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spencerreidenjoyer · 4 months ago

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addicted to you | spencer reid x reader

Spencer isn’t inclined to be affectionate with you. He’s a socially awkward germaphobe, and you’re perfectly fine with it. However, being three months into your relationship, you can’t help but want more. Once Spencer gets a taste, he wants more too. A lot more.

part 1 | part 2 - insatiable

wc: 6.1k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: established relationship, first times, virgin!spencer, early seasons spencer, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering praise kink, morning wood, morning sex, sex in unconventional places (like, not in public but not the bed lol), cunnilingus, creampie, implied multiple orgasms

a/n: no excuse for this insane fic but i was strangely inspired by a post i saw on twitter that i wanted to put a lighthearted (and horny) spin on. i definitely felt crazy writing this and i feel crazy posting this now so i sure hope you enjoy this insanity! (p.s you can also find this fic on ao3!)

You don’t mind that Spencer isn’t touchy. You understand, with Spencer being a germaphobe and a little socially awkward, that he isn’t inclined to kisses on the cheek or holding your hand. You’ve only been dating for three months, and he’s already getting better at doing these things, which makes your heart sing.

Spencer is sweet, willing to do whatever it takes to make you happy. He used to shy away from your touch, but he’s gotten more comfortable with you. He lets you hold his hand when you’re out on a date, or he’ll kiss you chastely out in public. He lets you drape yourself over him when you’re sitting on the couch together watching a show, his arm around your waist to pull you in close.

While you can understand Spencer’s hesitance towards public displays of affection, due to his awkwardness and anxieties about germs, you’re surprised he hasn’t initiated anything more in the privacy of his apartment (or yours). You’re starting to itch for it, something more, your attraction to Spencer Reid simply too overwhelming for it to simply be sweet and innocent anymore. Your body craves him desperately, because he’s so lovely and so fucking handsome. You’ve caught yourself staring at his hands more than once.

Tonight, you decide you’ll get what you want. You’re going to fuck Spencer Reid.

With your head buried in his shoulder during movie night, your hand runs down his body, getting dangerously close to his crotch – he jumps up off the couch, almost comedic, and stares at you like your touch had burned him. He looks positively freaked out.

“Spencer,” you say, very confused that he’s not into this. What kind of man doesn’t like his girlfriend initiating sex? Hell, what kind of man doesn’t like sex?

“I just–” Spencer pauses, like he’s struggling to find the words. “I can’t. Not right now, I–”

“Hey, it’s okay.” You assure him. “We don’t have to. Ever, if that’s what you want.”

His eyes widen again. “No! I want to, just– It’s difficult, right now.”

You cock your head slightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Spencer frowns slightly, seeming to know that talking about it is the most rational thing to do, but it’s not like that makes him want to do it. “Well, I– I’ve never done it before.”

Your mouth falls open, just a little, and you look up at him. While you don’t mean to judge, it certainly isn’t surprising. Spencer was fourteen when he was starting university, and his general awkward demeanour and extreme nerdiness would likely rule out any sexual encounters for him during his time in college. Spencer’s line of work would clearly make it difficult for him to maintain a relationship – you definitely lucked out with getting to date him – and he’s too much of a softie for one night stands. So, Spencer Reid being a virgin at twenty-seven definitely checks out.

“That’s okay,” you say softly. “It’s totally normal.”

Spencer’s lips press into a thin line. “Well, you know it took me a while to get used to being affectionate with you, so I think–”

“Being intimate with someone else is going to be a hurdle you’ll need time to cross, too?”

Spencer looks up at you, eyes wet, looking at you like you’ve read him like an open book. He whispers, “Yeah.”

“That’s okay,” you repeat, even though you’re trying to come to terms with the fact that you’re not going to fuck Spencer Reid tonight. “I’ll– We’ll take it slow, if you want to try.”

“Yes, please.” He has a small smile on his lips as he looks up at you. “I– We could try doing something tonight, too. I just– I wasn’t expecting it earlier. I’m sorry for pushing you off like that.”

You shake your head, reassuring him that you aren’t offended by it by any means. Then, you ask, “You’re sure you want to try? Tonight?”

Spencer nods, as he reaches for your hand. He holds it gently, resting it on his thigh. “Yeah. I haven’t– It’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone, but I want to, with you.”

You lean in to kiss his cheek gently. “I’m glad you trust me.”

His eyes are soft and syrupy when he meets your gaze. “Of course I trust you.”

You squeeze Spencer’s thigh before pressing your lips to his, the familiarity of kissing Spencer making you both ease up a little more. Your kiss is gentle, sweet, just like every other kiss you've shared, but you let your hand slide up his thigh as you kiss him, and you can feel Spencer tensing up under your touch. You squeeze his thigh to reassure him, and you feel Spencer wriggle underneath where you're leaning your body weight on him to loosen up.

Your hand skirts over his crotch, a hardness under your palm that makes you feel somewhat proud of yourself. Spencer’s breathing is heavy as he keeps kissing you, and keeps letting you touch him. You think he’s so cute. You just want to make him feel good.

You push the waistband of his sweats down, tugging him out of his pants. His cock is the same shade of red as his cheeks, his shyness turning you on extremely.

He doesn’t look down at himself, where you’re holding him – instead, his eyes are intently focused on your face. You don’t push him about it, instead leaning forward to kiss him as you start to stroke his cock.

This time, it feels desperate. Spencer kisses you with more fervour, like a fire’s been lit within him, the pleasure running through his veins almost like liquid courage as he kisses you deeply. You’re more than happy to be doing this, letting Spencer lick into your mouth while you jerk him off. You appreciate the weight of him in your hand, imagining him inside of you – but perhaps you’re getting ahead of yourself.

“You can touch me, Spence,” you say, in between Spencer kissing you fervently. His hands have been cupping your face, but otherwise he seems awkward with them. You pull back slightly, and while it’s adorable that he’s still holding your face sweetly, you drag his hands down to your chest, in the oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from Spencer’s drawer. “Like this.”

Spencer’s large hands cup your breasts through the shirt perfectly. He squeezes tentatively. You bite your lip as his palms brush over your nipples, as he manhandles you just a little. It’s more force than you’re used to from Spencer, kneading and squeezing and feeling you, and that makes your head spin.

Daringly, Spencer’s hands slip under your shirt, as he leans back in to kiss you. You feel his calloused hands on your skin as he feels you up, making you shudder. His touch isn’t demanding nor pushy, simply exploratory as he feels your soft skin under his fingertips.

Your arousal is pumping through your system, Spencer’s gentle submissiveness like a drug you can’t kick. The more you touch him, the more he reacts; touching you more, whimpering and gasping against your lips, into your neck.

“Come on, baby,” you coo in his ear, your hand speeding up on Spencer’s hardness. He’s leaking pathetically, wet in your palm, and he squirms underneath you.

“I’m– It’s too–” Spencer cuts himself off with a helpless whine, like he can’t control himself. His hands grip your waist tight. “Please–”

“Mm,” you hum sympathetically, while you thoroughly enjoy seeing Spencer like this. “Wanna cum like this, baby?”

Spencer’s breathing hard. He can’t get the words out, but he shakes his head. You slow your strokes, to an excruciating pressure on his length. “No? Then tell me, Spence.”

“Inside you,” He gasps, eyes squeezed shut.

You absolutely should not let Spencer fuck you for the first time on his couch, but he’s desperate and your resolve is steadily crumbling. “You– You’re sure?”

“Please,” Spencer gasps, his eyes pleading with you helplessly.

So, you pull your hand back and push your shorts off instead. Your panties come off in one fell swoop, and you sit back onto the couch with your legs spread. Spencer’s eyes are wide and his lips are parted as he looks at you, takes the sight of you in.

Then he’s like a baby deer, standing up and fumbling to get his sweatpants off. You can’t help but giggle at his awkward movements, in his excitement and eagerness to get to touch you, to get to fuck you. He’s quick to get between your legs, his hardness nudging at your entrance already.

“Mm, not yet, Spence,” you hum. You reach for his hand, taking his wrist as you guide his fingers to your clit. “You know what to do, right?”

He turns his wrist so his fingers – God, his fingers – are poised almost elegantly above your clit. He presses down and starts to circle his fingers against you. You gasp.

“Thought you didn’t– oh– Didn’t have much experience,” you gasp. You hold onto Spencer’s forearm tight, throwing your head back as Spencer pleasures you.

Spencer huffs out a laugh. “I might not be experienced, but I’m not a prude– I remember the… stuff I’ve seen. Eidetic memory and all.”

“Stuff,” you laugh. “I’m sure the porn you’ve watched must’ve helped, darling.”

He slips his fingers into your wetness with an unsurprising ease, considering how turned on you are by him. He hits spots inside you you’ve never thought were possible to reach, but they make electricity zip up your spine. You moan as he crooks his fingers into you, rocking them in and out with a wet squelch.

Spencer grins at you. “You were saying?”

“You’re a cocky bastard, you know that?” you huff, your tone teetering between awfully turned on and mildly annoyed.

“You like it,” Spencer says, assured of himself, and you smile, because you really do.

“My love,” you moan, as Spencer presses his fingers into you, back out. “You should try fucking me now.”

Spencer’s fingers are still inside of you, and his eyes are wide as he looks up at you. “You think so?”

You smile at him. “If you think you’re up for it.”

You mourn the loss of Spencer’s fingers, but as he’s mumbling to himself and lining his cock up with your entrance, you can only coo at how adorable you find all of this. And how turned on you are, but that’s more than obvious to the both of you by now.

He looks to you, like he’s looking for reassurance. You nod. Even in the silence, he’s gotten the confidence to push his cock into you, the thickness of his tip breaching your hole. You gasp as you stretch around him, your cunt making space for him as he slides in, excruciatingly slow. “Spencer–”

Spencer lets out a whine as your tight heat engulfs him, his length swallowed up by you as he sinks deeper into you. “Oh, my God–”

“Just like that, baby,” you moan, your leg hooking around Spencer’s leg to coax him forward, closer to you. “Fuck.”

“Do I– When should I–” Spencer gasps, unable to form a coherent sentence with the pleasure swimming through his bloodstream.

“You can start moving when you don’t feel like you’re going to blow your load if you breathe the wrong way,” you joke, but Spencer does seriously look like he’s going to finish any second. “Hey. Deep breaths, baby.”

Spencer’s brows are furrowed and his eyes are squeezed shut as he breathes in hard, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He’d told you to do that when he’d helped you through a panic attack one time, and while you feel bad that he feels so nervous about all this, it’s extremely amusing to you right now.

“Look at me,” you say, trying your best not to laugh. “You’re doing great, love.”

Spencer pulls his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes looking to you for validation.

“So good for me, darling,” you coo, your hand on his hip, while your thumb draws little circles into his skin. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Spencer shudders, voice high-pitched and a little breathy. “I– You feel really good.”

“Yeah? It’ll feel even better when you start moving, sweetheart,” you hum. “You think you can do that for me? Slow, out then back in.”

Spencer whimpers, nodding, and he takes another deep breath in. His hands on your waist, he pulls out halfway before pressing back into you, and he moans so loudly your ears ring. “So– So tight, you–”

“That’s good, yeah? Feels good?” you coo. “Come on, baby. More.”

Spencer rests one of his arms on the back of the couch, holding himself steady and getting him that much closer to you. He starts to thrust in and out, starting off slow as he finds a rhythm.

His thrusts are erratic, but you’re so wildly turned on and it still feels amazing, because it’s Spencer.

Spencer is frantic, desperate, bracing himself against the couch as he fucks into you. Maybe pounding into you is a better phrase to use, because he’s fucking you like a madman, till the couch is squeaking under both your weight. You cry out, feeling Spencer drilling into you – and it feels so good.

“Oh, God,” Spencer whines. “You– It’s so good, oh–”

“Yeah, baby?” You rock your hips along with him, burying Spencer deeper into you. You clench so each thrust is a little tighter, and each time Spencer fucks into you, he moans a little louder.

Amidst Spencer’s whines and pretty noises, you watch his face morph with pleasure, feeling assured that he’s enjoying this as much as you are. In fact, he’s probably enjoying this more. As you’re lost in your train of thought, admiring Spencer’s gorgeous face, you’re startled when you feel Spencer’s load inside of you, hot and slick. His hips flush against your ass, Spencer shudders as he rides out his orgasm, body trembling from the force of his pleasure.

“Oh, Spence,” you giggle, a little dizzy from how turned on you are, from watching Spencer lose himself just like that. You reach up to cup his face, your thumb gentle on his cheek. “Was that good?”

“Oh,” Spencer mumbles, seemingly brought back to reality. He pulls back, taking the sight of you in. “I’m– I’m good, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t be,” you say. “You’re so cute. It’s so hot.”

“I mean, you are too, but– But you haven’t–”

“You wanna make it up to me, then?” You smile, gentle and warm and Spencer nods like he’s eager to please you.

You kiss him while he pulls out, replacing the thickness of his cock with two fingers, which fit into you easily. Like before, Spencer presses his fingers into you, slick and wet and squelchy. Spencer curls them and fingerfucks you like a pro, like he’s done this a hundred times. With his face pressed into your shoulder and your arms slung around his neck, Spencer fucks you on his fingers until your toes are curling and you’re screaming his name. You cry out as you orgasm, shaking as Spencer fucks you through it.

You’re almost embarrassed when you finally come back to your senses, no longer reeling from the intensity of your orgasm. Spencer is kissing your jawline sweetly, his clean hand stroking your hair.

“Hey,” Spencer says softly, somehow knowing you needed to hear him. He parrots you from earlier, “Was– Was that good?”

“So good, my love,” you murmur into his shoulder. Then, after a quiet moment, “I thought you needed some time to get comfortable with being intimate.”

Spencer pauses for a moment, like he’s pondering it, before he says, “I know. But for you, I think I’d do anything.”

That’s all Spencer manages to get out before you kiss him again. It’s tender and sweet, the intensity behind your kiss no longer lustful but full of adoration and love. You feel like you could sob right now, but you manage to hold it back.

Spencer gets into the shower with you, which you’re surprised by, but his hands are soft on your body as he cleans you up. You shampoo his hair for him, even though he has to lean forward a little so you can reach.

You end up falling asleep in Spencer’s bed, curled up in his arms.

You don’t dream at night, but when you wake up with a hardness poking against your thigh and Spencer’s gentle snoring in your ear, you think you might be.

In your dreariness, you reach behind you, the angular sharpness of Spencer’s hip bone under your palm. He’s warm, cuddled up against you, and the tickling of his breath on your neck tells you that this isn’t a dream.

“Spence,” you whisper, shaking him slightly. You watch as he blinks himself awake, drowsy as he comes to focus on your face. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” Spencer says, his voice rough with disuse. “What’s up?”

“You are,” you smile, a little too pleased, as your hand snakes down toward his crotch.

He squeaks at the contact, your soft hand on his hardness, “Um, sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” you laugh. “Had a good dream?”

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth. “About you, yeah.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” you goad, wiggling your eyebrows.

Spencer’s cheeks somehow get even redder than they already were, but he shakes his head. “I want– I want to have sex, though.”

Your eyes widen. “Now?”

“Do you have the time for it?” He asks, sheepish. “I– I want to fuck you again.”

Your cheeks flush at Spencer’s sudden crudeness. You think about what Spencer could’ve possibly dreamt up, wonder how Spencer could possibly be confident enough to tell you straight up that he wants to fuck you. That phrase probably hadn’t been in Spencer’s lexicon until about twelve hours ago – while Spencer was smart – a literal genius – his innocence was completely understandable.

“We have time,” you exhale, looking back into his eyes after looking at the clock. “I only have to be at the office in a couple of hours.”

“Good,” Spencer says, leaning in to kiss down your neck. His hands are frisky already, slipping underneath your shirt. Spencer splays his hands over your stomach, before reaching up to cup your breasts in his hands.

“You like touching me like this, don’t you, baby?” you chuckle breathlessly, already feeling weak in the knees from the way Spencer holds you. “Mm, I’m surprised.”

“Why is that?” His words are slightly muffled against your skin, too busy kissing you to make himself sound coherent. His hands are rough against the softness of your skin, and you moan from the way he’s handling you.

“Yesterday you couldn’t even tell me you wanted to fuck,” you croon, thoroughly pleased. “And now you’re touching me like you know what you’re doing. It’s so hot.”

“I– I just can’t get enough of you,” Spencer admits, his earnest words turning you on extremely.

“Now you’re just horny,” you laugh, feeling Spencer’s hand slide over your underwear.

“Mm, you’re so wet right now too,” Spencer murmurs in your ear, his warm breath and raspy voice sending a shiver down your spine. Where’d he learn to talk like that? You squeeze your thighs together, but that doesn’t stop Spencer from feeling the wetness between your legs, soaking through your panties.

“All for you, baby,” you gasp, as Spencer’s fingers slip past the band of your underwear, deftly stroking your clit. “Spencer–”

“Can I fuck you? Please?” He pleads, breathy, his hips already rutting forward against your ass.

His eagerness makes your head spin, his sudden confidence in the realm of sex surprising – maybe it’s cockiness, but you still find that stupidly attractive – but it is certainly welcomed.

“Yes, Spence, please,” you shudder, the word yes leaving your lips enough for Spencer to pull your underwear down, over the swell of your ass. He fumbles with his own boxers for a moment, but soon you feel his hard, leaking tip pressed to your butt. He rocks his hips back and forth, desperately seeking whatever friction he can get.

Lost in his own pleasure, Spencer is quick to slide his cock between your legs, the wetness from your cunt making it easy for him to rut into the tight, slick space. Like this, his length rubs up against you, the head of his cock nudging at your clit with every thrust of his hips. It feels primal, Spencer so far gone that he isn’t even fucking you proper, content with the slick, tight space between your thighs and your pussy. You wonder if you need to tell him, but Spencer’s groan in your ear is shaky as his tip catches on your hole.

His arms wrapped around you, both of you moan as Spencer finally sinks his cock into you. He slides in too easily, so easily you almost think he’d hadn’t meant to do it. Maybe he hadn’t, but you’d gotten there in the end, where you both need to be; Spencer buried inside of you.

It’s so different from yesterday, the angle when he presses into you from behind so exhilarating, so good. He’s just as desperate as last night, but there’s a sort of reckless confidence in his movements. His hands slide under your shirt to grab at your tits again, rocking his hips while he practically gropes you. It’s so hot your head spins. You feel like you’re going to explode.

“Spencer!” You cry out, your voice ripping its way out of your throat. Pleasure surges through you like electricity, Spencer’s thick cock hitting all the right spots from this angle. His eager desperation turns you on to no end, as you let him take you from behind. While you weren’t expecting lazy, morning sex at all, the intensity and desperation he fucks you with right now makes you think you could get used to this.

Spencer’s whine has your head spinning. His hips don’t slow, more rhythmic than yesterday but still as needy. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“Yeah?” You coo breathlessly. You’re so fucking turned on, and every time Spencer drives his hips into you you can hear how wet you really are. “You’re doing so good for me, Spence, fucking me so good.”

“You like it? Is it good?” Spencer gasps, always so eager to please you.

“So good,” you moan. You’re still sore from last night, but the pleasure Spencer is giving you right now overrides all of that. You would love for him to wake you up like this every day. “I’m close, baby.”

“Oh,” Spencer says, like he’s surprised you’re already getting off on this, on him– “What do you need me to do?”

“Just keep going, Spence,” you gasp. “Keep fucking me just like this.”

Spencer’s hum is breathy, high-pitched. Somehow, his grip on you gets tighter, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The force he fucks you with is so wildly arousing. You’re so enamoured, and so turned on.

Your orgasm creeps up on you, slow and steady as it bubbles up inside of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the dirty, rough way Spencer fucks you, and then you feel his soft lips on your neck again. He isn’t properly kissing you – more like slobbering all over your neck, but you cry out as he does so, thighs pressing together as you reach your orgasm. You’re shaking through it, clenching around Spencer as you come, and Spencer’s gasping as your tight pussy pushes Spencer over the edge too. You feel his come inside of you, cock twitching as his load spurts hot and heavy into your cunt. You sob, feeling Spencer slow his thrusts as he rides out his orgasm.

“Holy shit,” you say, your voice coming out ragged and hoarse. You feel like a different woman, being fucked ruthlessly by your boyfriend in his bed for the first time. You can’t get enough.

“I love you,” Spencer says quietly, earnest. It makes you shudder.

“You’re crazy,” you laugh, taken aback at how Spencer’s returned to his gentle, soft self. “I love you too, you madman.”

“I can’t resist you,” he murmurs in your ear, the vibrations of his raspy morning voice almost soothing.

You turn around to face him, Spencer still holding you in his arms. He smiles warmly at you, and you lean in to kiss him. “You’re so cute.”

“Wanna go again?” he asks, somewhat timid.

Your eyes widen. You try to hide your grin, but it doesn’t work. “Someone’s desperate, huh?”

Spencer flushes a gorgeous red. “Maybe a little?”

“I have to get ready for work,” you sigh, actually a little bummed that you can't spend all day fucking Spencer. “Maybe tonight?”

“Okay,” Spencer smiles. “Want me to drive you back to yours?”

You grin. “You’re the best!”

Work is relatively uneventful, numbers and Excel spreadsheets; and all you can think about is Spencer’s rapid change in demeanour over the last twelve hours, his innocence torn away by you, leaving behind a horny, insatiable man. You’re kind of proud of yourself for that.

So, you can’t blame yourself for being excited to get back to Spencer’s. Lately, you’ve been staying over more, your apartment simply a place to house your wardrobe. Maybe you’ll talk to Spencer about living together.

“Hey, Spence,” you say, pleased when Spencer kisses you as he greets you at the door.

Even with all the probable germs on you from being out all day, Spencer’s surprisingly clingy, hands on your waist as he stumbles in behind you, as you set the takeout you’d brought over on his dining table. Spencer leans in behind you, kissing your cheek then down your neck.

“Hey, what’s with you, baby?” you chuckle, very much enjoying the way Spencer’s hands slide down your waist to your hips, grabbing the meat of your thighs through your dress pants.

“Missed you,” Spencer answers simply, but even you can tell there’s something in his voice that implies he’s looking for something more.

“I’m sorry I had to leave you alone the whole day, my love. I’m sure you must’ve found something to busy yourself with, though?” You hum, teasing. You have a good idea of where this is going.

Spencer’s quiet for a moment, so you turn to look at him. His lips are pressed into a thin line, looking almost nervous, and his cheeks are flushed red. Spencer finally presses his body close to yours, and you feel it–

“Spence,” you grin, “Someone’s happy to see me.”

“Thought about it– Thought about you all day,” Spencer mumbles. “You promised.”

“What did I promise, baby?” you egg him on, eager to hear him say it, even though you definitely know what he’s going to ask.

“That we would do it again tonight,” he answers, but you shoot him a look. “You said we would have sex again tonight.”

“Twice in one day? I don’t know, baby,” you pretend to sound disinterested.

Spencer looks at you with wide eyes. Respectful as ever, he clears his throat. “Please? If you’re tired we don’t have to, but I really want to. Only if you want to, though. This involves both of us, I don’t want to impose–”

You giggle, reaching to hold his hands. “God, you’re perfect.”

“What–?” Spencer barely gets the word out before you’re kissing him. He’s happy to do so, holding your face gently, matching your energy perfectly. You feel his cock pressing against you.

“I turned you into a sex fiend,” you laugh, between kissing him, “And you’re still thinking about making sure I’m into it too.”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Spencer’s brows furrow slightly, like he can’t comprehend how he could be into it if you weren’t too. “And I- I’m not a sex fiend, I just–”

Smiling, you whisper sultrily, “I think you should take me right here, baby.”

“Oh–” You cut Spencer off with another kiss, and he squeaks as you reach for his half-hard cock through his sweatpants. You’re positively delighted that Spencer’s like this, for you.

Spencer kisses you deeply, leaning forward until the small of your back hits the edge of the table. His hands coming up to your ass, he lifts you up, getting you to lay back on the table. You gasp, as Spencer kisses down the column of your neck, his hands making quick work of the buttons of your dress shirt. His lips are soft against your skin, at the swell of your breasts. Your shirt gets pushed off your shoulders. You feel him unhook your bra with a surprising ease, tossed aside, and then his hands are grabbing your tits like they were made for him. His thumbs brush over your nipples, a little forceful as he kneads at you, and your head is spinning.

“Spencer,” you moan, as he kisses down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants to reveal your soaked-through underwear. He smiles up at you, his messy mop of hair a lovely sight.

“Can I…?” Spencer’s big brown eyes dart down to where you’re soaked, then back up at you.

Your eyes widen. “Yes. If you want to.”

Spencer grins. “Of course I want to.”

His fingers are gentle on your hips as he pulls your panties off, wasting no time in spreading your legs so he can get between them. Your eyes are wide as you watch him, feeling kind of self-conscious over how eager he is to be doing this. Knelt between your thighs, he lifts one of your legs and swings them over his shoulder. You can feel his stubble on the soft skin of your inner thigh, his nose nudging against your clit. His tongue comes up, wet and hot, as he tastes you for the first time. “Spencer–”

He presses his face impossibly closer, more urgent in eating you out. You watch as his eyes flutter shut, his jaw flexing as his tongue works on you, and you’re trembling already. Spencer’s extremely good with his mouth, and you’re surprised at how good he’s making you feel, considering he likely hasn’t done this before. The sounds of his mouth are wet and squelchy and so obscene, and you would feel almost embarrassed, were it not for how into this Spencer seems to be too,

With your hands in his hair, you cry out when Spencer’s tongue circles your swollen clit, jolts of pleasure sent through your body. You can’t think straight when Spencer’s face is buried between your legs, eating you out like he was made for this. All you can think about is how gifted Spencer is with his tongue, and how you wish you could do this all night.

“Please, love,” you moan, “Need you to fuck me.”

Spencer hums in approval, the vibrations between your legs making you jump. He makes a little wet slurping noise before he comes back up, and you feel your cunt throb when he looks up at you with his lovely, wide brown eyes, and his chin wet and messy with your slick. Spencer wipes his face with the back of his hand, and you’re so turned on you might just explode.

“I love you,” you tell him earnestly. “I think this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I love you.”

“What is? Having sex on my dinner table?” Spencer quips, as he sets your legs down and stands back up. He has a cocky grin plastered on his face.

You roll your eyes playfully. “First time for everything, right?”

Spencer nods, smiling, before he leans forward to kiss you sweetly. You watch as he pulls his sweatpants down, his cock bobbing up, red and angry and rock hard. You feel yourself salivating at the sight, but decide that he needs to fuck you right now.

“Spencer,” you mewl, feeling breathless as you watch him wrap a hand around himself, stroking his length. Concentration is written all over his face and it makes you want to kiss him.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” Spencer says, pressing his cock forward until he’s lined up with your entrance. It’s so tantalising, the way the blunt head of his cock threatens to slip into you. You’re so wet and so loose for him, and you need him inside of you now.

You gasp when he finally pushes in, his thick cock splitting you in half as he slides into you. The pressure is so perfect, the slow draw of his hips as he takes care not to rush, wanting to take care of you. Even with all this still being new for Spencer, he still focuses on you, puts you first. You’re not sure if you’re swooning over him, or the way his cock fits inside you perfectly.

You don’t need to encourage him to start moving. He rocks his hips slowly, somehow already familiar with your body, and makes you feel like you could explode with pleasure.

He leans forward, pressing his body to yours as he kisses you. Like this, Spencer presses into you deeper, fucks you slow and deep and loving. The edge of the table is absolutely digging into your back, but you don’t care when every sense of yours is filled with Spencer, getting to taste and touch and hear him. You taste yourself on his tongue, hear the sloppy way he thrusts into you, your skin burning wherever he’s pressed up against you.

Burying his face in your neck, Spencer pants in your ear, hot and heavy as he fucks you, giving you everything you need. Your head is swimming with arousal, as Spencer presses you against the table and fucks you like his life depends on it. “You feel so good, fuck, so good–”

“I’m so close, baby,” you cry out, the pace absolutely ruthless as Spencer fucks you. You didn’t think his stamina would be this good, considering your boyfriend’s lanky stature and abhorrence towards exercise. You certainly wouldn’t mind doing this kind of cardio with him more often. “Please, Spence–”

“Let go, I– I’m here for you,” Spencer stumbles over his words, but he’s so sweet that you’re losing yourself, your orgasm crashing into you like a tidal wave. You scream as you reach your peak, your toes curling while Spencer fucks you through it, shaking as pleasure and arousal zips through your body. Spencer’s hips stutter as the tightness of your pussy has him reeling, too close too quickly.

While his hips keep a steady pace, you’re feeling loopy as Spencer continues to fuck you. You hold his head close to you, kissing his forehead as you murmur, “You’re so hot, Spence. Made me come so quickly, and you held out for me? So good for me, baby. Are you close?”

Spencer whines, a pitiful noise in the back of his throat. “Please, I’m so close, need you–”

“I’m right here, baby,” you coo, stroking his sweat-matted hair sweetly. You’re so enamoured with him. “Gonna cum inside me, Spence? Fill me up with your–”

You don’t even get to finish your dirty talk before Spencer is moaning, coming inside of you. It feels like he’s released so much inside of you, hot and messy as he fucks you through his own high. His chest heaves as he pants, trembling as he reels from the intensity of his orgasm. Spencer’s hips slow to a stop, and he mouths at your neck mindlessly until he seems to get his bearings back. You imagine you must look a mess, sweat and spit all over you, your makeup from a long day of work likely running by now.

Spencer gets up off of you, so both of you have space to catch your breaths. You feel Spencer slip out of you with a slick ‘pop’, and feel his release trickle out of you just moments after. You stifle a quiet moan, but when you look up at Spencer, his eyes couldn’t possibly leave the sight between your legs. His lips are parted slightly, pupils blown wide, as he watches you drip with his release. You feel Spencer’s cock, resting against your inner thigh, twitch slightly.

“Woah there, cowboy,” you chuckle, out of breath. “Give me a minute to recover.”

His eyes practically twinkle when they dart up to look at you. He’s like an excited puppy as he asks, “Again?”

You shake your head, laughing, and sit up to kiss Spencer again. “Maybe we could try something new?”

Spencer grins, nodding eagerly. It definitely seems like he’s down for whatever, as long as it’s with you.

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencerreidenjoyer writes

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rowarn · 10 months ago

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afab!reader, gn!reader, intoxicated sex (keegan drank a lil hehe), loud!keegan, lots of moaning, creampie, lovesick keegan, pussydrunk keegan

Keegan who, on a normal day, would never let you hear him let loose with his moans. Its not that he's self-conscious or anything but he prefers to be able to hear you whining and whimpering.

But maybe he gets a few drinks in him, unwinds and grows complacent. His lips get loose the second he gets his cock stuffed into the tight, hot clutch of your precious cunt.

He’s got you creaming around the base of him and he just…can’t shut up. He starts whimpering, moaning, and sighing – it’s music to your ears, actually.

“So good,” he pants, fingers minutely trembling where he holds your hips down so he can pump his length into you with ease, “It’s so good. You’re so wet, fuck, do you know what you do to me? You drive me crazy…”

You whine his name, eyes lidded and staring up at him with that dazed, cockdrunk look on your face that you always seem to wear when he’s got you pinned underneath him – how could you not? He fucks you so, so well and he knows it.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, voice cracking at the end when you suddenly squeeze down around him, “Keep sayin’ my name. Love hearin’ it – keep tellin’ me who it is that’s making you feel this good, hm?”

His name falls from your lips like a heavenly plea, your eyes rolling back in your head when he moans, loud and unabashed. He tosses his head back, adams apple bobbing as he struggles to swallow around the lump in his throat.

It’s never felt this good before, he swears. Usually alcohol makes it harder for him to get off – sometimes even makes it hard for him to get hard. But something different tonight, he’s so sensitive and he can feel how full his balls are and all he can think about is pumping a dozen loads into you until they’re completely empty.

He needs it. He needs you.

“Love you so much,” he pants, body collapsing onto yours, chest to chest as his hips pitifully rabbit into you, barely even pulling out before he’s humping the length back into you, “Love you, fuck, I love you.”

You cry his name, nails scraping down his back as your entire body twitches. You can’t escape the stimulation with his weight pressed down on you the way it is. You can’t push him away for a break, you can’t get respite from the overwhelming stimulation of his cock pumping into you or his pelvic bone grinding against your clit.

It sends you hurdling over the edge terrifyingly fast. Your feet kick uselessly against the back of his thighs as your eyes roll back in your head.

Keegan moans, panting and gasping into your neck where he hides his face as he feels you cum around him. It pulls his own orgasm forth and he’s spilling into you in 3 quick pumps of his hips.

Even as his orgasm crests and fades, he doesn’t stop – keeps humping your sensitive cunt until you’re cumming again. And again. And again.

It was going to be a long night and by now, you could barely even hear yourself over the sound of Keegan’s moaning and babbled praises.<3

do not respost to a third party site, translate, or modify. reblogs OK!

#keegan p russ smut #keegan p russ x reader #keegan smut #keegan x reader #cod smut #cod x reader

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togeppys · 2 years ago

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jack of all trades ;

tsukishima kei x reader

reader is tsukki’s gf and wants to find something he’s not naturally talented at <3

Your boyfriend was annoying.

He wasn’t annoying in the way that he spoke, or annoying in the way that he treated those around him— he was annoyingly above average. He was a jack of all trades, and it was infuriating.

You originally thought that he had a natural gift for volleyball. He never seemed to devote much time to the sport, but he was a natural on the court, only getting better with practice and passion. It was only when you began going on dates that you started to realize that he was able to do anything he tried with ease.

On your trip to an arcade, he watched you struggle to complete a game, only to land third place on the leaderboard when he attempted it himself. When you dragged him to a pottery class, the bowl that you had fashioned for yourself turned out lopsided with many kinks, while the mug that he made was simple but beautiful and now held a permanent place in your kitchen cabinet.

When you first caught on, you started to treat it like a game– there had to be something that he couldn’t do. He thought you were making something out of nothing; he had no significant interest in most things that you made him try, so to make you happy he would downplay his abilities. You could tell when he was doing it though, and continued to watch for the moment when you finally found something he really couldn’t do.

You began to curate the most random itineraries for outings that you possibly could, just for the chance of catching him off guard. Bowling, painting, basketball, beginners guitar– with a little practise he could grasp anything you threw at him.

When the day finally came where you discovered his weakness, you never expected his kryptonite would be something so… mundane.

Ice skating.

You were nearing the point of giving up on the experiment, dragging him to go ice skating on a completely unrelated endeavour. After the holiday season the air was cold, perfect for ice skating, and you just wanted a day to spend with your boyfriend drinking hot drinks and visiting the local rink just like you did as a child. You didn’t expect for Tsukishima Kei, who was above-average at everything he tried, to be the worst ice skater you had witnessed in your life.

You had grown up skating casually, taking lessons as a child and visiting the outdoor rink with your friends from time to time. Subconsciously, you assumed he had done the same, or at least would figure it out quickly as he did with all other things. When he first stumbled with his transfer onto the ice, gripping your arm for balance, you brushed it off as the initial beginner hurdle he needed to get over, thinking he would be smooth sailing within half an hour. When he fell for the first time, you helped him up with a laugh, helping him brush the snow off of his coat as you gave him pointers on how to focus his centre of gravity. He held your hand as he made small kicks across the ice, and you continued to think nothing of it.

Only an hour in, did you begin to realize that he was not improving. The second he let go of you for support, he would collapse onto the ice, and while you held onto him, he was easily the slowest one on the rink.

“Kei, honey.” you paused, trying to stifle the laughs and taunts that were about to escape you.

He turned his head to look at you, slowing to a stop, seemingly as he couldn’t do both at the same time.

You continued your thought, a smile creeping onto your face. “You do realize that there are two year olds passing us right now, right?”

Surely enough, as you said it, a toddler stumbled past the two of you. Not very gracefully and sliding across the ice on his stomach shortly after, but there was no doubt that the child out-paced you both. You could see Tsukki’s cheeks turning slightly red as he let out a small laugh himself.

“This is harder than I expected,” he commented, arm still linked with yours as he stepped out with his right foot.

You tried to give him more pointers to seem supportive, but inside you felt smug– there was finally something that he wasn’t good at and this was your moment to gloat. “Rather than just stepping forward, kick your foot back like you’re pushing yourself forward. Like this.” You let go of his arm to try and demonstrate the different approach, kicking off with one foot as you instructed. When you turned back to join the tall boy again, he had somehow already found himself sprawled across the ice, his face void of any visible emotion.

You skated back towards him, taking a moment to look down at him with a smile very clearly plastered across your face. Holding your hand out to offer him help standing up again, you couldn’t help the string of smug comments that came out as you heaved him up.

“I could get you one of those skating aids that they give little kids. Although, you might be a bit too tall for one… I can stack two on top of each other, that will be more your speed– your height. Your speed is far less than 1 kilometre per hour.” You giggled, knowing that you were being slightly unfair. He remained composed every time he bested you at some task, but you let the thought go. This was your moment for mockery.

As he finally held his balance, you skated a circle around him.

“Oh glorious day– I can say that I’ve lived to see the day where THE jack of all trades, Kei Tsukishima has been bested by an activity. Ice skating of all things too.”

“Unlike you, I never saw a need to aimlessly glide around in circles on the ice as a child.”

You looked up at him, his mocking glare leading you to respond with nothing but a “Tsk.”

“Okay, if I can’t get far skating like this, why don’t you show me how real skaters do it,” he laughed, urging you forward to go off without him.

You gave him a puzzled look. “Why would I do that? We’re supposed to be skating together.”

He shook his head, gesturing for you to go ahead.

“At least one of us should make the most of the money we’re spending renting these skates. Maybe I’ll learn better from watching you skate without pretending you’re teaching a small child. I’ll be onto the Olympics after one watch.”

You gave him a small smile, before shrugging and going ahead at a much faster speed. You glided away with ease, skating two quick laps around the ice. The boy couldn’t help but smile as he watched your hair flow in the air behind you and the peace that seemed to overcome you as you skated.

When you met back up with him, he requested that you try some tricks you hadn’t attempted since childhood, loud laughs escaping him as it was your turn to go sprawling across the ice after trying to do a full spin. After half an hour of more skating, you decided to call it a day and return your skates.

As you finally decided to head off the ice and grab some hot chocolate with your boyfriend, you found yourself glowing with the excitement of your self-declared victory. You could finally stop trying to catch Tsukki off guard with a challenging date, and go back to simply enjoying your time together. You had to admit, you were a little sad that your trials had come to an end.

So preoccupied with the many emotions running through your head, you didn’t seem to notice that while you had your back turned when getting off the ice, the “bad at skating” Kei Tsukishima kicked off easily with his left foot, making his way to the edge of the skating rink right behind you, a loving smile on his face as he looked down at your celebrations. He loved more than anything to see you happy, so despite the aches he would be having the next day from falling repeatedly, he would consider this date a success.

He grabbed your hand as you walked from the rink towards the café, holding you grounded since you seemed like you were going to bounce away from pure happiness. While you remained overjoyed that skating was now number one on the list of skills that your boyfriend could not excel at in one go, Kei Tsukishima on the other hand, was adding a new skill to the list of trades he could accomplish with ease:

Acting.

#tsukishima kei #kei tsukishima #tsukki x reader #tsukki x you #tsukishima kei x reader #kei tsukishima x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #tsukishima x you #tsukishima x reader #togeppys

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bahablastplz · 8 months ago

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Roommate: Chan x Reader

Roommate Chan who wants to help you destress with a massage after a long day... Content: Just straight-up smut Warnings: Fingering, praise, degradation, a little humiliation WC: 1100

You were laying on the couch with Chan.

Chan has been your roommate for some time and your friend for longer than you could remember, so to be sprawled across the couch, limbs somewhat intertwined and a movie to be played in the background was nothing unfamiliar. Especially after a long day at work, taking the time to unwind together was nothing new.

But today you were just so tense. Stiff all over, muscles tense and sore, you were unable to find relief. You suppose that your gym workout from yesterday had been a little intense, and you were certainly feeling it now.

Subconsciously as you watched, you started to punch your legs a little bit, trying to get the tightened muscles to relax.

Chan’s hands shot out and grabbed your own, making you freeze.

“What are you doing, babygirl?” He sounded concerned but the nickname made sparks fly through your body.

“Nothing,” you say, trying to explain it away. Of course, Chan would never let that happen.

He doesn’t let go of his grasp on your hand. “You call punching your legs ‘nothing?’” He inquires.

“My legs are just a little sore,” you sigh. “It was leg day yesterday.”

“Ahhh,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it did. His eyes are back on the screen, but his hands are grabbing your legs to place them over his lap, pulling you even closer to him.

“What are you–”

“Shhh, helping,” he says. His big, strong hands are on your legs now, his dexterous fingers working into your muscles. You let out a sigh of relief as you feel him working away the tension, his thumbs moving over your thighs to rub deep yet gentle circles into your skin. You’re aware of every movement, however, and you hate how flustered his actions have you. Chan never shied away from physical touch, and he’s even given you a brief platonic shoulder massage before. As your roommate, of course he’s seen you in more vulnerable scenarios, seeing into the more casual or intimate aspects of your life, but this… you couldn’t help but stare at the man who seemed so unfazed.

As he rubs into a particularly sore area, you let out a tiny groan.

“Feels good?” he asks, a small smirk splaying across his features but his eyes glued to the screen.

You nod your head. The tone of his voice has arousal running through your entire body and your breath hitches as he moves higher, still only mid-thigh. You hope he doesn’t catch your reaction–surely he won’t, he’s not even watching you.

Lightly he slaps the inside of your thigh, causing you to gasp. “Use your words,” he scolds.

“Yes,” you answer, too fast. “Feels good, Chan.”

“Good girl,” he praises, though the way he coos the words makes it feel less like a compliment. Your eyes stay glued to him and the way he stays unaffected; his words make you squeeze your thighs together lightly, searching for a little relief. What you weren’t expecting was for him to grab the flesh of your thigh hard between his fingers, causing you to let out a moan.

“Such a filthy girl,” he says. “Here I am trying to give you a massage and make you feel good but you’re over here having dirty thoughts, aren’t you?” His hand stays between your legs, rubbing your inner thigh but not making its way higher. You squeeze your legs harder, trapping his hand between your legs.

“Need you, Chan. Touch me, please?” You decide to just say it, just needing to get past the hurdle knowing it will be worth it. He doesn’t let up as easily as you think though.

“Oh? But I am touching you, sweet girl,” he says, pinching your inner thigh and causing you to spread them open for him. “Or are you talking about your needy pussy?” He trails his hand up, resting it against your clothed core. You nod your head unabashedly and he laughs at your excitement. His eyes are on you now, finally, and you burn under his gaze. You watch as he pushes the fabric to the side and dips his fingers shallowly into your entrance, gathering your arousal on his fingers. He pulls out to show you how soaked his fingers are.

“Look how wet you are for me, baby,” he praises. “My sweet, dirty girl is so needy for me, all from a little touching.”

“Just for you,” you confirm, and you watch him take a deep breath, affected by your words. Sliding his hands back down to your center, he gathers more of your arousal and spreads it around your clit, circling slowly around the area with his fingers. It’s obvious from his stare that he is more than alright with taking his time with you, relishing in the way that you fall apart on his fingers. He hisses when you spread your legs open wide for him, giving him full access. He moves fast, grabbing your shorts and ripping them off of your body. When you close your legs again he tuts, grabbing them and forcing them wide open for him, slotting his body in between your legs.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he says. He slides two fingers into your entrance now, shallowly fucking his fingers in and out of you. “Such a slutty pussy, for me.” You relinquish control and let him take over, submitting to the urge to arch your back and let out a loud moan. He continues to babble about how he can’t believe he’s waited for so long to have you like this, how he’s been thinking of touching your pussy for so long, and you start to tremble beneath him.

“Chan,” you say, trying to warn the man, but he shushes you.

“I got you,” he says. He shoves his fingers into you deeper but doesn’t change his pace, curling his fingers. “Let go for me.” That’s all you need to find your release, completely coming apart for him on his fingers. He sweet talks you right through your orgasm, slowing his movements.

You watch as he pulls his fingers out of you, looking deep into your eyes as he puts his fingers into his mouth and sucks. “So sweet,” he says, more to himself than to you. He reaches over your body for the remote, clicking the power button and turning off the device. The action makes you laugh.��

“What?” he laughs with you. “Don’t act like you were actually watching that, I definitely wasn’t.” You scoff at his words and screech as he picks you up, cradling you into his chest.

“Your room or mine?” ***

Author's note: Sorry not sorry for the double Chan post, he is my bias though so don't be surprised...

Masterlist Recs

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dearest-tobio · 4 months ago

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“out of us three, i never thought atsumu would get married first.”

miya osamu turns to face you, approaching him with two glasses in hand. he steals a second to admire you in the wisps of moonlight—you looked ethereal, always have been, but tonight most particularly. osamu rolls his eyes as he takes the glass from you, part disdain, part cheeky happiness for his brother.

“yep. never would’ve thought someone would want ta be with that idiot.”

you laugh, taking a sip of your drink. “give him some credit, ‘samu.”

it is but a nickname, one that you’ve called osamu since you were kids, but it still yields the power to soar his heart into the clouds.

“‘tsumu’s always been a charmer,” you continue, “getting confessions left and right.”

“i remember that one time, that girl from another class? she mistook you for ‘tsumu and ran away after she gave you a bunch of snacks along with a sappy love letter.”

osamu snorts, recalling all the instances that he was mistaken for his twin. growing up, they had similar hairstyles and interests. it was no surprise that people had a hard time differentiating between them.

maybe that was part of the reason why atsumu chose to dye his hair piss blonde as a first-year. of course osamu was roped into it, but he chose an unassuming grey finish instead. ma didn’t receive the change very well—she was angry for weeks—but osamu always thought it was worth it because of you.

he still remembers the first time you saw him with grey hair, bubbling worry in anticipation to what you’ll say. you noticed atsumu’s new style first, mocking his ridiculous shade in front of the whole team. even kita-san cracked a smile as you hurled insult after insult, immune to atsumu’s whines about how it was fashionably empowering.

“so did ‘samu get his hair done t—oh.”

your eyes met osamu’s, and you float over to him across the hard vinyl floor. your hand reached out across the air to brush the strands on the side of his head. in that moment, osamu realises he’s never felt so raw, so exposed. logic snaps at him to get himself together, but your touch was intoxicating. what was he thinking?

“you look good, ‘samu.” your soft smile is ingrained instantly in his head, as well as the words that follow after: “grey suits you.”

osamu brings himself back to the present, with only you and the cool night air for company. the wedding party inside is still going strong, but out here is a world of its own. out here, it’s quiet, and out here it’s only the two of you.

“you know, ‘samu. i’ve always wondered why you didn’t date back in high school up ’til now. i betted on you tying the knot first.”

all words seem to die in osamu’s throat—how can he explain that it’s you? it’s always been you? you, who stuck through all the late night cramming sessions. you, who came to each and every volleyball game. you, who stood by him at every hurdle that came at onigiri miya, until his onigiris were renowned all over hyogo.

he doesn’t want to imagine the day you text excitedly in the groupchat about someone you’ve met, the first date, and the second, and the third. he can’t place himself in that position, not now, not ever. but he keeps his secret to himself, for one more night. for the foreseeable future.

“i don’t know,” he replies. “guess i haven’t found that someone yet.”

masterlist

#memo: read me #memo: miya osamu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu #osamu #osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #inarizaki

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moonstruckme · 5 months ago

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hii idk if ur taking requests but can u write sth with rockstar!remus who’s like full of adrenaline after a shkw and just kisses r ☹️☹️ the others wont let them be LOLLL😭😭😭 hope ur having an amazing day 💘

You have an amazing day too !

rockstar!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 643 words

James all but sprints off the stage, as he always does, working off his post-show adrenaline the best way he knows how. His routine seems unaltered by the fact that this is the biggest show the boys have played yet, but you don’t suppose he can really kick it into a higher gear than it already is. It’s also entertaining for the rest of you, watching him hurdle over sound equipment and careen past frightened-looking crew members before calling a “sorry!” behind him.

You know to expect Remus behind him, leaving the stage at a slower pace while Sirius stays and soaks up the energy for as long as he can before someone physically drags him off, but you’re not expecting the unusual energy about your boyfriend when he comes in.

Remus is crackling, the exact sound of when he plugs his bass into the amp but around him like an aura. Your heart kicks in your chest.

You beam at him, holding up the small bouquet you’d impulse-bought at a stand a few blocks from the venue. You feel a bit silly, but Remus doesn’t seem to mind.

He lets out a breathy little laugh at the sight of you and shakes his head as he takes two long strides, grasping your hips and pressing you into the wall.

The flowers are instantly forgotten. Remus’ mouth is warm and insistent on yours, his knee pushing in between your legs and his nose pressed into your cheek. You don’t realize you’ve stopped breathing until he breaks the kiss.

He sets both hands on your cheeks. There are crew members buzzing around you, and the crowd is still thrumming outside, and somewhere James is talking loudly, but Remus’ face is the only thing in the world. Scarred and sweaty and smiling at you.

“Great show,” you scrape out.

Another short laugh. If you didn’t know better, you’d say your boyfriend was giddy. “Yeah?” He gives you another kiss, shorter but still shock-happy. His lips stay curved against yours. “I thought so,” he admits, a bit softer, like a secret.

You lower your voice to match. “You were incredible.”

Remus grins even bigger, brilliant and totally unlike himself. He’s practically glowing.

“Remus,” Sirius shouts, prancing toward the both of you with his usual regard for private intimacy, “if you’d pause in fondling your girlfriend, James says we’ve got a group out back who wants autographs.”

Remus drops his forehead to yours, his disbelieving puff of air tickling over your nose. You pet down the hairs at his nape.

“Oh, are these for us?” Sirius sounds delighted. Remus doesn’t take the bait, but you do, turning to find him looking at the flowers hanging limply from your grasp. “Doll, you shouldn’t have!”

“How could I resist,” you play along, letting go of Remus to ease one of the stems out from the rest. Sirius takes it from you happily. “They go so well with your outfits.”

“More Remus’ than ours,” James notes, coming over. He’s even sweatier than the other two, but his excess energy seems mostly spent, “but I’m sure that’s only coincidence.”

“Certainly,” Sirius agrees. “She’d never pick favorites. Say, babe, want me to sign something of yours?”

“She’s good,” Remus answers for you, tugging you closer and touching his lips to your brow. “I’ve got this one.”

“I’ll bet you do.” James is grinning. He prods Remus’ shoulder, encouraging you both to follow him towards where the fans are waiting. “She may not pick favorites, but you will, is that right?”

“Enough,” Remus says, but he’s still too happy to work up any real rancor.

“Oh, I already know you’re gonna get an extra special autograph, doll,” Sirius teases. Your face starts to heat. “Likely when we see you tomorrow, he’ll have left you some even darker than a marker could do—”

“Enough.”

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greentrickster · 6 months ago

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It occurs to me that, in light of his discovery about Shang Qinghua's true nature and relationship to the world, and of his own place within all this, Mobei-jun's probably going to become just a touch insufferable, though not in the way he usually is. Like, the biggest hurdle to the Moshang relationship from his perspective is that he's never, ever been able to get a solid read on this weird servant of his. Mobei-jun can't figure it out for himself, Shang Qinghua refuses to explain himself or ask for anything other than his own life even as he makes himself indispensable and pulls off these amazing acts of service, but he also seems terrified of Mobei-jun a lot of the time, and, frankly, yeah, I'd be confused and irritable as heck after a couple decades of mixed signals like this too. And that's on top of having some very well-founded and (given his life experiences) extremely understandable trust issues.

(Because, while Airplane is genuinely my favorite, I can also acknowledge that, from Mobei-jun's perspective, he probably looks shadier than Reigan from MP100.)

Except now? Now. Now Mobei-jun knows why Shang Qinghua's always been so squirrely and secretive, why he's always been devoted to Mobei-jun even while terrified of him, why he never responds to Mobei-jun's overt courting tactics in spite of seeming to find him attractive... he's got all the pieces. Including that absolute, most important of pieces:

Shang Qinghua loves him best. Shang Qinghua has always loved him best.

I think that knowledge makes him melt a bit. Not because of who or what Shang Qinghua is, but because Mobei-jun finally, finally understands this strange little man, and that means it's finally safe to trust him, fully and completely.

Of course this makes our favorite popsicle melt a bit. And, when popsicles melt a bit, it's only natural that they get a little sticky.

Which is to say Airplane is never going to have to worry about touch-starvation again, because he's going to be getting all the hugs and cuddles and pats (and affectionate (and very careful) slaps and pinches, because Mobei-jun's doing his best to respect boundaries but he's still a demon and this is part of their culture, society, and nature (and also because Airplane has come to the conclusion that if Mobei-jun gets to have a go at his cheeks every now and then, then Airplane gets to smack the butt in retaliation, and Mobei-jun has yet to disabuse him of this notion)). Also just picked up and carried around sometimes, because Qinghua's legs are so short and he works so hard, it is unfitting to make him work extra to keep up with Mobei-jun (which is definitely the only reason he's doing this, not because he just wants to carry Qinghua around like his favorite cuddle toy just because he can, really).

There's at least one Peak Lord meeting that Shang Qinghua arrives to via Mobei-jun carrying him there bridal style. This is also the meeting where everyone has to deal with the fact that Shang shidi has a demon king hugging his waist while laying his head in Shang shidi's lap, because Qinghua needed to attend this meeting, but Mobei-jun wasn't ready to stop cuddling yet.

And when everyone makes extremely reasonable noises about maybe not having a demon king in attendance while they went over private sect affairs and maybe Mobei-jun should leave, the giant brat just looks at them all with one eye and says, "No, I'm his favorite." And then closes his eye again and proceeds to ignore them all in favour of sticking his face in Qinghua's stomach and having a nap.

Meaning now they all have to live with the knowledge that Shang shidi is the most important being in the world and what his taste in men is like.

Shang shidi going, "I mean... he's right, and also I've been telling him stuff about these meetings for years and also, like... you can't really stop me." does not help.

#svsss #scum villian self saving system #shang qinghua #mobei jun #moshang #great god airplane

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hotheadedhero · 6 months ago

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Like 'em Big

AN: I have so many stories to write but I had to do this. Blaming being sick, m'kay? Fever has got me bad and these meds got me loopy. Thinking we need some good, silly fun in our lives, right? Plus, now that I've watched Rise, I'm hungry for some big Raph appreciation. I know I ain't the only one

Part 2

All characters are aged up

Raphael x Reader

Warnings: near peril, easily smitten, possible errors due to fever (what kind of fever is up for deliberation🥴)

Cutting right to the chase. You like big dudes. That doesn't necessarily mean muscles, either. You just love you a big man - someone with a bit of something-something to them. More to love, you know? Given your track record with the greater world, it shouldn't be all that much of a mystery. Cats? Get yourself a tiger that you can cuddle into. Jumpers? Comfort central, baby. Beds? If you can't spread eagle then you see no point. The old-age saying does declare that the bigger the better, so who are you to disagree? How true that is may be up for debate but it’s merely as simple as understanding what your preferences are.

However, this makes dating a difficult ballpark to play in. No matter how tall, jacked, or voluptuous someone is, it never feels like enough. Human biology and genetics can only go so far in the conceivably possible sense. You just want to be absolutely engulfed when you get a hug. Is that such a crime? Apparently, it is. Unfortunately, you also seem to come across the worst jerks when you attempt to date within this set of criteria. One might argue it's your karmic justice for being so superficial and picky but a woman has needs. Not those kinds of needs, either. Get your head out of the gutter.

All hope seems lost and after yet again, another failed date, you decide to call it in for the evening and make your way home. A fresh failure and another wonderful outfit gone to waste. By no means is it anything flashy but you put a lot of work into it: pencil skirt, turtle neck sweater, and a nice pair of boots to compliment the look. The whole shebang! All of that effort for nothing. This is the last time you spend three hours doing your hair and makeup. Block after block, your feet grow heavier with every step. What you would give to come across a mountain-like man you can climb who is also a kindred spirit. Perhaps this dream guy will forever be that - a dream. Men like that don't just fall out of the sky.

"Look out!!"

The sudden shout almost scares you into tripping over and you look behind yourself, wishing you hadn’t. Two very large, very dangerous-looking figures entangled in battle, those of which are approaching your helpless little self. You quickly duck as the giants hurdle over you. One falls on its side whilst the other claws and skids against the ground, regaining its balance. It shakes its head and locks onto you, a guttural snarl rumbling past its jowls. Such a creature is surely from the stuff of nightmares. An indescribable nightmare whose sights are set on you. The smart option would be running away but it's as though your shoes have melted into the pavement. Pawing into the tarmac, the beastly thing growls and lunges for you. Great. This is how you die: torn limb from limb by a demon dog. Well, assuming your clothes join you, at least you’ll look like a total babe in the afterlife.

"Oh no ya’ don't," the other one yells from behind the predator, grabbing it by its tail. “Pretty ladies are not food!”

With a mighty tug, he pulls it back and swings it as far away from you as possible. You release a shaky breath, legs trembling beneath you. That was far too close for comfort. The fight isn’t quite over, however. Just as it approaches him, the green goliath swivels on his feet, full 180, and whacks the creature's jaw with a closed fist. His speed alone has you in awe but the force is astounding, practically earth-shattering. It completely knocks the air around you and pushes you onto your backside.

When the dust clears, the first thing you see is your saviour panting, his spiky shell(?) pointed towards you. Just past him in the distance, you notice three more figures in blue, purple, and orange taking a closer look at the unconscious tyrant. You swear one of them pokes at it with a stick. Witnessing strange beings such as this isn't entirely new. Anyone who's watched Chateau Pretenche knows about the celebrity chef turning into a grotesque pigman. To describe it in one word? Horrifying. It's just whether people choose to believe it genuinely happened or if these bizarre entities exist. Being up close and personally observing it now puts your scepticism in check.

As the humanoid turtle calms, he turns to face you, recapturing your attention. A red mask sits over his eyes and there’s a noticeable snaggle tooth poking past his upper lip. Typically, the prerogative is keeping out of sight but it’s much too late for that. He gradually advances towards you. You watch him warily and he keeps his movements slow for that very reason. It wouldn’t be a shock if you were to try and make an escape. He wouldn’t blame you. Currently, all he wants to do is make sure you weren’t hurt during that fiasco provided you don’t suddenly come out of your bewilderment and run off. You have good reason to but he just saved you. Either that or he’s as ravenous as that beast and wants you all to himself. The irrational conclusion remains as such - irrational - when he descends to one knee and outstretches a hand. There’s an irrefutable kindness in his eyes; a caring nature that can’t be replicated in the face of savage brutes.

"You okay?" he asks.

You continue to gawk without a word but, bit by bit, you reach out for his offer. Your fingers lightly trace the centre of his palm before comfortably trusting the proposal. His hand engulfs yours completely and Raph hopes to mercy that you don’t realise how sweaty he’s getting. He can feel his heart beating like crazy. He wonders how much of that is the adrenaline from the fight and how much of it is being in the presence of such a beautiful gal. As he helps you to your feet, he rises to his own. Someone of his stature shouldn’t be capable of being this delicate but he is. It has you running through a loop and you unintentionally stare at the remarkable behemoth.

Quite pathetically, you nod, unable to verbally respond to his question. How can you? You are effectively starstruck. Once you gloss over the turtle-y features, all you see is the sheer size of him as he towers over you. Height, width, the magnitude of those arms! All of it is glorious. You can hear the universe asking, “You want a big man, huh? How about one who isn’t human?” to which you answer, “Who gives a damn?”. If the only way a man can be this big is not to be human, so be it.

Amidst a whisper, your mouth moves on its own, "You're beautiful."

"What?"

"Huh?" Blinking out of your trance, you realise what you’ve said and giggle sheepishly, "I mean, you're be... ba... booming! Totally awesome with the whole- uh... saving thing." Nailed it.

He blinks right back down at you. This is certainly a first. He can feel his face heating up and he withdraws his hand lest you endure the wrath of his bashfulness, opting to hold the back of his head. At this moment, he seems to look anywhere but you.

"Heh. Gee, thanks." His humility is adorable and you’re glad he doesn’t question your initial statement. He turns to you once more, regaining some composure. "You sure you're okay, though? That thing was pretty scary looking."

It’s clear that you haven’t sustained any physical injuries but even bearing witness to something so unsightly can have lasting effects on one's mind. His brows furrow gently in concern down at you and it occurs to you that there’s a soft heart under all of that shell and muscle. Bonus points. This makes you smile for the first time in front of him and Raphael is sure that the streetlights got brighter.

You laugh fondly, “Yeah, I’m okay. Thank you.” Twiddling your fingers, your lips purse up in his direction. “Is there any way I can repay you?”

He places his hands on his hips and chuckles cutely, “Just doing my duty, ma’am.”

He may be indulging in his alter ego - the Red Angel of Preventing Harm - but it’s not every day he gets paid thanks when he saves someone. It’s also not every day he gets to save such a pretty woman, either. You, however, can’t just leave it at that. There must be some way in which you can properly thank him. Ulterior motives include getting to know this already loveable lug better but shh. It feels like the odds are finally turning in your favour and you won’t let this slip away from your grasp. That’s when it hits you.

Muttering under your breath, you erratically search through the confines of your little handbag. You are certain that you had one in here somewhere. In the spare pocket maybe? Ah! Found it. Fumbling to take the lid off of your pen, you hold out your hand, gesturing for his. He slowly complies, to which you jot down a series of digits on his palm accompanied by your name and a tiny 'x'.

"Gimme a text sometime," is the last thing he hears before you disappear around a corner.

Oh? Oh. Ohhh. Wow. Getting your number is the last thing he expected. Did he get hit on the head during that scuffle or something? Was everything from the last few minutes a dream? He bores holes into the writing on his skin, scanning it over and over, scared that it’ll disappear if he so much as blinks. A dumb, wobbly smile not so gracefully decorates his lips as he trudges back to the turtle tank. He takes his seat but it’s obvious that he isn’t all there. Being so caught up in his rose-tinted bubble, he doesn’t register his brothers' voices. In an effort to gain his attention, Michelangelo jumps onto his shoulder, partly intrigued by what their leader is so absorbed by.

"Oh me gosh!” the young brother screams in shrill excitement, “Raph's in love!"

Careful not to smudge the neat ink, he’s quick to hide his hand against his chest. "That's crazy talk!”

Donatello sniffs the air and mockingly covers his nose. "The overwhelming manifestation of your nervous stink indicates otherwise, dear brother."

"I got a girl’s number!” he continues to defend, feeling his face go all kinds of red. “'Course, I'm nervous but that don’t mean I’m in love."

Lies and slander. It was practically love at first sight. He just doesn’t like the idea of his brothers knowing that. It’s easy pickings to be made fun of.

"Don't worry, Big Red. Lucky for you, you got a guy who knows all about the charm." Leonardo points both thumbs at himself as he falls back into his seat and props his legs up on the dashboard. "First, you just need to..."

The "helpful" advice drowns out as the large snapper opens and gazes at his palm again. He just can't comprehend how a gorgeous individual such as yourself could take one look at him and give him your number. It's puzzling but he supposes there’s a first for everything? That also doesn't mean he won't text you. The only thing getting in the way of that is fear. Raphael thinks he’d rather go toe-to-toe with that mutant dog again than have to face the risk of embarrassing himself. To anyone who knows him, it’s no surprise that he caves under pressure. No. He will do it! A chance like this is one in a million.

Oh boy. What could possibly go wrong?

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satorusluver · 1 year ago

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Duke!Nanami x maid!reader

Minors DNI

This takes place in the same AU as my Prince Gojo drabble (except the reader isn't with both of them, idk think of it like otome routes lol)

Word count: 700 ish

Tags/warnings: oral (f receiving), male masturbation, uhh idk I can't think of any others I'm tired lol

The difference between Duke Kento Nanami and Crown Prince Satoru falling in love with a servant girl is that Kento wouldn't dare risk getting you pregnant. He is practical, mature, and most of all, selfless. He knows it would ruin your reputation and leave you a single mother because he could never be with you officially, and he could never risk doing that to his precious girl.

So instead he settles for sneaking you into his room (something that's easier for him than it would be for the prince because he isn't nearly as important as the future king) late at night for...less risky activities. Kento's bed is softer and more extravagant than anything your commoner body has ever experienced, with downy feather pillows and sheets of satin embroidered with gold trim, and he often lays you down on it and spreads your plush thighs to feast on your cunt like it's the finest dessert, until your legs are shaking and your cum stains those expensive sheets. Kento is a giver, not a taker. Of course, he enjoys letting you please him with your hands or mouth. But ultimately, your pleasure is his pleasure, and he's quite content with making you fall apart on his tongue.

Occasionally, though, he'll allow himself to indulge a little, rubbing his swollen cockhead through your slick folds, grinding the underside of it and against your overstimulated clit. But even he sometimes struggles with his self-control. One time he shifts a little too far back and the tip of his cock ends up right up against your entrance, just barely pressing into it. Kento clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into the sheets, imagining how good it would feel to be completely enveloped in you, to feel your tight walls hugging and squeezing his cock, to finally be one with you like he's always dreamed of.

Kento's eyes flick to your face, to your blissed out expression, your ruddy cheeks, your parted lips, your glossed over eyes and the sheer desire radiating off of you. And he knows he could do it, he could just slide his achingly hard length into your warm, welcoming cunt and you wouldn't stop him. And he takes a deep breath, and then he just....pulls away and rolls over next to you on the bed.

You ask if he's okay, and he says yes, he's fine. You ask him if he wants you to do something to help relieve the ache in his throbbing cock, and he says no, he's fine, and that he thinks it's best if you go ahead and return to the servants quarters now. You look up at him, your head tilting in confusion and your eyes filling with worry. So he presses a kiss to your temple and reassures you that everything really is alright, that he's just getting a headache - and besides, the longer you stay, the more likely someone will notice you missing from your bed.

You still seem a bit hesitant, but you redress yourself and leave his chambers with one last glance back at Kento, who gives you a warm, reassuring smile. And the moment you're gone, Kento throws his head back against the pillow with a pained groan, his hand slipping under the sheets to grip his cock tight - as tight as he imagines your sweet pussy must be. He strokes himself from base to tip, eyes closed and pretending it was you moving up and down on him, remembering the heavenly sounds you made as you came on his tongue and wondering if you'd make those same sounds when you came on his dick.

The sight of your naked body is still fresh in his mind, helping him hurdle toward his climax with each increasingly desperate pump of his hand. And when he cums, he cums hard, moaning out your name and fucking up into his first as the pearly ropes of his thick release spill over onto his hand and abs. And when the exhaustion sets in as his high begins to fade, Kento breathes a sigh of relief that it's only him who has to deal with the aftermath of his pleasure.

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fuckyeahisawthat · 1 year ago

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I’ve had my share of [Crowley voice] you idiot thoughts at both of them over their terrible communication skills and severe chronic inability to say what they mean. But like. I get it.

For 6000 years, they had to talk in code. They had to express themselves in grand gestures and subtext and plausible deniability, out of fear of being found out. And they got really good at it! They developed a whole secret language of ways to say I love you because they couldn’t say it out loud.

But now that they can—and need to—talk about what they are to each other with actual words, they don’t know how.

Neither of them know how to say what they want, openly, and to ask what the other wants. And (I think this is a crucial component) they don’t know how to fight. They’ve had enough spats to have a 350+ year old apology dance, but they have repeatedly avoided talking about the really big differences in their worldviews and what they value, because those conversations would immediately bump up against the things they try hardest to avoid (doubt and guilt for Aziraphale; rejection for Crowley), and because that could lead to a real disagreement that they don’t know how to get around. And then where would either of them be? Alone.

So they bicker and they have drunken philosophical debates and they make up and do little dances all while not really talking about the big differences in how they see the world. And then when the pressure is on they have horrible miscommunication blowouts where they end up talking past each other and hurting each other deeply because they don’t even realize they’re not on the same page.

Upon rewatch I think this is part of why Crowley seems so unhappy in the early episodes. I think he did hope that once they weren’t working for Heaven and Hell, things would go in a more explicitly romantic direction. (But of course he won’t just come out and say that, until the absolute last ditch moment.) From his POV, he’s made his desires perfectly clear (he hasn’t) and I think he thought that working for Heaven was the last thing holding Aziraphale back. And then they cleared that hurdle and nothing changed. Or not enough. Because the problem goes deeper than that.

And bless(/damn) them, they’re still trying. The confession was clearly so hard for Crowley, and would have been even without the first half of the scene, because he’s working against his deepest insecurities. He can’t even finish his sentences, and yet he’s still trying. And I do think that Aziraphale was working up to his own version of it (he’s so openly physically affectionate with Crowley this season, much more than in the past) but he’s always moved a bit slower with these things, and then it was too late. (It’s always too late.)

But even if they’d both been able to openly say their I love yous, they still have this thing sitting between them, which is that Aziraphale doesn’t understand why Crowley would never go back to Heaven, and Crowley doesn’t understand why Aziraphale would want to. And having that conversation goes right to the heart of how they’ve both been damaged by the system of Heaven and Hell, which is why I suspect they’ve both instinctively avoided it before now. And at some point in s3, they are going to have to talk about that.

#good omens #good omens s2 #good omens s2 spoilers #aziraphale #crowley #there’s a whole boatload of metaphors in ‘can’t talk to each other because we’ve always had to talk in the subtext’#that i suspect i will be digging into more

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iimplicitt · 1 month ago

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I WAS ALL OVER HER — O.P.

pairings: oscar piastri x reader (romantic/platonic) | lando norris x reader (romantic)

part one of three

summary: childhood best friends riddled with missed opportunities. oscar makes the mistake of introducing you to his new teammate who’s known to be a player.

warnings (most take place in pt. 2 and 3): pining, missed opportunities, cheating (mentioned), cheating towards the end, 18+ smut, jealous!oscar, toxic!lando, mirror sex, fingering + oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex sorta (stay safe), technically a HEA for oscar x yn? bumpy road to get there, though.

authors note: this in no way speaks on my opinion of lando and what his personality may be like, i love him this is purely for the plot <3 this is also my first time posting fic on here i’m usually hiding on ao3 or wattpad (same user as on here if you’re interested in harry potter!)

word count: 2.4k

dedicated to; @theonottsbxtch

enjoy, r <3

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

A debut in Formula One was bound to have its hurdles, being full of good days and bad days. Oscar didn’t know it then, but introducing his childhood best friend to his new teammate was either the best or worst decision he had ever made.

He hadn’t thought twice about inviting you to his first race, knowing that you were a presence that always provided a sense of ease around his mind when he started to think about things too much. You never even had to do anything, just being there helped.

He hadn’t thought twice about introducing you to Lando in the paddock that first race weekend. Not particularly loving the apt attention his teammate was suddenly showing as you talked, but he tried to push it into the back of his mind. Oscar wasn’t a jealous person, at least he tried not to be. Envy got nobody anywhere. Although he couldn’t ignore the uncomfortable churn in his stomach as he watched Lando hug you goodbye, muttering a low “Nice to meet you,” and the Brits eyes lingered on you as they both watched you walk away to the Paddock club to get seated.

Oscar’s eyes cut to Lando, biting the inside of his cheek as his mind analysed the interaction he just witnessed.

As if sensing the unease next to him in the form of his teammate, Lando met his gaze and laughed lightly. “What?”

Shaking his head, Oscar turned and started the walk to the garage. “Nothing.”

That first race had been hell, not only because of the searing Texas sun but the way it had gone to absolute shite in the first lap. A retirement on lap ten hadn’t been on any of his cards, but the reality of racing isn’t always a good hand dealt. McLaren still threw a celebratory party afterward though, at some southern themed bar in Austin. You had walked in wearing a cowboy hat and boots to make him laugh. It worked, like always.

And like always he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

Apparently Lando couldn’t either.

youruser

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, logansargeant and 12,492 others

youruser howdy 🤠 save a horse, ride a cowboy

*tap to load more comments*

userone: pretty girllll <3

oscarpiastri: stole my hat

❤️ by author

usertwo: omg????? lando and oscar??

danielricciardo: i’m an honorary cowboy

| oscarpiastri: no

| userfour: WHO IS THIS GIRL

landonorris: me next?

❤️ by author

| userfive: omg???

| usersix: that is WILDDDD

userseven: new wag alert? but for who??

Oscar suffered through the rest of the races for reasons he wasn’t expecting. The amount of times he ran into the two of you hanging out or talking, it shouldn’t have annoyed him. But it did. It was all the lingering touches that made him feel nauseous. Lando’s hand on the small of your back, moving hair out of your face on a windy day, bringing you coffee in the mornings and his hand brushing yours, leaning in close to whisper in your ear over the roar of crowds and car engines– all the things Oscar wish he was doing but he never seemed to get there first.

It was always, always Lando. On and off track he couldn’t seem to keep up.

He didn’t mean to start ignoring you, but everytime he went to see you, you were with Lando. He couldn’t stomach it. Oscar always had a level head but he felt like he was slipping under unfamiliar territory of being reckless and on edge.

The morning of the last race must’ve been a boiling point. He and Lando were warming up when his teammate asked him something so dreadful, Oscar nearly dropped the weights on his chest.

“Is she single?”

Oscar slowly sat up and set down the weights, careful to not throw them at Lando’s head. “Why?”

“Why not?”

He sat there for a moment, sweat making his shirt cling to him like a second skin. His bones felt all wrong inside his body, not wanting to have this conversation. “You don’t do relationships.”

Lando shrugged, standing up and grabbing his water. “People can change their minds. So? Is she?”

Oscar shouldn’t have done it, but the lie slipped out of his mouth. “I think she’s seeing someone. I don’t know who, though.”

Lando looked at his teammate for a moment, eyes slightly narrowing and he hummed. “Noted.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

You weren’t sure why Oscar was ignoring you. It felt like whiplash. He invites you to the rest of the racing season but won’t mutter anything else other than a hello. You’d spiral at night wondering if you did something wrong, but didn’t want to bombard him with texts. You knew he was busy.

So like many nights while on the road with the drivers you stared up at the ceiling of the hotel room. A ding echoed around the room, indicating a new text. Blindly reaching for it, the bright screen illuminated your face and made you squint. Not quite sure what you were reading.

Unknown number: Dinner tonight?

You: Who is this?

Unknown number: Guess

Rolling your eyes, you were about to block the number before there was a knock on the hotel door. Cautiously walking to the door, you looked through the peephole before frowning in confusion. Unlocking it, it swung open and you blinked at the surprise. “Lando?”

Smiling, he held up his phone. “You know, it’s rude to leave someone on read.”

“It’s also rude to be a stalker.”

“A stalker?”

“How’d you get my number?”

He waved you off. “Trivial information. So, dinner?”

You couldn’t lie and say you weren’t flattered, but it seemed completely out of left field. Then again, you were terrible at picking up cues. Half of the people you’ve dated, you hadn’t even known they’d liked you in the first place till Oscar mentioned it. Which was… disheartening. Everytime he started those conversations you had hoped he was about to say he had feelings for you. And every single time you were disappointed, letting yourself get to a level of delusion where you thought you may have a chance. It only got worse when he entered Formula One. The type of girls drivers dated were a whole other category of drop dead stunning. Personally, you just felt… average. Boring. Unremarkable. Not to mention had told you to your face he saw you as a little sister. It was embarrassing to admit but you still cried about it sometimes.

Lando didn’t stray from the perception you had of the drivers. He had a history of dating models. Crossing your arms, you leaned against the doorframe and narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”

He smiled crookedly, dimples showing in his cheeks. He was handsome, you could admit that. “I like you, and I think dinner would be nice. We haven’t gotten to hang out anywhere by ourselves.”

“We’ve hung out alone a handful of times these past few weeks.” You countered, wanting to walk carefully into this situation.

He nodded in partial agreement. “Not anywhere off track, though. I want to get to know you, is that so bad?’

You gnawed at your lip, not being able to shrug off the constant companion of insecurity as you stared at your best friend's teammate. “Oscar warned me about you, you know?”

Lando stepped closer and you watched him carefully as he leaned against the other side of the doorframe. His cologne hit you then, smelling of sea salt and sandalwood. It was nice. He hummed quietly, looking at you intently. “Did he? What’d he say?”

“That you’re a player and I should keep my distance.” The words had irked you when he spoke them after you and Lando had met. It made you feel as if you had your head turned too easily. Or that if Lando did for some reason show interest, it wouldn’t mean anything.

The man so close to you gave a closed mouth smile, eyes hooded by thick lashes and the shadows of the low light hallway danced across his face almost playfully. “And what do you think?”

You properly assessed Lando Norris for the first time as he stood less than a foot from you, looking at you so intently it made your skin feel warm despite the cool temperature set on the thermostat. He looked like he wanted something. Wanted you. Your head couldn’t keep up. It felt pathetic, but when someone spends their whole life feeling undesirable, and then someone expresses that desire, it feels… abstract. Unobtainable, even though it’s being offered on a silver platter.

Warning alarms were going off inside your head, as well as butterflies you couldn’t explain. Hope, maybe. Maybe, someone wants you for once. But Lando was a wild card, the question is if you were willing to gamble on it.

“I think you’re dangerous.” You whispered.

He stepped closer, nearly touching you but not quite. “Let’s have dinner.”

You became acutely aware your hair was still damp from a shower and you were in your pajamas. “It would take me a while to get ready.”

He shrugged and looked into your hotel room, “we can have dinner here. Room service on me.”

Narrowing your eyes again, you looked at him carefully. “This isn’t a ploy to get into my pants is it?”

Lando laughed lightly, looking down at you but it wasn’t taunting. It felt light hearted and sincere. “No, though if you do end up offering I’m not going to tell you no. In fact, if you do offer I might forget every word except for yes and your name.”

You were definitely blushing, and goddammit you were also charmed for some reason. Clearing your throat, you stepped back into your room and eyed him for one more debating moment before deciding to hell with it. Oscar clearly didn’t want you, and you were tired spending years and years waiting for him to. Why not give someone else a chance?

“Yes, we can have dinner.”

Lando winked at you as he stepped into your room, shutting the door softly behind him.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Winter break before the 2024 season was in full swing, but before everyone departed home, Zak was hosting a Christmas party at his house he had in Woking. Oscar was nervous as he walked to your hotel room, feeling more anxious than he did even before races. He was going to ask you to go with him, but also finally (hopefully) telling you everything. About how he felt, about how he felt bad for being distant and he just didn’t know how to juggle everything at once. How he finally felt like he was in a good place to make it work with you. Of course he’s always thought about it, but the fear of ruining your friendship always weighed heavy on his heart. He wanted you in his life no matter what, and he was terrified of scaring you off or waiting too long.

Knocking on your door, he rocked back on his heels, being able to hear his heart pounding in his chest. After a moment, it swung open.

So he didn’t chicken out, Oscar immediately let the question slip from his mouth. “Will you go to the Christmas party with me?”

You blinked at him, looking as if you were taken off guard. You opened your mouth to respond, but more words kept tumbling out of his mouth as if he was coughing up poison that had been in his body for far too long. The thoughts and feelings wanting out after all these years.

“I know I should’ve asked you sooner, but I was just nervous. I’ve had a lot going on both with work and just in my head but I think I’m finally in a good place for this. I know it didn’t end up working out in our favour the first time a few years ago, but–”

“Oscar.”

“I think I’m ready. I’m sorry it took so long and I’m so thankful you’ve stuck by my side and supported me. I always think about that night and the what if’s but–”

“Oscar, please–”

“But I think it’s good we waited and that we’re finally ready to do this. Together. And I didn’t want to wait anymore–”

“Oscar, stop.”

He properly looked at you and noticed your eyes were red and glistening. His heart started to stutter a bit. “What?”

You bit into your bottom lip and looked away from him for a moment before meeting his eye again. “Why would you tell me all this now?”

Oscar’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You shut your eyes, as if in mental torment over something. “Lando asked me.”

His heart faltered even further. “To the party?”

You sighed, a tear slipping from your eye but you quickly scraped it away with your thumb.

“Baby, have you seen where the keys are?” A voice called from somewhere in the room behind you. A familiar voice, and Oscar’s heart stopped working all at once.

Oscar’s eyes didn’t stray from yours, though. Even as they began to burn and he wanted to rip them out of his head, he didn’t stop looking at you. Is this why he hadn’t seen much of either of you towards the end of the season? Were you running off and– God, he felt like he was going to puke. “How long?” He forced out, his voice cracking.

You sucked in a shaky breath, replying to Lando first. “They might be in the bathroom.” You took another moment before finally answering Oscar. “A few weeks.”

Clenching his jaw, Oscar nodded as he looked down at the ground. “I thought I told you he was bad news.”

“I’m not five, I can make my own decisions.” You snapped.

Despite knowing better, Oscar’s eyes narrowed at you. “So you go and fool around with my teammate behind my back as some weird… what is this, revenge?”

Your jaw went slack as you stared at him. “You did not just say that to me, oh my god. Who do you think I am? Just because you said no to me doesn’t mean I use your friends against you, that is– Jesus, Oscar.”

“Then why hide that from me!”

“Because I knew you’d act like this! You always act like this when I get into a relationship!”

He glared at you. “And why do you think that is?”

You stepped back from him as if he’d just slapped you. “No. Oscar, no. We are not doing this. Not now. Not ever.”

He couldn’t help it. Of all people, of course it would be Lando who swoops in. Of course he was too late, again. Always ten steps behind his teammate. “I don’t understand, I thought we were on the same page.”

“You told me to my face, point blank, that you didn’t see me that way.”

“I panicked! Of course I feel the same way, I always have. I was just terrified of messing it up and I wasn’t in a place to drag you through a relationship when I knew I couldn’t be there for you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me that!”

“Is everything okay?” Lando walked up behind you and Oscar felt the unfamiliar urge to punch him. He’d never wanted to hit anyone before, but he was dangerously close to losing his temper.

“We’re fine-”

“He was just leaving-”

Lando looked between Oscar and you before settling a hand on your hip. “You alright?”

You nodded, smiling tightly and Oscar felt like killing himself as he stared at the hand on your hip. Wondering where else Lando’s hands had been.

“Give us a moment.” You said. Lando nodded, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead and eyeing Oscar with a strange sense of… he couldn’t place it. It almost felt like Lando was bragging.

You stepped into the hall and shut the door behind you.

“You can’t seriously be with him.” Oscar said, his tone desperate as the world was being yanked from underneath him.

“Oscar, will you please just stop?” Another tear slipped out and on instinct, he reached out and wiped it away for you, feeling your soft skin and hating that Lando knew what it was like to be touched by you. “All this time. I told you how I felt years ago and you said you didn’t see me like that. And you do this now. And with it being your teammate? I- no. Just, stop it.”

“I was in a bad place when you first asked me, but please-“

“Oscar you can’t do this now-“

“Why do you think he’d even be interested in you?”

You froze.

He did too, he didn’t mean it like that. Lando doesn’t do relationships, and he had a sick feeling this was some twisted game to him. Something to hold over Oscar’s head. “I’m sorry-“

“Oscar, you’re being mean.”

“I didn’t-“

“Is this just because Lando took something else from you? What, just because you’re the second driver you try and-“

“Second driver? Really?” He hated you thought of him like that.

You briefly closed your eyes. “Oscar you have never-“

“I thought you knew!”

“Thought I knew what! You told me you didn’t and you barely even talk to me anymore. I’m not–” you laughed and looked away from him. “We’re not doing this. Go home, Oscar.” You shut the door, leaving him alone in the hallway with a caved out and hollow chest.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

landonorris

liked by youruser, carlossainz55, charlesleclerc and 604,392 others

landonorris good weather, good company

*tap to load more comments*

userone: HE TAGGED YOURUSER OMGGG

usertwo: was NOT expecting this hard launch

youruser: <3

❤️ by author

| userthree: SHUT UPPP CONFIRMED

userfour: anyone notice oscar didn’t like it?

| userfive: aren’t oscar and the girl childhood friends too?

| usersix: not to be that person but tea

landonorris

liked by youruser, carlossainz55, f1 and 3,149,293 others

landonorris WWE FUCKIJG DID IT. P1 🏆

*tap to load more comments*

georgerussel63: congrats mate!!

youruser: so proud

❤️ by author

| userone: your kiss after the race was so cute!!

usertwo: oscar didn’t like this either? weird.

| userthree: did you see him on tv? was glaring at lando the whole time

| userfive: yeah, something feels weird

userfour: LETS GOOOO

part two here

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p0orbaby · 3 months ago

Text

Squirrel? Squirrel!

summary: at this point, people just let you do what you want

warnings: nil

a/n: thanks for the request !

word count: 1.1k

You don’t remember the exact moment you decided that today was the day to catch a squirrel, but here you are, sprinting across the training grounds like a maniac. The squirrel, to its credit, looks mildly concerned, as if it didn’t sign up for this level of cardio.

Which it didn’t, but that’s none of your business.

“Why are you chasing a squirrel?” Leah shouts, barely managing to keep the exasperation out of her voice. She’s sometimes captain, which means she’s sometimes responsible for keeping things under control, a job made infinitely harder by your presence.

“I’m trying to help him,” you yell back, leaping over a stray football like you’re in some kind of Olympic hurdling event. “He looks lost!”

“Does he? Does he really?” Leah sounds like a woman on the edge, which is fair, because you’ve spent the last week convincing the new physio that the ice baths were secretly filled with pickled onions.

You’re aware that you’re the class clown of the team. If there were a formal title for it, it’d be embroidered on your jersey right under your number. The physio had been an easy target—too earnest, too eager to believe that a teenager could be trusted with serious information. You had explained with a straight face that, at Arsenal, there was a tradition of bathing in vinegar to promote circulation, and you had never seen someone look so horrified in your life. To your credit, you almost felt bad.

But not really.

Beth jogs up alongside you, her face equal parts amused and concerned, which seems to be the default expression of everyone when you’re around. “You know you’re gonna have to explain this one to Kim, right?”

“Kim loves me,” you reply, ducking as the squirrel makes a sharp turn towards the goalposts. “I’m like the daughter she never wanted”

“That’s definitely one way to put it,” Beth says, laughing as she matches your pace, which is not difficult because the squirrel is now dodging the goalposts with all the grace of a drunk toddler. “But seriously, what’s the plan here?”

The plan, if you could call it that, involves cornering the squirrel, giving it a lecture on the importance of proper nutrition (because that acorn it’s gnawing on looks suspiciously expired), and then setting it free like a wildlife warrior.

You don’t tell Beth this, though. You’ve learned that it’s best to keep your more ambitious plans to yourself until the very last minute, preferably right before they inevitably fail spectacularly.

“Improvisation is key,” you say instead, sounding like every PE teacher who’s ever tried to make dodgeball sound like a legitimate sport.

The squirrel skids to a stop by the water cooler, possibly considering hydration as a valid life choice, and you seize the opportunity to lunge at it. You miss by a good three feet, landing on the grass in a sprawl that would be embarrassing if it weren’t so common in your daily life.

From your new vantage point, you notice Lia sitting on the bench, watching the entire scene with the air of someone who has seen too much to be shocked by anything anymore. She’s eating an apple, slowly, methodically, like this is just another Tuesday.

“Need a hand?” she calls out, voice dripping with the kind of dry humor that you both appreciate and aspire to.

“Nah, I’m good,” you reply, dusting yourself off as you get back to your feet. The squirrel is now halfway up a tree, looking smug, which feels like a personal attack. “I’ve got him right where I want him”

“Yeah, sure looks like it,” Leah says, finally catching up to you. She’s slightly out of breath, and you make a mental note to tease her about her fitness levels later, but right now you’ve got bigger fish to fry, or squirrels to catch.

“Maybe we should let the squirrel go,” she suggests, putting a hand on your shoulder in a gesture that could either be comforting or restraining. You’re not entirely sure. “You know, before Jonas comes out and realises his star winger is trying to wrestle woodland creatures”

You consider this for a moment. The squirrel does seem pretty intent on staying in the tree, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep up this level of enthusiasm. Plus, your last run-in with Jonas had involved a lengthy discussion about the dangers of free-climbing the goalposts after you’d tried to prove a point about your superior upper body strength.

“Fine,” you say with a sigh that’s more dramatic than necessary. “But only because I don’t want to give Kim another heart attack”

“Very noble of you,” Beth says, patting your back like you’ve just made a grand sacrifice.

You start to walk back towards the training pitch, the squirrel now a distant memory as you begin plotting your next escapade. Maybe something involving the team bus and a few dozen helium balloons.

As you’re contemplating the logistics, Leah pulls out her phone, probably to text Kim that the squirrel incident has been safely contained. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

“I prefer ‘misunderstood genius,’” you reply, grinning as you start jogging backwards, a skill you’ve mastered purely for moments like this.

“Sure, and I’m the Queen of England,” Leah retorts, finally cracking a smile.

“Does that make me the royal jester?” you ask, doing a little bow as you reach the training pitch.

“More like the royal pain in my-”

“Language, Leah!” you interrupt, mockingly covering your ears. “There are children present!”

“Yeah, one of them’s standing right in front of me,” Leah shoots back, but she’s laughing now, and you know you’ve won this round.

As the rest of the team regroups, you spot Kim making her way over, her expression a mixture of bemusement and something that might be resignation. You wonder how many more years you’ve shaved off her life expectancy.

“Y/N, do I even want to know?” She asks, though you suspect he already knows the answer.

“Probably not,” you admit cheerfully, shrugging like the whole thing is no big deal. “But I’m open to discussing it over lunch”

Kim sighs deeply, the kind of sigh that says she’s seriously reconsidering her life choices. “Just…try to focus on the actual training today, alright?”

“Absolutely,” you say with a solemn nod, crossing your fingers behind your back where she can’t see them.

As the team heads back to practice, you catch Beth giving you a knowing look. “What?” you ask, feigning innocence.

“I’m just wondering what you’ll come up with next,” she says, shaking her head in amusement.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you reply, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from”

#awfc #awfc x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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yeyinde · 2 years ago

Text

in undertow | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

They won’t shut up about why he wears the mask.

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before.

Maybe, then, it's the rookie inside of you still burning to be included, to be acknowledged, accepted, that makes you flick your mic on with a single press of your stupid little finger. Makes you open your stupid little mouth, and say:

"You're all wrong, boys; he's just keeping my seat warm."

(a joke at your lieutenant's expense has unexpected consequences.)

part ii

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; face-sitting: oral - f!receiving; female!reader; male-solo: Ghost makes himself cum whilst drowning in pussy; some plot. kinda. but it’s mostly 7K+ of clownfoolery

notes: Ghost eats pussy like he’s starving. that’s it. that’s all, folks.

(also, this is so thirsty. this man is making me feral. send help pls)

*bonnie-scottish term of endearment, kinda similar to hen or lass, and is not a name. MC is not named.

It's not uncommon to tune into a channel on downtime, and hear your Lieutenant being mentioned in some manner or another.

Ghost is infamous. Legendary. The men in your unit, and the ones you ally up with, are–in equal measure–his biggest fan, and his bitter rival.

It's all one-sided, of course. If Ghost was any other man, you'd confidently say that he didn't even know who they were, but he isn't. And he does. Which, of course, makes the rivalry all that more bitter, blistering, when he refuses to acknowledge their challenges.

He proves himself time and time again, and isn't even trying to.

So, they flex their arms– see, bigger than yours –but he hardly notices, much to their chagrin.

Sometimes, they'd turn to you–the unofficial arbitrator, a denomination that seemed unanimously decided on by the whole team; Ghost, bemusingly, included–and ask stupid questions:

Who's arms are bigger? Mine, come have a feel, lass.

Ghost seemed decidedly tolerant of these moments, watching with those dangerous eyes as your hands flexed around the bulk of your teammates' bicep, cooing cloyingly at him. Ooh, working out, I see. Feels like the leg of a fawn!

Now 'im, they'd say, your heart would warble in your chest.

A strange, off-rhythm pulse that almost hurt. He'd match your gaze when you looked over your shoulder, peering at the imposing man lurking in the midst of everyone else. Firm, steady. Unflinching. He'd hold it, always.

He does that, doesn't he?

When Ghost looks at you, the air in your lungs dissipates; dissolves into ashes, then into smoke.

(Sometimes, he stares at you, and it feels like a challenge. Like he's waiting for something.)

Your smile folds, wan. Lieutenant–

Go on, then! He ain't bigger than me.

It turns several shades of apologetic when you slide up to him, palms spread flat, docile. Walking up to him feels like approaching a predator. Any sudden movements, and he'll have your neck between his jowls. He never would, you know this deep down. But still.

You, uh, don't have to let me.

His head would duck down–too tall to look at you without bringing a kink to his neck–and his eyes would waver in the light. Midnight black to charcoal. Smoke. Ash. The same taste in your lungs.

S'alright. He'd prop his arm up for you, eyes dancing. Best get it done with before these geezers get into a fit.

He doesn't look away. Doesn't break contact. It's intense. Too much.

You demure.

You're not submissive to anyone. Your teammates, the enemy, politicians–no one makes you break. No one makes your chin lower to your chest, your eyes drop. You can't–not, really. Not here. Not in this world where everyone is looking at you like you're too soft, too vulnerable, to be of any use. When even your teammates slip sometimes, try to carry you despite knowing how capable you are on your own.

The hurdle you have to fling yourself over just to prove yourself to your teammates, your backers, is a skyscraper.

They call you Nile –the moniker born from the startling resemblance to the aggressive, territorial crocodiles that live in the water–and you do your best to live up to the comparison.

You don't shy away from anyone.

Except him.

Your eyes fix on your feet. Hands tremble as they slide over the hard muscle of his biceps–firm, unyielding: flesh-covered iron. Your stomach in knots. Chest too tight.

Ghost's eyes are glued to your face. His muscles flex under your exploratory fingers. Ticking, bulging. His flesh jumps when you touch him. The heat of his skin sear your fingertips, so hot you think it might burn the prints off your hands.

You both love and hate these moments.

When hypoxia flashes through your head–dizzying, nauseating–you step back, clear your throat, and stammer out the winner.

Ghost, always Ghost.

His eyes are shades lighter. Slate-grey, now. Amusement, you think.

The men around you riot, demanding a rematch.

(You blame it on testosterone.)

One such occurrence happens to be right now. The comm is clogged with feverish conspiracy theories as to why Ghost wears the mask ranging from the grounded (to conceal his identity–he's a big OP: can't go showing his ugly mug to everyone) to the absurd (he's probably hideously deformed; heard he took a hit to the face–considering what I heard is under there, I'd say he's doing us all a favour), and everything in-between.

This isn't anything new. You've heard it all before.

"You're all wrong, boys," you purr, eyes fixed on the weapon you were tinkering with. "He's just keeping my seat warm."

The line goes pin-drop silent. A poignant shush. It's so eerily, unnaturally quiet on the comm, that you look up, blinking. Was it frozen?

You glance at the computer, checking the channel to see if you'd changed it by accident. It's on. And–

Open, it says. Open mic. Open broadcast.

It never occurred to you to check the channel they were using.

It's not a private one between groups; it's the main one.

Why would these bellends use the main comm to talk about a man, their superior officer, on the channel he preferred, the one he was always tuned into?

You pale. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You blame your stupid little mouth, and testosterone. Mostly, testosterone.

Maybe, Ghost wasn't listening. Maybe, he –

"Jesus Christ," Soap groans after several agonising seconds. Soap, who was on recon with Ghost. Soap, who was with Ghost. Soap who –

The line falls dead once more. No one says anything. Not even a murmur of how well and truly fucked you are. Then, it crackles again. You jump, tensing. Please be some stupid rookie. Please be someone else. Please don't be–

"Fuckin' hell," comes the brassy timbre, the sandpaper tone scratching your ear.

You shiver. You're fired. No, no–they can't fire you, you know too much. You're dead. You're–

"Rookie," he barks. You struggle to stifle a whimper. "Report to me when I get back."

You weakly stammer out a yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir.

"And everyone else – get off the main channel."

Nervous would be an understatement.

It's the crushing weight of utter humiliation, embarrassment, and shame all admixing into an imbroglio of dire consequences looming ahead. Your stomach is in knots.

There are murmurs of sympathy from the others when they eventually make their way back into the pseudo-compound, but you notice none of it. Eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete. Shoulders up to your ears. Cheeks stained the colour of the Russian oligarch you gunned down the night prior.

Nile is nowhere to be found. You're no longer the wet-behind-the-ears Rookie, barely of legal age, as you clamber through the ranks in a spiteful, feverish effort to prove yourself. Now, a fully fleshed adult: moulded by your determination and grit to persevere.

You're the little girl pushed to the pavement. Skinned knees, blistered palms. Drenched in rain, and told you're not enough.

"Fuck me," comes the slurred drawl of Soap. You flinch.

"Yeah," you agree.

No words need to be said. You're done. Over. You stroke the barrel of your rifle, and wonder if you'll be forced into an office job, running the numbers, working in a barren cubicle that sinks of fresh paper and ink. The only action comes from Martha's affair with Josh in Finance.

"Y'know…," he adds, because apparently, some words need to be said. Your gaze flickers toward him. He leans against the metal pillar, arms folded. "Never seen the Lieutenant speechless before."

You let out a whimper. Fucked, royally, of course–Soap only confirms what you already know. What you've known the moment you looked up, a stupid little smirk on your stupid little face, and saw the meagre amount of respect you clobbered together from your Lonewolf–actions have consequences and if it were you or the mission, don't even bother asking what his choice is Lieutenant being summarily flushed down into the depths. Obliterated because you couldn't keep your stupid little mouth shut.

Because you heard ugly and deformed and immediately thought of smoke. Ashes. Gasoline. Gunpowder. Firm biceps that leapt at your touch–the only man to do so when you feigned annoyance and reluctantly felt them up–and the velvet steel of his bulk. Your hands didn't fit around the thick of him. It made your head dizzy. Made your heart ache. Heat throbbing between your legs in a way that most men never even accomplished with you spread out and willing. And–

Eyes darker than the ocean, framed by ashen lashes that fluttered when he glanced down at you, brushing over the coal smeared around his face.

You thought of him–that stupid Cockney mouth and those stupid jokes–and how – how stupid he makes you, and you –

Stupid.

Full stop. End. Done. Fin.

Maybe, you can grovel for transfer. Please don't kick me out completely, I've done so much to simply prove myself – more than most of the men here because I've had to, and I don't want to lose it all because I'm–

"Stupid." You spit the word like a curse.

Beside you, Soap huffs.

"Ain't the only one, bonnie."

Shame blisters your cheeks, and the burn of it makes you a coward. Weak.

You spend the rest of the day idling away in your makeshift quarters (a closet, really) in the compound loaned by the government who requested your aid. Stiff-limbed, you lay back on the cot, and try to commit everything around you to memory.

Noises from the men downstairs. Chatter and laughter. Loud and raucous. The heady scent of testosterone is thick in the air, mixing with the cloying tang of cigarette smoke, cigars, and the bitter taste of gun oil. Kerosene rich, and stifling.

The bed is lumpy, but in the middle of nowhere luxury is hardly needed when you're making a massacre of men who want to start a war. It's far more than you'd gotten before. Alvarez jokes, saying at least it isn't the ground. You're inclined to agree.

Your gear sits in the corner, tightly packed as it had been when you'd first arrived, and dropped it there. You never unpack your things. Experience gives you the foresight to know it's useless, dangerous. Your location can be slipped at a moment's notice. Gunfire ripping through the metal on a whim.

Ghost never unpacks, either. Soap. Most of the men here don't.

But now you wish you had.

The pile of it feels like an omen as it sits, mocking you; ready to go when you're given the boot.

You wrench your eyes away from it when the salty burn of tears you haven't shed since Porthmadog rear. It's fine. You clench your fists into tight balls by your side. It'll be okay. You'll get on–your experience and insight make you a desirable name to have; someone lusted after when they needed intel only you managed to wiggle out, and get. Another team will be easy to find once the politicians paying for them read about your exploits.

On paper, anyway.

Nile is a name that makes their fingers spasm.

You, however, are a name that makes them hesitate.

You'll have to start at the bottom again. Kissing the gravel with your palms once more; struggling to find your foothold along the chossy that wants you weak. Wants you broken, and docile. Obedient.

Ghost never asked that of you.

He looked at you, hands curled into half-moons by your side, eyes unwavering as you glared at the man backing the mission, and ground out your accomplishments like you were spitting in his face.

"I don't know…" he started, hesitating; his eyes flickering down the length of your body. Too small compared to the men they'd seen before you. Too fragile. Giving.

All at once, you were back in Porthmadog. Salt on your cheeks. In the air. Your throat. Gravel digging into your palms. Broken down into a crushed shell with nothing inside. It was the day you realised you were empty. Hollow. Nothing. Vacant. A vacuum.

Worthless.

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? Ghost speaks for the first time, and your eyes find his through the palpable cloud of rejection. So, what've you got to lose, soldier?

Soldier. Not girl, not Dame, not Duchess, Princess. Soldier.

You square your shoulders, eyes blazing. Everything, you vow. All the substance you pushed inside of the barren landscape of who you once were, filling it with purpose, and dignity. A reason to live. A reason to be. Everything.

His head tipped back. The whites of his eyes were fuller under the flushed lamp on the desk.

Inside, you could almost glimpse that same emptiness you found when they'd broken you into pieces, and nothing spilt out.

"A'right." He nods. "Welcome to the team."

The team. The patchwork family of people far too unhinged to fit into the rest of the world. Names and faces came and went. Many were lost to the effort, to the cause. Time to mourn took place outside of this microcosm when no one was around to see you break.

You'll miss them. It rings out in the hollow gap between your rib and your heart, an aching sting that has your hands spasming around the sheets to stem the sudden hurt. Fuck, you'll really miss these goddamn idiots.

And Ghost, too.

The prickly leader who says he'd sacrifice all of you if it meant finishing the mission, but still throws himself into the fire so none of you gets burnt. The man who bites at your heels, snaps at your attempts to get closer, but brushes his fingers along the seam of your arm, chin jerking toward the only closet in the compound where he'd dropped your cot.

Up there, soldier.

He's a bastard of the worst kind. Surly, mean, and gruff around the edges, but he's a good man despite what he says. He's a great leader–the best, undoubtedly, that you've ever had. That you will have.

And you might be a little bit in too deep already. Washed out to sea in the middle of a hurricane, and left floundering as waves crashed over you in the form of a brutal, off-limits affection for a man who keeps everyone at a distance.

Maybe, this is for the best. Leaving here now, when these feelings are simply tugging at you, and not yet dragging you under. It might be a better alternative than being discovered with your head under the waves, and your lungs filled with salt from the sea.

It's better this way, then.

The call comes hours later. The compound is empty. Silent. Your comm rings, and it feels like a guillotine being hoisted into position.

Right.

You haul yourself out of the cot, and go meet your end.

You will yourself not to demure under the heavy slate of his eyes, but it's futile. You wilt, pathetically submissive to this behemoth of a man. Face downcast, shoulders hunched.

"Let's not fuck about, alright?" the gritty timber of his voice makes your chest shudder.

You nod. Sharp, and deep. Dutiful soldier. You brace yourself for it. He won't draw it out. He isn't the type.

But you falter when his hands tug on the end of his mask.

"Keepin' it warm, huh?" He asks, but you know by the tone alone that it's rhetorical.

"Sir, I–" you falter, stammering into a terse silence. What excuse do you have?

"Well," he asks, lifting his head. Eyes brand your body. The command is clear. "Aren't you comin' to take your seat, Rookie?"

You sputter. Shattering. The world as you know it flips on its axis. Upside down and wrong.

It's a joke. It has to be. A cruel one. A bad dream that will leave you in aching shambles when you wake, stealing with it a piece of yourself that you'll never reclaim. Another etch in the exterior of who you are. A fracture.

"S-sir–," you gasp, choking on the word when his hands lift, pulling up the bottom of his mask until a full, pink mouth is revealed to you. "What–"

"It's gettin' cold, now."

Seeing him speak is blindsiding. You're so used to painted jowls moving, a mockery of bared, white teeth, and a warped jawbone. This is – this is too much. This is –

Not good.

Ghost doesn't seem bothered at all when he settles, leaning on the back of the desk, eyes burning through you. Bulging forearms cross over his massive chest. The ripple of ink flexing, breathing, with his impatience that thrums in the air like a heartbeat.

"Best hurry up." His tongue–his fucking tongue; blood-red and wet –flicks out, gliding over chapped lips.

"Lieutenant–," his title is a strangled wince from the depths of your bewilderment, flavoured with uncertainty. "This is–is a joke, yeah?"

His head tilts. "Do I look like the joking type?"

And that's such a misleading question. So utterly stupid, you choke a little on a bark of hysterical laughter.

"How am I supposed to answer that?"

"Or were you joking, soldier?"

The breath sucked in between clenched teeth is audible.

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps in response. "Then stop muckin' about and get over here if you want it."

If you want it.

He addresses the power imbalance by placing the choice in your hands. By giving you the freedom to decide what to do with this. Take the step, or leave his office, and never speak of this moment again.

If you stay– sit on his face –you're not entirely sure how you'll handle being around him afterwards. Will it be a–a thing? A one-off?

And could it just be a one-time thing for you? Once you have him so intimately, can you forget it, move on? Go back to the pining. The slow descent into an inescapable chasm where you have feelings– blasphemous –for your Lieutenant. For Ghost.

But could you just walk away from this?

You don't know. Neither question has a clear answer, and you're once again treading frothing waters. Left to sink or swim all on your own.

Ghost says nothing while you mull it over, but there's a weight in his gaze that makes your stomach prickle with want. A heaviness inside the inky black of his stare that makes your thighs squeeze together, pussy aching with need.

The choice is pretty obvious.

Your hands drop to your trousers, fingers peeling off the buttons.

For once, your eyes never leave his.

For the first time, Ghost is the one to look away.

His tongue slides out again when you wiggle out of your pants, thumbs crooked in the band of your panties, until you're bared before him. Your trousers pooling at your ankles. Panties caught on your calves.

His swallow is a gunshot. It clicks in his throat.

"Christ, Princess."

You step out of them, licking your lips. "No muckin' about."

His eyes darken at your words. "Get the fuck over here, then."

"Is that an order?"

"Affirmative, soldier."

With your approach, he sinks to his knees on the floor, eyes only for you. His breath is haggard when he catches a glimpse of your cunt when you're less than an arm length away from him, eyes fixed on your mound.

"M'gonna touch you, now." His head lifts, stare bores into you.

The brass in his voice makes your belly tingle, makes heat bloom inside of you. It has you whimpering your consent, and the moment it leaves your throat, his hands–fever hot and rough–are on you.

They settle, heavy and firm, on your hips, pulling your stomach into his face. The plastic of his mask digs into your skin when he presses his covered nose above your mound, breathing in deeply.

His eyes flutter shut. Ashen lashes brush over the bulge of his mask where it sits, piled up, on the bridge of his nose. You want to reach out, and touch. Slip your fingers through his hair. Cup his jaw. You want to press your mouth against his, and taste the flavour of his tongue. You want, you want –

His eyes snap open. Black holes. Unfathomably deep, and quivering around the edges.

"C'mon, Princess," his voice sounds like it was wrenched through barbed wire, smokey and thick. "Kept it nice and warm for you."

You can't stop the shiver that rockets down your spine at his tone, dark and primal. He looks at you, and you feel like a meal. A lavish banquet in face of a man starved.

"Fuck, Ghost–" you moan, your hips jerking in his hold.

"Simon," he rasps, tongue flicking over to taste the skin of your mound. You feel the knick of teeth, grazing and blunt, and it almost wrecks you. He hadn't even started, and your knees are practically knocking together; cunt dripping slick down your thighs.

His hand glides down the curve of your flesh until he meets the seam of your legs. "Spread 'em, pet. I wanna see your pretty cunt."

Fuck–

Your knees quiver, almost giving out under you at the base tone, drenched in the slick coil of want, hunger. He's there, hands firm and unyielding on your body, a low chuckle falling from his lips when he catches the shake in your legs.

"Little fawn is just achin' for it, ain't you?"

"Please, Simon –" he pulls your thighs apart, peering at the apex where your glistening sex is waiting for him.

He buries his head in your belly, groaning at the sight of you–all pretty and pink for him, and so wet he can see where it leaks out, drenching your flesh.

"Fuck, pet," he grinds the words out from between clenched teeth, inhaling deeply as if he can't get enough of your scent. "You're gonna make a mess outta me, aren't you?"

You've never heard him sound so excited before. The tremble in his voice is enough to keel you over, sending you toppling down into an inescapable abyss where his eyes brand your flesh, and his mouth devours you whole.

Your hands fall to his shoulders. The plea you utter is painted in the colour of desperation, and it makes his eyes flutter again, makes them spume with that white-hot desire, that dark promise of how much he's going to ruin you.

He takes one last breath, nose pushed against the bottom of your mound, as close to your pussy as he can get, and he moves.

One of the things you've never really understood was how a man so massive managed to move the way he did. Agile, lithe. Like his body was elastic. Liquid.

He's on the floor, mask pulled up high until his nose and mouth are bared to you, and then he's beckoning you forward with a crook of his finger. His eyes burn like wildfires when you tremble down beside him–all of your honed, practised grace dissolving into nothing with just a flick of his too-red tongue wetting his lips for you.

You fumble, pussy clenching with the thought of having his mouth on you–soon, so soon; and yet, not nearly quick enough–and settle before him, kneeling by his head.

"C'mon," he snarls, the bite in his tone blistering.

It has you whimpering, cunt spasming at the urgency, the impatience, in your once-cold leader. Distant, unshakable. You've never seen him so eager, nearly driven mad by the frustration of not already having your weeping slit on him, the taste of you on his tongue.

You've never sat on someone's face before. When you tell him this, his eyes shudder, blunt teeth digging into his lower lip to keep the filthy groan from rolling out.

You can't say shit like that, he grouses, his hands gripping your hip, pulling you closer.

He helps you settle over him, thighs spread over his head, ass resting on his chest.

His eyes are glued to your cunt as it opens up for him.

There is a war raging inside of you, one that taints the room with the scent of ichor. It fuels you, makes you bite your lip, coy and playful, and notch your knees further apart until you're bared, fully, to him. Fingers slipping over the hem of your shirt, hiking it up so he can see all of you. Teeth sink into the end of it, keeping it up as your hands drop–one to your covered nipple, the other to your soaked pussy. Two fingers glide over your mound, your clit sitting in the V. You spread them slowly, splitting your folds apart.

Your cunt pulses with the vibrations of his chest as he groans again, low and deep, at the sight of you spread out before him. A breath away from his lips.

It feels like a battle when his hand grips your flesh until it bubbles between his fingers. You'll be bruised when he's finished–a mosaic of black and blue and purple and yellow; a palette startlingly similar to his own–and it's the notion of his mark on your body, the proof of that his indomitable man, this untouchable entity, was between your thighs, gazing at you as if he wanted nothing more than the pink folds of your swollen slit on his tongue.

You shiver. Pleasure stroking through your body as your knuckles graze your clit.

You're not submissive to anyone–can't afford to be in this world–and you feel the swell of that intoxicating confidence return to you, the incipient spume of what made them liken you to an apex predator, one who hunted human men for sport pooling inside of you.

Does he see it when his lids lift, eyes seeking yours instantly. Does he read in the list of your head? The flutter of your lashes. You drop your shirt. Your hand falls to the side of his face, the brush of his skin on your fingertips somehow more intimate than this. He's warm. Feverish. You burn, too.

"Is my seat ready?" You purr, belly filling with victory when his eyes twitch, lowering back to your aching cunt.

"Always," he grunts, a soft sound polluting the word with the noxious promise of more.

You shudder, panting, now as you rock forward onto your knees, arched over his mouth.

Ghost's hands settle on the outside of your spread thighs, fingers gripping your flesh. He tugs, harsh and demanding, and you quickly settle, body turning into malleable polymer in his burning hands. He manoeuvres you until your pussy is right where he wants it, eyes flickering up, catching your glossy gaze. He holds it, lashes fluttering as he inhales, deep and long, and then breathes it out through his mouth, warm breath ghosting over your exposed, slick cunt.

"Well?" He drawls, the word nearly shredded and raw when it slips out of his throat. "You gonna take your seat, pet?"

You shudder again, shoulders tensing so tight, it aches. Pet. Pet. Pet. Fuck –

"Yeah," it's a whisper, a gasp. Needy and quivering.

Your hand moves from his face, fingers chilled without his warm skin against them, and you settle it on the desk beside you, muscles in your thighs straining as you slowly position your sopping wet cunt over your Lieutenant's waiting mouth.

His lips brush the seam of your pussy, and the groan he lets out rumbles over your flesh. Liquid pleasure blooms. He hasn't even touched you yet, and you're already aching for release. Already inching toward that precipice.

When you're close enough, he pulls; glueing you to his mouth. He wastes no time before diving in.

His tongue laves over your drenched folds, dipping inside your swollen pussy to dance over your aching clit, your throbbing hole. You press your wrist to your mouth, biting down hard to stifle the moans that threaten to spill out–somehow more taboo than having your Lieutenant eating your pussy out like he's starved for it.

Pain blooms on the fat of your ass cheek, your surprised gasp swallowing the sound of his hand smacking your flesh.

"I want to hear you," he growls into your cunt, wrecked and drunk off your taste. His words are slurred, accent thick and heavy. Almost incoherent.

His eyes are pits. Little black holes. The pupil completely eclipsed his irises. Desire spumes.

When you pull your hand away, settling it on the corner of the desk instead, he flashes his approval, and then buries his face back into you. His tongue is demanding as it licks over your folds, circling your throbbing clit.

Liquid pleasure seeps from the tip of his tongue to the base of your spine, where it pools into a molten puddle of bliss. It's good. No, it's better than that. It's –

Your head drops back, hips rutting into his mouth, chasing that euphoria his tongue brings when it toys with your flesh, then slips down, pushing into your drenched, fluttering hole. He fucks you with just the tip, groaning when your hips cant into his face, smearing your wetness all over his chin, jaws. He'll be drenched in your slick by the time this is over.

He's still your superior. Still your boss, technically, but fuck –

Your hand drops from the desk, sliding into the fabric of his mask until a fistful sits in your grasp. A tug makes his eyes snap open, darting up to meet yours. Is this okay? you want to ask, but the question is swallowed by the filthy groan he lets out into your cunt when you pull a little harder, accidentally snatching the hair beneath.

It's good, then. You pull a little more. His mouth drops, panting into you.

You whine when he stops, hips bucking into his mouth. "Please, please, don't stop–"

"Fuck, Princess," he slurs. "That's it. Ride my face, c'mon."

You're a good soldier. So, so good. You could never deny a command from your superior officer.

It's clumsy at first–hesitant. A slow roll of your hips, too afraid of smothering your Lieutenant, and having to fess up to being the one to murder him with your cunt keeps you from pushing your core into his face, taking your pleasure. You want to, though. Want to so bad your thighs quiver with the effort of holding back.

The room is filled with the sticky slick sounds of your sopping centre dragging over his eager mouth. Breathless pants spill from your throat at the obscene pleasure that burrows into your core.

And his groans.

God, his noises are enough to make you whimper. Filthy growls into your aching pussy as he eats you up, as if he can't get enough of your taste. As if he's parched and your wetness is the first drink he'd had in years.

It rumbles through the slick, softness of his tongue, and straight into your clit. The vibrations make your head numb, fuzzy, until you're stupid off the way he devours you whole.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes into you–voice reverent as his molten tongue slips inside again, as if he can't get enough of it. "Gimme this pretty lil'pussy. C'mon… yeah, that's it…"

His voice is muffled when your hips rock faster against him, but the praise in his tenor has you shamelessly bucking into his mouth, against his tongue. The sounds wrenched from your throat are wonton, and needy, a breathless plea for more. Fuck, so much more –

His tongue parts your folds, gliding through the drenched slick until he's pressing the tip into your aching hole, splitting you apart. It pushes into you–quick flicks, a pistoning motion; a facsimile of what you want his cock to do to you so badly. It has you keening. Has you riding his face, unbothered whether or not he suffocates between your thighs so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with that sinful fucking tongue that has you singing, has your eyes rolling back in your head, reaching so far you can see the cosmos.

It's a deep, toe-curling pleasure. The dangerous kind–the one that teases, that makes dark promises against your core about how badly it'll mess you up, get you hooked on the taste of it, and then absolutely delivers. The kind of bliss that has your stomach clenching, roiling with molten heat that happens too fast, you barely have enough time to warn him before you're begging for it, whining for the thickness of his tongue inside of your throbbing cunt.

His fingers bruise your thighs when they grip your flesh between his fingers, dragging your puffy, drenched pussy over his mouth to suckle on your aching clit until Nirvana flashes behind your eyelids. A whiteout so divine, you nearly slip into him when your knees give out.

His responding grunt sends pleasure blistering through your core when you lose yourself in the rasp of his tongue sweeping over your weeping slit.

Ghost's hand leaves your thigh as you tremble through the shockwaves sputtering out, leaking molten bliss through each synapse, each nerve, until you're moaning, shameless and desperate with the release that bludgeons through you.

The world dissolves into white noise. The buzz of it rings in your head as you break apart, ground, once more, down to atoms and molecules that burst with the undulating wave of molten euphoria that drags over you.

The white static in your head fades in a gradual ebb and flow as the world slowly pieces itself back together again.

His mouth hasn't stopped.

He rides you through it all, tongue laving over you as you clench around nothing but the phantom thought of how good his cock would feel inside of your soft, fluttering walls.

You pant, heaving for air, and grip the edge of the desk tight when his insistent licks become too much.

"Simon," you whine, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't slow.

His tongue drags through your folds, thrusting back into you. You clench around the thick muscle, whimpering as whips of pleasure spark through your core once more.

It's too much, too intense; the pleasure is battered into you until you're forced to accept it, forced to take the bliss he flicks into you with a quivering gasp, and trembling thighs.

He's not done with you. The taste wasn't enough.

You lean back, almost desperate to get away from that greedy mouth that consumes you, but the slick sound from behind you makes you pause.

Pleasure rolls through you again; a molten pulse of agonising want, pulling taut and snapping against you like a rubber band.

He's touching himself.

To the taste of you. To the feeling of your pussy drenching his face.

Fuck. Fuck –

You peer over your shoulder, whimpering when you catch sight of his furious strokes over his hard, weeping cock. The tip is flushed blood-red, leaking spend all over the mushroomed head, and down the long, thick length of him. Your thighs snap together, knees pressed taut to his ears.

He grunts into you but doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. His tongue fucks into you at the same pace as his almost brutal strokes. Thick prepend puddles around the base of him, soaking his trousers, his hands. His fist.

"Fuck, Simon," you purr, too blissed, too far gone, to think properly. "You're so big." You grind down against him, eyes fixed on his hand. "I want you inside me. I want you fuck my pussy with your fat cock–"

He makes noises against you that sound like a wounded animal–low bellows into your swollen lips, groans of a starving man–and his relentless devouring of your cunt has your belly fluttering with the lashing of pleasure spooling in your core. It's everything–the hungry sounds he makes as he consumes your taste; the furious, almost desperate way he fists his throbbing cock in his hand, hips jerking into the tight seal of his palm as if he was imagining how the clutch of you would feel around him.

He could have taken his pleasure in reciprocity. Had you on your knees, sucking him off until he came down your throat. He could have bent you over the desk, and fucked into you like he so clearly wants.

He could've had you any way he wanted; he put you in any position he desired, and you would have gone willingly, eagerly.

But he doesn't.

His mouth glues to you like he can't get enough, like he doesn't want to stop, and he takes his pleasure from the taste of you alone.

It's –

It's so agonisingly hot.

The mask is rough between your fingers when you grip it tight, rolling your hips against his mouth–a tease of how you would ride him if he let you–and the sight of him, hips battering into his hand when you move, sinful groans whispered into your slit, sends you plunging into those depths once more.

It takes you by surprise: the orgasm is ripped from you, stolen by the sight of his cock twitching, spitting out ropes of cum all over his hand, his stomach.

You keen, toes curling as he squeezes every last drop out, panting into you as he rides himself through it, nose pressed taut to your raw clit, swollen and so sensitive it hurts.

He grounds out your name, a wrecked whisper into your pulsing slit, and the sound of it has your head dropping, gaze cresting down to gaze at him.

Simon's eyes are lidded. Heavy. All black. Endlessly so. They flicker up, as if he can feel your stare, and the glazing of pleasure in those slate-grey eyes makes you lose your footing once more, hurtling over the edge of a precipice too steep to climb out of.

A chill grazes your spine. Fuck. You're fucked. You're absolutely, utterly, irrevocably fucked.

He's a mess, absolutely drenched. Slick with your wetness, and covered in his own cum.

You hate how enticing he looks.

You sit on the ground, knees pressed together, watching him as he cleans up, wiping his hand on his shirt, and then dragging the hem up to his mouth.

The muscles in his thick abdomen make you squeeze your thighs together, a low throb brimming up at the sight of his inked, bulky flesh. Fuck. He's good-looking. Maybe. You only saw a peak of his face. A glimpse of his chest. But God, it's enough.

He could be a troglodyte under there, with just a handsome chin, and full pink lips, a long, curved nose, and you wouldn't care.

You'd gladly sit on his ugly mug any day.

He releases the bottom of his filthy shirt, and tugs the ends of his mask down. You wonder if he still smells you under there. If it whets his appetite as much as the thought of it does yours.

There are things you want to say, questions you want to ask, but they slip, reluctant, and–for the first time since Porthmadog– fearfully into the recesses that broke open when you'd said those stupid words. When you came face to face with the hideousness of wanting a man who wasn't allowed to want you back.

Simon– Ghost, now; Lieutenant–is an amalgamation of every bad decision. He's wrong and off-limits personified.

It's not that he's a bad man. Far from it. If there were any good men left in this world, then he was undoubtedly one of them.

But he's an illicit drink. Ambrosia. A forbidden elixir.

He's a man you're not allowed to want—a man you're not allowed to touch, to covet, to need.

It's all moot. Rendered out into ashes, dust. You can't have him.

You turn away when he straightens out. Ghost has the uncanny ability to read you unlike anyone else. He'll see this moment of weakness when your defences are in shambles.

"Y'alright?"

Your chest thunders at the rawness in his voice. "Y-yeah…"

"Good," he murmurs, hands falling to his sides, shoulders straight.

You pull yourself together. Try to, anyway, but it's hard when he's staring at your sticky thighs when you shakily stand up, and wrench your pants on.

"Hey," he calls, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. It makes you tense; the blistering sting of rejection is already there in the periphery.

"Yeah?"

He's quiet for a moment, and you risk a peek over your shoulder. It's –

Well.

It's fleeting. There for a second, and then gone the next. Barely a flicker. Had you not spent a whole year in the desert with him dodging scorpions, and men with machine guns and a lust for blood, you might have missed it.

But it was there. You saw it in passing.

His resolve seals over the fissure. His eyes are blown black and distant.

"We move out tomorrow."

You respect the fact that he doesn't press, doesn't push. He doesn't ask if you're good, if you're okay. Doesn't try to hash things out when you have death looming over you in a few short hours. He compartmentalises. Draws a thick delineation in the sand, and picks a side. Instant. Effortless.

Right.

Your fist quivers. You shove it in the pocket of your trousers.

When you look up, the gleaming gaze of a crocodile lurking in the murky waters stares back.

"Roger that, Lieutenant."

And you leave. It's simple. Effortless.

(Another hole in the veneer. Nothing leaks out.)

A week later, and the world around you is at peace once more. Mission: successful.

You keep your feelings a tightly guarded secret, and tuck them inside your ribs for safekeeping, unwilling to let them go quite yet.

You're a dutiful soldier. A professional. You look him in the eye, and don't flinch. You face the men around you, and pretend you don't know what Ghost sounds like when he grunts your name in pleasure. He, in turn, acts as if his breath doesn't carry the taste of you. As if you don't linger behind his front teeth; piquant and damning.

It's a dance.

The choreography is new, but the rhythm is the same. You follow the beats, and let him lead you around the ballroom until the cracks inside have been plastered over. Something normal settles–or, rather: something as close to normal as you can get when you can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin.

Soap looks on with something a bit too keen in his eyes, but mercifully says nothing at all. He isn't the type to pry–least of all when it comes to Ghost.

The others pick at it like a scab, watching it peel and bleed for their amusement. To them, nothing happened. You got reamed out, reprimanded, and that's all. A slip of the tongue; a joke gone too far. It's nothing new. Stuck in a foreign country with men trying to kill you at every corner, tempers fly. Fists, too.

When the dust settles, all is forgotten. New again.

They hear you call out to Ghost over the comm, and when he responds back–tone pinched and gruff like it always is–they know it's done. Dealt with.

Sometimes, they mock you.

Never in front of him, of course: not when the last man to do so, tapping his chin with a toothy grin, and a singsong, gotta seat for you right here, doll falling from his lips, was met with the brunt of his Lieutenant's anger. Scathing words that slash, deadly and sharp, pointed enough to vivisect a man clean through the gut.

"I hope you have a brain in your skull to use instead of just that tiny pecker in your trousers, because if that's the only one you got, I think it's safe to say we're all fucked, aren't we?"

And with that, it's over. Done.

The world goes back to shades of espionage and counterterrorism. Games of poker between putting a bullet in a man's head. A drink after cutting the throat of a shady politician. Drenched in blood. Dressed in metals.

When the mission finishes, you find yourself staring at your bags already packed up in the corner, and wonder if you'll ever unpack them one day.

(You wonder if he ever will, either.)

It's Soap who knocks on the door. "Wheels up in twenty."

"Roger."

Soap doesn't usually linger, but today he hesitates.

You lift your chin and meet his pinched expression.

"Alright, bonnie?"

The bags mock you. Filled to the brim with things that should be a necessity, but haven't been used in years. It's bursting. Chock full. Pushed to its mettle. And yet, decidedly empty at the same time.

A picture of what you do, what you are.

Your head lists to the side. "I think so."

His nod, too, is sharp and deep. A soldier, a brother in arms.

"Hey… you, uh… what did you mean by–um." You falter. It's your turn to hesitate.

"What?"

"Before, you know… with Ghost."

The confusion slips deftly into understanding. And then a distinct grimace. "Why?"

"Curious, is all."

There is a weight in his stare, too, but it's different from your Lieutenant's. Less intense. Invasive. Soap looks at you like you're an idiot. A wet-behind-the-ears rookie nursing a crush on the one man who is firmly off-limits. And really, that's what you are, in a sense.

In that single degree of separation, you think you find the substance you were looking for all along. You think it's been there the whole time. Mocking you like the bags in the corner. Untouched. Unnoticed. Waiting.

You suck in a breath at the thought.

It's not enough. Not yet. You need to know–

You do what you’re good at. You gather the intel.

Soap shakes his head. An imperceptible movement, almost missed.

But you catch it.

"Bonnie," he says, heavy. His shoulder sags against the door frame. Then he sighs. Shakes his head. "There are very few people out there that can distract him from a task. From a mission."

Your heart is in your throat, featherlight. The wings of a small bird preening its plumage.

Your breath shudders out of you.

Mission, you think–

"Better know what you're gettin' into."

You smile, wide and bright. Bigger than any you'd carried with you in Porthmadog. "I think I do."

He always sits alone on the plane unless he needs to go over the game plan, or discuss positions with others. Head always turned. Eyes shuttered, fixed out the window.

He never looks up. Never moves.

You think about that thing you saw. The vague glimmer in his eyes. It's the bolstering confidence you need, the one that carries you.

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? It propels you forward–a mantra, a gospel–and you use it, now, in this sleepy jet that reeks of men, gunpowder, and sweat. They're all riding high on the success of a victory–one with no casualties on your side: a rarity–and most of them are out cold, or blubbering over finally going home to their family.

It's an earned break. Deserved.

You don't know what to do with it. Where to go. Home hadn't felt like home since you sunk your palms into the pavement, and stained the gravel with your blood. Years on the move, living in the shadow, has reduced the idea to a whim, an evanescent thing. You don't quite mourn its loss, but you miss the compunction that used to sit low in your belly when you turned your back to the place, and shouldered your duffle bag.

Now, it's just another city on the list of many.

His head lifts when you approach. Your heart stammers, featherlight, and heavy as a paperweight.

You find his eyes over the pews that separate you.

Slate. Charcoal. Black holes.

You wonder if he'll tear you apart if you get too close.

Your fingers ache to find out.

"Rookie," he grouses, hoarse from the meagre sleep the night prior. It's a bland acknowledgement in itself, but his look alone belies the nonchalance in his greeting. There's a question there.

You have one, too.

The sun crests over the plane when it rises, drenching him in ochre. Your smile feels a little too full and a touch too wobbly, when it quirks on your lips.

His shoulders ease. Eyes drop, lidded and heavy. Unguarded, disarmed, for the first time in years.

You think if he could, he'd be smiling, too.

"Is this seat taken?"

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