pairing: Morticia & Gomez Addams x Fem! stoner reader
summary: you wake up in their bed, very thoroughly claimed. breakfast, morning-after chaos, flirty shower antics, and your little sister already plotting your return.
You wake up draped in silk and sin.
The sheets are a black satin crime scene and your thighs are sore in the best possible way. Someone's teeth left blooming violets on your hips. Your lip gloss is gone. Your body glitter has migrated across multiple necks.
You're warm. Boneless. Claimed.
You try to shift and your stomach tightens at the memory: Morticia’s tongue against your throat, Gomez between your thighs like he was starved for centuries and you were the last luxury on earth. Their voices still echo in your ears—praise and poetry and filth in equal measure.
You remember the way Morticia’s lipstick smeared across your jaw when she kissed you—deliberate and unhurried—before whispering, “Sleep in our bed, darling. We’ll take care of everything.”
You do not remember making it to the guest room.
---
You barely get time to gather your thoughts before a hand—cool, gentle, possessive—glides across your waist.
“Good morning, cara mia,” Gomez purrs against your bare shoulder. “You were divine last night.”
A hum from the other side of the bed. “She still is,” Morticia murmurs, her voice low, velvety. She stretches like a cat, her fingers tracing the swell of your thigh. “And she smells like heaven.”
You blink up at the canopy.
You’re sandwiched between them. One of Gomez’s robes barely clings to your frame, untied and useless, your skin a mural of red lipstick and faint bruises. Morticia is lounging beside you like a painting, wearing a sheer dressing gown and zero shame. She smiles when your eyes catch hers, slow and reverent.
“We let you sleep in,” she says. “You earned it.”
Gomez presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You moaned poetry in your sleep.”
You bury your face in your hands. “I can never look at my sister again.”
“Darling,” Morticia drawls, slipping off the bed like a nightmare in silk. “Your sister high-fived me last night and said, and I quote, ‘Get her, queen.’”
---
The shower is warm. Steamy. Unfair.
Morticia joins you first, hair pinned up, lips painted black like temptation. She lathers your body with practiced ease, like worship. Her hands are respectful—until they’re not. They pause at your thighs, linger at your breasts, thumb across the curve of your belly like she’s memorizing it.
“She’ll want to mark you again,” Gomez says casually as he steps in, utterly unbothered and equally naked. “But perhaps after breakfast.”
You forget how to stand for a moment.
You lean back against Gomez’s chest, mouth parted as Morticia trails kisses down your front, and it’s so unfair—how good they are at this. At you.
“Tell us if it’s too much,” she whispers, licking a slow stripe up your sternum. “We’ll wait.”
You don’t say stop.
You say her name.
---
Breakfast is an unholy miracle.
You’re still wearing the robe, but now Morticia has tied it for you and kissed the knot. Your hair is in a loose bun and you’re not sure who twisted it up—Morticia or Gomez—but it doesn’t matter. You’re still glowing. Still aching sweetly. You sip dark coffee like it’s your last tether to reality.
Your little sister plops down next to you with a plate of fruit, smug as hell.
“You look happy,” she grins.
“I should ground you.”
“No you shouldn’t. You’re in love.”
Morticia floats past in a high-collared black gown, humming a waltz. Gomez flips an omelet with one hand and kisses your cheek with the other. Pugsley walks by and offers you a fist bump. Wednesday raises a brow but nods once, which from her is basically a blessing.
“I told you they’d love you,” your sister says, biting a strawberry. “Can we come back next week?”
“You mean so I can be seduced into another threesome while you braid Wednesday’s hair?”
“Exactly.”
---
You don’t say yes.
But you don’t say no.
Not when Gomez feeds you a bite of omelet with a flourish. Not when Morticia runs her nails down your spine and whispers about plans for tonight. Not when your sister leans over and whispers: “They like like you.”
You glance up at the Addamses—dark, devoted, watching you like the sun rose just for them to see you bask in it.
The first night is quiet, warm, and weirdly domestic.
You’ve barely been there three hours and the place already smells like cedar, mugwort, and a hint of your lavender-chamomile oil mix. You put salt in the corners before your bags were even unpacked, drew little protection sigils in charcoal on the bottom of the soap dish, saged the living room like it was second nature. There's a diffuser humming with lavender and chamomile, and the record player’s already spinning something dark and dreamy. It's homey in a way that shouldn't make sense, not on base, not here. You move with the calm of someone who knows how to take up space without asking—and the house adjusts to you like it’s been waiting.
And Price—he’s just standing there. Watching. Arms crossed, back against the kitchen doorway. That same half-smirk he wears during debriefs, when the mission’s going sideways and he knows exactly how to fix it. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask. Just studies you like a blueprint he already committed to memory.
He knew you'd do this. You were the one he picked.
It wasn’t even a hard choice.
Kate had smacked the file down on the table, still warm from the printer. “This one’s new. Little witchy. Soft, smart. Total sweetheart. Like if Morticia Addams was Gen Z with nipple piercings.”
Price raised a brow, flipping it open.
“Combat support, certified in psych ops, trauma-informed, high praise from every commanding officer, no notes.”
Price had stared at your photo for a long minute. Braids, piercings, that tiny tilt of your smile like you knew something the camera didn’t.
He thought about his team—lethal, loyal, touch-starved.
He didn’t even blink. Just tapped the photo once and said, “That one.”
He didn’t say why. But he knew.
The team had been running cold. Burned out and stretched thin. They didn’t need another soldier.
They needed something else. Something warm. Gentle hands. Velvet rope. Sass and safety in equal measure.
They needed a hearth.
So now here you are. In the oversized TF141 base quarters, you’re in soft black shorts and an old band tee knotted at your waist, legs bare and golden under the overhead lights. Your pick-and-drop braids fall down your back, shifting with every step like they’ve got their own opinions. You’ve got a quiet little smile, but there’s confidence behind it—like you already clocked every exit and decided to stay anyway. Your piercings glint when you talk. And you’ve been talking, sweet and easy, filling up the rooms with sound.
Soap is the first to break.
Of course he is.
You’re bent over near the coffee table, putting down your little lavender-chamomile mix in the oil diffuser, with a calm little hum on your lips, and he’s watching like it’s the only thing on Earth that matters. He’s been good. Price made sure of that—laid down the rules in that tone no one argues with. “Let ‘em settle in. No jumping ‘em like dogs in heat.”
But Soap has never had patience. His thigh’s been bouncing all night. His mouth presses into a tight line every time you pass him in those damn shorts.
Finally, he leans one arm on the kitchen counter, trying to play it cool like he isn't hard under those cargo pants even though you can feel the tension roll off him.
"Y’know…” he starts, voice rough like gravel, “we’ve been real well-behaved. Considering how good you look in that lil top, Bunny.”
You don't even look up.
"You think that earns you a reward?"
The way he chokes?
Please.
Gaz is second. Less obvious than Soap, but sneakier.
He brings you tea before you ask for it, knows how you like it by day three. Touches your shoulder gently when he passes behind you. Sits so close on the couch you could tuck into his side without even moving.
When you talk music, he listens like you’re reading scriptures. He offers you his headphones. Notices the way your lip liner fades into gloss. Asks about your tattoos with soft curiosity, not hungry lust—but his eyes always drop to your mouth before he looks back up.
He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t try to lead.
Just…makes space. Opens doors. Let’s you step through.
He’s smoother, quieter, but he’s just as caught
Ghost is last.
Not because he doesn’t want you.
Because he does.
At first, he barely speaks. He watches you in the kitchen, watching the way you move while you sing under your breath, stirring a pot of soup like you’ve done it a hundred times. Siouxsie plays low on your phone. Your hips sway in rhythm with the music, your voice soft.
