#all the little flicks around her face are adorable

[wee-chlo]

Doing a little character study of my De Riva Rook from a mixed Spite/Lucanis POV.

Smidgen of spice at the beginning but nothing explicit. Also Pepa is autistic.

Lucanis wants.

What he wants depends on… something. Spite hasn't figured out what. But the longer they're in the Lighthouse, the more his Wants center around Rook.

Sometimes, when Rook wrenches a blade from the throat of an Antaam, or blocks an arrow perfectly with a flick of the wrist, or just laughs low in her throat, head tilted, eyes half-lidded and lips curled, Lucanis wants heat. Teeth and tongue and gasped out names, hips twitching up or thrusting down, a hand twisting in his hair, fingers in his mouth, nails carving out divots on his back, her lips on his, her hand splayed across his chest, her taking, claiming.

And then he wants some privacy. Or a very cold bath. 

Sometimes, when Rook is sitting in the kitchen with him, humming and making something soft with a hook and yarn, he wants quiet. On his knees, head in her lap, eyes closed because he's so tired, arms wrapped around her waist while she runs her hands down his back, through his hair, humming and singing.

And then he swallows past a jagged lump in his throat and banishes the idea from his mind.

And sometimes, when he leaves the kitchen to stretch his legs and sees Rook playing with Assan, he wants soft. Rook's hands cupping his face as she peppers it with kisses, on his cheeks and his lips and his nose and his forehead, like he's precious, like he's sweet, like she adores him.

And then he feels deeply stupid, because he's jealous of a baby griffon. 

Spite likes Rook too. She's always something: moving, talking, singing, changing, disrupting. She's funny and bright, but not blindingly so. She's kind but not grating. She thanks Spite when he brings things from the Fade, and once laughed for five minutes when he pulled a bridge of human bone. 

Spite wants to talk to her. He never gets to talk to her. Lucanis gets to talk to her all the time, but he never says what he wants to, never asks the questions Spite wants to ask.

They talk about contracts and hard lessons from distant childhoods. They talk about hot drinks and first kisses neither of them have had. They talk about yarn and food and songs and other crows Spite doesn't care about. 

They don't talk about how Rook smells. How it shifts as things change. How at first her magic smells like ozone and the sweet scent of rot, but then after Wiesshaupt it smells like fire, and after the Venatori kidnap the Dalish it smells sharply of ice. 

Her perfume is a constant: a Trevisian mix that starts as woodsmoke and ends as vanilla. When Lucanis’ fingers itch to stroke and pet and feel, Spite wants to bury his face in her throat and inhale.

“Stop that,” Lucanis more pleads than demands, his voice slightly strangled. You want it too, Spite accuses. You've been looking. Lucanis doesn't respond.

They don't talk about how Rook is never quiet or still, always rocking or humming or snapping her fingers. Sometimes, if she is very angry or very happy or very anything, she flaps her arms and hands like bird wings or paces in circles for hours or rocks back and forth. Spite doesn't know why, but sometimes it feels like he can see things smooth out around her when she does it. A roughness is gone and she is softened, relaxed. He wants to learn how to do that, but Lucanis won't ask.

Good mystical morning, everyone!

It’s WIP Wednesday Thursday!

Just:

Reblog this post with a snippet of (one of) your current project(s) and I’ll reblog it again with commentary/encouragement !

It doesn’t need to be DA related, you can share whatever you want!

Very chill, no pressure at all! Hope you all are having fun writing/drawing/creating!

[chuluoyi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄

xavier x reader

while the entire kingdom of philos rejoices over the soon-to-be-born heir to the throne, the king’s unwavering priority remains clear: his queen

genre/warnings: mildly suggestive, fluff, fluff, fluff, comfort, king!xavier and queen!reader, pregnancy, spoilers! from xavier's myth shooting stars and taking elements of xavier's card silvery polyphony

note: i'm not actually a xavier girlie... but ever since his myth and anecdote when shooting stars fall, he's been marinating in my head :')

“Your Majesty, here are the gifts meant for the Queen by the townsfolk.”

Xavier’s gaze swept over the various trinkets that filled the throne room—from fine fabrics and glistening pearls, to handwritten messages with heartfelt wishes for the future royal baby and your wellbeing. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

"All this? You’ve inspected every single one of them?" he questioned, gaze flicked to Jeremiah, his aide. His cerulean eyes narrowed slightly. "Nothing with malicious intent?"

Jeremiah shook his head with a smile. "No. They are purely tokens of love and respect for Her Majesty."

"I see..."

Xavier hummed softly, the stiffness in his posture easing as the assurance settled over him—no harm would come to you. In the fifth year of your reign as King and Queen of Philos, it had become clear that the people had come to adore their queen to such an extent.

As they should. The king found himself smiling despite his usual composure then. You were due their respect for all of your service and compassion. And now, with you carrying the future heir to the throne, it was even more deserved.

"Has the Queen been well? She hasn't been around much," Jeremiah asked, a knowing look crossed his face. "After all, you're counting down the days now..."

With the royal physician declaring you were at full-term, you could give birth any day now. Xavier would be lying if he said he wasn't antsy, but the least he could do in front of his subjects was showing an air of indifference.

But of course, Jeremiah knew him best after you.

"Why don't you pay her a visit? And oh, yeah, I think I've heard the maids saying Her Majesty is missing having the King serenading her!"

Your husband had been busy these past few days that he had little time to spend with you each day.

Of course, you missed him. There wasn’t much you could do while in confinement. And so when he entered your chambers on this windy winter day, you were more enthusiastic than you should have—

“Xavier!” You turned to him and smiled so brightly, your excitement making you rise to your feet and scamper towards him.

But he was faster, closing the distance in an instant and catching you before you could take more than a few steps. His hands steadied you, as the heavy weight in your womb proved to be a challenge.

“You’re supposed to be on bedrest,” he scolded, a frown tugging at his features. His hands rested firmly on your shoulders, holding you in place. “Don’t move around too much.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” You giggled as he led you to your bed, but before you could settle in, a sharp wave of pain rippled through your abdomen and spine. The smile faltered on your lips as you sucked in a quick breath, instinctively leaning into him for support.

“What's wrong?” Xavier’s voice tensed with concern, his arm tightening around you as his eyes widened in alarm. His free hand hovered protectively over yours, which was clutching your swollen belly. "Is it hurting? I’ll call for—"

“No, no!” You declined amidst your labored breaths, mustering up a smile despite the discomfort. “I’ve consulted the royal physician. It’s perfectly normal for me to experience this... I just have to bear it.”

“How is this normal?” Xavier's brow furrowed with worry and sternness. “If this keeps up, how will you preserve your strength for the real labor?”

He had always detested seeing you in distress. It was evident in all his actions, from the earliest moments of your relationship to this very day, and it made your heart warm.

When the pain subsided, you made him sit on your bed and brought both your hands to cup his face, trying to coax a smile from him.

"Don't worry too much, love." You grinned, eyes crinkling. "On the bright side, it just means that our little star is thiiis close to meeting us."

Xavier found your gaze and for a moment, he stayed silent. His clear blue eyes softened as they held yours. You had always been like this—diminishing your own discomfort in favor of reassuring him, and if you thought it would make him feel better, then you were sorely wrong because his instincts to protect you were deeply engraved in him, and it only fueled his concern further.

His hands settled over yours, pressing them to his face.

“From what I’ve seen, this baby really enjoys bullying you,” he muttered sullenly.

You pursed your lips. “A friendly reminder, you’re the one who got me with child.”

“I’ve always thought that sexual act is the pinnacle of showing the depths of my undying loyalty towards you.” His tone was mock-serious, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. “The baby is a pleasant gift, what I enjoy more though—”

Before you could protest, his fingers skimmed over your figure, landing with unmistakable familiarity on your ample breasts—

“I like these the most.”

“Xavier!” You swatted his hand away with wide eyes, crossing both arms over your chest in an attempt to block him from further groping.

He chuckled openly at how defensive you were, a playful glint in his eyes. With a soft pat on your head, he stood up and extended his right hand towards you.

“What?” You stared at his hand, almost squeaking, wary that his hands might wander to your sensitive skin again. Xavier let out another chuckle, clearly amused by your reaction.

“I’ve heard through the grapevine that Her Majesty the Queen wants me to serenade her,” he said with a teasing smile. “And as your humble servant, who am I to refuse?”

. . .

You has always adored how Xavier plays the piano.

He claimed he didn't like the instrument that much, but the way his fingers moved over the keys so effortlessly, each note flowing with such precision—it was one of the many ways he captured your heart.

You sat next to him by the grand piano, your head gently bobbing along with the beautiful rhythm he drew from the keys.

“You used to play this a lot back then,” you commented as Xavier started playing the piece he composed himself, one you often referred as ‘his very own soundtrack.’

Celestial Serenade. Xavier even had a name for it. Solemn and playful, it was the beginning that always got your heart racing. But when he reached the bridge, a gnawing sadness would creep in, tugging at your heart.

And suddenly, in that moment, you had an epiphany.

