#To help keep your home running smoothly

[aperrywilliams]

A Bit Rougher (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: You and Spencer have been in a relationship for a little bit more than four months now, and the team doesn't know. One day, the BAU girls ask you by your mystery partner they know you have - even if they don't know who it is - and bring up a topic you are not so sure to share with Spencer yet: your kinky side in sex. What happens when the same Spencer puts a test on you on that matter?

Word Count: 6.5k (I'm not sorry)

Warnings: SMUT/18+/MDNI. Where do I start? Reader sleeps with Spencer (obviously). Talks about sex life. Mentions of tantric sex and rough sex. Mentions of some kinks like choking, spanking, and dom-sub dynamics. Clothes get ripped, Spencer calling you 'my girl' (oh God), masturbation (f receiving), fingering, kind of choking, dirty talk. Spencer does his best as a dom (soft!dom because it can't be any other way), penetrative sex, spanking, begging, more dirty talk, creampie (it really doesn't exist another word for this?), and aftercare. Spencer is the best boyfriend in the world. If I forgot something, please let me know.

A/N: This one was a request. I can't find the original message, and I don't know if the person who asked wanted their name here (I can quickly add it if they want to).

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The moment rays of sunlight peek through the curtain and hit my face, I turn to my back to avoid them, not ready to fully start the day yet.

Still half awake, half sleepy, I can feel a pair of hazel looking at me. I peek one eye open, and I see Spencer smiling at me.

"Good morning, beautiful," he rasps. And I don't know why such simple words have me blushing like a schoolgirl. Beaming, I return the greeting.

"Morning, handsome."

I get my reply with a lingering kiss on my lips, which I fully savored until a sudden thought came to me.

"What time is it? We need to get up."

Spencer, with his calm voice, shakes his head.

"It's a bit early yet. We have time. Also, you have some clothes here, so you don't need to go to your apartment before driving to work."

Smart me for bringing clothes to his apartment. It's an obvious decision, though, considering I have spent more nights here in the past weeks than in my place.

A devilish smirk makes an appearance on my face.

"So, we do have time, don't we?"

"Yes, sweetheart. We do," Spencer mumbles, scooting closer and peppering kisses on my face and then down to my collarbone.

Oh boy, this is what I call a good way to start the day.

-

How much time can you fool a bunch of the best profilers in the country, hiding your relationship with one of your coworkers? Spencer and I keep the count. The mark is set now in four months and two weeks.

It's not that we are embarrassed by what we have or anything close to that. It's just that things started so casually and naturally, and they're running so smoothly, so we want to keep it to ourselves as long as we can.

And by now? It's working.

We have also been careful about it. On our first nights together, we woke up early and went home for a shower and a change of clothes. After some weeks, we started to pack extra in our go-bag. Now, we have at least a change of clothes in each other's places. The second rule is never to get to work at the same time or on the same transportation. Spencer usually takes the metro even if I can drive and make time in the parking lot. Just one day, we did it, and we were so worked up in our making out session that we almost got caught by Morgan, who parked two cars away from mine.

Naturally, any form of PDA at work is completely off-limits. That's the toughest rule to follow. After all, we spend more time at the office and on the road than we do at home, so avoiding any kind of touch is definitely a challenge.

Despite all that, I can't help but feel happier every day as I fall deeper for Spencer. I often feel like a schoolgirl with a crush, constantly distracted by thoughts of him. Clearly, my behavior hasn't gone unnoticed, at least not by the three girls cornering me right now in the BAU kitchen.

"So, are you going to deny you're having fun these days?" Emily teases me while JJ and Penelope giggle in agreement.

"Where did that come from?" I say, intentionally diverting my gaze to the mug I'm filling with coffee.

"It's just basic observation, my dear," Penelope chimes in.

"Basic observation? I honestly don't follow you guys at all," I reply, feeling a bit overwhelmed by this unexpected Tuesday morning interrogation. This time, JJ steps forward with her evidence laid out right before me.

"We have all noticed the changes in you over the past few months—the giddy smile that lights up your face when you read a text on your phone, the new pep in your step, and how you hurry home every time we finish a case. Do I need to say more?"

"Busted!" Garcia points a mocking finger at me. I roll my eyes in fake annoyance. After all, they are completely right.

"Okay, okay. Yeah. I'm seeing a guy. Happy?" I confess, and Garcia squeals.

"Yay! We need to know everything about him."

Oh. That's dangerous territory.

JJ notices my discomfort and tries to ease it a bit.

"Penelope, I'm sure we'll know more with time. Right?" JJ looks at me, and I nod appreciatively.

"Okay. But the basics. Is the guy good?" Emily asks. A silly smile appears on my face.

"Of course he is. He's caring, fun, always attentive-" I'm about to start a rant about how my mystery man is perfect. But Emily's snort stops me at mid-sentence.

"What?"

"Emily is asking if he is good in bed!" Penelope clarifies, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Oh, Lord. What have I got into?

"Are you really expecting me to tell you about my sex life?"

The three girls nod in unison with no shame. Well, I guess I got my answer.

"Like if you haven't done it before. And for what it is worth, we all have said something about it more than once. That's why we created girls's night in the first place," Emily points eloquently, as always.

Touchè. They are right. I have said more than I would like to admit about my sex life. But now it's not that simple. We are talking about Spencer, even if they don't know it yet.

"Then? Is he good or not?"

I contemplate my answer not because I don't know what to say but not revealing more than necessary.

"I don't think good is enough to describe sex with him. The first time we slept together was amazing. The whole night was if you know what I mean. Since then, we have taken our time, savoring the moment, giving, and receiving a new part of ourselves when we do it. So, yes, sex with him is more than good."

"But it could be better," Garcia interjects, and I look at her baffled.

"How's so? Didn't I just say the sex is great?"

The three women nod in agreement, but I think I'm missing something here.

"Don't take it the wrong way, my lovely. We are really happy you are having fun and enjoying yourself," Garcia says, patting my shoulder. "But it sounds pretty vanilla to me. And it's not bad! Not at all!"

I frown, and Emily rolls her eyes, continuing Garcia's idea.

"What Penelope tries to bring here is what we talked back then about your last partner. Remember? The one who liked tantric sex?"

Oh. Yeah. I remember that one. It's not one of my finest choices, if I have to be honest. But it wasn't the guy's fault.

"Yeah. What about him?"

"You forgot how you complained about him being basically a statue? That you wanted it rough, and the guy never got the memo?" Penelope fills in, arching an eyebrow. My cheeks are flush crimson right now.

"I can't believe we are talking about this in the office kitchen," I mumble, embarrassed. "But that was different."

Emily scoffs. "What? Did you change your kinks now? What happened with the choking, the spanking, the begging, and all those things?"

"Emily Prentiss, can you please shut up? This conversation is too much for a morning in the office," I complain, shaking my head to try to cool my red face.

"Okay, okay. I'll stop. But if you are still into it - and I'm sure you are - maybe it's a good idea to share it with your partner. Healthy sex life and all that, so it doesn't happen what it did with the tantric guy."

"Well, thank you all for your concern. But I think I'm good. Now, can we please drop the subject?"

Luckily for me, the girls listened and changed the topic. By the time we leave the kitchen, I feel less embarrassed and ready to continue my paperwork.

But the conversation kept popping into my head from time to time during the day. My sexual preferences haven't changed 180 degrees, that's true, but with Spencer, it's different. I wouldn't want to bring something like that up if it's going to make him uncomfortable. Our relationship is still fresh, and I'm happy with our current sex life.

And talking about Spencer, I haven't seen him the whole morning. By the time lunchtime arrives, he doesn't come back to his desk, so I go with the girls and Morgan.

When we come back from lunch, I finally see him at his desk, concentrating on a pile of files. A smile creeps in my face. He looks so damn good with the crocked tie, messy hair, and shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms. This man has ruined me just sitting there. I'm doomed.

"Hey," I call his attention, and he turns his head to look up at me.

"Hi," he returns a smile.

"I haven't seen you around in hours. Are you okay?"

A frown appears on his face, but he brushes it off quickly.

"Me? Oh, yeah. Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It's just Hotch that had me checking and analyzing a pile of boxes with folders from old cases in the store office. That's all."

It makes sense. Spencer's fast reading is a blessing and a curse, and obviously, people tend to use it often in the office.

"I'm sorry, sure it wasn't a very entertaining task."

A shy smile creeps on his lips, and I have to use all my self-control not to pounce on him right now and pepper his face with kisses.

"It's okay. I'm already done, anyway. How has been your morning?"

"Oh. Mostly paperwork. As everyone. But I think I'll be done soon, too." Before continuing, I check my surroundings to ensure nobody else is listening. "Maybe we can go home early?" I suggest seductively.

The flush in Spencer's cheeks is endearing. It's like the ones I sported this morning when the girls were interrogating me. And they want me to tell this boy about my kinks? No way. I won't do that if it means he won't feel comfortable with me again.

"We could. But I'm afraid plans will have to wait," Spencer says as his gaze shifts from me to Garcia and the quick tip-tap of her heels, heading to the conference room.

Fuck. A new case.

-

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. But being stuck in the middle of the desert, looking for an unsub that seems to be a ghost? And I say 'ghost' literally because we are looking for a guy who is dead for the town records. No, this is not my idea of a 'normal work day.'

It's frustrating, and not only for the lack of progress. The heat here is like hell. The AC barely works, and everyone's mood is bitchy.

We are not making any progress by now, so Hotch sends us to the hotel for the night. Once in my room, I text Spencer, not with an explicit purpose but to talk to him for a while. But he doesn't answer my texts. Is he sleeping by now? Considering he's a night owl, I found it very rare. But maybe he's drained like everyone else, so I let it slide.

In the morning, after my shower, I'm checking my phone, and I don't have any messages. Has Spencer received my texts?

I don't want to sound paranoid, but it's like something is going on. At the precinct, I barely get a hello from Spencer. Okay. Maybe it's the stress. I don't give it too much thought, either. Not when we have work to do.

And boy, we have been working hard on this one. Some clues give us hope, but we're far from catching the unsub.

In the little spare time we have between interrogations and visiting dumping sites, I try to share moments with Spencer, but it definitely seems like he doesn't want to be alone with me in the same room, even if he doesn't say it or shows signs of annoyance or animosity towards me.

I can't tell why he is so distant, but it's starting to worry me. Did I do something? And it's killing me because the more I think about it, the more I miss him. A kiss, a hug, anything from him would ease the ache I'm starting to feel.

It doesn't help that he has been choosing to wear the sexiest clothes he has in his go-bag. Those tight grey pants that accentuate his ass, those button-ups with sleeves rolled up.

We have been here for six days, and I think I'm going crazy. I have been trying to be subtle and professional. But I swear that if one more day goes by without being able to feel Spencer's touch, I don't know what I'll be able to do.

It seems heaven has listened to me because we finally managed to catch the unsub, and we're on the jet on our way home. But I'm nervous. I didn't even want to sit next to Spencer like I usually do. I don't know why. What if he wants to break up with me, and I'm just dragging things out?

What the hell am I talking about? I don't believe I'm thinking clearly here. But this week has been so odd that I don't know what to think.

Maybe when we land, I can finally talk to Spencer and put an end to my overthinking. With that in mind, I doze off for the rest of the trip.

Once the jet is down, I'm starting to gather my things when I hear Spencer rushing out, saying goodbye to everyone.

Disappointed and frustrated, I leave the tarmac.

Maybe a full night of sleep in my bed isn't a bad plan after all.

But be that as it may, fuck you, Spencer Reid.

-

As if all that had happened wasn't enough, when I got to the parking lot, my car fucking didn't start. I knew I had to get it checked before.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

That delayed my arrival home for another 45 minutes.

Now, disappointed, frustrated, and with no car, I slam the door shut. The apartment is pitch black, and I have no energy to flick the lights on, so I drag myself to the bedroom. When I open the door, a yelp escapes my mouth when I see a silhouette of a man sitting in the chair I have in one corner.

I'm about to reach for my gun when the bedside lamp flicks on, and the scare turns to confusion when I see Spencer sitting there.

"What the fuck!"

"Hi," he says as if he hadn't almost scared me to death two seconds ago.

"Spencer! What are you doing here?" My voice sounds harsher than I intended, but Spencer brushes it off quickly.

"Waiting for you," he says matter-of-factly.

I'm officially confused. We were together an hour ago? He left without saying anything.

"I don't understand. The way you left the jet in such a hurry, I thought I was the last person you wanted to be with."

My words come out resentful, but I can't help it. Spencer's eyes soften. I averted his gaze as I dropped my go-bag, unholst my gun to set it on the safe, and sat at the end of the bed to remove my boots.

"Hey, don't say that. Of course, I want to be with you," Spencer says, standing from the seat and kneeling to help me remove my boots.

"I'm sorry, but it didn't show that way. You avoided me all week!"

Great, now I sound like I'm making a tantrum.

From his place where he knelt on the floor, his eyes met mine, and I don't know why suddenly I felt a shudder running down my spine.

"Sweetheart, you know we were working, weren't we?"

That condescending tone escaping Spencer's lips? It is something unexpected. But why does it make me kind of nervous? It's a type of nervousness that gives me butterflies in my stomach.

"I know! But- but then in the jet. And you left."

Why am I babbling? Since when did Spencer have looked at me with those piercing eyes?

He stands and offers me a hand to help me to do the same.

"Is my girl upset?" He asks when we are both upright.

'My girl'? That's new. Spencer always calls me by my name, a short version of it, or beautiful, or sweetheart. But thinking about it, 'my girl' doesn't sound bad at all.

"No! I'm not-"

"Oh yes, you are. Look, I wanted to prepare a surprise for you tonight, so I left in a hurry. I was thinking about a bubble bath, dinner, wine, and a movie. I even had the table done with candles ready to lit," he says nonchalantly, and I feel silly for thinking the worst scenarios all week.

"Oh," is the only thing escaping my lips.

"But now, thinking about it, maybe you don't deserve it. Not if you're questioning me like this," Spencer shakes his head in fake - I hope - disappointment.

Okay. Stop right there. What the hell is going on here? Why is Spencer talking like that? About me as 'not deserving' something? What's next? That I'm a naughty girl? - Uhm, I wonder how it could be hearing those words from his lips.-

"What? Why I-"

"Come here," he requests as now he is the one who sits at the edge of the bed and pats the spot in his lap. It doesn't sound too commanding, but sure as hell, I don't need anything more to comply. I need to know where this is heading.

As I'm at Spencer's reach, he pulls me by my wrist to land on his lap while his other hand cradles my face.

"Tell me, uh? Why are you upset?"

His voice drips like honey, and I start to feel hot here.

"I- I don't know. I just missed you, I guess."

"You guess?" He arches a questioning eyebrow.

"Yes. I mean, I do know. I have missed you," I confess, defeated. Oh yeah, now I'm the needy one.

"It helps if I say I have missed you, too?" he says, caressing my cheek tenderly with his knuckles. "I have seen you tense all week; that's why I thought I could do something special for you tonight."

I close my eyes, and for the first time tonight, I let myself enjoy Spencer's embrace.

I exhale a heavy breath as I get lost in his arms.

When I open my eyes, Spencer's are fixed on mine. But his look is not as sweet or reverent as it usually is when we are like this. No, this one is dark and raw. His pupils are fully dilated, and I feel like the breath leaves my lungs.

"Spencer-" I barely mumble.

"I know," he whispers, moving one hand to cradle my neck and bring my lips to his.

Oh God, what I have been craving for days is finally happening, and I can't stress enough how happy I am.

The kiss starts slow and sensual. But not far from that, it gets needy and messy, charged with all the pent-up emotions from the past days. If I had any doubt about Spencer's distance in the last week, this kiss quickly eased my anxiety.

My fingers go to undo the buttons of his button-up, but Spencer stops me with one of his hands, grabbing both of my wrists.

Why didn't I notice before how big and strong his hands are compared to mine? I mean, I always admired his long and deftly fingers, but this? Wow. It's new territory.

"But I want to touch you," I pout when he keeps hold of my wrists in his hand. The cocky bastard raises an eyebrow, contemplating my request.

"You will have to be patient this time and earn it, darling," he says casually, and as my eyes go wide, my jaw goes slack. These words have never come out of Spencer's mouth before. But why am I suddenly starting to feel hotter and more worked up? I blame it on sex abstinence.

"Please, I have missed you so much," I insist, trying to escape his grip to get what I want: undress him. But he doesn't budge, tsking his tongue.

"I already told you. You need to earn it. To my knowledge, only good girls get what they want, and I don't think I'm wrong, do I?"

Jesus Christ! I had never heard Spencer say 'good girl' before, and I'm sure now I'll be addicted to hearing it every chance I get.

"Spencer, please. I'll do anything. I promise. I want to be a good girl. I want to be your good girl."

Spencer's smirk tells me he likes my response, and I'm not at any ounce ashamed of sounding desperate.

He maneuvers me so that I am now on my back on the mattress. I watch his every move intently, and I get lost in his gaze, which screams lust and desire.

He kneels between my spread legs, staring at me intently as his hands move to the edges of my blouse. Just when I think he's going to work on unbuttoning it, he grabs it and rips it open.

A yelp escapes my lips at the raw sound and the view of buttons flying. Spencer doesn't seem fazed by his display of caveman style. And me? I won't mind if he rips all my clothes right now. His hands go to caress my breasts over the fabric of my bra. And then pull it down to free the skin. The cool air quickly stiffens my nipples.

Spencer leans down to suck one of them, twirling the other one with his fingers. A moan escapes my lips at the pleasure his touch is giving me.

"You like that, uh?" he mumbles, still with his mouth sucking and lapping.

"Yes!" I say, as my hands fly to his hair so I can ground myself in something.

After giving enough attention to both of my nipples, he helps me to get rid of the fabric of the ruined blouse and my bra. Now his mouth is sucking a hickey under my jaw, and I feel like I can faint of how aroused I am. One of his hands goes south and stills at the button of my work pants. His breath is hot in my ear.

"I'm going to take care of you. If I do something you don't like, just say it, okay?"

That's a sliver of the Spencer I know, and I can't even think of something this man can do to me that I wouldn't like.

"Okay," I manage to blurt when his fingers work on my pants, leaving me clad only in my panties in a matter of seconds.

Under his intense gaze, I feel exposed, but I also feel safe. There is no place where I would rather be right now.

"You're gorgeous. You know that?" Spencer says, trailing feather touches on my skin aflame with desire. "You don't know what you do to me, do you? I barely can control myself," he continues his praises, thumbs toying with the waistband of my panties.

I'm about to combust.

"Spencer, please."

"What is it, my girl?" he asks, kissing my neck as his fingers slide down my legs, removing the soaked fabric that used to cover my most intimate part.

"I - I need more."

"Are you already desperate for me?"

I can feel how his fingers trace soft patterns in the skin between my thighs, explicitly avoiding the spot where I need him the most.

"Yes! I am. I - I can't-"

I don't even care if I sound coherent at this point. I'm already so turned on and desperate that I can't be bothered by my lack of speech. Spencer still doesn't budge, though.

"I know you want to beg. And I know you can do better than that."

Oh God. I don't know how Spencer's words manage to make me more aroused, but they do.

"I need you," I croak, eyes pleading him to take me. I can feel his fingers ghosting my throbbing clit.

"I need you, sir. Please. You can use me whatever you want, but please, touch me!"

What the fuck? I just called Spencer' sir' and offered my body explicitly to him to use. And the bastard doesn't even flinch? Who is this guy in full control, and who am I acting like a pathetic submissive?

I don't have the answers, but honestly, I don't care. Did he want me to beg? If this isn't begging, I don't know what it is.

"I know you do, baby. Do you think I didn't notice how needy you have been all week? How have you tried to get my attention all these days?" Spencer's voice drops almost two octaves as his finger finally starts rubbing circles on my clit.

Just feeling his touch makes me whimper pathetically.

His lips ghost in my ear, and I can feel his breath heating the spot before his teeth nibble my earlobe.

A mewl leaves my mouth, and if I wasn't soaked before - which I was - now I'm dripping.

"Tell me, this is what you wanted?" His voice is commanding but feels like honey leaking on my body.

"Yes! Please, don't stop."

His movements are deliberate and precise, and when he buries a finger into my core, I can feel the coil in the pit of my lower belly beginning to form. My moans increase in number and volume.

"So needy, my sweet girl. Like that? That's how you want me to touch you?" Spencer coo as he watches me tremble under his touch, adding a new finger to fuck me.

His ministrations continue, but his free hand moves slowly from my cheek down to my neck, caressing the exposed skin with his thumb.

"Or maybe you want me to touch you like this?"

A mewl escapes my lips when he poses his open palm over my throat, not squeezing but seizing how much of my neck he would be able to cover with his huge hand.

"Yes! Please, do it. Please Spencer," I babble, feeling my orgasm closer and closer. And he complies. Applying the minimal pressure in my throat is enough to highlight all of my senses. That, plus the way his ring and middle finger pound in and out of me and his thumb toy with my clit at the same time, sends me to the edge.

"Spencer!" I scream as my climax washes over me.

I don't remember having an orgasm like this in a long time. My vision blurs and I feel like I'm floating on a cloud of pleasure that I don't want to come down from. I can hear Spencer's encouraging words in the distance as he helps me ride my orgasm.

"That's it, my girl. You did so good for me. See how good I can make you feel?"

With hooded eyes, I see Spencer sucking clean the fingers that were fucking me seconds ago.

"You taste amazing. I'll never get tired of it," Spencer says, with a satisfied grin on his face.

Still dizzy, I gesture for him to come closer. When he does, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for the most passionate kiss my current post-orgasmic state will allow. I can taste myself on his tongue, and it is like my sex drive reminds me I want more. I need more.

"Please, fuck me," I mumble between kisses, and I can feel the smirk forming on his lips.

"I just did that," he states when we part from the kiss. "Are you being ungrateful?" Is he joking? I hope he does, but I won't take the chance of not having his dick in me tonight.

"No, baby. I'm thankful for the way you have touched me tonight, but I want you to feel good, too."

Spencer looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Is that so? Are you willing to do what I want to make me feel good? It's not only for your benefict?"

"Yes! Whatever you want. I'm yours. Take me the way you want to do it. Whatever you want to give me."

I don't know at what moment I became this kind of submissive, but if I have to beg again to have Spencer inside me, I will do it without complaining. And considering he's still fully clothed, I don't know what kind of plan he has right now.

"On your elbows and knees."

It's simple, and the moment the words leave his mouth, I move quickly to obey.

Unfortunately, from this position, I can't see Spencer, but I can hear him undressing. When I listen to him undoing his belt buckle, I have to do everything in my power not to rub my thighs together in search of some friction. And Spencer notices.

"I can bet you're dripping again. Don't you?"

The anticipation is killing me. When I feel the mattress dip with Spencer's weight, I can't stop the mewl that leaves my lips. It doesn't help when he presses his body to mine, and I can feel his hard cock pressing my ass.

"Can you feel what you do to me? I want to fuck you so bad. I want to ruin this pussy." Spencer's voice is husky and low, almost predatory, and I can't wait to feel him.

While we've used dirty talk before, I think this is the first time I can feel it coming naturally from Spencer. I'm usually the one with the filthy mouth.

When I feel his tip teasing my entrance, I instinctively push my ass back, gaining a laugh from Spencer.

"Be patient, once inside there is no coming back." Before I can say anything in reply, I feel him push his cock between my folds, and the stretching is painfully delicious.

"Oh, fuck!" I yelp as I hear Spencer hissing when he bottoms it out. He is still there, grabbing my hips to keep me from moving.

"So warm. So tight. Made for me," he mumbles, leaning to kiss my shoulder blades.

"Just for you, it was made for you," I agree, in a new state of pleasure and urging him to move. Spencer pulls back almost completely, only to thrust hard again, setting a slow but deep pace.

"That's my girl, taking everything I give her. You wanted this, didn't you? I know you do. Fuck! So good for me."

Another thing I'm not used to is Spencer being a talker during sex. I mean, yeah, he's very vocal, moaning, whining, cursing, and so am I, but his words are now taking me there faster than I expected.

"Spencer, yes! Don't stop, please!"

"I won't, baby, I won't. Not when this pussy tighen me like this."

His pace quickens, and in the room, you can only hear the sinful sounds of skin hitting skin, our moans, and the dirty words escaping Spencer's mouth.

"Spencer, please, harder," I beg to him. I don't know why, but I want to go to my limit, and I trust Spencer. I need it. He's quick to deliver, and with every thrust, I'm entering into a new space of ecstasy.

He is pounding me harder, and my broken moans are testimony to the brutal pace he leads. I can feel him hitting in all the right places.

"Like that?" He asks, panting in my ear.

"Y-yes."

"I can't hear you, darling," the bastard demands, not faltering his thrusts.

"Yes! Fuck, yes! Like that! Oh, fuck-"

My voice cracks when I feel a sharp smack in my ass.

And I can't stress enough how good it feels and how it helps the ball forming in my lower belly to grow.

"What a sight. You should see how my fingers are red imprinted on your skin," Spencer says, amazed with his doing, not ever slowing his thrusts, and I can feel closer to a new earth-shattering orgasm.

"We need to even the score, right baby?" I can't even catch what he's talking about when I feel a new smack in my other ass-cheek. And then I lose it. I'm teetering to my end, and I need Spencer to fall with me.

"Spencer, I'm so close. Please, I need-"

"Are you going to come? That's what you're trying to tell me?"

"Yes! I need to cum, please-"

"I'm right there with you, my girl. Come on, cum on my cock. Show me how you fall apart because of me."

And I did. My orgasm crashes me like a freight train, screaming Spencer's name once and again until my throat goes dry. He keeps his pace, chasing his own end, and after three deep thrusts, he stills, and I feel him spilling inside of me, grunting as he does so. The feeling almost makes me cum again.

We stay in that position for a few moments, him inside me and trying to catch our breath. I feel like I'm out of this world, savoring the post-orgasmic euphoria of the best sex of my life.

Spencer pulls out, and I hiss at the loss of him. Carefully, he helps me turn over and lie down to rest my back on the mattress. I close my eyes, regulating my breathing, content and completely satisfied.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asks me, but I'm still lost in the haze of pleasure. I can barely acknowledge the moment he goes to the bathroom to bring a warm cloth to clean me up.

"Uh? Yeah. Amazing." My words escape before I can process them, but I'm not lying. And I can feel the tons of endorphins running in my brain right now.

"Are you sure?" Spencer checks again. And because I'm more alert now, I can see his worried eyes.

A tired smile forms on my lips as I turn to the side and bring a hand to his cheek.

This man just has fucked me senseless, and now he sees me with those panicked eyes as if he had broken me. And maybe he did, but in the best way possible.

"I'm fine, Spencer. I'm more than fine, actually. That was something else," I confess, caressing his jaw. He lets out a breath of relief, and his cheeks turn a shade of pink.

"So you liked it?"

"Liked it? Did you just forget how I was screaming your name just minutes ago?" A satisfied chuckle escapes Spencer's lips. "But I need to know something," I prompt, propping myself on one elbow to have a better view of Spencer's face.

"What is it?"

"Where did this idea come from? It's not like you woke up one day and said, 'Next time, I'm going to choke her and spank her,' right?"

"Well, yeah. It wasn't that kind of spontaneous idea, even though I have thought about it before," Spencer looks at me sheepishly.

"Yeah? Well, then?"

"I heard you. Talking with the girls the other day at the BAU's kitchen." I narrow my eyes, trying to pinpoint the exact moment, and when recognition washes over me, my entire face flushes.

"Oh, God."

"I know I did wrong. It wasn't a conversation for me to hear, but you were talking about your mystery man, and I - I don't know, curiosity got the best of me."

Spencer looks apologetic, and I feel kind of embarrassed right now. It's funny for two people that minutes ago were fucking like there is no tomorrow.

"Don't apologize. It's my fault for spilling those kind of things in the office kitchen." Wait a minute. "From what part you heard?" Spencer purses his lips in thought.

"The part when you admitted seeing someone."

"So you heard when I said I was happy with our sex life, right?" He nods. "Why did you feel compelled to try something different, then? I'm not complaining at all, but I don't want you to feel obligated to do something because of me."

Spencer shakes his head. "I don't feel obligated. I wanted to. But can I ask why you didn't tell me what you liked before?"

That's a valid question, and I don't want to make him feel like I don't trust him because it is not like that.

"It's just- I mean, I love what we have. And I'm falling for you even more each day. I don't want to lose that, and I thought maybe I would have made you uncomfortable saying those things. I didn't want that."

Spencer's eyes glisten with warm understanding. How could I have doubted that he would comprehend? One of his hands goes to push back a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"I love what we have, too. And you won't lose this or me if you share those things with me. I know I'm not the best example of a sharing person, but I'm learning to do that with you. And I want you to be happy and satisfied in this relationship."

"I really am. Seriously!" I quickly reply. God forbid Spencer from thinking I'm not happy and satisfied because it's far from the truth.

"And I'm happy to hear that. But there is no harm in experiencing new things, right?" He says, caressing my cheek.

"You really mean it?" Spencer nods and chuckles.

"It's not an altruistic offer, you know? I pretty much enjoyed what we did tonight." Only remembering what we did minutes ago brings a wide grin to my face.

"Sure you did. Okay. We can keep trying things. One condition, though."

"Name it," Spencer states, opening his arm for me to scoot closer to his side, which I happily do.

"I want you to choose the next kink to explore," I request, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

With narrowed eyes, Spencer is contemplating his answer. After a few seconds, his lips turn into a mischievous smirk, and he looks back at me.

"Have you heard about temperature play?" he asks, and I immediately bit my lower lip in excitement.

What can I say? This man is full of surprises, and I'm the lucky one who will experience all of them. I can't wait.

------------------

Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers

[moonstruckme]

hii!! i love ur blog lol. i saw ur requests were open and i thought maybe id send one in! no pressure at all to do it, thank you for writing what you write (it’s really comforting!) i was wondering if you could do poly!marauders with a reader who is overworking herself for exams/college stuff and is hiding from her boyfriends because she knows they’ll be stern with her and make her take a break? so she tries to evade them but they foil her evil little plan lol. maybe like dom!remus… i’m obsessed w him.. just an idea!!!! have an amazing day 🩷

Thanks for requesting, hope you have an amazing day too!

cw: d/s dynamics to be found if you want them to be, mostly they're just bossy

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 814 words

There are nice voices seeping into your consciousness. Soft, comforting. You snuggle into the gentleness of their familiar hum. 

Something moves from underneath your face. You start to open your eyes, slow and reluctant, and when the something is gone your face lands in a warm palm. It feels safe, easy enough to settle into, but as you’re about to let yourself slip away again it strokes its thumb over your cheek. 

“Angel.” James’ voice sounds almost like he’s trying not to laugh. He thumbs your cheek again. “Angel, hey.” A pause. “She doesn’t seem to want to wake up.” 

“She’s awake,” Sirius says. You feel his hand sweep across your shoulder blades. “Come on, sweetness. This is no place to spend the night.” 

You make a disgruntled, whiny sound you’d never allow in full consciousness. Your eyes peel open. 

“There she is.” Sirius rubs your back encouragingly.

You blink blearily in the sickening fluorescent light of the library. James is squatting at face-level in front of you, his expression somewhere between fond and pitying, while Remus stands behind him with your backpack over his shoulder. You can see Sirius peering down at you in your periphery, his hand still moving over your back as though to keep you from falling back asleep. 

There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. It must be late. 

“Oh, no,” you groan, forcing yourself up. Your neck and back crackle as you straighten, making James cringe. 

“I agree,” Sirius says smoothly. “I too would be devastated if I traded a warm and cozy bed with my loving boyfriends for a hard, cold desk. But don’t be embarrassed, there’s still time to make things right.” 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to rub wakefulness into them. “I…where’s my laptop?” 

“I have it,” says Remus. 

“I need it.” 

“You’ll get it back tomorrow.” 

A slow, heavy anxiety laces your bloodstream. “But I have to finish…” 

“Dove.” Remus’ voice is stern, though not unkind. “You have to sleep first. At home.”

You blink, your brain still lagging. “But…” 

“Sweetheart, c’mere.” James takes your face in his hand, angling you towards him. He brushes his thumb over the corners of your eyes, then smiles at you. “There. Sorry, you had crusties. Ready to go?” 

“I…” 

“Let’s go, babe.” Sirius winds an arm around your waist, hauling you up with him. “It’s definitely bedtime.” 

James chuckles. “Seems like it. Poor love.” 

“What about my stuff?” 

“I’ve got it,” Remus reminds you. He frowns. “When was the last time you slept?” 

You think back. “Last night.” Was it really only last night? It feels eons ago. 

“But for how long?” 

“Uh…” you wince. “I dunno, a couple hours.” 

James makes a low pitying sound, and Remus’ frown worsens. On some level, you know you’d known they would react like this. Probably, you’d even known they were right. It was why you’d been spending as little time at home as possible, catching twenty-minute power naps in library chairs and avoiding your boyfriends. 

“Sweetheart,” Remus sounds tired himself, and guilt sprouts behind your ribcage, “you can’t run yourself ragged like this. It’s not sustainable. It’s not going to help with your schoolwork, and it’s awful for you besides. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

You heave a sigh. “I guess I just like living on the edge,” you grumble sardonically. 

Sirius huffs a laugh. He slots a piece of hair behind your ear. “Hey, recklessness is my thing,” he says, kissing your temple. “You need to get your own thing.” 

“Sorry.” 

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Remus chides. “You’ve tried your way, and it’s clearly not working. Right?” 

You’re silent. Then Sirius pinches your side, and you squeak, “Right.” 

“That’s right.” Remus’ tone warms some with amusement. “So we’re going to go home, and you’re going to sleep at least eight hours. Then, after you eat and drink something, you can have your laptop back. Okay?” 

“Okay.” You want to be more reluctant, but the allure of your boyfriends’ evil scheme is too tempting to resist. You don’t have the energy to fight them on it. “Thanks for coming to get me.” 

Remus holds the door open for you all to exit the library. As you pass, he cups your cheek with a small smile. “You’re welcome, love.” 

“And maybe during this next round of studying, you could take a break from time to time,” James suggests lightly. “I haven’t had a proper cuddle in days.” 

“Oi!” Sirius’ chin nearly smacks the side of your head as he whips around to see James. “What would you call what we did this afternoon?” 

“Not a proper cuddle. Your elbow has probably left a permanent indent in my stomach.” 

“There are people who would pay for a souvenir like that, Jamie.”

[cloudyluun]

The Cost of Keeping You | ceo!harry

Summary: Working for Harry Styles—CEO of Styles Enterprises and unofficial tyrant of the twentieth floor—was never Y/N’s dream. But rent waits for no one. She can handle his cold glares, biting remarks, and soul-sucking silence. Until one day, she can’t. After a brutal insult that hits too close to home, Y/N walks out with her head high and her heart bruised. Harry? He pretends not to care. Until he does.

Now, months later, Harry finds himself unraveling in the quiet she left behind—and he’ll have to decide if he’s ready to face the mess he made… and the woman he might’ve lost forever.

A/N: This fic (based on this request) is for the girlies who love their men mean, miserable, and emotionally repressed 💅 If you’ve ever daydreamed about quitting your toxic job with a dramatic one-liner and having your jerk of a boss realize he’s in love with you months later? Yeah. This one’s for you.

Pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and prepare for CEOrry to suffer

Word Count: 6,6k

Warnings: 

Verbal/emotional mistreatment in the workplace (from Harry)

Power imbalance (acknowledged & explored)

Burnout / stress / overwork

Angsty emotionally stunted man

Soul-crushing insult that will make you gasp and clutch your pearls

Groveling (delicious)

Optional heartbreak depending on chosen ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

She never planned to stay this long.

The job was supposed to be temporary—a stopgap while she figured things out. Rent in the city wasn’t kind, and freelance gigs didn’t always pay on time. When she landed the executive assistant position at Styles Global, she told herself she’d give it six months. Just enough time to build some savings, maybe line up something closer to her skill set. Something less soul-sucking.

That was two years ago.

Now, she moved through the sleek glass hallways like a ghost in heels, always present, always poised, and always one misstep away from being on the receiving end of another of Harry Styles’ famously cold tirades.

To the rest of the office, he was a legend. A force of nature. They called him “Hurricane Styles” behind his back, though most were too afraid to say it above a whisper. He had built the company from nothing, turned every risk into a win, turned bloodless strategy into an art form. Investors adored him. Board members feared him. And employees? They tried not to make eye contact.

She knew the rules. Never speak unless spoken to. Never offer ideas—he’d either steal them or shoot them down just to remind you who had the power. And never, ever expect gratitude. Harry didn’t say thank you. He said “Fix this.” He said “Again.” He said “Why is this taking so long?”

She’d learned early on not to take it personally. The key was to treat it like weather. Unpleasant, unpredictable, but not about her. She could withstand a storm. She just hadn’t realized how long this one would last.

By month three, she had his routines memorized—his preferred coffee order (black, no sugar, 8:04 a.m. sharp), how he liked his reports formatted (12-point font, single-spaced, no cover page), the names he forgot during meetings (which was most of them). She kept his world running so smoothly that no one noticed the machinery behind it.

That was the way he liked it.

Still, some days, she couldn’t help but feel like she was slowly disappearing. Her friends stopped inviting her out after she bailed on too many Friday dinners. Her fridge was stocked with takeout containers she barely remembered ordering. She ate lunch at her desk, dinner on the train, and sometimes forgot breakfast entirely. Sleep came in fits. Her eyes were ringed in fatigue, her jaw clenched more often than not.

But she showed up. Every morning, polished and precise, like clockwork.

And Harry treated her like she was interchangeable.

“This font is wrong,” he’d say, flipping the folder back toward her without looking up.

“It’s the one you asked for.”

“Well, it’s wrong now.”

He never looked her in the eye unless he was correcting her. He never said her name unless it was followed by a command. Some days, she wondered if he even knew anything about her beyond what was in her HR file.

But she didn’t crack. Not outwardly. She met his coldness with calm, his dismissals with measured silence. Let him feel like he had the upper hand. That was how you survived here. She wasn’t trying to win him over. She was just trying to stay standing.

That morning started like any other. Rain slicked the pavement outside the 52nd Street building. She beat him to the office, as usual, lights already on, coffee already waiting. She sat at her desk just outside his door, skimming through emails, flagging the ones that needed his attention, deleting the ones that didn’t. Her phone buzzed. Another meeting pushed back. She adjusted his calendar accordingly.

“Morning,” came a voice from behind her.

She looked up. Theo, one of the junior project managers, stood there holding a report.

“Hey,” she said, managing a small smile.

He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, I think you might actually be a wizard.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No, seriously,” he said. “The guy’s a nightmare, but you—you handle him like it’s nothing. You’re the only one who can.”

She snorted under her breath, shaking her head. “Trust me. It’s not magic. It’s caffeine and pure survival instinct.”

“I still think you deserve a raise. Or hazard pay.”

She didn’t say anything, just turned back to her screen. But the compliment—simple, sincere—sat heavy in her chest like a secret. She couldn’t remember the last time someone said something nice to her in this building.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

Theo straightened instantly. “Morning, Mr. Styles.”

Harry didn’t respond. Just walked past them, into his office, and shut the door with that sharp, final click that always made her stomach knot.

She went back to work. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then—

“Y/N.”

His voice, clipped and cold.

She stepped into his office, notepad in hand.

He didn’t look up from his screen. “Why did I just overhear you chatting with one of the junior staff?”

She blinked. “He had a report you needed to see. He also—”

“—was wasting your time,” Harry cut in, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were unreadable. “You’re not here to make friends.”

Her jaw tensed. “I wasn’t.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, walking around his desk until they stood a few feet apart.

“If this,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her notepad, her schedule, her entire existence, “is your best, then maybe you should stick to fetching coffee. You're not irreplaceable.”

The words landed like a slap. Not loud, not violent—just surgical in their precision. She stared at him, willing herself not to react. Not to flinch.

Instead, she swallowed hard, nodded once, and left the room.

Back at her desk, she sat perfectly still.

It wasn’t the first time he’d belittled her. But this one felt different. It wasn’t just that he was cruel. It was that he’d said it so easily. As if she was nothing. As if all the late nights and early mornings, all the silent sacrifices, all the ways she kept him afloat… meant nothing.

And he hadn’t even thought twice.

She worked through lunch. Didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. Just kept her head down, her expression blank, her hands steady. But inside, something had shifted. Something small, but irreversible.

He thought she was replaceable.

He was going to find out how wrong he was.

The next morning, she arrived at her usual time—fifteen minutes before anyone else. The office was quiet, still soaked in early dawn light. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. She sat at her desk, logged in, and started moving pieces around on his schedule like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Her spine was straighter. Her eyes sharper. She wasn't angry. Not exactly. Anger was too loud, too hot. What she felt was colder, deeper—an indifference blooming like frostbite. She had nothing left to prove. And for the first time, she could see the finish line. She just hadn’t decided when she’d cross it.

Harry didn’t notice at first.

He breezed in just before 8:15, late by his standards, muttering about a traffic delay, waving off the coffee she still—out of sheer habit—had waiting for him. She took notes in a meeting, filed reports, arranged travel for a business trip he wasn’t even sure he wanted to take. It was routine, rote. The same grind she’d mastered over the last two years.

But Harry wasn’t stupid. And despite his best efforts to act otherwise, he noticed things.

He noticed that she didn’t offer him her usual rundown of the day’s meetings. Didn’t preemptively print the documents he’d need before his 10 a.m. Didn’t even ask if he wanted lunch or if she should push back his next call when the morning ran long.

Instead, she moved like a ghost—silent, efficient, detached.

And it irritated the hell out of him.

By the third day of this quiet withdrawal, he found himself pacing behind his desk after everyone had gone, a file open in front of him that he couldn’t bring himself to read. His office was too quiet. The desk outside his door was empty. She’d left promptly at five, like clockwork. No late-night filing, no quiet hum of her music spilling from her earbuds, no light footsteps when she brought him coffee after hours just because she knew he hadn’t eaten.

It wasn’t just her silence. It was her absence, even when she was still here.

The power imbalance he’d once leaned on so comfortably had shifted. And he didn’t know what to do with it.

So, naturally, he got meaner.

It started with nitpicks. “This margin is off.” “You didn’t bcc the right name.” “I said tomorrow, not Thursday.” All minor things—some imagined—but each said with increasing venom.

She didn’t react. Not really. Just fixed it and moved on. Which made him feel even more off-balance.

Then came the mistake.

It wasn’t even a big one. A slide title on the wrong deck. A single date typo buried in a footnote. But it was during a high-stakes pitch meeting—one he was already on edge about. The room was packed: department heads, a few investors, his second-in-command, and of course, her. Standing just to the side, laptop in hand, managing the screen.

He was presenting. She was supporting. It was a rhythm they knew by heart.

Until her voice broke in, gentle but confident. “Just to clarify, that figure includes Q3 projections, not finalized Q2 numbers.”

He turned slowly.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

She blinked. “You mentioned the quarterly report. I just wanted to clarify—”

“I know what I said,” he snapped. “What I don’t understand is why you’re talking like you have any authority to speak in this room.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

She stared at him. The warmth drained from her face like a switch had flipped.

He wasn’t done.

“You’re here to run slides and take notes. Not to correct me mid-pitch. If I wanted your input, I’d have asked for it. Stick to what you’re paid for.”

She said nothing. Just nodded once and backed off.

The presentation ended five minutes later, stiff and awkward. As the room cleared, he caught a few sidelong glances, a few too-quiet murmurs. But he didn’t care. He was still buzzing with that adrenaline of dominance, the way he always did after asserting control. It was familiar. Automatic.

But when he stepped into his office and saw her already there, standing near his desk, arms folded, expression unreadable—something in him pulled tight.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“I just corrected the slide title,” she said. “You had the wrong quarter listed. It wasn’t to embarrass you.”

He shrugged, brushing past her toward his desk. “Then maybe next time you’ll think before you speak.”

She didn’t move. “You know, I’ve put up with a lot. The mood swings. The condescension. The hours.”

He looked up, something cold flashing behind his eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

“Yes,” she said. “There is.”

Her voice was steady. Calm. But there was a crack in it now—a fracture held together by sheer will.

He smiled. But it wasn’t kind. “Do you really think you matter here? You’re just another name on the payroll. Don’t mistake necessity for value.”

That was it.

The final blow.

And this time, she didn’t swallow it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t cry.

She laughed.

It was soft at first. Disbelieving. Then colder, darker—a sound pulled from some place buried deep inside her. It startled him. He hadn’t heard her laugh in weeks. Hadn’t seen her smile, not for real, in even longer.

“You know what, Harry?” she said, her voice low and tired and done. “I hope one day you realize what you lost. Not because I want to be missed. But because I want you to feel it. Just once.”

She reached for her badge. Popped it off. Placed it on his desk like it weighed nothing. Like he weighed nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She walked out of his office without another word. Past the desk she’d kept too tidy for too long. Past the glass doors. Past the stunned stares of a few late-working staff who turned just in time to see the ghost of Hurricane Styles’ assistant walking away with her head high.

No notice.

No drama.

Just a clean break.

And Harry, still behind his desk, still holding that last insult in his mouth like poison, realized something too late:

He’d finally broken her.

But she wasn’t the one who was going to pay for it.

He was.

Harry’s POV

He told himself he didn’t care.

Said it out loud, even. In his office, to his reflection, to the empty silence that used to hold her soft footsteps and the quiet rustle of papers being filed. He shrugged when Mitch asked what happened, rolled his eyes when Sarah from HR hinted they should reach out—just in case she had any materials to hand over. He waved it all off.

“I’ll find someone better,” he said flatly, sipping the wrong coffee made by a temp who had no idea he hated hazelnut. “She wasn’t indispensable.”

But the lie sat sour on his tongue.

The first week without her was logistical chaos. The temp assistant—two years younger and painfully eager—couldn’t read his tone, couldn’t keep up, and worst of all, kept asking questions. Dumb ones. Obvious ones. Ones she would have known before he even opened his mouth. The schedules were off. Calls missed. A client dinner was double-booked and he had to personally call and apologize.

He hadn’t made a personal apology in years.

By Friday, he’d snapped three pens in half and raised his voice more times than he could count. He barked at the intern for misprinting a memo and nearly slammed the door on Mitch when he came in with a project update.

The tension he used to wear like armor suddenly felt suffocating.

He lasted exactly six minutes in his office on Monday before storming out. The blinds were still half-drawn the way she always left them—just enough light, not enough glare. Her chair was pushed in, perfectly aligned with the desk. Her spare cardigan was gone, but the scent of her lotion still lingered faintly in the air. Clean. Subtle. Warm.

It punched something in his chest he didn’t know was tender.

He moved into the boardroom instead. Set up camp there like a child refusing to sleep in his own bed after a nightmare.

By week two, everyone knew not to mention her name.

He still caught himself pausing at 11 a.m., waiting for the sound of her humming while she filed. She used to hum the same tune when she was stressed—always off-key, always quiet. He never commented on it, never even acknowledged it. But now the silence grated.

So did the coffee.

He tried to make it the way she used to—just once. Burnt the beans. Stained his shirt.

The spiral was slow but steady. Every little thing reminded him of her. The seat in the elevator she used to lean against when they left late. The branded notepad she always carried, filled with tiny, organized handwriting. The pen she once borrowed and never returned—still in his drawer, chewed at the tip, because she had the annoying habit of biting pens when deep in thought.

And then there were the flashbacks.

The kind that crept up when he least expected them—sharp, vivid, unforgiving.

There was the day he’d come in with a migraine, growling at anyone who dared breathe too loud. She hadn’t said a word. Just dimmed the lights, closed his door, and left a cold compress on his desk. He never thanked her. Never even looked up.

Another time, she brought him soup. Chicken and rice. From some little place two blocks over. He hadn’t eaten all day, his voice was raw from back-to-back calls, and when she placed the container down with a quiet “It’s not a big deal,” he’d snapped.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She hadn’t argued. Just nodded and walked out. But she never brought him soup again.

He should’ve said something then.

He didn’t.

Three weeks after she left, he found her coffee mug still in the back of the cupboard—white ceramic with a tiny chip on the handle. She used to joke that it was her lucky cup, and if it ever broke completely, she’d “take the hint and leave.”

He nearly dropped it.

Instead, he placed it back on the shelf like it was glass-thin, like it could still be salvaged if he just didn’t touch it too hard.

It was around week four when the real punch came.

He wasn’t even looking for it. He was on a news site, scrolling mindlessly, avoiding the stack of files he couldn’t bring himself to organize because no one was around to nag him about deadlines. And then he saw her.

It was a photo embedded in an article—some small piece about a new start-up shaking up the tech world. He wouldn’t have clicked it normally. But her face was there, radiant and easy, mid-laugh. Candid. Honest.

She was standing outside a building he vaguely recognized, arm looped with another woman, both of them holding champagne flutes. The caption said she’d joined the company as their new operations director.

Operations director.

She hadn’t just moved on. She’d leveled up.

And she looked...happy. Not performative, not polite—genuinely alive in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Her shoulders weren’t tight. Her eyes weren’t dull. She wasn’t tired. She was free.

That was when it hit him.

He didn’t just lose his assistant.

He lost the one person who gave a damn.

The one who saw him—flaws, fury, all of it—and still showed up, day after day. Not because she had to. But because, at some point, she’d cared.

He used to believe fear was the best motivator. That respect was earned through intimidation. That keeping people at arm’s length meant control. He thought he was untouchable.

But the echo of her laugh still lived in these halls.

And her absence was loud enough to shatter glass.

The days dragged after that. He stopped snapping at people—not because he felt better, but because he didn’t feel anything at all. His office was cold. Clinical. The chair outside his door stayed empty most days, the temp too afraid to sit there for long. The entire floor felt off-balance, like the center of gravity had shifted and no one could quite walk straight.

Every time he saw her picture in that article, he stared at it a little longer.

He kept it open in a background tab.

It was pathetic. He knew that.

But it was also the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because if she could move on...then maybe, maybe there was still a sliver of something he could hold onto.

Maybe redemption wasn’t off the table.

But it wouldn’t come easy. And it wouldn’t come fast.

He’d burned that bridge with a blowtorch.

Now the question was whether there was anything left to rebuild.

The first text he sent was short.

Harry: I’m sorry.

No punctuation. No context. Just two words, tossed into the void of read receipts and silence. It stayed unread. A gray “Delivered” glaring back at him from his phone screen for hours, then days. He told himself maybe she changed her number. Maybe she didn’t see it. But deep down, he knew better.

The second message came two days later.

Harry: I didn’t mean what I said that day. I was angry. At myself. Not you.

Still nothing.

Then came the email. He drafted it at 2 a.m., sitting in the same boardroom he’d commandeered as his cave ever since her departure. He read it over twenty times before sending.

Subject: I owe you an apology.

“Y/N,

I’ve rewritten this a dozen times. Nothing feels like enough. I was wrong. About a lot.

You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. You weren’t just efficient, you were essential—to the company, yes, but also to me. I just didn’t realize it until you were gone.

I miss your steadiness. Your patience. Your fucking humming that used to drive me insane and now echoes in my head like a ghost.

I said things I regret. Things I can’t take back. But I need you to know—you mattered. You mattered more than I ever let myself admit.

If nothing else, let me say this to your face. You don’t owe me anything, but I hope you’ll give me five minutes.

H”

It bounced. Full inbox.

She’d blocked his email.

The next step should’ve felt like a line crossed. But he was already halfway through the wreckage of what he’d ruined—what was one more dent to the ego?

He showed up at her apartment building. Waited outside like a fool with a takeaway coffee and a note in his pocket he didn’t dare hand over.

She didn’t come out.

He tried again. And again.

Once, he saw the curtain shift. A shadow behind the glass. But the door never opened. She never came down.

He stood there for fifteen minutes longer than he should’ve, heart in his throat, hands freezing around the paper cup. And when it became clear she wasn’t going to face him, he tucked the note under the doormat and left without looking back.

He never found it there again.

Still, he couldn’t stop.

He checked her company’s press page obsessively. Memorized every project announcement, every update. She looked like she belonged there. Like she was thriving. There was a confidence in her posture that hadn’t existed when she worked for him. Like she finally had room to breathe.

It should’ve made him happy.

Instead, it gutted him.

The opportunity for confrontation didn’t come until six weeks later. It was an industry networking mixer, full of self-congratulatory execs and overpriced cocktails. He wasn’t planning to go, but Mitch had dragged him out—said he’d been a recluse long enough.

He hadn’t expected her to be there.

She wasn’t even in the main ballroom when he saw her—she was out on the terrace, standing by the railing with a drink in hand, backlit by soft string lights and city glow. Her hair was pulled up. Her dress was simple, but elegant. Understated power.

She looked…whole.

For a moment, he froze. Thought about turning around. Maybe he should’ve. But then she turned slightly, laughing at something someone said beside her, and the sound cracked something open in his chest.

So he walked.

His heart thudded with every step. His palms were damp. There were a thousand versions of this conversation he’d rehearsed in his head, but now, with her just a few feet away, he couldn’t remember any of them.

She noticed him before he could say anything. Her smile faded, her gaze hardening into something unreadable.

He stopped a foot away, gave her space. She didn’t move.

“Hi,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“Harry.” Her voice was calm. Unmoved. The ice in her drink clinked as she swirled it slowly.

He waited. Nothing. No warmth. No invitation.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I was awful to you,” he said finally. “I don’t even know where to start—”

“You don’t have to,” she cut in. “You said everything you wanted to the day I quit.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t care.”

It landed like a slap. Clean. Honest. Brutal.

She took a sip of her drink and looked past him, like she was already bored with the conversation. He could see the shift in her—the absence of the girl who used to hesitate before speaking, who used to shrink under the weight of his moods. That girl was gone. This version of her stood taller. Spoke clearer. Didn’t flinch.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I was scared,” he said. “Of needing you. Of how much I depended on you. I pushed you because I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “So you punished me because you couldn’t manage your own emotions?”

“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t see it then. But I do now.”

She stared at him, the silence stretching thin between them.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he added. “I’m not asking for things to go back to the way they were. I just needed you to know I’m sorry. That I miss you. That losing you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

Something flickered across her face—small, fleeting. A crack in the armor. But it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“You miss the way I made your life easier. The way I knew your schedule, your moods, your coffee order. You miss the convenience.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I miss you. The person. The presence. The way you gave a shit even when I didn’t deserve it. The way you challenged me without ever raising your voice. The way you—” His voice broke. “The way you saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.”

A beat of silence.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

“I used to think,” she said quietly, “that if I worked hard enough, stayed long enough, you’d see it. That you’d see me. Not just as an assistant, but as a human being.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“But I realized,” she continued, “that the problem wasn’t my effort. It was your inability to recognize value unless it screamed. I had to break to get your attention.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her glass. “I’m not angry anymore, Harry. I’m not bitter. I just… don’t want to go back to a place that made me feel small.”

“I don’t want that either,” he said. “If there’s even the smallest chance… I’ll do whatever it takes. Not to get the old dynamic back, but to build something better. On your terms.”

She looked up at him then, really looked at him.

And for the first time, he saw the cost. The weight she’d carried. The cracks she’d had to seal on her own.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m ready,” she said. “If I’m ready.”

“I know.” He stepped back slightly, giving her room. “But I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, small and measured.

He left her there, under the soft lights, the night cool against his skin.

For the first time, he didn’t walk away with answers. But he walked away knowing something had shifted.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

The days that followed were quiet. Not the suffocating kind he’d grown used to, full of silence and unanswered messages, but the kind that forced reflection. He didn’t try to contact her again. Not right away. He didn’t loiter by her building, didn’t send another desperate email. He’d said his piece. Now, he had to prove he meant it.

That started with his own house.

Literally.

The place was a mess—not just physically, but emotionally. It still looked like it belonged to the version of him she’d left: sharp edges, cold surfaces, and schedules that ran tighter than his jawline used to. So he changed it. Started small. New photos on the wall—ones that weren’t just boardroom snapshots and event galas. He framed one of the office holiday party she’d organized three years ago. The one where she wore a ridiculous headband with blinking lights and somehow still managed to look composed.

He made space in his days that didn’t revolve around profit margins and investor calls. Therapy twice a week, no excuses. He started having actual conversations with his team. Not just directives. Not just performance reviews. Real check-ins. The kind he used to think were a waste of time.

He showed up. And not in the grand, dramatic gestures he might’ve leaned on before. No flowers sent to her new office. No extravagant apologies. Just quiet, consistent effort.

And slowly, word got around.

Mitch mentioned over lunch that she’d heard. That someone on her team had passed along the news—Harry wasn’t the same. He didn’t snap anymore. He listened more than he talked. And most shocking of all, he’d started mentoring junior staff.

“It’s not a magic trick,” Mitch had said, half-smiling. “But people are noticing.”

Still, she didn’t reach out. And he didn’t expect her to. He wasn’t owed anything.

So he focused on what he could control.

Then, one afternoon in early spring, a message arrived. Short. Neutral.

Y/N: Can you talk?

He stared at it for five minutes before replying.

Harry: Anytime.

They met at a quiet café halfway between her office and his. It wasn’t a date. She made that clear in her tone, her posture, the space she kept between them. But she’d come. And that was something.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, sipping her tea.

“I’ve had a lot to make up for.”

“I didn’t reach out because I needed space. I still do. But I’ve been watching. And I see the work.”

He nodded, unsure if it was his place to speak.

“This doesn’t mean anything changes,” she added. “But I want to see if… maybe we can start from zero. Slowly.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Whatever pace you need.”

They didn’t talk much that day. But the door had opened.

Over the next few weeks, they found a strange new rhythm. Occasional texts. Brief lunches. No talk of the past unless she brought it up. He learned to follow her lead, to listen without trying to fix or justify.

It wasn’t easy. He’d built his career on control, on always having the answer. But this wasn’t a boardroom. This was trust—raw, slow-growing, and fragile.

One afternoon, she visited his office. Unannounced.

“I was nearby,” she said, though the tremor in her voice hinted at something deeper. She looked around. The space had changed since she’d last seen it. Softer lighting. Fewer screens. A photo of his niece on the shelf, grinning with a missing front tooth.

“You’ve changed,” she said after a pause.

“I had to.”

“For you?”

“For me. But also because if I hadn’t, I would’ve lost everything. Not just you. Myself.”

She nodded slowly, then held out a folder.

“I’ve been working on something. A proposal.”

He blinked, surprised, then took it. Her name was on the first page. Director of Strategic Initiatives.

“This isn’t you asking for your old job back,” he said, flipping through it.

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s me offering to build something with you. As equals. Or not at all.”

He smiled then. Not the smug, closed-lip smirk she used to hate, but something softer. More real.

“I’d be lucky to have you.”

“You’d be smart,” she corrected.

He laughed, and for the first time in a long while, so did she.

The official announcement went out a month later. She’d accepted the position—but not in his division. She’d have her own team. Her own budget. Full autonomy. And he made it clear, in both the press release and the internal memo, that her success would have his support, not his interference.

Their collaboration started professionally. Emails, strategy meetings, pitch reviews. But something unspoken lingered beneath it all. A current. A history neither of them dared touch—until the night of the fundraiser.

It was raining. Of course it was.

He wasn’t sure if she’d come. It was a high-profile event, black tie, every reason for her to avoid it. But then she walked in.

Black dress. Hair down this time. Calm, confident. She scanned the room and found him almost immediately.

Later, when most of the guests had filtered out and the ballroom was half-empty, she found him on the balcony, staring out into the storm.

“I used to think rain was bad luck,” she said, stepping beside him.

He turned. “And now?”

“I think maybe it just… washes away the noise.”

He watched her for a long moment. Then finally, voice low, he said, “I meant it. Everything I said. That day.. I still mean it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him, eyes searching.

“You’re still a bit of a hurricane, Harry.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me be the one to rebuild what I tore down.”

She studied him. The vulnerability. The steadiness he hadn’t had before.

“I don’t need saving,” she said.

“I know. You never did.”

“But I might be ready to build something. Not because I miss what we had. But because I see who you’re trying to become.”

“And who are you?” he asked softly.

She tilted her head. “Someone who won’t settle. Not for less than mutual respect. Not for silence when there should be honesty. Not for anything less than real.”

“Then I’ll meet you there,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

The moment stretched.

And then, under the city lights and the steady hum of rain, she stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t assume. Just waited.

She reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. Her kiss was gentle. No heat or desperation. Just truth.

When they pulled apart, she smiled—small, certain.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive everything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“But it means I see you. And I believe you see me now too.”

He nodded, eyes stinging.

“I always did,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to show it.”

She touched his hand, lacing their fingers briefly before stepping back.

“Start with showing up,” she said. “Keep doing that. Day by day.”

“I will.”

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was chasing her shadow. He was standing beside her.

Present.

Ready.

This time, they’d build it right.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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[writeriguess]

Hey dearie! So happy you’re writing again

Could I request a story, where Reader and Katsuki go undercover to get some intel from a head of a Yakuza gang, pre-relationship

Reader has to seduce him and act all flirty and let him touch her, while she coaxes out the information, while Katsuki acts like her bodyguard

Even though he pretends he doesn’t care, it kills him inside to see Reader being touched innapropriately for the mission

When they finally get out, he’s all pissed and then he gets her to his home and barks at her to take off that flimsy clothing and her make up, and then she quietly asks him to help her wash away the touch of that other man, which he happily obliges to

Thank you!!!

Dangerous Liaisons

The dimly lit lounge reeked of expensive cigars and desperation. The soft hum of jazz music played in the background as you adjusted the slit of your dress, making sure it showed just enough to keep your target interested but not too much to appear easy. Your mission was simple: coax out intel from Hideki Sakamura, a prominent Yakuza boss suspected of trafficking dangerous quirk-enhancing drugs. Katsuki was your backup, disguised as your bodyguard, eyes constantly scanning the room for any threats.

"You sure you can handle this, princess?" he murmured before you approached the private booth.

"Of course," you replied smoothly, flipping your hair. "Try not to look so murderous, bodyguard-san."

"Tch." He clicked his tongue, arms crossing over his broad chest as he stood behind you like an intimidating wall of muscle.

Sakamura was an older man in his forties, wearing a tailored black suit, his greasy hair slicked back. His sharp, beady eyes roamed over you like a predator assessing his prey. You slid into the booth beside him, your lips curling into a seductive smile.

"Mr. Sakamura," you purred, resting a delicate hand on his forearm. "You’ve been keeping secrets. And I just hate being kept in the dark."

He chuckled, taking a sip of his whiskey before placing a heavy hand on your thigh. Katsuki shifted behind you, but you shot him a quick look, warning him to stay put.

"Secrets come at a price, sweetheart," Sakamura said, his fingers tracing slow circles on your exposed skin. "You know how business works. You give, I give."

You let out a sultry little laugh, leaning in just enough for your lips to ghost near his ear. "Mmm, I don’t really like giving before receiving," you whispered. "And besides, I have another meeting right after this. Can’t exactly show up looking well-fucked, can I?"

Sakamura’s eyes darkened with intrigue, and he squeezed your thigh. "Shame. I was looking forward to making you scream my name tonight."

Katsuki’s fist clenched at his side, and you could feel his anger vibrating behind you. But you stayed focused, running a finger along Sakamura’s jaw. "Oh, you will," you cooed. "Next time. After you prove to me that you’re worth my time."

"That so?" he smirked, amused.

You tilted your head, batting your lashes. "You wouldn’t ask your best girl to pay upfront, would you?"

His smirk widened before he finally leaned back, swirling his drink. "Alright, sweetheart. I’ll bite. You’re looking for information on the supply route, aren’t you?"

Bingo.

You kept your expression flirtatious, but inside, you were smirking. "Maaaybe~ Depends on what you tell me."

For the next fifteen minutes, he talked. You listened, nodding, purring approval here and there, allowing just enough contact to keep him hooked but never quite giving in.

When you finally got what you needed, you leaned in close, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Next time, I’ll make it worth your while," you promised.

Sakamura grinned, clearly convinced. "I’ll hold you to that."

You slid out of the booth gracefully, walking ahead as Katsuki followed. The moment you stepped outside the lounge and turned the corner into a shadowy alley, you finally let out a breath of relief.

"You alright?" Katsuki asked, voice gruff but concerned.

"Yeah," you nodded, rubbing your thigh where Sakamura had touched you. "Fucking gross, but it worked."

Katsuki exhaled sharply, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Should’ve blown his damn head off."

You smirked, nudging him playfully. "Aww, you worried about me, Bakugou?"

His face turned slightly pink under the streetlights. "Shut up."

You chuckled, walking ahead as he followed, but he stayed close, closer than before. Maybe, just maybe, this mission had stirred something in him.

The car ride was silent.

Katsuki's hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, the muscle in his jaw twitching. You didn’t need to ask what was wrong—his entire being radiated rage.

Not at you. Never at you.

At that slimy bastard who had dared to touch you.

You sat quietly, fingers tracing over the place on your thigh where Sakamura’s hand had rested. It wasn’t the first time you’d gone undercover like this, but it never got easier. The way men like him felt entitled to your body just because they held power made your skin crawl.

Katsuki noticed. Of course, he did.

His eyes flicked toward you at a red light, catching the way your nails dug into your skin. His scowl deepened.

"Tch." He slammed the accelerator the moment the light changed, the car surging forward.

When he pulled up to his apartment building, he didn’t say a word—just got out and waited for you to follow. You hesitated, but the last thing you wanted was to be alone with the lingering touch of another man on you. So, you followed.

Inside, the apartment was exactly what you expected—minimalist, neat, and filled with the scent of burnt caramel from his quirk lingering in the air.

The second the door shut, Katsuki turned to you, eyes blazing.

"Take that shit off," he snapped.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "The fuckin’ dress. That makeup. Get rid of it."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling small under his intense gaze. But then, instead of arguing, your voice softened.

"Will you help me?"

That stopped him in his tracks. His expression flickered—shock, hesitation—before something darker settled in his crimson eyes.

"You serious?" His voice was lower now, rougher.

You nodded. "I just… I don’t wanna feel his hands on me anymore."

The muscle in his jaw ticked, but his anger wasn’t for you. It was for himself—for standing there like a good little bodyguard while that bastard put his hands on you.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. "Yeah, ‘course."

He stepped closer, fingers ghosting over the zipper at your back. You shivered—not from fear, but from the way his touch was the exact opposite of Sakamura’s.

Careful. Controlled. Gentle.

Slowly, he pulled the zipper down, his fingers brushing against your spine. Goosebumps erupted over your skin, but not from disgust. The dress slid off your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you in just your underwear.

Katsuki’s breath hitched, but he didn’t say anything—just grabbed his hoodie from the couch and tugged it over your head. It was warm, soft, safe.

"Bathroom," he muttered.

You followed, standing awkwardly as he turned the shower on, adjusting the temperature. When steam began to rise, he turned to you.

"You want me to leave?" His voice was quiet now, hesitant.

You shook your head. "Stay."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then nodded. He grabbed a washcloth, wet it under the warm water, and stepped closer. His touch was careful, reverent as he wiped away the remnants of Sakamura’s touch—his handprint on your thigh, the lingering scent of cigars on your wrists, the stain of lipstick that felt like a mask you didn’t want to wear anymore.

You stood there, letting him take care of you. Letting him erase everything that made you feel unclean.

Finally, he reached your face, rubbing the cloth over your cheek. His fingers lingered at your jaw, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him.

"You good?" he asked, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You exhaled. "Yeah."

He huffed. "Good. ‘Cause next time, I’m the one goin’ undercover."

You laughed, the first genuine sound you’d made all night. "You? Seducing a Yakuza boss?"

Katsuki scowled. "Damn right. Won’t have to deal with this shit again."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. He cared.

You reached up, fingers brushing over his wrist. "Thank you, Katsuki."

He rolled his eyes, cheeks tinged pink. "Tch. Shut up."

But he didn’t move away. Not yet.

And for once, you didn’t feel like you needed to run from someone’s touch.

Because this was him.

And he would never hurt you.

[champagnevi]

₊✧.⋆˚ yoongi's realization

yoongi, who longed every day for the chance to run into you at work just to see you. even if you didn’t talk, just being in your presence or catching a glimpse of you from afar was enough for him. he liked the way your shoulders relaxed when you were finally off duty, how you always seemed to carry too much in your hands but still managed to smile at whoever passed by. you never noticed it, but you had a habit of humming under your breath when you were focused. he did.

yoongi, who, whenever you were in the same room, couldn’t stop his eyes from constantly seeking you out—just to make sure you were comfortable, that you were okay, or simply to watch you.

yoongi, who always sat at the edge of the room in meetings, but found himself adjusting his seat if it meant a better view of you—never obvious, never too close. just enough. just within reach of your presence.

yoongi, who struggled to express himself with words, but whose quiet “how’ve you been?” always held more weight when it was directed at you. because he meant it.

yoongi, who felt completely satisfied for the rest of the day just from seeing you smile at him, who carried a faint smile on his lips every time he remembered the warmth in your eyes as they met his, the small tilt of your head as you wished him a good day.

yoongi, who started keeping mental notes about the things you liked. the way you took your coffee, the songs you hummed while scrolling through reports, how you always seemed to stretch your legs the exact same way before a mission, like muscle memory.

yoongi, who once overheard you say you didn’t like surprises, and made sure everything he did around you was soft and gradual. no sudden bursts, no unexpected gestures. just quiet consistency. dependability.

yoongi, who started noticing how your voice softened when you talked to him— how you tilted your head, how your smile lingered just a bit longer. he’d replay those little things in his mind, sometimes wondering if he was imagining it. but then he’d see you again, and it would all flood back in.

yoongi, who felt completely satisfied for the rest of the day just from seeing you smile at him. he’d carry that smile with him like a secret tucked in his pocket— pulling it out during long nights in the studio, during lonely missions, during moments when the world felt too cold.

yoongi, who didn’t believe in love at first sight, but who realized that with you, it wasn’t a crash—it was a slow, inevitable unraveling. a warmth that crept in gently, until one day he couldn’t remember what life felt like before it.

yoongi, who got defensive when hoseok approached him, asking about his feelings for you—because he had noticed it too. the way tension seemed to spark whenever you were in the same space, the lingering glances exchanged between you two, subtle but impossible to ignore. Hoseok was both his friend and yours, and he saw right through it.

“it’s kind of obvious, you know.” “what is?” “that you like her.” “i don’t.” “yoongi.” “...shut up.”

yoongi, who denied any possibility that he was in love with you. how could he be? you had never even spent time alone together. maybe he was just drawn to you—you, who were kind to everyone, no matter if you had known them for years or only just met. you, who always offered to help those who needed it. you, who treated everyone with the same respect. you, who noticed the little details that others overlooked. you, who, despite your shyness, always did your best to keep things flowing smoothly. you, who always brought coffee for whoever you were working with first thing in the morning.

yoongi, who stayed up late one night, staring at the lemon cookies you left on his desk. you didn’t say a word, just placed them there with your usual coffee run. but he knew. he remembered mentioning it days ago. and now here it was—your small, thoughtful act, turning an ordinary day into something light, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

yoongi, who went home early that night, only to lie awake for hours, unable to stop thinking about the possibility that what he felt for you was real. could he actually be in love?

yoongi, who tried to rationalize it. how could he be in love? you’d never even been alone together. you were just... kind. but that kindness was different with him. or maybe he just wanted it to be. either way, it clung to him.

yoongi, who was staring at the ceiling, unable to breathe properly. because every moment with you was playing like a film in his head. your laugh. your voice. your softness. the way you always looked back over your shoulder when you walked away. and it was like his heart clicked into place.

yoongi, who got up and went to the studio, thinking maybe music would settle him. but every melody led to you. soft piano chords turned into the way your voice sounded when you said his name. beats matched the rhythm of your footsteps down the hall. lyrics formed from things he wished he could say.

yoongi, who felt a wave of panic crash over him the moment the truth finally sank in.

"shit, I'm in love."

yoongi, who called his therapist the next morning almost embarrassed. almost. but needing someone to say it was okay. that he wasn’t losing control. needing to hear her confirm what he already knew—so he could finally allow himself to feel it, fully and without hesitation.

“it’s okay to be in love, yoongi. it’s okay to feel love. even if it’s terrifying.”

yoongi, who spent the entire week building courage like a man sharpening a blade. he thought about backing out every day. but then he’d see you. you, with your coffee and your tired smile and your hopeful eyes.

yoongi, who approached you on friday, half an hour before your shift ended, heart thudding so hard it echoed in his ears.

you turned, surprised but happy. "hey, you need something?"

he nodded slowly, almost amused with himself, almost shy.

"yeah... i was wondering..." a pause. a breath. "would you like to go get a coffee with me?"

you blinked. and then— you smiled. that same smile that had been haunting his songs, steadying his heartbeat, reminding him what it felt like to want something just for himself.

"i’d like that."

[sasheemo]

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 1

Word count: 5.3k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

Four months. That’s how long it’s been since you stepped into the quiet, modern house nestled at the end of a well-kept street. Four months since you met Nicholas, bright-eyed and full of questions, the kind of kid who could win over even the most reluctant babysitter. And four months since you met his mother, Agatha Harkness.

Agatha had been polite, professional, and just distant enough to make her presence intoxicating. At first, you told yourself it was nothing, just admiration for someone so self-assured, so obviously in control of her world. But as the weeks passed, admiration turned into fascination, and fascination into a quiet, gnawing ache you couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t as if the two of you shared many conversations. Agatha kept things brief—efficient, almost clinical. A quick rundown of Nicholas’ dinner preferences and bedtime routine, a reminder to call if anything urgent came up. She never offered more than the bare minimum needed to keep things running smoothly, yet her presence made every exchange feel heavier than it should. 

You tried not to think about her too much. Tried to focus on Nicholas, the job, anything else. But ignoring Agatha Harkness was like trying to ignore gravity - inescapable, pulling you in whether you wanted it or not. 

It wasn’t just her appearance - though that certainly didn’t help - it was the way she occupied space, commanding attention without effort. The way her gaze would flick to you, sharp and assessing, like she was filing away every detail for later consideration.

And when she left… she didn’t just leave. She left behind. The faint scent of her perfume, rich and warm, clinging to the air long after the door had closed behind her. The lingering echo of her voice, low and smooth, a melody that at times could feel almost too calculated to be accidental.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just a natural reaction to being around someone like her: refined, confident, and utterly out of reach. But the longer you spent in her home, the harder it became to convince yourself of that, especially when so much about her remained shrouded in mystery.

You had no idea what she did for a living, only that it involved late-night calls, countless virtual meetings, a constant stream of emails at all hours, and events that demanded an air of authority as much as they did elegance. 

She was always impeccably dressed, whether she was working from home or heading out for an event: power suits tailored to perfection, silk shirts and blouses that radiated precision as sharp as the cut of her blazers, and fitted dresses that looked like they belonged on the cover of a magazine.

She exuded the kind of confidence that made you certain she held a position of influence, something important, something that carried weight. CEO, maybe? Or some high-ranking executive? It would explain the polished demeanor, the frustration that would sometimes edge into her voice during a call you definitely  weren’t meant to overhear, and the meticulous organization of her home office. 

Then again, she had an air of mystery that didn’t quite fit neatly into the corporate box. She was decisive, yes, but there was something else beneath it, something restrained, like she was only showing a fraction of what she was truly capable of.

You didn’t even know Agatha’s exact age. There were old photos scattered around the house, most of them of Nicholas as a baby, a few of her alongside Rio, her ex-wife. You’d caught glimpses of them during one of Nicholas’ enthusiastic storytelling tangents, the kind of childlike recounting that brought those still frames to life. Rio looked noticeably younger in the pictures, which only deepened the intrigue surrounding Agatha. How old was she? Late forties? Early fifties? 

Not that it mattered, or at least… it shouldn’t have. But the more time you spent in her orbit, the harder it became to ignore just how much space she occupied in your thoughts. It was unprofessional, irrational, and entirely out of your control, as if every little detail about her demanded a corner of your attention whether you wanted it to or not.

The first time you met, you’d thought she was intimidating. There was something about the sharpness in her gaze, the way she seemed to size you up as if you were being evaluated for a job far more critical than babysitting. 

You’d left the interview certain she didn’t think much of you. But then she’d hired you.

To be fair, you hadn’t exactly taken the job because of your love for children. Babysitting seemed like an easy way to make some extra cash while juggling your morning part-time job. You hadn’t expected to enjoy it, much less grow attached to Nicholas.

But Nicholas wasn’t like other kids. He was curious, creative, and so full of energy that you couldn’t help but be drawn in. He’d ask you about your favorite books, try to teach you the names of constellations from his room, and once insisted on making you a friendship bracelet out of beads and string.

And then there were the quieter moments. Like the time he’d curled up beside you on the couch after a rough day at school, falling asleep mid-sentence while you read his favorite book. Or the time he’d asked, out of the blue, “Do you think my mom gets lonely when I’m at school?”.

You hadn’t known how to answer that one.

Nicholas made the job feel… easy. Comforting, even. But his mother? She made it kind of impossible.

Every time you walked into her home, you’d feel her presence. Not physically, she was rarely around long enough for that, but in the little things she left behind, subtle markers of her existence woven into the very own fabric of the house. 

The low hum of her voice drifting from the upstairs study during late-night calls, words too muffled to make out but carrying a cadence of control that made you pause, just to listen. The faint impression of her meticulousness in the perfectly aligned cushions on the couch, the neatly stacked mail on the counter, the absence of even a stray sock or misplaced book.

Then there was the way her heels clicked against the floor when she came downstairs, the sound crisp yet unhurried. She didn’t rush, Agatha Harkness was not the kind of person who rushed. Her movements seemed to shape the rhythm of the house itself, setting a quiet standard for everything and everyone in her space.

Soon, you began picking up on details you had no business noticing. Small, fleeting moments that clung to the edges of your thoughts like whispers you couldn’t quite ignore. Like, the slight smirk she gave when Nicholas said something clever, a mixture of pride and amusement softening her features. Or the way she adjusted her hair when she was stressed, tucking loose strands behind her ear with a practiced motion, revealing the elegant curve of her neck.

And then there were the more unconscious gestures, each one driving you wild in its own very excruciating way. The quiet rhythm of her foot tapping against the kitchen floor when she sipped her coffee between meetings. The faint click of her tongue against her lips when Nicholas tested her patience, a subtle attempt to hold back words she clearly wanted to let loose. The way she stood when she was lost in thought, her arms loosely crossed as one finger absently brushed against her lips, almost as if she was tasting the edge of an unspoken idea. 

And her laugh. God, her laugh. It wasn’t often that Nicholas managed to coax it out of her, but when he did, it was warm and rich, a sound that lingered long after she left the room.

Everything about her seemed carefully curated, controlled at all times. And yet, in those instants, you saw something else. A woman who, despite all her poise and precision, carried the weight of something she never let anyone else see.

You weren’t supposed to think about her like this. Not when she was the mother of the child you babysat. Not when every interaction with her reminded you of just how far apart your worlds were. Not when she was so far out of your league, it was laughable.

She is older, accomplished, and entirely unattainable. The kind of woman who probably spends her evenings at upscale dinners or in rooms filled with people who match her level of sophistication. Women who are successful, and as captivating as she is, people she could meet as equals.

And who are you? Someone who stumbles over your words if she so much as glances your way for too long. Someone whose idea of ambition is stringing together part-time jobs to pay the bills. 

It isn’t just that she is out of your league, it’s like she is playing a completely different game.

But that didn’t stop your mind from wandering. 

You knew it was ridiculous to even entertain the idea of her seeing you as anything more than a babysitter. And yet, in the quiet moments, when her voice lingered in your head or her laugh replayed itself unbidden, the thought of her crept in, no matter how hard you tried to push it away.

It didn’t help that most of the nights you were working at her house were predictable, almost comforting in their routine: dinner, homework, reading or watching a movie with Nicholas. A lovely rhythm, easy and unassuming. 

Except for Fridays.

Fridays were different. Fridays were harder. Fridays were the nights when Agatha didn’t stay holed up in her study, immersed in work or late-night calls. No, she would step out in one of her perfectly tailored outfits, leaving behind a quiet hum in the air, like the house itself was holding its breath in her absence.

And like clockwork, every Friday night, when she walked out the door, you’d find yourself wondering. Where was she going? Who was she meeting? What would it be like to occupy even a fraction of her time? Did she let others see pieces of herself you’d only glimpsed in passing? Did she laugh with them the way she sometimes laughed with Nicholas? 

The questions gnawed at you in ways you hated to admit, piling up in your mind uninvited and unrelenting, until all you could do was let them sit there, unanswered and far beyond your reach.

“Get a grip.” you mutter to yourself as you approach the house, tugging your hoodie tighter against the evening chill. But you can’t shake the feeling that this Friday, like all the others, will leave you tangled in questions you have no right to ask, about a life that’s so close yet impossibly far away.

When you reach the door, you pause, taking a breath to steady yourself. You knock and when Agatha opens the door, you momentarily forget how to breathe.

She stands before you in a deep navy suit, the tailored jacket hugging her form perfectly, the sharp lines of her trousers elongating her already commanding presence. A delicate gold chain rests against her collarbone, catching the light every time she moves, and her fingers gleam with matching gold rings. Her hair is swept back, leaving a few strands to frame her face, and her pointy black heels click faintly as she steps aside to let you in.

“Evening, hon.” she greets, her voice a smooth hum that settles in the space between you like a low melody. Her gaze sweeps over you, unreadable as always, but you catch it - a flicker of something in the corner of her mouth, an almost-smile that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Hi.” The word slips out, and you pray she doesn’t notice the slight quiver in your voice. You grip the strap of your backpack a little tighter, as if that will steady you.

Stepping inside and closing the door, you let the familiar warmth of the house wash over you, the faint sound of Nicholas’ laughter from the living room grounding you just enough. You focus on it, using the noise as a lifeline to ignore the way your pulse quickens in her presence.

Agatha moves toward the hall mirror, tilting her head as she checks her lipstick. The movement is casual, something you’ve seen her do countless times in the past months, and yet your eyes are drawn to her like a magnet.

“You know the drill.” she says suddenly, her voice breaking the silence and startling you just enough to snap your attention away. She doesn’t turn, her focus still on her reflection, but her tone commands yours. “Dinner’s already set out for Nicky, and he’s got homework to finish before he’s allowed any TV. I should be back around midnight, but call if you need anything.”

“Got it.” you nod quickly, keeping your response as short as possibile, not fully trusting your voice.

As she turns to reach for her bag, your ‘Friday thoughts’ spill out right on time, tumbling over themselves in a chaotic rush you can’t seem to contain. Your weekly ritual of overthinking, courtesy of one Agatha Harkness.

Where is she going tonight? Another date? She has to be dating. It would explain the Friday nights routine, the flawless outfits, the faint whiff of perfume that lingers long after she leaves. Nobody has ever come home with her or even close to the house in the past months. Does that mean the dates go poorly? Does she cut them short, brushing the other person off with the same composed finality she seems to apply to everything else? Would she even bring someone back here? 

Probably not. No, if anything, she’d go to their place. Some immaculate apartment, probably, with clean lines and expensive furniture. Somewhere she could walk in, take control, and leave just as effortlessly when she wanted to.

You shake your head, trying to banish the images from your mind. They always feel so intrusive, like you’re stepping into corners of her life you have no right to imagine.

Agatha’s voice breaks the silence once again, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Don’t let him con you into staying up late.” she says, a playful lilt in her tone as she heads toward the door.

Your lips curve in a faint smile as you manage a reply, your voice steadier than you expect. “I’m not so easily corrupted, you know.”

She pauses in the doorway and turns back slightly, her gaze fixated on yours not long enough to offer answers, but just enough to stir more questions.

And then, she’s gone. The front door clicking shut and the soft echo of her heels fading into the night feeling so anticlimactic compared to the storm she leaves behind in your head. You stand there for a moment, staring at the door. 

What is it about her that makes you care so much? Why does she take up so much space in your mind when you know, deep down, that you’re nothing more than the babysitter?

But even that thought doesn’t hold. If you’re just the babysitter, then why does her gaze linger more now than it did in the beginning, like a challenge, like she’s daring you to figure her out? Why does it feel like the tension between you has been building over the weeks, simmering beneath the surface, a game you don’t fully understand but can’t help wanting to play?

And why, in those moments, does it feel like she’s not just looking at you, but through you, as if she’s started seeing pieces of you that even you aren’t ready to admit?

It wasn’t always like this. At first, her attention felt brief, almost incidental - a fleeting glance here, a curt smile there. But now, there’s something deliberate about it, something that leaves you questioning everything every time you’re near her. 

But that’s all it is: questions. Never answers. And it’s maddening.

The hours pass quietly after Agatha leaves. Nicholas breezes through his homework with minimal resistance, though not without a few dramatic groans and exaggerated complaints. Dinner is uneventful, save for a minor debate over whether carrots are better raw or roasted.

By the time the clock strikes nine, Nicholas is sprawled on the couch beside you, his favorite blanket draped haphazardly across both of you. He’s already halfway to sleep, eyelids fluttering as he fights the inevitable.

“One more movie.” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy. “I promise I’ll go to bed right after.”

You tilt your head, arching an eyebrow as you shoot him a skeptical look, the kind of look you’ve perfected over the months, the one that makes him squirm just enough to admit he’s pushing his luck.

He flashes a sheepish grin, clutching the blanket tighter.

You shake your head but don’t press the matter, reaching for the remote to start the movie. He inches closer as it plays on, the way he always does when he’s tired but too stubborn to admit it. You feel the weight of his trust in the quiet way he settles, his breathing growing slower, his eyes fluttering closed more often than they stay open.

As minutes pass, Nicholas’ resolve doesn’t hold. Not even halfway through, his head tips against your arm, his breathing evening out into the quiet rhythm of sleep.

You glance down at him, his small frame curled against your side, and a wave of warmth washes over you at the sight. With a quiet sigh, you adjust slightly, sliding an arm around him. He leans into you instinctively, his trust so natural it tugs at something deep within you. A faint smile touches your lips as you shift your gaze back to the screen.

But your attention falters. The soft hum of the house, the rhythmic flicker of light from the TV, and the quiet cadence of Nicholas’ steady breathing create a cocoon of calm. The atmosphere wraps around you, soothing and lulling, until your eyelids grow heavier with each passing moment.

You try to resist, telling yourself you’ll move in just a minute, maybe two. But before you know it, sleep creeps in.

The soft click of the front door opening stirs you awake a couple of hours later.

For a moment, you lie frozen, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. Then, the faint sound of heels clicking on the floor reaches your ears, steady and unhurried, until Agatha steps into view.

Her suit only slightly rumpled and her hair just a little out of place, as the tired look in her eyes shifts to something softer when she takes in the scene before her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” she mutters, though her voice carries more amusement than irritation.

You blink, sitting up carefully to avoid jostling Nicholas. “I, uh… he insisted on watching the movie, and I guess…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely at the blanket.

Her lips twitch, hovering on the edge of a smile. “So much for not being so easily corrupted.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing a hand over the blanket. “I’d say I wasn’t corrupted, I was just… strategically outplayed.”

Agatha lets out a playful scoff before her gaze flicks back to Nicholas, and for a moment, something in her demeanor shifts. The dim light of the living room catches her profile, tracing the delicate lines of her features, fleeting but unmistakably tender.

She crosses the room and kneels beside the couch. With a soft touch, she brushes a hand over Nicholas’ shoulder, murmuring his name in a low, soothing tone until his eyes flutter open. Groggy but obedient, he reaches for her hand, and she helps him to his feet.

You hover awkwardly by the couch, unsure whether to follow or retreat. But when Agatha rises and leads Nicholas toward the stairs, you find yourself trailing behind them instinctively. Agatha walks beside her son, her hand lightly resting on his back, steadying him as he shuffles up the steps rubbing his sleepy eyes.

At the top of the stairs, she pauses in front of his bedroom, guiding him inside. You standing awkwardly by the doorway, caught between the pull of the moment and the nagging sense that you’re intruding on something sacred, watching as she tucks him in. 

When Agatha finally steps back, she lets out a quiet sigh, brushing her hand across her son’s hair one last time. She moves toward you without looking, gently nudging the door closed behind her with the faintest click. 

For a moment, the two of you remain in the hallway, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable. It gives you just enough time to glance down at yourself. 

Comfy sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, and the faintest smudge of Nicholas’ dinner on your sleeve - a smudge you hadn’t noticed until now. It’s not awful, not disheveled, but standing next to her, you feel like a rough pencil sketch beside a masterpiece.

There’s no denying it, the gap between you. She’s poised in a way that seems effortless, innate. There’s this weight to her sophistication, not showy but intrinsic, as if it’s simply woven into the fabric of who she is.

It makes you feel impossibly small. A painful reminder that she’s untouchable, a fantasy so far out of reach it feels foolish to even consider.

Agatha leans lightly against the wall, her arms crossing in a way that feels unhurried, almost lazy, a stark contrast to the usual precision she carries herself with. Yet even in this quiet repose, she doesn’t lose an ounce of her commanding presence.

She exhales softly, a subtle sound that fully draws your attention. It’s like she’s letting go of the weight of the night piece by piece, and it feels oddly grounding, a rare glimpse into something unspoken.

“Long day?” you ask breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you intend, almost hesitant.

At the sound, her eyes snap up to meet yours, a flicker of surprise crossing her face as if she’d forgotten you were there. It’s fleeting, quickly masked by a practiced neutrality, but for that brief moment, she looks almost caught off guard, as though your presence is something she hadn’t actually accounted for.

“Longer than it was worth.” she replies, her tone low and even.

You hesitate as the air between you grows thick, pressing down on your chest until, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out. 

“Bad date?” they tumble from your lips unbidden, and the moment they’re out, your heart lodges itself firmly in your throat.

For a moment, the hallway feels suspended in time, her gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that has your pulse pounding in your ears. Agatha tilts her head slightly, her eyebrow arching as she studies you, the corner of her lips curving upward - not quite a smile, more a deliberate flicker of amusement.

“Bold of you to assume it was a date.” she says, her voice low and tinged with intrigue, as if daring you to explain yourself.

Your cheeks burn, but you can’t backpedal now. “I mean—it’s Friday, and you looked so—uh, dressed up…”

“Careful, hon.” she interrupts smoothly, her tone laced with teasing. “Flattery will only get you so far.”

You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of how her perfume lingers faintly in the air between you. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

Agatha cuts you off with a low, rich laugh, the sound curling around you like smoke, warm and unshakable. It’s the kind of laugh that feels like a statement, as though she knows exactly how flustered she’s made you and isn’t above enjoying it.

She doesn’t say a word, but her gaze stays on you for just a beat longer than necessary, her eyes catching yours in a way that feels way too deliberate. Then, with a grace so effortless it almost feels unfair, she pushes off the wall, brushing past you as she moves downstairs.

You linger for a moment in the hallway, trying to steady your breath after the quiet intensity of the exchange. But when you finally descend the stairs, the soft clink of glass pulls your attention to the kitchen.

That’s exactly where you find Agatha, illuminated by the soft glow of the light above the sink. She’s holding a glass of red wine in one hand, her other arm braced casually on the countertop.

Once again, you find yourself hesitatingly watching her from the doorway. Your gaze settles on her hand, on the way the graceful tilt of her wrist makes the wine swirl in the glass.

“Done sneaking around?” she teases without turning to look at you, her tone low and laced with  amusement.

Your cheeks flush, and you step into the kitchen, fumbling for an excuse. “I wasn’t sneaking. I just- wanted to say goodnight before I left.”

She finally turns upon hearing your voice, her eyes catching yours with unsettling ease as she leans lazily against the counter, the glass cradled in her hand. “Isn’t that sweet.” she murmurs, her tone softer, thoughtful. “Almost as sweet as falling asleep on the couch with Nicky.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“It—it wasn’t—” you stammer, trying desperately to find your footing. “He was tired, and I guess I was too. It just… happened.”

Her lips curl into the faintest smile, and she takes a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving yours. “No need to be so defensive.” she says, her voice dipping into something almost indulgent. “It’s a good thing. You’re great with him. Not everyone would be.”

The compliment strikes you square in the chest, and for a second, your brain struggles to process it. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re certain she must hear it. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but your words dissolve under the weight of her gaze. It’s calm and far too knowing for your liking, like she’s pulling apart every layer of you with ease.

And then, just as you think the moment can’t possibly get any more overwhelming, she does something that makes your thoughts screech to a halt.

Her tongue flicks over her bottom lip, unhurried and purposeful, as if savoring the last lingering taste of the wine. It’s a fleeting gesture, but one that feels maddeningly intentional, and the way her eyes darken as they hold yours sends a jolt of electricity straight through you.

As if perfectly aware of the effect she’s having on you, her expression shifts. Mischief crosses her features, the corner of her mouth tilting upward in a way that feels more dangerous than playful.

“Maybe” she says, her tone low, teasing, and just a touch too intimate “I should ask you out next Friday.”

The words land like a thunderclap. Your jaw slackens, your brain completely short-circuits, and you’re sure you’ve just imagined it. There’s no way she just said that.

“I—what?” you manage to stammer, your voice barely a whisper, your pulse now hammering in your ears to the point you fear you’ll grow deaf because of it.

Agatha tilts her head, her expression the picture of innocence, though the gleam in her eyes betrays her. “What?” she echoes, as though she has no idea why you’re reacting this way, casually swirling the wine in her glass like she hasn’t just flipped your entire world upside down.

You blink at her, your thoughts spiraling in every possible direction. There’s no way she means it. It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. But the way her eyes hold yours, the subtle curve of her lips, the raw energy she’s exuding - it all feels so charged, that you can’t help but question everything.

Your breath catches again as her smile deepens, and for a moment, you think she might actually say something else, something that’ll either clarify or completely unravel you. 

But instead, she leans back against the counter, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts amusement and intrigue, like she’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You can’t move. You can’t think. All you can do is stand there, your thoughts looping in an endless cycle of ‘What just happened? Did I imagine that? What does she mean?’.

“I should, uh… go.” you finally mumble, retreating toward the door as your brain struggles to keep up with your body.

“Of course.” she says smoothly, her tone as composed as ever. And then, as you reach the door, she adds, “Early shift tomorrow, right? Seven, if I’m not mistaken.”

You freeze, your hand on the doorknob, and glance back at her. “How did you—?”

“You mentioned it once, a couple of months ago.” she replies casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I tend to remember things like that.”

Her gaze lingers just long enough to make your pulse spike up once again before she finally looks away, taking another sip of her wine. “Goodnight, hon.”

You barely even register the door clicking shut behind you. The night air greets you like a slap, cool against your flushed cheeks, but it does absolutely nothing to steady the whirlwind of emotions spiraling inside you. Your feet carry you forward on instinct, each step heavier than the last as her words loop endlessly in your head.

Maybe I should ask you out next Friday.

The sentence hits like a gong, reverberating through your entire body. She remembered your schedule. Not just vaguely, she knew the exact time your shift starts. And then she said… that. 

Was it a joke? A casual tease? A test? A mistake? Was she - no, she didn’t seem drunk.

Your steps quicken, as if you can somehow outrun the storm in your mind, but it’s a losing battle. The echoes of her voice, the deliberate flicker in her gaze, the way she’d licked her lip like she knew exactly what it would do to you. It’s all still there, clinging to you like a second skin.

You stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, pressing both hands to your head like you can physically stop the spiral. “Nope. Nope. Nope. That did not just happen.” you mutter, your voice growing louder with every word as if volume alone will make it less real. “She’s messing with me. She has to be messing with me.”

But even as you say it, doubt creeps in. You’d thought that before, but it couldn’t all be in your head, could it?

Your hands drop, and you stare blankly at the street ahead, your mind flitting through every possible explanation like a detective unraveling a conspiracy. 

‘Ok, so she’s teasing me. No, she’s testing me. No—oh God, what if she’s just bored? What if I’m like, some kind of entertainment for her?’

And then, the most dangerous thought of all slinks into view, unbidden and relentless. 

‘What if she wasn’t joking?’

Your knees nearly buckle at the thought, and you force yourself to keep walking, shaking your head like you can physically dislodge the idea. 

By the time you reach your door, your heart is still pounding, your face still burning, and your thoughts are definitely still stuck in an endless loop of ‘what the actual fuck just happened?’.

You step inside, kicking the door shut behind you with a quiet thud. The thought of changing or even turning on the lights feels like too much effort, so you head straight to your room. Dropping your bag by the door, you collapse onto the bed face-first, muffling a groan into your pillow.

You let out a long sigh, turning your head just enough to breathe as the pillow muffles the rest of your thoughts. Your body sinks into the mattress, heavy with exhaustion, but your mind refuses to quiet down.

You close your eyes, willing the tension to drain from your shoulders. The weight of her words, of her gaze, of all of the questions. You just want sleep to come quickly and take it all away.

And somehow, after a few restless minutes, it does.

[wonwauu]

god i js had a thought, what if we edge/tease diluc for his whole shift at the tavern and he’s a pent up and flustered by the end of his shift and begging us to touch him!!

i love this too much, cheers to a new year with new beginnings.

as the owner of the dawn winery, diluc does not have free time to overlook his job at the angel's share. he's swamped with work, from making sure that the exports of the winery's famous dandelion wine goes smoothly, to maintaining an amazing reputation in order to keep his clan's business alive.

however, after diluc has met you, he's allocated time to work at the angel's share in order to spend time with you.

as the sun sets, the angel's share fills with bustling noises. laughter erupts from drinkers celebrating their latest feats. you push open the door, greeted by your lovely partner's smile as he notices your presence.

a familiar bard also welcomes you, albeit a bit too enthusiastically. "ahaa~ you always have a dopey smile whenever they're around. welcome! wanna be my drinking partner for the night?" venti leans a bit to face you, but you can tell the amount of drinks he had due to the blush across venti's face.

"hi venti, i would love to be your drinking partner, just don't pass out again." you chuckle, "diluc, i thought you weren't working today?" venti pats an open seat next to him as he orders another drink.

diluc lets out a sigh, glancing at venti then looking back at you taking a seat in front of him. "my workload has decreased significantly, so i decided to pick up a shift tonight."

"well i'm glad we have a chance to talk in person, i haven't seen you in weeks." you're a very popular adventurer, just returning back from a tough mission in sumeru that required more of your time than expected.

"i can say the same. the dawn winery has felt empty since your departure." diluc turns around to grab a bottle of grape juice, knowing that you both enjoy this drink.

venti hiccups as he looks at you, then at diluc. "i need another drink before i can get used to diluc's puppy eyes." venti fakes a gag sound as he promptly rests his head on your arm.

"you feel nice and cool." venti grabs your hand and rests his cheeks on it. he knows that diluc gets extremely jealous and loves to tease him with you.

"this is an unexpected perk of being a hydro vision wielder," you glance back at diluc who's currently staring into venti's soul. there's a little crack that forms on the glass that he's cleaning.

"aww baby, don't be jealous; you know that venti will fall asleep instantly from having too many drinks." glancing over at venti, you didn't have to finish your sentence to see him already passed out.

gently removing your hand off of venti’s face, you lean over the table to your partner. "you'll get lots of love once we go home", you coo at his reaction; ears burning as a blush forms on his face.

although you're dating diluc, you've made the decision to not use petnames in public. this is mainly to save diluc's face as he gets very flustered from any form of public affection.

as you get up, venti's arm knocks over your glass of grape juice, spills on diluc's stomach and pants.

diluc hisses, not amused by the new stain on his white shirt and black trousers. "baby..." you walk behind the counter, grabbing a tablecloth to help with the purple stain.

you feel diluc squirm under your touch. "not.. not in public." he shields his face, feeling the heat spread through his cheeks. "babe, if you don't stay still, this stain will spread. plus, everyone's drunker than venti and he's knocked out right now. they won't care what we're doing." you grip onto his waist, holding him in place as you continue to unintentionally brush over his crotch.

you weren't wrong though. although there was chatter in the tavern, it was barely comprehensible as everyone got extremely drunk.

"diluc, are you really getting hard in public? i never knew you're into this." you place down the tablecloth and run your hand over his bulge, earning the sweetest whimper from his mouth.

oh how you've missed that sound. "you're delusional, with all this touching.." he decides to not finish his sentence as he's embarrassed to admit that your touch got him hard at his workplace.

"reallyy? it seems like you're eager for this.." you unzip his pants, revealing his bulge that's forming a wet spot.

diluc's ears match the colour of his hair, "we can't do this, now in front of venti."

"baby, he's not even going to notice anything, trust me." you pull out his cock from his underwear, revealing his red tip, leaking precum.

he's been craving your touch since you left weeks ago, even though diluc's words are showing hesitancy, you can see it in his eyes how much he wants this.

after all, you know him too well. before diluc can let out another word, you start slowly but firmly jerking him off, occasionally swiping your palm over his tip.

your other hand lightly grazes your nail under his tip, eliciting moans that have to be muffled. he's hunched over the table as you coo into his ear, picking up the pace every time he lets out a breathy sigh.

"you're such a slut, getting hard in public and now you're moaning lewdly as i jerk you off. imagine how people will react if they see you like this?" you whisper into his ear, biting it as you slip a hand around his back, sneaking up to play with his hardened nipples.

from a civilian's point of view, it looks like you're consoling diluc on a bad stomach ache he's having.

all of a sudden, new people walk into the tavern. they seem tipsy enough, but not completely drunk.

diluc gasps. new people, at this time? he stands up straight, trying to maintain his posture as you halt your movements.

"hey there. can we get 2 dandelion wines?" one of them drunkenly takes a seat next to venti, where you were previously sitting.

"of course." you say, grabbing them 2 bottles as diluc stands there, not moving. he's afraid to be seen by random adventurers. but the thrill kept you going.

diluc is devastated from the lack of stimulation, but he knows better than to touch himself without your permission, let alone in public.

"aren't you the famous power couple in mondstadt? i came all the way from fontaine in order to try this wine." the drunken dude chippers, sober enough to recognize you both.

"i'm flattered if that's how people see us. fontaine is a beautiful place, we're planning on a vacation there once our schedules are free." you chuckle, standing closer to the bar table as you grip diluc's hard cock again.

"well i would love to hear how you guys got together!" the other drunk guy laughs, excited to listen into some gossip.

your voice is tuned out by diluc as he's practically humping your hand, trying to hide his desperation as you tease him.

you run your hand over his tip and speed up your pace. diluc lets out a wince when you use your thumb to press harshly under his tip.

this goes on for what felt like an eternity (20 minutes) of you stopping when diluc was close, continuously edging him as he started to crumble.

one of the guys notices diluc's strange expression, but was too tipsy to care. only if they saw the dirty things you were doing to your partner.

at the end of your story, you happily giggle "and that's how we started dating!" as you rest your head on his shoulder, giving a devilish smile as you squeeze his dick as he lets out a continuous flow of precum. he lets out a choked moan as he covers his mouth, tears forming in his eyes.

"can you guys be a dear and help us escort the others out of the tavern? we're closing soon and diluc is having a bad headache right now." you say, feigning an apologetic look.

although the guys are drunk, they try to do what they're told. stumbling around to wake up other patrons.

diluc is looking at you with a dazed expression, not to quietly begging for your touch. "why- why did you stop?" he whined in your ear.

"i can't have others seeing your cute cumming expression." you glance over at him, then at the drunkards leaving the tavern.

"now why don't you tidy up that disheveled look of yours and call charles to close up?" gently grabbing his face, you brush away the strands sticking to his skin as you kiss his cheek.

"but i need you now" his appearance is a mess, but you love it. messy, red hair that's slipping out of his hairtie, his white top that's slightly transparent has sweat clinging onto his skin, revealing his flushed body.

he grabs onto your waist and ruts against your thigh. not caring that there's people around. he's lucky that everyone has left, venti included.

you tug his hair, pulling him away from you. "you’re humping my leg like a dog and you’re not closing up? do you want me to fuck you here, at your own workplace? you should’ve told me earlier, i would’ve fucked you in front of everyone.” 

diluc lets out a loud moan at the thought of that. giving a show to the drunkards at his tavern. this is something he’ll never tell a soul, but you know his kinks and how much he’ll get off at being watched by others. 

“now help me close up so we can continue this at home.” you pat his ass and start walking towards the door. 

“h-hold on,” diluc frantically zips up his pants and follows you out the door. his bulge is still prominent but the night will help conceal it.

he knows that charles will be there for the morning shift to clean up. but how will diluc explain the weird stain on the wooden floor and bar table? oh well; that’s not his priority right now.

this is not proof-read but i hope you enjoy this work. i've never written actual smut before, just suggestive works. should i do that for my next fic?

[mrsfancyferrari]

Yes To Me

Summary: OP81 + Childhood best friend with dismissive avoidant attachment

Song: Say Yes To Heaven · Lana Del Rey

Author’s note: I saw this prompt and I'm lovin it so much that I'm writing this same prompt for Oscar AND Carlos separately and see where it goes. Tell me which one is better! one is Please like, reblog and share this! 🤭🫶

Word count: 3.5k

MASTERLIST - F1

You stood on the periphery of the paddock, a familiar ghost within the vibrant chaos, watching him. Oscar Piastri. Your childhood best friend. Now, a name that echoed across continents, a face plastered on billboards, a force of nature navigating the razor-thin margins of Formula 1.

He was shaking hands, laughing, signing autographs – a beacon in the crowd, and you, as always, were the quiet satellite, orbiting just far enough to feel his warmth but never close enough to burn.

This was your rhythm, one you’d meticulously perfected since you were children. Back in the sleepy suburbs of Melbourne, when ‘Oscar’ was just the gangly kid next door who perpetually smelled of sunshine and mischief, you’d been the architect of your shared adventures, but always the first to retreat when things got too messy, too emotional.

If he fell and scraped his knee, you’d fetch the first aid kit, efficiently cleaning the wound, but you wouldn’t offer a hug. If he cried, you’d hand him a tissue, but you wouldn’t meet his gaze for too long.

You were the practical one, the problem-solver, the one who kept things light, breezy, and utterly devoid of anything that might demand emotional vulnerability.

Now, years later, the stakes had simply scaled. His world was bigger, brighter, louder, and your carefully constructed emotional fortress had only grown thicker, its walls higher.

You managed his social media occasionally, handled logistical odds and ends when he was home, a professional distance masquerading as indispensable support. It was the perfect setup for a dismissive avoidant like you: vital yet detached, helpful yet unburdened by the messy obligations of true intimacy.

You saw him now, his head turning, scanning the crowd, and your breath hitched. He spotted you, a smile blooming on his face, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look like the boy who used to share your secret stash of lollies.

He waved, a broad, inviting gesture, and you offered a small, almost imperceptible nod in return. A fleeting pang of something unidentifiable flickered in your chest – not quite warmth, not quite fear, just a complex ache that you immediately categorized as ‘stress’ and pushed down.

Later, in his motorhome, the usual hum of engines and distant cheers faded into a comfortable silence. He was sprawled on the worn sofa, reviewing data on a tablet, and you were meticulously organizing his race debrief notes. It was a familiar tableau.

"You know," he started, without looking up, "I really appreciate you being here. It makes a difference."

You shrugged, keeping your focus on the papers. "It’s my job, Oscar. And you know I like being productive."

He finally looked at you, his gaze surprisingly intense. "It’s more than that, isn't it?"

Your hand stilled. The air in the small space seemed to thicken. This was it. The moment you always anticipated, always dreaded. The moment he tried to peel back a layer, to find something deeper, more significant beneath your carefully maintained composure.

"We’ve known each other forever," you said, your voice even, calculated. "I root for you. That’s all."

He sighed, a low sound that vibrated with a frustration you pretended not to hear. "Sometimes," he said, pushing himself up, leaning forward, "I feel like I know every single detail about how my car handles a wet track, but I know nothing about what’s actually going on inside your head."

You met his gaze briefly, then looked away, busying yourself with stacking the papers into a neat pile. "My head’s usually just thinking about how to make sure your schedule runs smoothly. Boring stuff, really."

"Boring stuff?" He scoffed gently. "Since when is you boring? You used to be the one dragging me into creeks to hunt for frog spawn, the one who painted glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling because you said it would help me dream of flying." A soft smile touched his lips at the memory. "You were never boring."

You felt a warmth spread across your cheeks, an unwelcome sensation. You hated feeling exposed, hated the way his memories could effortlessly bypass your defenses. "People grow up, Oscar. We change."

"Do we?" he challenged softly, his eyes searching yours. "Or do we just get better at hiding?"

You stood up abruptly, the notes finally secured with a paperclip. "I should go check on the flight details for Monaco. Don't want any last-minute surprises." You were already halfway to the door, the well-worn escape route.

He watched you, a weariness in his eyes you couldn't quite decipher. "Right. Of course. Productivity first."

You didn’t respond. You just slipped out, the door closing softly behind you, shutting out the awkward silence, the unspoken question, the unsettling intimacy.

You took a deep breath, the crisp paddock air a welcome balm. You had deployed your strategy perfectly. Distance maintained. Emotional threat neutralized. Why did it feel like a hollow victory?

The F1 season was a relentless blur of travel, adrenaline, and fleeting moments of connection. For Oscar, it was a dream lived at 200 mph. For you, it was a perfect distraction.

You thrived on the logistics, the problem-solving, the sheer demand for efficiency that kept your mind too busy to dwell on anything deeper than tire compounds and flight itineraries.

But the nature of the job also meant shared isolation. Long flights, dinners in anonymous hotel restaurants, quiet evenings in distant cities.

These were the times his attempts at connection became more persistent. He’d talk about his fears, his hopes, the crushing pressure of expectation. He’d look at you, really look at you, waiting for a response that went beyond practical advice.

One night, after a particularly grueling race where he’d narrowly missed a podium finish, he was unusually quiet. You were in his hotel suite, theoretically going over his media schedule for the next day, but the silence stretched, heavy and expectant.

"I messed up today," he said suddenly, his voice raw. "Made a stupid mistake. Cost the team."

You cleared your throat. "Everyone makes mistakes, Oscar. You’re still young. You’ll learn from it."

He finally lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed. "It’s not just that. Sometimes… sometimes I feel so alone in all of this. Like everyone else is watching, judging, but no one really understands the weight of it."

He paused, then his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Except maybe you. You’ve seen me since I was a kid. You know what I’ve put into this."

Silence. Your stomach churned. This was it – an invitation to vulnerability, a plea for empathy. Everything in you screamed to retreat, to offer a logical platitude, to change the subject. Your mind raced for an escape.

"You have a great team around you," you offered, your voice a little too quick, a little too bright. "They’re supportive. And your family is always there."

He laughed, a short, bitter sound. "Yeah, but it’s different with them. They’re proud, they're worried, they're family. With you... it's just you and me. Always has been. The two of us figuring things out." He pushed a hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. "Why is it so hard for you to just... be there? Really be there?"

You felt a sudden chill, despite the warm room. Your carefully constructed walls felt like they were crumbling. He was chipping away at them, not with force, but with a quiet, relentless vulnerability that you found agonizing.

"I am here, Oscar," you said, your voice tight. "I’m literally here, making sure your life runs smoothly so you can focus on racing."

"But what about your life?" he countered softly, his gaze unwavering. "What about us? Are we just… a business arrangement now?"

You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor. "I’m going to bed. We have an early start." Your back was to him, your shoulders rigid. You wouldn't let him see the tremor in your hands, the frantic beat of your heart.

"Right," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion this time. "Another escape. Goodnight."

You didn’t turn around. You just walked out, the click of the door echoing your defeat. You spent the night staring at the ceiling, the unsettling truth nagging at you: you weren't just avoiding him; you were avoiding yourself.

The thought of losing him, of him finally giving up on you, sent a terrifying jolt through your carefully compartmentalized emotions. But the thought of letting him in, of truly being vulnerable, felt like an even greater terror.

The next few weeks were tense. Oscar remained polite, professional, but the warmth, the playful banter, the persistent attempts at connection – they were gone.

He treated you purely as an employee, and it was a stark, painful mirror of your own dismissive tendencies. You had created the distance you craved, and now it felt like a gaping chasm.

Then came the British Grand Prix. A high-speed corner, a sudden loss of grip, and Oscar’s McLaren was a blur of orange and black, skidding violently into the barrier. The world held its breath.

Your own breath caught in your throat, lodged somewhere between your ribs. Time stopped.

When the medical car arrived, when they finally confirmed he was conscious, you felt a wave of nausea so profound it almost buckled your knees.

You were allowed into the medical centre, then later, the hospital. He had a concussion, a few cracked ribs, and a bruised ego. Nothing life-threatening, but the image of the crumpled car, of his still form, was seared into your mind.

You sat by his hospital bed, the sterile smell burning your nostrils. He was drowsy, pale, but alive. For the first time in years, your guard completely dropped.

What was the point? He was hurt. He was vulnerable. And the absolute, terrifying thought of a world without him, without that exasperated, patient gaze, hit you with the force of a physical blow.

"You scared the hell out of me," you whispered, your voice hoarse, raw, entirely unlike your usual composed tone.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked at you, really saw you, and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Didn't mean to. Just a little… off-track excursion."

"It wasn't funny, Oscar." Your voice cracked. "It wasn't funny at all."

And then, without thought, without permission from your carefully constructed defenses, a single tear tracked a path down your cheek. Then another. And another. You rarely cried. You never cried in front of anyone, let alone him.

His gaze softened. He reached out a hand, weakly, and you instinctively took it.

His fingers were warm, a stark contrast to your icy skin. "Hey," he murmured, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "It’s okay. I’m okay."

"No," you choked out, shaking your head, the dam finally breaking. "It's not okay. I… I can’t… I can't imagine… If anything ever happened to you, Oscar…"

The words spilled out, clumsy and unedited, a torrent of suppressed emotion. "You’re everything. You’re my oldest friend. My best friend. And I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid for always pushing you away. I don't know why I do it. I just… I get scared. Of… of feeling too much. Of being too close. Of losing myself."

He squeezed your hand, his eyes never leaving your face. "You wouldn’t lose yourself. You’d just… gain someone else." A pause. "Me."

The confession hung in the air, heavy with years of unspoken affection. You didn't pull your hand away. You didn't retreat. For the first time, you allowed yourself to feel the terrifying, exhilarating weight of it.

"I don’t know how to do this," you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears. "To be… like that. To be vulnerable. To let people in."

"You don’t have to know how to do it perfectly," he said, his voice gentle, infused with a patience that made your heart ache. "You just have to be willing to try. With me." He gave your hand another squeeze. "I’m not going anywhere. Not if you don’t push me away for good."

You looked at him, really looked at him, the boy who became a man, the racer, the friend who had seen past your walls for years. And for the first time, you didn't feel the surge of panic, the need to escape. You felt… a terrifying, fragile glimmer of hope.

"I don’t want to push you away," you confessed, the words tasting foreign on your tongue. "Not anymore."

He smiled, a genuine, relieved smile that reached his eyes. "Good. Because I'm getting tired of chasing."

The road to true intimacy was not a straight one for you. In the weeks and months that followed, as Oscar recovered and eventually returned to racing, there were still moments of discomfort, of old habits resurfacing.

You’d catch yourself deflecting, changing the subject, feeling that familiar internal flutter of panic when he tried to hold your hand for too long, or looked at you with too much tenderness.

But now, he understood. He didn't push. He waited. He gave you space when you needed it, but he also gently, persistently, offered connection.

He started small, asking about your day, your feelings. And you, for your part, started to answer, hesitantly at first, then with growing, if still shaky, honesty.

One evening, after a long flight back from Japan, Oscar leaned his head on your shoulder in the quiet of the private jet.

You stiffened instinctively, then, remembering his words, you forced yourself to relax, to allow the touch. It was unfamiliar, a little uncomfortable, but not terrifying.

"Did you ever really think of me as just a job?" he murmured, his voice soft against your ear.

You paused, considering. The old you would have given a quick, dismissive answer. But the new, still-fragile you, wanted to try. "No," you admitted, the word a whisper. "Never. But it was easier to pretend you were. Safer."

He shifted, turning his head so his chin rested on your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck. "Safety isn't always the best thing, you know."

You nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement. You were learning that. It was a slow, arduous process, unlearning years of emotional self-preservation.

Some days you felt like you were taking two steps forward and one step back.

But he was always there, patient, understanding, his silent presence a testament to a bond that refused to be dismissed.

You still valued your independence, still needed your space. That wouldn't change overnight, maybe never completely. But now, when you pulled back, it wasn't a rejection.

It was a temporary retreat, a chance to recharge, knowing he would still be there when you returned. And when he reached for your hand, you didn't flinch.

You didn't pull away. You intertwined your fingers with his, a silent promise to keep trying, to keep leaning into the terrifying, beautiful mess of genuine connection.

The world still saw Oscar Piastri, the F1 superstar. But he saw you, the childhood friend who was finally learning to feel, to trust, to love.

And for the first time in your life, that felt like enough. More than enough. It felt like everything. . . .

The Formula 1 season was in full swing, a blur of travel, adrenaline, and strategy. But amidst the chaos of the paddock and the roar of engines, a new, quieter rhythm had settled between you and Oscar. It wasn’t always smooth, but it was real.

You found yourself anticipating his calls, lingering a little longer when you said goodbye, and even, on occasion, initiating a conversation about something other than work.

One Tuesday evening, after a particularly grueling double-header in Europe, you found yourselves back in Monaco, both exhausted but unwilling to part ways just yet.

You were perched on his kitchen island, idly stirring your lukewarm tea as he rummaged through the fridge, muttering about the lack of decent food.

The silence between you was no longer awkward, but comfortable, punctuated by the clinking of bottles and your soft sips.

He pulled out a takeout menu, a familiar one from your shared favourite Italian place. "Pizza or pasta tonight?" he asked, not looking at you, but the question felt loaded, as if he were asking about more than just dinner.

"Hmm," you hummed, your gaze following the condensation tracing paths on your mug. You felt a familiar flutter in your chest, a low hum of anxiety that had become less a warning siren and more a gentle reminder of your internal landscape.

For so long, you’d interpreted that feeling as a signal to retreat. Now, you tried to interpret it as a signal to breathe, to lean in. "Whatever you're having, I guess."

He turned, the menu held loosely in his hand, and for the first time, he met your gaze. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were soft, a little tired, but warm. "You know, we haven't actually... gone out properly in ages."

Your breath hitched, almost imperceptibly. "We go out all the time, Oscar," you said, your voice a little too quick, a little too bright. "To dinners, events, team functions…"

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that always managed to soothe something tightly wound inside you. "No, I mean… properly. Like, not for work. Not because we just happened to be in the same city. But, like… intentionally."

He paused, his gaze unwavering, and you felt your carefully constructed walls begin to tremble. He was doing it again, that gentle push, that unwavering patience. "On a date."

The word hung in the air, a bell tolling, clear and resonant. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a trapped bird. A date. You hadn't been on a proper date in years, certainly not with him. The thought was simultaneously terrifying and electrifying. Your mind scrambled for an escape route, a witty deflection, a non-committal shrug. All the old scripts flickered through your brain, ready to deploy.

But then you remembered the hospital room, the taste of fear, the raw confession that had spilled from your lips. You remembered his hand in yours, his quiet promise. You remembered the slow, arduous work of letting him in, piece by hesitant piece.

"A… a date?" you finally managed to choke out, the words tasting foreign on your tongue. Your throat felt tight, and you wished you could just disappear, just for a second, to regain your composure.

He took a step closer, not invading your space, but simply shortening the distance between you. He still held the menu, as if that was the only reason he was standing there, but his eyes were fixed on yours.

"Yeah. A date. Like… I pick you up. We go somewhere nice. Just us. We talk, we laugh. No PR, no team managers, no engineers. Just… us." He gave a small, self-deprecating smile. "I know, revolutionary concept for us, right?"

You swallowed hard, your gaze fluttering from his eyes to the menu in his hand, then back to his eyes. The fear was still there, a chill wind whispering doubts, but it was no longer a gale. It was a breeze, and beneath it, a tiny, determined sprout of something new was pushing through the hardened ground.

"I… I don't know," you began, your voice barely a whisper. This was it, the familiar escape hatch opening. But then… you stopped. You forced yourself to look at him, at the genuine warmth in his gaze, the question in his eyes. He wasn't pushing you past your limits; he was simply inviting you to stretch them, gently.

He waited, silently, his patience a tangible thing in the room. He didn't rush you, didn't fill the silence with reassuring words or try to cajole you. He just waited.

"It's… it's really hard for me, Oscar," you confessed, the words raw, unedited, and utterly terrifying. You felt a tear prick the corner of your eye, but you blinked it back. This wasn't a moment for tears, not of sadness, but of… honest effort. "To… to be like that. To just… go on a date with someone. With you."

A flicker of understanding crossed his face, a softening around his eyes. He lowered the menu slightly. "I know," he said, his voice dropping to a low, comforting tone. "I know it is. And you don't have to pretend it isn't. You don't have to be perfect. Just… be willing to be imperfect with me."

He took another small step, reaching out and gently taking your hand, just as he had in the hospital.

His thumb stroked your knuckles, a familiar, grounding touch. "So, is that a 'no, not yet, but maybe someday,' or a 'yes, I'm terrified, but I'll try'?"

Your breath hitched again. He was giving you an out, respecting your boundaries, but also clearly stating his hopes. It was exactly what you needed. The weight of his hand, the warmth of his skin, was a steadying anchor.

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw not just the F1 driver, but the boy who used to share secrets with you under a blanket fort, the teenager who patiently explained complex physics, the man who had weathered your walls for years without ever truly giving up.

The sprout of hope bloomed a little wider. You took a shaky breath. "It's… it's a 'yes, I'm terrified, but I'll try'," you whispered, the words barely audible, but firm. You squeezed his hand, a deliberate reciprocation. "Oscar."

A slow smile spread across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. It wasn't the triumphant smile of a victor, but the quiet, profound relief of someone who had finally found what they were looking for.

"Good," he said, his voice husky with emotion. He squeezed your hand back, his grip firm and reassuring. "Good. Because I'd really like to take you out on a date."

He picked up the menu again, a playful glint in his eye. "Starting with this pizza, maybe? As a warm-up act?"

You laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound that surprised even yourself. The flutter in your chest was still there, but now, it felt less like panic and more like… butterflies. Terrifying, yes, but undeniably beautiful. "I think I can handle that," you said, squeezing his hand once more. "For now."

And for the first time in your life, the thought of truly letting someone in, of opening yourself up to the messy, exhilarating, utterly vulnerable reality of a romantic relationship, didn't send you spiraling into retreat.

It still scared you, profoundly, but now, the fear was overshadowed by a fragile, exhilarating sense of anticipation, and the steady, unwavering certainty that, with Oscar, it might just be worth it. . . .

[peanutpinet]

OK HAI I HAD AN IDEA FOR INNOCENT READER X SYLUS (or normal reader), so. innocent reader and sylus just had a baby (like around crawling age) and mc is cooking and the baby just crawls off because she saw sylus for like 2 seconds and follows him into a meeting and sylus notices her (she starts babbling) and he laughs as his daughter is now apart of the meeting and when mc finds them shes knocked out on sylus’ chest while the twins coo over her (maybe covered in bloodddd)

Little Dragon - Father Sylus x Mother Innocent Fem Reader

A/N: Hi anon, thank you for requesting! Sorry it took so long and if the story doesn't match your request exactly but I hope you still enjoy the story

Question, do you guys think I should make this into a series? If so, would you guys like to send in more requests of Sylus x Innocent Fem Reader? Let me know!!

Also, imma need to know what you guys think of Caleb's return? Did not expect a blunt yandere/possessive theme for him like, can 22 January come any sooner?!

Warnings: fluff, slight aggressive tone (not sylus), implied "torture", overall wholesome story of Sylus x Innocent Fem Reader with their lil dragon

Disclaimer: I do not own the images nor the characters or you (the MC). All images were taken from Pinterest and credit goes to the image's respective owners.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry for not being able to help you for dinner. A sudden meeting came up but I’ll make sure to make it up to you” Sylus murmured as he wrapped his large arms around your small figure, burying his face in the crook of your neck as you were cooking dinner

Though it’s been years since you first dated and two years since you both got married and had a baby girl, you still get goosebumps whenever Sylus is close or does anything intimate

“Sy…it’s okay…but can you like umm, get off? You’re umm…you’re distracting me. I need to cook” you stuttered while you felt Sylus’ warm laughter right at your neck, sending a wave of goosebumps all over your body

“Oh sweetie” Sylus tightens his hold slightly around your waist, not so much that you couldn’t move but enough for you to know his slightly attachment towards you. “Even after all these years, you’re still easily flustered. I thought you would have gotten used to me being clingy”

Sylus pressed a soft lingering kiss on the side of your neck right between your neck and shoulder. “What would your business partners or enemies think off when they see you being clingy like this” you barely uttered, trying to keep composed while Sylus chuckled and gave you a lingering kiss on the side of your neck before reluctantly pulling away

“Who cares about what they think? As long as you and our lil dragon are always with me, I could care less about what everyone else thinks” Sylus mentioned, now standing beside you, rubbing your shoulders

You looked over at Sylus smiling and kissed his cheeks while you were on your tiptoe with Sylus’ hand around your waist to stabilize you. “We’ll always love you, sy. You’re both our first love, our protector, our home”

Hearing you say all this, Sylus couldn’t help but gently hold your chin and softly kissing your lips. To him, your lips were more addicting than anything he had ever tasted; including his collection of wine. “You have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that. It makes me want to just forget about the meeting and spend more time with you and our lil dragon”

Hearing Sylus’ words, you turned off the stove and turned to face Sylus. “I know love. But you also need to handle your businesses. You have to make sure that everything is running smoothly. I’ll reward you with lots of kisses afterwards yeah?”

Hearing your bargain, Sylus smirked and pulled you closer. “That better me a promise, sweetie. You know what I do to liars” Sylus leaned down so his lips were right by your ear as he nibbled them a bit. “I’d punish them”

Feeling the heat rushed to your cheeks, you immediately shoved him backwards. “Okay okay, I get it. Don’t forget to kiss your lil dragon before you go to your meeting”

Sylus let out a rough sigh as he kissed your cheek once more before walking to the playmate where your daughter fell asleep after playing for a while. Seeing your daughter sprawled across the playmate with her crow and dragon plushie, Sylus kneeled down and lifted her, bringing her closer to him as he placed a gentle kiss on top of her head, nose, and cheeks.

“Sorry lil dragon. Daddy got some work to finish off but I promise I’ll finish up quickly to come back to you and mommy. Don’t trouble your mommy okay? Otherwise, daddy is going to get punished by mommy”

Sylus chuckled as he gently placed his daughter back on the playmate, making sure to not wake her up as he pulled her blankie on her then slowly got back up and headed to his meeting room; not knowing that his daughter was actually awake when he kissed her.

Neither you nor Sylus noticed but when your daughter felt Sylus’ lips on her face, she started to wake up but knowing your daughter, she was quite a calm baby that sometimes the both of you would often miss when she was awake unless one of you actually paid attention closely.

Without either of you knowing, your daughter crawled to follow Sylus into his meeting room which he didn’t close, allowing her to crawl into the room which didn’t go unnoticed by everyone in the room, including his business partner.

“W-what the? A baby?” Sylus’ business partner and men who were on guard, worried that Sylus brought in additional security all of a sudden

“D-dadda!!” the baby crawled over to Sylus, ignoring the presence of powerful men in the room because she only had one thing on her mind and that was getting to her dad

“What on earth is the meaning of this, Sylus?” his business partner scowled

Sylus didn’t even bother to reply to his business partner and kneeled on the ground, waiting for his daughter to crawl over to him before scooping her up and praising her for crawling. “That’s my baby girl. Such a strong and resilient little one just like her mom”

The baby giggled in Sylus’ arms as he sat back in his chair, letting his daughter cuddle with her father, ignoring the unpleasant stares in the room and played with Sylus’ necklace. “What? Never seen a baby before?”

“No. More so irritated that our conversation is interrupted. You’re not the only one that’s busy around here” his business partner scoffed and Sylus held back using his evol when his daughter is around

“Is that so?” Sylus tried not to sound irritated to not scare his daughter as he patted her back, bringing her to his chest where she snuggled closer

“One can never be so sure with you, Sylus. Who knows, that little menace of a child might actually be someone that’s shapeshifting. Or is this part of your plan, Sylus?” the business partner went on to the point that Sylus’ daughter cried as she was able to detect that she was being called out and insulted

The moment his daughter cried, that was Sylus’ breaking point. He cooed his daughter, telling her sweet things in her ear while patting her small back, making her cuddle him like a baby koala to its mother.

“The deal is over. See to it that these low lives are punished for talking about my daughter like that” as Sylus stood up, both Luke and Kieran along with his other men pointed their weapons at his business partner.

“Come lil dragon, how about we go play for a bit, yeah?” Sylus cooed his daughter who giggled and snuggled her cheeks against his while Sylus brought her to his special room in his office that he built when you were pregnant with his daughter

Sylus built the extension room to his office specifically so that you can take care of your daughter if you ever got bored waiting for him during a meeting or anything else. Sylus made sure the room had everything that you would need. A big enough bed, baby clothes and essentials, a small connected bathroom (when we say small, Sylus meant the size of a regular apartment bedroom) along with some books and toys. But the best thing about it all was that it was babyproof, soundproof, and safe from potential disaster.

By the time you finished cooking dinner, you went over to the playmate, about to wake your daughter up when you realised she was nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, you frantically rushed to Sylus’ meeting room where Luke and Kieran were cleaning up the place and pointed at the extended room. Without wasting anytime, you opened the door to see your daughter fell asleep on Sylus’ chest while he patted her small back, watching some cartoons for babies.

You smiled at the sight, walking closer and grabbing a blanket to wrap around yourself with your husband who welcomed you with an open arm and smile and your baby girl.

Sylus kissed the side of your head, apologising for not bringing your daughter back when he noticed her coming into the meeting room. “Sorry sweetie, I can’t help it when she crawled all the way to me and even extended her little hands at me. You know I’m weak for her and you”

Smiling, you shake your head and kissed his cheek. “As long as there’s no violence or cursing in front of her, right?” Sylus immediately shook his head. “Never. Not while I’m around”

“Then all is good” you laid your head on Sylus’ shoulder while he used his free hand to stroke your hair. “By the way, where’s your business partner? How did they react when they saw our babygirl in here?”

Sylus stopped stroking your hair for a moment before giving you a shrug. “That’s non of your concern sweetie. But I’ll tell you this much. Anyone who made our lil dragon cry will get the wrath of her dragon father”

Shaking your head, you decided to not further question him and enjoyed this moment with your little family while Luke and Kieran secretly cooed at the sight, taking lots of pictures to keep for all of you.

[hor3nee]

• Fatherhood •

What kind of dads are the JJK men ?

CW/TW: GN! Reader, Mentions of crappy parenting, BREIF mention of pregnancy in Geto's, (Lmk if I should add anything else!)

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Sukuna, Toji x Reader

AN: Almost cried writing this the baby fever is going HARD rn dude. Headcanons !

• Gojo •

Menace of a father, but in the good way! Gojo spends his years raising his kids as if he's their best friend, truly and genuinely treats his kids as equals and in a sweet way, allows his children to have complete trust in him. Because Gojo is quite childish himself, he loves playing with his kids, making a fool of himself, and indulging with them.

Has a bit of a bad side to this though, his lack of traditional discipline or making himself the 'adult' in the situation leads the kids to both be very spoiled and not really ever listen to him.

"Sweetheart, darling, my perfect angel, can you please go to bed?? pretty please! Help your old man here, please??"

"Nuh uh!" And with that bout of defiance, he's back to running up to you, like HE'S the child, begging for your help. Because it seems you're the only one who can get the kids in line, and you do.

Plays pranks and teases the hell out of his kids as they get older, always in a loving way of course, but nonetheless loves getting them flustered over his stupidity. Type of dad to do dumbass dances in the middle of a Walmart to embarrass his kids.

• Geto •

Geto is optimum of what it means to be a gentle parent. Cannot, for the life of him, bring it in himself to yell at his kids. He's so soft-spoken, never so much as raising his voice against his children. Geto has children who respond to his voice alone, because it's so lulling, he's familiarized them with it and made them feel safe with it.

Doesn't mean he can't discipline them, of course he can, and he does so extremely gracefully. Whenever you're on your last straw with the kids, fighting the urge to start scolding them and yell, he steps in, smoothly taking over and the kids instantly listen to him.

"We're your parents, honey, c'mon that's not very nice to say, is it? They carried you for 9 months you know. Say sorry." Like magic the kids shut up and come over to you apologizing while Geto stands back, calmly having fixed the situation with ease.

With everything Geto does, has done, experienced etc, he can sometimes feel conflicted. Geto knows what he is capable of, and what he has done, he's extremely self-aware even if he justifies it, and he can struggle to balance the weight of all of it while also remaining a dutiful father.

Despite it, he does wonders keeping it separate from what his children have to see or experience, teaches them respect and kindness and hopes they hold true to it.

• Nanami •

Not a single man on this list fathers as hard as Nanami fathers. He's built for it like no other. Nanami treats fatherhood with his all, he puts his all into it and makes damn certain he does right by it. Stern when necessary, sweet when needed, provides for his kids and refuses to miss any important milestone of theirs.

Nanami is a calm man but the second work starts piling potentially making him miss his kids school play or something he's arguing with his supervisors and ready to throw hands.

He keeps the drawings his kids make on his desk, alongside a photo of you and your kids. Literally just stares at it while working smiling, unable to wait till he's home with the kids. They are his pride and joy genuinely.

No matter how over-worked Nanami may be though, when he comes home you are basically on vacation. Insists you rest and he takes over literally everything involving the kids.

"Darling, darling no, I got this covered. You take rest. You know I love spending time with my kids." He says with an earnest smile, both kids in his beefy arms just dangling around and playing with their father. He's definitely exhausted from work, but that never stops him.

• Sukuna •

The King of the Curses, as cruel and terrifying as he is, taking pleasure in all sorts of sickness and treating love as pointless, legitimately likes his kid.

He doesn't care about fatherhood, or the responsibilities that being a parent entails, but it's nice having a mini version of himself around. That he likes. An extension of himself and you, it's nice to have around he doesn't mind it. He may act aloof about it, not outwardly showing affection like hugs or kisses, but he clearly enjoys it.

He gets a massive ego trip when his kids cause chaos and disturbances. Points at them laughing with his belly "See that? That's mine."

Sukuna never minces his words though, and his kids have to get used to his bluntness. Again, he doesn't care for the concept of 'parenting', and will in their face call the kid some extreme insults and weak and they have to learn to take it.

On the flip side, Sukuna also never minces his praise, and Sukuna has an abundance to give his kids. Every accomplishment or show of strength that they show he'll let them know he's proud. A good ol' fashioned fatherly slap to their shoulder while he praises them.

He treasures his children, and even if he doesn't put much effort into parenting them, you taking over most of it, he's definitely a present figure in their lives.

• Toji •

Went to get milk, hasn't been seen since.

[itneverendshere]

thinking of how rafe wouldn’t want you to work while pregnant

that man would be so stressed, since day one!! and bartender!reader would noooot give him a break, still covering bartending shifts even tho she was the manager bc she simply enjoyed doing it every once in a while. and he's like ?????? will you sit your ass down PLEASE. but you're not listening, if there's ONE thing the pregnancy hormones gave you was extra attitude. somethin' along these lines:

rafe could feel his jaw clenching as he watched you across the room, rolling your eyes for the third time in the past five minutes. you were doing it on purpose now, deliberately ignoring him while standing behind the bar, mixing drinks like you weren’t six months pregnant.

the bartender had called in sick, and you, the manager, jumped in and covered for him. rafe crossed his arms, leaning against the counter, and tried not to look too annoyed, but fuck if it wasn’t hard.

you still had that spark in you, that independence that drew him in from the start, but now it just made him worry like he never thought he could.

“you’re gonna give me a heart attack, y’know that?” he called out, his voice carrying over the chatter around the country club.

most people were too busy with their drinks and golf gossip to notice you two bickering, but anyone paying attention could see that familiar dynamic. you doing whatever you damn well pleased, him trying to keep his cool, which he never really could when it came to you putting yourself at risk.

you glanced at him over your shoulder, hands moving like second nature as you garnished a drink.

“’m fine, baby” you told him, voice as breezy as ever, the huge bump pressing against your shirt nothing more than an accessory. “it’s just a couple hours.”

there was that old habit of yours—acting like everything was fine when you clearly weren’t. or maybe you were, but that wasn’t the point.

the point was, you shouldn’t have to be there.

“you say that, but i know you’re gonna be hurting later,” he muttered, pushing off the counter and walking around to your side of the bar.

his hand landed gently on your waist, thumb brushing the small of your back like he always did when he wanted to get you to stop for just a second.

“c’mon, baby. just take a break, you don’t need to be on your feet like this.”

it wasn’t that you didn’t want help, you’d worked through that over the past couple years, but that stubborn streak was still there.

“i’m not a porcelain doll,” you reminded him, rolling your eyes again, “i’m not gonna drop dead because i’m pregnant.”

he felt his stomach drop when those words left your mouth.

"jesus christ, woman," his eyes widened in exasperation. "don’t say that shit.”

“alright, my bad,” you gave in, “didn’t mean it like that.”

rafe sighed, his hand still resting on you. he hated when you talked like that, you didn't have to remind him how capable you were.

of course he knew. 

"promise me you're taking a leave starting tomorrow," he practically begged you despite attempting to sound firm, but that undertone of worry had been his constant companion ever since you'd found out you were pregnant. 

"next week," you sang back, not bothering looking up from the drink you were finishing. 

you were still in work mode, determined to keep things running smoothly despite the fact you should’ve been at home, resting.

"tomorrow," he insisted, leaning in closer.

you turned to face him, eyes narrowing.

"next week, or you’re not getting sex for the next three months. now get outta my bar.”

rafe blinked, his jaw going slack as he stared at you, completely blindsided. 

“what—"

“go on,” you gestured toward the other side of the counter with a flick of your hand, “out.”

his mouth opened and closed a couple of times, like a fish.

"but… baby," he whined, his voice dipping into a tone that could only be described as kicked puppy. “just—wanna make sure you’re okay. that you’re safe, and you’re not overdoing it. you can’t kick me out, i need to be around you.”

you gave him that look, the one that told him he was pushing his luck. "rafe, i swear to god—”

he let out a long, dramatic sigh, but started to back off, lifting his hands in surrender.

"alright, alright, ‘m going," he grunted, dragging his feet toward the exit like a kid being told to go to bed. but before he did go, he turned back one more time, his eyes pleading. "i’ll be outside if you need me."

"of course you will," you muttered, shaking your head with a half-smile. you knew he wasn’t going far, probably far enough to hover and peek through the windows, pretending to give you space but unable to help himself.

"i love you, stop spiraling," you called out after him.

he paused, turning back to look at you, his expression softening.  

“love you too.”

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 4; ghoap x reader) masterlist tags: dubcon/noncon, nsfw

-

Much of Ghost’s behaviour is reactive. Oddly passive for the assumptions people often make of him. He doesn’t run from trouble, but certainly he doesn’t seek it out. Aside from a few rare deviations from the norm (running his father out of the city at eighteen, not breaking enough bones to count as restitution, and finally leaving home to enlist), that remains the rule. 

The way Johnny mopes for days after parading his bird around base has Ghost nearly rolling his eyes, already exasperated. He should’ve known his puppy wouldn’t share well. 

It’s worse than he expected though. Johnny mopes for a week straight after the fact, hardly able to meet Ghost’s eyes in briefings. He stares straight down at the floor pathetically, dragging his feet behind him when he’s dismissed. Price notices it right away, raising an eyebrow at Ghost after Johnny leaves the room. 

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks, leaning back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach.

“In the dog house, I reckon. His girl’s pissed at him.”

“Your doing?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Ghost replies smoothly, face giving away nothing.

Price is hardly convinced. “I’m sure. Nothing to do with you.”

Ghost doesn’t answer that. He waits until he’s dismissed and then takes off down the same hall Johnny just left, curious about wherever his boy’s slunk off to. 

He can’t help the latent sadistic streak in him that curls up in pleasure at the sight of Johnny pouting and squirming whenever he walks into the room. Still, his attitude will need to be rectified soon enough—there’s only so much Ghost will tolerate, only so much disrespect he’ll turn a blind eye to. One day Johnny will look back and reflect on this, and appreciate the extent of Ghost’s magnanimity. 

Still, he doesn’t enjoy being ignored. One week bleeds into the beating heart of the next and Ghost realizes that he’s had enough of the silent treatment. He’s given Johnny more than enough time to come to terms with their new situation. 

He tracks him down to the armoury on a Monday evening after most of the other soldiers have already left for the day, back home or eating supper in the mess hall. It’s empty apart from the two of them, and when Johnny finally notices his presence in the room, his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t flinch at least. Good boy. He’s gotten better at being less reactive, less shaky about being caught off guard. 

“Done for the day, sergeant?” He keeps it light to start, taking a step closer. 

Johnny tenses at the approach. “Yes, sir.” The title would usually satisfy on its own, but it comes strained, polite but removed. 

“Where’d you come from?”

“Layouts and gunners training, sir.”

On any other day, Johnny’s deference might come as a lovely note to end the day on, but not today. It rankles now, the edge of his voice sweetened by a kind of silent dismissal, not giving any more information than what’s required of him. Nothing like the boy who used to open his mouth and sing the world back to him. Ghost has earned his every thought. 

“We have a problem, Soap?”

“No, sir,” Johnny grumbles, still not meeting his eyes. His mouth barely moves when he says the words, teeth all but grit. 

No dealing with this temper tantrum like adults then. For all Johnny must carp and bitch to himself about the hardships that Ghost has put him through, he seems to have no desire to actually deal with the problem. That’s too bad. It would’ve been easy enough to talk it out like grown men.

They’ll have to come to terms some other way.

“Come. We’re fixing this attitude of yours now,” Ghost grunts, turning before Johnny has the opportunity to complain and marching down the hall towards the gym. 

He hears Johnny make a sound like an angry bull before following him down the hall. The loud footfalls against the tile floor betray his simmering anger; it reveals to Ghost what he already knew intuitively. His boy still needs to learn to play well with others. 

In time, this anger will fade into the ether, replaced by Johnny’s old doggish need to please Ghost, but it’s causing too many problems now to be tolerated. He hasn’t gotten to see the bird since the week before. Doesn’t even have a photo of his own to look at when he rubs one out. It would be less aggravating if Johnny were willing to spread his legs and let Ghost rut between his thighs, but they aren’t there yet.

The gym is empty as it usually is around early evening when Ghost opens the door, the lights off from whoever last used it. Johnny follows him sullenly, dragging his feet about it. Ghost’s eye ticks at the show of attitude persisting into this space.

“Lock it behind you,” Ghost says without looking back at him, crossing to where the mats are on the other side of the gym. 

Neither of them are dressed to spar, still clad in their fatigues, but his blood cranks up to boiling when he turns around to watch as Johnny crosses the room angrily, picking up steam now as well. He comes in hot, not even bothering to suss out Ghost’s first move before launching himself at him. 

Ghost staggers back a step at the hit, but he takes it in stride, shifting his weight and using Johnny’s momentum to throw him off, sending him sprawling. He’s quick to get back to his feet, but that moment of carelessness gives Ghost everything he needs. The next time Johnny throws himself at him, Ghost lets him get an arm around his leg and nearly grins to himself when he feels Johnny put all his weight into trying to flip him. 

He knows strength isn’t everything, but there’s something to be said about the several inches and even more kilos he has on Johnny. That plus a decade’s worth of experience. Sparring devolves into a sweat-slicked grapple, Johnny’s shirt coming untucked and rucked up, his hair mussed. He tries to go for the mask, eyes gleaming with a wet, savage glint—forgetting decorum or tact, and just going for the most underhanded maneuver. 

He pays for it when Ghost takes him hard to the floor, catching him with a leg sweep that he might’ve been able to avoid if he were fighting with a clear mind. Anger makes him sloppy though. 

“Fuckin’ bastard—” Johnny grunts when he hits the floor, narrowly avoiding clipping his chin against the mat. 

“Folks never married, so guess you’re right,” Ghost remarks, unbothered. Hardly winded even, only the lightest sheen of sweat on his brow, obscured by the mask. 

His sudden divulgence makes Johnny falter. So rarely does Ghost open even a crack that the momentary honesty catches him off guard, giving Ghost the opportunity to wrangle him into a tight hold. 

Pinning Johnny isn’t an easy task because the kid fights dirty when he feels cornered. Lashes out wildly with his fists when Ghost gets an arm around his neck and holds him in place, less precise than when he’s coolheaded, but still brutal, all raw strength packed behind his punches. He twists Johnny over onto his stomach when the boy tries to buck him off, slamming him down hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

“Gonna tell me what’s got you all riled up now?” Ghost asks, twisting Johnny’s arms behind his back to pin him in place. 

He struggles in Ghost’s hold, trying to find a weak point. The search is fruitless. Ghost’s body weighs him down like a boulder pinning him flush to a dirt-streaked mountainside, forcing the air out of his lungs when he presses down harder. 

“Ye cannae just take her from me—” he spits out, face flushed. He kicks out a foot, trying to free himself, but all Ghost does is shift slightly to press his shin to Johnny’s calf, holding it down. “I told ye she was different and ye had to—and now she willnae even fuckin’ talk to me. Barely texts me, willnae answer my calls. I cannae—I can’…” 

His voice trails off on a hitch. Not quite a sob, but a frustrated, wretched sound. 

“Held that in for a while, didn’t ya?” Ghost murmurs, holding Johnny down with ease when he struggles again, trying to wrench his arms out of Ghost’s hold. 

“I almost fuckin’—almost just fuckin’ gave her to ye,” Johnny says, shame thick in his voice. “Thought maybe it wouldnae be worth…jus’ dinnae want a girl coming between us. But she’s—I told ye, Lt, she’s special, I cannae jus’—I cannae jus’ let her go. And now she doesnae want anythin’ to do with me.”

Ghost doesn’t bother pointing out the absurdity of that statement. As if Johnny could give him something that’s already his. 

“Not trying to steal your bird, Johnny.” He taps Johnny’s cheek, a little reprimand. It makes him blink and scrunch up his nose. “What’d be the point of that?”

He forgets how young Johnny is sometimes, just now nearing the end of his twenties. Still wet behind the ears, all blood flushed and pink cheeked. Green still to the realities of the world and Ghost’s presence in his life (permanent, fixed; unchanging). 

There isn’t a version of him that wants someone who doesn’t also want Johnny. Inconceivable. After everything that they’ve been through together, the root of him and what he wants is inextricably tied with what Johnny wants—at times, Ghost almost wishes he could live inside his head, just a constant stream of Johnny’s thoughts into his. 

Johnny twists his head enough to glare over his shoulder at Ghost. “The fuck are ye on about? Ye grabbed her ass in front of God ‘n everyone, for Christ’s sake. Said your intentions loud ‘n clear.”

“‘Course I did. She’s got a nice arse, doesn’t she?”

“You’re really startin’ to fuck with my head, Ghost, I dinnae understand what ye—”

“You keep running your mouth off about trying to take the girl from you—I don’t need to take anything.” He stresses the word to be clear, forcing Johnny back down when he tries to buck Ghost off again. This time he stays in place, both calves pinned down to the mat, cheek pressed into the fabric when Ghost slots a hand into the scruff of his mohawk, forcing his head down. “Quit struggling—you’re not getting back up. We’re sorting this shit out now so you quit moping around base and giving me a fuckin’ headache.”

“Stop exaggerating—I havenae even opened my mouth around ye in days. I’m no’ doing anything to your head—”

“How the fuck am I supposed to think when you keep running away?”

The air hangs heavy in the wake of his words, the oxygen all but sucked out of the room. 

“The two of you are mine,” Ghost says in a low, harsh voice, the sound making Johnny flinch against the mat. “I’m not asking for just one of you. You’re out of your fuckin’ mind if you think I’d leave you out of this, mutt.”

He’d sooner lose them both, but that’s another scenario that he’d never tolerate. 

With some effort, Ghost tips Johnny over onto his back, holding him down before he can start to struggle again. He keeps his wrists trapped behind his back, forcing Johnny to arch his back off the floor, presenting himself. From his vantage point, it’s easy for Ghost to flick his gaze down and find Johnny’s dick pressed hard against the zipper of his pants, all plumped up from being pinned to the ground. 

“Good, you’re already hard,” Ghost grunts approvingly, rolling his hips down to alleviate some of the pressure building up in his groin. “Haven’t come since she left the other week, I bet.”

Panic flares red hot in Johnny’s eyes, widening when Ghost settles deeper between his legs, his own hard cock unmistakable. “Wait—wait, Ghost—I’m no’—I’m no’—”

It would be a stretch to say that anything softens in him, but a part of Ghost does feel for the boy. He’s been around Johnny long enough to know his persuasion—strictly women with the occasional appreciative glances towards some men. An appreciation he relegates to furtive, guilty glances, holding it inside of him like a nasty secret that he’ll never part with. Too riddled with Catholic guilt and the ease of just playing it straight. 

Ghost has no intention of making it easy on him though. 

He tries to imagine what it might be like if he were on the other end, but for him it’s only ever been cunts and Johnny and the bird. Now just the latter two hold any weight. 

His protests only last as long as it takes Ghost to unfasten their belts and zippers, fishing Johnny’s cock out first. The second his rough hand wraps around Johnny’s length, the words die on the boy’s lips, replaced by a choked off grunt. His balls are full enough to corroborate Ghost’s words—he probably hasn’t come since seeing his girl off the other day, too frustrated and upset to jack off, the ducts shut, working himself up into a frothy mess only for it to slip right out of his hands at the last second. 

Johnny’s eyes roll back when Ghost grips both their cocks in his fist, slicking his hand up with Johnny’s precome. Sweat sluices down the sides of his neck. He looks good with his tongue tied up in knots, thoughts emptying out through his ears in rivulets. 

Even with Ghost’s hand as big as it is, he can’t wrap it all the way around the two of them. Johnny’s come provides a nice glide though, lubricating the underside of his shaft when Ghost grinds up into his fist. 

It spurs him into a kind of ​​protolithic fervour, desperate only to come. The iron rich scent of blood and sweat makes Ghost salivate, eyes drawn to the tender skin of his neck, the flush now riding high, up and over his cheekbones. Lips bitten red, also swollen with blood. In a better mood, Ghost might indulge him, might roll up his mask and lick into the wet mouth hanging open deliciously, teasing him, but there’ll be time for that later. 

He slurs out Ghost’s name when he comes, Simon ripped from his lips like it was dug clean out of his soul. His come splatters across his belly and shirt in thin, watery spurts, the wind knocked out of him again. 

Johnny squirms when Ghost doesn’t let go of their cocks, hand still dragging up and down, mumbling that he’s too sensitive, fuck, lemme go, I cannae—

“I’ll stroke your cock and grab the bird’s ass whenever I feel like it,” Ghost growls down at him, at the end of his patience now. He pants out a ragged breath when his cock throbs at a particularly whorish moan dropping broken from Johnny’s mouth. “I’ll nut in her cunt and make you lick it out if I want. And you’ll fuckin’ thank me for giving you a taste.”

Johnny almost goes nonverbal at that, a leg trying to kick out weakly even though it’s still pinned down under Ghost’s heavy thigh. His dick twitches against Ghost’s, a valiant effort. 

When Ghost comes, it settles in a thick, viscous mess across Johnny’s stomach, pooling around his belly button. It radiates hot down his back, the ache in his lower spine abating momentarily. Can only imagine how much better it would feel balls deep in Johnny’s ass or the bird’s pussy, a wet warmth clutching him tight, legs wrapped around his waist to drag him closer. 

He’ll have that soon enough.

A ragged wheeze is pulled from Johnny’s chest when Ghost drags his cock through it, spreading it over his stomach. It’s worse when Ghost dips his fingers into the mess, a sticky blend of both their come, before bringing his fingers up to Johnny’s mouth, forcing them past his lips and over his teeth and gums. Johnny sputters at the taste, going cross-eyed to look down at Ghost’s hand. 

There’s no time for pillowtalk or soft words though. Even if there were, niceties come out of Ghost’s mouth like a ring of smoke. Still, the thought of the bird not returning Johnny’s calls or texts makes him bristle, his annoyance renewed. His own disinclination to communicate aside—a waste of words as far as Ghost’s concerned, he says more with his actions anyway—none of this works if the girl won’t talk it out. 

Probably pent up, the stubborn thing. He’ll have to sort that out too. It keeps him young at least. 

“C’mon, Johnny,” Ghost says, rising to his feet. He dusts his hands off on his fatigues as if nothing happened, then holds out a hand for Johnny to grab. “Let’s go see our bird.”

[sixxels]

home

boyfriend!satoru coming home after a long mission to his caring!girlfriend ﾟ𓂃⋆｡

fluff!

(art creds: _3aem on X!)

boyfriend!satoru had to be on the ball twenty-four seven for his life as a sorcerer to run smoothly. never once could he slip up and potentially put the entire damn world in danger, because that would mean putting you in danger, and god, he could never let that happen; because when shit hit the fan in his jam packed life, he knew his sweet girl would be waiting for him at home.

boyfriend!satoru had just finished a week long overseas mission in spain, some curse users were running a muck and their government needed the help of the strongest sorcerer alive to keep it under control. after quickly capturing each and every user, he was finally on a plane back to japan and into your loving arms.

boyfriend!satoru was fucking exhausted. his muscles were aching, his head was pounding, and all he wanted was to finally see his beautiful girl after so long. letting out a long, deep sigh, he pushed the front door to his lovely shared home with you open, and threw his jacket up on the coat horse with an overly heavy groan. he grouchily traipsed down the long hallway, letting out a sigh of release as he finally, finally, caught a glimpse of you sleeping soundly on the plush couch in a short little dress and a cute pink apron.

boyfriend!satoru smiled weakly to himself before flopping on down next to you and pulling your tiny frame against his chest like a man starved. he buried his nose in your gorgeous hair, inhaling the scent he longed so much to smell while he was gone. his heart squeezed when he saw you stir slightly to cuddle up onto him absentmindedly, like a puppy seeking warmth.

boyfriend!satoru watched as your precious eyes fluttered open through your long thick lashes, eyes softening as he noticed the look of realisation crossing your features. "toru! you're home. i missed you so much." he felt your little arms wrap around his big broad back as you sniffled into his chest.

boyfriend!satoru was startled when you sat up immediately after and brushed yourself off, pulling his hand up so he could stand and follow you to the kitchen. you placed him in his seat at the head of the small wooden table in your dining room and told him to sit tight. "i have a surprise for you baby."

boyfriend!satoru felt his whole world disappear leaving only you in the center of it all when you brought out a hot tray with a variety of his favourite home cooked dishes. you placed the tray in-front of an awe-struck satoru and he looked up at you like you were his own little slice of heaven. "what the hell did i do in my past life to deserve someone like you baby." he muttered to himself while raking his eyes over your features.

boyfriend!satoru chuckled as you ushered him to eat before it got cold, and he didn't need to be told twice. he devoured every single bite, letting out groans of pleasure with each spoonful of the amazing food you had whipped up. while he was eating you slipped his shirt off. "really couldn't wait that long huh baby? trying to seduce me while i'm eating isn't fair you know!" he laughed, you just chuckled softly in response. "i'm not trying to do that honey. just shh and let me take care of you."

boyfriend!satoru let out a grunt of appreciation as he felt your little hands rub at his sore back muscles while he ate your food. each ministration had him groaning in pleasure as he relished in your loving presence. every knot you massaged out of his muscular back reminded him more and more of just how much he appreciated having you as his own. "fuuuck baby. you're so perfect." he cooed with every one of your calculated movements.

boyfriend!satoru finished all of his food before setting his chopsticks down, you were quick to kiss his cheek lovingly; taking the empty tray from in-front of him before he could fix it up himself. satoru watched as you took it to the sink, standing up from the dinner table and following after you while trying to take it back and wash it himself. "c'mon baby. you just made me all this food at least let me clean u-"

boyfriend!satoru was surprised when you shushed him with one of your little fingers. "go get ready for a bath baby, i'll be up in a few minutes." satoru sighed and nodded, although there was no real frustration behind it, more so a deep and sensual sort of love. he kissed the top of your adorable little head watching you wash up his dishes, smiling to himself as he begun walking upstairs to the ensuite bathroom.

he stripped off his clothing once inside the master bed room and entered the bathroom only to be met with a tub full of bubbly hot water, smelling like epsom salts and bath soaps as soft pink rose petals littered the surface of the water. he smiled and let out a breathy chuckle. 'she's so cute.'

soon after, he heard a pitted patter of footsteps coming up the stairs. turning around with a soft grin, he saw you undressing as you walked into the bedroom. "you like it toru?" your face looked so fucking pretty all soft and expecting. he reached out for you and wrapped your now naked body in his, there was a spark, not of anything sexual, but of a bond that tied two lovers together like glue. "you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, baby girl." a cute little giggle erupted from your throat as you pulled back from hims and led him to sit inside the soapy tub. satoru was filthy rich, so ofcourse the tub was massive. you both easily slipped inside,

you situated yourself behind satoru and he relaxed back into you. his head was against your chest as you raked your hands through his hair. "you do so much for everyone else toru. i'm glad i get to return the favour by spoiling you every chance i get." he groans at your words and turns to kiss the side of your breast. never in his life had he felt this cared for. the bath infusions were lulling his mind, your gentle strokes making his eyes flutter, the sensation drove him deeper into his favourite relaxed state.

seriously, he'd never felt more at home than he did in your small arms. after a good half hour of stroking satoru's hair through your dainty fingers, kissing his forehead and whispering words of love and comfort. "you're so strong baby, handling everything all on your own isn't easy. i'm so lucky to have such an incredible man." he opened his beautiful crystal eyes, gazing at you through his white lashes. "say it again?" he'd ask with a small cheeky smile.

after the lovely bath, the two of you took turns drying eachother off and slipping into some nice comfy pyjamas, matching of course. satoru pulled you in by the waist and captured your lips in the softest kiss you'd ever felt. you smiled up at him and tumbled into bed. the two of you lay wrapped in eachothers limbs, lips ghosting over eachother in a deep sensual exchange. the room fell quiet as the two of you lay with your foreheads pressed together.

"y/n. you're the most precious girl in the world honey. i really can't tell you how blessed i feel every time i come home to you, baby. please, don't ever leave me." his voice was hushed, barely a whisper as he ran his hands up and down your waist. you could feel his breath fanning over your lips in a steady pace.

"don't worry, toru. i love you way too much for that, silly boy. do you feel more relaxed now?"

he let out a laugh and nodded his head before kissing the top of your nose.

"the most content i've ever felt in my life, baby."

[midnightshindig]

omg hi, you're like... the only person I've seen make content for Multi Paul, and I need that man BIBLICALLY!

so I was hoping perchance could I request an x reader where he always follows through with his missions because he basically has a reason to get back home alive? reader is just constantly keeping him motivated, and when he gets back to them, he just melts and gets all pampered and loved, among other things

Reader is just overall really chill and optimistic, and Paul just gets to live in his lil bubble with them

if this is too much, I'm sorry! I'm really new to making requests anyways byeeee

Multi Paul x Reader!

mmmmokay i really like this one

the whole "come home to me" is some odysseus ass shit and I live for it

BY THE WAY- i'm in love with Epic! Odysseus. that's not relevant but wtv I love him

hcs under the cut!!

Being an assasin for The Order is MISERABLE work

Paul has to go through so much shit and violence and harassment to do his job

and it's so not worth it

there were times where he'd think "this is it, I'm so over, this is how it ends" and he'd find some peace in it

until he met you

You met casually, on one of Paul's rare grocery runs. He usually was too busy bouncing from job to job to have need for groceries, dining and dashing wherever he wanted around the globe.

but this had been a slow month and Paul needed cotton candy grapes

So, obviously, he goes to get some cotton candy grapes

and what does he find there but the prettiest person he's ever met

How... domestic?

He can't help himself, he chats you up

and he's sooooo full of himself, but so inexperienced at the same time

but, fuck it, he's cute

The transaction ends with an exchanging of phone numbers and a promise to meet later that night for drinks.

And so you do!

and then you meet up again

and again

until you've been "meeting up" twice a week for three months

you don't know that Paul has been hauling ass to make it back to your city between jobs

You don't even know Paul is an assassin for The Order.

he sure as shit isn't going to tell you

It's six months into this mess that Paul realizes he loves you

like.... loooooves you

This realization comes when a victim's bodyguard comes at his head with a sledgehammer, straight to the skull and knocking him down

He almost wavers, a familiar feeling of "oh, is this it? am I done now?" washing over him

before he remembers he's supposed to take you to dinner tomorrow night and picks his ass back up

He can't DIE, he has to go find out what kind of cologne you think smells best and get a haircut and invest in skincare for you

He can't die.... he has to take you out tomorrow

So, with a sudden rush of adrenaline, he finishes his job and sets off to make the best date of your life

He picks you up in a borrowed fancy car, calling in a favor from Machine Head, whose surprisingly on board with the whole thing

Like full "oh yeah I love love, go get laid man" type shit

give him the BMW beep beep hop In loser

But he's actually turning into quite the gentleman

"Y/n!! Hop in!" He grins at you, with a stupid, cocky veneer overlaying it all

and so you do, smiling as he leans over and opens the door for you from the inside

tonight should be perfect

"Oh, is that.... vanilla?" you asked with a smile, a familiar and comforting presence

"Your favorite scent!" he beams with smug pride, you have no idea how anal he had to be about colognes this morning, he's glad you like it

The date goes smoothly, and you're impressed with all the care Paul is obviously putting into this

"So.... Y/n.... You know how I'm just a normal dude?"

You raised an eyebrow, popping a mozzarella stick in your mouth "Is this about your powers?"

His jaw goes slack "Psshhht- wh- what? My powers?" he's losing grip on this, fast

but you gracefully dip your mozzarella stick in marinara, taking another bite "Uh, yeah, I've seen you on the news."

You chew in silence as Paul processes

"Oh- don't worry i'm not like a spy sent to kill you or anything. I don't really care that much." You eye him, narrowing them skeptically "but like.... you gonna make it official or what?"

He's thrown for a loop again

you've uncovered his secret and asked HIM out when he had plans for both scenarios

You were really something

God he loves you.

"Oh- Uhm-" he coughs into his elbow, looking back at you, his eyes darting around "Can I be your boyfriend?"

You smiled smugly, returning the cocky grin he's been giving you the last six months, and nodded "Yeah, sure"

It's a smug response, but the affection is palpable

He gets soooooo efficient at his job

now that he has you to come home to <3

[topsmirae]

🔮 Pick a Pile: How Will Your Future Husband Treat You When You’re Pregnant?

Take a deep breath. Center yourself. Which pile/emoji pulls you in? 🌸🛋️🧸 🍯🌿🍼

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🌸 Pile 1 Your future husband is deeply nurturing and attentive during your pregnancy. He becomes your soft place to land—always ready with a gentle touch, soothing words, and warm meals. He’s intuitive about your needs, often anticipating what you need before you say it. Whether it’s rubbing your feet after a long day or reading baby books aloud, he makes you feel cherished and protected every step of the way.

Love language: Acts of service, tender care Vibe: Cozy afternoons, warm blankets, soft lullabies

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🛋️ Pile 2 He’s your emotional rock—a calm presence who listens without judgment and holds space for every mood and worry. When you’re overwhelmed, he’s patient and steady, reminding you that you’re not alone. He might not always know the perfect thing to say, but his unwavering support speaks louder than words. Together, you build a peaceful, loving home where you feel safe to be vulnerable.

Love language: Quality time, emotional support Vibe: Quiet evenings, heartfelt conversations, gentle hugs

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🧸 Pile 3 Your future husband is playful and lighthearted, keeping the mood bright even on tough days. He makes you laugh when your body aches or your emotions feel heavy. From silly belly dances to baby name brainstorming sessions filled with jokes, he brings joy and fun into your pregnancy. His positivity lifts your spirits and makes you feel excited and hopeful for the future.

Love language: Playfulness, humor Vibe: Light-hearted moments, laughter-filled rooms, sunny mornings

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🍯 Pile 4 He’s intensely protective and attentive, sometimes even a little over-the-top. He’s all about making sure you’re comfortable, safe, and pampered—whether that means running errands for you, creating a serene nursery, or insisting you rest while he handles everything else. His love shows through action, and you never have to ask twice. He’s your steadfast guardian during this transformative time.

Love language: Acts of service, physical presence Vibe: Thoughtful gestures, serene spaces, steady devotion

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🌿 Pile 5 Your future husband is deeply spiritual and connected, often tuning into your emotional and energetic needs. He encourages mindfulness, meditation, and connecting with the baby in intuitive ways. He might lead you in calming rituals or simply hold your hand while you breathe through challenges. His presence is a gentle, healing force, reminding you of the sacredness of this journey.

Love language: Spiritual connection, emotional intimacy Vibe: Soft candlelight, peaceful rituals, sacred moments

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🍼 Pile 6 He’s practical and dependable—a true partner who keeps everything running smoothly. From scheduling doctor visits to assembling the crib, he’s hands-on and organized. You never have to worry about the details because he’s got your back. His steady, grounded energy helps ease your stress and makes you feel fully supported in every practical and emotional way.

Love language: Acts of service, reliability Vibe: Organized calm, everyday teamwork, solid foundation

[foreingersgod]

Pls pls something about emily engstler where the reader ( they can be friends at the beginning) keeps staring at her tattoos especially on her hands and emily catches her

Tattoos . EE

pairing: emily engstler x reader

A/N: i’m thinking let’s stay home pt 2 next??

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

“what’re you staring for?” a familiar voice sounded from across the couch. it was so sultry, so smooth. you couldn’t help that your body was drawn to it instantly.

it was a normal day, you and your girlfriend tucked away in the comfort of your home for the weekend. she had had a rough week of intense practice and you had a draining week of work, so the both of you decided to take some time to relax. but it was a dangerous game for you, emily within your reach at all times. she was practically irresistible and you found yourself gawking at her nearly every chance you got.

she was quite literally the hottest person on the planet in your eyes. her hair, her body, her lips, her eyes…everything about her made you crazy. but your favorite thing about her, that made you want to pounce on her at any given moment, are her tattoos. you really couldn’t explain it, why you were so drawn to them. the intricate designs that littered her skin just had some sort of grasp on you, had you drooling like a teen girl over her high school crush. you would squeeze your thighs together in desperation as you’d watch her hand run down her face, ink ridden fingers mindlessly tracing the outline of her lips. god the things it did to you. how her muscles would flex when you’d watch her work out, your eyes glued to the way the tattoos moved with them. everything she did, you’d be admiring the beautiful works of art.

emily wasn’t quite aware of your fixation with her tattoos. rather she knew you liked them, but clueless to the near obsession you had. she never caught onto the stares or the amount of times you’d trace them with your fingernails when you’d lay in bed at the end of the night. she had always figured you’d liked them just like any normal person would. so you would continue on with your infatuation, let yourself indulge every now and then without her noticing.

until now.

“hm?” you blinked rapidly, shaking yourself out of a daydream.

your legs were draped over hers as you laid horizontally across the couch, your head rested against the cushioned arms of the sofa. emily was running her hands up and down your shins aimlessly, making little imaginary drawing here and there. she was scrolling on her phone to pass the time and you were sat there, just looking. for the past, probably 10 minutes, you sat there watching her. watched how her tatted fingers glided smoothly along your skin. watched how they moved effortlessly. it was hypnotizing to watch, getting lost in the print on her fingers. you couldn’t lie, you were getting hot and bothered just thinking about those fingers.

when you had emerged from your fantasies, finally looking over at emily, she was already staring back at you. her phone now discarded somewhere next to her and her gaze glued to you. her fingers had stopped tracing and she had one eyebrow quirked at you in curiosity.

“you’ve been staring at me for like 10 minutes” her head tilted to the side, she was so damn cute “everything ok? is something wrong?”

“m’not staring” you pursed your lips. now it was your fingers, fiddling senselessly out of nerves. you were too embarrassed to admit that you’d been caught.

she just chuckled, tongue running along her bottom lip. her hand rose up to scratch at the back of her neck in amusement at your poor excuse of a lie.

“come on, baby” her eyes still shooting daggers into you, eyelids low but still alluring and intrigued “don’t lie t’me”

“i’m not, honest! i don’t even know what you’re talking about!” you scoffed playfully, hoping she wouldn’t pry any further. but you knew she would. she always did.

“i’m talking about how the whole time we’ve been sitting here you’ve been eyeing me”

“i have not” you emphasized even more.

“oh really?” she said, and you nodded in return. she leaned in closer to you and you watched as her eyes flickered down to your lips and back to your eyes “then why is it that every time my hand reaches your thigh your breathe catches in your throat?”

if your breathe wasn’t hitching when she was touching you, it certainly was now. she looked so divine, practically hovering over you just to tease you like this. you wanted to be mad at her for making you feel so humiliated, but how could you when she was so tempting.

“talk to me,” her voice lowered to a rasp “you know exactly what i’m talking about”

unable to handle the heat, already feeling the blush creep onto your face, you sighed in defeat. you bit your lip and squeezed yours eyes shut as you tried to think of the right words to say. how does one say your tattoos make me want to tear off your clothes and take you right here, right now without sounding like a freak?

“it’s embarrassing, emily. don’t make me say it”

“you don’t have to be embarrassed around me, baby, s’ok” she was met with a moment of silence as you groaned in frustration “why were you staring?”

“your…” another sigh fell from your lips, you were at a loss for words “your tattoos”

“my tattoos?” she smirked “what about them?”

“they’re just so, i don’t know, attractive?” your body cringed as you said it. you tried to avoid her gaze to ease the shame you felt, but you couldn’t help but catch how her smirk formed into a toothy grin “like…god this is so stupid…like they just look so good on you and you look so fucking good all the time. and i just can’t stop looking at you, em, i’m sorry”

with a new found confidence, you continued “your fingers, just the tattoos on them…oh my god emily you have no idea what you do to me. even when you’re just sitting here i can’t resist you”

“wow” she breathed out, lips curled tauntingly “can’t resist me, huh?”

“shut up”

“no no” another laugh fell from her lips. but this time it was soft and relaxed, not seductive to try and coerce some confession out of you “it’s cute, babe. you shouldn’t be embarrassed”

you just rolled your eyes at her, part of you still irritated that you were put in such a position, but another part of you relieved she didn’t mind.

emily let her hands fall down to you legs again, palms flat against you. you could feel the slight callousness of her skin. they pressed into the plushness of your thighs gently as they agonizingly crept their way towards you. she kept her eyes on you, eyelashes low, lips slightly parted. your mouth fell dry as her hands approached the bottoms of your shorts. her fingers toyed with the hems, then eventually pushing their way past the loose fabric until she was met with the silky skin of your hip just under your shorts. then, with little warning, she let her head lower down to your neck. her breathe was hot against you as she let her lips attach, kissing along your body. you gasped upon feeling the sudden sensation, your hands flying up to the back of her head in an attempt to brace yourself.

“all this over some tattoos?” she whispered into your neck “baby…you’re killing me”

“will you be quiet and just kiss me?” you blurted, unable to handle the built up tension.

“anything for you”

and with that, her lips were on yours in an instant. your bodies melting into each other as she showed you just how much she loved you with those damned tattoos.