#but he wrote it in a short amount of time

[paranoiddreams]

Animals!

«Talking Satoru through his third orgasm, praising his sloppily timed thrusts in and out of your flooding pussy…»

✞ Gojo x fem!reader

✞ Warnings!! - FILTHY FILTH!, unprotected sex, creampies, explicit language, multiple orgasms (m&f), tbh i wrote this at 2 am so idk if it’s good, Satoru trynna be a baby daddy, talks of (possible) pregnancy, BREEDING KINK! (If that wasn’t already clear enough).

✞ A/n!! - I was listening to this song when I wrote it, so yeah…thank you to Chino Moreno for fueling my late night thirst<3 also, it’s really short, so sorry for that. I need to start posting longer shi fr.

It started with your boyfriend sheepishly admitting his fascination for breeding kinks, claiming he wasn’t aware of why people were so obsessed with the concept.

“We’re not animals—we don’t breed, we fuck,” he said exactly, his blue eyes swirling with pride.

And now, on the slow and tantalizing build to his fourth—or maybe fifth?—load inside of you, he’s wondering to himself why he didn’t try this sooner.

His cock slowly drips more and more precum into you, adding to the already overflowing amount of both of your countless orgasms, all of which keep rolling in like tidal waves.

“T-there you go,” you shakily coo at him from below, misty eyes watching as each inch of his throbbing length buries deeper into your cunt. The tip of his cock kisses your cervix each time he bottoms out, before pulling away, just to slide back in again. “Doing s-sooo good…”

Satoru is barely holding onto reality, his mind so fogged with lust and euphoria from how your gummy walls feel around him. “Oh, fuck, I-I can feel—“

“I can too,” you cut him off, gripping onto his swelling biceps. “Cum, baby. Just one more.”

Those are the only words of motivation he needs before he’s picking up his pace, his face contorting in the sickeningly-sweet pleasure you’re giving him. You let out a low moan as he closes his eyes and loses himself in your warmth, his mind only focused on drawing both of your orgasms closer as quick as possible.

“God, m’ gonna make you a mama,” Satoru pants out, the sound of his cock ramming into you, and your soft cries filling the room, “think any of em will take?”

As if you were both intertwined as one, both of you cum together not even a moment later. Your cunt sucks him in as he paints your walls with his seed, a string of moans and your name falling from his lips.

“Fuck baby, you’re so full,” he babbles almost drunkenly as he pulls his cock out of you, watching his cum spill out, “full of me~”

Satoru’s fucked out expression, the euphoria still lingering in his tone, his fingers going to push his cum deeper inside of you, it’s all enough to make you feel as if you were in a different plane of existence; one where only you and him inhabit the world, and the moonlight pouring onto his pretty face was made just for the both of you.

“What’s my pretty baby thinking of now?” He asks, his head resting against your chest now.

“Nothing,” you softly say to him, lifting a hand to run your fingers through his hair, “just how, according to you, we’re animals now.”Satoru misses the meaning of your words although, tilting his head to the side in confusion.

“You said it yourself,” you laugh, “animals breed, not fuck.”

Your boyfriend then rolls his eyes in realization, a chuckle escaping his lips.

“Guess we are animals then, huh?”

[giannaln4]

For you? Anything.

lando norris x fem reader

summary: Even during the worst week of you life, and no matter how tired he is, Lando would do anything to make you feel better.  (2.6k words)

warnings: fluff, established relationship, language.

a/n: And we are back to our regular schedule! Kinktober is officially over (kinda, more context here) so it's time to post regular fics. So, I wrote this sometime last week before the shit show of yesterday's race so that's why there are no mentions of it, but I do have some planned about that so we'll see when I can work on them. Anyway, this is for me and all the girlies who have been feeling stressed about work, let me know what you think!

↺ back to navigation — send me a request!

What a week it has been for you. You had done nothing but work on a stupid project your boss put you in charge of. It was very short notice, and the due date was creeping up on you faster than you would’ve liked. 

The good thing is Lando had been away for weeks due to his job; not that you didn’t want to see him or that he was a distraction, nothing like that, but you always preferred to be with him instead of working, which isn’t something you would be able to do this time due to the amount of things you had to go over, but with the house all to yourself, you had the chance to get tons of work done.

It was finally the day of the presentation; you were supposed to pitch the finished project to management and honestly, you weren’t 100% confident in the job you had done. Usually, you were never too harsh on yourself, but with so little time to work on it, you knew there were some parts here and there that could’ve used a little more of your attention, but it was either use what you already have or show up with an unfinished project, so that would have to do. It wasn’t terrible; you were sure of that, but these people always found something to complain about.

You were there for only a few minutes before you were dismissed. What a fucking joke, you thought.

You didn’t even get half the presentation done, and the old dudes sitting across from you were already attacking you with questions, questions that didn’t even make sense or barely fit the theme of what you were trying to talk about. 

Your boss was the one to send you out, saying something like “You have another week; we hope you’ll be more prepared next time,” before standing up and leaving the cold conference room, followed by the rest of the men that were surrounding him.

Only minutes after going back to your office you saw him come in, giving you notes on the things he thought you should work on. As the polite girl that you are, you just nodded and wrote down whatever he was saying, apologising for not turning it up on time, but as soon as he left, you couldn’t stop the tears from falling down your face, ruining your make-up in the process. You still had half of your day ahead of you, so you calmed down, washed your face, and went back to work like nothing happened.

At the end of the day, however, that’s a different story. You went back home completely devastated. All those sleepless nights you spent with your nose buried in your laptop felt like a total waste. 

As you drove back home, you tried your best to hold the tears, but it was getting harder by the second, especially with each step you took down the hall that led to the door of your apartment, and when you made it there, you started crying as soon as you closed the door behind you.

You instantly got rid of your uncomfortable clothes and got into one of Lando’s shirts, curling up in your bed and letting all that consuming and irrational feeling of failure sink in. You knew you weren’t a failure; you were well aware of your worth, but you couldn’t help but feel like that after miserably failing the presentation you worked so hard on.

Suddenly, the front door opening pulled you out of your thoughts. You let out a loud sigh as you left the bed. You knew it was Lando coming back from his last race, and any other day you would’ve been happy to see him, running to the door to greet him with a hug like he deserved, but right now, you didn't want him to have to see you in that pathetic state.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a moment, sighing again when you realised how obvious it was that you had been crying, so you’d just have to avoid eye contact.

“Hi baby,” Lando greeted you with his usual pretty smile as he entered your room.

"Hey,” you replied, immediately turning around and walking towards your desk, sitting facing away from Lando as you opened your laptop.

“Did you sleep okay last night? How did your presentation go?” He walked closer to you and wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, kissing your temple.

“It was okay.” He stopped when he noticed your heavy mood. 

"You alright, love? You seem down." His brows were slightly furrowed as he tried to make eye contact.

​​"Yeah, fine. I think I’m just gonna work on it a little more; there were some things missing that I need to include," you replied, clearly lacking energy.

“Hey now, let’s not do that." Lando turned the chair over to make you face him. He looked down and noticed your glossy eyes, a worried feeling growing inside him. “Talk to me, please. What’s wrong?”

You just shook her head briefly, a lip-tight smile covering your face. “Everything’s fine.”

“Y/N…” The slip of your name past his lips made you want to cry again. Of course you wanted to be comforted by your boyfriend, but you didn’t like the thought of him having to pick up the pieces anytime you messed up. As a tear rolled down your face, you realised that you didn't have the energy or even the desire to push him away “Oh baby, come here.”

Lando took your hand as he sat on the floor next to you, pulling you onto his lap. Your face was now buried in his black hoodie, the tears wetting it instantly as he brushed a hand softly up and down your back.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you." He would understand if you didn’t want to talk about it but would still like to know what was happening. If there was anything he could do to help, he would gladly do it. “Do you wanna talk?”

“I just-” A sob cut you off, “I- I couldn’t do it, even after everything I did, it wasn’t enough.”

“Is this about your presentation?” He asked, his voice softer than ever, and you simply nodded. “It’s alright-”

“No, Lando, it’s not alright. I worked hard to get it together, to get it ready for days and nights and I still failed, I’m so stupid-”

“Hey, baby, look at me," he interrupted you, pulling back a bit and gently lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “You know that’s not true; you’re so smart, and I've always admired your beautiful mind. You gave it your best, like you said, you worked really hard, and even if you didn’t get the reaction you deserved, you know I’m right here.” You simply nodded at his words as the back of your hand wiped some of the tears. “Why didn’t you wanna tell me?”

"Because I don't want you to be disappointed in me like I am right now." You looked down to your lap as more tears fell from your tired eyes.

“You should know that I could never be disappointed in you, Y/N. You are so intelligent and kind; I’ve never met anyone with such a beautiful soul, so I don't ever want you to feel down about yourself because you are perfect." You felt both of Lando’s large hands caress either side of your face, bringing it up so he could look into your eyes again as he swiped at the tears that had managed to escape from your eyes.

The slight smile that had formed on your tear-stained face told Lando that his words meant something to you, and they did. “You’re only saying that because you’re my boyfriend.”

“No, I’m your boyfriend for all those reasons." You giggled slightly. “And I’m sure that no one would disagree with me.”

“My boss would.”

“What does he know?” That made you laugh again, making Lando smile, a smile so sincere that told you he believed everything he just said.

"Thank you, baby, even though you’re being a little biased." You sniffled as you gently stroked the hand that was still on your cheek, keeping your eyes locked with his “I love you.”

“I love you more,” he smiled, pressing his lips to your forehead. You took a deep breath, feeling a lot calmer than you did five minutes ago as you looked at your laptop briefly. 

“I should probably get back to work, though; I have to basically remake the whole thing and meet with them again next week.”

“What? Right now?”

“Yes, right now. I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna go to bed? You look pretty tired. We can cuddle, I know we both need it.”

“I would love to,” your gaze fell on your bed momentarily; it looked so comfortable, and it was literally calling your name, “but I really need to get this done, and I have to do it right this time. I don’t wanna be embarrassed again in front of a bunch of old dudes.”

You stood up from his lap and sat back on your desk, focusing on the screen in front of you as you began to analyse what you should take out and what you needed to add. 

Lando just sighed. He knew there was no way he would get you to stop working if you already set your mind to it, but honestly, he thought he would get to spend every second with you once he got back home, so needless to say, he was a little disappointed that wasn’t the case.

He got it though; your job was important for you, and you would never settle for anything unless it was perfect. What made his blood boil was the fact that your boss had the nerve to make you feel like you weren't worth it. 

“Did you eat something already?” He asked you, getting up from the floor and wrapping his arms around you once again.

“Uh- I’m not really hungry.”

“Why don’t I cook something for us? What do you say?”

“It’s okay, baby, you should go to bed.” You tilted your head to look at him and give him a quick kiss. “I know you are tired, the triple header couldn’t have been easy.”

You started collecting your things so you could take over a different part of the apartment. He had been travelling for weeks; it wouldn’t be fair to keep him up just because you needed to get work done.

“Where are you going?”

“To your office, if that’s okay. I really don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not-”

“Lan, I’ll be okay, I promise. Just go to bed, don’t worry about me.” Taking a few steps closer to him, you gave him a loving hug, “I love you.”

You left the room, holding everything in your hands as Lando just stood in the same spot. There was no way he would go to bed without you, not when you were feeling so down and it was clear you just needed to take a break.

Taking a deep breath, he started to make a plan in his head. He took the quickest shower of his life and got into something comfy, praying there was food, or more specifically, ingredients to cook you something that he wouldn’t mess up and that you would enjoy.

Everything seemed to be on his side when he found everything he needed to make some Alfredo. Everything was pretty much premade, so he knew he wouldn’t ruin it. He happily got to work, setting up a nice dinner as he hummed one of the songs that had been stuck in his head for who knows how long. 

In the office, you were nearly breaking your head as you read the information you had over and over again. You kind of knew what it needed to be since your boss gave you a few specific notes, but then again, you weren’t feeling completely confident in your own ideas. 