From the days you had loved him as a student in the Academy, and then as a knight and your crown prince, those lonely years of waiting for him to come back the first time, until that decisive heartbreaking day when you let him go into the unknown once and for all—

—and those gruelling, painful years of waiting that followed afterwards… up until the day he finally came back to restore Philos, to retake his throne, and to make you his queen in the truest sense—

Tears pricked at your eyes at the flashback of everything the two of you had gone through, right after he finished the outro.

Xavier paused, his fingers still on the keys. He turned to you, but his eyes widened as he noticed the tears spilling from your eyes. “Why are you crying?”

“Nothing, I’m just—” Startled, you quickly wiped the tears from your face, but Xavier gently lifted your chin, his touch soft but insistent.

He was worried, his gaze searching yours as if he was struggling to find the right words, his eyes full of concern. “Tell me,” he urged quietly, the hint of a tremor in his voice. “What is it? What made you cry?”

How could you explain what you had just realized— the weight of all that had brought you to this moment? The journey, the sacrifices, the love that had never faltered even in the darkest of times?

And it all culminated into one single sentence, as you stared right into those beautiful eyes of his:

“I love you, Xavier.”

In that very second, Xavier could’ve sworn his heart was entirely in your grasp. His breath caught, and the world around him seemed to fade, leaving only you—your teary-eyed confession and the raw honesty in your gaze.

Through countless dawns and twilights, through many starry sea expeditions and a daring voyage to the past— everything he had done to protect you. All these long years of yearning to see you again had led to this precise moment, where happiness was finally within your reach.

To know his beloved returns his feelings in full… He was overwhelmed by love you gave him, it made his heart so, so full.

Xavier cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that streaked your cheeks. “Don't cry, you big crybaby. Save it for when we welcome our child later.”

You sniffled, frowning at him. “So, you don’t love me?”

A soft smile played on his lips as he pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in his warmth. He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder.

“Silly... I love you more than anything in this world.”

Three days later, you went into labor.

The palace descended into chaos, with attendants scurrying through the halls. But amidst all the commotion, Xavier was the one who struggled the most to maintain his composure.

Your cries from behind the doors felt like a blade slicing through his chest. He wanted nothing more than to rush in, to hold your hand, to do something—anything—but the midwives had firmly insisted that he stay out of the way.

Xavier’s mind raced with worry, his eyes fixed on the door as though sheer willpower could ease your pain. The only thing that mattered right in this moment was you and the child you were bringing into the world—and it was taking everything in him not to lose his wits.

Then, amidst his fervent prayers, hours later, a piercing cry broke through.

Xavier froze, his heart lurching. Relief and disbelief flooded him all at once as he realized—it was his baby's first cry.

But what about you?

He so desperately wanted to see you that Jeremiah had to physically restrain him. The women assured him you and the baby were being tended to.

When they finally allowed him inside, he rushed in so quickly he nearly stumbled.

There you were, seated on the bed, hair disheveled, exhaustion etched into every line of your face, yet to him, you were radiant—utterly so. His heart swelled as he watched you cradle the newborn, cooing with a tenderness that stole his breath.

“Now, say hi to Papa...”

Your voice was almost feather-like, yet it was in that moment the truth hit him with full force—his baby was really here. He stared at the tiny bundle in your arms, awestruck, before his gaze shifted to your pale face again.

And you smiled at him so brilliantly. So warmly.

“Xavier... say hello to our son.”

He felt like he was in a daze as he slowly kneeled and took the baby into his arms. The small, fragile weight felt both unfamiliar and extraordinary. This child— was a part of him, but most importantly, he was a part of you too.

The baby stirred, and when his eyes blinked open, Xavier’s breath hitched. Those tiny blue eyes, a mirror of his own, locked onto him.

“Ah, he—” Xavier faltered, his chest tightening as emotions overwhelmed him. Holding his son, seeing him so clearly now, felt like an arrow straight to his heart. Before this moment, he hadn’t thought much about how the baby might look. But now, he couldn’t help marveling at the sight. The little one had his hair and eyes, yet your delicate nose and soft, heart-shaped lips.

In that instant, all his doubts and fears melted away like snow under the sun, replaced by a feeling so intense, so overflowing, it brought a lump to his throat and tears in his eyes.

This was love—raw and undeniable. A love he never knew he could feel so deeply, now cradled in his arms.

And also in you.

As his gaze found yours again, Xavier made a vow—to every god and deity that might be listening, that no matter where his life led him, no matter how cruel fate might twist his path again, if it meant getting even a glimpse of this unparalleled happiness with you, then—

He would endure it all. Every storm, every trial. For you, for the love you shared, and now for the tiny life in his arms. And if you were ever separated again—

No matter how, no matter how many times, through all means, he will definitely find you, always.

[katsukikitten]

Retired pro hero Bakugou buying a really old abandoned home in Japan and restoring it while living in it.

It's all he's got, a lot of his friends have wives, families, kids, some of them even expecting a first grandkid and Bakugou in his 40s has nothing of his life to show for aside from the undisputed number one spot on the hero charts for 20 years straight and more scars than he can count.

He feels he relates to the house, old, once adored but now empty.

He wants to change that, wants to be more than an idea or idol, wants to disassociate from Dynamight and just be Bakugou Katsuki but he isn't sure he knows who that is. Dynamight is still parts of him yes but exaggerated, in all his years Katsuki knows he can soften he just doesn't know where.

Although he's ready to find out. Sadly or maybe fortunately, he's the type of man who has to find out through action and hard work. He bought the house site unseen, didn't even Google what the front of the home looked like he didn't care.

Standing in front of his mostly dilapidated home he feels good, crossing his arms over his chest as he lets his mind wander on where to start. Eyes sharp, cutting into the features of the home as he assesses just like he would any villain situation.

"Excuse me Dyna-" You clear your throat before he looks at you, as you remember his retiring announcement of him saying Dynamight can go fuck himself. I'm Bakugou Katsuki now.

"Excuse me Bakugou. I brought you a little welcome gift. I'm your neighbor." You don't flinch when his heavy gaze flicks to you, don't shy away from his snarl and if anything your smile grows as you offer up the bento and plate of cookies.

He doesn't take them and you don't take offense, just gently pull them back to yourself as you look at the home

"I'm so happy you bought the Sato house. They were good neighbors. They lived here when I was younger by both passed suddenly. Old age does that ya know? They didn't have any children but Mrs. Sato taught me her special rice for bentos."

You're rambling but you don't care, you'd just bought your childhood home from your parents a month prior. Fearful your home would suffer the same fate as the Satos. That the love and memories would be washed away by the rain and neglect. That the air around the home would worsen each year it went unaccompanied until it became so stagnant with neglect it became a miasma that not even the toughest soul could stomach.

Yet here stood Bakugou strong and tall outside a broken home.

"I don't think it's anything special by the way. Just a bit more soy sauce or sesame seed oil, I think she was what made it special."

Katsuki looks down at you for a long time, sees your fingers twitch against the fabric of the neatly wrapped bento, watches you swallow thickly and lashes flutter to combat the burn in your eyes as you stare at the home. You turn to face him, give a polite smile and nod of your head in a brief good bye before his voice stops you.

"I'll be the judge of that." You furrow your brows in confusion, looking up at him before his big warm palm comes under the bento to lift from your hands, "If the rice is special or not."

He watches your face light up, a true genuine smile that could compete with the sun and he feels something deep in his chest ache. Feels it yearn to reach out to you but he stands firm in his spot as he watches you disappear down the short overgrown walk way back to your home.

He doesn't even need to try the fucking rice to know the answer.

The rice was going to be special because you made it, Katsuki's sure of it.

[aaandbackstabbed]

This is angelic

(Trying to experiment with artstyle)

[lordprettyflackotara]

freaky friday || the proxies

“Son of a bitch, stop being greedy and pass the fuckin thing.”

Masky’s voice was sharp and annoyed, his patience growing thin. Hoodie lifted his head up from in between your thighs, his warm tongue abandoning your cunt to pass Masky the blunt they had bought from Ben. Your head currently laid on the brunettes lap, his cock aching in his jeans as Hoodie resumed devouring your sex. The Operator had begun making drug restrictions at the mansion, deciding that after a violent coked out rage from Jeff, no resident would be allowed to consume any substances at all. Normally you and the boys attempted to be decent servants, following the mansion rules. But as proxies you see and do a lot of fucked up shit, the kind that only sex and drugs can fix. So every Friday like clockwork you all agreed to release your pent up stress, by smoking and fooling around.

