#I feel like it’s more likely to be the second one but the first one isn’t entirely out of the question

[tonycries]

RAW-MANCE!

Synopsis. First time he can’t pull out = first time he’s losing his mind.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, not pulling out, FÉRAL men, creampíes, heats (Choso), knots, squírting, running from it, he’s BIG, matíng presses, making it fit, true form Sukuna, dp, ínnapropríate use of jujutsu, cúmplay, overstím, jealousy (Nanami’s side), they get REALLY pússydrúnk, pull out game WEAK, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. AIpha Tony just started her shark week, F

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Tight fit!

“Toji, why are you so big- oh.”

Your tear-glazed eyes scrunch closed at the force of one of his roughened palms pressing down on your tummy. Jade eyes widening, gruff breath hitching- “C-can feel myself from the outside, doll.” 

Voice breathy like even he couldn’t believe it. 

He’s hypnotized. That bumpy bulge only makes him plug up more of your entrance with his red, weeping tip, he’s furiously pushing and pushing against that snug resistance from behind. “M’big, she’s tight.”

So feverishly hot, so stuffed- the only thing you can do is thrash your weakened legs against the dampening mattress, “I kn-know that- hck! But what if you’re too-”

“Too big?” Toji’s cutting you off with a roll of his dilated pupils, “Well duh- m’gonna make it fit, silly girl. The only problem will be…” Broad chest shuddering as one of his hands wrap ‘round his swollen hilt with a squelch! “-whether I’ll be able to pull out.”

And oh…he knew he was playing a dangerous game.

Because it was a joke- really, it was a joke to make your cute, split-slicked lips fall into his favorite lil’ ‘oh!’ 

But fuck- if the very second those thick, rasping words depart from his scarred lips, Toji’s chiseled body didn’t buck.

Without him planning it, without even realizing until a singular, sopping thrust rams his bulging inches into you thoroughly- the sudden warmth of your dewy insides making the hulking man gasp.

“Oh, fuck- oh, fuck.” Panting out a shocked breath, the edges of his raven lashes tickle his cheeks as he’s blinking them urgently. Trying to clear his vision, trying to clear his damn mind. “Yer sucking me up s-so much I can barely even move-”

Experimentally, he’s reeling backwards and watching as your maw sags further open. Your pretty gaze turning all cross-eyed and misty, “Oh please- ngh i-it feels so good, Toji.”

He didn’t even have to try. 

Simply massaging your gummy walls with the winding curves of his veins, they’re so damn thick that you can feel him scraping just below your g-spot. Filling out every tiny crevice and nook inside of you with his meaty cock. 

“Oh yeah? T-tight little thing ya are. Sooo fucking tight, mama.” Sinking the sharp points of his canines into his lower lip, Toji’s forced to cling into your hips with one hand in order to sensually ease himself in and out. 

Prominent Adam’s apple bobbing greedily, “O-oooone…” He’s babbling out, teasingly letting the plump ridge of his cockhead snag against your quivering hole. “Two- three…” Whilst you whimper, he’s hiking up one of his muscular legs to angle himself deeper - counting each inch he rummages inside you. “Four- and what’s that?”

“F-five!”

In and out - even the tiniest movements left you seeing stars already. “Seven-” The rounded cap of his mushroomy tip scouring your cunt open like a searchlight, all it takes is the cutest lil’ smooch near your g-spot to make you clench.

“There–!” You’re keening, fingers digging into the softness of your pillows as you gyrate your hips back primally. “So close- ngh- so close there, Toji.”

“E-eight- oh.” It feels so good that he’s losing count. Stuttering and heaving.

Your head’s so heavy and fuzzy whilst being pounded that you can barely even lift it up. Whimpering, it’s just about all you can do to gently swerve your hips downwards until you’re hitting Toji’s tensed core with a spank of your ass. 

Feeling so entirely full that your knees are buckling-

“No-” Just the slightest few centimeters forwards until Toji’s grip on your hips turns bruising, draaaagging you all the way back the distance you’d been driven forward. And more. “Nonono come back.”

Toji’s scratching the very globes of your ass cheeks with his dark happy trail, now damn near bottomed out and yet - it still wasn’t enough. He needed more more more- and he’s ready to plant one of his firm feet straight on top of your sweaty scalp to get you to hold still. 

Seething, saliva-glossed lips pulling back into a snarl– “E-easy there, doll. Yer pussy’s so damn filthy s’driving me craaaazy.” And you could tell, his sloppy cadence was ramming into you even faster, probin’ the button of your g-spot with his slimy tip. “Just a little more a- a little more n’ let me pull out.”

The tight press of his balls aching when you only squeeze around his length tighter, he’s melting on top of you.

Grunting, “Doll-” Bulging his swabbing girth, and you’re tightening so firmly that your trembly legs push together. “-m’serious.” Before he seriously loses whatever’s left of his sanity, that is.

So big that he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to, body refusing to - your bawling pussy too heavenly.

Tighter. 

Tighter until his hoarse pleads stick clammily to your skin, “Let me pull out, mama–” The slightly broken crackle of his deep baritone was barely audible over the repeated squelch of his mazing cock. And oh- you’d made Toji’s voice break. “Let me pull out before I make a ngh- meeeess out of ya.”

Muffling something into the pillows-

He has to manually roam his foot off of your poor head, and you’re bolting up with a wettened pwah! of intaken breath. A puddle of saliva smearing down your lower face, “Want it inside, Tooooji.”

“I-inside?”

And before you know it, you’re being manhandled into a tough headlock by one of his swole arms, the muscles of Toji’s biceps dig into your neck, your throat, your pulse. 

“Tell that to my hah- face-” Grouchy gusts of words strike your features, and you’re mewling as you feel his honed teeth gnaw on your sensitive ear lobe. This angle just perfect for him to smack sultry half-thrusts that make you dizzy.

Babbling, “Want- want it.” Keeping your body hostage even tighter.

Almost as if he was begging you to say otherwise, he’s giving you a taste of your own medicine and it makes your mouth flood with humid drool. Slobbering a slick sheen down the side of his vein-covered forearm, “Please, Toji…don’t pull out.”

“Don’t p-pull out.” Comes his echoing repetition, breathless. Shocked, gone at the very notion that he’s falling back on his knees ever-so-slightly - still unstopping with his cadence. In fact, going even harder. “I-if we make Megs a big brother then s’y-your fault- fuck!”

And Toji knew he was playing dangerously, he knew he could feel the feral twitch of his rock-hard length burying deeply against the door to your womb.

But what he didn’t know was that all it would take was that - the feeling of you getting even more lewdly wetter at the idea of him filling you up - for him to pump his hips in a vulgar stroke and cum. Heavy, hard. 

More than he has in his entire life, Toji’s cumming and cumming so much that he’s almost dazed at how much webbed, white syrup sloshes into your readily awaiting pussy. 

“Didn’t…pull out– oh, mama—” And it’s finally hitting him now, slithering down two of his knobbled fingers to toy open your saturated folds. Watching the mess triiiickle out, “Didn’t…pull out. S’really all inside.”

You’re whining, hazy pupils disappearing to the back of your head once he coats his fingerpads with a few sticky layers of cum n’ plugs it inside your mouth. Letting the salted caramel taste overtake your senses, “Don’t think you’re getting off easy now.”

And those words are abrupt - final.

“Wh-what?”

The questions rush to your larynx before he presses his fat, hefty cock further- “Gonna hafta let me feel her haaaa- alllll the time now-” Rutting, his sharp jaw droops pathetically open before he snaps it shut into a grin. “Gonna hafta let me fill her up. Hafta let me keep it-” Plop! He’s pushing a few dollops of dewy seed with his middle finger, “-inside now.”

Still painfully hard. 

“Finish what you started, mama.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Creampie cutiepie

“Haaaa– stay quiet, my love.” Nanami’s guttural plead scorches your ears, tugging back your restlessly squirming hips with a gentle pinch of your drenched panties.

Rubbin’ his thick fingers right down your dampened folds as he’s puuulling you further down the sleek office desk. Whispering urgently into your popped ears, “Don’t want them to hear- though, I wouldn’t mind…just don’t want them to ngh- hear the noises made by my favorite girls.”

And as if on cue, your needy pussy lets out a slurp of greedy wetness when Nanami drills his fattened cock into you sensually. 

Making your back arch off the frigid table surface at the feeling of his puffy veins tapping your sweetest spots, “K-Ken—” Struggling to wind your boneless legs around his toned waist, “A-are you jealous?”

“Shush, darlin’. And focus on- hah- me. Your husband.”

Not a denial. Nothing but the way he was sagging your plush, puckered pussylips open with his wide girth. With a rude pull on your flimsy underwear as leverage, he’s practically spanking you with his chiseled pelvis. 

Roughly, probin’ your cervix. 

But you knew better - your gentle, sensible husband wasn’t the type to suddenly pull you into his office and pound you right into his desk. All without a condom.

Not until he’d seen that all-new intern ogling you a little too closely, that is-

“Stop thinking.” The cold band of Nanami’s wedding ring sizzles against your cheek as he’s cradling your cute cheeks and squeezing. Mean. “Wan’ you only thinking about- hah- me. About…”

Trailing off- but he didn’t even need to finish his sentence.

He’s pumping all his swollen, aching inches into you like a madman. The sheer raw force of it mussing up his blond hair, curtaining his half-lidded gaze that told you he wanted to devour you right here. Wouldn’t even mind him knowing-

“Kn-knowing?” You’re blinking up in shock at what’d just departed from your husband’s slurring mouth, your entrance saturating a fresh new wave of arousal at the mere notion. 

“Oh, did I say that out loud, my love?” Was he serious? He couldn’t be- ah, but he was. So hazy with how it felt to finally be inside you raw, Nanami’s swabbing your drooling mouth open to suckle lightly on your tongue. Groaning, “Wouldn’t mind them allll knowing, actually-”

Now that he started, he couldn’t stop.

Tawny, tufted ends of his happy trail scratching your back. He’s bottomed-out and still pressing deeper, resting the chubby curve of his balls on your ass cheeks. Spanking- “Wouldn’t even mind them all seeing- because I’m one fucking this pretty pussy, my wife.”

Like he was proving it - to you, to himself, to your sloppy cunt. 

Every rugged whack of Nanami’s curved length makes your mouth froth with saliva. He was just so damn hard that each pulse of his reddened, bruising crown made your walls stretch even further. 

Again and again.

“Wouldn’t mind carrying you out like hck! this- my cum dripping down those pretty legs of yours…”

And then you’re clenching with your snug, velvety-feeling walls and he all but collapses on top of you. Shifting down with a grunt- Nanami’s sweat-slicked abs massaged your front, pearly whites sinking into your neck and marking. Holding himself back.

Choking out- guttural, as if it made him lose his very sanity to even ask, “You…like that, darling?

Nodding, “Y-yes.” Spearheading himself even deeper it felt like - or maybe he was just growing even bigger inside your cunt. Nanami’s hefty cock was so staggering that he’s bruising your sponged cervix with a round, circular stamp. “Please- oh, mmm Ken–”

“Say it- say it again.” Breaths striking out quicker, voice tilting until he sounded almost crazed. “Say you don’t want me to ngh- pull out.”

“I- I don’t want you to- fuck!”

Barely even able to speak with the way he’s fucking the words from your lungs, sounding as if he himself was barely keeping it together. “U-use your words, darling.” But how was that possible when Nanami’s rovering one of his hands to saddle your thighs on his broad shoulders. “Please- want to make sure you can take it all.”

Bending you in half like a lawn chair whilst your limbs dangle over his firm deltoids, he was ravenous.

Resting a capped knee up on the desk to give your sultry g-spot a loooong snog with his split-ended tip, you could feel the circlin’ of his sobbing orifice pushing inside. 

“Because d-don’t get me wrong- love when I cum here–” Letting go of your face with a steaming hot handprint, Nanami brushes your hardened nipples with the band of his cold wedding ring. “And…here-” Lovingly, on your stomach. “And here.” Down, down, down to your clit. “But…”

“But?”

Leaning in even closer, you could practically taste his sweet, sweet desperation for you. Like he was dreaming, “But I’ve hah! always wanted to make your pretty body remember the taste of my c-cum. Mine.”

Stuttering - he was stuttering, begging to not pull out. 

And how could you refuse?

“Ken—” You’re whining, eyes sliding backwards until they’re pure white- and Nanami Kento’s stern lips wobble oh-so-cutely once you’re tugging him in close with a hand around his gulping throat. “Don’t pull out.”

And he doesn’t- oh, he doesn’t.

“O-oh.”

Voice crackling. Those very words are more than enough to make the stoic man burn with a blush, the first time that he’s hearing those words - and he has no idea what to do other than bury his face between your jiggling tits and suck. Breathing, “I don’t…have to pull out.”

Hips thrusting so meanly between your legs that you’re fluttering important documents to the ground. Over and over and over— 

Harder. Sloppier. 

You’re realizing it before he does when he’s crashing the both of you into your highs with a slap of his cock into your slick g-spot. Skidding a line of precum straight down your walls and into your womb-

“O-oh, Kento- not gonna-” Head thrown back, toes curled, maw ajar with so many copious moans and lecherous noises. And yet you have nothing on the wet sounds pulled from your pussy, “Cum—ing–!”

“Yeah? Yeah? My pretty girl—” He’s murmuring breathlessly into your skin, cheek nuzzling where a neat little pool of drunken drool was starting to formulate. “I-I’m not gonna ngh! last either- oh.” Looking down, it’s only then that he’s catching the way your driveling cunt was already stuffed.

The way you’re struggling to hold in the thick, ribbony gushes of seed he’s spraying out. The way he didn’t even think - didn’t even register to pull out. 

“Inside…it’s really- really…pinch me-” Endeared by his request, you’re just about to when- ah, when your husband catches sight of your matching wedding ring. Molten eyes widening, “We’re married?”

Then when you nod- Half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open, “Was already…gonna propose…”

Just that pussydrunk, he can’t even decide where he wanted to watch you more. 

Your prettily fucked-out face, your glinting ring, or the way those gooey splotches of white were splashin’ around inside of you, slightly leaking outside as he moves to tug on your cute office skirt–

“How about we go outside and announce our baby shower in advance, my love?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - “Again?”

And Geto was being mean, Geto was being rude– spanking the quivering slope of your pussy whilst you clench and clench around his barreling, hot cock. Oh-so-lecherously pounding you through your nth high of the night-

“Awww, look- you’re cumming again.” He’s snickering from behind you, trapping you in a full nelson so tight that you could barely even squirm your hips back. Barely even breathe- “My gorgeous girl just can’t stop cumming, hmmm?”

You’re helplessly thrashing your legs, body aching for any kind of friction- before Geto’s inhuman reflexes work to curl underneath your thighs and pull. 

The curving veins of his forearms digging into your mounds of flesh, he’s snickering as you start whining into the heady air. “Seriously- look at this hah- mess.” The low, sultry tone of his voice curdling against the crook of your neck, Geto rovers the doughy soft tips of his fingers over the dollops of cum staining your front and smears. 

Drawing a few wet hearts on your tummy from all his own orgasm from rounds prior, “You look s-soooo fucking pretty like this. Almost makes me want to not pull out- oh-”

And Geto didn’t expect his ravaged cock to react like that. 

The tenderly leaking orifice on top of his crownhead twitching, he feels his teeth sink into his plush lower lip with a hiss. Sensitive pink slit rubbing up against the top of your slippery cunt in a way that made him want to cum right then and there. 

Inside. 

“I- fuck!” Geto doesn’t even know what to say, long inky hair falling like a curtain around you two. Panting. Heaving. The muscles of his deltoids ripple as he perks himself up on his elbows to look downwards. Did he seriously almost cum from the thought? “Fuck- what have you done to me, gorgeous?”

“D-didn’t do- ngh! anything…” You’re babbling out stupidly, the gummy channel of your cunt milking his veined cock. 

A slow trickle of drool drips down the side of your glossed lips, one that Geto smears away with a low ‘tch-’ Grunting gruffly, “Don’t even know what you fucking do t’me.”

Oh- oh.

He didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

But right now he was so hypnotized on your drooling pussy, just so drunk on the way your walls tenderized so softly. Gulping him up with greedy squelches that leave your teeth on edge, he was driving his hips up until he was heart-eyed. 

“Wh-what do you hngh! mean, Suguru–?” You’re humming, a smug smile plastering across your face as his words finally register. 

“What are you smiling all cockily about?” He’s seething from behind, pointed chin spraying with a few glittering droplets of spittle. Geto furrows his dark brows and snarls, “J-just because I said I didn’t wanna pull out- that I didn’t wanna cum a-anywhere but inside- hck! that I wanna fuck this pretty pussy forever—”

And he was so big- but his swirlin’, bulbous tip was only throbbing bigger with each word spilling from his mouth. Nuzzling right against your cute lil’ g-spot to slip and slide in mindless half-ruts. 

Warm tears of overstimulation well up in your eyes, “O-oh, right there- right there! Feels so good, Sugu-”

“Oh yeahhh- gonna squirt for me next?” 

“Only if you don’t pull out.”

Oh, fuck.

Just those words were enough for Geto to pound all his rummaging inches between your swollen folds, spine arching powerfully off of the creaking mattress for a good few seconds as he buries himself and holds it there. 

Words warbling with a slight chuckle, with a slight tinge of madness. “Y-you don’t really mean that-” He’s spitting, fighting to keep the dopey smile far, far away from his rosy lips. Jabbing his crowned mushroom tip, pressing. “-do you?”

And Geto didn’t even need to hear your response, he just needed to feel the way you were streaming out even more gushing waves of slick. Mewling, “N-not gonna last–”

“Nuh uh- not what I asked, gorgeous, need you to tell me-” He didn’t even know what he was babbling anymore, only that the way you were whining and the way you were grinding left his brain feeling overheated. “Want you to tell me- can I…really…inside?”

Voice hoarse, almost small like he didn’t even believe what he was asking.

And all Geto Suguru can do is roll one of his cum-topped digits to skid over your perked clit, swervin’ right on time with the pinpricks of his globed tip. Draaaagging his warm tongue over your throat, “Tell me-” He teases, reeling all the way out until his geysering orifice kissed your entrance, “-tell me.”

“Please-” You’re prattling away, and he’s hanging onto your every word as if he was still in disbelief. “-don’t pull out.”

And he doesn’t- he doesn’t, he doesn’t. 

He’s sinking his fat, pounding cock even deeper and still bucking until he bottoms out. Even after.

Once. Twice. Thrice- treating your poor g-spot like a dartboard until you’re bursting straight into your orgasm. Cunt bawling with a sparkling squirt- it left your head all stupidly white-hot to throw your head back and cum.

“Fuck- f-fuuuck– Sugu–” Your breath catches, heart racing once you’re feeling a splattered puddle of something wet on your shoulder. “Cumming- o-oh my god-”

Sluggishly turning your head around to find that oh- Geto was tearing up, his sensitively stinging length rubbing your sappy walls raw. The red, sheeny curve of his cockhead flinches- and Geto feels fit to burst. 

And he does - squirting, splurging out a few messy wads of translucent white. 

There’s so much of it that you’re feeling a few wettened wads splash all over your cervix, Geto’s cock pushing your pussy so wiiidely agape that your walls struggle to take up all of him. 

Panting- pushing his tensed abs into your back, higher and higher until the curve of his ballsack spanks your cunt. His sweatily flushed forehead falls onto your shoulder with a plop!

“Gorgeous…” Overstimulated, run raw. You were gulping out every droplet of cum he’s pumping out, and Geto thinks he must be in fucking heaven. Kiss-bitten lips wobbling, voice breathy - he was never going to be the same again. “M’never pulling out now.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - HEAT

“This- this heat.” Choso’s spitting, the trembly curves of his fingertips latching underneath your thighs to hoist you into the sloppiest mating press possible. Bending you pliably into angles you didn’t even know were possible- you swear the cheeks of your ass weren’t touching the bed anymore. “It makes me so…”

Whimpering, you’re watching with unsteady breaths as Choso lazily falters his pummeling pace. 

Letting his long, throbbing length slooow down, he’s making sure your hole can feel every carnal scratch of his zig-zagged veins, every pulse of his tip, every push. 

Your sweet, half-curse boyfriend’s cock was so big that every reel backwards of his slender hips left your entrance flooding with syrupy slick. Pushed out of you once he’s filling up every nook and cranny- 

Choso can’t help but swab his doughy fingerpads over that glittery gloss, lapping it into his mouth with a plop! “-thirsty, baby.”

“You’re so greedy, Cho.” You’re cooing out, wrapping your hands ‘round his neck and making him grunt. He was just too sexy whenever his cursed heat took over this time of year.

Fingers latching into his silken, brown hair, you’re using the lewd leverage to grind yourself down on his scouring cock. The dual spanks of skin-on-skin making Choso’s face droop into your neck and breeeeathe in that scent of you.

Slobbering with droplets of saliva, “N-ngh- I know, baby–” He’s whining, huffin’ and puffin’ in your saturated clouds of pheromones - he couldn’t get enough. “Can you p-please move your hips a little slower? S’gonna make me cum…”

“Awww, poor baby—” 

“Don’t tease.” Nose crinkling, playfully caressing the splotchy area of your g-spot with a few more probing pushes, it’s like Choso was trying to make you just as drunken as he was. 

But every thrust, every ram, every smooch into your deepest depths only made him more hypnotized. Push after push after push- he’s gnawing down on his cute pink cheeks to try and stop those wailing whimpers from leaving him. 

Planting your feet flatly on the damp mattress, you can’t help but perk your hips and maze the bulging roundness of his mushroomed tip across your cervix. “Mmm– ngh, what’s that, baby?”

“No- n-nooooo, don’t do that- don’t look at me like that or m’gonna cum.” He’s squeezing his mahogany eyes shut, long lashes glinting with a polish of tears. Clamoring his v-line to glissade down your teary slit, “M’gonna cum m’gonna cum-”

And Choso’s just about to pull out his weeping shaft, he’s just about to let off the most pained grunt before he’s pouring out a steaming hot mess of seed all over your tummy- before–

“S’that sooo–?” 

Without warning, without anything, you’re interlocking your ankles in a circle around his pretty waist. The flesh of your heels digging in deep against the dimples at the bottom of his spine, deeper. 

“N-ngh- let me- pull out-” Choso whines, eyes frantic. Teeth snarling- his canines simply drip with mouth-watered saliva, “Pull out pull out– otherwise m’gonna make a mess of this pussy.”

You’re flinching once his thumb comes hovering back down on your sloppily lustrous pussylips, painting his digits in all the sap leaking from your entrance. Heaps of it. 

Choso darts his half-lidded eyes away from your intense gaze and blushes such a bright, scorching red from the tips of his ears. “If I cover her in my cum I- hck! won’t be able to see her.” Another of his stray hands clawing onto your leg tight, his pace was hard. 

Rough. More curse than man- every thrust of his powerful hips left you darting further up the mattress. And Choso with his urgent bucks followed- never letting you get away. “Can’t hold it in, baby—”

“Well what if I hngh- want it inside, Cho?”

His handsome jaw drops, he gapes- body moving before his mind as he shoves you down even deeper into this mating press, until your hamstrings were burning. Swollen lips moving up and down stupidly - soundless. 

“Awww, do you want that too, baby?” 

Yes- yes. 

Stray strands of chestnut brown dangle to and fro once Choso can only nod fervently. Feverishly. And the only thing more out of control than him was his rummaging thrusts, leaving a firm thwack! on the door to your womb that just left you wanting more. 

“She���s just so soooft n’ warm it makes me wanna make her- drool–” Drooling himself down the ends of his dopey grin, and it wasn’t just the heat talking. “Wanna make her a mama- s-so you better let me pull…unless…” 

Swerving his hips into you even deeper, your ankles yank him until the ridges of his abs were bumping down your front. 

“O-oh my god- ngh- baby–” He’s battering mindlessly, pre spilling out of him like a broken hose.

And you swear you see him slip out a few beaded tears at the raw tightness of your cunt. Jackhammering against the snug resistance of your hole-

Until you could feel his thighs shivering, until you were keening at the bulbous, utter fatness of Choso’s base. 

“Y-you…” He croaks out, making you blink your heady eyes open in question.

Only to find Choso Kamo gaping down below. 

“Baby…you just took my knot.” 

Oh. 

And it’s the last thing said before Choso lets his head fall back with a strangled jumble of your name. Over and over like a mantra while he cums–

“S-so this is what it feels like.” Looking genuinely dazed, eyes all glassy. “This- th-this? S’this even ngh! allowed? S’too good- m’filling you up. M’filling you up and it feels too good.”

“Fuck- fuck– m’so full, Cho.”

He’s shivering viscerally with your every squeeze, trying to claw down your legs. Nibbling on your throat, “You’re letting me cum- really? Really, really letting me cum just this once?” Watery eyes of his staring dead-on into yours, he’s letting his mouth drop into an oh! with every one of your nods. “R-really? But that means m’gonna cum inside you ngh- so fucking muuuch.”

“I-I know—” Body limp with the sheer pressure he was putting on you, scraping the ballooned-up curve of his crownhead down your mushy innards. 

Your eyes roll back with a mewl just as soon as the splash of his ropey seed hits the bottom of your cervix, gluey wads of its sticking to your walls and making Choso shudder at the filthy second skin of it inside you. 

“G-gonna pump you allll full-” Snarling, fighting against the way that the fat knot positioned on the base of his cock meant that he couldn’t properly fuck you into the bedsprings just the way he wanted to. Snagging on the tight hole of your cunt and gyrating to stir your goopy insides, “-fuck- fuck I can’t stand leaving this cute hole a-all lonely. Wanna fuck you properly soooo bad—”

You’re whimpering once one of Choso’s ringed fingers comes rovering down to squeeze his fattened hilt and swear. 

Vision flashing white, blood manipulation seeping out, you can feel his barreling shaft harden-

He’s not even done with you before he’s preparing for more, “Knots o-only last haaaa– half an hour.” Before nudging your sultry folds apart to watch you drool. The hooded peripherals of his gaze locked onto where he’s pushing a knobbled thumb inside– “Until then…”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - You vs. Two

“Easy there- easy, brat.” Two of Sukuna’s big, beefy arms come curling around the small of your back, easily sprawling you out across his chiseled pecs with a simple tug. “Gonna fuck yourself stupid. Although-”

You’re whimpering, the only thing that you can manage to do right now while he’s manhandling you on top of his dual, throbbing cocks.

Clawing down a third of his palms on top of your sweat-matted crown to push you down his barreling lengths like some doll. It’s just so cute the way you’re shrilling yourself hoarse once he’s swirling your tight insides with both thick, globular tips. 

Snickering, “-ya already are pretty fuckin’ dumb on my ngh– cocks, huh?”

Brows furrowing, you’re flapping your spit-glued lips a few times to slur out a coherent response. “F-fuck you–”

“Nooo, little human.” And the smile the King gives you is dangerous, both sets of his devilish lips quirking up into something sleazy. Sukuna slouches further backwards against the headboard and bounces his tattooed knees. Just once. 

Just once to render you speechless on his plump lengths. So swollen that the tiniest rut leaves you arching your back and drooling– “I’m fucking you–”

“P-please-”

“Now now–” The pointed claws of his black fingernails scrape gently down your exposed throat, “Can ya feel me all the way up in that hah! pretty throat, huh?” Just probing your g-spot, once. Twice. Repeatedly. “Every vein? Every inch– heh, how about every drop?”

And you’re so far gone with just a few of his vulgar whacks to your sweetest, most tender spots.

Your heavy head is already starting to feel dizzy- so cockdrunk after every bullying ram that by this point Sukuna’s the one that’s moving you to meet his roughened tempo. 

One clammy hand gripping either side of your restless hips, you ogle the sheer natural bulge of his biceps as he manhandles you. Draaaagging your dripping wet cunt all the way from the strawberry orifices of his tip n’ dooown to hug his twin bases. 

Nestled cutely on the curve of his fattened balls, “I-I wan’ it, Kuna–”

“Want what?”

Lips wobbly once he knocks into your g-spot harder. He’s fucking you so thoroughly that you almost feel shy mumbling, “Want you to- mmm– not pull out.”

Oh. 

His rude lips drop - both sets of them. Hips rutting, girths bulging to stretch your walls even further apart, the edges of his candyfloss hair beading with a lather of sweat. With only a few words you’d all but ruined him and fuck-

“What did you say?”

Sukuna wasn’t taking this lightly- no. 

He’s promptly spanking the fourth n’ final of his hands across the lower half of your face, atoms in the air pressurizing with cursed energy when he manifests that infamous second mouth right across his palm to kiss you.

Sukuna watches you with a dazed glint in his crimson eyes as he thrusts. As he punishes your sopping wet pussy with his rummaging cocks, “Oooo- you need ta wash that mouth out, brat.” The slimy edge of his tongue slithers between your lips and makes you mewl- “What have I said about talking out of that ngh! pussy, hm?”

“But– mmpf–!”

“You better talk to me from this pair of lips, human.”

Knees weak with the sheerly raw points of stimulation everywhere, it takes you a few more gyratin’ bounces to gather your thoughts. 

Maw ajar and stinging once he finally pulls his cursed mouth back with a claggy pwah! “B-but I want you to, Kuna.”

And shit- the minute those words register in his pussydrunken mind, the ancient lights of his chamber flicker. Some burst- 

“F-fuck.” You’d made the King of Curses’ gruff baritone break, “Yer fucking serious about cumming…inside?”

“Yes- please.” You’re nodding, watching through your own hazy eyes as his mouth parts lewdly. “Not gonna l-last–!”

Sweltering breaths heaving, cocks fattening up until each nudging length was almost too much for your tight pussy to handle. 

Lightning bolts of his veins bashing against your sides, he’s bumpin’ into his own pounding lengths and shivering. Two arms snaking up and down your arched spine, “Tch- d-don’t think m’this affected because of- of that. S’just so fucking tight I can barely even move.” 

And it was true- he’s so big with both his twin, rock-hard cocks that Sukuna could only half-thrust into your gaping entrance at his point. The globular curves of his tips pushin’ into you so desperately that you could practically taste his neediness. 

But you could see the way that the sharp edges of his ears painted a feverish red, tattooed inner-thighs glazing with so much of his syrupy, buttery precum.

Your jaw drops as you take in the sheer volume making you slip n’ slide into his battering rams, “Want it- want it, Kuna- ins-”

“Don’t.” Canines gnawing onto the plush edge of his bottom lip, one of his palms creeping up again to leave your babbling mouth slurping with kisses. He was ruined, bit by bit. 

And he’s pumping his full, rounded crowns into your g-spot again. “Cum f’me instead, b-brat.” Making sure you won’t be remembering that little stutter with the way he was making your vision flash with pleasure. “Shut up and cum.”

When you did it was with Sukuna biting back a moan himself, guiding the mushy ends of his tips to swerve into your cervix once more. Your womb. Everywhere. 

“Can’t pull out, huh?” He repeats to himself, almost breathless with a snicker. “Take it then- take it-”

It was bucketloads, absolute torrents of milky white that were flooding your tight channel. Sukuna wasn’t just covering your velvety cunt with all his seed, he was drenching you in it until it overspilled. Loaded up wads webbing down each of his lengths, soaking his pinkish happy trail completely.

So much of it that you can feel splosh around in your throat, that thickly cloying texture tasted on your tongue. “Th-there’s so much, Kuna–”

“Awww, c’mon girl. You can take- every- drop-” Punctuated with a rugged thrust that sent your spongy cervix bruising, the slightly-circular motions of his toned pelvis makes warm sap smear across spots you didn’t even know existed. “Fuck! Look at you- movin’ those ngh- hips like you’re swallowing it all up. Been greedy for it?”

Reaching your limp hands up to cradle his neck and hold on for dear life, Sukuna flinches at the splat! of cum that slips out of you and hits his v-line. “Can feel you mmm- filling me all inside, Kuna–”

“Oh…now that’s fun.”