He leans in the doorway. Silent. A shadow with sharp edges and tired eyes.
Eventually, he kisses you. Soft. Quick. A little clumsy. Hesitant like he’s scared it’ll break something inside him. You blink, stunned, and he mutters, "Just…shut up. Don’t make it a thing." Then walks off like his heart wasn’t pounding loud enough to hear across the room.
But what really breaks him?
It's the couch.
You’re curled up in long flared leggings, scrolling through your playlist while Soap’s head rests lazily in your lap. Your fingers rake through his hair without even thinking. Ghost is nearby. Tense. Silent. Watching. Like he’s fighting something tooth and nail.
You meet his eyes.
Then pat your thigh.
No words. Just an offer.
He stares. Long enough you think maybe he’ll just walk away again.
But he moves and obeys.
Kneels. Slow. Controlled. He lays his head in your lap, mask still on and you start to rub his scalp through the fabric. Your nails drag just right and he exhales like you just freed him from gravity. Like all the tension in his body decided to leave at once.
Price watches from the doorway, and—for the first time in a long time—he smiles.
Because this?
This was his idea.
He knew what his boys needed.
Not just someone to warm their beds.
They needed softness. Sweetness. A bit of witchcraft and a whole lot of care.
pairing: Morticia & Gomez Addams x Fem! stoner Reader
You’ve got your thighs out and you’re high as hell.
The sun’s still up but just barely, and the glitter on your chest catches it like a slow disco ball—warm gold dust catching in the dip of your cleavage, hugging the outline of your tank top like it has a vendetta. You smell like black cherry, weed, and something a little more sinful. You know it. You aim for it.
Short shorts doing the Lord’s work. Locs done up with fresh green streaks that catch the light just like your little sister’s tips. You’d braided hers this morning, let her pick the green herself at the beauty supply store, told her, "Don’t tell me I don’t spoil you, baby," when she squealed. Called her “darling” when she smacked a kiss to your cheek and asked if Wednesday Addams could come over this weekend.
You did not agree to this. Not really.
But now your phone buzzes just as you’re pulling up in the school pick-up line and you see the notification: a selfie from your little sister, all grins and chaos, cheeks round with excitement and the caption:
> me n wednesday n pugsley r doin a playdate sleepover at their house k? can u drive me? love u sissy ur da best <3
You blink. Read it twice. The tip of your pre-roll is still burning in the ashtray. You glance at the school doors as the kids begin to tumble out like little bats.
She’s already climbing into the car with her backpack half-zipped and mischief in her eyes.
“What the hell, baby,” you murmur, trying not to laugh as you start the car.
“Pleaaase,” she beams. “They said their parents are cool with it and I really want you to meet them. They’re obsessed with you. I told them everything!”
You glance at her, suspicious. “Everything?”
She nods solemnly. “All the best parts. Like how you smoke to calm down but never around me, and how your ex said you’re amazing with your tongue—”
“Excuse me—”
“—for arguing, duh,” she smirks. “And that you wear the best eyeliner in the world. Wednesday says she respects you already.”
“Oh my god.”
She shrugs, pleased. “Also I packed you pajamas. You’re staying.”
---
You don’t know what you expected the Addams mansion to look like in real life but… yeah. This is it. Massive, gothic, looming. It looks like the fog curls up to kiss it at night. You’re still holding your lighter—your baby painted glittery skulls and frogs and little chaotic hearts all over it with nail polish and stickers. You’d die for her and this lighter—like a lifeline as you walk up to the door in platform slides and a thin cardigan that does nothing to hide your thighs.
You're stoned. Faded enough that the cobwebs look extra pretty and the wind sounds like a violin. And baby girl is skipping up the steps like she owns the place.
You’re planning on dropping her off and escaping.
But the door opens before you knock. And standing there?
Her.
Morticia Addams. In the flesh. Taller than you thought, more severe in the face but soft in the eyes. Like she smells weakness. And you are very, very weak.
“Oh,” she hums, like the sight of you delights her. “You must be Sissy.”
You're blinking at her.
Behind her, Gomez Addams appears with a cane and a flourish, dressed to kill and smiling wide like he just opened a casket full of treasure.
“And this must be the famous older sister,” he says, looking you up and down like you’re made of temptation and sin. “You’ve already stolen our children’s hearts. It would be criminal not to steal ours, too.”
You blink again.
“Come in,” Morticia purrs, stepping aside. “We’ve been expecting you.”
You do not remember agreeing to this. You do not remember being this high. But now you’re inside the mansion and the door clicks shut behind you, and your thighs are sticking slightly to the velvet couch and both of them are sitting way too close.
---
You’re trying to be normal. You really are.
But Morticia keeps brushing her hand near your knee like she’s reaching for something and “accidentally” grazing your skin. Gomez leans close when he talks, so close you can smell his cologne and it makes your stomach twist up.
You’re cross-legged on the couch, thighs on full display, body glitter twinkling in the low light. And they are watching you like they want to eat you alive.
You don’t know what’s in the wine Morticia poured you, but it tastes like red velvet and regrets.
Gomez leans closer. “And you said your sister just moved in with you, is that right?”
You nod. “She’s been with me for a few months. I just started pick-up duty.”
Morticia hums. “A shame. We would’ve noticed you right away. You’re… unforgettable.”
You shift in your seat. Self-conscious. Your thighs, your belly, the sway of your hips when you walk—all the things your exes made you feel too much for.
But neither of them look away.
Gomez’s eyes trace the slope of your chest before politely darting up. Morticia’s gaze lingers. Like she wants to bite.
“She smells divine,” Morticia says suddenly.
You stiffen.
Gomez inhales dramatically. “Black cherry and… something wicked. My god.”
Morticia smirks. “Don’t say god in front of her thighs.”
“Not now, my love,” he chides, though his eyes stay right on you.
---
Your little sister is giggling in the other room with Wednesday and Pugsley. You’re only just out of earshot when she yells:
“She’s single! And so hot, right?! You guys should date her!! Her exes were all idiots anyway. She needs to get laid!”
You drop your head into your hands. “I’m gonna kill her.”
Morticia laughs—laughs—and it’s the softest, sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.
“We’d adore getting to know her better,” she calls back to your sister. Then, to you, low and rich: “...In every possible way.”
You stare at her. “Are you two always like this?”
“Only when we’re in love,” Gomez says cheerfully, winking.
Morticia leans forward, one red-nailed hand barely brushing your locs. She doesn’t touch—respects the crown. But you feel the ghost of it. The want.
“I’d love to feel your hair under my hands,” she murmurs. “But I’d rather ask first.”
Your throat goes dry.
“I—yeah. I’d like that.”
She smiles, all dark lips and danger.
Gomez sighs wistfully. “We’re trying to behave."
“But she smells so good,” Morticia purred, her eyes never leaving you.
“Not now, dear,” Gomez added softly, though his gaze lingered just a moment too long.
---
You don’t leave that night. You don't want to.
Your little sister knew exactly what she was doing.
She hands you a silk bag with your pajamas and a smug grin.
“I told you you’d stay,” she whispers, kissing your cheek and skipping off with Wednesday like they run the place.
You turn to Morticia and Gomez, your heart pounding.
Gomez offers his arm. “Shall we get you settled in, mi amor?”
Morticia leans in, eyes heavy. “You’ll sleep in our wing. It’s… quieter.”
Your chest flutters. Your thighs tremble.
You’re already theirs.
