#Flushing Meditation

[flushingmeditation]

Online Meditation Classes NY

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[scruus]

★ [𝐌𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲'𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐲]

✎ : power bottom afab Al-Haitham x dom gn amab reader notes: aphrodisiac (in chocolates), dirty talk (very), reader is called daddy, haitham calls himself mommy, overstimulation, mentions of pregnancy(?), creampie, slight degradation, al-haitham being very very slutty

author talks: yea….this happened. Sorry.

lıllılı.ıllı.ılılıı ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ you right - doja cat

“Okay then, you two lovebirds now have fun~”, Childe’s sheepish grin was the exact reason you adopted the habit of meditation and the path of ‘patience’. Which, by the way, was running at its limit. Not a single giggle or smile was cracked as he continued to humor his own joke and so to save face from further embarrassment, Zhongli dragged him back to their room.

Yanfei picked up her trolley bags, quite easily you noticed, and unlocked the room just opposite yours and Al-Haitham’s. Hu-Tao mumbled something to your boyfriend and his reaction remained the same whatsoever while she was giggling. You two bid goodbyes to the girls as they entered the room whereas you stepped inside your own, setting the bags down on the floor and taking in the room’s wide layout.

The group (mainly Childe) had hastily decided on a quick getaway before university would start and the routine of crying, screaming and chugging down caffeinated drinks till everyone’s body water content changed to dark espresso was to be set in motion. You and al-haitham being the only couple was the target of Childe’s teasing. And it was pure horror when he took the role of booking the hotel rooms without informing anyone. You were sure it would be some love hotel or a shady inn he would put everyone into but what a great surprise it was upon arriving at the place. Cozy, classic and modest.

You stretched your arms and cracked your back, “oof….am like an old granny now”. Haitham plugged both of you guys’ phones to the charger and then skipped to unpacking clothes from the bag like the responsible one in the relationship. “If you just joined me on my early morning walks everyday, you wouldn’t be an old raisin”, you gasped at his response, the cockiness just smoothly rolling from his lips and that gorgeous face of his is so damning you can’t even argue back.

“I am gonna go wash up”, grabbing your clothes from the bag, you threw one last glance at his figure which was hovering over the complimentary snacks counter, before entering the bathroom. They looked a bit different than the usual tea sachets, and chocolates, with the red heart drawn on but you didn’t give them much thought.

That was your biggest mistake.

After getting all clean and smelling like fresh lavender, you decided to take a nap in your bathrobe while Haitham decided to follow after into the washroom. “Honey! Wake me up if we need to go out!”, you shouted from the bed before cozying up inside the warm duvet.

Ah, peace.

With a weird feeling of hotness around your groin and the teasing licks of something wet, you woke up half-asleep from your snooze. Turning your gaze down, you saw Al-Haitham’s lips on your cock. His face looked flushed and the water was still dropping from his wet hair, strands sticking to his forehead.

“H-Haitham?”, you questioned, your voice all groggy yet having the element of surprise. He looked up at you and you felt your breath hitch. His eyes looked different. The composed and intelligent look was now exchanged with that of a hungry desperation. He never once stopped licking your shaft, gliding his tongue up and down while the eye contact was never broken. Plump lips sucking the tip of your thick cock as your nervousness soon drifted to lust.

He took his lips off with a pop yet his hand remained at its place, slowly massaging it up and down while he stared at it breathless. As if he had never seen it before. “W-what are you doing?”, you asked again, slowly. Your hands began to itch. It's like they wanted to force his mouth back on your dick. Make him take it all until his throat bulges. But you wouldn’t do that. You were too nice.

“mmm…I was hungry”, he licked like a kitten at the head, lapping up the pre-cum that was leaking, and it made you clench your jaw. “What?”, you bit your bottom lip trying to stifle a moan. “....was so hungry for daddy’s cock”, he groaned before putting your dick back in his mouth and slurping it up. A choked moan came from you when you heard his words. Daddy?.....DADDY???

Were you dreaming? Was it the end of the world? No, maybe you are still asleep and t-

“Ahmm~’, you whimpered as Haitham suddenly forced your cock inside his throat. You knew it was too big for him that's why you never coerced him to deepthroat you nor did he ever take the initiative, but now? He was whining with your cock stuffed inside him, throat clenching around it as spit dribbled down his chin. Gagging around it like some cockslut with tears welling up in his eyes. “Oh please…I wanted this so bad”, liquid trickled down his chin as he took our cock out all the while moaning in a low whine.

“Honey…wh-whats going on?”, you stretched out your hand and cupped his cheeks, worried that maybe he wasn’t feeling well. He stared at you before nuzzling in your palm, taking a deep whiff of your scent with his eyes closed. Trying to make his body realize your smell and let it wire inside his head. “Fuck….this won’t do”, he stood up on his knees, grumbling. The white bathrobe which was hiding his tanned porcelain body was beginning to shed, a working by his own hands.

“Can you tell me what’s goi-”, your eyes widened in surprise as they trailed down from his face to his cunt the moment the robe dropped down. It was dripping. A swollen clit showing itself off while his inner thighs were coated with slick.

….did he get this wet just by sucking me off?, your face contorted in confusion. Nothing was registering inside your mind.

“hmm…I don’t know”, his voice was soft and low. “I wanted to kiss you all day long”, he looked at you with doe eyes, “but didn’t know how to with everyone present”. His lips slowly formed into a pout, “and…and then I ate that chocolate and…..I felt so hot”, his hands started running down his body as if trying to tell you where it was burning. Chocolates?, you thought. But ho-

You remembered Childe’s winking face and it finally struck you.

Aphrodisiacs. That son of a bitch.

“Ngh~you’re not focusing on me”, he whined like an irate kid, his deep voice suddenly sounding a different pitch. His flushing cheeks now had tears trickling down them just because your eyes had dared to wander away from him. “Nonono Honey!”, you took his hands in yours, oddly happy seeing him like this, “I always focus on you….you’re the only thing I ever see!”. A shy smile popped up on his face and his turquoise eyes sparkled. “Really?”, he asked and you had never nodded so fast in your life. “So then…..do you see how wet this is?”, he pulled his hands back and reached down to his lower part, “do you see that it's so empty and aching so much?”. You gulped, trying to satisfy your parched throat but every inch of your body was hot right now. “I-It really needs your cock inside it”, he mumbled mindlessly, not having any idea about its effect on you.

“Mommy wanted Daddy’s cock all day”, he moaned as he slipped a finger inside his hole, “wanted daddy’s thick cock to stretch this starving cunt out”, his gaze burning a hole into your own as his lips parted open in a soft gasp. Mommy??????

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Stars. You were seeing literal stars around your room because this was unreal. Your lover, the great al-haitham, who would never beg you for a kiss let alone your cock, who would always judge when you would call him corny nicknames in public is now being filthy?? Is this what aphrodisiacs do? Turn normal people into mindless sluts?

“And now…Mommy has caught daddy”, he suddenly bent down, crawling towards you as his pecs flexed like a pair of tits and you had half a mind to just reach out and grope them. “So daddy will breed mommy like a good cumslut, right?”, his voice was sultry with a hint of patheticness as he positioned himself up.

Your cock was so painfully hard, it was embarrassing. The veins looked like they were about to burst and you were really concerned that it would take you just a second to ejaculate if your lover came anywhere close to your dick. For your boyfriend, it was a different case.

He was looking down at your shaft with hearts in his eyes. Ragged breaths leaving his mouth while a blush crawled up his body. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, in an act of devouring you and your member. Your dick was standing erect and if he lowered himself a bit, the tip would be easily rubbing his pussy folds.

And that’s exactly what he did.

He slowly lowered himself, and the moment your dick touched his wet muscles, he hissed, eyelashes fluttering while his body relished the sensation. Trying to push himself down as your crown forced itself inside his hole, it was clearly too big but the burn felt so good. “F-fuck…..you’re so big”, he cried out once your tip finally settled inside his hole but the entirety was still remaining. Your eye looked at his nipples, all perked and red, and you really wished you could suck on them but you had to be the rational one right now.

His whimpers gained decibels as he worked himself open on your cock, trying to take it all. “Ngh~ my tight pussy just can't take you…hah”, his voice, his face, his pussy, everything was driving you insane. “Fuck it”, you growled as the last thread of reason snapped.

Pulling him down on your cock in an instant, Al-haitham screamed your name. His walls clenching around your throbbing dick as sticky fluids dripped out of him. The poor boy had jolts of shock coursing through his body as the orgasm fired up his nerves. He had already come.

���Look at this whore”, you wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled your trembling boyfriend closer, “I put my dick inside you and you cum immediately?”, the ridges of your dick rubbing along his sensitive insides and out came a meek whimper. The shame felt good to him, like it was something that was so natural. It was the way he was whining, the way his body felt limbless and his cunt so full that made him look all the more perfect for you to ruin. Although he was already mindbroken.

Placing your hands on his butt and groping that tender flesh you growled, “you wanted that cunt of yours to be fucked right?”, your eyes burning with lust, “so get ready”. Grabbing his ass, you made him bounce on your cock while your sobbing lover gasped in surprise. “Oughk- yesyesyes s’big kgghh-”, words slurring and his tongue lolling out. He was completely drunk on your cock and it was fucking wonderful.

“Who’s pretty pussy is this?”, you licked his neck aggressively while he just moaned in response. Angry, your hand left its position at its buttcheek to pinch his clit and Haitham almost felt his soul drive out of his body. “Whose is it!”, your voice sounded a lot more stern and demanding now as Haitham babbled, “yours~ s’yours daddy ugh-”. Truly reduced to a brainless nothing.

Haitham’s walls were contorting to the shape of your pulsing member inside and the pain suited him. All warm, wet and aching, as his gummy walls hugged you in a desperate fervor. He had never felt this good before. Oh, how he wished now to be a free use fleshlight of yours so that you could pick him up anytime and fill his pussy until it's gaping, spilling it all out like a pathetic slut who can’t do a single job. A slut who knows nothing except having his daddy’s cock splitting him open and breeding him.

“S-shit haitham you’re so tight”, you croaked because his gummy walls were clenching down on your shaft all the right ways and it felt heavenly. Fat globs of tears rolled on his cheeks as his guttural pleas of “too much!” and “sho good~” sang in your ears. His hand trailed down to his stomach and he felt your dick bulging through it. Giggling he drooled, “daddy shooo huge”, your eyes scanning his unkempt hair and erotic face while he inched closer to you,”I can feel you all up in my tummy”, he whispered mischeviously. Fuck, this man is gonna be the death of you.

His head jerked back and he howled as you angled your thrust at a spot that made him blank. Hips stuttering and nails digging on your shoulders, you knew he was close. “Bab-oh oh, Im gonna cum”, you moaned before nibbling on his neck then moving to kiss his lips. He moaned into your mouth, chasing after it, the ache between his legs and the tingling sensation on his clit told him he was close too. “Close…m’close ngh”, he keened in a high pitched voice as your rhythm turned erratic, faster and more brutal inside him.

“Insideinsideinsi- cum inside pleashee~”, choked whimpers of relentless begging turned your head dizzy and you complied because there was no way you were missing the chance of filling your boyfriend’s pretty pussy up when he was being so cute. Your palm rubbed against his swollen nub while Al-Haitham felt your tip prodding at the entrance of his cervix, good god you were so deep it was turning his brain into mush. He’d end up getting knocked up by you at this point, an idea Al-Haitham was suddenly getting fond of.

And as you came with a low moan, your hand tightly gripping his waist, your lover felt the burning knot in his abdomen finally fall apart. As the feel of your thick, warm cum rushed inside him, he could feel his eyes roll back and his body convulse in your arms due to the shockwaves. Orgasm so shattering, nothing but croaking gasps left his mouth and he was aware of how his pussy was sucking out every last drop of your seed. A ravenous beast.

Carefully settling his head in the crook of your neck, you looked down below at the white ring around the base of your cock and the few trails of fluid dripping down your cock. Oh god, your eyes widened as the realization hit you, oh god he is gonna kill me. The pleasure felt so good you forgot the consequence of going rough on your lover’s cunt, taking him to poundtown like some madman. But dear lord was it so scandalously good. All the more sinful to commit.

While your brain pondered scenarios as to how you would explain stuff to Haitham or maybe firstly go and kill that ginger in his room, a slight hint of pain erupted in your cock. You thought that maybe it was because Haitham was still wrapped around your length, that it was his hole clenching around you, but you were so wrong. The slow grind of his hips as you felt your soft cock turn hard inside him made you realize your incorrect assumption.

“Wh-what-?”, a finger was pressed on your lips as Haitham looked up to face you. “Mommy is still not done yet”, he whispered as you saw the outline of hearts appearing in his eyes again. “I told you right, you need to turn me into a cumslut”, a sly smirk appeared on his lips, “need to breed me until all I can think of is daddy's fat cock messing up my insides”.

“Get to work”, he instructed.

You silently gulped. Oh this is gonna be a long night.

— – — — – —

“Y’all they are really late, should we go by ourselves?”, Yanfei mumbled angrily. The group was waiting for you two to come out of your room but you both had refused to answer any calls or texts and so the rest were huddled in Childe’s room.

Ding!

“Guys, we won’t be able to go out today, Haitham’s a bit sick”, Zhongli read out your message to the group and they all sighed, maybe with the question that how did he even get sick. All except childe.

“Should we go and check up on h-”,asked Zhongli, “No!”, to which Childe’s abrupt reply silenced all. Everyone looked at him, confused.

“This is a different kind of sickness….you guys won’t get it”, he smiled a knowing smirk, something the others innocent minds had no idea about. He urged everyone to get out of the hotel and enjoy the day along the beach with drinks and food. Just like his two friends who were having the time of their lives, rutting into one another.

[astayinwonderland]

“Does this means you forgive me?” | Park Seonghwa

pairings: drunk!seongwa x f.reader

summary: you’ve had an argument with seonghwa but he is determined to win you back

genre: suggestive/steamy, fluff

tw: kissing, steamy, suggestive, mentions of alcohol and being drunk

wc: 0.5k

Enjoy!

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

You are not a light sleeper, that is why when a loud bang woke you up in the middle of the night, you got scared. Your apartment is small, nice, tasteful, safe. So what on Earth was that?

Heart racing, you reach for the closest object you can throw and cause harm. Heavy footsteps approaching your bedroom door. You’re ready to attack when the gorgeous man you’ve been dating for six months barges in.

“Fuck! Seonghwa you scared the living shit out of me. What the fuck!?” you place a hand over your chest, trying to calm down as you turn on your night stand light.

Seonghwa looks at you, drunk and in love. Cheeks flushed, hair on his face… gosh he is beautiful. No— you are still angry. He crossed a line when he yelled at you earlier and you are not about to forgive him. It won’t be that easy.

“Angel… you are my whole life. I— sorry. I’m sorry,” he drags his words as he makes his way to you. “I was pissed, but not— not at you.”

You just observe as he kneels right beside you. His scent, a mix of alcohol, remorse, and expensive cologne.

“Night out with the boys and you got drunk?”

He hugs your legs tightly, his round eyes looking at you like he’s about to cry.

“Please don’t hate me, angel…” he buries his face on your thighs and inhales. “You smell so good.”

You try not to give in, but then he starts leaving the tiniest of kisses on your skin. Breath-taking tingles travelling all the way to your core.

“Angel… let me… pl-please? Can you forgive me?” He says between kisses.

“Seonghwa, you are drunk.”

“Seonghwa, Seonghwa…” he pouts. “What happened to ‘yes baby, fuck me harder’?”

You gasp in disbelief, but break into laughter right after. Staying angry at him was not gonna work, especially now that he was being so cute. His face red, hands wandering all over your body, lips so soft they are begging for a kiss.

“Baby?”

His eyes light up with excitement and before you can say anything, his lips are on yours.

You will never get tired of his kisses. He is a delicate, but passionate man. The kiss deepens as he clumsily push you back into bed. His tongue lightly touching yours, lips locking, biting and heavy breathing, you welcome his moans in your mouth as you pull him closer.

He is on top of you, his tongue sucking the side of your neck. You can feel him smiling against your skin. He giggles.

“Wh-what?” You ask, a bit scared.

“N-nothing. Does this mean you forgive me?”

You stay silent. Meditating, but for Seonghwa is torture.

“Angel?” He turns to look at you, slowly smiling.