It was Hoodie’s idea to mix the two, his tongue teasingly poking at your entrance. The sickeningly sweet smell of weed flooded your nostrils as Masky inhaled the beloved blunt, exhaling the smoke out of the open window. Hoodie was in heaven in between your thighs, abruptly shoving two fingers inside of you. You gasped, your hips bucking upwards. Masky glanced down at you, flicking the ash out of the window. He smirked as he looked down at you, your mouth fallen open as Hoodie curled his long fingers inside of you. “You want me to pass this to Hoodie or can you handle smoking it at the same time princess?” Masky snickered. Hoodie could feel your walls flutter around his digits at Masky’s mocking. The four of you were all sadistic, but the blonde knew you thoroughly enjoyed being knocked down a peg or two. He purposefully went faster, reattaching his lips to your clit. With a determined stare and a shaky hand you grabbed the blunt from Masky, weakly inhaling as your eyes fluttered shut with euphoria. You could feel the knot in your stomach tighten, Hoodie always quick to make you cum so overstimulating you would be easy. You could feel the weed circulating around your lungs as your head tilted back against Masky, his gloved hand finding your hair.

You exhaled the smoke into the air carelessly, your spare hand pawing at Masky’s jacket for support. “Awe you’re adorable princess. Gonna cum already? We haven’t even taken our dicks out yet,” Masky teased. Hoodie grinned into your folds as he abused your g spot, his tongue swirling around your clit. The brunette could tell you were about to cum, sneakily grabbing the blunt to allow you to ride out your high. The cord inside of you snapped, your thighs trembling as you came on Hoodie’s face. Your heart was pounding, your eyes fluttered shut as Masky nonchalantly moved some stray hairs out of your face. He would never admit it, but he cared for you more than he let on. It was then you could hear the bedroom door open before quickly shutting again. “S-Shit did I miss her first orgasm?” Toby asked, throwing his axes onto the carpet. Hoodie emerged from your cunt, a glorious smile painted across his lips as your juices coated his chin. Masky handed him the blunt, Toby shoving off his goggles. “Dont worry kid, I think she deserves many more tonight. Just for being our good little princess,” Masky replied, mockingly grabbing your cheek and shaking it. Hoodie exhaled as he handed Toby the blunt. The blonde looked down at you, his eyes full of lust.

“Cmon princess why don’t you get down on your knees and see if you can suck three cocks at once, hmm?”

[syluslnd]

Imagine request please. Sylus is frustrated that someone he's fond of always looks away from him. But one day, she turns away and is facing a window/mirror; he catches her reflection and discovers she only does that because she's trying to hide her blush from them. What happens next?

sylus imagine with blushing reader

Sylus paced the room, his frustration barely concealed behind a mask of indifference. You sat across from him, nervously fidgeting with your hands. It wasn’t the first time he noticed this—the way you always avoided looking directly at him. It grated on him more than it should, a sting of rejection he couldn't shake.

Why did you always look away?

“Sweetie” Sylus’s voice cut through the tension, low and commanding. “Why do you always turn away from me?”

You stiffened at the question, the heat rising to your face. You kept your eyes on the window, the glass reflecting both the stormy cityscape outside and the quiet intensity of Sylus’s gaze. His question hung in the air, demanding an answer but your heart raced too fast for you to respond.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.” Sylus’s tone had that teasing edge he always used to rattle you. He approached slowly, a predator in control of the space, the moment. “You do this every time. I talk and you look away. Tell me…” He paused, leaning against the table behind you, his voice dipping lower “Why do you act like you’re afraid of me?”

Your breath hitched but before you could muster a reply, Sylus’s eyes flicked to the glass of the window where your reflection was faintly visible and there it was—your blush, unmistakable, painting your cheeks a soft pink. His eyes narrowed slightly, a slow realization dawning.

A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Well, well…” he muttered, pushing off the table and moving closer until he stood directly behind you. “You’re not afraid at all, are you, kitten?” His hand gently slid to your waist, fingers brushing your side. You stiffened at his touch, feeling the heat rise to your face even more. “You’re just trying to hide that blush from me.”

You froze, caught in the moment, the warmth of his body so close that you could feel his breath on your neck. Sylus’s lips hovered near your ear, his voice a soft tease. “Isn’t that right?”

You tried to stammer out a denial, but words failed you. Sylus, however, wasn’t going to let you off that easily. He turned you around, forcing you to face him.

“Let me see that cute little blush you’ve been hiding” he whispered, his tone both mocking and playful. He tilted your chin up so you couldn’t escape his gaze. “You thought I wouldn’t notice? You’re adorable.”

Your eyes met his for just a moment before you instinctively tried to turn away again, but this time he wasn’t having it. He caught your chin between his fingers, holding your face firmly in place, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

“There it is” he said, his tone softening ever so slightly as he took in your flustered expression. “You look so sweet when you’re embarrassed. Did you think you could hide that from me forever?”

Your heart pounded in your chest and the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. You wanted to look away again but Sylus wasn’t letting go. His thumb brushed over your lower lip and the touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been trying to avoid me, huh?” he murmured, his voice lowering to that dangerously soft tone he used when he was completely in control. “But now I know. You’re not scared—you’re just flustered. How cute.”

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you as your face grew even warmer. Sylus leaned in closer, his lips just a breath away from yours, his hand still resting on your waist. The teasing glint in his eyes only deepened.

“You’re adorable when you blush like this, sweetie” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. “But don’t hide from me. I like seeing you flustered.”

His fingers traced a line down your neck, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The touch was almost gentle, but there was an underlying intensity to it that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Maybe I’ll have to tease you more often if this is the reaction I get” he continued, his smirk widening as he watched you squirm under his gaze. “You look so pretty when you’re like this.”

You couldn’t form a coherent response, not with the way he was looking at you, the heat in his eyes and the teasing lilt in his voice making your mind go blank. Sylus seemed to sense this, and his amusement only grew. He leaned in even closer, his lips barely brushing against yours.

“Tell me, kitten” he whispered, his voice like velvet, “why hide from me when you look so cute being all flustered?”

Before you could respond, his lips met yours in a brief but heated kiss. It was soft at first, teasing, like he was savoring the moment of catching you off guard. But then, the kiss deepened, his hand tightening on your waist as he pulled you closer, his lips demanding and firm against yours.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your heart racing, your cheeks burning even brighter than before. Sylus chuckled, his forehead resting lightly against yours as he whispered “There it is again. That blush. You can’t hide from me, sweetie.”

His thumb gently brushed your cheek, the touch almost tender, though the playful smirk never left his face. “You’re mine” he murmured, his voice soft but possessive. “And I’m not going to let you forget that.”

Still flustered and speechless, you could only look at him, your heart pounding in your chest. Sylus gave you a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with how thoroughly he’d unraveled you.

“I think I’ll keep you blushing like this” he teased, his voice low and promising as he pulled you closer again. “I like the way you look when you’re all flustered for me.”

[yieldtotemptation]

CRASH ft. Wonyoung

wonyoung x male reader smut

11k words

When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.

If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.

And yet, that doesn’t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.

You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.

But of course, you don’t. (You never do).

-

“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”

There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.

Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.

It’s a view, that’s for sure.

It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’

Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.

You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.

It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.

That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.

Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.

It’s Wonyoung.

Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.

It doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.

You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.

You know exactly how much it’s worth.

After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.

You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.

You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.

“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.”

No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.

To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.

Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.

“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”

You glare at her. The gall on this woman.

“What are you waiting for? Drive.”

Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).

You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”

Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”

It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.

Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.

Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.

To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.

“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting.  It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.

“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”

“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.

As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.

It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.

Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”

There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)

You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”

“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.

As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.

She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.

“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.

"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”

You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.

She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.

Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.

You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.

It doesn’t smell bad at all.

In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.

“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”

You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.

“Let it go, Wonyoung.”

She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”

Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”

“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”

You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…

Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).

(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)

“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.

Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.

It’s probably why you do it.

“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”

Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”

“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”

Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”

“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.

No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”

You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”

“I never said that.”

“Wony—”

“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”

But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.

“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”

“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).

The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.

“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”

Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.

“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”

Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”

She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.

“Was she even good?”

You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?

And you know the answer: How could anyone be?

But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.”

Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.

And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.

The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.

And then she does it again.

And again.

You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.

You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.

That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.

What drives you fucking wild.

And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.

The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.

You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”

Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.

You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”

There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. She’s so wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.

You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.

But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.

Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.

If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.

So you drive faster.

You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets.  You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.

It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye, she’s still watching you. She’s enjoying this, loving every second of it.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.” 

Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.

“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”

Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.

“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”

“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.

“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”

“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”

To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.

It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat and snaps open the buttons of her shirt, nonchalantly revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.

No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.

She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.

She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.

Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.

The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.

And maybe she should be.

“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”

“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.

Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”

Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”

But she doesn’t listen (she never does).

She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.

“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”

You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”

Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.

Fuck.

“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants.  “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”

She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good. 

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”

“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”

She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”

“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”

That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”

“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”

"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”

“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”

“Now who’s a bad liar.”

“Go fuck your—”

You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.

She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.

Turns out, she’s right.

You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.

You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.

“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.

And it makes her smile around your cock.

You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).

You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.

Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.

It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.

You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.

Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.

You swerve again.

Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.

Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.

It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.

You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.

You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.

And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.

Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.

The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.  

And she takes it, takes all of it.

Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.

Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.

It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.

Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.

She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.

“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.

She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.

You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.

“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.

She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”

You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.

A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).

But it’s hard. So fucking hard.

You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.

Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.