---
Next morning: You’re still there. Legs bare under one of Gomez’s robes, glitter still clinging to your skin like devotion. Your sister saunters down the hall with Wednesday, cocky as hell.
Summary: Ghost invites the team over to meet his partner. They expect grim. They get a goth haven and a soft, shirtless Simon and suddenly nothing makes sense anymore.
(long so under keep reading)
Group Chat: “The Lads”
Ghost:
come over
tonight
drinks and dinner at mine
time you met my partner
Soap:
wait what partner??
Gaz:
you’ve been dating someone????
Price:
this is a trap isn’t it
Ghost:
no trap
just show up
you’ll get it when you see
___
You open the front door to the sound of the team’s muffled surprise. Their footsteps fill your hallway as they step inside the apartment — yours, all yours — every corner drenched in deep, dark velvets, flickering candlelight, and subtle gold accents. A haven wrapped in shadows with the scent of sandalwood hanging thick.
You’re calm but sharp: locs loosely tied back, ink curling over your arms, rings catching the candlelight on your fingers, and gold jewelry glinting just so. Black clothes, effortless, a resting bitch face that tells people “don’t mess with me” but eyes that betray your warmth. You smile at them warmly and walk back towards Simon.
From the living room they can see Simon is already there. No mask. No armor. Just him, in soft grey sweatpants, chest bare, muscles relaxed and unguarded. His dimples flash when he smiles, that easy, teasing smile reserved just for you.
He’s leaning back against the couch, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your hand — and you’re perched on his lap, slipping seamlessly into that easy domestic intimacy.
Soap, Gaz, and Price stand frozen at the entrance, blinking in disbelief.
Simon looks up and grins wide. “About time you guys met them.” His voice is low and confident, that quiet authority that never needed a mask.
You catch his eye, and your lips twitch into a smile as he shifts, fingers briefly slipping beneath your shirt, tracing the curve of your ribs.
“So, yeah,” Simon says, eyes glinting as he leans closer, “they own the place. I just crash here.”
The team’s eyes dart everywhere. Soap can’t stop staring at the gold rings circling your fingers. Gaz’s mouth is slightly open, clearly distracted by Simon’s bare chest and the way his sweatpants hang low. Price clears his throat but his gaze is shamelessly fixed on the subtle bulge Simon’s hand is shielding.
Simon smirks. “Yeah. Home.” He presses a kiss to your temple, voice dropping just low enough for the team to hear. “And nobody’s keeping secrets.”
You grin, leaning into his touch. “Not anymore.”
___
Dinner is loud and warm.
Pizza boxes scattered across the coffee table, mismatched glasses of wine and whiskey, stories tossed back and forth like old songs. You pass a bottle to Soap with an arched brow and he blushes just trying to take it from your tattooed hand.
Simon keeps close, casually possessive — a hand resting on your thigh, or your waist, or tugging at your shirt just enough to remind everyone exactly where you belong.
At one point, you say something sharp and funny and Simon laughs — full and unguarded. His dimples show again, deep and rare.
Gaz damn near drops his drink. “Wait—you have dimples?!”
Simon shrugs like it’s nothing, but he’s watching them closely now.
“The no mask really fucked with you lot, huh?” he says, voice low and teasing, mouth curved in that slow, knowing way.
Soap stammers, completely undone. Gaz’s eyes flicker between Simon and you, caught off guard by how open and real Simon is without the usual armor.
Price clears his throat, trying to look composed but failing miserably.
Simon’s grin deepens. “Didn’t think it’d have this effect, but hey—guess I’m just full of surprises.”
You nudge his leg with yours under the table, and he gives your knee a squeeze.
___
Later, when the guys drift into the kitchen for another round, you and Simon stay behind in the living room.
His arm slides tighter around you, his fingers drifting beneath your shirt, slow and warm. His other hand rests on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.
“Kiss me,” you murmur, voice hushed.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The kiss is molten. Lazy at first, like a stretch after a long nap. Then it deepens, sharpens. His tongue slides against yours, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. One hand cups the side of your face, the other gripping your waist, your shirt riding up as he pulls you even closer. When you part, your lips are swollen, eyes glassy, and Simon’s grinning—dimples deep, mouth still chasing yours like he’s not done yet.
“Missed you,” he breathes against your cheek.
Before you can answer, you hear them—bootsteps approaching, half-muted voices.
You barely have time to shift before the team walks back in.
They freeze.
Johnny’s holding a bottle of whiskey and a set of tumblers. He drops one.
Gaz walks into the back of him with a low oof, and Price just… blinks.
Simon’s hand is still under your shirt. You’re still in his lap, his lips still kiss-wet, and your face reads pure satisfaction.
“Everything alright?” Simon drawls, completely unbothered.
Soap’s voice is way too high. “Y-Yeah! Yeah, all good, we—uh, just… wow.”
Gaz’s eyes dart between you and Simon’s hand, his gaze lingering on Simon’s chest, his abs, the lazy sprawl of his legs in those grey sweatpants. His lips part like he wants to say something but he’s forgotten how words work.
Price, to his credit, recovers quickest. “We interrupt something?”
Simon just tilts his head, mouth curving. “A little.”
He shifts, sitting upright—and the movement makes it worse. The sweats stretch. Muscles flex. You swear Soap whines under his breath.
Then Simon glances at them, slow and considering. “That was a welcome home for me,” he says, voice smooth. “So…”
He looks directly at Johnny. “Who’s next?”
Soap goes red. Gaz actually chokes.
Simon raises an eyebrow, not quite smirking, but close. “You lot always this flustered, or am I special?”
Gaz, flustered: “You’re—fit.”
Soap, absolutely unable to stop himself: “D’you always look like that under the gear? ‘Cause fuck.”
Simon just leans back, hand still resting on your thigh. “I’m off duty, Johnny. You nervous?”
“Oh, I’m—” Soap clears his throat and shifts, very visibly. “Not nervous. Just tryin’ not to do something stupid.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” you say, lips quirking, eyes on Gaz.
Gaz makes a sound that might be a laugh or a moan. It’s unclear.
Price sits down with a low sigh, clearly exhausted by everyone’s thirst. “Bloody hell, it’s gonna be a long night.”
Simon, deadpan: “Hope so.”
You grin widely and the team? They’re utterly doomed.
The faint smell of cherry and weed lingers in your kitchen, mingling with the sharp tang of hair dye. Pink this time—bright, unapologetic, and a little rebellious. Your little sister bounces on her heels, the green from last time faded into nothing but a memory.
“Do it now, Sissy! Make it good,” she demands, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming with mischief.
You grin, unbothered. “Relax, baby. You’re about to have hair that slays and matches mine again.”
She squeals, tossing a handful of black-and-pink streaks toward you like confetti. You kneel down, careful, precise, the tattooed skin of your arms catching the morning light as you work the dye through her hair. Glitter dust clings stubbornly to your collarbones and chest, a lingering reminder of the night before.
Wednesday stands stiffly behind her brother, arms crossed, scowling but when your sister tugs her forward, whispering, “Just a little! I wanna match!”, Wednesday relents with the smallest nod. Only a few strands for her—tiny pink streaks—but the effect is immediate: the corners of her mouth twitch upward, a rare smile.
You brush a wayward pink strand behind your own ear, smirking. “See? Team chaos, bonded by color.”
A quick hit from your joint calms the edge of your nerves—you’re a little buzzed, like always, because school events are hellish, and you refuse to be vanilla for the PTA. You’re dressed to kill anyway: a deep-plunging button-up wrap over your chest, pencil skirt clinging in all the right places, heels that make your legs look endless, gold jewelry catching the light, tattoos flowing across exposed skin. Even here, even now, you are chaos incarnate.