Rapidly- urgently manifesting his second mouth to slash across his abs, “Looks so much better droolin’ from your cunt like this- n’not anywhere else, brat.” Monstrously tonguing the glutinous puddle formulating underneath you n’ your slick, “Look at it mixin’ all together-” 

You’re sobbing out every time he slides the flattened edge of his tongue between your legs. Teasingly sliiiiding back and forth, “Tch- wish I had a third mouth.”

“For what?” As if you already didn’t know.

He was just hypnotized by what he saw below, only grinning- squeeeelch! goes the motion of his softened tastebuds slipping inside your hole. Fuck. “Itadakimasu”

♡ INO TAKUMA - Till it breaks?!

“Oh.” Comes out Ino’s dampened gasp, the soft puff of air scalding where his toned arms held you into a cute full nelson. 

And your spine arches back into the way his washboard abs tense, into the way his broad chest heaves your boneless body up n’ down. Right in the very same angle that he first felt that heavenly taste of your slick, raw pussy walls. “O-oh.”

Startling your burning skin with a wet splatter! of drool from his ruby red lips, “I think the hah! condom broke, pretty.” Motioning to drag his sloppy length back, Ino bites back a sensitive hiss at the saccharine squeeeelch. “Lemme just-”

And then he does it again- that same little, addicted brush of the splotch where that flimsy rubber was torn. Right on top of where your sweet boyfriend’s flared mushroom tip was so big that he’d shattered the condom open, driving up a tentative dig into the bottom of your pussy.

You’re feeling your mouth drop into a softly panted oh! “T-Taku–?”

“Yes- yes!” Snapping right back into reality, Ino’s pressing the doughy fringes of his fingertips into your thighs to manhandle your hips. Almost as if he couldn’t bring himself to move. 

“I should just-” Massaging and massaging the hot, reddened curve of his cockhead past your walls- it really doesn’t help that your sweet, sweet insides just kept on sucking him back up each time he’s carnally scraping his length down. Trying to pull out. “I reeeeeally should…”

Ah, he was so cute with his rosy lips wobbling in concentration. Chestnut brows furrowed whilst he tried to will himself to try and reel back from your dripping wet pussy. 

You find yourself tittering, craning your neck to plant an innocent peck near the corner of his mouth. “You can just not pull out, baby-”

“B-but if I don’t pull out how will I- oh.” 

You’re ogling at the exact moment it hits him.

When Ino’s molten eyes widen, his tawny lashes fluttering ever-so-slightly, the prettiest pink flush scorching all over the apples of his cheeks. And his cock- oh, his cock practically ravages your gooey innards with a throbbing jolt. 

Mouth gaping open silently a few times before he’s finally, finally finding his voice. “Can I? I shouldn’t- I really sh-shouldn’t, sweetness-” And your heart almost pangs in disappointment when he’s pulling out of your dewy entrance with the loudest sluuuurp-

-only to toss away the useless remnants of that rubber and slam back in.

“B-but you just feel sh-shoooo good—!”

“Hck- oh!” Whines clog up in your throat once Ino’s pinning you to him with a strong forearm, the slippery glide of his length making sure you feel every patterned vein imprinted into your walls. 

Ino swirls his cockhead in an experiment heart all over your cervix and gasps at the utter wetness that greets him. “H-how m’I even supposed to compete?” Comes out his pained whine, followed almost immediately by the thwack! of his rounded balls striking your treacly cunt. 

Making him snap his head down- loud. Fuck- you were so much louder when he didn’t have a condom on. Squelch after squelch resounding like music in his ears every time he slams upwards. Scolding, “D-don’t talk back to me.”

“Taku, baby, are you okay–”

“That goes for ngh! you, too, pretty- do I look okay?” Hooded lids widened, his usual baritone was botched with cracks. Octaves higher. “R-raw? Seriously? S’fuckin’ unfair- who said you can feel this good- soooo fuh-fucking good.”

And you’ve never seen your gentle boyfriend like this before. 

Never seen him so mindlessly rutting with his cadence, never seen him so feral every time he’s pummeling his hips into the mounds of your ass. 

Bruising his thighs against yours, his ballsack against your entrance. Ino was balls-deep and still trying to rover his bawling orifice further across your plush cunt. 

So harshly that you’re bowing your back and clamoring behind you to hold onto the headboard-

“Don’t run from me when you’ve been ngh! holding out-” Ino spits in a seething tone from behind, free palm gripping your wrists like adhesive. He tugs them down and hold you right at his complete n’ utter mercy, unmoving. “You’ve been holding out- th-this? Felt like this n’ you’ve been holding out, sweetness?”

“Fuck–!” Your spine aches with the white-hot ruts he’s bucking into you, the pointed globe of his shaft stirring your insides in a way that made you jostle with each swerve, too. “Mmm– right there, baby.”

And once he’s finding your g-spot he’s never leaving it alone. 

Spraying out a thick battering of warm pre all over that particular bundle of nerves before he jerks his hips and bruises it. Making you throw your head back and clench–

“D-don’t!” Ino gasps, watery eyes drooping with the sheer heat inside your soppy pussy. He felt like he was just melting into you, abs almost melding into your back with each skim. “Makes me go crazy- m-makes me wanna haaaah- cum…inside.”

The very moment he admits this, you coo. Partially shifting your body around to take in his scorching blush, the way that Ino tries to hide away behind his unruly bangs. 

You curl your fingers around one soft lock and pull- making him whine. “When I say don’t ngh- pull out- I mean don’t pull out, Taku–” 

And that was it- that did it. 

In all of two flutters of your lashes, Ino’s snapping. 

All those long, hard years of training letting him trek his powerful forearms underneath your thighs and haul you all the way in half. The caps of your knees hitting your tits, his cock hitting the bottom of your pussy.

“Then…get ready.” 

Crazed, babbling. It’s all the warning you’re getting before Ino froths out generous helpings of creamy white cum. The thickened dollops settling near your womb and sprinkling to and fro once he’s pumping it even deeper. 

You’re whimpering, body jolting at the low hum of reverse cursed energy that seeps from Ino’s fingerpads. Without him even realizing. 

“Taku– o-oh my god you’re ngh- cumming so much.”

More than usual - so much more than usual. 

Ino’s wild tempo meant that your poor entrance was gaping with all the leaky knots of his seed, milking and milking every single ounce out of himself. 

“Oh my god- you squeeze me even tighter when I cum inside, pretty- s-so I just have to…” Until his balls ached with nothing. The strawberry divot homed at the end of his length sputtering out once- twice- before Ino had wrung himself to cum dry. “Shit- don’t know if I can c-cum anymore. But I want to- I need to.”

“Nghhh– fuck!”

Every slurp! that echoed from your overspilling pussy whenever his cum leaked was speaking to him. And Ino was nodding– oh, what a monster you’ve created. 

Lightly groaning as he finally pulls out with a filthy drag, it takes him all of two seconds to flip your buzzing body over and give you a pussydrunken grin. Raw n’ ravaged. “R-ride me dry, pretty?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - “J-just the tip.”

It’s about the fifth time Gojo’s breathily repeating that mantra - maybe even the fiftieth since he’d promised he could handle fucking you without a condom— with just the tip. 

And your boyfriend’s deepened voice cracks numerous octaves higher every time he’s pinpointing your insides with the red, bulging tip of his cock. That rounded crown swirlin’ a sultry smooch right into the spots that make you cutely keen–

“T-Toru! Ngh- oh my god, you’re in so-”

“-deeeep, yeah?” He’s snickering from behind, clouded pants leaving the back of your neck humid. And your overworked bedsprings creak! once he’s sidling his shivering thighs from behind, jostling you up with each meaty limb. “S’alright, my girl. You can take it- you will. S’just the…”

And he can’t even hold his train of thought- can’t do anything but let the tender grooves of his veins tickle your pussy. Rubbing sweetly up n’ down across your walls, deeper. Harder. 

“-tip.”

Teary eyes damn near bulging out of your head, “F-fuuuuck!”

So hard that you’re being driven further up the bed by his sharp hipbones - but he doesn’t let you move a millimeter. Immediately curling the right set of his long, pale fingers around your throat and draaaagging you backwards. 

“J-just the tip.” Gojo’s gurgling - babbling. Syllables coming out just as unsteadily as he’s mindlessly rutting with his swollen, veiny cock. You’re so cute taking everything he gives that he can’t help but chuckle. “See? See?” Eyes wide, tone hoarse. “You’re gonna- hah! take it like my good girl. Take my fat fuckin’ tip until I pull out, m’kay?”

Splat! Splat! Splat! You’re so dazed that the only thing reeling you out of your cockdrunken little reverie is the spray of treacly saliva that leaks from between his clenched teeth. 

He’s slobbering. 

Your lips flap stupidly, sparkly beads of spittle decorating your own chin as you’re whirling your head over your shoulder. “H-huh? Oh.”

Oh, Gojo Satoru doesn’t look like he heard you. 

He didn’t even look like he was breathing. 

Half-lidded eyes oh-so-murky that it’s a goddamn miracle they’re even shifting downwards to stare at your puffy, puckered folds. Huffing out a little ‘oh’, Gojo’s slouching his toned bodyweight on top of yours n’ cradling you into a filthy, filthy French kiss as he pounds you silly.

“Just the tip-” And it’s a good thing he’s smearing his syrupy mouth over yours - because one particularly harsh ram leaves you screaming. Drinking in each of your pretty noises into his breathy mouth. “Shhh sh sh, s’alright s’alright. Don’t run.” You didn’t even realize that you were fisting the silky coverings of your pillowcase and attempting to crawl away until he clings tighter ‘round your throat, hauling you back down. “S’just the tip- just the- ngh-”

And usually - usually - you would’ve given him a piece of your mind. 

Because it wasn’t just the tip. Gojo was so big - so long, and you could feel almost every inch of his hot, throbbing girth. Pushing open your plush walls until he’s filling up every nook and cranny; way, way past the flared ridge of his cockhead to stretch and stretch and stretch you out on his shaft.

Hell, you could almost feel the plump curve of his ballsack lazily nudging your puffy pussylips. 

“Toru–!” Your lungs heave with the effort to raise your voice above a mewl, “This is more than the tip- hngh.”

“Wh-what do you…” Fat dollops of sweat beading down his temple, it takes him everything - every last shred of his sanity to finally look. To finally get his fuzzily sparking brain to realize- “…oh”

And you don’t know what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t for Gojo to plant yet another experimental whack to the bottom of your cervix. Letting your hips jitter underneath his palms, he’s groping a handful of your ass. 

“Then…” You can only watch once he breaks away to tilt his head cutely, cherry-pink maw sagging as if he was hypnotized. “-halfway, sweetheart?” 

Swervin’ straight into your g-spot with three spanks each second, he’s tunneling you open with such lecherous sluuurps. “Mhm, hngh- oh, halfway and-” Hissing, Gojo’s long, angelic lashes flutter once he’s feeling his aching balls squeeze. Close. “-and then I’ll pull out, okay?”

“But you’re shoooo—” It was music to his ears watching you stumble over your syllables with your adorable voice, and it only made him go harder. 

“S-s-sooo mean, huh?” Mocking you, “But I hafta- can let myself go o-only halfway or I…won’t be able to pull out.” If he was in any better state of mind, he’d rather have died than confess to anything so pathetically drunk on your pussy. Laughing- “Just imagine, if I didn’t pull out…h-heh, imagine.”

Oh, that was a dangerous line of thought. 

He’s never done that before. Anything more of that and he’s going to drive himself crazy already, feeling goosebumps raise on the back of his flushed neck as your cute, sappy insides clench.

Milking his prolonged length all the way from his fattened tip to the plump, split-ended circle of his tip. Still murmuring, “How cute- Imagine if I didn’t- pull- out-”

Deeper- he doesn’t even register it. Again and again until both you and the bed frame sing. Harder- he’s still thinking about what he said. 

You’re almost sobbing once those tufts of ivory white at the base of his cock massage your skin raw, bullying you into the mattress with just his prominent v-line. You moan, “I-it’s more than- hck! halfway in, Satoru–!”

“Oh.” Gojo heaves, Gojo snickers. “F-fine. You win.”

And you didn’t even have the time to wonder what he meant by that before he tenses his abs and punishes your hole with a rugged slam. Animalistic. 

“Y-you win- you win you win you- ngh- win-” He’s spitting through gritted teeth, so harshly that the strongest tastes pure metal on his sizzling tongue. “You win n’ this is what’cha gonna get.” Filling up with saccharine trickles of saliva, he scrunches his chin and now fully - mercilessly - gives you a solid few thrusts. 

Gripping on tight to your left ass cheek with one hand, every hold he has on you is pulling you back after every recoil. A bubble of high-pitched laughter departs from his lips as soon as he watches himself siiink all the way in. Over. And over. And over again. 

Groaning, “Can’t take it anymore- can’t- fuck!” He can’t even bear the thought of pulling out anymore-

“C-can’t pull out?” You’re whispering, eyes widening as soon as Gojo gasps, hit with the realization that he was rambling his thoughts out loud without even realizing. Just that pussydrunk.

“N-no.” Comes out the confessional response, brows furrowing as he’s reaching below to give your neglected clit a sweet, buzzing pinch. “You win, just don’t make me ngh…pull out. Please, sweetheart?”

You made the powerful, cocky strongest beg. 

And as he says this he can feel himself cumming - can feel his cursed energy flare out of control. Bolts of tiny blue lightning straying from the edges of his peripherals, oh-so-thoroughly locked down on you and your sloppily thrusting cadence. 

No- he was muuuch more focused on the way that he could see with his Six Eyes. Murked walls of your sopping pussy covering with layers of syrupy white cum as he counts underneath his breath, ‘one…two…’ 

Digging the clean-cut crescents of his nails into the side of your pulsating neck, harder. Sloppier. ‘…three.’

Exactly in time to watch you fall apart as your orgasm hits you like a damn freight train. 

“Fuck- fuh-fuuuuck! Toru m’cumming m’cumming.” So pretty letting your thighs twitch with the white-hot pleasure, your toes curl in pleasure as you position your hips to let his steaming crownhead plunge. 

Bottomed-out and still aching to go deeper.

Barrelling in a rummaging tempo so sinful that thick droplets of sap ooze out of you, sticky n’ pure white. It makes Gojo’s breath hitch to watch the slicked mess pouring from your stuffed hole, glazed shaft so blissfully reeling back- only to not pull out. “I…inside.”

“Y-yeah ngh-” You’re humming with delight at the cobwebs of cum his girth mixes like frosting, so warm and heavy inside of you. “A-all inside, Satoru.”

So far delayed - his melty brain stalls just a few more pumping shudders before he can even think of opening his mouth again. “Did you take the pill, sweetheart?”

“…no.”

And Gojo Satoru can only smile and oh- oh, the look in his eyes made you jolt right to your very core. You weren’t getting off easy. Or walking. “Good.”

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[monstersholygrail]

A Second Wave

Shark Hybrid bf x fem!reader—soft sex, multiple orgasms, marking, two cocks, fingering, double penetration, praise, creampie, aftercare, and cum play

Imagine a Shark Hybrid bf having decided to take you as his mate. You're his first ever human mate. Sure, he's been with other merpeople in the past, just passing flings he couldn't really care about. It was you who caught his attention from the very first moment you two locked eyes. And it was you who drew him in with your sweet laughs and your sweeter smell.

But he had no idea what it was like to have a human mate. He didn't know what you were used to or what you'd think about the very clear differences between him and human men. So as not to overwhelm you, when the time came for you to finally lay with him and bare your beautiful plump frame to his grateful eyes, he only revealed one of his dicks.

He watches you carefully, looking over your reaction closely. If you seemed confused then perhaps human men had two cocks as well and he'd release his second one. But no, you didn't look confused, only wildly excited with a faint glimmer of concern for if his hefty size would fit into your tight cunt.

A part of him is of course thrilled that you're laying beneath him practically drooling over his massive length, but another part of him is scared about how you'll react when he reveals his second cock to you that he's been told is even thicker than the first. Especially as it seems only one dick is normal for human males.

When he finally sinks into your warmth it's everything he's been imagining. Even with only one of his cocks inside of you it's the best sex he's ever had. The intimacy of the moment unmatched as his clawed hands trace over your curves.

You just feel so good and warm, he wants to give you all of him. He grabs handfuls of you, his hands sinking into your softness as he helps slam you down harder on his cock.

While he continues to lose himself your sweet cunt, he can't completely ignore that small nagging voice in the back of his head. A whispering voice telling him that he could give you even more, make your pleasure greater. All he had to do was let out his other cock. But his fear quickly silenced it and he just starts pounding into even harder, eager to make you feel good.

He knows he can't keep it a secret though. It wouldn't be fair to you or him. So a few days after that special night you two spent together, he sits you down, telling you he has something important to talk about. Not realizing that for humans that sentence can create a lot of anxiety.

You being the wonderful mate that you are asks him what's wrong. Being as before you he's never had a human mate, he has no idea how to put this. So he figures the best way is to just get it over with and blurt it out.

The silence stretches awkwardly after he does, neither of you knowing what to say.

"What?" You ask in your shock. He swallows down his nerves.

"I have another cock. One l've been hiding encase it was too much for you."

Again, the silence stretches. Shark Hybrid bf fears the worst, internally terrified that he's about to lose you. That you'll be scared or upset. That now that you know you may not want him.

"Can I see it?" Is what you finally say, shocking him. He whips his head around to look at you, jaw dropped.

His cocks twitch in his tail at your words and his Addams apple bobs but he nods in agreement, a spark of hopeful arousal shooting through him. It enough to have one of his cocks pop through the slit of his tail. A brief hesitation has him holding back for only a second before he looks into your eyes and sees only acceptance.

A long sigh of pleasure leaves him as he finally releases his second cock from his slit. His eyes never leave you as your own trail down his body and they widen once they reach his lengths. The second one indeed being thicker than the first. Both equally impressive in their length. Your bf waits with bated breath for you to say something- anything.

"H-how would they fit?" You whisper in awe, your hand tentatively reaching out to touch one.

Shark Hybrid bf groans, his head falling back as his cocks twitch at your slight touch. The second one was always more sensitive than the first. He takes a moment to catch his breath.

"There's many ways we could mate. But I could, uh, mmph, stretch you. Fit them both inside your pretty little hole. F-feel how wide you can stretch f'me."

You both moan at the image his words paint in your heads and before you know it you're slowing riding his first cock, his hips swiveling and mixing up your insides as he stretches you on his girth. You're a dripping mess, your arousal dribbling down his dick and making a mess of your joined hips. The anticipation fueling you just as much as his hard cock inside you is.

Shark Hybrid bf can feel how perfectly you're wrapped around him and he has to gather his strength to hold back his release. When your cunt flutters around him, clearly begging for more, his hand slips between your bodies, and his fingers gently push in, brushing against your walls and his cock at the same time causing you both to gasp.

He works on stretching you even wider, not willing to risk you getting hurt over this. Making sure everything is properly lubricated, leaving the two of you absolutely soaked. It was wet and filthy but so fucking hot. Each finger he adds in, pumping them in tandem with his length as your body relaxing further and further.

By the time you're finally ready for his second cock you're a fucked out mess, your head all spacey as you sag against your bfs chest. But the second you feel his second tip press against your entrance it's like you get a second wind, your mind and body coming to life.

Long pleasurable mewls echo off the walls as your bf slides his second cock deep inside you with the first. Your pussy almost unbearably full of him. For a moment you fear you'll burst in half, his sizes threatening to break you into two.

Almost as if sensing your worries your bf settles down inside of you, letting you adjust and calm down to. His hands caress your sides, massaging your fat with an unparalleled reverence.

He whispers soft words of praise in your hear, telling you how good you feel, how well you're taking him, and how you're the best mate he could've ever hoped for. And with his hands now free he doesn't hesitate to bring a couple of fingers up to rub soft circles into your clit, causing you to more easily relax against the intrusion.

You make the first move when you're ready, surprising your bf yet again as you start to ride his dicks. A low growl you've never heard from him before tears through his throat and his claws tighten on your waist. And before you know it you're bouncing on cocks at a frenzied pace, each glide pushes along your throbbing walls, making you crazy for him.

As much as he tries Shark Hybrid bf can't find it in himself to slow down. The stimulation of your perfect sopping pussy and the way his dicks rub together inside you send him spiraling, a feral need taking over him. He fucks into you with abandon, barreling you both into an unimaginable release.

And when you finally cum you swear for a moment you black out, the pleasure far too intense for your poor human body to handle. But your bf keeps fucking you through it, making you cum even harder till it's gushing out of you in a steady stream. The intensity of it all sends you clamping down on both his cocks and with a few more thrusts your bf cums right along with you.

You don't know what to expect when he finally does cum inside you but you didn't realize that double the cocks meant double the cum. His release doesn't seem to end as he shoots endless streams of cum deep inside you, stuffing you till you're overflowing with his release and your belly distends more and more.

When he carefully slips his lengths out of you, his cum spills out of you like a current. A satisfied grin rests on your bf's lips as he watches and his hand leaves your swollen sensitive clit to caress your stomach. After a moment he pushes on it gently and his grin grows wider as more and more spills out onto the ground beneath you, making an even bigger mess.

He swears to himself then and there that there is nothing better than having a pretty human mate like you.

[fireinmoonshot]

darling | robert reynolds x reader,

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts. Warnings: Mentions of food/drink, reader is mentioned to not be mentally ready for a relationship and has a bit of a moment at the end struggling with their thoughts/struggling mentally in general. Word Count: 1.3k A/N: Thank you all so much for the amazing response on my first Bob fic 🥹 For my second one, this was actually the first idea I had for Bob but it took a bit of workshopping to get right. I ended up being really happy with it. I love writing the Thunderbolts team dynamic. I also put a little easter egg in there for anyone that's read all my other Joaquín fics since February this year. I hope you all enjoy! 💗

Bob had been called many different things in his life. There had been a series of insults from his family and people he’d hurt during his time as an addict. Walker always called him Bobby, which he hated. Valentina called him by his full name, Robert. He had other names like Sentry and Void when he was using his powers. But none of those could ever come close to his favourite from you.

Every time he hears the word darling come from your mouth, directed at him, he thinks it might be the closest he’s ever come to true happiness. He wishes every time that he could bottle that feeling up and keep it for when the days are especially tough.

“Darling, can you pass me that book?”

“Darling, how are you doing after that mission?”

“Darling, do you need me to do anything for you?”

The only bad thing is the fact that you aren’t his. It’s a mutual decision, though, so he can’t be mad. You’ve been in mutual like for a while now. But both of you have known that entering into something serious when neither of you are mentally ready for something like that would just be foolish and end up with one or both of you being hurt. Your friendship always mattered more than the possibility of your futures together.

But the nickname still stuck and Bob was glad for that.

He never cared that it was just in private. In fact, he rather enjoyed the fact that it was just for the two of you. That, whenever he was alone with you, it was almost a guarantee that he was going to hear your voice speak that gorgeous word.

He cared for the rest of the team so deeply, but the moments when it was just you and him were his favourites. When you’d be laying together on the couch, both of you reading the same book and having to wait till you’d both finished the page before turning to the next one. When you’d be in the kitchen together, Bob washing the dishes as you plated up some kind of masterpiece for dinner. The quiet times, when everyone else was asleep and you and Bob would stay up trading memories like they were the worlds greatest secrets. 

The level of comfort he got in your presence surprised him, but he accepted it quickly.

It’s why, when you enter the room, he knows that you’re there. He relaxes almost instantly, just from sensing you getting closer. You reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder before you stop yourself, resting it on the top of the chair that he’s sitting on instead. 

There’s still a little hesitation when it comes to touch between the two of you. Both because neither of you want to cross the invisible line you’ve both drawn, but because of Bob’s powers too. He still isn’t fully in control.

“Morning, darling,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. It’s so normal these days to refer to Bob like this, but always in private. Never in the dining room of the Watch Tower where every other member of the team is having breakfast.

Bob is none the wiser to your blunder. He gets that same starry look in his eyes as he always does when he looks up at you, standing behind him. He wants to reach out, wrap an arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap, though he wouldn’t have the confidence to do such a thing even if his powers weren’t an issue.

He always melts a little when he hears you call him darling. 

Across the room, you hear a groan.

“Oh, hell no,” Walker says, dropping the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. “You two are not doing that. Whatever is happening here, I don’t care, but we are not listening to you two call each other darling. Especially over breakfast.”

“What’s so wrong with a bit of young love?” Alexei exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he looks at Walker across the table. “This is good! Love heals the soul, there is nothing wrong with love!”

You frown. “Okay, who said anything about love?”

Alexei and Walker ignore you and continue to bicker.

You catch Yelena’s eye from across the room where she’s sat by the window, but she just shrugs her shoulders and goes back to staring out at the skyline.

“I would’ve thought you’d be all right with seeing affection, Walker,” Ava says, entering the room behind you. She’d obviously overheard the noise from the hallway. “You are married, even if you’re not together right now. Are you telling us you never called your wife something like that?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t make everyone else listen to me!”

Bucky, who has been watching everything the whole time from the corner of the room where he’s sitting, coffee in hand, huffs out a laugh. “You guys think this is bad? You should be glad you’ve never spent time around Joaquin Torres when he’s away from his girl.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee, not bothering to explain any further about the new Falcon. 

You take advantage of the moment of silence that Bucky has caused to attempt to fix the situation. “Okay, no more talking about love or who is and isn’t allowed to call each other nicknames. Can we just drop it? It was a slip of the tongue!”

“Only if you explain why you said it,” Walker says.

“No,” you reply, pulling out the chair next to Bob’s and sitting down in it. It’s all you offer in way of an answer to Walker and he seems to surprisingly give up on fighting you on it. 

You glance over to see that Bob is still looking at you, his eyes glistening and a small smile on his lips. The sight of it makes you smile as well. “I am never calling you that in front of the others again… even if it was just a slip of the tongue, that was mortifying.” 

Bob smiles again and nudges a drink that’s sitting in front of him over towards you – he’s prepared your favourite and had it waiting for when you arrived. You try to ignore the feeling that rises in your stomach at the small act of kindness. 

“But when it’s just us?” He inquires.

“You know it’s different then.” 

You pick up the drink and take a sip of it before leaning back in your chair. Walker and Alexei have started bickering over something else. Yelena is still looking out the window, Bucky is in the corner with his coffee and Ava is exiting the kitchen with a drink of her own. It’s a fairly mundane kind of morning for a group of people meant to be the ‘New Avengers.’

There’s a sudden feeling that rises in your chest at the thought of your new status as an Avenger. It’s uncomfortable, unwelcome. You still don’t know how you feel about it, even many months later. It should be a good thing, but then why does it fill you with dread?

Bob can see the change in your expression and he’s quick to act. He reaches over and taps the table in front of you to get your attention. You pull your eyes away from the window, where you’d been staring, and meet his eyes instead. They instantly help to calm you.

“Quiet time?” Bob asks, nodding towards the door that leads into the hallway.

It’s like a code word between the two of you. When one of you needs to get away from the others or you start to get a little too wrapped up in your head. Two words that put you instantly at ease. 

You nod and Bob wastes no time in standing up from the table. You follow him, leaving your drink in the dining room and walking out of the room with him, ignoring Walker as he calls out, asking where you’re both running off to. 

“Thank you, darling,” you mutter, once you’re just outside the room.

Bob turns to you with a small smile on his lips. “Always.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart. 

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static. 

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months. 

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good. 

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way. 

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not. 

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

This is the right thing. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses. 

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair. 

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared. 

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making. 

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth. 

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes. 

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32. 

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts. 

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying. 

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. 

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him. 

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint. 

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone. 

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand. 

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes. 

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily. 

“So you’ve told me.” 

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink. 

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days. 

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things. 

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend. 

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks. 

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no. 

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin. 

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.  

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t. 

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone. 

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?” 

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it. 

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence. 

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing. 

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing. 

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh. 

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow. 

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn. 

More buzzing silence. 

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do.��Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton. 

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back. 

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered. 

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey. 

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?” 

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face. 

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon. 

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be. 

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers. 

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can. 

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains. 

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably. 

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming. 

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice. 

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat. 

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed. 

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble. 

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear. 

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity. 

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much. 

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen. 

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right. 

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased. 

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in. 

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun. 

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die. 

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood. 

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that. 

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper. 

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you. 

-

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well. 

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch. 

-

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room. 

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him. 

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp. 

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief. 

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too. 

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state. 

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt. 

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you. 

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines. 

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

-

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth. 

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries. 

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection. 

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand. 

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad. 

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag. 

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet. 

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall. 

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!” 

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders. 

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again. 

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper. 

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway. 

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent. 

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says. 

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. 

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into. 

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival. 

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in. 

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant. 

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity. 

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release. 

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin. 

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds. 

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment. 

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want. 

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him. 

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you. 

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want. 

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry. 

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait. 

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again. 

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it. 

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end. 

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck. 

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer. 

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision. 

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name. 

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would. 

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best. 

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you. 

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life. 

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay. 

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids. 

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you. 

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room. 

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet. 

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles. 

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face. 

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction. 

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression. 

That only pisses you off worse. 

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox. 

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are. 

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke. 

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it. 

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied. 

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross. 

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him. 

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff. 

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart? 

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across. 

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him. 

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you. 

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works. 

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar. 

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could. 

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know. 

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters. 

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls. 

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery. 

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love. 

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield. 

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV. 

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window. 

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck. 

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you. 

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ. 

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this. 

He loves me. 

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong. 

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails. 

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much. 

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic. 

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined. 

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell. 

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner. 

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart. 

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal. 

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole. 

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below. 

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers. 

You tap lightly at his door. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect. 

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens. 

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth. 

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled. 

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on. 

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine. 

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for. 

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. 

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting. 

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV. 

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me. 

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things. 

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin. 

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation. 

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention. 

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle. 

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking. 

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you. 

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink. 

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all. 

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you. 

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums. 

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go. 

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home. 

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards. 

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to. 

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter. 

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that. 

Fuck. 

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him. 

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood. 

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them. 

Which means you need to backtrack. 

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face. 

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between. 

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat. 

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way. 

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way. 

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted. 

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach. 

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears. 

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is. 

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years. 

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again. 

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave. 

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself. 

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision. 

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders. 

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable. 

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out. 

-

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs. 

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything. 

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you. 

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next. 

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. 

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight. 

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process. 

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast. 

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor. 

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you. 

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you. 

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins. 

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself. 

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen. 

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water. 

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen. 

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while. 

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat. 

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying. 

You watch it wash over him. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic. 

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air. 

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. 

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room. 

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them. 

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!

[2pndr]

The Final Mix

A/N: Written for a prompt by @woollypoison. Much love for hosting! This is also my first time officially writing smut. Enjoy!

Karina & Hyeri x Male Reader Smut

5.7k words

Now here’s the thing about Lee Hyeri: 

She gets it. 

She’s loud, she’s lazy, and she’s casually filthy, sure. But she doesn’t pretend this is about attachment or romance or whatever else people try to slap onto a good fuck. She moans like a banshee, curses like she’s getting paid by the word, and she’ll laugh in your face if you try to call this passion. 

It's not passion. It's Tuesday. 

You like her for that. That, and the fact that she squirts like a pornstar and doesn’t mind doing it on company time.

Desk, floor, couch, conference table—pick your battlefield. She’ll bring the war. (And open the floodgates.)

Today’s bout happens to be in your vocal booth. 

Or, happened, rather.

“Don’t fall asleep in here,” you remind her, yanking your pants up. “You drool on anything expensive and the label’s gonna think I adopted a stray.”

“Hah,” she laughs dryly. “You owe me lunch, for that one. Or, I dunno, a lozenge. I can’t feel my throat.”

You snort, still half-naked, still sweating—absolutely not in a position to debate sexual reparations.

Meanwhile, Hyeri’s lying across the vocal booth bench like it’s a fucking chaise lounge, panties twirling in her fingers, skirt still hiked up, and blouse open like the concept of modesty just doesn’t apply after three orgasms.

Which, it doesn’t, so you’ll give her that one.

