#and my hands are constantly numb

[hontour]

soooo uncomfy 😖

[randomgooberness]

Gordon should NOT get a biological hand back(if he does it’s busted to all hell and mostly numb). And any prosthetic he gets sucks ass unless it has a cartoony switchable feature that lets him adapt to certain tasks because even high tech prosthetic hands with the correct reaction speeds will never beat gun arm if your goal is shooting something.

What im saying is he makes a million different hands for himself to the point where he has “fork hand” and “screwdriver hand” and “scissor hand” ect

[almostdeath]

Something that I saw as funny when talking about R!Schlatt with my boyfriend.

...Was literally thinking about Schlatt getting to Qs place, being like "missed me?~" With Quackity slamming the door close. Schlatt literally saying that he doesnt really have a place to stay (like...Connor is dead, manberg is destroyed etc.) And Quackity yelling that he doesnt care and that its Schlatt problem......opening the door five minutes later. Schlatt literally looking at his nails, leaning against a poll before looking at Quackity. "I knew that ya will open the door. Ya dont really pull off that bad guy look."

my bf: I can just envision the smug smile appearing on his face when he looks at Quackity after he opens the door again

me: Pfff- Quackity would definitely want to wipe that smirk off of that mans face-

Schlatt looking around the empty streets and sarcastically saying "I see...you have been doing great without me~"

my bf: Quackity’s wings trembling behind him, the feathers standing on end for a brief second and his nose scrunching up with distaste. Him breathing out through clenched teeth, forcing himself to relax and asking in a measured tone, “Are you going to keep being a jackass or are you going to come inside?”

me: The man simply lifting a brow, letting out a small chuckle. "Ya know better than anyone that I can do both." Inviting himself to finally step inside. Taking it upon himself to look around the interior "Not bad. Seems like there are actually people that can build."

my bf: Quackity hating the way his heart soars when Schlatt compliments the space, clearing his throat and saying “I know.” in a clipped tone. “Don’t fucking touch anything.”

me: Schlatt walking forward before half-turning his head to look at the duck hybrid. "Cant really do anything about touching the floor." Before waving his hand in a dismissive tone. "Look, it's not like I can possibly steal anything. What will I do with that stuff? Try to sell it back to you?"

[jessicas-pi]

Why do I hate power tools so much? *proceeds to use the power tools* *hurts myself* OH THATS WHY

[atticollateral]

i hate being young and having carpal tunnel i hate being young and having carpal tunnel i hate being young and having carpal tunnel I H-

[shrimplicitly]

being some flavour of aromantic is hard bc i keep expecting myself to act like whatever allo people do when thats just not how i love

[sameteeth]

i think im having issues thermoregulating which is annoying

[colesstar]

oh my gosh i love harumi so much im going to be sick

[sugutiva]

❝ PUFF , PUFF , FUCK ! ❞ — G. SUGURU

ᥫ᭡. synopsis : riding suguru while he’s high .

tags : smut, p in v, smoking, cowgirl, biting, dirty talk, all lowercase, not proofread !

a/n : sugutiva .

geto manspreads lazily against the couch with a fat blunt placed on his kiss bitten lips. his red eyes distantly travel over the expanse of your swaying body. the effects of the sativa is apparent in his hazed body language.

your eyes pick up on the way how he barely parts his mouth to sexily exhale the cloud of built up smoke. you can’t stop whining; the way how his eyes are lazy but still feel so heavy on your body makes you almost numb.

he tuts when he notices you suppressing your moans and babbles. his favorite sounds.

“ nahhh, don’t do that now,” his voice is smooth as it travels sparks of pleasure through your body— despite sounding a bit strained due to your walls continuing to clamp around him tightly. “ don’t hold back those pretty sounds, sweetheart. wan’a hear how cock drunk you can be.” his thumb tugs at your bottom lip that’s caught in between your two rows of teeth. he smiles when a sharp moan tumbles out your mouth as the tip of dick constantly knocks against your sweet spot.

“ suguuu, p-please— you feel s’good!” your words come out as a jumbled slur. he’s so bulky, the stretching sensation in your pussy quickly bleeds into pleasure as your bounces on his lap quickly becomes rowdy. your thighs burn with sweet heat from the expand.

he looks at you with the slyest expression— akin to one of a cat’s. “ yeah? tell me more baby. beg for me to touch you so this filthy pussy can cum on my cock.” his hand slides around your hips to give your ass a few sharp slaps, spurring you on.

a tease is perfect word to describe geto— he loved making you bluntly spell out what you wanted even when he knew.

“ i want you to t-touch me,”

“ be specific girl, there’s many places on your body that i want to touch.” he quickly corrects you, the hand holding the once lit blunt is thrown over the back of the couch loosely as he focuses his attention on you.

you huff out before complying. “ please… i want you to rub my clit til’ i cum!” even to your own ears you sound quite pathetic.

but suguru thinks otherwise— he casually gives you a grin at your plead, giving your ass another heartfelt grab before maneuvering his hand to give your throbbing clit it’s desired attention. his thumb presses down on the bud before motioning tight circles, inflicting a noisy whine from the new wave of pleasure, leading you closer to your orgasm.

“ likeee this?” he asks and you reply with new frantic moves of your hips. “ mhmm.. seems like it. your practically gushing on my cock baby.” he takes in the scene with amusement.

he bites back an unusual moan from creeping out when your body slams down harsher this time, feeling your pussy rock and hold his leaking cock snuggly almost has him seeing stars. the thumb on your clit speeds as suguru throws his head back, his chest and neck a flushed sweaty mess as strands of his black hair sticks to his damp skin.

he’s growing stupid from you bouncing your pussy on him repeatedly in that hypnotic manner— and that sight alone almost rips your orgasm out of you.

you lean over to nip his adam’s apple, your pussy contracts when you feel his breath hitch. “ fuuck, that’s it. fuck yourself silly on me, just like that, girl.” he pauses before he lets out a shaky breath— it’s unintentional, but his voice alone drags you into your powerful orgasm.

you force your hips to continue rocking against him while increased squelches resonates through the fuzzy room along with your combined moans. you feel sparks of electricity shoot through your limbs, your cunt squeezes more slick out, creating a translucent ring around the hefty base of his cock.

you don’t get a moment to calm down from your high because suguru’s hand moves from your clit to grab your hip— his grip boards on painfully but you don’t get to dwell on it as his warm fluid paints your walls a creamy white and your mind blank.

his cum is so warm and it makes you feel full inside, he ruts his hips up erratically to make broken hiccups escape your mouth before he eventually stops.

in the aftermath you only focus on the shallow breaths and pants escaping your bodies, suguru breaks the silence. “ i… can’t feel my dick right now.” his voice is much different than before… more breathless. despite that, when you try to lift yourself off his hand pulls your hip down as his body shifts to grab something.

when you hear the familiar flicks of a lighter igniting, you lift your head back up to be greeted with suguru taking a final puff of the blunt, his chest whiffs up with smoke.

you watch as he keeps his chest tight, holding the sativa in his lungs, before he slightly lifts two fingers off the lighter to motion you to come forward for a kiss.

once you do, he exhales into your mouth with his hand holding your jaw tightly and you accept the wave of warmth greedily. the earthy taste hits before flooding your senses hazily and you take in all of what suguru gives you with blissful content. the effects of the suguru and the sativa makes your mind and limbs go misty.

when you part, your lips are still connected with a thin line of spit before you lap it up with a erotic smirk.

“ round two?” before he can answer, your hips start to slowly wind up again.

[screampied]

I feel like Sukuna eats pussy the best in jjk (besides Geto). Like he'd be FEASTING till you're crying and shaking

꒰১ warnings. fem! reader, ōral (f receiving), mild dacryphila, eating from the back, impact play, he has a forked tongue

whenever it came to pussy eating—sukuna ryōmen was just nasty,

with no shame whatsoever, he doesn’t care. all he really cares about is having you arched over the wooden leg of his throne, your ass all out and drinking out orgasm after orgasm out of you. he really knows no bounds— a starved man, he’d eat you out until there’s fat tears sticking against your naturally lengthy lashes. “o-oh my goddd,” you’d whimper out. not even seconds after, you’d just finish a release and he’s already delving his long tongue between your slick folds again. your taste makes him groan, he’s never had anything as sugary sweet as you. a sharp nail of his gingerly scrapes against the juncture of your curves as you arch forward. your mouth opens—pretty pink tongue unfurling as you’re just feeling the tip of his tongue wander to its hearts content. he’s messy, if it’s not dripping down his chin he doesn’t want it. you shudder, feeling him thrust his tongue in and out of your puffed cunt before he pries your thighs open further. you gasp, hearing him gather a nice amount of spit before it delivers right against your dripping entrance. “s-sukuna, you’re so nasty.”

“gotta be when your pussy’s this wet,” he huffs.

a thumb stroking down against your swollen slit. with a tongue skimming across his lips for an extra relishing taste, he rolls his tongue out all the way and you can even hear his throaty, ‘ah’ noises as he prepares to dive back in.

sukuna groans, feeling himself get hard just from pleasing you. with a rude spank, he speaks in a rough tone. “arch for me more. ‘m starved ‘n i need seconds.”

it’s not even long before the curse is nose deep. your pulsating folds were continuously being sucked and you already feel your tummy heaving. then texture of his tongue. the length, the forked structure of it all that repeatedly slurps everywhere inside of you makes your toes curl up. despite them curling, they were numb anyway so you felt practically nothing.

he’s snarling, fangs of his occasionally poking against your clit. sukuna chuckles as he feels your ass wriggle against his face, he brings a thumb towards your hood before he glides it across. “what a fuckin’ mess. jus’ can’t get enough, can ya?”

and with sukuna— he’s thorough.

and while you’re happily arched over for him, eyebrows bunched together into a cute furrow, he makes sure that his tongue licks every part of you. a wet, slippery trail from your pussy to your ass, even between the secluded inner crevices of your thighs. he’s greedy, he doesn’t like when you make an attempt to touch yourself. each time you try to play with your pretty cunt whilst he’s eating, he smacks your hand away, grousing a “don’t touch my girl.”

his girl— your pussy.

sukuna’s favorite thing to do would be to constantly spit on your folds, only to lap it up, then spit on it again,

bonus if he finishes eating you out, telling you to come here, then makes out with you so you can taste how much of a messy girl you were for him. he likes hearing you moan, the nibbling he creates against your slit has you sobbing profusely. with your own two hands, you feel against your mounds that were glued against your chest, rocking against his face as you feel yourself approaching the inevitable abyss of pleasure. a groan leaves his lips as your ass jerks against him, he’s gotta hold you still so he can savor this,

savor you..

with glistening reddened lips of his, sukuna briefly departs his mouth from your love palette and with crimson bloodshot eyes—his own lustrous saliva dribbles down between your slit, dragging a thumb to softly snake against your convulsing nub. your mouth stupidly dangles open that it’s almost comedic. you then feel a whimper die out your throat, rubbing your ass against his face, “kuna, ‘s good, right there pleasepleaseplease.” it’s only then when he snakes a hand between your thighs, prodding his fingers alongside your saturated pussy. the moment sukuna starts to maneuver tiny circles and shapes against your pussy, you were just about done for. the staticky friction from his palm going against your folds scratches such a lewd itch in your brain.

you’re going haywire—crazy for more of his touch. as years merely blinded you from how they were welling into your sockets, your voice becomes strained from your numerous whimpers. he sucks you so good, so much of your slick pours down his chin that it even starts to get into his kimono.

sukuna ryōmen was nasty,

but his tongue was even nastier.

it doesn’t miss a single spot, he’s all in the depths of anywhere and everywhere.

you chew your lip in salacious anticipation. unhurriedly, you rock back against his mouth as you feel his callused fingertips gripping against both parts of your ass, spreading it even further.

sukuna leisurely dips his tongue into you once more, it’s probably been the umpteenth time by now as he kisses against your clit. “mhm,” he’d hum to himself, your eyes were visibly rolling back. you saw nothing but darkness. as he’s bringing you closer and closer toward the edge. your nails grip against the arms of his throne, embedding into the hardened material before you whine, shimmery tubby tears forming above the outer corneas of your dilated pupils before you make a cute attempt at crawling away from his mouth but he drags you back.

“girl get the fuck back here. can’t have my meal runnin’ away now, huh.”

[mottemotte]

i swear to god i have literally never gone to the dr alone and ever been given any kind of help. ive only ever gotten prescriptions or like referrals to specialists when either my mom or literally any man has accompanied me. my mom thinks im insane and just paranoid but I SWEAR THEY THINK IM MAKING EVERYTHING UP FOR ATTENTION

i like when doctors act annoyed that you’re in their office as if you didn’t have to pay money and take time. To be there.

[autobahnmp3]

i just want warm enough weather that u won't be freezing in my room 😭

[fastandcarlos]

Bottom Of The Pack : ̗̀➛ Oscar Piastri

summary: how does it feel to be bottom of the list of your boyfriends' priorities?

Your body was numb as you heard Oscar call through your home, letting you know that he was there. There was no response from you, no movement or sound, Oscar’s eyebrows knitting together in confusion as he walked further into the apartment to try and find you. 

It was as his eyes landed in the kitchen though, finding two plates of cold food up on the counter that Oscar realised why he was on the receiving end of such a frosty response from you, his body dropping in disappointment in himself. 

Your efforts that evening were huge to try and organise something nice for you and Oscar, only for him to text at the last minute to tell you he couldn’t make it. A few of his colleagues at work had suggested heading out to bond before the start of the new season and Oscar didn’t have it in him to say no. 

“Hi,” he nervously smiled, taking a seat on the sofa that was opposite you. “Sorry that I didn’t come home, it’s just work things, you know how it is.” 

“No, I don’t think I really do,” you shrugged, your voice blunt. 

It didn’t come as a surprise to Oscar, realising as soon as he walked through the door just how much he’d upset you. There were so many plates that he was having to spin, he didn’t quite know how to make sure that they were all balanced. 

“I really am sorry sweetheart,” Oscar spoke, trying to move closer towards you, only for you to move away. 

You soon picked up your phone, scrolling through some unanswered messages as you blocked out Oscar beside you, pretending to not even notice that he was in the room, deciding not to even give him the time of day. 

Oscar sat apprehensively for a while, hoping for some sort of breakthrough, but you gave him nothing. As time passed, Oscar became more frustrated as he tried to get through to you. You knew exactly what you were doing, almost enjoying making Oscar suffer beside you. 

“Is this how it’s going to be now? We’re just going to sit here in silence for the night.” 

“I’m fine with that,” you shrugged, not even bothering to look up and across at Oscar. 

A sigh came from Oscar as his hands brushed over the front of his face. “I’ve said that I’m sorry, I don’t know what else I can do. If I knew that you were planning on cooking for the two of us then I never would’ve done, but I just assumed that you’d sort yourself out instead.” 

You finally placed your phone down, glancing across at Oscar. “It’s not just about tonight, this is how it’s been for weeks. I appreciate you’ve got a lot of priorities right now, but I constantly feel like I’m bottom of the pack, like I’m nothing.” 

“You’re not nothing, you’re the most important person in my life.” 

You couldn’t help but scoff as Oscar spoke, feeling as if you had a role that was the complete opposite to the one that he assured you of. It killed Oscar seeing you dismiss him like that, not believing in what he had to say. 

“I don’t mean to make you feel as if you’re not significant in my life,” Oscar sighed, his voice a lot calmer than before. “You’re the person that I enjoy spending time with more than anyone else in the world.” 

“Really? Then where were you tonight?” You asked, keeping your voice as flat as possible. “When was the last time we actually spent time together? Not at work? Not with other people? Just us? 

As Oscar thought, the realisation hit him. He couldn’t remember the last time, the last time that he actually managed to find some time for his own girlfriend. 

Oscar stood up from his seat and walked over, taking a seat beside you. “I want to spend time with you, I want to be here with you. I want to be able to put things right and realign my priorities.” 

“That’s not just something you say, it’s something you do,” you reminded Oscar, unable to take his words as a guarantee. “I don’t want to be everything Oscar, but I want to be something.” 

Oscar nodded, taking in everything that you said. He slowly wrapped his arms around your figure, relieved when you allowed him to hold onto you rather than just pushing him away. 

“You are everything, I promise,” Oscar whispered against the side of your head, “I would never be in the position that I’m in right now if it wasn’t for you and all that you do for me.” 

Slowly Oscar felt you relax into his hold, his heart full of relief that you were at least starting to relax around him, even if he still had plenty of making up to do to make things right again. 

“Sorry isn’t enough, I’ve been stupid and blind to see how I’ve been treating you recently,” Oscar murmured, keeping his voice quiet. “I don’t expect you to trust me right now, but I want you to know that things are going to change, you are, you always have been, my number one.” 

“You know I’ve always supported you Oscar, but I’m not going to keep supporting you if I don’t get something in return. We’re supposed to be a team.” 

Oscar continued to nod, understanding everything that you were saying to him. He wasn’t naive to it anymore, he knew what he had done and how much hurt he had caused you, without even realising that he was doing it. 

“We’re going to spend more time together, starting tomorrow I’m going to make sure that I finish work earlier, get home more often and spend time with you. You’re going to feel like the most important person in my life, because that is exactly who you are my love.” 

You smiled weakly across at Oscar as his hand cupped the side of your face, bringing your face towards him as he placed the gentlest of kisses against your lips. 

It was a simple kiss, but it meant more to Oscar than he could describe. It was the moment he needed to know that he had a chance, that although you were mad at him, you were still going to be there with him. It didn’t quite say all is forgiven yet, but Oscar knew that was never going to be the case just yet. 

“You know, I think I would’ve preferred to come home to you tonight anyway, the team dinner was boring,” Oscar confided, a faint chuckle coming from him too. 

“They won’t speak to you again at work if you tell them that,” you reminded him, “you know how dedicated Zak is to only the best team building events.” 

Oscar shrugged as a glimmer of a smile appeared on your face too. “I’ll tell him myself, tell him he’s got to come up with something better to stop me from coming home and spending time with my girlfriend next time.” 

Your head shook, although Oscar meant every word. It would take something special for him to not spend his time with you anymore, not when he saw how close he got to losing you. 

“I don’t know if I’ve said it enough tonight, but I really am sorry,” Oscar reminded you once again, feeling your hand rest over his. 

“You don’t need to keep saying sorry Oscar, I know how sorry you are.” 

“I know...I just...really mean it.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[vatelixx]

You are the knife (I turn inside myself),

S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).

──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.

Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.

— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.

w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)

a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.

────────────

Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.

You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.

Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.

The list stretches on.

But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—

Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.

The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”

“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“

“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”

“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“

“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.

“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.

“The case.” you agree.

You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.

The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.

Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.

“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.

Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.

It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.

Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”

“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.

Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.

Anything to gain the upper hand.

You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”

“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.

“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”

“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.

Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?

You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.

Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”

Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.

The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”

────────────

Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.

You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.

The hostility has mounted to new levels now.

It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.

South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.

Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.

You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.

The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”

You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.

“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.

Control. All you do is reach for the blade.

“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”

Well that’s certainly unlikely.

“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?

“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”

This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.

Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.

There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”

Spencer falters.

It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.

That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?

He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.

Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.

“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”

“You started this—“

“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”

When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.

“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.

“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.

It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.

“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.

You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.

Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.

All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.

All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.

It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.

He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.

You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.

“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.

The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.

God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.

“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.

You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?

It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.

What is sickness without pleasure?

He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.

“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.

People like him don’t get that.

He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.

He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.

But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”

Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.

“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.

He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.

He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“

He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.

“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.

“Eyes on me, boy genius.”

He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.

“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.

Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.

He always wanted to be seen.

He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.

You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.

“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.

He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.

“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.

It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.

“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”

Spencer sobs.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.

His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.

The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.

“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.

“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”

“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“

You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”

He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.

Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?

Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.

“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.

“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.

“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”

He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.

A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.

“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”

He walks out on you and it’s fine.

────────────

Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.

Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.

When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).

Everything is fine. To reiterate.

It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?

Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.

And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.

In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.

“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.

As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.

“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)

You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.

“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”

“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”

It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.

He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).

“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.

“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).

Focus.

You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He can see everything.

Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.

He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.

But it’s not good enough.

“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.

But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.

He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.

But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).

The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.

“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.

Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.

Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”

And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.

But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”

Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“

“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.

────────────

French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.

The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”

You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.

No big deal!

“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.

There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.

He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.

“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“

Spencer breaks.

“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.

“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”

“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.

You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.

“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.

It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.

“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”

You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”

He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.

Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”

You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.

Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.

It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.

His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.

Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.

He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.

And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.

The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.

“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”

You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.

But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?

He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.

Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.

It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.

You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.

“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.

So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,

And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.

His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.

“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.

“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.

Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.

“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.

Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.

“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.

You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.

“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”

“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“

“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”

“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).

“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.

And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.

Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.

You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.

You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.

Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.

“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.

“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”

Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.

“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.

It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.

You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.

Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.

“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”

No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.

“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.

Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?

Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.

“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.

“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”

He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.

“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.

“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.

He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.

He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.

He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.

He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.

He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.

“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.

“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“

“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”

When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.

“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”

“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”

“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”

“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”

He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.

“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.

You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.

He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”

And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.

It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”

Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.

He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.

He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.

Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.

The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.

And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.

“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”

“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.

“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”

“I’m not torturing you—“

You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.

It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.

His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.

You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.

“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”

It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.

And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.

It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.

“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”

“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”

“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.

“Says you.”

“Says me.”

You fuck him harder.

“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.

And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“

Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.

“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.

He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”

“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.

“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.

He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”

[https-lvesick]

AESPA & THEIR KINKS!

❪ ᶻ  𝘇  𐰁 ❫ 𝒩 otes ⋮ aespa x fem!reader. i have a lot of things to write, but when someone asked for “aespa kinks” something in my mind just clicked... yes, i'm a sucker for them

NIPPLE PLAY | just how you love her boobs, she loves yours. gets messy really easily just by sucking your nipples. drools all over them and starts whining because she's already hot and bothered. if you have piercings, she'll tug on them to tease you and have the time of her life.

THIGH RIDING | usually, karina rides your thigh when she's undeniably needy and needs to cum as soon as possible. frequently done when she gets wet just by playing with your boobs.

FINGERING | she puts you in front of a mirror, between her legs and makes a mess of you. streches your hole with her fingers and when you start squirming and whining, she stops, watching your arousal dripping from you cunt on the bedsheets, hypnotized. when you complain, begging her to let you cum, she does, cooing in your ear, praising her little good girl.

MOMMY KINK | loves being called mommy because she loves taking care of you. treats you just right, stimulating you the way you like and praising you. as soon as the word falls from your lips, she's kissing and climbing onto your lap.

QUIROFILIA | karina is just obsessed with your hands, from the palm to the fingers, and absolutely loves when you come home with a new manicure. constantly playing with your fingers or just putting your hand on her thigh. she can't help but imagine how good you are with your hands, making her drool all over your fingers or just having them inside her. she definitely gets wet by that.

MORNING HEAD | giselle loves waking her girl up with a head, she says it's the best way to assure your day goes well. starts kissing your thighs while removing your bottom parts, then she plays with your clit, pinching and twisting it until you get wet, then she dives in. gives you the sloppiest head ever so you wake up quickly. makes sure to get her girl cumming on her tongue at least twice, then she lets you go.

BONDAGE | only when she's pissed off, not necessarily with you, but she needs to relieve her stress with something and that little thing is you. you're her toy, her pretty and obedient toy and she won't let you say or do anything she doesn't want to. puts your ass up and face down and ties you to the bed, blindfolds you and gets her whip.

SPANKING | always spanks you! no matter if you were a good girl or a bad girl, you are going to receive it. she loves your ass and it's almost a physical need to spank your ass and thighs until they're numb. after that, she licks and scatter kisses all over the affected parts.

CHOKING | the first times she did it, she didn't wanna hurt you, but she can't deny that the way you look so helpless turns her on and you too! every time she chokes you, you clench harder and drip even more, making her fucking proud.

MARKING | winter is kinda possessive of you, so she does anything in her power to make sure people know you're hers. she always marks you, whether it be her nail scratches or hickeys on your body. and she always smears her cum on you, making sure you smell just like her.

BULGE KINK | bought a bigger strap just for her baby. she wanted to try something and now is obsessed with it. makes you wet her cock in the messiest way you can find so you finally sit on it. her eager gaze is stuck on your belly as you sink deeper and deeper in the strap. she couldn't wait for you and was deeply sorry for that, but she needed to fuck you hard. you were just so pretty having her cock bulging in your tummy :(

RECORDING | she gets proud of herself every time she makes you feel good and needs to replay every expression you make. makes you sit on the floor while she stands up and rides your face and these are her favorite videos.

PUBLIC SEX | see, she loves doing it in public because she push your limits and your helpless state is priceless to her, but don't get her wrong, she's not a exhibitionist. you're hers and your pleasure is for her eyes only. loves to control your orgasm in public just to see your pretty face scrunched when you try to calm yourself to not let people notice.

FACE SITTING | this woman is a tease. ningning absolutely loves riding your face because that's the only time when she's “in charge” and she loves to tease you with it. she suffocates you, staying longer in your nose, but she can't keep that attitude, since she gets desperate easily.

SEXTING | again, a total tease. it's all unintentional, at least for you. she is the one who starts it. if you're away from each other, in a party, for example, she gets her phone and texts you, just to say how much she wants you, or how her pussy is wet just by looking at you all pretty. and she stands by what she said! not regretting any word, even when you're ready to treat her like the slut she is.

EDGING | keeps saying she hates it, but keeps begging for it, you don't really understand. whines, breathy moans and her unquiet hands holding you, begging you to stop and leave her, but when you do as she says, she complains. then how can you please your girl?

DIRTY TALK | has the dirtiest pretty mouth and uses against you. whispers dirty things in your ear to work you up and even uses her hands. be it on your thighs, sneaking under your tops or ligering a bit longer on your crotch, your girl is always down to make you go insane. rather do it in public though and that's why is dangerous going out with ningning.

CHOKING | when she gets too impacient because you're taking too long, she guides your hand to her throat and makes you squeeze. her eyes roll to the back of her head whenever you choke her. the first time she asked (begged) you to choke her, you were worried, especially because she was getting red because of the lack of air, but as soon as you noticed her cum dripping down her legs, it was gone.

SCISSORING | it is a must for her, if you don't scissor, then you don't love her! she needs to feel your pussy rubbing against hers and the thought alone is enough to make her cum. when she is close to her orgasm, she starts to pick up her movements and, eventually, squirt on you.

masterlist | all rights reserved to @https-lvesick don't copy or translate my works!

[starberryhwa]

right here.

pairing: seonghwa x afab!reader  genre: established relationship, smut, pwp, fluff <3 wc: 2k tags: nsfw (18+) MDNI, mentions of anxiety, reader has panic attack, angst? if you squint?, f! receiving, softdom! seonghwa, fingering, pet names (sweetheart, baby, angel, honey etc.), reader being emotionally vulnerable,,, aftercare. tulip's notes: hihi ᵔᴗᵔ so here's my first official fic! i wanted to do something short and sweet first before diving into my other ideas. i have no clue how this will be received LMAO.. but honestly, writing is pure self-indulgence. there may or may not be errors in my writing, english isn't my first language! anywho, wishing anyone reading a great day ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅!!

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you had never really been one to have a quiet mind. there was always something silently bubbling away inside your head. be it school, university, friends, family, obligations, extracurriculars, your future life-- hell, even taking basic care of yourself became a ‘task’ that you constantly worried about. 

but then came along park seonghwa. 

and what followed with him was comfort; a sense of tranquility. 

your mind seemed to be more at ease, worries simmering down in all the times you were in his presence.

so, why was that familiar feeling of dread building up in your chest tonight? 

your relationship with seonghwa was of many years.

what were once stolen glances, secret letters in lockers, and shy smiles in college, soon became the most loving relationship you could ever dream of, and with the most perfect man you could ask for in your life.

he was a sweetheart. tooth-achingly sweet. he showed up at your doorstep towards the end of senior year to confess his crush on you - face hidden behind an enormous array of flowers and a toothy grin decorating his beautiful face. 4 years down the line, he, without fail, brought the same array of pink tulips at the end of each month (to your now shared apartment) saying:

"i never want to forget the day you made me the luckiest man alive"

he was perfect. your life felt perfect with him.

albeit the occasional shadow of anxiety lingering over you, threatening to spill into your body.

you had told him a few months into dating. that you were prone to worry more than the average person. that you tended to get caught up in your own thoughts and fears until it felt your heart was being suffocated.

seonghwa said nothing. he simply took your hand in his, kissed it, and placed both of your intertwined hands over your chest, where your heart was.

"i love you. what can i do to help ?"

although your worries seemed to burden you less since becoming seonghwa's, they were never completely gone. and tonight, they seemed to be encroaching your mind at a rapid pace.

all sorts of dreadful worries swirled around when you were supposed to be sleeping. your boyfriend was fast asleep next you, and not wanting to wake him, you quietly tossed and turned in bed, clutching the ends of your blanket with sweaty hands, forcing your eyes shut and hoping this would also force the thoughts away.

but nothing seemed to work. you felt your throat closing up as the minutes on your bedside clock went by begrudgingly slow. right then, a wave of dizziness attacked you, drops of sweat covering your forehead, the bile creeping up in your stomach, it's as if someone was holding you down and attempting to strangle you while all you could do was shiver and shake and-

"baby?"

you'd woken seonghwa up. "honey breathe with me please. c'mon let's count together, okay?"

you hadn't even noticed how shallow and fast you were breathing. small strangled spurts left your throat; body partially numb to the cold hands snaking around your waist and thighs to help you sit up.

"baby, focus on my voice. we're gonna count up to 3 and then down to 1, think you can do that for me?"

you mustered the little control you had left of yourself to nod.

"good, come here angel". seonghwa had somehow managed to crawl from his side of the bed to sit behind you. he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled, your back now snug against the front of his own body, his legs enclosing yours. "1... 2... 3... breathe in for me".

you managed to take in some air.

"now 3...2...1...breathe out for me angel"

you exhaled.

"good job sweetheart! you're okay now. we're okay, i'm right here with you and you did so great for me" seonghwa beamed.

you hadn't even noticed your boyfriend had his hand placed over your heart, as if an attempt to sync both of your heartbeats together.

well, it worked. your breathing now rhythmically matched seonghwa's. once again, the worries started to simmer down as you let out a deep sigh of relief and relaxed back into the arms that embraced your sides, resting your head on seonghwa's shoulder to gently look up at him.

he was so beautiful, even after being woken up from sleep in the middle of the night. his usual smooth, silky black hair now ruffled and fluffy in places, falling in separate strands across his sculpted face. the eyes that looked down on you sparkled from the lights of the city shining in through the window of the bedroom. his nose was a soft shade of red (a cute feature you noticed after he woke up in the mornings, often complaining about how his nose had become stuffy overnight). and then his lips. his pretty, pink, plump lips. how they managed to look so moisturised at all times was a secret you were yet to find out... but still, there was no doubt that the man holding you right now was the most handsome being in the whole world.

"you can't seem to stop staring baby" seonghwa softly mumbled, a small smile on the edge of his mouth at how the blush was creeping up on your cheeks.

"sorry... i just..." you were flustered. so many years of being together and this man still made you feel like a giddy teenager in puppy love.

"you're really pretty" you managed to mutter out.

"why thank you, thought you're the prettiest my sweetheart" seonghwa's small smile had turned into his signature toothy grin. you were mesmerised by how good he looked in the black tank top he had worn to bed. your body now hyper-aware that his hands were laying across your tummy, dangerously close to the area in between your thighs which felt warmer by the second. you realised your faces were so close to each other that even moving forward an inch would mean-

"kiss me hwa"

seonghwa raised an eyebrow, almost amused at your words.

"please" you nearly whined.

you pleaded. he had to give in. he'd do anything for his sweetheart.

not to mention he'd also eyed down how the straps of your night-dress had fallen down your shoulders and the way your dress was riding up your plush thighs, all while you were also busy staring at his features.

seonghwa didn't need to be told twice before closing the few inches of gap between you two, craning his neck down just slightly to kiss your pretty lips. it was soft, it was oh so sweet. your breaths mixing with each other as the kiss deepened, and out of habit, you had already opened your mouth to allow seonghwa to slip his tongue in (which drove you fucking crazy each time). his tongue explored yours as if this was the first time and you couldn't help the small whine that escaped you when he finally pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths.

his hands were now resting so close, too close, to your heat. both of your faces flushed red.

“baby, we should go back to bed. you seem tired and it’s…” seonghwa looked over at the alarm clock, “3 in the morning”.

but nothing on his face conveyed that he had any intention to sleep: eyelids half closed, lips parted, eyes focused on taking in how gorgeous you looked, all hot and bothered just for him.

and his hands. oh those damned hands that were inching closer every second. his slender fingers playing with the pretty and small bow on the top your panties.

“i can’t go back to sleep so easily, you know that hwa” this time, you purposefully whined out your words while looking at him with fluttering eyelashes, so he could take the hint.

seonghwa took a few seconds to think. then a knowing smirk slowly crept up on his lips. "will this help angel?" he asked in a hushed tone. you raised a brow, confused as to what exactly 'this' meant and just as you were about to inquire, you felt his hand cup your heat.

oh.

then seonghwa's lips crashed onto yours. and at the same time, his fingers worked on applying more and more pressure in between your thighs while you unconsciously pushed yourself against his hand, grinding in order to relieve the pulsing ache in any way you could. seonghwa then moved onto using solely his middle and ring fingers to rub soft and painfully slow circles around your clit; already sensitive after your makeout session.

you could feel how your own panties were clinging onto you, sticky with arousal and in the way of what you needed.

"more, please" with no patience, your own hand took his and quickly shoved it down your panties (which you were too tired to shimmy out of at this hour).

"i need you so much. please please please hwa" you breathily moaned out. seonghwa let out a small grunt at the sudden motion of you taking his hand and making direct contact with your wetness. but he loved it. "this pussy never stops being wet for me, hm angel?" he whispered into your ear.

"n-no" you struggled to say a single word. he'd already made good on his intention to help you go back to sleep quick, and slipped two cold and long fingers inside of you, prodding that special gummy spot only he could find in a matter of seconds.

"you did so well earlier honey" he said while pushing his fingers deeper inside you, your walls fluttering at the praise.

"so strong for me, my sweet angel" seonghwa cooed as his movements in and out of you quickened their pace, your eyes rolled back at this.

"you're so amazing, my perfect baby. my perfect y/n" your boyfriend swiped his thumb over your bud again, coaxing your release faster.

already tired from before and getting more drunk on seonghwa's praises by the second, you couldn't do anything besides whimper and arch your back against your boyfriend, nails grasping his knees as both of you chased your climax.

"show me how good you are" seonghwa purred.

"come around my fingers pretty girl"

and with that, you let out a soft cry as your orgasm washed over your body. whimpering a string of thank yous to seonghwa while his fingers remained buried inside of you, finally pulling them out after you once again settled back down against his chest.

you were finally sleepy and with your eyes already half-closed, the last thing you remember before passing out was seonghwa licking his fingers clean of your juices, and happily at that. this man always made sure to show you how he thought you were the sweetest creature ever, in more ways than one.

your mind could now only think of your boyfriend as you closed your eyes, letting yourself finally drift off to the sleep he had helped you to reach.

in the mean time, seonghwa smoothed down your dress and ensured to clean away any mess in between your thighs with a warm cloth. and then, he adjusted both of your pillows once more and carefully shifted your head onto your pillow, which was the coldest side up. he quietly laid down on the bed and pulled the covers softly over both of your bodies, making sure no part of your body was peeking out of the blanket.

and then he turned to face you. a soft sigh at how your features had no traces of the previous worries but instead, a faint smile painted the corner of your lips.

seonghwa always wanted to see you happy.

he tucked a strand of hair behind your ears, marvelling at the gorgeous being in front of him. he knew you wouldn't be able to hear anything he spoke of right now but it was important to him that he say this.

"i'll always be right here" he took your pinky in his.

"i promise sweetheart"

and as morning came and the sun replaced the dim city lights, you stirred at the light streaming in from the curtains.

you woke up to your legs tangled with seonghwa's and a slightly stiff pinky. you smiled gently.

he was perfect. your life is perfect with him.