Your sister twirls, delighted with her hair. “Now let’s go! Play’s in thirty!”
Your little sister grabs the last of the cupcakes from the counter, carefully stacking them in their container. Black frosting swirled with pink sugar, the perfect complement to the streaks you just put in her hair. She spins, excitement practically vibrating from every limb.
“Okay, Sissy! I’m gonna hand these out before the play!” she squeals. “Just a few to the parents, then the rest on the snack table!”
You give her a small nod, taking a slow drag from your joint one last time. Glitter clings stubbornly to your collarbones, chest, and shoulders, the pink streaks in your locs catching the morning sun. Pencil skirt, heels, plunging wrap over your chest—everything screams polished chaos. You glance at Wednesday and Pugsley, already buzzing with nerves, and a rush of warmth hits your chest. You’ve adopted them in a way even Morticia and Gomez would admire.
The drive to the school is a mix of black coffee, laughter, and your subtle buzz. Your sister cradles the cupcakes, balancing them carefully as she counts them off. Wednesday sits stiffly, glaring slightly, but the tiny pink streaks in her hair betray her secret approval. Pugsley babbles excitedly, bouncing in his seat, while you hum quietly to yourself, content.
Pulling up, your gaze catches Gomez and Morticia before anyone else. Gomez is sharp in a black suit with subtle red highlights and a cute vest peeking out; Morticia glides beside him, black dress flowing, red brooch catching the sun in perfect synchrony. They seem casual, almost poised, but you know them—the quiet anticipation radiates.
Your sister bounds out first, cupcakes in hand, passing a few to the lingering parents with a bright, sincere grin.
“Try one! They’re good,” she chirps.
A mother murmurs, voice clipped but curious:
“Well… I suppose she's … responsible. And the cupcakes are… really good.”
Another scoffs, muttering, “I guess she tries hard… too hard maybe.”
Your sister doesn’t care. She beams and sets the remaining cupcakes on the snack table, then hurries backstage to join the kids.
You crouch near the stage, brushing a stray strand from Wednesday’s face. “Remember, this is your moment. Don’t let anyone else’s noise shake you,” you whisper, hand lingering gently on Pugsley’s shoulder. Every word, every touch, radiates that quiet, confident nurturing that makes the kids light up.
And then they see you.
Gomez freezes, jaw tightening slightly, pupils dilating. Morticia’s eyes narrow, dark approval flickering across her face. Your outfit commands attention, but it’s your energy with the kids that ignites them. You treat Wednesday and Pugsley like your own, guiding, praising, encouraging… and that, more than anything, makes them hunger.
Gomez rests a hand lightly on his thigh, subtle at first, grounding himself. Morticia notices, her fingers brushing against his arm, a gentle reminder: “Patience, love.”
Other parents whisper.
“Do you see her? Tattoos and all…”
“She’s… goth, obviously. But… their kids are happy. Very happy.”
“Hmm. Well… cupcakes were good. Can’t argue with that.”
You brush off side-eyes and murmurs with a small smile, adjusting a stray lock of Wednesday’s hair. Every small act, every confident word, feeds Gomez’s tension. He shifts, hand tightening subtly against your thigh. Morticia hums softly beside him, leaning closer, lips just brushing his ear: “Soon.”
Your sister and Wednesday move with grace onstage, Pugsley beaming. Your little pep talk before the performance has clearly worked. Gomez’s subtle bulge, already noticeable, is growing. By the final act, the pressure is undeniable; his hand grips your thigh with just enough force to remind himself of what he wants. Morticia notices, smirking darkly, letting her hand rest lightly on his other arm, leaning in close to whisper teasingly: “Can’t hide it any longer, can you?”
You notice the subtle change in him, the tension coiling fully, a bulge pressing through the suit. You glance at Morticia, who smirks knowingly, and back at Gomez, whose jaw is tight, his focus torn between the stage and the way he wants you pressed against him.
By the end of the play, he is at full mast, fingers still gripping your thigh, every inch of him aching. Morticia’s calm, teasing presence beside him, hand on his arm, only heightens the torment. You straighten subtly, noticing how impossible he looks, and a quiet smirk tugs at your lips.
The final curtain falls, applause booming in the auditorium, kids grinning, flushed with success. You turn toward the stage exit to gather your little chaos crew—but before anyone can even reach you, a hand—a firm, hot hand—grabs yours.
Gomez. Tight, urgent, practically dragging you toward the first private space he sees. His eyes are dark, predatory, desperate. Morticia glides behind, perfectly composed, heels clicking softly, eyes alight with that wicked approval.
“You… you’ve been… driving me mad,” Gomez murmurs, voice low, almost breathless, as he steers you down a quiet hallway, away from the lingering parents and curious children.
Morticia’s voice follows, soft but sharp, teasing in that way only she can: “Watching you with them… my love, it was… intoxicating. The way she guides them, nurtures them… it makes me ache in ways I didn’t expect.”
You glance at her, and her dark, approving smirk sends a shiver down your spine. Gomez presses closer, hands tightening on your wrist and waist, pulling you flush against him.
The door to the small private room clicks shut behind you. Gomez buries his face in your neck instantly, inhaling, murmuring praises—your name, your scent, the faint glitter that still clings to your skin, the way your body radiates warmth and authority. One hand grips your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered, chest pressed hard to yours, subtle grinding against you already betraying his desperation.
Morticia steps behind him, hand lightly resting against his back, leaning close enough that her warmth brushes yours. Gomez grips her hand instinctively, anchoring himself as he waits, trembling with restraint, for her signal.
“I… I can’t…” he groans, voice raw, broken, fumbling, “I can’t even… kiss you yet…” His lips hover against your neck, grazing, barely moving, one hand buried in your waist, the other clutching Morticia’s hand like it’s a lifeline.
Morticia murmurs softly, teasing and commanding all at once: “Soon, mi amor. Wait for me. Control yourself, and you may have her entirely.”
Gomez groans again, grinding slightly, helpless, hips pressing into you, chest to chest, each inhale shallow. His desperation is tangible—you can feel it through every press of his body, every subtle tremble of his hands. He’s been thinking of this—thinking of you—nonstop for the past two weeks. Since dropping off your little sister at the Addams house, since he and Morticia have been holding back, craving, remembering every touch, every curve, every glittering inch of you.
Morticia leans closer, her hand trailing along his side, murmuring low against his ear: “You want her, yes… but remember why we wait. Imagine her… with our children. Imagine making this… permanent. Imagine her… part of us.”
Gomez shudders violently, hips pressing harder into you, grinding just enough that you feel the desperate tension pressing through his trousers. He’s trembling, near snapping, but Morticia’s presence, calm and teasing, keeps him on the knife’s edge.
You feel him shiver in your arms, hear the guttural, stifled whines that escape him as his desperation builds, every muscle taut. His chest presses fully to yours, hands gripping tight, eyes closed, head buried in your neck as he murmurs praises—how beautiful you are, how perfect, how he’s waited two weeks to feel you like this again.
Morticia steps closer behind him, pressing lightly, her own desire for you mirrored in her voice: “Seeing her… care for our children… it makes me want her too. The way she nurtures them… the way she has them wrapped around her little finger… she’s ours. And we’ll make it so.”
Gomez bites back a groan, trembling, grinding slightly, lost between Morticia’s guidance and his own primal need for you. One hand holds you, the other Morticia, and he rocks subtly, desperately, waiting, wishing, nearly breaking as he murmurs your name against your skin over and over.