You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.

You’re not going to last much longer.

Neither is she.

So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.

“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.

You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.

You’re almost there.

You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.

You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.

“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”

The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.

You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.

It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.

“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.

You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.

“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you manage to get out, your chest heaving, your hand finally loosening its grip on the steering wheel.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you in place. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.

Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.

Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.

The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.

But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.

Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.

You can’t.

“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”

Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.

Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.

“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”

And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.

“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”

The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.

Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.

She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.

Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.

Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—

But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.

Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.

Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.

It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.

Wonyoung laughs.

“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.

There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.

She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.

“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.

It’s just the way she is.

You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.

“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”

“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”

“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

“What makes you think you have a choice?”  

A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).

She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.

“Wait, wait—fuck—”

And then you slam into her.

“Daddy!”

That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.

You’d do anything to hear it again.

You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.

“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.

“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.

“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”

“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”

“Then say it.”

“Fuck you, daddy.”

“That’s fucking right.”

Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, her nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s what she wants from you, that’s what she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.

You wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, and whisper in her ear, “This is all you’re good for, you know that?”

Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.

And fuck, she’s tight.

Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.

Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.

“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.

You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”

She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.

You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.

Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.

It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’

But you’ll try.

Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.

Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.

(It’s never that simple.)

“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.

“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.

Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”

And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.

You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.

It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).

If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.

They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.

And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.

This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.

You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.

And then you get an idea.

It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.

You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.

You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.

Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”

But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.

“Smile for the camera, Wony.”

Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.

Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.

Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.

Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.

You’ve got her, and she knows it.

You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.

“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”

You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”

And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.

You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”

Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.

She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.

Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.

A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.

“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.

“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”

“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.

But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.

You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.

“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”

“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”

She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”

There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.

And then waking up and doing it all again.

There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”

Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”

“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”

That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.

You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.

"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”

It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.

But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.

One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.

“I fucking hate you—”

“Hate you too—”

“Hate how good your cunt feels—”

“Hate how big your cock is—”

“Hate how perfect you are—”

“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”

“Fucking slut—"

“Daddy—”

“I’m going to—"

"Please!"

And that’s it.

It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.

Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.

You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.

And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.

And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.

Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.

To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.

“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.

Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.

Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.

You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.

You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.

“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.

You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.

But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?

You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.

You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.

“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.

With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.

It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.

Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.

(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:

“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:

“I know.”)

Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.

And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.

[nereidprinc3ss]

baby fever

in which reader and spencer discuss having a baby while at work

fluff warnings/tags: fem/AFAB!reader, bau!reader, BOYFRIEND!SPENCER or husband if u so desire, discussions of pregnancy/having a baby (obviously), reader wants a baby, so does spencer a/n: god i need him so badly. should i write follow up smut?? mwahaha evil emoji......

The coffee finished brewing minutes ago, but you’re still standing by the pot, watching Anderson’s daughter toddling around the bullpen on chubby legs. She’s not very adept at walking, but her spirit is indomitable—every time she tips a little too far forward, she catches herself and gets right back up. It’s not like she’s doing anything particularly impressive or even interesting, but you can’t take your eyes off her. Every movement makes your heart twinge, every giggle or curious quirk of her head is so adorable it physically hurts in your chest. 

From your peripheral vision you see Spencer approaching, bearing his own empty mug, but not even he can draw your attention away from the adorable little pixie and her tutu and her pigtails. 

“That is the cutest kid I have ever seen in my life,” you whisper to Spencer, hoping the quiet tone of your voice will help hide how much you feel like cooing and squealing. 

He smiles to himself as he pours his coffee. 

“That’s Rosie. Have you said hi yet?” 

“I’m afraid if I talk to her I’ll try to keep her.” 

“She is pretty adorable.” 

You turn to him as he leans next to you on the counter, sipping his coffee casually. 

“Adorable? Spencer. Puppies are adorable. You’re not understanding the magnitude of what I mean right now. I can’t explain to you how much adorable doesn’t cut it. I’m not kidding about the child abduction thing.” 

HIs eyes slide around the room as he chuckles into his mug. 

“Let’s maybe not joke about kidnapping a child in FBI headquarters.” 

“I’m not joking,” you hiss. “I feel like I’m going insane. I just—” 

At the last second you stop yourself, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. 

“You just what?” Spencer asks, adjusting the hem of your shirt with his free hand. You glance down, watching the care he takes in the tiniest detail that you wouldn’t have given a second thought to. 

“Is something wrong with my shirt?” 

His eyes flick up to yours, hazel tinted with mild surprise. 

“No. It just was sliding up your waist a little bit.” As he says it, his knuckles brush the bare skin of your torso. You suppress a shiver, studying his profile once he pulls his hand away and goes for another sip. 

“Can we have one?” 

Your inopportune timing results in coffee dribbling down Spencer’s chin as he quickly attempts to wipe it away, wide eyes torn between you and trying to assess the mess he’s made. 

“You--you mean like a baby?” 

“Yeah, like a baby,” you say, grabbing his shoulders and squaring them to you before dabbing the coffee from his face and jacket. He watches on as you clean him up, completely still except for his wandering eyes. 

“I thought we were waiting on that.” 

“Waiting for what? A better time? There’s never going to be a good time with this job. And it’s not like we’d have to quit. Look at JJ. She has two and still does it.” 

“First of all,” Spencer begins, quickly recovering from your surprise proposition, “I don’t love the idea of either of us being in the field with you pregnant. And secondly, JJ also has Will and her mother to take care of the boys. We don’t have that. We’re both here all the time.” 

“I don’t care,” you groan, trashing the paper towels once you’ve done the best you can with his clothing. “We’d figure it out somehow!” 

“Mhm. It sounds like you’ve really devoted some careful consideration to this.” 

You drop your head to your shoulder, giving him your best puppy dog eyes and pulling lightly on his shirtsleeve. 

“Oh, come on. You haven’t thought about it at all? My perfect brain and your pretty face fusing to create a future Nobel-prize winner? Imagine how cute she would be, Spencer, we could put her hair in little braids and pigtails and we could dress her up and she could be in soccer and ballet and—” 

“She?” he smiles, studying your face intently. You roll your eyes. 

“Yes, she. Obviously we would have a girl. You—” 

The idea of Spencer as the father of your daughter hits you like a tidal wave, stopping you dead in your tracks. The images materialize in your mind’s eye so clearly, it’s like they’re already memories, so real and tangible you have no doubt it must come to fruition someday. But if before, your ranting was mostly a silly fantasy—now it’s become a bit more intense. 

He seems to sense your shift in mood. The big smile thaws slightly as he subtly grabs your hand on the counter. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

There he goes again. Being kind. Being perfect. 

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t let them fall.  

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I just... didn’t realize how badly I actually wanted that until I said it out loud.” 

The concern in his eyes softens to pure affection as he runs his thumb over the back of your hand. 

“I want it too. And whenever you decide you’re ready I’ll drop everything for you.” 

His words are like compounding pressure to the deep heat within you—forming something so solid and perfect you don’t have to wonder if it’s real. A ten on the Mohs scale, a concept that gets closer to actualizing by the minute.  

Your voice is quiet, revelatory as you admire the amber facets in his eyes. 

“You’re ready?”  

“I’ve been ready for quite some time,” he admits. And at once you feel the certainty of him paint your past and your future with one broad brushstroke. One day you will look back on your life and remember the time before Spencer, and that will be it. There is before Spencer, and with Spencer, but never an after Spencer. He wants to create something utterly permanent with you. “Come here.” 

He sets his mug down, carefully pulling you forward so you’re toe to toe with your back to the rest of the BAU; so that only he can see you. Despite how good the two of you are at avoiding PDA, occasionally an exception is made. He tenderly wipes away the few tears that have sprung from your waterline and accepts your arms around his waist, mirroring your embrace and completely enveloping you.  

“I love you,” he murmurs against the top of your hair, quiet enough that nobody in the office has a chance of hearing it. You sniffle. 

“I love you too. Also you smell really good.” 

He chuckles, hand roaming up and down your back for a moment. 

“And that is why we are holding off on this at least for a while.” 

“What do you mean?” you whisper indignantly as he gently peels you off him. His hands remain a steadying force on your waist as he smiles down at you beatifically. 

“I mean let’s give it two weeks and see if you still want a baby when you’re not ovulating.” 

[benevolentbones]

newcomer | spencer reid x fem!reader part 2

part 1

warnings: swearing, v mild dirty thoughts

word count: 1.3k

summary: your dad calls you on your day off

a/n: thank you so so much for all the support on my last few works, it means the world!! i love reading through all the comments! please if you have a fic request please let me know!!

it had been a few days since you dropped in to visit your dad at the bau, but your mind kept wandering back to the hazel eyed man you met.

you found his awkwardness quite adorable, and the way his face flushed when you spoke to him, made you smile.

you had heard a lot about the team over the years, so it was nice to put faces to names after your father had returned home that evening.

today was your day off, and you didn’t really have many plans, maybe you’d go and grab a coffee or take a walk around the park, who knows.

you stretched back against the plush sofa in your living room, flicking through the channels on your tv.

your phone began to chime, blasting out your ringtone. you picked it up on third ring, bringing it to your ear.