“Yes, love,” you give him a peck on the lips. “Now get some sleep, you are going to have a massive headache tomorrow.”

“Mmmm whatever you say, angel…” his sleepy eyes close.

There in your now quiet room, you let yourself sleep, with the man in love in your arms.

——————————————————

a/n: this is pure ✨fiction✨

I haven’t written in a while but after seeing the dazed photoshoot I— 😳😳 he is so fine.

masterlist

[kiwriteswords]

hear me out, hear me out... is it possible to get shy!reader x bearded!hotch?????????????

Shades of Stubble

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Shy Female Reader||Word Count: 3k

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical themes, shy reader, teasing team, teenage Jack, bearded Hotch, post-season 10/11 with no Mr. Scratch, reader has a crush

Sypnosis: When Aaron Hotchner returns to the BAU sporting a beard after a rare week off, it draws more attention than he expects—especially from you, the shy but perceptive team member whose lingering glances reveal more than you realize.

Aaron Hotchner didn’t often take full advantage of the rare breaks the team received, but this time, a solid week away from the BAU had given him time to unwind—if that’s what growing a beard counted as. Normally, his morning routine was methodical, almost meditative—a quick splash of cold water to wake himself up, followed by lathering shaving cream across his jaw and carefully dragging the razor along the angles of his face. It was a task he’d repeated every day without fail, a ritual that helped him maintain the sharp, controlled image he knew his role required.

But when the break started, the razor stayed on the sink. The first morning, he told himself he’d get to it later. By the second, he rationalized that there was no harm in skipping a day or two. By the third, a faint shadow of stubble had appeared, and he caught himself in the mirror, running a hand along his jawline, curious. It wasn’t like the full beard he’d grown out during his time in Pakistan—this was something new, something... untethered. For once, he wasn’t adhering to his usual strict standards, and there was a quiet freedom in that.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d chosen to let it stay. Maybe it was exhaustion—seven days free of the ever-present weight of the BAU felt like both a luxury and an anomaly. Or maybe it was a small rebellion against the routine that so often defined his life. This was about as rebellious as he got these days, maybe a silent nod to his pre-boarding school days, but nonetheless. He didn’t have to answer to anyone for a week, and he didn’t have to fit into the box of Aaron Hotchner, Supervisory Special Agent. He could just exist.

By the time the week ended, the beard had grown in enough to draw attention, though he hadn’t considered how it might be received by the team—or anyone else, for that matter. It wasn’t a decision he put much thought into, at least not until he walked into the bullpen on Monday morning.

The reaction was immediate, though not unwelcome. JJ’s playful quip cut through the usual hum of activity, and heads turned in his direction. He caught Rossi’s amused smirk, Morgan’s raised brow, and—most notably—your wide-eyed, stunned expression. For the first time in years, Aaron Hotchner felt a little... self-conscious. But it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

JJ’s voice rang out across the room with playful familiarity. "It's baaaack!"

Heads turned, but Hotch’s gaze landed on you. You were seated at your desk, a pen in your hand paused mid-air, as if frozen in the act of jotting something down. Your eyes widened when they met his, and though you tried to look back at your work, Hotch caught the way your cheeks flushed, betraying your reaction.

It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed you looking at him like that—soft glances quickly averted, the occasional stammer when he addressed you directly. He’d always assumed you were shy by nature, but there was something about the way you reacted to him in particular that stirred a feeling he hadn’t wanted to examine too closely. Not until now.

He crossed the bullpen, nodding a silent acknowledgment to JJ, who grinned knowingly and sipped her coffee. As he passed your desk, he noticed your gaze dart up to him again, only to quickly drop back to your notes. Your pen moved, but the faint smile tugging at your lips told him you weren’t really focused.

“Good morning,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet bubble you seemed to have surrounded yourself with.

Your head shot up, your eyes meeting his again before flickering to the beard and back. “G-Good morning, Hotch.”

There it was—that hesitation, that barely there crack in your voice. You managed a small smile, but your hands fidgeted with the pen, betraying your nerves.

He nodded, letting the moment linger just a second longer than usual. “I hope you had a good week.”

“I did,” you replied quickly, almost too quickly, before glancing away. “Did you?”

“I did.” His lips twitched in a barely-there smile. “It’s rare to have so much time off. I’ll see you in the meeting room.”

With that, he moved on, climbing the stairs to his office, though he couldn’t resist glancing back once. You were still sitting there, staring blankly at your notebook, one hand pressed against your cheek as though trying to will away the blush.

The day moved forward with its usual rhythm—briefings, paperwork, follow-ups on ongoing cases. But throughout it all, Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. The way your gaze flickered toward him whenever you thought he wasn’t looking. The way your voice softened when you addressed him. And, of course, the way your blush deepened whenever someone—namely Morgan—commented on the beard.

“Looking rugged, Hotch,” Morgan said during lunch, his grin teasing as always. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Hotch replied simply, though he couldn’t help noticing you sneaking a glance at him from across the table. He decided not to meet your eyes this time, sensing you’d only shrink further into yourself if he did.

By the end of the day, Hotch found himself in the bullpen again, finishing a conversation with Rossi. As the older man walked away, he turned to see you standing by your desk, gathering your things for the evening. You glanced up and froze when you realized he was watching you.

“Heading out?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” you replied, clutching your bag tightly. “I, uh... just finishing up.”

“Good.” He paused, then added, “I’ve noticed you’ve been very focused today. I appreciate that.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might not respond. Then you nodded quickly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

He didn’t miss the way your gaze lingered on his face—on the beard—before you ducked your head again, clearly embarrassed by your own boldness. He couldn’t help but feel a flicker of amusement—and something else, something warmer, deeper—at your reaction.

“Have a good night,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“You too,” you replied, finally looking at him again. And this time, there was a tiny smile on your lips—shy, but genuine.

As you walked away, Hotch stood there for a moment, watching you go. He didn’t usually dwell on personal matters, but for the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about something—or rather, someone—other than the job.

Hotch lingered in the bullpen after you left, his gaze fixed on the space you had occupied only moments before. The quiet hum of the office around him faded into the background as his thoughts drifted. You had always been reserved—soft-spoken, diligent, and almost painfully shy in his presence—but tonight had felt different. The way your cheeks had flushed when you glanced at him, the way your voice trembled ever so slightly when you said, “Good night,” lingered in his mind like a melody he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t oblivious to the way you avoided his gaze during meetings or the nervous energy that seemed to bubble to the surface whenever he was near. At first, he chalked it up to his position, assuming you were simply wary of interacting with your boss. But over time, he began to notice the subtler details—the way your focus seemed to falter when he entered the room, the way your lips pressed together in a shy smile whenever he acknowledged you. He couldn’t deny that your reactions had begun to stir something within him.

With a sigh, Hotch headed up to his office, closing the door behind him. The mirror by his coat rack caught his eye, and he approached it, scrutinizing his reflection. The beard, now fully grown, had transformed his appearance in ways he hadn’t anticipated. It softened the sharpness of his jawline, gave him an edge that felt rugged and unpolished. It reminded him of a different time—a different man—but also felt like a small reclamation of his identity beyond the suit and title.

He ran a hand over the coarse hair, considering whether it was time to shave it off. His routine had always been a source of stability in his chaotic life, and the beard felt like an indulgence he wasn’t sure he could afford to keep. Yet, as he stood there, the image of your wide-eyed gaze flashed through his mind. The way your blush deepened when JJ’s comment drew attention to him. The tiny, shy smile you offered as you said goodnight.

A warmth spread through him, surprising in its intensity. He’d seen countless reactions to his decisions over the years—respect, defiance, admiration—but the unfiltered awe in your eyes when you looked at him tonight was something else entirely. It wasn’t about the beard, he realized, not really. It was about you, and the thought that he might have been the reason for that smile, fleeting as it was.

Hotch turned away from the mirror and sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair. The thought of shaving the beard felt distant now, almost trivial. He knew he would eventually, but for now, he decided to keep it—if only to see if he could coax another smile from you.

And maybe, just maybe, to hear your voice tremble in that sweet, shy way one more time.

Aaron Hotchner stood in his bathroom, razor in hand, staring at his reflection. The beard was staying—for now—but it was time to bring it under control. He wasn’t the type to let his appearance slip too far, and even if the beard was uncharacteristic for him, it didn’t have to be unruly. With steady hands, he trimmed the edges, shaping it neatly to suit his features. The coarse sound of the trimmer filled the quiet bathroom as he worked methodically, the precision calming in a way that reminded him of his usual shaving routine.

When he was satisfied, he stepped back to examine the results. The beard was tidier now, the lines clean and deliberate. It still felt like a small rebellion against the rigidity of his usual image, but it was a rebellion on his terms.

Jack’s voice cut through his thoughts from the hallway. “You’re keeping it?”

Hotch turned to see his son leaning against the doorframe, a teasing grin on his teenage face. Jack had grown so much, taller now, his voice deeper, but the playful light in his eyes hadn’t changed.

“For now,” Hotch replied, setting the trimmer down. “Why? You don’t like it?”

Jack shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I mean, it’s fine. Just... you look like you’re trying to be cool or something.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, amused. “Trying to be cool?”

“Yeah,” Jack teased, crossing his arms. “Like, what’s next? Leather jackets?”

Hotch chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll stick to suits, thanks.”

“Good call,” Jack said, grinning as he walked away. “But don’t blame me if people start calling you ‘Hotch the hipster.’”

Hotch rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips as he grabbed a towel and cleaned up.

The next morning at the BAU, the beard caught its usual share of attention. You were the first to notice when Hotch walked into the bullpen, your eyes flickering up from your desk. As usual, you tried to hide your reaction, but Hotch caught the way your gaze lingered on him before you quickly looked back at your screen. He felt a small, unfamiliar pang of satisfaction.

Throughout the day, it became a pattern. Your eyes would drift toward him when you thought he wasn’t looking, and Hotch found himself hyper-aware of your presence. You seemed more flustered than usual, fumbling over your words when he asked you a question during a meeting and avoiding his gaze entirely when Morgan teased him about the beard.

It wasn’t until late afternoon that Rossi made his move. The two of them were standing by the coffee machine when the older man gave Hotch a knowing look.

“So,” Rossi began, casually stirring his coffee. “You’re keeping the beard.”

“For now,” Hotch replied, taking a sip from his own mug.

Rossi smirked, his tone light but unmistakably teasing. “I think someone likes it.”

Hotch frowned slightly. “Jack? He’s made his opinion very clear.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jack.” Rossi’s smirk widened as he nodded toward the bullpen, where you were seated at your desk, your gaze darting toward Hotch once again before you quickly turned your attention back to your papers.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his expression carefully neutral, but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him. “I think you’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Rossi chuckled, leaning back against the counter. “You might want to pay attention, Aaron. She’s not as subtle as she thinks.”

Hotch glanced toward you once more. You were chewing on the end of your pen, deep in concentration, oblivious to the conversation happening just feet away.

He turned back to Rossi, shaking his head. “Let it go, Dave.”

“Sure, sure,” Rossi said, his tone dripping with false innocence as he pushed off the counter. “But for what it’s worth, I think the beard suits you. Clearly, I’m not the only one.”

Hotch didn’t reply, but as Rossi walked away, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but part of him was glad he’d decided to keep the beard. If nothing else, it gave him one more reason to notice the way your cheeks flushed and your gaze lingered just a little too long.

Hotch was used to reading people—it was part of his job. He could pick apart the smallest details in someone's behavior, uncovering motives and intentions hidden beneath the surface. But when it came to you, he had learned to tread carefully. You were quiet, meticulous, and hardworking, but there was a guardedness about you that he respected, even if he didn’t entirely understand it.

The subtle glances, the flushed cheeks, the way your voice softened when speaking to him—it had all been easy to dismiss as shyness. But lately, he’d begun to wonder if there was more to it. Rossi’s teasing hadn’t helped, planting a seed of curiosity that grew every time your gaze lingered on him just a second too long.

The revelation, however, came unexpectedly, in the middle of a case briefing.

The team was gathered in the conference room, the case details spread across the table. Hotch was at the head of the room, presenting the profile, when he asked a question about the unsub’s potential targets. You were the one who answered, your voice steady but quiet, offering an insight that made the rest of the team nod in agreement.

“Good observation,” Hotch said, his tone even but sincere. “That could narrow down the list.”

Your eyes darted to him, and for a moment, there it was again—that slight hesitation, the way your gaze lingered on his face before you quickly looked down. It was subtle, but it wasn’t lost on him.

What followed, however, wasn’t subtle at all.

“Careful, Hotch,” Morgan said with a grin, leaning back in his chair. “Keep praising her like that, and she’s gonna think she’s your favorite.”

The comment drew a few chuckles, but your reaction was what caught Hotch’s attention. You froze, your cheeks turning a deep shade of red as you fumbled with the pen in your hand.

“I—uh—I didn’t...” you stammered, your words trailing off as you avoided everyone’s gaze, especially his.

JJ, ever the empathetic one, tried to steer the conversation back to the case, but Morgan wasn’t done. “I’m just saying,” he added, his grin widening, “you don’t see him handing out compliments like that to the rest of us.”

“Enough,” Hotch said, his tone firm but not harsh, cutting off the teasing. He could see how uncomfortable you were, your shoulders tense as you kept your eyes glued to the table.

The meeting wrapped up shortly after, and as the team dispersed, Hotch stayed behind, watching as you gathered your things with hurried precision. He could see the embarrassment still etched on your face, the way you avoided looking at him as you moved toward the door.

“Wait,” he said, his voice stopping you in your tracks. You froze, gripping the edge of the file folder in your hands as he stepped closer.

“Sir?” you asked, your voice quiet but steady.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said, his tone softer now. “Morgan’s comments—”

“They were just jokes,” you interrupted, though your cheeks were still flushed. “It’s fine.”

Hotch studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your grip on the folder tightened. And then, as if unable to hold it in any longer, you blurted out, “It’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

That caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to the door as if debating whether to make a run for it. But then you took a deep breath, your voice trembling slightly as you said, “I—it’s nothing. I just... I know I’m not subtle. I’ve been trying, but...”

You trailed off, your words hanging in the air between you. Hotch felt his chest tighten, the weight of what you weren’t saying suddenly very clear.

“I see,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “You don’t need to apologize.”

You looked up at him then, your eyes wide and uncertain. “I’m not making this weird, am I? I don’t want to... I mean, I know you’re my boss, and I shouldn’t—”

“Stop,” Hotch interrupted gently, his tone firm but kind. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension in the room thick but not unpleasant. Hotch could see the vulnerability in your expression, the way you seemed torn between fleeing and staying rooted in place.

“Thank you,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hotch nodded, stepping back to give you space. “Take the rest of the day if you need it.”

You shook your head quickly, a small, shy smile appearing despite your obvious embarrassment. “I’m okay. I just... I’ll try to be more professional.”

“There’s nothing unprofessional about being yourself,” Hotch replied, his voice calm and measured. “Let me know if you need anything.”

With that, you nodded, clutching your folder tightly as you slipped out of the room. Hotch watched you go, his thoughts swirling as the door clicked shut behind you.

For a man who prided himself on being able to read people, the realization of your feelings hit him like a revelation he hadn’t seen coming. And yet, as he stood there in the empty conference room, he couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through him at the thought.

Aaron Hotchner lingered in the empty conference room after you left, the soft click of the door echoing in the silence. He was rarely caught off guard, but your words—and the vulnerability behind them—had shaken something loose within him. You hadn’t outright said the words, but the implication was clear. And now that it was out in the open, he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed the signs before.

He sat down, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table as he let himself think about it—about you. The way you’d look up at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your cheeks flushed whenever he praised your work, the way you stumbled over your words in meetings but always managed to recover with a thoughtful, intelligent point.

And then there was his reaction to it all. How his gaze would linger on you longer than it should. How your shy smile had a way of softening the edges of his day. How, against his better judgment, he found himself looking forward to the moments you shared, no matter how brief or inconsequential they might have seemed.

He sighed, leaning back in the chair. He’d spent so long guarding himself, compartmentalizing his emotions to stay focused on the job. But with you, those walls had started to crack, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Your presence had a way of grounding him, reminding him that there was still room for warmth and connection in his life.

Later that evening, Hotch was in his office, going over the case files, when a knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called, expecting one of the team.

Instead, it was you. You stepped inside hesitantly, your file folder clutched to your chest like a shield. “I just wanted to apologize,” you said softly, not meeting his eyes. “Again. For earlier.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Hotch said, his tone gentle as he set the file aside. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering to his before darting away again. “I just—I don’t want to make things uncomfortable for you.”

Hotch stood and rounded the desk, leaning against the edge of it as he regarded you carefully. “You haven’t made me uncomfortable. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

That made you look up, confusion flickering across your face. “What? Why?”

“Because I’ve noticed,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I’ve noticed the way you look at me. The way you try to hide it. And I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make you feel self-conscious. But I also didn’t want to admit to myself that I’ve been doing the same thing.”

Your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his words sank in. “You... what?”

Hotch offered a small, almost hesitant smile. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. To convince myself that it’s unprofessional or impractical. But the truth is, I feel it too.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of his confession hanging in the air between you. He could see the disbelief in your expression, the way you seemed to be processing his words in real time.

“I don’t know where this goes,” Hotch continued, his tone careful but sincere. “But I do know that I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t feel something when I do.”

You stared at him, your grip on the file loosening slightly. “I didn’t think... I mean, I never thought you’d...”

“I know,” he said gently. “I haven’t exactly made it easy to tell.”

A small, tentative smile broke across your face, and Hotch felt a warmth spread through him at the sight. It was as if some unspoken weight had lifted, leaving room for something lighter, something brighter.

“I guess we’re both bad at this,” you said softly, your voice carrying a hint of shy humor.

Hotch chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Maybe. But we can figure it out.”

You nodded, the tension in your shoulders easing as your smile grew. “Okay.”

For the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner allowed himself to feel the full weight of hope, the possibility of something beyond the job, beyond the walls he’d built around himself. And as he watched you leave his office, your steps lighter than before, he couldn’t help but think that this—whatever it was—might just be worth the risk.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

[hoshifighting]

can u do svt reaction with no nut november😋 love ur writing!!!!

seungcheol: he starts off strong, “this is easy, i’m basically a monk.” but makes it to day three, tops, before he’s in your DMs, like, “okay, you win, come over.” literally holding his head in his hands before fisting his hard cock.

jeonghan: jeonghan only joins no nut november to annoy you, trying to show off his self-control. “oh, it’s nothing. i can do this easily.” but when you start teasing him day after day, sending him nudes and flirty messages, he’s practically boiling. but he holds out until the end of the month, when December 1st 00h comes, this man is slutting you out.

joshua: tells you he’s “doing great” and that the challenge is “actually easy.” but secretly, he’s sneaking off every day, trying to relieve himself without you finding out. when you catch him, all flushed and a mess, and he’s stuttering like, “uh, i… didn’t know you’d see that.”

junhui: bro is all talk, boasting that he can last the whole month, but he’s the first one to start slipping. he tries to distract himself by going out, playing games, whatever he can, blows his cover, blow his load, by day five.

hoshi: this poor dude loses on day one. you know it, and he knows it. he tries to act tough, but if you cross from the bathroom to the bedroom only in a towel, he’s done for. he sulks the rest of the day, throwing a mini tantrum after fucking you and losing it, and when you tease him about it, he’s all pouty. “you did this to me!”

wonwoo: he thinks he can outsmart everyone, claiming he’s going to meditate his way through november. when you sleep with him in your babydoll or tiny shorts, he’s all softening up, biting his lip and fighting his instincts. he tries to be stoic, he’s grumbling under his breath, and it’s hilarious to watch. “this is unfair. can you at least stop wearing those?”

woozi: he’s stressed from the get-go. the man is rolling his eyes at everyone, snapping at the members over the tiniest things, all because he’s with a throbbing erection in his pants. you’re just fanning the flames, sending him ALL the nudes you can, and he’s getting more and more drained. “why are you like this?” he hisses, but he secretly loves the attention. by week two, he’s a complete mess, desperately trying to hide it, but he’s too transparent. every time you catch him zoning out, you know exactly where his mind is.

minghao: iron will. he goes through the whole month with a straight face, the second december hits, he’s on you. he’s using every spare second to make up for lost ground. by week’s end, he’s practically cock-sore from going at it so much, and you’re laughing, asking him if all that was worth it.

mingyu: he’s so sure he can trick his way through it, asking you to dry hump him because, technically, it’s not breaking the rules, right? but the second you start grinding down, he keeps trying to pull you off before he cums, soon, he’s begging you to stop, whispering about how he can’t take it anymore, so.. just another way losing the NNN.

seokmin: determined to stick to the rules, but struggling hard. he’ll pull you in for heated makeouts, his hands squeezing and holding you tight as he tries to discount on something. flushed and breathing hard, whispering apologies for pulling away clearly fighting himself every step of the way. he’s convinced he can make it to the end “it’s fine, i got this,” he’d insist, though his grip on you says contrary.

seungkwan: “oh my god, don’t come near me!” gets whiny about how hard he is. he’ll throw little tantrums, pouting and going on about how it’s torture whenever you tease him. by the end of the month, he’s practically begging, dropping hints that he’d break if you just said the word, making it clear he’s only “doing this for you” while clearly waiting for the green light to give in.

vernon: he's “nah, i’m good” from the start. “you’re trying too hard.” but little by little, he catches himself glancing your way, biting his lip, feeling the itch just a bit more every time you walk by. he won’t admit it, but by week four, he’s giving you these longing looks when he thinks you aren’t looking.

chan: determined, but let’s be real, he’s also a bit naive about how tough it’ll be. if you teasw him, he’s practically falling apart every time you’re around. by the middle of the month, he’s so worked up he’s stammering just being near you, you catch him blushing like crazy when you touch him, and by the end of it, he’s practically begging you to let him break the rules.

[templeofelysium]

worshipping the chthonic gods

first, a note on cthonic vs ouranic: the line between these gods is one that is not really as stark as it can be portrayed. many gods have both ouranic and chthonic aspects, and neither make them any more "good" or "bad" than the other. chthonic gods are not evil gods, at least no more than any ouranic god. all deities have the capability of doing good and evil, but are largely ambivalent in nature. the advice listed below is not set in stone, simply provided as gentle guidance. if you have suggestions, feel free to add them in the comments/reblogs! :)

LIBATIONS/OFFERINGS

In Ancient Greece it was very common for offerings to the chthonic gods to be given in the form of libation--a drink (or any liquid) poured into the ground. Solid offerings, like food, were often burned in their entirety to ash or left to rot, instead of being partially shared by the offeror. Incense was not as commonly used since the smoke travels upwards, towards the heavens.

I suggest disposing of/keeping ashes and rotted food outside or burying them, seeing as chthonic sometimes refers to "-of the earth." This would be similar to how curse tablets were treated in Ancient Greece, as Hermes, messenger of the gods, would deliver them unto their underworld-ly receiver from there.

If you can't do that, consider pouring your libations down the sink or flushing them down the toilet (ONLY do this with water-based liquids, oil and honey will clog up your sink in no time flat). It's not ideal, but it gets the job done.

Common libations include: coffee, blood (animal or your own, we'll get to that at the end), honey (instead of wine), milk

Common offerings include: meat, barley/grain, oil, cheese

PRAYER

In many cases, prayers to ouranic deities are directed upwards, into the sky or delivered unto the wind by voice, song, or some sort of poem. In the case of the chthonic gods, we should be directing them downwards, towards the underworld where they reside. This may include extending your hands with palms facing down, putting your head down, or just imagining your prayers being sent below. The only exceptions to this may be Persephone, who resides in the heavens for half of the year, and Hermes, who can be considered both ouranic and chthonic.

Other recommendations I can make are: light a candle, even if you're not going to use it for pyromancy; light some incense (I do this for focus and cleansing, not so much for the deity); and perform it at night. It's not mandatory, of course, to perform your prayers at night, it's just that in antiquity ouranic activities (festivals, prayer, etc.) were done during the day and often directly enshrouded in sunlight. We can assume, therefore, that a chthonic prayer or festival should occur during the night, especially if being directed towards Hekate or Nyx.

ALTARS/SHRINES

In Ancient Greece, temples to the ouranic gods were constructed so that their doorways would directly face the sun, thus illuminating the inside (and often the main statue(s), too). We can assume, then, that our chthonic altars/shrines should be located somewhere out of the direct sunlight. This can be in a dark spot, like a closet or isolated room--or it can just simply be in a corner furthest from the sun's rays.

Again, there may be some exceptions to this: Hermes, under his ouranic epithet(s), Persephone, for her time in the heavens, and Hekate, for her association with the moon.

DIVINATION

For the most part divination with the chthonic gods is conducted in much the same way as with the ouranic. Of course, when calling upon these deities you'll want to face towards the ground, and perhaps even conduct these sessions in partial darkness. Again, maybe you could light a candle or even pour a libation before a really big reading.

I mostly use pendulums and tarot, but I've been experimenting with meditation and have had some luck. What works for ouranic deities should work just as good for chthonic, you just might have to shift your approach a little.

Some good tarot spreads for working with chthonic deities:

"Fork in the Road" spread-- for Hermes or Hekate

"The Tower" spread-- for Hermes or Hades

"The Self Exploration" spread-- for any

"The Bat" spread-- for Hades or Persephone or Nyx

EXTRAS

--Consider offering blood if you're able! Animal blood that is sourced from ethical farms is neither morally reprehensible or illegal and can be sourced from a variety of places. Offering your own blood is also a possibility, but for this I would not recommend more than a pinprick. There are limits to how much pain you should be incurring on yourself for your deities. If you have to check your blood sugar often, maybe you can soak up excess blood with some cotton and bury it outside. Make sure to always clean your wounds properly and do not engage in this behavior for the purpose of self-mutilation. That, I can assure you, your deities would not appreciate. Don't be stupid.

--Snakes are commonly associated with almost all chthonic deities, or just the Underworld in general. We see this the most with Hermes, who is pictured with two snakes wrapped around his caduceus. The god Asclepius is also pictured with a staff with a single snake on it. Asclepius is the god of medicine, and (before being deified) was killed by Zeus for making people practically immortal.

--Chthonic deities are the best places to turn to for spirit work, protective, and baneful magic. You're looking to contact a spirit? Turn to Hades. You're looking for protection against spirits/demons? Turn to Hekate or Hermes. You're looking to cast a curse? Turn to Persephone or Hekate.

dividers by @vibeswithrenai

[theorist-fox]

Takes practice

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposting from AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

In my feel-good romance era. Usually more of a slap me pull my hair touch me there, there, there - no more talking. But not today. No SIR.

The bit regarding the satellite phones and telemarketers was inspired by the first chapters of Shadowed by Tarajanee. Absolutely adore that work and I thought those scenes at the beginning were lovely!

Word count: 13k

Summary: Simon is deployed for the first time since the beginning of your relationship. Instead of finding purpose in keeping the world clean, he finds it in keeping himself alive, because he's never been this eager to come home.

18+

CW: smut!!! dry humping, mutual masturbation, thigh fucking, P in V. Fluff, this is very fluffy. Soft Simon Riley, Simon is absolutely fucking whipped. Self-deprecating thoughts, intrusive thoughts, angst if you squint so don't squint and you'll only get yearning and love making.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon doesn’t remember your eyes.

He’s been clawing at his face, both literally and metaphorically, because each time he closes his eyelids to succumb to exhaustion, he sees your face.

And you’re pretty. So much. He envisions the curve of your smile and how your lips part to give way to your teeth. The lines at the corners that scrunch your nose and how it flushes when it’s too cold out. He has memorized the shape of your brows for every expression. Knows the line of your cheekbones and how they swell under your eyes when you smile.

Your face is lovely, even when he conjures it in his head. But when your form breaks through the mist, he gets startled every time. Because he can’t see your eyes.

It's like a mock picture of you. A mimicry gone bad. You’re there, fresh and real, whispering sweet words to him, tossing a quip, or moaning breathlessly as he remembers the way he’s fucked you, but your eyes are carved out. Blank spots instead of the windows to your soul, like everyone always seems to chatter about.

Sure, he remembers the shape of your eyes, and if he takes deep breaths, cancels out Johnny’s blabber blaring from his cot, and enters a deep meditative state, he might be able to draw their outline.

But it’s the shade he misses. Are they sapphire, dark, and cryptic? Or frostbite blues. Emerald, maybe. He ponders, but he’s not sure. Brown, like his? Chocolate, with swirling hazels like golden speckles. Stormy grey. Charcoal black. Amber. Gold. Fucking crimson.

He doesn’t know.

But it's only been three months since he left.

And it’s been six months since Simon has taken you on his bed and fucked his name into you. Six months since he’s finally tasted your skin and imprinted your flavor on his tongue. 

It’s your fault, he thinks, if now everything he eats tastes bland. Nothing sweeter than the salt of you. The dichotomy is not lost on him. He’s a rational man, and figures easily that skin can't be sweet, especially not after he made you sweat by pounding you into the mattress. Yet he might have lost a marble or two after that, because now not even honey can compare.

Which is why he’s moved his things in your room. Just because it’s bigger, he told you. No other reason, really.  

Fucking liar. 

But again, you’re as saccharine as you taste. And maybe not as naïve as he thinks. Because ever since that night, six months ago, your hands often intertwine with his own when you guide him to bed – your bed. 

And that’s how he found a nightstand full of his things on the side closer to the doorway of the room. There’s the book you’ve lent him and a re-filled plastic bottle of water right next to it, one that he should probably throw away like you constantly tell him. Something about microplastics, but fuck if he knows. Because ever since that night, he’s lost a bit of his logic, a lot more of his sanity: you can speak for hours on end and he wouldn’t hear a damn thing if not for how your voice vibrates against his eardrums, sending tingles down his spine. 

Surreptitiously, his things have started to appear in your room. He doesn’t have much, a phew photos of his family are shuffled with your trinkets. Plain, white frames stuffed in between your smiles on pictures you’ve taken with friends. 

A frame of his medals, the ones you insisted he kept, nailed to the wall next to your PhD certificate. 

Tidy, onyx wardrobe polluted with pinks and greens. Breathable cotton and faux furs. Fuzzy fabrics that leave a rainbow of synthetic hairs on his clothes. He doesn’t bother to pluck them off, it’s just another piece of you he’s lucky to carry around.

His old bedroom turns into a storage room. Filled with boxes of forgotten things and broken appliances you can’t be bothered to fix. 

And he promises to tinker a little with the vacuum, so you won’t have to spend money on a new one and use your savings for your guilty pleasures. That book you saw when you went out together for groceries? Consider it yours. The cooking classes you wanted to attend at that restaurant you’re always raging about? He’s already bought you a pristine new apron. 

And maybe he’ll take you there, too. Ask for a more secluded table where he can still spot the door, so he can also uncoil the muscles of his back and use his eyes only to look at you, instead of having them dart around for dangers.

But fuck, he can’t do any of that now. 

It’s his first mission after that night, six months ago, and Simon is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. You’re worse than morphine on a dying man; you leave him aching for something he knows he can have because you're so obviously there, but he’s so stupidly far away.

And he can’t even tell you where he is. Can’t even give you some peace of mind. Can barely call you, because Johnny’s been hogging the satellite phone to talk to Lord-knows-who.

The Scot is not selfish, Simon knows he would only have to ask, and the bulky device would practically materialize in his hand. But Simon also knows that if he dared, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Because in the years spent in the task force, he’s never needed to call anyone. 

Can’t call the dead, now, can you? 

And now, popping a question like that would only raise suspicions. It would have his mates up his arse until his head would split in half.

But it’s been six months since that night. Three months since he left. 

And that pocket of time he’s managed to spend with you, uninterrupted, almost made him accustomed to civilian life. To the lack of his mask and the AC of the flat breezing against his face. The taste of homecooked meals. The constant presence of another soul (a beautiful one at that) in his same space. 

With you, he’s never parched – of anything. You feed him mind, heart and body, showering him with that innocent love you so easily dispense, allowing him to bathe in it. 

He’d listen to your never-ending chat for days. His mind has always roared with sounds, yet the more noise you make the more you silence it. Baffling, really, how he’s spent his whole life looking for quiet and found it in the loudest person on earth.

He’s always sated with your kisses, your words, your quick mind and razor-sharp wit, your moans and your mewls, and God, anything you were willing to give. Your lips, your spit, the juices he makes you drip, and the ones he makes you spray. He dreams of cupping your clit with his mouth as he ravages your cunt with two thick fingers until you’re splashing on his tongue. He’d drink you dry, if you’d let him. 

And oh, you have. 

There’s  the wonderful catch. These are not wishes; these are memories. Too real and fresh ones for them to be just another one of his daydreams.

Finally, after three months of pondering – or better, yearning – he realizes that every skin-prickling migraine his mates would induce is worth the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

He’s disgustingly sweaty. He tugs at the lip of his collar and grimaces when he feels the cotton unstick from the dampness on his chest. 

Johnny's sitting idly, enjoying the few days of break from mayhem. Just a handful of hours allowed, really, enough to get them back on their feet – tactical planning, refill of their resources. Boring shite like that. But at least it’s a breather all right.

“Got the phone, Johnny?” He grumbles.

And Johnny would love to act as none the wiser, but his eyes peek from behind the sketchbook he holds in his hand. The smirk that curls at his lips has Simon roll his eyes. 

He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers, giving him a pointed look. “Johnny.”

“L.T.” He responds in kind. “Callin’ the landlord?”

Simon levels him with a deadpan look that could freeze the desert they’re stuck in. “Sergeant.”

Bastard’s too cunning for his own good.

Johnny drops the sketchbook immediately, showing the lieutenant his palms in defense. The cheeky bastard that he is doesn’t manage to conceal the absolute fascination in his eyes. He’s studying his superior as if he’s staring at another species.

And Simon doesn’t blame him. He’s like a sock that’s been turned inside out, the negative image of himself. All that gloomy energy turned blinding light, ever since he’s had a taste of what life could be with you in it.

But alas, no one wants to have the Ghost up their arse, so Johnny looks around the messy area around his cot and plucks the girthy satellite phone out of it.

Simon picks it up by pinching the tiny antenna on its side. It prompts Johnny’s smirk to broaden. 

“Haven’t done anythin’ with it.” He quips, letting it hang in the air for a second longer. “Or have I.”

Simon grunts a noise of disgust. “Spare me.”

He finds a secluded spot in the area they're occupying. There's nothing around them but the rubble of a city that has been torn by war and time. The sight is dour, and the silence echoes a dark past he hasn’t witnessed. Even so, the remains of the buildings are tall enough to offer their lot some cover. 

He slides with his back against a wall, knees spread wide. 

He knows your number by heart, his thumb presses each button with newfound resolve. Only when he brings the phone to his ear, does his determination falter. Because he hasn't contacted you in any way, shape, or form for three months. So, what if you’re livid, now? You’d have every right. He’d understand if you’d rip him a new one through the receiver. He just hopes you didn’t spend these days rethinking your choices. 

God, you’ve infected him with this overthinking bullshit.

“Hello?” Your voice breaks through the fog in his brain, like a hand wiping mist from glass, and his own breath threatens to choke him. He’s speechless for a moment, forgetting how to function properly.

Just your voice has sent his mind into overdrive - burnt his synapses to ashes. 

He reckons he’s completely fucked.

“Hello?” You repeat, sounding a little more annoyed. 

You grumble something about telemarketers having lost the decency to call at a reasonable hour. And when he doesn't answer again, he hears you sigh. Your voice gets all clinical, then, as if you were trained to repeat the same script over and over. “Listen, if you’re trying to sell me somethin’, my husband’s not home – he takes care of that stuff.”

He snorts.

“Your husband?”

Silence.

There’s a sort of shifting sound, he gathers you might have removed the phone from your ear and checked for the number on the screen. He can practically see your eyes squinting at the phone.

He hears you gasp, and he hints at a smile. Fucking hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that.

“Simon?” You venture.

“Hello, love.” 

You squeal, and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. But he’s tired of lying to himself – his heart is soaring. 

"Christ. Made my ears ring," he deadpans.

You chuckle, sighing afterward, as if a weight has been lifted from your chest. God, you’re a dream to listen to. If only he could also look at your face right now, just bask in the way your smile would light up the room. 

“Serves you right,” you chide him, as if that could ever be a punishment. “Could’ve called a little earlier than three months in. Was already looking for a new flatmate.”

He’s eternally thankful for the skull mask, even if it’s soddened with his sweat because if anyone were to walk by, they wouldn’t see how his face has softened. 

“Yeah?” He sniffs, “Made a new flyer and all tha’?” 

“Oh yeah,” You agree flippantly. There’s a shuffling sound that reminds him of bedsheets. “Made sure to add my boyfriend left me as a footnote.”

The corners of his lips twitch minutely. 

“Thought it was your husband who wasn’t home.” He retorts. “Got a stash of ‘em, then?”

Your chuckle is a breath of fresh air. He wants to have it imprinted in his eardrums, replacing the aggravating tinnitus. 

“Oh, y’know,” you sigh dramatically. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Keeps things interesting.”

“Gotta have a chat with the lad, then.” He taunts, “Set some rules.”

“Good luck with that. He rarely listens.”

He hums fondly. It’s all he can give you, right now. 

He’s new to this, relationships have never been his forte. For the first time in his life, he’s having someone else guide him. It’s hard, he won’t deny it, having another set of hands grasp the wheel, instead of his own. But he’s letting you, however slowly. You’re understanding, and you’re allowing him to leave his foot on the brakes. You never push him, you go at his pace – even if it’s blatantly annoying, how sluggish his movements are. Yet you don’t seem to mind, and he’s eternally grateful for it.

“How…” You start. He can tell you’re unsure, whether or not you can ask these things. Whether or not he can answer them. “How are you?”

His eyes soften. 

“Good,” he reassures you. “’S hot.”

You hum. “North Africa.”

He clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Middle East?”

Eh.  “No.”

You gasp. 

“You’re throwing me off guard, aren’t you? You said it’s hot, but it actually isn’t.” You say cleverly, even if you’re aware it’s most likely untrue. “North America, then. Like - Canada.”

“Drop it, maybe.” He offers gently. “Making a fool o’ yourself.”

“Alaska.” 

“Love.”  He warns, but his voice is kind. “Wastin’ time.”

“Mh, the script has changed, I see.” You tease him, and he can tell you’re smiling, by the way your voice comes. “Thought you were gonna hit me with the classified.”

“Like to keep you on your toes.”

“Been on my toes for three months.”

His heart clenches a little. He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want you to live on the line like that. He wonders if you’ve ever felt like this, in the four years he’s lived with you without having anything tethering each other, if not a casual friendship. Were you ever afraid when he left for his deployments? Or is this new to you, like it is for him?

“Fixed the vacuum, by the way.” You tell him lightly, as if sensing the tense air your comment has instilled. 

He silently thanks you for breaking the silence when he couldn’t. A gentle huff of relief travels through the receiver. 

“What was the problem?” He asks, even if not really fussed about the state of the thing.

“Fuck if I know.” You shrug. “Gave it a few whacks and it started working again.”

He fails to keep in a huff of laughter. “Fucking hell, ‘s tha’ what you’ve been doing, then? Hitting appliances?”

“Fixing appliances.” You correct him. “And stress baking. Lots of it.”

“Work’s botherin’ ya?” 

“S’fine.” You sigh sweetly, as though that could give him some peace of mind. “Everything’s fine over here, you don’t have to worry.”

Selfless angel, you are. He would have to be daft not to realize that you’re probably leeching your heart dry at the thought that something might happen to him. He feels like a fool for not having contacted you sooner, even when he had only a minute to spare.

His pride be damned.

“’M sorry I didn’t call earlier.” He apologizes, because the least he can do is hope you forgive him for being like a baby deer on ice about all this. 

“You called.” Your voice is soft. “’S what matters.”

He knows what you mean. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’s faring good enough to chat with you, that’s what matters. He’s missing you as much as you’re longing for him, that’s what matters. 

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His offhand runs across his face and he has to rip his own head out of his arse before the thoughts overwhelm him. 

How can he put you through this?  He should’ve left three weeks in, four years ago; should’ve let you share your home with someone more reliable, one who didn’t have a blade oscillating above his neck.

And yet at the same time, he can't let go of you. 

You’re so good to him, you’re the drop of water in a life that’s always felt arid. You made his barren heart flourish without even trying – he didn’t think anyone could, he thought he was bound to be frozen soil, not a garden. But here you fucking are, with your tiny watering can, nourishing the earth and causing it to sprout.

He’s selfish. He is. There is no karmic balance in his reasons. The scale tips in his favor through and through, because he’s sure you’re not gaining anything from this relationship, if not a spike in anxiety and its hand around your neck.

“How long?” You ask, seemingly unable to bear the silence.

"Few weeks." He croaks and clears his throat when he notices how cracked his voice sounds. “Be back in three. Could be two, if things go to plan.”

The silence on your end is deafening. Unwittingly giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Countdown starts, then.” You reply with that sunshine in your voice. Sunbeams through ominous clouds. “Gonna tally the days on the wall with one of your can openers.”

He snorts. “Lotta money to fix.”

“We can put ugly wallpaper over it,” you propose. “So the next person to rent the place will remove it and a whole kidnapping slash ghost story will spread around the neighborhood.”

You’re crazy, he thinks, but not unkindly. His heart squeezes in his chest.

“Fucking numpty.”

“Fucking numpty, or fucking numpty, derogative?”

He smirks. “Former.”

“Wonderful.” You say with a pinch of a smile he can’t see, sounding all smug.

However, nothing nice can last forever, not in Simon Riley’s plane of existence. He spots his captain approaching him, fiddling with the boonie hat in his grasp while his other hand lazily dries droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Gotta go.” He mutters. Waits a bit. Shuffles through his thoughts and decides to swallow his pride, because you deserve at least that much. “Missed you. Still do.”

You're silent for a moment longer before you give him a last glimpse of your voice. The one he'll hold onto like a lifeline for the next three – hopefully two – weeks. 

“Miss you too.” You say gently. “Come home soon.”

And he’s back suddenly. 

Earlier than expected, at that – one week only. Price was all business, a few days after he caught him sneaking a phone call. Telling him things like “Need you at HQ. Work with Laswell, make sure classified intel stays classified”. And when he questioned why would he send his sniper and lieutenant to do a job an analyst should do, Price answered with a curt “Because I can trust you”.

Honestly, what could he have said to that? Even if it smelled fishy from afar, his reasoning sounded mostly reliable. Because you would send your most trusted to deal with sensitive information, right? And if Simon were a bit more daft and a bit less intuitive, he would've shrugged it off. 

But it was plain as day when his boot landed on British soil, duffel bag in hand. When his phone pinged after he turned off airplane mode, and a text popped up:

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off for the jet lag. 

That he realized the ploy his teammates had concocted. To be honest, he wasn’t as resentful as he thought he was going to be. There was lingering thankfulness – somewhere, deep below layers and layers of stoicism.

[You]: Time zones aren’t that different. 

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off to just rest, then. 

[You]: Not that tired. 

[Unknown number]: Never took you for one to question orders. 

[You]: Never took you for one to put personal life before our job. 

Simon waited patiently under the overhanging lip of the hangar. The Kevlar of his glove crinkled as his fingers curled around the hand of his duffle bag. The rain creates a gentle buzz against the metal.

It took a while for the other bubble to appear, as if the other person – most likely Price, judging by the vocabulary used in the texts – was thinking about the right thing to say.

And the right thing it was, when the words fluttered on Simon’s phone screen.

[Unknown number]: About time you put yours first, though. 

Simon, for once, agreed.

────────────

The keys slide into the keyhole with familiarity. He turns it three times, content to see you’ve locked the door all the way. When he steps in, the flat is quiet, but he isn’t expecting otherwise. It’s late at night, the hands of the clock that’s hanging above the telly mark somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s too dark to be sure. 

He's ever so gentle when he closes the door and gingerly sets the duffle bag at his feet. 

The first thought popping in his head it’s you. You’re not expecting him to be back so soon, and he has this trepidation in him that wants to command his feet to the door of your bedroom only to see how you’d react to his unexpected presence.

But he takes a moment to digest this new feeling. 

It's hard to realize that, finally, you're not dreading something. For the first time in an excruciatingly long while, Simon isn't afraid. While his brain is rigidly wired in a way that makes him refuse to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, the heart knows best.

And he is scared. He’s always been scared, ever since his mother granted him the possibility of walking this earth. Being excited to live has never been his strong suit, but he’s learning. He’s trying. 

Takes practice, to accept you’re worth your happiness.

So, as a novice learner, it’s a little jarring to realize that when his feet land on the hardwood floors of this house, there's no need for fear. He can tuck the dread away, stuff it in a pocket, and close the flap, all the while being sure no harm will come his way. Certainty that with you there’s no need for all that, for vigilance – he can unravel the knots, and simply feel what comes, because it's not going to hurt him. 

You could never.

Hooking a finger under the hem of the balaclava, he snatches it off his head and lays it on the shelf next to the doorway. It’s soaked in rain, but he’ll wash it tomorrow. And he’ll use your fabric softener, so it’ll smell like your sheets. 

The flat looks awfully dull with the lights off. The bright colors are mere shades of grey, and while he’ll never admit it out loud, he truly thinks the orange of the eastern wall brightens the room as you've told him. The thought itself baffles him – Simon Riley now knows a thing or two about home design. You’ve changed him in ways he never expected. 

However, the thing that shocks him even more than his newfound knowledge of home interior embellishments, is when the smell of baked goods bullies its way into his nose. His mouth waters in a Pavlovian response. 

Right.  

Stress baking. 

He kneels to unlace his boots, before toeing them off gently, making sure they won’t thud against the floor and disturb your sleep. Then, he practically floats to the kitchen, still unbelieving at the idea that he gets to come home and find delicacies as such ready to eat. Sometimes, in the span of life he decides to call the “Before you”, he’d snatch a few MREs from the stash in base and eat them once back in his flat. 

Easy, quick, and edible. Even if they taste like cardboard.

And now he gets to walk into a kitchen that smells like blueberries and buttercream and black tea. He gets to grab a lumpy muffin from the tray on the kitchen island and sink his teeth in its golden and blue fluff. The flavors erupt on his tongue, from the saccharine spongy cake to the sweet tang of the blueberry juice as the fruit bursts under his teeth.

He selfishly hopes your stress baking will last for a few more days.

Nevertheless, while he’d gladly eat the whole tray if it were up to him, there’s something he craves more than a full stomach. And you're currently waiting in the other room, probably tucked under the duvet because the British weather tonight is rigidly cold. 

He shrugs off his wind jacket and drapes it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He can’t afford to take any steps backward. The coat rack is just a few paces back from the kitchen, nailed to the wall near the entrance, but he really doesn’t care. That handful of seconds is too precious to waste.

The steps he takes through the dark hallway are measured and silent; years of special forces training have taught a man his size how to be what his callsign implies.

Discreetly, he turns the knob, trying to make sure he won’t wake you with a startle because the door has barged open. However, the one caught by surprise it’s him. Because you’re not asleep, even if it’s three in the morning. 

Oh, he wants to give you a proper earful – sure, he's not your father, and if you're so keen on staying awake up until this hour on a weekday, then it's your funeral. 

Does it help school the unruly necessity of keeping you as healthy as can be? Absolutely fucking not. You’re a heathen and he hates you for it. 

But now you’re resting your back against the headboard, cross-legged on the bed. Satin blue navy camisole paired with matching shorts, big headphones on your ears, and your laptop on the mattress. You’re typing away. He’s sure you’ve pushed back an assignment from work and now you’re running out of time.

The room is dark, the only light being the screen of your computer casting your silhouette against the wall behind you. It’s silent aside from the patter of rain on the windowpane – you haven’t closed the blinds because Simon knows you love the moon flooding your room with gentle light. However, tonight the clouds are dominating the night sky, but the lampposts across the street are doing what the moon can’t, and you seem to favor that over complete darkness.

It’s clear you haven’t noticed him yet, music blaring in your ears and eyes focused on the monitor. But he’s seen you all right. And your eyes are cast downward, your lashes like annoying curtains depriving him of what he's been missing for the past three months. 

In spite of how muffled his movements have been, you seem to notice a shift in the air. Something that makes your skin prickle, a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in the same room, nor in the same flat – not now, at least, when he should be mummified in Kevlar and breathable cotton somewhere in the desert. He's secretly proud of how easily you seem to feel fluctuations in the environment. Makes him take a breath of relief, that your reflexes aren't dull even when your senses are already busy.

You lift your head swiftly, and he helps you focus on him by flicking up the light switch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, but you blink it away and finally clock him at the door. 

And your eyes are the color of the sun, he thinks. How could he forget, that they’re the color of a bonfire when it's cold out. Of yellows, oranges, and those occasional sparkles of green when the wood is not dry, but still burns to keep him warm.

Realization paints your face with stunning colors: darkening cheeks, eyes shaped like crescent moons under the pressure of rising cheekbones. Mouth curving beautifully, and it seems to catch your teeth. The smile stretches your lips abruptly, morphing your face in spare seconds.

He sees it happen in slow motion. You rip your headphones and carelessly toss them on the bed, your laptop is skewed to the side so quickly that he instinctively reaches out a hand to prevent its fall. Thankfully, the stars are on your side tonight, and the balance tips it on the mattress, instead of the floor. 

You’re a little hurricane, scurrying off the bed and kicking off the sheets. Getting on your feet and almost slipping in the attempt to reach him in as little time as possible. A tornado of limbs envelops him in the blink of an eye. He barely has time to react that you’re already coiled around him like ivy– arms, legs, and all.

Luckily, the doorway is right behind him, and he manages to tumble back and lean against it. Your arms are vines around his neck. Your legs are roots encircling his waist. You seem to grow on him, supplying his wretched heart with the sap of life you carry – symbiotic. He feels like he can breathe again and has been doing it wrong all this time.

He helps your balance by keeping a firm hold around your waist with his arms, encapsulating you in his warmth. Lean fingers spread on your back, yearning to touch as much as he can reach.

“Easy,” he rumbles. His voice is hoarse because whatever reaction he'd imagined, all this fussing surely wasn’t it.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tug lightly at his scalp. He’s silently apologetic because it must be wet with both rain and sweat, and he's sure the smell wafting from him isn't exactly cologne-worthy. But you don't seem to care, because after you've thoroughly inspected the crook of his neck, your face comes back into view.

Your eyes are the color of joy.

“Welcome back.” You whisper, as if it’s a secret between you two. And you kiss him because surely you must want it as much as he does. A flutter of lashes brushes his cheekbone when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Nails scrape at his scalp in the gentlest of ways. 

Simon feels your smile before he sees it. “You taste like blueberries.”

And he exhales against your lips. “Found ‘em waiting for me in the kitchen. Baked for an army, y’ have.”

You peck his lips once more, as if you couldn’t fathom a second longer without having them on yours. “Figured you’d be hungry. MRIs can’t be that tasty.”

"MREs,” he corrects. “And you’re right. They ain’t.”

Simon is not sure he’s ever received such a warm welcome, or such warmth in general. He’s not going to complain, of course, but that doesn't mean it leaves him any less rattled each time.

He gently sets you down at the edge of the mattress, standing between your legs – which you’ve pliantly spread to make room for him.

You gesture with your hand from left to right, "Potato, Po-tah-to."

"One is food, the other is medical equipment," he deadpans.

You glare up at him, as if to ask what the hell he wants now – it's three in the morning. Can’t be arsed to correct vowels at three in the morning.

“Potato.” You enunciate it better now, and it steals a lazy grin from him. “Po-tah-to.”

After having flicked your forehead at your insistence, he reverently lays his hand on your cheek and spreads his fingers into your hair.

“Alright?” You ask him.

“Mhmh,” it’s his only reply.

If only to feel you more, he guides your face to his belly. You seem to appreciate the gesture because you're already nuzzling his shirt, fisting it at his back for good measure. Simon feels your back expand and deflate under his palm when you breathe. Feels the rhythmic thump thump of your heart at his fingertips.

You’re life in its purest form. 

Face first into his abdomen, your voice is obviously muffled, but he hears it clearly anyway. "You smell like a sewer, mate."

He snorts, and lightly tugs at your hair, enough to make your head tilt back. He squints his eyes at you. “Cry ‘bout it, mate.”

Simon bends at the waist as you chuckle. Places a kiss on the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter closed and so do his. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but you two. The world muffles its noise to favor the sound of your breaths. The rain patters against the windowpane. Your laptop has gone into standby mode so now the screen is dark. The mellow light on the ceiling, a pale yellow, is like your discreet personal spotlight. 

Then, he reluctantly pulls away, and you chase him for more, pouting when he doesn’t seem to come back. But when he starts to undress, your scowl is easily replaced by a lazy grin. To increase the dramatics of the moment, you lean back on your elbows and wiggle your brows at him, “Well, well.”

You’re not subtle at all with the way your eyes follow a trail down his back, how the muscles fold when his hand reaches to the collar of his shirt and pulls it off his head. Curves and muscles and the indent of his spine. Skin freckled with scars you never ask a thing about because you're kind and you’re giving him time to open up on his own.

He’s put on some weight ever since your relationship has transitioned into something more meaningful, including feelings he still doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge. His abs are not as defined as before, they’re tucked under a layer of fat he’s not really accepting as of lately. The scar running across his stomach and its other companions only add to his self-deprecating streak.

He eyes you briefly as he unbuckles his belt, searching for what he’s sure is going to be a grimace, but he's met instead with the stupidest look he’s ever witnessed. Slow blinking at his form the more he undresses himself. Lips parted as if you’ve tried and failed to catch your jaw.

And that gives him the right to take those thoughts and shove them into the fear pocket. Sew it shut. No need to fear a thing, if you look at him that way.

You bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. "Givin' me a show, lieutenant?"

The corner of Simon’s lips tugs upward and the sudden self-hatred sublimates under the warm adoration in your eyes.

“Cheeky little thing,” he rumbles, letting his khakis pool at his ankles. He steps out of them and shrugs them off when they catch his feet. 

One last step, and he’s already hooking a finger under the hem of your blue camisole, slowly lifting it up. There's an impish gleam in your eyes that promises trouble and he would love nothing more than to drown in whatever disaster you're planning.

He stands between your legs only in his underwear and after you’ve shut the laptop and placed it on your nightstand, your hands immediately come to rest on his stomach. Simon sighs at the touch.

“You’re a menace,” he says gently when you drum your fingers up to his chest.

Honestly, he hopes you don’t care if he smells like a cocktail of grime and sweat and rain, because, as much as he wishes for a hot shower, the sight of you melts whatever need away. 

Your eyes travel downward, taking a generous eyeful of him. However, he knows you’re not just ogling; you're searching him for wounds. 

Bandages. 

Sutures. 

Anything  that might tell you whether he's hurt or not. 

Obviously, Simon knows you want to ask. But you’re sensible when it comes to his job. In spite of the jabs about all the “Classified” he’s given you as answers, he knows you don’t hold a grudge against him. He also doesn't like to bring work at home, taking pains to leave his safe space untainted by it – instead, he lets you do the detective work yourself. 

A sweet sigh leaves your lips when you settle on the fact that he's unscathed, and you lift your arms up to help him take off your top.

"A menace?" You quip, feigning offense. "M’not the one looking naked and yummy."

“You’re about to.”

You don’t look away from his eyes when his fingers pull your top up and off. The camisole is gently removed past your head, the satin leaving your hair a little staticky. 

“A menace,” he murmurs once more, his tone softer now as he tosses the garment in a vague direction.

You wrap your arms around his waist, propping your chin on the hollow between his ribs, taking in his face as the sight that it is to your eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and just basks in the adoring attention and in the well-deserved skin-to-skin contact.

"How was it this time?" You ask gently.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, slowly stroking at your skin. A tender kiss to your hairline has you automatically sighing. You do it every time he kisses your head. He's mentally taken note of how his lips press a button of sorts that makes it all wash away, like suds under the jet of water.

“Same as always,” he murmurs, keeping his tone low and soft for your ears only. 

You hum in acknowledgment. "So?"

He smirks, a curve hidden in your hair. “Classified.”

You scoff and playfully slap his butt. He pulls back with a newfound glow in his eyes.

“Not Full Metal Jacket, if you’re wondering.” 

You hum, deciding to play along. “Spies involved?”

He snorts and tucks a rogue lock behind your ear. “Sure.”

You poke his chest as you make your definitive guess. “Three days of the condor!”

His eye twitches when, amongst the myriads of films you’ve ever watched in your life, you quote the one with the CIA involved. He has to flatten his face into something more neutral. Surely yours was a clear shot in the dark that somehow hit the right spot – even a broken clock is right, twice a day. Still, your blind guess doesn’t leave him any less distressed.

“Sorta.” He offers through gritted teeth.

And you don’t push any further, sluggishly resting your cheek on his belly.

"Were you more Robert Redford?” You mumble with half-closed eyes, "Or Faye Dunaway?”

Relief washes over him and he can’t help but huff. Plops a hand on top of your head and smooths down to the ends of your locks, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

“Faye Dunaway, love.” He rumbles. “No question.”

You playfully tighten the hold around his waist, and with a tug, he's pulled down onto the bed. Simon knows he could easily win whichever battle if you’re the opponent, but he’ll always pretend to struggle just to humor you. He’s careful though, so he props himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you with his bulk. 

Gently, you kiss his nose but he doesn’t pull away, instead allowing the kiss to be reciprocated on your cheek. He reaches out for the switch next to the headboard and turns off the lights. 

Your eyes are the color of a summer’s night. 

They’re dark but twinkle with starlight. Pupils blown and the glowing halo of your irises around them like an eclipsed sun. The light coming from outside seems to favor you, creating shapes around your face able to turn you into a dream made reality.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” You tell him, nose to nose. 

“Won't bother anyone, will it?” He asks mindfully, although he cares very little if your co-workers might get a little miffed about your last-minute call.

You shake your head softly, causing your noses to brush. “Nope, they’ll understand.”

And so, he unfolds, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. Your head is guided by a big hand to rest on his chest. He fits you perfectly into his side, making sure every piece of you adheres like glue to his skin.

“Y’need a shower?” You murmur in his skin, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers are tracing mindless patterns on his chest, skimming over hair and the odd scar here and there.

“Tomorrow,” he replies quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Alright,” you whisper. “Wake me up when you do, yeah?”

“Sure.” He says, looking down at the top of your head. He leaves a kiss in its ruffled mess.

“G’night, love.” He breathes. 

You murmur it back, and fall into your slumber.

────────────

Simon opens his eyes with his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and likely pegs it to mere habit. Three months stuck in hypervigilance will have your body unconsciously overreact at the most subtle of changes, even if there are none.

There’s too much light in the room for it to be night, and a single look at the window tells him the sun is just shy of rising. 

During the night, you must’ve moved around and he must have followed you, because now he has your back to his chest. An arm slung around your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck. 

He gently tugs the duvet a little higher, over your shoulder, and spends the next few minutes just looking at how peaceful you look.

Next to a killer. 

His stomach churns wildly. 

You’re home,  his heart says. You’re not a killer here. 

A shame, truly, that his brain doesn’t agree in the slightest. Two organs fighting like separate entities, and the whole brawl is happening inside of him, mercilessly tearing his flesh apart. 

But it’s already broken, isn’t it? What else is there to shred. 

Yet he’s home and you’re comfortable next to him. So how broken can he be, really?

Torn. Shredded. Lookin’ like you went through the grinder and barely came out of it alive. 

He forces his eyes shut and buries his face in your hair, nuzzling your nape. 

Pretty thing, she is. Who the fuck d’you think you are, mh? 

A sharp inhale. Breathing you in. You smell sweet enough for the sounds in his head to buzz out. Not silent yet, but quiet enough for him to have a breather.

You don’t know how long it takes for his body to expel the exorbitant amount of adrenaline produced in three months of deployment. How his back cracks when it hits the comfortable mattress of yours and his bedroom, after having spent way too much time packed like a sardine on sordid cots or much-too-small sleeping bags.

How he fucking hates it, when you feel so soft and untouched, while he has more scars than bloody years on his back. 

Not right. Ain’t fucking right to you. 

His hand snakes from your waist to follow the curve of your arm. He follows the bulge it makes under the comforter. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, allowing the sound of his skin brushing over yours and the shuffle of the blanket to echo in his ears.

He scoots impossibly closer, pressing your back against his chest hoping your skin would mold with his. Nose buried in the crook of your shoulder; kisses light as breeze following the length of it. 

You smell so good you disarm him. He sighs as if he’s been utterly defeated, lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting. 

His mind hushes, finally. His heart unwinds itself – springs let loose, pulse calm. 

There’s you. The way your breaths come. Your limbs stirring at the gooseflesh left by his kisses. The rising sun lapping at your skin. The rise and fall of your back. 

It’s calm.

Your head turns slightly, looking over your shoulder. You must only see his eyes, lazily glancing at you through pale lashes.

Yours are a dawning sun.

They’re soft and gentle, pale yellows and blues, peeking above the sheer horizon of sleep you’re trying to overcome. Idle, slow, but most welcome.

“Hey,” you croak, blinking the drowsiness away. “You okay?”

He hums a quiet yeah in your skin. Hasn’t even noticed his hand returning to your stomach and pulling you in, angling you against his lap. 

And fuck him, but he’s sporting the hard-on of a lifetime. 

He knows you’ll understand that he’s been deprived of such pleasures for three months, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed. A hand in his pants, while he hid somewhere more private in the middle of nowhere was a temporary fix that fixed very fucking little. Especially not after having been spoiled by you.

Simon doesn’t necessarily want to fuck you, now. Sure, his dick might have a head of its own, and he wouldn’t complain against it were it to happen, but he still has control of his actions. And now he just wants to feel you, whether inside or out doesn’t matter – as long as it’s you.

Nevertheless, he isn’t expecting you to have much different plans. Naturally, he isn’t going to protest.

Your ass tentatively presses against his length, the satin of your shorts sliding easily along the cotton of his boxers. You’re still so sleepy – he sees you digging a knuckle in your eye, nostrils flaring as you let out a big yawn. 

Were you aware of what you were doing, or were you being a goddamn minx?

“Well, good mornin’,” you murmur, a lick of a smile on your lips. “Brought me a souvenir from bumfuck nowhere?”

Minx it is. 

He snuffs out a chuckle by harshly pressing his lips against your shoulder, sewing his lips shut. Unfortunately, his chest rumbles against your back and you catch it before he manages to catch himself. 

Your hand goes to rest above his own on your stomach, fingers intertwining. 

Soft skin on both sides: palm to your belly, knuckles to your hand. He’s sandwiched in bliss. Three months away, barely any contact, and all he apparently needed to alleviate some wounds was just a handful of hours spent asleep in your presence.

His lips part slightly. Kisses turn wetter and teeth bite at your neck, his tongue darting out to subsequently soothe the ache. Your hand has already guided his own to your breast, and your mouth is breathing sounds he’s missed.

And he tells you, because why should he hide a thing from you.

“Missed ya,” he croaks, voice a little shaky for reasons unknown. He could look in his head (or his heart) and find them – surely, they’re there. But he figures the present feels much better than the jumbled mess inside.

Reasons can wait.

“Let me feel you, yeah?” 

Your head bending backward to his face is the answer you give him, back pressed flush against his chest. You guide his hand up and squeeze it around the fat of your breast to assert your approval. 

But he’s not satisfied with that. Needs your voice to tell him it’s alright, that you’re not under some sleep-induced spell. That you’re fine with having him feel you, and you’re not just offering yourself because he’s been away for so long and you want to give him some sort of reward.

Simply, that you want him as much as he wants you.

His voice is raspy and low, “Words, love.”

"Please," you whisper and vigorously grind your ass against his groin. “Touch me.”

He hisses and presses forward too, meeting your movements. 

He’s still a little out of it, senses overrun by the general fatigue clinging to his muscles as the aftermath of deployment, his bones weary and getting accustomed once more to the comfort of a bed instead of a cot. 

Mind absolutely quiet.

He flicks his thumb over your nipple. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Your shuddering breath prompts him to pull at it, and it causes you to arch your back off of him, pressing further against his painfully hard cock. 

He grunts against your shoulder, hand busy teasing your breasts and hips rutting against the plump flesh of your ass. You grind back against him, working in tandem to relieve at least some of that ache. 

Each movement is a languid stroke of fabric that gives him enough pleasure to cause his resolve to falter. When he turns your head sideways, leaving your tits to grasp your jaw, he loses it. Your flushed cheeks, lower lip trapped between your teeth, the whites of your eyes still a little red from sleep.

Lips on lips, slotting together like magnets. 

Too long. 

Too damn long. 

Sure, he kissed you when he came back, a bunch of hours before. But this is a whole other thing. The connection behind it, the pinch of your brows conveying the same desperation he has. Hands grabbing at flesh, bodies grinding against each other. Tongues dancing privately. Eyes closed to shut the world out. Moans and pants, dotted with the occasional curse slipping from his lips when the length of his cock catches the cleft of your ass.

His palm slides down and crosses the threshold marked by your shorts. He’s awfully delighted to find out you have nothing underneath them. Feels blessed when his middle finger slides down your cunt to find it impossibly wet. 

“Oh - Simon,” He hears you whimper, and he almost comes in his briefs then and there because he has no right to hear you say his sullied name with such devotion behind it. 

Seemingly feeling the need to respond in kind, your arm blindly reaches behind, and you slip it between your butt and his groin. Your hand is soft as it palms his cock, the cotton of his boxers an annoying barrier. 

The tip is leaking tremendously, and he should be embarrassed about the obvious wet spot he must be sporting on his briefs. However, he can’t even manage to concoct the thought that your fingers are already fumbling with the elastic band of his underwear and finding their way in.

Simon shudders when your warm hand curls around his shaft. 

You glide your hand up, collecting precum on your palm, before sliding back down again – velvet skin being pulled over the head to steer clear of overstimulation, and then down once more. Similarly, he crooks his finger to gather your wetness and uses it to roll idle circles around your clit. 

And it goes on, and on, and on, and on. It’s slow and drawn out, both of you wanting to reach that high but at the same time don’t – cutting off pleasure doesn’t seem fitting, when both of you have been starved of one another.

He bends the arm beneath your neck to pull your head back, next to his own, cheek to cheek. Simon’s hips jerk to blatantly fuck your fist, yours flow with the movement of his fingers circling your clit, stroking yourself against his hand.

He starts getting antsy, however, when he notices that he can’t properly reach you. Can’t have you unravel on his fingers like he’s done so many times before. Simon wants – needs – to see you unfold and squirm under the pressure of his hand. Needs to have you cream on his fingers – as simple as it’s primal.

He murmurs against the shell of your ear, “Need to stretch you out, love.”

And – goddamn you, you whine. Your hand doesn’t stop its languid movements, but it further slows down, as if you needed all of yourself to cooperate and form a single thought.

“Jus’ do it, I missed you.” You whimper, breathy and high-pitched. “Won’t hurt much, I promise.”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes because your voice has gone straight to his cock and he needs to disassociate for a second to recollect himself.

You’re a temptress, even in your loving, tender desperation. And how sweet it is to know that he isn’t the only one craving those intimate touches he can only give you. You’ve had your fair share of relationships and lovers, but has he? Some quick ones, enough to get rid of natural aches. Definitely not with a connection so deeply ingrained. 

And he tastes, then, the beauty of mutuality. Of giving and receiving. 

He retreats his hand and prompts you to do the same. Helps you take off your shorts and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He holds you still with one arm around your waist, palm flat against your lower belly to angle you better. 

Gingerly, he guides the tip to your slit, dragging it upward until it catches your clit and you hiss, and then down to your hole. Back and forth, happily realizing that he has, in fact, made you wet enough to make it hurt less. And while he tends to be open to many requests made under the bedsheets, anything that causes you pain is a huge, firm no in his book. 

Which is why he’s a bit hesitant now, pressing chaste kisses against your shoulder, trying to soften the ache that will inevitably come. A juxtaposition, really, to his cock dragging a raw, slow dance down your cunt.

It’s then that you turn your head in the pillow to groan against the fabric, and your legs clamp together and essentially choke him between the plush of your thighs.

The sensation is initially a sharp jolt that makes him spout a series of curses under his breath. But then the glisten of your cunt mixed with the precum you’ve diligently smeared all over him, with your folds and your plump thighs wrapped around him in a warm, wet hug – he sees the appeal. 

And thrusts. Shamelessly – once, twice, thrice. Snapping harshly, only to draw back slowly. Grunting to your skin. Chest vibrating against your back.

“F – fuck,” he manages to choke out, wringing his eyes closed to regain some control over his actions and failing spectacularly.

Your moans don’t help. They perfectly align with the slap of his hips against your ass, with the wet noises of your sodden cunt against his cock. It’s as filthy as it’s fucking wonderful, and he’s terribly afraid he’ll finish before he can even fit the head inside of you. 

The grip he has around your waist only tightens, leaving you breathless by the second. Simon has his mouth next to your ear, giving you the privilege of hearing even the smallest breaths he exhales. 

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers, panting from the effort. 

Curiously, he takes a peek over your shoulder as he fucks your thighs, catching the flushed head of his cock stroking your clit and appearing each time he thrusts in. It’s fucking debauched and he loves it to bits. So much that he groans and rolls his eyes, struggling not to paint your thighs with his spend.

“Need to fuck you,” he hurries, choking on the words. “Now, love.”

Rapidly (and reluctantly), he pulls out of the pillowy, snug space your thighs had inadvertently created for him, almost hissing when the cold air hits the sensitive skin of his cock, coated in yours and his arousal. 

“On your back, swee’heart,” he gently guides you down, adding a brisk yet tender “C’mon.”

And you comply, feeling almost like a ragdoll in his hands. Lips parted and slick as they form small Yes’s to convey the same ache he feels. It takes him less than a breath to place his mouth over yours again. 

As he hovers above you, thick arms on each side of your head and chapped lips crashing against your own, he slots his hips between your legs. The softer flesh of the inside of your thighs is still wet from when he’s buried his cock between them. He feels the fluids stick to the skin of his hips.

Taking his time, he lets a hand wander down your chest, flowing to your belly until his fingers reach your core – where you’re wet, and warm, and still pressing up against his cock, searching for friction.

He plunges a finger inside, making the movement of your hips stutter and your mouth gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“Gotta stretch you out," he repeats languidly, because he cannot - for the life of him - put words into sentences without thinking about the structure beforehand.

He’s aware he’s big. It used to chub up his ego when he was younger and brash, but now he can’t be arsed about it. Big or small, he’s learned that it’s how you use it – and to be frank, he hasn’t used it much before you.

But he knows it’s going to hurt if he just puts it in with little to no preparation. He hasn’t seen you in three months, and you can trust him when he says he’s as ravenous as you are and can’t bloody wait to be inside you where he’s warm and blessed – but causing you pain? When it can be avoided so easily (and he can make it feel good, too)?

Absolutely not. Categorical. 

He wants you to indulge in the blissful touches and the highs he can bring. Needs you to associate him to kindness and soft breaths and how much he hungers for you – he'll gladly eat you up, but only if you say so. 

“’S not gonna hurt,” you mumble again, sounding a little drunk in the effort to convince him. “Please.”

Your eyes flutter to him, and they’re this dark pool he can’t seem to navigate. Lust overflowing like fat, miry tears that can’t fit in the space of your sockets, and then something even darker – longing. You’re looking at him as if it's the first time you’re seeing him.

He gets it, then, how good you’ve been at hiding it so he wouldn’t hurt at the thought of hurting you. He must've unconsciously taught you a thing or two, by wearing stoicism, neutrality, and more tangible skull masks. 

You’ve missed him body and soul. 

You’re there, eyes heavy and full, begging for him to come back to you. 

How long have you been waiting for me like this? 

“Oh, love,”  he breathes and kisses you again.

A long finger inside, pushing against the place he knows makes your eyes water.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, thumb steadfast on your clit, as if he could apologize just by using his fingers because words tend to fail him when he needs them the most.

And so, he slides in his ring finger too, feeling the momentarily tight fit and the subsequent way you relax to welcome him. Your lips part to sharply breathe in, eyes scrunching close at the stretch. He can feel your hands stiffen against his back until they travel up his spine and tangle through shorn blond hair. 

You’re keeping him close, with your forehead pressed to his almost to the point of pain. Your noses are in the way of the onslaught you’re causing on his mouth. Strained, heavy pants brush his lips when you part from him to breathe, before lavishing him with attention again.

You’re always good with words. You always know what to say, and yet you’re being extremely quiet – it worries him more than the look you have in your eyes. 

“M’sorry.”

For being away. 

For not telling you where I was. 

For leaving you to wonder whether I’d come back, or not. 

For not calling. 

I’m sorry. 

“M’so sorry.”

My girl.  

His hand cradles the back of your head as if he could get you any closer, and he fucks you with his fingers.

“Don’t be,” you reply, your voice so faint and lost in the sounds of your bodies he has to perk his ears for it. “You’re home.”

My sweet, sweet girl. 

And he buries his face in your neck, leaving wanton kisses that have very little erotic power to them. He’s just trying to taste you, really. Trying to commit you to memory again, conveying fierce apologies to your skin. 

He can feel you clench around him, almost sucking him in, each time his fingers reach deep.

“Fuck, need to see you come.” He murmurs to the skin of your neck.

Thumb aching, he replaces it with the heel of his hand. A continuous and tortuous curl of his fingers inside of you, palm cupping your cunt and rolling against your clit. His cock aches when you whimper and stifle it by biting into his shoulder. A sharp exhale. Skin sweaty and pressed against his chest. Hands tugging at his hair. 

“Don’t-” You croak. “Just- just fuck me, Si.”

He groans because stop being stubborn, will ya?

“I’ll cum the moment I get in, swee’heart.” He tries to reason and almost loses it at the raunchy, squelching sounds caused by his fingers between your legs. "Lemme take care of you before tha'."

But it's like talking to a wall.

"'s fine, love. I don't care, yeah?" Your hips move against his hand, but at this point, he gathers it's just a natural body response to pleasure. “You’ll take care of me tomorrow, and the days after that.”

Just when he’s about to rebut, you sandwich an arm between your bodies and curl soft fingers around his cock. The simple act makes him stop his motions, and he feels you pulse and clench around his fingers.

“Please.” You whisper, voice like silk. 

He crumbles, then, at the sight of your eyes. Watery and glossy and wide – lust a long-forgotten thing. 

He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly. Doesn’t dare to avert his gaze from yours when he retrieves his hand and loves to catch how your brows pinch at the sudden emptiness inside. Sloppily, he coats his stiff cock with your wetness with a few weak pumps.

His eyes stay on you, as he goes in blindly, guided by touch only, and drives the tip to your hole. Tries to gauge your thoughts by the expressions on your face, and fails miserably, for once, at keeping his own concealed.

Barely aware and in control of what his face is conveying, he gathers you must appreciate it because you shift your palms to cradle his cheeks. He doesn’t know why you do it because there’s nothing on this godforsaken planet that could make his attention swerve to any thoughts but how beautiful you look when your lips stroke his own with featherlight pressure.

And he slides in, comfortably easy. Feels your puffy lips stretch to welcome him whole, inch by inch. Piece by piece of him, in every way you want to interpret it. 

His jaw is locked tight because as soon as your walls envelop the head of his cock, he already feels himself shutting down. His eyes close – he can’t afford to look at how you morph for him. How your pussy swallows the first inches of his cock, puffy clit begging to be touched and lavished. How your mouth parts against his own to yield soft moans and breathy whispers that encourage him to please, please, please go deeper. 

He can’t. Stubbornly thinking he must last long enough to give you some pleasure or it will all be worthless. And so, it’s a repetitive dance: an inch in, and a full pull out. Stop. Another inch, and pull out. 

It’s driving him fucking mental.

“Let go,” you say, tearing his head out of the gutter. “Look at me, and let go.”

He can’t exactly decide whether you’re being the devil on his shoulder, or an angel sent from heaven – either way, the aim is to ruin him. Yet it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes, and you look so beautiful his heart cracks, with a thin layer of sweat on your brow and the sheen of his spit on bitten lips. 

You don't have to tell him twice at this point, because the way your hands force his face steady so he keeps his eyes on you does most of the trick. His resolve crumbles at breakneck speed.

He bottoms out, pushing his pelvis flush against yours. Your eyes roll back at the same time, legs going stiff and tight around his hips. He does a tentative roll that causes the coarse hair on his groin to press against your bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you breathe, your voice cracking at the edges. He echoes it right after you, or at the same time – he's not sure, but in his defense, he's not confident about a single thing right now.

If not how absurdly scorching you are, all wrapped around him.

With that, he hooks one arm around your waist and tucks his other hand behind your head. He holds you close like you might slip away, and he’s sure as hell not taking any chances.

He fucks you slowly, deep thrusts that fill you up all the way, and greedy love bites on your neck. Open-mouthed kisses at your throat, sliding up to your jaw and cheeks, all the way to your lips. Truthfully, he’s both trying to get his senses chock full of you, and keep his mouth shut so no words spoken while in ecstasy escape.

The slap of his hips against yours drowns the taps of the morning drizzle against the windowpane. He’s got your face buried in the crook of his neck, and your pants echo in his ears like a fucking promise that threatens to unravel him.

Each thrust has him fully sheathed inside of you. It fills him with primal pride and fuels his pleasure, because you take him so fucking well he can't help but think he's modeled you in his perfect image. He grunts against you and tugs at your hair out of sheer desperation to hold on – just a little longer.

But you’re swearing in his ear. Breathless fuck’s whispered like a curse and a vow at the same time. You shift your hips to change the angle and that makes him hit even deeper and he swears he hears you whimper in that telltale way he knows well.

He lifts your hips up and hooks your legs over his shoulders.

And he absolutely rams into you.

“Christ I missed you.” He rumbles and his voice cracks while your moans rise in pitch and your nails scratch his back. “Fuckin’ thought of you," Thrust. "Every bleedin’ day.”

He’s rambling now, intoxicated on the feeling of you. His words are slurred and strained and, deep down, there’s a more sober version of Simon Riley cursing at himself for speaking his heart out.

Luckily, it’s drowned by the slap of flesh against flesh and the wet sounds of your cunt milking him dry. 

Finally, he thinks, he's using his strength not to wield a heavy M4 or to ram against hostiles, but to fuck you on his cock – knee-deep in the mattress for leverage.

He lets go, like you asked.

He murmurs in your ear (Fuckin’ beautiful), words alternated with heavy pants (An’ all mine) and the animalistic grunts of a man cocooned in bliss (All fuckin’ mine).

His hips stutter and he knows he’s close, but you’re not even nearby, in spite of how he can feel you clench around him, sucking him in. And God, the guilt that fills him almost makes him stop even if he has that sweet, sweet release just around the bend.

But you won’t have that, naturally. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, clammy and sticking out weirdly because he’s sweaty and hot. He feels his head being shifted to the side, so you can look into his eyes.

And oh, how can you look at him like that? How is he even deserving of it – fuck you and your relentless ways to crawl under his skin and make him feel like he’s worth a damn, with your eyes glossy and hooded. A thick veil of admiration, fondness, and you. 

You, you, you. 

Where have you been all his life, with this color in your eyes?

“Come inside.” You plead tenderly, breathless and raspy, as he pounds you into your own bed. Your fingers smooth back rogue strands that are sticking to his forehead. “Please come inside.”

And you crush his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. One that marks his demise. He’s falling hard into your embrace, figuratively and literally, too.

He uses whatever shreds of strength he has left to ram into you as if his life depended on it, punching gasp after heaving gasp out of your beautiful lips into his hungry mouth.

It works like a spell because he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his cock. Syrupy hot warmth runs down his legs to the tips of his toes. Tingling. Tightening. Burning so good he thinks he's melting within you.

Suddenly, his head spins, and he groans in your parted lips as he ruts into you one last time – until he has you filled to the brim. His eyes slam shut as he spills inside of you – cock pulsating and hot. 

His high takes its sweet time, canceling out all background noises and only leaving your sweet breaths to fill in his ears, and the pounding of his heart. 

Simon unceremoniously drops on you like dead weight, allowing your legs to return around his waist. His lips slide off yours until his head is tucked in the crook of your neck. He’s absolutely spent, but there isn’t enough fatigue in this world that could keep him away from you. You’re sweaty and he’s worse, but he doesn’t see why, in the haze of his orgasm, he shouldn’t have his lips reach every inch of skin he can.

His kisses are lazy – a stark contrast from the desperation he’s displayed until now. 

He feels safe. He feels at home, still buried deep inside of you, feeling the come that couldn’t fit inside ooze out and onto the bedsheets. A bummer to clean, he’ll realize when he’ll get his sanity back.

And he wants to tell you so many things when he feels your hands skimming down his back in a soothing dance. Wants to tell you how you’ve flipped his life, with the ease of tossing a coin – heads and tails. Opposites so striking you should be deemed a witch. 

He was in deep fucking shit before you offered your smile. Inching closer and closer to dead-ended alleys and dark, murky thoughts that could only lead to dreadful places.

You gave him something to yearn for, something to miss when he's away, and something to cherish when he's here. 

There’s nothing he can do to return the favor but love you in equal measure. 

It’s not the first time the word love has come up in his head when his mind was lost in memories of you. And while he’d rather not dwell on it now, while you hold him to your chest as he comes back to his senses, he knows the time will eventually come.

Yet he doesn’t dread it. Not one bit.

Fear pocket sewn shut. Finally. 

He lifts his head to look up at you and finds you doing the same – he’s sure he’s thoroughly fucked in the best way imaginable. 

“I’ll take care of everything later,” you say, reading his thoughts. “You okay?”

It takes him a while to respond. Mental gymnastics to reawaken the parts of his brain that are still tingling in the afterglow. 

“Never better, love.” 

“Sleep?” You offer, as if he isn’t still buried inside of you and effectively crushing you under his weight. 

You don’t seem to mind, and so he trusts you and doesn’t either.

His eyes are half closed as he slides down to rest his head in the valley of your breasts. "Y' didn't cum," he mumbles, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the fat of your tits.

Your fingers brush through his hair to keep him close, and when your nails scrape at his scalp he feels gooseflesh rise along his arms. 

"'S fine," you whisper gently, and he's struck by the earnestness in your tone. But then you quip, "I'll have ya on your knees tomorrow."

And he scoffs. "Makin' it sound like a punishment."

You purse your lips and land a kiss on the crown of his head. "Then stop complaining."

He grunts something he himself can't even discern. 

“Y’need to piss first.” He grumbles mindlessly, as if the thought of you standing up annoys him but he knows a UTI is even more aggravating.

You snort. “Charming."

And he responds in kind. "Chivalry's dead anyway."

There's a few seconds of silence only broken by your quiet chuckle. "I’ll wait for you to fall asleep, then ‘m off to the loo. Deal?”

He grunts in agreement, liking the compromise you’re offering. “Deal.” 

And his head stays quiet. Sleazy hands and raging voices cease, silenced under the thunder of your heartbeat.

“I missed you.” He thinks he hears you whisper, your voice thick and wet. He closes his eyes with his head on your chest. “’M so happy you’re home.”

────────────

Simon wakes up with shy sunbeams peeking through the blinds and brushing his brow. You must’ve closed them when you woke up, to shield him from the sun.

He blinks idly, momentarily lost in that phase between sleep and waking life, still unsure of where he is. His mouth is pasty, and his eyes struggle against sunlight. The duvet is up to his chin, and it smells of grapefruit-scented softener, and of you. The pillow is a little wet, and he embarrassingly notices that it’s because he’s drooled on it – he smacks his lips once, twice, but his tongue might as well be a dried-up cinderblock.

It has been a long time since he’s slept like this. Since his mind has shut down and left him alone. Since his night has gone smoothly, sleep comatose and dreamless – nightmare-less.

And you’re not there, but that’s okay.

Because he hears your music from the kitchen, kept at a low volume so you won’t wake him up. The clanking of utensils frames the beat, pans and pots being moved around as you hum to yourself following the melody. The smell of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh veggies – a full English. Wafts of that disgusting coffee you drink in the morning intertwined with the softer notes of the tea you’re brewing for him.

You were right: he is home.

And he can’t see your eyes, but that’s okay too.

He guesses he’ll never remember their exact shade, Simon’s fine with it. No better thing than to discover you once more, each time he gets to come home.

They change with you, following the flow of whatever you allow to show, and of what he’s learned to read. They’re the color of that life he’s unwittingly always looked for. That life promising a pocket of peace for himself. Chock full of love and nice things he’s always been deprived of.

A balm to both his ancient and newest wounds.

He has never shared a single story about his past, never told you why his body is like a tattered book whose tale is as horrific as it looks. But you don’t mind, and he doesn’t know why because he’s firmly set on the idea that you must know someone inside out to be sure you care.

And it’s then that it hits him, that you do know him – better than anyone. You know the man he is. You want the man he is now, the man he will be one day – as mental as it sounds to him. His present, and his future. And sure, his past might have made this man you know, but he’s not the same Simon under his father's thumb or the one felled by Roba’s tortures.

Although he’s not sure he can reopen certain sutures without the wounds bleeding all over the floor, he'll try. He’ll clean up, if he must, knowing that you’ll help him have each injury scab over again. 

What baffles him is that you’re not saying he has to. You’re saying he can. And this choice you’re giving him is a privilege he’s never had the chance to bear.

He can tell you everything, and you’ll listen. He can keep it to himself, and you’ll stay, accepting that there will be places of him you’ll never venture – and to you, that is fine.

As long as he stays, too.

There are no words he can use to express his gratitude. He can only love you – and it might take him a while to acknowledge that he’s capable, but he already does love you.

You appear at the door as he’s lost in his own head, still tucked under the duvet. Strips of sunlight cross your form, curving around the beautiful shape of you.

“Good morning, you.” You say, with a smile that reminds him of the sun.

Lazily, he offers one of his own to you. It’s lopsided and he thinks not quite as beautiful. 

He hopes you forgive him for it: takes practice to be happy, and he’s still learning.

And so, he smiles, and looks at you like you're the most tangible form of joy he's ever witnessed. 

His voice is raspy from sleep, and soft from you.

“Mornin’, love.”

[in-death-sacrifice]

Healing Word

Lucanis Dellamorte x GN!Rook (Mage)

Warnings: Injuries, Mentions of blood, NO Spoilers :) Summary: Lucanis gets injured as is too stubborn to ask for help with it. Hope you enjoy! Requests for Dragon Age are open

You spotted his limp almost immediately after the battle. The fight was a tough one, adding a few more scars to your already growing collection, no thanks to the Venitori. You watched as he limped through the Eluvian, whispering curses under his breath when his daggers would accidentally hit it. The group filtered out towards their rooms, getting ready to shed the armour that began to pinch at their skin after a long day. Magic hummed around them as they were greeted home.

The meditation chamber hummed in greeting when you walked through the doors. The sound of armour clattering on the ground as you peeled yourself away from it. You stood at the mirror examining the new collection of bruises and small scraps you had gained today. Your magic soothing the aches and pains away as the minor ones began to fade. Part of you wanted to join the others for whatever was for tea, the lingering exhaustion had finally caught up. You sighed as your body hit the chair in the center of the room, the cushions moulding around your body perfectly as you fell into a nap -praying that Solas would interrupt this one this time.

The sound of the door opening made you shoot up, your hair messy and sticking up all over the place. You rubbed the back of your hand over your eyes as you turned to face the intruder only to find Lucanis standing at the entrance. "Is everything alright?" You grumbled out. His posture was stiff even though he was hunched over, and a purple glow surrounded him to let you know that it wasn't him. "Spite?" You questioned again, sitting further up as you watched him walk around the chair in front of you. "The fool is injured and bleeding everywhere...help him" Spite gritted out before releasing his hold on Lucanis. You barely had time to catch him as the man fell forward collapsing half on you and the sofa. Then you could see the large patch of blood on the side of his leg. The blood had seeped through enough it lingered on your fingertips when you gently pressed it trying to find the wound.

"Maker Lucanis" you muttered as you manoeuvred him to lay on the chair. You knelt on the floor next to him, sending your healing magic to gently probe the area only to find that he had half wrapped it in a thick padding of bandages. You paused before, groaning loudly as your fingers began to undo the ribbons of fabric that held his trousers up before shimming them down to his knees. Your cheeks flushed at the intimacy of the situation; it had only been a few months and your constant flirting hadn't really got you anywhere besides lingering gazes and unspoken emotions behind his eyes. You cursed your fingers being so cold as you began to slowly unwrap the bandages on his legs, his body flinching as you accidentally made contact with his skin. The air between you both began to glow a light green as your magic had finally found its target, you watched carefully as the skin started to fuse together, the blood stopping its flow down his leg.

You moved from his side to grab a couple of washcloths and water before you began to gently clean the area. When you gazed back up at him, you were met with his eyes open watching you. The two of paused as you waited for him to speak first, you watched as his eyes flickered towards the light scar that lingered on his leg and then back to you. "Spite bought you here...He asked me to help" You spoke, your voice barely above a whisper as you waited for his reaction. "Of course, he did" Lucanis grumbled. You removed your hand from his leg, backing up away from the chair to give him room to move about. You eyed up the small whisps of hair that led to his underwear as he stood to dress himself. "I'm sorry for stepping in the wound was still bleeding and he asked me-"

"It's fine, Thank you"

You nodded as he stood up to leave. Your eyes lingered on his retreating form. Lucanis turned again, his fingers barely touching the door handle. "Hopefully next time I'm like that it won't be because of a injury"

He left you standing in the middle of the room like a blushing idiot, a grin on his face as he made his way back towards the pantry of the lighthouse, no limp in sight anymore.

[flushingmeditation]

Meditation Lessons In New York

Learn to find your peace and balance with Meditation Lessons in New York, catering to participants at all levels and introducing techniques for stress reduction, improved focus, and well-being. Be part of a growing community and learn how to cultivate mindfulness in the heart of the city. Your journey into inner calm begins here.

[fmeditation]

[louisaskywalkerani]

Just a taste.

pairing : anakin skywalker x f!reader

CW : 18+ , smut! basically anakin eating pussy lol

AN : i was sooo just bored and hadnt posted in months since my first post, this is really basic, kinda sorry about that :’)

The dim lighting casts long shadows, creating an intimate atmosphere. Anakin leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for your to finish your post-mission meditation.

You emerge from the meditation chamber, your expression softening as you catch sight of Anakin. You pause, then approach him, a hint of curiosity in your eyes.

"What are you doing here, Anakin?" Your voice is low, barely above a whisper.

Anakin pushes off from the wall, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He takes a step closer, invading your personal space.

"Waiting for you." His voice is a low rumble, filled with promise.

You raise an eyebrow "Oh?" You tilt your head slightly, studying him.

Anakin reaches out, gently tracing your jawline with his cybernetic hand. His thumb brushes against your lower lip, making your breath hitch.

"You've been driving me crazy all day." Anakin’s voice is laced with sincerity, a rare glimpse into his genuine feelings.

Before you could even respond, Anakin leans in, capturing your lips in a fierce, passionate kiss. His hands move to your hips, pulling them flush against him. You stiffen initially, surprise coursing through you, but you soon melt into the kiss, responding eagerly.

Anakin walks you backwards until your back hits the cool stone wall. He breaks the kiss, his gaze intense as he looks down at you.

"I want to taste you, Angel." His voice is hoarse with desire.

Your eyes widen, your cheeks flushing pink. You swallow hard, then nod, giving Anakin the permission he needs.

Anakin drops to his knees, his hands moving to your dress. He lifts it slowly, exposing your bare skin inch by inch. His lips trail kisses along your stomach, making you shiver. He looks up at you, his eyes filled with hunger and admiration.

"So fucking beautiful." He murmurs, before leaning in, pressing a soft kiss just above your hip bone. Your body tenses briefly, then relaxes as Anakin's tongue flicks out, tasting your skin.

Anakin's hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress up further. Tracing your clit with his fingertips in circles, slow and gentle but enough to get you all wet.

He cups your entire cunt with his hand, feeling how wet you are, your poor panties are ruined now. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, looking up at you for confirmation.

"Can I?" His voice is gentle, respectful. Despite his dominant nature, he wants to ensure your are comfortable and consents to everything.

You nod, your breath coming in short gasps. Anakin smiles, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. He slides your panties down, revealing your bare flesh to him.

Anakin leans in, inhaling deeply, taking in your scent. He closes his eyes briefly, savouring the moment. Then, he looks up at you, holding your gaze as he leans in, his tongue flicking out to taste you.

Your breath hitches, your body is slightly shaken by the touch. Anakin chuckles softly, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through your body. He grips your thighs, holding them steady as he begins to explore you with his mouth.

His tongue moves expertly, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan. He's relentless, his passion fueling his every movement. He's not just tasting you; he's worshipping you, showing you in the most primal way possible how much he desires you.

Your hands find their way into Anakin's hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to maintain control. Your legs tremble, your breath comes in ragged gasps, and your body arches into Anakin's touch.

Anakin growls in approval, the sound vibrating through your entire body, pushing you closer to the edge. He slips a finger inside you, curling it upwards, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your grip on Anakin's hair tightens, your body tensing as you cry out, finding your release. Anakin doesn't stop, continuing to lap at you until you’re boneless, your body spent.

Slowly, Anakin stands, his eyes locked onto yours. He licks his lips, tasting you one last time. Then, he leans in, kissing you deeply, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips.

[frownyalfred]

do you think bruce has ever gotten drunk before? i don't mean brucie flirting about at the gala either i mean well and truly intoxicated lol. like the type where you wake up and have the worst headache known to man

Thank you for reminding me about one of my long lost headcanons. Which is that yes, Bruce has gotten that drunk (stealing liquor from the pantry as a child, normal stuff) but the only time he woke up and truly prayed for an end was during training with Ra’s Al Ghul when, as a reward, he and the other trainees were given a night off and a mysterious local liquor (something grain derived) spiked with something. and their “night off” became a test the next day, where they had to meditate and work through the after effects, flushing the toxins from their bodies while still completing their regular duties. it was all a lesson — learning that being poisoned can happen when you least expect it; that alcohol is a poison; and that sometimes you will have to work through it no matter how awful you feel. and so poor, pitiful hungover Bruce learned how to do what he does with ease as Brucie Wayne later — work through anything, whether it’s drugs, poison, fear toxin, alcohol, and be largely unaffected.

[kimetsu-no-yaiba-writings]

I just had the Idea, like Imagine, the S/o from Muzan, Koku, Douma and Akaza (seperate) finds a spider and is REALLY Scared of it. How would they react?

The mental image of the S/O shrieking in terror and one of these men just absolutely pegging it all the way from one side of the house to the other just to find out its a spider that scared the S/O amuses me greatly (≧▽≦)

Also I have arachnophobia and honestly spiders get my skin crawling in terror... they just give me the ick

Honestly thanks for sliding this into my askbox! It was fun to imagine and write what these men would think and do during such a scenario!

Muzan Kibutsuji, Kokushibo, Douma/Doma + Akaza reacting to their S/O being scared of a spider - Headcanons:

Muzan Kibutsuji:

He was just doing an experiment, just messing around with chemicals to get a reaction

When he hear's you scream

Fucking speed demon o'hoy as he speeds across the house to find you, nails hardening and lengthen and tentacles wanting to burst out from his skin to get rid of what's harmed you

And when he reaches where you are, hands cracking the foundations of the door with a snarl on his lips until his eyes land on you

Muzan stands there - his fear quells and is instead replaced with a thankful neutrality - breathing slowly reverting back to normal as he takes in your shaken form standing on one of the tables in the home's library

With a quirk of his brow his gaze drifts to where your shaking finger points and lands on the calm + poised form of a spider

Muzan stares at it

The spider stares back

Before it's promptly squished under a book

Your carried out of the room like a bride

"For scaring me you get to sit in my lab" Muzan says, going back to mixing chemicals "And if your good, it'll be me that makes you scream in ecstasy later"

Muzan knows spider's scare you so usually just kills them before you see one - although the odd few go get to live

Kokushibo:

Kokushibo was meditating - his usual activity after a long day

It's silent, the house in a state of stillness and the world outside holding it's breathe as Kokushibo breathes in...then out..

And its shattered by your scream of fear

His body moves quicker than his mind

Hand on his katana as he rushes to where you are and as see's you cowering in the hallway, eyes flicking to and fro to see where your fear is placed to see the 8-legged fiend

"It's a spider...." He states plainly, eyes blinking as his stance relaxes "......again?"

"Can you please make it go away!" You whisper-shout, eyes peaking through your fingers at him "It's really scary"

Kokushibo simply sighs

Moving silently to catch the spider with a drinking cup and a piece of parchment from the ceiling and releasing it outside

He picks you up and dusts you off with a small smile

"Next time just shout my name, I'll handle the spiders"

Douma/Doma:

Douma/Doma had just finished a sermon

Narrowly escaping his followers clutches from having to give more false kindness and advice that he probably didn't mean

Until he hears you scream

Fear flushes his insides cold and worry makes his chest ache as he runs to your shared quarters

First, he blinks - taking in the scene of your shaking form and the rather harmless spider on the wall

Then his brain starts working at a mile a minute before everything clicks into place

You (S/O) + Spider + Scream from you = Fear = New form of entertainment

Douma/Doma smirks - something filled with malice and a polite mock sympathy - before making his way across the room to soothe you

Before promptly catching the spider and chasing you with it...

Yes, this is funny for him and no, he won't stop until he's tired

After having his fun - for what felt like a millennia - Douma/Doma releases the spider outside

And with a chuckle, kisses your forehead and leaves you

Douma/Doma just doesn't understand why you're scared of spiders until you sit down with him before bed and tell him off for earlier

After that he orders his followers to either kill spiders on sight or move them into the garden

Akaza:

He was training in the garden when he heard you scream out in terror

Making record time to get to you by simply leaping from the garden through the bedroom's open window

Eyes moving wildly trying to find the source of your terror - his heart aching when seeing your eyes shimmering with tears and a scared wobble to your lip

Until landing on the black mass on the floor scuttling about... "a....a spider?" He says inquisitively, his head tilting in confusion

When he realizes that it was the spider that made you scream, Akaza kinda just stares at it for a little while before joining you on the bed to get away from it and soothe you

Then 5 minutes roll into 10 minutes and your both sat there, chilling on the bed in a hug and waiting for the spider to leave

"It's gone now...."

Accidentally stands on the spider

Yes, he screams

No, the spider doesn't make it

But you do get to laugh

Akaza now doesn't go near spiders....

[estellan0vella]

What Goes Up, Must Come Down ❀ includes: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Choso, Sukuna & Toji (REQUESTED) Masterlist

You lean in for a goodbye kiss, expecting a quick peck. Instead, Gojo Satoru pulls you in, kissing you deeply and passionately. You finally pull away, breathless. "See you later," you murmur, heading out the door.

As soon as you're gone, Gojo looks down and realizes he's in trouble. "Oh no," he mutters, staring at the obvious bulge in his pants. He has a meeting with the higher-ups in ten minutes, and he can’t show up like this.

He paces around the room, chanting, "Icebergs, taxes, Yaga in a tutu, Gakuganji in panties." Nothing works. He tries doing some jumping jacks, but that only makes things worse.

Desperate, he grabs a cushion from the couch and places it strategically over his lap, attempting to meditate the problem away. "Breathe in, breathe out," he tells himself.

But his mind keeps drifting back to the electrifying kiss you shared just moments ago, and his body responds accordingly. Gojo curses under his breath, realizing he's running out of time.

With a last-ditch effort, he splashes cold water on his face, hoping the shock will jolt him back to reality. It helps a little, but not enough. Gojo considers canceling the meeting altogether, but that would only raise suspicions.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the problem subsides. He quickly grabs his coat and heads out the door, hoping no one notices his flushed face or the slight disarray of his clothes.

You’re not sure why you decided to kiss Suguru so fervently this morning, but the moment your lips touch his, something ignites. Your hands tangle in his dark hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. When you finally pull away, his pupils are dilated, breath coming in short gasps.

“Wow,” he mutters, clearly affected. You glance down and see the prominent bulge in his pants. He shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “Uh, I might need a moment.”

You chuckle, feeling a bit proud of the effect you have on him. “I didn’t think I’d get you this worked up.”

He gives you a lopsided grin, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. “Well, you did. Now what?”

You look around and spot a nearby chair. “Sit down, relax for a bit. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

Suguru nods, taking a seat and trying to focus on anything but his current predicament. You watch him, amused, as he fidgets, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

“You know,” you say teasingly, “you could think about something unsexy. Like… taxes.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Taxes? Really?”

“Hey, it works for some people.”

Suguru sighs, leaning back in the chair. “I’ll give it a try, but no promises.”

You sit across from him, trying not to laugh as he closes his eyes, clearly attempting to will his arousal away. After a few minutes, he opens one eye and looks at you. “Any luck?”

“Not really. Thinking about you makes it worse.”

You smile sweetly. “Sorry, not sorry.”

He groans, throwing his head back in frustration. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Only if you’re lucky,”

Nanami is composed, always so composed. But when you kiss him like that, really kiss him, you see his carefully maintained facade slip just a bit.

“Darling,” he starts, voice steady but with an undercurrent of strain. “I need a minute.”

You glance down, and sure enough, there’s the telltale bulge. You suppress a giggle, earning a mildly reproachful look from him.

“Sorry, Ken,” you say, trying to sound sincere but failing miserably. “I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.”

He sighs, adjusting his tie in a futile attempt to regain composure. “I suppose it’s a pleasant sort of trouble.”

“Maybe think about your schedule for the day?”

Nanami shakes his head. “I’d rather not associate this feeling with work, thank you.”

You laugh softly. “Fair point. How about something mundane? Grocery shopping?”

He hums thoughtfully, closing his eyes. “That could work.”

You watch as he takes a few deep breaths, his expression gradually relaxing. After a few minutes, he opens his eyes, looking more composed.

“Better?” you ask.

He nods, standing and adjusting his suit once more. “Yes, much. Thank you.”

You lean in for a quick peck, and he chuckles. “Careful now, or we’ll be right back where we started.”

You grin. “Would that be so bad?”

Nanami shakes his head with a smile. “No, but I do have to go. I’ll see you later.”

You pull Choso in for a long, steamy kiss, your lips melding perfectly with his. As you step back, you notice his dazed expression and chuckle.

"See you soon," you whisper, leaving him standing there, flustered. Choso blinks, trying to process what just happened. He looks down, realizing his body's reaction to the kiss, and groans.

He quickly finds a secluded corner, leaning against the wall and taking deep breaths. As he waits for his arousal to subside, Mahito walks by, giving him a knowing grin.

"Having a bit of trouble there, Choso?" Mahito teases.

Choso glares at him, crossing his arms. "Mind your own business," he snaps, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

Mahito chuckles, unfazed by Choso's irritation. "Just offering my assistance."

Choso rolls his eyes. "I don't need your help with anything."

Mahito shrugs, still wearing that irritating smirk. "Suit yourself. But if you ever want some pointers on how to handle these situations, you know where to find me."

Choso grits his teeth, resisting the urge to lash out at the curse. Instead, he focuses on his breathing, willing his body to calm down. After what feels like an eternity, his arousal finally begins to subside.

"Better?" Mahito asks, still grinning.

Choso nods curtly, pushing himself off the wall. "Much."

Mahito chuckles, patting him on the shoulder as he walks away. "Just remember, Choso, there's no shame in enjoying yourself."

"Piss off,"

Your lips crash into Sukuna’s with a fervor that surprises even you. His reaction is immediate, his grip on your waist tightening as he deepens the kiss. When you finally pull away, there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes, but then you notice his predicament.

“Leaving already?” Sukuna teases, his voice a low growl. “I thought we were just getting started.”

You glance down and see the obvious bulge in his pants. You smirk, feeling a bit smug. “Looks like you’ll need a moment.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You think you can just walk away after that?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re not exactly in a position to chase me right now.”

Sukuna chuckles, the sound dark and rich. “Perhaps not, but you’ll pay for this later.”

You grin, unphased by his threat. “I’ll be waiting.”

He shifts, clearly trying to will his arousal away. You watch him with a mixture of amusement and admiration. It’s rare to see Sukuna at a disadvantage, even a small one.

“Need some help?” you offer teasingly.

He gives you a look that could melt steel. “Unless you’re offering more than just words, I’ll handle it.”

You laugh, stepping back. “Alright, tough guy. I’ll leave you to it.”

He grumbles something under his breath, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. After a few moments, he opens them again, more composed.

“Better?” you ask innocently.

Sukuna smirks. “For now. But I’ll remember this.”

You wink. “I’m counting on it.”

Toji is used to being in control, but your goodbye kiss throws him off balance. He grins at you, trying to play it cool, but you can see the slight tension in his posture.

"See you later, Toji," you say sweetly.

He gives you a lopsided grin. "Yeah, sure. Just... give me a sec."

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. "Why? Something wrong?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

You laugh and pat his cheek. "You love it."

As you walk away, Toji watches you with a mix of amusement and desire. He can't help but admire your confidence and the way you always manage to keep him on his toes. But as you disappear from view, he's left alone with his thoughts, and a certain physical reaction he can't quite control.

Toji leans against the nearest wall, running a hand through his hair. "Damn," he mutters to himself, cursing his body's betrayal. He's not used to feeling this flustered, especially not over something as simple as a goodbye kiss.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to regain his composure. It's not easy, with your lingering presence still fresh in his mind. Toji closes his eyes, willing his body to cooperate. After a few moments, he manages to calm down, the tension easing from his muscles.

"Alright, Fushiguro," he says to himself, straightening up. "Get it together."

With a newfound resolve, Toji pushes himself away from the wall and heads off to face whatever challenges await him. But as he walks, he can't shake the memory of your lips against his, and the way you always manage to leave him wanting more.

[victoria-grimesss]

Can I request smut headcanons of how Astarion (she didn't want him to feel obligated to help her so she intended to do it alone), Gale, Wyll, and Halsin react to accidentally overhear his fem s/o masturbating while saying his name? She isn't aware that he was there since he was busy earlier!

masterlist

->Warning: light smut, teasing

->A/N: MDNI! so sorry this took so long writers block hit me hard but I hope this fills the request alright.

->Astarion:

Your relationship was built on mutual trust and care for one another. Although it may have started with ill intentions you both have nurtured and built a steady foundation for years to come. Part of that trust was respecting Astarion's bodily autonomy and helping him work through his trauma. You wanted to give him space and time to be comfortable in the bedroom, well... tent. The air was thick and you had woken up with a familiar flutter in your chest. A problem easily solved on your own but not sufficiently eased. The tossing and turning, you feared, would wake Astarion (he needs his beauty sleep). Your hand would move downwards, your other moving to your mouth to keep yourself quiet. But the scent of him surrounding you, him next to you and you wearing his shirt was too much. You could hardly stifle the sounds that came from your mouth, your mind replaying every lingering touch of his, his teeth on your neck, and the words he whispers when you're both alone. His name escapes your lips only once when you are trying to reach your peak but your hands are just not enough. Astarion’s meditative sleep is disrupted by your ceaseless movement, and he wakes with annoyance before he sees the state of you, utterly delicious. It's not a secret what you were doing, your face red from the tips of your ears down your neck and slipping down the valley of his shirt you wore. His teasing would be relentless, "I'm hurt, have I truly not satisfied you enough that you had to result to such a solitary method?" His voice is deeper from the sleep he was in, hair hanging in his face. He would feign hurt but that devious smirk on his face would say otherwise. "I just didn't want to bother you, make you feel obligated to engage." The air in the tent would be hot, he would get closer and closer to you until his lips brushed your neck, he could hear how your heart was racing from the proximity. "Darling, I admire your chivalry, truly, but I’d rather be the one touching you if it’s all the same.” His hands would dance their way from cupping your cheek to leaning you back into the bedroll fully. You had awoken the next day blissfully satisfied, a bit more bloodless, and sleep deprived but it was well worth it. 

->Gale:

You would both be settled in his tower long after the events of the tadpole. The sun would be setting and he had arrived back from his favorite tomes shop, his arms full with scrolls and books galore. His mind was so focused on getting everything to his study until he passes by the bedroom door, the only sounds being the waves of the nearby sea and you.. saying his name in a rather breathily manner. He grows warm at the sound, some of the scrolls and books toppeling to the floor. This would usually be followed by him hurrying to pick them up but he sets the rest on a nearby foot-stool. He clears his throat before knocking on the bedroom door, even though it’s his own bedroom door as well. He hears a gasp from within the room and the movement of the blanket before you usher him in. “Gale. I-um. I didn't expect you back so soon. You’re usually gone the whole day when you head to the shops.” He nearly groans at the sight of you, you’re flushed and sweaty. Hair a mess and clearly you were enjoying yourself. He wishes he could cast invisibility and watch as you pleasured yourself. For another time. He shifts, a bead of sweat running down the back of his neck. “I-” “You” You both speak at the same time and then stop. He motions you to speak first. You giggle and speak, “You know, you don’t have to knock in your own home.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes a shade darker as he looks to you. “I didn’t want to intrude on your personal time my love. It sounded like you were enjoying yourself. Although I have to admit I felt a bit left out.” His breathing is heavier and he slowly approaches you, the sunset that bounces off the sea and into the room casts an otherworldly glow and he wishes he were an artist so he could paint the vision in front of him. You offer him your hand, “Then by all means Mr. Dekarios, please join me.” 

->Wyll:

The camp was empty besides you, you had been put on strict bed rest after a nasty fight with some undead the last time you and the team were out so you were alone and bored and upset because you were obviously better despite Wyll’s protest. You swear a feather could grace the side of your face and he would carry you back to camp. Although you love him all the same, his caring nature and adventurous spirit bringing you together but right now you just felt pent up after being still for so long. The sound of the nearby river calmed you some but restless you remained. You thought more of Wyll, and more… His chivalry, endless loving words of encouragement, that one time you snuck away to the river..discarding your clothes on the rocks as you both delved behind the waterfall and soaked in the whole night together until the stars turned to sunrise. Suddenly your hand had snuck down the front of your stomach and lower until you reached underneath your undergarments, gasping at the feeling of relief. It was far and few between when you could help yourself since you were always out. You began divulging yourself further into your fantasies. Picturing you with Wyll together in a large castle, bedroom big enough to be laughable and a bed laid with satin sheets and intricate tapestry. Being able to enjoy eachothers company without the threat of death or tadpole explosion at every corner. He would ravish you on every piece of finely crafted furniture in the castle until you were forced to stop by pure muscle exertion. You were so deep in your mind you didn't hear your own name being called from the camp, nearing you rather fast. You quickly remove your hand, now frustrated on another level from your missed climax just as the flaps of the tent move and Wyll’s stare is on you, a worried look on his face. “You called?! Are you alright? Gods you’re flushed and can hardly catch your breath should I call Shadowheart?” He’s frantic and has convinced himself that you’re in the active stages of death. “Wyll!” He stills at your voice, “I was simply, taking care of myself..” You trail away and his face shifts from concern to confusion. “Healing your own wounds is hardly advisable. We have many fine healers in camp. Let me fetch one of them for you.” “Gods you are dense sometimes for being the savior of Baulder’s Gate.” You grab him by the shirt before he can leave and his lips meet yours before he’s crawling on top of you. “Ohh, you sneaky devil.” His smirk is downright devious as he swears to untangle all your knots and worries.

->Halsin:

You need air, the camp was downright suffocating now with the amount of people it contained now. You were forever grateful and indebted for all of your allies but you needed some time alone, desperately. The clearing to this meadow was the place you always came to clear your mind, far enough away to be secluded but still close enough to be safe from any wanderers. Halsin had been occupied when you left so you couldn't ask him to come with you to your disappointment. But alas you can handle your little problem. It was a warm day and seeing Halsin’s strong arms glisten with sweat and water did little to cool your burning desire that seemed to get worse as the day went on. He was so kind and sweet to you, showing you the bounty that nature can provide. He had fought by your side for some time now and your relationship had only blossomed since then. You felt your tension slowly melting as you caressed yourself thinking of the two of you in the meadow together, against a tree, the forest floor in the rain. Any way he could take you, you would have him. You didn't even notice the volume of your voice had carried all the way to his ears at the camp, he was especially attuned to you, your sweet pheromone carried him to the clearing where he saw you laid back against a bed of clovers, surrounded by an array of multicolored flowers. A goddess in his eyes you were. He stalked to you, drinking you in with each step. The sound of his name on your lips drawing him in, his urges barely contained. He cleared his throat, finding himself standing at your feet. Your eyes shot open, trying to cover yourself and maintain your modesty. “Do not fear my heart, you have called and here I am.” You don’t say anything for a moment, utterly embarrassed at being caught in such a way. “Halsin, I didn't want to bother you, you were quite busy after all.” He laughs lightly, still scanning your body. “You are my priority, when you yearn for me, I yearn for you all the same. All you must do is cast me a glace and I will take care of you.” He starts to remove his shirt, “May I take care of you?” His voice is deep, his broad frame casting a cooling shadow upon you. You shiver, he stiffens. “You may. Only if I may show my gratitude back?” He smiles and drops to his knees before you, hands parting your legs as his kisses more from your bent knee and moves lower and lower. “By all means my heart, the day is young afterall.”