There’s sweat on her chest and something else between her thighs—it yours, obviously—and she’s tracing lazy circles around her navel with one red-tipped nail. “I really think I hit that harmony this time,” she muses. “Like... actually nailed it.” She is, of course, referring to the song you’re supposed to be recording and not the chorus of moans she let out as she came all over you.

You shoot her a sceptical look, shoving a cable out of your way with your foot, hunting for wherever your belt got thrown off to. “You moaned through half of it.”

“Artistic expression,” she shrugs, reaching for a tissue. “Adds texture.”

“It adds me spending an hour editing out your sex noises,” you grimace, pulling your belt out from where she's hidden it under her. “That or we schedule another day to record.”

“Oh no,” she mocks, wiping your cum from between her thighs. “Not post-production work—y’know, the thing you’re paid to do. But,” she’s thinking now, tapping her chin with a finger, “you would like another day with me all to yourself, now wouldn’t you?”

You flick her the bird as you slip back into your button-up. She smiles like she’s won something. She has, technically. Three times, in fact. The first when you ate her out on the bench. The second when she rode you on said bench. And the third against the booth wall, displacing soundproofing with a leg around your waist, your cock in her cunt, and a finger in her ass for good measure.

But unlike your little sexcapade with Hyeri, this was supposed to be quick.

Track the bridge, tweak her verse, maybe do a dry run of the group chorus. Nothing that warranted sweat-slick skin and a room that smells more potent than a fish market. But with Hyeri, quick is theoretical. She’s chaos and lust wrapped in short skirts and high heels—all while masquerading as the Nation's Little Goody-two-shoes.

And then, like the universe itself is showing its disapproval for your pseudo-professionalism, your phone buzzes.

12:15 PM – Karina | Vocal Tracking

“Shit.”

You have exactly thirteen minutes to unfuck the studio.

Hyeri doesn’t look up, popping a mint and digging in her bag for lipstick. “What now?”

“Karina’s coming.”

She looks up. There’s a beat. Then she laughs—not shy, not sorry.

Delighted.

“Did you schedule us back-to-back, again?” she asks, sitting up, buttoning her blouse like it’s a suggestion and not an obligation. “Jesus, you’re bold.”

“I forgot,” you admit, which is true. Sort of.

You remembered the moment Hyeri finished singing the bridge. But when the Nation’s Little Sister is in your vocal booth moaning into the mic and flashing her tits, your list of priorities gets jumbled just a teensy bit.

She cackles, sliding off the bench and onto the floor like this is all the setup to a really good punchline. “Wow. Can’t wait for her to sing backup on the chorus while standing in a puddle of my cu—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

Hyeri holds her hands up. “What? It’s a collab.”

Right. The collab. Two idols, one producer, and a track about heartbreak or temptation or something equally ironic. Not to toot your own horn or anything but the beat’s  good. An obvious hit.

What makes no sense is the lineup.

 Hyeri—basically retired idol turned variety darling turned actress. 90% charm. 100% chaos.

 Karina—hot as all fuck, a pillar of fourth-gen K-pop, and somehow still the weirdest girl in the room. ‘A loser in a goddess’s body’ as the internet puts it.

There’s absolutely no correlation between the two other than industry and that they’re both drop-dead gorgeous. It’s like some wacky higherup wanted the most oddball idol pairings possible. And for some reason, you’re the glue holding it all together.

The calendar notification flashes up at you again, sending you hurtling into action. “Fuck, I really thought it was just you today,” you scramble, grabbing the tissue box and frantically wiping off the bench drenched in her sweat and fluids. “Are you gonna help?”

Hyeri just shrugs. “I had bridge duty,” she begins, ignoring your pleas entirely. “And Karina’s laying down the second verse, right?”

“Yeah,” you reply, dejected and slightly annoyed. She’s not doing shit. “Just…” you begin, like this makes up for anything,”— don’t leave your bra again.”

She pauses, looking down at her chest like she only just remembered she owns one. “Shit—did I?”

You both spot it at the same time in the far corner of the room. Lace, red, costs three figures. Definitely hers. You snatch it like it’s a grenade and shove it into her tote without ceremony.

Hyeri simply grins. “Oops.”

“Can’t believe you left it in the booth last week,” you hiss. “Karina walked in and asked if you were doing your laundry in here.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you got hot.”

“That’s not even a good lie,” she replies, quite obviously amused by the whole fiasco. “You should’ve said I was doing vocals in lingerie—very French. Very sexy.” 

“Very suspension-of-contract,” you mutter.

“Barely noticed it was gone, to be honest. Was it the black one?”

“...Yes.”

“Mm,” she nods. “Thought so. I’ve been wondering.”

“For a week?”

“I’m not particularly sentimental about bras,” she says, like it’s a flex.

You shake your head. “Do you want it back?”

“Nope. Keep it,” Hyeri zips her tote with a smile, “as a memento.”

You shrug. Can’t argue with that.

With one last wipe you finish scrubbing down the vocal booth like it’s a crime scene clean-up, which, given your contractual obligations such as: Don’t Fuck The Talent, might actually be. 

Three sprays of some bergamot mist tries to mask the smell of sex, sweat, and the lastest in your long line of poor decisions. It doesn’t. At best, now it smells like bergamot and sex. 

But it’ll have to do. 

Hyeri simply watches from her place on the floor. She’s mostly dressed now—blouse crumpled but closed, lipstick redrawn, auburn hair finger-combed into something that says either sexually satisfied or hungover. Almost normal is how you’d describe her—the faint marks just visible above her collar put an emphasis on the almost.

With a couple more sprays of  the citrus you and Hyeri are out of the booth, but you’re desk is a mess too: A tangle of wires, half drunk coffee and—

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard.

Stop recording.

Three peaks. Clear as day.

You don’t need audio engineering school to know what they are. You’re staring at the literal shape of her orgasms.

“Wow,” she says, squinting beside you. “It’s like… orgasmic morse code.”

You glance at her. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“Dunno,” she shrugs. “Sounded smarter in my head.”

You look back at the waveform, playing one of the peaks. 

No vocals. No takes. Just moans. Whines. Wet, slick sounds. You. Her. You in her. And then:

“Oh my fucking Gggggggod,” she moans through the monitors.

Hyeri watches your face. Smiles.

“I should delete it,” you say looking back.

“But you won’t.”

“But I should.”

“But you won’t.”

She’s right. You won’t.

Instead:

Export > Documents > Private > ALT_Hyeri_Vocals.wav

“Ooooh,” she sings, nudging you with her shoulder, a little too pleased. “Wait, alt vocals? Not even a cute name? Not even ‘HyeriMOANS_FinalVII_REALFINAL_usethisone.wav’?”

“It’s for the back-up vocals,” you lie as naturally as you breathe.

“It’s for your spank bank,” she retorts.

You don’t answer. Partly because she’s right and mostly because you’re red from realizing how much you moaned, too. Not your finest hour, you’ll admit.

“Shouldn't you be going?” You finally ask her.

“Fine, fine.”

With one last devious smile, Hyeri pulls on her tote, checks her reflection in the black of the studio glass, and re-combs her hair. “Well,” she says, turning to leave, “have fun explaining our completely professional relationship to Karina.”

“What? Why would I ever—”

“Oh come on,” she cuts in, laughing. “These fourth-gen girls? You think they’ve never walked into a studio that smells like cum and perfume? Please. I’d seriously be surprised if she hasn’t picked up on it by now.”

“Hyeri.”

“I’m serious. She’d have to be Mother Teresa to not know what’s going on in here.” 

You’re mortified. Full-body cringe—It’s delicious to her. “So, unless she’s got a cross under her clothes, you’re not fooling anyone.”

You go pale. She beams.

“You couldn’t have told me this earlier?”

She pretends to think for a second before landing on a simple:

“Nope.”

At the door, she turns, planting a kiss on your cheek—sweet, sinful, smug. “Good luck,” she sings. “See you next week.”

And just like that she's gone.

You’re completely frozen. Save for the moment you spray the bergamot again. 

Five times this time.

Spoiler alert: 

It doesn’t help.

*

Karina arrives at 12:16.

Which is a little late. But when your producer’s secretly been balls-deep in your sexy co-worker, and your body has curves that put cue balls to shame, a little late is just fine.

She pokes her head in, hair in a low ponytail, gray hoodie and sweatpants on, face bare save for chapstick and what you hope is not suspicions of contract violations.

“Hey,” she chirps, offering a small smile. One of those slow, polite things that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Traffic was a nightmare. Did I miss anything?”

Only a live porno starring your dick and Hyeri’s everything.

“Nope,” you lie, voice almost cracking. “Perfect timing.”

She steps inside like she owns the place, which is fair, considering her vocals are probably worth half your paycheck this quarter. Then, she gives you a quick once-over—nothing obvious, but her eyes pause on your sloppy collar, then your flushed ears. You sit up straighter. Try not to look like you’ve just been reverse-exorcised by a woman with zero gag reflex.

Then Karina sniffs.

“New room spray?” she asks, nose wrinkling.

“Uh, yeah. Some limited edition one, I think. Intern picked it up for shits and giggles.”

“Huh.”

You try to make yourself look busy, turning away and absentmindedly double-clicking shit on your desktop, minimising and maximising random windows just to make your screen flash.  You wish you could minimize yourself while you’re at it.

“You, uh… just finished with Hyeri?” she asks, looking over.

There it is.

You nod. Neutral. Casual. “Yeah. She was recording the bridge.”

“Mm.”

Just a sound, not even a word. And yet you can practically hear the subtext screaming: Bridge, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?

You shouldn’t be scared of her. Of all people, Karina is the probably least intimidating idol you’ve ever worked with—soft-spoken, professionally polite and always just a little behind the tempo of group conversations. 

So then why the fuck does she manage to hit the nail on the head with every word out of that gorgeous mouth?

 “I could tell,” she shrugs. “Smells like her.”

You cough so hard you hit a new vocal register.

But Karina doesn’t say anything. Just makes her way to the booth.

You’re about to ask if she wants water—anything to offset the tension and your crippling anxiety—when she peels off her hoodie.

And fuck you.

It’s not even that it’s scandalous. It’s a black sports bra. Basic. Functional. Nothing that should bring a grown man to his metaphorical and literal knees. It’s gym attire. But it’s her gym attire, and that makes a world of difference. 

The bra doesn’t so much as hide her tits but politely suggest they quiet the fuck down, doing a noble yet futile job of containing what you really wish wasn’t. Because God damn if her breasts aren’t full, shapely—obscene in their perfection, indecent in their splendour. And if that weren't enough for you, right below her stomach tapers in, all sharp lines and lean muscle, just begging for you to run your hands and tongue along.

Karina tosses her hoodie onto the vocal booth bench—the same one you railed Hyeri on half an hour ago. She stretches, arms up, spine arched, that long line of torso on blatant, mouth-watering display. You pretend you’re checking the input levels, but your gaze keeps slingshotting back to her like it’s tied on elastic.

She catches you.

Which, yeah, you’re about as subtle as a cymbal crash.

“It’s really…  stuffy in here,” she remarks as she meets your staring gaze, fanning her face with one hand. “Something must have happened in here.”

Well, if she didn’t know earlier, then she definitely knows now. And she’s fucking with you to boot.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Your throat works around a lie. Futile, probably. Any moment now she could report your horny ass to a higher-up and have you on the street within minutes. But she hasn’t. So either she’s getting off fucking with you, or she wants something in return for keeping hush. Either one isn’t particularly ideal. 

“A‑ah, yeah,” you stammer. Smooth start. “HVAC’s acting up. I’ll put in a ticket.” You flick a random knob that does absolutely nothing, praying she’ll drop it. “Let’s get your tracking done before the air gets worse, yeah?”

Karina nods. Noncommittal. Disbelieving.

Man, you’re so fucked.

*

Karina nails the verse on the first pass—pitch perfect, emotion dialled, consonants crisp enough to slice butter. And for a little while, you forget about her standing in a room soaked in Hyeri’s cum.

Second pass? Even better. Third? Pure polish. By the time you hit stop for real, you're covered in goosebumps and it has nothing to do with the prospect of losing everything.

Karina’s simply that good.

You press the talk‑back. “That’s the one. Seriously, Karina—gold. Take five?”

She lifts one ear‑cup and flashes a grin. “Sure.”

You breathe a sigh of relief when the conversation ends there. Maybe… just maybe… you’ve dodged a bullet.

You lean back, arms stretching over your head, casual as you can fake it. The worst is over. You’re in the clear. She probably bought the ventilation excuse. Probably thinks nothing of the citrus-and-sex sauna she walked into.

Professional crisis: averted.

Thank fuck.

Karina hums a little under her breath, fiddling with her phone. She looks harmless. Normal. Just a girl in a sports bra and sweats, checking her messages, laughing at a reel.

Perhaps Hyeri’s wrong. Perhaps Karina’s a little too sweet, a little too spaced-out, a little too fourth-gen golden girl to know what a post-sex room smells like.

But then you let your gaze skate over her bare stomach again. Then those magnificent tits.

And you wonder how that would be possible.

You shake your head. Refocus.

“Seriously, you crushed it,” you say, half to fill the air, half to genuinely compliment. “Some of your best work, period.”

Karina beams, cheeks flushing pink. And for another second, it’s easy to forget the whole ticking-time-bomb nature of this room. To forget Hyeri’s cum still somewhere deep in the booth fibers. To forget everything except how fucking pretty she looks smiling at you.

You even start mentally scheduling next week’s sessions—like you’re gonna get away clean.

You’re an idiot.

Because then she ruins your fucking life.

“So,” Karina starts, tilting her head just slightly, “how long have you been fucking Hyeri?”

You choke on absolutely nothing. Do a spit-take with no drink.

She says it like it’s a joke. Like she’s asking if you’re out of oat milk.

Except she’s not joking.

Not even a little.

 “I—I—what?”

“I mean, I’m assuming it’s Hyeri,” she muses, tapping a finger to her chin. "She did look pretty worn when I passed her in the lobby.”

You wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You wish you could eject yourself into the sun.

You wish she hadn’t said it with that much fucking glee.

“Don’t worry,” she says in a half-shrug. “I’m not gonna tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Thank fuck.

“There is just one thing though…”

Oh fuck.

"I don’t really like being left out."

What the fuck?

"I want in."

What the fuck.

You stand up, pace around the room. Try to gather your thoughts, try to process what exactly she’s proposing here.

Karina wants to fuck you.

 You won’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. That you’re some righteous saint without the need for fantasy. 

But this is Karina you’re talking about.

It’s one thing for you to be caught with Hyeri, but Karina? Pillar of a whole generation? If the two of you were caught it’d be—

“—A PR nightmare?” she supplies. “A scandal? Headline of the century?”

You nod so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

She just shrugs again, careless, reckless, hot as sin. "Don't care."

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. "You—you have no idea what you're asking—"

"I do," she interrupts, stepping closer, breath frosting the booth window. Her voice is silk now. A trap you’re already caught in. "I know exactly what I’m asking."

She walks back to the bench, hands bracing behind her, legs spreading just enough to hint at what’s awaiting you.

“I want you like she has you.”

You’re not strong enough. 

You’re not stupid enough to pretend you are.

But even if you managed to steel your resolve, Karina bites her bottom lip. Runs a hand along her crotch.

"I’ve wanted you since the demo."

And you’re moving before you even register it.

*

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, front-row seats to an Eiffel Tower light show in a suite. Gorgeous, all of them. Low-end bucket‑list kinda stuff.

But this view might just take the cake.

Sweat slicks Karina’s collarbones, soaks the carelessly lifted sports bra, gathers at the dip between her breasts, slides down to where your hands own her hips. Every grind turns your spine to liquid. Every thrust drives you deeper. And every bounce sends those perfect tits—shape and size defying God and physics—swinging in hypnotic rhythm.

“You fill me so good,” she pants, words cutting the hush of the booth, dirty and devotional at once. “Knew you'd feel this good—just knew it." She braces one palm against the glass, the other yanking her own hair into a makeshift ponytail, dragging it off her glowing face. The move juts her chest higher—an unspoken invitation, one you answer with your mouth. You latch on to the reddened mark just above her nipple, tongue finding its way around the sensitive circumference.

She whines.

You suck harder.

She tightens.

And you’re gone.

You should be thinking your job, about morality, about the very real possibility that a lone intern could wander past and see silhouettes doing something distinctly un‑PG behind the frosted glass. Instead, you’re cataloguing micro‑details: the faint scent of her shampoo under the musk of sweat, the tremor in her thigh when she sinks too deep, the almost reverent way her eyes lock on-to you when you hit that spot.

“Been wanting this for so long,” she reiterates, rolling her hips in a tighter circle. “Wanted your cock buried so deep I can’t hit a high note without it in me.”

The image alone nearly finishes you. You grit your teeth, hold your release back with sheer will and bruising fingers at her waist.

“Fuck, Karina—”

Karina leans in, panting against your mouth, grinding harder and harder, chasing her high and yours without a single shred of shame.

“Wanted you so bad,” she whines, breath hot against your ear, “thought about this every time you said my name—every fucking time—”

Your head falls back against the booth wall with a thunk.

You’re losing it.

She feels it—smiles a broken, wicked smile. “Already that close? Poor producer.” She makes a teasing cluck of the tongue, a soft caress to your cheek, then she slams down hard enough to shatter the bench. “Then give it to me,” she growls. “ Give me everything.”

You can’t not obey. 

Pressure builds and so does your pace. Driving into her with a fury you didn’t know you had in you. Karina’s moaning openly now, every last shred of composure thrown to the wind.

Pressure builds then detonates. 

Heat floods every nerve.

You break.

 She follows.

And it’s bliss.

Her cry is earth-shattering, torn from somewhere deep as she clamps down hard around you, milking you for everything you’ve got. Her thighs lock, her body seizes. She’s trembling, gasping, riding wave after wave like she doesn’t know how to stop.

Her nails rake your back, half for balance, half to brand you, and you let her. Let her take. Let her have you. Her breath stutters against your mouth as you kiss through the fallout—sloppy, greedy. A thank-you and a promise and a question all at once.

Aftershocks hit her in uneven jolts, and you revel in the way she twitches around you with each one. You’re still inside her. Still hard. Still pulsing. Still drowning in her.

KArina collapses forward, full-body flush against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone. Her heartbeat drums against your ribs. You’re shaking. So is she.

For a long, breathless moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your combined panting, then, your lips colliding. 

You’re engrossed. And so is she. So much so that you both miss the sound of the booth door opening.

“And here I thought I came too early,” a voice says from the doorway.

You don’t look right away. You don’t have the mental bandwidth for anything beyond Karina’s skin and the twitch in your cock. 

And besides, you already know exactly what you’ll see.

Your head finally turns toward the door.

Hyeri’s grinning. “You two certainly wasted no time.”

“Hyeri,” you begin, less surprised, more irritated, “ what the fuck are you—”

“Save it,” she interrupts. “You’ll ruin the mood.”

“What fucking moo—”

In an instant Hyeri’s blouse is open again, revealing an absence of fabric over her tits.

You feel Karina tighten.

“Room for one more?” she asks with a sly grin.

You look at Karina.

Karina looks at you.

And Karina—God bless her, damn her, ruin you for life—grins. 

"Yeah," she says, voice high and sweet and so very, very gone. "Okay."

"You good with it, Producer-nim?" she teases.

You are not good.

You are very, very bad.

But Karina’s hips are still pressed against you, and Hyeri’s smile is so knowing, and your cock—traitorous, eager—twitches inside the girl already dripping down your thighs.

You’re fucked.

Yet you nod.

Reluctantly. Helplessly.

(Gratefully.)

Hyeri claps, wickedly pleased. “God, I love consent.”

Then she drops to her knees.

*

You’ve soaked in some legendary sights on the label’s dime.

Dawn over the Han River from sixty stories up, neon Tokyo streets glitter‑wet after midnight rain, Karina, sweat-slick, tits swinging and your name on her breath as she rides you into the Earth’s core.

But this view might just take the cake.

Which is ironic, because there’s no view at all.

Because Karina’s sitting on your face.

Full weight, full warmth, full heaven and hell combined.

Her meaty thighs clamp around your head, her cunt pressed flush against your mouth, slick and perfect and utterly suffocating. Her ass—round, shameless and the urban dictionary definition of fuck you—is covering everything else.

You couldn’t open your eyes even if you wanted to.

And you don’t want to.

Because the raw sensation—the taste of her dripping down your tongue, the way she grinds against your mouth with broken little whimpers—is worth more than any skyline on Earth.

You’re drowning in her.

And if that wasn’t enough?

Hyeri’s riding you at the same time.

Usually, you’d feel her braced against your chest, feel the needy, desperate grip of her hands as she takes everything you have and begs for more with every bounce.

But you suspect her hands are elsewhere: fondling Karina’s bare tits, holding her throat as they duel with their tongues. Either or works. 

Because God if that mental image isn’t Louvre material.

A lick to the clit softens Karina’s grip around your ears and you settle for sound instead.

Wet, filthy kisses sound somewhere above you. Giddy little gasps. The faint slap of a palm against skin. Karina moans into Hyeri’s mouth—or maybe it’s Hyeri moaning into hers—you can’t tell, you don’t care. 

“Fuck, you’re cute,” Hyeri purrs against her, the smacking of lips resuming instantly.

 You feel the words vibrate through Karina’s body, then feel her clench around your tongue.

“Sensitive too,” Hyeri adds. “You like it when I touch you here?” Karina gasps, the result of having her pussy licked and her tits caressed.

Karina tries to answer, but it comes out as a high-pitched whimper instead.

Hyeri laughs softly—not cruel, but giddy, drunk on the power she holds. 

 You hear the slick sound of their mouths meeting again. The sticky, obscene sound of a kiss that isn’t meant for cameras or fans or anything else where clean and polished is the expectation.

Just raw, messy and private.

Karina breaks away from it first, panting hard, lifting her hips just enough that a thin string of slick snaps between your mouth and her pussy.

You catch a glimpse of her when you blink up—face flushed, eyes glassy, lips and nipples swollen from Hyeri’s assault. 

You’d worship her if you could breathe.

But Hyeri’s hand is curling into Karina’s hair, tugging her up—gentle but insistent—and she moans like she’s been waiting for it.

"On your hands and knees, baby," Hyeri coos through another kiss, brushing the hair out of Karina’s sweaty face. "Be a good girl for us."

Karina whimpers, flushed and dazed, but obeys without hesitation, scrambling off your mouth and onto the bench, ass high, head low, presenting herself so shamelessly it’s enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

The second she’s steady, Hyeri slinks in front of her—legs spread, pussy slick and glistening, thighs trembling from earlier—and cups Karina’s flushed cheeks in her hands.

"You know what to do.”

Karina doesn’t hesitate.

She dives in, mouth open, tongue flat against Hyeri’s cunt, licking her like she’s starving for it. Like she needs it more than air.

Hyeri gasps, hips twitching, hand fisting tight in Karina’s hair.  She catches your eye over Karina’s bowed back, grinning like a cat who got the cream.

“Well?” Hyeri says to you, mid-moan. “You just gonna sit there and look pretty?”

You don’t need more encouragement.

You’re behind Karina in an instant, hands gripping her hips—tight, possessive—and line yourself up.

One push. Slow? Yes. Deep? All the fucking way.

Karina cries out into Hyeri’s pussy, body arching towards the flat of the bench. Hyeri laughs, breathlessly. Her hand strokes Karina’s cheek almost tenderly, but her words are anything but.

“Fuck, you’re loud,” she teases. "Who knew you were such a slutty girl?"

You thrust into Karina again, harder this time, savoring the ripple of her ass you do, the obscene wet sounds filling the booth as she tries—and fails—to keep up with both of you.

"He was like this with me, too," Hyeri purrs, hips rolling against Karina’s mouth in lazy, devastating circles. "First time he fucked me? Thought I was gonna cum at the first thrust.”

You’re turned on by the memory, driving yourself intoKarina harder.

Karina whines around Hyeri’s clit, her thighs shaking, her slick dripping down your cock every time you bottom out inside her.

Hyeri threads her fingers tighter in Karina’s hair, guiding her movements now, rocking her face exactly where she wants it.

“She’s a natural, isn’t she?” Hyeri croons, locking eyes with you again. “Makes the prettiest fucking sounds.”

You can’t do anything but nod, the tightness and sight stealing your breath.

Karina's arms tremble where she braces against Hyeri’s thighs. Her moans are constant now—muffled against Hyeri’s.

And you’re so close you can taste it.

Hyeri gasps, grinding down against Karina’s mouth with reckless, frantic need.

"You close?" she teases, voice shaky but still smug. "Gonna fill her up while she makes me cum?"

“Fuck yeah,” you manage to get out. 

Your hand finds its way to Karina’s clit: extra stimulation to make her tighten, to get her closer to her own release, to motivate her to suck Hyeri even harder.  

Your strategy works like a charm, and you’re graced with the sight of Hyeri’s head’s rolling back, a sharp cry escaping her as she cums all over Karina’s face.  “Fuuuuuuck me,” she exclaims, thighs clenching around Karina’s head, hands yanking her closer like she never wants her to stop.

Karina whimpers too, grinding her ass back against you in frantic, desperate little jerks, her own orgasm building with nowhere to go.

And then you snap.

You grab Karina’s hips, pull her flush against you, and empty yourself inside her with a strangled groan, spilling deep into her own trembling body.

Karina falls apart between you both—moaning and sobbing and soaking the bench with her release.

The three of you collapse together, sticky and shuddering and utterly spent.

And despite being suffocated and impaled at the same time, Karina perks up again. She’s still panting, still catching up on oxygen, but that doesn't stop her from asking:

“Now who’s ready for round two?”

*

The booth door swings open.

Hyeri’s hair is a disaster, Karina’s everything is either red, swollen, glistening or all three, and you’re pretty sure you’ve left fingerprints in places you’re contractually forbidden to even think about.

 (And probably teeth marks, if Hyeri’s wincing is anything to go by.)

And yet, somehow, you’re all laughing.

Half-dressed, fully wrecked, riding the tail-end high of the worst—and best—decision you’ve made in years, but still: laughing. 

Karina tugs the hem of her hoodie down like it might erase the obvious evidence of a threesome. Meanwhile, Hyeri buttons maybe one button of her blouse and calls it a day and you’re wiping sweat off your forehead with the sleeve of your shirt when you notice it.

The recording light is still on.

The waveform’s still rolling.

The track: armed. The booth: live.

You lunge for the keyboard. 

Again.

Stop recording.

There are fourteen peaks this time.

You know exactly what they are before Karina even asks, hobbling over as she pulls her sports bra back over her tits.

“What are those?” she asks, peering at the screen with curious eyes.

Hyeri’s already smiling, smugness just emanating from her. “Our orgasms,” she says proudly, like they’re her children.

“Wait, it was recording? The whole time?”

“Courtesy of me,” Hyeri says, with an even bigger smile now. “Turned it on while you two were getting busy. “

“Surprised you’re smart enough to know how,” you tease. And she hits you right back, literally.

“Ow!”

“Gonna fap to this one too, are ya?” she cackles.

“He’s gonna what?” Karina squeaks, slightly turned on.

You barely make it three seconds into the collective laughter before Hyeri steamrolls right through it.

“That’s it!” she exclaims, snapping her fingers. “This could totally work!”

"Work?" you echo. "What do you—?"

“We use this,” she begins with manic glee, dragging the track into the main sequence, “in the final mix.”

Karina’s eyes light up. "Wait, that’s genius!”

You’re frozen. Horrified. Horny.

“We could layer it in,” Karina continues. “Just subtle. Like an Easter egg.”

“A very hot Easter egg,” Hyeri adds, giving you a wicked eyebrow waggle.

You can barely think up a response. Between the countless hours today you’ve spent having sex, agonising about losing your job, and simply dealing with the pair of women before you, the amount of fucks you can currently give is strewn remarkably thin. 

Not thin enough, though.

“This,” you say, pointing to the screen,“is a horrible idea.”

It’s Hyeri’s turn for her eye’s to light up. 

“Hear that Karina?” She steps closer to you, hand going to your exposed cock. “Sounds like he needs some convincing.” 

“Mm,” Karina hums in agreement, fingers making their way up your chest. “Definitely does.” 

You groan, running a hand down your face.

You’ve already lost.

 “...We’ll put it in the song.”

“Yay!” they both squeal at once, pressing quick, sticky kisses to either side of your cheeks.

You sigh, sitting back at the console, exhaustion setting into your bones.

But you’re already thinking about it.

You’re thinking about how those breathy, desperate little sounds could melt into the track.

How no one would ever know except the three of you.

How every time the song plays, it’ll remind you of the heavenly feeling of Karina’s pussy on your tongue and Hyeri’s cunt on your cock.

You sigh.

You’re weak.

But with the two of them broaching yet another round, who could possibly blame you?

Your hand finds the mouse.

Export > Documents > Private > Vocals — The Final Mix.wav

What a fuckin’ Tuesday, huh?

[callsign-fox]

Hands to Yourself - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

No warnings, just lots of sexual tension

So many more to come...have any ideas? Let me know HEREx

Thanks for all the love, I love you guys xo

The New Avengers Tower was meant to be a monument—an icon of strength and stability. Sleek, modern lines. Reinforced titanium walls. Floors that didn’t groan beneath the weight of gods or legends.

None of that stopped the way she always felt him.

Robert Reynolds—or Bob, as most of them knew him—never announced his presence. He didn’t stomp like Thor or mouth off like Stark. No—he moved like a thunderstorm on the verge of breaking. Quiet. Dense. Charged. Every step deliberate, every breath like it had claws.

When he walked into the training room that morning, damp from a run, sweat clinging to the defined lines of his chest, golden hair wind-tousled like he’d just stepped out of some myth—something primal in her kicked to life. The air changed. Tightened.

She didn’t look at him. Wouldn’t. But she felt his gaze settle on her like gravity.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice smooth and low, like velvet dragged over a blade.

Y/N didn’t flinch. She dropped deeper into her lunge, ignoring the warm twist in her stomach. “You’re imagining things.”

“I don’t imagine,” he murmured, voice dipping into something darker—something that curled around her like smoke. “I know.”

She rose slowly, unhurried, brushing hair from her face. She felt him watching every movement, tracking her like prey. “You psychic now, too? That’s new.”

Bob didn’t answer. Just stepped closer. Not touching, not inappropriate. But close enough that the heat from his body rolled off him like a promise.

“I hear your pulse when I walk in,” he said, voice softer now—intimate. “It spikes.”

She fought the urge to react. But her body betrayed her—heart kicking like it wanted out of her ribs. Her eyes flicked to him. Brief. His gaze was dark and amused.

“Sounds like a you problem,” she said coolly. But her voice had a rasp. Damn it.

His mouth curled into that maddening half-smile—slow and sharp, like he knew too much. “Doesn’t feel like a problem to me.”

She raised a brow, letting her lips tug into something flirtatious—mocking, almost. “You want to spar? Or just stare at me all day?”

“Why not both?” he drawled. “I heard you’ve been bored, looking for someone to knock around.” He paused and tilted his head. “I’m volunteering.”

For a second, she considered walking away. Cutting the tension before it strangled her. But instead, she stepped forward with a grin, dropping into a fighting stance that let him see every inch of her ready and waiting.

“No powers,” she said. 

Bob nodded, and moved into a fighting stance. 

She struck first—fast, sharp, a calculated series of blows that pushed him back a few steps. He moved like water. Smooth, reactive, dangerous. But she was quicker than he expected, and she knew it. Her fist caught his ribs with a satisfying thud, and when she spun low to sweep his legs, he barely avoided the hit.

His grin flickered, more real this time. “Didn’t peg you for a brawler.”

She didn’t answer—just pressed forward, unleashing another flurry of strikes that had him shifting defensively. Still, she got a few good hits in. His breath hitched after one particularly vicious jab to the side, and for a second, he looked…impressed.

Then he caught her wrist.

It wasn’t rough—barely more than a touch. But the second his fingers closed around her skin, her body betrayed her. Heat flushed through her, sharp and sudden, racing down her arm like lightning. Her breath faltered. His hand was hot—warmer than it should’ve been—and it sent a pulse straight to her core.

