentioned anywhere so feel free to interpret it otherwise
A/N: My face lit up when I received this request ily anon. I hope it lives up to your expectations.
It must be that time of the month when certain parts of you are insatiable again. No man should ever look this good whilst doing something so simple as sitting on the couch and talking to someone with an irritated expression on his face. Yet you can't help but see him as the most beautiful and desirable thing right now. He turns back to you and asks for your help in the argument, and for a while, you have to pretend you weren't just holding back from pouncing on him in front of everyone.ย
The backyard is green and quiet. Itโs just you and the robin in the oak tree, youโre outside for gun practice. Youโd ask for Sebastianโs assistance, but you want to surprise him and make him proud- you must admit, your aim could use some work-, so youโre doing it alone. Ideally, there should be moving targets, but everyone is too busy with next weekโs preparations to accompany you on a hunting trip, thus you stick with empty beer and wine bottles for now.ย
โYer holding it wrong.โ A booming voice startles you, the weapon goes off and leaves a hole in the tree trunk you propped the bottles on. A hand steadies your posture before you could turn around and scold him, his chest pressing into your back.ย
โYou seriously gotta stop sneaking up on people!โ, you complain, but heโs not having it.
โAnd you gotta toughen up. Youโre like a rabbit. You scare too easilyโ, He says sternly, noting the eagerness of you leaning into him. He adjusts your grip on the rifle, angling it towards the bottles. One hand on each of yours, arms enveloping you, his breath against your neck. Makes the heat crawl from your chest further down south.ย
โAs if you wouldnโt have shot the person that snuck up on you instead.โ You jest. โYouโre more of a scaredy cat than I am.โ
โWatch itโ, he warns, but his voice holds no real anger. Rather, itโs rich and sweet, running down your spine like honey. โNow hold your position, breathe and pull the trigger.โ He lets go and steps back, leaving you shivering from the loss of his warmth. You try to calm your racing heartbeat. You fail. You pull anyway. The bullet makes its impact just a tiny bit shy of the center of the bottle, shattering it with a loud crash. You look back at him to gauge his reaction.ย
โNot bad for a rookieโ, he pets the top of your head, a faint smirk on his face. โKeep practicinโ. I got other business to take care of.โย
You follow him with puppy eyes as he leaves. You donโt pull the trigger again that day, too bothered by the sensations coiling deep in your belly. You only have to hold out until the evening, canโt be that hard, you tell yourself. You havenโt the slightest idea just how wrong you are. The hours drag on for so long, and he doesnโt know just how bad you need him. You watch- discreetly- from the couch as he works, putting some new furniture together with his sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing from the effort, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looks so good that you forget to find him doing chores odd. He doesnโt look back at you, not once. The late afternoon light falls on his face through the window, illuminating his sharp features and the adorable, focused furrow of his eyebrows. You could stare for hours, but you have your own responsibilities, you must leave for now. Your thoughts never do, though. Theyโre back beneath the sheets with him even as you stand in line at the grocery store. You get the shopping done as quickly as possible, eager to load it all in the pantry and find him again. Youโre about to bring a stool after a failed attempt of placing a bag of flour on the top shelf, when your knight in shining armor arrives once again. He snatches it from you and puts it there himself wordlessly, taking your breath when his crotch presses into the curve of your behind. He only mutters a quiet โYouโre welcomeโ before stealing the box of biscuits from the shopping bag and leaving. You forget to demand it back.ย
You donโt see him for the rest of the day. Soon it is time to retreat to the comfort of your room. He finds his way there when youโve just finished taking your hair out, combing through it for the night. Now itโs his turn to watch, and yours to pretend you donโt notice his presence. Not for too long.
โWhat?โ
โWhat?โ He repeats, coming to hug you from behind. His hand slides down your front, cupping where you need him most. โYou were the one watchinโ me all damn day.โ He talks low, pressing his mouth to the side of your head, then your cheek, where the blood rushes upon the realisation that you were not subtle at all. He looks straight into your eyes in the mirror, his gaze like pieces of burning coal.ย
โNot to mention you were rubbinโ on me like a cat in heat.โ He added, thinking back on all the times you smoothed down a hand on his arm or back whenever you passed him, or kissed him just a little longer than necessary.