The tension is unbearable, electric. You can feel it—the anticipation, the need, the shared desire of both your lovers, both entirely consumed by you. Gomez is right there, trembling, hips pressing, chest heaving—one more second, one word, one command from Morticia, and he would lose every ounce of restraint. You can feel it, smell it, taste the desperation in the air between the three of you, a slow, simmering storm that promises utter chaos—and pleasure—soon.
---
Gomez shudders violently, grinding harder, nearly losing himself. He can feel himself on the edge, hips pressing, chest heaving, every desperate whine barely contained. His eyes are dark, intense, almost feral, waiting for the silent permission he craves from Morticia to let go, to lose himself entirely against you.
Your voice is soft, coaxing, unaware of the madness you’ve stirred: “Let me gather our kids, and I’ll meet you outside… we can go home after.”
The words hit like fire. Our kids… home…
Gomez freezes mid-grind. His head snaps up, jaw tight, pupils dilating. Morticia’s eyes snap toward you, smirk gone for the briefest heartbeat, a low groan escaping her throat.
“No,” Gomez breathes, almost growling, hips jerking in restraint. His hand tightens around your waist, the other still clenching Morticia’s, one leg subtly pressing against yours. “We… we need to go home. Now.”
Morticia murmurs low, sultry and commanding, against his ear: “Yes… we’ll collect them… quickly… mi amor. But she will be ours.”
Gomez physically pulls back, carefully—oh so carefully—from you, chest still heaving, one hand dragging along your back, one still holding Morticia’s. His erection is straining, bulge impossibly obvious now, every inch of him screaming in frustration. He swallows hard, muttering to himself, forcing control into every fiber of his being.
“We need… to… get them,” he groans, voice rough, a shuddering exhale escaping as he jerks you gently toward the door. “Go… go with me. We… we need to… move.”
You glance up, innocent smile still there, unaware of just how close he was to losing all restraint. “Okay… I’ll gather the kids…”
Gomez nearly snaps again, another guttural groan ripping from him, teeth pressed to keep from shoving you into the wall right then and there. Morticia huffs, eyes narrowing, fingers curling against his side. “Yes… we must… get them… quickly, mi amor,” she murmurs, voice thick with desire and amusement.
With a collective groan, the two of them practically drag you down the hallway, urgency radiating, one hand gripping each other, moving faster to corral the children before restraint fractures completely. Every step is a struggle—the friction, the pent-up lust, the thought of finally being home with you—and yet, they manage to gather the kids, hurry out, and almost stumble into the car with barely a pause.
Gomez is still trembling, hips subtly grinding against the air, chest heaving, muttering low curses and praises, every nerve screaming in anticipation of the moment they’ll finally be home and able to claim you entirely, Morticia perfectly at his side, equally desperate, equally gleaming with anticipation.
The world outside is chaos, but inside the car, every muscle tensed, every pulse racing, it’s clear: as soon as those doors close at the mansion, nothing will stop them from losing themselves to you again.
---
You lean into the driver’s side window of Gomez and Morticia’s car, the late-afternoon sun catching the glitter still on your shoulders, collarbones, chest. Your pencil skirt hugs every curve, your wrap plunging just enough that Gomez’s eyes darken immediately, and Morticia’s smirk widens with wicked amusement.
“The kids are restless,” you murmur, voice low, teasing. “I’ll see you when we’re all home.”
You press a quick kiss to Gomez’s cheek first, leaning over him just enough that he can see everything, your glitter catching the light, your chest hovering just above him. Then you reach over, tilting slightly to press a soft, deliberate kiss to Morticia’s cheek. His hand tightens on the wheel before he can stop himself, the subtle friction of your body against him enough to make him shiver and groan quietly.
Morticia hums low, fingers brushing his arm as she watches you, eyes dark, filled with approval and lust. “Perfect,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
You pull back, winking at them, and begin walking toward your car. The kids are already buzzing, excited, and you guide them in, buckling each safely into their seats.
From inside Gomez’s car, he’s breathing hard, teeth pressed together, jaw tight, one hand gripping the wheel, knuckles white. Morticia sits perfectly poised beside him, but her eyes betray her calm—the hunger, the need, the way seeing you like that makes her ache is obvious.
Gomez let's out a subtle groan, just a whine really, almost imperceptible over the engine. He adjusts himself slightly, desperate for friction, for something, but there’s nothing. Not yet. Morticia’s hand rests lightly against his thigh, a grounding touch, but the need radiates between them like a live wire.
You climb into your car, engine rumbling to life, kids safely strapped in. The drive begins, playful chatter from the backseat filling the car, completely oblivious to the storm you’ve just left behind.
Behind you, Gomez speeds along in their car, red highlights catching the sunlight, trying to keep control of both himself and the vehicle. One hand adjusts his bulge subtly, chest heaving, whispers of your name spilling from his lips. Morticia hums low beside him, fingers tracing his arm, guiding, teasing, keeping him tethered just enough.
By the time you arrive at your home, Gomez is trembling in his seat, hips rocking ever so slightly, whispering your name, his breath shaky and thick. Morticia watches him, amused and desperate herself, leaning close to whisper teasingly: “Soon, mi amor… all will be ours again.”
You park, guiding the kids out and inside. Gomez and Morticia wait a few minutes in the driveway, letting you settle everyone, letting the kids get deep into the house so they won’t witness what’s coming. Then, in perfect synch, they step out of their car, dark coats catching the late sunlight, and make a beeline for your door.
Gomez’s hand on the door handle, chest still heaving, barely able to look at you without grinding against the air in frustration. Morticia follows, eyes dark with hunger and amusement. You glance up at them, smile faintly, and feel the familiar storm brewing again—the moment when restraint teeters on the edge of breaking completely.
The kids are already upstairs, disappearing into the playroom, laughter echoing faintly through the hall. You step inside the mansion, and the air itself feels charged, alive. Gomez’s hands find your waist immediately, pulling you flush against him, body pressed chest to chest. His breath is hot against your neck, whispering your name with the kind of desperation he’s been holding in since the drive.
“We should have known…” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, teasing, breath catching in low groans. “Seeing you with the kids… it would affect us. It… it destroys me, mi amor.”
Morticia glides beside him, hand trailing lightly over your arm, smile wicked. “You’ve made them ours, haven’t you? Our children, and our hearts. And now… so are you.”
Gomez groans, nipping at your shoulder, grinding subtly, one hand sliding along your hip, the other clutching Morticia’s. “We’re going to… make this permanent. You, the kids… your sister… part of this… part of us. Every inch, every heartbeat. Ours, cara mia. All of it.”
Every word, every murmur, sends shivers through you, and you press closer, hand brushing against his chest, feeling the sharp strain of his erection pressing insistently.
They guide you down the hall, Gomez pressing a little harder at every turn, unable to keep from grazing your body, murmuring praises against your neck. Morticia’s fingers trail along your arms, teasing, her presence hot, her dark amusement filling the air as she whispers: “We’ve wanted this for weeks. And now… finally, you’re here. Finally… ours.”
Gomez reaches the bedroom door first, almost fumbling with the handle as his desperation peaks. He steps in, pulling you forward, pressing you against the wall before the door closes, one hand gripping your waist, the other dragging Morticia along behind him.
The moment the door clicks behind them, Gomez loses all pretense. He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing lightly, hips pressing impossibly hard into yours, grinding slowly, each movement teasing the edge of his control. Morticia follows from behind, hands tracing your sides, lips brushing along your shoulders and collarbone, murmuring low, dark praise.
Clothes fly in a chaotic, slow-motion storm—skirts, wraps, belts, everything discarded in the heat of pent-up lust finally unleashed. Gomez’s hands roam greedily, grinding against you, hips pressing, whispering your name against your neck as if it’s a prayer and a plea.