His eyes caught the flicker of surprise in hers. “Huh,” he murmured, thumb dragging across her pulse. “Interesting.”

She jerked free, spinning out of reach before he could say more, masking the flush in her cheeks with a glare. “Hands to yourself, golden boy.”

“You’re good,” he said, breathing harder. Admiration flickered behind the tension in his eyes. “But not good enough.”

In a blink, he caught her wrist, spun her, and swept her legs out from under her. She hit the mat with a gasp, breath stolen—only to find him already on top of her, pinning her effortlessly.

He wasn’t pressing her down. Just... hovering. But the weight of him, the heat—everything—wrapped around her senses like fire.

His lips hovered just above her throat, the warm brush of breath sending a shiver down her spine.

She could shove him off. Should.

But her body didn’t listen.

His mouth skimmed the curve of her neck—barely touching. Teasing. Her breath caught, a soft, involuntary sound slipping free.

For one electric heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her.

She was almost certain she wanted him to.

Instead, his lips brushed her ear, his voice a low rasp. “You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?”

Tension coiled like a spring between them. Her pulse thundered.

She smiled, lips parted, breath catching. “Where’s the fun in easy?”

For a moment, it was just breath and heat and the thrum of something wild. Then—

She moved.

A twist of hips, a shift in leverage, and suddenly he was on his back with her straddling his waist, hands on his chest. Her thighs caged him in, her grin smug.

His breath left him in a surprised huff, but the look in his eyes was all heat and approval.

She leaned in slowly—close enough to feel the rush of his breath against her collarbone.

“You were saying?” she murmured, her lips brushing over his—so light, so slow it burned.

His fingers flexed on her hips, and it took everything in her not to melt into him.

“Still hearing my pulse… or is that yours I hear now?”

Bob let out a sharp, rough laugh. His hands slid over her thighs—firm, possessive. Holding. Her restraint wearing thin.

“You play dirty,” he muttered.

She met his eyes, mouth a breath from his. “Only when it’s worth it.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “You’re trouble.”

She grinned. 

Then—

Bob surged up, flipping them again. Fast. Fluid. Dominant.

She was beneath him again, his forearms bracketing her head, his entire body pressed flush against hers—hard muscle, warm skin, and intent heat. She could feel him between her thighs, thick and wanting. All she could think about was what it would feel like to be with him, it made her vision go blurry.

His eyes had gone dark. Fixed. Hungry. Not just watching her—consuming her.

“You know what happens to trouble?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, lips brushing along her jaw with maddening slowness. “It gets handled.”

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her breath caught when his mouth trailed down her neck, slow and claiming. Lips parted, tongue flicking lightly over her skin before his teeth grazed her collarbone—enough to make her hips buck involuntarily beneath him.

“Your body is betraying you.” He whispered.

Then his hand slid down her side, fingers splaying wide as they curved over the swell of her ass—possessive, firm, like he’d been thinking about it for a long time and wasn’t planning to let go now.

Y/N arched into him with a sharp gasp and in turn he pressed harder between her legs. She felt every inch. Her hands found his hair, threading through the brown strands, tugging just enough to earn a low, appreciative sound from deep in his chest.

Her mouth brushed his—a bare kiss that wasn’t really a kiss at all. A promise. A maddening tease that made him freeze above her.

“Seems your body is betraying you too,” she whispered, her voice a breathy challenge against his lips.

“I had no intentions of hiding it, sweetheart.”

His growl rumbled through her, primal and wicked, vibrating against her chest. Then his mouth dipped again, trailing lower, hot and open-mouthed along the top of her breasts, pulling her shirt lower. Every pass of his lips left her burning, her skin hypersensitive under his touch.

“Oh my God.”

They both froze.

Bob’s jaw tightened as he slowly turned his head. Y/N groaned, head thunking back against the mat.

Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed like a disappointed dad. Next to him, Yelena chewed a toothpick, clearly enjoying herself.

“Well,” Bucky said dryly. “That answers so many questions.”

Bob didn’t move. Just stared at them. “You guys ever knock?”

“Door was open,” Yelena said sweetly. “Also—this is technically a public space. You two wanna dry hump in the middle of a government-owned mat, that’s your call.”

Y/N slapped a hand over her face. “I hate you both.”

Yelena grinned. “Love you more.”

Bucky walked past them like it was just another work day. “Try a closet next time. Or, I don’t know—lock the damn door.”

Bob finally rolled off her with a groan, lying flat beside her. “So close.”

Y/N turned her head, still breathless. “So very, very close.”

A beat passed between them, the charged air refusing to settle.

“Maybe we can continue this another day,” she said lightly, teasing but hopeful.

Bob’s gaze raked over her, heat simmering low behind it. “I was thinking… back in my room. Fifteen minutes.”

Her grin deepened, slow and wicked, the kind that made promises without saying a word. She leaned in just enough for her lips to graze his ear again, her breath warm and teasing.

“Make it ten,” she whispered, then pushed to her feet—leaving him on the mat, watching her walk away like she’d just won the match in more ways than one.

[sourappl3s]

i never hear anyone talk about how overwhelming it can be to wake up with your desires one day after so long, i’ll speak about my void state success story, when i first entered it. i wont tell you what i manifested since i explained it to an ask. yeah waking up after doing the void state and getting all you want is a pleasant thing but can we talk about how overwhelming it is to literally have you reality just shifts like that? because when i woke up the next morning after inducing the void state my heart genuinely stopped for about 10 seconds and i’m not even exaggerating, because everything was just different? i wasn’t in the same room i was before. LIKE LITERALLY WHEN I WOKE UP I FORGOT I HAD MUSIC PLAYING THE OTHER NIGHT AND RIBS JUST STARTED PLAYING out of nowhere. i like to think of ribs (the song guys) as a new beginnings song, even though the song symbolizes bittersweet memories and friendship. the new beginnings feeling is just my personal feeling. so as ribs was playing i started crying hard on the spot. congratulating myself for reaching this huge milestone, i took in my new environment and cried harder, i sound dramatic but thats just how it was for me. i was shaking and not from fear just from extreme excitement. when i went look in the mirror i cried so much more, everything about me just screamed different, i’m sorry i keep repeating “different” so much because thats literally what it was. everything was just different. i kept repeating to myself “please don’t let this be a dream” over and over, doing everything i can so i’d be sure it wasn’t a dream, when i accepted it wasn’t a dream i went scream into my pillow and started jumping around my brand new room like a hyperactive puppy. thoughts were running everywhere “oh the new memories i’ll make” “i’m finally happy” “its over now” “i can’t wait to see what this new life has in store for me”. i didn’t touch my phone the entire day after waking up with a brand new reality. i barely touch my phone now but i still try to help people on tumblr so they can finally accept their power. i’m not saying i woke up with a terrible/bad overwhelming feeling it was more of a “oh my god theres no way” type of overwhelming feeling. i wanted to share my void state success story with the world but from seeing some liars that were caught (no im not a liar) i was scared people would deem me as a liar because they would “demand” proof. or assume “im lying for attention”. but no this is me coming to you with full honesty that i’ve manifested my dream life, i can still be on social media but that doesn’t automatically make me a liar. if you truly believed in LOA then you wouldn’t have to dwell on solely getting proof for your own satisfaction to really know the law is real. THE LAW IS REAL, THE VOID STATE IS REAL, YOU ARE ALWAYS PURE CONSCIOUSNESS, IMAGINATION IS EVERYTHING, SHIFTING IS REAL, MANIFESTING IS REAL, YES YOU CAN MANIFEST WHATEVER YOU WANT, YOU ARE LIMITLESS.

live in imagination, stop looking for more information, stop starting over, stop giving up, stop doubting, stop looking for the 3D for proof, look within for proof. time isn’t real but yes your clock is ticking, break the pattern or the loop WILL repeat tomorrow. you’re destined for success.

[maskedbyghost]

Possessive reader getting a body pillow cover of Simon made for when he’s on deployment for long periods of time and can’t communicate. Like a cat seeing a balloon of itself, man is pissy anytime he’s reminded it exists and gets reader’s undivided attention the moment he’s forced away from them.

You didn’t buy it as a joke. That’s the first thing people get wrong. You weren’t drunk or being ironic or trying to be funny about how much you missed him. You were just pissed off. He was gone again, longer this time, and he didn’t say how long exactly—just said he wouldn’t be able to call often, might not even text for a while.

And you just stood there, nodding like you were cool with it, like it didn’t already burn in your chest thinking about sleeping alone again.

So yeah. You searched “custom body pillow” that night with your jaw clenched and your arms crossed and your phone brightness on full blast, like that was gonna make it hurt less.

You found a site that let you upload any photo you wanted, and you picked that one—him shirtless, sweaty from a workout, giving you the kind of half-smile that made your stomach flip. He’d sent it to you months ago, and you’d never deleted it. Now it was going to be six feet of print pressed up against you under the blankets every night.

And you didn’t tell him. Of course not. You just tracked the shipping, yanked it out of the box the second it arrived, and dressed it in one of his old oversized tees—your favorite. The one he always pulled on when he got out of the shower, the one he always told you looked better on you than on him. It smelled like him. And now so did the pillow.

You laid it down on his side of the bed, adjusted the angle like a crazy person, and stared at it for way too long before you finally turned the light off. It wasn’t even that it made you feel better. You were just so mad you couldn’t have the real thing. If you had to sleep without him, then fine—you’d make damn sure there was no space in your bed left for anyone else. Not even empty air.

He got back weeks later. He didn’t even text that he was on his way—just showed up, opened the front door, and called your name like nothing had changed.

You were halfway through the hallway when you heard him go completely silent.

“Uh,” he finally said, and it was coming from the bedroom.

You turned the corner and saw him just standing there. Bag on the floor, keys still in one hand, mouth half open like someone had sucker punched him. The pillow was still there, obviously. Front and center. Still wearing his shirt. His face was printed life-sized on it.

“Oh,” you said, like you’d forgotten. Like it hadn’t been your emotional support sleep aid for two straight weeks. “That.”

“That?” he repeated, turning to look at you with full-blown betrayal in his eyes. “That’s what you’ve been sleepin’ with?”

“I didn’t exactly have options,” you said, walking past him to flop down on the bed. “You were gone. It was either this or cry myself to sleep.”

“You could’ve warned me,” he muttered, still staring at it.

You snorted. “Would you have stopped me?”

“…No.”

“Exactly.”

He finally tore his eyes off it and looked at you instead, arms crossed. “What, so I leave for five minutes and you replace me with a bloody pillow?”

“I wouldn’t need a replacement if you didn’t keep running off to fight bad guys every other month,” you said sweetly, patting the spot beside you. “Come on, it’s your turn. Might as well take your place back.”

He just stood there, unmoving. “You seriously slept next to that thing?”

“I did more than sleep,” you grinned.

He groaned. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“You jealous?”

“It’s a pillow,” he said, like the word offended him. “I’m not jealous of a fuckin’—”

“I rubbed my face on it every night. Talked to it too. Called it baby. You know, just regular relationship stuff.”

He stared at you, completely deadpan, then looked at the pillow again. “You’re sick in the head.”

You shrugged. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he snapped. “That’s the problem. You get away with this shit.”

You smiled like you’d won something. “You bet your ass I do. And if you ever get deployed without warning me again, I’m printing one of those full cardboard cutouts next. I’ll sit it at the kitchen table. Put it in the shower, even.”

He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath, and when he looked at you again his eyes were warmer. “You’re insane.”

“You love it,” you said, reaching for him.

He let you pull him toward the bed, finally dropping down beside you with a sigh. You tossed the pillow off to the side and straddled his lap like it was your rightful seat, hands on his chest, your grin smug.

He blinked, breath stuttering just slightly, and you watched the red creep up the tips of his ears as your fingers dragged down the front of his shirt. “You’re not allowed to be hotter than me and then disappear. That’s not fair.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, woman.”

“You missed it,” you said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You missed me.”

“I really did.”

“Good,” you whispered, nose brushing his. “So don’t leave again.”

He kissed you hard, all tongue and teeth. “Make me.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

------------------------------------------

i just can't with these two

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @bunnyxiis

[paarksunghoon]

resignation (5)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: unrelated to this fic, trendwave sunghoon has me acting UP. but also when am i not when it comes to him…my bf fr

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: an incredible amount of sexual tension & fingering.

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

***

The first thing you feel when you wake up is Sunghoon’s fingers brushing the hair from your eyes. The second is the warmth of his hand. 

It startles you to see him sitting on the edge of the bed and so close to you. He chuckles at your reaction and watches you gather yourself when you remember you awoke in his guest bedroom and not your own. 

“Good morning, sleepy head.” 

Even his morning voice sounds like Heaven with how deep and sultry it is. You blink the sleep away from your eyes and Sunghoon continues to cradle your face as you adjust to the morning light peeking through the window. 

“What time is it?”

“A little past six. How’d you sleep?” 

You nuzzle against his palm and close your eyes. You miss the way he smiles down at you. “Really well, actually. You rich people have this sleeping shit figured out.”

He caresses you again. “You snore like a little kitten.”

“I don’t snore.” 

“Yes, love. You do.” You ignore him, and you ignore the pet name. 

“We have to get to work, don’t we? I don’t have an extra outfit and I don’t feel like showing up in the clothes I wore yesterday.” 

“We’ll stop by your apartment before going to work.”

You make a face. “We’ll be late.”

“I’m the boss,” he says. “I can tell you when to come in.” 

“Oh? This is a first for you.” 

“You need to take care of Pochi too, don’t you?”

“Hm. You’re right. I do miss my cat.” 

Sunghoon bends down and kisses you like he’s done this a thousand times before. He’s slow with it, moving his lips in tandem with you until you’ve truly registered that he’s kissing you. It’s a new sensation. It’s weird, neither good nor bad, just different. Sunghoon’s breath is minty and when you pull away, you’re surprised when he lets out a small whine.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you tell him when he leans in for another kiss. Your arms brace his shoulders and you try to keep him at bay. He doesn’t seem to care, though, and steals another kiss from you. 

“You think I care about that?” Another kiss. Your cheeks heat up. 

“I dunno. I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Kiss your boss and wake up in his arms?” 

You roll your eyes and sit up, pushing him away while he laughs. “Dumbass. I haven’t kissed anybody in a long time.” 

“You’re doing just fine.” 

Looking at him makes your heart race for more reasons than one. Sunghoon is absolutely gorgeous from this angle, especially when he’s wearing casual clothes and sporting hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed. He looks painfully normal instead of the high-demanding businessman you know him to be. Sunghoon looks almost approachable like this. If the two of you met under different circumstances, you might’ve gathered the courage to ask him out. 

On the other hand, there aren’t many times you can say you’ve awoken in a man’s guest bedroom with gentle kisses being pressed upon your face. It’s the first time anybody has ever woken you up like this, and it took a great deal not to immediately panic and push him away. It’s scary how nice being doted on feels, and you’ve only gotten a little taste of it with Sunghoon kissing you as soon as you awoke. 

This feels different than what you’re used to. Typically, Pochi makes her way to your face and nuzzles her own between your neck, the outside construction prevents you from falling back asleep when you're able to sleep in, and you usually wake up alone. What you’re not used to, however, is Sunghoon looking at you like he’s got stars in his eyes. The idea that anybody could look at you like that is alarming and unfamiliar.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he says before bending down to touch your lips with his. “I can hear that little brain of yours working so hard.”

“My brain isn’t little.” He smiles against your mouth and gives your lips a peck. 

“Mm. Definitely not. My smart girl. I can still hear you thinking, though.” Sunghoon’s hand touches your outer thigh and it sends a shiver up your body. 

“Oh yeah? What am I thinking about?”

“How we’ll be late if we don’t leave in thirty minutes. You’re probably thinking about what clothes you have left in your closet and if Pochi ate breakfast.” 

“…Am I that predictable?” 

Sunghoon shakes his head and moves his hand up your thigh. “I’d like to think I’ve picked up a thing or two after knowing you all these years. You’re not the only one who observes, you know.” 

“Hmph.”

“Relax for me, okay?” He brings his other hand up to your cheekbone and caresses that spot. “I’m not in a rush. We don’t have meetings or anything important on my docket today.”

“You looked at my calendar, didn’t you?” 

He grins. “Might’ve taken a peek. It’s connected to mine anyway.” 

Sunghoon’s blankets are keeping you warm and toasty, and his touch feels like you’re being lulled to sleep. You find yourself at odds with the idea that Sunghoon could convince you to relax at this hour, especially when you have to stop by your apartment before going into the office. It’s not like anyone would notice either. Sunghoon’s colleagues are in and out of the building all day, some of whom don’t show up until late morning or early afternoon on account of personal business. You aren’t worried about what other assistants might think either, as you’re the assistant who has been there the longest. With the hierarchy system in place, it’s more believable that you’re in business with Sunghoon than being in bed with him.

Yet, some part of you doesn’t like that you’re breaking the routine you’ve built over the years. You’ve never spent the night at anyone’s place, much less on a weekday, and you don’t enjoy the fact that you haven’t seen Pochi. 

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten my promise,” Sunghoon says, pulling you out of your cycle of thoughts. He’s perched on the side of the bed with his elbow resting comfortable on the pillows and you look at him quizzically.

“What promise?” 

The look he gives you is akin to the way he looked at you last night. Suddenly, the memory of his hard dick straining against his sweatpants comes to mind. You’ve been so distracted by Sunghoon’s lips and sweet talking that you nearly forgot about the way he felt in between your legs. Sure, the fabric of your clothes acted as a barrier, but nothing could ever hide the way his dick felt pressed right against your covered cunt. 

Sunghoon leans down close to your ear like he’s trying to tell you a secret. You feel his breath touch the shell of your ear and that alone is enough to make you squirm. He must know, and you can tell by the way Sunghoon digs his fingertips into your skin just a little.

“I told you I’d make you cum today. Will you let me?”

Your mouth runs dry. You look up at Sunghoon and there’s nothing humorous about the way he’s watching you. His eyes are a deep shade of brown that stare directly into yours like he’s trying to hold himself back from being too hasty. It’s almost alarming that he’s being so forward with you at this moment. There’s not a hint of shyness that you can detect, unlike how you feel with your heart beating too fast and your uneven breath. 

Would it be so bad to indulge yourself in his request? It’s not like you’re getting any action beyond the quiet of your bedroom or with the only vibrator you bought yourself after a short stint of bad sex. The fact that he’s your boss is out the window. You know what his dickprint feels like and you’ve practically memorized the way his lips feel when they’re pressed against yours. There shouldn’t be any harm in letting Sunghoon pleasure you when that’s all he seems to want. 

Sunghoon watches you spread your legs from underneath the covers and grins to himself. He helps push the comforter off just enough to expose your legs to him. 

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers removing themselves from your thigh to the waistband of the shorts you’re wearing. He traces the hem and you suck in your stomach at the feeling of his hand being so close to where you crave him the most. 

You consent quietly because of the intensity of his gaze. He looks like he’s moments away from devouring you whole, like a boa constrictor who’s locked eyes on its prey. The shorts come off and he tosses them behind him, and you try not to care that he’s haphazardly throwing clothes he’s taken off of your body to focus on the moment. 

Like an instinct, you close your legs when you realize you’re only wearing underwear. They’re plain black cotton, nothing exceptionally fancy since you didn’t plan on having anyone see them. Sunghoon doesn’t rush hastily. He slips his large, warm hand between your knees and slowly guides himself up your legs until your body starts to relax. 

He must feel how nervous you are. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the lack of intimacy you’ve received in the past couple of years. It’s like your body locks on itself at this foreign sensation of somebody else’s hand on your body, even if it’s consensual and yearned for. 

He doesn’t rush, nor does he immediately push his hand towards your covered cunt. Sunghoon bends down to capture your mouth in a slow kiss, his plump lips pushing against yours like he’s trying to talk to you with his body. You’re not sure what to focus on—how smooth his hands are or how wet your mouth is becoming—but it all feels so good. For somebody who is as touch deprived as you are, it feels like a million sensations all at once. 

Sunghoon moves up the expanse of your thigh when your body starts to relax against him. Whether it be the sound of your lips smacking echoing through the room or getting used to his hands, your legs start to part before him. Sunghoon doesn’t break the kiss like you think he will. His palm slides up your leg until the edge of his fingers barely brush against your panties, and that alone is enough to make you gasp against his lips. 

“Want me there?” he asks through the kiss. “Need me there?” 

You can barely pay attention to his words when his hand is hovering above you. Sunghoon’s fingers trace the outline of your covered cunt and his seductive caress makes you squirm and buck your hips with every passing touch. When you manage to nod, he rubs you with the pads of his finger. 

Sunghoon’s touch is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. It’s determined, almost like he’s got a mission he needs to complete. His fingers aren’t hesitant and scared to touch you like men from your past. Sunghoon’s touch is calculated and meaningful. He’s urgent about it, but unlike all the times you’ve had sex before, this doesn’t feel like he’s trying to get you off as quickly as possible before he gets his turn. 

Instead, it feels like Sunghoon might be as desperate as you are. He keeps a cool exterior for the most part and doesn’t allow others to see him let go of himself completely. You’ve been around him long enough to see cracks in his office persona, but Sunghoon maintains an air of professionalism when he’s not asking you to help him in his personal life, which doesn’t happen as often as people think it does. 

He brushes his thumb over your sensitive clit and it has your hips bucking by his touch. You’re embarrassed by how much he’s turning you on, and he hasn’t done anything yet. Are you that depraved? 

Before you know it, Sunghoon’s hand covers the entirety of your cunt. You marvel at how big his hands are and ask yourself why you’ve never noticed them before. He’s got his expensive black plated watch with silver accent on, the one he wears everyday without fail, and you tense. Something about Sunghoon’s accessory puts you in a frenzy. 

“You’re so worked up,” he says with a short laugh. “When’s the last time you relaxed?” 

“I don’t relax.” 

He tuts. “That’s your first problem. You don’t let go.” 

Well, it’s hard with so little time and too many obligations. Sunghoon probably knows it too, but that won’t stop him from reprimanding you for pushing yourself past your limit. 

“God, you’re so wet already. I can feel you through your panties.” His words nearly have you choking. Since when is Sunghoon bold like this? Is he like this with other girls, too?

Sunghoon pushes them aside and eyes your bare cunt. It makes you feel shy, which isn’t something you feel very often when you’re with him. But at this moment, you feel like you’re out to gain some kind of approval from him because he’s looking at it like he’s trying to inspect it. Knowing you didn’t prepare yourself for him to look at your naked lap makes you feel somewhat awkward and unprepared, but Sunghoon looks like he couldn’t care less. You pulsate around him and he groans quietly when he notices.

“That’s so good,” Sunghoon mutters as the tips of his fingers slide down your entrance, coating himself in your wet slick. The subtle intrusion makes your head spin. “Do you always get this wet?”

“W-Well, it’s been a long time since anyone touched me the way you are.” 

He grins. “Do your fingers not work?” 

“Sunghoon. This is so embarrassing.” You try to cover your face with a spare pillow, but he laughs and tosses it away from you.

“Surely my fingers will do the job. Yours are so much smaller and shorter than mine.” 

Sunghoon pushes his middle finger into you and stops when it’s half way inside. He watches you from where he sits and watches your breath hitch by how your chest has nearly stilled. 

You don’t protest nor push him away and he takes it as a sign to push his finger deeper. Sunghoon feels your smooth walls envelop him the more he maneuvers his finger in and out of your pussy, and you don’t know if you love or hate the way Sunghoon is smiling down at you. It’s like he knows he’s got you underneath his spell when he’s got you acting like this. 

“Doing so well,” Sunghoon mumbles, tongue licking the corners of his mouth as he salivates at the sight before him. His abdomen tenses and his dick swells in his pants. “Can’t believe you’ve been hiding her from me.” 

Your face warms up when he talks about your cunt like that. But it makes you gush even more, and it starts to splash onto Sunghoon’s wrist the more he thrusts into you. 

He adds another finger and cherishes the deep, loud moan that comes from deep within your chest. Your hands brace his free arm when he picks up the pace until the entire room sounds like plat plat plat. Sunghoon expertly curves his finger until he’s reaching parts of you that you’ve always thought to be unreachable. 

His forehead starts to sweat and his arm flexes. Every vein in his arm comes to your view and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers when you truly notice how well-built Sunghoon is. He’s got muscles and biceps that make you wonder what it would be like for him to pin you underneath his body. 

“Shit,” you curse. “C-Can’t believe you’re good at this.” 

He smiles wickedly. “I’m good at everything, aren’t I?” 

“Not good at checking your texts. Not good at that.” You yelp when Sunghoon thrusts his fingers inside of you at a faster speed. It’s pushing you towards your orgasm the more he moves.

“What was that?” he asks with his ear turned towards you as you gasp for air. “What did you say?”

“Not good at texting.” You manage to say it between harsh breaths but it seems to egg him on even more. Sunghoon pushes his hand harder against you until the heel of his palm rubs against your clit.

“Not good at texting? Who says I need to text you, anyway?”

“I do,” you choke, holding onto his arm as your nails dig crescents into his skin. “You need me.” 

“I need you?” His fingers don’t let up. You nod anyway.

“Brat,” Sunghoon mocks. “But you’re right. I do need you.” 

The way you clench around him makes him yearn to see you come undone like the beautiful mess he knows you can be. His hand aches from fingering you at lightning speed, but he’ll be damned if he stops now.

“Need you to cum more than anything,” he says while chuckling. “I need that.” 

Sunghoon says it halfway between desperation and with arrogance like he knows he’ll get what he wants. He knows you won’t fight him on it either because he knows how badly you want to cum. If not by the way you grip his body, then because you’ve mentioned how many times people have left you high and dry over the past few years. It seems unfair to edge you right now.

It doesn’t take much for you to crash. He stills his fingers when he realizes you’ve come to your orgasm, letting your hips rut against his palm as you chase your high. Coming undone before him is a beautiful sight to see and Sunghoon drinks in the way your hands move from his arm to the bedsheets underneath you. You try to grip onto them for stability as your hips grind against his hand while you finish on him. 

When your eyes open, the room has gotten significantly lighter from the sun peeking through the sheer curtains. Sunghoon has made you forget about the time. You push your head up and pucker your lips for a kiss. He gives into your request right away and gently rubs your aching cunt, pushing your panties where they belong before kissing and touching you slowly.  

“You’re so hot when you cum.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” you mutter against his kisses.

“Nuh uh. Just you.” 

“Mhm. I’ll believe that for now.” 

Sunghoon doesn’t get up until he’s sure you’ve returned to a state of consciousness and doesn’t leave your side until you sit up by yourself. He keeps his mouth attached to you while you steady your breath and find it in you not to feel completely mortified that you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable in front of him. He doesn’t seem to hear your racing thoughts when you’re kissing him, and you feel your worries ebbing away. You don’t think you’re ready to decipher why that is.

He brings a rag soaked with warm water and pries your legs open with little resistance. Sunghoon gently wipes your inner thigh and pulls your panties aside again, cleaning your cum from your skin. This makes you feel more self conscious compared to his fingers rooted deep inside of you, but you try not to look away. Sunghoon looks calm and focused, like he’s getting paid a lot of money to look after you. He spends a bit of time making sure you’re all cleaned up before throwing the rag in an empty hamper. 

“Let’s get going, hm?” Sunghoon says absentmindedly when you stand from the bed. He doesn’t make a fuss about his dick straining in his sweatpants and steps out of the room before you can even think about returning the favor. Sunghoon moves around his house like you’ve been there a million times before. 

“We still need to go to your place. Is there a café by your place that you like? We can stop for breakfast before heading into the office.” 

His nonchalance pleasantly surprises you. But you think you prefer his attentive care over being left alone in bed to deal with the aftermath of feeling alone once your partner has left the room. Sunghoon doesn’t leave until he’s sure you’re walking behind him.

It’s nice.

***

Nabi texts you just before you and Sunghoon leave his place to lets you know Pochi is back in your apartment with breakfast and a new bowl of water, and attached a cute video of Pochi jumping onto bee favorite spot on your couch. It makes you coo out loud, to which Sunghoon laughs at.

“You really love this cat, don’t you?”

“Pochi is my child, Sunghoon. Of course I love her.” 

“When did you adopt her?”

“The third year I worked for you.” You’re stuck between looking at him and the scenery outside as he drives to your apartment. “I was pretty lonely after a bunch of my friends moved away from Seoul. My little brother has always told me I resemble a cat growing up and suggested I get one.” 

“Sunoo, right?”

“Yeah. It’s funny though. When we were younger, our personalities were completely switched. I was the extrovert and he was the introvert. Seems like we changed over time.” 

“Why does he think you’re like a cat?”

“I don’t like being around people very much and it’s hard for me to open up to strangers. He jokes that I have to be the one to warm up to people before anyone can really get to know me.” 

“So, what, you need people to leave you alone before you decide you like them?”

You laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“That’s funny. I think I’d describe you as a lion.” 

“A lion?”

“Still a cat, just more powerful. You run the hell out of my inbox.” 

You roll your eyes. “Haha. So funny, Sunghoon.”

“I’m serious! You’re so good with meeting new people and getting them under your fold. I would’ve never assumed you don’t like being around people with how good you are at making connections.” 

“It’s for work, though. I turn on the charm because it’s good for business. At the end of the day, we all use each other just a little bit. In my personal life? I guess I can make a friend or two, but there’s never any time to meet new people.”

“This job eats you alive, doesn’t it? I feel the same way sometimes.” 

“It’s fun and it makes my week interesting. I’ll give it that.”

“It’s time for something new, huh?”

“Yeah. It is.”

Sunghoon swallows the unwanted feelings that creep into his mind. 

“How do I get your cat to like me?” he asks suddenly. 

“My cat?” 

“Yup. Who else?”

“Why do you want to get in her good graces?” 

“I don’t want to get mauled when I meet her for the first time.” 

You laugh. “You won’t get mauled, Sunghoon. She’s pretty shy and it takes her some time to get to know new people.” 

“Sounds just like you.” 

“Mhm. We’re twins.” 

“Seriously, though,” he says, glancing at you. “I’ve never been around cats much. My parents are dog people. How do I get a cat to like me and not spook them?” 

“Well, your best bet is to ignore their existence until they come up to you. They’re a hunting breed, you know. You shouldn’t make any sudden movements if you can help it. If you find yourself making eye contact with Pochi, blink slowly. It lets her know you aren’t a threat.” 

“Ignore your cat?”

“Foolproof way to get her to be okay with you in the room if I’m not there.” 

“It sounds like you’re trying to set me up.”

You gasp. “Why the hell would I do that?” 

“I don’t know!” Sunghoon says with humor. “Maybe you’re trying to get back at me for all the years we’ve worked together. You and Pochi could’ve made an alliance to kill me.” 

“Right,” you say sarcastically. “Me and my domesticated cat want to put a hit out on you, even though she’s a fraction of your size and I’m trying to help you find a new assistant.”

“Exactly. See? You’re following my logic.”

“You’re so stupid.” 

Sunghoon pulls up to your complex and parks his car on the street underneath a large tree. You make a split second decision and invite him up to your apartment so he doesn’t have to wait in the car and waste his gas by keeping the engine on to avoid sitting in the frigid air. He doesn’t make a joke like you think he will, especially since Sunghoon made you come an hour ago. Instead, he nods and follows you through the front door. 

The journey to your third floor apartment is nerve wracking. Is your apartment tidy enough? Is it clean? Is there any lingering dust that Sunghoon will notice? His house is far cleaner than your apartment will ever be, and while you pride yourself on keeping a tidy home, your two hands are no competition for the cleaning crew Sunghoon hires every week.

He seems excited enough. Sunghoon fills the silence by vocalizing his observations and particularly likes that your lobby has a state-of-the-art machine that can prepare coffee and espresso in various different ways. He likes that the mailroom is safeguarded by a touch key entrance and likes how the lobby is decorated. 

When the two of you arrive at your apartment, you hear Pochi meowing from the other side of the door. To your pleasure, your space isn’t as messy as you thought it might be, save for the throw blanket you forgot to fold after watching an episode of Castlevania. Pochi jumps down from the armrest and waddles her way to your feet when Sunghoon enters your apartment and closes the door behind him. 

