#I enjoyed this so much!! thank you again for the opportunity

[concretejunglefm]

I'm not ready to let you forget me (part 3).

*edit credit goes to the lovely @defuckingthrone-dot-com

You told your friends you want me dead And said that I did everythin' wrong And you're not wrong

An anon request for lovers to enemies -> playlist, part 1, part 2.

Summary: It’s been two years since Noah cheated on you, abruptly ending your relationship. However, the universe seems to have a peculiar sense of humor in its plan to reunite you.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader.

CW: none really. Mentions of cheating, Noah can be an overall asshole and a tad bit of angst. Brief joke from Noah about suicide. Please take care of yourselves.

WC: 3.6k

Dividers: Silent-stories.

Upon returning to the hotel, you presume that your time together has come to an end, allowing you to finally bid farewell to Noah and the rest of the Omens. However, Sloan's unexpected bomb shatters your hope.

"You agreed to what?"

"Dinner and karaoke. I genuinely didn't think you'd mind. You've always been a karaoke fan, and what's wrong with a free dinner?"

"The issue is that he'll be there. What part of this being a girls' weekend are you missing?"

"What part of this being a chance to humiliate your ex are you missing? I'm simply setting up the opportunity for you."

Sloan understood how you felt after Noah had ghosted you. Between the heartbreak and depression, there was also the sting of humiliation. You always wished you had the chance to make him feel the same way he made you feel.

"Alright, but I won't pretend to enjoy it."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

When you bump into the guys again, you find Noah approaching with a grin stretching across his face, looking like a cat who got the cream. You can't help but feel a surge of anger and desire to slap his smug face.

"I won you a prize." he exclaims, holding out his hand to show off a packaged mood ring he won from one of the kids' arcade machines in the hotel. Despite your desire to ignore him, you can't prevent your attention drawing to him when he steps in front of you, blocking your way.

"Wow, thanks." you reply, your voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Before you can stop him, he reaches out and grabs your left hand with his larger, tattooed hand. Using his other, he brings the packet of the mood ring to his mouth and rips it open with his teeth. With the ring free, he slides it onto your wedding ring finger, and your mind goes blank for a moment.

The color of the ring quickly changes from a vibrant rainbow of colors blending into one another to a solid black. 

"It's black." he comments, and you finally snap back to reality. 

Your gaze rises to meet his, and you flash him a harsh glare. "Like your heart." you retort.

Slipping the ring off, you move it onto your middle finger before flipping him off and taking a step back as Sloan calls over to you.

At dinner, you were seated next to Noah, who spent a majority of the evening occasionally fidgeted with his own ring. You swear you noticed him switching it to his left hand whenever your waiter made a flirtatious remark aimed at you.

And now, you've reached the karaoke room, where you should've anticipated Sloan's performance of Lana Del Ray's 'Young and Beautiful'. It's her signature song, so much so that she has you recording most of it for her Instagram story.

As you go to post it, Noah shuffles closer to you, peering over your shoulder. Despite your best efforts throughout the night to make it clear that you're not interested in engaging with him, he still seems to act oblivious.

"A new post for your story?" he asks over your shoulder, and you don't look up from the phone screen, rolling your eyes.

"Depends. Are you still stalking them?" 

In the months following Noah ghosting you, you tried to resume your usual life, including posting on social media. You then began noticing random spam accounts appearing in your viewers' list, despite deleting and blocking the band account and his spam accounts that you were aware of.

One night, after sharing this revelation with Sloan, she made a conscious effort to post something obvious and pointed to him for you. Initially, you felt mortified, but then you recognized the familiar spam account name—the one that had been consistently watching your stories since you blocked Noah everywhere. From that moment on, you no longer felt guilty about making every pointed post possible, always including a song that reflected your current emotions.

However, that all changed when you decided to message the account that had been non-stop watching you for nearly five months after your 'breakup', sending them a simple message: "Please stop. I don't want you in my life anymore."

The next day, the account was deleted.

You would have considered it a success until one of his close friends' names started appearing in your story viewers. You could have easily posted things to a closed list or even privatized your account, but you decided that if he had been that desperate to stalk you, then he could and you would put on a great show of proving that you had moved on, regardless of how true that actually was.

"You knew about that, did you?" He doesn't even bother to deny it, which causes a surge of irritation because no one would be okay with their ex stalking their online life.

When it's time for the guys to choose their song again, Noah steps up to select one. He's opted to sit out due to their performance tomorrow, claiming he needs to 'protect his voice' beforehand.

You roll your eyes at his excuse, but you're quickly silenced by his song choices. Each one becomes more pointed than the last, revealing the underlying narrative of his pathetic attempt at an apology.

After the first song, "Gives You Hell" by the All American Rejects, you stare off at him, daggers in your eyes. He shrugs off his choice with a cocky grin.

The second song he chooses, "A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More 'Touch Me'" by Fall Out Boy, feels even more appropriate and fuck boy like from him.

Noah's face lights up with pride in his song choice, which only irritates you more. Your jaw clenches as you bite back, wanting to confront him for his obviousness.

Naturally, his friends are oblivious or indifferent to the situation. They've always seemed friendly enough and liked you when you were together, but they never got involved in your relationship drama back then. Perhaps they feel the same way now. It's better to remain blissfully ignorant than to become caught in the middle.

"You're not having any fun." Sloan whines, plopping down next to you and offering you a sip from her half-empty glass. You had already finished yours, during your annoyance with Matt and Folio's rendition of "Gives You Hell." Surprisingly, Nicholas' rendition of a Fall Out Boy song fails to improve your overall mood.

"Watching you eye fuck Jolly while singing 'Young and Beautiful' is hardly my idea of fun." You sigh, your voice devoid of any hint of bite. You genuinely enjoy listening to Sloan sing the same song repeatedly. It's her go-to choice, especially when she's caught the eye of a guy. Strangely, when she performs Lana songs, they seem to captivate her men even more.

"Well, since you're up next, you need to cheer up, and I've already chosen a song for you." She beams, and you raise an eyebrow in skepticism.

"Sloan, what on earth did you do?"

"Oh, you'll see."

When it's your turn, you step onto the designated 'stage area' of the room, taking the microphone and scanning the screen. Within seconds, the chords to Carrie Underwood's 'Before He Cheats' begin to play, and you let out a scoff. You glance over at Sloan, who has now positioned herself between Nicholas and Jolly, and shoots you a wink.

It was one of your go-to songs when you were cruising through bars back in college. The lyrics always resonated with you then, and they continue to do so now. As the song begins, you launch into your own performance, tipsy enough to feel bold and lock eyes with Noah.

Every Instagram story you've posted over the past two years has featured a song dedicated to him, but now you finally get to sing one to his face—a perfect one that calls him out on the behavior you'd been suspicious of.

The cocky signature grin he's been sporting for his past few song choices fades, and you feel a slight surge of pride for being able to do that—for making him lose that ego he's been so proudly displaying.

As the song concludes, you take your bow, giggling as you hand the microphone off to Jolly, who swiftly transitions into his own rendition of Poison's 'Talk Dirty To Me'.

"I'm heading to the bar for another drink. Anyone want one?" You ask, taking orders for everyone except Noah, who simply holds up his bottle of water.

Approaching the bar, you're greeted by the same waiter who had been trying to flirt with you earlier that evening. "What a pleasant surprise." he remarks, and your cheeks flush slightly.

"Well, perhaps I was hoping to cross paths with you again." you reply, even though you weren't entirely interested in him. However, you couldn't resist entertaining a bit of harmless flirting, especially after dealing with Noah this weekend.

"I'll be off in a few minutes. Maybe I can buy your next drink?" he offers, sliding the suggestion your way as he wipes down the bar. 

A small smirk tugs at the corners of your lips. "Okay, then." you nod before relaying the drink orders for Sloan and the guys.

Leaning against the bar, you find yourselves engaged in a playful back-and-forth flirtation, even genuinely giggling at some of his remarks. However, the moment is interrupted by an abrupt silence when you hear Noah's voice behind you.

"I was wondering about where you got to." His hand slides across the bar, his fingers barely brushing against your arm on purpose as he reaches for the drinks laid out in front of you. "I thought I'd lend a hand."

"I was happy to assist." The waiter interjects, but you remain silent, your jaw clenched, and you swear your eye twitches at the brief contact Noah makes with you a second time, as if deliberately trying to ward off the guy who had been flirting with you throughout the night.

"No need, friend." Noah responds, and you wait for the poor guy to step away with a slight dejected expression before turning to Noah with a hiss.

"What on earth was that?"

"I should be asking you that. Are you actually entertaining this random guy?"

"Random guy? I don't know, he must be better than the guys I already know." You huff, moving yourself away from him as you take Sloan and your drink, leaving the remaining ones for Noah to carry.

"What does that mean?" He calls after you, and you briefly turn your head, shooting your retort over your shoulder.

"You're smart. Figure it out yourself."

When you return to the karaoke room, you find a corner to settle into, sipping your cocktail mix while watching the last few songs of the evening unfold. Time seems to fly by, yet you can't shake the feeling of Noah's eyes on you, a notion you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge. 

Back at the hotel, Sloan is already entwining your arm and guiding you towards the bar, insistently, pouting her lips and fluttering her lashes as if she can manipulate you into folding as easy as she does any man.

"No more. I'm ready for bed." You attempt to pull yourself away, but Jolly swiftly intervenes, taking a tipsy Sloan into his embrace, promising to take her for one final drink.

As you turn away, you overhear the final words of a conversation between Nicholas and Noah, your name being mentioned, drawing your attention. "You can't keep lying to her, you know?"

Lying? What could he possibly be lying about now?

Instantly, you find yourself yearning for some fresh air, feeling a surge of anger as you impulsively charge towards them, deliberately pushing between them.

"Woah, what the—" Noah's voice catches your attention, but he quickly loses his annoyance when he realizes it's you pushing past him. He calls out to you, but you ignore his attempts, determined to create as much distance between you and him as possible.

You had a reason for choosing to hide away on the rooftop balcony pool. Besides the quieter ambiance, you enjoyed toeing the line of where the diving section of the balcony opened up to the pool below.

It was Vegas, so it wasn't entirely quiet. Amidst the bustling crowds below and the soothing hum of music emanating from the hotel, there was no opportunity for deep contemplation. Yet, you almost didn't mind the constant stimulation. If you allowed yourself to dwell on Nicholas' words, you risked losing control and spiraling back to the emotional turmoil you had endured after Noah abruptly ghosted you.

From the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of something, and your gaze is instantly met with the unwelcome sight of Noah. A sigh escapes your lips. "Noah, what are you doing up here?"

"I was searching for you, believe it or not."

"Why?"

"Because you looked upset."

"And let me guess, you felt guilty or blamed yourself? Wow, an egotist and an asshole all rolled into one."

"Are you going to keep calling me an asshole throughout our time here?"

"Depends on whether you continue to behave like one."

"Fair point." He paused, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Will you at least come back from the ledge? You're making me anxious."

"Why? Do you think I'm going to jump?" You chuckled, deliberately walking along the darkened ledge of the balcony as if balancing on a tightrope.

"No." You heard the hint of doubt in his voice.

"You're lying."

"Okay, maybe."

"So, you think that I'm suicidal now?"

"I think you'd do anything to get my attention."

You nod to yourself, mulling over Noah's words. Your mouth opens as if to laugh, and you flick your tongue against your teeth. Before you can respond, you take a step away and glance down over the edge. With a couple more steps, you cast a look over your shoulder to him. "We'll see about that."

Without warning, you charge towards the edge of the open balcony, hearing Noah call after you as you jump over the ledge. 

It feels exhilarating, your heart pounding in your chest as you plunge into the water of the pool below and you surface, you hear a splash behind you. Wiping your hand over your face, you look in the direction of the ripples and see Noah resurface beside you.

He had jumped in after you.

"Did you—" He briefly chokes on a mouthful of water, spitting it out as he treads water in the same way you are, keeping himself close to you. "Did you know this was here?"

"Guilty." You shrug, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

You had come up for some air and when you saw the pool below, you couldn't resist the temptation to dive in. It had been Noah who had interrupted your original plan, accusing you of trying to hurt yourself or get his attention.

"Wow. You're an asshole." He remarks, shaking his wet hair and pushing it back with his tattooed hand.

"Are you really that surprised?"

"No."

There's a brief pause before he speaks again, his voice softer with his confession; "I missed you."

"Ever heard of a phone?" You quip back without a moment's hesitation or time to ponder the meaning of his words.

"You blocked me."

You pause, wondering how he knew. Unless he had simply assumed. Or did that mean he had tried to reach out to you?

"Well, it's what you deserved."

"You're right."

That surprises you even more than the idea that he had tried to contact you. Noah had never said that you were right, about anything. In fact, most of your fights had stemmed from the fact that he was always so adamant against agreeing with you.

"Well, I can't say that I missed you." You're partially lying, but you hope he won't notice.

"I didn't expect you to."

"Well, good, because I didn't."

For a moment, everything between you falls silent. Your bodies inch closer as you continue to tread water in the deeper end of the pool. Your legs barely brush against each other, and you feel the gentle touch of his hand against your arm beneath the water. Then, you catch his gaze lingering a bit too long on you, flickering between your eyes and your lips. You don't need to ask what he's thinking; you already know.

"Don't even think about kissing me."

You burst the bubble which had been created around you both, delighting in popping it and watching as his expression shift from soft contemplation to sudden flustering.

"I-I wasn't."

"Good. Don't." You shorten your words and start swimming towards the pool's edge, pulling yourself out. 

Your dress is soaked through and clinging to your skin. It had been a good plan until now, but the effects of the alcohol are wearing off, and you wonder if Noah's decision to jump in after you, assuming you were attempting something more dangerous, held any genuine meaning. Perhaps he did still care?

For a fleeting moment, you glance back at him as he attempts to climb out and turning to face him, you take a step closer, your foot poised to press down on his hand, halting his movements.

When your eyes meet his, he looks up at you with a soft expression, his dark brown eyes wide as they focus on you. "What did Nick mean earlier when he said you had to stop lying? Lying about what?" You hold his gaze, your foot pressing down gently against his fingers.

"Oh, nothing, just—ow." His voice breaks as you apply more pressure, deliberately pressing down on his fingers.

"Try again."

"Okay. Damn. To myself. He wants me to stop lying to myself."

"About what?"

"About you. About wanting to apologize."

You step back, releasing his hand from beneath your foot as you absorb his words. "Then do it. Get on your knees and say that you're sorry." You say it with a sense of confidence, despite his scoff at your request, but you remain steadfast, your gaze narrowing at his still wide brown eyes.

Instead of refusing, he climbs out of the pool and kneels at the edge, taking a near-pathetic wet dog stance in front of you.

"I'm sorry." he begins, clearing his throat before continuing, hearing a clear plea in his tone. "I'm truly sorry. For what I did. I shouldn't have…" His voice trails off, and for a moment, his gaze flickers away, almost as if he's ashamed. 

Good. He should be.

It shouldn't be satisfying to see him in this vulnerable state, but you never imagined you'd have the infamous Noah Sebastian begging for your forgiveness. 

"I should've apologized then. And all the millions of times I was watching your instagram. I wanted to, I did. I've been wanting to. I wanted to reach out and apologize the moment I knew you were coming."

Suddenly your brain latches onto those few words; since I knew you were coming. How did he know? Not even you knew, not until the other week. It was a last minute trip, one planned by—Sloan.

"Get up." You interrupt his ramble and you watch as he struggles to process the instruction as if he doesn't know whether you've accepted his attempt at an apology or not.

When he stands, he nods, shaking his limbs and himself off like he's an overgrown wet greyhound. "Yeah, let's head back inside."

You start to walk ahead of him, pulling yourself out from his reach when you catch his hand coming behind you in your periphery. You haven't responded to his apology and won't be giving him the satisfaction of even the slightest touch.

"What on earth happened to you two?!" Sloan, who had been flirting with Jolly earlier, is now walking away from cozying up to Nicholas. You narrow your eyes at her.

"Someone fell into the pool." Noah answers, and your gaze shifts to him. You fix him with the same disgruntled expression.

"I'm going to bed." you dismiss yourself, walking away as Sloan reaches for you, grasping your arm as she hurries to catch up.

"Did you really fall in the pool?" she asks, her brow raised in curiosity.

"Yes." you reply through gritted teeth.

"All that to get a man to dive in after you. I know you said he's an asshole, but—"

You come to a stop, pulling your arm from her grasp and turning to face her. "But what, Sloan? Should I give him another chance?"

Her mouth opens to speak, but no words come out, and her eyes widen in realization.

"Because I'm starting to think these strange coincidences aren't just that. Not to mention the way you've been flirting with Jolly and now Nicholas."

A brief flash of guilt crosses her face, and everything begins to make sense. Noah and his band may have had a concert in Vegas this weekend, but your run-ins with him had been anything but coincidental, as you had suspected.

"So much for you mocking me for being hung up on a guy for the past two years, huh? You're such a great friend, Sloan. So great." You turn to walk away, but she stops you.

"I thought—"

"You thought what, huh?"

"That seeing him would finally give you the closure you've been seeking. That maybe one last time being together would remind you that he's not worth your time."

"Yeah, I've come to realize that". You nod, taking a deep breath as you ponder Sloan's words. "I've also come to understand that my friend is more manipulative than I could have ever imagined, considering I never would have expected you to throw my heart back into the ring with him." Your voice cracks, but you manage to utter your words before pushing past her and finally walking away.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @halfalgorithmhafdeity @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @annthepenguin @samanthasgone @littlebear423 @aprosiacperson @flowery-mess @nyriastark @blackgirlmagicforever

[pissdrinker5000]

the first taste

a hamzah fic

warnings: smutty, kinda dom hamzah, fem reader, not proofread sry for any typos!!

(there was actually a whole part 1 to this but it did not save so heres the pt 2.. sry if there are references from pt 1.. just use ur imagination ig)

You both sit on Hamzahs couch, watching the show he begged you to watch with him, swearing he's going to put you on despite it not being a genre you typically enjoy. Red and Blue lounge on the couch next to Hamzah. After what feels like hours, but is really only halfway through one episode, Hamzah does the classic move, yawning and putting one arm around your shoulder. You shift a bit closer to him, your thighs now pressed against one another's. Your hearts are both racing, and you can't bring yourself to look at him, despite your desire to trace your gaze along his lips and his black curls again.

Hamzah suddenly breaks the tension, as if it was physically paining him not to, but he doesn't really know what to say. "Uh, you look really nice in that outfit."

Surprised, you look down as if you forgot you even had a physical body. And truthfully, you had been so preoccupied thinking about him that you almost did forget. "Thank you. It was just whatever I could find," you lie. You didn't want him to know how much you agonized over picking an outfit this morning. "You look good, too."

He smiles at you, making eye contact for the first time in a while. "Nah, it's just a hoodie and some pants I had laying on the floor."

You both chuckle, knowing the other is lying about how much effort they put into simply getting dressed.

He leans closer to you. Your faces are now close enough that you feel each other's breathing. Your eyes travel from his eyes to his lips. His breath stifles when he notices.

It feels like everything around you has dissolved, and all you can think about is bringing your lips to his. Closing that gap. You're far too nervous to make such a move, though. You try to look away in an attempt to break the tension, but Hamzah lifts his left hand to your face. You feel your skin melt against his touch. His hands are warm and surprisingly soft. He gently nudges your face back to look at him.

You can see the hesitation is his eyes, nervous to mess up what you two have. He leans even closer but stops right before your lips touch, looking up at you for reassurance. You try to tell him with just your eyes how badly you want this, and he somehow gets the message.

He leans in completely, your lips melting together as if they have been longing for each other your entire lives. His kiss is desperate, needy. He pulls away for a second to look into your eyes, and you smile each other before leaning back in, this time more desperate than the first. You place your hand on the back of his head, intertwining your fingers between his thick curls. His hand that was once on your cheek travels down to your waist and pulls you onto his lap.

His other hand makes its way to behind your ear, deepening the kiss. You have never moved this fast with anyone before, but you're filled with an overwhelming desire to explore his entire body. Your imagination races thinking about what he's hiding under those baggy clothes. His left hand sneaks underneath your cardigan and plays with the hem of your top. You twitch slightly at the feeling of his touch on your bare skin, and you accidentally let out a soft noise. He takes this as a sign to kiss you harder than you thought was possible, as you were already extremely close.

Your bodies get hotter, sweat starting to form, and you feel suffocated by the layers you're wearing. You pull back from the kiss to take off your cardigan, and Hamzah takes the opportunity to remove his hoodie, revealing a t-shirt with a stupid ironic saying on it. You crack a smile as you read it before he places both of his hands on your waist and pulls you back towards him to kiss you. This time closer than before. You can feel his bulge harden as your weight pushes down on it. This makes him let out a small groan. His hands become even more desperate, traveling down to your thighs. He grips your upper thigh, unable to hide his desire to be closer to you.

"Hamzah..." You let out in a soft whine.

He pulls back to ask, "Is everything okay?"

You nod your head, not breaking eye contact. "Perfect." You smile and lean in to kiss him again, but are surprised by him laying you down on the couch and positioning himself on top of you.

He looks so hot leaning above you like this, and you can't help but squirm underneath him, your pussy practically begging for him to be inside you.

"You're so beautiful," he remarks. "I knew since the moment I saw you that I'd be obsessed with you." His voice is low and soft. You become aware of the wet mess happening in your undies.

He uses his right hand to cup your cheek, stroking it with his thumb, while his left hand travels to your chest. You squirm and let out a soft, desperate moan as his fingers graze your nipple. Your lips collide once again, your tongues clashing inside each other's mouths. You move your hands to the waistband of his pants, sliding your fingers inside the seam. His hips buckle at the sensation, and he lets out a deep groan into your mouth, refusing to break the kiss. He lets his weight fall on top of you, your crotches pushing against each other needily. "Fuck," he groans.

You push him up and move your hands to the button on his pants, waiting for reassurance before you go any further. "Keep going," he breathes. "Please." You unbutton his pants and pull down the zipper, feeling his length fill up the space that has now opened up. He quickly starts to do the same for your pants, pulling them off as fast as he can, then assisting you with taking off his own. He pulls away from the kiss to admire your now exposed thighs and panties. He licks his lips as he moves his hands down your thighs and places a thumb on your pussy, feeling how wet you are for him. You moan and thrust your hips into his hand, almost involuntarily, overwhelmed by the feeling of him touching you so gently. He grins. Knowing how badly you want him, he's filled with confidence.

You notice the shift from hungry to insatiable, but you don't have long to think about it before he is back to work, kissing you again, moving one hand to grip your tit while the other presses harder into your crotch. Your moans become louder as he handles your body with an increasing confidence. "You're so hot... Where have you been my whole life?" He whispers to you while placing hungry kisses on your neck.

His thumb begins to pull down your panties, and he starts to finger you with his middle and ring finger, using the others to spread your pussy open for easy access. You start to respond to his question, but he shoves his fingers inside you, making you gasp. You forgot what you were even going to say, and all you can muster is a stifled, "Fuck, you're so good," through loud moans.

He thrusts his fingers in an out at the perfect rhythm, making you desperate for more. You move your hands to the waistband of his underwear, but he moves them away, not letting you pull them off. "Wait here, okay?" He says as he leans upright and begins to walk to his room. You wait patiently, listening to him shuffle around, opening and closing drawers. He comes out with a condom in a blue foil package between his fingers. "You okay with this?" He asks, making sure he didn't misread any cues. You nod enthusiastically, smiling up at him. The lighting in his apartment, or maybe it's just your angle, illuminates his muscles. You can't help but stare at his arms as he removes the condom from its wrapper and pulls it onto his length.

He climbs on top of you again and leans down to kiss you. His kiss is just as hungry as before, but with a note of satisfaction that he is finally able to do what he's been waiting for. Finally able to show you what it's like to get fucked by him. Finally able to have his way with your body, like he's wanted to since he first laid eyes on you. He didn't expect to fall in love with anyone any time soon, but now that he knows you, he can't imagine how he got through life without you for so long.

He rubs his dick along your clit, savoring the feeling of your wet pussy. "You're so wet," he remarks in a low grumble.

Your head feels dizzy with desire, and you moan at his touch. "Just fuck me already," you plead, unable to contain your desperation for him. He follows your instruction, slowly pushing his thick cock into your pussy, making you gasp in a whiny moan.

He smirks at the reaction he is able to get from you, and places his hand on your jaw as he thrusts in and out of your tight pussy. He moves his thumb over your mouth, gesturing for you to open. "Such a pretty girl. You're so good," he praises you as you open your mouth and start sucking on his thumb. He pushes it deep into your throat. "You take it so well, love. I'm impressed."

You melt hearing him call you "love." He thrusts into your pussy deeper and harder. "Let's see just how much you can take, huh?" He removes his thumb from your mouth and replaces it with a kiss, before gripping your waist to hold your body steady.

[featherlight-touches]

Hi hello!! I absolutely adore your fics, not only are they so sweet but you're incredible at characterization and dialogue feeling natural which is a big feat imo! If you're still taking requests, maybe lee Sethos and ler Cyno with familial/platonic tickling? I'm not sure how comfortable you are w/ writing Sethos :0 -🍬

AHHHHHH ;;;-;;; thank you so much, that makes me super happy! that's such a sweet compliment you have no idea how much I appreciate such kind words. I am indeed still taking requests! I haven't written for Sethos before, but I gave it a go and this was fun to write! I hope you enjoy! again thank you so much <3

★・・・★・・・★・・・★

“Hey, Cyno?” Sethos' voice disturbed the concentrated silence between him and the General.

“Hm?”

“Maybe we should call it a day?” Sethos sounded somewhat nervous in his suggestion, almost flinching at how harshly Cyno lifted his gaze from his deck of cards to stare daggers at him. “I mean, you have won seven times in a row now.”

“And miss the opportunity for your redemption? Not a chance. I couldn’t possibly take that from you.” Cyno missed the frustrated hand that dragged down Sethos’ face. “This could be the round you beat me, after all.”

“I doubt that.” Sethos muttered, knowing full well he was way out of his league here. Cyno knew that as well, but Sethos doubted he would ever flat out tell him that.

After a few more rounds, Cyno inevitably won another, making it an even eight wins in total.

“Ay, would you like at that?” Sethos forced a smile. “You win again, who would have saw that coming, huh?”

“There is still a chance for you to-”

“No thanks,” Sethos stood, cutting him off as politely as possible, formulating an excuse. “I’m getting hungry, and I can’t play on an empty stomach.”

“I suppose not,” Cyno thankfully agreed, gathering his deck and placing them neatly and delicately back in their casing. “Perhaps when you have eaten, we can have our rematch.”

“Yep, sure thing,” Sethos laughed nervously, already planning the route in his head of where he will be running away from the General to escape another eight gruelling losses of this darn card game.

Sethos gave a huge stretch which was rewarded with a satisfying pop sound from his back due to his long sitting position. He then decided to fix his ponytail, which had gotten a bit messy from frustrated pulls during the card games. There was so much of it, Cyno couldn’t imagine having to maintain that amount of hair day after day.

It was only when Sethos lifted his hair to wrap it back up in the new and tidier ponytail that Cyno noticed a strand of hair had been left out and went unnoticed as it pressed against the back window of his outfit.

Thinking nothing of it, the General approached and reached out to grab the offending stray hair strands. “You missed a bit-”

“EEK!”

Both stood in a prolonged and awkward silence at the strange squeak noise that Sethos made. The sound of birds chirping as they flew by outside being the only noise to break the silence until Sethos finally cleared his throat.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

There was more awkward silence.

“Are you ticklish?” Cyno finally asked, breaking the painful silence. Sethos nearly choked on air before turning to face him.

“Huh?”

“I assume that’s why you made that sound, right? Because you’re ticklish.”

“Nah, you just startled me, that’s all,” Sethos laughed, trying to play it off cool and collected as he returned to fixing his hair.

“Interesting.”

Sethos didn’t like the way Cyno said that word and turned his back towards him once again, hoping to avoid any eye contact that would give away information he didn’t want to be exposed. However, as his arms were up trying to fix his hair again, another squeak was forced from him when he felt a tiny scribble of fingers at his back window again.

“H-Hey!?” Sethos startled, deserting his attempts of fixing his ponytail in favor of covering his back window. “Can I help you!?”

“Did I startle you again?” Cyno asked and Sethos could almost hear a smug tone in that monotone voice of his. “If so, you are very easily startled.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sethos brushed off with a frustrated pout, taking a step back from the General and attempting to fix his ponytail without turning his back to him this time. Surely, he wouldn’t try anything now, right?

Wrong.

Cyno’s nimble fingers darted to his exposed sides the second he lifted his arms up again. Sethos was startled into a small laugh and his body violently squirmed away from the tickling fingers. “C-Cut it out!”

“Are you sure you’re not ticklish?” there was that smug tone again, Sethos was certain of it.

His eyes narrowed at the General, taking another step back but annoyingly Cyno just followed with each step which Sethos found himself letting loose some nervous giggles at.

“Goho away,” Sethos tried to turn and escape but Cyno’s arm grabbed Sethos around his waist while his other hand started to squeeze up and down his side. “AAAH! Nohoho! Hahaha!”

“I think you’ve been lying to me, Sethos,” Cyno stated over the loud laughter emitting from other male, letting his fingers continue their assault over torso, going up his sides to his ribs and then back round to his stomach, each spot rewarded with different pitches of laughter and squirms. “You should know better than to lie to the Matra.”

“I’M SOHOHOHORRY!” Sethos howled, his legs trying to move his body forward to escape the firm grasp around his waist, but Cyno’s strength was unsurprisingly strong. He wasn’t going anywhere. “Stahahap it!”

“I’ll consider letting you off with this small warning if you play another round of Genius Invokation TCG-”

“NOHO PLEHEASE!” Sethos desperately begged, leaning his head back against Cyno’s shoulder as he continued to laugh helplessly. “Anything but thahat!”

“Then you leave me no choice but to-”

“Cyno?”

Everything came to a sudden halt, allowing poor Sethos to breathe. He was saved.

“Tighnari,” Cyno looked confused the forest ranger’s sudden appearance. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was going to see if you were still here when I heard someone being tortured so naturally, I came to investigate,” Tighnari took a quick glance of the scene in front of him, with Cyno still grabbing onto a very exhausted looking Sethos. Tighnari huffed a small laugh. “Are you doing alright, Sethos?”

“Sahave me,” Sethos whined, still limp within Cyno’s hold which eventually the General released.

“Now that you’ve learned your lesson, Sethos, how about that game?” Cyno asked before Tighnari placed a hand upon his shoulder.

“I think you’ve had enough games for one day, Cyno. Sethos too by the looks of it.” Tighnari gave a sympathetic look towards the tired male. “You can bully him another day.”

“What!?” Sethos gaped, surely, they’re joking right?

“Fine then. Until we meet again, Sethos.” Cyno nodded before he and Tighnari left the room without another word.

Sethos groaned, already planning out how he was going to hide away for the next month or two. Maybe Hat Guy could help him out?

[magneticallyyours]

Hi there, currently simping for our mans, Magneto. So what I've been thinking, I know magnetic therapy is pseudoscience but I would really love it if you wrote a fic where the reader comes back home from work and she gets body pain from the stress (totally not self projecting with psychosomatic pain lol) and Erik overall comforts her and uses his mutation to make the pain subside. Thanks in advance btw.

After dying for months, you're my first ask that I finished! Sorry for the delay, I just got out of writer's block 😭

Erik Lehnsherr/Max Eisenhardt x Reader || Fade Into You

SUMMARY You've been overworking yourself again, coming home to a worried Erik and welcoming bed. But he isn't willing to watch you suffer like this, and so takes matters into his own hands. For a night, his magnetic fields are used for something other than justice.

TAGS: Fluff, Comfort, Reader's gender left ambiguous, Caring Erik, Magnetic therapy, Cuddles.

CW: None. Just that magnetic therapy is pseudoscience but this is fucking X-Men lmao

WORDCOUNT: 1.2k

A/N: This is left ambiguous (intentionally) so you can headcanon Fassbender, 97, Krakoa, or any version of Magneto that wouldn't butcher you. Enjoy?

★★★★★★★★★

Man, today was a stressful work day. You just barely managed to get through it, owing to the fact that you'd come home to Erik at the end of it all. The moment you stepped in through the front door, Erik was already there, seemingly waiting for you. The moment you plopped down on the couch, his eyebrows furrowed with concern. 

“Welcome home, my dear. You look– exhausted.” 

Well, there's that. He always picked up on the littlest of things, both out of care and because of how meticulous he always was. He kind of had to be, in a way. You groaned, gently massaging your shoulder. “It's just.. Everything hurts, Erik. I feel exhausted.” He listened to you speak attentively, shifting closer to let you rest your head on him.

“I've told you so many times to–” Oh, not this again. He turned into somewhat of a doting mother at times. You cut him off, huffing. 

“Not to exert myself, I know. But I have to work, Erik.” 

He tsks at that, choosing not to press further. It's clear that you weren't going to listen to his words, and frankly he wouldn't blame you for it. 

“May I at least prepare some dinner for you?” 

He hoped you wouldn't deny him this simple request, because he hated seeing you tired like this. Whenever you'd come home late and tired, or when you fell ill, he wouldn't take any of your ifs or buts. He would push you back into bed and force you to let him take care of you until you recovered. Ah, he was a character. But he was cute.

“..Sure thing, I'd love that.” You agreed, making him nod. He gave you a blanket before he pressed a kiss to your forehead, swiftly making it to the kitchen. It felt like no time at all when your eyes began to droop, all the sleep deprivation and pain catching up to you at last. Your muscles and bones were aching, prompting you to lay down against the inviting surface of the couch. It was so warm and cozy. Kind of like him. That little nap, if you could call it that, was a temporary reprieve, for your body was still aching all over. When your eyes opened, you could see a very upside down Erik Lehnsherr looming over you. He was more funny than intimidating like this. He frowned when you laughed. 

“Well, miss, don't just laugh. Sit up. I'm finished with dinner.” 

After a minute of rolling around, unwilling to get up (much to Erik's chagrin), you finally complied. He was sitting beside you, bowl of stew in hand. A spoonful floated to your lips, waiting for you to eat. You opened your mouth to protest, but he used the opportunity to slip some stew into your mouth.

“There. Good, isn't it?” 

It really was. He'd used only the vegetables you'd like, cooked soft yet not mushy. For a night like this, it was perfect.

“It's.. edible.”

He smirked. He knew you liked it. 

“Good enough for me.” 

He didn't move an inch until you were full and satisfied, but he didn't grab a bowl for himself. That made you press, “Aren't you eating?”

“Don't you worry about me. We're getting you to bed first.” 

“But–” “No arguing, słoneczko. Up.” 

He waited a beat, but upon noticing that you weren't making any effort to move, he tsked. Time to take matters into his own hands, then. He stood up, scooping you into his arms.

“Hey! Put me down-”

“You don't mean that, I'm sure. You're going to bed.” 

You tried to protest, but he was right. The bed seemed more inviting than ever, especially considering you didn't have to walk there. But you also wanted to spend some time with Erik, so you didn't know which to choose. While you were mulling the pros and cons over in your head, he gently set you down on the bed.

“Wait here.”

He left your bedroom, returning with a bowl of stew for himself before sitting down at your bedside.

“Are you going to just.. eat beside me, Erik?” 

He clicked his tongue. “Just wait, liebchen. I'm not going anywhere, if that's what you're wondering.” 

He held the spoon in his hands this time, eating nonchalantly. Slowly, you feel a faint hum fill the air, as Erik lifts his hand, fingers curling slightly as if cradling something. You feel it immediately—an almost imperceptible shift, like the space around you has become weightless. The tension locked in your muscles loosens as a gentle force spreads through your limbs, coaxing the pain away.

"Relax," he murmurs, his voice steady, reassuring. Another spoonful of stew. “I've got you. You just have to lay back and let me help.” 

Like, damn. Who could refuse something like that? Especially with that look in his eyes. He wasn't even exerting himself, something like this second nature to him. That's what made it even better. He was so talented at this. 

The magnetic field he manipulates isn't harsh or violent. It's gentle, like a warm pair of hands on your body. They work their way over every muscle, gently prodding at your back. You couldn't help but let out a relaxed sigh as he took his time with you, eating wordlessly as the sleepiness took over. His eyes stayed fixed on you. 

It felt like forever as the process continued, but you weren't complaining. You didn't want this to end. You wanted this fucking– magnetic spa, almost, to continue till the end of time. But then the ache subsided, leaving a warmth in its place. Not from heat, but from peace. He shook his head with a smile.

“See? Sometimes listening to me isn't so bad.” 

He spoke, matter-of-factly, but teasing regardless. Then he got up to go put the bowl and spoon away, but you caught his hand. He looked down, confused. 

“Don't tell me it didn't work–”

“Stay. I want you.”

He chuckled, wagging his finger.

“Oh my. You have to be patient, Schatzi. I'm going to join you in bed after I put these away. So stay there.”

You groaned, shoving him weakly. He left regardless after pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, returning too late, in your eyes. He didn't let you protest for another moment, getting under the covers beside you. It was his turn to comply. A strong arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close. So protective and warm. It made you feel fuzzy. 

“Sleep, dearest. You need it.” 

His thumb rubbed comforting circles into your hips, lulling you into sleep. You could tell he was using his magnetic fields again to ease you. You hummed lowly, nuzzling into him. 

While you thought you were going to stay awake longer, perhaps talk to him, you'd fallen asleep in minutes. He relaxed, relieved that you were finally asleep. As promised, though, he didn't move a muscle. He laid there, tenderly looking at you until he felt tired enough to sleep. 

Oh, and: Tomorrow was a weekend, but you still had the alarm set earlier to spend time with Erik. Tch, you needed your beauty sleep. He turned it off. Such a villain… 

★★★★★★★★★

[come-as-you-are-111]

Gonna keep requesting (sorry if you’re already swamped, no pressure to write my asks) because you’re one of the best authors on my tumblr rn I am convinced. 🫰

Can we see Thanos picking F!reader for the final round in Mingle instead of Nam-gyu, and when they get inside a room, Thanos takes the opportunity to have a lil impromptu make out session? ✨

“With Me Flower.”

A/N: EEK!! Thank u so much I’m so happy I’m someone’s fav author! Hope you like this!! I tried to bring this request to life so pls enjoy!

Warnings: kissing, squid game gore

The announcement for Mingle blares over the speakers, and the room erupts into chaos.

People shove past each other, scrambling for groups, voices rising in panic. You have seconds to find a room—seconds to stay alive.

Every round, the required number changes. If you don’t make it into a room with the exact amount? You die.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan the frantic crowd, searching for Nam-Gyu—

“Two.”

The final round. Pairs only.

The air shifts. Everyone still left turns feral.

You barely have a second to react before a strong hand grabs your wrist.

“With me, flower.”

Before you can respond, Thanos is already yanking you toward the nearest open door. His grip is firm, unyielding, his pace deadly fast.

Other people lunge for the door ahead, desperate to survive.

Thanos shoves one of them back, hard. The man stumbles, nearly falling, but another one grabs for your arm.

“She’s with me.” Thanos snarls, and before you can even blink, his fist connects with the guy’s face.

The sickening crack of bone echoes as the man collapses.

More shouts. More people grabbing, pushing.

“Go, go, go—!” Thanos orders, steering you toward the door as someone tries to yank him back. He elbows them off, shoving them aside with brute force before dragging you through the threshold.

The second you’re inside, the door slams shut.

Silence.

Your breathing is ragged, chest heaving from the adrenaline, your hands still gripping his jacket on instinct.

He exhales a sharp breath, knuckles bleeding. He flexes his fingers like it’s nothing.

“You—” you start, voice uneven, “You fought for me?”

Thanos scoffs, rolling his shoulders, a lazy smirk curling on his lips. “Duh.”

But his usual cockiness is laced with something else. Something darker.

He takes a slow step toward you, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows over his face. “What, you thought I’d let someone else take you?”

Your stomach flips.

The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. His hands find your waist, fingers ghosting over the fabric of your jumpsuit, testing, teasing.

You should be thinking about the next game. About survival.

But all you can think about is him.

“You scared?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, pulse racing under his touch. But you shake your head. “No.”

His lips twitch. “Good.”

And then—he’s kissing you.

It’s fast, consuming, raw. His hands grip your waist, pulling you in, pressing you flush against him. His lips move hungrily against yours, stealing your breath, making you forget everything—the game, the fear, the deaths.

You gasp against him, fingers threading through his ridiculous purple hair, tugging, desperate for more. He groans, his grip tightening as he backs you up against the wall, his body solid, warm, unrelenting.

It’s reckless. It’s insane.

But neither of you stop.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing heavy. His hands stay on your waist, thumbs brushing soft circles over your jumpsuit.

You’re dizzy. Breathless.

“Thanos…” your voice is barely a whisper.

His lips graze yours again, teasing, tempting. “Hmm?”

You exhale shakily. “This game is going to kill us.”

He chuckles, low and dark, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Then let’s make sure we win.”

And just like that, the speakers crackle to life, the next instructions looming—

But all you can feel is the way he’s still holding onto you.

A/n: Hi my lil monsters! How we likey? This is only my second time writing smt like this (spicy kinda) so I hope yall like!!

Love ya, Twilight

Taglist:

@amoristt @lousypotatoes @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @takuma-talkz -talkz @sxmmerchxld @multifandomgirllol @gizaspicebag @truefandemonium

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror............Part XIV

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length)

Summary: With everything so precarious, Macrinus feels the tension in the palace. A sign from the gods steers him to the conclusion of this long, protracted series of events.

Warnings: violence, death, 18+ only.

Word Count: 4.2k

Part 14 of 15 (I'm sorry)

[ Part XIII ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: Okay, here it is. I did the best I could with the hole I'd written myself into. I hope you enjoy it. The end might feel final, but we still have another part after this where we get some more much-needed closure. Thank you for following me on this ride.

Geta reclined in his chair, watching the spectacle, isolated, all sound missing his ear. The food tasted like nothing, his head swam, the wine serving as his only comfort. Even Caracalla had retired early, clutching a plate of treats for Dondus. When his boredom grew to a suffocating level, he rose from his seat, coldly dismissing their guests. 

He could feel their stares, could still hear the mutterings in the arena that afternoon. 

A moment of weakness. One he would not suffer from again. He’d promised Macrinus as much. Which was why he’d sent him to retrieve his weakness so she could be dealt with once and for all. How he would do that, he had no clue.

Macrinus had appeared almost anxious after Caracalla’s man took Plautianus down. Flighty and on edge, he carried himself with less grace than usual. He openly watched the guards standing around the Emperors, keeping himself aware of where they were and when they came and went.

Geta was beginning to realize he’d killed an innocent man.

Before the grief of his stupidity could wash over him, the man himself reappeared, glancing around at the abandoned seats, servants already moving in to clear tables and any other flat surface used as one. He kept his commentary to himself and approached Geta.

“Geta, she is gone,” Macrinus spoke, true concern in his voice. It was the most agitated he had ever seen the man. 

“Gone? What do you mean, ‘gone’?” 

Macrinus grew uncharacteristically frustrated. “She was not in her cell. Viggo could not tell me what happened.”

“You seem to surround yourself with incompetence,” Geta commented, his wine dulling his desire to maintain a friendship with this man he no longer trusted.

Macrinus’s eyes flashed for a moment before he corrected himself. “They were given a delivery of wine, your majesty,” he explained. “From the Emperors. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?”

Geta relished the way the man seemed to be coming apart at the seams, his perfectly tailored persona cracking just a bit under the pressure. 

“No, but I believe it is customary. To repay the effort spent in readying the prisoners.” Gets finished his glass, setting it down on the table. “Are your men looking for her?”

“As we speak,” Macrinus confirmed.

Geta wasn’t even particularly mad Letha might have escaped. If she meant what she said, was as good as Caracalla seemed to believe, she wouldn’t be returning to collect. She would disappear. He might never see her again. 

That was what bothered him. 

More than bothered him. Filled him with despair. Every second was another opportunity to wallow in that grief. Wine.

“Where is Emperor Caracalla?” Macrinus asked. 

Geta waved him off. “Probably with his concubines, having a much more entertaining evening than I. Besides, what does it matter?”

“If he sent the wine–”

“A customary gift,” Geta reminded him, growing irritated.

“I do believe it was hand-delivered, by that Praetorian always at your brother’s side.”

“Ancus?” Geta laughed. “Yes, well I will instruct that he stick even closer to my brother. No more excursions.”

“That is not what I–”

“Enough, Macrinus. I am tired. You ought to get some rest yourself, it’s been a long day.”

Geta stood and walked away through the eerily quiet hall, wondering if he’d live through the night. He would ask someone to fetch Tegula. He could sit in his study with his best men, to make sure no one got through to his bedchamber.

As he entered his chambers, stripped the day from his skin, and sank into his bed, he realized just how much he missed Letha. He missed the hope she brought him. The possibility of a life steeped in warmth and love. But it had been ripped away just as quickly as it had taken root, and the agony of that still consumed his waking thoughts.

Maybe she escaped the city. He tried to imagine where she might go, with nothing to her name and no family that he knew of left to find. He could picture her so vividly, cycling through the innumerable times he looked at her long enough to memorize the expression on her face. 

She had so willingly accepted her fate, resigned herself to death. It was him that put her in that position in the first place. Her death would surely have shattered what bit of his sanity remained. He did not think of consequence when he ordered the fight to end. He could feel his blood racing through his ears, could hear each beat. It was what she was owed. A life for a life. He hoped she would use it well.

He fell asleep clutching a pillow that still bore some scent of the oil she’d brushed through her hair. Jasmine.

Macrinus paced. And paced. And paced. He could see the hallway that led to the Emperors’ rooms. What he was waiting for, he hated putting words to. To have to admit it, even if only to himself, it was just another indignance dealt by Letha. One he would rise above, once he worked up the nerve.

He was suffering her loss. For all his threatening and scheming, he realized quite quickly he wasn’t cut out for this direct involvement. He needed a new agent, but lacked the connections while stuck inside the palace. He felt the Praetorians watching his every step, could feel the heavy scrutiny from Caracalla at every mealtime. 

It shouldn’t be so difficult, he agonized. If Letha could do it, so can I. 

With renewed purpose, Macrinus strode down the hall, thinking of what he could say if caught. Before he got more than a few steps down the hall, one of the doors opened. He tucked himself behind a column, beside a bust of Caracalla. He peered around the edge of the column and watched.

Someone wearing an elaborate cloak, complete with a hood, stepped out into the hallway, followed by a guard.

Ancus.

“You ought to stay here,” the figure spoke. Her voice was low, hardly a whisper. “I know where it is.”

“You will need someone to check if anyone is there,” Ancus retorted, concerned.

“You said he is sleeping, yes?” she questioned, glancing down the hallway. She turned, about to look in Macrinus’s direction. He tucked himself flush with the wall, out of sight. He could only listen now.

“Yes,” Ancus confirmed. “Tegula is watching over him.”

“Then I will be only a moment. Do not leave Caracalla unattended with that snake about.”

Macrinus’s blood ran cold. 

Letha.

By the time he could hear footsteps retreating, she had already turned the corner, heading deeper into the Emperors’ wing of the palace.

Letha was in the palace. Kept hidden by Caracalla. And Geta didn’t know.

Macrinus felt a weightlessness settle just above his shoulders. Fresh, delicious surprise and hope sprang forth. He hardly resisted the urge to laugh at this fortuitous turn of events. The gods smiled on him in his hour of need.

As he strode away to his chambers, he was already putting together ideas.

Yesterday Morning

“I think I like this one best,” Caracalla commented. He turned to Ancus. “Ancus, what do you think?”

The guard raised his eyebrows, looking over the tunic his emperor held up. “I-I do think it brings out your eyes, Imperator.”

That drew a smile from the smaller twin, and he stared down at the garment. After a moment of thought, Caracalla approached the servant, holding the outfit out for them to take so he could be dressed in it.

“Do I have your loyalty, Ancus?” Caracalla called out. 

Ancus turned his back to his Emperor, pulling at some of his armor. “Of course, Emperor.”

“You will not speak of this to anyone, even Tegula? Or my brother?”

Ancus glanced over his shoulder, concerned, but he didn’t let his eyes focus on anything in particular. “If you will it.”

“Leave us,” Caracalla muttered. 

Ancus waited until the servant left the room to turn and set eyes upon his Emperor. The color did brighten his eyes.

“I intend to save my brother from himself,” Caracalla explained.

“How?”

Caracalla approached a small table. He opened a drawer and produced a linen-wrapped object, setting it in Ancus’s larger hands. 

“We start with this.”

As Ancus realized the genius of Caracalla, he couldn’t help his smile.

“You will help me, Ancus?”

“With anything.”

Later that day

“Letha?” The voice was soft, uncertain. 

She looked up, more than a little shocked to make out the form of Caracalla standing outside the cell in the dark, Ancus dutifully holding a torch up behind him. 

“Caracalla?”

He approached, clinging to the bars of the cell, his jewelry clinking against the rusted metal. “How is your arm?”

She didn’t spare it a glance. “What are you doing here? Where is–”

“My brother is not well.”

Her fear returned, quick as lightning. “What’s happened? Did Macrinus–”

“He’s heartbroken,” Caracalla interrupted. “You, that’s what happened,” he frowned. 

Letha moved to Caracalla, her dirty hands covering his on the bars. He didn’t draw back. “Tell him I’m sorry,” she pleaded. 

“Would you have done it?” Caracalla asked. “Really?”

She shook her head. “No. I… I couldn’t have.”

“And it wasn’t Thraex’s doing, was it?” 

She frowned. “No.” He didn’t seem to need to be told who was truly responsible.

He studied her in the torchlight, mulling things over. Finally, he pulled his hands out from under hers, taking a step back away from the door, closer to Ancus. 

“I’m an Emperor too,” he announced, “and I require your presence. Your sentence is vacated by the order of Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus Augustus. The door, Ancus,” Caracalla ordered, beaming. 

Ancus stepped forward, a slight smile tugging at his lips at Caracalla’s display.

Letha released the metal, stepping back away from the door, uncertainty swimming in her gut. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as Ancus unlocked the cell door, pulling it open, leaving it open for her to step out of, free.

“Come back with us. You can stay in my rooms until my brother is less… volatile.”

“He’s angry?” she asked, thinking back to the way he’d looked at her with blazing eyes. Should she be fearful?

“He can’t get over your betrayal, Letha,” Caracalla sighed. “He’s lost a bit of himself. It’s a bit ironic, right? Me trying to look after him?” He let the question hang in the air, but he didn’t need an answer from her, just giggling to himself. “Let’s go. Dondus will be delighted to see you.”

Letha felt touched by Caracalla’s faith in her as he grabbed her hand, tugging her along beside him as he left the cavernous depths where she’d been kept, Ancus following behind.

The next morning, Geta didn’t want to leave his bed. It was an ordeal for his servants to get him up and dressed. There were still more games to attend, more people to meet, and dinner parties to host. He didn’t understand how he was expected to return to the normalcy of their life with all of it so fresh.

His thoughts drifted to Letha. The one stolen night. The happiest he’d been in years. He could pretend she waited for him in his rooms to get him through the day. As he sat and forced food and drink down his throat at Caracalla’s nagging, as he watched men fight for glory in the arena, as if he hadn’t just seen his love almost meet her end in the exact same spot. And even now, guests dwindling, as he was forced to paste on a smile with some of the senators, the play-by-play of the day’s fight boring him nearly to tears, he thought of Letha.

“Excuse me,” Geta muttered, abandoning the glass in his hand on the nearest table before heading to his rooms for a moment of peace.

As he passed Caracalla’s door, he heard a laugh that stopped him dead in his tracks. In a split second he was back in the box, the first day of the games. His eyes lifted just the same, but a door was all that greeted him. Before he could convince himself his sanity was slipping, he knocked loudly.

A few seconds passed, long ones. Geta heard rustling, but not much else.

“Yes?” It was Ancus.

“Can I come in to speak with my brother?” Geta asked, his stomach in knots.

After a moment the door was opened, and Caracalla stepped out, the shreds of a smile still on his face and in his eyes. “Yes, brother?”

“You have guests?” Geta questioned, his voice strained from lack of use and the nerves burning his throat.

Caracalla stared at him before falling into one of his usual giggles. “Just, you know, my usual attendants.”

“I heard a woman’s laughter,” Geta accused. 

A flicker of concern was overridden by sympathy. “Hearing ghosts, brother?”

Geta scowled, waving off his brother’s concern. “Nevermind.”

“Are you alright?” Caracalla asked, a hand on his brother’s arm.

“Just perfect,” Geta ground out before turning and heading back to the party. There wouldn’t be enough wine to get him to forget this.

Macrinus watched Geta return to the party, his troubled state much more obvious. As he downed a glass of wine and requested another, Macrinus knew this was his opportunity.

“That was close,” Caracalla sighed, looking up to where Letha was currently stepping out from behind a large curtain panel, her face drawn. “He was so sure it was you.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“It was in his eyes.”

Letha nodded, sitting on the edge of Caracalla’s unmade bed. “Is it still too soon to tell him?”

“While Macrinus still stays here you are in too much danger,” Ancus spoke up, scratching at his jaw. “He’s supposed to leave once the games are over.”

Letha thought it was amusing how Caracalla and the Praetorian he’d dismissed so readily had truly bonded. There was a glimmer in the Emperor’s eyes as he looked up at his guard. It relieved her to see him happy like this. And Letha did not miss the flush that filled the cheeks of the man anytime Caracalla paid him specific attention.

Oh, Ancus.

The Emperors truly were magnetic.

A small part of Letha wanted to ignore their advice and storm out of Caracalla’s rooms in search of his brother, but she understood their hesitance. And she truly believed her reappearance would not be met with joy. She wasn’t sure she wanted to feel that agony so soon. 

“Well, I need to go out and show my face some more, but we’ll be back in a bit. Keep Dondus company for me.”

“I will, Caracalla,” Letha promised, looking down at the small monkey pulling at her dress. “We’ll have our own party, right Dondus?” She got a squeak in return as he climbed to her shoulder.

Geta walked further into the gardens, another night coming to a close, the day weathered by some miracle. He wasn’t drunk, just comfortable, warm. He could allow himself this, now that their guests were gone. His feet led him, no destination in mind. Still, tragically, that jasmine-smothered statue came into view and he took another long sip of his wine to try to swallow down the confusing slurry of emotions.

He found himself leaned back against it once again, trying to remember, wishing he could have done something to help her. If she’d just trusted him enough to tell him, he would have protected her. He would have shielded her from Macrinus, he wouldn’t have told another soul, his selfishness overriding duty. 

He pressed his own palm to his chest, over his heart, his eyes closing to avoid the welling of emotion, the pressure behind his eyes, the knot in his throat.

“Brother?”

Geta stood up straight, shaking off his melancholy. “‘Calla?” He spotted his brother as he walked over, saw Ancus lingering by the stairs, a good distance away.

“You look sad.”

Geta scoffed. That wasn’t the half of it. “It’s fine.”

“You haven’t been yourself lately.” 

It irked Geta that he wasn’t allowed to feel the wealth of emotions in his chest without someone having something to say about it. Everyone else was allowed their moods and frustration, but if he felt something so strongly… He felt like he wasn’t being allowed to mourn. Because that’s what it was, mourning.

“Emperors, how fortuitous,” Macrinus spoke, disrupting the calm that the gardens granted. 

Caracalla made no effort to mask the shift in his expression, annoyance obvious.

Geta stepped away from the statue, gesturing to Macrinus with his cup. “Something you need?” 

“Oh, no,” Macrinus smiled, a return to form after stumbling through the last couple of days. “I just wanted to thank you both for your hospitality.”

Geta watched him, the relaxed lilt to his voice concerning.

Caracalla groaned in frustration. “Yes, yes,” he muttered. 

The impolite response didn’t deter Macrinus, not for a moment. Geta should have known then that whatever he was about to say stood to derail the entire day. But he didn’t, instead shooting his brother a scolding look.

“I have not had the opportunity to meet your other guest. She seems to avoid parties, meals, games…”

“We have no other guest, Macrinus,” Geta explained, quite confused. He looked to Caracalla, surprised to see him clammed up. “Brother?”

“Should someone go fetch her?” Macrinus suggested, eyes fixed to Geta. 

“No,” Caracalla insisted. 

Geta looked to his brother, concern growing. “What did you do?”

Caracalla’s frustration grew under the intense scrutiny. “Neither of you can be trusted with her!”

Geta felt overwhelmed. There was no way. “You lied to me?” he questioned, feeling faint. 

“You are not in your right mind,” Caracalla accused.

“So it is I who cannot be trusted?” He couldn’t help his frustration.

“For all we knew, you would kill her!”

The glass collided with the stone, shattering. Geta still spoke, though Caracalla paid him no attention, his eyes glued to the shards littering the grass. “You know nothing.”

At the commotion, Ancus approached, a protective hand pressed to Caracalla’s shoulder as he took in Geta’s affected state. 

“Ah, here she is. The search is over, your majesties. Here is your traitor.”

Geta’s heart stopped. He felt each agonizing second it took for him to turn, to see Letha being led into the gardens, Macrinus’s man keeping a tight grip on her arms. The sight drove a spike of anxiety into his chest. 

Letha didn’t struggle, she kept her eyes trained on Macrinus, wondering what was coming next. 

“What a reunion,” Macrinus chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “Didn’t you have some justice to dole out, Geta?” At that, Macrinus approached Letha. A sword was produced, and Macrinus held it to her throat. “How did you put it? A weakness, to be dealt with once and for all?”

Letha’s eyes met his, and Geta felt tears coming as he took in her fearful expression, the cut across her cheek, the bruising.

“Stop,” he ordered, approaching them, his hand held out for the sword.

Macrinus leveled the sword at Geta, the flat of the blade smacking his open palm. “I don’t think so.” 

Geta recoiled, withdrawing his hand. 

“I didn’t expect this,” he admitted, gesturing between Geta and Letha. “I should have, and I have paid for that mistake, but I will not make it again.”

Geta bit back his protest as Macrinus reached over, his hand squeezing Letha’s bandaged shoulder tightly enough to bruise. The cry she let out wounded him.

“I should thank you, Caracalla,” Macrinus smiled. “Up until last night, I was so sure I’d wake up in a cell myself. But the gods have other plans for me. They sent me this solution as a sign of their unwavering support. It could not be anything else.”

“The gods do not care for you,” Letha spat. She struggled beneath Macrinus’s grip, trying to wriggle her shoulder free. 

Viggo renewed his grip on her wrists, scowling at her, as Macrinus brought the sword back to her neck, a warning. She stilled.

“Ancus,” Caracalla muttered, his voice betraying his fear. 

Geta felt trapped. They were all in danger, all caught off guard.

“I will tell you of my plan,” Macrinus grinned. “It’s too good not to share it. While not perfect, I do believe it is the best anyone could do in these circumstances.” He let the blade leave Letha’s neck, pacing leisurely before them. “It would seem that Letha here, having escaped, decided she would come back and finish the job,” Macrinus gestured to her with the sword tip. “Finding the two of you here in the gardens, after felling him, of course,” he gestured to Ancus, “she made quick work of you. And I, hearing the commotion as I just so happened to be passing by, came upon this grizzly scene. Fortunately for you both, I was able to avenge you. And with your last, gasping breath, you named me your successor,” he spoke, moving the sword over to press against Geta’s neck. “Go on, say it.”

Geta said nothing.

Macrinus’s grin grew, the sword pressing closer to where his neck met his shoulder, the razor sharp bite of it beginning to draw blood. Letha let out a cry, struggling with Viggo. 

As Macrinus turned to ridicule Viggo, a jovial jab that he seemed to be having trouble restraining a woman, a hand gripped Macrinus’s wrist, pushing the sword away from Geta’s neck. 

Macrinus whipped his head around, eyes falling to Ancus, indignation settling in on his face for only a moment before a dagger pushed through the ornate white robes he wore, sinking into his stomach, pushing the breath from his lungs. Geta’s eyes fell to the hands wrapped around the hilt, seeing his brother’s ornamental jewelry.

Geta was pushed back as Ancus stepped in to shield Caracalla, ripping the sword from Macrinus’s hands.

Still partially frozen, Geta looked over to where Letha was, or had been. His feet moved him before his brain could formulate a plan.

Letha was on the ground, struggling against Viggo, the base of her palm pushing at his chin, her other hand trying to pull his hands away from her throat. He seemed to have the strength of ten men, knowing death awaited.

Her throat burned, the pressure in her head from the buildup of blood, her circulation cut off, overwhelming. Spots filled her vision, and she wondered if this would be it, finally. She should’ve been happy, she got all her wishes. Macrinus dead, or in the process of dying, and she got to see Geta one last time. It was all she had asked for. But the desire to remain, to live, breathed life back into her muscles.

Letha abandoned her efforts to claw his hands away, instead opting to make a firm fist and punch as hard as she could into his groin. Viggo let out a choked gasp, one of his hands moving down to shield himself from further attacks, a reflex. The vice around her throat lessened and she could get some air. As Letha was able to suck in a halfway decent breath, Viggo was ripped off of her.

The unnerving sound of a fist meeting Viggo’s face filled the normally tranquil gardens. Letha sat up, surprised to see Geta leaned over her attacker, one of his knees pressing hard into Viggo’s stomach, a hand gripping his clothes while the other repeatedly punched his now-bloody face, rings and all. 

Letha tamped down the satisfaction she felt, calling it relief, and moved over to Geta. She pulled at his shoulders, trying to get him to stop, telling him it was enough. He didn’t listen at first, but she pressed herself to his back, pulled his arm to her, her hand wrapping around his wrist. 

“It’s done,” she soothed, inspecting his hand, seeing the bite of his rings in his own skin. It would need the attention of a healer and it would surely be swollen purple in the morning.

“Letha,” he whispered, his eyes closed as he turned his head, pressing his forehead to hers. 

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, her throat still quite tender. 

“Mmmh, no,” he managed, shaking his head. 

“Emperors?” 

Praetorians were upon them, forcing everyone apart, taking stock of the damage done to their rulers, if any. Letha stayed sitting on the ground beside Viggo, not sure what might happen next. 

Before long, Tegula himself appeared, speaking with the twins, and then Ancus, who delivered a succinct version of events that included a charitable explanation that Macrinus had masterminded the entire thing, even down to Letha’s inclusion, implying that she was innocent after all. 

She didn’t dare correct him, her eyes fixed on Geta where he stood. His knuckles were stripped of his rings, the healer dabbing at the small cuts. Geta winced each time, eyes falling to his injured hand for a moment before he continued watching Ancus recap their evening, as if surprised by it.

Caracalla stood beside Ancus, quite close, certainly closer than an Emperor would be to his guard, rubbing his fingers together, staring down at the blood on them with soft fascination in his eyes, his other hand still clutching the dagger. Plain, military issued, it looked like. 

Letha was brought to her feet as someone inspected her neck, commenting on the redness around her throat. Geta looked over, the people and the circumstances creating a great gulf between them that he couldn’t yet ford. There would be business to attend to before she would get her chance to speak to him again. 

It gave her something to look forward to. 

[ Part XV ] coming soon

[astronomerzin]

Hii! I saw you asking for venti request and i couldn’t pass up the opportunity i rarely see someone writing for him anywaysss i thought of a cute little request how about venti freaking out about how to tell his long time s/o that he’s barbatos? Like he feels guilty for not telling the s/o like he’s deceiving them but he also don’t want them to see him as a god so he’s being an anxious mess for weeks and when he finally gets the courage to tell his s/o they just nonchalantly say they already know 😭😭 i’ll leave the ending to you and the s/o can be gender neutral so that everyone can read it :)

Venti x GN! Reader. | Venti revealing his secret! ⋆⑅˚₊⸜ 🍃‧₊˚✩彡 ,,

note: I'm sorry that it took me long to reply! School recitations went brrrrr— ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ anyway, I hope I didn't keep you waiting! I hope you'll enjoy this fic ^^ thanks for asking me this request btw! :3 this one is a bit crappy and short... I'm sorry for this sob. I didn't really have any ideas😧 and I'm not so proud of this bye

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Venti had always wanted to tell his beloved windblume the truth about himself. He was the Anemo Archon, the God of Wind and Freedom, and he had been watching over Mondstadt and its citizens for centuries.

He had been afraid of what your reaction will be. Would they treat him differently once they knew the truth? Would they be scared, or repulsed, or maybe even angry at him for keeping this secret for so long?

He had been planning on telling them for weeks, but something always seemed to come up. Either he would chicken out at the last moment, or just have a second thought about it. But today, he was ready to face his beloved about the truth.

He found you sitting on the sofa, reading a book quietly. He took a deep breath and slowly sat down next to you.

"hey, windblume.." he said in a soft tone. He slowly rested his head onto your shoulder while his hand slipped down to your waist, pulling you close to him.

"can we talk?" he asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

You turned your head to him and smiled before closing the book slowly. "Of course.. what is it?"

Venti took a deep breath, he was getting nervous. You noticed this and squeezed his hand gently, giving him reassurance. "..you can tell me everything, I promise I won't judge nor get mad unless it's something bad." you said in a soft tone.

Venti hesitated for a moment, his courage faltering for a brief instant. But the trust and love he saw in your eyes gave him the strength to continue. He slowly sighed once again "..Windblume, I hope you won't get mad at me for not telling you this sooner.." he mutters. "I'm the Anemo Archon.."

You stayed quiet for a brief moment before smiling softly. "I kinda actually knew.." you replied sheepishly.

Venti looked at you with slight wide eyes, shocked and confused. "I don't understand— how?" he asked.

"Remember when The Traveler came to save Mondstandt? I may or may not have accidentally eavesdropped when you and the others when you all went inside the Angel's Share to discuss the plan." you explained. "..sorry" you sighed.

Venti just gently shook his head and let out a soft sigh "no, no. It's okay, you didn't do anything wrong.. I should be the one who's sorry."

"I kept this truth about me from you— I actually feel so guilty hiding it from you for a long time now.." he briefly pauses before continuing "I just thought that, if you knew I was the god.. you'll only see me in that title." he mutters.

"Venti— it's okay.. I understand." You slowly and gently placed your hand on his cheek, caressing him like a fragile doll as he looks up at you with soft, loving, and worried gaze.

"Even if you are a god doesn't mean I only see you in that form of your title. All I see is Venti that I love so much.." you said in a soft tone and kissed his forehead. "I'll love you for who you are, God or not.." you smiled faintly.

Venti's lips quivered slightly and sighed. "Windblume.." he gives you a tight embrace.

"I love you so much.. Thank you."

[the-stove-is-divorced]

Glad we both enjoy hating omg.

AND YES! Istg the second that video dropped I watched it eagerly, I am such a Batman fan, ugh, if you're ever interested in him specifically, I'd heavily recommend Batman Animated Series, yearnful sigh. I miss when he's written well. And thank you! I appreciate this, I'm bound for a rewatch of this video, hehehe.

NO FR? Istg one of my BIGGEST pet peeves for lazy ass shipping is when OTHER characters have to comment on the relationship, as if it is in any way, shape, or form been properly conveyed as obvious to the audience. IT'S SO LAZY RAHHHHHH. Like you might as while have everyone calling them a couple and them blushing and saying NUH UH, and then never proceed to actually write them interested in each other, outside of predictable, boring commentary, WHICH IS OUT OF LEFT FIELD.

Rex and Eve are legit sm more interesting since they're supposed to be friends for years, then got together, and went through the same shit together. I'd legit rather than them than this. Why did Rex cheat? Why not explore any of these dynamics? Did Kate feel sidelined so she believed Eve and Rex were on a break? How shaky was their relationship?

Get this man in ethics, philosophy, therapy, and pysche classes istg. He truly needs college istg, bro needs education and awarenes. I do not believe he thought he actually thought of Eve, out of anything but guilt, if at ALL. This show feels like it's ACTIVELY trying to lie to me and it's not even doing it WELL? HELLO?

The villain opening was so dumb to me istg. Cecil's stuff I get why, but when it went back to why and justified why Cecil did what he did I wanted to roll my eyes. Like. I can assume why. I don't really need to see why. they're useful, and there's an unspoken GoG absence, yes? I get why Mark is opposed, sure, whatever. Can we use this time for anything else? If this show had more episodes and took things s l o w e r for once, it'd be more fitting to me. Otherwise? I don't care. Speaking of Oliver, they way he's better at fighting than Mark, like this is embarrassing. Mark lock in. Mark do better. Mark why is a child showing you up. WHY ARE EXPLICITLY SHOWN MARK IMPROVING AND THEN HE ACTS JUST AS SUCCESSFUL AS S1? HELLO?

I thought the fight against the underground monsters would be a great opportunity for him to be particularly lethal, like Omni-Man and actually show off some proper skills, and introduce Darkwing + Robots helping heros escape while he's distracted. Still can have Mark freak out, but people get reminded whose son he is. Casually shake off blood. Which we get later on (I wish it was cooler so bad, it's still my fav but with a hint of begrudging admittance), but I say why can't we have more feral Mark scenes? Why stop at one battle parallel with Nolan? Have him particularly lethal with monsters since he'll freak out over people, thinking of Angstrom! Let him mimic Nolan's efficiency and like casually dive through a monster's brain. Him freaking out when someone he cares about gets hurt is so dull to me, also? Did the venom work from the centipede????

GoG's breakup was truly so funny because none of these mfs have been meaningfully explored enough to make me shaken up that they're breaking up, or what that even means because their hero ecosystem isn't explored either! What's the stakes here? I don't get to see more dynamics I never got to see? I'm truly heart broken. Oh no. Also Immortal stay annoying me because bro truly invited himself, told everybody to stfu and get out to a team he decided he'd join back up again, and you're so correct he'd make a mf grovel to get back? Immortal don't be insufferable challenge.

Nolan being endeared to her because she's not afraid makes too much sense, omg. He's so baffled he's enraptured, and Debbie truly thinks he is not special for being capable of killing him, people could die randomly, asshole, get in line. I'd love to see how they got together if the show had time, and the potential dynamics from a "take no shit" Debbie and still learning about humanity, and flirting, Nolan.

REAL ASF THO. Like Invincible could be SO far if it was good. Shows where I'm already invested after it outright refuses to live up to it's potential are like catnip to me, I cannot shut up about it. I'm infuriated and enraptured and endeared. Begging everyone to watch this show, no I don't think it's incredible, watch it all anyway.

Please write the mentor Cecil fic of my dreams, if I can get some oneshots done I'd love to write it myself if I can think of some scenes. There's something so interesting about Cecil becoming an incidental (perhaps Mark opens up and Cecil Realizes: Oh, I can Use This) and then intentional mentor figure, (or again Mark insisting he needs to earn Immortal's approval to prove he's not his Dad fr). Like? Thefun extra wound of betrayal if Cecil still uses the whole scream thing! Maybe Robot/Rudy does a scan of him and finds it, and Mark has to conceptualize what it's for, or it's outright used to against him. I believe in Mark being put through the emotional ringer. Dad issues AND Dad-like mentor issues. Stack 'em.

GDA not have any contingencies or hidden plans is so baffling, like aren't you a paranoid department dealing with something as unstable and dangerous as supes? LIKE NO MEDICAL CHECK UP IS INSANE. Purposeful ignorance is so funny omg, they're actively make it difficult for them to pursue education lmao. But the way I would think they'd make Mark + Oliver binge every morality debate, philosophy, even skeezy therapy where the therapist is just snitching to what their mental states actually are. Enforcing Mark to understand how to fight mentally, and not following the same colonizer BS mindset. GIVE ME PARANOID GDA THINGS. Like if Mark went to college, does GDA have agent pretend to be a student to follow him?

While I'm not too familiar with the DCU- your batfam meta posts are intiguing- so in transfering some of the broader strokes from them- I think you tackling a 'Mark isn't Nolan's biological son' fic would be fascinating. Sort of a step to the side of the 'what if Mark never got his powers' fic that sometimes pop up in the fandom

OOOOOO chewing on this currently, hm, the much a distinct flavor of exactly what you’re talking about, but the potential for more family drama depending on WHO knows. Does Mark know?? Is he waiting every day only to be crushed? Does he confused non-Debbie features with Nolan’s? I suppose I’m not the most enthusiastic about non-power AUs, but I think there’s something very fun to explore about Mark having to settle with, if he knows all his life, he will never have powers? I think the trajectory of his dreams will obviously shift, I can see him still having that distinct fatherly idolization, but perhaps embraces being useful to the GDA? Cecil’s number one intern—only intern—curtesy of nepotism, ha! There is something tickling me about Mark taking the Robin Route/Role for the Teen Team in terms of having no powers, just insane skills, BUT there’s something way more delicious about intern Mark when s1e01 happens and Mark tries snooping around to find out the truth about what happened to his Dad.

I wonder if, with Mark having a whole another father, if they’re more or less distant relationship, depending on WHEN Nolan entered Mark’s life? Like if Debbie met Nolan later for this, or just for fun, they dated once, separated (Mark being born during then), then they happened to stumble into each others lives again and Mark’s already been born, anywhere from tween to teenager so there’s a gap in how close they are. I feel like one important aspect of the whole Family Drama is how close they’re supposed to be, a functional, loving family turned upside down? So I wonder what more distance does. I wonder how Nolan copes when his family is entirely human and he can’t project onto Mark.

I love thinking about these, omg.

[eldrtchmn]

Chain blade 🩸🗡️ weapon commission for @erikaii

[gingeredmink]

i don’t know if you’ve posted something like this before, but what are your general headcanons about ynfg protags? like their ages, personalities, etcetera. i really like hearing about other people’s interpretations ^^

thank you for giving me an excuse to use this again hehe

I've probably posted something like this in the past but honestly memory is so bad these days I've completely forgotten and as you said, it's fun hearing others interpretations and stuff!

Sorta umbrella generalization is I think most are quiet, shy, soft spoken people. Outside of a few exceptions [Uro for example, she just comes off as a more loud and vibrant kind of character]. Maybe it's the ambience or lack of dialogue but a lot of the games make me feel like the character has a more somber/quiet personality.

A lot also feel like the outcast, always in their head and not really paying much attention to the world around them [either something happened that made them want to shut outside out or they suffer from ostracization and it's a coping mechanism for loneliness]

More for individual characters under cause long

Mado's kinda the poster child for this. Think she's around 16 or so and she became a shut in due to a mix of depression in general and it being exacerbated by experiencing trauma that caused her to snap or distance herself from her remaining friends [Car accident, loss of a friend, something like that.] She grew up playing weird little collectathon/pixel games and she's more interested in funky sorta characters than usual normie stuff her peers prefer, so she doesn't really connect much to those around her and focuses on fantasy more than reality.

Urotsuki [really young adult, maybe around 23-25?] feels like the, "I don't have much in real life but I can be myself and have lots of friends online." sorta character. People aren't intentionally mean to her per say, but she's weird and often doesn't feel like she fits in. Parents are sort of the same in that their main problem is they were distant and not there for her when she needed them.

Admit I am a sucker for this sorta stuff, but adore the idea that she went through a rough patch of self-value issues [was put off from being herself due to being weird, doesn't fall into the conventionally attractive type and had issues with image due to it, ect] but eventually overcame them and is now one of those loud and proud to be herself and very aggressively supports other weirdos around her because she doesn't want others to go through that type of people. She still has her skeletons, having an on-off issue with substance abuse and tendency to get excited and overstep boundaries.

Fluorette [Young adult?] comes across as a sort of lost child that just wants to feel like she belong somewhere. She has personality and such but doesn't fit in with those around her, and her humor can sometimes make her come off as a delinquent which results in her feeling more out of place.

Sometsuki [16-ish?] feels really similar to Mado in that she doesn't really connect much to those around her and prefers to spend her time alone. Can't explain why but feel like she has a bit more of a pessimistic outlook stemming from anxiety [she's afraid of messing up and being looked down on so she's reluctant to try things due to feeling like she's already failed kinda deal.]

NEVER SEE HER MENTIONED ENOUGH BUT I feel like Yayoi from Nobetsu Maku Nashi would be one of the more chill, sort of calm happy dreamers. [i am so heartbroken that the dev deleted because god i wanted to learn more about her so bad.] Sonoko from -1 is similar, though with a bit more of a depressed undertone. Both also young adults.

[spurbleu]

johnny doesn’t talk when you eat dinner.

at first you didn’t take offense to it. you knew early into your relationship that he ate like he talked. constantly. food was his mistress and he indulged in her whenever he could.

and you had no issue with it- your cook books needed to be dusted off anyway. you enjoyed kitchen lamp evenings in his arms while he kissed that spot behind your ear. cooking new favorites for the ox that lived with you. relishing the kiss on your temple and the “thank ye bonnie” that followed after every meal.

but in between that? nothing. it was almost eerie how quiet johnny got.

it got particularly unsettling after John Price invited his team and you to a dinner party.

last time you met his colleagues, they didn’t strike you as the conversational type. you dreaded the table silence, thinking that your chatter box of a boyfriend was going to bring his odd ritual to his captains doorstep.

but you were shocked to find he couldn’t stop talking for the whole evening.

he ate here and there, finished two plates, but it took him an eternity. kept them and their birds entertained with nonsense you didn’t pick up over your own confusion. it was like a switch had been flipped.

the drive home was quiet, and you barely registered his nervous tapping on the steering wheel until he cleared his throat and called your name.

“yes?”

“everytin alright?” he stops at a light and takes the opportunity to look you in the eye. “ye aren’t talkin’ much.”

bitterness flares beneath your collarbone. “yeah well you talked plenty.”

his brows rose before settling over his eyes slowly. “wot do ye mean by tat?”

you sink into his car seat, and the acid that you had been swallowing with your wine folds at the corners of your mouth when you speak.

“seems to me like you’re perfectly fine talking while you eat with them. I thought it was just a thing you did when you ate but now I realize you’re only quiet with me.”

Johnny’s brows draw together. “bunny im still not under-“

“you never talk when we eat together Johnny!” you throw your hands in the air to emphasize the point, “it’s just dead quiet. but you talk with everyone else! it sounds silly but I like talking with you and I don’t get why when we eat together it’s just-“

laughter interrupts you and for a moment you forget you were even upset. he was so busy laughing the car behind you honked for you to move forward. the car jerks and he laughs, before he sighing and shaking his head.

“bonnie, i don talk cos i like yer cookin’.”

all the venom subsides. “what?”

“john’s is jus’ fine, and so are tose restaurants ye like so much,” his voice still shakes with laughter. “but never as good as yers. puttin magic in it, I swear,” he looks at you and smiles, “i don talk cos im too busy enjoying my girls cookin.”

your face grew to be every shade of your embarrassment, your blatant pettiness and insecurity bleeding like a deck of cards. but he simply caressed your cheek and kissed you at the next red light, and assured you he’d try and talk more, but

“I cannea make any promises, not wit tha way ye cook.”

you didn’t question him on it again.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 7

in which spencer reid and inexperienced!fem reader sleep together for the first time

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: loss of virginity, oral f/m receiving, so much praise, pain during sex, unprotected sex, cr**mp**, bit of overstim, soft dom spence, if u don't like that freak shit (love and intimacy) this is not for u, spencer is a nerd, they're both nerds actually and that factors in heavily, you may get more from this part by FIRST reading how they met in this bonus chapter a/n: thank you all for being patient, ilysm, this was the most laborious thing i've ever done for no reason and also this part changed so many times and is not what i expected it to be so pls go in with tempered expectations and keep in mind that this story is more about the characters and their specific relationship dynamic than just being porn. i truly have no idea how you guys will react to this but i sincerely hope you love it and them like i do<3 also it's twice as long as the other parts so feedback would be very very appreciated! again i love u all and enjoy the penultimate part!

Spencer’s lips are on yours, and you weren’t expecting it—hell, you weren’t expecting him to be in your apartment. After all, he’d wished you goodnight and walked out only a moment ago.

“Spencer—wh—” 

But he’s insistent with his lips, kissing you bruisingly over and over like there’s nectar on your tongue and he’s parched for you. Still, he has enough decency to not completely ignore you, exhaling a quick excuse over your flushed lips. 

“I missed you.”

This time, though, you dodge his hungry kiss. Part of you thinks, as he watches you, eyes alight and breathing heavily, that he sort of likes your playing hard to get. It’s not something you do very often, admittedly. 

“We’ve been apart for like, maybe a minute.”

“I didn’t even make it to the parking lot.”

Your face heats.  

“Well you can’t just—you can’t just walk in like that! And I thought you said we weren’t supposed to mix fighting with pleasure.”

“Then start locking your door. And I thought you said we weren’t fighting.”

You roll your eyes in response, though your heart is still pittering in your chest. 

At least his hands move to your arms, stroking up and down relatively chastely—although he has this way of making everything seem intimate. Especially when paired with those amber eyes of his—glowing like a candlelight beacon in the window guiding you home. He speaks in low, appeasing tones and darts his tongue over his lips. 

“I originally said it’s a bad idea for couples to sleep together after an argument. But you know—makeup sex is ubiquitous across culture and time because it works. Anger and arousal trigger a lot of the same hormones, specifically norepinephrine which is involved in feelings of longing and—”

“Spencer.”

“You know what else?” He mutters in a way that feels dangerous. “It tends to feel better than regular sex.”

That earns a shaky exhale from you. Whether from irritation or arousal is anyone’s guess—probably a combination of both. 

“So you came back to fuck me?”

It’s probably evident to Spencer from your choice of language that this already isn’t going exactly as he’d planned. He doesn’t answer right away—just regards you, gaze bouncing between your two eyes like he’s trying to calculate your level of anger. 

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You push him away and move to walk down the hall. 

“Maybe your window of opportunity has passed.”

A warm hand wraps around your wrist in the dark of the hallway and he pulls you back until you’re falling against something tall and warm and lean. The smell of polished amber and sandalwood overwhelms your senses. 

“What’s wrong, angel? What happened in the minute I was gone to change your mind?” His voice is scratchy like a favorite record. It’s the voice he could hold you captive with. The one you have a very difficult time saying no to. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, unintentionally leaning back against him. “What happened to change yours?”

His response comes pressed against your ear, half-lost in your hair. 

“You’re upset that I changed my mind. I thought you wanted this, honey.”

“I do,” you admit, letting your head fall back against his shoulder and bringing his arm to wrap around you. “And if you hadn’t walked out earlier I would’ve done it. But… I’m tired of us doing everything on your timeline. You just… you expect me to be amenable to what you want, constantly.” His nose and lips press into your shoulder. 

“What do you mean?”

“Like… I’ve been begging you to sleep with me for I don’t even know how long. And you keep changing your mind, and I feel like you’re being really confusing about it. Obviously you don’t have to sleep with me, you never did, but I just feel kind of… jerked around. And you did it again tonight.”

A beat of silence. 

“I understand your frustration,” he appeases, securing both his arms around you. You cling weakly to his wrist, to his warmth, like he’s a tether in a storm. “Would you prefer to wait until you initiate it?”

“No. Yes! I don’t know,” you huff, disentangling yourself from his arms and continuing toward your bedroom. “Now I’m annoyed at you again.”

He follows you right through the door. 

“Just tell me what to do! I don’t want to be annoying.”

“I can’t. I’m being unreasonable.” You flick on your adjoining bathroom light and examine yourself in the mirror. Yeesh. The eye makeup situation is abysmal after all the crying that has taken place over the course of the evening. 

“So choose to be reasonable and tell me what you want from me. I’ll give it to you.”

You frown at your reflection, pushing your hair back and rubbing at some excess mascara. 

“No, you’re not understanding me. I’m not choosing to be unreasonable. My thought process regarding the situation is inherently unreasonable and there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s just the way I feel.”

“The feeling being that I’ve been too domineering over how our sexual relationship has unfolded?”

Spencer watches you in the bathroom mirror, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed as you tip some makeup remover onto a reusable cotton pad. You try not to check him out as you nod, but it’s impossible—with his sleeves rolled up to show defined forearms cradled in capable hands, and his hair all messy. 

When he pushes off the wall you freeze, unsure of his next move—until he’s gently spinning you around and taking the bottle and cloth from your hands. 

“Maybe it would help,” he begins, soft as he focuses on the new task, carefully bringing the round to your right eye so he can remove the bleeding mascara. You allow your eyes to flutter shut. “If I remind you why I’ve been so hesitant.”

“Because you hate giving me joy.”

He laughs, nothing more than one huff from his nose. 

“You’re spoiled and we both know it.”

Point taken, as he gently wipes your makeup away for you. Your silence is his cue to continue. 

“Everything I said about worrying that you would regret choosing me is true. It was especially true when I thought you felt lukewarm toward me. And all of that confusing stuff I said in the phone is true too—having sex for the first time is incredibly intimate and weird and sometimes scary. If you’re not 100% sure about your partner, or if you think your feelings are unrequited, it’s hard to be completely comfortable in such a vulnerable situation and your likelihood of getting hurt or having regrets skyrockets. I know that from experience. I wanted better for you than what I got. Still, I know it was wrong to project my feelings about the significance of sex onto you. In that regard, you’re right. I was being domineering, and I guess… I guess to an extent I’m still deflecting. I shouldn’t be trying to pretend like it’s about you when in reality I mostly just didn’t want to get hurt again. I didn’t want to go through that again, and that’s okay, but I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was something you could have changed.”

You try to process that. 

“Go through what?” You whisper hoarsely. Something about having him at such close range while he takes such care with you feels whisper-y. 

“Sleeping with someone who didn’t love me back.”

Your reply is small. 

“Oh. Right.”

How could anyone not love him back?

Spencer’s reply is simple and kind, without a hint of, obviously you dumb bitch—which is pretty much what you’re thinking to yourself. 

“Does that make sense, lovely? Do you understand why I wanted to wait?”

He lets you ponder for a while in comfortable-enough silence as he finishes removing your eye makeup with a characteristically gentle hand. When you open your eyes, he looks genuinely content, screwing the lid back on the bottle as if he’s got an eternity to wait for your answer. 

“Yeah. That part makes sense. But why did you seem so… I don’t know, like, wishy-washy about it?”

Spencer’s eyes dart up to meet yours, brows slightly raised. Then a small laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside him. 

“Because I’m obsessed with you. I thought about you like that constantly. I still do.”

Your breath catches at the casual admission. 

“Oh.”

Spencer hums, setting the bottle down before tenderly thumbing away some excess mascara that he must have missed from under your eye. 

“You didn’t think it was easy for me, did you?”

“Well… kind of,” you admit, tracking his eyes until they meet yours. 

“Not sleeping with you has been among the hardest things I’ve ever done. Especially when you started begging me. That first time, when I picked you up from Penelope’s and you asked me why we hadn’t had sex yet…”

He trails off, still rubbing at your cheek as he loses himself in thought. 

Eventually, you grow impatient, prompting, “what?”

“It’s not a nice thought.”

“Well, you have to tell me now,” you insist. 

He half smiles, thumb straying to your lips. 

“It was just… you had no idea what you were talking about, and you were ready to throw a tantrum in my living room until I gave you what you thought you wanted. Part of me was imagining bending you over the couch right then, since you thought you were so ready.”

It feels like someone has snipped the pulley that keeps your stomach in place. 

“Spencer,” you splutter, convinced your cheek is tangibly heating under his touch as your head reels at the revelation that he could have such a deeply dirty and mildly sinister mind. 

“I told you it wasn’t nice.”

You swallow. 

“Is that… is that still what you want?”

His brows flicker again and he tucks hair behind your ear. 

“To bend you over my couch? No.”

Your face warms even more and you turn to leave the bathroom, sick of his teasing. 

“Okay, goodni—”

“Hold on.” Spencer catches you by your waist and pulls you back into him for the second time tonight. A dangerous smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I know what you meant. And no, I don’t want to bend you over my couch.” He laughs, slipping a hand under your shirt to rub your back. “You know what I want. I’m more interested in learning what you want.”

“I want…” Your eyes dance between his, and your heart flutters against the confines of your chest as you realize what you’ve wanted for so long is finally yours for the taking. “I want to stop talking about it.”

His expression neutralizes and you know it’s probably intentional to stop whatever feelings you assume him to be having color your decision. 

“Oh?”

“I just think we’ve talked about it enough.”

Before he can say another word, or ask you another question, you kiss him with such passion there’s no way he can doubt how much you want this. 

Only a moment passes before he allows himself to lean into it, cupping your face between reverent hands and taking control of the pace of the kiss, slowing it down until you can hardly breathe. Your little noise of want has him quickening the process, pressing against you until you’re walking backward out of the bathroom. It’s like the first crack in a dam. After that, everything becomes inevitable. 

Your knees hit the back of the bed and you sit down hard on the mattress, smiling up at him. You skim the front of his thighs with your palms as he smooths your hair.

Spencer groans, leaning down and kissing you til you’re on your back. 

“Don’t make that face.”

An affronted huff from you breaks the kiss up and he pulls back to study your expression. 

“What do you mean don’t make that face? I was just smiling at you.”

“I know you were. And you have such a pretty smile it makes me feel guilty about… defiling you.”

Your brows flicker up and your mouth drops open with an affronted scoff.

“Watch yourself. I’ll defile you.”

“You already have,” he admits with a half-laugh as he kisses you again. “My mind was never this dirty before we met.”

“Hm. Tell me you like my smile.”

He pauses and then chuckles dryly against your mouth. 

“I love your smile. You’re gorgeous. Any more demands?”

Pleased, you shake your head and pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“Not currently.”

“Really?” he murmurs, trailing kisses over your cheek and down your jaw, “I’d do just about anything you asked me right now. You don’t want to take advantage of that?”

The sensation of his lips just below your ear threatens all rational thought in your brain, but you manage a reply with only a slight delay and a hint of a waver coloring your tone. 

“I shouldn’t have to demand things. You should just know to do them.”

His kisses drag lower, warm and unhurried and you’re trying not to let your hyper-sensitivity from going a week completely untouched show—but you doubt he misses the way your breath catches, or the barely audible squeaks, or the arch of your back or the tightening grip on his shirt. 

“Well, for future reference—” he nips at a sensitive spot and you gasp quietly, even as you tilt your head to offer him more access. More room to bite, if he so chooses. “—I happen to enjoy it when you make demands of me. Especially when those demands entail letting me call you pretty.”

“I’ve never not let you call me pretty before,” you huff. It’s a touchy subject, and Spencer can probably sense your hackles rising, but he has you right where he wants you and so he pushes anyway. 

“No. But you never believe me. We’ve had this conversation. You always act like I’m walking you to the gallows when I compliment you.” 

It’s hard to make a defense when he’s leaning his weight onto one arm so he can unbutton your jeans, when he’s looking down at you with sparkling onyx and scorched-earth eyes like you’re something to be consumed. But not violently, no—ardently. Like fruit heavy on the vine. Like you’re a religious rite to the devout and deluded. A sacrament.

But it’s not a blind passion. Spencer knows you; every inch of you and every loose thread on your soul begging to be pulled. He knows you and he still wants you like this. To be perfectly honest, you’d never thought you’d feel comfortable handing yourself over to someone like this—vulnerable and all your layers of armor shed. Never in your life would you have thought you could trust a person so implicitly that you’d hand them a knife and show them exactly where to press, that you’d say, I know once you open me and you see me you’ll not want to change a thing.

You adore him. Cosmically. Enormously. In every dimension. He’s lodged so deep in your heart you have no choice but to love him eternally. 

It’s deep in the midst of all these very profound revelations that you realize Spencer has stalled with your zipper undone. His hand has strayed to your hip, to sweetly push your shirt up and trace love letters into warmed and downy skin with his thumb. 

“I just wish you could see yourself how I see you,” he says softly, the weight of the truth a strain on his vocal cords. 

Sometimes, he is so kind it’s like a punch to your stomach. You’ve never been quite as kind as him. And nobody’s ever been as kind to you as he is. You’ve done nothing to deserve his kindness, but you know he needs a place for it, and you’re here with open arms. 

He studies you a moment longer, swallowing as his eyes trail over your face and lower. You want to reach out and brush strands of caramel hair out of his face, but he seems to be thinking so hard you’re hesitant to distract him. 

“I’ve never told you this, because I know you’d just shoot it down, but… you are genuinely the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in my life.”

Something twinges in the depths of your stomach—the darker shades who live there and exist solely to whisper not enough not enough not enough to you every minute of every day. 

But they’re simply not a match for the softness you find when you do reach out for his hair, or the way he looks at you. Spencer loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist—not a cuff, but an affectionate hold. 

“Do you believe me?”

There’s so much earnest hope in his voice it almost jars you. He so badly wants you to understand how feels about you—he’s been trying to tell you for months and all you know how to do is refute his praise and insist on your worthlessness. 

Ever since Spencer, you don’t see the faces on magazine covers or in superhero movies, no matter how mathematically flawless they are. Nobody gets close to being as beautiful as he is in your eyes. He’s in an entirely different echelon, and despite how you feel about yourself, you have to accept that he might feel the same about you. 

“I do,” you say, equally soft, and 100% honest. You believe that he believes it, and that’s enough. It’s all that matters. 

The shallow knit of his brow loosens. His lips ease into a suggestion of a smile. But it’s most visible in his eyes—the way smoldering coals reignite, melting the amber glass of his irises until they’re molten. 

The way he kisses you then, you’d think you’d lassoed the moon and pulled it down from the sky for him. But apparently all it takes to make him incandescently, contagiously happy, is to accept a compliment.

There’s a renewed sense of urgency on his breath as he kisses you deeply and quick enough your heart is racing. It only goes faster when he remembers his previous task and begins tugging your jeans down, but he doesn’t even bother to pull them past your knees before his hand is creeping up your thigh. Goosebumps race each other across your body as you try to remember what it feels like—what he feels like. But you can’t, even as his thumb fans over your inner thigh and pushes it open, gently encouraging you to give him more access to you. 

“You’re not wasting any time,” you breathe against him while he traces the edge of your underwear.

“Do you want me to slow down?”

Judging by the way the tips of his fingers only barely shy away from the fabric, he really wants the answer to be no. But you know in his searching gaze that he’d never push you. 

“No, it’s fine. As long as we… don’t go this fast the whole time.”

“We won’t.” The hasty words are of lower priority than the next kiss he plants to your swollen lips. “We won’t. I just missed you so much.”

“Yeah?” You giggle airily as he drags his fingers over your clit through the material, trying to ignore the way it makes your head spin. 

“Yes. Yeah.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, so… desperate for you, as he drops his lips to your neck and presses barely-there kisses everywhere he knows you’re sensitive. Just the feeling of his breath against your skin has you shivering. His hand between your legs only brushes your most nerve-dense spot, but a few touches in and you’re already wound up, like if Spencer doesn’t give you more soon you’ll burst. And not in the good way. 

When he finally commits to actually kissing your neck, you squeak, warmth emanating from that spot just below your jaw all the way to your toes. The frantic energy of earlier is slowly melting away, and he loses focus with his hand, as it begins straying wider, stroking your hip, your inner thigh, your stomach. It’s like your nerve endings are on overdrive, delivering twice as much feedback to your brain as they normally would. Each touch feels like he’s conducting electricity over your body, like you’re a plasma ball. He’d probably like that analogy—you, a core of alternating voltage, and him, the conductor, tracing a path and giving all those electrons an easy release. If you weren’t so distracted, you’d tell Spencer you found a way to work Nikola Tesla into your mutual sex life, and he’d probably propose on the spot. 

But that electricity is building fast—even more so when he drags his lips down just above your collarbone. Your breath hitches, simultaneously trying to crane your neck to give him more room, and curl into him so as to escape the stimulation. Finally he pulls away, and losing the softness of his mouth while the air feels so cold against the places he’d kissed almost hurts. 

“You’re a mess,” he chuckles affectionately, raising his hand to brush hair away from your face before stroking the heated high point of your cheek. “What am I going to do with you?”

It’s teasing, but so low and gentle and honeyed it swirls your stomach. 

“Whatever you want,” you admit quietly. It’s a shy confession more than it is a salacious flirtation because he already has you. And you want nothing more than for him to act on that in any way he so pleases. Whatever he does, it will be careful, and kind, and because he loves you. You know that no matter how he takes you apart—he’ll put you back together again. 

“I don’t know if I can. You’re all jumpy.”

God, he has the prettiest smile—even when it’s twisted with sarcasm and a thin veneer of guilt, like he knows he shouldn’t be teasing and just can’t help himself. 

“I’m not,” you defend, face heating further. “I’m not nervous. I don’t know what it is.”

That sticky sweet tone is back, pooling in his eyes and dripping all over you like nectar as he languidly looks you over. 

“I didn’t say you were nervous. Just a little bit jumpy.”

It’s not accusatory—he’s simply stating a fact. Easy, gentle, designed to soothe. 

You shrug helplessly and chew on your lip, unsure of how he wants you to respond. It’s definitely true that excited as you are, you’re slightly on edge. You feel taut as a string on a guitar, tense and waiting to be yanked at any second. 

His expression is serene, and his thoughts inscrutable as he continues lavishing you with his eyes, down to where he’s lying over you and back up. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak for a moment as he formulates his words. 

“Can we try something? There’s this tantric exercise that might help you relax.”

Your brows draw earnestly and you nod up at him, not requiring any convincing even though you have no idea what he’s talking about. 

Spencer directs you to sit up, and you do—kicking your jeans all the way off so you can sit criss-cross with your hands braced on your ankles. 

He’s next to you on the bed, at a slight angle, one of your knees in his lap. You blink at him. 

“Now what?”

“Now you give me one of your hands,” he says, tone tinted with a hint of an amused smile, as if your impatience is funny to him. Of course it probably is. 

Frowning only a little, you unlock your left arm and hold it out for him, watching curiously as he takes your one hand between his and flips it palm-up. 

“Did you know,” Spencer begins, voice low and confidential, “that the fingertips are the second most sensitive part of the human body?”

“What’s the first?”

“Lips,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your hand where he’s brushing the tips of your fingers light enough it almost tickles. “They’re both incredibly important for keeping you alive, which is why they’re one and two. But you’ll be particularly sensitive anywhere you’re vulnerable.” His words are trailing off as he brushes his thumb over your palm and to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Like here.”

His knuckles skim up your forearm, to the crook of your elbow. 

“And especially here.”

You’re fascinated as he traces back down the length of your arm and over your inner-wrist, feather light. Then up once more, with the blunted edges of his nails, and your breath catches. You’ve never noticed how sensitive such an innocuous part of your body could be, but it has your stomach flipping—more so when he looses a breathy laugh. “You know, some people are actually able to reach orgasm just by light stimulation to this area.”

Your response is just as airy—you don’t recognize your voice when it comes out like that, hanging in the pitch black between you. 

“Really?” 

An affirmative hum from him, as he lifts your hand and places an intentional kiss over your pulse at the bend of your wrist. Your chest aches and heat is pooling in your stomach as his gently trails them up the delicate skin of your arm. Maybe you should be embarrassed by the reaction you’re having—after all, it’s just your arm. But he treats every part of you like it warrants love and attention and intimacy. Even the parts you typically ignore. Certainly parts you never considered to be sexually or romantically relevant. It’s dizzying. It’s like magic. 

“Arms up,” Spencer finally directs, just as sweetly as he’s doing everything else, and helps you tug your shirt over your head. Every brush of fabric, every seam against your skin registers more than it normally would. Everything is heightened, and despite your state of undress you’re still warm. “Your neck is really sensitive, too. It’s the most commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.”

Erogenous zone. Of course this all comes back to biology. 

“Tilt your head for me, honey.”

Utterly entranced and useless to not abide by him, you do so. Spencer brushes your hair over your shoulder, and if the slip of it down your back weren’t enough, the graze of his fingertips against the nape of your neck has you shivering. 

The warmth of him at your throat feels completely brand new, despite having already had his lips there only minutes before. But now they ghost over your skin with a kind of novelty, and your own lips part in silent pleasure, head lolling to allow him greater access.

“Lie back.”

Without hesitation (but perhaps a bit sluggishly in your stupor) you obey, sliding down until you’re propped up only by pillows once more. Spencer takes his place propped above you once more, thighs slotted with yours as he quickly picks up where he left off. 

The sweet kisses are perfect and feel so much better than you’d ever thought to notice before—but at the same time your core aches and there’s that pressure building again that’s starting to get to you. 

“Spencer,” you try, and it comes out hoarse but you don’t care at all. “More.”

“You want me to leave marks?” 

And the offer is so tempting you’ll wait a few more minutes to ask for what you really need, nodding semi-frantically and ‘mhm’-ing desperately. 

As he gently latches onto a spot that will require concealer later but feels fantastic for now, one of his hands slips down your side, just barely letting his nails skim, and your back actually arches. It’s a shocking amount of stimulation for being nowhere near any sexual hotspots. That tiny caught breath dissolves as his fingers continue down just as lightly over your hip and thigh. Your muscles tense as you chase and run away from the feeling. It’s ridiculous.

There’s no point in trying to keep your eyes open now—they grow heavy and you let them fall shut as he sucks another love bite to your throat. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s kind of weird.” He says, voicing your thoughts as he eventually decides the mark will be sufficiently dark. 

“Yeah,” you agree, lacking all eloquence as he caresses every sensitive place you didn’t know you had and your hips writhe minutely in a little desperate dance of your own creation. 

“Most people aren’t aware of the potential of the erogenous zones that aren’t actual sex organs. They don’t pay attention to them. You know what else is an interesting function of erotic stimulation to areas that aren’t directly involved in reproduction?”

“Hm,” you hum as his hand skims to your back. You lean into it and he promptly undoes your bra with a single hand—a skill you’re not even sure you have. 

“It releases not quite as much oxytocin as an orgasm but more than sexual pleasure alone. So you’re less tense before sex than you usually would be, and you’re primed to build more trust and feel more connected with your partner during.”

God, he’s a nerd. And it’s so, so hot. 

You roll over on your back again and look up at him through half-lidded eyes. The corner of his mouth flickers as he takes in your expression, before trailing downward, following the path his fingertips make over your skin as they tug the straps over your shoulders. Trying to stop him, to be shy, would be a pointless venture. He’s seen you like this and you want him to see you again. 

A shaky exhale of his own brings a little smile to your face as he pulls your bra away and observes the newly bared skin with a hunger that you can feel. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, eyes cast pointedly down and thumb brushing over the side of your right breast. 

“You mentioned.”

“I’m not allowed to say it again?” He teases, leaning down to kiss you soft. Your lips curve against his. 

“You can say it as many times as you want.”

Spencer hums, finally thumbing over your breast’s sensitive peak. It sends a chill down your back and seeing as you’re already worked up to the point of near insanity, the pleasure from such a simple touch is much stronger than it would be otherwise. 

“Good. Because I missed you a lot.”

After that, he doesn’t waste much time—only toying with your flesh for another minute as he kisses you before his hand is skimming down your abdomen and dipping below the waistband of your underwear. 

“Please,” you whisper, tilting your hips toward him when he doesn’t move to touch you anymore. 

“Please what?”

“Spencer, don’t.”

He smiles at this, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as his hand travels lower. Fingers slip between wet folds and he begins making the lightest of circles over your clit. 

“You’ve probably been waiting long enough, huh? I should be nicer.”

Your answer is a breathy almost-whine as you seek more friction against his hand. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing down harder. The sensation sends sparks down to your toes and you attempt to clamp your legs shut around his wrist. “These need to stay open,” Spencer chuckles, “or else I can’t help you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” The words are a sweet sing-song against your cheek as he kisses you there, before hooking his fingers into the fabric of your underwear and pulling down. You try to help wiggle out of them as best you can, gasping when he tosses them away and immediately returns his hand between your legs. He dips his head down, tongue lathing over your breast, and teases you with the tip of one finger circling around your entrance. 

“I need—”

“Shh. Let me worry about it.”

With that, he’s dipping his ring and middle fingers just barely inside of you to the first knuckle, then back out, before pushing a bit deeper, and repeating the cycle until they’re as far as they’ll go. When he slowly starts fucking you with them, still mouthing sweetly at your breast, you’re ready to melt. 

The room is quiet except for your breathy mewls, the lewd, wet sound of his fingers inside of you, and the blood rushing in your ears. Soon your breast pops from between his lips and he finds somewhere else to leave his mark. Spencer is turning you into a work of art, with his fingers, with his mouth. You don’t mind at all. You’d let him sign his name, if he could—but you doubt he’d let you get his name tattooed. 

Soon you stop fighting the perpetual tug of your lids down and let them flutter shut, loosing a freer moan as he brushes over that sweet spot inside you. Even when he’d told you how to find it over the phone, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like this—maddening enough to have your hips twisting again and that hot bed of coals in your tummy sparking. 

“Spencer,” you warn, leg twitching as he stokes the fire beyond the point where you can passively enjoy it. Either he’s got to slow down or he’s got to let you burn all the way up. You practically jump when you feel his tongue flick over your clit—you hadn’t even been aware of his shifting positions. Maybe you’re more out of it than you’d previously thought. Your eyes shoot open and he does it again. “Oh, fuck.”

The words are simple, quiet, and apparently that’s not enough. Before you can even process the sensation of the tip of his tongue on you he’s latching onto your clit, suckling in a way that has your vision momentarily going out. You cry out and kick involuntarily, hips jumping up, but he captures your leg and presses you down into the mattress so no matter how much you squirm and squeak you can’t get away. 

“Fuckfuckfuck, Spencer I wa—ah—sn’t ready—oh my god.”

He remembers his fingers deep inside you and begins rutting them and you hiss, inhaling sharply through your teeth before letting it all out in a tremulous moan. The orgasm is building up so quickly it almost feels like an attack on your poor body as you try to process it all to no avail. Every sound you make is a vulnerable mess of pleasure and pain, a clear fear of surrendering to something inevitable. Of course, it doesn’t really hurt at all. As usual, he’s blindsided you. Found you unprepared. You rake your fingers through Spencer’s hair, continuing on with your shaky moans that sound half-worried. 

“Oh, please.” Really, you’re just pleading to be put out of your misery. It’s in moments like this, as the black is creeping in around the edges of your vision and your thoughts become threads in the tangle of an existence knotting in on itself with no discernible end or beginning in your mind until everything is completely abstract, that you’re reminded why the French refer to orgasm as the little death.  

Your fingers lace tight enough in the wilds of his hair to pull, and he groans against you, and those vibrations are your undoing. You succumb to the dark momentarily but he continues a loving assault of gentle kisses to your clit—careful enough so as to be inoffensive even after the euphoria abates and you’re hypersensitive, still relishing soft strands of hair between your knuckles. 

You’re breathing hard as you blink your vision back, looking down at him as he looks up at you from his place between your legs and rubs the top of your thigh.

“I wasn’t ready,” you pant, lips flashing into a tired smile that doesn’t hold a candle to his own livelier one. 

“Took it like a champ.”

If you weren’t already so warm his sarcastic comment would inspire more heat in the apples of your cheeks. 

“Dr. Spencer Reid using sports idioms?” You smile as he climbs back up your body. 

“It’s unreasonably sexy that you said idiom and not simile.” He kisses you, grin mirroring yours, and you don’t complain about the slick still on his lips. “And look at that. Not afraid to kiss me when I taste like you anymore.”

“I remember what you said,” you whisper, eyes bouncing between his, glowing amber pools in the low light. The words echo in your head from the first time he’d gone down on you and you’d been hesitant to taste yourself. 

One day, I’ll make you come just like that again, and then I’m going to fuck you, and you’re really going to want me to kiss you then, angel.

“So do I,” he points out needlessly. “Eerily prophetic, hm?”

“I think you just like going down on me,” you laugh. 

Without the light on, his smile is just as brilliant as usual.  

“You might be right about that.”

Another interlude of quiet begins, but you don’t mind it. Taking this slow, as desperate as you’ve been for it, feels nice. Easy. Waves of burning need ebb and flow, but for now, it feels nice to be bathed in his candlelight gaze, know you’re loved, and nothing else. 

“What next?” You whisper after a long moment, lifting your hand to trace the line of his jaw. He leans into it slightly, lips brushing your palm. 

“That’s up to you, angel. What’s going to make you feel most comfortable?” 

Your bottom lip rolls between your teeth as you think and he tracks the movement, corner of his mouth twitching fondly. 

“It might help if you weren’t fully clothed.”

“I think we could probably do something about that.”

He pecks the tip of your nose playfully and then he’s pushing off the bed. Your brow wrinkles as you follow suit only partially, sitting up with your legs folded under you and pulling the sheets over your body to combat the chill and the vulnerability of being completely naked. 

“Oh, my god. You had your shoes on that whole time?”

“I got distracted,” Spencer defends, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to slip the loafers off. 

You clutch the sheet to your chest, watching the adorable way he pushes his hair out of his face as he rushes. He’s so clearly excited—it shows in the flush of his cheek and his even worse than usual coordination. 

“But on my bed?”

“I’m sorry,” he says without seeming very apologetic, leaning down to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger and pressing his lips to yours. “I’ll pay to have your comforter dry cleaned. I’ll buy you a new one. I don’t care.”

“How chivalrous.”

“I am,” he insists against your lips, shaped by what is surely a boyish smirk. 

Unsurprisingly, you get lost in the kiss, dropping the sheet to hang onto his shoulders. Spencer takes advantage of the once-more revealed skin, rubbing your thigh with slow passes in a way that has you all lit up again already. It doesn’t help that his tie is skimming right over the recess between your folded thighs as he leans over your seated form, kissing you deeper as the moments pass. 

“You’re distracting me now,” you scold, but your voice is quiet and smiley as your noses brush. 

“Do you want to help me with my clothes?”

You nod, heart hatching like a cocoon and already slipping a finger into the knot of his tie so you can tug perhaps not gently enough. He chuckles, bracing himself with his fists on either side of your lap as you pull and yank until the fabric comes loose and you slip it from around his neck, flinging it blindly for dramatic effect. Then he slowly draws back to his full height, until you’re about eye-level with his chest. His gaze fixes on you, feverish and intent as he finds the buckle of his belt without looking. The slide of leather on leather, the jingle of the metal has the hairs on the back of your neck rising and you fight a chill as he pins you with his stare—feeling rather powerless as he towers over you, still essentially fully clothed while you’re completely naked. 

You probably shouldn’t be as thrilled by it as you are. 

Spencer tosses the belt on the floor and watches on, utterly charmed as you rise to your knees. His hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin unbuttoning his shirt with slow, careful fingers. 

“See?” You murmur bashfully. “Helping.”

His voice is equally as soft. 

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

The tension in the quiet room gets to be too much and you have to focus hard on the task at hand, failing to bite back a twisty smile. For once, he keeps his stupid perfect mouth shut and lets you push the fabric of his open shirt from his shoulders in humid silence. 

Your fingers skate down his torso and you watch the muscles tense. You wonder if he notices the way he pulls you slightly closer or if it’s subconscious as you both track the path of your hands. 

“Your button is on the wrong side,” you note, voice wavering slightly, once your fingers stall at the waistband of his pants.

Spencer chuckles. You feel silly. 

“Men and women’s clothing tend to have the buttons on different sides, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence, before the words come pouring out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m still a little bit nervous, I think.”

“That’s okay,” Spencer assures you, hands gliding up and down the soft lines of your waist. “It’s okay that you’re nervous. But I’m going to take really good care of you, okay?”

You nod, not looking away from the exposed skin of his torso. 

“And if at any point you need to take a break or stop, you’ll tell me.”

“I will, but… I don’t need to stop right now.”

“Then you can go as slow as you want.”

You swallow and take a moment to gather yourself before continuing on undoing his pants. With his assistance, you pull them down, and with them his boxers tug an inch or two lower, exposing a subtle v-shape before it disappears beneath the waistband. The fabric is obviously tented. A ball of nervous anticipation spins faster in your stomach, drawing all the heat in your body down between your legs. He’s pretty everywhere. You’d nearly forgotten. 

Spencer’s stomach tenses under your light touch as you drag your fingers down, down, just to the waistband. It’s then that you look up at him for permission to continue, and find his eyes already on you, heated and intense. 

“Go ahead, honey.”

Again you find yourself quite excited to touch him, but you start cautiously, simply letting your hand fall over the shape of him through the fabric. Even that has his chest rising and falling at a slightly quickened rate, and one of his hands finds your unoccupied one, twining them together. That small gesture inspires you to bolden your explorations, becoming more insistent in the way you palm at him. He feels big, which is a concern of yours. But you try not to let that intimidate you.  

Already he’s quite hard, you suspect from going down on you earlier (which is flattering as much as it embarrasses you) and your fingers graze a small wet patch of fabric. You fixate on the shaky little breath he releases as you push down his boxers with new fervor, and his cock springs up. 

He’s still perfect. 

You smear beads of precum down his tip, and he sighs, letting his head fall against yours as you both watch. A few coquettish pumps and he’s humming, kissing your face and dragging his lips down your neck where he makes a home for himself. Apparently the sight of your hand wrapped around him had been too much to bear. 

“So good. Missed this.”

“It’s just my hand,” you whisper, a little insecure that he’s maybe playing it up for your benefit. 

“It’s you.”

His voice is so breathy, you sort of have to believe him. 

“Can I…?”

Too nervous to voice what you really mean, you trail off, but it apparently doesn’t matter to Spencer. He lifts his head like he’s in a stupor but you’ve said something urgent. 

“Anything you want. You can do whatever you want.”

“Okay. Um…”

You let go of his hand (and his dick). Spencer automatically rotates to accommodate you as you end up on your knees on the wooden floor in front of him. 

“This is what you want?” He breathes, already pushing his fingers through your hair and gathering it back as you look up at him and nod. 

Very quickly you have him back in your hand, trying to remember what you learned from the few times you’ve done this. You start perhaps a bit softer, less eager to prove yourself than you have in the past—simply dragging him over your tongue before enveloping his tip in your mouth, and releasing with a pop. Despite being overtly, explicitly, and undeniably sexual, there’s something almost chaste about the way you handle him. It’s a (dirty) expression of love, and you think he understands that as he rubs at your cheek affectionately. 

Eventually, however, you get too excited, and you take him into your mouth in earnest, bobbing your head slowly and seeing how much of him you can take without gagging. 

Spencer makes the prettiest noises—they’re breathy, and not ostentatious, but he’s got such a nice speaking voice it’s like his gasps are bars in a song. You whine around him, wriggling your hips in a rather pathetic display, and then all too quickly he’s tugging your hair so you can’t keep him in your mouth. 

“What?” You ask, closer to pouting than you’d care to admit and voice slightly hoarse. “You said I could do anything I want.”

“Not if you’re that good at it. Come here.”

He helps you up and catches you in a deep, messy kiss before you’ve fully regained your footing, swaying against him, but he holds you fast, pulling away slow like strings of honey trail between your mouths. 

Spencer’s eyes are fixed on yours, lips parted in a sort of wonder before he glances down to your own mouth, wiping the shine from your bottom lip. Any moment you’re expecting him to say something, to tell you you’re beautiful or perfect or that he’s in love with you—but instead he just meets your eyes again, that same wonder-struck look on his pretty face. A tiny, breathy laugh forces itself from his chest like you’re a genuine miracle. 

You feel so observed—seen in a way you’ve never been seen, looked at closer than anyone has ever looked at you before. And he still looks at you like you’re the human embodiment of love, the closest mortal manifestation of the divine, Galatea come down from her marble pedestal. The way he looks at you has your heart pounding and your breathing hastened. Adoration has never been something so physical, so tangible, ever before in your life. Your blood hums at the frequency of his electromagnetic field—an energetic aura that surrounds each person and can be detected from several feet away, as he’d explained it to you. It originates from the heart and if you spend enough time close to  someone, syncs up the beating of your most vital organ with theirs until it’s a perfect match. Maybe that’s why, almost as quickly as your heart had begun to pound, it slows again, and you feel any reservation flush from your body like a fever. 

“Okay,” you breathe, cataloguing every angle and curve of his face to store with all the rest, all the moments that feel important. Of course, you’ll never remember them like he does yours. But you’ll be damned if you don’t try your hardest. 

“Okay?” Spencer asks. He understands the confirmation for what it is, and searches for signs of hesitation on your face while rubbing reassuring circles into your hip. You nod resolutely. 

As he lays you down on your bed, it feels like you’re entering some kind of altered state. Everything is muted and glowing with a watercolor aura in the dark and you really only care about the man on top of you and the way moonlight dances on his skin and the way he smells like smoky amber and rain. He makes sure the pillows are fluffed under you, before sweeping your hair from beneath your shoulders into a corona around your head. All the while his eyes are so soft on you, just like his hands, and his lips when he leans down to touch them to yours. 

One of said hands finds its way to your jaw, trailing down over your neck and collarbone, before settling over your breast where he swipes a thumb over your nipple, lightly, slowly, several times. 

Once again you’re struck with the odd feeling, even with his hand on you like this, that the situation isn’t sexual in the way you’d anticipated. It’s not pornographic, or even very dirty. Everything Spencer does, even as his hand sneaks down between your legs, he does because he loves you. 

“One more like this,” he mutters against your jaw after a moment. 

“Why?”

Your impatience yields a smile you can only feel against your skin. 

“Just want you relaxed and feeling good. That’s all.”

When you assent, his fingers are already slowly pushing inside you. 

It seems you’ve entered some sort of time warp as well, because you reach a gentle peak in what feels like record time, aided by his easy murmurings and saccharine praise.

“Perfect. That was perfect,” Spencer says with a kiss to your shoulder as he slides his fingers from you and you feel yourself literally dripping onto the sheets. “Can I ask you something before we get carried away?”

“Mhm,” you hum, sweet and compliant as pleasure dulls your inhibitions for the second time tonight and your head lolls into the pillows. 

“Baby,” he croons, voice soft as worn paper as your lids flutter and lashes brush febrile cheeks, thumbing over the heated skin. “Need you a little more alert, sweet girl.”

“’M trying,” you whine, though it’s half self-effacing laugh. Spencer chuckles too as you shake your head and take a deep breath, trying to reinvigorate yourself. “Okay. Go.”

“Well… we don’t have any protection.” Before you can groan, loudly, he hurries on. “And that’s… I’m okay with that, if it’s what you still want. I trust you. But there will come… a moment of reckoning. And I need to know where I should… reckon. So you don’t end up surprised.”

Now you’re really laughing—a giggly mess beneath him as your arms loop over his shoulders. 

“Stop it,” he whines, pressing his nose to your cheek as you turn your head in an effort to not snort at your boyfriend to his face. “That was for your benefit, you know. You get squeamish.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously when you refer to it as reckoning.”

“Fine. I’ll rephrase. When I come, you essentially have two options. Inside, or on your stomach. Tell me where you want it.”

Your breath catches and your stomach does that tripping-over-itself thing again. 

“Um…”

Another fond half laugh, at your expense, is pressed against your skin. It’s enough to prompt you into answering—he doesn’t have to say anything to make his point about your being squeamish. 

“Inside,” you mutter, shy as you attempt to bring him closer so he won’t be able to look at you quite so closely. You wonder if he’s remembering the conversation you’d had over the phone last week—before he’d accidentally kind of broken up with you—about this very subject. You certainly are. 

“Okay. I want you to have everything that you want.” A few kisses to your neck later, between nips, he speaks again. “Just need to hear that you want this one more time.”

“I want this,” you repeat, obedient and honest, plain and simple. “Now, please.”

Spencer responds by first kissing you, firm and loving. It soothes you, and he punctuates it with a kiss to your cheek, before he’s reaching down and guiding himself between your legs. You feel surprisingly calm, more overcome with love and the light pleasure rolling down your back as he drags himself over your clit than you are by nerves. Still, you pointedly hold his gaze, not looking down in case you psych yourself out. He slots himself in place, tip resting against your entrance. 

“Remember, if you need to stop at any point—”

“I remember,” you cut him off hurriedly. 

Okay. So perhaps you’re still slightly nervous. 

He watches you, sympathetic though you’re not sure what for. 

“I need you as relaxed as possible, okay? I want this to be easy on you.”

You take a moment, scanning your whole body for tense muscles. When you feel sufficiently relaxed, you offer Spencer a small nod, and at that, he begins pushing into you ever so slightly. 

At first, it just feels foreign. He’s going so slowly, so carefully, you’re not sure he’s moving at all—until he finds resistance and the odd full feeling changes to a hint of burning stretch. Your hips jump and your breath catches, and Spencer stops immediately, relieving the pressure with a tiny shift in position. 

“It’s gonna hurt,” you realize, eyes darting between his like he might be able to tell you otherwise. You’d always been aware of the possibility, but you were holding out hope that you’d be one of those people who didn’t experience any pain their first time. 

“Just for a minute. Then it’ll feel good, angel.”

You swallow and nod. At the end of the day, you trust him completely. You trust him enough to let him hurt you. 

“Super deep breaths for me.”

He watches intently as you follow his directions, taking several deep breaths in succession, before he begins pushing into you once more. The pressure builds and builds until he pushes past that point of resistance, and it’s like he’s breaking you in two. 

“Ah,” you gasp, abs twisting as your body tries to escape the sensation without any input from you. 

“I know. I know, baby, that was the hardest part. Breathe.”

He drops his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles with light pressure to distract from the pain.

You nod, lips pressed together tight as the deep ache muddles your brain. It’s an insistent pressure against something does not seem to want to budge. It burns and stretches and is laced with sour, flirtatious pleasure so that you can hardly tell what it is you’re feeling. Mostly, you’re dizzy and hot.

“Relax, just like that,” he strains, looking down. “My good girl. We’re almost there, baby.”

Cries spill unbidden from your mouth and your eyes shut as he continues to open you up deeper, until finally, finally, his hips settle into the cradle of yours. 

Spencer sighs a curse under his breath, so quiet you don’t think it was meant for you. 

He’s inside of you. It’s bizarre. 

You whimper, and he snaps out of whatever revery he’d been in. 

“You okay? How does that feel?”

You take a shuddering breath, closing your eyes and trying to clear your head to no avail—your thoughts are like TV static. 

“I’m good. I need… I need a minute.”

“You can have as much time as you need. It’s a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you admit, voice small and weak. 

“I bet,” he agrees, peppering soft kisses all over your face. “But you’re doing so well. Proud of you, brave girl. You’re doing so well and we’re gonna make sure it feels good soon, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

“Will you please kiss me again?” you whisper, and Spencer’s brow knits with concern. 

“Of course, angel. Of course I’ll kiss you,” he says, and makes good on his promise with his lips on yours. It sweetens the ache. “I’ll do whatever you want. You can have anything. You’re so perfect.”

He kisses you again, just as lovingly, and soft, like you’re delicate. All the praise is only contributing to your lightheadedness, but you don’t mind at all. It feels good. 

“You can… you can move.”

“Okay. We’ll go really slow, yeah?”

He waits for your nod before his hips are pulling back and you arch at the odd sensation. When he pushes back in, eyes carefully locked on yours the whole time, you keen slightly, frowning and brain shorting out as it tries and fails to process this new feeling. 

“Uh-huh. You’re okay, I promise.”

At first it doesn’t feel good. It mostly hurts. But slowly, the pain begins to abate as you acclimate to having him inside of you, and he’s careful the whole time. 

“Spence?” 

“Hm?”

He sounds concentrated on the task at hand—you’re entranced by the sight of him above you, the parted lips, the unkempt hair over the brow furrowed in pleasure and focus. But he’s never too busy for you. 

“Does it… um—” you pause to hold back a whine—“what does it feel like for you?”

At this, he slows even further and chuckles—it’s a strained, slightly breathy sound. 

“For me?”

“Mhm.”

“You feel perfect, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

The slight fry in Spencer’s voice as he curses, which is a rare event in and of itself, flips your stomach, turns you on immensely. The idea that you’re giving him pleasure too—it’s almost overwhelming. That’s when it starts feeling good. 

“Oh—” you squeak, jaw dropping and bucking your hips inadvertently as the first bolt of true pleasure shocks deep in your core. He hums. 

“Yeah, is that it, sweet girl?”

But you can’t answer for a long moment. Your brain is melting as your legs lock around him. 

“Mm—it’s—it feels…”

“I know it does,” Spencer murmurs.

You whine and press your face into the curve of his shoulder as each thrust gently rocks your body. As the pace picks up bit by bit, you feel yourself clenching hard around him. His hips stutter and he hisses. 

“Ah. Can’t do that, lovely.”

“What? Did I hurt you?”

He laughs breathily. 

“No, you didn’t hurt me. You almost pushed me out. You have to relax.”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “’M trying.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I know you’re trying, baby, you’re being so good for me.”

Your nails skim his back—a small expression of a much larger desperation. Once he’s sure you’re relaxed around him, begins going faster. 

Your gasps and soft moans come more often now as he finds a steady rhythm and it feels so different when he’s actually fucking you. It feels like he’s everywhere. Every time your hips meet you feel the sweet shock of it in your teeth, your toes, the back of your neck. In the best way, you feel consumed by him. It’s not at all like you’d imagined, and it’s perfect. 

“Wait, Spencer,” you breathe, struggling to form the words. Immediately he stops again, lifting his head from your shoulder to examine your face. 

“What is it?”

He sounds just as wrecked as you feel, panting and strained and it feels good to hear. 

“I wanna watch.”

For a moment his eyes dart between yours like he’s trying to determine what you really mean—but you said exactly what you meant. Then he laughs, a huff of air from his nose as he presses his head to yours and gives you a quick kiss.

Your toes curl as he readjusts his position, holding himself a little higher and resting your heads together so you can both look between your bodies. 

“There,” he murmurs as he slowly begins to withdraw again. “Like that?”

But you can’t answer, because you’re too busy whimpering at the sight of him pushing into you. The feeling seems to increase tenfold as you watch it happen. Distantly you wonder how the fuck it fits. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Like that.”

Spencer takes this as a blessing to find a pace again, slower now as he seems to be just as enthralled by the sight as you are. 

“Give me your leg,” he rasps after a few moments like that, and you don’t know what he means exactly but you lift your right leg slightly only for him to press his hand to the back of your knee and push toward your chest, effectively opening you up and giving him more range of motion. It also enables him to fuck you even deeper. Again he slows, apparently savoring the feel of you yielding around him all the way down to the hilt. 

Black spots dance in your eyes as he settles at your deepest point—not pain, necessarily, just overwhelming sensation. Your jaw drops and you choke out a moan as he presses into recesses you didn’t know you had, as he shows you a part that you might have gone the rest of your life without knowing existed. He stops there, like that. Everything stops there, like that. If the cars on the road below ceased to drive, if the airplanes froze in the sky, you’d not be the least bit surprised. Somehow, you’ve unlocked a small eternity. There’s no sound but your joint heavy breathing and your heart pounding in your ears. The words just come bubbling up out of you in a little whine. 

“I love you.”

Spencer’s breath pauses for a moment before he’s letting it all out at once, brushing his lips up the ridge of your nose before they settle on your forehead in what seems like a permanent kiss. A few breaths in, you allow your eyes to flutter shut. Your heart rate slows down a touch, and you settle into the moment, never having been quite so content as you are like this—never having felt quite so adored and safe. 

“I love you,” he finally echoes, voice rasping, lips still pressed to your skin, still breathing against your hair. When he starts to move again, drawing back ever so slowly, you hiss softly. He raises his head from yours, and you look away from where he’s pulling out, meeting his eyes just in time for him to push back in, just as deep. They shine in the mostly-dark room and you moan unabashedly. It’s a high-pitched, sweet thing, nothing that will have the neighbors complaining—but so clearly true, from the depths of your soul, an expression of everything you’re feeling—not just the pleasure. 

Although that’s good, too, as Spencer shapes you to him again and again, the head of his cock kissing places nobody’s ever been and places you hope nobody else will ever venture to. This is all you need. Him. 

“Jesus,” Spencer groans, eyes fixed on your face as he fucks you slowly. But you can’t bring yourself to talk, too new to this kind of pleasure to find it anything other than mind-boggling and world altering. Your lips are still parted, allowing each sound to pass without filter. “Listen to you, beautiful.”

When he stops again, just to look down and marvel at you, you’re conflicted. On the one hand, you can taste the pleasure on the back of your tongue and he keeps taking it away when it’s so close. But on the other—you’re just as overwhelmed as he said you’d be. Your body has never had to process this kind of sensory information before, and you’re exhausted, but it’s so good. 

“Spencer,” you manage. He looks up, pupils blown and eyes lidded where they’d normally be wide. “Please don’t stop.”

He swallows, spurred into action again as soon as you say it. 

“Good?”

You nod and whine again as he picks up the pace bit by bit, remembering to push your leg back once more so he can get as deep as you need him. 

“So good,” you exhale at the top pitch of your voice. Your brows pinch and you release a fuller moan as Spencer finds a speed that’s fast enough to constantly feel good no matter where he is. You’re gasping for breath, back arching—and he finds a new angle, catching against the spot inside you that renders all those years of human evolution that gave you sentience and intelligence a waste. He chuckles airily at your series of series of affronted moans and halted gasps. 

“Right there? That's a good spot, isn’t it?”

“Oh, go—fuck, fuck!”

It feels so good it almost hurts, and your eyes are stinging to prove it. Your legs clamp tighter around him and you realize there’s a very lewd wet sound and you can’t believe that’s you. 

“Spencer, you’re—oh my god, I love you,” you whine, and it sounds like you’re pleading for your life. At this makes his own sound of pleasure, and hastens his messy circles on your clit as if in reward. 

But it’s too much all combined. 

Your hand claps to your mouth to obscure the loud, licentious moan that comes out—but Spencer immediately moves his hand from between your legs to grab your wrist and pin it gently to the bed, intertwining your fingers. 

“Don’t do that. Let me hear.”

You nod, and he lets go of your hand to return his fingers to your clit. If possible you get wetter around his cock—you can feel yourself gushing. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine as if pained. 

“Yeah? Gonna finally let me feel you cumming, angel?”

He has a filthy mouth when he wants to. The words hit like high voltage to your core and the very pit of your stomach. You can’t even respond beyond a desperate sob. 

“Show me, baby. I’m right here. Let go.”

You cum around his cock with a broken cry and it’s like a purge of every drop of angst you’d felt over the past week or so—hell, it’s a purge of all the insecurities that had bubbled to the surface since you started dating him. None of it matters anymore. How could it matter when you have him? When you have this?

The orgasm washes you out like a tidal wave, taking everything with it. It’s strong, and it’s so good, so intense, your body is overwrought with sensation and it’s too much even though it’s perfect. Your brain is drawing a blank as it tries to react to the feeling, and it’s like every button on the damn panel has been hit. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” Spencer grits, and you feel it in the way he adjusts his position, shifting as he grips at the edge of the mattress for leverage and the thrusts become messier, needier. You gasp as his other hand tangles in your hair, turning your head to ghost your lips over his forearm. It’s not entirely surprising when his own lips find your shoulder—but the feeling of him finding his release just as his teeth sink into your skin does come as quite a shock. It doesn’t hurt, and you’re sure there’s no skin broken, but it’s an undeniable fact that he has grounded himself in the throes of passion by biting down on you.

Inside you, he feels hot. Searing, almost, as his spend tries to fill space that doesn’t exist. There is absolutely no room for anything else inside of you. Stars dance in your eyes at the overstimulation, but long after he’s finished he’s still fucking into you—albeit much slower and with far less technique. Spencer moans like a two bit whore, like he’s reached pain to a point of ecstasy, and to you it’s as good, as special as the singing of the planets. If he’s as sensitive as you are now, it’s no small feat for him to keep going on like this. It’s a testament to how much he doesn’t want it to be over. The pleasure is carrying him away, but you’re beginning to feel how soft you must be and how if he continues on like this you may bruise like an overripe peach. 

“Spencer,” you manage, skating your hand up and down his back in what you hope are soothing lines. “Baby.”

He whines as his lips detach from your shoulder, but his hips finally slow to a stop, nestled inside you. 

“Jesus, fuck, I'm sorry,” he breathes, opting now to bury his face in your neck (with significantly less biting this time).

You’re still reeling, toes still curled, still struggling to breathe as your head spins and spins and spins. His chest pushes against yours with every heaving breath, hot and heavy on your skin, and that’s the only sign he’s still alive until his hand eventually reanimates in your hair, scratching your head tenderly. 

For a span of minutes, you stay like that—silent, twined together like caducean serpents. His weight on top of you is perfect. This, the lack of differentiation between your body and his, is perfect. You don’t know where he ends and you begin and you don’t need to. It’s a blissful moment. 

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, lifting his head to look at you with flushed cheeks and messy hair and sparkly eyes. 

“Hi.”

He smiles. 

“You’re so pretty.”

“You too,” you murmur, moving your hand from his back and pressing your thumb into the hollow of his cheek. His eyes map the curves of your face as he pushes your surely askew hair back. 

“How do you feel?”

It takes you a moment to seriously consider his question, scanning your body for any undue pains, but for the moment, you find none, beyond a dull aching throb that you can manage. 

“Good. Tired.”

You wince at the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. Spencer hums sympathetically and presses a sticky kiss to your lips which makes it a little better, though you can’t ignore how uncomfortable all the previously pleasant wetness has become between your legs. 

“Here—stay here, I’ll get a wash cloth and—”

“It’s fine,” you insist, holding on even as he tries to roll off of you. “I just need… will you stay here for a little bit?”

“Of course,” he promises, now pressed close to your side and propped up on an elbow, “whatever you want.”

You lavish in his gaze, warm like a spotlight, as he strokes your cheek and plays with your hair. Very quickly you’re lulled into a doze, eyes fluttering shut. Minutes stretch. You feel drunk on waking dreams, and perfectly at peace. Safe. 

“Angel girl,” he christens you fondly. More than anything, it’s an observation, so lovely it sinks into your skin like a balm, soothing every tired muscle and little mark he’d made. Even half-asleep, it makes you smile. 

“You’re an angel,” you slur, reaching blindly for him, and he chuckles, catching your wrist and helpfully settling your hand on his cheek. 

“I thought you were asleep.”

You hum, “mm-mm,” looking up at him with just as much adoration as he has for you. Those cuddle hormones must be kicking in because soon you’re attempting to pull him back on top of you. He doesn’t quite comply, probably for fear of crushing you—rather he settles next to you, gathering you in his arms. 

Silence blankets the two of you, but it’s not unpleasant as you just watch each other with barely-there smiles curling your mouths. This kind of intimacy still manages to give you butterflies, even after everything else you’ve done. This kind of satisfaction, reverie in the sound of each other’s blood flowing and lungs filling. Setting aside words because you don’t need conversation as a pretense for wanting to be around each other anymore. You don’t need an excuse to look at him like this. You don’t need words any more than you need clothes. It’s enough to just be. 

“I love you,” he says, a soft reminder, and entirely redundant with the way he’d already been looking at you, touching you. 

“I know. I love you too.”

The smile flickers brighter on his face. 

“And thank you.”

Your eyes narrow minutely as you consider what he could possibly be thanking you for. 

“For what?”

“For loving me. And trusting me. It’s…” your heart squeezes as you realizes tears are pooling in his eyes. He takes a moment and clears his throat. It’s incredibly endearing. “It means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

You look down, thumbing at the sheets where you’ve hoisted them over your bodies. 

“You do realize how lame we are if we have sex and both immediately start crying, right?”

At this he laughs loudly but not loud enough to pop the little bubble you’re in, and you look up just in time to catch the brilliance of his smile, the way it changes his whole face and he becomes superhuman in his beauty, the lines that form by his eyes and the way they narrow and crystalline tears bead his lashes like precious gems. 

“Don’t cry,” he requests gently, hypocritically as your own eyes sting. The way his smile fades is like the sun setting. Gorgeous, like everything else he does. “You’ve cried so much, honey. Please don’t cry.”

You sniffle, gathering yourself. 

“I’m not. That would be pathetic.”

Spender leans forward to kiss you tenderly a few more times. Ordinarily you’d worry about coming across as clingy when you hold onto him so closely and so insistently like this, but for now you don’t care. Neither does he, it seems, as he seems unable to get you close enough. Eventually, you end up curled against him, head tucked under his chin and dozing on and off as he traces shapes into your skin. 

“What are you writing?” You mumble some time later, cheek smushed against his shoulder. He only responds with a soft hm, like he was lost deep in thought. You clarify, “it feels like you were writing something.”

“She Walks in Beauty.”

Your lips pull into a sleepy smile. 

“The Lord Byron poem?”

The first time you’d met Spencer, he’d inadvertently caused your painstakingly annotated copy of Lord Byron’s works to go flying all over a cafe, and then kindly helped clean up the pages and reorder them for you in record time. Among the poems had been She Walks in Beauty. 

“Yeah. I was trying to figure out when exactly I fell in love with you, and as someone who is deeply skeptical about love at first sight, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I keep coming back to our first conversation. I mean, I believe in genetic compatibility, and how that contributes to attraction and what we think of as chemistry, but—”

“Wait, what about our first conversation did it?” Your cheeks ache from smiling as you speak. “As I recall I was being a bitch and I was covered in coffee.”

He laughs dreamily, still tracing letters over the small of your back. You wonder what part of the poem he’s at now. 

“Yeah, mean to me and covered in coffee is pretty much exactly my type. But I think it was actually the annotations on that copy of Lord Byron’s works. They were so insightful, and personal, I—it kind of took my breath away, and I know I shouldn’t have read them all but I couldn’t stop. You were compelling, and charming, and funny and wildly intelligent and beautiful and… and I didn’t stand a chance.”

Everything aches. It’s a good ache. Despite being seconds from tearing up all over again, you snort. He never told you about that first day.

“You thought me writing ‘sister fucker’ in all caps every time he mentioned Augusta was charming?”

“Oh, obscenely so. But now that I’m looking back, I feel like… I feel like I can’t remember not being in love with you. I mean, I remember when I realized I was, and that was later. But it was like I met you, and then I was just… waiting for you to catch up.”

You grab his hand and interlace your fingers, watching the way the ambient nighttime light from the window and the bathroom dips them half in color. 

“We were pretty much on the same page. I was debating courthouse versus small intimate ceremony as soon as you left.”

You watch him watching your joined hands, features soft and relaxed, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly as he speaks. 

“Definitely small intimate ceremony. I have too many friends who would kill me if they weren’t invited to the wedding.”

You giggle and pretend the thought doesn’t give you butterflies. You imagine a ring on your finger, the one he’s got between his own. Marriage had never been something you’d considered. Not when you had no reason to. It seemed like something for other people. But maybe one day, it will be for you, too. 

“Did you know Lord Byron had a daughter who is regarded by many as the first computer programmer? She wrote the first algorithm for a theoretical machine that was so complex it couldn’t be built with the technology available at the time. It was called an Analytical Engine.”

He sounds almost wistful as he gives you the utterly unprompted, but still welcome, abridged version of her life. The description is ringing a bell—but you can’t quite place her, sleepy as you are.  

“What was her name?”

“Ada Lovelace. She was exceptionally gifted. The odds of parent and child being so extraordinary in their respective fields are incalculable, but from a purely theoretical perspective, negligible. I mean, they’re both massive historical figureheads. That’s extremely uncommon.”

You adore it when he goes off on these tangents—the passion that stains his voice, the ardor that grips him until he has no choice but to tell you exactly what’s got him so excited. You could listen to him talk for hours. It means he’s here with you, and he wants you to love what he loves. 

Since he met you, that’s all Spencer has wanted—for you to love what he loves. 

You want the same. 

“Pretty name,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.” 

-

part eight

[jiangshiu]

۶ৎ cho hyun-ju x reader — braiding her hair

slightly edited as of 1/7

her hair is tangled, nowhere near as styled as it was upon her arrival.

your fingers gently thread through the brown mess — the texture is not as brittle as you'd expected, pleasant to the touch just enough that you want to keep your hands buried in it for just a while longer.

so, for a few more minutes, you allow yourself to slack off, to enjoy the feeling of hyun-ju's surprisingly soft locks. she doesn't utter a word as you play with and twirl her hair, not even when you accidentally tug at the ends a bit too roughly.

it's only when you pull away, about to start working on your masterpiece (or in other words, the braid) that she finally speaks up, her voice quiet, timid, “...i've never had anyone do this for me before. thank you again.”

her confession makes you pause. for a moment, your brain struggles to pick an appropriate reaction. you want to express pity, console her, ask her more, but you'd rather not open any old wounds.

instead, you settle for the simple truth; “in that case i'm honored to be the first one to do this.”

with that said, you finally get to work. you divide hyun-ju's hair into three neat sections, interlacing the strands together. you take your time, treating each piece of the braid like it might break if you as much as twist it the wrong way. every piece falls into place perfectly like a puzzle as you intertwine the dark locks, your pace intentionally slow, leisurely.

a shaky breath slips through hyun-ju's lips, her shoulders slinking back a bit as she lets herself succumb to the gentle motion of your hands. despite not being able to see her face, you're certain her eyes are closed, drowning in the sensation.

“if...” you start, nearing the split ends of her hair, “when we get out of here, i think we should try out more hairstyles. and get ourselves some cute hair accessories. oh, actually, we should go to the mall and buy some pretty clothes as well! what do you think?”

it's like you can hear her lips curl into a small, appreciative smile, “i'd like that,” she admits.

as you secure hyun-ju's locks with a hair tie, a smile blooms on your face as well, “i'm counting on it then.”

“there,” your fingertips follow the length of the braid — truthfully, it's far from perfect, a few stray strands sticking out here and there, but little do you know she won't really mind.

hyun-ju turns around to face you. her black eyes carry a hint of uncertainty, like she's unsure of herself, “thank you,” she repeats, “it means a lot.”

the reluctance in her voice is loud and clear. she doesn't want to lose this precious moment of serenity just yet. because neither of you know when you'll have the opportunity to do something like this again, or if there even is a chance to escape this death filled land.

“actually, hold on, i'm not done yet.”

for the final touch, you tuck out two strands at the front. curling each strand in between your index fingers to give them a temporary wave, you catch hyun-ju's eyes slowly trailing down your face. she seems to be absolutely entranced by you — from the way your lips are pursed in concentration, to the kindness in your gaze that nobody else here has bothered to show her.

“you're watching me like a hawk,” you tease her with a toothy smile, tugging on one of the strands lightly.

that seems to pull her out of her trance-like state. she blinks a few times and looks down at her lap in shame, nervously wringing her hands, “sorry...”

“don't apologize,” you shake your head. you fluff up her bangs a bit as you continue, “i don't mind it if it's you looking at me.”

hyun-ju clears her throat. a faint blush dusts her cheeks as her fingers brush against her new hairstyle, careful not to dishevel it, “how do i look?”

your smile brightens.

“as beautiful as ever.”

[dollzites]

⏦ﾟ♡︎ “YOU’RE INSANELY ADORABLE LIKE THIS”

୨ৎ pairing: boyfriend!seunghyun x fem reader

୨ৎ genre: fluff! slight suggestiveness

୨ৎ from myeong: ahhhh!! my first ever love. I’m so happy to be writing for him. thank you for requesting and I hope you can enjoy x

a soft sigh left your lips when you turned to look towards the smaller clock that was neatly placed on the wall, something that seunghyun just had to have for some odd reason. something about ‘it makes the room pop!’ which you never understood his artistic ways. all that mattered to you was him coming home soon from his long hours of shooting for squid game season 2. although you were insanely excited about this opportunity he had to come back into the spotlight and show off his acting skills, you missed him dearly. finding yourself going through your camera roll of all the pictures you’d taken of him mostly off guard doing whatever it was that he enjoyed doing and some of them he took of himself on your phone just so you could have them—which was your favorite. a smile tugging at your lips when you heard the familiar sound of the passcode being punched in and you knew it was him. quickly turning off your phone and tossing it to the side you lifted your body and ran towards the door where he would be coming in at, slightly jumping up and down from the excitement that was running through your veins. getting a glimpse of his tired eyes your lips formed a frown but was quickly turned upside down when he smiled at you, shyness coming over you.

“well? is my girl gonna come hug me or not?” and without another word spoken you ran into his arms and wrapped your legs around his waist knowing that he would catch you and keep you safe within those strong arms you adored so much. what seunghyun loved the most about you was your caring, affectionate, and shy personality. although you two had been together for almost a year now it was something new with him every single day and that’s what kept the relationship alive and well. you both learned something new about each other and so far? his favorite? was your shyness. you kept your face hidden in the warmth of his neck while his hands stayed put on your waist. feeling him take off his shoes and walk into the living room where you just were moments before. he took a seat on the couch and leaned back against the soft cushion with a sigh, gently pulling on you to look at him.

“you know I like it when I can see your face, hm? you’re being so shy right now.. missed me?” all you did was nod but kept your arms wrapped around his neck, wanting to keep close to him as much as you could. taking in your favorite scent of his cologne and shampoo. “I missed you so much. I know you’ve been busy shooting but I can’t help but to miss you and need you here with me.” you softly whispered not even wanting to say such a thing in the first place. his deep chuckle filled the room and you whined in response knowing he was about to tease you for being such a needy girl. slowly but surely you finally lifted your head to look at him which was a mistake because once your eyes found his beautiful large ones it felt like you were stuck. couldn’t move but it was the greatest feeling. every single time you were like this and all you could feel was shyness and embarrassment come over you. seunghyun knew it and lifted a large hand to cradle your face keeping you right where he wanted you to be, “you’re insanely adorable like this.” is all he said before leaning in to press his lips against your own in a sweet but passionate kiss. your smaller hands found his warm wrists and held onto them tightly as if he would disappear once you let go. once he pulled away you went to hide your face in his neck again but he quickly stopped you from doing so and that’s when you felt his warm soft lips against your neck. you squirmed from the feeling and he kept you in place on his lap.

“stop squirming silly, you’re so cute did you know that? such a cute girl. you’re my girl. all mine and only I can make you like this.” he said in between kisses that he continued to place against your neck, which was correct—only seunghyun could make you feel this shyness. “seunghyun..” is all you could say not wanting to embarrass yourself any further and that’s all he needed to hear to stop and stare at you for a few moments wanting to take in the cuteness that he was seeing. it only made you feel more flustered and shy and he knew that, that’s why he did such a thing. looking away from him he quickly grabbed ahold of your jaw and forced you to look at him again his head shaking with a slight ‘tsk’ leaving his lips. “want to see my cute girls face. especially when you’re so flustered like this.” is all he said before pulling you into another kiss, lifting you and himself off of the couch and heading into your shared bedroom.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Papaya Rules | Oscar Piastri x Driver! Reader

Summary: From on-track rivals to reluctant teammates, the trauma of team orders issued by Mclaren bond you and Oscar in a way you never expected. 

Warnings: mentions of papaya rules, swearing

Requested: Yes by @1800-love-me (a while ago. oops)

F1 Masterlist

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

2023 

f1 posted a new story

itsyn_ln replied and that’s community service for piastri  → f1 girl, aren’t you supposed to be in the media pen → itsyn_ln five more minutes → i’m in no rush 

mclaren replied no time to explain but we need you to delete this before oscar sees → we need them to get along

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

mclaren just posted

liked by landonorris, jackdoohan and others

mclaren breaking news mclaren f1 racing is pleased to announce that yn ln will be joining the team in 2024, alongside oscar piastri, on a multi-year contract. we cannot wait to see what she can achieve with us

33,814 comments

itsyn_ln thank you for this opportunity! now i need to figure out how to make orange look good on me 

→ mclaren everything looks good on you

username1 wait, what? she’s oscar’s public enemy #1 and now she’ll be his teammate?

oscarpiastri and this is how i find out?

→ mclaren we didn’t want to give you a chance to protest

→ pierregasly i knew before oscar did? ha! 

→ oscarpiastri don’t make me still target the pink car next year

→ itsyn_ln i’m feeling unwanted 

jackdoohan @/itsyn_ln thanks for the seat 

→ itsyn_ln i hope i kept it warm for you! 

username2 poor osc is going to have to learn to manage this oddness

→ username3 poor osc is probably more focused on having to learn not to strangle her

alpinef1team losing another driver to the sinister evil and orange team 

→ itsyn_ln at least you’ll miss me. i’m starting to think pierre lied when he said he would

→ pierregasly of course i did. you were staring straight at me without blinking

username4 don’t get me wrong, i can’t wait to see yn in a better car but i fear this was poor planning on mclaren’s part. they’re going to struggle with managing their drivers 

landonorris i’m sorry, osco. i didn’t know me leaving was going to lead to this

→ oscarpiastri you’re not forgiven. 

username5 i fear mclaren are not going to have the dream team they were expecting

→ username6 they need to prepare to see both papaya cars dnf’ing all the time next year

username7 i need that jacket! 

→ mclaren all yn merch coming soon! 

→ username8 they move fast. they’ve already got her in papaya and prepared to release her papaya merch 

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

2024

mclaren just posted

liked by patriciooward, gabrielbortoleto_ and others

mclaren and it’s a papaya 1-2 what a race! a phenomenal display of teamwork from oscar and yn

55,098 comments

username9 wtf was that 

username10 i can’t decide which one of them was robbed more 

username11 so they want them to become friends but then force them to concede wins???

username12 i never want to hear the phrase ‘papaya rules’ again. idk what it means but i know it was shit

username13 the fact that neither of them have interacted with this post shows that they’re not happy with their 1-2

username14 you guys need to chill. they were coming under fire from max, and yn was faster. oscar was holding her up and if they hadn’t have switched, max could’ve had them both 

→ username15 there was two laps left. i’m sure they could’ve managed it

→ username14 did you not see all the purple sectors max was setting 

username16 i hope oscar doesn’t blame yn for this

username17 unrelated but i love how much shorter yn is than osc in this pic. they’re so cute

→ username18 they’re mortal enemies. don’t start romanticising them

→ username19 they are so enemies to lovers coded 

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oscarpiastri just posted

liked by itsyn_ln, arthur_leclerc and others

oscarpiastri enjoying a week off

44,287 comments

mclaren does this mean we’re friends again

→ oscarpiastri not yet

username1 mr piastri, sir, um, is that a WOMAN?

username2 look, it’s very nice to see that you’re alive and well but we no longer care about that because who is that in the last pic?! 

charles_leclerc son, you didn’t tell me about this 

landonorris a new teammate and a new partner. i see i’m being fully replaced

→ oscarpiastri don’t fuel the rumours about us

username3 oh so this is why twitter is freaking out

username4 the linked hands

username5 yn liked this? are they friends now??

itsyn_ln just posted

liked by mclaren, landonorris and others

itsyn_ln my boyfriend just won a grand prix, bitches! 

73,220 comments

pierregasly was this meant to be posted on the burner account??

→ itsyn_ln oh shit

→ oscarpiastri oh, sweetheart

→ charles_leclerc and everyone thought i would tell! 

itsyn_ln well, no point deleting it now. enjoy

→ username6 yn and oscar are dating?!!?

→ username7 and he calls her sweetheart?!?!?

username8 no one understands how precious these two are to me

username9 enemies to lovers come true

username10 these two were written by a wattpad user

alpinef1team sometimes we think we miss you and then you do stuff like this 

→ mclaren sure you don’t want her back 

→ username11 noooo don’t take our papaya partners away from us 

username12 i’ve only had ynoscar for five minutes but if anything happens to them, i will kill everyone

username13 they said i was crazy but i knew! i knew there was passion between their feud

landonorris and you did so good to not kiss him in front of the cameras

→ oscarpiastri she’s more annoyed that now she shouldn’t have bothered

→ itsyn_ln want to smooch you for the world to see

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requests open

coming soon; max taste part 3 and franco x driver! reader

[endearng]

Third time's the charm

Pairing: virgin!Spencer Reid x fem!reader Summary: During one of your movie nights with Spencer, you decide to, once again, take the lead. Or, you got cockblocked so often that you almost thought it wouldn't happen. WC: 3.1k Warnings: smut (nipple play and dry humping); reader thinks spencer might be asexual but he's just a shy puppy; they are desperate for each other; "ruined" movie night; virgin!Spencer my beloved. (I guess that's it. If I forgot something, please let me know!) A/N: Aaaand here it is! I didn't think I'd write smut so soon, hehe. I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it - it's actually a sequel to Dearest friend, but can be read as a stand-alone. Feedbacks are highly welcomed and appreciated. <3 Masterlist

"It’s nice we finally have some time for each other," you hummed in agreement. "Thanks for coming over," Spencer said.

"You don't have to thank me," you said, sitting down on his couch after placing the drinks you chose from his fridge on the coffee table. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," you confessed. It got him blushing.

Spencer started one of your movies. It was your choice: you usually took turns picking out a movie to watch together whenever you had the chance, since neither of you were keen of going out that often and you didn't have much time outside of work. It was a fun opportunity to know more of each other through your personal taste, since he often chose foreign films about humanities and you, well, you made him watch Easy A, which got him talking about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter.

After the movies, you would talk to each other about it, maybe mentioning a personal experience that you remembered thanks to a particular scene or a character's arch. Maybe you would kiss.

Which was a problem. Well, not a problem, but, you see, you didn't have much time together other than going to each other's houses and out on a few dates, which were your favorite: Spencer often found the most beautiful, cozy places to take you, like coffee shops, museums, bookshops and libraries, followed by a nice dinner at a local restaurant. It was during one of those dates that something gave him the nerve to touch your hand. Holding hands quickly escalated to having his hands around you at all times possible, and it got to the point where you nearly had to peel off of him when he got too comfortable and you sadly had to leave to do something. These moments of physical touch were making you go insane, thinking about making a bolder move on him, but you thought that maybe he wasn't ready. Plus the fact that you seemed to be interrupted whenever things got too heated.

If you had a nickel for everytime you and Spencer had to stop right before you got intimate (in any way, really), you'd have two nickels, which isn't much, but it's weird that it happened twice. It was like the universe (more like Hotch and the gore that surrounded the team) were set on a mission for you to never have sex again. Besides that, more extreme thoughts plagued your mind and told you that maybe he wasn’t attracted to you like that. It often made you go home feeling a little bit insecure.

You knew that it was better to assume, but you were only human. After some pep talk with yourself on the way to his place, you convinced yourself that you would have to have this conversation with him, sooner or later. You thought so hard about this that you even came up with the possibility that he was asexual — you were fine with it if he was, obviously, because being with him made you feel whole. Still, you wanted, you needed to get this off your chest before you exploded with assumptions and unrequited feelings. Unrequited desire.

You decided to try to be subtle. Scratching the back of his head with your nails lovingly, you both watched the movie. "What are you doing?" He asked, looking at you. You could see the goosebumps on his arm, that must have been the trigger for the question coming out of his lips. You gave him a soft smile.

"It's called affection, pretty boy," you kissed the tip of his nose. "And I don't intend on stopping anytime soon."

You kissed his left cheek when he turned to look at the TV screen.

Then, you turned his head gently to kiss the right one. He glanced between your eyes and your lips, so of fucking course you were about to kiss him, but you decided to tease him a little and pecked the tip of his nose and gently kissed his forehead instead. He breathed out a laugh. Ticklish. It made you wonder where else he would be sensitive.

Stop, you slut of a brain.

When you were about to kiss his lips, you withdrew your face from his, smooching his cheek instead. He sighed, oblivious to your real intentions, impatient and utterly, stupidly in love with you.

Oops. There goes your heart. Out the window. Taking your judgment with it.

"Spence?"

"Yes?"

"Can I do something?"

"Yes," he answered. "You know can do anything, baby."

"This is a very dangerous thing to say to a girl who has the feelings I have for you," you said, grinning. His expression morphed into one that almost looked like sheer panick.

You slowly moved to straddle his lap, giving him plenty of time to stop you if he wanted to, his legs trapped between yours. You sat yourself on the top of his thighs. He watched every movement feeling like the world stopped and there were the both of you, moving in slow motion, movie long forgotten behind you. His breath hitched when he came to his senses and noticed the position you were in, now that you've done what you had. "Is this okay? It's more comfortable than kissing you like… well, that," you laughed softly.

"Yes. I-It's perfect," he breathed out, hands finding your waist.

You lips finally met his in a kiss that had both of you sighing. You found out that Spencer was a really good kisser — and you were proud to be the one with whom he practiced kissing to perfection —, your lips easily falling into a passionate rhythm. Gasping for air, you pecked him on those perfect lips that were red and puffy from all the assaulting you were doing, but he quickly pulled you in for another, this time, sloppier than ever, encouraged by your own boldness. He was french kissing you. Fairly used to it, but not with the intensity of it, you groaned in welcomed surprise, hands finding the nape of his neck and getting a grip on them, not so gently as you normally did. You pulled his hair down, breaking the kiss, lips tingling and lungs screaming for air. He smirked, feeling smug at the state he left you in.

You rose slightly from his lap, still holding his head and looking straight into his eyes. By holding yourself slightly above him, the pendant of your necklace grazed his chin, like he had imagined many times after watching you fiddle with it. God, it was finally coming true, having you in his arms and intending to let you do whatever you wanted to him and him only, the way that it should be ever since the day you met. You nearly made him go insane, pulling you closer to his body than you ever were, acting like a desperate madman. You smiled down at him and kissed him again, more feverishly than before, trying to tell him through that kiss that you were his. Biting his lower lip and earning a fucking moan, you sat yourself down on him again. You felt his bulge against your clothed core and the light contact made you feel lightheaded.

You were so caught up on him that it almost made you forget you needed to talk to him first. Unfortunately, as you tried to catch your breath and to find the right words to speak, Spencer felt his insecurities creeping up on him. Despite knowing it would be best to talk to you, he felt like voicing it out loud would push you away from him — which he didn't want. He was very comfortable with the indecent small distance between your bodies.

He was fidgety. You knew you needed to address this because your boyfriend wasn't the best at voicing his needs — you remember and giggled internally at how you had been the one to knock on Spencer's door asking him to put an end to your suffering by telling him how you felt. Heh. Kudos to you.

"I wanted to talk about this with you," you murmured, now feeling his kisses peppering the skin of your neck. You knew how much he was hiding from you because he wouldn't stop moving and it was very distracting, but if you didn't speak, it would be the end of you. "I'd ask if you were okay with me and you like this, about taking further steps, shit." You moaned when he fucking bit you and kissed you right after.

He pulled away from you, hands flying up to the back of your head. Foreheads touching, eyes locked in yours. "I want it. I want you, I mean. Been wanting you for some time now—a very long time, yes." He strongly shut his eyes closed, most likely working up the courage to say something. "But I don't want to... disappoint you," he finished, sounding insecure.

Not on your watch.

"Me too, Spence. God, I want you so bad," you answered, unable to look away from him, who now looked down, paying close attention to the rising and falling of your chest. "Hey, look at me, please," you pleaded. His eyes met yours. Oh, those maddening eyes... "Believe me when I tell you, baby, I want you. And if you don't want to do anything, you don't have to. I won't push you, of course. I just wanted to have a conversation with you before, because setting boundaries is important and consent is hot—" he laughed quietly. Making jokes was your go-to way of making situations lighter and he was glad for it then. You smiled when you noticed the sound he made. "And I'm also positively certain that you wouldn't like to have our first time on your couch."

"My first time," he revealed. softly. Eyes not meeting yours.

Oh.

You didn’t falter. "It doesn't change much, baby. I still stand for what I just told you," you assured him, "I want you to enjoy yourself, Spence."

Looking back into your eyes, he declared, "And I want you."

"You can have me," you answered, "You already have."

"You'd need to guide me. You know, hands-on activity. Because I’ve never done it before…" he trailed off.

"Lucky for you, I'm great at teaching."

His grip finds your waist, lips anxiously waiting for yours — and when they touched to mold perfectly in another breathtaking kiss, he felt complete. Like nothing bad could ever happen in the world just because you were in it. His past, his insecurities, the awful things you both saw on the field, nothing mattered. Looking at you, touching you, was a nearly an out of body experience. The things you got him thinking by just kissing him. And he thought his insecurities would get the best of him. Jokes on them, you exist.

You look at him through hooded eyes. "I've never felt like this before. I feel... tingly," he confessed, lovely smile on his face, eyes blinking.

"You're feeling good, handsome," you answered, glancing at his dazed eyes.

A beat of silence. Swallowing second thoughts. "Can you make it better?"

"Is that a request or a challenge?" You asked, grinning.

"A request." He answered shyly, hiding his face on your neck, peppering kisses on your skin. You were going to explode.

"Oh, don't talk to me like that," you shivered, feeling absolutely lost, "I might spoil you and give you everything you want," you sighed.

"Let me have it, then," he answered, voice muffled by your skin.

"I'm all yours, Spencer."

He had the audacity of blushing as his fingers played with the hem of your shirt. You smiled at him. In this state, if he asked for you to run naked around town, you probably would. It was dangerous, to say the least. Softly, yet desperate, the words left his lips. "Can I take this off?" He sucked in a breath. "Please?"

"Yes, pretty boy, you can," you answered. "You can have anything. I thought I already said that."

"Yes—You did. You did," he breathed out between needy kisses across your skin, getting rid of your shirt in no time.

At first, he was mesmerized by the sight in front of him. He hadn't seen many naked (or semi-naked) women in front of him, but you were something out of this world. The bra you were wearing matched your skin tone and pushed your breasts together and there was the fucking necklace, almost mocking him by being constantly so close, too close to the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. The view was almost overwhelming by itself. You looked at him, but he couldn't possibly come up with the words that would describe you in that moment. Words had failed him, nothing else in his mind but you. The tool he used to communicate, to access the world and how it shaped reality, to comprehend the mind of another person, to get to know others... He had nothing left. Except from the pulsing of his boner against your clothed pussy, that is.

Just like that, IQ of 187 slashed to 60, Emily Prentiss said, once. Funnily enough, when you passed by wearing a sundress.

Unable to talk but, oh, so able to use his hands, they traveled up to your breasts with a featherlight touch, which didn't stop him from feeling your heartbeat. He let his hands trail over the soft and sheer fabric of the bra you were wearing. Finding your nipples, his touch got more intense. He licked his lips. His actions made you shudder and sent a spark of excitement to your sex. "Pretty," he said. "So, so pretty, my girl."

"Do you like it?" You asked, breathless from a little touching. Pathetic. "I got these thinking of you. Wanna look pretty for you, Spence."

"You are," he said, looking into your eyes, his own foggy, hands reaching to touch your neck. "You're pretty all the time, it's so unfair to me," he murmured. "I really like them on you, but… can I take ‘em off?"

"Yes. You can do anything, Spence."

Spencer wanted to burn the sight of you, in that slightly disheveled state, in the back of his mind so he could remember it forever — not that he would have a hard time trying to remember anything. Nevertheless, he did everything so slowly, almost as if trying to tattoo on the tip of his fingers the softness and temperature of your skin. He inhaled deeply, consumed by your floral-scented perfume and lifted his hands to unclasp your bra. His fingers curiously, but unhurriedly, lowered each of the straps. Like opening a gift that had been so carefully wrapped he didn't want to ruin.

But did he wanted to be ruined by you.

The sight of your bare chest was marvelous, to say the least, and he timidly grazed his fingertips against the exposed area, eliciting goosebumps and a soft whine. His mouth watered, thoughts simply reduced to the need of having you in his mouth. The striped pattern on the soft skin of your breasts around your nipples were faint, barely there, unless if you took a close look at it. It goes without saying that he was blatantly gazing at your bosom at this point.

Pupils dilated, he looked up at you, hungrily, drawing his face closer to you, curls tickling the skin of your collarbone. He inhaled your scent, mind blanking. Tortuously dragging his lips on your skin (and unintentionally smearing some of his saliva on you, he was drooling, after all) as a silent request, the necklace brushing his forehead slightly. The grind of your hips against his answered his plead to taste you.

"Oh—you're so, so good to me, princess," you moaned when he finally wrapped his lips against the nub, playing with the other.

You felt almost overwhelmed with the attention you were getting and the reaction you were having to said attention. Your underwear was sticking almost uncomfortably against your core and you felt yourself aching for some relief, aching for him. So, as Spencer worked his hot tongue on your tits, licking, softly biting, sucking, making a mess on and of you, you busied yourself by chasing the relief you both desperately wanted. The solace it provided you both with was exhilarating and made you feel dazed.

Steadily rocking yourself against him, you earned a few grunts. "You're making a mess of me, pretty boy," you murmured as he switched his attention to the other boob.

"Give it t'me—I want it, I deserve it," he breathed out, body aching with lust, cock pulsing against your covered clit. His words only fueled the fire inside you, the coil in your lower stomach threatening to snap at anytime now.

"Yeah, you do, my boy," you breathed out, pulling the hair on the nape of his neck, nearly tasting your orgasm, "gonna look so pretty when you come for me, won't you, baby?" Both hands gripping your hips, mouth never leaving your skin. You sure would be bruised by tomorrow, but this, this was definitely worth it.

"Yes—Yes, I will," He whined. He fucking whined.

"Tell, me—ah—where do you want to cum, baby?"

"Shit—" until then, you were sure that was a word you'd never hear him saying, let alone that freely. "Gonna—Shitshitshit," moaning out your name.

That's when it hit you that he had cummed his pants. It was such a fat load that it had seeped through both his underwear and his slacks — which prompted you to reach your own high with a moan of his name directly into his ear.

Both of you feeling dizzy, you slump against him, feeling his arms wrapping your frame as you rested your head on his shoulder. You both took deep breaths, the only sound in the room. Well, besides the movie you both totally ignored.

"I can't get up right now... My legs feel wobbly," you chuckled. "Are you okay, Spence?" You asked, looking at him when you didn't get an answer.

"Yeah, 'm fine," he answered, "I mean, I'll be fine as soon as I recover from you."

You laughed sincerely, "From me? What have I done to you?"

"You gave me what I wanted, you spoiled me, you broke me," he said, a silly smile adorning his pretty face. You pushed him playfully. "I can't even explain what I'm feeling right now. My brain has stopped working ever since you straddled me. Are you trying to kill me?"

"No, babe."

"Wrong answer. You're so gonna keep doing that to me, so you'll definitely be trying to killing me from now on." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head.