โSo you knew and you didn't do anything?โ You pout, muffled as he forces your head back to capture your lips. โYouโre mean...โ He grins against your mouth, teeth tugging on your lower lip when he moves away. You're not separated for too long as you turn to kiss him comfortably, and he hoists you up by your thighs with ease. He makes sure you feel him.ย
โWhat did you want me to do? Surely not fuck you with everyone downstairs with us?โ
Silence. Eyebrows raising, he lowers you back on your feet while you avoid his gaze. He holds your chin, focusing your eyes back on him.ย
โReally? Cat got your tongue?โ Heโs got that look in his eyes. The one that brings you to the conclusion that if you donโt want him to leave you hanging for another day- he loves having you beg-, you must do something to get him riled up. Emboldened, you lick the tip of his thumb, and you see the corner of his eye twitch. He pushes forward, watching with want as your bitten lips envelop his finger. Pressing down on your tongue, he confirms that the cat in fact left it in its place. You observe the clench of his jaw and the rise of goosebumps on his arm with satisfaction. Youโre so close to the goal. He pulls his finger back with a wet pop when you suck on it, weaving his lips with yours aggressively.ย
โYouโre so easyโ, you giggle, his hands on your hips urging you to stumble backwards to the bed. Bumping into the edge, you sit down.ย
โNot another wordโ, he grumbles, kneeling before you and placing open mouthed kisses up your legs. He stops at the hem of your underwear, exhaling shakily. The cogs in his head seem to turn.
โIs everything-โ The world turns around, and you find yourself on your stomach. Cold air hits your skin as he pushes your nightgown up, chapped lips skimming your back before he tugs your bloomers down. When you feel his breath blow against you and hear his belt buckle clinking, you know tonight will be tiring, but it will all be worth it.
tags: established relationship, domestic vibes, banter, petnames, i tried to keep this gender neutral but reader is referred as 'girl' once I'm sorry
Asย nightย fellย over the city like aย cloak,ย youย laidย in the sheets of your bed, curled up and nestled in their warmth.ย Itย wasย quiet; the stillness seemedย almostย unnaturalย for a place that had been so lively thorought the day. At this late hour,ย youย laidย alone on your bed, your only companion a book that you were reading with particular attentiveness.
In theย silence,ย amidย the steadyย tickingย of theย pendulumย clock in theย nextย room and theย faintย sounds of those who remained active despite thr onset of the night, you heard the soft click of a lock. Light footsteps follower, so nimble that you could barely make them out before a shadow slipped into the room.
"You're here" your delicate voice cut throught the quiet.
A sigh left Sebastian's lips as he sat on the bed, the matress dipping under his weight. "Sorry, William made me stay longer than I expected". His eyes landed on you, gazing at your dimly lit figure. "I told you to not wait me up"
A smirk made its way onto your lips, yet you made no move to look up from your book. "Didn't feel like it"
He sighed, giving up from rebutting. He, after all, knew better than anyone else that when you were in this playful mood, it would be an arduous battle for him. So he lied by your side, wrapping an arm about you and drawing you closer. He buried his head on the crook pf your neck, taking in your warmth.
"You're oddly clingy today" you pointed out as your finger ran along the pages.
"What? Is one not allowed to hold his girl after a long day?" he lifted his head a little, staring at you as he questioned with a sigh. "Besides, I'm not even clingy right now"
"Ah? What are you then?"
"Mmm, just determined to not let you go. There's a difference"
You giggled. "Whatever helps you sleep"
He stayed quiet, oddly so. For a moment, you wondered whether heโd taken offence at your words or whether heโd simply given up on trying to counter them. Then you felt it, a little nib between the base of your neck and your clavicle. It was just a light nibble, not having enough pressure to hurt you but enough to make you jump out of your skin given its unexpectedness. "Ack- Sebastian!" you let out a surprised whine, slamming the book close. "What the hell!? What was that for?"
He giggled, pressing a kiss on the same area he had nibbled. "Mhm, just a little revenge, you were giving me an attitude since i got here"
"that's because you took too long to come back" you confessed. For a moment your voice lost its playful edge.
"And whose fault is it? I've told you to not wait for me, you know the schedule my work makes me have" he caresses your cheek, guiding it towards him before giving a loving kiss to the corner of your lips. "I wouldn't want my beloved to stay awake in the middle of the night just for me"
"Well, I can't help if I'm not able to sleep without you hovering half of the bed" you mumbled, trying to ignore your flushed state. Shifting your position to face him, you lightly smacked the book on his head. "Now we're even"
He let out an amused huff. "You're impossible"
"Anyways, since I waited for you this long you owe me at least a date" you teased, wrapping your arms around his nape.
He arched an eyebrow. "I thought you said we were even"
"We are, but that was for the bite. You still have to make up for making me wait"
"as you wish" he whispered quietly. "I already wanted to bring you somewhere anyway". He guided your body closer, making your forehead lie on his shoulder.
"Now sleep, you need to rest" he spoke, gently caressing your hip as he nuzzled against your hair. "Tomorrow is only for us, after all"
(a/n): I'm sleep deprived, idk what did I just write help๐ญ I'm sorry if it's ooc
Edit: please thank @.moransrifle if this saw the light of day, if it wasn't for her this would've still be locked in my drafts lol
where do you read the mtp manga sister, i tried reading on mangapill but it has so many weird ads๐ญ mangadex also got nerfed
@/we-intentionally-exude-calmness and I'm also member of a discord server where they send the chapters both raw and translate it quickly. Could send ya the invite if you want it