You’re too busy locking the door and crouching down to sift your hand through her soft fur to notice Sunghoon surveilling your apartment like he’s in a museum. He sees your dark green couch and all of the decor you have in frames. The living room is far smaller than his, but he thinks it represents who you are perfectly. 

“I missed you, baby,” you say as Sunghoon looks down to where your body is and takes off his shoes one by one while Pochi rubs her small body against your ankles. You’re cute when you talk like that. 

“Why’d you name her ‘Pochi’?” he asks when you make your way deeper inside of your apartment. He watches you throw your jacket on the back of the couch while Pochi follows and climbs up the piece of furniture to get closer to you. 

“Pochi means ‘spot’ in Japanese,” you tell him. “You see these spots on her ears? I thought she looked so cute and unique when I saw her at the animal shelter. We bonded pretty quickly and I would always kiss both of her ears when we were first getting to know each other. She gets annoyed if I don’t kiss both of them and only one.”

“Really?” 

“Mhm. Watch.” 

Your lips come to touch her ear. You pull back soon after and Sunghoon watches Pochi sit back and watch you with the other side of her head like she’s waiting for the other kiss. When you don’t move to complete the routine, Pochi meows until you relent and kiss her other ear too. 

“She’s so cute. Pochi might as well be my daughter with how well she listens to me.” 

“You’d look cute with a girl.”

You look at Sunghoon, bewildered. 

“You’re certifiably crazy, Park Sunghoon.” 

He just shrugs. “I’m just saying.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Let me change my clothes and put some makeup on, then we can head out. Make yourself at home. It shouldn't be more than ten minutes.” 

When you disappear, Sunghoon hears the faint click of your bedroom door and walks to your couch to sit. He can hear you walking in your room in the dead silence of the morning when Pochi looks at him like she’s trying to figure out if he’s a threat or not. He follows your instructions when she tilts her head and looks away from her. 

Sunghoon notices pictures that line your fireplace. He doesn’t recognize anybody except for you, but adores the way he can see how much you’ve grown up. There are pictures of you and your childhood friends together, one of you he assumes is on vacation, and a few of you and your college friends littered throughout your space. It makes him realize there’s more to you than meets the eye, and for as long as he’s known you, Sunghoon gets the feeling he’s only scratched the surface.

He also tries not to think about the fact that his hands know what you feel like. Flashes of the early morning run through his mind. He loves the way you sound when you’re about to climax and had to keep himself in check before he made any rash decisions that the two of you would later regret. Sunghoon shifts in his seat and does his best to will his yearning because the last thing he wants is to sport a boner around Pochi, just for you to walk out and see him like that. What would you think of him then?

From the corner of Sunghoon’s eye, he sees Pochi grooming herself and tries to blink slowly when she makes eye contact with him. He feels silly and looks away when he starts to laugh at himself. In all of his years working with you, Sunghoon never thought he’d be playing nice with your cat. 

You emerge from your bedroom looking polished, and Sunghoon is impressed you were able to pull yourself together in fifteen minutes.  

“How do I look? Presentable enough?”

His eyes glance up and down your body. 

“Stunning as ever.” 

“Be serious, Sunghoon.” 

He walks to you and puts both of his hands on your hips, dragging them down to your waist before pulling your body flush against his.

“I’m serious. So gorgeous.” 

He learns in and slots his lips between yours, gently holding your body against himself. You get lost in it too, recalling the way Sunghoon’s fingers felt inside of you as he squeezes your body. The familiar ache emerges before you can even think about it, and you find yourself clenching against absolutely nothing. You think you’re somewhere between desperate and pathetic at this point, but Sunghoon can’t see or feel you down there for you to give a shit. 

“We should get breakfast,” you mumble against his mouth. 

“We should.” He doesn’t stop kissing you and your hands come to gently grip the lapel of his suit jacket. 

“There’s a place around the corner. Killer croissants and good espresso.” 

“Mhm.” Sunghoon pulls your arms away from his body to turn you around and press your ass right against his crotch, effectively caging you against his body while his lips litter short kisses down your neck. “Could eat you for breakfast, though.”

The moan that escapes your throat makes you feel embarrassed, but it makes Sunghoon’s pride swell. 

“W-Work,” you choke out as Sunghoon’s hand touches you above your work trousers. His fingers make out the ridges of your folds and slots his index finger between them. “We need to get to work.” 

“You’re no fun.” Sunghoon pouts and lets you go, but not without giving your cheek a kiss. 

“You are such a fucking menace,” you say as you scold him. “In front of Pochi too?” 

“She wasn’t even looking. Relax.” 

You look and find that Pochi is indeed nowhere to be found. She’s perched on the windowsill behind your curtain and you breathe a short sigh of relief. 

“Did you make nice with her?” 

“I ignored her, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Good,” you say with a definite nod. “She’ll like you in no time.” 

“I’m not so sure about that? It feels counterintuitive to ignore an animal if you want them to get to like you.”

“Cats and dogs are different, though.” You unlock your door and slip your shoes on at the same time after you’ve double checked that everything you need is in your work bag. “Dogs need love and affection all the time. Cats pick and choose when they want to receive it.” 

“Is that why your brother calls you a cat? Because you’re picky about all the people you let into your life?” 

He follows you out and watches you lock the door. 

“Mhm. I wouldn’t have let you touch me if I didn’t want you to.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Don’t think you’re special just because you’re my boss, Park. Keep up.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

***

taglist 1: @i58ssj @motherscrustytoenailclippings @immelissaaa @sunnyjayjays @skzenhalove @tobiosbbyghorl @babystrlla @sagegreenhairclip @doririsstuff @second-floors @sievenderz @favoritten @kiikiisblog @ynzyy @jessicaradreamer @questionsdearreader @leeymws @wonislife17 @semi-wife @synamon @letwiiparkjay @spicxbnny @bbinwrld @25dejulho @globaloppaaa @1-800-peakyblinders @heesunghooney @ambi01 @simpforskz143148 @shaysimpss @steddie-steddie @ning2lover @fairystudio @yujinxue @dearmyfavoritepeople-bts @in-somnias-world @mellowgalaxystrawberry @1ckyw1ckyyyyy @kgneptun @ithinkulikeme @kristynaaah @jessxxxfwd @lovingjongseong @intoomanyfandom-s @jeoncarla008 @just1moodz.

if I couldn’t tag you, please fix your settings! x

[thisrots]

thinkin’ of backshots with vi <3

𖦹 warnings: sub!vi x dom!reader, strap referred to as cock/length, vi fat butt worship hehe

𖦹 word count: 449

vi’s ass would definitely be a big part of your relationship. hell, both metaphorically and literally. you’d always catch yourself drifting off into it, mindlessly staring like some kind of pervert the second she’d turn around. tight pants hugging her curves just right, plump ass cheeks practically on display just for you.

it didn’t take much before you’d remember her being bent over, nails clawing at the kitchen counter, gripping as best on it she could while you completely obliterated her pussy with your strap. she was cocky at first, swearing how you wouldn’t be able to make her submit, but look at her now.

knees buckled, back arched, making ungodly noises as her eyes rolled back, tongue lapped out as the shlick noises of her wetness coat the 9 inch toy. her tight hole was completely savoring you, sucking it back in for more any time you leaned back. her ass had recoil to it, your hips slapping into it harshly just to watch it jiggle as she whorishly took every inch of your length.

“Mmh, so—so f-fuckin’ deep!” vi would struggle out, her guttural moans cutting up her sentences. she always swore your goal was to reach her cervix, and secretly, it totally fucking was. you’d reach over and push down on the bulge poking out of her lower tummy, her noises growing increasingly louder and whinier at the feeling of you filling up every inch of her. “D-Don’t press—down—fuck!”

“Oh, but don’t you hear yourself, pretty girl? Shh, listen,” you’d tease, fingers digging into her skin as you gripped onto her hips, grinding harder to accentuate the noises of her wet cunt and the clap of juicy ass cheeks against you. “Sounds so good. Love this ass—” you started, your palm meeting her right cheek with a harsh slap! “You fucking love this, don’t you? Say it.”

“I love this—guh!—fuckin’ love this so much,” she babbled out the best she could. vi’s walls clamped down around your length, whole body spasming as cum dripped on the floor, gushing around your cock as she reached her climax. “L-Love you inside of me! Love—you—s’much!”

your daydream would be cut short by your girlfriend looking over, noticing how you stopped responding to her, eyes still locked on the one body part of hers that drove you mad. “Babe?”

vi followed your eyes down, scoffing at your obvious gaze, not even trying to hide it. she turned around and crossed her arms, eyebrow raised. “Hey, pervert! My eyes are up here.”

you shook your head, snapping out of your horny ridden daze, meeting her eyes as you smiled oh so innocently. “Yeah? And your ass is down there, you know.”

[witchslove]

Rivals

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: You and Wanda work together but you can’t stand each other, until one day your boss asks the two of you to fake date for a promotion.

Warnings: 18+ nsfw content; power bottom!wanda, top!reader, office sex, oral (w receiving), fingering (w receiving), mommy kink, praise kink, slight angst

A/N: I need a mean older Wanda in my life, when is it my turn?

——————————

It was a beautiful day with a slight chill in the air as you walked down the street towards the Stark building. You had left early for work that day to get a coffee on the way there from your favorite shop, a small space on the corner of your block.

Coffee in hand, you strode to work, thinking to yourself that you couldn’t have a bad day after so many things had gone right. You’d woken up to your first alarm, gotten dressed without second guessing your outfit, and even had time to pick up a drink before heading to your office building.

Not that you had many bad days in the first place - Stark Industries was good to you. Work usually went by fast as you kept busy most days, finding peace in your daily tasks.

There was only one thing that threatened to ruin a perfectly good day at work, and that was Wanda Maximoff.

She’d worked with you since you’d started there and she’d hated you from the beginning. You never knew why nor did you question it for too long, finding that the feeling was mutual.

She was competitive and made it her goal every day to be better than you at your job. She would brush past you, ignoring your presence, while greeting your boss and then promptly find some way to one up you, making sure to jab at you subtly in the process. When others weren’t around, she wasn’t much nicer. She made snide remarks, gave backhanded compliments, and treated you more like you were an intern than her equal.

Despite her less than pleasant behavior, you tried not to let her get to you, but it was hard not to fight back sometimes.

It did bother you at times how she seemed to look down on you. You wondered what you ever could have done to make her dislike you so much. If things were different, you thought you might actually like her or want to be her friend, or at the very least her acquaintance. The first time you saw her, you were taken aback - she was admittedly a very gorgeous woman, which was even more frustrating.

Today was going to be a good day though, you told yourself. You had a cup of your favorite coffee, a song you loved playing in your headphones, and a meeting with your boss that day discussing your recent work, which you knew you’d done flawlessly.

Today was going to be a good day. Was.

What you hadn’t anticipated when you entered the Stark building, swiping your keycard to get to the elevator and going up to the 21st floor, was to see your boss at the front desk, waiting for you with the one and only Wanda Maximoff stood beside him.

She wore a maroon blouse with a fitted black skirt, the color of her shirt making her green eyes stand out, and if she was literally anyone else you would’ve complimented her style. That was another thing about her that was infuriating - she always looked good.

Your boss, Mr. Stark, laughed at something Wanda said before he noticed you and waved you over.

“Y/N, you’re prepared for our meeting today, yes?” Mr. Stark greeted, smiling.

“Yes,” you replied, nodding.

“Perfect, I expect nothing less from you,” he started. “Also, Wanda will be joining us today. I have something very important to talk to the two of you about, regarding our deal with the Osborn group.”

You tried not to let your face fall, forcing a smile and glancing at Wanda, who seemed to be pleased that she was crashing your personal meeting with the boss. You’d wanted the one on one time with him as you’d been itching to bring up a possible promotion ever since one of your staff members resigned. Your numbers had been impressive lately and you were sure he would at least consider it.

Now, unfortunately, Wanda would be part of your meeting and knowing her, she’d probably laugh in your face if she found out you were interested in moving up.

“Sounds good,” you responded as normally as you could, feeling slightly nervous for what was to come.

“See you both at 11,” Stark said, making his exit and leaving the two of you standing by the front desk.

There was a bit of an awkward silence before Wanda spoke. “You don’t seem too excited about me being at the meeting later. Do you not like me?” The redhead teased, fake pouting. “Or did you just want some alone time with Stark? I wouldn’t put it past you to whore yourself out to the boss for a promotion.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not all of us are like you, Wanda,” you replied, trying to get under her skin, despite not actually believing that she was that kind of person. It even slightly offended you that she thought you might be, especially considering you weren’t into men to begin with. “See you at the meeting.”

You walked past her to your office, setting your things down on the desk and running a hand through your hair. It was going to be a long day.

By the time the meeting came around, you’d finished your coffee and gotten some work done to kickstart your day, trying to keep your mind busy after your encounter with Wanda earlier.

You stopped by the break room for a water on your way to the meeting and arrived to the conference room a few minutes early, taking a seat next to the head of the table where Mr. Stark would sit.

The door to the conference room opened slowly and Wanda walked in, taking the seat across from you with a disapproving look on her face.

“You should really invest in some new clothes if you want to impress Stark. Yours look like they came from Goodwill,” she remarked, making a point to look you up and down where you sat. You ignored the way your body heated up at the action.

“At least I don’t dress like I want the boss to bend me over,” you shot back, not missing a beat.

“Oh, do you think about me bent over a lot?” she asked, smirking.

Now all you could think about was what Wanda might look like in such a position and you hoped she couldn’t tell you were blushing.

Before you could come up with something to say back, Stark walked into the room, adjusting the collar of his suit jacket with one hand, the other carrying a set of documents. You and Wanda both sat up straighter and greeted him simultaneously, almost as if you were competing to see who could say something to the man first.

“Glad you’re both on time, we have a lot to cover today,” Stark announced before taking a seat at the head of the table. “Firstly, Y/N, I know this was supposed to be something of a performance review for you. We can reschedule that for a later date. Today’s topic actually involves both of you, which is why I asked Wanda to sit in.”

You felt your stomach turn at the possibilities of what that meant. Maybe he had a project the two of you would have to work together on, or maybe he had finally caught on to your disdain for each other and you were both in trouble for being unprofessional.

Before you could overthink too much, he spoke again. “As you both know, we’re currently in talks of a merger with the Osborn group. They want to give us a percentage of their company in exchange for a shared client base.”

You and Wanda both nodded in acknowledgment, listening intently.

“However, Osborn is a family business that runs on certain values. Mr. Osborn has agreed to the merger under two conditions, the first one being that the CEO of our company be married, which I am. The second condition is that I hire two people to take on the merging process, which means extra work, but extra pay as well.”

He cleared his throat before continuing. “Now, the two of you are my best employees. I want to bring you both in to help with the merger.”

There it was - you were getting promoted, but you’d have to work alongside Wanda, who was also getting promoted. You tried not to show your mixed emotions, excitement at the prospect of moving up in the company, paired with the stress and slight disgust of having to work with Wanda.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad - maybe you wouldn’t have to work too closely with her.

“Here’s the catch,” Stark said, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. “Osborn wants a couple to take on the project. I want the two of you to do it, seeing as you’re the best in the company at what you do. It is a promotion, but if you want it, then the two of you have to pretend to be together for appearances.”

Your jaw dropped. You were finally getting the promotion you’d wanted for so long, but there was in fact a catch, a massive one at that. You had to pretend to be dating your work rival - some might even call her your worst enemy - for however long the merger would take.

“What are your thoughts?” Stark asked, looking between the two of you.

Wanda had an unreadable expression on her face. You couldn’t tell if she was pleased with the promotion or absolutely pissed at the thought of fake dating you. The fact that you couldn’t read her when you wanted to was almost as frustrating as the bomb Stark had just dropped on you both.

“I think we can make it work,” she spoke first, putting on a friendly face for show. “Y/N and I are both adults here and we would be silly to turn down such an offer.”

You swallowed, nodding your agreement. “Exactly,” you said, your voice almost cracking. “I’m sure Wanda and I can find some common ground.” As you spoke, you looked her directly in the eyes, as if your stare alone could convey that you could see right through her act and that you were only playing along too for the money.

“Perfect!” Stark’s voice broke through the tension and you looked away from Wanda to give him your full attention. “We’ll need to go over what’s required of you both for the position you’ll be taking. Not just the work aspect, but the relationship aspect as well. Osborn will have his own employees and clients here often and you’ll need to keep up the relationship act at all times.”

Stark opened the folder in front of him to pull out two contracts, one for you and one for Wanda.

“The second you’re here every morning, the two of you are together. I’ll also be paying for you to go on at least two dates a week outside of work. I know this is a place of business, but the more PDA the better. Today is for getting your stories straight, I want both of you to work together for the rest of the work day to come up with a believable foundation for your relationship and get to know each other better. I’ll take care of your individual workloads for the next two days as well, so you can focus on each other and we can get through all the paperwork. I hate to ask you to do all of this, but I trust the two of you can handle it.”

As Stark began to go over some paperwork with you, explaining each page before having you sign, your thoughts were everywhere but on the dotted line. Two dates a week? PDA? You weren’t sure you would survive faking a relationship with Wanda.

You hated to admit it, but the thought of kissing her had crossed your mind before, usually accompanied by enough disgust that you could ignore the butterflies it caused.

Wanda was beautiful - anyone with eyes could see that - and she was absolutely your type, but her personality always squashed any thoughts you might’ve had about wanting her.

Now, it was all too real. You would have to pretend to like her despite the torment she put you through since your first day at the company. You’d have to put aside your rivalry for the sake of your promotion and act like she wasn’t the bane of your existence most days.

You would have to kiss her.

Your mind was stuck on that and you couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was something more, but whatever it was had your head spinning.

Your thoughts raced as you finished the paperwork with Stark and Wanda, who seemed far too calm and collected the entire time.

When the meeting was over and Stark had left, you ignored a snarky comment from Wanda and exited the conference room with haste. You walked back to your office, finally letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as soon as the door was closed.

The merger would begin in two days and you had no idea how long it would take or how long you’d have to “date” Wanda. Two days of normalcy didn’t feel like enough time to prepare, but you knew what you had to do. You were getting promoted, and Stark trusted you with one of the most important collaborations to ever happen within his company. You decided you would just have to focus on that to get through what was to come. Everything would be okay.

Two days went by fast, faster than you expected, and it was time to put on a show. You and Wanda had used those two days to prepare, coming up with a story of how you got together and learning more about each other to make your relationship more believable.

Of course, Wanda never missed an opportunity to insult you or tease you during those two days and you wondered if she’d be able to hold back when it was time to pretend.

It was easy enough to come up with a story. You met each other at work and fell in love over time. One night of working late turned into a first kiss and a date that would soon follow.

You’d learned a lot about Wanda as well. She lived close to work at an apartment complex similar to yours but slightly more luxurious. She walked to work some days and loved to stop for a croissant on her way when she had time. She had a brother named Pietro, who lived about an hour away. She was born in Sokovia and grew up there with Pietro before moving to the States to pursue better opportunities, which explained why she sometimes sounded like she had an accent.

She found out a lot about you as well and you weren’t sure if that made you uncomfortable for good reasons or bad reasons. It felt both exciting and also nerve-wracking to share parts of your life with someone you spent so much time hating.

You found yourself hating her a little less as you learned more about her. She was a very interesting person and you wondered what it would be like to know her as someone who she didn’t make it her life’s mission to annoy every day. You wondered if she was feeling the same way as she got to know you too.

Whether or not she was, today was the day where you’d both have to put your rivalry aside and pretend to love each other.

You stopped for a coffee on your way to work, knowing you would definitely need one, and walked purposefully to the Stark building. You arrived ten minutes early, hoping you would have some time to sip your coffee and take some deep breaths.

As you swiped your keycard and boarded the elevator, a familiar voice called out.

“Hold it, please!” Wanda said, running up to the elevator with an outstretched hand, heels clicking against the tile.

You put an arm out to keep the door from closing and let her in. “I should’ve let it close,” you said teasingly.

“I don’t know if you’ve forgotten sweetheart, but we have to be nice to each other now. Think you can handle that?” she responded somewhat condescendingly.

“I can handle it, can you?” you asked, looking over at her as you spoke.

“You underestimate me, detka.” That was new, she’d never called you that nor had you ever heard the word before, but it sounded lovely the way she said it.

Neither of you spoke again as the elevator finished its journey up. The doors opened and the two of you stepped out into the office area where Mr. Stark was waiting for you, accompanied by a man you’d only ever seen in pictures.

Wanda moved closer to you, placing a hand on your lower back as you approached and you were glad she didn’t notice your slight shiver at the touch.

“Good morning ladies,” Stark greeted. “As you probably already know, this is Mr. Osborn.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, shaking Osborn’s hand.

Wanda did the same after you, only removing her hand from your back to shake Osborn’s properly.

“Y/N and Wanda here are going to be taking on the merger, the paperwork is already done and they’ve been briefed on what’s expected of them,” Stark announced, gesturing to the two of you standing there closely.

“Ah, so you’re the lovely couple I’ve heard so much about.” Osborn smiled warmly as he spoke.

“Yes, and we’re so excited to work with you,” Wanda replied, subtly taking your hand in hers and interlacing your fingers.

You knew it was all for show, but it felt weirdly nice to hold her hand and you internally cursed yourself for thinking such a thing. But you couldn’t help it when her hand was so warm and soft and her thumb stroked the back of your hand idly as she conversed with your boss and his business partner.

After a few minutes of talking, Stark excused himself to take a business call and Osborn turned fully towards you and Wanda.

“Thank you for taking on such a big role in the company,” he started. “I look forward to seeing more of the both of you.”

“We can say the same, sir,” you said sweetly, leaning into Wanda a bit to help the act.

He smiled again and with that, he stepped away, walking off towards one of the offices he would be using during his time there.

You knew he had other employees around the office so you couldn’t drop the act for even a second, whether Osborn himself was looking or not, so you fought the urge to pull away.

“Nice touch leaning into me,” Wanda mumbled, so that only you could hear.

“Was that… a compliment?” You asked quietly, unable to resist the urge to tease her.

“I would say don’t get used to it, but neither of us have a choice anymore.” Wanda turned towards you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll see you later.”

She pulled away to go to her office and start her day and you did the same, knowing you needed some time to yourself after your first little performance with Wanda. You almost thought it was going to be a long day, but then you remembered this was going to be your every day for a while.

The charade continued as the day went on and you worked more closely with Wanda on the merger, going over paperwork and calling clients together. Osborn’s employees would come in and out of the conference room to discuss things with the two of you, so you had to endure more loving touches and heartwarming compliments from the redhead.

At one point, Stark and Osborn had a conversation in the hallway outside the conference room, which of course had glass walls, making it hard to catch a break from faking your relationship.

You were reviewing a document with Wanda beside you when she spoke.

“Can you sign this one for me?” She handed you a form and a pen.

“What, no ‘please?’” You joked.

“No, I don’t think I need to ask, you’ll just do it if I tell you to,” she remarked back, catching you slightly off guard.

When you took the pen from her, your fingers touched and you knew Wanda did it on purpose. You looked over at her, feeling small under her intense stare, before signing the form and sliding it back to her.

“Thank you,” she said softly, sounding slightly distracted, causing you to look at her again.

When you did, her eyes weren’t on yours.

“Osborn has wandering eyes,” she muttered under her breath, her gaze on your lips, and before you could respond she was kissing you softly.

Her lips against yours felt incredible, you couldn’t even lie to yourself. Butterflies erupted in your stomach and in that moment, you never wanted to detach from her. You would work through why that was later, right now all you could think about was her.

You kissed her back, lips moving together in tandem, fitted so perfectly against each other it created even more conflicting feelings within you.

It didn’t last nearly as long as you wished it did, wondering why on earth you were hoping for more when it was Wanda you were kissing.

After a few seconds, she pulled away, leaving one last quick kiss on your lips before saying something about printing more documents and walking off.

You sat there for a moment, trying to collect yourself. As you came back to reality, you noticed Osborn looking in from outside the conference room and you were coldly reminded that Wanda only did that so he would see it. It meant nothing to her and it shouldn’t mean anything to you either.

With that, you focused back on your work, knowing in a few minutes you’d have to go over more of it with Wanda and the show would continue. You just had to keep reminding yourself that none of it was real.

From where she stood at the printer, Wanda smirked to herself at how you reacted to the kiss - she wasn’t going to let that go anytime soon. She knew she’d have time to tease you about it later, after she was done cursing herself for thinking about how soft your lips were against hers.

The rest of the day went by fairly smoothly. Stark and Osborn spent most of their time in Stark’s office, so you and Wanda had some time to cool off from the kiss earlier. That didn’t stop Wanda’s teasing touches however, because Osborn’s employees could be anywhere, and it seemed she was enjoying torturing you in a new way.

By the time you were getting ready to head home, you were beyond flustered and fairly certain you’d need to change your underwear. If Wanda wasn’t infuriating enough already, it was only made worse by the fact that she had this effect on you.

The days that followed were similar to that first day. You and Wanda continued to pretend to be a couple, with Wanda winding you up every chance she got, almost like she knew what she was doing to you.

Osborn was at the office a bit less every day, but his employees were always there getting work done even when he wasn’t around.

Therefore, the show went on. Wanda had gotten in the habit of giving you soft pecks on your lips before she would get up to go take care of work-related tasks and it was driving you insane. The short and sweet kisses were too much and yet at the same time, never enough.

You had come to the conclusion that you definitely felt something for Wanda, something other than disdain and irritation. As much as you tried to fight it, you wanted her. You convinced yourself she would never feel the same way though; with how she had always acted towards you, it seemed impossible.

Every touch, every kiss, every pet name Wanda called you - it was all an act. You had to push your feelings down as much as possible because you didn’t want her to find out and you didn’t want to get hurt. So you kept your guard up and tried your hardest to ignore how you felt, despite the fact that Wanda wasn’t making it easy for you.

You were starting to wonder if the promotion was even worth it.

Even so, you carried on, doing excellent work under Stark in your new position and working surprisingly well with Wanda, from both a business perspective and a fake dating perspective.

You had also found it in you to initiate more of the relationship acts with Wanda, if not to satisfy your own desires then to at least mess with her. Sometimes you held her hand, sometimes you moved hair out of her face, sometimes you kissed her on the cheek - every time, she seemed to like it. You figured she was just acting, as you were supposed to, but part of you hoped she wasn’t.

You loved that she sometimes seemed nervous or flustered when you made a move or teased her.

One time when she kissed you, you separated first, while she was still attempting to keep the kiss going. You decided to mess with her and said jokingly, “if you want to keep kissing me, you could just ask” with a smirk plastered on your face. She blushed and hesitated before she spoke. “In your dreams,” she remarked, before going back to work. You considered that a win.

Maybe it was worth it if you could get a reaction out of her too.

It had been a week since the act started and tonight was date night. Starting tonight, you’d have to go on two dates with Wanda every week. Stark gave you a company card to put all of your expenses on for the night, telling you to take Wanda to a nice restaurant he recommended and enjoy dinner with her.

You were nervous to be alone with her outside of work, but you were also looking forward to it.

The restaurant was a block away from the Osborn building, which is why Stark had picked it out for your date. You’d have to keep up appearances while you were out with Wanda, but you didn’t mind. Part of you was excited to at least feel like you were taking her on a proper date. You wondered more than anything how she was feeling about it too.

At the end of the work day, you left the Stark building and walked home to get ready for your date. You decided to wear slacks and a black dress shirt, wanting to feel confident while also not giving Wanda the satisfaction of seeing you in a dress. You straightened your hair and touched up your makeup, hating the idea that you wanted so badly to impress Wanda.

Slipping into a pair of high heels, you finished getting ready just in time for a car to pull up in front of your apartment building, courtesy of Mr. Stark.

The ride to the restaurant was quiet, giving you time to hype yourself up. It was just a date. It may have been just a date with your arch nemesis, but it was just a date. You’d been on dates before, you could do this. It wasn’t even a real date anyway, you told yourself, it was just another one of many performances between you and Wanda to secure your promotion at work.

When the car pulled up to the restaurant, you thanked the driver and got out, walking in to see if Wanda had already arrived.

As you spoke to the hostess about your reservation, the door opened and you were absolutely not prepared for what came next.

Wanda looked stunning; seeing her like this took your breath away. Unlike you, she had worn a dress. The black material hugged her body in all the right places, with a slit down the side, exposing her thigh.

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” Wanda said smugly as she approached, a cocky smile on her face.

“You look nice,” you managed to get out, trying to compose yourself.

“You do too for once,” she responded, smiling, the backhanded compliment not going unnoticed by you. You found that you didn’t mind.

The two of you were escorted to your table, where you pulled Wanda’s chair out for her and then sat down across from her.

“So chivalrous,” she commented, fingers tracing the menu in front of her.

“Anything for my beautiful girlfriend,” you said back mockingly.

“Aw, you think I’m beautiful?” she asked, smiling.

You rolled your eyes. “I also called you my girlfriend.”

“Yeah but you have to call me that. Didn’t have to call me beautiful,” she responded, raising an eyebrow. She had you there.

“Well, maybe I meant it,” you mumbled, trying to hide the truth behind your words and keep up the playful banter.

“You’re beautiful too, you know,” she said, looking at you intently. You blushed, unable to hold eye contact after the compliment. You muttered out a quick “thank you” and decided the menu suddenly seemed really interesting.

After ordering your food and drinks - you made sure to get something with a little alcohol in it - an awkward silence settled over the two of you.

Wanda broke the silence first, chuckling.

“What?” you asked.

“It’s just funny. I never thought I’d be here, at this fancy restaurant, having dinner with you,” Wanda replied, but there was no malice in the way she said it, only amusement.

“Cheers to that, because I never thought I’d be here either,” you said, taking a sip of your drink.

“Where did you think you’d be? What kind of future do you see for yourself?” Wanda asked genuinely. You weren’t prepared for the conversation to take such a turn but you answered anyway.

The rest of the dinner went surprisingly well; the two of you talked about your goals, your lives before working together, your hobbies, and anything else you could think of.

You learned that Wanda loved to garden and you found it ironic that a week ago you never would’ve thought she was capable of loving something enough to keep it alive.

By the end of the night, both of you were slightly tipsy and actually enjoying each other’s company. You covered the bill when it came, using the card Stark gave you, and the two of you walked outside to wait for your rides home.

You leaned against a brick wall, laughing at a joke Wanda told you, catching your breath. As you calmed down, you looked at Wanda, who still had a bright smile on her face. It was so genuine and real, you couldn’t help but stare, almost as if you were memorizing her face at that moment. You felt like you were seeing her for the first time. She was undeniably gorgeous all the time, but something about her letting her guard down and laughing with you allowed you to see her differently - she was breathtaking.

She was everything.

You didn’t realize you were staring for so long until she noticed and returned your gaze. Her eyes flickered down to your lips and you almost shivered at the motion.

Just as you were about to speak, Wanda leaned in.

You met her halfway, kissing her softly at first, getting lost in the feeling of her lips against yours. She brought her hand up behind your head, deepening the kiss and you almost moaned when you felt her tongue against your lips. Your lips parted to let her in and she kissed you with more passion than you’d ever felt in your life.

This was the longest kiss you’d shared, and by far the most intense one. You never wanted it to end, kissing her back just as eagerly, allowing your tongue to swipe against hers. Your hands came up to her cheeks, one finding its way behind her neck to play with the hairs at the nape of her neck.

The two of you stayed like that for a long moment, just feeling each other and forgetting what you were supposed to be doing.

When her tongue licked into your mouth again, you whimpered, and that seemed to break the spell.

Wanda pulled back, pupils dilated, a slight look of panic painting her perfect features. “Sorry, I- I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” As if on cue, a car pulled up, one of Stark’s drivers, and Wanda got in.

She was gone as quickly as she was on you in the first place and it took your brain a moment to catch up with what had just happened.

The kiss didn’t feel planned, it didn’t feel fake, it didn’t feel like it was for Osborn or Stark or anyone at the company. It felt real - it felt like she wanted you just as badly as you wanted her. You wanted to believe that but you couldn’t let yourself. She left in such a hurry she obviously regretted the kiss and you weren’t entirely certain she hadn’t just done it because she saw someone from work walking by.