“This… this is everything I’ve wanted,” Gomez groans, voice rough, nearly breaking as his hands roam, sliding up your back, gripping, tugging you flush against him. “Every… every day… thinking of you… imagining this… I can’t…”
Morticia hums softly, a wicked, dark purr against your ear. “We’ve dreamed of you, cara mia. Every whispered promise… every cruel thought of leaving you… gone now. You are ours. Completely. And we will show you just how… desired you are.”
The three of you collapse together onto the bed, chest to chest, arms and lips tangled, fingers grasping, teeth grazing, murmurs, groans, and whispered promises filling the room. Gomez presses your body fully into his, grinding, whining lowly, unable to contain the need. Morticia teases, guides, and holds him back just enough to make him desperate, every inch of her presence stoking the fire between you.
Every movement, every touch, every whisper cements it: you, the kids, the chaos, the glitter, the pink streaks, the adopted family—all of it—is theirs. And tonight, at long last, they will claim it fully.
Gomez shifts, pressing you harder into the mattress, grinding slowly, unable to hold back the whines escaping him, one hand gripping your waist, the other clutching Morticia’s as if she alone can anchor him. His lips find yours again, teeth nipping, murmurs of your name spilling like sacred chants.
Morticia leans down, lips tracing along your jaw, teasing the edge of your ear, trailing a hand along your hip, tugging at your waist just enough to make you arch into her touch. “Do you feel it, mi amor?” she murmurs. “The way he aches for you… the way we both have dreamed of this… for you… with you…”
You gasp as Gomez’s hands slide along your sides, fingers pressing into every curve, tracing the glitter, the tattoos, the soft skin. He whispers over and over, each breath catching, “You’re mine… ours… finally… finally here…” Grinding low, pressing against you, murmuring praises, nipping at your collarbone, chest flush to chest.
Morticia guides him, hands along your curves, teasing and steadying, whispering, “Take your time… savor her… make up for every moment we’ve waited… every day we’ve been apart… every touch we’ve imagined…”
Gomez whines low, grinding impossibly, hips moving with the restraint he can barely hold, pressing his forehead to yours, murmuring, “I can’t… I’ve waited too long… every night… every thought… just you…”
Morticia kisses your shoulder, sliding down to your chest, lips grazing lightly over skin, teasing, her hands tracing along your body, feeling every inch, guiding, making you arch, making you moan. “We’ll take everything,” she murmurs. “Every inch… every curve… every sigh… finally, mi amor, finally…”
Morticia presses close behind him, murmuring encouragements, tracing your curves, teasing Gomez, keeping him on edge, heightening every sensation, every gasp, every moan. She presses her lips along your neck and shoulder, fingers sliding along your waist, occasionally pinching or brushing your nipples through fabric, keeping your attention divided, deliciously confused, entirely consumed.
You arch, moans spilling, fingers clutching sheets as they take what they’ve waited for, every touch, every murmur, every grind of hips, every whispered declaration of possession, every single thing they swore they’d do when finally with you again… all of it happening, slow, sinful, poetic, and absolute.
The room is heat, whispers, grinding, nips, moans—Gomez low, desperate, whining, Morticia teasing, praising, touching, all of it pointed entirely at you, worshiping every inch, marking every curve, building you into theirs completely, utterly, as the three of you collapse into chaotic, erotic symphony.
And then—he snaps.
A low, guttural groan escapes him as he cums fast, gripping you tight, pressing himself into you, grinding slightly, still whispering your name in delirious praise. His release is hot, shuddering, but it doesn’t slow him down—if anything, it fuels him, giving him reason to worship you harder.
Morticia leans in, lips grazing your neck, teasing your earlobe, fingers tracing along your sides and chest. Gomez nips lightly along your shoulder, murmuring praises, pressing kisses across your collarbone, neck, chest. His hands roam freely now, unrestrained, all pent-up tension melting into the way he worships you, tracing your curves, teasing your nipples, pressing your body flush to his.
Morticia guides him, murmuring encouragements, whispering your name, tracing tattoos, brushing glittered skin, every movement designed to heighten the pleasure, stoke the obsession.
“Do you feel it, mi amor?” Morticia whispers against your ear. Her lips trail along your shoulder, then down your collarbone. “The way he aches for you… the way we’ve imagined this… every day apart… it’s all here.”
Gomez groans, one hand sliding up your back, the other pressing your hip to his, grinding harder, whispering praises in your ear. “I’ve wanted you… every second… thought of this… all of you… ours…”
You tilt your head, pressing back against him, running your hands over both of them, tangling your fingers in Morticia’s hair, pressing your palms against Gomez’s chest. “You’re both… insatiable,” you murmur, and the words make them shiver.
Morticia smiles darkly, nipping at your earlobe. “And you, mi amor, have made us ache… watching you with the children, with your sister… everything about you… it destroys us.”
---
They take turns, alternating attention—Gomez worshiping your chest, neck, thighs, pressing into you low, murmuring, grinding, whining; Morticia teasing your sides, neck, chest, tracing tattoos, kissing, murmuring encouragements. You’re arched, trembling, moaning, every inch of you worshiped, glittered skin, pink streaks, tattoos, every curve praised, touched, kissed, ground against.
Hours pass in whispered names, low groans, grinding, kisses, teeth grazing, nails tracing, murmurs of obsession, praise, and worship. Gomez whispers deliriously, low, broken phrases: “Every inch… ours… finally… perfect… finally…” Morticia murmurs against your neck, shoulder, tracing, teasing, guiding, holding him back just enough to make him ache harder.
By the end, you’re trembling, glittered and glowing, exhausted, every curve worshiped, kissed, touched, praised. Gomez presses low against your neck, grinding lightly, murmuring delirious praises, nearly undone again, Morticia pressing close behind, whispering darkly, guiding, teasing, adoring.
Finally, they collapse around you, chest to chest, tangled limbs, glittered skin glistening under the soft moonlight, whispering names, murmurs of “ours… finally… ours…”, hands still tracing, holding, grounding, completely obsessed with you, worshiping every inch of your body, every curve, every tattoo, every streak of pink in your hair, every line of glitter on your skin—the three of you utterly entwined, owned, and adored.
omg it took me forever to find this 😭 and I got so busy but I'm outta school finally so voila.
part 2 to this post
Task Force 141 x Masc Black Stoner!Reader
Your phone buzzes at 2:47 AM and you don't even check who it is before you're smiling into your pillow.
It's been like this for three months. Random texts at weird hours because they're in different time zones, doing god-knows-what in god-knows-where. Soap sends you blurry photos of sunrises with captions like "better view from yer fire escape tho". Gaz texts you song recommendations that always somehow match your mood. Price sends single-word check-ins: "Eating?" "Sleeping?" "Rent?". And Ghost—
Ghost sends you pictures of stray cats he finds on missions. No captions. Just cats.
You're so fucking gone for all of them it's embarrassing.
Tonight's text is from Soap: "miss that bloody fire escape"
You type back: "miss u guys smoking all my shit for free"
Three dots. Then: "what if we paid ye back in person"
Your heart does something stupid in your chest.
"you back in the city?"
"tomorrow. same spot? 8pm?"
You stare at the message for a full minute. Then you're out of bed, looking at your apartment with fresh eyes—the same peeling paint, the same rattling fire escape, the same one fucking lightbulb. Except now you're seeing it through their eyes. What if it's too pathetic? What if three months of texting built you up into something you're not, and they show up and remember you're just some broke kid who got lucky one night?
