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kiwriteswords · 1 day ago

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So I have another request 🥸☝️

I had this idea about a 5+1 story and this is definitely your thing so I guess it’s the perfect moment to tell you about it and of course feel free to do it or not (I promise I won’t be sad if you don’t)

The thing was “5 times reader took Hotch on a date and one time he did” and in my head it was something like he hasn’t been on date for a long date or he always went on “simple” dates and doesn’t have anything special to tell or another amazing reason you’ll find because your brain is beautiful and reader decide to take him and of course the last one he’s the one who does

Not sure if it’s clear and maybe it’s not even a good idea 😂 but here it is and thank you for being amazing 💖

Everybody Knows You're All I've Got [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 5.3k|| AN: Ahh, I love this! Thank YOU for being amazing and always so kind! I really appreciate all of the support and requests! I hope this is what you were looking for! <3

Tags/Warnings: female reader, 5 +1, best friends to lovers, Oblivious Hotch, Grumpy x Sunshine, Reader has an ex-boyfriend, reader hints at being bisexual? (easy to miss tbh), fake dating, first dates, slow burn, Jack Hotchner TW (for those who don't like him included 🤷‍♀️) Hotch is a rusty boyfriend, Reader takes care of hotch bc he sucks at caring for himself

Summary: Five times you took Hotch on a date and the one time he takes you on one.

When you started at the BAU, it wasn't just the beginning of a new job but the start of an unlikely friendship with Aaron Hotchner.

To many, Hotch was a mystery wrapped in a suit, always reserved and meticulously professional. But to you, he was a puzzle waiting to be understood, a person who just needed a bit of sunlight in the often shadowy world of the BAU.

You were everything Hotch wasn't outwardly: bubbly, openly kind, and radiating empathy like warmth from a fireplace. Where the weight of the job furrowed his brow, your smile seemed to light up the room, often bringing a much-needed lift to the team's spirits.

It didn’t take long for you to notice the little things that could bring a momentary smile to Hotch’s often impassive face--a perfectly timed cup of coffee after a long night, a gentle tease to crack his professional veneer, or a supportive word after a tough case.

One chilly October afternoon, as the leaves painted the world in hues of fire and gold, you approached Hotch with an extra ticket in hand. There had been a buzz about the new play in town, something about it transforming the mundane into magic, and you thought it would be the perfect escape from the reality you both faced daily.

You had heard Hotch speak here and there about theater-related things. On the outside, looking in, he didn’t appear to be a theater geek at heart, but the subtle notes and references he made or picked up on had him found out by you fairly quickly.

"Hotch, you're coming with me to the play tonight," you declared with a grin, waving the ticket like a magic wand.

He looked up from his paperwork, the corners of his eyes crinkling just so, a sign you had come to recognize as intrigue mixed with resistance. "You should take a friend...or perhaps a date," he suggested, his voice steady but his gaze flickering away momentarily.

Hotch had always been a fortress of solitude, his emotions guarded like the secrets of the cases you worked on together. But over time, you'd learned to read the subtle shifts in his expression as if they were confessions.

You leaned against his office door, your smile unwavering.

"But I am taking a friend, and honestly, I can't think of anyone else I’d rather have as my date tonight. You deserve a night off, to be wined and dined and just...have fun." You shrugged. You knew this man, out of anyone in this building, likely hadn’t had a night out of fun since 1997. “How long has it been since you've done something just for the joy of it?”

Hotch paused, the word 'date' hanging between you like a challenge. His jaw set, a classic Hotchner move before surrendering to a situation outside his control. "I'm not sure I'm the best company for something like that," he countered softly, almost vulnerable.

"Which is exactly why you should come," you insisted. "You spend so much time taking care of everyone else here, Hotch. Tonight, let someone take care of you. Plus, I love your company, whether it’s here dealing with unsubs or outside where we can actually enjoy ourselves." You paused, “And you know me,” You smirked, “I’m really not going to let this go.”

There was a long pause, a silent conversation passing through the air as he considered your words. Finally, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he accepted. "Alright, I'll go."

The theater was an antique jewel in the heart of the city, its walls lined with velvety red curtains and golden lights that cast a warm glow over the buzzing audience. As the curtain rose, the stage transformed into a magical realm, pulling you both away from the grim realities of your daily work.

The play was a vibrant affair, with actors breathing life into their roles with a passion that made you forget the world outside. Throughout the evening, you watched Hotch, too, seeing him genuinely engaged, a softness in his eyes that you seldom saw at work.

During intermission, over glasses of wine, you shared light, easy conversation that danced around personal edges, revealing layers of each other previously tucked away behind professional facades.

"Thank you for bringing me," Hotch said as you walked out under the canopy of stars. His voice was low, sincere. "It’s been...more enjoyable than I anticipated."

"You're welcome!" you beamed, feeling a swell of happiness at his admission. "See? The world outside the BAU isn’t so bad, is it?"

He allowed himself a small chuckle, the sound mingling with the crisp night air. "No, it isn’t. Especially not with the right company."

The evening ended with a promise of similar outings, an unspoken agreement that both of you would take turns pulling each other away from the shadows of your job into the light of life outside it. It was simple, an easy friendship blossoming quietly into something that neither of you had expected but both secretly hoped would continue to grow.

II.

You burst into Hotch's office with a flair that would rival any stage performance, immediately drawing a rare smile from him despite the obvious panic etched across your face. He set aside his paperwork, an unspoken signal that he was all ears, and patiently waited for you to gather your thoughts.

Despite the clear panic struck on your face…it was amusing to Hotch. Cute even. Your typical calm, cool, and collected personality seemingly faded now. Your flustered state was something that Hotch found endearingly human, a contrast to your usual composed demeanor.

"Hotch, I have a...a situation," you gasped, struggling for breath as you stopped in front of his desk. The rare sight of your disarray pulled a smile from him, a softening around his eyes that encouraged you to continue.

Catching your breath, you finally blurted out, "My ex-fiancé is coming to town, and he's...he's engaged now!" You paced a small circle before facing Hotch again, your hands animatedly moving as you spoke. "And, of course, he wants to meet for drinks to introduce me to his fiancée."

Hotch's eyebrows raised slightly, a silent prompt for you to continue.

You exhaled sharply, the words tumbling out. Complete and utter word vomit. Word salad. Word soup…all over Aaron Hotchner’s perfectly perfected office. "I might have, sort of, told him I was seeing someone too--just to sound less...pathetic." You met Hotch's gaze, a mix of embarrassment and mischief in your eyes. "And I said it was you. It had to be you."

"Me?" Hotch's voice was calm, but his surprise was evident.

You nodded vigorously. "Yeah, I mean, it couldn’t be Derek; he’s all action-hero, way too macho. And Spencer? He’d inadvertently make me look dumb with all his factoids. And Rossi...well," you chuckled nervously, "he’s great, but he could practically be my dad!"

You paused, a playful glint appearing in your eyes. "I even thought about taking Emily, you know, referring back to my experimental college days," you joked, watching Hotch’s reaction carefully.

There was a moment of stillness as Hotch processed your train of thought. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching into an almost imperceptible smile. "So, I'm the safest choice for a fake boyfriend, is that it?"

"Exactly!" you exclaimed, relieved he wasn't upset. "You’re respectable, you’re responsible, and let’s be honest, you can scare him a little if you do that...stern FBI look.” You paused, trying to convey the other reason behind this…this choice. Hotch had become someone you deeply cared for. It was evident to everyone. “And not just safe," you corrected, your tone earnest. "You're...you make me feel secure. You're the one person here who always has my back."

Hotch considered this for a moment; then his expression softened--a new understanding dawning between you. "When is this drink supposed to happen?"

"Tomorrow night," you replied, your voice a mixture of hope and anxiety. The relief in your voice mirrored the relief in your stance.

Hotch nodded slowly, then stood up from his desk, a decisive look replacing his initial surprise. "Alright, then. It seems I’m your...boyfriend for the evening. We might as well make sure your ex realizes what he’s missed out on."

Your relief was palpable, and a genuine smile spread across your face. "Thank you, Hotch. Really, I...this means a lot to me."

“I’ll be there--not just as your fake boyfriend, but as your friend."

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly at his words, warmth spreading through you at the thought of him standing by your side. "Thank you, really, Hotch. Really…honestly, this means everything to me."

The rest of the day, you found yourself catching Hotch's eye a few times, each glance exchanged, building a silent, mutual understanding. It was an odd, unexpected partnership, but as the hours passed, a curious anticipation grew within both of you about the role you were about to play.

The following evening at the bar was like stepping into another world. The dim lighting cast a warm glow that softened the sharp edges of Hotch's usually stark features. He stood there, not as the BAU chief, but as someone altogether more approachable, dressed in a smart casual jacket that hinted at the man beneath the badge.

"You look...not like Agent Hotchner," you commented with a teasing tone as you approached.

"And you look like someone who definitely isn’t nursing a broken heart," Hotch replied, offering his arm in a gentlemanly gesture that you didn’t expect but appreciated.

The night unfolded with an ease that surprised you both. Hotch played the part perfectly, charming yet subtly protective, casting doubtful glances from your ex that you couldn't help but feel satisfied to provoke. With every laugh and shared glance, the line between pretense and reality blurred.

As you left the bar, Hotch’s hand brushed against yours, a touch that lingered longer than necessary. "You know," he said quietly, stopping to face you under the soft glow of the streetlamp, "you don’t need to pretend to be anything you're not--not with me."

Your heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his gaze. "Maybe next time, we won’t have to pretend," you suggested, the words hanging between you like a promise waiting to be kept.

Hotch studied you for a moment, his usual reserve giving way to a tender sincerity. "I’d like that," he admitted, and in his eyes, you saw not just the stoic chief but a man who had begun to see you in a new light, just as you were seeing him.

As you walked away together, the city around you faded into the background, leaving only the possibilities of what might come next--a future neither of you had anticipated, but both silently hoped to explore.

III.

On a brisk morning, as the case stretched on and lunchtime approached, you could feel the gnawing emptiness in your stomach. Seated beside Hotch in the car, an hour away from the rest of the team, you were certain he must be just as hungry--even if he never complained. From what you'd observed, Hotch often neglected his own needs, always focused on the job or caring for his team.

He was the kind of man who seemed to subsist on sheer willpower--and far too much coffee, which, as you often joked.

Coffee shouldn’t count as a meal.

Dessert? Maybe. With extra whipped topping and mocha drizzle. Lunch? Never.

You wished somedays you’d just pack him a sandwich. It was hard to picture the man devouring a peanut butter and jelly, but a grown man’s got to eat! And from the looks of it, he rarely prioritizes that. The thought made you smile, a brief respite from the growling of your stomach.

The world outside painted a stark contrast to the warmth inside the car. Bare trees stood sentinel along the frost-lined road, their branches swaying in the cold wind that whispered promises of an impending winter. The car's heater hummed softly, a counterpoint to the rhythm of the road beneath the tires.

Glancing over at him as he drove, you noticed his focus was unwavering, his hands steady on the wheel. The rumbling of your stomach broke the silence, making it impossible to ignore any longer. Without a word, you leaned over the console and started typing into the GPS.

Hotch shot you a curious look. One eyebrow raised before darting back toward the open road. "What are you doing?"

"We need food, Hotch. I’m starving, and I know you haven’t eaten either," you said, inputting the address of a nearby diner you’d quickly looked up. The promise of a simple but comforting meal seemed like the perfect break from the stresses of the case.

He briefly glanced at the screen before returning his eyes to the road. "We should really get back to the precinct, join the team," he argued, his voice steady but lacking conviction.

"Hotch, we’re no good to them if we’re hungry and irritable," you countered, meeting his gaze with a playful yet firm look. "And I’m about to get very irritable if I don’t eat something soon."

"I don’t get irritable," Hotch said, a faint smile playing on his lips despite his attempt to seem annoyed.

"You will be if you don’t eat," you teased. "Now, follow the GPS. I’m ordering us cheeseburgers and fries. And if you’re good," you added with a cheeky grin, "I might even treat you to a milkshake."

That seemed to amuse him, a spark of warmth lighting up his usually reserved eyes. With a resigned chuckle, Hotch finally nodded and turned the car in the direction of the diner.

As you both walked into the diner, the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The cozy warmth, the smell of coffee and fried food, offered a much-needed respite.

You slid into a booth, the red vinyl squeaking under you, and Hotch took the seat across, his body language relaxing as he perused the menu you handed him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement at your noticeable relief.

"See, isn’t this better than a cold sandwich in the precinct?" you asked as you handed him a menu, your tone light and teasing.

"It is," he admitted, his gaze lingering on yours a moment longer than necessary. "Thanks for taking care of me."

The conversation flowed easily as you waited for your food, touching on light topics that didn’t involve work. It was a side of Hotch you rarely saw--relaxed, even a bit playful, especially when you joked about how he deserved a day off now and then.

When the food arrived, Hotch seemed genuinely pleased with the hearty meal, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction in seeing him so. As you both ate, the playful banter continued, and you teased him about his choice of milkshake flavor--classic vanilla, to match his no-nonsense personality.

"You know, for someone who claims to be all business, you sure enjoy vanilla quite a bit," you quipped, taking a sip of your own, more adventurous, chocolate shake.

Hotch looked up, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Maybe I just appreciate the simpler things," he retorted, his voice low and teasing in a way that sent a thrill through you. “And the company isn’t bad.”

You caught the twinkle in his eye, and it sparked something bold within you. "Well, if it's the simple things you appreciate," you started, a playful edge to your voice, "I might just have to take you on more 'simple' dates like this. I mean, if the company isn't bad..."

Hotch's smile broadened a rare and full grin that reached his eyes, softening the usually stern lines of his face. "I wouldn't object to that," he admitted, his tone suggesting he was more pleased by the idea than he let on. "It seems I've been missing out on quite a few simple pleasures."

The light banter, mixed with the warm glow of the diner and the comfort of the meal, wove a moment of connection that felt both exhilarating and natural. As you both laughed, the air between you filled with a sense of possibility, a hint that this could be the beginning of exploring not just crime scenes together but something much deeper and personally rewarding.

The meal ended too soon, but the light-hearted mood lingered as you both headed back to the car. As Hotch drove back to the precinct, the playful ease between you felt like a silent acknowledgment of something deeper, something neither of you had expected to find in the midst of a tough case.

The ride back was quiet but comfortable, filled with shared glances and an unspoken agreement that this, whatever it was that was blooming between you, was something worth exploring, no matter how cautiously. The seeds planted during that fake date had started to sprout, and as the landscape rolled by outside the car windows, so too did the possibilities of what might come next.

IV.

The evolution of your relationship with Hotch had been as subtle as the change of seasons, marked not by grand gestures but by shared glances and small touches that lingered a bit longer than necessary. These were the silent confirmations of a deepening bond, one that had maturely navigated the boundaries of professionalism and his life as a dedicated father.

Recognizing the significance of his role as a father and wanting to affirm your respect for this vital part of his life, you planned an outing that would comfortably include his son, Jack. The idea was simple yet thoughtful--a paint day at a local studio, a space vibrant with color and creativity, perfect for Jack, whose love for painting Hotch had mentioned in passing.

When you shared the plan with Hotch, his response was unexpectedly moving. His eyes, usually guarded and holding the weight of his responsibilities, softened remarkably. "This is really thoughtful of you," he said, his voice tinged with a sincerity that resonated deeply within you. "Jack will love this, and honestly, it means a lot to me too."

As you entered the studio, the warmth inside was a stark contrast to the chill outside. The walls were adorned with splashes of color and shelves lined with ceramics and canvases added to the eclectic charm. Jack's excitement was infectious; his energy seemed to fill the room as he dashed about, choosing his materials with serious cconsideration

You picked a mug to paint, selecting colors with a playful eye, while Hotch chose a plate, his attempts at painting it more comical than artistic.

"You might stick to profiling, Hotchner," you teased gently, watching him struggle with a paintbrush.

Hotch looked up, amusement flickering across his face. "I think you might be right," he conceded, and even Jack chimed in with a giggle, enjoying the sight of his dad out of his usual element.

Jack, inspired by the day's activities, decided to paint a canvas depicting the three of you playing soccer--a scene from his imagination that warmed your heart. It was touching to see how he included you in his artwork, a sign that he was accepting you into their little world.

Throughout the day, the chemistry between you and Hotch was more apparent than ever. Every shared smile, every light touch while passing paint jars, seemed to underline the deepening connection. It was clear that something more was there, something neither of you had fully acknowledged yet. There was a comfort and ease between you, a natural fit that felt like it could seamlessly extend beyond these shared moments into something lasting.

As the day wound down, you looked at your finished mug, Hotch’s humorously bad plate, and Jack’s heartfelt canvas. There was a profound sense of accomplishment and happiness. Jack’s energy never waned, and his chatter about where he would hang his painting in his room filled the space with joy.

Driving back, the car was filled with a comfortable silence before Hotch finally spoke, his voice laden with emotion. "Today was perfect," he said sincerely. "Thank you for setting this up. It's...it's not often we get to do something so normal, so fun."

"It was my pleasure, really," you responded, your voice soft, conveying the genuine joy you felt. "I loved every minute of it, Hotch. Seeing you and Jack like this, it’s...it's wonderful."

Hotch glanced over, his expression thoughtful, the setting sun casting shadows that played across his features. "It's new for me," he confessed, "letting someone into our world this way. But it feels right...with you."

Your heart fluttered at his words, the weight of them carrying a promise of something deeper, something that was slowly taking shape between you. "I'm glad," you murmured, reaching over to squeeze his hand briefly, an affirmation of the bond forming among the three of you.

The drive back was quiet but filled with an unspoken acknowledgment of the budding relationship that was no longer just a possibility but a burgeoning reality. As you watched the scenery blur by, you realized that this day hadn’t just been about painting or playing--it was a canvas for what was to come, a beautifully unfolding story that you were all painting together.

Navigating the intricacies of your evolving relationship with Hotch had been like reading a novel written in a familiar yet indecipherable script.

You weren't someone who needed everything spelled out,who required every emotion or intention to be neatly labeled like items in a catalog.

However, as your interactions deepened--marked by those unmistakably boyfriend-like gestures, from the way he'd casually touch your back guiding you through a doorway, to how he'd drop a coffee on your desk exactly the way you liked it--questions began to surface in your mind.

What exactly were you to each other?

Sure, he acted like your boyfriend, did things that a boyfriend would do.

There were those long drives from crime scenes where you'd debrief not just on the case but about life, hopes, fears.

He was there, always somehow there, in ways that mattered. But without the explicit affirmation, a tiny part of you lingered in doubt. It wasn't that you thought he might be seeing other people--Hotch barely had time to eat properly, let alone date multiple people. But clarity was something you craved, even as you thrived in the gray areas of life.

Deciding to address these swirling thoughts directly, you leveraged your day off--an all-too-rare occurrence that felt like the universe’s nod to take action. With your usual blend of brightness and empathy, you picked up your phone and dialed Hotch’s number.

The call was quick; the invitation straightforward but imbued with all the significance of stepping into new, uncharted territory.

"Hi, Hotch, it’s me," you began, your voice carrying a cheerful lilt that belied the butterflies doing somersaults in your stomach. "I was thinking, since we both actually have a free evening, maybe we could go out for dinner? I’ve made reservations at that new place we’ve both been curious about. If you’re up for it?"

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you wondered if you’d stepped over an unseen line. But then his response came, warm and unmistakably pleased. "That sounds great, I’d love to. What time should I pick you up?"

The simplicity of his acceptance, the ease with which he stepped into the space you’d opened, lifted a weight off your shoulders you hadn’t fully realized you'd been carrying.

As you hung up, a smile played on your lips, mirrored by a warmth that spread through your chest. This dinner would be different; it wasn't just about enjoying good food or making casual conversation. It was about defining what was between you, about giving shape to the connection that had grown, subtly but significantly, over the countless shared moments.

That evening, as you prepared for the date, every choice--from the dress you wore to the perfume you dabbed behind your ears--felt imbued with intention. Meeting him outside your place, you noticed the effort he’d put into his appearance as well. Gone was the standard FBI suit, replaced by something softer, yet equally compelling. His smile when he saw you was enough to set your heart racing.

From the moment he opened the car door for you, everything felt right--effortlessly falling into a pattern that seemed to have existed for years, not just the recent weeks of growing closeness. The conversation flowed freely as you drove to the restaurant, filled with the usual banter and warmth that had become a hallmark of your interactions.

At the restaurant, your dynamic was unmistakably couple-like, drawing knowing smiles from the servers as you laughed and shared food across the table. It was remarkably natural, the ease between you, as if all your prior interactions had been rehearsals for this very moment.

Midway through the meal, buoyed by the comfort that had defined the evening, you decided to address the ambiguity that had lightly clouded your relationship. "Hotch, I’ve been wondering," you started, your voice soft but direct, "what exactly is this for us? I mean, we’ve been spending so much time together, and it feels like…well, like we’re a couple. But we’ve never really talked about it."

Hotch paused, a forkful of dinner halfway to his mouth, and his expression shifted to one of mild embarrassment. Setting his utensil down, he met your gaze; his cheeks tinged with a rare flush.

"I...I’m sorry; I suppose I should have brought it up," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of chagrin. "I’m not very experienced with how this is supposed to go. Things have been going so well, I didn’t think to...well, make it official or ask properly. You know, the whole…dating protocol."

You reached across the table, covering his hand with yours, squeezing it reassuringly. "Hotch, I don’t need any grand gestures or formal declarations," you said warmly. "But I think some clarity would be helpful, just…so we’re on the same page. Clarity is comforting, especially with something as important as this."

Hotch smiled a genuine, relieved smile. "Then let’s be clear: I’d like nothing more than to be considered your boyfriend if you feel the same way.” He paused, his eyes locking with yours, "How about you let me take you on a real first date after tonight? And I promise, it won’t be like the casual outings we’ve had before."

"You mean all those times we grabbed a coffee or had those long drives weren’t dates?" you teased,your voice light, trying to ease the intensity of the moment.

"They were...unofficial dates. Practice, if you will," Hotch replied with a laugh. "But from now on, I promise, nothing but the real thing."

The promise of a 'proper' date, laden with Hotch’s earnest intentions, filled you with a delightful anticipation. It wasn’t just the thrill of formalizing your relationship but the realization that you were both navigating this new terrain together, equally invested and open.

As the evening approached, the flutter of anticipation was palpable. You had been on dates before, but the buildup to this particular outing with Hotch had an entirely different tenor.

His promise of a "real first date" had left you curious and, admittedly, a bit exhilarated. Despite his claim of being rusty, the effort he put into planning the evening suggested otherwise.

Hotch arrived right on time, looking every bit the part of a gentleman set to impress. His usual dark, work-appropriate suits were replaced by a tailored charcoal blazer that complemented his stern features, softened tonight by the hint of a smile as he greeted you.

As Hotch presented you with the bouquet of lilies and wildflowers, their scent subtly mingling with the evening air, it was the perfect prelude to an evening that promised to be anything but ordinary.

His eyes held a gleam of anticipation as he asked, "Ready for an adventure?" His voice was light, but beneath it, you could detect a current of genuine excitement--a hint that tonight was about more than just dinner.

The drive led you away from the familiar lights of the city to a more secluded bistro overlooking the water, known for its privacy and exquisite views. The table was set in a quiet corner of the terrace, draped in soft white linen and lit by a single, flickering candle that cast a warm glow over the setting. The backdrop of the slowly setting sun, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, made the scene almost too picturesque to be real.

Throughout dinner, Hotch was both attentive and charming, effortlessly leading the conversation through laughter and deeper, more introspective topics.

"I’ve been out of the game for a long time," he admitted as you both looked over the bay, "but I wanted tonight to be special. I wanted to show you how much I appreciate everything you do, not just for me, but for Jack as well." His words warmed you more than the evening air. "You see me in ways I didn't realize were visible," he continued, his gaze holding yours. "The way you care for those around you, especially Jack and I, it’s more than just empathy--it's genuine love."

Your hands touched as you both reached for your wine glasses, a spark of connection in the simple gesture. “I see the same in you, Hotch. The way you balance everything, yet still manage to make us feel...important,” you replied, your voice soft but clear over the gentle lapping of the water below.

Dinner unfolded beautifully, each course a delight not just to the palate but as a discovery of shared tastes and preferences. With each dish, you learned something new about each other--preferences hidden beneath daily routines, stories from the past that had shaped your tastes.

As you shared a dessert, Hotch pointed at your plate with his fork. "Are you sure you’re ready to share that? It looks too good to split fifty-fifty."

You eyed the last piece of chocolate mousse, then back at him with a playful challenge in your eyes. "Maybe I’ll reconsider based on your performance review of this date."

Hotch leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "In that case, I’d better ensure the evening ends on a high note." His light-hearted tone matched the sparkle in his gaze, making the simple act of sharing dessert feel like flirtatious banter.

As you walked along the port after dinner, the moon casting shimmering trails across the water, Hotch nudged you gently with his elbow. "So, do I get bonus points for choosing a place with a view?"

"Maybe just a few," you conceded, nudging him back. "But only because you seem to know the way to my heart--through scenic views and excellent food."

The laughter that followed was easy and genuine, drifting into the night air and mixing with the rhythmic sounds of the waves. "You know, I think I’m getting the hang of this dating thing again," Hotch said, a note of mock pride in his voice.

"Just keep up with me, Hotch. I have high standards for second dates, remember?" you teased, your smile reflecting the joy of the evening.

Hotch's laugh echoed softly in the quiet night. "Is that a challenge?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"It might just be," you replied, matching his tone. "I’m curious to see what you’ll come up with next.

The night ended with a promise of more to come, not just another date, but more moments like these--shared, special, and sincere.

As Hotch drove you home, you were indeed head over heels, not just for the man who had meticulously planned this perfect first date, but for the one who had shown you his heart, beautifully open and invitingly warm. It was clear that whatever lay ahead, it would be a journey worth taking, together.

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bunni-v1 · 22 hours ago

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your shadow milk cookie relationships headcanons are now my canon. like what the fuck how can a piece of literature be so accurate to established information we know about him!!!!!!! hejsjsdjejwje ur shadowmilk is so loving and so cute lowkey

if you don't mind, since your requests are open, could you elaborate more on some more aspects of the relationship pre-ep 8 and post-ep 8? (if u haven't finished this part then u can just ignore this hehe) you mentioned how smc naturally gets more and more devoted as time goes on and he opens up (THEY MAKE ME FEEL SO ILL) so i've also wondered how he would act like when there is a threat that legitimately puts his lover in danger, or at worst, sets the tone to losing them. he'd mald, i imagine...

feel free to answer, feel free to ignore—i adore your work and i think it's not strange at all for you to shift to cookie run after dabbling in mostly human-ish games like ZZZ and TWST. all in good fun, plus you're feeding a parched audience (i am audience, haha) have a good day!

🍓Okay so this ask kinda has three parts to it, so please excuse me if it seems a little... all over the place. I'll answer both the pre and post ep 8 things, and then I'll be touching on what he's like with the threat. I do hope you enjoy my love <3

Tw: Mentions of body horror (cookie body horror?); Shadow Milk Cookie; Obsessive and Possessive behaviors; unedited

Info: Shadow Milk x Reader; Fluff; Angst (lowkey tho); Pre and Post episode 8 SMC (spoilers ahead lol); Drabble/Headcannons(?)

Pre Episode 8

From how the story seems to be set up, the confrontation with SMC should happen last, they just released it now because of the anniversary knowing he'd be hella popular lol. So I'm functioning with the idea that Gingerbrave and Co. arrive around when the other Ancients are finishing up their own confrontation with their respective beasts, meaning there's a lot of time to work with hehe.

Anyway, pre-episode 8 Shadow Milk leans into the category of 'yandere' a lot more than post. He's very obsessive about you, again stalking and watching you, learning as much as he can about you before he even allows you to see him.

You're more often than not being monitored by him, and if you're not, he's probably with you. He gets annoyed when other cookies talk to you, and he isn't afraid to voice that. While he does give you a lot of freedom, he does subtly limit the things you do and the people you're around. It's harder when you're not with him in the spire, but he goes about messing with the environment to keep you where he wants you.

And, yes, he'll crumble cookies in your name if he needs to. Their lives are arbitrary in the grand scheme of things, especially so if they're causing you strife. He won't hurt any cookies you hold dear to you -- though he really may want to at times -- only cookies that are a threat to your emotional or physical well-being. If the death causes you too much terror, then he'll tone it down to just... making their lives a miserable hellscape. It's what the deserve for hurting you, of course!

When you do join him in the spire (because you will, it's just a matter of how long it takes him to nudge you in that direction), the behavior is a bit more obvious. He doesn't like you leaving the spire for literally anything, and if you do he knows and will pop up by your side the second you stray too far. He plays it up as cute worrying, but he's legitimately scared for your wellbeing, like terrified. You're never alone in the spire if he can help it (and he can).

Like I said he watches a lot. There are eyes all around the spire and they follow you shamelessly. They appear content to just watch you, sometimes even literally forming hearts, so they're no threat to your well-being. Again, he's just observing you, more excited now that you're actually in the spire and close to him.

There is a notable difference in the environment, though you likely don't notice it (because you've only ever seen post you moving in). The atmosphere surrounding the spire is lighter, more colorful, and happy. It reflects his excitement at having you around, a visual nod to his love for you, even though you're not exactly away of it.

Despite the negatives here, there are positives! He's incredibly doting, you'll want for nothing with him. Your greatest dreams will come true with a wave of his hand, even with only half his power. He does let you wander around, you just won't be alone when you do so. He's very aware of the dangerous environment on beast yeast, he's cause for it, so he won't be risking your safety.

He's incredibly showy with his style of loving. Grand gifts and performances just to get you grinning and giggling. (He loves writing plays where the two of you are the main characters, falling in love in a million different ways, cutie he is.) He serenades you with syrupy sweet lyrics all about how much he adores all of you. Scoops you up in his arms and dances around with you. He's very touchy, like I said, always needing to have physical contact for whatever reason. (It's because he's scared you'll leave him too.)

He doesn't kiss you much if only to initiate more intimate activities. When he does, his intent is to fluster you nearly every time. Kissing is something that's hard for him, for whatever reason. It's more intimate than touches, and weirdly enough more intimate than sex in his mind. It makes him so vulnerable, so he tries to avoid it unless it's to get a reaction out of you.

Most of what he does is to get a reaction, actually. He likes seeing the way you express yourself, and regardless of what you do, he finds it cute. It's a little intimidating how much he stares, and he stares a lot. Very frequently you'll find him sitting around just... watching you. He won't stop even if you acknowledge it, just smiles all innocently until you go back to what you were doing.

That's sort of how it feels during this whole time, that he's just watching from the outside. There's a distance he keeps between you and him, the power dynamic is a lot more stark here. However, when you're not aware - be that you're sleeping or doing something where you can't see him - genuine affection comes out.

Floating around the spire in his arms as you rest, he whispers sweet nothings he could never bring himself to say to your face. He'll lead you around the winding halls of the spire with a path of your favorite flowers, aiding you in getting to where you want to go. He leaves gifts around, taking you on little treasure hunts just to reveal something sweet and heartfelt at the end. The spire itself shifts and changes around you to be more to your liking, and there are rooms within it dedicated to the hobbies you enjoy.

This gentleness is all hidden when you're together, though. Only showing itself when you can't look him in the eyes and reject him. He can't bring himself to let you in, he's scared of that rejection. He wants you to think he's powerful and amazing, so allowing you to see just how much he adores you would be terrible. What if you don't like him at his weakest? What if you realize that you could do better than him? What if you meet Pure Vanilla and you realize how much better he is? What if you leave him? Oh, it tears him apart.

So, he can't let you in. He'll put on a performance so dazzling it'll distract you from how much his heart aches when he sees you. He'll prove that he really does love you through flowery words and fantastical shows, anything to hide how much he adores you. Even when you try to get him to connect, he'll brush it off for fear of you not accepting him as he is. He can't handle you rejecting him, not after all he's done to keep you at his side, not after how hard he's fallen in love with you.

Post Episode 8

This is where we see Shadow Milk Cookie open up a lot more to you. After the so-called betrayal of Truthless Recluse, and his being incredibly emotionally vulnerable from Compassionate Pure Vanilla's offer for friendship, he's now forced with the problem of you knowing him. You saw that raw vulnerability, the loneliness that aches deep within his dough and infects his very being with a sickness he cannot cure.

No matter how much he puts on airs, he cannot avoid you knowing him now. He has nothing to hide behind anymore, you saw how much he craves connection and care, there's no going back from that. He briefly considers leaving you, but the idea of losing you sends shivers up his back, so he dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. He may actively avoid you for a little while, but if you are patient and kind to him, he won't be able to hide for long.

Showing him that you still feel the same way by continuing your regular shows of affection is a huge relief to him. He truly expects you to think less of him now that you've seen that side of him, but you don't. It's rather odd to a cookie like him, who spent his entire existence being worshiped, revered, and feared. He assumes when you see him weak you will despise him - that you were only there for all the grandiose gifts and displays. He doesn't consider the thought that you have fallen in love with him. That you consider him yours as much as he considers you his.

It takes him a bit, but he begins to pick up where you left off. This time, though, he's more... gentle about everything. You get to take the lead around this time, and as odd as it is for him, it's cathartic to be taken care of for once. He can let his walls down and relax while you stroke his hair and hold him close to your chest. You kiss across his face with reverence that not even the most loyal of his followers could ever begin to replicate.

You love him.

He becomes addicted to the feeling, your affections being something he craves with a hunger he'd never felt before. It takes a bit for him to come to you for it, so usually you'll have to initiate it, but he melts into your hands so easily. It's pathetic how much hold a little cookie like you had over a god like him, but when you're humming sweet words at him he can't bring himself to care too much. (He will huff and puff if any of the other beasts give him shit for it, telling them off like a angry child.)

All of those hidden affections of his become much more obvious to you as time goes on. He's a bit awkward with it because he's never really been so open with any cookie before, but it's charming the way he tries so hard to be genuine with you.

You get to hear those sweet words of love from him directly, earnestly said while he holds your hand in an iron-tight grip. He gives you those heartfelt gifts by hand, telling you all about how he worked so hard to get it for you and how much care went into it. He leads you around places himself, preferring to be by your side than guiding you from a safe distance. Even the way he holds you is different, much more adoring than before. It's a kind of care he hadn't really shown you before, more considerate of what you might want rather than what he believes you might want.

And, of course, he kisses you now. Very frequently. He still does do it to fluster you at times, but less than he did before. Now every kiss has a purpose behind it, a means of displaying his affection for you. They're soft and loving, full of emotion.

Something that carries over consistently is the watching. He keeps an eye on you at all times, regardless of where you're at. Since you're no longer in the spire, there's more risk so he wants to ensure your safety. Even if you're with another beast or with Black Sapphire or Candy Apple, he's watching you anxiously.

Now if you acknowledge the eyes, they'll react to you. Before they usually just continued watching, but now they'll squint and shift excitedly at your attention. Sometimes he'll even drop flowers or a little plushie at your feet while the eye seems to grin at you with glee. You can kiss them, if you'd like -- they're warm and soft but they don't feel like eyes. If you do so the pupil with dart around nervously, then it'll pop out of existence and arrange itself to another spot you can't easily fluster him at.

Still, though, they just watch you for the most part. Making sure you're safe and happy when he isn't around. He's a bit less obsessive about who you're spending your time with, though. He trusts that you won't leave him a lot more now, and no longer finds himself threatened by anyone (other than PV).

Bonus below

Now, as a mortal cookie in beast yeast, most things put you in danger. It's a tough environment to live in, and there are a lot of violent characters around that wouldn't care if you died or not. However, most cookies are aware of Shadow Milk Cookie's, shall we say, claim on you.

There are very few things that could actually threaten you, especially with Shadow Milk Cookie monitoring you so closely. He makes the environment around you safer, and he makes sure everyone knows that you are off-limits. Unfortunately he cannot control everything, though he really does try to.

If anything, anything ever puts you in actual danger, he is beside himself with worry and rage. Your soft and sweet dough is not made for battle and danger, regardless of what you might feel. It would take the witches themselves to stop him from tearing apart the lands to ensure your safety. And tear them apart he would. He would carve deep valleys into the ground for you, slice mountains to their base, and raze forests flat if it means you will be safe.

If it's a cookie? Some insignificant act or protest from a foolish mortal, deciding to use you to get his attention? Oh, they'll know hell.

Depending on how much damage they do the punishment will vary, but it won't be pleasant regardless. If they just take you away for a little while, he'll torture them. Ensuring the life they go back to is much harder for them to live through, but he won't kill them. They have to learn their lesson and live to tell the tale so no one is stupid enough to follow their example.

If they hurt you at all, they're dead. Shadow Milk normally makes a show out of any crumbling he does, but when you are involved? He doesn't waste time with any silly shows, they just crumble. No fanfare, no sparkle, just death. They don't deserve anything more than that, not when they've caused you hurt.

Ah, and if there is a threat to you -- silly or not -- he takes it very seriously. His monitoring will increase tenfold, and he does his best to keep you with him at all times. He will not take your safety lightly, not when he adores you so.

If there is a genuine threat to your life, he will do everything in his power to remove it. After the fact, he becomes much more obsessive of your safety. It's almost suffocating for a while, but if you express concern he'll ease up a bit. Though you can feel the anxiety in his body language and the way which he speaks.

#bunni's treats 🧁#x reader #crk #cookie run kingdom #shadow milk crk #shadow milk cookie crk #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie #crk x reader #crk x you #shadow milk cookie x reader #shadow milk x you #shadow milk cookie x you

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rafayelxsylusho · 3 days ago

Note

Hey love, your LADs fics are 🥵🔥🫠.

If you are accepting requests, could you pls write a College AU with the LADS men?

A study sesh leads to smut (can include love confession if not in established relationship).

Have a lovely day/night~ 💖

I hope I did it right. Enjoy!

College AU with the LADS men 🎓

Part 1: Zaynexreader

TW: SMUT

**Both reader and Zayne are Med students**

Zayne looks up from his textbook, his eyes meeting yours as you walk into his dorm room. His room is tidy, almost clinically so, really different from your own chaotic space down the hall. Zayne has always been the organized one, the responsible one, while you...well, you were something else.

"Your room is still a disaster zone, I take it?" he asks, arching an eyebrow. When you smile and nod, he laughs softly and shakes his head. "I don't know how you manage to live in such chaos."

Zayne's gaze drifts over your textbooks stacked in your arms, his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in your appearance, noting the dark circles under your eyes and the way you seem to be running on pure adrenaline. He sets his textbook aside and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Tell me you got some sleep last night," he says, there is concern in his voice. "You look exhausted, y/n. I know this semester has been tough on you." he looks at you like a parent waiting for their child to confess to staying up too late. "And your test?" he asks when you don't immediately answer. "How did it go?" Zayne knows you had an important test this morning. He's been quietly supportive, offering to quiz you or just listening as you vented about the material leading up to it.

"I survived," you sigh, as you flop down on the bed across from Zayne's desk. "But I don't think I did as well as I needed to. I swear, every time I think I've got it, I realize there's a whole other layer to learn."

You groan, burying your face in one of his pillows for a moment before sitting back up to look at him "I don't know how you do it Zayne. Don't you ever just want to give up?"

He stands and walks over to his mini fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. "Here, drink this. You look dehydrated." Zayne gives you the bottle before sitting on the edge of his bed next to you. His brow furrows with concern as he watches you drink deeply from the water bottle, his eyes searching yours.

"Y/n, how many hours of sleep did you actually get last night?"

"Two," you say quietly. " Maybe a little more". His expression softens as he listens to you. He knew you were pushing yourself too hard, but hearing the confirmation of just how little sleep you'd gotten hits him like a punch to the gut.

"Lay down for a bit. I'll wake you up in two hours, and we can continue with your study session then." There's a gentle authority in his voice, Zayne's not going to let you talk your way out of this one. He knows you need the rest, and will make sure you get it.

As you hesitate, he reaches out to take the now empty water bottle from your hands, setting it aside on the nightstand. His fingers linger on yours for just a moment, a silent plea for you to listen to him.

"Please," he murmurs, his eyes holding yours. "You can't keep doing this. You need to take care of yourself if you want to make it through this program." His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing softly over the dark circle beneath your eye. It's a tender gesture, full of care and concern. He's not just your study partner and best friend, he's the one person who truly sees you, exhaustion and all.

"Fineeeee, whatever you say Dr Zayne"

He watches as you lay down on the bed, your head coming to rest on the pillow. He feels a bit of concern seeing you so drained, but also a sense of relief that he convinced you to get some much needed rest. Almost as soon as your head touches the pillow, your eyelids flutter shut and your breathing evens out.

You startle awake, your heart racing. You're not used to sleeping so deeply, especially not in the middle of the day. As you blink the sleep from your eyes, you become aware of a warm, solid presence next to you on the bed. Turning your head slowly, you find yourself face to face with Zayne, his body next to yours. He must have dozed off while you were sleeping, still clutching his textbook in his hands, now lying open and forgotten. Soft snores escape his slightly parted lips, a light frown etched between his eyebrows as if even in sleep, he's focused on the complex medical diagrams. He looks almost boyish in sleep, the hard lines of his face softening, a lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, and there's a vulnerability to his stillness that makes your heart clench. For a moment, you just watch him, taking in the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the long lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks. Then, carefully, you reach out and pluck the textbook from him setting it aside. Zayne stirs slightly at the loss of the book, but doesn't wake. In sleep, his hand finds yours, as he settles closer to you. Your fingers intertwine instinctively, and you feel a rush of warmth spread through you at the contact.

You feel the heat of Zayne's breath ghosting over your face. Even in sleep, he seems drawn to you, his hand tightening around yours as if he's afraid you might disappear if he lets go. A soft blush rises to your cheeks at the intimacy of the moment, at the way Zayne's face is inches from your own. Your heart starts to race for a different reason now, a fluttering sensation that has nothing to do with the sudden awakening and everything to do with the man next to you.

You've shared countless study sessions, late night talks, and inside jokes with Zayne, but this...this feels different. More intimate. More charged with a tension you've never dared to acknowledge before. His eyelids flutter, and for a moment you think he might wake. You hold your breath, but he doesn't wake. Instead, he just sighs softly, his breath fanning over your lips. You know you should pull away, give him space, but you find yourself rooted to the spot. Captivated. Your free hand comes up to brush a lock of hair from Zayne's forehead, your fingertips lingering on the soft skin. He's so warm. So real. So...inviting.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry despite the water Zayne had given you earlier. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and you see Zayne's eyes flutter open at the movement. For a moment, you're frozen, caught in the hazel gaze that seems to see right through you. Then, slowly, Zayne's eyes focus on you. Confusion clouds them for a moment before a flicker of something else, something hotter, sparks in their depths. His grip on your hand tightens.

"You're awake," he murmurs, his voice husky from sleep. His gaze drops to your mouth, stays there for a long, charged moment. You feel your heart pounding against your ribs, your breath coming faster. The air between you feels thick, heavy with a tension you've never dared to put a name to before. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a sensual caress that sends a shiver up your spine. "How are you feeling?" he asks, but there's something else to his question, a double meaning that makes your cheeks flush hotter. And you know you should answer, should break this moment with a silly comment or a joke but you can't seem to find your voice. You're too busy drowning in the heat of Zayne's eyes too busy wanting...wanting more. Wanting to close the small distance between you and feel his lips on yours, wanting to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him closer until there's no space left between your bodies.

But you don't. You can't. Because this is Zayne. Your best friend, the one person you trust above all others. The one person you can't afford to mess this up with, so instead of giving in to the temptation, you take a deep, shuddering breath and try to gather your composure. You wet your dry lips again, your voice a bit husky as you manage to choke out an answer.

"I...I feel better," you whisper, your eyes still locked with his. "Thank you for...for letting me sleep." It's a clumsy reply, but it's the best you can manage in this moment.

Zayne's eyes search yours for a moment, as if trying to find the true meaning behind your words. Then, slowly, he nods and starts to sit up, his hand sliding from yours and leaving you feeling suddenly cold. "I'm glad, you needed the rest." He glances at the clock on the wall and frowns slightly. "I'm afraid I may have let you sleep a little longer than we intended though."

He starts to gather up the scattered pages of his textbook, his movements a little stiff, a little self-conscious. It's clear that he's feeling the shift in the atmosphere as much as you are. "We should probably get back to studying," he says, not meeting your gaze as he stacks the pages neatly. "You've got that big test coming up, and you need to be ready." He says it lightly, but there's a tightness to his voice that wasn't there before. A tension that has nothing to do with the impending test.

You nod slowly, sitting up as well and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You feel a little unsteady, a little off-balance. And it's not from the sudden awakening.

"Yeah," you agree softly. "You're right. I should get back to it."

You stand up, stretching slightly to work the kinks out of your muscles. As you do, you catch Zayne watching you from the corner of your eye, his gaze intense and unreadable. A shiver runs down your spine at the weight of it, and you quickly busy yourself with straightening out the rumpled blanket on the bed, avoiding his stare. "I'll just...I'll just go freshen up real quick" You say, hurrying towards the bathroom, needing to put some space between you, to collect your racing thoughts and calm the frantic pounding of your heart.

Once you are in the bathroom you splash water on your face, and take a few deep breaths, trying to will the blush from your cheeks. But no matter how much cold water you use, you can't seem to banish the memory of Zayne's sleep-roughened voice, the heat of his breath on your face, the way his hand felt curled around yours.

You shake your head sharply, pushing the thoughts away. You can't afford to think like that, not about Zayne. He's your rock, your constant, the one person you know you can always count on. You can't risk destroying that.

Squaring your shoulders, you take one last deep breath and step back out into the bedroom. Zayne is sitting on the bed, his textbooks spread out in front of him, his glasses perched on his nose as he scans the pages intently. For a moment, he looks like a picture of concentration, the very image of the dedicated medical student. As you approach, he glances up, and you see the flicker of something else in his eyes. Something warmer. Something that makes your heart stutter in your chest. "Is everything all right?" he asks softly, a note of genuine concern in his voice. He stands up, taking a step towards you, and you find yourself looking up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

"I...yes," you manage to say, your voice a little steadier than before. "Everything is fine.

"Good," he says, and there's a quiet satisfaction in his voice. He gestures to the bed, "It will be good for us to review the material together," Zayne continues, his voice warm and encouraging. "We can go over the key points and make sure you've got a solid grasp of everything before the test"

He steps closer to you, his hand coming to rest lightly on the small of your back as he guides you towards the bed. The touch is innocent, a gesture of friendship and support "Sit down," his breath stirring the hair at your temple. "Let's get to work."

Zayne watches as you chew thoughtfully on a grape, your eyes scanning the medical text. Hours have passed, and despite the late hour, you're both still engrossed in the material, determined to ensure you're fully prepared for the upcoming test. As Zayne sits in his chair, he flips to a new page in his textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he glances up at you, ready to ask a question, he notices a small, glistening droplet of grape juice on your lower lip.

For a moment, he's distracted, his focus torn between the anatomical diagram on the page and the tempting sight before him. He clears his throat softly, trying to regain his train of thought.

"Y/n," he begins, his voice a little rougher than before. "What are the primary symptoms of acute kidney injury?"

As he waits for your response, Zayne finds himself leaning forward slightly, his gaze still fixed on your mouth. The drop of juice on your lip, threatening to drip down at any moment.

He swallows hard, his heart beating a little faster in his chest. He knows he should look away, should focus on the important task at hand. But he can't seem to tear his gaze away from the mesmerizing sight of you.

Finally, as if sensing his stare, you glance up from the textbook. Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, time seems to slow. Zayne's breath catches in his throat as he realizes he's been caught staring, his pulse jumping at the realization.

"The primary symptoms are...decreased urine output, blood in the urine, swelling in the legs or ankles, nausea, and fatigue." You begin, your voice clear and confident despite the late hour.

As you speak, he watches, as the grape juice slowly slides down the curve of your lip. It leaves a glistening trail in its wake, a path that draws his eye like a magnet.

"And then there's the secondary symptoms," you say, unaware of the effect you are having on him "Hematuria, azotemia, electrolyte imbalances..."

As you speak, he feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to close the distance between you, to lean in and catch that glistening drop of grape juice with his tongue.

When the thought hits him it leaves him momentarily breathless. In this moment, with the late hour and the intensity of your study session, he finds himself fighting with a desire he's long suppressed.

As you wrap up your explanation, Zayne quickly looks down at his textbook, needing a moment to collect himself. He clears his throat, trying to will away the sudden tightness in his pants and the heat rising in his cheeks.

"That's...that's correct, y/n," he manages to say, his voice a little rougher than intended. "You've got a solid grasp of the material. That's impressive."

You smile at Zayne's praise, feeling a surge of pride and accomplishment. The late-night study session had been intense, but seeing the approval in his eyes made it all worthwhile. As your smile widened, the droplet of grape juice that had been perched on the curve of your lower lip began its descent.

Zayne, already on edge and distracted by his sudden surge of desire, doesn't hesitate. Acting on pure instinct, he reaches out and across the short distance between you, his thumb outstretched. In a soft gesture, he brushes his thumb along your chin, catching the errant drop of juice before it can fall any further. The touch is brief but electric, sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you can react, Zayne's thumb trails upwards, coming to rest gently on the plush, soft skin of your lower lip. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and in that moment, the air between you feels charged with a new energy. His gaze is intense, his eyes searching yours as his thumb lightly traces the curve of your lower lip. He's waiting for a reaction, for any sign that you feel it too this sudden, undeniable spark of attraction that's impossible to ignore.

His voice is a low murmur, almost a whisper, when he finally speaks. "You had a little... grape juice," he explains unnecessarily, his thumb still resting on your lip. "I just... I couldn't let it go to waste."

He feels his breath hitch in his throat as your small, pink tongue darts out and laps at the remnants of the grape juice on his thumb. The sensation of your wet, warm tongue against his skin sends a jolt of electricity straight through him, settling heavily in his lower abdomen.

"Now it won't," you say softly

As you hold his gaze, Zayne feels the last of his restraint slipping away. The walls he's built to keep his feelings locked away, crumble like sandcastles against a tide.

Slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, Zayne leans in closer. His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, his long fingers splaying gently against the warm, smooth skin. He tilts your chin up slightly, angling your face towards his.

"I've wanted to do this for so long, y/n," he confesses. The scent of his words is tinged with the faint aroma of the grapes you were eating, a heady and intoxicating combination. His eyes flick down to your lips, now glistening and parted slightly from your earlier actions.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers, his voice strained with tension. "Tell me you don't feel this too, and I'll stop. But god, I need to know if you want this as much as I do."

Your heart races as you feel Zayne's breath mingling with yours, his lips now centimeters away from your own. The heat of his skin, the intensity of his gaze, it's all so overwhelming and intoxicating.

"Don't stop," you breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper. It's all you manage to say before you close the final centimeter of space between you, your lips pressing softly against his. The moment your mouths meet, it's like a spark igniting a wildfire. Zayne's lips are soft and firm against your own, molding to the contours of your mouth as if he was made to fit there.

You hear a low groan escape from the back of his throat as you deepen the kiss. His fingers tighten slightly on your cheek, his thumb brushing over the apple of your cheekbone. You press closer, your hand coming up to tangle in the short, dark hair at the nape of his neck. Your fingers thread through the silky strands, anchoring him to you as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth moving against your own.

Zayne pulls back from the kiss just enough to hook his hands under your armpits. With a gentle but insistent pressure, he lifts you up and out of the bed, bringing your body flush against his own. As his lips claim yours again, his hands slide from your armpits down to your waist. He grips you firmly, his long fingers splaying across the small of your back as he pulls your curves snugly against the hard planes of his own body.

Still lost in the intensity of the kiss, he starts to walk you backwards, his body pressed against yours, until the soft give of a wall meets your back. He breaks the kiss just briefly as your back hits the wall, long enough to flash you a look that's equal parts hunger and desperation. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide with desire, and his chest heaves with each breath he takes.

"You drive me crazy," he rasps, his voice strained and rough with want. "If I take you to bed now, I won't be able to hold back. I'll lose control, and I don't want to rush this."

You close the distance once again and your teeth graze his bottom lip "Please Zayne" you whisper.

Unable to resist your urging, Zayne gives in to your demand. He leans into you, allowing you to tug his shirt upwards and expose the toned, muscular chest beneath. His abs are defined, each muscle group carved by years of dedicated discipline. As his shirt clears his head, Zayne captures your wrists in his hands, pinning them gently but firmly against the wall on either side of your head. He looms over you, his larger frame caging you in, his eyes roaming hungrily over your face and body.

"Please, what? Tell me what you want, y/n. I need to hear you say it."

His hips press against yours, the hard, thick length of him evident even through the fabric of his pants. He grinds slowly against you, letting you feel every inch of his desire. His hand releases one of your wrists to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your swollen bottom lip. His touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the rough, desperate edge in his voice.

"Tell me," he demands, his gaze intense and unwavering. "Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you. I'll give you everything."

"Zayne," you breathe out, your voice trembling with desire. "I need you, all of you" You feel his hands grip the backs of your thighs, his long fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he hoists you up. He lifts you effortlessly, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he pins you against the wall with his hips. Once he feels your legs secure around him, Zayne's hands slide up, his palms skimming over your thighs and coming to rest on your hips. He squeezes gently, his fingers digging into your curves as he holds you in place. Sensing your movements, Zayne leans back just enough to allow you to remove your shirt. As the fabric falls away, revealing your bare skin and the delicate lace of your bra, his breath catches in his throat.

"Fuck" he breathes out, his gaze hungry as it roams over your exposed flesh. Unable to resist, Zayne leans down and starts to place open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His lips and tongue map out the delicate skin, tasting you, teasing you, as his hands slide up your sides. They come to rest just below the band of your bra, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He looks up at you, his eyes dark and filled with promise, silently asking for your permission to continue.

You reach back, fingers unhooking the clasp of your bra. The lace falls away, baring you completely to his hungry gaze. He takes a moment to drink in the sight of you, your chest heaving with each breath, your nipples pebbled in the cool air of the room.

"Perfect," Zayne murmurs, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "Absolutely perfect."

He lowers his head and draws one straining peak into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud, teasing it, before he suckles hard. His other hand kneads the soft weight of your other breast, rolling and plucking at the neglected nipple. Zayne's hips press harder against yours, the thick ridge of his arousal grinding against your core.

"Zayne," you gasp, your head falling back against the wall as pleasure courses through you. "Please, I need more." Your hands fist in his hair, anchoring him to you as he lavishes attention on your breasts. Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, silently begging him to take you.

Zayne releases your breast with a wet pop, his lips moving to your other breast to give it the same treatment. He suckles and nips, his teeth grazing your skin, marking you. His mouth never leaves your breasts as he carries you towards the bed, his lips and tongue continuing their relentless assault on your sensitive flesh. He walks backwards and as the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress, Zayne sits down, allowing you both to tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. He rolls you over, positioning you beneath him. Zayne's hands roam your body, caressing every curve and dip, as if committing your form to memory.

Still focused on your breasts, he kisses and licks, suckles and nips, until your back arches off the bed and your fingers tangle almost painfully in his hair. Your nipples are reddened and swollen, glistening with his saliva, and aching for more of his touch. Zayne pauses in his ministrations, glancing up at you with a playful smirk as he slowly unzips your skirt. As he removes it he takes in the sight of your blue panties adorned with a tiny snowman.

"I wasn't exactly planning on seducing you tonight," you admit with an embarrassed blush, biting your lower lip. "I didn't think we'd end up like this."

Zayne's eyes soften as he takes in the pretty blush coloring your cheeks and the swell of your breasts. He finds your embarrassment endearing, charming even. It's a rare sight, given how composed and put together you usually are.

Zayne shakes his head and smirks "I'm glad you didn't plan this," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "Because if you had, you might not have chosen such...cute underwear"

He glances down at the snowman grinning up at him, then back to your blushing face, his smirk widening into a genuine, boyish grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart. They're perfect. Just like you, but let's get rid of them, shall we?" he whispers, his voice low and seductive "I want to see all of you."

Zayne takes his time peeling your panties down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin. As the fabric slips past your knees, he tosses them carelessly aside, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

When you instinctively close your legs, Zayne pauses, his hands resting on your thighs. "Open them for me, pretty girl," his voice filled with desire. His hands start to slowly push your thighs apart, his thumbs brushing over your inner thighs and sending sparks of pleasure racing through you, and when your legs part for him, his gaze drops to your exposed sex, his eyes darkening with hunger and need.

"Fuck, love," he breathes out, his voice strained. "You're so beautiful. I could look at you for hours." He leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh, making you shudder in anticipation. He inhales deeply, taking in your scent, before placing a soft, open mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips and tongue work their way slowly up your inner thigh. He places kisses to your skin, occasionally grazing it with his teeth, sending jolts of pleasure and pain straight to your core. He takes his time, savoring your taste and scent, drawing out your anticipation and desperation. The closer he gets to your aching, empty sex, the more your hips squirm and cant upwards, seeking his touch.

"Zayne, please," you whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair, trying to urge him on. He nips at the sensitive skin where your thigh meets your sex, making you gasp and your hips jerk involuntarily. He places another kiss, higher this time, his lips brushing against your lower lips. At the same time, he pushes your thighs further apart, opening you up to him completely.

"Tell me what you want," he urges, his breath hot against your cunt. "Tell me how you want me to touch you."

"Please, I need your mouth on me. I need your tongue, your fingers, something."

Without warning, he dives in, his mouth latching onto your sex with a hunger that steals your breath away.He kisses and sucks, his lips moving against your sensitive flesh as he explores every inch of you. His tongue delves between your folds, stroking along your slit and dipping teasingly inside you.

"Mmm, you taste even better than I imagined," Zayne rumbles, his words muffled against your sex. He looks up at you, his eyes glinting as he holds your gaze. "I could feast on this sweet cunt for hours, my love."

He then seals his mouth over your clit, suckling hard as he slides two long fingers deep inside you. He pumps them slowly, curling and twisting, stroking that spot that makes you moan his name. Your back arches off the bed as you cry out, your head thrown back in ecstasy. Suddenly he pauses, looking up at you with a playful glint in his eye. He smirks, his fingers still buried deep inside your throbbing sex. "How about we make this interesting, love? We can practice what you've learned today."

He starts to withdraw his fingers slowly, his thumb brushing over your clit and making you gasp. "Let's start with a simple one. What's the medical term for the heart?" He watches your face, his fingers poised at your entrance, waiting for your response.

"Fuck, it's c-cardio," you stutter out, your voice breathless and shaky with desire.

"Good girl," Zayne purrs, rewarding you with a slow lick along your slit. "What's the primary function of the kidneys?" His fingers dip back inside you, pumping shallowly, teasing you as he waits for your answer. Your hips twitch, trying to pull him deeper, but you force yourself to focus.

"F-filtration and secretion," you manage to say, your words coming out in a rush.

"That's right," Zayne murmurs, placing another lingering lick on your clit before suckling gently, rewarding your correct answer. "The liver's main function?"

"Nghh, m-metabolism and detoxification," you gasp, your head falling back as pleasure courses through you.

"Mmm, excellent. The brain's primary function?"

"I can't....Zayne please..." you pant, your fingers gripping the sheets as you fight the urge to grind yourself against Zayne's face. "I...its controlling and coordinating actions and..and ...activities,"

He wraps his lips around your clit and gently sucks it, his fingers pump faster, curling to stroke that special spot inside you with each thrust. You can feel your release building, your walls starting to flutter around his fingers.

"Lungs' primary function?" Zayne asks, his voice a low rumble against your sex.

"Res...respiration," you cry, your hips bucking up to meet his hand as your climax fast approaches.

"That's my clever girl," Zayne praises, sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking gently once again.

Zayne feels your walls fluttering and clenching around his fingers, knowing you are teetering on the brink of your climax. He looks up at you with intense eyes, his voice low and urgent.

"This is the most important question, my love. How many chambers does the heart have?"

His fingers pump faster, stroking that sensitive spot deep inside you with each thrust. His thumb rubs firm circles over your clit, the pleasure almost too much to bear.

"Four!" you scream, your voice breaking and cracking with the intensity of your impending climax. At your desperate scream of the correct answer, Zayne dives back in, his mouth latching onto your sex with renewed hunger. His tongue circles your clit exactly four times, each rotation perfectly measured and deliberate.

As he completes the fourth rotation, you finally shatter. Your body convulses as your orgasm crashes over you like, your sex clenching and fluttering wildly around his fingers.

Zayne groans, feeling your release gush over his tongue and fingers. He works you through it, his mouth and hands never stopping their assault, drawing out your pleasure until you collapse back onto the bed, boneless and spent.

Zayne crawls up your body, his eyes filled with satisfaction and pride. He cups your face, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath away. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it only makes you feel more desired.

"Good girl," Zayne praises. "You did so well, my love. I'm so proud of you."

You try to sit up, but Zayne gently but firmly presses you back down onto the bed, his hands resting on your shoulders. He shakes his head, giving you a playful smirk as he tucks you in snugly under the covers, pulling them up to your chin.

"Where do you think you're going, love? You need to rest now," Zayne says softly, his voice filled with a tender warmth that makes your heart flutter. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering to caress your cheek.

"You've had a long day. I want you to sleep now, sweetheart. Let your body recover and recharge." He settles in next to you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and pulling you close, spooning you from behind. He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair as he holds you possessively, protectively.

His hand rests on your stomach, his thumb rubbing gentle circles, a comforting, lulling motion. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back and the soothing sound of his voice soon has you both drifting off into a peaceful sleep. Unaware that once you both become respected doctors in your respective fields, you find yourself transported back to this day every time someone mentions the four chambers of the heart.

It could be during a lecture, a patient consultation, or even a casual conversation with a colleague. The moment the words "four chambers" leave their lips, you're instantly transported back to that bedroom, with Zayne's head between your legs, his tongue circling your clit in perfect, deliberate rotations as you screamed out the answer that brought you to the most intense orgasm of your life.

You'll feel a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you'll have to bite back a smile, glancing over at Zayne to see if he was also transported to that moment. More often than not, you catch him looking at you with a knowing, smoldering gaze, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. You know he's thinking about the same thing.

#love and deepspace #lnds #lads smut #lads #lads x reader #lnds x reader #lads x you #lnds x you #love and deepspace reader #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #zayne smut #lads zayne #zayne x reader smut #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne #zayne

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beef-brisket · 5 hours ago

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Adam didn't plan on staying at the hotel for a full day, let alone a week. But he wasn't hating Lucifer's company, Adam could tell the king was trying hard to work for his forgiveness. But of course, that's something Adam isn't even sure he could forgive Lucifer for.

It runs too deep. That anger and hurt. But, he appreciates Lucifer trying and actually treating him like a person. Like his friend again.

Charlie: Okay, everyone! In this session, we're covering consent and what it means! I know, most of you have an idea of what that is, but it's such an important thing that spans across multiple relationships! So, we have Angel and Adam helping us with that, today!

Lucifer raised his eyebrow as his daughter mentioned Adam. Sure, that thing happened in the garden... but that was nearly 11,000 years ago! Or, something close.

Angel flashed Adam a smile as they stood up and joined Charlie.

Charlie: So, thank you guys for doing this! And, to make everyone comfortable, I have to ask, are there any questions or question types about this subject that you're not comfortable with?

Angel thought for a second: Hmm... nope! Just, maybe... try and keep it respectful? We're opening up about traumatic things and... I think I speak for both of us bitches, that of we don't want to get too deep with an answer that's fine!

Adam nodded and rubbed Angel's back: Couldn't have said it better myself.

Charlie beamed: Of course, Angel! And good on you for putting up solid boundaries! Now, if everyone is in agreement we can get on with the lesson.

((⚠️tw: R*pe mention⚠️))

Everyone listened to Charlie speak. Lucifer was so proud of his baby girl, but for some reason, seeing Adam up there was... odd.

Charlie: Okay, Angel. Would you feel comfortable speaking briefly about your experiences?

Angel: Uh, sure... my workplace isn't the safest... more are the streets of Pride. I just... I wish my feelings were taken into consideration... sometimes.

Angel smiled as Adam held onto him rightly. His presence was more than comforting.

Charlie: I'm sorry that happens to you, Angel. It's horrible that you're not appreciated or cared for at work and in Pride. Adam? Would you be comfortable sharing?

Adam tensed. He knew this was coming, but it was still sudden: Sure. What do you want to know?

Charlie: Where?

Adam nodded: Well... it happened in the-.

Lucifer chuckled: Come on, Addy! This was so long ago! You're not over it?

Charlie glared: Dad!

Lucifer: What? It's true! This was thousands and thousands of years ago, Charlie! Right, Adam?

Adam stared at Lucifer. Was he really doing this? After this amazing week, he just had to fucking ruin it. Typical Lucifer

Adam: ...No. What I was going to say is that is that for me, it happened in my dressing room. After my shows.

Lucifer: I- what...?

Adam: ...By my manager. And also, in my home in Lust. In my pool, to be more specific.

Lucifer cowered as Adam stared at him when mentioning the pool. He didn't mean for it to come across like that- he was just desperate for forgiveness! To see Adam!

But... he didn't realise the scared Adam.

Charlie: Your... manager? We... we talked to him to book in with you all those months ago.

Adam smiled softly at Charlie: Don't feel bad, yeah? It's... I'm a sex demon, I kind of need it. But Steve used that as my payment. Him having sex with me. I... only wanted it because I was so desperate for it.

Charlie: ...I'm so sorry, Adam. I'm so sorry, Angel...

Adam and Angel were starting to feel a bit awkward with the number of eyes on them.

Adam: Uh- it's fine, kid.lets just move on with the whole learning about consent, yeah?

Angel nodded: I think that's a good idea!

The king tensed when Adam walked back over to his seat, but he noticed Adam sat further away from him.

He even refused to look at Lucifer.

He's really fucked up this time. He couldn't even make it a week.

Succubus au

@beef-brisket

@fanofstuff01

(This au was originally on @things-aren't-what-they-seem66blog and was originally thought of by an anonymous ask)

The roaring of the crowd and the playing of his guitar deafened his ears but the incubus didn't care. He loved the way they cheered his name while he shredded on his axe. With one final strum, his song was done. He raised his arms and gave the horns, to which his fans reciprocated, and bid them all goodnight. He walked away his hands still raised until he was out of sight from them. Adam sighed heavily and wiped the sweat with his forearm as he made his way to his dressing room.

Once there he flopped onto the couch and groaned. Though Adam loved being a rockstar and having adoring fans, he wouldn't lie to himself, each performance, especially concerts, can be quite draining since he always had to prepare with mic checks and making sure he sounded right. Steve, his producer/manager/on-and-off-again fling, always assured him that these were mandatory. Just one of those sacrifices that come with being a star. Still, Adam felt a little like shit and he needed a drink, a hard one. Unfortunately, his evening wasn't quite over yet as knocking was heard from the other side of the door then a voice called out.

Assistant: Excuse me? Commander? I'm sorry for bothering you but I brought the VIP guests here with me.

Adam sighed completely forgetting about that. Almost all VIPs get access to meet him after every show. Though he loved his fans coming to him and saying how much they loved him, maybe even getting some head from the older crowd, tonight, he didn't want to. However, he knew that he didn't have much of a choice. Unless he wanted Steve up his ass, and not in a good way. Letting out a long groan he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and yelled out to her.

Adam: Bring them in.

He closed his eyes and sighed once again as he heard the door open and feet shuffle in. He prepared himself for the immediate responses of squealing and clamoring over to shake his hand. However, he was not prepared for a familiar voice to call out his name.

Charlie: A, Adam?

He opened his eyes and standing in front of him were Charlie, Vaggie, and a one-eyed sinner.

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cellythefloshie · 3 days ago

Text

;; Soak It In by cellythefloshie

Summary: a shared bath with Matthew Knies. Kinks & TW: mostly fluff, implied smut. Word Count: 1k+

Clutching the front of your robe shut, you leaned over the side of the bathtub. You watched the waters swirl with the vibrant colors of the bath bomb that dissolved in the hot waters. It was so hot that steam curled up from it in lazy ribbons that left the mirror about the bathroom sink fogged and sweaty with condensation. Sighing deeply with anticipation you smiled, this was the relaxation you needed after a long week.

When the water was filled up just right, you reached you with a palm that was already sweaty from the heat and shut the faucet. You had to be careful not to knock the lit candles that rest on the side of the tub, their glow the only light left as you turned off the bathroom light and stripped off your robe. Stepping into the bath, you held your breath. The water was so hot it was going to leave your skin red, you were sure of it. But it didn’t deter you; you needed this.

Easing yourself into the tub, you let it consume you; sinking down until the water lapped at your shoulders. Your eyes shut slowly. The warmth of the water, the darkness, and your favorite scents looming in the air; it was almost perfect. But something was missing. You couldn’t quite put your finger on what it was– that was until it was knocking at the bathroom door.

“I thought you might want a glass of wine,” Matt said slowly as he popped his head in through the door he had opened just enough to fit through.

“You thought right,” you smiled wide, your hand reaching out for the glass, “you busy?”

Matt entered the bathroom slowly, dropping to his knee beside the tub, and handed you the glass of wine.

“No, not really. I'm just gaming with the boys,” he explained.

“You maybe want to ditch the boys and get in?” You asked slowly–but before you could finish, Matt was already reaching back and peeling off his t-shirt.

“Shouldn't you tell them you aren't coming back?” You said slowly as you ease yourself into a sitting position, your arms shielding your breasts from the prickle of the cold air.

“They know you're over,” he smiled in a way that was almost devilish; “they can use their imaginations.”

“Matt ew,” you gaped, your arms dropping to splash water at him as he freed himself from his pants, “I don't need your teammates picturing us fucking.”

“Not picturing, just assuming that we were fucking,” he clarified as he eased himself into place behind you.

You leaned back into him slowly, your back supported by the strength of his chest as the hot bath waters lapped around you. You could feel the tension in his muscles as the shock of the heat hit him, but soon he eased into the comfort of what was now the perfect evening.

You had no plans and no obligations–it was just the two of you in the hot bath surrounded by the comforts of his home. And you by the comforts of his body.

He had found their way around your waist, lazily holding you to him. Your hips were embraced by his thighs, your foot gliding along the length of his leg slowly as you shifted slightly to sit comfortably against him. It rocked the surrounding water, sending it lapping against the sides and down the overflow drain.

Hearing the low gargle of water sent a chuckle through Matt's chest. You could feel it against your back, and you could practically hear the smile on his face as he spoke. “I think you filled the tub too high, Babes.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” you hummed before taking a long sip of your wine, “I hadn't considered that the giant hunky hockey player might want to join me–most men don't like bubble baths. Ice bath sure but–”

“Have I ever shied away from any opportunity of seeing you naked?” He challenged, and you turned in place just enough to take in his expression. His one brow was quirked up, and a soft smile was on his lips.

You rolled your eyes playfully at him, your hand dipping into the water to flick water back against his chest. His large hand reached out, consuming your wrist with his gentle hold as he tutted at you.

“Careful babes, don't start something you can't finish.” His tone was cautionary but playful as he let our hand go, letting it slip back down into the silky waters.

“Don't threaten me with a good time, Matty,” you said as you settled back against his chest.

It felt nice to be held by him there, his arms around you and his heartbeat against your back–but you couldn't deny that he would feel even better nestled between your thighs.

Matt craved his neck forward, pressing his lips to your shoulder in a gentle kiss before muttering against your flesh, “I can't fuck you with an audience-”

An audience? Your brows furrowed as you looked around the bathroom. The two of you were completely and utterly alone, but then you spotted them, the two bright yellow rubber ducks you had bought him for Valentine's day. They sat on the side of the bathtub together, looking right at you.

Lifting up your foot,l you swiped at the ducks with your toes, knocking them down into the water. They bobbled over the small wake, bumping into each other before floating their separate ways.

“Better?” You asked.

He hummed out in approval, kissing the top of your head as his arms tightened around you. For a moment, the two of you stayed like that, his nose buried in your hair and your arms resting over his as the warm water lapped around you. The soft glow of the candles dimmed, puddles of wax slowly drowning the lights. You sat in silence, completely content with just being together, but the ducks continued to float, bumping into your legs and his just to remind you that they were there.

“I love you, you know,” Matt spoke, his hot words washing over you.

You smiled softly, your eyes falling shut. You would never get tired of hearing him say that.

“Yeah, I know,” you smiled softly, your eyes falling shut. You would never get tired of hearing him say that.

The water sloshed as Matt raised his hand from the water, his gentle touch finding your chin. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and guided lips to his. He kissed you slowly, deeply, coaxing out your tongue and a moan as his hand fell from your face and found its place between your legs.

Somewhere in the bathtub, the ducks bobbled along the turbulence Matt created in the water with every one of his movements. Undoubtedly watching the show, the two of you were putting on for them and judging you for the mess you were creating.

TAGLIST: @mp0625 , @starshine-hockey-girl , @wingedwheelprxncess , @kurlyteuvo , @couldawouldashoulda50 , @hagelpoint-3821

#matthew knies #toronto maple leafs #hockey rpf #hockey imagines #nhl rpf #nhl fanfic

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coleeeitgysn1infi · 2 days ago

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GIYUU X SANEMI SHIP CHARTS❕

(Tw: horrible grammar & spelling, teeny tiny bit of nsfw, not that understandable, some bad takes. And I'm sorry!)

❕

I don't like this opinion that the fandom has and i think they're misinterpreting the character, in my opinion this should be interpreted like this.

First image:

1. Big/little spoon:

• Giyuu is the big spoon while Sanemi the little spoon. Giyuu is more likely to big spoon because of his truma and what he hates. Not even talking about smut or anything, this is all In general. Giyuu would big spoon even when they are sleeping or cuddling together. Why? A sign of protection. He rather protect then be protected, because people died protected him, his sister and his best friend, Tsutako and Sabito died protecting and that made Giyuu hate having to be protected, now he protectes his loved ones because he can't afford to lose someone else while protecting him, he hates being useless as well, so in order not to be protected, protected and not be useless, he will big spoon in the relationship. In Giyuu's head, anything can happen, when they sleep at night, Giyuu would big spoon, because what if an intruder broke in? What it they try to kill them? Possible or not, Giyuu would big spoon to be the closer target, so Sanemi doesn't die in his presence. Dying is one of Giyuu's top "idgf" list, so if he doesn't care about dying to protect Sanemi.

• About Sanemi, he spent his whole life protecting, him small spooning is the better thing for him. He may hate being vulnerable and showing emotions, but that's what he needs, him taking a break from everything is what he needs, and Giyuu can provide that for him, he can help him relax and not be always on alarm and acutely feel comfortable enough to express his feelings, Giyuu is litterly the perfect person for that. All the people Sanemi protected died, no matter how hard he tried, His mother, his siblings, Genya and Masachika died because he couldn't protect them. Now, if he had to protect Giyuu, they would always be worried, always be alarmed, and nothing would have changed from their trauma and the cycle would be repeateded all over again, both of them would always be on edge and will acutely be really unhealthy and toxic for them. Giyuu big spooning and Sanemi little spooning is what's for the best, both would be at ease, both would trust each other, both would be happy, calm and more relaxed after so long.

2. Clothes sharing:

• They both share clothes if they need to, they are the same size. 3 cm is not 3 inches people, and so if Giyuu is 3 cm shorter? How can that mean that Giyuu is less of a man as the rest?

3. Extrovert & introvert:

• Sanemi isn't that extroverted either, if anything, his Omniverted. What's Omniverted. What is an omnivert person?

• Omnivert. Definition. A person who exhibits qualities of both introversion and extroversion, and can flip into either depending on their mood, context, and goals. A person who can feel intensely introverted or extroverted in different situations, with preferences changing frequently and drastically.

• With this say, Sanemi is either introverted or extroverted depending how he feels, what situation he is in. We can say Sanemi is not that extroverted, because he doesn't seem that pleased when his around a lot of people and doesn't even talk much about anything but his duty. Sanemi is somewhere in the middle of that.

• For Giyuu, there are 4 types of introvert, his a thinking type introvert. He doesn't have the social type, not the anxious type, not the restrained type. As kid, he might have had with the social or anxious type, but as a grown adult his different.

4. Confession:

• Giyuu I the type of guy who will confess the second he gets the right chance, while Sanemi waits to be confessed. Giyuu is canonly a straight forward guy, if he has the guts to insult Sanemi out of no where, he has the guts to confess to him out of no where.

• While Sanemi, is a person who probably fears the possibly of being rejected, so he will just sit somewhere and pray that the person he likes will confess to him, cos there is no way Sanemi will take the chance of being rejected and humiliated. Sanemi probably will take a longer time to realize if he likes someone, while Giyuu would notice most likely immediately when he likes someone. "Giyuu fell first & Sanemi fell harder." that's my quote, meaning, Giyuu is the one who fell in love first with Sanemi, while Sanemi fell in love after a lot of emotional challenges and doubt.

5. Bugs...:

• Really? Screaming about bugs? Giyuu is the one killing it with a shoe, Sanemi let's it outside and will probably blind Giyuu when he sees him to try and kill the poor thing- (canon, I was the bug.)

6. Driving skills:

• In my opinion, Giyuu is a more carful driver then Sanemi, but Sanemi has more experience on driving. Probably because in modern au, Giyuu would be driven around by Sakonji, Tsutako and Sabito or would have taken the bus while Sanemi learned how to drive at a young age and drive his siblings around a lot.

7. Cooking skills:

• Yeah th cooking one is right. To be fair, I meet some people who thought Sanemi can't cook and Giyuu can- so I highlighted this.

8. Protectiveness:

• Both are overprotective, both in different ways. Sanemi is more of mama bear protective because he had to take care of his 6 younger siblings and was like a second mother to them. Sanemi's character is a lot like a "older sister" type, because of his background and story, personality as well.

Here is a post that relates to this and the first one.

9. Dating experience:

• Both don't have relationship experience. Especially Sanemi since in the light novel is said that Sanemi also doesn't care about romance and doesn't care about girls founding over him if he become a hashira when Masachika teased him. It's canon that he doesn't understand romance either, not being in able to tell that your own best friend likes someone while litterly Muichiro himself could tell while Sanemi couldn't. It's funny.

• About Giyuu's romance, his a natural, so he probably would know much more about relationships then Sanemi. Comme on, having an idea of how to befriend Sanemi by making him something he loves and also having flowers on his imagination, we can agree Giyuu is at least more romantic then Sanemi, since he can also understand when he is in love or not.

10. Awkwardness level:

• Both are awkward in different ways, Giyuu awkward with words, Sanemi just hating the feeling of awkwardness since people scold him a lot about his behavior.

11. Jealous level:

• Giyuu is canonly the jealous type. When he got jealous that Tanjiro started using different breathing styles, the way he envies the other hashiras, Sanemi and Tengen for example, when he said to Sanemi himself how he envies his "simple mind". (that part was hilarious, you can not disagree).

• Sanemi isn't really the jealous type, he just hates unfairness. Giyuu is mostly likely to be jealous when Someone that shows interested in Sanemi, then Sanemi being jealous of someone that shows interested in Giyuu. Is that Giyuu doesn't trust Sanemi, he doesn't like it when someone other then him is interested in him. Sanemi trusts Giyuu in this too, so he doesn't care at all and has more important things to deal with.

12. Sexuality:

• About their sexuality, my head canon is that Giyuu is demisexual, why? Because I can see Giyuu loving someone about their personality not their physical looks. It's not like Pansexual where they love everyone, Giyuu doesn't not love everyone, he has to know more about you, to love you. For example if Sanemi became a woman, Giyuu wouldn't care at all, and nothing about his preferences or feelings would change, he will love Sanemi the same, not more or less. I don't like the HC people make of Giyuu that his Gay, it doesn't match at at tbh, and doesn't fit him at all, his demisexual and you really don't have much proof that his not. Because Giyuu wasn't all over Sanemi just because he was a man, if Sanemi was a women from the beginning, Giyuu would still want to befriend Sanemi, and if they where canon, Giyuu would still love Sanemi, man or not.

• I think Sanemi is bisexual with preference for women in my opinion. Why? Because women where the one people that where gently with him, unlike man like his father which he had a lot of them who reminded Sanemi of his father, even Tengen is just as Intimating like Sanemi 's father. Plus, Sanemi looked up to women, like his mother, and Kanae who touch reminded him of his mother (light novel), but the man who where actually just as gentle with him where Masachika and Master. Giyuu is on his list as well, AT THE END of the manga. If they where canon, Giyuu would be patient with Sanemi, wouldn't force him on anything and acutely would build a comfortable and safe space for Sanemi. Which makes our boy bisexuals over all.

Second image:

1. How they met:

• "When Giyuu became a hashira" ⁉️ yeah, this person doesn't know much. "When Sanemi became a hashira" is the correct quote idk why they didn't know that.

2. The relationship in a sentence:

• Giyuu falls in love first not "too easy", and if anyone of them was crazy about the other, is Giyuu crazy about Sanemi!! Idk why people always confuse this, Giyuu is the one who what's to befriend Sanemi, Giyuu is the one who wants to make him his favorite food, and Giyuu is the one who likes him! Romantically or platonically, doesn't matter.

3. Talkitive & Listener:

• Their both at the listerner category in my opinion, just Sanemi little more in the middle. You can't see Sanemi starting a convo about something, people come to talk to him, he doesn't go to talk to people.

• But Giyuu, he is the type of person who starts conversations, when he finds something you like, he will mostly talk about it.

5. Superior/equal/inferior:

• Sanemi views both of them as equal, but Giyuu is more complicated.

• Giyuu even though he thinks he isn't worthy of a hashira, he doesn't think his beneath anyone's shoes, he still says what he wants, does what he wants and doesn't carenif your more superior then him or not.

6. Flustered/chill

• Sanemi is the flustered one in the relationship, he gets easily embarrassed and awkward, and he tries his hardest not to be in these sections.

• While Giyuu is chill with anything, he couldn't care less in reality.

7. Life of the party - What is joy:

• Both are in "what is joy" group.

• Sanemi himself doesn't see the point in being happy when there are demons going around killing innocent lives. It's said in the light novel, the only time his joyful is when his training with Giyuu in the Hashira Training Arc, he is seen smiling when fighting with Giyuu, but when his training with Obanai or Muichiro, his not.

• Giyuu himself doesn't see the point either, but he doesn't have as big of a hatred in demons like Sanemi does. His stuck in the past and he can't move on from it. The only time we see him smile is either when his eating his favorite meal - miso soup with salmon and daikon - or when his thinking about Sanemi!! Both of them here are the same in this scenario, both find lots of joy in their favorite food and when they interact! Sanemi may hate Giyuu's guts at the beginning but we see them smile at each other so many times as time passes by.

8. Forgets errands and chores/does all the errands:

• Sanemi does all the errands/chores while Giyuu forgets. Sanemi grew up cleaning up after his siblings and father, he also likely cooked for his siblings when their mother was away at work.

• Giyuu was always cleaned after, his sister most likely did everything around the house and Sakonji as well. We also see Giyuu's estate has no furniture, so he probably doesn't clean at all so he doesn't bother to get anything but a bed to sleep on. And he either eats out or the Kakushi do everything else for him.

9. Changes:

• Sanemi most likely makes changes happen and Giyuu keeps things simple.

10. Trust:

• Giyuu has bigger trust then Sanemi, he also is a person that has no secrets so he trusts Sanemi the same.

• Sanemi is more difficult, he doesn't trust people easily and it took a while for him to trust Giyuu, even though now he trusts him, Sanemi still doesn't tell him all his secrets, like Giyuu does with him.

11. Emotional openness:

• Even tho neither of them are emotionally open, Giyuu is the one who's more emotionally open that Sanemi, because like I said 100 times, Sanemi hates showing his vulnerable emotions. Giyuu is the one who his more open about his feelings as well, his more open emotionally too.

12. Affection:

Giyuu is wayy more affectionate than Sanemi is. But both have almost the same way of showing it.

Giyuu's love language: (ranked)

- buying gifts

- acts of service

- physical touch

- Quality time

- words of affirmation

Sanemi's love language:

- acts of service

- Quality time

- secretly likes physical touch

- gift giving

- words of affirmation

these are the 5 type of love language and how I rank them for Giyuu and Sanemi

13. Emotional needs:

• Sanemi is 20% Giyuu 35-40%

14. Sharing generosity:

• Sanemi is really careful on what he shares, and without thinking about it, he won't share anything.

• For Giyuu, if he has to share something he doesn't really care about, he doesn't have a problem with it, other wise, he doesn't like sharing stuff that he cares about and are meant for him.

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Note: I resaid some stuff I had already posted on my other blogs, but I added them here as well because not everyone read those posts. I will be adding them here.

mine: 1 2 3

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My explanations might have been confusing but it make my explanations clear I made my own Giyuu x Sanemi ship chart!

This is my GiyuSane chart IN MY OPINION!😭

(im gonna post these Sepretly)

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Note 2: This is all I could gather so far 😭😭😭 Another note, ik my takes are confusing and my bad grammar can make it even more confusing. Even I myself am confused, but this is definitely one of my longest post so I was a little impatient when writing everything. If you don't agree with MY TAKES, then idk girly, you do you, if you want to add anything, pls do, I'd appreciate it!!

#kny #demon slayer #giyuu tomioka #sanemi shinazugawa #giyusane #giyuusane #sanegiyuu #kimetsu no yaiba #giyuu x sanemi #giyuu and Sanemi #gysn #sngy #ship chart #giyusane ship chart #hot takes #unpopular opinion

34 notes · View notes

bkgexe · 12 hours ago

Text

he ain't heavy (he's my—)

caleb (love and deepspace) x reader ✾ 8.3k

info! You and he used to be synonyms. Two words with the same definition. The question you both try and fail to answer: what are you now? ✾ tw! pseudocest. and im sorry. size difference mention multiple times. f!reader, referred to with gendered language ✾ notes! lordddddd they're so weird i need them to be together. this is really sappy and self-indulgent and the smut is like. ???? i don't even know. look mc's got a lot to think abt while getting railed. you can also read on ao3 instead with like proper grammar and stuff lmaooooo

you’ve always been like this with him. a little more childish, a little more petulant. it doesn’t matter that you’re older now, that you consider yourself a decently mature person when it comes to every other situation in your life.

he hurt you, and you want to hurt him back.

maybe hurt is a small word for what he’s done. you missed him. you mourned him. you went back to the burnt husk of your childhood neighborhood for weeks after the explosion, looking for any trace of him that might’ve gone unnoticed. as if you would be able to discern his remnants because you knew him better than anybody else. like you could pick his ashes from the rest, set them aside and declare them clothing or muscle or tooth.

the two of you were inseparable when you were younger. even when you got into different hobbies, made friends outside of each other, attended different academies after high school—it was unspoken that your home was with one another. you grew up, but not apart. long periods of time spent away from each other were difficult. you might have doubted that he felt the same if he didn’t constantly tell you how much he missed you, if he hadn’t been the one that called you every day, that asked if you were eating enough, that texted to make sure you were going to bed at a reasonable hour.

the more unfamiliar distance is, the sharper it becomes. you can’t see the blade of it at arm’s length. when caleb died, you became acquainted with distance so quickly that you couldn’t remember what it felt like when the knife wasn’t already between your ribs.

you’re sure he felt that too. your wounds mirror each other’s, as they often do. as they often did. but there’s no comparing temporary and permanent. antonyms. something you and caleb hadn’t been until now. it’s why you want him to hurt. it’s why you want to lash out like you used to when you were a child, mad because he went and played with his friends for too long, frustrated because his fingers would tangle in your hair and pull uncomfortably when he undid your braids. you’re doing that on purpose, you would accuse, and he would laugh and call you a crybaby.

lashing out requires his presence. this is why you seek him out. even though he still doesn’t tell you everything—can’t, he reminds you whenever it’s brought up—you still visit him whenever he tells you he has time off, allow him into your home when he shows up uninvited. you pretend that you don’t know it’s not a coincidence when you run into him in both skyhaven and linkon, more often than not when you’re hanging out with male friends. you want him to be there because you can’t hurt him if he’s not around. maybe it’s unfair, but you’re allowed to act like this with him—he’s your big brother. was. tenses have been harder since he returned. you had only just gotten used to putting everything in the past. the present is different than it used to be. you’re adjusting at too slow a pace, already tired from the adjusting you had to do after his death.

but there’s something that’s been building between you that’s different. something like heat, something you’re not sure you should feel with a person you once considered as close as family. something you can’t look at closely, its details all primed to change things too dramatically, too quickly.

the point: you’ve known caleb your whole life. (you’ve also known zayne your whole life, an entirely unhelpful voice in your brain provides, and your grandma always joked about the two of you getting married.) that doesn’t matter. it’s inconsequential. he didn’t grow up in the same home as you, like caleb did. he didn’t walk you home from school every day, or help you dry your hair on wash days, or make you late night meals when you had to stay up doing homework.

(zayne also doesn’t give you the kind of look caleb does when you come visit him, like you’re the sun and the center of the universe and the most perfect being to ever exist all at once.)

you like being revered—who doesn’t? but that’s normal, because people often hold their family members in high regard. in the same way you hold caleb. because you’ve looked up to him your whole life, from when he was getting into fights as a kid to protect you from bullies up until now, where—despite the things he’s keeping from you—he’s very obviously taking on more than he can handle. you’ve always admired his selflessness, his willingness to carry burdens. like atlas, a world forever on his back. your entire universe sitting in the divot between his wide shoulders.

caleb made you cry after he went to the daa only once, when you first visited. you were terribly attached to him, devastated by him leaving home. you were an emotionally high-strung wreck and anything even slightly distressing made you well up, made it feel like the world was coming to an end. maybe that’s just being sixteen.

but his roommate had come back to their dorm and asked, “oh, is this your sister?”

caleb had been laughing with you only moments prior. he stayed smiling, but there was something underneath—a seriousness that he reserved for anyone but you. a little cold, ultimately more severe than you ever thought he should have to be. “no,” he said, like the idea itself was ridiculous. “we just grew up together.”

later you asked him about it. people had referred to you as brother and sister plenty when you were little, and even though it wasn’t actually the truth, it wasn’t something you dismissed as easily as caleb had to his roommate. you were tearing up when you asked him about it. the hormones, the devastation, the thought of him wanting to remove himself from your life in some fashion.

“i just—don’t see you that way,” he told you. “it doesn’t mean you’re not special to me. you’re the most special to me.”

you’d accepted it because he called you special and (back then, not so much now) you could always tell when he was lying.

(maybe you’ve never been good at discerning his lies from truth. maybe the two run so concurrently that they rest hand-in-hand, so colored by the other that they don’t have clear start and end points. synonyms, like you and caleb used to be. you worry that you don’t know him the way you thought you did when you were a teenager, when you could call him and accurately predict which ring he’d pick up on.)

you always feel flushed when you think of him like this. heat on your face. because he’s not your brother. or he was, but he isn’t now. or he is still, in some ways, and in some ways he’s not. he’s still the boy that showed you how to catch fireflies and poke holes in the top of mason jars so they could light up the porch during summer nights, and you’re still the girl that reminded him to open up the jars before you both went to bed so that the fireflies would be there to catch another day. but he’s also the man that looks at you with something so terribly heavy in his gaze that you’re scared to put it into words—and you’re also the woman that surrenders into the warmth of his palm when he cups your face, that doesn’t pull away when your mouths are so close that you can feel his breath on your lips.

it's this new heat. new, you tell yourself, even though you know it goes back further.

you touched yourself to the thought of him even before he died. this is something you can’t ever tell anyone—can barely even think about yourself. it was an accident. it didn’t count. you got distracted and thought about his thumb against your tongue and his broad shoulders under your hands and the weight of him between your thighs and you came so hard that it felt like dying, just a little. every time it happened after that, the mantra: it was an accident. it didn’t count. it was an accident.

and you wonder if you could classify the way you punish him as an accident, too. because you want him to hurt. but you also know what he wants most, in some abstract way. it would be clear if you let yourself think about it, but the same haze fixes itself over those thoughts—accident, doesn’t count—so you act half on instinct. a vague comment here, a gaze that lingers too long there. a finger drawn up the back of his uniform’s coat after you fix his collar, ghosting across the long length of his spine.

a fever pitch. its synonyms: excitement, agitation. two opposites shoved into the same feeling. that’s the only way to describe the way things are around you and caleb now. breaths are counted, often hitched. touches are limited before they get dangerous. caleb has invited you to skyhaven for a long weekend, even with the fever pitch, the heat and the excitement and the agitation. maybe he’s a glutton for punishment. maybe he knows he deserves it. maybe he’ll take you any way he can have you.

“there she is,” he says when you let yourself in, the same way he always does. grinning wide like he can’t stop himself. handsome in a way that makes your stomach twist. your mouth goes a little dry when you see that he’s only half dressed, just in his uniform slacks and socks because he didn’t realize how early you’d be getting to his place.

the socks are ones he got when he was with you. cheap, girly, cute. pink and green, little frogs dotted all across his large feet. you’d been walking around skyhaven together and it had started raining, and soon enough your shoes and socks were soaked, same as his. he took you to a convenience store and bought temporary replacements, and these were the only socks, for some reason, that were sold in men’s sizes.

“dressed up for today, huh?” you ask, motioning to the socks. “special occasion? were you the belle of the ball?”

“i got to dance with the prince and everything,” he tells you. comes over to greet you with a hug, and you try to ignore the heat of his skin, his unbuckled belt. he’s so big that the embrace swallows you up, makes you feel like you’re eighteen again and caleb is coming home from the daa to see you. home is the word that sticks in your mind, that refuses to leave. “and, would you believe it, they crowned me homecoming queen.”

“i thought they stopped doing that at royal gatherings,” you say into his chest. “too many queens in one room, you know? a lot of tension.”

he laughs and holds you for longer than you feel is necessary. you have to shoo him away to get ready and try not to let your eyes wander as he walks to his—your?—bedroom. that matter will have to be settled before you sleep here tonight. you do a decent job at not looking at his wide, muscled back.

you do less of a good job at not looking when all he puts on is one of his old sleeveless shirts and a pair of basketball shorts from the daa. like you’re both back home. like he never left. irresistible isn’t a word that caleb is allowed. not in the context of you. but when he’s like this—when things feel close to before—that word comes closer to applying.

“wanna go to the ice cream place around the corner?” he grins when he asks you this, cocky, because he already knows your answer. “i think they have that weird old man flavor you like. what is it? rum raisin?”

“pecan praline,” you say, but you know he already knew that too. “and shut up, it’s good.”

he takes you to ice cream and pays. gets rocky road for himself. takes licks from your ice cream cone when you let down your defenses and makes you watch the flat of his tongue curl in a way that should be illegal.

well—he doesn’t make you watch. you make yourself watch. you think you would die if you didn’t. you wonder if he notices because he takes more licks than he has any right taking of a flavor he describes as "ancient and gross.”

when you get home—to his home, you clarify in your mind, though he has gone through pains to make it feel like yours as well—the ice cream is all gone. your hands are a little sticky. the cost of something whimsical and fun. he asks if you want to watch a movie before dinner and you say, “i don’t want to watch a movie.”

and everything gets a little quiet.

you hate that there’s something building between you. you hate that you can’t look it in the face and very easily figure out exactly what it is. you hate spending time with him but you don’t think life would be worth living if you never got to spend time with him again.

“what do you wanna do, then?” his voiced is laced with insinuation. you don’t think he meant to sound like this. his eyes dart away from yours for a moment to safer territory before coming back.

you feel like you’re in high school, like you’re visiting a guy friend’s home and he’s doing something that’s going to make you call caleb to come pick you up. except you don’t want to go home and you don’t want to be picked up and caleb is already right here in front of you, where you’ve maybe wanted him always.

“i want—” you start, and you can’t. you can’t look at it.

he steps towards you. he’s big—so much bigger than you remember. wider. he’s put on muscle since he came to skyhaven and part of you wants to know how much. “hmm?”

you want something he can’t give you. you want that something so bad you could unravel into yarn, ball yourself up and roll under a bed somewhere, never to be found. you think that longing and mourning are two different flavors of the same thing.

“cook for me,” you command, because telling him to do something is easier than making yourself do something, and you can have space from him while he’s in the kitchen.

he makes you dinner. your favorite. has the ingredients on hand like always, like when you used to drop in on him at the daa. like he was always prepared for you to be a part of his life, a permanent fixture. you eat together while watching a film that just came out, one you both wanted to see. thought you said you didn’t want to watch a movie, he teases when you put it on, and you ignore him because you’re both well aware that he’s prodding at a wound that’s liable to open.

the idea of space was abandoned the second he sat down—you’re pressed flush against his side, your head resting on his shoulder when you’re not taking bites of his incredible cooking. it’s the way you used to eat together when you were kids. you’re aware of every stretch of bare skin that touches his. he takes up so much space—needs basically half of the couch to accommodate him, leaning back, legs spread wide. he’s your caleb when he’s like this: relaxed, always poised to smile, wearing the same clothes he’s worn since high school.

you stretch your legs out across his lap, curling yourself into him. his arm instinctually reaches across the back of the couch, lets you find purchase against his chest. it’s a familiar spot. distance seems far away, a dulled knife. this is your well-worn home, a niche you carved out with your bare hands over many years.

he clears his throat and his body stiffens. just a little. doesn’t count, your mind provides. a false memory, his thumb against your lips. an accident. “gettin’ comfy?”

“mmhmm.” you let him take your empty plate from you to put it on the side table, the muscles of his chest shifting and flexing underneath your cheek. you free up one of your legs and run your instep down his bare shin. go further, loop back so the outside of your foot traces a path up his calf, smooths against dark hair and warm skin.

he stops breathing altogether for a moment. but then he laughs low, like he’s amused, like you can’t hear the hollowness in it. “need me to move? we can’t both fit in this seat.”

sometimes you wish you could fit in his skin. that your bones could lie next to each other’s long before you’re buried together. that you could be synonyms again, that your definitions could match.

(but you wonder, even if the explosion never happened, if there wouldn’t have eventually been this rift between the two of you. if it was an accident it doesn’t count would’ve been able to hide everything forever, if you could’ve succeeded in living happily like you always had. as family.)

“i’m not comfortable yet,” you grumble, petulant, and you get closer. scoot your body until you’re nearly sitting on his closest thigh.

his free hand goes to your legs immediately. firm. holding you purposefully, a little more distant from his body than you want. “careful,” he warns very quietly. his voice is cold. that new tone that you’re not as familiar with. that he never used to use with you.

it’s him showing too much. careful of what? you could ask, and he wouldn’t be able to answer you.

and then, the return of the caleb you know, as if he’d never left. “you wanna sit in my lap?” an innocent question, tinged with boyish charm. if he controls it, he can handle it. his voice is a little hoarse, only around the edges. you pretend not to notice.

you used to sit in his lap and nap against his chest all the time when you were little. there wasn’t this feeling there before. this trepidation. there wasn’t the man who used to be your brother holding you away from the lines that could be crossed because the lines hadn’t been there.

now, when you nod, he situates you easily. part strength, part evol. he places you mid-thigh, moves his legs closer together to give you more of a seat. brings your arms up to wrap around his neck, hands smoothing up your forearms and leaving nothing but heat in their wake. “better?” he asks.

you want to be closer. your throat burns with something you don’t want to name. he wears the same cologne he started wearing his first year at the daa, the one that you got him for his birthday. light and clean and after a while it became so intrinsic to the thought of him that you bought a second bottle to spray on your pillows when he was away from home. you often thought about burying your nose against his neck just to smell, just to take in as much of him as you could.

and what’s he going to do to stop you? it seems like you’re both incapable of addressing this terrible thing that sits between you—this half-truth, this accident. you tilt your head up, nose brushing the underside of his jaw. he inhales sharply, begins to turn towards you in askance, but you hold his chin with your thumb. tilt his head so you have better access to his neck.

he lets you, because he always lets you have whatever you want. spoiled. you breathe in deeply and you can smell his pulse, his fear, his sweat. you feel the way he swallows against the skin between your nose and your lips.

this isn’t close enough. you move to straddle him—your legs bracket his, your face buried in the skin of his neck, cheeks burning hot against his skin. you breathe in deep and it’s still not enough. you need him inside you in a way that doesn’t make sense. not sex—something deeper. you want the air in his lungs to be in yours. you want his blood to pump through your body, keep you alive. you want his scent beneath your skin, trapped, only for you. your nails scratch across the hair at the nape of his neck.

his hands go to your hips like instinct, like magnetism. his touch is the difference between temporary and permanent. or it could be. “wait,” he says, voice a rasp, a scrap of something ruined. “wait.”

“what?” you ask. what you really want to ask is should i not be doing this? you shouldn’t. you shouldn’t and you know this and there are many reasons why.

your lips drag across his neck when you speak and he groans, a deep noise punched out of him, his fingers digging deeper into your skin. he had to do sensitivity training when he got the metal arm, he told you when you had discovered him doing repairs, when you added another secret he was keeping to the growing pile. another piece of the boy you knew lost to you forever. he had to train himself to hold pieces of fruit without bruising the skin. how easily he could bruise yours. “pip-squeak,” he says, chastising—playing at brother, playing at something he can no longer be. “what are you doing?”

he’s already hard, stiff against your thigh. this is not a position he should be in if he wants to play house with you still, play at family even though he told you all those years ago that he doesn’t see you like that. he knows what you’re doing. you know what you’re doing. you take the lobe of his ear in between your teeth and he pulls you against him like he can't stop himself, hips rolling to find friction, a moan building in his chest. an automatic response, a base need. the feeling of him hard between your legs makes you want to pry your own skin off with need.

“i can’t—” he starts, pushing you away again. scrambling to be a better man. holds you just so, makes sure your bodies aren’t flush. he’s never been able to fully remove you—just keep you at a distance, somewhere he can control your comings and goings. his fingers graze your wrist, then trap it easily. you let it happen because you want to. he pulls your hand from his face, frees himself, forces you to remove yourself from hiding and look at him. you can barely look him in the eye—too afraid of what you see in his gaze. something like desire atop the usual reverence. he brings his captured prize close to his lips, his breath warm against your palm. “i don’t wanna make assumptions.”

laughable. this is past assumptions. but you understand. an accident. it doesn’t count. there are excuses, even now, you could use to get out of this. “if you were going to make one,” you ask, “what would it be?”

he smiles, that terrible little grin that got him into so much trouble as a kid, but it’s a facsimile. a performance. something he’s gotten better at since he died—but you know him too well. he looks at your palm like he wants to lay his face there, nuzzle into your warmth. you want to tame him like a dog. you want to be the only person that knows him for the rest of his life. “it’d be one that’d change things,” he says, a little more serious. not cold. still caring—just a warning. this is a point of no return. this is something I can’t come back from.

“as if things haven’t already changed,” you say, and you sound bitter because you are. because you’re not just talking about him between your legs, beneath you.

you know him too well. his expression falters. he’s worried that you’re being self-destructive, that you're not doing this because you want to. you can see it on his face—the muted hope turning into concern, the desire banking its flames because there’s another problem to deal with, another emotion he has to fix for you. this is when you failed an exam at the hunter academy and told him you wanted to drop out. this is you catastrophizing, making the worst of a problem because if it already hurts, it might as well hurt more.

before he can put a true end to this, you say, “there was a point where you saw me as your sister.”

he swallows hard. his cock twitches against your thigh but you have to ignore that for your own sanity. “not now.”

you consider your next words very carefully. realize you shouldn't say them. “you’re the only person i ever think about when i touch myself.”

his breath stills. he says your name, quiet, like that’s going to stop you.

you’re punishing him. you’re punishing yourself. if you were a better person, you’d tell him you love him instead of telling him this. “if i’m not thinking about you, i can’t...” the word feels dirty. something you shouldn’t say in front of caleb, even though in your fantasies, he’s the one that makes you cum with his fingers, his tongue, then tells you how much he loves you after. he’s the one that fucks you like it’s the thing he was made to do.

he lets go of your wrist, runs a shaky hand down his face. breathes out through his nose in a way that sounds pained. “why are you doing this?”

“you always told me that i should tell my big brother the truth.” it’s the worst thing you could have said and it shows. he looks so guilty that you almost feel bad for him. but there are other things he should feel more guilty for, arguably worse than this. for you—for his punishment—this can be enough. “did you change your mind?”

he stares at you for a long moment, obviously warring with himself inside his head. the choice: to give in or to push you away. one of those would be the right thing, and one of those is what he wants. are you his sister or not? are you more than that, or less?

that question you can answer. more, always. because it’s the same for you. he’s always been more, the center of your universe. you gladly fell into his orbit long ago, and there’s nothing he could do that would make you want to leave.

his chest rises and falls rapidly beneath his sleeveless shirt. his arms tense as he reaches for you, then stops himself. “it feels like you’re doing this because you hate me.”

so he’s caught on to the fact that this is punishment, partially. “i could never hate you,” you say. “didn’t you tell me that, too?”

“when’d you get so mean, huh?” he asks. “where’s that pretty girl i grew up with?”

you sulk a little. tactical. “do you not think i’m pretty now?”

“‘course i do,” he says, giving in to what he wants, trailing long fingers up the side of your neck, spreading out his hand to hold your jaw. “still the prettiest girl in the world.” he’s looking at your lips, your chin in his hand, his words so quiet it’s almost as if they’re not for you.

“do you do the same?”

“hmm?” he asks, still distracted by the tips of his fingers and their proximity to your lips. what could be: his thumb on your tongue. an accident. or not, anymore.

“do you think about me when you make yourself cum?”

a deep groan, this time. his hand moving to hold you in place by the back of your neck, his forehead against yours. the way he used to check your temperature when you were sick. he always takes care of you. he squeezes, and you think of the bruised skin of a fruit, you think of just how much pain you’d have to inflict for him to feel it. “if we do this,” he says, “i’m yours for good.”

yours for good. “i thought you already were?”

he looks up at you, laughs breathlessly. shocked, maybe, by your claim. amused by it. but not contesting it. “i really did spoil you too much when you were little, didn’t i?”

he did. you reach between your bodies, tugging at the tag of the necklace you’d gifted him when he graduated high school and regifted him when he came back from the dead. he knows what you want. you’re synonyms again, even if briefly. your desires run parallel.

he kisses you like he’s done it a million times, like it’s familiar. his mouth warm against yours, his body yielding under your touch, and you let out a noise that feels like mourning. there’s something lost in this moment even as there’s something gained.

he pulls you to him closer, like he’s trying to make up for the loss. his tongue slides across yours, warm and careful despite his harsh grip on you. you part so he can pull at the hem of your shirt, and wordlessly you take it off, request the same of him.

there’s a period of time he just spends looking at you, gaze hazy, fingers trailing up your sides. it’d feel like scrutiny if you didn’t understand it so well—finally seeing the real thing when you’ve imagined it so many times. it takes a moment for fantasy and reality to click, for you to realize that you’re not dreaming.

“i'm gonna move us, okay?” it’s now that he cracks, that he realizes he doesn’t want to have you on his couch. he’s always been like this—traditional in some ways, odd in others. your first time is going to be in his bed, you think, because that’s where first times are supposed to be.

and you’re right—he carries you to his bedroom, mechanical arm looped underneath your legs. he has the skin graft on. you hate that there’s a new part of him that’s hidden to you, that you don’t know as well as the rest of him.

when he lays you down on his cool sheets, lays himself between your legs, intent on kissing you again, you stop him. a finger against his lips. he looks down at you, a little frantic. “you wanna stop?” he asks. his tone implies that this would be okay. his body language does not. if you wanted to stop, he’d let you—but he would never let you uncross the line of touching him the way you have. you can hear the fear in his voice. the worry that you’ll ask for things to go back to normal and for the first time in his life, he won’t be able to give you what you want.

you shake your head. relief makes the lines of his body soften, makes him take the hand you still have proffered to him and softly kiss each knuckle one by one. you use his sudden pliability to grab his hand, pull it closer to your face. you inspect the grafted skin closely, pretend it doesn’t make you insane that he can’t feel the touch. it alarms you how faithful it is to the original, even though you’re assuming there wasn’t much of caleb’s arm left to replace after the explosion. he has a scar on his ring finger from knocking a boy’s tooth out after he tried to touch you inappropriately on the playground at school. it’s still there, smooth and pearlescent. you kiss it and wonder if he remembers.

“something's on your mind. you gonna tell me what it is?” he asks. kisses you light and reassuring. confident, like this is something routine from the entire time he’s known you. you wonder if it’s the same for him: you imagine having something so often that when it's finally yours, it’s easy to forget that there was a point where it wasn’t.

“i don’t want you to belong to anyone but me,” you tell him. it’s the tamest of what you could say. you’re worried you’ll scare him with the intensity of your thoughts, with the need you feel for him.

“thought we covered that,” he says. yours for good. he sports that boyish grin that you could never capture in photos because his whole heart is only in the expression when he’s looking you in the eyes. it makes you feel like an animal in heat and like you’re saying goodbye to a loved one for good. two opposites shoved inside the same feeling, forced to become synonyms.

you make him undress entirely, your breath nearly petering out when you see him fully, his body a trained weapon. he's so hard for you that it looks painful, that he shudders and grabs your wrist when you try to slide your palm against him. "not yet," he tells you, lightly snaps the strap of your bra. when you undress you keep your panties on. you didn’t wear anything special for him—didn’t think being with caleb like this would be in the realm of possibility, even though everything has been leading here for weeks—but he still short-circuits at the sight of you in very regular underwear. stares for too long before pulling at the elastic with his long fingers, eyes fluttering closed, breath coming quick. “god… look at you.” his fingers dip into the waistband, tug a little harder.

“not yet,” you say. copying him, like you used to when you were younger. bat your eyelashes at him when he gives you an exasperated look. he laughs like he’s not at the edge of his patience, laughs like your commands are amusing to him, but silently complies. he slots himself between your legs, ruts against you, kisses you messier and messier. your underwear is ruined by his precum and your arousal, the fabric so slick that it’s almost like you’re feeling him skin-to-skin. almost, but not quite. the noises he makes go from composed to completely unrestrained. you’re making him wait longer than you should, maybe.

“what if i told you to cum like this?” you ask, legs tightening around him.

he makes a defeated noise, a plea devoid of words. “you have to let me cum inside you.”

“i have to?” you ask, teasing. then, a little pouty: “you’d say no?”

he pulls away from you and groans, and in his eyes are you’re killing me here and i can’t believe we’re doing this and clearer than that i need you, i need you however i can have you. “no,” he says after a moment. “no, i’d do it, but—give me something. let me eat you out, at least. please.”

you relent. maybe you’re too easy to persuade. but you think, in all honesty, that you’re just as bad at saying no to him as he is to you. you pull him back between your legs, drag his hand as if commanding him. you use his fingers to slip your panties to the side. “i just wanted to hear you say you’d do it.”

when he touches you fully for the first time, his skin meeting wet heat, the noise that comes from his chest is indecent, fully broken. “oh… fuck,” he says, and like he can’t stop himself, there’s a long finger inside of you, curling, and then two. he sits back to watch, to see where he disappears inside of you, and you want more than just this.

“caleb,” you say, and he should know what you mean because he always does. the different tones of his name—whether you want him to do something for you, or stop what he’s doing, or do something different entirely—it’s a language. even with this new element to your relationship, the basics haven’t changed.

he knows this. he understands. he smiles, wide and wicked. “what?”

“you know what.”

“yeah, i know what.” his focus is unbroken. he’s always been intense about the things he thinks are important. “i’m gonna make you cum first, and then you can have what you want. sound good?”

you would respond but his thumb finds your clit and he works you like he’s always known what your body wants. maybe he has. maybe it’s automatic, a knowledge deep in his cells from all the time you’ve spent together.

he looks so smug you could stop everything right now just to wipe that look off his face. you could give him everything he ever wanted just to keep seeing it. there’s a deep thrum within your body that’s just his name over and over again, like he’s the blood pumping through you, like he’s the only thing you need to stay alive.

“wait,” you say, and at first he doesn’t but when he realizes you’re serious, he stills, concern putting a crease between his brows. but you’re fine with his plan. you just want something. “keep kissing me?”

“needy,” he chides, but his expression softens. less cocky, more reverent. he keeps a slow pace until you need it faster, keeps his fingers pumping inside of you until you tighten around them so much that he can’t move them anymore, until every breath feels like a moan. and the whole time his lips on yours, the kisses much too chaste for what he’s currently doing to you. so careful, so loving.

when you finish on his fingers he chuckles, presses an open mouth kiss to your neck that has your thighs clenching around his arm with a force that makes you scared you could snap bones.

“no way in hell were you gonna get me off first,” he says into your neck.

“it wasn’t a competition,” you say.

“it kinda was,” he says. kisses the flutter of your pulse, teeth so close to your skin that it’s all you can think about. he pulls off your final piece of clothing, fingers still wet, tracing your own slick across your skin. “and i won. so i’m gonna help myself to my reward now.”

it makes sense that your first time with him is in missionary because that’s how you’ve always imagined it. you want to see his eyes, his face, the way his jaw clenches when he fills you entirely. the only thing that's different from your fantasies: it’s unspoken the way you both need to be making unbroken eye contact as he slides in. as he stretches you much farther than his fingers did.

you keen like a dog when he bottoms out, and he looks bereft of belief. laughs, breathy, like this is something easy to brush off, like this isn’t him inside of you for the first time, and then gets very serious, quiets, because there’s no way to minimize this moment. you’re connected in one of the deepest ways you can be. he barely breathes. he doesn’t stop looking you in the eye, a connection so intense that you can almost feel it more than him physically within you.

he can’t keep it up when he begins to move. he brings you forehead to forehead, one hand holding himself up and the other gripping the head of the bed frame—the mechanical hand, because you hear the groan of twisting metal, and you think of skin bruising, you think of how easily he could kill you. how easily you could kill him. because he’d let you, if you tried. if you really wanted him dead.

“i don’t understand what you do to me,” he pants. you wonder if he misspoke or if he really doesn’t understand what it is you do to him, why he feels the way he does. his thrusts grow increasingly frantic, hips sloppy in their movements. “thought about this—so much," he tells you, and you know he's telling the truth by the way his voice breaks on the words.

the thought of him being with someone other than you crosses your mind and you feel pain so sharp you could die. you dig your teeth into his shoulder because you want to mark him. you want to mark him so deep that it’s retroactive, that anyone that might have seen him like this before you knows that he was always destined to end up yours.

he whines, pitchy, a hand—flesh and blood, the one he can feel you with—pushing your thighs up higher, spreading you out to infinite ends. “that’s good, baby,” he murmurs—about the bite, you think. he tries to pull you closer, as if you could get closer than this. you feel him in your throat, he’s so deep. “love you,” he whispers, quiet like he didn’t mean to say it, but he repeats it again, and again, and again.

and you love him so much. you love him so much you could burst with it. you hate that he left you and you hate that he’s different now and you hate that there are parts of him you don’t know entirely, that you didn’t help create. you cradle his head, let him whisper into your ear, press a kiss to his hairline between shaky breaths.

“not gonna last,” he bites out, voice tight. “can you... please, one more time for me?”

it’s easy with the pressure that’s building within you. his hand moves between you, messy, thumb pawing at your clit with little to no rhythm. confident but clearly inexperienced. it doesn’t matter—it’s him, caleb, and you’ve wanted him like this for so long that even that small touch is enough to push you over, to have your muscles tensing and collapsing and folding in on themselves. you curl around him like you’re never going to let him go.

his hips snap to yours once, twice more before he spills inside of you, your name spoken over and over again. a mantra. an accident. it didn’t count.

but this counted. this wasn’t an accident. this was everything you wanted since the first time you saw him as more than a brother, more than the boy you grew up with. his cum inside of you and his spit in your mouth and your name on his lips. his skin wedged underneath your fingernails as you leave whatever marks you can. undeniable proof that you were here, that you were his, that he was yours.

he lies against you—holding himself up, maybe, so he doesn’t crush you with his weight. but you want all of it. you want to feel all of him always. you lay in silence for a minute before either of you have the strength to move. you card your nails through his hair and he hums into your neck, then rolls you, uses his strength instead of his evol to carefully place you at his side. you slide your arm across his perfect chest, curl a thigh and slot your calf between his. now that you’ve been that close, it’s impossible to remove yourself.

loudly, he hums again, satisfied. you'd be annoyed with him if the sound didn't put such warmth in your chest. he plays with the ends of your hair, kisses the top of your head. “so… are you gonna patch up my injuries or do i have to call a medical team?”

you snort, smacking his chest. still flushed, so pretty in the dim light of the bedroom. “i didn’t do anything that bad.”

“i dunno, you bit me pretty hard." he plays at massaging his shoulder, and for a moment you worry. but even if you did hurt him—even if you drew blood—you think he wouldn't mind. "if it scars I’m gonna have to think of something to tell people when they ask me about it.”

“just tell them it was me,” you say. you’re only half joking.

“you wouldn’t believe how I got this,” he says to an imagined crowd. “my girlfriend’s got chompers like you’ve never seen.”

he can’t see your face, but you bite your lip—hide the magnitude of your smile. press your heated face into his chest and enjoy the way his drying sweat feels against your skin. “someone should take her in for scientific study,” you respond. an unspoken answer to his unspoken question. “put her in a museum.”

“nah, you can’t spend all your time being studied. you’ve got more important places to be.”

“my job?” you ask. “protecting linkon?”

“hmm…” he pretends to think about it, rubs his chin against the top of your head. musses up your hair on purpose to make you laugh. like when you were younger and would sleep huddled up next to him after a nightmare, but so much different. “no. here with me.”

you sigh, dramatic, as if that’s not the only place you ever want to be. “guess i’ll have to disappoint the greater scientific community.”

“i’d keep you here with me forever if i could.” his playfulness is suddenly gone. the words are full of longing, the kind that feels sticky, the kind where you know you can never truly have everything you want but you’ll take what you can get.

there are so many things that would make this impossible—not just the impracticality, but the pieces of your lives. the outside forces driving a wedge between the two of you. the secrets, the things that have changed, the things that have stayed too much the same. and yet, if things were simpler, you could want that. just to be his implicitly, and him yours, and nothing else. only existing to each other. synonyms, almost—something closer than that. one word with two slightly different meanings. in minutiae, the same.

there’s no way to truly put this into words for him. “forever could be negotiated,” you say, and hope that some fraction of what you feel is expressed in the words. you want to keep him in a way that’s impossible. you want to hold him in your mouth like a secret, in your body like a breath.

he’s quiet for a while. holding you, feeling your permanence. “you can say you love me back, you know. i won’t even tease you for it.”

and you remember the way he whispered love you, love you, fuck, i’m so in love with you into your ear and feel guilty for not saying it then, for making him wait. but the words are heavy. trapped. it’s difficult to say a secret aloud after you’ve kept it for so much time, despite the fact that it’s already been revealed.

you prop yourself up on an arm, take his face in your hands. he doesn’t look as confident as his words sounded. there’s a hesitance in his gaze, a fear that even now you would reject him. even now you would ask to return to the way things were before, that you would expect him to swallow his feelings—or worse, that you would leave because he couldn’t.

“i’d live inside you if i could,” you say, because somehow this is easier. and he understands—pulls you towards him for a kiss, like he’s telling you it’s okay, for now this is enough. but it’s easier with your eyes closed, with his hand cradling your face, when you can feel his proximity but you don’t have to look. “i love you.”

he smiles when you kiss him again. grins so wide he can hardly kiss you back. smug, content, entirely too pleased with this situation. it annoys you how much you adore the cocky side of him, the side that can allow itself to be overconfident in retrospect. now that you’ve said the feelings out loud, he can tell you how obvious it’s always been that you’re head over heels for him.

he opens his mouth to say some smart comment and you have to put your finger against his lips to preemptively quiet him. “you said no teasing.”

“i don’t remember that.”

“then you have a terrible memory.”

he kisses your finger, amused at your insistence on quieting him. “you know that’s not true. i’m gonna remember every detail of today. and at our wedding, everyone is gonna hear the story about how you finally told me you love me after years of pining—”

“you’re projecting,” you say, “but i'll let you tell your little story.”

his cheeks are rosy, flushed. maybe because you hit a nerve he left wide open for you, or maybe because you weren’t phased at all by his choice of words—another quiet presumption, another quiet acquiescence. “i’m still waiting for medical attention, in case you forgot.”

“can i kiss it better, or are you actually going to make me go get your first aid kit?”

he pretends to think about it. tries to hide his smile and fails. you love him so wholly that you could die from it. “there’ve been some crazy strides in modern medicine recently,” he tells you, mock-serious. “that first option might just work. i’m putting my life in your hands, doc.”

you kiss the mark you left on him and you think: i’d keep you here forever if i could. one word, the same definition. you’ll run parallel to him until there’s nothing left.

#lads caleb x reader #how do u even tag love and deepspace stuff #caleb love and deepspace x reader #fics #lord have mercy. this is like. i don't even know dude. just consumed my past two days #tw pseudocest

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