You groaned, reality sinking back in. Another car pulled up and you knew it was your ride home. You straightened yourself out and got in the car, letting your mind run through all the possibilities on the way home.

When you arrived at work the next day, something was off.

“Hey Y/N,” Wanda greeted you at the entrance and put a hand on your shoulder, letting her thumb rub circles, but it felt wrong. It felt calculated, like she was just going through the motions. Even the tone of her voice lacked energy.

You felt like she didn’t want to be there and didn’t want to be touching you - it was as if she was suddenly making no effort to be convincing.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, concerned.

“Everything is just fine,” she said back, forcing a smile.

Before you could say anything else, she walked to her office and closed the door.

You went to your own office and looked over the documents you had to deal with for the day, before heading to Wanda’s office to work on them with her.

You knocked before poking your head in. “Conference room?”

“Sure, I’ll be there in a sec,” Wanda replied coldly, void of any emotion.

You tried to ignore the way she was acting but you couldn’t. It wasn’t her usual cruelty towards you; this was somehow worse.

A few moments after you set up in the conference room, she came in, ignoring you and getting straight to work.

All day, she handed you papers to sign and occasionally put an arm around you when an Osborn employee walked by, swiftly removing it once they were out of sight.

At one point, Stark came in and gave you both a mountain of paperwork to do with a deadline of tomorrow morning at 8am. He apologized and said you could both stay late and get overtime, then left the room to meet his own deadlines.

So now what felt like the longest day of work was actually going to be the longest day of work.

Wanda’s behavior persisted throughout the day and well into your overtime hours. Everyone had left the office so there was no one left to put on a show for and Wanda made sure you knew that.

Her overall coldness towards you was bothering you more than it should’ve and you finally said something.

“You know, this whole relationship act is supposed to be convincing.”

“No one is here now,” she retorted nonchalantly.

“You’ve been acting like this all day.”

“And I’ve been touching you all day and being sweet with you in front of the others,” she said, before looking at you. “What, do you need more? In case you’ve forgotten, this whole relationship act is exactly that - an act.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” you said, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach. “Like I’m making this something it isn’t.”

“If the shoe fits,” Wanda replied, going back to her paperwork.

“No.” You stood up. “You don’t get to act like I’m the one blurring the lines between real and fake. You didn’t have to kiss me like that last night, but you did.”

She stood up too. “Maybe someone was watching, Y/N. What do you want me to say? That I wanted to kiss you? That I did it because you’re so irresistible I couldn’t help myself?” she snapped back callously, like she was trying to hurt you.

“I don’t care about the kiss!” You raised your voice. “I care about this promotion and I won’t let you ruin it just because you can’t handle whatever happened last night.”

“Nothing happened last night, it was a kiss. We’ve done it before. It meant nothing!” Wanda yelled back.

“Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?” you said, holding eye contact.

With that, she shoved you against the nearest wall. “I hate you,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, before she leaned in and kissed you hard.

Unlike your other kisses with the redhead, this one didn’t start out soft. It was rough and full of emotions. It was fueled by all the feelings swirling around within the two of you that you had yet to vocalize.

You kissed her back, you couldn’t help yourself. Just moments ago she had you on the verge of tears and now here you were, kissing her back like your life depended on it.

Your hands came up to her neck and you deepened the kiss, lips moving against hers purposefully as if you were trying to prove a point.

Your tongues met and mingled, both of you gasping and moaning into each other’s mouths. You didn’t separate until you needed air.

“Just a kiss, huh?” you breathed out, your noses still touching.

“Shut up,” Wanda said back just as breathily.

“Make me,” you challenged, wanting to be difficult but also wanting her to kiss you again.

She leaned back in, lips connecting with yours, kissing you much softer this time. Her tongue met yours and it made you weak in the knees, the slowness of this kiss compared to the roughness of the first one making your head spin. You knew in that moment that you weren’t the only one feeling things.

Her hands found your waist, pinning you against the wall harder, and you moaned against her.

“You like that?” she said way too cockily, the words from her mouth managing to irritate you even when you were just enjoying that same mouth so much.

You flipped your positions, pinning her against the wall and she raised an eyebrow at you. “I like this,” you replied, kissing her again.

You let your hands wander, running up and down her sides, teasing her but not quite going anywhere in particular.

When you squeezed, she moaned into your mouth and you felt a pang of arousal at the sound. You wanted to pull more sounds like that out of her and began slowly untucking her shirt. You slid your hands underneath the fabric, feeling her soft skin beneath your fingers.

“Mmm, stop teasing,” she mumbled in between kisses, giving you permission to touch her more.

Your hands went further up her shirt, palming her breasts over her bra before sliding under. You brushed against her nipples with your thumbs and she moaned again, breaking the kiss.

You didn’t hesitate to trail kisses down her neck, then back up towards her ear, making her whimper as your hands continued to stimulate her sensitive nipples.

You were dragging it out - you wanted to take things slow in case she wanted to stop and you also wanted to tease her as much as possible, almost like you were making her pay for how she always treated you.

You continued your assault on her neck, kissing and sucking every inch of skin you could get your lips on, while she panted against you.

The beautiful sounds leaving her were only turning you on even more and you were slowly realizing that you’d wanted to do this for a while.

“Y/N,” Wanda panted out.

“Yeah?”

“Stop fucking teasing,” she demanded.

“What do you want?” you asked, running your thumbs over her nipples again to get a reaction.

She gasped, grabbing your throat with her hand. “Fuck me,” she said sternly, and how could you say no to her?

“Fuck,” you breathed out, kissing her again and removing your hands from her shirt.

You placed one of your hands on her thigh under her skirt, running it up her skin until you reached her underwear. Your fingers reached her panties, feeling a wet spot on the front of them. You moaned, your arousal skyrocketing at the thought that she was so wet for you.

“Yeah?” she said, teasing you. “Why don’t you stop feeling me up over my panties and fuck me, hm?”

You nodded and pushed her panties aside, feeling her wetness directly against your fingers. The fact that she was so turned on only served to turn you on even more. She wanted this just as much as you did.

Your index finger moved up to rub her clit, making her moan louder this time and if anyone was still in the building, they would’ve heard her.

“You like that?” You mirrored her words from earlier.

She managed to roll her eyes despite the pleasure she was feeling and leaned in to kiss you again, moaning into the kiss when you rubbed faster against her clit.

“Fuck me,” she whispered against your lips. Denying her felt like denying yourself at this point. You slid a finger into her opening, then followed up with a second finger, stretching her out.

She moaned and it was heavenly, making you want to hear her come undone for you. You started a rhythm inside her, fucking into her with purpose. The sounds leaving her lips made you throb with desire, she sounded so beautiful in the throes of pleasure.

You could hear how wet she was, sloshing sounds coming from where your fingers went to work, and it drove you crazy.

“Fuck, I can hear how wet you are,” you said, kissing down her neck again.

“You feel so good,” she panted out, moaning again as you hit a spot inside of her.

The sounds of her pussy were getting to you and you wanted to taste her so badly; you weren’t sure if you wanted her to cum like this first or if you needed your mouth on her before anything else.

“Can I taste you?” you asked, slowing your movements to both prolong her pleasure and delay her orgasm, as well as to give her a second to answer you.

“Fuck, yes,” she said, bucking her hips into your hand for more. “Wanna see you on your knees for me, detka.”

You couldn’t say no to her even if you tried, not when you wanted the same thing so desperately. You dropped to your knees, pulling her skirt up to reveal her pussy, underwear clinging to her folds and the stickiness between her thighs.

You practically drooled at the sight, pushing her panties further to the side to get a better view. You leaned in, kissing her pussy at first, then flicked your tongue against her clit, making her gasp. Her taste was heavenly and you wanted more, your tongue now exploring her eagerly.

“You taste so good, mommy,” you managed to mumble against her, the vibrations of your voice making her hips jerk against your face, which only made you more aroused. When you realized what you said, you almost stopped what you were doing. But a few simple words helped you to not falter too much.

“Call me that again,” Wanda moaned, hips bucking against you as if she was trying to get herself off on your mouth.

“Mommy,” you obeyed, unable to deny her at this point, and equally turned on by the name.

“Fuck. Such a good girl for mommy,” she breathed out, rutting her hips with purpose and grinding her clit against your tongue.

You moaned into her pussy at the praise, licking and sucking at her clit, letting your tongue dip inside her hole with every downstroke.

“Ohh, does my baby have a praise kink?” she cooed, somehow managing to make you flustered and embarrassed while you were bringing her to orgasm.

When you didn’t respond, too enamored with eating her out, she grabbed your chin harshly and made you face her.

“Answer mommy when she asks you a question,” she commanded, keeping you just inches from where you wanted to taste her again.

“Yes,” you whined, breathing heavily with how aroused you were.

“Yes what?”

“Yes mommy,” you said, looking up at her with lust in your eyes.

“Good girl,” she praised, redirecting you back to her dripping cunt, keeping her hand at the back of your head to guide your movements.

She moaned when you made contact again, your lips wrapping around her clit, sucking obediently. You wanted her to cum for you. You wanted to bring her pleasure, to get off on her sounds and her taste, but at the same time, part of you also wanted to assert some kind of dominance over her. She’d bullied you relentlessly since you started working for the same company as her and this was your way of taking back control.

She may have been in charge, with her hand at the back of your head, keeping you close so she could fuck your face the way she wanted to, but you had the power to tip her over the edge she so desperately wanted to reach.

And it was intoxicating.

But then again, everything about Wanda Maximoff was intoxicating. Her beautiful face, her hypnotizing voice, her sense of style, the sway of her hips when she walked, the quickness of her comebacks, and in the current moment, her scent, her taste, her moans, her movements against you. You had never wanted someone so badly in your life and you had her right where you wanted her.

“Fuck baby, I’m gonna cum,” Wanda said, her grip tightening on your hair. Her clit throbbed under your tongue, her hole clenching around nothing as you brought her closer and closer to the edge.

You doubled down on your efforts, wanting to see her fall apart for you. Your index finger teased her folds, dipping into her hole as you sucked on her clit. When you pushed two fingers into her while continuing your stimulation on her hardened bud, she came, moaning your name so prettily as her cum coated your fingers and chin.

You lapped up as much as you could before she began to push you away and pull you back up. She kissed you, tasting herself on your tongue, a deep sound from the back of her throat emerging at the sensation.

“Maybe you can be a good girl after all, hm?” She mused, looking at you lazily as she pulled away from the kiss.

Her hand came down, reaching into your pants and then your panties to feel where you were turned on beyond belief.

“When have I not been one?” you questioned.

“Maybe when you’re talking back to me,” she said, biting her lip.

“I can think of something better I could be doing with my mouth,” you shot back.

Wanda moved her hand so she could really feel you against her, running her fingers up and down your slit.

“God, you’re so wet for me,” Wanda said. “Did I do that?” She asked, continuing to touch you.

You nodded, somewhat distracted as you admired the way she looked in her post-orgasm haze. You wanted her again - one time wasn’t enough.

“Can you go again?” you blurted out, staring at her with such want it almost surprised her. “Please,” you begged, stroking her cheek with your thumb as you looked into her eyes.

“What about you?” She asked.

“Just wanna make you cum again mommy,” you responded, practically pleading.

She couldn’t say no to you at that moment, and she didn’t want to either. “Okay detka, go ahead, make mommy feel good,” she said, her teeth coming down onto her lip as you descended once more.

Sliding her panties off, you brought your mouth down to where she was dripping and slid your tongue as deep as it would go, your thumb coming up to rub circles into her clit.

“Yes, that’s so good,” Wanda cried out, bucking her hips as you fucked into her with your tongue. “Fuck, eat my pussy just like that,” she said, making you moan against her.

After a few moments, she came again, and you licked at her folds until she rode out the aftershocks, twitching against your face. You couldn’t get enough, mouthing at her pussy for as long as you could before she brought you back up once more, staring at you so intimately it made you nervous despite the fact that you’d just done extremely unprofessional things to her in the conference room.

“So, a praise kink and a mommy kink, huh?” She chuckled, raising an eyebrow and smirking.

“Shut up.” You blushed, trying to hide your face in her neck out of embarrassment.

“Make me,” she said, using your own words from earlier against you.

You kissed her to shut her up, and also because you just wanted to. She could taste herself on your lips and on your tongue and it almost made her want to go again. The two of you stayed like that, lips glued to each other, for a long moment before separating, out of breath.

“So was this pretend too or?” You half joked, knowing it wasn’t but also unsure if she would ice you out again after this.

“No,” she started. “This did mean something, despite what I said earlier. I don’t sleep around just to sleep around,” she said earnestly. “I want you.”

You were somewhat surprised she didn’t come back with some snarky remark or crude joke, but you weren’t going to complain when the woman you wanted more than anything was confessing that she felt the same way.

“I want you too,” you uttered, looking down at her lips subconsciously.

“I kinda figured that out when you were getting on your knees for me, sweetheart,” she responded.

“Whatever.” You rolled your eyes, leaning in to kiss her again.

When the two of you broke apart, you spoke again. “So what now?”

“What do you mean?”

“We still have to pretend to date. Can we do that?” you asked.

“We could pretend,” she started. “Or we could just do it.”

“What, date?”

“Yeah, why not?” she questioned, seeming slightly nervous as she proposed the idea.

“I thought you hated me,” you whispered, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. “All this time…”

“I don’t hate you,” Wanda cut in. “I don’t know, it’s complicated.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I guess I just saw myself in you. Someone determined, ambitious, competitive, like a younger version of me. So of course, you were my competition. And I also saw something I wanted but couldn’t have, or so I thought. I never thought you’d want me too. I don’t know, I can’t justify how I treated you, I’m sorry.”

You paused, taking a moment to think everything over before speaking again.

“Look, I don’t know what I want out of this, but I’m willing to see where it goes,” you finally said, hoping she was on the same page.

“I’m okay with that.” She smiled, perhaps out of relief, and brushed some hair out of your face. “Let’s fake it till we make it, yeah?” She joked, making you smile back at her.

“Works for me,” you said, looking at her with an unreadable expression, one which you might later realize was pure devotion. Despite everything you’d been through with her, you were falling fast and there was no way to stop it.

The following week was something of a dream come true. You and Wanda worked together, but this time the only tension present was sexual. You acted like a couple and you didn’t even have to try anymore, it just came naturally.

Wanda’s teasing touches increased tenfold, with her constantly trying to turn you on in the most inappropriate of places, whether it was in Stark’s office with her hand tracing patterns on the small of your back or in the conference room with dirty words whispered in your ear and while everyone was still in the building.

The two of you stayed late a few nights to finish up paperwork, finding that it was hard to get any work done when you were left alone with each other.

You’d made Wanda cum against the conference table more than once and she’d even come home with you one night to continue your activities. You fucked her with your fingers against your front door and again in your bed with your strap, making her see stars every time you had your way with her. It was very quickly becoming one of your favorite ways to relieve stress, especially with the merger increasing your workload.

Mr. Stark was pleased with your “performance,” pulling you aside to tell you that Osborn absolutely adored the two of you and your relationship. You figured once there was a label on things, you’d break it to him that you were actually together now.

You and Wanda had not only been having regular sex, but had been talking about deeper things with each other, including your own history. She opened up about her insecurities and you did the same, kissing each other softly after and then snuggling up to watch a movie.

Wanda stayed over some nights and the following mornings you’d walk to work together, stopping at your favorite coffee shop for a warm drink on the way.

The two dates a week had originally felt like a burden, but now you were grateful for the chance to take your favorite girl on a date twice a week, all expenses paid by the boss. You didn’t care that Osborn employees might be lurking around, you touched Wanda when you wanted to and it had nothing to do with appearances.

Months passed, and the merger was finally coming to a close. Half of Stark Industries’ client base had become regular customers of the Osborn group, and Stark now owned a percentage of Osborn’s company.

You and Wanda maintained your higher positions, still working directly under Stark with a nice pay raise.

You’d asked Wanda to be your official girlfriend a few weeks after your first time sleeping together and she moved in with you two months later.

Stark was surprised to find out the two of you were no longer faking it, but he was happy for you and started calling himself the millionaire matchmaker.

Sometimes the two of you still fought, your snarky and sarcastic personalities unable to be pushed down so easily, but it usually ended with Wanda bent over a surface of the apartment or workplace after hours, with your fingers or your tongue inside her pussy.

If you really pushed her buttons, it ended with your hands tied to the headboard while Wanda touched herself above you and mocked your desperation to be the one giving her pleasure; “bad girls don’t get to touch mommy, so just sit there and look pretty for me,” she would say.

The teasing and the jokes were a huge foundation for your relationship so long as they weren’t taken too far, and you found that you loved that part of her despite how it used to be used against you.

Wanda could be incredibly sweet though and you loved that about her too. She knew when to pick playful fights with you and when to be softer; she knew how to act when you needed reassurance from her and she knew how to make you feel safe.

At the end of the day, you fell hard for the one person you never should’ve fallen for, and you wouldn’t change a thing.

[gf2bellamy]

hii i absolutely LOVE your writing,, its just so perfect🤭

may i please request a story with spencer realizing he has a crush on reader and so he starts getting nervous and stutter-y around reader. so then reader gets a little upset thinking she did something wrong and they end up talking about what’s happening and it leads to a confession + kiss

thank you!!💖💖

crush — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: a tiny bit of angst bc reader thinks she did something wrong a/n: hii !! this request is so cute <3 i hope you like this <333

Spencer had it bad. 

Like, really bad. 

It wasn’t even up for debate anymore—he was completely, undeniably, and overwhelmingly crushing on you.

Right now, he was sitting at his desk, staring at you as you leaned casually against it, deep in conversation with Emily at her desk across from his. You were animated, gesturing with your hands as you made a passionate argument. 

“No, look, the movie sucks,” you insisted, pointing a finger at Emily. “You have to read the book. It’s so much better.” 

Emily rolled her eyes but smirked, clearly enjoying the debate. “I don’t know, I think the movie has its moments—” 

“Absolutely not.” You cut her off, shaking your head. “The book has so much more depth. The movie just—” You let out a dramatic sigh, exasperated. “It butchers it.” 

Spencer wasn’t even listening to Emily. He was too busy watching you, completely entranced. 

Two days ago, he’d come to a life-altering realization. 

He liked you. 

Not in the casual, oh-she’s-nice-to-be-around kind of way. No. This was the heart-racing, brain-melting, can’t-think-straight-when-you-smile-at-him kind of way. 

And it had all started with a cup of coffee. 

You had placed it in front of him, your fingers brushing his for a fleeting moment as he reached for it. A harmless, everyday interaction—except that it wasn’t harmless. Because then, you had smiled at him. Soft and warm. 

“New tie?” you had asked, tilting your head slightly as you pointed at the green tie he was wearing. 

Spencer had looked down at it, momentarily forgetting how words worked. “Oh—uh—yeah. Yeah, I got it yesterday.” 

You had grinned. “Looks good on you. I like it.” 

And then, as if your words hadn’t already short-circuited his brain, you had reached out—just for a second—adjusting the fabric between your fingers before turning away and heading back to your desk. 

That was the moment. The exact second Spencer knew he was doomed. 

And now? Two days later, he was struggling. 

Struggling to focus. Struggling to act normal. Struggling to not stare at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the entire world—which, let’s be honest, you were. 

“Spence.” 

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. You had turned to him now, one hand resting lightly on his arm as you smiled. 

“Tell her the book is better than the movie,” you said, tilting your head toward Emily. “Back me up here.” 

Spencer knew, logically, that he had said those exact words to you a few weeks ago. He agreed with you. He had data, facts, and literary analysis to support the claim. It was an easy argument. 

And yet— 

He was completely, entirely tongue-tied. 

You were looking at him expectantly, your touch burning through the fabric of his sleeve like a brand. 

“I—uhm—I think—” He swallowed, feeling his face heat up. 

You frowned slightly, confused by his sudden inability to form a coherent sentence. 

He needed to get it together. 

“Yes,” he finally forced out, clearing his throat. “Uh, the book is—definitely better. Than the movie.” 

You grinned, triumphant. “See? Told you.” 

Emily just smirked at Spencer, amusement flickering in her eyes. 

You, then , watched as Spencer quickly withdrew his hand from your touch, avoiding your eyes like it physically pained him to look at you. 

And over the next day, it kept happening. 

It was subtle at first—small moments that could’ve easily been brushed off as coincidences. But then they started piling up. 

Like when you were working on the geographical profile together. You had been standing close to him, pointing at a section of the map, asking for his input. But instead of responding immediately, Spencer had frozen. 

Completely. 

You had glanced up, expecting one of his usual rapid-fire responses, filled with statistics and insightful observations. But nothing came. Instead, he stood there, his jaw slightly clenched, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

You had frowned, waiting. 

A long, awkward silence stretched between you until someone else had walked by, snapping him out of it. He mumbled a quick, barely audible response before abruptly walking away. 

Then there was the night the team went out for drinks. You had slid into a booth at the bar, expecting Spencer to take the seat beside you—like he always did. It was a habit. Something that just was. 

Except this time, he didn’t. 

He sat at the far end of the table, wedging himself between JJ and Rossi, not even acknowledging you. 

That was when the doubts started creeping in. 

Had you done something wrong? Had you said something to upset him? 

You replayed the past week in your mind, searching for anything that might have caused this shift. But there was nothing. At least, nothing you could think of. 

Still, it didn’t stop the sinking feeling in your chest every time Spencer avoided your gaze, every time he hesitated before answering you, every time he refused to sit near you. 

And now, back at Quantico, the case closed, reports needing to be filed, you sat at your desk, watching him. 

The office was quieter than usual—most of the team had taken the morning off to rest, leaving only you and Spencer to handle the paperwork, just as you always did. 

Except this time, Spencer wasn’t talking to you. 

He sat across the room, his eyes fixed on his files, his pen moving rapidly across the paper. And still—not once—did he look up at you. 

Your fingers curled slightly against the report in front of you, a dull ache settling in your chest. 

The silence between you was suffocating. 

Hours passed, the only sounds filling the room were the scratch of pens against paper and the occasional shuffle of files. It was unnatural—terribly unnatural. The two of you were never this quiet around each other. 

Spencer wanted to talk to you. He always wanted to talk to you. But every time he opened his mouth, he managed to embarrass himself. So, he just... stopped trying. 

And then there was the other problem—his newfound hyper-awareness of you. 

Every touch, no matter how small, felt like an electric current running through his skin. Like when the two of you were sitting in the back of the SUV on the way back from a case, and your knee had accidentally brushed against his. It had been nothing to you, a completely normal, casual thing. But to him? To him, it had set his entire body on fire. 

Or when you touched his arm , casually, the way you always did—except now, it wasn’t just casual to him. Now, it was overwhelming. Too much. 

So he did what he thought was best—he avoided it. Avoided you. 

It was time to leave, and coincidentally, both of you started packing your bags at the same time. 

Somehow, despite everything, you still moved in sync. 

It was a habit at this point. You always left work together, falling into step beside one another like second nature. Some nights, you’d end up at the movies, where Spencer would hesitantly—almost shyly—share his food with you. Something he never did with anyone else. Not with his germophobia. Not even with the team. 

But with you it had never been a problem. 

Other nights, you’d wind up at his apartment, curled up on his couch, just hanging out. Just you and him. And in hindsight, Spencer supposed he should’ve seen this coming. 

Should’ve realized that whatever this was—whatever you were to him—wasn’t just friendship. 

Maybe he’d been crushing on you all along. 

The two of you walked to the elevator, the air thick with awkwardness. You exchanged shy smiles, unsure of what to say or do.

Finally, you both spoke at the same time. 

"Are you okay?" 

The words tumbled out of your mouths in perfect unison, and for a moment, you both froze, staring at each other. Then you both chuckled awkwardly, the sound breaking the tension, just for a second. 

“Go ahead,” Spencer nodded at you, pressing the button to call the elevator.  

“You—just... I feel like I haven’t talked to you properly in ages,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping as you fiddled with the strap of your bag. 

Spencer looked away quickly, a guilty blush creeping up his neck. 

Oh god, why couldn’t he just act normal around you? 

“Did I do something wrong?” You blurted out, suddenly worried. "Because I—I’m not entirely sure what it was, but you haven’t been looking at me, or talking to me, and I’m just—” 

Before you could ramble on any longer, Spencer cut you off. His voice was a little too loud, too eager. 

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong!” He shook his head quickly, almost desperately, as if trying to reassure you. His wide eyes met yours, and there was a softness in them. “I promise.” 

The elevator doors slid open, and the two of you stepped inside. 

You pressed the button to the ground floor, still watching him, trying to make sense of everything. 

“So, what is it then?” you asked, your voice more hesitant now, as the elevator began its descent. 

Spencer bit his lip, his fingers nervously tapping against the strap of his bag. What was he supposed to say? That he had a huge crush on you, but he couldn’t even stand to be near you without fumbling through his words and avoiding your gaze? It sounded so stupid when he thought about it. 

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, staring at the doors in front of him as the elevator descended slowly. His mouth opened, but no words came out. 

“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” you pointed at him, a hint of teasing in your voice, but the concern still lingered. “You’re acting like this because something’s going on, and I’m just—I don’t know what it is.” 

Spencer’s heart raced.

The doors finally opened, and you both headed towards the exit , where you stepped out into the chilly night air. You instinctively pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, waiting for him to speak. 

Spencer hesitated again. His mind was spinning.

“No, I swear it’s not you,” Spencer muttered, tugging on the strap of his satchel, trying to buy himself some time. “It’s just I—I…” 

You waited, eyes fixed on him, your breath fogging in the cold air. You were getting impatient, and the more time passed, the more you started to worry that whatever had been going on was something you had no control over. Something that was maybe your fault. 

You were now standing by your car, watching him. Spencer looked torn, his fingers gripping the strap of his satchel tightly, his body tense like he was debating whether to run or stay. His lips parted slightly, and then, as if he couldn’t hold it in anymore, the words tumbled out. 

“I like you.” His voice was quiet.

For a moment, you just stared at him, confusion flickering across your face. 

“I… didn’t realize you disliked me until now?” You frowned slightly, your voice uncertain, trying to make sense of what he was saying. 

Spencer’s eyes widened in panic. “Wait—no!” He rushed to correct himself, shaking his head frantically. “That’s not what I meant—I didn’t mean that.” 

His breath came out in a nervous puff of air, his cheeks burning red as he struggled to find the right words. 

“I mean—I like you. Like, like like you.” His voice dropped to a mumble, the last part barely above a whisper. “Like, I have a crush on you.” 

He swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he finally said it. 

And then, silence. 

His eyes darted to you hesitantly, searching your face for a reaction, his stomach twisting with anticipation. 

You stood frozen. Did he just say what you think he said? 

“I… what?” you blinked, your breath hitching. 

Spencer’s face was already bright red, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the pavement, like he regretted saying anything at all. His voice had been so quiet at the end, barely above a whisper, but you heard him. 

He liked you. Like liked you. 

“I have a crush on you,” he repeated, this time slightly louder, but his voice was still laced with hesitation. His eyes flickered between yours and the ground, as if he was trying to gauge your reaction but couldn’t bear to look for too long. “That’s… that’s why I’ve been acting so weird.” 

A rush of emotions hit you all at once. Relief. Surprise. And something else—something warm, something thrilling. 

You let out a small breathy laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Spencer, you’ve been avoiding me for days because you have a crush on me?” 

He winced slightly. “Yes?” 

A smile tugged at your lips. The pieces started falling into place—the nervous stammering, the awkward silences, the way he’d flinched at even the smallest touches. You had spent the entire week wondering if you’d somehow upset him when, in reality, he was just… flustered. 

Over you. 

It was almost funny. No—it was funny. 

Spencer watched you carefully, his anxiety spiking at your silence. He had just spilled his feelings to you in the most awkward way possible, and now you were just standing there, staring at him with this unreadable look. He braced himself for rejection, for you to awkwardly brush it off, for you to tell him that you didn’t feel the same way— 

Instead, you smiled. 

And then you laughed. 

Spencer blinked. “Are you—are you laughing at me?” He sounded both confused and slightly horrified. 

You quickly shook your head, even though you were still grinning. “No! No, I swear, I’m not laughing at you.” You bit your lip to stifle another giggle, but it wasn’t working. “It’s just—you’ve been torturing yourself over this ?” 

Spencer huffed, looking away. “I wouldn’t call it torture—” 

“You literally stopped making eye contact with me.” 

“That’s—okay, that’s fair.” He sighed. “I just… I didn’t know how to act. Every time I tried to talk to you, I ended up embarrassing myself, and I figured it would be easier if I just… didn’t.” 

You softened at that. 

“Spence,” you said gently, reaching for his hand before he could overthink it. The second your fingers brushed his, you felt him stiffen. But he didn’t pull away. “You know you could’ve just told me, right?” 

He let out a breath, finally meeting your eyes. “I was afraid that if I told you… things would change.” 

You squeezed his hand lightly, feeling a rush of fondness for him. His brain was the most brilliant one you’d ever known, but sometimes he made things so complicated. 

“Well, things are going to change,” you admitted, watching his expression closely. 

His heart stuttered. “Oh.” 

A flicker of panic flashed across his face, and you quickly squeezed his hand again before he spiraled. 

“Not in a bad way,” you reassured him, stepping a little closer. You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I like you too, Spencer.” 

Spencer’s breath caught. “You…?” 

“Mhm.” 

He blinked rapidly, like he was trying to process your words, as if he hadn’t even considered the possibility that you might feel the same way. 

And then—oh. 

Oh. 

His entire body relaxed, the tension melting from his shoulders. He let out a breathy laugh, running his free hand through his hair as he shook his head. 

You smiled as you leaned back against your car, watching the relief wash over Spencer.

He stared at you, his eyes flickering between your own and your lips, and you could practically see the thoughts racing through his mind.

Spencer swallowed, his hands fidgeting at his sides. And then, as if the rush of confidence from his confession hadn’t completely worn off yet, he asked, “Can—can I kiss you?” 

Your stomach flipped at his words, your smile widening. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

Spencer exhaled something that sounded like half a laugh, half a breath of relief, before you reached for him, your fingers curling gently around the fabric of his cardigan as you tugged him toward you.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands hovering for only a second before settling on your cheeks. His fingers were warm despite the cold air.

His fingertips barely grazing your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and for a second, he just looked at you—like he wanted to take his time, like he wanted to remember everything about this moment before it even happened.

Then, finally, he leaned in. 

The first touch of his lips was soft, almost tentative, as if he was giving you a chance to pull away. But when you didn’t—when you kissed him back just as eagerly—he let himself relax. His hands cupped your face more firmly, his body leaning just slightly into yours.

You sighed against him, your hands sliding up to rest against his shoulders, your fingers gently threading into the curls at the nape of his neck. That was all it took. You felt him shiver slightly under your touch, a quiet hum of contentment vibrating in his chest.

When you finally pulled away for air, your foreheads rested together, both of you breathless but smiling.

Spencer opened his eyes, his pupils slightly blown, a soft, dazed smile tugging at his lips.

“I can’t believe that just happened,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your hands still resting against his neck. “You really thought I didn’t like you back?”

He huffed out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, tilting your head playfully. “Well, you should’ve. Because I really like you, Spencer.”

His smile widened, something utterly adorable in the way his entire face lit up at your words.

“I like you too,” he said again, as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to say it out loud.

You grinned. “Yeah, I think I got that part.”

[tojisteddy]

Can’t take My Eyes Off of You

or: John Price who ends up doing after care with you after a little fling.

cw: 1k< words (probably), mainly fluff, small nsfw, age gap (price late 30s, reader mid-late twenties), your friends are shit, no use of y/n. unrealistic after care.

He fucked you silly in the bathroom of a dive bar.

And John genuinely didn’t mean to, he truly did not mean to. But you felt too good, clenching like you were made for him when he pushed himself inside your syrupy walls, even more when you came around him the first time. And of course you took every inch of his aching cock, with a nod and a lazy smile, nails clawing at his broad shoulders, it’s like you couldn’t get enough of him.