You text back anyway: "yeah. I'll roll something special"
Soap: "gonna hold ye to that bonnie"
You don't sleep the rest of the night.
By 7:45 PM you've changed clothes four times, rolled and re-rolled the same blunt twice, and nearly talked yourself out of this six different ways.
It's just weed. Just hanging out. Except your hands are shaking when you light the candle you definitely didn't buy just for this, and you maybe cleaned your apartment for the first time in weeks, and you're wearing the hoodie that makes your collarbones look good—
Boots on pavement.
Your whole body goes still.
You force yourself to walk slow to the window, push it open casual-like, step onto the fire escape like you weren't just vibrating with anxiety thirty seconds ago.
And there they are.
Four of them, looking up at you like they never left. Soap's grinning so wide you can see it from here. Gaz has his hands in his pockets, head tilted, that easy smile that made you stupid last time already creeping across his face. Price tips his chin up in acknowledgment, and Ghost—
Ghost is staring at you like he's memorizing you.
"Took you long enough," you call down, and your voice only shakes a little.
"Had to make sure ye missed us," Soap shouts back.
"Conceited much?"
"Is it conceited if it's true?"
You can't help it—you laugh, real and bright, and something in your chest unclenches. "Get up here before I smoke this whole thing myself."
They move like they've done this before, easy and coordinated, boots clanging on the metal steps. And then they're there, cramming onto your fire escape, bigger and warmer and more real than any text message.
Soap immediately slings an arm around your shoulders. "Missed ye, pretty boy."
You duck your head, grinning into your hoodie. "Yeah, yeah."
"He's blushing," Gaz observes, leaning against the railing in that same spot, like he's reclaiming territory. "That's cute."
"I'm not—shut up, I'm just—it's warm out."
"It's sixty degrees," Price rumbles, and even he's smiling now.
Ghost doesn't say anything, but when you hand him the blunt first (because you remember he never asks for it, just waits), his gloved fingers brush yours and hold for a second longer than necessary. Those dark eyes crinkle at the corners.
You're so fucked.
It should feel the same as last time—the easy passing of the blunt, the comfortable silence, the city humming below. And it does, except it doesn't. Because now you know things.
You know Soap texts like he talks—chaotic, affectionate, too many emojis. You know Gaz sends you voice memos when he's bored, just talking about nothing, and you've listened to every single one at least twice. You know Price checks in on you more than your own family does. You know Ghost's favorite emoji is 🐈⬛ and he will fight you if you suggest he use any other cat.
Three months of texting turned them from strangers into—something else. Something that makes your chest tight when Soap's thumb rubs circles on your shoulder. Something that makes you hyperaware of how close Gaz is sitting, knee pressed against yours. Something that makes you notice when Price is watching you with that quiet, knowing look.
"You've been good?" Gaz asks, soft enough that it feels like a private question even with everyone here.
You shrug. "Same old. Still broke, still looking for work that doesn't make me want to—" You stop, laugh a little. "Yeah. I'm good."
"Liar," Price says, not unkindly.
You glance at him. He's leaning against your window frame like he owns it, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the low light.
"Rent was rough this month, wasn't it," he continues. It's not a question.
Your stomach drops. "How did you—"
"You stopped sendin' memes in the group chat for a week," Soap supplies. "And ye always send memes when yer avoidin' somethin'."
"We pay attention," Gaz adds, quieter.
You don't know what to do with that. With being known. Being seen. You take the blunt back with shaking hands, take a too-long drag to buy yourself time.
"We talked about it," Price says carefully. "The four of us."
Oh god. "Talked about what?"
"About whether you'd punch us if we offered to help."
You nearly choke. "Help—what—no. Absolutely not."
"Told you," Ghost mutters. It's the first thing he's said all night and it makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.
"Im not a charity case—I'm not—" You're stumbling over words, face hot. "I don't need—"
"Didn't say you needed," Gaz cuts in gently. "Said we wanted to."
Soap squeezes your shoulder. "Ye shared yer weed with four sketchy military bastards, bonnie. Least we can do is make sure ye can keep the lights on."
"That's not—this isn't—" You gesture helplessly at the space between all of you. "What even is this? You guys text me for three months and then show up and try to pay my rent? That's insane."
"Is it?" Price asks.
You look at him. At all of them. Soap's still got his arm around you, protective and warm. Gaz is watching you with something careful and wanting in his expression. Ghost has shifted closer, solid presence at your back. And Price—
Price is looking at you like he's waiting for you to catch up to something they all already know.
"What do you want from me?" you ask, and it comes out smaller than you meant it to.
"Everything," Soap says simply. "If ye'll have us."
The blunt's burning down to nothing in your fingers. The city sounds fade to background static. Your heart is doing something complicated and terrifying.
"All of you?" you whisper.
"All of us," Gaz confirms.
"That's—people don't—"
"We're not people," Ghost says dryly. "We're professionals."
It startles a laugh out of you, broken and wet. "Professionals at what, exactly?"
"Sharing," Soap grins.
You're going to combust. "You can't just—you can't say things like that—"
"Why not?" Gaz reaches over, takes the dead blunt from your fingers, sets it aside. Then he's cupping your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Been thinking about you for three months, pretty boy. We all have."
"Texted you more than we texted each other," Soap adds, nose brushing your temple.
"Drove us mad," Ghost confirms from behind you.
Price hasn't moved, but his eyes are so fond it hurts to look at. "Your call, love. We're not here to pressure you. But we're here."
You're shaking. When did you start shaking?
"I don't have anything," you hear yourself say. "I'm broke, I'm a mess, I can't—I can't give you anything—"
"You smiled at us from a fire escape and shared the last of your weed," Gaz says quietly. "You texted Soap back at 4 AM when he couldn't sleep. You sent Ghost every stray cat picture you found. You let Price worry about you. You gave us everything already."
Oh.
Oh.
"Stay," you breathe. "Tonight. Please."
Soap makes a wounded noise against your neck. "Fuck, yeah, bonnie. Yeah."
Your apartment's too small for five people. Your mattress is probably going to collapse. You've got nothing to offer them except yourself—
But when Gaz kisses you, soft and sure, and Soap laughs against your shoulder, and Ghost's hand settles warm on your hip, and Price says "We've got you" like a promise—
You’ve been broke so long it feels like a permanent state of being.
Your apartment’s got peeling paint, your fire escape rattles when you step on it, and the only lightbulb in your kitchen buzzes like it’s got beef with you personally. But it’s yours. And on nights like this—warm breeze, faint hum of music from the corner store—you don’t mind so much.
You’re leaned against the rusted railing, blunt between your fingers, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, half-lidded eyes tracking the little pockets of movement in the street below. Same old city noise: somebody arguing over a parking spot, a distant car alarm, the faint bassline of a passing car.
Then you hear it—boots on pavement. Heavy. Measured. A low chuckle in an accent you can’t place.
You glance down.
That’s when you see them.
Four of them, moving like they own the block. You can tell instantly they’re not from around here. Too clean, too… tactical. The big guy in the beanie’s scanning the street like he’s clocking exits. The other tall one’s got a cap pulled low, jaw sharp, smile sharper. There’s another one with messy hair and a grin that looks dangerous in a fun way, and then—
…then there’s the masked one. Big as hell, arms crossed, looking like he could break a car in half with his bare hands.
You narrow your eyes, take a slow drag.
Military. Definitely military. Or mercs. Or some other expensive, scary flavor of dude.
You could just duck inside. But… nah. You’re too high to care, and the blunt’s hittin’ good.
“You boys lost or somethin’?” you call down, lazy, smoke curling from your lips.
The messy-haired one—thick accent, Scottish, you think—looks up first. And damn, he grins. “We’re grand, bonnie lad!”
Bonnie lad.
You actually snort. “…you callin’ me pretty from down there, bro?”
That earns a laugh from the one in the cap, deep and warm. He pushes the brim up, and even from here you can see the gold glint of his tooth when he smiles. “Sounded like it, didn’t it?”
You hold his gaze, smirking. “…y’all smoke?”
There’s a beat of silence—then messy-haired dude’s grin turns downright wicked. “Aye, depends what ye’re offerin’.”
You lift the blunt between two fingers, wiggle it. “I’m a sharer.”
That’s all it takes.
---
Ten minutes later and you’ve got four strangers on your busted fire escape, knees knocking together in the narrow space.
Soap—‘cause that’s what the cap-guy calls him—has made himself real comfortable, shoulder pressed against yours, laughing his ass off at every dumb joke you toss out. He smells like gun oil and expensive cologne, but somehow it works. His hand keeps brushing your knee when he leans in to grab the blunt. Definitely on purpose.
Cap-guy—Gaz, apparently—is smoother with it. He props himself on the railing next to you, body turned in, that easy smile making your chest feel funny. When you pass him the blunt, his fingers linger on yours just a second too long. And when he exhales, the smoke drifts right over your lips, and you swear he watches the way you breathe it in.
“You roll these yourself?” Gaz asks, voice low enough that it feels secret.
You nod, tapping ash into an old coffee can. “Cheaper that way.”
He hums like he’s impressed. “You got good hands.”
You try not to choke on your own inhale. “Yeah, uh… yeah, thanks.”
Behind you, the big one—Price, they called him—is leaning against the window frame, eyes crinkled like he’s laughing at you all quietly. He’s got that dad-energy about him, like he’s keeping watch while the kids play. Every so often he takes a drag and lets the smoke drift into the night, like he’s been here before.
And the masked one—Ghost—just sits there, big and silent. But when you hand him his turn, those gloved fingers brush yours and his eyes (the only thing visible) crinkle just slightly, like he’s smirking under the mask.
---
“So what’re you guys even doing in this city?” you ask after a while, legs stretched out, head tipped back against the railing. The night’s humming around you, and for once you don’t feel so weighed down by the rent, the job hunt, the grind.
Soap grins, teeth white in the glow of the streetlamp. “Holiday,” he says, winking.
You raise a brow. “Mhm. Sure. Definitely not like, secret spy stuff or whatever.”
Gaz chuckles, low. “You watch too many movies, pretty boy.”
…Pretty boy.
You.
You almost drop the blunt. “Wow. Okay.” You laugh, covering your face with one hand. “Y’all are reckless."
Soap leans closer, voice dipping conspiratorial. “If ye can’t handle a wee compliment, how’re ye gonna handle the rest o’ us?”
You groan, half in disbelief, half because you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
For a while, nobody talks. You all just pass the blunt, listen to the distant sirens, let the night hold you. You feel Gaz’s knee knock yours again. Soap nudges you when you space out, grinning like he knows exactly what’s in your head.
And for the first time in a long while, sitting broke and high and soft under the city lights, you feel like maybe you’ve got something worth sharing.
Even if it’s just your weed… and your smile.
(and maybe later, your number. but that’s between you and them.)
Benedict Bridgerton x Black!Fem!Reader (Lady Danbury’s Niece)
The tavern was loud, smoky, and everything a proper young lady of the ton should avoid. Which was precisely why you were here. Tomorrow, you would belong to the ballrooms, the polite whispers, the sharp-eyed mamas who measured virtue like coin. Tonight? Tonight you belonged to yourself.
You had a man’s hands gripping your waist, his mouth hot and reckless against yours as your back hit a table. He laughed softly, breathless, and pressed closer.
“Tell me,” he murmured, voice rich, lips brushing your jaw, “will you let me have you here, or are you going to tease me until I beg?”
His hair was disheveled, his blue eyes almost sinful in the candlelight, and when he ground against you, you nearly told him yes. Nearly.
But then—
“My lady, forgive the intrusion—your carriage has arrived.”
Lady Danbury’s driver stood at the door. Your aunt’s timing was devilish. She always knew when to yank you back from the edge.
The stranger’s brows shot up, curiosity flickering. “A carriage?”
You smirked, smoothing your skirts, savoring his frustration. “Seems you’ll have to beg another night, sir.”
You slipped away before he could even ask your name.
---
The ballroom glittered. Lady Danbury’s soirées always did, with more laughter and scandal than any other house dared host. You stood beside her, your gown a deep violet silk—striking, bold, the opposite of simpering pastels.
“Smile,” your aunt murmured, her fan hiding her grin. “Half these mamas already fear you. Best not terrify them outright.”
You rolled your eyes. “You are enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, immensely.”
Then you saw him. Across the room, with a glass of champagne and a tie that suddenly seemed too tight. The man from the tavern. His eyes widened, recognition flashing—and then horror. Because he was surrounded by family. The Bridgertons.
“Oh no,” you whispered. “He’s—”
“A Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury supplied smoothly. “Benedict, to be exact. Painter. Dreamer. Known rake, though he tries to hide it. Perfect for you.”
Your aunt was laughing as you stared, realizing the man you’d nearly let ruin you was not only well-born but practically royalty in the ton.
---
Lady Danbury made introductions, of course. Violet Bridgerton smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling when Benedict stammered through pleasantries.
Later, you caught Violet and your aunt speaking in low voices. Plotting. Watching you and Benedict like two cats watching mice.
And soon, the Bridgertons folded you in as if you’d always been there. Eloise peppered you with questions about your time abroad, about freedom, about men and women and the world beyond the suffocating ton. You answered carefully—teasing without corrupting her entirely.
“You mean to tell me,” Eloise whispered one night, “you’ve been with men… and women? And you won’t tell me what it’s like?”
“Not if I wish to stay in your mother’s good graces,” you replied with a smirk. “Ask your brother, though. He might be more willing to share.”
Her scandalized gasp was worth it.
---
Impropriety followed you and Benedict like shadow.
In the maze at Aubrey Hall, he kissed you breathless, hands slipping too low, your skirts bunched in his fists as you ground against him until footsteps forced you apart.
Another time, he sketched you by lamplight, whispering how you were too divine not to immortalize. The sketch turned into heated touches, your bodice half undone before Colin burst in, groaning.
“Not on the furniture, for God’s sake. At least pick a bed.”
Anthony caught you next, muttering about scandal and duels while dragging Benedict out by his collar.
But the worst—or best—was when Violet herself stumbled upon you bent over against a wall, Benedict pressed shamelessly to your back.
“You are very lucky it is me,” she said lightly, “and not half the ton. Or you’d both be married before dawn.”
You flushed. Benedict just grinned, wicked and unrepentant.
---
You were wild, yes. You were improper, daring, and everything the ton pretended not to be. But you were also clever, loyal, and honest. The Bridgertons—improper themselves when the doors closed—saw it. Lady Danbury always had.
Benedict painted you, kissed you, argued with you, adored you. You posed for him boldly, and in turn, he confessed his desires too—his curiosity about men as well as women, his longing to live without constraint. You understood. More than anyone else could.
When he asked you to marry him, it was less a proposal and more an inevitability.
“Are you certain?” you teased. “I am hardly the proper Lady Bridgerton your mother deserves.”
Benedict smiled, eyes burning. “You are exactly the Lady Bridgerton she conspired for.”
And with Lady Danbury’s smug blessing and Violet’s triumphant smile, you walked down the aisle knowing you’d never have to choose between propriety and freedom again.