You didn’t realise you had been locked away for over an hour, your eyes getting insanely tired as you typed away. A break was needed and well deserved, and you were aware of this, but somehow it didn’t feel like you were making any progress, even though you had been working non-stop and you had already readjusted about half of the project.

A loud sigh escaped your lips as you abruptly closed your laptop, your face falling to your hands as your eyes felt wet yet again. That was it; there was no way you could keep going. You needed to grab a quick snack and head straight to bed. You did have an early morning the next day after all. 

Just as you were gathering all your strength to get up, you heard the door open, making you jump a bit.

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me.” You laughed as your hand fell on your heart.

“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he giggled, walking towards you.

“What are you doing still awake? I thought you went to bed.” 

“I couldn’t sleep without you. Are you almost done here?” He looked at your closed laptop, celebrating internally as he assumed you were done working for the night. 

“Yeah, I guess. My brain stopped working, so I thought my future self can worry about the rest tomorrow.”

“Good. Come here.” He extended his hand out to you, which you happily took. “Please stop overworking yourself, you know this isn’t healthy.”

“I know,” you let out a sigh as you accepted his embrace. “I’m seriously thinking about quitting. Who knows, maybe I’ll find something that doesn’t make me feel this stressed all the time.”

His hand was caressing your back softly as he pulled away to look down at you. “You know you can, right? And I really think you should. I make enough to support the both of us and even a family in the future... Baby, you don’t have to keep working there if you don’t want to.”

His words made a smile appear on your face. Not because he was offering to basically support you for the rest of your life, but because he brought having a family with you. “You know I’d never let you do that-”

“But if you do want to quit and just take a break, you can do that too,” he interrupted you. You nodded, seriously considering it, but that was something you would have to think about and have a serious conversation in the future if you ever did decide to do it.

“We’ll see. Right now, I just need something to eat and some sleep. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Speaking about dinner, I made something for you.”

He took your hand and guided you to the dining room, a big smile on his face as he proudly showed off the beautiful set-up and the (hopefully) delicious dinner he managed to cook. He looked back at you expectantly, but his happiness quickly turned into a worried look when he noticed tears falling from your eyes again. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asked, a hand softly falling on your cheek as he leaned down. 

You were out of words; you truly didn’t know what to say. This is just what you needed, and the fact that he went out of his way to do it for you meant a lot more than he could ever imagine.

“I- Lando, this is-” you cut yourself off when you couldn’t find the right thing to say, so you just jumped in his arms and gave him the tightest hug ever. “Thank you for everything. And I mean everything.”

He let out a sigh of relief, hugging you back as he buried his head on the crook of your neck. “For you, my love, I’d do anything.”

[sugarushwriting]

lucky charm

reader x lee minho x mma fighter lee minho

happy (belated) birthday to my man, lee minho (lee know) from skz. wrote this on his birthday 💙

adult content featured, read at your own discretion

master list found here

watching him was an adrenaline boost you didn’t know you needed. one you couldn’t give yourself. the way he ducked hits easily. the way he threw a punch so quick the opponent couldn’t block it in time. the way he was so light on his feet as if he was a professional dancer in his past life.

his opponents covered in their own blood, sometimes a broken nose, or black eye. barely a scratch on himself though.

his opponents opting to go shirtless as he chose to wear tight fitting shirts with shorts or sweats.

you never knew why, always wondered what he has to hide underneath.

ding ding the bell ring ending the fight. the referee held lee minho’s hand in the air, declaring him the winner against the opponent.

“leebit is our winner!” the referee used minho’s underground name, which also never made sense to you.

no one here ever used their government names to protect themselves against cops and their opponents.

you only found out minho’s name by a bit a snooping. and finding his name was total accident.

the crowd began chanting ‘leebit’ in celebration, noting all the fan-girls here for him. with the amount of gorgeous women that had their eye on him, why would he notice you?

you were as innocent as they came (on the surface at least), 97% introverted, 3% extroverted around the right people. you preferred to be by yourself, but that didn’t mean you didn’t get lonely at times.

you had a good amount of close friends, however you really craved companionship. your last relationship didn’t end well, mainly due to your ex keeping things vanilla in the bedroom and cheating on you.

as people around you began to exit, you decided to leave within the crowd. however, the universe had other plans, as you didn’t notice the small bag you had brought with you was open.

as you stood, a few things fell out. looking up at the ceiling in defeat with a sigh, you crouched down to start picking up the things: lipgloss, tampon, compact mirror, and—

“i think you dropped this.” a deep chuckle came out from the man now standing in front of you.

he held out the few condoms you had that began to collect dust. “oh, um, thanks.” you replied shyly, your face feeling hot from embarrassment.

you quickly grabbed the condoms, stuffing them back in your bag. looking back up at the guy who helped you out, you realized he was someone always with minho.

“you hang around leebit a lot, don’t you?” you asked. you had to remember to use his fighters name, not his actual name.

the guy laughed. “maybe. you a fangirl of his?”

you shrugged. “maybe.” you answered with crossed arms.

“sorry if that came off rude,” the boy quickly apologized, “it’s just,” he began to explain with a tilted head, “you don’t look like you’d be a fangirl of a mma fighter.” he raised his eyebrow.

“and you don’t look like someone who would befriend a mma fighter.” you said back.

“well we were just roommates first then became good friends. but, touché—,” he trailed off not knowing your name.

you introduced yourself with handing your hand out for a handshake like some lame person. you internally cursed at yourself.

“nice to meet you, i’m han jisung.”

“nice to meet you, jisung.” you took your hand away, suddenly feeling shy.

it was probably because more than half of the audience have left. looking around the small room, you soon noticed minho coming out from the door across the room, him still dressed in his earlier clothing and hair sweaty.

“i should get going.” you said and pointed towards the exit, but jisung stopped you.

“but i thought you were a fangirl? i could help you get an autograph.” he smiled teasingly.

“another fangirl, jisung?” minho said as he came up behind you. you didn’t realize he was a fast and quiet walker as he startled you.

you quickly turned around, moving to stand next to jisung so you could look into minho’s eyes.

jisung introduced you to minho. “minho, she’s a fan!”

minho looked you up and down. “you sure she’s a fan? she doesn’t look like someone who’d be interested in mma fighting.” minho observed. “where’s your boyfriend? i bet he brought you here.”

“no boyfriend.” you stated. “and i am a fan.”

technically you weren’t a fan of mma, just a fan of minho.

but since you were a fan of minho that did mma, that made you a fan of the activity, right?

or did that make you a creepy, crazy, stalker?

shit.

“i should go, it’s getting late.” you looked at your phone seeing it was past midnight.

“it’s already late, let us take you home.” minho offered, jisung agreed.

“he’s right, it’s a saturday night, no telling what creepy perverts are out there.” jisung said.

“you both could be creepy perverts.”

minho and jisung laughed. “this fella,” minho began saying while tapping his friend’s chest, “couldn’t hurt a fly. me on the other hand, well, you’ve seen the damage i can do.”

that should’ve scared you but it only excited you.

the 2 boys got you to your small apartment building safely not too long later. they insisted on walking you up to your door, so for an odd reason you allowed it.

they didn’t ask to come in, but instead, bid their goodbyes and walked away.

you were left alone feeling hot and bothered by the proximity of minho. and his sweat only seemed to make him sexier.

“goodness, maybe im the nasty pervert.” you shook your not so innocent thoughts.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

the next week, your job had you overworking to meet an important deadline. you’ve had to miss 2 of minho’s matches.

you were more than excited to be home after a long day. for the past 9 work days, you’ve been needing to be at work by 9 am, not leaving until close to 8 or 9 in the evening.

you trudge back home, your muscles feeling sore from the long hours. you were too focused on taking a nice hot shower, you didn’t notice the figure standing next to your door.

“it’s dangerous not to pay attention to your surroundings, kitten.”

“goddamnit!” you screeched, startled. you nearly dropped your things, but ended up placing a hand over your heart, it racing from the surprise visitor.

the deep chuckle caused you to gain goosebumps on your arms, his smile showing his front teeth.

“minho?” you asked confused, you scrunching your eyebrows in confusion. “what are you doing here? at my apartment? at my door!” you whispered—shouted.

minho looked around. “waiting for you?”

you were taken back. more so, why was he here? “i can see that, but why?”

“are you going to invite me in? kind of rude to have your guest waiting outside.”

you sighed, but opened your front door to your small studio apartment. it wasn’t big, but it was cozy and what you needed. and it came with a laundry area so that was a big win.

you shut the door softly behind minho, taking off your shoes, leaving them by the door. minho followed suit.

“you can sit on the couch, uh, i just need to put my things away.”

“go ahead. i heard you talking to yourself, wanting to take a shower. we can talk after that.”

“i—huh?” you were more than confused now.

lee minho wanted you, to take a shower, while he waited in your living area?

“damn kitten, you must be extremely tired to the point where i have to repeat myself.” minho smirked.

your mouth fished open, but then closed. “tell me why you’re here then i will shower.”

“you’re my lucky charm, that’s why i am here.”

“huh?”

“shower. now. i will order food.” minho reached for his phone in his pocket. when he noticed you weren’t moving, he laughed with a sigh, and stood up, walking towards you.

looking into your eyes, his cologne met your nose, and you’d wish you could just burry yourself in his smell.

“get in the shower.” minho said softly. it was basically can order.

“okay.” you sighed. “just order something good please.”

you walked to your bathroom, head down. you couldn’t think about taking a shower while minho was in your apartment. nope. because if you did, your shower would last longer than it needed to be.

stripping from your clothes, you made sure to lock your bathroom door. minho heard the click from the living room, snickered at the thought of you thinking he was a pervert wanting to catch a look on you.

good thing you did lock it.

he tapped away on his phone, ordering some food you both would like. he looked around your small apartment, observing your living habits. while your living area was tidy, your bedroom behind the small partition wall had a few clothes laying around, your bed made, but not to precision.

in the shower, the hot water helped your tense muscles, and when you stepped out grabbing your towel, you finally realized you didn’t grab pajamas.

“fuck!” you groaned loudly.

“you okay in there?” you heard minho call out.

you gasped, your hand slapping over your mouth. “yeah, i’m fine!” you squeaked.

minho probably thought you had some dirty business going on behind that door. his ears turned red at the thought.

“minho, um, i forgot to grab pajamas!”

“i’ll close my eyes, you can come out!”

“can you just grab me some?” you asked. “middle drawer on the right! there should be a set easy to grab.”

minho followed your directions, grabbing a silk pajama set—next to the oversized shirt and shorts you were probably wanting.

well if you were going to have him pick, he might as well pick the one he wants to see you in, right?

“do you need undies!” minho yelled.

you slapped your face in embarrassment. “yes!” your voice cracked.

minho grabbed you a pair that was on the top. knocking softly on the bathroom door, you unlocked the door, snatched the clothes from minho’s hands, and quickly slammed and locked the bathroom door back.

you hurried and got ready, opening the door, noticing minho comfortable sitting on your couch, setting out the food.

“that was a quick delivery.”

“there’s a good place just a block away. i noticed it the last time jisung and i had walked you home.”

you nodded with a smile. awkwardly, you walked closer to him, to sit next to him on the couch.

minho noticed your stiff posture. “no need to be nervous or awkward around me.” he stated in a comforting tone. “i don’t bite.” he looked at you, then winked. “much.”

you cleared your throat, “uh, right.” you grabbed chopsticks, ready to grab a piece of chicken. “can you elaborate on what you said earlier? about me being your lucky charm?”

minho looked at you quietly and intensely as he chewed. his gaze made you squirm in your seat.

“i almost lost my past matches because you weren’t there in the audience.”

he noticed you gone? you nearly choked on your chicken. “almost?”

“oh kitten, you know i never lose my fights.” he stated with a smirk.

“so how am i your lucky charm if you didn’t lose, if i wasn’t there?” you questioned.

minho took a big bite of his rice. “because my opponents got more punches in than they should’ve.”

“did you get hurt at all?” your eyes quickly glanced over, barely seeing a scratch on his pretty face.

“not really. just a bruised stomach and ego.”

“stomach?” you gasped, looking down to his covered abdomen.

“it’s fine, no longer tender.” he patted where he had gotten hit. “the opponent got it worse, kitten.”

you took in his words, still in shock the fact he noticed you gone. noticed your presence wasn’t there. but you also tried to not read too much into it.

“not surprised, you’re pretty quick on your feet.” you complimented, taking another bite of your food.

minho stared at you as he ate. you continued to eat as well in silence until minho broke it. “don’t miss another match of mine.”

“is that a request?”

“it’s an order.”

“and what if i don’t come?” you teased.

“i’ll find you, and you’ll face the consequences.” he answered, no hint of teasing in his tone.

your body tensed—in a good way, you immediately clenching your lower half. “i can’t be that much good luck, minho. you’ve only now noticed my absence since jisung introduced me to you.”

minho stared at you once again. he wanted so badly to tell you he knew you, or knew of you before jisung introduced you. minho knew some small things about you. things he’s done without you even noticing yourself.

he’s noticed you at his matches before. he remembers the look of awe on your face when he knocked out someone. that was your first visit and impression.

the second time he noticed you because you weren’t yelling within the crowd.

the third time he remembers you giving a look of disgust to some man in the crowd who tried and failed to flirt with you.

and each time since, he’s noticed you. you just didn’t notice him noticing you.

each time since, even the first day, he’s walked behind you while you walked home after the fights. he noticed you always came alone.

he couldn’t let a pretty girl like you walk home by yourself. and he was too shy to offer himself as an escort to avoid seeming like a creepy stalker pervert.

he’s seen you on a date at a local coffee shop when he visited there with jisung. you hadn’t noticed him.

minho nearly flipped the table in anger when the guy tried to hold your hand. but he smiled when you pulled away.

he found out later that day it was your ex. because your ex talked crapped about you to one of his buddies, once you left.

minho followed him to an alley way. that’s how your ex ended up in the hospital.

you were confused that day when you received a call from the hospital.

“why are you calling me?”

“you’re still his emergency contact.”

“well i don’t want to be.”

“he’s in the hospital, you could have a little—,”

you hung up on the nurse. you were intrigued though to know why he ended up in the hospital. how he ended up there.

“i should make you beg to ask me to miss no more.”

minho looked at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. or like you forgot how many cats he had.

you chuckled at his shocked out face. “just kidding min.”

the rest of the evening you both ate, alternating between silence and small talk.

it was nearly 11 at night when you finished. “thanks for the meal, min.” you smiled warmly.

minho smiled, the tips of his ears becoming red at the nickname. “of course. can i use your bathroom before i leave?”

you nodded and he went to the bathroom. as soon as he locked the door, his phone buzzed with an incoming text.

you know it was so wrong, but you couldn’t help but snoop. you had to make sure he wasn’t playing you, right? make sure he hadn’t told more girls they were his good luck charms too. without picking up his phone, you read the text:

annoying roomie: did u tell her u like her? sick and tired of you moping around 🙄

your heart dropped. minho had a crush on someone? you sighed, this night too good to be true. you quickly decided to start cleaning up, ready for bed when out of nowhere, a big boom sounded from outside.

“what the!” you ran to your window seeing it pouring rain out of nowhere. “the forecast said nothing about rain!” you groaned.

you turned on your television to the news station, seeing it was going to storm all night and it was only going to get worse.

“bad storms?” minho asked from behind you.

you sighed and nodded. “looks like it.”

“they can never get the weather right.” minho tsked. “i didn’t bring an umbrella or anything with me.” he scratched the back of his head.

you turned to look at him behind you. if he didn’t have any type of protection from the rain, that means he could get soaked and possibly sick.

you couldn’t do that to him. could you? “um, do you wanna crash on my couch until it dies down?”

“only if you don’t mind.” he asked.

you definitely did not mind.

“it’s fine. i wouldn’t want you to get sick.” you said and walked to your extra closet to grab a blanket. “as long as you don’t do anything creepy and don’t mind my occasional snoring, we should be good.”

minho laughed. “what, expect me to do something dirty to you while you sleep?”

your thighs clenched again, and it didn’t go unnoticed by minho, but he didn’t say anything about it.

so maybe you were into that sort of thing.

“relax kitten, i will just sleep.” he said, and you visibly relaxed, but also felt some kind of disappointment?

minho got comfortable on the couch, and you turned off the light, to get into your bed. minho took a while to get comfortable though.

you laid in bed in thought. maybe you should be the one to sleep on the couch? the couch was pretty small compared to your bed. minho couldn’t sleep comfortably if he had to scrunch his body.

you sat up in bed. “minho.” you called from your room. “do you wanna sleep in my bed? i can sleep—,”

before you could even finish the sentence, minho made his short way to your bed and got in next to you. just as you were going to get up to sleep on the couch, he grabbed your wrist.

“where are you going?” he whispered.

“the couch?”

“your bed has enough room. lay down and sleep.”

another demand from minho had you following his directions.

“what would your crush think about this?” you said quietly.

minho sat up on his elbow. “what crush?”

you swallowed. “a guy like you has to have a crush on someone if you don’t have a girlfriend.” you covered up. you almost gave yourself away.

minho had a feeling you saw the text from jisung, and very much wanted to scream that you were his crush! but although minho was beyond comfortable and confident in the ring, he was a total nerd and lack confidence when it came to flirting and girls.

you were the first girl he became intrigued by since 2 years ago. he’s had his fair share of girls here and there, but it was hard for a girl to actually capture his interest.

“you’re right, i do have a crush.” he whispered. your back was facing his front. “too bad i don’t know how she feels about me.”

“min, i’m sure she has a crush back. who wouldn’t like you?” you whispered back.

“how could i get her attention?” minho asked huskily.

you smiled. “a surprise kiss may do it. just hope she doesn’t slap you.”

“is that something my crush would like or you?”

“mhm, something i would like. some girls like it, so your crush might.”

you felt a tap on your shoulder, so you rolled over to your back, obviously being surprised when you felt soft lips meet yours for a quick peck.

“please don’t slap me.” minho sighed against your lips.

“minho—,”

“if you can’t tell, you’re my crush kitten.” minho said and brought his lips to yours once more for more than a peck.

hovering over you, your back laid flat against the bed, minho using his right hand to prop himself up, and his left to cradle your cheek. minho’s lips were soft against yours, slow as he enjoyed your taste.

his left hand ghosted against your cheek, down your neck, to your shoulder, then your side, grabbing your hip. his lips left yours to trail down your neck, meeting your shoulder blade with a quick nibble before leaving a quick peck and looking into your eyes.

minho for once was so happy it was storming.

“tell me when you want me to stop.”

“what if i don’t want you to stop, min?”

minho smiled, bringing his lips back to yours, his left hand moving along to your backside, and to grip your ass, a moan coming out muffled against his lips.

both your tongues found one another, your faces smushing a bit closer at how rushed and sloppy the kiss became. you both couldn’t get enough of one another.

you wrapped your arms around minho’s neck, pulling him as close as possible, your right leg lifting up to rest against his hip and around his waist.

minho grinded his lower half against yours, your hips lifting up to meet his.

minho pulled his lips away reluctantly, but soon attached them to your neck, leaving wet, sloppy kisses.

“before we get too far kitten, i don’t have any condoms.”

“i do, but they’ve probably expired.” you bit your lip, as minho stared at you.

“are you okay with—,”

you nodded. “yes. i’m clean, i’m on birth control.”

minho nodded. “i’m clean too. and lucky for me, i have a breeding kink i’ve been waiting to try out.”

wetness pooled between your legs just like that. who knew men who had a breeding kink turned you on just as much.

minho kissed you again, wasting no time to pull down your shorts past your thighs and knees, and getting them off your legs.

he bent down on the bed, his face in front of your cunt.

“so wet for me.” he whispered and blew air against your aching lower half.

minho let his tongue lick you up, your head rolling back on the bed, your hips lifting slightly. immediately your hand went to his hair.

minho used his tongue for a few more small licks, using his fingers to open you up nice so his tongue could get every angle possible, licking you clean.

he then attached his mouth to your clit, using two of his fingers to poke at your cunt.

it’s been too long, so the sensation felt foreign, but it felt good. minho slowly entered his fingers into your hole, slowly inching them in and out, as you rode his fingers.

his lips went to your lower belly to leave kisses, as he added a third finger and used his thumb of the same hand to rub your clit in circles. his free arm lifted your leg over his shoulder, giving him better access.

soon, you felt your lower stomach beginning to feel tight. “minho, i—i think i’m gonna come soon.” you sighed out quietly.

minho noticed how quiet you were in bed. and he honestly loved that. but he also couldn’t wait to corrupt you to the point you were screaming and begging him for more (or to slow down) at the top of your lungs.

minho kept his pace of his fingers, adding his tongue with his thumb. he spat once, mixing his spit with your wetness with his three fingers and entered once again at a different angle.

“oh fuck, right there min.” you lifted your hips, your legs threatening to close. minho’s tongue and fingers soon felt so overwhelming and overstimulating to you.

you tried to push his head away, but minho instead removed his fingers, propping both of your legs over each of his shoulders as his tongue flicked ferociously against your folds.

you could help but try and squirm away from him. “minho, too much!”

with one more fast lick, minho removed his lips, kissing your lower stomach, up your clothed chest, to your neck, and eventually meeting your lips so you could taste yourself.

breaking the kiss just to take off your pajama top, you were now bare as he was still clothed in the comfortable outfit he came in.

you pouted. “this isn’t fair.”

minho chuckled. “you’ll get to ogle me kitten. patience.”

minho brought his lips back to yours for a sweet, longer kiss, his fingers tracing over your naked body leaving goosebumps in their trail.

minho lifted up, taking his shirt off, leaving his toned chest and abs to have you literally salivating at the sight.

“why do you hide this under your clothes?” you asked, using your hands to trace over his body.

“because i’m not some piece of meat for girls to stare at.” there was a hint of teasing and joking behind it, and you laughed.

“is it bad or weird i want to make out with your chest and abs?”

“not weird at all kitten. but not tonight.” minho finished undressing himself quickly, his dick already standing hard and red, leaking precome.

you licked your lips unconsciously at the sight. minho had done the same when he took in your body. you were a dream to him. a dream come true.

minho crawled back over you, kissing you once, his tip tracing your folds, teasing you. you groaned impatiently.

“you just don’t know how long i’ve waited for this kitten. tonight you get my loving, slow side. after this, you’ll only be fucked by me. understand?”

you nodded—sort of understanding what he was saying. basically, tonight he would be gentle with you. after that, you’ll be lucky to have feeling in your legs.

no prep needed, minho eased his dick into you, your back arching off the bed, your hands gripping his upper arms.

your body adjusted well to his length and girth, as he bottomed out, staying still.

you both let out a low groan and moan, whispered into each others lips.

minho had to hold himself back, all he wanted was to snap his hips back and push forward with all his might.

minho slowly pulled back, to slowly push in, setting a slow and soft rhythm, lightly having your bed rock alongside your bodies.

your legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck, as minho leaned down, nose buried in your neck.

as you softly moaned out, minho softly grunted, talking lowly to himself and you.

“i can’t wait until i ruin you.”

“you’ll never want to leave my side.”

“gonna ruin you for my opponents. i see the way they look at you.”

“i’ll have you begging on your knees for me to fuck that sweet face of yours.”

each sentence and statement just brought you closer to your orgasm. “yes min. all yours. you’ve already ruined me.” you moaned, kissing his lips one, your hand threading its way through the back of his head. “use me how you want.”

minho’s thrust became sloppier as he came close to his own orgasm. he sat up, still wrapping your legs around his waist, but the angle caused for deeper penetration. “fuck kitten, keep talking like that to me.”

“gonna ruin me in different positions min. doggy, on the floor, against the wall—fuck—on the kitchen counter,”

“i’ll fuck you anywhere and everywhere, kitten.” minho moaned, his thrust picking up, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit.

“fuck me to sleep and fuck me awake, min.” you sighed out in pleasure.

“fuck yes.” minho thrusted twice more before you came and he followed right after, filling you up.

you wrapped your legs around his waist with a smile. “can’t waste a drop, min.” you playfully bit your index finger.

minho laughed tiredly, his dick slowly softening inside. he tried his best not collapse on top of you, so half his body was on you the other on the bed. that was until he rolled over to his back, not removing his dick from you.

you laid halfway on him, your leg draped over his lower half as his dick rested nicely in you. “mhm, i like this.”

minho thrusted once, and you both moaned. “give me a little for round two, kitten.”

you laughed and looked up at him. “and what if i’m too tired for round two?”

minho looked at you menacingly with a big smile, “well, did you or did you not tell me to fuck you to sleep and fuck you awake?”

you giggled. “you got a point.”

“exactly. now, you will be regretting those words.”

in a flash, minho had you on top in cowgirl. “now ride til you can’t ride anymore kitten.”

[biting-miguel-ohara]

Who You Are - Wade Wilson x platonic!Reader

A/N: So, I don’t really have a reason for writing this, other than I’ve seen some pretty unkind discourse lately about trans boys and men. And it hurts sometimes, you know? So I wrote this as much for me as I wrote this for anyone else who needs it

I wrote this with a teenage!Reader in mind. If anyone wants a version with an adult!Reader, let me know bc I’m more than happy to help spread more appreciation and positivity

Written for an ftm!Reader

The warnings for this one are a little vague, so let me know if I missed anything, please!

CW: lying, crying, Wade and Logan are dating in this, Logan is not quite Reader’s parent but it’s close, insecurity, emotional hurt/comfort, online hatred and discourse, hugging, Wade calls Reader ‘little prince’, soft ending, this one made me cry so be warned

553 words

“Logan?” You hesitantly knock on his door, peeking into his room. There’s a muffled grunt and a groan and then footsteps.

“Hey, little prince. What’re you doing awake?” It’s Wade, all bleary-eyed and yawning.

You hug your arms across your chest, looking down. “… No reason…”

He sees through your lie in a moment. He steps out of the room and gently shuts the door, crouching down to your level. “Hey, what’s going on?”

He gives you a little nudge, soft and lightly playful. “Did your period come early?”

You crack a smile, but it quickly fades. “No, I, um…”

You falter. You’ve only known Wade for a short amount of time; he hasn’t been Logan’s boyfriend for very long. But you’ve always had a good feeling about him. And he’s been accepting of you so far. So maybe… he can be trusted.

You take a deep breath and immediately hate the tears that prick at your eyes. “I just— I saw something online and it just—“

He doesn’t say anything. He just wraps you in a hug. You cling to him, trying so hard to not cry. It’s a futile effort, though. The tears come anyway.

“It’s just—“ you sniffle. “I’m… not a bad person, right? For not being a girl?”

Wade stiffens for a moment, then pulls back. “Of course not! Little prince, you’re not a bad person at all! Who said that?”

You shake your head. “I see it online sometimes. People hating on boys like me because we’re not girls. And it just—“ Your voice gets quiet. “It hurts sometimes.”

Wade’s expression changes rapidly. Anger, outrage, determination, and finally, something softer. “You’re perfect the way you are, little prince. If he were awake, Wolvie would say the same thing. Don’t listen to what those others are saying. You’re not bad or wrong or anything for being who you are.”

The tears come harder. You bury your face against his shoulder and cry. You cry until his sleeve is tear-stained and snotty, until all your tears dry up and your breathing turns to hiccups.

Wade gently rubs your back, letting you sob. He whispers quiet assurances, promising you that you are loved by him and Logan and everyone who truly knows you. It helps. More than you thought it would.

It feels cathartic, in a way. You’ve been stressing and hurting over other people’s words for so long, it feels relieving to hear some words of comfort.

After a long while, you pull back and rub at your salt-burned eyes. “Thank you.”

Wade gives you a smile. “Anytime, little prince. You’re always safe with me. No matter who says what, you’re perfect as you are.”

You manage a watery smile back. Your heart feels warm. Weak from the crying, but warm from his words.

Wade pats your shoulder. “Come on. You can snuggle with Wolvie and me. I’ll tell you a story or something.”

Your smile widens, still small but genuine. You follow him into the bedroom, taking a big deep breath. Logan loves you the way you are. Wade loves you the way you are.

There’s still lingering hurt in your chest, but it’s smoothing out. You have people in your life who appreciate who you are, really truly.

And that means more than anything anyone else could say.

[huuuuughes]

Mine. - Jeremy Swayman

Summary: Jeremy comes over to beg for your forgiveness, and things quickly take a turn... but not for the worst.

Word count: 3.3k (its short ik im sorry)

WARNINGS: Daddy kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, bad writing??? idk this is porn OKAY READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. pls dont read if you're under 18 thank u!!

Note: i wrote this awhile ago for goalie week and then a bunch of stuff happened and i kept forgetting to post it bc i started my first full time job a month ago and its kicking my BUTT. anyways thanks for reading :)

You could hear your phone going off from across the room. It was Friday night and the end of a very long work week. Your boss was driving you up the wall and your personal life didn’t seem to be going much better. Your friends were good, you just didn’t get to see them as often as you wanted due to just being adults and everyone having their own full time jobs. 

The one person who was supposed to make your life easier, better even, was the one currently blowing up your phone. You knew exactly who it was, but he deserved to sit there and stew for a while. But as you looked around your apartment while trying to decide what show to numb your mind with, you noticed things of his strewn everywhere. You didn’t live together, not yet anyway, but based on the amount of things you had at each others’ places, you may as well have. 

Your work involved working with many different clients, and making their dreams come true. You were a travel agent, and your boss didn't exactly adhere to the typical 9-5 schedule like a normal job. If you were awake, she expected you to be able to take care of the problem. 

You had already decided long ago that men didn’t always think with their brains. Jeremy was jealous, but of what you had no idea. Did you have a lot of clients who were men who wanted to surprise the lady in their lives? Yes. Did those scumbags also try and make a move on you sometimes? Also yes. But you were a professional, and always conducted yourself as such. As much as you wanted to, it wasn’t your job to fix someone else’s insecurities. You could tell Jeremy that he didn’t need to be jealous until you were blue in the face, but you didn’t know when he was going to get it. You weren’t broken up, but you’d told him you needed a minute for him to calm down. It had been a few days at that point, and you couldn’t deny you were also getting antsy. He may be a stupid guy sometimes, but he was yours.

After what had to be the millionth time of your phone going off with a DING of a text, you made yourself get up off the couch. The last message you had read:

Sway❤️: I know I’m stupid. I need you to know I’m sorry. Can I see you, please? 

After the stressful week you’d had, you wanted nothing more than to feel his familiar warmth around you. The moment he was near you it was like the noise around you calmed down to its lowest level. 

Y/N: I’m at home, you know where to find me. 

Sway❤️: I’m on my way, be there in 20. I love you. 

The next twenty minutes were going to kill you. Your apartment was already cleaned, because you liked to clean when you got anxious as mess only made you more anxious. Your doorman would recognize Jeremy and send him up when he arrived, so you didn’t need to even get up to let him in. He had his key, he knew exactly where to find you. 

After an eternity, at least what felt like one, you heard the familiar sound of a key in the lock. He quietly took off his shoes by the door, and locked it behind him. 

“Babe?” He called out, already walking toward the living room where you sat. 

“I’m in here!” You called back. Relief washed over you when you saw him, but you didn’t get up and go to him. He had to earn you back the way you deserved. 

“Where should I start?” He asked, sitting down in a chair only a few feet away from you. 

“How about how you shouldn’t act jealous of my stupid clients? Or any man that I’m ever with that isn’t you? Do you really think I’m that crappy of a person that I would EVER cheat on you?”

“I know I shouldn’t, I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t do that because you’re the best person I’ve ever known, but-“

“BUT WHAT JEREMY?” You screamed, and you know it came out louder and meaner than you wanted it to. He recoiled a little bit but didn’t lose his energy. 

“I’m stupid. I’m a stupid guy, who knows you are way out of my league. It sounds like a dumb excuse, but I’m so scared of losing you. I want you, I want to love you, I want to be with you for the rest of my life. But you’ve seen the league, you’ve seen what this life can do to relationships and what it turns people into. I don’t want anything bad to happen to us. I know this isn’t the life you signed on for. I think about you being at home alone and I hate it.” He looked defeated and like he meant every word he’d said. 

“You can’t lose something you already have.” You wanted to close the space between you so badly. 

“You still want to be with me?” You got up and walked to the kitchen as he asked, putting away the wine you’d gotten out so it wouldn’t spoil. He followed closely, less than a few steps away. One giant step and he’d be able to close that space. 

“I wouldn’t have told you to come if I didn’t. You just needed to listen, and you weren’t hearing me. You don’t have to be jealous of anyone, that isn’t who I am.”

“I hear you loud and clear now. And I’m not jealous, you’re just mine.” The tone in his voice shifted to another one you recognized. 

“I’m yours huh?” You said it like you were challenging him because it sounded like he thought he already won. He should be fighting for you and showing you what that means. 

“Do you need a reminder?” He closed the space, so his forehead rested against yours. You could feel his hot breath on your face, breathing in time with you. Without warning, you pressed your lips against his with a new hunger behind you. You’d missed this heat between you, the raw need to have each other right in that moment. 

His hands explored your body, finding their way to your ass and lifting you up onto the counter. It was cold against your legs, the shorts you had on weren’t very long and you felt every inch of cold countertop but you didn’t care. His lips left yours with a moan and began making their way down your neck. You could feel how wet you were already getting, responding to his touch so quickly. You reached for the hem of his shirt and motioned for him to take it off. He complied in earnest, his mouth immediately returning to you.

Lifting your shirt up and over your head, your breasts became exposed for him to devour. He licked around your nipple, biting it and chasing you to arch off the counter while letting out a scream. Your nails were digging into every spot on him that he could reach. Momentarily he kissed your mouth again, bringing his still covered cock against your center. You could feel it hard against you, the friction only giving you the slightest relief. 

“Please daddy, please I need-“ You tried not to beg but the torture was killing you. 

“Tell me you’re mine and I’ll give you exactly what you want. Tell daddy who you belong to princess.” He whispered in your ear, continuing to kiss around your neck in the spot he knew you liked. 

“YOURS. I’M YOURS!” You needed relief or you were going to go insane. 

“Now was that so hard baby?” He asked. You didn’t even have the time or energy to reply as he pulled off your shorts in one big motion. 

“No underwear? Even better.” You attempted to push his head toward your swollen clit, but he wouldn’t go faster than he wanted to. He kissed and bit your thighs, leaving marks where he knew no one could see. You’d have those marks there for weeks. Each kiss he got closer until you finally felt his tongue brush against your clit. You shivered as he began to devour you, your thighs clenching around his head not wanting him to escape.

He pulled back but only for a moment, instructing you to lick the fingers he was putting in front of your face. You did as he asked, and he resumed going after your pussy. In a new move, he inserted his fingers into you as he continued eating. His tongue was licking in time with his fingers as they pumped in and out of you. He was hitting a spot in you that you didn’t even know was there.

“Holy shit don’t stop, don’t stop PLEASE.” You were writhing on top of the counter as he struggled to hold you in place. He knew you were so close to your high, edging you just along that fine line. You’re burning up and he knows it. His other hand reaches up and pinches your nipple before grabbing onto your breasts like they were his lifeline. 

You cursed him silently for having hair you couldn’t grab onto, but you pressed his head as if it could go further into you. His tongue quickened its pace, matching his fingers. You could feel your orgasm building and it was right there, all you needed to do was let go. 

“Let go baby girl, cum on my face for me..” He whispered against your clit,  and what came out of yours was a series of expletives that you didn’t care to understand. He could taste everything you were giving him, not stopping as you started to come down. Every nerve ending was on overdrive and he held you down against the counter. The wave of your orgasm rolled over you, your heart pounding in your chest. He didn’t let a single drop of you miss his mouth, and you saw his smile looking up at you as you tried to catch your breath. 

He stood up without breaking eye contact, and undid his own pants. He made sure all remaining clothes of yours were off, nibbling on your ears and down your neck as he did so. In a move of complete trust, he picked you up off of the counter and carried you down to where he knew your room was. His lips found yours again and suddenly your lungs were struggling for air but you didn’t care. Your arms were hooked around his neck as he walked, kissing him like your life depended on it. 

Setting you down on the bed, he laid you down on your back, and stood back to marvel at the sight of you. 

“You look… “ his brain was struggling to find the right word, “fucking stunning.” 

“And you have too many clothes on… sir.” You put yourself up on your elbows, looking down at his boxers that for some reason, had remained on. You didn’t need to let him finish what he was going to say, you needed him to do something more than speak. 

“Sir?” He raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to you. 

“Did you like that?”  You knew he did but it was your way of teasing. His mouth was on yours before you could process his next movements, placing one hand to your side to balance himself and the other knotted in your hair, pulling your head back so you were looking up at him when he pulled apart. You didn’t even realize that his boxers were already off, as you felt his cock brush against your leg and pussy. 

His hand left your hair and explored your leg, getting closer to its destination. His face was so close you could feel his hot breath on your face and his fingers glided over your folds, but so lightly it sent a shiver up your spine. You could hardly catch your breath but you were dying for him to touch you, to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name. You wanted him to hear you. His hand remained on your pussy, his fingers becoming soaked.

“So fucking wet for me baby.. did you miss me?” He quickened his fingers and began pumping them inside you. The feeling of his fingers wasn’t enough, you needed more and a whine-like moan escaped you. You whispered a response to him, and it spurred him on. 

“Please Jeremy please, please I need you inside me..” 

“That’s not my fucking name, not in here. In here I own you, isn't that right princess? Do you want me to be gentle?” You nod no, but that isn’t enough for him.

“Use your words princess.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“Don’t be gentle!” You tried pushing his head towards your core again, but he remained looking at you with his fingers teasing you. He added another, stretching you from the inside. You gasped and scratched your nails up his back. 

You gasp again, as you feel him part you with two fingers and put his tongue against you again. He wasn’t done tasting you yet.

“Please baby, I need your cock. Please!” Your mouth couldn’t move fast enough and you didn’t even care that he had reduced you to a begging mess beneath him. Your hips wanted to grind, needing more friction. You could feel your release building again as he sucks on your clit. It was right there, you could feel it as you clawed at your sheets trying to grab onto something but there was nothing. 

Your legs spasmed around his head as your release flooded over you and he ate you once again. 

“So fucking wet for me, you’re so stunning baby girl.” He kissed his way up your body and aligned himself with your entrance. He isn’t gentle as he slams into you as he kisses your mouth like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. 

You’re left begging for air as his head drops down, ducking your nipple into his mouth. 

“Oh god, oh fuck..” you cry out as he wasn’t holding back. He slammed into you over and over, bringing his hand up to find your clit. As he fucked you he was playing with your clit again, causing your wetness to pool onto the bed. Every single nerve you had was on fire, and only he could put it out. 

“Tell me you need it, tell me how bad you want you want my cum.” The hand not on your clit slowly moves up your body to the bottom of your throat and locking his hand around it. Not putting too much pressure, but enough to lightly choke you. Both of your hands gripped his arm as  you felt his cock filling you and his thighs slapping against yours. His speed was increasing and so was the hunger in his eyes. 

“Oh fuck, fuck daddy please I need your cum I need you so bad..!” 

“You are mine, your orgasms are mine, everything about you is mine.” Without warning he withdrew from you, earning a desperate moan. Quickly he flipped you over into your stomach, pulling your hips back so you were on your hands and knees facing away from him with your ass in the air waving him in like an invitation. 

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He whispers into your ear from behind you. He places kisses on the spot in your neck he knows drives you crazy, running his cock along your folds at the same time. He pushes into you again and holds back nothing. Jeremy grips both of your hips with his hands and brings your hips back to meet each one of his thrusts. The sound of his thighs hitting your ass echoes throughout the room, reaching spots inside you that you didn’t know he could. 

You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, you collapsed into the bed as he fucked into you. 

“So fucking tight princess, this pussy was made for me.” His nails scratch down your back eliciting a loud string of moans. His thrusts become more erratic and he brings his hand up, then down to smack your ass as hard as he could. The scream you made encouraged him more, and you could feel a third orgasm building.

“Fuck daddy, please I’m right there I need to cum daddy please..” You didn’t know how he had gotten that many out of you, but you could already tell he was determined for more. 

“That’s it baby, cum for me, cum all over my cock..” He brought his hand around as he leaned into you to tease your clit some more. You were right there, you pushed back to meet his thrusts to get yourself over the hill and the relief washed over you. You moaned out his name, begging for him to fuck you harder and faster. 

He loved seeing his length go in and out of you, taking all of him so well. Spreading your legs to give him a better angle, his cock continued hitting that spot inside you. He slaps your ass again, and again. You cry out, knowing his release was close behind. His hands wrap in your hair and pull you back, making you arch towards him. 

“Fuck yes baby, you like it when I fuck you like this? You ready for my cum?” He chases his release just as badly as you want it from him, feeling him trying to reach his high. You nodded in response to him, not being able to form any more words. The only sounds coming from you were moans of encouragement, it felt like you could be on cloud nine. 

“FUCK!” He screamed as he pulled almost all the way out, slamming back in and releasing his load into you. Jeremy almost collapsed onto you, but he brought you into his arms as he pulled out of you as his cum slowly leaked back out. You knew he thought it was the hottest thing ever. Both trying to catch your breath and come back down to earth, he pulled you in once you laid down so that you were on his chest. You could hear his heartbeat going a million miles a minute inside his chest, but it brought you a sense of calm. Your person was back where he belonged, he had finally heard you. 

“I love you.” He finally spoke but he still sounded out of breath.

“I love you too.”

“No, you don’t understand. I love you, I really love you. THIS is what I want. This body, your perfect fucking curves. Every minute of every hour of every day, I want you. Not just your body, I want all of you. I’m sorry I was so stupid. I can’t promise you that I won’t make stupid choices sometimes, but I can promise to be better for you every day.”

“Jer-“ You attempted to stop him, you knew he was it too. 

“Please let me finish. I want to make you feel good, I want to be the person you want to come home to every day, I want to be the person who pushes you to be the best version of yourself and make you feel like the queen of the world. You’re it for me, there is no one else. I’ve spent my whole life doubting myself and chasing this dream I couldn’t even describe. But I can see it so clearly now, and I know that dream is you. And I want to be able to have forever with you, if you’ll have me.” You took a moment to absorb his words. 

“You have to make me a promise okay?” His eyes gleamed at you, like you were holding up the moon just for him. 

“Anything, you name it.”

“Promise me forever. There is no past anymore, there is only us and the future we make together. I want us to help each other be better. Okay?”

“Okay. How about we start forever now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

[effortlesslytired]

I have no other explanation other than I can't stop thinking about them and am mentally unwell. This was supposed to be quick and short, if you count 3k+ words to be quick and short then sure... Summary is the original prompt, couldn't find something that fit so I wrote it myself. Did this all in one 12 hour night shift and just did one look over for editing, so if there are mistakes uhhh keep that to yourselves, enjoy!!

Crowley's Fall and Aziraphale's Awakening

Aziraphale stood in the middle of the room, the projection playing loudly and clear and his heart shattering at the truth he’s finally witnessing.

Crowley has never talked about his Fall, his descent from Heaven to Hell and being forced to become a Demon, but Aziraphale always had the feeling that what he’s heard through rumors wasn’t the truth. 

He remembers the days of Crowley with striking brown eyes, radiating warmth and glimmering gold when a ray of sun would hit them just right. His passion for building the creation of stars and nebulae, the utter joy on his face was enough to distract Aziraphale while he worked. The amount of times the Angel would be with him as Crowley worked, and the feeling of admiration that coursed through him seeing his friend so happy. 

Aziraphale watches as Crowley is stripped from his job, forced to undergo a permanent transformation and the agony as his brown eyes morph into what he knows them to be to this day. The yellow pulsing from his pupils, covering the brown and bleeding into the white while he scratches at the skin when the pupil begins to mold into the snake-like slits. His screams are echoing against the porcelain white walls of the room, stars shining above and Aziraphale weeps as Crowley begs Gabriel for him to see the stars – his stars one last time. 

Gabriel laughs at the Angel, forcing the stars to shine brighter and mocking the Angel stripped from his position while all Crowley can do is cry out. 

“I can't see them.”

The Archangel’s chest squeezes in sorrow, his friend, his love, on his knees in a desperate last attempt to not have his pride and joy taken from him. Even if he got to see them one last time, it’s all he wants. 

“You questioned the will of God, you’re defiant and untrustworthy to the cause of us Angels. Enjoy your time in Hell.”

Gabriel’s voice is booming, a wave of his hand and Crowley is flat on the floor, his wings pinned to the ground as the white feathers are ripped from his body and new growth replacing them with the stark black. 

The screams are excruciating, forcing Aziraphale to look away as the audio continues to play on. The vulnerability of the Demon hidden and a reason Aziraphale never knew, never understood why Crowley was how he is. 

“I didn’t question God, I just wanted to create.”

Gabriel’s laugh is bitter at the sounds of Crowley’s pleas. Mocking the Angel with black wings and yellow eyes. 

“You just asked the wrong ones.”

The Archangel snapped his fingers and others poured into the room, yanking the now Demon on the floor to his feet and not paying any mind to the bloody mess pooled around him from his wings. Crowley screams in pain, but no one seems to care as they drag him to the elevator doors, barely on his feet and stumbling trying to get his footing. The Angel’s holding him up throw him into the open doors, looks of disapproval and disappointment not hidden at all as their eyes settle on him. 

“Maybe Satan would rather listen to your pathetic ideas because they have no place for you here.”

Crowley’s crumbled body fights to stand up, to try and get himself back out from the elevator but the doors are already closing and the projection abruptly cuts out. 

Aziraphale stands in the silent room, staring at the wall now bare and his mouth wide open. His Heaven would never do such a thing, never cast someone out for ideas and questions for making beautiful things. He wants to believe there was another reason, another bad thing Crowley committed to cause him to Fall. There has to be another reason. 

But the projection doesn’t lie, and wouldn't lie when the proof is right there. 

Aziraphale turns in his spot, storming out of the room and finding the Metatron at his desk. His face lights up as he sees Aziraphale approaching, however, his expression quickly falters at the look on the new Archangel and the anger radiating from him. 

“He Fell because he wanted the world to see the stars? He Fell because he had questions to make the Universe radiate with light and beauty?” His voice is panicked, the gentleness he meant to convey gone as the desperation for answers over powers. 

“Ah, you saw the Fall.” It’s not a question and it only makes Aziraphale more upset. 

“You Angels stripped him from his holiness and cast him out for something so trivial.” Aziraphale stops at the other side of the desk. “How can I help run Heaven when all we do is punish those who want to make our domain more?”

The Metatron sighs, sitting back in his chair and looking up at Aziraphale. “He was deviating from our plan, he did it to himself.”

The audacity of the Metatron has Aziraphale reeling, taking a step back and looking appalled at the Angel. 

“I can’t be who you want me to be knowing you did this to my friend.” He bites, shaking his head and looking towards the windows lining the walls. Bright and sunny, clouds beyond, a gorgeous place, a place Aziraphale thought he could trust. 

“Do you realize what you’re saying Aziraphale? If you think that you can just step down and go back to what you were before, you’re wrong.” The Metetrom stands to his feet, rounding the desk and looking at the Archangel with the same disgust in his eyes that those other Angels did to Crowley. 

“I do.”

“This was what we were afraid of, your so-called friend has corrupted you. We were all afraid he was more than that.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “So what if he is, when I call he comes. When I need him he’s there, even if he helps and does something nice despite his demonic blood. He’s still the same person he was before when he was an Angel.”

“Do you realize what you are saying Aziraphale? If you don’t see why we did what we did, those who don’t believe in God's plan will be stripped from their titles. You’ll become a Fallen.”

“I don’t care.” Aziraphale stands on his ground, a slight feeling of fear drops in his stomach but he holds on strong. 

“Very well.” The Metatron waves his hand and Aziraphale can feel the angelic energy stripping from his very skin, a layer peeling off like dead skin and nothing like what he saw from Crowley’s Fall. 

“Why is this different? What you all did to Crowley was horrifying.”

“Would you rather I did the same to you?”. The Metatron’s eyes narrow in on Aziraphale and the Angel quickly shakes his head. 

“Do you wish to grab things from your desk?” 

He thinks back to his office, a few belongings on his desk with little importance. “I don’t need to, everything I have and want is on Earth.” 

“Fine, once you step through the elevator doors you won’t be allowed back.” The Metatron gestures for him to leave, turning back to his desk and sitting down in the chair. He doesn’t even look at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale only nods and turns on his heels, walking fast as if he could find a part of himself changing his mind on the way to the elevator doors. He breaks into a run, wanting to get away from the truth that was revealed as fast as possible, a bead of sweat pearling on his forehead, a breath of relief escaping him as he turns in the elevator and presses the button down.

It feels like an eternity as the elevator makes its way towards Earth, and Aziraphale sends out his power, scanning for Crowley. He’s shocked to find his presence still at the bookstore. 

After he left to take on the role as an Archangel, Aziraphale assumed his Demon companion would have fled to his home, roam the Earth and cause havoc without even thinking of Aziraphale again. The presence at the bookstore is a hopeful wish, a breath of relief and his heart squeezed tightly. 

London is the same as it was when Aziraphale left, gloomy and rainy, the streets bustling with life even with the chill morning air settling a heavy fog on the streets below. The coffee shop is open and flooded with customers, Aziraphale can make out the faint silhouette of Nina behind the counter. 

His gaze turns to the bookstore on the corner, an open sign hanging on the door but quiet. From his view he can still make out the stacks of books lining the shelves and walls and he’s grateful that nothing has seemed to be sold. 

There’s a moment of slight panic in the Angel now Fallen, a moment of resentment at what he’s become and what he just did. He doesn’t feel any different than when he was an Angel, and he can still feel the crackle of holy — unholy power pulsing through his veins. It doesn’t seem to be all that bad in his opinion, this newfound power he possesses. It’s a thought he pushes to the back of his mind, the sort of regret he knows he’ll feel eventually for abandoning his position and his faith for a sliver of hope that may not even be reciprocated. He convinces himself he did the right thing, at least for now, and that Crowley being at the bookstore still is the only kind of motivation he needs. 

Aziraphale opens the door to the store, the familiar chime of the bell rings from above and the smell of old paper floods his nose, and it’s Muriel he sees first. The Angel beams at him, admiration still in their eyes. 

“Aziraphale, welcome back!” They’re ecstatic, barreling towards the man at the door. “I haven’t sold anything just like Crowley told me!”

Aziraphale scans the interior of the store and his eyes fall to the Angel in front of him. “I’m glad to hear it, say where is he?”

Muriel’s smile only grows more, the praise from Aziraphale coursing through them. “Oh he’s around here somewhere, I was just talking to him a moment ago.”

Aziraphale nods and looks back towards the store and takes a few more steps in, his movements coming to a complete halt when Crowley’s lanky body trapezes down the spiral staircase and freezes as their eyes connect. 

“Muriel, would you give us a moment? Maybe go across the street and enjoy a nice cup of coffee.” Aziraphale says, never once looking at the new owner of his bookstore. 

“Oh, Crowley has told me about Nina and her coffee, can’t say I’ve ever—”

“Muriel, please.” Aziraphale cuts in, finally breaking eye contact with the Demon and looking down to the Angel. 

Muriel salutes him. “Yes, of course.”

Aziraphale doesn’t watch as Muriel leaves, only knowing they’re gone once the bell chimes above the door again. There’s a sickly silence that settles in the store, neither one of them daring to speak or move as they size each other up. It’s Aziraphale who breaks first. 

“Why did you never tell me?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow, his eyes hidden behind the glasses but Aziraphale knows they’re burning a hole in his face. “Tell you what Angel?”

Aziraphale winces, looking down at the floor and back up again. “About that…”

“What did you do?” Crowley is in front of him then, Aziraphale feeling bare and naked as Crowley examines the once before Archangel. He knows Crowley can read him like a book, knows that even without needing to speak a single word Crowley can predict his thoughts, his movements, lays him out on the table and strips him of his secrets. 

“Aziraphale… what happened?”

“Your Fall, the pain and torment they forced you to endure.” Aziraphale wanted to be strong for this, supportive and caring, but the second he saw Crowley it all came crashing down. 

“You stupid Angel, why did you go looking for it?” Crowley saunters across the shop, sitting himself down in the chair he always seemed to occupy when it was just the two of them. 

“I’m not the Archangel anymore, Crowley. I don’t… I don’t know what I am anymore.”

Crowley looks at him, really looks at him this time and he pulls the glasses from his face. “You Fell.”

Aziraphale only stands in the middle of the room having taken a tentative step forwards. He knows he doesn’t have to say anything to confirm it, knows Crowley knows. He reeks of sin now, the glow of his angelic presence gone. 

“You stupid idiot, what did you do?” Crowley pleads again. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, ready to face it. “I saw how you Fell, why you Fell. You wanted to create, to give the humans the gift of the stars and make the universe beautiful. You had dreams, and yet you were cast aside and forced to never see them again. What do you think happened, Crowley?” He challenges, a spurt of annoyance oozing from his skin. 

He continues. “I saw Gabriel, the way he stood there and smiled while you bled out and the other Angels who dragged you to your descent. You were forced through torture and torment in Hell all because you asked questions about God’s plans.” He takes a deep breath, not realizing he had taken a few more steps towards the Demon. 

“I watched it all and confronted the Metatron and he told me if I had sympathy for you, he questioned our relationship and told me if I couldn’t forgive the Angels and God for what they did that I no longer belonged in Heaven.”

Crowley sighed, sitting forward in the chair and ran his hands down his face. Aziraphale couldn’t read what the expression was, a look of surprise, relief? Resentment?

“So what, you’re a Demon now and you expect me to just stand here with open arms, excited about the fact that you are here to do what? Run off into the sunset and go live somewhere else because the last time we saw each other you decided to go with Heaven over me.” His words are meant to be biting, Aziraphale can tell, though the words lack that anger. 

Aziraphale winces, he knows Crowley is telling the truth, and he honestly doesn’t know what he wants, but right now he just wants to see his friend, the one person he knew he could always count on. 

A million stars in the sky created by Crowley, a Demon forced to see nothing of them and Aziraphale doesn’t know what he wants. Doesn’t know how he can ever deserve the sort of forgiveness he thinks he’s asking for from him. The sight of Crowley laying in blood, begging for Gabriel to change his mind and let him stay, but cast aside anyways flashes across his mind. 

Aziraphale readjusts his posture, his shoulders back and he looks down at Crowley. “I made a mistake.”

“Understatement of the century.” Crowley rolls his eyes, sighing as he leans into the chair. 

“I’ll do the dance, you were right.” He suggests, his hands on his hips and ready. 

Crowley waves a hand at the not-Angel, resting his head on a hand. “I don’t need you to do the dance Angel, you took your path and left me here.”

“Crowley please, I need you. I saw what you saw, I see now what you wanted, what we could have.” Aziraphale throws caution to the wind, bordering on the sounds of begging to his friend. 

Crowley stands to his feet then, towering over Aziraphale and forcing him to cower a little at the intimidating aura the Demon eludes. “Oh please, you think I’ve been pining after you since you left? That I stayed here in this godforsaken bookstore because of you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes snap to Crowley, his eyebrows knitting together at the last statement. “Why did you stay?”

“I—” Crowley steps back, his mouth snapping shut with a lack of response. 

“For a Demon you don’t act with evilness Crowley, you stayed because you’re nice, because you know how much these books mean to me.” He waves his arms around him, gesturing to the packed spaces filled with books – his books. 

“Angel we’ve been over this, I am not nice—” Crowley attempts to take another step back as Aziraphale walks towards him, but is stopped at the feeling of the chair hitting his calves.

Aziraphale stands in front of him, looking up with sorrow and longing and Crowley’s eyes filling with vulnerability. 

“Maybe not, but you’re in love…” Aziraphale is standing in front of his Demon, his hands reaching up and cradling the face of the man he didn’t realize until now, but he’s “and I’m in love too.”

There’s tears in Aziraphale’s eyes, a look of desperation as the pair of them stand so close Aziraphale can feel the warmth of Crowley’s breath across his lips. They stand there and stare and the once before Angel can see the stars in the yellow of the Demon’s eyes. The universe is thriving within them, the sun shining bright and radiating light, and there’s a slight flicker of hope, of a lifetime dying to be released. 

“That’s a bold claim, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale chuckles, his chest tight and his cheeks warm. “It’s a bold claim for someone who knows they’re right.”

“You didn’t want to be us before…” The Demon fights with a lack of malice behind his words. 

“And yet I realized what a stupid mistake that was because us is all there ever was, all that I ever needed, all we have ever needed.”

Crowley’s breath hitches and for a moment Aziraphale watches the bob of his throat and thinks “fuck it”. His other hand is up on Crowley’s cheek, cradling the sunken face of the Demon and pulling him towards him. 

Their lips meet with hesitancy, different from the desperate kiss Crowley gave him months ago. This one full of love and confusion and fear at what’s next. Azirpahale’s hands are moving back on Crowley’s face, tangling in the hair that’s grown ever so slightly and holding onto the man. He can feel Crowley’s own hands wrap around his body, pulling them flush together and the heat is scorching. 

They kiss with a passion of 6000 wasted years, of stolen glances, time lost and spent together. It’s a kiss that is long overdue and a contract signed for what’s to come. They have centuries to figure out where they will go, what more than can explore and how to navigate Aziraphale’s new life, but this single moment with both of them wrapped in one another and neither one wanting to let go. 

Crowley pulls away first but doesn’t move away. “Do you hear that Angel?” 

Aziraphale looks around, straining his ears and listening. The faint sound of chirps and melodic singing floods his ears. 

There’s a beaming smile on the Demon’s face when Aziraphale looks back at him. “It’s the sound of Nightingales.” And Crowley pulls him back in for another kiss.

If anyone has a fic where Aziraphale finds out how/why Crowley fell and it’s soul crushing with a happy ending, I will give you my first born child

[just-another-frender-blog]

Futurama is an episodic show with multiple writers that change over time. Because of that, the characters are written inconsistently from time to time. It’s inevitable with this format and it’s not enough of an issue to ruin the show or the characters.

However, with Ken Keeler, I always feel that he writes my favorite version of these characters. I personally think he does it consistently. I’m not quite sure how he explains it, but he always writes the characters with an edge of kindness, that really shines through in the character interactions.

I’m glad they brought him back for the revival and I’m looking forward to seeing the episodes he writes. Almost all of the episodes he’s written are some of my favorite in the entire series.

[hetfieldlovebot]

hetfield x trans masc reader

this has been playing on my mind all day so here we goooo

80’s James my beloved

.

.

.

~

the both of you had been laid there a while, your legs hooked over his shoulders, pressed tight to his chest. His fingers buried deep inside you moving teasingly slow, whenever you’d let out a desperate whine or moan, he’d curl his fingers and rush to cover your mouth.

earlier on, it had been playing on his mind all day, resenting the fact he couldn’t be constantly inside of you but he wanted to savour the moment.

“such a good boy for me hm? you like that don’t you?” he’d growl into your ear and nip at your neck.

letting out louder sounds this time you look up at him with pleading eyes, unable to control your hips which were grinding down on him, rolling and trying to fuck yourself harder.

“please jamey…please”

shaking his head and looking down at you, soft golden strands of his tangled hair tickling your face.

“no, sweetheart. you’re gonna stay right there and let me have my fun, don’t move and don’t make a sound.”

you look at him and glare in protest, but you follow his instructions, staying perfectly still and biting back moans by shoving your face into the crook of his neck. sucking at the skin in an attempt to distract yourself.

“that’s right, so perfect for me, my sweet boy.” his hand moves faster now, brushing past that sweet spot, curling up into you and moving with strategy. your head tips back and you cover your own mouth, eyes glazed over as you stare at him, struggling not to squirm under his touch.

“mhm taking it so good, doing fantastic for me baby, keep quiet and i’ll let you have what you want, okay?” his words roll of his tongue, sounding sweet but you knew it was a lie, squeezing your eyes shut you focus on the feeling. he was going to deny you regardless, might as well enjoy it.

thoughts of the previous night running through your head, the visuals of him sloppily licking your clit and whispering sweet nothings seemed to drive you crazy, helping you along the way. he notices this and takes his fingers out, producing a hiss from you at the loss of sensation.

“no, no. not yet beautiful. i know what you’re doing.”

your eyes flutter open and you look at him with frustration, unable to speak you can only part your lips and pull him in for a kiss, running your hands through his hair and tugging at it in a needy plea.

“you don’t get to cum until i say you do pretty boy, don’t want you cumming so soon” he whispers after parting from your lips.

a huff escapes you, as you shake your head

“we’ve been here for over an hour, please…i can’t anymore…i need it so bad”

he smirks, finally getting you where he wanted you. “then why didn’t you say so handsome?”

you glare at him again and are about to make a snarky comment, quickly interrupted by him lining up and slamming himself inside. he let out a satisfied grunt hearing you whine at the motion. there with that shit eating grin as he brushes your hair out of your face, running his thumb over your lips.

“you did so well for me honey, gonna make you feel even better now..”

[nonuggetshere]

GOD I HAD AN IDEA AS I WAS FALLING ASLEEP TODAY

About FaaF naturally

A sad one, TW fir near child death and harm

Involves Xero's attempt at an assassination, or it could be literally just any guard controlled by the Radiance

PK and WL need to talk about something private, and WL looks at the tiny vessel tagging along by her wyrm's side

"Should it be here?"

"It wouldn't understand anything anyway."

"Still, it's...a little..."

He sighs lightly, "Yeah, I get where you're coming from... Vessel, come here."

He kneels down and orders them to sit by the door and wait for them while they talk, says he'll come pick them up once they're done and not to move, then the two go to talk on the balcony and close the door behind them

At some point, Xero/the guard bursts in and attacks PK in the middle of the conversation, managing to take them by surprise and so gets one good swing in before PK darts away and retaliates, pinning them down with soul blades, though he has to keep his wife from killing them on the spot - he doesn't want to be so hasty, knowing they're infected and not themself. He pulls out the sword from his chest and that's when they realise, it's covered in void...

Child harm/near death TW beyond this point

After a moment of shock White Lady, who's closest to the doors, runs out and all her husband can hear is a horrified, heartbroken scream. He feels nauseous, his stomach twisting into knots and feeling like his heart is in his throat as he runs out after her. He sees her in tears, cradling a tiny bundle soaked in void. There's- there's so much void. It covers the floor where he left their child vessel and soaks through his lady's shawl and clothes as she cradles them in her arms.

For a moment he's paralysed, before he just snaps. He flies back onto the balcony, screaming at the possessed guard that he'll kill her, he'll make her pay for this, and he slays them in his rage (something he'll regret and feel ashamed of later), still hitting and screaming at Her well after the possessed person is dead and she can't hear him anymore.

He collapses, panting, near tears, and just gets himself up and stumbles out the door and towards the two, he wants to see how bad it is for himself.

Flower survives, but just barely. They had multiple stab wounds and lost their left arm, if not for their parents immediately healing them they'd be dead. They're barely older than 5, still so very little and defenceless, PK is horrified at how could anyone hurt a baby this young and helpless (hypocrite), even if they're not alive.

They're still on bed rest because that was so much damage and their mother doesn't leave their side and their father only leaves when necessary. They still don't realise Flower's alive and they know they shouldn't be so attached but it still feels like their baby and they can't just leave them. WL spends the entire day by their side, gently stroking their hair and horns with her now permanently void stained hands and softly coos and sings to them

Of course, they quickly realise they ARE alive because no way in hell a toddler is getting this hurt and NOT crying and screaming the second they wake up <3

Which just makes this situation so much worse

[girl-bateman]

Gaslighting, my old friend, I'll fall for you every single time <3

[themostfinalofpams]

I am an absolute chicken, because I messaged this guy I met on Hinge who I haven’t talked to in months (because my therapist thought it would be a good idea), but whom I felt an instant attraction to and never really stopped thinking about, and then immediately shut off my Discord notifications so I don’t stay up all night checking on them.

[afniel]

I was so legitimately confused when my partner told me they'd reread my novel. I was like, "...Wait...you can do that?" immediately followed by, "Why?"

They looked at me like I was being stupid, which was in fact the case so they weren't even wrong, and said, "Because I liked it."

And yeah, that doesn't seem like a revelation, but it kind of was. You can read a thing more than once. You can pick up on different parts on different readthroughs. It can hit differently depending on where in life you are. It can still be entertaining and different even if you have it fully memorized.

The words don't change, but the person reading them does, and it's the combination that makes a story actually happen. So what if someone reads it quickly? So what if it took you a long time? It will keep evolving without you for far longer than you could have spent on it, multiplied by everyone who reads it.

The devastating difference between how much time it takes to write something vs how fast people read it lol

[adimilkys]

“Your ex has never made you what?”

Sylus x reader 18+ MDNI

cw : smut, f!reader, overstimulation, p in v, stomach bulge, oral (f receiving), no protection (wrap it before you tap it), petnames, biting and probably more

synopsis : after telling Sylus you "aren't able to orgasm" because you never did with your exes, he proves you very wrong

author's note : wrote this after work, idk how because I'm literally dying so there may be a lot of mistakes lol also english isn't my native so if you find and spelling mistakes whoops

You've been dating Sylus for over a month now, it's been an... interesting ride for sure. You're over the kissing stage and teasing, but you've never talked with him about sex- well until tonight.

"If you're not comfortable we don't have to, kitten" he whispered in your ear, you were both laying in his bed, you on top of him as he scratched your head.

"It's not that I'm not comfortable... it's just embarassing, Sy" You buried your face in his chest, he raised his eyebrow at your statement. "What's embarassing?"

At his question you buried your face deeper in his chest, knowing that you have to tell him either way. "I... just can't..." you mumbled

"You can't what, kitten? Come on, tell me."

"I-I can't orgasm..." he was quiet for a few seconds, before letting out a laugh. You raised yourself up from his chest, a pout on your face. "I'm serious, Sy!"

"And why do you think you can't orgasm?" He asked, gripping your waist. "W-Well everytime I got intimate, I was just never able to come-"

"And you think that's your fault?" He raised his eyebrow, looking into your eyes, making you look away with flushed cheeks. "Well yeah, I mean it's always me who can't cum" he grabbed your chin, making you look at him again.

"Sweetie, it's those pathetic men that couldn't make you cum" He started kissing your face, making you even more flustered "But-"

"Do you want me to prove it to you I can make you come minimum 5 times right now?" You stared at him with wide eyes, Sylus wasn't the one to break his promises, but you decided to play along.

"Hmph... All talk no action-" And with that, he slammed his lips on yours, capturing them in a messy kiss. He swiped his tongue against your bottom lip, asking for access to your mouth. When you smirked, not opening your lips he bit it, making you gasp as he forced his tongue inside, immediately wrapping your tongues together.

You let out a moan, his hand sliding under your (his) shirt, squeezing your breasts. As you pulled your head away to breath, his lips continued assaulting now your neck, sucking, kissing and nipping on it- leaving many marks.

His hands grabbed the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head, revealing your tits "So fucking pretty" he whispered before latching onto one of your nipples. "S-Shit... Sylus-" you buried your hands in his hair, slightly pulling at it making him groan.

After being satisfied with the amount of marks he left on your breasts, he kissed down your stomach, lower and lower until he reached your shorts. "Tell me, kitten. Has someone ever eaten you out?" He raised his head up, staring at your face while you shook your head.

"Tsk... you've been messing around with immature boys, not real men sweetie" he said before sliding down your shorts right with your panties. "Such a pretty pussy, s'wet, all mine" with that he immediately dived in, groaning at the taste of your juice.

You moaned out his name loudly, one of your hands leaving his hair and now gripping onto the sheets. Your legs tied around his head. He sucked onto your clit, his tongue doing wonders. His hand moving to grab your thigh, squeezing it (probably leaving marks as well)

"Feels- so good!" You whined, throwing your head back as one of his fingers entered you, his fingers were so much bigger compared to yours (Which they also couldn't make you cum)

He followed that up with his second finger, stretching you out. Your moans were getting louder and your walls clenched around him. "Sylus! I- Ah!" you cried out before arching your back, letting out a silent scream as you came on his fingers and mouth, your eyes rolling back as you saw stars.

All your release ran down his throat, licking his lips before getting up from between your thighs. You were trying to catch your breath, your chest moving up and down.

"What did I tell you, sweetie?" he leaned down to your ear, nipping at it, "Four more to go" you shivered at his words, his hands grabbing your legs and raising them until your knees were touching your chest.

"Now relax f'me..." he grabbed his member, positioning it at your entrance, you didn't even realize he had taken his clothes off and oh

he was huge, thick too. Your eyes widened at his size, which he of course noticed, letting out a chuckle. "Worried I won't fit?" before you could even say anything, he pushed the tip in, knocking your breath out of your lungs.

Your nails digging into his back, he groaned at how tight you are "Sy..." You whined at the stretch, suddenly his fingers pinched your clit, the pain of the stretch and pleasure of his fingers made you scream, once again- making you climax.

As you were panting he continued his torture on your clit, pushing himself in even deeper, not even halfway in but making you feel like he's in your lungs.

"Fuck... Three more, kitten." after a bit more pushing, he finally bottomed out, you were already so cockdrunk, feeling all of him, every twitch and vein. He waited a bit, making sure you adjust before moving.

Starting off slow, making sure you feel comfortable, he looked at your face, sweat rolling down your forehead, hair stuck to your face, tears rolling down your cheeks, eyes closed shut and mouth hanging open as you moaned.

You looked so fucking beautiful, he lowered his head, hand grabbing your chin as he slammed his lips on yours, not wasting any time as his tongue entered and explored your mouth. His thrusts speeding up, your moans getting louder.

Suddenly, his cock hit your sweet spot, making you gasp. He smirked at your reaction, angling toward it, making sure to hit it again, again and again. You sobbed, biting your lip as you felt another ogarsm coming, clenching around his member.

"shit shit shit- Sy-Sylus!" you screamed as you came for the third time, already feeling so overstimulated. "N-No more- I can't-" You begged, whining.

"Shhh... two more sweetie" He wiped your tears away, leaving kisses all over your face. He suddenly pulled out, making you gasp as he flipped you onto your stomach, not wasting any second- slamming right back inside you.

"FUCK-" You gripped the pillow, burying your face in it, muffling your moans. His brows furrowed, groaning as he gripped your hips, pounding into you.

"W-Well, none of that sweetie, I want to hear you-" He chuckled, pulling you up so you were on his lap, his chest pressed against your back as he bounced you up and down on his cock.

Your head was hanging low, that's when you saw the huge bulge in your lower stomach disappearing and reappearing over and over. You were barely holding up with his pace.

His mouth once again started attacking your mouth, hiding his own sounds as he was getting closer himself, the way your pussy was clenching around him felt godly. The way your tits bounced, the way drool was dripping from the corner of your lips.

"C'mon... two more..." it was insane how many times he was able to make you cum. With his fingers back on your clit, you threw your head on his shoulder and with a cry you came once again, the only reason you haven't fallen forward being that Sylus is holding your waist.

Within a few thrusts, he came too with a choked moan- filling you up with his warm cum.

After catching his breath, he pulled out, flipping you on your back once again, you barely lifted your head, looking at him with confusion written on your face.

"One more... or maybe two more?" He smirked, going back to your cunt with his mouth.

requests are open, feel free to send your prompts

[narizaki]

sticky notes   sakusa kiyoomi x reader

―   tags   fem reader,   fluff,   roommates to something close to lovers,   timeskip kiyoomi

―   notes   wc is 1.8k,   i wrote this on a whim so please forgive ooc kiyoomi, also please forgive any grammar mistakes lmao

you and sakusa have been communicating through notes for the past three months.

at first, you had mindlessly written down a few groceries you needed to buy on a sticky note, pasting it onto the fridge so you wouldn’t forget. it included some of the basics: eggs, flour, rice, milk, and other necessities for you and your roommate’s fridge. 

then, the next time you came home, you were greeted by a bright yellow sticky note seated next to your pink one. it said:

protein powder

lettuce

masks (the white ones)

between your full-time job and sakusa’s hectic schedule as a professional volleyball player, the two of you hardly saw each other, if at all. especially with sakusa’s new status on the olympic team. it wasn’t bad, per se, as you’d never been the closest to him — he was closed-off and, frankly, intimidating. it was like the man would go to any lengths to avoid interacting with others. regardless, his small addition to your grocery list had made you laugh. 

you checked off the items he wanted, and the sticky note was gone the next day.

from then, the two of you only ever communicated with each other this way. one of you would write the groceries they needed to get that weekend, and the other would make their additions to the list. it was effective, simple, and considering how the only post-it notes the either of you owned were offensively bright colors, hard to miss. 

after a while, you began adding little comments in addition to the list of items you needed to buy. they were short and sweet, like a thanks! written in the corner of your post-it detailing the items you needed sakusa to buy, or there are leftovers in the fridge after you made too much for dinner. you weren’t expecting sakusa to respond to them, given his stand-offish nature. so, when he did, you were surprised. no; scratch that, you were elated. although his replies weren’t anything extraordinary, just a simple you’re welcome or thank you for the food written in his neat handwriting under your own, it felt like a break in your relationship with sakusa. 

despite knowing him for a while now, the two of you stayed as acquaintances and nothing more. but, you couldn’t deny that you wanted to know more about him. and though unconventional, the sticky notes worked perfectly for this.

writing to each other using post-its became such a habit that sakusa bought a magnetic whiteboard. you were only made aware of it when you walked into the kitchen to see it set up. there was a note already written in black marker on the board, stating that the post-it notes were beginning to be a waste of paper. you made sure to write a large thanks, sakusa! with the same marker, adding a few hearts around it.

(and if sakusa flushed red at the sight of his name with hearts surrounding it, only he would know.) 

whenever your friends came over, they would question the purpose of the whiteboard. you couldn't blame them; it did take up the better half of your fridge's surface. they had a good laugh when you explained the story behind it, but some asked why couldn’t you just text each other?

and, honestly? you didn’t know either.

you knew it would be more efficient if you were to text sakusa instead of patiently waiting for his replies on the dry-erase board every day. but, if you wanted to, you knew you would’ve done it a while ago; before he even had the idea of buying the whiteboard, back when the two of you were conversing through neon sticky notes and wasting an unnecessary amount of paper. 

you surmise it’s because you didn't want to ruin your and sakusa’s relationship — if you could even call it that. texting him would forcefully pull him into your orbit. though you’ve been regularly interacting with him for the past few months, you were aware that you hardly knew anything about the man; small notes and lists only gave you so much information about a person. the whiteboard was a safe in-between — you learn a little more about him and his habits, while not forcing him to interact with you. 

well, you think, he’s not obligated to answer my texts, either. you have his number, and it’s not like you haven’t texted him before. there was only so much you could do when you weren’t home to pick up packages or forget to inform him of a repairman coming over. 

you mull over the decision, a short text already typed into your conversation with sakusa. your finger hovers over the send button, before you furiously spam the delete key and put your phone down. no, nevermind. 

your plan of staying content with your relationship fails miserably.

it’s been a hard few weeks at work, with seemingly endless deadlines you have to meet and an equally endless amount of meetings you’ve had to attend. you feel as if you haven’t had a moment to yourself in forever.

so, when you submit your most recent project to your boss and shut your laptop closed, the first thing on your mind is to go home and rest. your mind is on auto-pilot as you pack your belongings, spitting out no’s to your co-workers' offers to go out drinking. when you’re this tired, the last thing you want to do is wake up with a splitting headache and an awful hangover the next day.

you stumble into your apartment, hastily toeing your heels off. a sigh leaves you, the harsh pressure of the shoe finally being relieved. they’re thrown somewhere in the corner, probably not anywhere close to where they should be, but you’ll deal with that tomorrow. all you want is some sleep. you consider just crashing on the couch and dealing with the consequences tomorrow.

“rough day?” a flat voice asks. you jump at the noise, not expecting anyone to be in your apartment. when you look up, you’re greeted by a tall figure standing in front of you. your eyes take a moment to rack over them, not completely registering that the only other person who has access to your apartment is…

sakusa.

“huh…?” you mutter, blinking a few times to will the tiredness from your eyes. it doesn’t work. sakusa only sighs, stepping from the doorway and further into your home. there’s a look on his face that’s telling you to follow, but when you don’t out of pure shock because he’s here? like, actually here? at home? he rolls his eyes.

“come on,” he says, “there’s food on the stove already.” 

you continue to stay silent, causing sakusa to raise an eyebrow. your face is scrunched up, a hand on the wall next to you to support your weight.

“are you…am i hallucinating…?” you mumble, internally debating if you wanted to pinch yourself to make sure that you’re not dreaming in any way. “i thought you weren’t going to be back for a while?” 

in response to your delirious rambling, sakusa laughs. it’s rather quiet, but you know he does. you hear the rapid exhalation of air accompanied by a deep rumble coming from his chest, and you can see his shoulders shaking. 

he steps closer to you, forcing your bag from your shoulder and practically pulling you with him into your shared living room. you’re tripping over your feet, mind still fuzzy from your tiring day. 

“leave it up to you to not be able to think properly after a long day,” he murmurs, setting your bag down on the couch. in your half-awake daze, you’re unable to form a proper response. “i guess you’re not hungry then.”

“well…” you stammer, still trying to get your bearings. “you’re like, never home, sakusa…so how am i supposed to react when you practically teleport in front of me?” you finish, a yawn escaping you. that makes sakusa laugh again. 

“for your information, i didn’t teleport in front of you,” he replies, “i heard the door open, so i went to greet my roommate. now, go get ready for bed.”

you disregard what he says, opting to groan when he orders you to get ready for bed. it just seems like so much work. you have to take off your makeup, change, brush your teeth, do your skincare…you think you’d rather crash face-first on your couch, like you were planning on doing earlier. you tell him that much.

sakusa rolls his eyes again. he pushes you towardsthe bathroom, telling you to take off your makeup, while he goes to rummage in your room for sleepwear. what? 

you don't have much of a choice, so you follow his directions. beginning with your meticulous skincare routine, you cleanse off your makeup. while you’re drying your face, sakusa knocks on the bathroom door with a fresh pair of pajamas for you to change into. 

once you’ve completed your nightly routine, you wander out of the bathroom to find sakusa sitting on the couch. he seems preoccupied with something on his phone, and you have to admit that the sight of him concentrating is rather charming. 

thankfully, the cold water you’d splashed onto your face woke you up, so you’re more awake than you were when you’d entered. you’re still horribly tired, and you want nothing but to sleep in the comfort of your bed, but you feel bad going straight to bed without even thanking sakusa for taking care of you. the only way the two of you talked for the last few months  was over post-it notes, for god's sake! 

“hey, sakusa?” you call, and his attention snaps from his phone to you. “thanks for uh…taking care of me. sorry about all that, i was really tired. or, er, am really tired.” you awkwardly stutter out. 

he hums in response, standing up from the couch and taking long strides towards you. thanks to his height, he’s face-to-face with you in no time. he’s close — maybe a little too close for someone you think probably doesn't even consider you a friend. that leads you to another realization: for someone that you knew disliked social interaction, he’s also talked to you an awful lot today.

“if you were really thankful, you’d go to bed right now and eat what i made tomorrow. you’re exhausted.” he bluntly replies. you gape at him for a moment, about to reply, but he cuts you off. “i’ll be home more often. volleyball is in the off-season now.” 

you know you should just nod and turn on your heel to go to bed, but there’s a question on the tip of your tongue that slips before you’re able to catch it. 

“so… no more whiteboard notes?” you question. sakusa laughs for a third time that night, and you think you’ve hit the jackpot in your slightly delirious state. 

he shakes his head. “no more whiteboard notes for now.”

you wake up the next morning, and when you enter the kitchen, you see a yellow sticky note pasted onto the whiteboard. on it, it reads: 

we can make these lists together now, so there's no need for either of these.

and, yeah, you think you can get used to that. 

[wintersoldiersoul]

Aftercare

A/N: Can't stop thinking about fluffy aftercare with Bucky so here's something short I just wrote

Warnings: tiny bit of smut, aftercare, tooth rotting fluff

“One more for me, baby girl, come on, you can do it,” Bucky encouraged as he pounded into you relentlessly. He had your legs up by your head, cock plunging in and out of your cunt, sending you barreling into your sixth orgasm of the night. You were absolutely exhausted but someone still not satiated yet. You still needed him.

“Oh fuck!” You yelled out, feeling another orgasm creeping up. “I’m gonna cum! Gonna cum so hard! Fuckk!” Your words were practically just screams as you came, squirting and soaking the sheets below you.

Bucky’s thrusts grew sloppy as his breathing got heavy and he shot his load into you. “Ohh my god,” he repeated as he rode out his high.

When you were both finished, he carefully removed himself from inside of you and lowered your legs slowly. You were breathless, laying limp with your eyes closed, utterly spent after the amount of intense orgasms you had. “You with me, baby girl?” Bucky asked, voice dripping with concern and love. 

“Mhm,” you nodded lazily, eyes still closed.

“I’ll be right back. Gonna get a towel to clean you up, okay?” You felt his weight leave the bed and heard the water running in the bathroom. “Gonna be really gentle, okay sweetheart? I just gotta get you all clean.” You shuttered as you felt the towel, still incredibly sensitive. He was so light with his touch, taking his time to make sure that you were all clean. He went back to the bathroom to dispose of the towel and quickly came back to sit beside you on the bed. “Can you drink this for me, baby?” He said, handing you your water bottle from the night table. 

You sat up slowly, grabbing the bottle and taking greedy sips to rehydrate yourself. As much as you loved sex with Bucky, you loved aftercare almost more. You were both so emotional, so full of love for each other, even if he had treated you like his own personal toy just minutes prior. Your wellbeing was always his priority, during and after.

“How you feeling, angel?” He asked, returning the water bottle to the nightstand. “Can you give me words?”

“Feel good,” you said, sleepily. “Tired.” You moved your body so your head was buried in his chest. “Jus’ wanna cuddle with you.”

He smiled, loving the feeling of you in his arms. He loved taking care of you and making you feel safe and comfortable. He rubbed his hand up and down your back in the way he knew you loved. As he held you, he began to feel tears leaking onto his chest. “Hey,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. “What’s wrong? Was I too rough? Did I hurt you?” His eyes were wide with concern.

You shook your head. “No, no, I’m okay. I don’t even know why I’m crying really. Just love you a lot.” 

He kissed your forehead and wiped your tears. “Hey, that’s okay, baby.” He smiled softly. “Lemme give you all the care you need, ‘kay? Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing. I know that was a lot for you.”

You nodded before placing your head in the crook of his neck, reveling in the feeling of him running his fingers through your hair. “Was I good?” you asked quietly.

“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. You always are, angel.” He kissed the top of your head as he held you, letting you use his body for whatever comfort you needed. “Do you wanna take a shower, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if I can walk,” you admitted. 

“Lemme run a bath, okay? Then we can get nice and cozy and go to sleep.” 

Once the bath was full, Bucky picked you up in his strong arms and carried you, placing you down in the warm water before getting in himself. He grabbed your shampoo, running the soap through your hair before taking a bucket and gently washing it out. He repeated the same method with your conditioner, whispering sweet nothings and peppering your face with kisses the whole time. “I love you so much, baby. My perfect angel girl.”

When you were done, he helped you get changed into pajamas and got you settled on the bed. “You need anything else?” he asked.

“Just you,” you mumbled, holding out your hands. 

He smiled warmly as he crawled into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you as you both drifted off into a deep sleep.   

[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?”