“hello?”

“y/n, are you at home?” your father questioned.

“yeah dad- i’m just watching tv at the moment, what’s up?” you sat up, scooting to the edge of the couch.

“can you do me a huge favour?”

you hummed in response “what is it?”

“in my home office, i left the latest case files- would you come to the bureau and drop them off?”

you chewed your bottom lip. on one hand, you didn’t really want to drive thirty minutes to and from your dads work, just to be there for less than five minutes. on the other, those five minutes could be spent talking or spencer reid.

“i’ll be there soon, dad.” you replied, hanging up the phone.

~

you practically raced to the bureau, cutting the usual thirty plus minute drive down to twenty three. a new record.

you clutched the case files to your side, making your way inside the building and making a b line for the bullpen.

morgan, garcia and reid were all sat around spencer’s desk, the younger man rambling on about the book he had just finished reading, which was a recommendation from penelope.

“honestly the plot could have been better- and i didn’t really like the-“ spencer was interrupted with a dig from morgan, whos eyes were glued to the elevator doors of the bullpen.

“why’d you do that ow.” spencer complained, rubbing the aching spot on his forearm. he turned his gaze to where both morgan and garcia were looking.

and there you stood. you had just stepped out of the elevator, you weren’t in the same office attire you had adorned the last time you visited the bau.

you were wearing a tight pair of black jeans that flared slightly at the leg, with a striped button down fitted shirt which rode up slightly, showing off part of your midriff.

“damn little gideon is mad fine.” morgan mumbled earning a quizzical look from spencer.

“little gideon- ew is that what you’re calling her?” penelope’s face contorted into one of disgust.

“i mean, you aren’t wrong..” she added, the blonde woman was practically undressing you with her eyes.

“guys come on- that’s a bit much don’t you think?” spencer mumbled, though his eyes did not once leave your form as you walked across the room towards gideon’s office.

“you’re just saying that because you like her, ain’t that right lover boy?” morgan cracked a smile, smacking spencer on the shoulder.

“shut up man..”

“do you really think gideon would want you dating his daughter?” derek mused.

“i mean anything is better than you..” spencer mumbled jokingly.

you reached your fathers office, balancing the files in one arm while using the other to knock against the oakwood door.

“come in.”

you pushed the door open, to reveal gideon leaning back in his desk chair, case files spread across the table. he had a telephone pressed in between his ear and his shoulder.

“hey dad- i brought the files you needed.” you smiled, shuffling over to his desk and plopping the bundle of papers onto his cluttered work space.

“thanks hon, you want to wait outside? i’ll be done in a few minutes and we can grab a coffee?”

you nodded, allowing gideon to continue his phone call. you backed out of his office, walking down the steps into the main section of the bullpen.

you scanned the room, your eyes landing on the three agents huddled around spencer’s desk.

you plucked up the courage and began to saunter over to them.

“hey reid look.” penelope whispered just loud enough for spencer to hear, immediately his head shot up, his gaze softening when he realised you were making your way over to him.

“good luck tiger.” morgan grinned, both he and garcia leaving the premises upon your arrival, after giving you a small smile.

“hey dr. reid right?” you mumbled once you reached his desk.

his eyes met yours, through his wire-framed glasses, and he nodded.

“yeah- you can call me spencer though- you’re y/n? gideon’s daughter?” he stumbled upon his words, rushing the sentences together.

you hummed in response, perching yourself against the genius’ desk.

“he’s told me a lot about you.”

“all good things i hope-“ spencer began, a slight nervousness to his voice.

this made you chuckle, “yes, all good things, i promise.”

“i hope you don’t mind keeping me company, i’m just waiting for dad to get off of the phone.” you eyed spencer, watching as he frantically neatened his desk.

“no-no not at all, i’m enjoying your company.” he mumbled out.

from the corner of his eye he could see morgan and garcia watching their interaction from the kitchenette, morgan had a cocky grin plastered onto his face and garcia held her thumbs up supportively.

spencer let out a breathy sigh, slumping down into his desk chair. he pondered for a moment, considering being forward. he didn’t want to come across as too needy or awkward, but if he was being honest with himself that’s exactly what he was.

he watched as you sat on the edge of his desk, happily swinging you legs back and forth, glancing around the bullpen.

fuck it.

“y/n?” spencer began, not being able to stop the crimson staining his cheeks.

“spencer.” you giggled.

“would you, i don’t know maybe like to go for dinner sometime- with..me?” you could sense the anxiety in his voice, the brunette avoiding your gaze as he fumbled with a pen on his desk.

you felt your cheeks heat up, and you reached over to place a hand on spencer’s arm. his eyes flickered up to look at you when he felt your touch.

“i would love to, let me give you my number.” you smiled happily, jumping from the desk.

you took the pen from spencer’s grasp, your fingers brushing against his causing a spark from the contact.

you picked up a pad of sticky notes and began scribbling down your number.

as you were doing so, gideon had left his office and was making his way towards the two of you.

“here, i’m free friday if you are.” you mumbled, passing him the paper and pen back.

“o-okay i’ll call you.” spencer’s eyes were now on gideon who had come to an abrupt stop, resting his hand on your shoulder.

“lets get going, kid.”

you nodded, shooting spencer a smile. “i’ll see you soon, dr. reid.”

and with that you had walked on ahead, gideon bringing his arms into a folded position in front of his chest.

spencer swallowed hard, feeling beads of sweat build up on his forehead.

“you want to take my daughter out?”

“uh yes, yes sir-“

agent gideon pondered for a moment, eyeing the younger man. he had worked with him for a few years, he trusted him to be sensible with you, and out of everyone he was probably the best pick.

“better you than morgan.” gideon shrugged, and with that comment he followed you out the door.

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ KISS IT BETTER ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: he's surprisingly popular with kids, even if he doesn't quite know how to behave around them.

contents: fem!reader. he curses a couple times in front of the kid :<;

author's note: i don't rly like this one but it's fluff and we could all use a little fluff in our lives ꨄ︎

"why is it so... small?"

you snicker at satoru's question and watch the kid exploring his room waddle around. one of his mom's friends asked him to watch her kid, so naturally, the first thing satoru did was call you. after all, he's basically the last person you'd want alone with a small child.

"she's so cute," you coo, hopping on satoru's bed and lying down on your stomach. the child in question turns her head and looks at you with soft doe eyes and tilts her head like a puppy. "aw, satoru, c'mere and look at her!"

your boyfriend shakes his head, still seated in front of his computer. satoru's not live right now, but he's focused on his screen as he jumps and dodges various obstacles. "can't right now, give me a sec— what the fuck?"

"language!" you hiss, sliding off of his bed and covering the small girl's ears. 

she looks up at your curiously, and in the cutest voice possible, repeats satoru's words with a wide smile. "what the fuck?"

it's all you can do to stop yourself from bursting into a fit of laughter, but as expected, satoru doesn't have that kind of self-restraint. when the girl says fuck, satoru laughs so hard that he leans back in his chair, not even noticing how another user eliminates him a second later.

"shit, that's so— sorry, i'm sorry!" satoru snorts, eyes tearing up with laughter. you glare at him and bite down your smile before snatching a pillow off his bed and hurling it at him. satoru catches it with one hand and buries his face in it to muffle his laughter.

you swat his shoulder with one hand and take the little girl's hand in the other as you plop down on the corner of satoru's bed. it's almost painful to swallow back the laughter threatening to tear you apart, but you figure that out of you and satoru, one of you has to be the mature one.

so you scoop up the little girl and hold her in your lap as she flutters her eyelashes at you innocently. you tap her nose and lean in, almost melting at the way she smiles back at you. 

"don't listen to him," you sigh, sticking your tongue out at satoru, who's still laughing away. he makes a face back at you, and, to his delight, the kid mimicks his expression.

"baby, you were so right," satoru snickers as he hops off his plush chair and strolls over to where both of you sit on the edge of his bed. he flicks the girl's forehead, but thankfully, his touch is gentle and feather-light. satoru's eyes soften as he studies the kid, and to your surprise, he lifts her out of your lap and ruffles her hair.

"she's so adorable," he whines, letting the girl pinch his cheek. satoru turns and widens his eyes at you in adoration. "i wanna keep her!"

you roll your eyes affectionately and stand up, leaning against his side and scrunching up your nose at the girl. "don't you have a game to get back to?" you huff.

"what game?" he replies, preoccupied with the child in his arms. satoru leans his face in closer to hers, and to your surprise and delight, she swats him in the nose. "oww, the fuck was that for?" he wails. satoru looks at you and pouts, glaring at the smiling child. "i think i need a kiss to make the pain go away," he says hopefully, eyes focusing on you. 

"am i really taking care of two kids?" you grumble, leaning in and kissing him on the nose. satoru nudges his nose against yours and his lips gently brush against your mouth.

you give satoru a second to enjoy your personal space, and then you shove him away. "we have an audience," you deadpan, gesturing at the girl still in his arms. her eyes look like they're fluttering closed, and her features soften with sleepiness.

satoru sticks out his tongue and sets down the girl on his bed, nestling her head in one of his many pillows and tucking her in. "you don't have a problem with me kissing you in front of eight thousand people," he huffs. 

"that's different!"

"no it isn't!"

[teddybeartoji]

imagine walking out of your room while trying to rid of the remaining sleep from your eyes when you see him.

roomie!suguru – in a baggy tank top and a pair of shorts, his hair in a low messy bun with sweat trickling from his temple. you're stopped in your tracks, lips parted at the glorious sight.

his eyes are closed, his breathing controlled as he sits in a deep stretch. you can see his biceps and his thigh muscles and his calves and... his ass. his hands are placed together in front of his chest and he looks so peaceful.

yoga.

he's doing yoga and you feel like you're about to faint.

you clear your throat and his purple eyes snap open; his lips tug into a sly smile, his canines flashing at you in the sunlight.

"morning."

his voice is syrupy, maybe way too so for the early hour. he moves his hands to his hips as he lowers himself deeper into the stretch, gaze glued onto you. he makes you nervous and you hate it – he's not even really doing anything! you feel small as he observes you, as he takes you apart. suguru thinks you look adorable; still sleepy with multiple pillow lines running over your cheek. you're fiddling with your own fingers, eyes flicking all over his body – from his exposed thigh to his hands to his face. you're not slick and he loves it.

"hi." suguru's smile stretches wider at your soft tone. "i'm gonna make coffee, do you– do you want some?"

he gives you a small nod, always amused by your desire to take care of others. he has seen it with others too; you always have extra sweets for whenever satoru comes by and you've started carrying around a small lighter just in case shoko ever forgets hers.

suguru takes in your faint little smile, your head cocking to the side as you mouth "ok" before disappearing into the kitchen. he switches his legs and sinks back into the stretch; he closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing again. he thinks about you in the kitchen, he thinks about you grabbing your mug and then his. he thinks about you placing them side by side. he hears your quiet steps and he hears you yawn. it's a perfect morning.

when he's finally done, he saunters into the kitchen while raising his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. you have to do a double take, his dark happy trail making you choke on your own saliva. he chuckles at your reaction, but makes no comment, focusing on the freshly brewed coffee instead. his shoulder bumps into yours as he leans over you, the warmth of his body engulfing you. he still smells so good and you want to be mad.

you take a second to admire him and the flush on his cheeks but almost jump when his eyes suddenly meet yours. he's so close. sharp teeth and a sweet smile, he gives your hip a squeeze; his touch burns and you're about to melt, but he doesn't let you. he doesn't let go when he leans even closer, his breath fanning your face as he whispers.

"thank you, sweetheart. smells so good."

you give him a little high-pitched sound as a reply and he tongues the side of his cheek. you're so fucking cute. he grabs the mugs with a small grin and places them on the table behind you before taking a seat. he taps on the wood, telling you to come and join him.

the sun swallows him with ease, illuminating his beautiful sweaty, tanned skin; his piercings flicker at you and the thought of kissing them settles in the back of your mind. birds continue chirping lovesongs (for you, they're singing for you) while trees dance against the blue cloudy background, the smell of coffee fills the peaceful air around you and it's comfortable. this is your new routine - he makes your heart tremble and you make his grow in size.

suguru hasn't felt like this in a long, long time – your attention is addicting; he loves it more than he wants to admit. satoru would never let him live it down but he just cannot stop thinking about you. warm hugs and silly jokes, he's grateful for choosing you as his roommate.

[layaispunk]

closer than ever

pairing: joel miller x reader

summary: In the midst of a quiet, cold night in the woods, old feelings resurface between you and Joel.

warnings: bit of angst, mentions of loss, depictions of grief, established relationship (sort of), Ellie being a smart-ass, pet-names (sweetheart, darlin)

wc: 1.7k

note: I was making food for my dogs and I dropped everything to write this bdw.

The smell hit you first. Salty, metallic, and slightly rancid. Your stomach churned as you stared at the open can of dog food in your hands. It was the only thing Joel had managed to scavenge. "Best I could do, sweetheart," and you knew he meant well. He always did.

You tried not to gag, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth, shaking your head. "I can't do it, Joel," you muttered, pushing the can away. "I'll just throw it up, and that's even worse. I'd be dehydrated."

Joel's brow furrowed, his gaze flicking between you and the can. "You gotta eat somethin'. You're lookin' too pale."

Ellie, seated nearby and chewing on what little jerky was left, leaned over and made a face at the can. "Don't make her eat that, dude. That's disgusting," she said, her voice half-amused, half-horrified.

"It's all I could find. We're in the middle of fuckin' nowhere," Joel muttered defensively, shooting her a look.

"Yeah, well, it's dog food," Ellie retorted, stretching out the words like they were meant to gross him out. "She's not a dog, Joel."

Joel let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ain't like i'm feedin' it to her by force."

You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped despite the situation. The woods were eerily still, the only sound coming from the crackle of the fire Joel had started for warmth. The air had a sharp chill to it - not enough to freeze you, but enough to remind you that the seasons were shifting. The three of you were on the move, searching for Tommy, hoping he'd have answers.

"Thank you, Joel, but I'm not eating that." you said, shaking your head. "Help yourself, though! Looks like its all yours," you added with a teasing smirk.

The teasing faded as the fire crackled low. The stars were unusually bright, their glow filling the sky. There were only two sleeping bags between the three of you. Joel must've noticed the worry crossing your face. "You can take mine. I'll be fine."

You blinked at him, incredulous. "Are you out of your mind? You're no good to us if you're frozen solid."

Joel chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in the cold night air. “I ain’t gonna freeze, darlin’,” he muttered, clearly amused by your concern.

You hesitated for a moment, then whispered, careful not to disturb Ellie, who was already deep in her sleeping bag. “We can just share. It’s big enough for the two of us.”

He stayed silent.

Joel and you had been together before everything fell apart. It was the best thing that’s ever happened to both of you. After he lost Sarah, things changed. The grief consumed him, and the man who once held you close became distant, shutting himself off from the world, including you. It had been a long time since he'd shown any affection, and it stung - but you'd never push it. A piece of him died with Sarah, and you knew how deeply he adored her.

You still remember it all too well. Two decades ago. The way he held Sarah’s lifeless body in his arms after she was shot, refusing to let go until you were lucky enough to find a cabin, a rare moment of luck amidst the chaos that day - the day hell broke loose on Earth.

He held her so tightly, like he was trying to stop time. With a slow, reluctant tenderness, he laid her on the unmade bed that once belonged to someone else, covered her as though she were still asleep, and left without saying a word to you or Tommy. And in that moment, a piece of him stayed behind, lingering in the stillness of that room.

Lately, though, things felt different. The more time you spent away from the QZ, trying to take Ellie to the fireflies ... he became softer around you, even more so around Ellie.

You could see how she was healing a part of him, the cracks in his heart starting to close, even if none of them were aware of it. But you were.

You've spent most of your life around Joel Miller. You knew him from the inside out. You never talked about how he's not affectionate with you anymore, not in the way he used to be before the outbreak.

You know he needs time and space, and you're ready to give him that, even if it meant slowly going crazy over it. You knew he hadn't fallen out of love with you; he made sure you knew that - whether it was giving you most of the food, making sure you had the warmest layer of clothes even if it meant him going without, or offering you what was left of his coffee grounds; and you know how much he loved coffee.

Even when words weren't there, his actions spoke louder, and you could feel the love in every small gesture, even if it was unspoken.

Your thoughts returned to Joel, as they often did, and how much he’d changed. How the man you’d once known - the one who had loved you so fiercely, despite the world falling apart - was slowly starting to resurface, little by little.

The crackling fire snapped, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glanced over at Joel, now starting to arrange the sleeping bag, his eyes distant yet soft, and his movements slow and deliberate as he gestured for you to get in. He gave you a nod, his eyes dark in the dim light.

You shook your head. “No, you go first,” you said with a small smirk. “You take up a lot more space than I do.”

He didn't argue. He nodded, listening to you without protest, and started climbing in, settling quickly. You followed, slipping in front of him, feeling the warmth of his body just behind you. You couldn't help but smile to yourself; it felt like nothing had changed, the familiar comfort of being close to him bringing back memories of the past. You shifted slightly, reminding yourself of how, more often than not, you used to be the little spoon.

"You alright?" his words bringing you back to the present. "Yeah," you replied softly. With that, he draped an arm over your hips, his hand gently resting against yours; the warmth of his touch grounding you.

It took you by surprise. His calloused hands were gentle, warm, reassuring you that he was still here, still the man who once held you close without hesitation.

You turned around to face him, your heart skipping a beat as you took in the soft glow of his face, illuminated by the faint light of the moon and the dying embers of the fire.

His features were more beautiful than ever; and without thinking, you leaned closer, your warm hands cupping his face gently. As your fingers brushed his skin, he closed his eyes, a quiet sigh escaping him.

Teary-eyed, your voice barely a whisper, the words coming out before you could stop them; "I missed you."

Joel’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his eyes lingering on your lips, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between you. His heart raced, matching the rhythm of yours, as the distance between you both seemed to shrink. Slowly, ever so gently, his forehead touched yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you both. Closer than ever- physically, emotionally - like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

Your finger traced the outline of his lips, soft and tentative, as if asking for permission. It was all so delicate.

Then, with a breath that seemed to suspend time, you kissed him. Softly at first, gently, testing the waters, wondering how he would respond.

And then, he kissed you back. Not the tentative kiss you expected, but one full of depth, of yearning. It was slow, deliberate, as if he were pouring everything he had into that one moment—every ounce of love, every regret, every unspoken word. It was a kiss that spoke louder than any conversation ever could. This was enough. For you, it was enough.

When you finally pulled away, your eyes fluttered closed, both of you breathing in the silence, your hearts still racing but in sync.

Without a single word, without a need for more, you settled into each other’s arms, the unspoken understanding between you clear. And with that, you fell asleep, a quiet peace settling over you both.

[hitomisuzuya]

Hiii This suddenly popped up in my head as soon as I saw the request r open lol

Harbingers scara having a Favorite Fatui agent (it's f!reader lol) whenever he's stressed from doing paperwork he always calls her into his office to help him "relax" 👀

fatui!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. cock warming. creampie. degradation.

😳 my face while i type this oml

there was nothing more relaxing for scaramouche than sitting you on his cock and forcing you to be still while he played with and pinched your puffy little clit. he reveals in watching you squirm and struggle not to bounce yourself stupid on his cock.

his thumb skimmed lovingly across your throat as whimpers and moans bubble up into it, your walls squeezing oh so tight on his cock as he abused your clit. your eyes water as you squirm in his lap. "adorable," scaramouche cooed condescendingly, "keep looking at me just like that while you struggle," you cried out as he delivered a wet flick to your clit.

his cock throbbed between your warm walls, taking utter pleasure in seeing you soak up every bit of his cruel sexual torture. "please, let me bounce a little. i-i-" you are cut off by a pinch to your clit, his fingers digging the ache of possessive bruises into your pliable flesh.

"you what? you need it? your pathetic pleas amuse me, slut," he wagged his finger slowly around your throbbing clit. your walls spasmed tighter on his cock. "i believe your orders are keep my cock warm, no?" he grasped your jaw, forcing you to look at him as you tried to look away shyly.

"s-sir, yes sir it is," you moan, not being able to help yourself and rolling your hips a little to grind your clit on his fingers. you were met with a smack across your ass.

scaramouche groaned hearing you call him sir. "such subservience," he increased the pressure on your clit, sending your whole body quaking. your slick was oozing onto your pussy, your walls squeezing warm tight exactly like he likes.

scaramouche took his time assaulting your sensitive nipples with his tongue, further building up your desperation for him. that sweet desperation he couldn't get enough of, soaking up your delicate little whimpers.

lifting you off his cock, he sat you on the edge of his desk. "no, no please, sir. put your cock back inside of me. i'll be a good girl, i promise," you pleaded as he spread your legs.

"please, please, please," scaramouche mocked your moans, lining his cock up with your hole. he bullied his cock inside of you all at once, holding you still as he bottomed out. your hips jerked to help urge his cock into your sweet spot, moaning like you'd just been given something you'd been deprived of for too long.

how sweet of you to always help him relax like this. to let him use you as he pleased while he begrudgingly fell in love with you.

"you are fucking sucking my cock in, you are so desperate," he quickly lost control, taking out all his frustrations on your tight, obedient cunt. "you are all mine, slut. all fucking mine," his thrusts were as rough and as greedy as his words, driven with the intent to make you cum crying on his cock while he filled you.

his cock pulsed stronger between your walls seeing tears well into your eyes as you twitched on his desk in pleasure. "it will be a pleasure fucking you full," then he could concentrate on finishing this infernal paperwork.

he could more than tell you were opening your mouth to beg him to cum inside of you. he felt like rewarding you before you could do so. you are serving him so well, after all.

with a long, satisfied moan, his cock emptied inside of you. this may have been for his pleasure, but he would be damned if he didn't make you cream on his cock. "now cum. cum like the precious slut you are," he commanded, pressing a demanding kiss on your lips.

[aurynsia]

Like The Movies

Sirius Black x Bookworm!Reader

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Summary: You meet a mysterious man in a bookshop who falls for your sunshine personality…

Warnings: Nothing serious (pun intended), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, Marlene once again being the best wingman (it’s a tradition atp), reader is referred to as a girl with she/her pronouns, reader is oblivious to Sirius’ flirting.

Word count: 0.7K

Masterlist

A/N: I couldn’t get this meet cute idea out of my head so I had to write it! Basically all fluff and no plot, Sirius just thinks you’re adorable <3

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Ding!

The bell above the bookshop’s door rang in an echoing call as you stepped inside, a giddy smile spread across your face. You had finally finished your summer reading list, with a chilled breeze marking the end of your book-buying ban.

Preparing to hibernate in your cosy bedroom with a stack of classics, you skipped your way through the aisles to the counter of the store’s joint cafe.

Ordering a hot drink to keep off the chill of the midday breeze, you flashed a grateful grin at the blonde behind the counter as you rounded the aisles, making a beeline for the classic fiction.

You stumbled through the maze of novels, making mental notes of each book you had already read. You found yourself passing three aisles before you discovered a title you didn’t recognise.

Lifting the book to flick through the pages, your gaze intuitively lifted at the presence of someone further down the aisle.

That’s when you saw him.

A dark stroke of hair dropped down his shoulders, collecting in sweet spirals at his chest. His bright eyes held a dark splash of mischief in their depths as he towered over the shelves. His gaze was focused on the book in his hand, eyes flicking over the blurb on the back cover.

Peering over with curiosity, your eyes lit up at the title on the front as he flipped the book in his hands. “That’s my favourite! I’ve read it six times,” you blurted at the mystery man.

His gaze flicked to yours in an instant, a flash of surprise gracing his features before he relaxed into a soft smirk at the sight of you. “Would you recommend it, Dove?” He spoke with a lighthearted and teasing tone as he leisurely stepped closer to your ecstatic self.

“Absolutely! It’s a masterpiece, the author is so talented! You should totally read it,” you rambled, not catching the amusement mixed with adoration in the stranger’s eyes as he watched you.

His head tilted to the side like a curious puppy, listening intently as you gushed over the plot, the characters, the handsome romantic lead, and the optimistic heroine.

He slyly reached for a second copy of the same book on the shelf as you spoke, tucking it under the one already settled in his grasp. You were in your own world at this point, and the man couldn’t help but fluster at your adorable excitement over words on a page. What is this girl doing to me? he mentally asked himself.

She’s got me wrapped around her finger and she doesn’t even know it.

He was beginning to grow soft.

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

You eventually remembered to introduce yourself after a series of rambled facts about the book tumbled out of your mouth. The stranger found you to be the most endearing creature he’d ever met.

“I’m-“

“Sirius? Y’Iced latte’s ready!” He hurried over to the blonde behind the counter who finished his sentence, flashing you an apologetic smile over his shoulder with a slight blush to his cheeks.

Marlene’s gaze fell on the books held tightly in his hands with an arched eyebrow. “Sirius Black, reading a book? My, I thought I’d never see the day!” He laughed while motioning for her to keep her voice down, leaning in closer while you browsed.

“It seems I’ve taken a liking to the little bookworm over there, wriggled her way right into my heart,” he motioned towards you with a smirk as Marlene spots you curiously reading the blurbs of various classics. “Said this was her favourite,” he held up the books in his hands with an uncharacteristically bashful smile, brushing the gesture off nonchalantly. “Didn’t have the heart to tell her I was buying it for Moony’s birthday.”

Marlene rolled her eyes, passing him his drink along with a napkin and a pen. “You’re hopeless, Black, really,” she whispered, turning around to pick up another order.

His eyes lit up at the sight of the pen, “You really do know me well, Marls! And to think I only keep you around for the coffee,” he quipped, though his tone held no bite. He scribbled on the napkin before Marlene passed your drink into his grasp, sending her a final look of gratitude before turning back to you.

“Here you go, love. Now, what was that sequel about again? What happens next?” You glanced up as he handed you your drink with a sweet grin, oblivious to the napkin sitting on top with a phone number scrawled across it, waiting to be discovered as you launched into an explanation with a giggle.

“Wait- no! I can’t tell you, spoilers!”

——————— ⋆☆ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

[judeswhore]

a little something based on this

jude could tell you were annoyed the second he locked eyes on you after the match, a grin forming on his lips as he watched you scowl beside his mum, your gaze fixed on the tv screen on the wall which was replaying the few minutes before and after his little injury. he knew you were upset he’d gotten hurt, you always were, even if it was just a small bump or bruise but he knew you’d be feeling worse today given the fact they’d drew blood. despite that, he couldn’t tamp down his amusement, couldn’t hold back his grin because no matter how angry you tried to seem, you looked more adorable than anything.

he gave himself a few seconds to admire you before you smothered him with your concern, felt heat bloom in his tummy as he flicked his gaze over you. the puffer coat you were wearing almost completely drowned you, fell just shy of your ankles and somehow made you seem smaller than normal. you looked more than a little cosy in your pink bobble hat and scarf and jude was hit with the overwhelming urge to wrap himself around you, to snuggle in close and steal some of your warmth. a quick smile replaced your previous frown when his mum spoke, lit up your face and punched the wind from him as he caught the tail end of your soft laugh. the sound had his feet moving before his brain could catch up, suddenly eager to hear it without the distance between you.

you spotted him before he reached you and then the frown was back, brows scrunched together, a half pout already forming on your lips and jude could see the complaints already spinning around in your head. the second he was in front of you he was sliding his hand around the back of your neck, dipping his head to kiss your mouth and silence whatever it was you were about to say. he heard you give a gentle hum of content at the contact and then he was pulling away to hug his mum, grinning brightly when she squeezed her arms around his shoulders. she mumbled her praise into his ear before kissing his cheek and stepping away, waving her phone between them.

“your dad wants me to give him a ring, i’ll meet you two out front in ten.” she told him, flashing you both a smile before making her way towards the exit, phone already rising to her ear. jude could only roll his eyes, knowing fine well his father didn’t want that, his mother simply didn’t want to be around when you started cursing out all the players that wronged him this evening.

“she’s such a liar.” he mumbled, head shaking as he turned back to you, stepped in closer so he could tug playfully at the zip of your coat. “y’look warm. and adorable,” he flicked the bobble on your hat with a smirk. “is this new?”

“you’re hurt.” you stated simply, batting his hand away as you settled your gaze on the little bandage above his eyebrow, that frown taking over your pretty features again. jude could only shrug because the cut wasn’t as bad as it looked when it first happened, so small in fact that he didn’t even need stitches and was back on his feet in minutes. he knew it was a bigger deal to you however.

“babe, i’m fine.” he tried to reassure you but you were barely listening, taking his face between your hands so you could study it, turning it left to right as you trailed soft fingers across his jaw. he let you check him for more injuries in silence and instead fiddled with the scarf around your neck, loosening it slightly because he knew the stress and worry will have had you flustered and warm. the pad of your thumb brushed over the edge of the bandage, traced across his eyebrow before you were sighing softly. you lifted onto your tiptoes so you could press a kiss to his lips before dropping your hands from his face.

“i’m annoyed at you, y’know.”

“what?” jude couldn’t help but huff a laugh, watching as you crossed your arms over your chest and half glared up at him. “what’re you mad at me for? i’m the one that got kicked in the head!”

“exactly! why’re you always the one getting kicked or shoved? why aren’t you ever the one doing the kicking and shoving?” you asked, brows raising challengingly and he spluttered, matched your stance with his own crossed arms.

“so what, you want me to start beating people up on the pitch for you or something?” his sarcastic question made you roll your eyes and click your tongue and jude could only grin in response because it was so utterly ridiculous.

“don’t be an idiot. just..” you tapered off and another slow sigh blew past your lips as your scowl turned back into a soft pout. you let your arms drop from where you’d crossed them and instead moved in closer to jude, wrapped them around his waist and tipped your head back to meet his gaze. “they’re always so rough with you. i hate it.”

“baby,” his voice was soft, low and soothing as he let his hands find your cheeks, palms cupping them gently. he dipped his head and nudged his nose against yours before he was kissing you, slow, lazy drags of his lips across yours as way of a distraction. he held you like that for a few moments, kissed you until you were pliant in his arms, half melted against his body, any previous complaints scattered from your brain. when he finally pulled away he broke out into that cocky grin. “it’s jealousy, isn’t it?”

“hm?” you were confused by the sudden change in subject, still caught up in the taste of his lips and the teasing drag of his tongue. “jealousy?”

“you’re jealous of them. y’know, the other players.” jude’s grin was splitting his face, laughter threatening to bubble over at the dazed look you were wearing. “you’re the only one allowed to man handle me, right? y’don’t like seeing me getting thrown around by someone that’s not you.”

“oh my god.” you grumbled low in your throat and shoved at him, whacked his arm as he broke out in laughter so loud it drew the attention of multiple people in the hallway. he watched the glare fall back into place as you stepped away from him, apparently no longer concerned about his injuries as you landed another punch to his bicep.

“you’re absolutely insufferable, do you know that?”

“awe c’mon, baby, it’s fine. i’ll keep your secret.”

[sakumz]

a/n : might be ooc, reader is a little oblivious

____________________________________________

[ a. harumasa ]

____________________________________________

you can't shake the feeling that your deskmate has been rather... smiling to himself. what's got him in such a mood?

" congrats on your promotion! " a staff member compliments as they hand you, your reports to fill for the day. you can't help but flush a little at the compliment.

yanagi flashing you a small smile when your eyes meet, right. you're part of section six now. after all that training and hard work, it was totally worth getting recognised once in a while. you've saved countless lives along the way to get to where you were.

soukaku sits next to yanagi so the only vacant sit was next to harumasa. he's an okay partner. he gave you tips but you'll still have to be careful he doesn't accidentally mix up his files with yours, leading you to do more paperwork as he naps his life away.

" let's do some patrolling, " you hear harumasa say, next to you as you looked up from your stack of papers.

" huh? "

" we're gonna take a break while patrolling, " he says to the gang as he pulls you up, with yanagi nodding in acknowledgement.

just the two of you. walking past civilians and stores, people greeting you and harumasa. your eyes wander around and land on a couple holding hands.

lovers... have you had one? have harumasa ever had one? he stops to turn back at you, who's looking down at the floor in deep thought. he can't help but laugh and flick your forehead to get your attention.

" what? " you glare at the man as he beams back at you.

" nothing, you just looked adorable, thinking like that. " just then a small child stops infront of you and harumasa.

" mommy, that guy is so handsome. I'd like to marry him! " the child excitedly speaks as she tries to reach out to harumasa, you can't help but stand infront of him, in a defensive manner.

" dear, that guy is already taken by the lady. sorry " the mother pulls her daughter along as she sends you an apologetic smile. you can't help but blush. taken?

harumasa bursts out laughing.

" did, did you think the child was gonna attack me or something? you even had your hand on your sword. " he sniffles between laughter as you pout in return.

" shut up! " you karate chop his head and he completely stops laughing, squating down as he rubs his aching pained head. you followed along and starting patting his head, apologies falling out of your mouth. did you really hit him that hard? sure you can't control your strength at times, especially drunken you, but still. panic starts to set in quickly. you don't even realise harumasa stopped touching his head, allowing you to continue patting his head.

" hey, I'm fine. I deserved that too, I'm sorry " he grabs your hand as you slowly realise how close you two are, you try to stand up but he grabs you harder, pulling you back down. you fall and land on him, he can't help but take this as an opportunity to hug you.

" we-we're in public! " you shout as he pretends to think, humming along as you remained quiet, he won't listen to you anyways.

" I love you, " he says as your ears turn red.

" what? " he pushes your face to face him. his eyes staring deeply at you.

" I love you so much, y/n. you're so cute and definitely weak for my heart. " he pushes your head back to where his heart is. his aggressive thumping for a heartbeat, leaves you blushing more.

you managed to push him and sit up as he follows suit.

" when? "

" when what? "

" did you fall for me... " he has his attention all on you. you longed for romance and after being part of the company, romance slowly escaped your mind. all you think about is saving people and beating up the hollows.

" you saved me too, " when you look at him, he flashes you a smile. saved him? when?

" when did I save you... " you mumbled as he ruffles your hair.

" all the time, just being next to you, I'm saved from boredom and- " a slap was sent to his face. he looks up to see yanagi staring down at him.

" you said you're going for a break, not bullying y/n. " she glared down at him as he laughs bitterly, bullying? he wanted to pour his love out for you.

you did save him from a hollow once, and you're always looking out for him. he does long for you like how you long for romance. when he heard of your promotion, he was sparkling everywhere. he wanted to make a good impression for you, maybe you don't remember him from your rookie days where he fought alongside you so he started completing reports on time even doing extra, he goes all out and even more during fights. just so his name gets spread around and hoping to reach you, all you should hear are his good deeds.

" harumasa... I don't get how someone like you can love someone like me but... im willing to try dating you, " yanagi turns to look at you, a fondly smile pastered on her face. harumasa hugs you tight as you pat him, hoping he'd let you go.

" you're punished for running away, you're going to complete 20 more reports before you can clock out, harumasa. I hope your lover can motivate you to finish on time. " yanagi turns on her heels, making her way back as asaba sents you a smile once more before pulling you along.

---

I LONG FOR ROMANCE TOO, especially for someone like lighter 😞😞😞 he so silly BUT harumasa GRRR when he got slapped in the virtual world and miyabi wanted to slap him too 😭😭😭