“Can you walk love?” he has to snap in front of your face once to see if you’re there. But you’re not. Still blissed out, looking at him with heart eyes. He holds you steady when you try to stand on your own.

“My legs’ll fall right off if you let go of me,” you giggle. You had such a bright smile, cute.

He mumbles a curse and sighs, sitting you right on the bathroom sink, “You stay right here, I’ll go find your friends.”

“A-okay!” You send him off with two thumbs up and he disappears into the crowded bar to find your friends, who you were with when John saw you dancing with them. You were tantalizing, a pretty little thing in your oversized jersey and shorts that hugged your curves, dazzling eyes when you found the older man staring at you. A one night— well— less than an hour. A simple quickie. He just didn’t expect it to be fantastic.

Finally his blue eyes land on your group of friends and just as he’s about to say something they get up from the table, laughing. And it’s something snide that catches his ears that makes him refuse to take you to them.

“[+]’s such a fuckin slut leaving like that, she can find her own way back.”

John doesn’t even think twice— he’ll take you home. Or just somewhere safe. Somewhere not with them.

He’s quick to get back to you, and you’re there, swinging your legs back and forth on the sink, eyes closed and leaning against the sink.

“Hey! Don’t fall asleep on me, we gotta get you out of here.” He squeezes your cute cheeks once to get your eyes open. Your mocha eyes open but you slouch, toppling over as the older man wraps your arm around his neck.

One side of your plump lips curve up, “Oooooh are you trynna take me home? You’re a slyyyy dog, John.”

He grunts, lifting you off of your feet, “Yeah I’ll take you home, come on.”

John manages just fine putting you in his car, it’s getting you tell him to where your house is that’s the problem. You keep mumbling incoherently, avoiding the topic. The windows were all the way down, the cool summer breeze kissing your skin, hair blowing in the wind, Happy Together by The Turtles playing on the radio. You’d found yourself playing with his large hand. The other on the steering wheel, your fingers brushed between the calluses and creases.

“They don’t like me…” you mumble, biting the inside of your lips.

“Who?” He glances over at you, John knows who. But he’d rather hear it from you, hear your voice first another second.

“My friends— I mean- my roommates. We always butt heads. A lot. I’m surprised they’d even invited me out tonight. They must’ve had a change ‘f heart.” A smile grows on your face, almost like you don’t want that feeling to end, you don’t want the night to end. But it pains John, because he knows the truth. They’re shit. They don’t deserve you, and John knows this even in the short amount of time he’s known you.

Two hours at best.

But he doesn’t say anything, just lets you keep tracing his hands, keep you happy. Just a little while longer. The night can’t end so early.

“Wind feels so nice,” you say, letting out a breath. And you climb out the window, just enough that your top half of your body is handing out the window, John keeps a firm hold on your of course. Just in case he needs to yank you back in, but the streets are empty, it’s late. Just you, John and the road. Riding l around until you finally call it.

You’re sight to behold, curly hair dancing with the wind, arms out, screams of laughter filling his ears, skin glowing under the streetlights glow— you’re free. Like a bird taking flight. And John can’t get enough of it, his eyes stuck on you. You make the man’s heart beat faster than it has in a long time. It’s different— he likes it.

You suddenly gasp, something catching your eyes, “Fuck! It’s an ice cream truck! Let’s go get ice cream John!”

He can’t help but appease you, you’ve got a giddy on your face. Why not? Filling your stomach a little would make you feel even better, wouldn’t it?

You both get cones, your get your favorite (with sprinkles of course), John gets chocolate & vanilla swirled. You two take off again, through the streets of town, intaking the cold treats in your hands like kids.

You nod your head at the taste, eyes closed in satisfaction, “It’s so good.” You look over, smiling— “Thanks John.”

“No problem baby.” The words just roll of his tongue, they’re perfect on you. Only for you.

And he can’t help but admire you in this dazed state. It’s probably when he realizes maybe falling in love with someone in the first day you know them is possible.

You blink a couple times, taking in your surroundings and that you stupidly left a bar with a stranger, by a single chance of luck him genuinely taking care of you.

“I’m sorry, I’ve held you up? Havent I?” Your voice is mesmerizing, and you’re looking at him with big puppy eyes. Too adorable. He had to have you. See you take flight once again, have you in his arms once again—

A dove. His.

“No!” The bearded man almost yelps, his cheeks turning tomato red, all the way to his ears. “No, not at all.”

In fact, you were right on time.

Perfect.

a/n: I know this isn’t realistic in any shape or form, I just thought it’d be a little cute. Yeah. Luv you bubs.

most recent masterlist

[sknyuz]

collarless | geum seongje

synopsis — he’s always been collarless, all sharp teeth and no leash—until he joined the union, and you swore you’d never crawl back to that kind of life. but even strays remember home.

pairing — geum seongje x ex!reader

genre — exes to enemies to an even worse, third thing, angst, action, just exes with unresolved tension, hurt/comfort

cw — violence, blood, smoking, tons of swearing, toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, implied sexual tension, they beat each other up and then make out lol 50% fighting 50% longing (sorry to action haters, just scroll down to the divider for romance lol)

wc — ~2.6k

part of the “i can fix him!” trilogy

notes: badly wanted to write a fic where the reader isn’t a horribly treated s.a. victim with the depth of a kiddie pool and can actually fight back/toe-to-toe against seongje.

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

the first time you punch seongje since you've last seen him, he laughs.

he’s leaning against the rusted frame of the garage door, a fresh bruise blooming on his lip, thanks to you, of course. one hand tucked into the pocket of his tracksuit, the other loosely draped over his ribs, his posture is loose but predatory, like a stray dog that’s been used to surviving on its own. his eyes flicker with a dangerous amusement, cold and hungry. “this your idea of a reunion, y/n?” he jeers.

you don’t bother answering—you slam your fist into his jaw, the impact sending a sharp crack through the air, like you’ve hit something wild and untamed.

“fuck off, seongje,” you spit. “the union doesn’t get to sniff around here without a warning. you think just ‘cause you’re one of baekjin’s dogs now, you get a free pass?”

he licks the blood off his bottom lip like he’s savoring it. “wasn’t trying to start a war.”

“then you shouldn’t have stepped foot in my area.”

“didn’t know you were this territorial, babe.” he chuckles dryly, as you ready your stance for another punch, already stretching your neck.

“you always this cocky for a mutt on a leash?”

he smiles, a wild glint flashing in his eyes. “didn’t wanna cause a scene, babe. just need your little bitch boss to pay us back the money he owes. which, if you didn’t know,” he tilts his head, slow and jerky, like a predator sizing up its prey, “is a-fucking-lot.” seongje laughs, the sound low and unnerving, dripping with manic amusement.

the collection wasn’t even a big deal. the union has far more boys than to send their right-hand man for something this small. seongje wasn’t here because the money was urgent. he was here because it amused him to get under your skin, to remind you who he was—who he still thought he was.

he shrugs, that cocky smirk never leaving his face. “had to, didn’t i? baekjin’s orders, y’know. thought you’d have missed me too.” he runs a hand through his hair with a lazy flick of his wrist as he saunters over to you, eyes glinting like he’s daring you to call him out.

then, with a casualness that somehow feels more dangerous than it should, he leans in slightly, his gaze flicking down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. it’s a move that feels too deliberate, too comfortable—like he’s testing just how much you’ll let him play with you.

you don’t need to hear more.

you swing again, remembering how he used to kiss you with that same reckless, chaotic energy. how every touch felt like a battle you never wanted to win.

his eyes darken—knowing. there’s a flicker in them, a sharp edge as he realizes you’re not backing down. and then, before you can react, he steps back to dodge, and steps back in as he throws a clean punch, landing square on your cheek.

you grunt, the impact rattling your head and bringing a ringing to your ears, but you don’t stumble. instead, you lean into the hit, using the momentum to drop low, kicking out your leg and tripping him on his shin. seongje stumbles, a grunt escaping him as he crashes to the ground with a sharp hiss.

“did you think i was gonna fall for that?” you sneer, standing over him, fists clenched.

he grins, his breath coming out ragged but amused. “nah. but i thought you’d make it fun.”

you raise your fist again. “you haven’t learned your lesson.”

but this time, seongje’s movements are quicker than you expect—he pounces, body weight crashing into yours, sending both of you slamming into the concrete ground. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh, and before you can react, he’s already on top of you, his knee pressing into your side, pinning your arm beneath him.

you hiss through the pain, but even as your body aches from the impact, you narrow your eyes at him as he huffs, already sick of your persistence. “shit, you really want to make pretty faces like yours bleed?” seongje smirks, his grip tightening as he uses one palm to plant on the ground beside your head. his other hand catches your wrist, holding it above your head. “you always fight this hard, or is it just me?” he whispers, voice low and dangerous, as his knee digs into your other arm, restraining you completely.

his smirk never falters, but there’s something else in his eyes now—something dangerous, hungry.

you inhale sharply, then, in one quick, explosive motion, you slam your forehead into his with a sharp crack.

seongje’s eyes widen for a split second, disoriented. that’s all you need. you push him off, shoving him to the side and rolling back onto your feet, each move faster than before.

he blinks, trying to steady himself, but you’re already on him, throwing punches—one to the side of his head, another to his stomach, the force enough to make him cough out a ragged breath. a swift kick knocks his glasses clean off his face, sending them skidding across the gravel.

he looks up at you, his features twisted with annoyance, but also… something else. something almost familiar.

“you were going easy on me,” you murmur, voice low and dangerous, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “didn’t want me to get hurt, babe?” you tease, the nickname slipping from your tongue almost bitterly. “you know… we don’t make out anymore. guess it wouldn’t hurt to give you a busted lip, huh?”

he glares at you, breath coming quicker, the tension between you both palpable now—old history, old fights, and the undeniable truth that things are never just physical with him.

“you never make things easy, do you?” he growls, but there’s a spark in his eyes. a challenge, an invitation.

“you should know by now,” you reply, ready to go again, both of you caught in a tangled mess of unfinished business.

you’re caught in a frenzy of punches, kicks, and curses, both of you battering each other with everything you’ve got. each hit feels like it might be the last, but neither of you is willing to give up.

seongje’s fast, like always, his body moving with a feral intensity that makes it impossible to land a clean blow. but you’re just as relentless. you always have been. you dodge one punch, counter with an elbow to his ribs, and then another to his jaw, but it’s not enough. he’s too quick, and the fight’s gone on too long.

a wave of frustration rises in your chest. this damn wolf doesn’t know when to quit.

you swing again, aiming for his ribs, but he dodges just in time, his body shifting insanely fast, too fast for you to land a proper hit. he retaliates with a sharp jab to your stomach, knocking the wind out of you.

“fucking hell, y/n,” he growls, and you hear the edge of something you can’t quite place in his voice. maybe it’s concern, maybe it’s annoyance, but then—everything goes black.

when you wake, the world is dim, but not like it was before. this is different—darker, colder. the smell of smoke hits your nostrils first, and it’s only then that you recognize it. you’re not at some random street corner or an alleyway. you’re somewhere familiar.

your eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, the shadows of the room taking form around you. and then it hits you: this room. you’ve been here before, too many times. too many nights spent tangled in memories you’ve tried to forget.

the dim light from the fading sunset seeps through a narrow window, casting deep purple shadows across the floor. your head’s throbbing, your cheek swollen, and your body aches with every movement, but none of that matters because you recognize this place. seongje’s place.

he’s standing by the windowsill, cigarette between his lips, smoke curling up into the air. his back is to you, but you can still see the familiar silhouette. his posture, the way his shoulders slouch just enough to give him that casual, laid-back look. the same posture you’ve seen a thousand times in this very room, in these very circumstances.

fuck him, you think, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. you wipe your mouth, feeling the blood on your lip, the cut stinging. this isn’t fair—bringing you back here.

you hear the soft snick of his lighter as he takes another drag from the cigarette, the sound too familiar.

“you’re awake,” he says, voice rough but not unkind. he turns around slowly, eyes narrowing as he watches you.

“you knocked me out,” you mutter, your voice still thick with the remnants of the fight. your hand moves instinctively to your aching jaw. you feel the bruise already forming.

seongje looks almost casual about it, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “wasn’t my intention,” he shrugs, but his eyes flicker down to the cut on your lip, then back to your face. there’s a pause, and his voice drops lower as he adds, “but you didn’t really make it easy, babe—and this was the only way to shut you up.”

you frown, trying to process the weight of his words. what the hell does he mean by that? his eyes catch yours, and for a moment, the space between you feels heavy, charged with all the old history and the years of tangled emotions that you two shared.

you take a deep breath, forcing yourself to steady your mind. “you could’ve left me there,” you snap, trying to mask the vulnerability that’s creeping in. “but you didn’t.”

his eyes flash with something—maybe irritation, maybe something else—but he doesn’t look away. he takes another drag from his cigarette, as if weighing his next words carefully.

“yeah, and leave you with those assholes?” he mutters, his voice low and dark, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “no fucking way.”

your heart skips a beat at that, the weight of his words crashing over you. his tone isn’t what you expected—there’s something more beneath the surface, something he’s not saying. it makes you pause, just for a moment, before you shake your head, trying to brush it off.

“you’re a pain in the ass,” you reply, though it comes out quieter than you meant.

seongje just looks at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up into that familiar smirk. “old habits never die,” he murmurs, and you feel that old tension, that magnetic pull, surge again between you two.

his cigarette is still between his fingers, and without asking, he holds it out to you. you don’t take it, instead leaning in slightly, your lips brushing against his fingers as you take a long drag from the cigarette on his hand, the smoke filling your lungs before you blow it out, deliberately exhaling the thick cloud of smoke right onto his face.

he rolls his eyes at this, unbothered, the smirk never fading as if he’s used to this by now.

“still playing dirty, huh?” he mutters, clearly unfazed, like you’ve done this a thousand times before.

“and you’re still a fucking freak.” you shrug, the tension between you thickening with every word, the unspoken history, stained with repressed feelings, lingering just under the surface.

“a freak you’d kill for,” seongje says, finally facing you, narrowing his eyes as he flicks the cigarette out the window. “join the union,” he says simply.

you cock an eyebrow at him, your lips curling into a smirk, eyebrows quirked in disbelief. “if you wanted to get back together, you could’ve just said that. fucker.”

seongje doesn’t laugh, he just keeps watching you like he’s waiting, gaze a little more intense this time.

you shake your head, something colder behind your eyes now. “i’m not fucking insane like you, seongje.”

his jaw tics, but he doesn’t interrupt. so you keep going.

“you knew it back then, too. it was always gonna be one of us.” your voice is quiet, but steady. “and you knew me, seongje. i just needed to get by. keep my head down, earn some chump change, scrape enough to disappear when i was ready. the union—” you scoff, “—that shit was always too high stakes. too serious.”

you look away, jaw clenching. “i have dreams, seongje. i’m gonna go to college. make something out of this mess.”

you finally meet his eyes again. “so no, i’m not joining the union.”

seongje huffs out a low breath, then laughs—dry, disbelieving. “so that’s also a ‘no, we’re not getting back together’, huh?” he echoes, head tilted like he’s trying to make sense of you, a playful smirk playing on his lips, but his eyes flickered with something else.

you roll your eyes at this. then he chuckles, rubbing a hand down his face. “shit. you’re scary, babe.” there’s something fond buried under the sarcasm, though, something sharp and aching. “you always talked like you were gonna burn the whole city down just to make it to some fucking—loser, nerd, uni. still do.” he spits out.

he looks back out the window, tongue pressing into his cheek.

you can tell he’s pissed. bitter, even. maybe even... jealous? but you reach out without thinking—soft, deliberate—and brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead. your fingers linger just long enough to slip his glasses off, folding them in your hand.

if you were anyone else, he’d have snapped your neck for touching his glasses, let alone getting that close.

but you were you.

seongje doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even move—just shifts his gaze, side-eying you from the corner of his eye, something unreadable swimming just beneath the surface.

“you always do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, but it comes out low, almost like a compliment.

“mhm,” you hum, fingers still ghosting along his skin as you cup his cheek. his skin is rough beneath your touch—calloused and scarred, the faint divots of half-healed cuts from fights and brawls brushing against your palm. it scrapes at your skin, grounding you in a memory you shouldn’t still want. a past drenched in adrenaline and bad decisions, but his warmth still makes your chest ache like it always did.

your thumb brushes just beneath his eye as you lean in a little closer, your voice barely a breath. “and i really wanna kiss your stupid face right now, you psycho.”

seongje’s jaw clenches under your touch. his eyes scan yours, gaze falling on your lips, then back to your eyes, like he’s daring you to do it. like he wants you to. you blink once, his eyes flick to your lips again, and that’s all it takes.

seongje grabs your face with both hands—rough, unfiltered—like he’s been holding back since the second you woke up in his room. the kiss crashes into you, all teeth and heat and the wild kind of need that’s only ever been his.

god, he needed this.

not just his lips on your or his fingers curling into the back of your neck, but you. the only person who ever made him feel anything beyond bloodlust. all the beatdowns, the turf wars, the payoffs—none of that ever lit his veins up like this. like you.

your eyes flutter close, gasping into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, urgent, almost clumsy with how badly he wants more. his hands are on your jaw, your waist, your back—everywhere, like if he lets go, it’ll all disappear. he groans desperately into your lips, muttering your own name against your skin.

you let him kiss you like he’s starved for it, like he’s still the boy who used to beg you not to leave his bed in the mornings, the boy who would let the world burn just to have you. you let him hold you like this means something—like maybe, for tonight, it does.

even though you know you’ll be gone by tomorrow morning, before the sun even touches the edge of the windowsill where you two once sat. no note, no goodbye. you’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.

because he’ll always choose the union. the chaos. the blood in his mouth and the rush in his fists. because that’s just who seongje is—your wolf with red-stained teeth, always chasing, craving something darker. the mad dog.

but you?

you’ve got places to be. you’re not wasting time here leashed to him like this. you have dreams to run toward. dreams that geum seongje was never meant to follow.

note: just couldn’t stop thinking of love and leashes while writing this, so here u go lol

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱@kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 (ask to be tagged or removed)

[chrissv4mp]

♱ before your kisses turn into bruises, i'm a warning

warnings. smut, scissoring, fingering, nipple play, fluff, angst, and language.

synopsis. you have a run-in with a "shark" during a walk on the beach—turns out, it's just a runaway dog with terrible name timing. it's owner? a girl who you never intended to meet but is now stuck in your world.

words. 5.7k

letters. longest thing i've written in a while!!!! hope you all enjoy this, i enjoyed writing it cus it made think about my vacation to hawaii last winter 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

the sun's just starting to rise, stretching slowly over the water as you make your way down stone steps that are eventually swallowed by the sand. it's soft and a bit cool beneath your feet, a nice contrast from the warm condo sheets and god-awful pillow that felt like it was suffocating you. jetlag from your flight had you asleep the second you stepped into your designated room for the two week you'd be here.

your friends were still sound asleep in the condo, just as tired as you were. maybe even more tired, seeing as they were still out cold.

the waves are soft, controlled as you walk along the shoreline, sunglasses perched on top of your head even though there's hardly any light. just a bit of pink and purple across the sky. it's all peaceful. steady.

"shark!"

you swear you feel your heart skip a beat, stopping dead in your tracks as you hear the single word. you whip your head around quickly, swallowing nervously.

and there stands a girl—about your age—skipping the steps and practically throwing herself into the sand, dark hair catching the wind. she's got a muscle tee clinging to her body, a backwards cap threatening to fall off her head, and jean shorts that are definitely way too big for her. she's yelling like someone's getting murdered.

"shark! hey, c'mon, boy, get back here," she calls, voice less frantic now.

your brain short circuits. what?

you look around, trying to figure out if this is some type of joke. or maybe this is how locals handle emergencies. she's bolting right towards you, kicking up sand, looking completely unbothered by the actual shark she just screamed bloody murder about.

taking a step back, you raise an eyebrow. "hi, um... is everything—?"

then, barreling out of the dunes behind her, a dog comes sprinting toward the water. a pit bull. tongue out. tail wagging.

you stare. then look back at the girl.

she stops, glancing over at you for the first time, a lazy grin forming on her pink lips.

"that's shark," she says, like that explains everything. "my bad. he's always scaring the tourists away."

you blink, opening your mouth but then closing it.

all you can think to say is, "...who names their dog shark?"

her grin widens, "i do."

then she whistles, calls out for him again, and jogs past you like it's the most normal thing in the world, sand sticking to the back of her calves, cap crooked and hair messy.

you watch her run up the stairs, trying to process the whole thing and contemplating if it's a dream or not.

until a familiar voice cuts through the quiet, "who was that?"

your friend, mia, is at the stairs that billie just walked on a few seconds ago, arms crossed, oversized sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. the morning breeze plays with the ends of her braids, and she squints at you like she's still just waking up.

you shrug, beginning to walk towards her, "nothing. just some girl yelling about a shark."

she scoffs, "...that's not nothing?"

"well, the shark was a dog," you say, earning a chuckle from your friend, "and they scared the shit out of me."

your friend gives you a suspicious look, but she doesn't push. instead, she just mutters something about how you always attract the weird ones as she turns on her heel and starts walking back to the condo.

the rest of the morning seems to pass by slow after you and mia sneak back into your rooms and pretend to wake up again a few hours later. you're the first one out of bed, dragging your feet as you walk into the kitchen and sit at the rather large marble island.

a door down the hall you just came from opens just before you can do anything else, and here comes ivie. she's only wearing one sock, her hair is everywhere, and she's smiling sleepily as she walks into the kitchen and drops onto the stool next to you.

"sleep good?" you ask, an amused smile on your lips as you turn to her.

her reaction is delayed, which is all you need to know in order to put the pieces together that she, in fact, had a terrible night's rest.

a soft groan escapes her puffy lips as she leans forward into your chest, "the pillows were the worst. kept feelin' like they were trying to suffocate me in my sleep."

glad you weren't the only one who thought that.

"you too?" both of your heads turn to the staircase, watching as paige came down the stairs rubbing her eyes and yawning.

mia is a few steps behind her, sending you a small smile that you return as she goes to open the fridge, asking if anybody was hungry for breakfast. you all agree on eggs and toast, and ivie runs off to her room to grab a speaker from her bag.

she sets up her phone and hits shuffle on the playlist you four shared, and pink + white by frank ocean starts playing through the speakers loud enough to get a noise complaint.

the morning is calm, comfortable. just like the ones you imagined you and your friends would share on this little summer getaway. paige singing awfully in the shower. mia complaining about how her sunscreen won't rub in all the way. ivie throwing all of her clothes around in her room to find the perfect outfit.

when everyone's finally put together, you suggest a smoothie run, which turns into a whole afternoon trip into town.

the streets are warm and quiet, full of surf shops and flirty guys with sunburns. you've got on new sunglasses and your smallest pair of shorts, your friends muttering about stickers and overpriced tote bags.

when someone catches your eye.

it's that girl from the beach. same muscle tee, same backwards cap. now she's standing at a cart with a bright yellow umbrella above it, arguing with some ice cream. shark is sitting beside her, panting happily.

you pause for a second, actually stopping in front of ivie and paige, causing them to bump into you.

but she looks up—and there's no doubt she doesn't see you.

her lips quirk up into a half-smile. lazy. a bit smug.

she nods over at you, silently letting you know she sees you. but your friends have already started teasing you so much you don't even notice.

mia laughs, eyeing the girl, "is that the shark girl?"

you roll your eyes, starting to walk again and straight up ignoring the question even as your cheeks heat up and your palms start sweating. she was just some girl you had a small interaction with, you weren't gonna fall for her, let alone have any interest in her.

still, your heart beat speeds up just a little.

paige is already rambling on about some girl she saw at the smoothie shop, unknowingly saving your ass from the embarrassment and teasing of ivie and mia. her story lasts the entire walk back to the condo, and you silently thank her for being able to fall in love with any and everyone she sees.

the sun's started to go down, casting golden light onto the sidewalks. you're carrying a few shopping bags, still half-full on smoothies and sunburned in the one spot you swore you covered before leaving.

"okay, don't get mad at me for this," paige adds after a moment of silence, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. "but while i was talking with that girl, we snuck off..."

you raise a brow. "...and?"

she grins. "she invited us to a party. it's tonight. rooftop access, a few blocks down, music, hot guys and girls, free drinks if they like you."

you sigh softly, looking around at the group as you all approach the house. as you unlock the front door and walk in, you hear a chorus of yeses and excited scrambling behind you.

and you?

you're not about to pass this up. especially when you're on vacation. and also because billie might be there.

so, you agree.

the party's already in full swing when you get there—balcony lights strung up like constellations, music thumping through the wooden floor, and that salty, warm air enveloping everyone like some oddly comforting blanket.

ivie and paige are already making their way through the crowd not even 5 minutes after getting through the door, and mia politely excuses herself to go find the restroom.

so, you slowly make your way through the crowd to find the kitchen. after pouring yourself a drink, you tuck yourself into some corner in the living room, watching the mess unfold. you're already regretting coming here, eyes moving all around the place.

and then something pulls your attention.

the girl. again.

you swear the universe was trying to tell you something, or maybe she was literally stalking you and the perfect little idea you made up of her in your head wasn't true at all. you hope it's the first option because the way she's looking at you from across the room is making your stomach flutter.

she's in a jersey and some jeans now. her hair's a little messier than the last time you saw her, wild from the wind. but her hat's facing forward this time, casting a dark shadow over her eyes. it shouldn't make her hotter. but it does. stupidly so.

and, as always, she sees you too.

it's subtle at first, the little game you two are playing. the flick of her eyes in your direction. the way you look away as soon as you catch her gaze.

eye tag.

she's sneaking through the crowd like she belongs there, eyes trained to you like a predator. but you don't feel intimidated or scared. just drawn to her. yet you didn't even know her name.

you lose her after a minute, someone walking in front of you just as she's about to come close, but then she's gone. your brows furrow in confusion. there's no way. was that imaginary? is she imaginary?

"keep staring and i might have to call someone on you," her voice startles you for just a moment until you realize it's her.

turning your head, you're met with ocean blue eyes and the lazy smirk you'd grown accustomed to. a smirk of your own tugs at the corners of your mouth, "sorry, sorry."

she huffs a laugh, looking down, stuffing her hands in her pockets, and leaning against the wall you're up against. her eyes meet yours again, soft, comforting.

"i don't mind," she says quietly, just above the music. "i think i like the attention. especially from pretty girls like you."

you nod your head slowly, "wow, flirting already and i don't even have a name yet."

"i'm billie," she adds, like she hasn't owned half of your thoughts since sunrise.

you hum, trying to play it cool as you exchange your own name. "guess i can stop calling you 'shark girl' now, huh?"

billie laughs, biting her lip and taking a step closer, "'shark girl' is cool too," she shrugs, voice lower now, lazy. dangerous in the best possible way.

her eyes burn into yours, making you glance away just to catch your breath. there was something about her energy. the way she moved, spoke, existed. it was so unlike everything back at home.

she was just... different.

"do you always hit on tourists at parties like these?" you joke, trying to give yourself a break.

but billie's already shooting back, nodding down, "only one's that wear skirts that short."

"you're impossible."

"and yet... here you are. still talking to me."

you bite your lip, finally gaining the courage to look her in the eyes again. bad idea. the way she simply stares at you just makes your heart start beating 10x faster than normal, your breath catching again.

she notices this time, you're sure of it. but she doesn't say anything, just observes you, waits for your next words, your next move, like she's trying to predict what you'll do.

"got me there," you murmur softly.

the whole reason you came here was to make memories, to make the best of this short vacation. and here you were, talking to some girl you met just this morning and already falling in love. some girl that you'll have to leave in a few days.

it doesn't hit you that you only have one week here when billie's staring at you like that, lower lip tucked between her perfect teeth, eyelids droopy, and full of interest.

but then someone runs up to you, grabbing your arm and shaking it wildly, "okay, okay, okay—hey, come with me!"

fucking paige.

she's tugging you away from billie before you can even make an effort to protest, "don't ask questions, just come with me, 'kay?"

you glance at billie as you're being dragged away, only to find her following you with slow steps that somehow keep up with paige's fast strides.

"am i about to get sacrificed, or...?"

"only if you're lucky," she giggles. "come on!"

you mutter some curse under your breath but follow her anyway, heart still thumping from billie's words. speaking of billie, she's still following right behind you two, smirk growing wider like she already knows what's about to happen. the three of you make your way down a narrow staircase, past drunk couples, and empty plastic cups until you reach a basement that looks like someone's personal man cave—but much cleaner.

there's a circle of people formed on the floor, an empty bottle in the middle of it.

"spin the bottle? seriously?" you deadpan, feeling paige's hand slip from yours.

she nods, practically bouncing. "they said only cool people, so obviously i told 'em we were coming."

you shoot her a glare, but she's already scurrying over to the girl you assume invited her. billie's not far behind her—sitting in an empty gap of the circle like it was routine. like she's still not invading your every thought. so, with a defeated sigh, you go and sit next to paige and her little girlfriend, across the circle from billie.

a few spins go by. strangers kissing strangers. obnoxious laughter. half-hearted cheers. you're nearly asleep from how boring it's getting. and billie can tell, her eyes raking over you and examining your facial features and body language, the way you rested your chin in the palm of your hand. she bites her lip, smiling like she's planning something.

and then it's your turn. you're on the verge of dozing off when paige nudges you harshly, muttering something about billie that you don't quite hear.

you lean over, spinning the bottle and then sitting back down calmly like you're not trying to calculate who it'll land on.

it slows after a few seconds, stuttering.

then, it stops.

billie.

you hold your breath as you look up at her, watching as the smirk on her face grows into a full smile, showing off her pretty teeth.

she just chuckles, laughing louder when paige hollers, "finally!" like she was waiting for this very moment to happen.

billie just sits there, so, you move first. she's biting her lip again, keeping eye contact with you and letting herself relax like it's normal to be kissing someone in front of nearly 15 people.

and when your lips touch—it's anything but normal.

she kisses you like she's trying to prove a point. one of her large hands grips your hip, the other sliding up your side like she owns your body. you gasp into her mouth, fingers curling at the collar of her jersey.

someone groans. another mutters, "holy shit."

neither of you can hear, though.

your free hand tangles in her hair, knocking her hat off her head accidentally, and billie just groans softly against your lips, pulling you onto her lap like nobody else is watching. like she didn't just meet you this morning.

when you finally pull back, your lips feel swollen and your pulse is wild. you don't even attempt to look around, but you can feel the silence.

billie's breathless, her grip on your body tightening like she doesn't want you to go. but, when paige buts in again, she decides it's better to continue this later.

you head back to your spot next to paige, eyes still glued to billie. you're both still catching your breaths, and she's trying to maintain any sense of self control she still has left before she pounces on you in front of everyone.

it's the next girls turn, a curly brunette wearing a cherry red top. you can hear the whispers already starting to surface, hearing the name "riley" amongst everyone hoping the bottle lands on them.

"just a heads up," she announces whole crawling over to the bottle, "i don't do half-assed kisses."

you already don't like her.

then she spins the bottle, dragging her fingers across it as if she's trying to make it land on a certain someone. it twirls, stuttering a few times, and you can already feel it in your chest before it even stops.

it lands on billie.

again.

riley grins. "rules are rules."

billie rolls her eyes playfully, beckoning her over with a curl of her fingers.

she's on billie's lap in less than 2 seconds, their mouths connecting instantly. and it's a lot.

hands in hair, mouths open, and billie's practically licking the inside of riley's mouth, and someone's literally filming it. your jaw tightens. because it's hot, sure. but it's not you. and that just makes the situation worse.

you still watch, pretending not to care. pretending like your nails aren't digging into the carpet.

but the kiss doesn't look the same. nobody's gasping or gawking over it like when you kissed billie. there's no tension in the air, no fingers digging into hips, no slow pull-away like she wants more.

it's just for show.

paige's girlfriend breaks the silence, "okay, okay, damn. game's over. we're not filming a porno in the basement."

there're a mixture of laughter and disappointed groans. people start getting up. paige is just about to grab your hand, but you're already on your feet. already heading upstairs.

you set your cup down on the counter when you reach the kitchen again, pouring yourself another drink to try and get rid of the jealously burning beneath your skin. try to ignore the way your heart's beating in your ears.

