#but is it truly pain if the other doesn’t know about it?

[asarigg]

About: Part 3

DEVELOPMENT OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP. PATH TO HEALING: part 3

Overall, I think they’ve dealt with the process and development of Koujaku’s trauma and healing in a pretty decent, kind and nice way, which is exactly what he needed. Koujaku kept everything to himself, locked in a cage where he was alone, immersed in agony and loneliness, without counting on anyone and simply ignoring his fears and traumas hoping that with time they would heal. But the path to healing is not achieved with time alone. Facing his traumas is not comfortable, it doesn’t feel secure, it doesn’t give him peace, he can only see his still bleeding wounds, and a reflection in the mirror of a body marked for life. He acts as if they’re not there, maybe thinking that the wounds will scar by hiding them under a layer of optimism, he gets used to living with the pain and makes it stand in the background, but it doesn’t disappear.

The healing process is complex, continuous, and nonlinear. When you think you’re getting better, in a few seconds you can fall back into that pit of darkness and pessimism. The solution is neither simple nor immediate. Being honest about your struggle and your vulnerabilities is important, so is the support you give and receive from others, facing and working through your pain instead of resigning yourself to living with open wounds. The shield that Koujaku used when interacting with his family no longer works because he’s no longer in the same situation, but that is how he has become accustomed to living and he continues to use the same cover, without breaking the cycle.

It’s only once Koujaku opens up, maybe not completely but it’s a first step, about his past and the reasons why he was so distant that things start to go better. Aoba could have forced it out with Scrap, yeah, but that’s not how he wants to do things, he wants it to truly be Koujaku’s will. When Aoba scraps him, it’s impossible to fail if you don’t do it on purpose because it’s so simple, because it’s when he’s letting Aoba into his world that he feels confident about what he has to say to help him. If he doesn’t let himself be loved, supported by other people and continues to insist on doing things alone, pushing Aoba away from him believing it was the best choice, that’s when Aoba feels so distant from him that he doesn’t know if he really knows him, he doesn’t know what to say anymore. Only then you can fail.

It’s probably more confusing in Japanese considering kanji and that they can be read very differently, specially if it’s mixed with a bunch of other kanji like it happens when you choose the “wrong” options, but still. If you payed attention, you know what you have to say.

What’s great about this is that things don’t get better just like that, things aren’t fixed with magic or quick and simple solutions, and they show you, they don’t skip that and pretend it happens off screen. Scrap almost feels like it doesn’t really do anything, we’ve already seen that it doesn’t affect that much whether Koujaku turns into a beast or not, that’s up to him. The only thing Scrap does is somehow carve Aoba’s words into his mind so that he never forgets that Aoba will be there for him, whenever he needs to talk, giving him the security he didn’t have before. (Althought this is partial, and you’ll see why. The thing is that, obviously, what Aoba says is important for everyone’s scrap, but they’re very different interactions, and the moment you can choose good or bad ending varies with each character. And with Koujaku it’s literally just words, words that Aoba had already said to him five seconds before that. So these two things, it being something he already says, and something that only solves the problem partially, is why it gives this sensation of that you’re really not doing anything, it’s nothing that only Scrap can solve, I don’t know if I’m making myself clear) It “destroys” the Koujaku who held himself back, who was caged and afraid to face his tattoos. He doesn’t even try to convince him that it was not his fault, because he knows that Koujaku won’t accept that because of the way he is and would probably not be helpful, he’ll never stop blaming himself. It’s an idea so rooted into the depths of his mind that maybe not even Scrap can change that, so instead he changes his speech to something that encourages Koujaku to think about the people around him that care about him, about making up for the lives he forcefully took instead of making everyone around him suffer with his death and live a meaningful life, by Aoba’s side. In Buddhism, in order to help someone it’s believed it’s better to have a flexible mind and change your approach depending on what suits the other person’s needs. Many times Buddha statues take different forms than the classic and original, they’re adapting to the needs of the person they’re guiding.

In Re:connect when Aoba wants to wash Koujaku’s back is when he gets uncomfortable, because he’s hyper-aware of his tattoo. Of course, Aoba is aware too. He doesn’t know how much he should push on his wounds to help him vent and face them because he understands that’s something that ultimately has to come out of Koujaku, he knows that forcing things or insisting would have a rather negative result. He only pushes a little, enough for Koujaku to notice he’s there, but not so much to suffocate him, risking him closing the doors again. He wishes he could erase them by washing them, if he keeps going maybe it would work, but of course that’s just a fantasy.

Aoba mentions that if Koujaku wants to act like those scars aren’t there, he’ll do that too, but his feelings are overwhelming and bloom, and without giving it a second thought he can’t help but impulsively kiss his tattoo and scars, acknowledging them as a part of Koujaku and a sign of his persistence and his strength to stay alive and trying to give them a positive meaning, so that when Koujaku remembers them, he thinks of his kisses and his caresses rather than the pain they’ve brought him. He whispers “I love you”, but he doesn’t seem to be even saying that for Koujaku to hear, maybe a whisper to himself, as if his demonstration of love, told directly over his tattoo, could penetrate his skin, like the ink once did, and erase it. 

And for now it seems that all Koujaku wants to do is comfort Aoba when he’s about to cry, but not acknowledge his tattoos and scars himself.

But it’s later in bed when they are relaxed and Koujaku is reflecting that he finally decides to talk about his tattoos and express what he feels, out of his own free will. And how those tattoos represent his guilt, his shame, his greatest vulnerability, it’s extremely difficult and he feels that a part of him doesn’t want Aoba to touch them because it would be like dirtying him, but another part of him, the one that is recovering, does want him to touch them, because it’s part of the process, he wants to be open with Aoba, he wants him to know the truth and he wants to let himself be vulnerable in front of him. He wants to feel the affection he was neglected of, he wants to heal, he wants to change, he wants to hope.

When the haircut happens, and the cherry blossom symbolism accompanies them, such a major change in their life for me that is representative of a much bigger life commitment, tied to marriage. Aoba is practically living with Koujaku, so for me this day also symbolically marks an engagement, or even the marriage itself. It’s funny that they have such a direct confession scene, because a lot of these things happen without really saying anything, but rather showing them. Saying or making gestures that could be literally referring to something different but are constructed in a way that seems like a marriage proposal, or promising to each other.

Btw I love Koujaku’s obsession with his visible neck. Apparently women started to pull the neck of their kimono back in order to experiment with some glue on their hairstyles and it has stayed a thing ever since, especially noticeable with Geisha/Geiko. There’s always a hint of eroticism and beauty to it and of course it’s Koujaku’s brainrot, bet he salivates wanting to bite it.

[coco-loco-nut]

Eternal Sunshine

pairing: pato o’ward x reader

summary: ok, maybe you have a type. at least this time he might treat you right

masterlist requests open

——————————————

They say that in the darkest skies you see the brightest stars, that suffering is essential to growth, that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. You never believed it to be true until you met your boyfriend. He kind and funny and ridiculously handsome, and he arrived at one of your lowest points.

——

You shouldn’t be here, your mind screams at you to turn around and leave, but it’s the same one that wanted you to be here in the first place.

The track used to feel like home, for five years you got to watch your boyfriend drive and enjoy the secrecy of your relationship. You both put in a lot of effort into keeping the spark alive, even if it meant shuffling some things around. That was until he decided he to cheat on you. It was easy for him, you weren’t public so it was easy to lie that he wasn’t in a relationship. Turns out he’s been cheating for over a year.

But this isn’t Formula One, this is IndyCar. You chose this to get your fix and move on. It would be satisfying to see someone crash into Oscar, maybe he can feel the pain you felt.

“Are you lost?” a deep voice comes from beside you and you look at the man speaking to you.

“A little,” you smile nervously, you haven’t been recognized yet. Maybe you should’ve chosen a race that wasn’t right outside of L.A.

“Luckily for you, I’m an expert,” you don’t know why he seems familiar. You notice his McLaren shirt, similar to your own - except yours was a fuck you to Oscar. You stole some of his official gear when you packed your bag and left.

“Are you a McLaren fan?” you ask, trying to place why he seems familiar.

“I guess you could say that? Are you?” the man asks, and you can’t help to notice some resemblance to Oscar, but he is far more handsome.

“I, um, same. I’m new to Indy, but I’ve loosely followed the F1 team for around five years,” you choose your words carefully. Pato looks at you closer, knowing he’s seen you somewhere before. Your pass says that you have VIP access, so he doesn’t question it as you walk with him.

“I’m Pato,” your brows furrow slightly as you give him your middle name as a cover. Where have you heard that name before. Your eyes catch sight of a video screen and they widen in horror.

“This is embarrassing, you’re a driver,” you are at a bit of a loss for words, mortified at your carelessness. He has got to be so mad, you straight up lied to his face.

“And your name is actually Y/n. I’m surprised to see someone of your talents here. Especially without security,” Pato’s unoffended smile disarms you, making you mentally sigh a breath of relief.

“Sorry for all the secrecy, it used to be the only way I can attend races,. I guess my disguise didn’t work then,” your smile is bittersweet, it’s almost freeing to be at a race without worrying if your relationship is going to be put on blast.

“I understand. I’m actually a big fan myself, so I recognized your voice. I introduced Lando to your music last year,” Pato says but you know the last part isn’t actually true. He may think he introduced your music to Lando, but Lando couldn’t reveal he knew you and your music well. He was one of the very few people who knew about you and Oscar.

“That’s so cool,” even if it’s wrong, maybe even vain, you love hearing things like that. “Did you get to go to the tour last year r hen?” you follow, curious how much he truly listens to your music.

“No, I wasn’t able to make it between races and other duties. I wanted to though,” he replies, scratching his neck while contemplating if he should ask a question or not. He has you as a captive audience though, so it doesn’t hurt to.

“That’s a shame,” you realize that you’ve started walking with Pato, but no one’s stopped you yet.

“Will you be releasing new music soon?” he sees a flash of hurt in your eyes and immediately regrets asking.

“I’ve both lost and gained inspiration, so there may be something in the works sooner than expected,” Pato immediately understands your words. It was widely known that you were in a long-term relationship, but no one knew who you were dating. It seems like you are no longer in one now. You really will have to hide when that bit of news breaks.

“I’m sorry,”

“It’s okay, it’s actually good, in a way. I’m starting to get over what happened,” the last part feels like a lie, but you don’t feel as heavy as before.

“I’m sorry, you are probably busy and I’m yapping on and on. I should probably get ready for practice anyway,” Pato realizes, flushing slightly with embarrassment.

“It’s okay,” you smile and something inside you tugs at your heart at the thought of him walking away and never talking to him again. “Would you like to get drinks or something after the race on Sunday?” you ask quickly, voice slightly shaking with nerves. You watch his eyes light up before he reels himself in to act cool.

“Yeah. I’d give you my number, but I know that you will run into me soon,. Enjoy all the racing” he grins, disappearing into the crowds. You continue to walk around, finding a spot to watch the end of the IMSA practice.

You slip back into your brooding as the sounds of engines put you on edge. It used to be a sound that was a comfort.

You want to kick yourself, how could you let a man - no, a boy - play you like that. And now here you are, wide-eyed and talking to another driver. Stupid. Not only does he drive for Arrow McLaren, but he’s the reserve driver for the F1 team.

All you can think about is how Oscar and Lando would react, how Pato would react if you started something and he found out about Oscar. The words they could use to hurt you. Whore. You would be moving on quickly, but then again, so did Oscar. He moved on while you were still together. Manipulator. Even if you don’t intend on it, it would be very easy to assume that you are using Pato for revenge, as a low blow. So many more.

“Fuck,” you whisper. You have a lot to think about before the end of the weekend.

Pato was right, you run into him (literally run into him) on Sunday. You just finished and early lunch and got on a call with your agent to discuss an opportunity.

“Sorry, I gotta go,” you apologize, hanging up the call.

“When I said you will run into me, I didn’t mean literally,” the smile on his face tells you he isn’t actually mad. In fact, he seems delighted. Yet the uneasy feeling of nerves bubbles in your stomach, you can’t hurt him. You know what you have to do, you have to tell him the truth. Lay it all out and let him make an informed decision, even if it hurts you to talk about.

“Sorry, I was distracted, and I guess I still am. My agent was trying to convince to, um, you know that doesn’t really matter,” you shift your focus to the present moment.

“I’m glad I ran into you, I was going to offer a garage tour,” Pato brushes you odd behavior off and your eyes light up. The look sends a thrill down his spine and butterflies in his chest. He feels like a teenage boy talking to his crush.

“Really? I’ve never been, not even when I-,” you catch your words, quickly clearing your throat, “not even when I attended an F1 race a few years ago,” the excitement from your voice is gone. Pato can tell there is a story there, but he takes your initial reaction and runs with it. Oscar never brought you to the garage. Even Lando offered, but you both said it was too risky. Oscar never even introduced you to the team, other than Lando.

“Follow me!” he leads you through the Arrow McLaren area, and you end up back at his motorhome. Pato did make sure to take pictures during it, especially with you and his car. You don’t think twice when you follow him in and sit down.

“I kinda like this a lot more than F1, it seems more humble in a way. It’s a spectacle like all racing is, but F1 is so flashy and honestly some people wouldn’t realize if there wasn’t a race. As long as all the other entertainment is there,” you unintentionally start on a tangent. Pato realizes he can learn a lot about you by reading between the lines.

“You sound like you have a bit of experience,”

“They, uh, COTA wants me to perform at F1 grand prix. They claim I will be the biggest attraction,” you huff, you really weren’t supposed to say anything, but if anyone would understand it would be Pato. Plus, he’s in the industry and you deep down you know you can trust him.

“They aren’t wrong. I know at least Lando would rather watch you than drive,” Pato smiles cheekily, dissolving your frustration.

“He’s had a private concert before, I’m sure he’ll live if I turn it down,” you abruptly stop laughing when you realize what you revealed. Pato’s brows furrow as he processes your words, maybe you misspoke. Here goes nothing, you have to come clean now.

“Lando and I were kinda friends, we met through my ex,” you reveal some of your truth. Careful to keep some of the cards in your hand hidden. The ones too painful to share.

“Oh, that’s cool! How did your ex know Lando?” Pato asks, almost wondering how you didn’t know who he was when you met. You quickly weigh the pros and cons. If you are going to get drinks with him after the race, he deserves to at least know and make his decision from there.

“My ex is Oscar Piastri,” your voice is quiet at you look at your hands, picking at a nail. Pato observes you as his stomach drops.

“Oh, how, uh, how did you meet?” he tentatively asks, trying to get an answer but not shut you down.

“I grew up as a huge racing fan and I thought he was cute, so I messaged him and that was that. You know my music,” you watch him smile to himself and then meet your eyes.

“Well, I’m glad I’m your type then, unless it’s just Australian racers,” Pato teases and your lips quirk up, relieved that he isn’t mad.

“No, apparently just men who drive for McLaren,” you chuckle. “He um, he cheated on me, and that isn’t part of my type. Hopefully that’s a part of the Australian thing,” your voice is quieter, but not dejected. That’s as much as you are willing to give for now, somethings are still too painful.

“I think he’s stupid to do that. And to not show you off. Plenty of guys would kill to meet you, to be on your arm and the one you come home to. I know I would,” Pato reassures you as he reaches out and squeezes your hand.

“It isn’t weird?” you ask. He just shrugs, looking at you in a way that makes you like a million butterflies are in your stomach.

“It’s not like you came here searching for me. Based off of your story, I doubt you came here looking for a relationship either. Besides, I initiated our first conversation, and you just came here for… why did you come here?”

“I missed racing, and this is really close to LA,” you say honestly. “I really didn’t know who you were, by the way. I wasn’t allowed to be around the F1 team, and everything I new about the team was from Oscar, so I never really thought to ask who the reserve driver was,” you add on.

“I believe you. For the record, I think you should perform at the race. It might be therapeutic not having to hide your presence there,” Pato offers his opinion. Silently adding that it might be nice to show Oscar you don’t have to hide.

“You have a great point,” your smile sends a thrill down his spine.

“Pato!” a girl barges into the motorhome, drawing both of your attentions. “Oh my god, you’re,” she stares at you with wide eyes.

“Hi,” you stand up to greet her.

“Y/n, this is my sister, Elba,” Pato says as she tells him something in Spanish that sounds borderline angry.

“In that case, maybe we should watch the race together?” you want to get off on the right foot, especially if you want to pursue something with him.

“Really?” her eyes light up as she shoots Pato a look again. “Pato, why are you trapping her?” she asks her brother and you fight a laugh.

“I’m not-“

“I ran into him today, literally ran into him, and he offered to show me around,” you offer an explanation.

“I promise I’m much cooler than him,” she tells you. You admire their sibling dynamic, there’s clearly a deep bond for them to interact as they do.

“Why are you even here?” Pato puts an end to things before his sister steals you away.

“Making sure you are ready, you have ten minutes,” she says, walking over to you and linking your arms. Too late, Pato, you are being stolen.

“Oh shit,”

“That’s what I thought,” she hums, walking the two of you out so he can change.

“Drinks on me,” you tell her, knowing you will get along well. And you do, three drinks later you are telling her all about Oscar and even playing a sample of a new song. She happily takes in all the industry insights and background of your music. You answer most of her questions, even one’s like who your least favorite artist to work with is.

You both don’t even notice when the Arrow Mclaren team takes a picture of you laughing in their hospitality area. You only noticed after the race when your phone started to blow up.

“Everything okay?” Elba asks as you stare at your phone with a frown. You are in the safety of Pato’s motorhome, away from prying eyes.

“My publicist is freaking out. I wasn’t supposed to officially be here and being spotted with you as made the public assume things,” the pinched line between your eyebrows tells Elba just how frustrated you are.

“So you aren’t allowed to have friends,” she scoffs. Even if she can tell there is a spark between you and her brother, there’s no need to push that at the moment. A devilish smile creeps onto her face as she looks at you. “I bet those rumors are killing Oscar,” she says while watching the frustration melt into satisfaction.

“I would never use you or your brother like that, but I have to admit I like the idea,” you smile.

“Hello sister and supposed girlfriend,” Pato walks in, causing you to sit up a little. He clearly isn’t bothered by it. Secretly, he loves it, he wasn’t lying earlier about being romantically interested.

“Do your ears burn?” Elba asks, eyebrow raised like this isn’t Pato’s motorhome.

“No?”

“Hm, okay,”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize that a photo of Elba and I would cause so much trouble,” you apologize, a little embarrassed at the public’s reaction. You went from never having a public photo of you and Oscar to having articles being written about you and Pato when you aren’t even together yet.

“So I shouldn’t post the photo of you with my car?” Pato asks lightheartedly.

“Post whatever you’d like,” your words are truthful, it’s a good photo and people already know you are hanging out.

“Good, you look very cute in it,” Pato’s words cause your cheeks to flush.

“I should go, my car is here. Congrats on your podium,” you stand, sneakily leaving a slip of paper on the chair behind you.

Pato and Elba watch you disappear. Guess you aren’t getting drinks tonight.

“You really like her, don’t you?” Elba asks, watching as Pato stares at the door you left from.

“She’s different. I should be thrown off about Oscar, but she didn’t know me. She loves racing too. I want her, but I’m willing to wait,” Pato says wistfully. Elba subtly picks up the paper that you dropped.

“Well, she lefts this. Maybe it’s a good start,” Elba leaves Pato to himself.

Pato, sorry I had to leave quickly. Text me when you get to this address, 10pm…

Your handwriting is neat with the details listed at the end. A quick google search of the name tells him it’s a members-only upscale bar. It’s so exclusive it has a dress code and no address listed online.

His stomach churns with nerves as he sends a text to you letting you know he’s there. A moment later a man in a suit opens the door for him. He’s never been so nervous for a date.

“Mr. O’Ward, follow me,” Pato runs his hands nervously down his button-down, smoothing non-existent wrinkles. The tie feels tight as he steps further into the bar. Pato spots you wearing a sleek black dress with hair perfectly styled. You look absolutely breathtaking as you stand to greet him, pressing a light kiss to his cheek.

“Sorry for the formality, it’s just the best place for privacy,” you apologize.

“It’s okay. This is a really cool place,” Pato looks around, shocked at the big names sitting near him.

“I ordered some food, if that’s okay, but the waiter will be back soon for drink orders,” you tell him. relaxing into the seat.

“That’s perfect,” Pato takes a look at the menu, noticing there’s no prices.

“Don’t worry about the cost, I’ve paid for everything already,” you answer his thoughts, practically reading his mind.

“But-“

“I asked you out and invited you, you weren’t going to pay regardless,” your smile tells him to enjoy being treated so he does.

“How was your first Indycar weekend?” he asks after you order drinks.

“I enjoyed it, I think I might have a new favorite driver,”

“You mean I wasn’t your favorite in the first place?” Pato teases.

“No, it was Nico Rosberg, jury is still out if he’s moving from number one,” your eyes crinkle.

“Will that change if I show you pictures of my dog?”

“Absolutely,” you lean in to look at his phone. You may be a cat person, but you love dogs almost as much as you love cats.

Your first date turns into two, then three, then four, then nights spent together. Pato even occasionally joins you at the studio while you record your new album. The summer flies and you make some appearances at races as Elba’s friend - which isn’t untrue. Your fans connected the dots when you posted a dump that included Pato’s dog and Pato posted the photo of you with his car from your garage tour.

She joins you and Pato at COTA. You’ve spent the whole week both stressed and nervous as you practiced your set and announced your new album, eternal sunshine.

“Are you okay?” she asks as you nervously walk through the paddock.

“No, but it’s okay,” you frown, glancing at your pass. Your cream linen outfit is neutral, you didn’t even touch the Arrow Mclaren gear that Pato gifted you when packing for the weekend. He insisted that you didn’t have to accept Mclaren’s offer to be a guest on the day of your performance, but you told him that you would stick with Elba. Your PR team thought it would be a good idea too, especially since you are known to support the Indycar team.

“We can take a shot before going over,” she suggests.

“It’s not even noon,”

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs. You follow her as she leads you to a bar, ordering two shots. You’ll just drink extra water before performing tonight. It doesn’t stop the nerves pooling in your stomach as you approach the papaya area, but it does make your brain not care as much.

“Y/n!” Lando practically falls over himself running over to greet you.

“Hey Lando,” your smile is tight, glad it’s him and not Oscar, but not happy to see him this early in the day. You thought you had another hour at least.

“I’m sorry, I was going to reach out but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me,” his words fall on your deaf ears.

“Save it. If you want to apologize, keep him away from me,” your words are resolute.

“Too late,” Elba says under her breath and suddenly you wish you took more than one shot. You don’t know Pato approaching from behind you, you are honed in on the person now in front of you.

“I see you have a type,” the first words every girl wants to hear from her ex. Certainly not ‘i’m sorry’ or ‘i am the worst, you deserve better than me’. You squeeze Elba’s wrist, silently telling her to stand down before she yells.

“Right, well, he doesn’t cheat on me in my house and bed multiple times, shamelessly apologize when I walk in on it and then send photos to me together with the same girl in that bed a week later. So, I’d say he isn’t like you at all. And if you think you are my type, then you are sorely mistaken,” your eyes narrow. Lando gives Oscar a WTF look, clearly unimpressed with his teammate. He didn’t know the whole story, all Oscar told him was you broke up.

“It’s a shame no one will know who she’s talking about on her album. Except for the ones that are clearly about Pato. Trust me, you’ll know which ones those are,” Elba can’t resist herself, and you are proud of it. You probably shouldn’t have let her listen to two of the demos though.

“What?” Oscar’s eyes widen, not expecting you to tell the world about your break up. Lando is silently thrilled, he can’t wait for your new album. It’s too bad he will have to wear headphones while listening to it.

“You seriously didn’t expect me to not write about it, did you?” you raise your eyebrow. “I wrote about the good and will sure as hell write about the ugly. Be glad I respect you just enough to not name drop you,”

“Hermosa, let’s go,” Pato wraps an arm around your waist, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, gently removing you from the situation. You startle slightly, not having realized his presence.

“Just wait until she sings tonight,” Elba shoots another comment at Oscar, channeling the spite that you won’t show. Just because you are taking the high road doesn’t mean she has to.

“Elba,” Pato’s sharp voice calling back to her tells her enough and she walks away. Sending one final nasty look over her shoulder before catching up with you and Pato.

“Dude, what the fuck,” Lando turns to his teammate.

“I, she broke up with me,”

“You cheated on her. Multiple times apparently. You know what? We are not having this discussion here. Lucky enough no one was around to see this whole fiasco. Just, stay away from her,” Lando shakes his head, leaving Oscar to wallow in his thoughts.

“Hey, none of that was your fault,” Pato keeps you close, your breathes deep and shaky as you hold yourself together. He brings you into a small empty room, Elba closes the door behind you as tears streak down your cheeks. You sit on the floor, leaning against the wall.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying,” Pato crouches in front of you, thumb wiping away a tear.

“You weren’t ready to encounter him again. I’m so proud of how you handled it, and it’s okay to cry,” he reassure you, which makes you cry harder. Elba bites back a comment about the aforementioned boy, but he should be careful to not run into her again. She’s only nice when not talking to someone who hurt her friend. Pato moves to sit beside you, pulling you into his lap. He lets you cry it out, something you refused to do when you found out about Oscar’s infidelity. You’ve been so strong for so long, you’ve never given yourself the chance to feel your feelings.

“How much of it did you hear?” you tearily ask, a little ashamed that you revealed a part of the story you never told Pato. So much pain put out for the world to hear in a fit of anger.

“Most of it,” Pato answers and you know he knows.

“This is not how this weekend was supposed to start,” you rest your head against Pato’s now damp shirt. Elba stepped out to grab water for you and give you some privacy.

“No,” he agrees, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. Pato won’t vocalize it, but he’s worried about you being in the Paddock for his free practice drive in Mexico.

“Am I doing the right thing by being here? Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to perform,” your voice is thick with that post-cry sound.

“Absolutely, this was hard but I think it will help with your healing. He can’t touch you anymore, he’ll risk your fans knowing he is the one who hurt you,” Pato is reassuring himself too, it was terrifying to find you face to face with Oscar.

“Right,” your tears have stopped.

“Hey, we need to get lunch before sound check,” Elba pops in, carefully tossing the bottle of water to Pato.

“Right,” you sniff, carefully removing yourself from Pato’s hold and standing up.

“Drink this, you need to rehydrate. Fuck, and I need to go to a meeting,” Pato kisses you, letting it last a second too long before leaving you and Elba.

“I can hurt him, make it look like an accident. Then Pato can race this weekend,” Elba suggests. You know she won’t and can’t, but you crack a smile anyway.

“I don’t deserve you or Pato,” you hug her.

“Let’s fix your mascara and get out there. We’ve avoided your team this long, I don’t know how much longer we can manage,” you and Elba find Mclaren hospitality and take advantage of the drivers being in a meeting. You two are gone by the time they get there.

You make your way to the concert stage for a sound check with your band. The hot Texas heat beating down on you.

“I’m making changes to the set list,” you hand them the revised one. “We are doing three songs from the new album. Opening with True Story, then we will do The Boy is Mine and Eternal Sunshine later in the show. Maybe ending with Boy is Mine,” you tell them.

“But those aren’t your singles,”

“It’s a gift to the fans, it’ll help get hype around the album,” you lie, you just feel that they will send the message to Oscar. It’s your little piece of revenge.

“Sounds good, we will practice those later,” your guitarist says. You run through a couple of your hits so the sound levels can be adjusted, before going into a meeting with your team.

“We have an interview set up with F1 TV in half an hour. It’s some type of quiz with Hinchcliffe while doing a hot lap,” your publicist tells you as you hydrate and stretch.

“Right, well, let’s get ready,” you head to the dressing room that is air conditioned, thankfully.

“So, the rumor is that you are a big motorsport fan,” Hinch starts off the interview.

“Ever since I was a kid. I’ve been to a few grand prix before, and now I get to perform at one,” you reply, happy to talk about racing.

“Is Mclaren your favorite team then?”

“No, but I’ll never tell who is,” your playful expression is opposite to the one you wore earlier. No one can tell that you had been crying.

“Well, you’ve been a frequent guest at Indycar races. Who is your favorite driver, me or Pato?”

“I don’t think I can answer that either,” you smile, playing along with the bit.

“So it’s me. Great taste,” he accelerates off the starting line.

“I’ve always wanted to do one of these,”

“Triva while on a hot lap? We all have our own aspirations,” he takes a turn quickly and you cheer in excitement. You confidently answer his questions.

“Can we go again? Can I drive?” you ask, not wanting to unbuckle.

“Unfortunately that’s all the track time we have today,” you sadly unbuckle, giving the in-car camera a thumbs down.

“Thank you for the ride,” you tell him after getting out.

“Thank you, I don’t think I’ve had anyone tell me to go faster. Good luck on your performance tonight,” he is a little shocked at how well you handled it.

“Thank you, I’ll give you a backstage pass if you let me drive,” you say once the cameras stop filming and the mic is removed.

“Unfortunately I cannot this time. Get Pato to rent a track for you. Has he taken you on a lap yet?”

“No, he will in Mexico. Don’t tell anyone, but you are my favorite commentator,” you take your bag from an assistant and hand him a pass.

“I will be holding this over Buxton’s head,” Hinch waves the pass before you part ways. You find Elba and Pato to watch qualifying before you have to get ready for the concert. Elba leaves to get food, claiming that now is the right time while everyone else is busy on track.

“Are you nervous,” Pato asks, his fingers entwined with yours as you stare at the screen.

“A little, but I changed the set to add some of the new album,” you keep your eyes trained on the Ferrari on the screen.

“I have a request from the social media team,” your head turns to look at your boyfriend at the uneasiness in his voice. “They want Oscar and Lando to watch the concert with me, they think,”

“They think it will show team togetherness since you will already be there to watch me,” you sigh, mulling it over. “Fuck. If I say no then it makes me look like an asshole,” your frown deepens at the thought.

“Lando said he will make sure Oscar is gone by the time you get offstage,”

“No, they will want a video or picture of me interacting with them,” you run a hand through your hair and Pato regrets asking on behalf of the team.

“It’s not a big deal if you say no. I can watch from the front row with them and come backstage once you are done. Then the social team still gets what they want,” Pato reassures you with another option.

“Yeah, I think I like that more. Plus, I can sing to you easier that way,” your frown goes away as you lean into him. He removes his hand from yours and wraps his arm around you. “The pass I gave you should let you immediately come backstage, and I’ll have my team inform security to let you through,”

“You are going to kill it, I’m excited to see you onstage,”

“I’m excited too, I can shake off the rust. Oh, and Lando can come backstage with you. Since you introduced him to my music,” Pato lightly groans with embarrassment as you giggle.

“I had no idea you knew him when I told you that! It’s his fault that he didn’t tell me he knew your music,” Pato defends himself.

“Am I too late?” Nolan appears in the doorway, a little out of breath.

“Nolan?” you ask, a little like an excited puppy. You would lay down your life for him, he’s like your baby brother now.

“I couldn’t miss the concert. I tried to be here an hour ago, but the traffic is insane,” he shakes his head as he greets Pato with that weird male handshake.

“Sometimes I think you love Nolan more than me,” Pato says as you hug his teammate.

“I doooo,” you dramatically sway back in forth in the hug.

“I knew it,” Pato shakes his head lovingly. “Oh and surprise. I figured you’d like the extra support,” Pato got your team to give him an extra pass after Nolan dropped some not so subtle hints about wanting to be here.

“Hey Nolan,” Elba returns with a plate of food for you.

“Where’s mine?”

“Um, you can eat later. You aren’t going on stage in a few hours,” Elba waves her brother off.

As every minute in qualifying ticks by you increasingly get both nervous and excited. As Q3 reaches its halfway point, your phone buzzes to summon you away before the crowds start.

“You are going to be amazing, I’ll be front and center,” Pato hugs you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“I will be there too,” Nolan interjects.

“I’ll be backstage before the show,” Elba promises. You thank them and head out. You are immediately thrown into warm ups and hair and makeup.

“15 minutes,” the stage manager warns. You check your phone one last time before grabbing your water and heading to the stage.

“Good luck, you got this, you are an icon,” Elba starts to hype you up, and your laugh makes her join your laughter.

“I’m more worried for my fans, they aren’t expecting new music to be performed,” you shake your head as you are directed to a platform.

“You will smash it,” she says as she’s led to the wings. You focus on your breathing and hydration.

The lights go dark and the crowd silences. A cue tells you to start your first surprise. Your voice is alone in the dark as you start singing. You start rising in the darkness during the first gimmie love section of the intro and as soon as the platform locks into place and your beat picks up a golden light flushes the stage. The show’s begun.

Pato soaks in the vision of you up on the stage and how Oscar has to mask his shock. It didn’t take long for Oscar to realize that bad light you paint of him, the opposite of how you’d written him in the past. You send a subtle smile Pato’s way, one he returns as an eager grin.

“Dude, your girlfriend is killing it,” Lando yells over the music. You are currently singing one of your first hits, and the energy is high.

“I want her to adopt me,” Nolan agrees. Even the songs you wrote about Oscar feel directed at Pato now, and that’s a new level of hurt. The final blow comes as you end the show with your newest steamy song, and everyone know who you are singing about and to.

“Holy shit,” Pato says as he listens to your words, he hasn’t heard this one yet and it’s capital H-O-T. You strut upstage, back to the audience as you end the song. During the final word, ‘mine’, you turn your head back to look at the crowd, quickly finding Pato’s eyes and sing the word. The lights go dark, and it’s somehow more electric than your start.

“I’m actually speechless,” Lando says as Nolan grabs Pato’s shoulders, shaking him.

“Dude,” he is practically jumping. “You are her’s and she let everyone know,” Nolan says.

“Imagine having a song like that written for you, that must be so cool. Right, Osc?” Lando turns to his teammate, still mad about the recent facts he learned about. Oscar swallows, nodding.

“Yeah, that certainly seems very cool,” Oscar begrudgingly agrees.

“Mr. O’Ward and guests, your presence is required backstage,” security arrives just as expected. Oscar follows but before they reach you, the group is stopped. They couldn’t just leave him to a crowd of fans.

“Alright guys, smile,” the Mclaren admin takes a quick picture while they wait for you to finish taking off your mic pack and monitors.

Still high off of the performance, you practically jumping into Pato’s arms, not looking at who else was around. Elba trails you, a jacket in hand for when you get cold from your sweat evaporating away.

“You were incredible, mi amor,” he holds you, letting you kiss him, arms around his neck.

“Hey, we get it, the boy is yours. You literally just sang about it,” Lando jokes as you pull away from Pato. The way you two look at each is different than when you and Oscar were together. Fondness? Sure. But the look you and Pato give one another is deeper.

“I would like to bleach my eyes,” Elba agrees.

“Mind if we get a couple photos?” the Mclaren admin asks and your social team also approaches to get some. You stand between Pato and Nolan. Elba is on the other side of Pato, Lando beside Nolan, and Oscar on the other side of Lando.

“I take it you guys liked the show?” you ask, proceeding as if Oscar wasn’t there. The more you act like nothing happened and you don’t know him, the worse he will feel.

“It was incredible,” Nolan answers for the group.

“I’m glad,” you smile tiredly. The physical exhaustion of the performance hitting you. “Thank you guys for coming, I hope you do well tomorrow,” you give Nolan and Lando hugs, offering just a nod to Oscar. Fans know he doesn’t like physical touch like that, so it doesn’t seem abnormal.

Your fingers intertwine with Pato’s as you practically drag him back to your dressing room, locking the door behind you. You plop down into the comfy chair and Pato helps remove your heels.

“I have to admit, a part of me wanted to climb onto that stage and carry you off of it when you were singing to me,” Pato gently massages your calves.

“I wouldn’t have been opposed. Just wait until the album comes out,” your sly grin widens as he stands up and steps closer to you.

“Be careful with what you say, hermosa,” his voice deepens as you tilt your chin up at him.

“I can be quiet. These clothes need to come off anyway,” your breath hitches as he lifts you up, lips crashing together. His hands slide to your back, working your outfit off.

You spend the next few months laying low as you plan a short tour after your album released on Thanksgiving. You even train with Pato. It’s surprising how similar your training is to his and it keeps both of you accountable.

Everything really hits you again the first time you walk the red carpet with Pato. He’s so proud to be at your side, showing you off and supporting you. It’s nothing you’ve ever had before. He’s here when your album isn’t eligible for awards until next year, when you just have to be here for the appearance.

“Thank you for being here,” you whisper in his ear as you sit at a table, tearing up a little as your hands are joined underneath the table.

“Of course I’m here, you support me. I like being your WAG,” Pato turns towards you, feeling as if he is doing the bare minimum. “Amor, I would go anywhere for you, just like you would for me,” he brings your hand up from under the table and kisses your knuckles.

To him, this is just a scratch of the support he wants to provide you. It feels like nothing in comparison to what you’ve done for him. You scheduled a whole tour around the month of May so you could spend it living out of a motorhome with him.

“I love you so much,”

“I love you more.”

[saint-hymn]

I am on break at work and it shall be around 2:55 pm when this reaches you, so I cannot properly respond as is- though if you truly want a sample of my writing, I’ll see if I can gather some. A long ask ahead for that one, along with some shorter responses, perhaps a chainsaw instead of a scalpel if you want to reach the core.

Also, to the other anons and folks so intrigued by this all- I had no idea I’d garner such an audience to my study! I hope it doesn’t affect the results. Perhaps it should stay on stage for just a bit longer, the anonymity is fun.

To throw on one note of a caw though- I will not correct you but add on: it’s the concept of clay being carved. It does not hurt, it does not weep, but then once you are human you look back and see that would’ve hurt if I were different. I am different. Does it hurt? Despite the fact that there is no wound at all.

—studying anon (or whatever nickname, I accept all. See you soon!)

it would've hurt. Now, here, we're beholding each brushstroke of the knife-that-was and questioning the absence of pain then that would have been something if we were what we are now. I'm understanding the steps to this dance.

Hello again! Then, by the time I've answered the ask it should be... 8:30 AM-ish for you? I feel like a backstage worker that's gotten yanked to the limelights. Know now that I am only the scribe, Apollo, typewriter and painter but never the figure never the muse. Pardon my dust.

If anything, you're gaining novel data by putting me in an entirely new environment. I've only ever written for two-three pairs of eyes, never an audience, never this open, never splayed in a game and a dance I'm new to. It's a welcome change of pace! Please, I'll put the obsidian down and get a Husqvarna running for you.

Here, something for you, again, for the sake of wanting to hear your thoughts: what do you think about self-martyrization to empty seats, blood spilling for an empty altar—unhearing god? There is no salvation offered through a self-imposed suffering. Messiah to none. Holding onto the hurt thinking there is virtue in the red. The cage is open. Walk out. There's naught left, so why insist on holding onto it? Suffering framed as a masterpiece but it bored everyone to death.

[indigo-greer-collins]

milo’s had PTSD for as long as he can remember from hearing his parents argue. he hallucinates them yelling and the sounds of glass being broken. and his nightmares only really settled down after he got with sweetheart.

a little after lovely was turned, they were up one night having a breakdown/crisis over their immortality. this resulted in them frantically engaging in self harm/doing things that would usually kill a human. nothing quite made them feel alive though.

geordi can still feel ben’s hands on him. he’ll never quite feel clean enough.

starlight has possibly the worst derealisation/dissociatio/depersonalisation problem. when they were younger, it was a big cope to get through a lot of traumatic shit that happened to them, but now it just feels like they can’t stop — it was a really bad problem when they were in makeshift hell. their true emotions feel almost completely inaccessible and they intellectualise everything

sometimes in friend gatherings, gavin goes quiet for a little while. this is usually for one or a couple reasons. a) he remembers that one day he will outlive all his friends and that their happiest days are finite. he’s never confided in anyone about it because obviously he doesn’t want to get them thinking about their deaths. but the dread is inescapable. b) he ponders anti-d(a)emon sentiments. no one in his new found family will ever fully get it. and even with his immortality, he may never truly live to a time where his people aren’t seen as inherently evil and disgusting. even his loved ones probably have internalised anti-d(a)emon biases they aren’t fully aware of. in both instances(and others), whenever someone notices, he does his best to divert their attention.

baabe’s pain/suffering was never taken seriously by close family/friends growing up. they were told to suck it up, that they were being dramatic, they complained to much, it was all in their head etc. they’ve practically always had to be in their own corner because no one else will believe them. it can be hard for them too — with so much gaslighting, they have very little trust in themselves and their own interpretation of events. after the exchange in the elevator, they were very hard on themselves for ever slipping up in front of someone they didn’t know — especially to the point where they had someone genuinely worried about them. they’ve gotten a little better with it now, but a part of them will always nag to just shut up and deal with what they’re going through by themselves. “other people have it worse” after all (direct quote from a parent methinks).

Give me angst 🫵

Lay your angst headcanons on me

[ghost-bxrd]

Two birds of a different feather 🪶

[cetoddle]

am i allowed to be suicidal on main. or do i have to be silly cute girl. is that the only time im bearable to others

[shadowglens]

if i think too long about arthur and grace being so gentle and protective and loving with one another i might start crying

[pepprs]

ok actually yeah. i really need to do dishes and go to bed and not stay up late mentalillnessposting a little too viscerally on tumblr the night before i facilitate a workshop in front of the literal president of the university and the vp of my division (LOL about that btw. actively shitting my pants.) but oh my GOD. so saying goodbye to lia was actually fine in the moment. neither of us cried and we talked about all the ways we’ll still be in each others lives and reasons we’ll have to interact in the near future. and she gave me an extremely heartfelt thoughtful gift and we left on a very hopeful note and i felt better and content bc there’s still the rest-of-life and we’ll see each other there. but like an hour before that as i mentioned i was HYSTERICALLY sobbing. in full view of people i know AND people i don’t. and i just sat there and sobbed while everything carried on around me. everything carried on around me!!! and i feel like im about to sob again thinking about it.

[milo-is-rambling]

Most of the time I think life is so so good and then I have one minuscule moment of pain again and it’s like nvm I need to die

[whimsyprinx]

i know it’s selfish of me to want people to reach out first or like generally because people have lives, they’re busy, they’re dealing with their own shit, maybe they just don’t think to even keep in contact, etc etc but that doesn’t make it hurt any less or make me feel any less unwanted when it feels like half the people i thought were my friends don’t seem like they think of me as their friend.

[starmakii]

//

[umamaki]

WHERE THEY LIKE TO KISS YOU ! all l&ds li x reader 

NOTE ok i did get side tracked so not all the points are about kissing.. enjoy my silly headcanons then. wc 1.2k

minors do not interact 18+ 

SYLUS

he loves kissing your forehead!! and the top of your head!! 

he is sooooo cheesy lover boy in that way. likes the simple things and small gestures. 

for him, kissing you is as natural and normal as holding your hand. he doesn’t do it out of lust, but to show you that he loves you and that he’s close to you. 

also kinda possessiveeeee of himmm

bc of the height difference between you two, it’s easy for him to plop a smooch right on top of your head.

whenever you greet and say goodbye to one another he always hugs you and kisses the top of your head!!

sometimes it’ll be a quick kiss and other times he’ll linger there, pressing his lips to your head and inhaling your scent.

he does it so often that now you instinctually tilt your head up when you’re around him so he can kiss your forehead. He does it every time. Neither of you realize that you are following that same pattern, it just happens and you let it. 

i think he would be more reserved with kissing in public, his style of pda would be more touchy and possessive but using his hands if that makes sense. he’ll give you a brief peck on your forehead if other people are around. 

but if you’re at home together then he’s showering your head and face with kisses. just because. 

big forehead kisser when you’re laying on top of him in bed. he can’t help it!

after resolving an argument the first thing he does is kiss your forehead to remind you that he’ll never be angry at you. 

during sex he kisses your forehead after he’s fully inserted himself inside you. his way of comforting you as well as praising you. you’ve also come to expect this happening each time. 

when he finishes emptying his load in you he’ll kiss your forehead one last time before pulling out.

RAFAYEL

completely obsessed with your hands.

we know from his kindled memories that he likes kissing your wrist n such.

loves when you spray perfume onto your wrists. he likes feeling your pulse beneath his lips and the heat that radiates from them.

he likes holding your wrist in his hand and seeing how big his hands is compared to it <3.

kisses all around your hands. he kisses the inside of your palm, the back of your hand, the pads of your fingers. 

he’ll give you a bow and kiss the tips of your fingers whenever he’s feeling goofy. he’ll also slip in a “princess” as he does so. 

he kisses your left ring finger long before he proposes to you. just very in love with the idea of one day wearing matching wedding bands together. 

intertwines your fingers with his and kisses the back of your hand!

when you’re near each other—cuddling or just sitting next to one another doing your separate tasks—he likes holding your fingers to his lips. it helps him focus and the feeling comforts him. 

such a sucker for blowing kisses to one another. whether you’re across the room or right next to him.

when he’s flustering you and knows that it’s riling you up, he will take your wrist and tease you for your quickening pulse. kisses your wrist after because he never truly means the teasing.

he would also leave love bites on your wrist. just a thought. sometimes he bites hard enough to leave a temporary mark. 

all up in your wrist during sex, the feel and look of them arouses him so much. think the your fragrance memory. 

you’ll be writhing and overstimulated underneath him but he doesn’t care, continuing whatever pace he’s plunging into you at and holding your wrist to his face. 

XAVIER

also common knowledge but he likes to kiss your legs but really as long as it’s anywhere near your lower region. 

after a particularly rough battle with wanderers, he will kiss you where you’re hurt on your legs before bandaging them up. it’s a small gesture but you truly believe it does help with the pain. 

he likes being able to kiss your knees and the inside of your thighs when you’re sprawled below him with your legs spread.

will leave so many hickies on your thighs. 

he is such an eater but when he is going down on you, sometimes he will get distracted and go up to kiss other parts of your leg, leaving you whining from loss of contact and wanting more stimulation. 

ok hot take—he likes to kiss your ankles. not in a foot fetish way. unless you’re into that. but i think that he sees your ankles as just another part of you and likes to kiss them, esp during sex. he likes when you wear anklets because he can watch them dangle off your ankle when he is thrusting inside you.

and when he has you in a mating press. loves kissing your legs when you are like this.

similarly, he will almost always rest your legs on his shoulders when you have sex, so all he has to do is turn his head to the side to give them a kiss while he is fucking you. 

ZAYNE

ok zayne likes kissing your shoulders. it serves as a reminder of his presence. 

he does it when he passes by behind you, if you’re cooking in the kitchen he comes behind you and kisses your shoulder. if you’re sitting watching tv on the couch he’ll lean over and kiss you there too. he rests his chin on your shoulder and stays there for a while.

during long or boring social events he’ll show you that he’s tired when he press his face into the crook of your neck.

when he’s fucking you in doggy style, he bends down from behind you—his chest suffocating your back—to kiss your shoulders. will whisper things into your ear as he does so. 

similarly to sylus, zayne also likes to kiss the top of your head and his height is actually perfect for it. 

CALEB

three places: neck, jaw, collarbone.

kissing, biting, sucking, he does it all. 

kisses this area like a man starved.

he likes marking his territory there where there’s a risk of other people seeing. you’ll complain about having to cover them up with makeup or clothes but he shamelessly likes it. he wants you to show them off, show everyone that you are his. 

it turns him on when you wear a low cut shirt or any sort of neck jewelry. even better if it’s his necklace. you’ll have to pry him off your neck. 

kissing your jaw is heaven to him because his ears are right next to your lips, likes hearing you moan and whine up close. 

looks up at your face when he kisses those places. likes seeing what he does to you as he is doing it.

[versupital]

run, rabbit, run

JJK HALLOWEEN! nanamixreader

summary ❥ you babysit for the wealthy single dad who lives across the street. it’s the end of october and his halloween party is the talk of the neighborhood. you’re not invited because the kids are out of town, but you decide to pop up on him anyway, and he shows you just how badly he’s been dying to get you alone without the children.

CONTENT: age gap, 86’d sorcery, dilf!nanami, toys, smut, alcohol, dom!nanami, cunnilingus, afab!reader, fluff, friends to lovers kinda, bossxworker, aftercare, slowwwww burn, reader wears animal ears during sex, breeding kink, spit kink, masochism.

word count. 10k

soundtrack 💿: eating - madeintyo

p.s. there’s a joke in here involving the color of 🐱; i know everyone’s is not the same color so , fill in the blank for the color that fits yours if u have one LOL

✩

You give your ass a good shake.

You’re making sure the long, fluffy tail poking out of your blue shorts isn’t going to fall out. It doesn’t.

You’re dressed as a fox, but not just any fox. A fox cop. You have on a short blue collared top, matching shorts, and of course you’d be no real cop without your utility belt housing fake handcuffs and a plastic baton. To top it all off, you’re wearing fuzzy fox ears on your head, and sheer tights to cover your legs.

You nod in the mirror, satisfied. But the real test, to you, is if Mr. Nanami will like it just as much.

Mr. Nanami is your employer, but more importantly, your neighbor. You watch his two young children five days a week; sometimes even overnight when he has a particularly busy work day. You consider yourself close with them, but your feelings about Nanami are a little deeper than that.

You’d seen him the first time a little under a year ago, when he’d been out on an early morning jog. From then, on you’d become disgustingly obsessed ever since.

Your schoolgirl pining only gets worse every time you see him, and recently you've even gone as far as trying to shamelessly flirt - but he seems to have absolutely no idea. That is the less painful explanation, the other being that he’s just not interested.

But you’re planning to see if you can get that to change tonight. You always dress sensible in front of his children; this will be the first time he's seeing so much skin. It has to work, right?

Tonight, Nanami is throwing the party of the century. He has house workers of all kinds who serve towers of food and delicious mixed drinks. The cherry is that his entire gated lawn has been decorated to the perimeter of fun inflatables and spooky decorations. You know it's mostly for his kids, whom he goes nothing short of above and beyond for.

However, he had informed you days ago that they would be out of town this weekend - and, even if they were not, he's off work, so he doesn’t need you. This means he also had not invited you to his party.

You clearly still intend to show up unannounced, a bold move on your part.

You lock up your house - a small, co-owned property that truly looks out of place across from Nanami's home - which he technically pays the rent for. You carefully make your away across the overcrowded street full of cars, decorations, and humans who are already half past drunk.

As you walk up the stone steps that lead to his front door, your stomach is keyed up. You shouldn't feel any different than you normally do when coming over for work, but you’ve really let this highly unprofessional crush of yours get out of control.

You make it to the porch. You're unsure if he will even hear the doorbell, but you press it anyway. The door slides open after about ten seconds, as if he has been standing there watching it. You feel your body freeze immediately upon seeing him.

Nanami is towering over you in the threshold. His face lights up almost instantly, but that's not all that has your heart threatening to crack open your rib cage; it's also his delicious white button down, popped open by a few to reveal tiny bits of blond chest hair, and then of course there are the long, white ears on top of his head.

“Why hello, officer, did we get a noise complaint?” He chuckles at his own dad joke before bowing his head in greeting. “Sorry, I’m just surprised to see you. I figured you would be thrilled to not have to look at these four walls for a few days while my children are with... their mother.”

You watch his face drop in disgust at the mention of his ex-wife, but he’s never said anything bad about her. Whenever you’d asked why things hadn’t worked out, he’d said "they just didn't." And that was that, but part of you aches to know what had happened.

It shouldn’t matter. He is not interested in you. He gives you a paycheck, and that is all.

"Well," you begin carefully, "Who would want to miss out on the most exclusive Halloween party of the year?"

This coerces a deep laugh out of Nanami, then he steps aside and allows you to walk in. He is holding a short rocks glass of unidentified brown liquor, and you can smell whatever it is in a cloud around him.

Once inside, Nanami’s voice is quite muffled from the clank of dishes and bustle of workers. The two of you stop to stand in the foyer, a grand crystal chandelier winking at you from above.

"Exclusive isn't the word I'd use," he says, following your eyes as he takes a sip. "Everyone and their mother is here. Literally." He tilts his glass towards an elderly woman who stands next to a redhead about Nanami's age.

You should be laughing at his joke but instead, your stomach knots grow tighter at the reminder of how many people his age are here preying on him, the neighborhood catch, with careers and homes of their own.

Nanami is seven years your senior, you think. No wonder he wants nothing to do with a young, non career-oriented thing like you when he has all of these sophisticated people crawling at his feet.

You can't think about that now, or the courage you’ve spent a week building will cease to exist.

"Heh - well, either way," you continue, "it's a big party. I know the kids aren't here, but-"

"But I'm glad you are," Nanami smiles, his eyelids hanging a little low from the liquor in his system. "You look very nice, darling. I like your ears."

He grins and points to his own headband. A grown and very, very large man dressed as something as vulnerable as a little rabbit has your nerves aflame.

"Hmm, I bet you do," you tease. “Like it so much you had to copy me?”

Nanami makes a disapproving sound with his tongue, leaning forward a bit to be eye level with you. "Copy you? I was unaware that rabbits and foxes were the same animal. In fact," he adds, "if I'm not mistaken, foxes are a rabbit's natural predator."

You had been trying to look away from him now that he has moved so close, but as the last sentence rolls out of his mouth, you make the mistake of looking directly into his eyes - and what you see makes your limbs jelly. Maybe it's your delusions, but he seems to be drinking you up equally as much as he is his liquor.

You laugh to pop the bubble of tension, but Nanami's face remains as still as ice.

"Well, I certainly don't think I pose a threat to you, sir," you say, voice unnervingly dry. "You are twice my size."

At this, his intense stare transitions into a soft smile. "You just have to get my guard down. Then, I'm sure a little thing like yourself would be able to have your way with me."

You blink quickly, assuming you've misheard him. Then again, though, he tends to say things that could be flirty - but he is just a naturally charismatic man. Means nothing.

"Ah," you mumble out, shifting your weight from side to side. You have to find a way to change the subject, but most importantly, you need get his attention off of you. You’d wanted it so bad, now you don’t know how to handle it. As you scheme, he sips his drink again, eyes still watching you over the rim of the glass.

"So... the kids always go with their mom on Halloween?" you ask abruptly.

Nanami quickly swallows his sip before shaking his head. "Well I had them for the Fourth of July, you recall."

You do recall. A little too well. Nanami in nothing but tight, black swim shorts and his signature sunglasses as he flipped meat over the grill - and you playing in his pool with the kids. He’d invited you to celebrate the holiday with him after his kids had begged, but your mind was definitely elsewhere. The memory popping into your head almost makes you not hear what he says next.

"We alternate holidays. So I will have them for Thanksgiving, she for Christmas," he shrugs a shoulder. "I would have traded Thanksgiving for Christmas, but alas. Christmas is always the busiest day of the year for me, so they would just miss out on time with their father anyway. I couldn't ask you to ditch your holiday plans for us, again, either."

He sighs. You feel your heart ache; he cares deeply about his kids, but he is definitely a workaholic. That is why you spend every chance you get at his house… well, that’s mostly why. But even then, you sometimes wish you stayed more to help, because Nanami works tireless double shifts, then spends his off days trying to make up for lost time with the kids.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," you say, attempting to comfort him. "You're an amazing father who is doing all he can. They love you so much."

He smiles and bows his head politely, so as to say thank you. "They love you as well. Sometimes, I think more than they do their mother."

You swallow a choke, before rutting out, “Surely not."

Before Nanami has the chance to reply, an older woman who you’d come to known as Agnes walks by with a large tray arraignment of bright green cocktails.

“Nanamin!” she shrieks out. “Where would you like me to put these? Very afraid of them falling. There’s drunkards crawling up the walls! I’ve already swept up sixteen broken glasses! Sixteen!”

You and Nanami turn to look at her with an equally astonished expression.

Nanami leans forward a bit to whisper in your ear, “My apologies in advance for her erratic behavior.”

Agnes is still staring wildly between the two of you as you giggle, awaiting further instructions from Nanami.

“Sit them wherever you think is safest,” he says calmly.

She huffs but ultimately takes his word, speeding off with her kitten heels clacking against the marble floor.

Nanami turns back to you and opens his mouth, but another voice cuts him off.

“Nanami, sir!”

You feel a twinge of irritation in your chest, but you really shouldn’t. He is the host and people need his attention. You should have seen this coming.

“Is everything okay?” he questions politely, turning to face the short brunette in front of him, who bats her eyelashes.

“I… I think that someone is fighting outside,” she says quickly, unable to keep eye contact.

Nanami is a smart man, though. “Oh? Well, what shall we do about that?”

“I thought you could run and stop them,” she says, twisting a piece of her hair around her finger, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m in no mood to be in the middle of a brawl,” he says sternly. “Have the butlers stop it, and remove them. You try not to get involved either.”

She huffs and spins on her heel, walking back through the living room with an angry stomp in her step.

Nanami clicks his tongue, “I really need to have her counseled in compulsive lying. She cries wolf so many times a day.”

You’ve never seen her before, she must be new. This makes you jealous all over again. She’s not quite as old as the rest of the workers, but still older than you. The issue is you see yourself in her, the uncontrollable pining over your shared boss. She just makes hers much more obvious.

Nanami clears his throat, and you notice too late how his hand has slithered to the small of your back.

“Perhaps we should escape somewhere more secluded, hm?” he says. “I really am enjoying our conversation. A shame we keep getting interrupted.”

You swallow thickly. The hair on your spine has raised at his sudden contact, making you shiver.

“Yes, that’s a good idea, sir,” you say, trying to hide how dry your voice has gotten.

Not another word is uttered before Nanami is swiftly whisking you off to another room; his hands now free of his drink and instead gently guiding you by his hand placement.

His gaze is not as focused on you as it is leading you both through the overwhelming crowd of people, and to the hall under the stairs that you know for a fact leads to his workspace. He moves his hands into yours as he gently pushes you ahead of him.

You take the lead and find yourself pushing open the big door to his study. Inside is a complete reflection of Nanami, his wealth and his cleanliness. Even his desk is free of papers, or any indication at all that he works in here.

You recall the days he works from home, in this very study, and he'd still be in his work suit, just minus the blazer. You'd let the kids sneak in on him, only once or twice thoughout the day, just to see his smile; and while you’re already there, you'd drop off a cup of hot coffee to help him plow through the rest of his shift.

He shuts the doors behind you both as you run to make yourself comfortable in his desk chair, spinning around like a child.

As you do so, you fail to see or hear his fingers slyly clicking the lock on the door.

“Much better,” Nanami breathes, moving to flick on a floor lamp in the corner, giving the study a soft, warm glow accompanied by the full Halloween moon. “Now, what were we discussing?”

“You, uh,” you clear your throat as you stop spinning in the chair to face him. “You really didn’t have to come in here just to talk to me. You are the man of the evening, you know.”

Nanami rolls his eyes, an out-of-character action you never thought you'd see, but one that looked so tasty, so sultry. God, you’re a pervert in heat - and your sweet, sweet boss is completely oblivious to the kind of horrible thoughts you have daily about him.

Nanami's now staring at you. His mouth is moving, but you have no idea what he had been saying.

"… to spend time with all of those shallow, insolent creatures,” you register, “when I have someone like you here?" He walks over to the desk and leans against it, right next to you now, as he crosses his arms over his massive chest. "We have never just sat down and talked. We always have little people depending on us or wanting our attention. Tonight, I’d like that to change.”

You let his words simmer for a moment. “What is it you’d like to talk about, Mr. Nanami?” you then question.

“What did I tell you about that ‘Mr.’ nonsense?” He frowns. “That makes me feel so old.”

"Sorry, sir," you gulp, not intending to upset him. You just can't help the way 'Mr.' and 'Sir' roll off your tongue, or how bad you enjoy seeing him shift uncomfortably at the use of the names.

"Meanie," he tuts, knocking you playfully with his leg. Another uncharacteristic action.

"What'd I do?" you blink, tilting your head as you look up at him.

"You mean besides drive me insane with your teasing?" he questions, before his eyes widen and he looks as though he's just spilled a secret. "I- wow, I am sorry. That is not what I meant to say."

"I drive you insane?" you echo. "I didn't even think you noticed my… teasing.”

Nanami's face is neutral, but his jaw is working under his skin. "I’m not naive, little fox." He lets out a breath. “This was truly an excellent costume choice.”

He leans forward and flicks the furry ear on your head.

“Thank you,” you smile. “I can’t say the same for yours. You hardly scream innocent bunny.”

“What about me isn’t innocent?” he raises a brow, standing off of the desk.

“I…” you blink as he walks around to the back of the desk chair. “You’re just, um…”

“Fox got your tongue?” he coos, spinning the chair so that you’re forced to face him.

You inhale a deep breath and hold it as heat travels through your stomach and right to the center of your thighs.

“You’re a man who is about his business,” you say. “I imagine you’ve… had a lot of life experiences,” you pause to remind yourself to breathe, but it’s hard because of how ferociously Nanami is staring into your eyes. “So you c-can’t be all that innocent…”

“You seem nervous,” he coos. “Here. Let’s stand up, I’ll sit down. Maybe that will help you to not be so tense, hm?”

Your body obeys before your mind catches on. You’re standing in a beat, and Nanami has replaced you on the chair. Your bottom hits the crease of his large desk, and you slam your hands down on the surface to balance yourself.

“Sorry,” you say, putting a hand up to cover your face. “I don’t mean to imply that you make me uncomfortable, sir.”

Nanami's pupils flash white, but it's gone so quickly, you might have imagined it. "If I do, please let me know immediately.”

“No,” you say, dropping your hand, “I just think we need to get to know each other better, right? Our entire relationship is through the kids. I know that your son’s favorite shade of green is kiwi, but I don’t even know your first name.”

Nanami chuckles at this. “You know, I was thinking exactly the same thing.” He taps your knee. “Kento, silly girl. My first name is Kento.”

"A-And your favorite color?” you continue, trying to ignore how close he’s moved the chair towards you, now that you have fully planted your bottom on his desk.

“Pink,” he says, serious as death.

You giggle. “Why pink?”

“It’s the color of my favorite thing to eat,” he says, slowly placing his arms on either side of your thick thighs, hands planted flat on the surface of the desk.

You think for a moment. “Strawberry ice cream?”

“No,” he cocks his blond head to the side and his eyes fall on your tights. “Try again.”

You pretend to think, though you fear you may be catching on now. “Hmm, dragonfruit?”

“Nah,” Nanami says, looking up at you through his eyelashes. His pupils have been dilated from the alcohol, but there is an unrelated darkness in his eye now. “Something I don’t even have to swallow.”

You gulp. “Oh,” your suspicions have been confirmed.

“Get it now, little fox?” he coos.

“Mhmm,” you taunt back. “Well, I suppose I came prepared with your favorite dish, then.”

“Did you?” His hands boldly make their way to the top of your thighs, barely hovering over the skin but enough to make the flesh there light on fire. “Prepared it all nice and pretty for me?”

“Yes sir,” you nod eagerly, feeling your own boldness appear as your knees slide further away from one another. “How do you like it?”

“Extra moist,” he grits hungrily, fingernails curving into your tights and shredding a thick rip! through the material.

You gasp, entire torso lurching forward as he drags the hole bigger and bigger.

“Sorry, little fox. They were in the way,” he shrugs an innocent shoulder. “And what should we do about these shorts? They’re in the way, too.”

“Then let’s get them off,” you whisper, hardly registering that such filth had been uttered.

This truly can’t be happening. Is Nanami… Kento Nanami actually going to eat you out? Are his hands really slithering up your waist and fumbling with the button on your shorts, or are you in some kind of sick daydream?

"Mr. Nanami-"

"Please," he holds up a hand, one still remaining on the button of your shorts. "Kento. Call me Kento."

"Kento," you echo softly, and his eyelashes flutter. “You really want to do this?”

Nanami sucks in a breath. Several moments of silence pass, then his fingers are gently pressing against your chin, and he has risen to tower above you. "Maybe it's the liquid courage in me that's pushing me," he says, "but I’m okay with that. I dream about you on my tongue, night after night. I need you, Y/N.”

Instead of allowing you to reply, Nanami's lips are assaulting yours in a flash. A harsh, irrational kiss from a man who's lost his battle of self control.

Your hands fly up to his face to balance yourself at the sheer force the shock of the kiss has on you. He groans softly into you as your lips mold together, getting used to the shapes of each other’s mouths.

You want to begin deepening the kiss, but Nanami is suddenly pulling away.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly. You look at his face; for a man who is always so calm and composed, he is flushed and even shaking a little. “I should have asked if that was okay.”

"Did you hear me complaining?" you ask sternly.

“No-”

“Then shut up and kiss me, Kento.”

He wastes no time obeying your command; this time as he kisses you, his hands find the soft skin where your hips crease into your thighs. You’re aware of your thighs rubbing against his stomach as he crawls further on top of you.

You slide your arms up around the back of his neck to hold onto him as his lips work pure ecstasy into your mouth.

You sigh against him and he digs his fingers into your sides to get you to do it again. Now his tongue is in your mouth, softly swirling your own, smacking fiercely on your lips as he does so.

You're panting now, but Nanami is swallowing your breath with every second. He's leaning his weight on his palm, so his body isn't quite attached to yours, but you want to make him lose his balance so he can crash down on top of you. Every moment that you stay like this, your cunt drips wetter and wetter, seeping through your shorts onto his desk.

"So perfect," Nanami utters into your mouth, "s'much sweeter than I deserve."

You frown at his self deprecation but don't comment, instead your hands start sliding down his chiseled back, exploring the deep ridges and shapes of pure, hard muscle.

Then, plop! You blink in shock as his bunny ears have fallen plum onto your face, nearly gauging out your eye.

"Oh," he gasps, breaking away from you. "Forgot about these."

He pulls away from you, standing upright but staying between your legs. You swallow a needy whine at his absence, before sitting up with him, staring expectantly.

"Think they'll look better on you though, huh, darling?" he coos, reaching over your head and plucking your fuzzy ears off. Then, he’s replacing them with his bunny ears. "There, that's more fitting. I feel much more like the hunter than the hunted.”

You tilt your chin defiantly. "Mm, so I'm just an innocent rabbit in the sights of a dangerous hunter?"

“Clever bunny,” Nanami murmurs, leaning forward and catching you by surprise with a wet kiss at the nape of your neck. You shudder. “Time for me to eat my latest catch, hm?”

“I-I guess so-”

“Oh, don't get shy now, bunny,” he mewls against your ear. “Do you want to do this?”

You pretend to consider it, but your dripping hole has already answered for you. "Yes, sir."

Nanami purrs in response and taps your earlobe with his perfect teeth - before you're being shoved back on the flat surface. Three quick beats occur. Beat, shorts off. Beat, tights off. Beat, panties sliding slowly down your legs.

"God," he says, hooking his fingers over the trim of the panties, which are light blue in color, accented by an adorable pink bow in the front. "All this time, I could've had you like this, if only-” he cuts himself off to lean down and place a kiss to your inner knee.

Your nerves send repeated quivers over you. You dig your nails into the desk, but your palms are so sweaty that your hand slips. Nanami catches you, a heavy hand on your lower back, the other hand entangling in your panties and proceeding to rip them all the way off. Your clothes are now in a discarded pile to the right of you, fuzzy tail and ears a reminder of what got you into this position in the first place.

“Well we can make up for lost time now,” you whisper, sliding your feet farther apart until your knees are angled into the air - gaping pussy winking up at Nanami.

His eyes nearly jump from his body as he watches you open up for him, glistening cunt all in his face. He's sinking back down into the chair before either of you really processes it, and his heavy palms fall flat on your inner thighs.

"She's s'pretty, sweetheart," he coos, the breath from his words tickling your clit and making you writhe pathetically. "Haven't even touched you yet. Why are you shaking?”

You whine out in embarrassment. Something about your most perverted fantasies coming alive before you, Nanami talking to you like this, and him staring directly at the forbidden parts you'd never thought he'd see, is depleting your confidence.

"What's wrong, bunny?" he asks, reading your expression. "You look like you are second guessing this."

"N-No!" you cry out, making him jump, before you sigh. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell. No, I want to. I'm just embarrassed."

"Why?" he perks a brow, astonished.

"Because you're so..." you huff uncomfortably, "fine, and here I am, of course anyone would be embarrassed of their own genitals, y'know I just kind of never expected this and-”

"Y/N," Nanami interrupts. "I've seen plenty of these before; all different types, sizes and colors. I am going to devour you regardless of what you think.”

You swallow thickly. Your head nods like a puppet, though you're unsure if that's you saying you understand, or telling him to go ahead.

While you're deciding, Nanami plants a kiss to your bikini line, then slides his hands to wrap his arms around your thighs so that it's now impossible for you to close them. Your stomach is on fire, and you're on the verge of gyrating your pelvis right into his stupidly perfect face.

"Tell me you want this, bunny," Nanami rasps, placing another loud kiss to your inner thigh.

"I want this," you confirm again, "want you."

You don't have to say anything else because his mouth has already found your clit. Warm breath travels between your folds as he keeps his tongue narrowed out to swirl agonizingly slow circles over the bulb.

Your hips convulse against his strength. It does nothing except prompt Nanami to flatten his whole mouth over your heat and pick up speed with his tongue.

"Oh, ohh," you drawl, your hands leaving the desk surface and going right through his fine hair. His hold on you ensures you can’t fall backwards, but you’re gripping his roots for dear life.

He grumbles against your cunt and you feel it all the way up to your ovulating uterus. The desire to have your womb house more of his children starts to enter your brain and you have to remind yourself that this is just sex.

Oh, but it's so much more than that. Nanami's taking his time to work your body, to know exactly which pace makes you cry out like a pathetic fucktoy, noting when you wriggle under his grip, as he pushes his fingertips into the flesh on your legs.

His warm tongue keeps your puffy lips parted effortlessly; lathering you up with his saliva, drinking in the fluid your body creates more of each second.

You sit up farther to look down at him; his eyebrows are furrowed and focused, his cheeks hollowed as he treats your twitching clit like his tongue’s dance partner.

He swirls, flicks, slurps - each variation unlocking a new noise from you as you fight back your orgasm.

As you watch him, your fucked-out, needy brain begins to tell you would give him whatever he wanted in this moment; six children and a house from scratch if that's what he requested. Because he deserves it; the way his tongue’s now dipping slightly into your desperate hole, making your hips jerk from the desk until he counter-forces them with his hands.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snaps, grazing his teeth over your clit.

You can’t even speak; he’s eaten your voice right out of you. His head shakes side to side as he plants his mouth back on you and peers up through his blond lashes, daring you to pull that stunt a second time.

Your hands are still deeply entangled in his roots, but at this point you can't keep your eyes in the front of your head. Your head lolls back on your neck as your hips twitch with an unholy amount of momentum. Your moans are growing dangerously loud; knowing full well there's an entire party nearby, as well as the possibility of nosy maids. Not that either of you care.

"Kento, s-so good," you lament, bucking your hips into his chin as if you could chase more pleasure than he's already giving you. The heat in your stomach is the first indication that your pleasure is morphing into an orgasm, but you don’t want to cum yet.

You want to try and run again, just to give yourself a little time to catch up…

The minute Nanami feels your hip bones sliding away from him, he pulls his mouth off of you; your orgasm slipping away. You take a deep breath in regret.

“Someone must not want to cum,” he taunts, keeping his mouth close to your trickling cunt. “Need you to stay still.”

“I can’t,” you breathe, trembling.

“Try for me?” Nanami requests softly, lifting your thighs into the air before plopping your feet flat on his shoulders.

He plants a heavy kiss to your clit after the adjustment in your position and you dig your toes into his back.

“F-For you,” you repeat mindlessly, brain officially scrambled like a breakfast platter.

“Mmh-” Nanami grunts, planting his fat tongue back between your slick folds, working his jaw intensely to finish pulling the orgasm out of you. He sticks the narrow tip back at your hole, flicking the rim of the inside as if it’s his purpose for living.

Your toes lift into the air as Nanami tests your flexibility, pushing your knees next to your ears. With the pressure built up in your stomach, you barely have time to mutter out the announcement of your orgasm before you're cumming all over his tongue and clenching your walls around the wet muscle.

"Give it to me, bunny," he moans, words muffled because of the way you're gripping his tongue with your pussy.

You keep shaking for a solid thirty seconds, because he is refusing to take his tongue out of you. When finally you’ve calmed to a slight twitch, he removes his face from between your thighs and the entire lower half of his face glistens in the light.

"That's one," he murmurs to himself, crawling back over you to plant a sloppy kiss on your lips. "You did so well. You taste so sweet, bun.”

"Can I return the favor?" you ask needily, dragging your palm down his chest.

He grinds his pelvis across your lower half, so that you can feel the sheer length of his bulge beneath his pants. "What for?"

Your eyes widen at just how large it feels; surely it's smaller than it appears.

"Wanna please you, sir," you babble out, watching his eyebrows furrow at the self-proclaimed pet name.

"Hm, think that ship sailed long ago,” he chuckles, rubbing his clothed dick against your inner thigh this time, and now, you take notice of the warm trail of precum that’s leaked through his pants onto your skin.

You dig your nails into his chest instead of replying. He bites back a groan and kisses your neck.

“I’m going to have to restrain you if you want’a keep being so touchy," he whispers sternly.

"I do have handcuffs," you say, following it with a giggle. Though you’re only half joking.

"That's cute," he mewls. "You think I need handcuffs to restrain you?" He pauses. "What's that you said? That I'm twice your size?"

You swallow thickly, remembering that you had, in fact, said that.

"So I can, and will easily pin you down, bun," he continues. "Don't act up, and I won't have to, yeah?"

You wish you can say you won’t, but if he thinks you dislike the idea of being pinned down, he must not be faking his innocence, like you’d thought.

A moment later, he's standing away from you, and his hands expertly unbutton his shirt. You watch him with desire, and he smiles a little shyly at you as he shrugs off the garment and tosses it to the floor.

“Funny, you’ve seen me shirtless before,” he says suddenly. “Why do I feel a bit nervous about it this time?”

You giggle and cock your head to the side, legs still spread wide. “Should’ve always felt nervous. I’m a huge pervert, y’know.”

Nanami dips his head before coming back to be close to your body again, his fingers mindlessly tugging on the hem of your shirt now.

“I know,” he whispers. “A little minx, you are.”

“Took you long enough to realize it, hm?” you tease as you lift your arms to assist him in removing the shirt. But you are caught off guard when he doesn’t continue.

"You're still sure you want to do this?" he questions, changing the subject. “I'm sorry. I'm going to ask a hundred times, it’s just a habit.”

"Yes, Kento," you rasp frustratingly. "Do I have to get on my knees and beg to be fucked for you to get it?"

He blinks, stunned, as if that is not something he ever considered; but does sound appealing to him.

"No," he says quickly, slowly lifting your shirt further over your body. "How did we end up here, hm? Was this your plan from the moment you crashed my Halloween party?"

"Uh-uh," you say innocently, as he pulls the shirt over your head. Now you sit completely naked in front of him - save for the bunny ears on your head.

"I get the feeling you're a big, fat liar," he teases, leaning back over you, now your stomachs are touching and everywhere your skin meets is tingling. "Didn't I tell you to be a good girl? Good girls don't lie."

“‘M not lying," you argue. "Admit you were over here waiting for me to show up all night."

"Maybe I was," he murmurs, dragging his top teeth over the connection between your neck and your shoulder before planting a wet kiss on your collar bone. "And you came for me, like always."

A gasp erupts from your throat and Nanami cuts it off by sliding his hand there. He uses his fingers to apply the gentlest amount of pressure to the sides of your neck and your body arches against him.

"Tell me if anything I do is too much for you, little fox," he coos in your ear before dropping his hand from your neck and standing back straight to quickly unbuckle his belt.

He slides the garment out of his belt loops, and discards it to the side, on top of your clothes. So in other words: close by.

"Kento," you pant, "please."

"Please what?" he questions, raising a brow innocently as he pops open the button to his tight pants - visibly taking a deep breath as his bulge pokes free.

"You're dragging this out," you whine. "I've needed you for so long. This is torture."

"So what?" he shrugs, allowing his pants to fall to the floor, where he steps out of them.

"I..." you cut yourself off with a frustrated grunt.

"You said please, but you aren't using your words, little fox.” He slides his body back over yours - his boxers now being the only barrier between you. "What do you want?"

"You, your cock, your mouth," you pant all of it out in one quick sentence. "I... I just need you inside of me, Mr. Nanami."

Your breasts rub against his hard chest, teasing your achingly hard nipples. Just so pathetic. Can’t control yourself. Your brain's swirling with desire and ecstasy for him. If he can't read your mind, you're sure he can see it in your face.

"Okay, sweetheart," he says, voice returning to its usual softness, "you got me. All yours."

He tugs his boxers down quickly, desperately. Now your hips are aligned to each other's. He's still hovering, his cock not even touching you yet. He slides a hand between your legs as his other keeps you steady, gripping harshly on your hip which is sure to leave a delicious bruise.

Your arms wrap around his neck and he drags his mouth across your jaw before attaching his lips to your neck. His fingers gather the drip from your hole, and then he slides them up through your folds and to your clit. He swirls the fingers softly, keeping his ear right next to your mouth so that he can hear exactly what he’s doing to you.

Your legs shake against his ribs while you moan for him, and he grunts as he takes in all of your body's reactions to his touch.

He goes to try and put a finger in your cunt but you grab his wrist. He does not argue with you, which should be a red flag, but you think you’ve won until he takes the hand he had been using to play with you and grips your wrist, yanking it back, and your entire body goes falling against the desk.

Somehow, both of your wrists are being pinned to the wood in one large hand now. You whine and squirm under him, but he doesn't care. His free hand grabs his cock.

He takes the heavy tip and taps it against your clit several times, each time causing you to gasp and arch against him.

"That's right," he whispers above you. "No escaping now, bun."

You blink up at him, lifting your hips to grind your pussy on him, which causes his lips to part and his eyebrows to furrow.

You open your mouth, tongue flying out, wanting to appeal to another twisted fantasy. “Need your spit,” you mumble shyly.

He seems to ponder for a moment before he realizes what exactly it is you are asking, and a moment later he is leaning forward, dripping a warm glop of saliva from his mouth down your throat.

“Mmh-” you moan as you swallow happily, before looking down between your legs where he is finally done lubricating himself on your juice. He's staring at you hopelessly, as if he’s thinking that putting his cock in you isn't going to be enough.

“So nasty,” he coos, “ready for me, sweetheart?”

"Hngh- please," you beg.

Not a second later, hot pressure is at your hole. Nanami slides his hips upward to push himself deeper, deeper, deeper - the girth feeling like it's going to simply rip you in half.

You shriek and shut your eyes tightly, waiting for the pain to pass. It doesn't.

You feel so embarrassed as he takes his free hand to lift up your left thigh, because pain shoots up through your stomach - and not the good kind.

"Ah- wait," you cry out, eyes falling open.

Nanami stops immediately. "What's the matter?"

"It... it hurts," you admit shyly, biting your lip. "Wh-Why d'you have to be so big?"

"Why d'you have to be so tight?" he chuckles back, but carefully slides out of you. "Hang on. I know what will help, little fox."

He pulls away from you, letting go of your wrists to lean over and dig into a random drawer in his desk. You have no idea what he could possibly be doing until he stands back straight, a hand still holding up your leg, while the other holds a small, light pink, bullet-shaped rubber object.

"Brand new," he says, eyeing it as he rotates it between his fingers. "Just put batteries in it."

You swallow as you realize what this implies. He knew he was going to fuck you - or at least, that he was going to use this toy on you at some point. Or, a third worse thing: it hadn't been for you at all.

You don’t want to think about that possibility, though.

He hands the little toy to you, a small buzz coming from it already.

"Hold it for me," he instructs. "I need my hands to keep my prey from running."

You gulp and do as he says, and again he is taking his cock head and pushing it against you, before it slides through the gummy entrance and you cry out again.

You hold the toy to your clit and the feeling travels straight through your veins. You focus on the vibrations and before you can even inhale again, your insides are completely full.

"Deep breaths, bun," he grunts, "feel her o-opening up… now.”

Did he just stutter? Kento Nanami, who's always so composed. You'd made him lose his wording. You.

Nanami takes his hands and pulls your knees up, holding them to his sides, while you keep your hand occupied on the little bullet between your legs.

The combination of the toy plus his cock filling you up and molding your walls against it has you aching to spill over, already.

Now that the searing has begun to dissolve, his cock is gliding effortlessly inside of you - feeling as though the organ was crafted to fit you perfectly. Your juices cover every inch of him, delicious squelches creating a symphony with your moans as Nanami's pace quickens.

He has his hands still pressed on your thighs but he leans forward and gently pulls a nipple into his warm mouth. You don't know what to do with your free hand, so it ends up on his back, nails mercilessly breaking open his skin. He hisses and nips your nipple between his teeth.

"Fuck. Me," he groans, pulling away from your chest to look down at you. You want to make a comment about how you already are, but he just looks so fucked out - so vulnerable. Lips puffy and wet, eyes shut tight, hair dangling over his forehead.

He’s ruined.

He claws his fingers into your outer thighs. His fingers dig so hopelessly into you as his cock swirls your insides, his hips now moving in a rhythmic wave motion.

Your hand falls away from your clit with the toy and you hardly notice that it's gone because now, his pelvis is brushing over it, sweat practically gluing the two of you together.

"Aw," he purrs, and you look up to see that his eyes are staring directly between your legs. "You’re creaming all over me. Shit - your cunt looks so good, swallowing me up.”

Your face heats and you take your hands to grip his arms, as he's now drilling into you so torturously that you're gliding up the desk - the sweat on your back making your skin slick. He notices you're moving away and shifts his hands to grab your hips, holding you down onto him, and now his fat tip is violating your cervix.

"H-Hah Kento, ngh - God," is all you can manage to say, but there’s nothing holy about what his cock is doing to you, as he angles himself upward, attacking your uterus from a new direction.

You shriek, so horribly loud. It sounds like a horror movie - which is fitting. You’ve nearly forgotten that it’s Halloween night; the moon full, your passions like the tides, being pulled to their peak.

You desperately feel a needy confession on your lips but you know that now isn't the time. You can't love a man you don't date... right? But you definitely love the way he's tearing up your insides, sure to leave you swollen and limping.

"I don't remember telling you that you could remove your hand," he snaps, realizing you’ve removed the bullet, "put it back. Now."

You shake your head, begging for mercy. "Was too much, c-can't take it."

"Yes you can," he whispers, leaning forward and hovering his mouth over yours, cognac-scented breath teasing your parted lips. "Put it back, or I stop."

You whine and obey, the vibration revisiting your clit making your body convulse against him.

"Mhmm, like that sweetheart," Nanami coos, staring at you as your face twists every couple of seconds from the introduction of new kinds of pleasure. "Stick that tongue back out for me."

Your mouth is open, drool practically spilling out of the sides in a millisecond. He's spitting another alcoholic saliva drop into your mouth the next.

His breath is ragged as he drags out, "Thought I knew everything. But y’teaching - hah - me new things. Like how I can never live without your pretty pussy, ever again."

You quiver your lip and dig your nails into his back again, ready to cum on his cock.

"S-Stop talking like that," you grit out. "G-Gonna cum if you don't stop."

"Is that supposed to scare me?" he questions harshly. "You can cum over and over. I’m not finished with you."

You shake your head, but before you can fire back, Nanami is suddenly sliding himself out of you. You panic and sit up, staring at him with wide eyes as he drops to sit on the chair.

His hands come up to grab your hips roughly, and he's effortlessly pulling you down off of the desk. Your stomach makes contact with his thighs as he lays you over his lap like a disobedient child.

"Nanami?" you breathe, but he doesn't seem to hear you at all.

"We just needed to pause for a second," he says softly, running a hand down your spine and over the hill of your ass. His voice is very misleading, as are his gentle gestures; you have no idea what's coming.

"N-No," you whine, "I was so close."

"But, naughty bunny, didn’t you tell me to stop?" he questions, distracting you from the fact that his fingers are sliding between your asscheeks and down to your swollen hole.

You jerk in his lap as two of his fingers glide down your slick, parting your thick lips, repeating the process several times just to watch you squirm.

“Y-Yes, but-”

“What’d I tell you about lying?” he grits, and a blink later his fingers have parted from your skin.

You turn to scold him and his hand cracks down on the back of your thighs.

You yelp, but the action exhilarates you in some kind of disgusting way.

“Oh, and here’s another for calling me Nanami,” he spits, another crack landing on your backside but this time - higher, and harder.

“K-Kento, I’m sorry,” you whine, but you truly don’t want it to stop. Your fingers dig into his leg and he hisses, his cock jerking against your stomach as his body responds.

“How sorry, bun?” he coos, voice faking softness before another pop! of his palm stings your skin.

“I’ll be good, promise,” you whisper, arching your hips up to encourage another smack.

“You like this, don’t you, naughty bunny?” he realizes suddenly, and you try to shake your head in denial - but he’s caught on. “Hm. I’ll only accept your apology if you give me two more orgasms. Deal?”

“Two?” you cry. “I-I’ve already had one!”

“Good things always cum in threes, baby,” he murmurs, running his hand over the pretty hand-shaped welps he’s left on your skin. “You can give it to me. You want to be good, don’t you?”

You don’t know when the shift happened, but you loved it. You loved how he was letting his soft facade crumble to the ground so that he could truly slap you around like you were just a hole. Truthfully, that’s all you wanted to be. Wanted to let him take out the stress of being a single father on your guts, fill you up with more babies to care for, and then kiss you on the forehead when it was all done.

Pathetic. This is still your employer, your boss. And not to mention how much older he is. You don’t care, but you’re unsure if he does.

“I wanna cum again, please,” you beg, wriggling your ass up to show him you still needed punishment.

He groans before his two thick fingers are pressing between your lips and then, shoving through the soft ring at your center.

Your body shamelessly arches, but he allows your arms to stay free, clawing into his skin wherever you can get a grip.

Nanami is making his own noises above you but you’re on the verge of tears, wailing and carrying on as he fucks you with his fingers, curling the tips into your squishy ridges to try and drive the cum out of you faster.

“Maybe we should get one of those tails with a plug,” he comments, tone implying he’s thinking out loud. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to see you in your cute little tail while I fuck you.”

“Hngh - no, mmh…” you don’t even know what noises to make anymore. Words escape your brain.

Nothing but mush and the burning of your approaching orgasm are on your mind.

“Hold it in for me,” Nanami requests suddenly, “I’ll tell you when I’m ready for it, sweetheart.”

“God,” you shake your head and clench your thighs, but Nanami’s strong hand forces them back apart.

Your toes curl on the other side of the chair, your head falling forward. The pulse in Nanami’s cock is still drumming against your abdomen, as if knocking on your tummy to threaten you to hold your orgasm.

“I-I can’t,” you say, “Please, can I-”

“Cum.”

Nasty, wet squelches don’t stop as your body sends you over the edge. Your vision blacks and you shake so hard that you nearly roll right to the floor.

He hums approvingly, slowing his fingers down as you clench around them. “Good job, bun. Only one more to go.”

“I can’t take another,” you shake your head, as he gently guides you up into a sitting position on his lap.

“You’re so strong,” he says, “the perfect person for me. The way you always take care of me and the kids, how you fit so effortlessly into our little family. I know you can do this for me, sweetheart. Let me repay you for all that you do for us. Make you feel good.”

You hadn’t expected this little speech. It almost brings you to tears as Nanami gently rubs your back, sliding his free arm underneath your legs to lift you princess-style back onto the desk.

“Say something,” he begs, his voice hoarse.

“I wanted to be good for you,” you grin softly, and he smiles back as he runs his hands gently over the top of your legs. “But you want to be good for me. Which is it?”

“Both,” Nanami whispers. “I told you that you already do everything that keeps me content. Now, I want to please you.”

You realize that he is passing his power off to you. Letting his dominance slip through his fingers and right into the palm of your hand. You think you can handle being in control for your final orgasm, so you grip him harshly by his cock and scoot your ass to the edge of the desk.

He moans so softly that it could have been a whimper. You take his curvy length and drag it up to be aligned with your hole.

“Is your cock alone gonna please me, hm?” you purr, swirling your hips to tease his cock head, salty precum spreading across your hole.

“Y-yes ma’am,” he mutters, body lurching forward as if he’s the overstimulated one.

“Prove it,” you quip, shoving him back inside of you before pushing your hips down onto him.

You furrow your eyebrows to try and pretend the pain of him entering isn’t still intense. You lift yourself off of your palms and feet, using them to fuck down onto his twitching cock.

“Hah - Y/N,” he speaks your name in two sultry syllables, putting his hands on the desk to fully release his control as you use him.

“Baby, I need to fill you up,” he continues, “b-but if you don’t want me to…”

“Yes,” you say, “want me to have your babies, Mr. Nanami?”

“Oh,” he whimpers, “shit. Shit, don’t say stuff like that.”

You whirl your hips on him in the shape of an ‘O.’

“Want to breed me?” you continue. “Make me all big and pregnant?”

“That’s enough,” he snaps suddenly, hand clamoring down on the belt that is to your side, before he grips the garment in his hand. He sits up from where he’d been leaning on you, before taking the leather and slithering it around your neck, pulling it through the buckle, and yanking it towards him like you’re just a pathetic bitch on a leash.

“You had your fun,” he grits, “now you need to remember your place, bunny. I’m going to fill you to the brim until your cunt can’t take anymore and it drips back out of you, got it?”

“Mmh,” you pull against his belt as your hips are no longer the once controlling the pace. “Nanami, n-nooo…”

Your voice tapers off as he fucks you, fucks you so good and hard and mean until you’re drooling and crying and shaking and hissing and-

“Cumming!” you scream, but Nanami shows no signs of slowing down.

“That’s it,” he says. “Number three. What about four?”

“Y-You said…”

“Oh, you’re the only one who gets to lie around here?” he chuckles, a deep hypnotic sound that vibrates against your chest. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m gonna - ngh” and one viscid moment later, Nanami begins to shudder, and it is the beginning of the end.

You cannot tell if you are mourning or rejoicing the conclusion of this insane chain of events, but you forget all about it when Nanami is spurting hot semen all over your taut, spongey walls - that are now sore and quivering from the excessive abuse.

Your name leaves his lips in between the sultry noises he makes, and his body jerks on top of you until he’s finished spewing his load. Now, he stands in front of you with his head dipped down as he pants for several seconds.

“Do you understand how addicting you are?” are the first words that leave his lips after he is able to drag his head up to look at you.

You’re focused on your own huffing as you try to come up with a witty response, but with your brain so fucked out, the only thing you can mutter is “Oh, Kento.”

He nestles his sweaty face into your neck and plants a feathery kiss there, reminding you that he is still the same gentle Nanami that tucks his children in bed at night and drinks green tea in the garden.

He is everything you have dreamed of, but the sex had truly sealed it. Now, as he slips out of you and his cum follows soon after, you feel your post-high clarity morphing into embarrassment at the fact that all you’d been feeling is lust; Nanami deserves so much more than that, including his recognition as a father.

“Why are you staring at me? Have I still got your nectar on my face?” he jokes, and you admire his ability to loosen the tension.

“I’m sorry,” you say meekly, “I just think you are amazing. I don’t want you to think I really did just come for some cock.”

At this, he laughs so hard that his torso shakes. You smile, as it is rare to hear, and you are the cause of it.

He grabs his shirt and begins to use it to wipe himself off, then does the same for you, his movements intentional and gentle as he cleans you up, rubbing all of the puffy, red reminders on your body softly.

“I don’t think that,” he says with a crooked smile. “But whatever the case, I do hope that things have… changed between us.”

You scoff. “I should hope so,” you tease, tilting your head as he stops his hands on your body. “I hope you’re not going around making every person who comes near you cum three times in one sitting and expect to just be friends.”

He grins. “Nah, that treatment is reserved for you, bun.” His hands slide up your hair and pat the fuzzy ears on your head. “We should keep these around, though. But I’d like to take you out before we use them again.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bring his face to yours, planting a gentle kiss on his nose. “Of course. You did say good things come in threes,” you grin. “The sex was one. The date will be two. What’s three?”

And your question gets answered nine months later, when Nanami proposes to you on a white beach in another country.

…Right before you go into labor.

But of course, once the baby is out, it’s time to start on number 4 the following Halloween.

A/N 2.0

ty all sm for the love on this series so far i’m rlly havin the time of my life writing all these twisted monster-fucker stories ^.^

~ pennjammin

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 7

in which spencer reid and inexperienced!fem reader sleep together for the first time

series masterlist

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: loss of virginity, oral f/m receiving, so much praise, pain during sex, unprotected sex, cr**mp**, bit of overstim, soft dom spence, if u don't like that freak shit (love and intimacy) this is not for u, spencer is a nerd, they're both nerds actually and that factors in heavily, you may get more from this part by FIRST reading how they met in this bonus chapter a/n: thank you all for being patient, ilysm, this was the most laborious thing i've ever done for no reason and also this part changed so many times and is not what i expected it to be so pls go in with tempered expectations and keep in mind that this story is more about the characters and their specific relationship dynamic than just being porn. i truly have no idea how you guys will react to this but i sincerely hope you love it and them like i do<3 also it's twice as long as the other parts so feedback would be very very appreciated! again i love u all and enjoy the penultimate part!

Spencer’s lips are on yours, and you weren’t expecting it—hell, you weren’t expecting him to be in your apartment. After all, he’d wished you goodnight and walked out only a moment ago.

“Spencer—wh—” 

But he’s insistent with his lips, kissing you bruisingly over and over like there’s nectar on your tongue and he’s parched for you. Still, he has enough decency to not completely ignore you, exhaling a quick excuse over your flushed lips. 

“I missed you.”

This time, though, you dodge his hungry kiss. Part of you thinks, as he watches you, eyes alight and breathing heavily, that he sort of likes your playing hard to get. It’s not something you do very often, admittedly. 

“We’ve been apart for like, maybe a minute.”

“I didn’t even make it to the parking lot.”

Your face heats.  

“Well you can’t just—you can’t just walk in like that! And I thought you said we weren’t supposed to mix fighting with pleasure.”

“Then start locking your door. And I thought you said we weren’t fighting.”

You roll your eyes in response, though your heart is still pittering in your chest. 

At least his hands move to your arms, stroking up and down relatively chastely—although he has this way of making everything seem intimate. Especially when paired with those amber eyes of his—glowing like a candlelight beacon in the window guiding you home. He speaks in low, appeasing tones and darts his tongue over his lips. 

“I originally said it’s a bad idea for couples to sleep together after an argument. But you know—makeup sex is ubiquitous across culture and time because it works. Anger and arousal trigger a lot of the same hormones, specifically norepinephrine which is involved in feelings of longing and—”

“Spencer.”

“You know what else?” He mutters in a way that feels dangerous. “It tends to feel better than regular sex.”

That earns a shaky exhale from you. Whether from irritation or arousal is anyone’s guess—probably a combination of both. 

“So you came back to fuck me?”

It’s probably evident to Spencer from your choice of language that this already isn’t going exactly as he’d planned. He doesn’t answer right away—just regards you, gaze bouncing between your two eyes like he’s trying to calculate your level of anger. 

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You push him away and move to walk down the hall. 

“Maybe your window of opportunity has passed.”

A warm hand wraps around your wrist in the dark of the hallway and he pulls you back until you’re falling against something tall and warm and lean. The smell of polished amber and sandalwood overwhelms your senses. 

“What’s wrong, angel? What happened in the minute I was gone to change your mind?” His voice is scratchy like a favorite record. It’s the voice he could hold you captive with. The one you have a very difficult time saying no to. 

“I don’t know,” you mutter, unintentionally leaning back against him. “What happened to change yours?”

His response comes pressed against your ear, half-lost in your hair. 

“You’re upset that I changed my mind. I thought you wanted this, honey.”

“I do,” you admit, letting your head fall back against his shoulder and bringing his arm to wrap around you. “And if you hadn’t walked out earlier I would’ve done it. But… I’m tired of us doing everything on your timeline. You just… you expect me to be amenable to what you want, constantly.” His nose and lips press into your shoulder. 

“What do you mean?”

“Like… I’ve been begging you to sleep with me for I don’t even know how long. And you keep changing your mind, and I feel like you’re being really confusing about it. Obviously you don’t have to sleep with me, you never did, but I just feel kind of… jerked around. And you did it again tonight.”

A beat of silence. 

“I understand your frustration,” he appeases, securing both his arms around you. You cling weakly to his wrist, to his warmth, like he’s a tether in a storm. “Would you prefer to wait until you initiate it?”

“No. Yes! I don’t know,” you huff, disentangling yourself from his arms and continuing toward your bedroom. “Now I’m annoyed at you again.”

He follows you right through the door. 

“Just tell me what to do! I don’t want to be annoying.”

“I can’t. I’m being unreasonable.” You flick on your adjoining bathroom light and examine yourself in the mirror. Yeesh. The eye makeup situation is abysmal after all the crying that has taken place over the course of the evening. 

“So choose to be reasonable and tell me what you want from me. I’ll give it to you.”

You frown at your reflection, pushing your hair back and rubbing at some excess mascara. 

“No, you’re not understanding me. I’m not choosing to be unreasonable. My thought process regarding the situation is inherently unreasonable and there’s nothing I can do about it because it’s just the way I feel.”

“The feeling being that I’ve been too domineering over how our sexual relationship has unfolded?”

Spencer watches you in the bathroom mirror, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed as you tip some makeup remover onto a reusable cotton pad. You try not to check him out as you nod, but it’s impossible—with his sleeves rolled up to show defined forearms cradled in capable hands, and his hair all messy. 

When he pushes off the wall you freeze, unsure of his next move—until he’s gently spinning you around and taking the bottle and cloth from your hands. 

“Maybe it would help,” he begins, soft as he focuses on the new task, carefully bringing the round to your right eye so he can remove the bleeding mascara. You allow your eyes to flutter shut. “If I remind you why I’ve been so hesitant.”

“Because you hate giving me joy.”

He laughs, nothing more than one huff from his nose. 

“You’re spoiled and we both know it.”

Point taken, as he gently wipes your makeup away for you. Your silence is his cue to continue. 

“Everything I said about worrying that you would regret choosing me is true. It was especially true when I thought you felt lukewarm toward me. And all of that confusing stuff I said in the phone is true too—having sex for the first time is incredibly intimate and weird and sometimes scary. If you’re not 100% sure about your partner, or if you think your feelings are unrequited, it’s hard to be completely comfortable in such a vulnerable situation and your likelihood of getting hurt or having regrets skyrockets. I know that from experience. I wanted better for you than what I got. Still, I know it was wrong to project my feelings about the significance of sex onto you. In that regard, you’re right. I was being domineering, and I guess… I guess to an extent I’m still deflecting. I shouldn’t be trying to pretend like it’s about you when in reality I mostly just didn’t want to get hurt again. I didn’t want to go through that again, and that’s okay, but I shouldn’t have made you feel like it was something you could have changed.”

You try to process that. 

“Go through what?” You whisper hoarsely. Something about having him at such close range while he takes such care with you feels whisper-y. 

“Sleeping with someone who didn’t love me back.”

Your reply is small. 

“Oh. Right.”

How could anyone not love him back?

Spencer’s reply is simple and kind, without a hint of, obviously you dumb bitch—which is pretty much what you’re thinking to yourself. 

“Does that make sense, lovely? Do you understand why I wanted to wait?”

He lets you ponder for a while in comfortable-enough silence as he finishes removing your eye makeup with a characteristically gentle hand. When you open your eyes, he looks genuinely content, screwing the lid back on the bottle as if he’s got an eternity to wait for your answer. 

“Yeah. That part makes sense. But why did you seem so… I don’t know, like, wishy-washy about it?”

Spencer’s eyes dart up to meet yours, brows slightly raised. Then a small laugh bubbles up from somewhere inside him. 

“Because I’m obsessed with you. I thought about you like that constantly. I still do.”

Your breath catches at the casual admission. 

“Oh.”

Spencer hums, setting the bottle down before tenderly thumbing away some excess mascara that he must have missed from under your eye. 

“You didn’t think it was easy for me, did you?”

“Well… kind of,” you admit, tracking his eyes until they meet yours. 

“Not sleeping with you has been among the hardest things I’ve ever done. Especially when you started begging me. That first time, when I picked you up from Penelope’s and you asked me why we hadn’t had sex yet…”

He trails off, still rubbing at your cheek as he loses himself in thought. 

Eventually, you grow impatient, prompting, “what?”

“It’s not a nice thought.”

“Well, you have to tell me now,” you insist. 

He half smiles, thumb straying to your lips. 

“It was just… you had no idea what you were talking about, and you were ready to throw a tantrum in my living room until I gave you what you thought you wanted. Part of me was imagining bending you over the couch right then, since you thought you were so ready.”

It feels like someone has snipped the pulley that keeps your stomach in place. 

“Spencer,” you splutter, convinced your cheek is tangibly heating under his touch as your head reels at the revelation that he could have such a deeply dirty and mildly sinister mind. 

“I told you it wasn’t nice.”

You swallow. 

“Is that… is that still what you want?”

His brows flicker again and he tucks hair behind your ear. 

“To bend you over my couch? No.”

Your face warms even more and you turn to leave the bathroom, sick of his teasing. 

“Okay, goodni—”

“Hold on.” Spencer catches you by your waist and pulls you back into him for the second time tonight. A dangerous smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I know what you meant. And no, I don’t want to bend you over my couch.” He laughs, slipping a hand under your shirt to rub your back. “You know what I want. I’m more interested in learning what you want.”

“I want…” Your eyes dance between his, and your heart flutters against the confines of your chest as you realize what you’ve wanted for so long is finally yours for the taking. “I want to stop talking about it.”

His expression neutralizes and you know it’s probably intentional to stop whatever feelings you assume him to be having color your decision. 

“Oh?”

“I just think we’ve talked about it enough.”

Before he can say another word, or ask you another question, you kiss him with such passion there’s no way he can doubt how much you want this. 

Only a moment passes before he allows himself to lean into it, cupping your face between reverent hands and taking control of the pace of the kiss, slowing it down until you can hardly breathe. Your little noise of want has him quickening the process, pressing against you until you’re walking backward out of the bathroom. It’s like the first crack in a dam. After that, everything becomes inevitable. 

Your knees hit the back of the bed and you sit down hard on the mattress, smiling up at him. You skim the front of his thighs with your palms as he smooths your hair.

Spencer groans, leaning down and kissing you til you’re on your back. 

“Don’t make that face.”

An affronted huff from you breaks the kiss up and he pulls back to study your expression. 

“What do you mean don’t make that face? I was just smiling at you.”

“I know you were. And you have such a pretty smile it makes me feel guilty about… defiling you.”

Your brows flicker up and your mouth drops open with an affronted scoff.

“Watch yourself. I’ll defile you.”

“You already have,” he admits with a half-laugh as he kisses you again. “My mind was never this dirty before we met.”

“Hm. Tell me you like my smile.”

He pauses and then chuckles dryly against your mouth. 

“I love your smile. You’re gorgeous. Any more demands?”

Pleased, you shake your head and pull him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“Not currently.”

“Really?” he murmurs, trailing kisses over your cheek and down your jaw, “I’d do just about anything you asked me right now. You don’t want to take advantage of that?”

The sensation of his lips just below your ear threatens all rational thought in your brain, but you manage a reply with only a slight delay and a hint of a waver coloring your tone. 

“I shouldn’t have to demand things. You should just know to do them.”

His kisses drag lower, warm and unhurried and you’re trying not to let your hyper-sensitivity from going a week completely untouched show—but you doubt he misses the way your breath catches, or the barely audible squeaks, or the arch of your back or the tightening grip on his shirt. 

“Well, for future reference—” he nips at a sensitive spot and you gasp quietly, even as you tilt your head to offer him more access. More room to bite, if he so chooses. “—I happen to enjoy it when you make demands of me. Especially when those demands entail letting me call you pretty.”

“I’ve never not let you call me pretty before,” you huff. It’s a touchy subject, and Spencer can probably sense your hackles rising, but he has you right where he wants you and so he pushes anyway. 

“No. But you never believe me. We’ve had this conversation. You always act like I’m walking you to the gallows when I compliment you.” 

It’s hard to make a defense when he’s leaning his weight onto one arm so he can unbutton your jeans, when he’s looking down at you with sparkling onyx and scorched-earth eyes like you’re something to be consumed. But not violently, no—ardently. Like fruit heavy on the vine. Like you’re a religious rite to the devout and deluded. A sacrament.

But it’s not a blind passion. Spencer knows you; every inch of you and every loose thread on your soul begging to be pulled. He knows you and he still wants you like this. To be perfectly honest, you’d never thought you’d feel comfortable handing yourself over to someone like this—vulnerable and all your layers of armor shed. Never in your life would you have thought you could trust a person so implicitly that you’d hand them a knife and show them exactly where to press, that you’d say, I know once you open me and you see me you’ll not want to change a thing.

You adore him. Cosmically. Enormously. In every dimension. He’s lodged so deep in your heart you have no choice but to love him eternally. 

It’s deep in the midst of all these very profound revelations that you realize Spencer has stalled with your zipper undone. His hand has strayed to your hip, to sweetly push your shirt up and trace love letters into warmed and downy skin with his thumb. 

“I just wish you could see yourself how I see you,” he says softly, the weight of the truth a strain on his vocal cords. 

Sometimes, he is so kind it’s like a punch to your stomach. You’ve never been quite as kind as him. And nobody’s ever been as kind to you as he is. You’ve done nothing to deserve his kindness, but you know he needs a place for it, and you’re here with open arms. 

He studies you a moment longer, swallowing as his eyes trail over your face and lower. You want to reach out and brush strands of caramel hair out of his face, but he seems to be thinking so hard you’re hesitant to distract him. 

“I’ve never told you this, because I know you’d just shoot it down, but… you are genuinely the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met in my life.”

Something twinges in the depths of your stomach—the darker shades who live there and exist solely to whisper not enough not enough not enough to you every minute of every day. 

But they’re simply not a match for the softness you find when you do reach out for his hair, or the way he looks at you. Spencer loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist—not a cuff, but an affectionate hold. 

“Do you believe me?”

There’s so much earnest hope in his voice it almost jars you. He so badly wants you to understand how feels about you—he’s been trying to tell you for months and all you know how to do is refute his praise and insist on your worthlessness. 

Ever since Spencer, you don’t see the faces on magazine covers or in superhero movies, no matter how mathematically flawless they are. Nobody gets close to being as beautiful as he is in your eyes. He’s in an entirely different echelon, and despite how you feel about yourself, you have to accept that he might feel the same about you. 

“I do,” you say, equally soft, and 100% honest. You believe that he believes it, and that’s enough. It’s all that matters. 

The shallow knit of his brow loosens. His lips ease into a suggestion of a smile. But it’s most visible in his eyes—the way smoldering coals reignite, melting the amber glass of his irises until they’re molten. 

The way he kisses you then, you’d think you’d lassoed the moon and pulled it down from the sky for him. But apparently all it takes to make him incandescently, contagiously happy, is to accept a compliment.

There’s a renewed sense of urgency on his breath as he kisses you deeply and quick enough your heart is racing. It only goes faster when he remembers his previous task and begins tugging your jeans down, but he doesn’t even bother to pull them past your knees before his hand is creeping up your thigh. Goosebumps race each other across your body as you try to remember what it feels like—what he feels like. But you can’t, even as his thumb fans over your inner thigh and pushes it open, gently encouraging you to give him more access to you. 

“You’re not wasting any time,” you breathe against him while he traces the edge of your underwear.

“Do you want me to slow down?”

Judging by the way the tips of his fingers only barely shy away from the fabric, he really wants the answer to be no. But you know in his searching gaze that he’d never push you. 

“No, it’s fine. As long as we… don’t go this fast the whole time.”

“We won’t.” The hasty words are of lower priority than the next kiss he plants to your swollen lips. “We won’t. I just missed you so much.”

“Yeah?” You giggle airily as he drags his fingers over your clit through the material, trying to ignore the way it makes your head spin. 

“Yes. Yeah.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this, so… desperate for you, as he drops his lips to your neck and presses barely-there kisses everywhere he knows you’re sensitive. Just the feeling of his breath against your skin has you shivering. His hand between your legs only brushes your most nerve-dense spot, but a few touches in and you’re already wound up, like if Spencer doesn’t give you more soon you’ll burst. And not in the good way. 

When he finally commits to actually kissing your neck, you squeak, warmth emanating from that spot just below your jaw all the way to your toes. The frantic energy of earlier is slowly melting away, and he loses focus with his hand, as it begins straying wider, stroking your hip, your inner thigh, your stomach. It’s like your nerve endings are on overdrive, delivering twice as much feedback to your brain as they normally would. Each touch feels like he’s conducting electricity over your body, like you’re a plasma ball. He’d probably like that analogy—you, a core of alternating voltage, and him, the conductor, tracing a path and giving all those electrons an easy release. If you weren’t so distracted, you’d tell Spencer you found a way to work Nikola Tesla into your mutual sex life, and he’d probably propose on the spot. 

But that electricity is building fast—even more so when he drags his lips down just above your collarbone. Your breath hitches, simultaneously trying to crane your neck to give him more room, and curl into him so as to escape the stimulation. Finally he pulls away, and losing the softness of his mouth while the air feels so cold against the places he’d kissed almost hurts. 

“You’re a mess,” he chuckles affectionately, raising his hand to brush hair away from your face before stroking the heated high point of your cheek. “What am I going to do with you?”

It’s teasing, but so low and gentle and honeyed it swirls your stomach. 

“Whatever you want,” you admit quietly. It’s a shy confession more than it is a salacious flirtation because he already has you. And you want nothing more than for him to act on that in any way he so pleases. Whatever he does, it will be careful, and kind, and because he loves you. You know that no matter how he takes you apart—he’ll put you back together again. 

“I don’t know if I can. You’re all jumpy.”

God, he has the prettiest smile—even when it’s twisted with sarcasm and a thin veneer of guilt, like he knows he shouldn’t be teasing and just can’t help himself. 

“I’m not,” you defend, face heating further. “I’m not nervous. I don’t know what it is.”

That sticky sweet tone is back, pooling in his eyes and dripping all over you like nectar as he languidly looks you over. 

“I didn’t say you were nervous. Just a little bit jumpy.”

It’s not accusatory—he’s simply stating a fact. Easy, gentle, designed to soothe. 

You shrug helplessly and chew on your lip, unsure of how he wants you to respond. It’s definitely true that excited as you are, you’re slightly on edge. You feel taut as a string on a guitar, tense and waiting to be yanked at any second. 

His expression is serene, and his thoughts inscrutable as he continues lavishing you with his eyes, down to where he’s lying over you and back up. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak for a moment as he formulates his words. 

“Can we try something? There’s this tantric exercise that might help you relax.”

Your brows draw earnestly and you nod up at him, not requiring any convincing even though you have no idea what he’s talking about. 

Spencer directs you to sit up, and you do—kicking your jeans all the way off so you can sit criss-cross with your hands braced on your ankles. 

He’s next to you on the bed, at a slight angle, one of your knees in his lap. You blink at him. 

“Now what?”

“Now you give me one of your hands,” he says, tone tinted with a hint of an amused smile, as if your impatience is funny to him. Of course it probably is. 

Frowning only a little, you unlock your left arm and hold it out for him, watching curiously as he takes your one hand between his and flips it palm-up. 

“Did you know,” Spencer begins, voice low and confidential, “that the fingertips are the second most sensitive part of the human body?”

“What’s the first?”

“Lips,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your hand where he’s brushing the tips of your fingers light enough it almost tickles. “They’re both incredibly important for keeping you alive, which is why they’re one and two. But you’ll be particularly sensitive anywhere you’re vulnerable.” His words are trailing off as he brushes his thumb over your palm and to the delicate skin of your wrist. “Like here.”

His knuckles skim up your forearm, to the crook of your elbow. 

“And especially here.”

You’re fascinated as he traces back down the length of your arm and over your inner-wrist, feather light. Then up once more, with the blunted edges of his nails, and your breath catches. You’ve never noticed how sensitive such an innocuous part of your body could be, but it has your stomach flipping—more so when he looses a breathy laugh. “You know, some people are actually able to reach orgasm just by light stimulation to this area.”

Your response is just as airy—you don’t recognize your voice when it comes out like that, hanging in the pitch black between you. 

“Really?” 

An affirmative hum from him, as he lifts your hand and places an intentional kiss over your pulse at the bend of your wrist. Your chest aches and heat is pooling in your stomach as his gently trails them up the delicate skin of your arm. Maybe you should be embarrassed by the reaction you’re having—after all, it’s just your arm. But he treats every part of you like it warrants love and attention and intimacy. Even the parts you typically ignore. Certainly parts you never considered to be sexually or romantically relevant. It’s dizzying. It’s like magic. 

“Arms up,” Spencer finally directs, just as sweetly as he’s doing everything else, and helps you tug your shirt over your head. Every brush of fabric, every seam against your skin registers more than it normally would. Everything is heightened, and despite your state of undress you’re still warm. “Your neck is really sensitive, too. It’s the most commonly acknowledged erogenous zone.”

Erogenous zone. Of course this all comes back to biology. 

“Tilt your head for me, honey.”

Utterly entranced and useless to not abide by him, you do so. Spencer brushes your hair over your shoulder, and if the slip of it down your back weren’t enough, the graze of his fingertips against the nape of your neck has you shivering. 

The warmth of him at your throat feels completely brand new, despite having already had his lips there only minutes before. But now they ghost over your skin with a kind of novelty, and your own lips part in silent pleasure, head lolling to allow him greater access.

“Lie back.”

Without hesitation (but perhaps a bit sluggishly in your stupor) you obey, sliding down until you’re propped up only by pillows once more. Spencer takes his place propped above you once more, thighs slotted with yours as he quickly picks up where he left off. 

The sweet kisses are perfect and feel so much better than you’d ever thought to notice before—but at the same time your core aches and there’s that pressure building again that’s starting to get to you. 

“Spencer,” you try, and it comes out hoarse but you don’t care at all. “More.”

“You want me to leave marks?” 

And the offer is so tempting you’ll wait a few more minutes to ask for what you really need, nodding semi-frantically and ‘mhm’-ing desperately. 

As he gently latches onto a spot that will require concealer later but feels fantastic for now, one of his hands slips down your side, just barely letting his nails skim, and your back actually arches. It’s a shocking amount of stimulation for being nowhere near any sexual hotspots. That tiny caught breath dissolves as his fingers continue down just as lightly over your hip and thigh. Your muscles tense as you chase and run away from the feeling. It’s ridiculous.

There’s no point in trying to keep your eyes open now—they grow heavy and you let them fall shut as he sucks another love bite to your throat. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it? It’s kind of weird.” He says, voicing your thoughts as he eventually decides the mark will be sufficiently dark. 

“Yeah,” you agree, lacking all eloquence as he caresses every sensitive place you didn’t know you had and your hips writhe minutely in a little desperate dance of your own creation. 

“Most people aren’t aware of the potential of the erogenous zones that aren’t actual sex organs. They don’t pay attention to them. You know what else is an interesting function of erotic stimulation to areas that aren’t directly involved in reproduction?”

“Hm,” you hum as his hand skims to your back. You lean into it and he promptly undoes your bra with a single hand—a skill you’re not even sure you have. 

“It releases not quite as much oxytocin as an orgasm but more than sexual pleasure alone. So you’re less tense before sex than you usually would be, and you’re primed to build more trust and feel more connected with your partner during.”

God, he’s a nerd. And it’s so, so hot. 

You roll over on your back again and look up at him through half-lidded eyes. The corner of his mouth flickers as he takes in your expression, before trailing downward, following the path his fingertips make over your skin as they tug the straps over your shoulders. Trying to stop him, to be shy, would be a pointless venture. He’s seen you like this and you want him to see you again. 

A shaky exhale of his own brings a little smile to your face as he pulls your bra away and observes the newly bared skin with a hunger that you can feel. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, eyes cast pointedly down and thumb brushing over the side of your right breast. 

“You mentioned.”

“I’m not allowed to say it again?” He teases, leaning down to kiss you soft. Your lips curve against his. 

“You can say it as many times as you want.”

Spencer hums, finally thumbing over your breast’s sensitive peak. It sends a chill down your back and seeing as you’re already worked up to the point of near insanity, the pleasure from such a simple touch is much stronger than it would be otherwise. 

“Good. Because I missed you a lot.”

After that, he doesn’t waste much time—only toying with your flesh for another minute as he kisses you before his hand is skimming down your abdomen and dipping below the waistband of your underwear. 

“Please,” you whisper, tilting your hips toward him when he doesn’t move to touch you anymore. 

“Please what?”

“Spencer, don’t.”

He smiles at this, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as his hand travels lower. Fingers slip between wet folds and he begins making the lightest of circles over your clit. 

“You’ve probably been waiting long enough, huh? I should be nicer.”

Your answer is a breathy almost-whine as you seek more friction against his hand. 

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pressing down harder. The sensation sends sparks down to your toes and you attempt to clamp your legs shut around his wrist. “These need to stay open,” Spencer chuckles, “or else I can’t help you.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” The words are a sweet sing-song against your cheek as he kisses you there, before hooking his fingers into the fabric of your underwear and pulling down. You try to help wiggle out of them as best you can, gasping when he tosses them away and immediately returns his hand between your legs. He dips his head down, tongue lathing over your breast, and teases you with the tip of one finger circling around your entrance. 

“I need—”

“Shh. Let me worry about it.”

With that, he’s dipping his ring and middle fingers just barely inside of you to the first knuckle, then back out, before pushing a bit deeper, and repeating the cycle until they’re as far as they’ll go. When he slowly starts fucking you with them, still mouthing sweetly at your breast, you’re ready to melt. 

The room is quiet except for your breathy mewls, the lewd, wet sound of his fingers inside of you, and the blood rushing in your ears. Soon your breast pops from between his lips and he finds somewhere else to leave his mark. Spencer is turning you into a work of art, with his fingers, with his mouth. You don’t mind at all. You’d let him sign his name, if he could—but you doubt he’d let you get his name tattooed. 

Soon you stop fighting the perpetual tug of your lids down and let them flutter shut, loosing a freer moan as he brushes over that sweet spot inside you. Even when he’d told you how to find it over the phone, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like this—maddening enough to have your hips twisting again and that hot bed of coals in your tummy sparking. 

“Spencer,” you warn, leg twitching as he stokes the fire beyond the point where you can passively enjoy it. Either he’s got to slow down or he’s got to let you burn all the way up. You practically jump when you feel his tongue flick over your clit—you hadn’t even been aware of his shifting positions. Maybe you’re more out of it than you’d previously thought. Your eyes shoot open and he does it again. “Oh, fuck.”

The words are simple, quiet, and apparently that’s not enough. Before you can even process the sensation of the tip of his tongue on you he’s latching onto your clit, suckling in a way that has your vision momentarily going out. You cry out and kick involuntarily, hips jumping up, but he captures your leg and presses you down into the mattress so no matter how much you squirm and squeak you can’t get away. 

“Fuckfuckfuck, Spencer I wa—ah—sn’t ready—oh my god.”

He remembers his fingers deep inside you and begins rutting them and you hiss, inhaling sharply through your teeth before letting it all out in a tremulous moan. The orgasm is building up so quickly it almost feels like an attack on your poor body as you try to process it all to no avail. Every sound you make is a vulnerable mess of pleasure and pain, a clear fear of surrendering to something inevitable. Of course, it doesn’t really hurt at all. As usual, he’s blindsided you. Found you unprepared. You rake your fingers through Spencer’s hair, continuing on with your shaky moans that sound half-worried. 

“Oh, please.” Really, you’re just pleading to be put out of your misery. It’s in moments like this, as the black is creeping in around the edges of your vision and your thoughts become threads in the tangle of an existence knotting in on itself with no discernible end or beginning in your mind until everything is completely abstract, that you’re reminded why the French refer to orgasm as the little death.  

Your fingers lace tight enough in the wilds of his hair to pull, and he groans against you, and those vibrations are your undoing. You succumb to the dark momentarily but he continues a loving assault of gentle kisses to your clit—careful enough so as to be inoffensive even after the euphoria abates and you’re hypersensitive, still relishing soft strands of hair between your knuckles. 

You’re breathing hard as you blink your vision back, looking down at him as he looks up at you from his place between your legs and rubs the top of your thigh.

“I wasn’t ready,” you pant, lips flashing into a tired smile that doesn’t hold a candle to his own livelier one. 

“Took it like a champ.”

If you weren’t already so warm his sarcastic comment would inspire more heat in the apples of your cheeks. 

“Dr. Spencer Reid using sports idioms?” You smile as he climbs back up your body. 

“It’s unreasonably sexy that you said idiom and not simile.” He kisses you, grin mirroring yours, and you don’t complain about the slick still on his lips. “And look at that. Not afraid to kiss me when I taste like you anymore.”

“I remember what you said,” you whisper, eyes bouncing between his, glowing amber pools in the low light. The words echo in your head from the first time he’d gone down on you and you’d been hesitant to taste yourself. 

One day, I’ll make you come just like that again, and then I’m going to fuck you, and you’re really going to want me to kiss you then, angel.

“So do I,” he points out needlessly. “Eerily prophetic, hm?”

“I think you just like going down on me,” you laugh. 

Without the light on, his smile is just as brilliant as usual.  

“You might be right about that.”

Another interlude of quiet begins, but you don’t mind it. Taking this slow, as desperate as you’ve been for it, feels nice. Easy. Waves of burning need ebb and flow, but for now, it feels nice to be bathed in his candlelight gaze, know you’re loved, and nothing else. 

“What next?” You whisper after a long moment, lifting your hand to trace the line of his jaw. He leans into it slightly, lips brushing your palm. 

“That’s up to you, angel. What’s going to make you feel most comfortable?” 

Your bottom lip rolls between your teeth as you think and he tracks the movement, corner of his mouth twitching fondly. 

“It might help if you weren’t fully clothed.”

“I think we could probably do something about that.”

He pecks the tip of your nose playfully and then he’s pushing off the bed. Your brow wrinkles as you follow suit only partially, sitting up with your legs folded under you and pulling the sheets over your body to combat the chill and the vulnerability of being completely naked. 

“Oh, my god. You had your shoes on that whole time?”

“I got distracted,” Spencer defends, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to slip the loafers off. 

You clutch the sheet to your chest, watching the adorable way he pushes his hair out of his face as he rushes. He’s so clearly excited—it shows in the flush of his cheek and his even worse than usual coordination. 

“But on my bed?”

“I’m sorry,” he says without seeming very apologetic, leaning down to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger and pressing his lips to yours. “I’ll pay to have your comforter dry cleaned. I’ll buy you a new one. I don’t care.”

“How chivalrous.”

“I am,” he insists against your lips, shaped by what is surely a boyish smirk. 

Unsurprisingly, you get lost in the kiss, dropping the sheet to hang onto his shoulders. Spencer takes advantage of the once-more revealed skin, rubbing your thigh with slow passes in a way that has you all lit up again already. It doesn’t help that his tie is skimming right over the recess between your folded thighs as he leans over your seated form, kissing you deeper as the moments pass. 

“You’re distracting me now,” you scold, but your voice is quiet and smiley as your noses brush. 

“Do you want to help me with my clothes?”

You nod, heart hatching like a cocoon and already slipping a finger into the knot of his tie so you can tug perhaps not gently enough. He chuckles, bracing himself with his fists on either side of your lap as you pull and yank until the fabric comes loose and you slip it from around his neck, flinging it blindly for dramatic effect. Then he slowly draws back to his full height, until you’re about eye-level with his chest. His gaze fixes on you, feverish and intent as he finds the buckle of his belt without looking. The slide of leather on leather, the jingle of the metal has the hairs on the back of your neck rising and you fight a chill as he pins you with his stare—feeling rather powerless as he towers over you, still essentially fully clothed while you’re completely naked. 

You probably shouldn’t be as thrilled by it as you are. 

Spencer tosses the belt on the floor and watches on, utterly charmed as you rise to your knees. His hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin unbuttoning his shirt with slow, careful fingers. 

“See?” You murmur bashfully. “Helping.”

His voice is equally as soft. 

“Very helpful. Thank you.”

The tension in the quiet room gets to be too much and you have to focus hard on the task at hand, failing to bite back a twisty smile. For once, he keeps his stupid perfect mouth shut and lets you push the fabric of his open shirt from his shoulders in humid silence. 

Your fingers skate down his torso and you watch the muscles tense. You wonder if he notices the way he pulls you slightly closer or if it’s subconscious as you both track the path of your hands. 

“Your button is on the wrong side,” you note, voice wavering slightly, once your fingers stall at the waistband of his pants.

Spencer chuckles. You feel silly. 

“Men and women’s clothing tend to have the buttons on different sides, if that’s what you mean.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence, before the words come pouring out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’m still a little bit nervous, I think.”

“That’s okay,” Spencer assures you, hands gliding up and down the soft lines of your waist. “It’s okay that you’re nervous. But I’m going to take really good care of you, okay?”

You nod, not looking away from the exposed skin of his torso. 

“And if at any point you need to take a break or stop, you’ll tell me.”

“I will, but… I don’t need to stop right now.”

“Then you can go as slow as you want.”

You swallow and take a moment to gather yourself before continuing on undoing his pants. With his assistance, you pull them down, and with them his boxers tug an inch or two lower, exposing a subtle v-shape before it disappears beneath the waistband. The fabric is obviously tented. A ball of nervous anticipation spins faster in your stomach, drawing all the heat in your body down between your legs. He’s pretty everywhere. You’d nearly forgotten. 

Spencer’s stomach tenses under your light touch as you drag your fingers down, down, just to the waistband. It’s then that you look up at him for permission to continue, and find his eyes already on you, heated and intense. 

“Go ahead, honey.”

Again you find yourself quite excited to touch him, but you start cautiously, simply letting your hand fall over the shape of him through the fabric. Even that has his chest rising and falling at a slightly quickened rate, and one of his hands finds your unoccupied one, twining them together. That small gesture inspires you to bolden your explorations, becoming more insistent in the way you palm at him. He feels big, which is a concern of yours. But you try not to let that intimidate you.  

Already he’s quite hard, you suspect from going down on you earlier (which is flattering as much as it embarrasses you) and your fingers graze a small wet patch of fabric. You fixate on the shaky little breath he releases as you push down his boxers with new fervor, and his cock springs up. 

He’s still perfect. 

You smear beads of precum down his tip, and he sighs, letting his head fall against yours as you both watch. A few coquettish pumps and he’s humming, kissing your face and dragging his lips down your neck where he makes a home for himself. Apparently the sight of your hand wrapped around him had been too much to bear. 

“So good. Missed this.”

“It’s just my hand,” you whisper, a little insecure that he’s maybe playing it up for your benefit. 

“It’s you.”

His voice is so breathy, you sort of have to believe him. 

“Can I…?”

Too nervous to voice what you really mean, you trail off, but it apparently doesn’t matter to Spencer. He lifts his head like he’s in a stupor but you’ve said something urgent. 

“Anything you want. You can do whatever you want.”

“Okay. Um…”

You let go of his hand (and his dick). Spencer automatically rotates to accommodate you as you end up on your knees on the wooden floor in front of him. 

“This is what you want?” He breathes, already pushing his fingers through your hair and gathering it back as you look up at him and nod. 

Very quickly you have him back in your hand, trying to remember what you learned from the few times you’ve done this. You start perhaps a bit softer, less eager to prove yourself than you have in the past—simply dragging him over your tongue before enveloping his tip in your mouth, and releasing with a pop. Despite being overtly, explicitly, and undeniably sexual, there’s something almost chaste about the way you handle him. It’s a (dirty) expression of love, and you think he understands that as he rubs at your cheek affectionately. 

Eventually, however, you get too excited, and you take him into your mouth in earnest, bobbing your head slowly and seeing how much of him you can take without gagging. 

Spencer makes the prettiest noises—they’re breathy, and not ostentatious, but he’s got such a nice speaking voice it’s like his gasps are bars in a song. You whine around him, wriggling your hips in a rather pathetic display, and then all too quickly he’s tugging your hair so you can’t keep him in your mouth. 

“What?” You ask, closer to pouting than you’d care to admit and voice slightly hoarse. “You said I could do anything I want.”

“Not if you’re that good at it. Come here.”

He helps you up and catches you in a deep, messy kiss before you’ve fully regained your footing, swaying against him, but he holds you fast, pulling away slow like strings of honey trail between your mouths. 

Spencer’s eyes are fixed on yours, lips parted in a sort of wonder before he glances down to your own mouth, wiping the shine from your bottom lip. Any moment you’re expecting him to say something, to tell you you’re beautiful or perfect or that he’s in love with you—but instead he just meets your eyes again, that same wonder-struck look on his pretty face. A tiny, breathy laugh forces itself from his chest like you’re a genuine miracle. 

You feel so observed—seen in a way you’ve never been seen, looked at closer than anyone has ever looked at you before. And he still looks at you like you’re the human embodiment of love, the closest mortal manifestation of the divine, Galatea come down from her marble pedestal. The way he looks at you has your heart pounding and your breathing hastened. Adoration has never been something so physical, so tangible, ever before in your life. Your blood hums at the frequency of his electromagnetic field—an energetic aura that surrounds each person and can be detected from several feet away, as he’d explained it to you. It originates from the heart and if you spend enough time close to  someone, syncs up the beating of your most vital organ with theirs until it’s a perfect match. Maybe that’s why, almost as quickly as your heart had begun to pound, it slows again, and you feel any reservation flush from your body like a fever. 

“Okay,” you breathe, cataloguing every angle and curve of his face to store with all the rest, all the moments that feel important. Of course, you’ll never remember them like he does yours. But you’ll be damned if you don’t try your hardest. 

“Okay?” Spencer asks. He understands the confirmation for what it is, and searches for signs of hesitation on your face while rubbing reassuring circles into your hip. You nod resolutely. 

As he lays you down on your bed, it feels like you’re entering some kind of altered state. Everything is muted and glowing with a watercolor aura in the dark and you really only care about the man on top of you and the way moonlight dances on his skin and the way he smells like smoky amber and rain. He makes sure the pillows are fluffed under you, before sweeping your hair from beneath your shoulders into a corona around your head. All the while his eyes are so soft on you, just like his hands, and his lips when he leans down to touch them to yours. 

One of said hands finds its way to your jaw, trailing down over your neck and collarbone, before settling over your breast where he swipes a thumb over your nipple, lightly, slowly, several times. 

Once again you’re struck with the odd feeling, even with his hand on you like this, that the situation isn’t sexual in the way you’d anticipated. It’s not pornographic, or even very dirty. Everything Spencer does, even as his hand sneaks down between your legs, he does because he loves you. 

“One more like this,” he mutters against your jaw after a moment. 

“Why?”

Your impatience yields a smile you can only feel against your skin. 

“Just want you relaxed and feeling good. That’s all.”

When you assent, his fingers are already slowly pushing inside you. 

It seems you’ve entered some sort of time warp as well, because you reach a gentle peak in what feels like record time, aided by his easy murmurings and saccharine praise.

“Perfect. That was perfect,” Spencer says with a kiss to your shoulder as he slides his fingers from you and you feel yourself literally dripping onto the sheets. “Can I ask you something before we get carried away?”

“Mhm,” you hum, sweet and compliant as pleasure dulls your inhibitions for the second time tonight and your head lolls into the pillows. 

“Baby,” he croons, voice soft as worn paper as your lids flutter and lashes brush febrile cheeks, thumbing over the heated skin. “Need you a little more alert, sweet girl.”

“’M trying,” you whine, though it’s half self-effacing laugh. Spencer chuckles too as you shake your head and take a deep breath, trying to reinvigorate yourself. “Okay. Go.”

“Well… we don’t have any protection.” Before you can groan, loudly, he hurries on. “And that’s… I’m okay with that, if it’s what you still want. I trust you. But there will come… a moment of reckoning. And I need to know where I should… reckon. So you don’t end up surprised.”

Now you’re really laughing—a giggly mess beneath him as your arms loop over his shoulders. 

“Stop it,” he whines, pressing his nose to your cheek as you turn your head in an effort to not snort at your boyfriend to his face. “That was for your benefit, you know. You get squeamish.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously when you refer to it as reckoning.”

“Fine. I’ll rephrase. When I come, you essentially have two options. Inside, or on your stomach. Tell me where you want it.”

Your breath catches and your stomach does that tripping-over-itself thing again. 

“Um…”

Another fond half laugh, at your expense, is pressed against your skin. It’s enough to prompt you into answering—he doesn’t have to say anything to make his point about your being squeamish. 

“Inside,” you mutter, shy as you attempt to bring him closer so he won’t be able to look at you quite so closely. You wonder if he’s remembering the conversation you’d had over the phone last week—before he’d accidentally kind of broken up with you—about this very subject. You certainly are. 

“Okay. I want you to have everything that you want.” A few kisses to your neck later, between nips, he speaks again. “Just need to hear that you want this one more time.”

“I want this,” you repeat, obedient and honest, plain and simple. “Now, please.”

Spencer responds by first kissing you, firm and loving. It soothes you, and he punctuates it with a kiss to your cheek, before he’s reaching down and guiding himself between your legs. You feel surprisingly calm, more overcome with love and the light pleasure rolling down your back as he drags himself over your clit than you are by nerves. Still, you pointedly hold his gaze, not looking down in case you psych yourself out. He slots himself in place, tip resting against your entrance. 

“Remember, if you need to stop at any point—”

“I remember,” you cut him off hurriedly. 

Okay. So perhaps you’re still slightly nervous. 

He watches you, sympathetic though you’re not sure what for. 

“I need you as relaxed as possible, okay? I want this to be easy on you.”

You take a moment, scanning your whole body for tense muscles. When you feel sufficiently relaxed, you offer Spencer a small nod, and at that, he begins pushing into you ever so slightly. 

At first, it just feels foreign. He’s going so slowly, so carefully, you’re not sure he’s moving at all—until he finds resistance and the odd full feeling changes to a hint of burning stretch. Your hips jump and your breath catches, and Spencer stops immediately, relieving the pressure with a tiny shift in position. 

“It’s gonna hurt,” you realize, eyes darting between his like he might be able to tell you otherwise. You’d always been aware of the possibility, but you were holding out hope that you’d be one of those people who didn’t experience any pain their first time. 

“Just for a minute. Then it’ll feel good, angel.”

You swallow and nod. At the end of the day, you trust him completely. You trust him enough to let him hurt you. 

“Super deep breaths for me.”

He watches intently as you follow his directions, taking several deep breaths in succession, before he begins pushing into you once more. The pressure builds and builds until he pushes past that point of resistance, and it’s like he’s breaking you in two. 

“Ah,” you gasp, abs twisting as your body tries to escape the sensation without any input from you. 

“I know. I know, baby, that was the hardest part. Breathe.”

He drops his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles with light pressure to distract from the pain.

You nod, lips pressed together tight as the deep ache muddles your brain. It’s an insistent pressure against something does not seem to want to budge. It burns and stretches and is laced with sour, flirtatious pleasure so that you can hardly tell what it is you’re feeling. Mostly, you’re dizzy and hot.

“Relax, just like that,” he strains, looking down. “My good girl. We’re almost there, baby.”

Cries spill unbidden from your mouth and your eyes shut as he continues to open you up deeper, until finally, finally, his hips settle into the cradle of yours. 

Spencer sighs a curse under his breath, so quiet you don’t think it was meant for you. 

He’s inside of you. It’s bizarre. 

You whimper, and he snaps out of whatever revery he’d been in. 

“You okay? How does that feel?”

You take a shuddering breath, closing your eyes and trying to clear your head to no avail—your thoughts are like TV static. 

“I’m good. I need… I need a minute.”

“You can have as much time as you need. It’s a lot, huh?”

“Yeah,” you admit, voice small and weak. 

“I bet,” he agrees, peppering soft kisses all over your face. “But you’re doing so well. Proud of you, brave girl. You’re doing so well and we’re gonna make sure it feels good soon, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

“Will you please kiss me again?” you whisper, and Spencer’s brow knits with concern. 

“Of course, angel. Of course I’ll kiss you,” he says, and makes good on his promise with his lips on yours. It sweetens the ache. “I’ll do whatever you want. You can have anything. You’re so perfect.”

He kisses you again, just as lovingly, and soft, like you’re delicate. All the praise is only contributing to your lightheadedness, but you don’t mind at all. It feels good. 

“You can… you can move.”

“Okay. We’ll go really slow, yeah?”

He waits for your nod before his hips are pulling back and you arch at the odd sensation. When he pushes back in, eyes carefully locked on yours the whole time, you keen slightly, frowning and brain shorting out as it tries and fails to process this new feeling. 

“Uh-huh. You’re okay, I promise.”

At first it doesn’t feel good. It mostly hurts. But slowly, the pain begins to abate as you acclimate to having him inside of you, and he’s careful the whole time. 

“Spence?” 

“Hm?”

He sounds concentrated on the task at hand—you’re entranced by the sight of him above you, the parted lips, the unkempt hair over the brow furrowed in pleasure and focus. But he’s never too busy for you. 

“Does it… um—” you pause to hold back a whine—“what does it feel like for you?”

At this, he slows even further and chuckles—it’s a strained, slightly breathy sound. 

“For me?”

“Mhm.”

“You feel perfect, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

The slight fry in Spencer’s voice as he curses, which is a rare event in and of itself, flips your stomach, turns you on immensely. The idea that you’re giving him pleasure too—it’s almost overwhelming. That’s when it starts feeling good. 

“Oh—” you squeak, jaw dropping and bucking your hips inadvertently as the first bolt of true pleasure shocks deep in your core. He hums. 

“Yeah, is that it, sweet girl?”

But you can’t answer for a long moment. Your brain is melting as your legs lock around him. 

“Mm—it’s—it feels…”

“I know it does,” Spencer murmurs.

You whine and press your face into the curve of his shoulder as each thrust gently rocks your body. As the pace picks up bit by bit, you feel yourself clenching hard around him. His hips stutter and he hisses. 

“Ah. Can’t do that, lovely.”

“What? Did I hurt you?”

He laughs breathily. 

“No, you didn’t hurt me. You almost pushed me out. You have to relax.”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “’M trying.”

“You don’t need to be sorry. I know you’re trying, baby, you’re being so good for me.”

Your nails skim his back—a small expression of a much larger desperation. Once he’s sure you’re relaxed around him, begins going faster. 

Your gasps and soft moans come more often now as he finds a steady rhythm and it feels so different when he’s actually fucking you. It feels like he’s everywhere. Every time your hips meet you feel the sweet shock of it in your teeth, your toes, the back of your neck. In the best way, you feel consumed by him. It’s not at all like you’d imagined, and it’s perfect. 

“Wait, Spencer,” you breathe, struggling to form the words. Immediately he stops again, lifting his head from your shoulder to examine your face. 

“What is it?”

He sounds just as wrecked as you feel, panting and strained and it feels good to hear. 

“I wanna watch.”

For a moment his eyes dart between yours like he’s trying to determine what you really mean—but you said exactly what you meant. Then he laughs, a huff of air from his nose as he presses his head to yours and gives you a quick kiss.

Your toes curl as he readjusts his position, holding himself a little higher and resting your heads together so you can both look between your bodies. 

“There,” he murmurs as he slowly begins to withdraw again. “Like that?”

But you can’t answer, because you’re too busy whimpering at the sight of him pushing into you. The feeling seems to increase tenfold as you watch it happen. Distantly you wonder how the fuck it fits. 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Like that.”

Spencer takes this as a blessing to find a pace again, slower now as he seems to be just as enthralled by the sight as you are. 

“Give me your leg,” he rasps after a few moments like that, and you don’t know what he means exactly but you lift your right leg slightly only for him to press his hand to the back of your knee and push toward your chest, effectively opening you up and giving him more range of motion. It also enables him to fuck you even deeper. Again he slows, apparently savoring the feel of you yielding around him all the way down to the hilt. 

Black spots dance in your eyes as he settles at your deepest point—not pain, necessarily, just overwhelming sensation. Your jaw drops and you choke out a moan as he presses into recesses you didn’t know you had, as he shows you a part that you might have gone the rest of your life without knowing existed. He stops there, like that. Everything stops there, like that. If the cars on the road below ceased to drive, if the airplanes froze in the sky, you’d not be the least bit surprised. Somehow, you’ve unlocked a small eternity. There’s no sound but your joint heavy breathing and your heart pounding in your ears. The words just come bubbling up out of you in a little whine. 

“I love you.”

Spencer’s breath pauses for a moment before he’s letting it all out at once, brushing his lips up the ridge of your nose before they settle on your forehead in what seems like a permanent kiss. A few breaths in, you allow your eyes to flutter shut. Your heart rate slows down a touch, and you settle into the moment, never having been quite so content as you are like this—never having felt quite so adored and safe. 

“I love you,” he finally echoes, voice rasping, lips still pressed to your skin, still breathing against your hair. When he starts to move again, drawing back ever so slowly, you hiss softly. He raises his head from yours, and you look away from where he’s pulling out, meeting his eyes just in time for him to push back in, just as deep. They shine in the mostly-dark room and you moan unabashedly. It’s a high-pitched, sweet thing, nothing that will have the neighbors complaining—but so clearly true, from the depths of your soul, an expression of everything you’re feeling—not just the pleasure. 

Although that’s good, too, as Spencer shapes you to him again and again, the head of his cock kissing places nobody’s ever been and places you hope nobody else will ever venture to. This is all you need. Him. 

“Jesus,” Spencer groans, eyes fixed on your face as he fucks you slowly. But you can’t bring yourself to talk, too new to this kind of pleasure to find it anything other than mind-boggling and world altering. Your lips are still parted, allowing each sound to pass without filter. “Listen to you, beautiful.”

When he stops again, just to look down and marvel at you, you’re conflicted. On the one hand, you can taste the pleasure on the back of your tongue and he keeps taking it away when it’s so close. But on the other—you’re just as overwhelmed as he said you’d be. Your body has never had to process this kind of sensory information before, and you’re exhausted, but it’s so good. 

“Spencer,” you manage. He looks up, pupils blown and eyes lidded where they’d normally be wide. “Please don’t stop.”

He swallows, spurred into action again as soon as you say it. 

“Good?”

You nod and whine again as he picks up the pace bit by bit, remembering to push your leg back once more so he can get as deep as you need him. 

“So good,” you exhale at the top pitch of your voice. Your brows pinch and you release a fuller moan as Spencer finds a speed that’s fast enough to constantly feel good no matter where he is. You’re gasping for breath, back arching—and he finds a new angle, catching against the spot inside you that renders all those years of human evolution that gave you sentience and intelligence a waste. He chuckles airily at your series of series of affronted moans and halted gasps. 

“Right there? That's a good spot, isn’t it?”

“Oh, go—fuck, fuck!”

It feels so good it almost hurts, and your eyes are stinging to prove it. Your legs clamp tighter around him and you realize there’s a very lewd wet sound and you can’t believe that’s you. 

“Spencer, you’re—oh my god, I love you,” you whine, and it sounds like you’re pleading for your life. At this makes his own sound of pleasure, and hastens his messy circles on your clit as if in reward. 

But it’s too much all combined. 

Your hand claps to your mouth to obscure the loud, licentious moan that comes out—but Spencer immediately moves his hand from between your legs to grab your wrist and pin it gently to the bed, intertwining your fingers. 

“Don’t do that. Let me hear.”

You nod, and he lets go of your hand to return his fingers to your clit. If possible you get wetter around his cock—you can feel yourself gushing. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you whine as if pained. 

“Yeah? Gonna finally let me feel you cumming, angel?”

He has a filthy mouth when he wants to. The words hit like high voltage to your core and the very pit of your stomach. You can’t even respond beyond a desperate sob. 

“Show me, baby. I’m right here. Let go.”

You cum around his cock with a broken cry and it’s like a purge of every drop of angst you’d felt over the past week or so—hell, it’s a purge of all the insecurities that had bubbled to the surface since you started dating him. None of it matters anymore. How could it matter when you have him? When you have this?

The orgasm washes you out like a tidal wave, taking everything with it. It’s strong, and it’s so good, so intense, your body is overwrought with sensation and it’s too much even though it’s perfect. Your brain is drawing a blank as it tries to react to the feeling, and it’s like every button on the damn panel has been hit. 

“Fuck, I’m close,” Spencer grits, and you feel it in the way he adjusts his position, shifting as he grips at the edge of the mattress for leverage and the thrusts become messier, needier. You gasp as his other hand tangles in your hair, turning your head to ghost your lips over his forearm. It’s not entirely surprising when his own lips find your shoulder—but the feeling of him finding his release just as his teeth sink into your skin does come as quite a shock. It doesn’t hurt, and you’re sure there’s no skin broken, but it’s an undeniable fact that he has grounded himself in the throes of passion by biting down on you.

Inside you, he feels hot. Searing, almost, as his spend tries to fill space that doesn’t exist. There is absolutely no room for anything else inside of you. Stars dance in your eyes at the overstimulation, but long after he’s finished he’s still fucking into you—albeit much slower and with far less technique. Spencer moans like a two bit whore, like he’s reached pain to a point of ecstasy, and to you it’s as good, as special as the singing of the planets. If he’s as sensitive as you are now, it’s no small feat for him to keep going on like this. It’s a testament to how much he doesn’t want it to be over. The pleasure is carrying him away, but you’re beginning to feel how soft you must be and how if he continues on like this you may bruise like an overripe peach. 

“Spencer,” you manage, skating your hand up and down his back in what you hope are soothing lines. “Baby.”

He whines as his lips detach from your shoulder, but his hips finally slow to a stop, nestled inside you. 

“Jesus, fuck, I'm sorry,” he breathes, opting now to bury his face in your neck (with significantly less biting this time).

You’re still reeling, toes still curled, still struggling to breathe as your head spins and spins and spins. His chest pushes against yours with every heaving breath, hot and heavy on your skin, and that’s the only sign he’s still alive until his hand eventually reanimates in your hair, scratching your head tenderly. 

For a span of minutes, you stay like that—silent, twined together like caducean serpents. His weight on top of you is perfect. This, the lack of differentiation between your body and his, is perfect. You don’t know where he ends and you begin and you don’t need to. It’s a blissful moment. 

“Hey.”

Spencer’s voice is hoarse when he finally speaks, lifting his head to look at you with flushed cheeks and messy hair and sparkly eyes. 

“Hi.”

He smiles. 

“You’re so pretty.”

“You too,” you murmur, moving your hand from his back and pressing your thumb into the hollow of his cheek. His eyes map the curves of your face as he pushes your surely askew hair back. 

“How do you feel?”

It takes you a moment to seriously consider his question, scanning your body for any undue pains, but for the moment, you find none, beyond a dull aching throb that you can manage. 

“Good. Tired.”

You wince at the uncomfortable feeling of him pulling out. Spencer hums sympathetically and presses a sticky kiss to your lips which makes it a little better, though you can’t ignore how uncomfortable all the previously pleasant wetness has become between your legs. 

“Here—stay here, I’ll get a wash cloth and—”

“It’s fine,” you insist, holding on even as he tries to roll off of you. “I just need… will you stay here for a little bit?”

“Of course,” he promises, now pressed close to your side and propped up on an elbow, “whatever you want.”

You lavish in his gaze, warm like a spotlight, as he strokes your cheek and plays with your hair. Very quickly you’re lulled into a doze, eyes fluttering shut. Minutes stretch. You feel drunk on waking dreams, and perfectly at peace. Safe. 

“Angel girl,” he christens you fondly. More than anything, it’s an observation, so lovely it sinks into your skin like a balm, soothing every tired muscle and little mark he’d made. Even half-asleep, it makes you smile. 

“You’re an angel,” you slur, reaching blindly for him, and he chuckles, catching your wrist and helpfully settling your hand on his cheek. 

“I thought you were asleep.”

You hum, “mm-mm,” looking up at him with just as much adoration as he has for you. Those cuddle hormones must be kicking in because soon you’re attempting to pull him back on top of you. He doesn’t quite comply, probably for fear of crushing you—rather he settles next to you, gathering you in his arms. 

Silence blankets the two of you, but it’s not unpleasant as you just watch each other with barely-there smiles curling your mouths. This kind of intimacy still manages to give you butterflies, even after everything else you’ve done. This kind of satisfaction, reverie in the sound of each other’s blood flowing and lungs filling. Setting aside words because you don’t need conversation as a pretense for wanting to be around each other anymore. You don’t need an excuse to look at him like this. You don’t need words any more than you need clothes. It’s enough to just be. 

“I love you,” he says, a soft reminder, and entirely redundant with the way he’d already been looking at you, touching you. 

“I know. I love you too.”

The smile flickers brighter on his face. 

“And thank you.”

Your eyes narrow minutely as you consider what he could possibly be thanking you for. 

“For what?”

“For loving me. And trusting me. It’s…” your heart squeezes as you realizes tears are pooling in his eyes. He takes a moment and clears his throat. It’s incredibly endearing. “It means a lot to me. You mean a lot to me.”

You look down, thumbing at the sheets where you’ve hoisted them over your bodies. 

“You do realize how lame we are if we have sex and both immediately start crying, right?”

At this he laughs loudly but not loud enough to pop the little bubble you’re in, and you look up just in time to catch the brilliance of his smile, the way it changes his whole face and he becomes superhuman in his beauty, the lines that form by his eyes and the way they narrow and crystalline tears bead his lashes like precious gems. 

“Don’t cry,” he requests gently, hypocritically as your own eyes sting. The way his smile fades is like the sun setting. Gorgeous, like everything else he does. “You’ve cried so much, honey. Please don’t cry.”

You sniffle, gathering yourself. 

“I’m not. That would be pathetic.”

Spender leans forward to kiss you tenderly a few more times. Ordinarily you’d worry about coming across as clingy when you hold onto him so closely and so insistently like this, but for now you don’t care. Neither does he, it seems, as he seems unable to get you close enough. Eventually, you end up curled against him, head tucked under his chin and dozing on and off as he traces shapes into your skin. 

“What are you writing?” You mumble some time later, cheek smushed against his shoulder. He only responds with a soft hm, like he was lost deep in thought. You clarify, “it feels like you were writing something.”

“She Walks in Beauty.”

Your lips pull into a sleepy smile. 

“The Lord Byron poem?”

The first time you’d met Spencer, he’d inadvertently caused your painstakingly annotated copy of Lord Byron’s works to go flying all over a cafe, and then kindly helped clean up the pages and reorder them for you in record time. Among the poems had been She Walks in Beauty. 

“Yeah. I was trying to figure out when exactly I fell in love with you, and as someone who is deeply skeptical about love at first sight, I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I keep coming back to our first conversation. I mean, I believe in genetic compatibility, and how that contributes to attraction and what we think of as chemistry, but—”

“Wait, what about our first conversation did it?” Your cheeks ache from smiling as you speak. “As I recall I was being a bitch and I was covered in coffee.”

He laughs dreamily, still tracing letters over the small of your back. You wonder what part of the poem he’s at now. 

“Yeah, mean to me and covered in coffee is pretty much exactly my type. But I think it was actually the annotations on that copy of Lord Byron’s works. They were so insightful, and personal, I—it kind of took my breath away, and I know I shouldn’t have read them all but I couldn’t stop. You were compelling, and charming, and funny and wildly intelligent and beautiful and… and I didn’t stand a chance.”

Everything aches. It’s a good ache. Despite being seconds from tearing up all over again, you snort. He never told you about that first day.

“You thought me writing ‘sister fucker’ in all caps every time he mentioned Augusta was charming?”

“Oh, obscenely so. But now that I’m looking back, I feel like… I feel like I can’t remember not being in love with you. I mean, I remember when I realized I was, and that was later. But it was like I met you, and then I was just… waiting for you to catch up.”

You grab his hand and interlace your fingers, watching the way the ambient nighttime light from the window and the bathroom dips them half in color. 

“We were pretty much on the same page. I was debating courthouse versus small intimate ceremony as soon as you left.”

You watch him watching your joined hands, features soft and relaxed, fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly as he speaks. 

“Definitely small intimate ceremony. I have too many friends who would kill me if they weren’t invited to the wedding.”

You giggle and pretend the thought doesn’t give you butterflies. You imagine a ring on your finger, the one he’s got between his own. Marriage had never been something you’d considered. Not when you had no reason to. It seemed like something for other people. But maybe one day, it will be for you, too. 

“Did you know Lord Byron had a daughter who is regarded by many as the first computer programmer? She wrote the first algorithm for a theoretical machine that was so complex it couldn’t be built with the technology available at the time. It was called an Analytical Engine.”

He sounds almost wistful as he gives you the utterly unprompted, but still welcome, abridged version of her life. The description is ringing a bell—but you can’t quite place her, sleepy as you are.  

“What was her name?”

“Ada Lovelace. She was exceptionally gifted. The odds of parent and child being so extraordinary in their respective fields are incalculable, but from a purely theoretical perspective, negligible. I mean, they’re both massive historical figureheads. That’s extremely uncommon.”

You adore it when he goes off on these tangents—the passion that stains his voice, the ardor that grips him until he has no choice but to tell you exactly what’s got him so excited. You could listen to him talk for hours. It means he’s here with you, and he wants you to love what he loves. 

Since he met you, that’s all Spencer has wanted—for you to love what he loves. 

You want the same. 

“Pretty name,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut. “Tell me more.” 

-

part eight

[chowadoe]

sonadow fankid blast 💥 meet Breaker! his twin is up next 🕺

primarily takes after Sonic, taking over the day shift of watching Green Hills and the 'hero' mantle. beloved face. helps grandmas across the street. avid errand runner. has helpful big brother/camp counselor vibes!

🌖 At first I named him Breaker as a shorthand for 'daybreak' (his twin being named Dusk) and thought it was stupid (bc Sonic would name his kid something stupid) but the more i thought about it.. the more it worked.. windbreaker…. circuit breaker…a breaker being a heavy sea wave connecting to Sonic's fear of water..breaks/brakes… mm wordplay

very aloof! enjoys life. loves hiking. he loves anything with a good view. prefers to take it a day at a time, if given the choice. has a curiosity and interest in the powers and skills of others he's incredibly strong w/ powers including electricity + Chaos Control/time-space manipulation (and still wearing limiters)

he is extremely tactical with when and how he uses Chaos Control. With new opponents Breaker wouldn't use his Chaos Control, relying on speed and fistpower. If he did, he'd make it seem that he was just extremely fast getting places, using the shadows of his opponent and surrounding environment to slip between places

ever since he was a little, Breaker’s always come out on top. he’s always looked up to heroes, naturally- after all both their fathers were. and he’s settled into the role quite nicely, one of Green Hills’ very own, and just as beloved. all the townsfolk know him, all the women fawn over him, a true bonafide role model. But even his twin brother Dusk wonders/isn't sure if thats really what he wants or if its simply a role he’s acclimated to.

Breaker has a bit of an iceberg to his character. Most people see the very top layer, what they see day-to-day of the young aloof Mobian heralded as "Sonic and Shadow's son". there's something else that goes on beneath..

his powers essentially distort him from living the same wavelength as others. Like that moment in Sonic Prime where Sonic is going so fast, time has essentially stopped for everyone else. Tapping into this power has led him to believe he is invincible in ways, but not entirely. he enjoys all the scuffs, he enjoys what life has to throw him, his friends, etc. It keeps him grounded. as a result, he has a curiosity when he finally gets to dance with danger one-on-one like the average Mobian. he appreciates any opportunity to throw himself into dangerous situations because he enjoys the thrill of possibly getting hurt, as the pain allows him to feel 'mortal'.

One of his core principals is that he doesn’t want people hurt. He wants people safe. But sometimes it's unsure if thats the case or if its because he wants other people out of his way so he can set the stage between just him and his opponent.. and thus, minimize the collateral damage/cleanup.

He is rather tactical outside of battle too and does especially well in social settings. he already has the chops for it, being charismatic from the getgo, but he knows how to set people/things/his environment up in ways that would allow him to get to that final push for things to go his way without anyone being aware he had pulled any strings at all. he is incredibly observant, always picking up on the finer details. his hobby for people watching both comes in clutch as a both hobby he truly enjoys and something that could help him in future instances.

Whether Breaker wants to admit it or not, he cares about his image. Although his swagger is already quite effortless, he cares how the townsfolk perceive him, not just for the sake of vanity or narcissism but because he understands that people need an idol- they need guidance. That's what his dad was, and that's what he's for. It's what the stars were here for-- people had to look up somewhere for answers. He understands that he is something like a guiding light, a north star- but if they choose to refuse him, it's no skin off his back bc that’s their choice. He doesn't interfere with the choices people decide to make for themselves.

Breaker is a weird paradox character. where he's direct and very upfront, he is also so incredibly indirect about stuff too. Bro's always contradicting himself which makes it very hard for anyone to really pinpoint just what he's thinking beyond what they might know from the "hero" image he shows off.

Being good is a choice for him. But it's a choice he doesn't think about and something he's trained himself to wholeheartedly believe is instinct, as he doesn't believe himself to be a bad guy (and he isn't!) But it's like making a lie real and true.

Breaker, like his brother, has his own brand of isolation. Because of his powers, he lives on a different wavelength to other people. Always looking things through a window. He can look close enough to pretend the glass isn't there, that he's with there with everyone else, but there still exists that separation. So he chases after whatever makes him feel 'alive' and in the moment with everyone else.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 5 — APHRODISIACS

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — venti, dottore, albedo

— warnings. — fem! reader, aphrodisiacs, dub con, established relationship -> the both of you decide to take them, it's unsure in dottore's part if he took it or not, dry humping, fingering, messy and sweaty

⚝ — VENTI

within the bounds of your room, laughter fills the air as venti leisurely leans back, his mischievous smile gleaming in the dim light, "are you sure about this, baby?" he asks with slight concern in his eyes, twirling the tiny vial between his fingers.

yes, in fact, you've spoken about this before— giving the both of you a little kick and wow, his voice was turning you on so fucking much right now— you're this close to begging to be touched already, to be fucked or bend over the chair bareback, slow and dirty.

"well, i am, i thought you would be more adventurous venti," you tease back, your heart pounding in dire need to find out what that little liquid would do to you, your mind already coloring out a thousand of possible outcomes in your head.

he tilts his head and feigns a thought, considering your words before grinning wide.

"for you, i would try anything, heh, you know that," when after he said such strong declaration, he quickly pops up the glass and raises the vial to his lips, the sweet liquid disappearing in an instant as you quickly follow suit.

suddenly, the playful bard’s usual carefree nature intensifies— his touch lingering a little too long, his gaze becoming a little too heated, you're wondering if his cheeks could get any more red if he kept on like this, especially now with his head hidden between your jaw and collarbone, furiously lapping and sucking on your neck, hands grabbing at your stomach.

"feeling it yet?" you coo and moan when he bites the skin, his breath hot against your ear. fuck— this feels perfect, and you're resting on his shoulder with your back flush against the bed-frame when venti barely has to do much to get you riled up.

your body reacts to the closeness and your pussy begins to throb and ache to the point of pain, your thighs squeezing and rubbing together as venti presses his hand between the skin— getting his hand real good in there before the notable ache anchoring in the pit of your stomach develops quicker, his grunts getting messier when he notices how wet and warm you were down there.

your hands glide over his skin as he fiercely rubs your folds, his fingers featherlight but igniting sparks within every stroke, each push and circle of his digits flicking your little pearl as his other arm continues to hug you closer.

the world blurs and you find yourself under him, hair a mess, sweat covered and with venti's hand tugged deep inside your panties— your wetness by now making the fabric stick to his hand as the the obscene noises of your warm pussy were becoming all the more embarrassing and loud.

much to the bards liking.

⚝ — DOTTORE

"um, you’ve tested it before, right?" you curiously tilt your head as dottore hands you a vial, watching closely as you drink it— it's right then when you can see subtle happiness in his eyes.

but you don't question it, you just don't.

the liquid was warm as it slid down your throat, the thickness of it almost making you cough it out and almost instantly, a tingling sensation spreads through your muscles and veins.

"oh, don't be scared my love, i know its effects very well," dottore says with a dark chuckle, "but experiencing it firsthand is a different kind of fun."

dottore doesn’t wait before downing his own dose, his red eyes gleaming with an exciting, yet twisted intensity— not long after the air grows thick between you as the effects takes hold, there's a moment when the only sound you could discern was your own breathing, your skin basically set on fire.

his gloved fingers slowly trace your collarbone as he hums, methodical yet filled with an unfamiliar hunger— truly, he begins to grind himself against your thigh as he moves your hand to his bulge for you to stroke it.

his breath quickens when you slip a hand into his boxers and notice his cum smeared all over the fabric.

you realize with a jolt that the carefully composed facade he always wore was gradually crumbling, his control slipping away as he let out a sob of relief when you unbottoned his pants.

hm wait— or was he faking it? he couldn't, correct? you saw him take the dosage.

"you are mine to study, to explore," he utters cruely, his chosen syllables crisp and evenly spoken, clean words holding no trembles, "say it," his voice hoarse.

the warmth of his body eases you to push your legs apart for him to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you on his lap— it's hot when he takes the lead, when dottore gets possessive with you and it fills you with a deep sense of pride considering the second harbinger was your boyfriend,

he doesn't stop as your palm stroking him was now replaced by your naked folds smearing up and down his shaft— the pressure in your gut increasing.

your eyes glow of what you believe was love, "i'm yours to study, yours to explore," you whine, lazily rolling his tip against your clit as he squeezes your behind and leads your movements.

and for once, you don’t mind being an experiment. if it was for the man you have fallen in love with.

⚝ — ALBEDO

albedo examines the aphrodisiac in his hand with a quiet curiosity, his eyes focused as if it were a rare alchemical artifact.

"are you certain this will have the desired effect?" he asks in doubt, although his voice seemed calm, though you can feel the tension in the air— it's not like you didn't know him, albedo probably already prepared something that could immediately take away the effect of the strange liquid.

however, it's rare to see him so unsure, yet it also made your heart skip a beat when you think about how much you meant to him for the alchemist to be so careful, always touching you like you're made out of glass.

"only one way to find out," you reply as you both drink it up next to each other, soon after resting on the bed.

the change is slow, subtle— like the way albedo works with his alchemy, precise and conscious, yet suddenly something weird blooms in your chest, it pounds and runs wild in your veins, spreading like wildfire.

his normally composed features shift, his icy gaze darkening as he gets on top of you.

"everything okay?" the man rests his forehead against yours, his breathing quickened.

you reply and wrap your arms around his neck, "yeah, I'll always be okay with you by my side," and by now, you're panting hard by the time you've coaxed out your reply as he began to roam over the slopes of your bare frame.

his touch, gentle at first, as always, growing a bit tense— he’s careful, yes, methodical in everything he does. your boyfriend was great, wasn't he? but when you turn around for him to admire your bare ass, all perked up with your folds glistening and waiting, he grabs at your hips with an urgency behind it, a silent request for more.

his lips hover over your shoulder, "it’s fascinating… to feel so out of control," he whispers against your skin, and in that moment, all of his precision was lost, dropped and evaporated into sheer nothingness.

he laps at your shoulder as his tongue grew desperate, his touch fervent as the aphrodisiac pushes him past his usual restraint— and the man didn't even realize he's never actually pressed his cock inside, never felt your walls constrict around him like a compression, instead the both of you were rutting against each other like you've never been hornier before.

your ass was already covered with his cum and your folds all puffed up and neglected as he continues to slap his tip against your behind, making a mess of your flesh— and ugh, it’s too good, it feels so good, and the sweet little gasps he pulled from you made him grunt as his cock throbs and thickens against your swollen cunt.

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