"you jealous?" billie's teasing voice erupts from behind you, a small laugh escaping her throat.

you don't turn around to face her. just sip from your drink slowly. "why do you think that?"

she steps closer, crossing her arms over her chest. "because i could feel your eyes burning holes into riley and i when we were kissing."

that's when you turn around.

she's closer than you thought—hat in her hand, hair a little wild from the kisses and the heat. her eyes drink you in like she hasn't already had a taste. like she wants more.

"you think i kiss everyone like i kissed you?" she asks, voice low.

"i think you could."

billie hums. "but i don't."

you hate the way that makes your cheeks heat up.

she reaches out, putting hat back on, and brushing your fingers where they're clenched around your cup. "you mad at me?"

you shake your head. but it's too quick.

"liar," she says softer, stepping closer. "i can tell. your expression is tense. and you're looking at me like you wanna kill me."

billie grabs your waist before you can say something smart, pulling you in like it's nothing. like you belong this close to her.

she just stares into your eyes, grabbing the cup from your hand sneakily and setting it down on the counter next to you. it's darker now. the only light source being the under-cabinet lights. upstairs, you can hear the music and the energy. it's pulsing through the ceiling. bass and bodies and someone screaming along to whatever's playing.

but down here, it's quiet.

just you.

and her.

you can smell hints of salt and something citrusy clinging to her jersey. her eyes are locked on yours, slowly drifting to your lips as if she's trying to figure something out. as if she wants to lean in closer and kiss you again.

and you want her to. you really, really want her lips back on yours. but the longer you look into her ocean blue eyes, the more you realize that your time together is limited.

a huff passes through your lips, a defeated one.

"look, you can kiss whoever you want. it's not like i'm gonna be here any longer, anyway," you say, trying to shrug off the feeling like the words don't sting. "only a week. and i'm not exactly planning a long distance... whatever this is, with some girl i literally met today."

she pulls you closer. "so don't plan."

you chuckle. "oh, cause it's so easy, huh?"

"it is, actually."

you roll your eyes, but your voice has an edge to it. "what's the point if we have limited time? why should i bother creating a bond with you if we don't even live in the same place? you don't even know me."

she leans in, breath shallow like she's getting mad.

"so what, you think i'm just some girl you can kiss and forget about?" she scoffs, voice low. like she's challenging you to say something smart.

you don't say anything. and that's all she needs.

her lips are on yours in an instant, and this time, it's not gentle. it's messy. urgent. no audience. no background talk. just tongues and teeth and hunger, like she's been waiting all night to finally get her hands on you. her fingers slide beneath the hem of your top, gripping your waist tighter.

you should pull away, but the way she's holding you so securely, so tight, it makes you wanna melt into her. the way her grip never lets up practically forces the argument out of your head and turns it into something hotter. your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you really forget about everything else—your anger, your stress, the fact that this might be the worst idea of your life.

when she pulls away, her forehead rests against yours. her breath's ragged, and yours isn't any better.

"you're right," she murmurs. "we don't have much time. so let's make it count, yeah?"

you're silent at first, still trying to catch your breath as you search her eyes for something. but then you nod, and billie wastes no time in dragging you down a dark, narrow hallway, hand gripping yours like you'll leave if she lets go.

you let her take the lead, your heart pounding in your head louder than the music upstairs. her shoulders are tense. and so are yours. everything's moving so fast, but somehow not fast enough for your liking.

she pushes open a random door at the end of the hall without knocking, kicking it shut when you're both inside. it's someone's room, or a guest room, you don't know. the bed's made, but the blinds are broken, and there's a jacket tossed over the desk chair. the air's somehow warmer in here.

you can barely register anything else before billie's lips are on yours again, hands on your face. you kiss her like you're still mad. like you need to get something through to her that is beyond words.

her hands find your waist again, fingers tugging at the hem of your top and tugging it up your body. you put your arms up, pulling it over your head and throwing it on the floor. her fingers are back on you immediately, pulling you close until your hips collide. she leans back in, teeth catching your lower lip and making you gasp.

pushing her forward by her chest, you watch as the backs of her knees hit the bed, then she's forced into sitting. you push her back, causing her back to hit the mattress. she's grinning stupidly at you, hat still on—but now it's crooked.

you crawl over her, hands placed on either side of her head.

"you don't even know me," you whisper, echoing your words from earlier.

she's breathless. "then let me learn."

with that, you kiss her again. it's slower, deeper. like you wanna memorize the pillowy feeling of her lips. her fingers slide under the waistband of your skirt, nails grazing your skin, and it's all too much. too much and not enough.

her hat finally falls off when you run your fingers through her hair, and you smile against her lips when you feel one of her hands leave your skirt and then hear the soft thud of it falling to the floor. then she flips you over so that you're beneath her now, one hand beside your head, the other trailing down your body.

the tips of her fingers run along your bare stomach, leaving a trail of fire. she's still devouring your lips, gripping the sheets beside your head like she's trying to control herself.

her lips trail down your jaw, your throat, and then she kisses your collarbone roughly. like she's been thinking about it since you kissed her in the basement.

and maybe she has.

voice muffled against your skin, she asks, "how long do we have left again?"

"a week," you breathe, eyes half-lidded, voice shaky.

she stops when she reaches your bra, looking up into your eyes, "better not waste another second, then."

and she sticks to those words, her hand reaching behind your back. you arch into her, letting your head fall back against the pillows as you feel billie undo the clasp of your bra. then she's slipping the straps off your shoulders, throwing it to the floor and latching her lips onto your nipple gently.

you moan quietly, fingers tangling in her hair when she rolls your other nipple between her thumb and index fingers. she's sucking gently, humming quietly against your skin before releasing your nipple with a pop.

her kisses trail lower, slow and deliberate, breath ghosting over your skin and making you twitch under her. you grip her hair tighter, knuckles bleeding white, biting down on your lip to stifle the whimper building in your throat.

the room is thick with heat, but there's still that flicker of jealousy and uncertainty in the air. it crackles between the space where your eyes meet, even as her lips brush against the waistband of your skirt.

"you're still jealous," she mumbles, fingers tugging your skirt down your ankles and then discarding of it on the floor. "i can tell."

you nod reluctantly, eyes fluttering closed as you feel her fingers running up your inner thighs, feather-light and maddening.

she kisses your inner thigh, then your clit over your panties. a soft gasp escapes between your lips, earning a quiet chuckle from the girl between your legs.

"stop teasing," you swallow hard.

her eyes flick back up to you, smirking just like always. "i'm not teasing."

and she's right. she isn't teasing.

she's taking her time—too much time—touching you like she wants to remember what your body feels like before you're gone. kissing you like she wants to burn the taste of your chapstick into her memory.

you raise your hips, tugging at her hair.

"please, don't make think anymore tonight."

billie pauses, breath still, cheek resting against your inner thigh. then, barely audible, she whispers, "okay."

and she gives you what you ask for—not holding back as she takes the waistband of your panties between her teeth and tugs them down your thighs until they're bunched around you ankles, letting them fall onto the floor.

as she's on her feet, she pulls her jersey over her head, unclasping her own bra, then unbuckling her belt. her jeans hit the floor with a soft thud, and you can barely make out the little sliver of a tanline on her hips when her underwear drops.

the room is so dark that you can hardly see anything—just the soft curve of her body in shadows, the swell of her breasts, and the tension in her shoulders as she leans over you again.

her lips part to ask a question, but then she shuts them, remembering your words from earlier. you didn't want to think. you didn't know what you wanted, exactly, but you knew you wanted her.

"i don't wanna forget this," you gasp as you feel her fingers swipe through your folds. you didn't mean to say it out loud.

but you did.

and billie stops for a moment, eyes flicking back up and finding yours, even in the dark. her lips quirk up into a small smile, lowering her head into the crook of your neck and pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses all over.

"then don't," she whispers, so quiet you almost don't hear, "don't forget me. please."

you nod, hands snaking around her body and resting on her back. you whimper when her thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow but tight circles on the little nub as she kisses and nips at your soft neck.

she slots her legs around yours, fingers leaving your cunt and finding their way to her lips as she lowers her pussy onto yours. your eyes can't seem to pull away from the sight of her pretty digits slipping between her lips and sucking your arousal off of them.

her hips shift, eliciting a low moan from the both of you. you're already shaking. maybe from nerves. maybe from how good it feels.

or maybe because it hurts, knowing that this may be the last time you'll see each other.

"fuck," billie whines, hands moving to your hips as her head falls back in pleasure. her pace is slowly increasing, getting needier and faster with each thrust of her hips.

the squelching sound only makes it hotter, knowing that the both of you are equally wet. it distracts you both from everything.

you're not sure when her name starts spilling from your mouth like a prayer or when your nails start digging into her hips to pull her closer against you.

she's everywhere on your body—hands moving around the expanse of your skin, lips brushing against yours so rough yet so lovingly. curses fall from her mouth every now and then, breath ragged and sharp, muttering, "god, you're unreal."

her eyes drift down to where you're connected, and now she's not sure if she can take her eyes from the sight of her dripping cunt grinding against your own. she can't help but whimper when her clit bumps against yours.

your own eyes are fixated on billie's face. the moonlight shining through the broken blinds illuminates her face just right, giving you the perfect view of her faded freckles and pouty, pink lips. you're not sure you'll be able to forget the furrow of her brows after tonight, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips in concentration. her hair is falling over her shoulder, framing her face beautifully and bouncing subtly each time she moves her hips. your thoughts were starting to get cloudy, the only clear visions happening to be billie and that stupid smug smirk of hers. the one that you were starting to like a little too much.

"you're so beautiful," you manage to whisper between moans.

billie's eyes snap up to yours the second she hears your broken moan. she bites her lip hard, making herself flinch and whine at the slight pain.

her hips grind harder against you, fingers digging into your waist and causing you to arch into her. the angle makes the pleasure 10 times better, the bed creaking quietly beneath you two.

"m'gonna cum," she warns, voice a higher pitch than before.

her breath picks up quickly, coming out in shallow, short huffs as the knot in her stomach snaps. the sticky, warm feeling of her cum seeping onto your cunt is enough to make you cum with a loud, throaty moan.

your hips gradually slow down once your body starts to feel spent, heart still beating rapidly but starting to go back to normal. billie rolls off of you, sliding under the covers and helping you under.

the room goes quiet, save for the mixed sounds of your heavy breaths and sighs and the hum of music still bumping loudly upstairs. you roll onto your side, draping your leg over her waist and pulling the covers up more.

her fingers trail up your side and around to your spine, dancing along the expanse of your back as she stares into your eyes. she's warm—so warm and comforting.

you're not saying much of anything now. maybe it's because you're both spent, or it's because you don't need to say anything.

you lean forward, nuzzling your head against her chest, skin still damp with a thin layer of sweat, but you're already too comfortable to care. her arm wraps around your body, pulling you flush against her body, your curves slotting against hers so satisfyingly.

"hey," she says suddenly, voice hoarse. "d'you think crabs know they're sideways?"

exhaling tiredly, you tilt your head up to look at her. "billie."

she laughs at your half-annoyed half-amused expression, fingers drawing shapes along your skin as she continues with the dumb topic, "no, seriously. what if they think we're the weird ones?"

you shift on top of her, deciding to just shut your eyes and listen to her. "we just fucked and you're talking about crabs."

"you'd be surprised what my brain can do post-orgasm," she whispers, voice all smug like she's proud of herself.

billie goes quiet after that, her free hand coming up and running her fingers through your hair. you relax against her completely when you really start to pay attention to the soft beating of her heart, the sound lulling you into sleep.

her fingers never stop tracing patterns on your skin or combing through your hair, touch so soft and careful. she can hear the crashing of waves against the shore even through the glass.

your breath is even now, lips slightly parted, fingers twitching against billie's waist.

she watches you for a moment. then she swallows nervously, the corners of her lips curling with the need to say something. something stupid. stupid but true.

"you're gonna ruin me," she whispers, chuckling quietly.

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @vyntagess @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @karaeilishh @mybluebossanova @strwberrybils @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @natbelovasblog @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @fawninlove @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @hkkuugu @eeuni @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize

[leriexoxo]

Angry Boys - Chan

Now Be A Good Girl

Tags: dom chan, angst, blow job deepthroat, bondage, unprotected sex, edging, oral sex, slight degradation, smut 18+

Word count: 4k

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

ANGRY BOYS MASTERLIST

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You weren’t supposed to go out.

That was the only rule he gave you tonight.

He was busy working late in the studio, and when you texted “I’m bored,” he replied fast and sharp:

“Stay home. Don’t make me come get you.”

But you didn’t listen.

You got dressed.

Put on that little top he hates—tight, black, cropped way too high.

And you left.

⸻

You knew you fucked up the second the door closed.

Not slammed. Not banged.

Just… clicked shut.

It was quiet. You didn’t even turn around—you didn’t have to. You could feel him behind you. The weight of his presence. The fury he wore like a second skin.

The same fury he never said out loud.

That was the worst thing about Bang Chan.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t threaten. Didn’t explode.

He watched and he waited.

And when he was mad? Really, truly pissed?

He got quiet, scarily quiet.

Like right now.

You stood in the middle of the kitchen, fingers still wrapped around a glass of water you suddenly didn’t need anymore.

Your voice cracked first.

“Chan, I—”

“Where were you?”

Three words. Low. Measured. Like a warning wrapped in silk.

You swallowed hard, staring down at the countertop. “Out.”

“Not what I asked.”

You flinched.

He hadn’t even moved, and still, your entire body tensed like prey sensing a predator.

“I was with friends,” you said, softer now.

“Whose?”

You hesitated and he stepped forward.

Your breath caught.

“I told you not to go,” he murmured. “Didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“And you went anyway.”

You nodded again.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

You turned then, slowly, unsure why your legs were shaking. “I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to—”

“To what?” His head tilted. “Piss me off? Test me? Show me how little you think of my rules?”

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

That’s when he smiled.

Not the sweet, boyish smile you were used to.

No. This one was sharp. Slow. Dangerous.

The kind of smile you’d never seen on him before.

It made your stomach drop.

“I see,” he said softly, dragging the words out like honey.

He stepped forward again. One step. Then another.

You backed into the counter.

He didn’t stop.

“I give you rules,” he continued, “because I know how this works. I know how you work. I know what happens when you get bored.”

“Chan…”

“And what do you do?” He was close now. Too close. “You run off to some guy’s house. Let him touch what isn’t his.”

“I didn’t— No one touched me—”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. You didn’t understand why your thighs were clenching together. Why your pulse was racing in fear—or was it something else entirely?

Then his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Take your clothes off.”

Your lips parted. “What?”

He leaned in. His breath hit your cheek. “Now.”

You didn’t move.

He exhaled a humorless laugh.

“Still so stubborn.”

Then, without another word, he turned around and walked away.

You blinked.

Where was he going?

But he didn’t leave. He went to the living room. Sat down in the middle of the couch. Then spoke loud enough for you to hear:

“You’ve got ten seconds to come kneel. If I get to ten, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

Your entire body pulsed.

That was the moment you realized…

This wasn’t casual anymore.

This wasn’t the friends-with-benefits arrangement you thought you had control over.

This was Chan, taking the reins you dropped the second you disobeyed him.

And he wasn’t going to give them back.

You didn’t even remember moving. One second you were frozen in the kitchen, heart punching your ribs. The next, you were walking—no, drifting—toward him like your body knew what to do even if your mind didn’t.

Ten seconds had passed. Probably more. He hadn’t called out again. He didn’t need to.

You found him on the couch, legs spread wide, head tilted back, one arm draped along the backrest like a king on a throne.

Your place was already waiting for you.

On the floor. Between his knees.

You stopped in front of him, fists clenched at your sides, your pride flaring up in one last flicker.

He looked at you then.

Not your face. Not your eyes.

He looked down.

“You’re not kneeling.”

“I’m not a dog.”

“Then don’t act like one.”

That landed like a slap. Your breath caught. He didn’t take it back.

The silence that followed stretched razor-thin.

And then, slowly, like the smallest white flag—

You sank.

First to your knees. Then to your heels. Hands in your lap. Eyes cast low.

There was a sharp inhale. His.

A beat. Maybe two.

Then he leaned forward.

“You disobeyed me,” he said quietly. “And then you lied to me. And now you’re on your knees.”

You nodded once. Shame bloomed low in your stomach—but it curled up with heat too.

He reached out and tilted your chin up.

His gaze was fire and ice.

“Do you think I like punishing you?”

“I…” You swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t.”

His thumb brushed your bottom lip.

“But I will.”

You almost whimpered.

He stood up, moving around you like a wolf circling its prey. The air behind you shifted as he knelt, leaned in, whispered at your ear.

“I want you to sit with it,” he murmured. “The guilt. The tension. The ache.”

Goosebumps swept your skin.

“I want you to feel how different everything is now. This isn’t just casual anymore, is it?”

You shook your head, lips trembling.

“Say it.”

“It’s not casual anymore.”

“Why?”

You blinked, breath stuttering. “Because I broke the rules.”

His hand slid down your arm, slow and deliberate.

“Because you’re mine,” he said. “And you’re going to learn exactly what that means.”

“I’m sorry”

“You want to play games?” His voice was low—barely above a growl. “Then open that bratty mouth and show me how sorry you are.”

He didn’t wait for you to obey.

Chan stood up, pulled his cock free, and slapped it across your face with a sharp smack that made your cheek sting. You flinched, but he grabbed a fistful of your hair and forced you to look up at him.

“That’s right,” he sneered. “Eyes on me while I fuck that pretty little throat raw.”

You barely got your mouth open before he shoved his cock in, thick and heavy, filling your tongue and pushing deep without hesitation. You gagged around him instantly, but he didn’t ease up—not even a little.

“You thought you could act like a fucking brat and not pay for it?”

He shoved deeper.

“Now look at you. Exactly where you belong.”

You choked, drool already spilling down your chin as his hips snapped forward again—rough, punishing thrusts that didn’t give you space to breathe. His grip in your hair was brutal, controlling every movement of your head, using you like you were nothing but a hole to fuck the rage out of.

“Cry for me,” he bit out. “I want to see tears. I want you wrecked.”

And you were—mascara running, jaw aching, throat tight around his cock as he kept pushing deeper, harder. He slapped the base of his cock against your lips again just to watch you flinch and moan, then shoved it back down your throat until your eyes rolled.

“You hear that?” he grunted, voice ragged with control. “That sloppy little gag? That’s the sound of you being put in your fucking place.”

You gasped when he pulled out suddenly, your body sagging with the rush of air.

But it didn’t last.

He slapped his cock across your tear-streaked face again, then shoved it back into your mouth—deeper this time, holding your head still as he forced you to take every inch.

“Fucking useless unless you’ve got my dick in your throat, huh?”

You moaned around him. Shameful. Desperate.

“You better cum from this,” he growled. “You better be soaking the floor while I fuck your face or I swear—”

He cut himself off with a curse, thrusting once, twice—then groaning as his cock twitched deep in your throat. Your eyes watered harder, lungs burning as you swallowed around him like you were made for it.

And even as you choked, you reached between your legs, rubbing yourself frantically—because fuck, this was what you needed.

He yanked you off him with a wet pop, spit and cum dripping from your lips as he stared down at your wrecked face.

“You’re not done,” he hissed. “Get on the couch. Now.”

⸻

You were already begging and he hadn’t even touched you properly.

The sharp look in Chan’s eyes was enough to undo every ounce of bravado you had left. You backed up a step—then another—bare feet scuffing against the floor as you tried to put space between the two of you.

“Don’t,” you whispered, voice shaky.

His stare dropped to your trembling legs, then dragged up your body with slow, dangerous precision. His jaw flexed once—tight, controlled—before he moved.

You turned to run. It was pure instinct.

But you didn’t get far.

In seconds he was behind you, one strong arm hooking around your waist as he dragged you back against his chest. His other hand clamped down over your mouth as you let out a gasp, muffled and desperate.

“I warned you,” he breathed against your ear. “Didn’t I?”

You shook your head frantically, but he ignored it.

He lifted you—just picked you up like you weighed nothing—and tossed you onto the bed. Your breath caught, wrists scrambling to push up, but Chan was already crawling over you, his thighs caging yours in, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you down.

“Stay,” he said, low and clipped.

Your heart was pounding.

You heard him shift behind you, the sound of fabric rustling—and when you turned your head to look, he was already looping a long strip of black cloth between his fingers.

“No—wait, I—”

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, using the cloth to bind them together. His knot was tight and fast, practiced.

“Too late for begging now,” he said. “You wanted to act like a brat?”

You whimpered.

“Then I’ll treat you like one.”

Chan sat back on his heels behind you, dragging your hips up into the air with a single, rough tug. Your chest stayed flush against the mattress, arms stretched out above your head, wrists locked tight in the soft fabric. You could barely move.

“Look at you,” he muttered, staring down at your soaked thighs. “Soaked, and I haven’t even touched you.”

He palmed your ass, spreading you open, watching the way you clenched. You whined, trying to push your face into the sheets.

He landed a hard slap across your skin.

You gasped, body jerking.

“That’s not where your attention belongs.”

He spanked you again—harder—and then again, until you were crying out with every strike, breathless and squirming.

“You backtalked,” he growled. Smack. “You disobeyed.” Smack. “And now you’re gonna take every second of this.”

He leaned down, his chest warm against your spine.

“You’re gonna thank me for it too.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to think through the sting and heat of his hands. “Th-Thank you,” you whispered.

He chuckled—cold, low.

“Not yet.”

And then you felt it—his fingers, slipping between your legs, stroking through your slick folds, teasing you with slow, cruel pressure that didn’t give you what you needed. You cried out, frustrated, your wrists straining against the binds.

But Chan was patient. So fucking patient.

“You don’t get my cock,” he murmured, “until you’ve earned it.”

Your wrists ached in the best way—tied tight, stretched out, your whole body bent into a position you couldn’t fight even if you tried. Not that you would.

Not when you felt Chan kneel behind you again, his rough hands trailing up your thighs like he was deciding what to devour first.

“You’ve made a mess of yourself,” he muttered, running his thumb through your soaked folds.

You whimpered at the contact, body twitching.

“Didn’t even get fucked, and you’re already dripping down your legs.” His voice was low, dangerous. “What kind of girl are you, hmm?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back just enough to speak into your ear.

“Answer me.”

Your voice was broken, breathless. “Y-Yours—”

He shoved your face back into the mattress with a grunt. “That’s right.”

Then he dropped lower behind you, spreading you open like it was nothing—hands firm on your ass, forcing you wide, fully exposed.

You gasped when you felt his mouth.

His tongue licked a slow stripe from your clit to your entrance, teasing, almost gentle—but the grip on your hips said otherwise. Said you weren’t going anywhere.

And then he groaned.

The sound vibrated through your core, deep and feral.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You taste unreal.”

And then he dug in.

His mouth was ruthless, tongue working in steady, unrelenting circles over your clit while his hands held you down. Your knees trembled under the force of it. You tried to rock your hips, to chase that pressure—but he just tightened his grip until you couldn’t move an inch.

He flicked his tongue faster, then slower, dragging your orgasm right to the edge before pulling back, lips slick with you.

You whined—high and needy.

“Thought you were bratty,” he said. “Didn’t realize you were this easy.”

He lowered again, this time sucking hard on your clit, letting his nose bump against your skin as he groaned into your cunt. Your moans were broken, loud, shaking into the mattress.

And when he slipped his tongue into you, thick and slow, you screamed.

Your thighs shook, the knot in your stomach pulling tighter and tighter until—

“Don’t you dare,” he growled, pulling back just enough to speak. “Don’t you fucking come.”

You sobbed into the sheets, shaking from the denial. “C-Chan—please—”

But he dove back in, tongue moving faster, lips pulling you apart until your vision went white and your body betrayed you—

You came. Hard.

He felt it instantly—your muscles clenching around nothing, the sob that left your throat, the taste of you spilling over his tongue.

And then he froze.

He pulled back slowly, breathing hard, his mouth wet with your release.

You barely had time to gasp before he was speaking again—calm, dangerous.

“You didn’t just do that.”

Silence.

“You really came without permission.”

Your breath hitched.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and final. “You want to act like that? Fine.”

And before you could blink— He was grabbing your hips, lining himself up, and thrusting in.

The sound he made when he sank into you was feral—a low, guttural growl that vibrated through your bones. He bottomed out in one brutal thrust, hips flush to your ass, so deep you could feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice gravel. “You really came without my permission?”

You tried to speak—but all that came out was a wrecked little sob. He grabbed your bound wrists, yanked your arms back, and used them as leverage to pull you onto his cock again. Harder.

“Answer me.”

“I—I’m sorry—!”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I—I couldn’t help it—!”

He laughed—cold, dangerous. “Then let me help you.”

He dragged almost all the way out before slamming back in, again and again, every thrust deeper than the last, until your breath stuttered and your thighs shook. You were already so sensitive, so overstimulated from the orgasm he explicitly told you not to have, and he was nowhere near done.

One hand released your arms only to close around your throat, pulling you up until your back was pressed to his chest, your knees barely stable under the weight of his body.

“You like being used?” he whispered into your ear. “Being just a hole for me to fuck until I decide you’re worth more than that?”

You whined—completely at his mercy.

He tightened his grip on your neck, choking you just enough to make your vision blur at the edges.

“I said,” he snarled, hips snapping into you with punishing rhythm, “do you like being used?”

“Y-Yes, Daddy—”

That name. That name.

He groaned darkly, slamming into you so hard your toes left the ground for a second.

“Of course you do. Fucking brat.”

His free hand came down hard on your ass—smack—then again, until the skin stung, and all you could do was take it, let him rut into you while you cried out into the sheets.

Then he bent you forward again, one hand fisting your hair this time, the other dragging down your back possessively. “Look at this,” he murmured, watching your body ripple with every thrust. “Taking me so well for someone who doesn’t know how to fucking listen.”

You were babbling by now, some mix of apologies and moans and desperate pleas for more—words you didn’t even know you were saying, your body already starting to tighten again, dangerously close to coming.

He noticed. He always noticed.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled, slapping your clit once, sharp and precise. You screamed.

“Please—please, I can’t—!”

“You can.” He leaned over your back, kissed your shoulder almost mockingly, then bit it. “You’ll come when I say so, and not a second before.”

Your hands struggled against the cloth binding you, but there was no escape—only the relentless rhythm of his hips, the stretch of his cock, the burn of need threatening to swallow you whole.

He pulled out suddenly, and you cried out at the loss—only to be flipped over roughly, legs pushed wide, knees to your chest. The look in his eyes was deadly.

“You want to come so badly?”

You nodded, eyes wild, begging silently.

“Then earn it.”

He shoved back in, deeper than before, and started fucking you like a man possessed. Sweat dripped from his brow, muscles tense, his voice a constant stream of filth between gritted teeth.

“Losing your fucking mind on my cock… Look at you. Crying for it.”

Your vision blurred with tears.

“Say it,” he snarled, grabbing your cheeks to force your eyes to his. “Say whose you are.”

“Y-Yours, Daddy—!”

“And who does this pussy belong to?”

“You—Only you—!”

He growled again, nearly folding you in half as he drove into you harder, faster, until you were screaming his name into the room, your second orgasm detonating like a bomb inside you, every muscle locking tight.

And this time?

He let you have it.

He watched you fall apart, eyes fixed on your trembling body as he finally gave in, pulled out just in time to stroke himself fast over your stomach, cum spilling hot and thick across your skin with a ragged moan of your name.

“Fuck… fuck—”

Then silence.

Only the sound of your shattered breathing, the tremble in your thighs.

Then soft hands untied your wrists. Warm fingers cupped your cheeks.

“Hey…” he whispered, thumb brushing away a tear. “You okay?”

You nodded, dazed.

“You really drive me insane, you know that?”

You smiled, weak and ruined.

“I like making you crazy.”

He laughed, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

He stayed there for a moment, just kneeling between your legs, his breathing still ragged, sweat dotting his flushed skin.

You were a mess—trembling, legs spread, slick and cum coating your thighs and stomach. But the moment he looked at you again, all that brutal dominance melted into something tender. His expression shifted.

“Hey, baby.” His voice was soft now, impossibly gentle.

He leaned down, kissed your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your lips—slow and unhurried, like he hadn’t just ruined you minutes ago.

“You okay?” he murmured against your mouth.

You nodded, but your body was still twitching.

“I’m gonna clean you up, yeah?”

You hummed in response, eyes fluttering closed as his hands moved over your body—soft now, tracing bruises with guilt-lined fingers, kissing your wrists where the cloth had pressed into your skin. He wiped between your legs with warm, damp cloths, whispering apologies when you flinched.

“There we go… good girl. You did so well.”

You should’ve been spent, drifting. But then he kissed your chest—first out of affection.

Then again.

And again.

And then he lingered, mouth warm and open over your nipple, and your eyes snapped open.

“Chan…”

He hummed around you, tongue circling before he gently sucked, wet and slow.

“I thought…” you breathed. “I thought we were done…”

He looked up, and his eyes were anything but innocent.

“I said i wasn’t.” he murmured, switching to the other breast, dragging his teeth softly over the tender skin. “And I remembered how good these taste.”

You whined, arching as his hand slipped up your ribs, cupping one breast while his mouth worked the other.

“You’re still sensitive,” he said, almost in awe. “Still twitching every time I touch you…”

“Chan—!”

“You can take it. One more.” His lips curved into a wicked grin as he latched on again, tongue flicking fast against your nipple while his fingers rolled the other.

The ache between your thighs returned like a flame sparking to life.

Your hands found his curls, tugging, and he groaned softly against your chest, only sucking harder, sloppier now—like he couldn’t stop, couldn’t get enough.

Your hips shifted on instinct.

“You gonna come just from this?” he murmured against your skin. “From me sucking on your pretty tits like this?”

You moaned, and he didn’t stop—licking, sucking, kneading you like you were his personal obsession.

“I could do this all night,” he whispered. “Look at how wrecked you are already. One more, baby. Let me have one more.”

And honestly?

You were helpless to deny him.

His hand trailed down your stomach, fingers brushing over your puffy clit like a ghost. Just enough to make you jerk.

“Fuck, you’re soaked again.”

He chuckled darkly and sucked harder at your nipple, flicking the tip with his tongue before gently biting down—just enough to make your back arch.

Then his fingers returned, sliding over your folds, deliberately avoiding your clit.

“I didn’t even touch you yet,” he said, licking a circle around your nipple. “You’re dripping already.”

“Chan—” you gasped, but he cut you off with another deep suck, tongue dragging over the wet, sensitive skin as he slipped two fingers between your legs and finally rubbed tight circles on your clit.

Your whole body jolted.

“Oh my god—”

“There it is,” he purred, watching you squirm. “Look at you—hips rocking, tits bouncing while I suck on them and make you come on my fingers like a good girl.”

The pleasure was building again, sharper now, and too fast. He was sucking you like he was starving, moaning into your chest, fingers relentless on your clit while you writhed beneath him.

“C-Chan—!”

“You gonna come for me again?” he murmured, still flicking your nipple with his tongue. “Gonna soak my fingers while I suck on your pretty tits like they’re mine?”

You cried out, thighs shaking, hips jerking up as that pressure snapped.

You came—hard—legs trembling, moans strangled, head thrown back against the pillow while his fingers slowed down just enough to let you ride it out.

He didn’t stop licking your nipple, though. Didn’t stop dragging those sinful fingers in slow, wet circles.

You twitched again. And again.

Too much.

“Too much—!”

“Shh, I got you,” he whispered, lifting his head to kiss your mouth this time, swallowing your desperate whimpers. “So good. So perfect. I could fuckin’ worship this body all night.”

You collapsed, breathless, overstimulated, skin on fire—and Chan was still there, touching, kissing, whispering sweet filth like he had all the time in the world to love you apart.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: And we have come to the end of the Angry boys series! It was fun writing all that smutty angst lol 😂 NOW WE CAN START TAKING REQUESTS!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @universeyuto @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss