#but there is literally no one else that can do it. i'm all that's left. so i'll just have to find a way to take it

[tiramissyoucake]

I'm finally baaack. I'm rlly rusty so please be patient wit me. Here's a Mohawk Mark coming back to bimbo-coded reader

Mark learned a lesson today; you live your life believing you're the strongest until you have to face your own demons, literally in this case. Fighting a copy of himself who had the same power as him left him exhausted, blood that seeped down his nose and dried now tangy on his lips, he lost his hearing for a full 2 minutes and worst of all? He got nothing he was promised.

He found a way back to his own dimension, in some lawn of an unsuspecting family; he debated on going in and killing them to make himself feel better but... God, he was tired.

For the first time in Mark's life since he got his powers; he was exhausted. All that could make him feel better was a coma. Wobbling to his feet, he groaned to himself quietly as he wiped away at his face, dried blood flaking off and clinging to his gloves. He could rest easy now that he's in his own dimension... maybe you'd be awake.

It was past midnight as he hovered over the neighbourhood, an irritated expression stuck on his face as he followed a familiar route to your home, did time pass? How long was he gone? He knew dimension magic made no sense, a small part of him worried you'd turn him away for disappearing.

A soft light eminated from your window. You were probably having trouble sleeping. Mark took a deep breath, lifting his bruised knuckles to the window and knocking in a rhythm that you'd recognize (as if anyone else would knock on your window to sneak in).

Hope seemed to trickle away with every moment that passed. Were you ignoring him? Did you hate him? Were you scared of him? He shut his eyes tightly, why was he worrying now? You loved him, he knows you do.

"Mark?"

Every ounce of his tough guy attitude practically shrunk away as your voice reached his ears. You knew that dumb mohawk anywhere. You looked at him with an emotion he couldn't name, confusion? Betrayal? Shock? A familiar scent that he mentally tied to you wafted to him, dragging him to your windowsill.

"Yeah— it's me." He started, finally finding the casual tone to respond. "... can I come in? I know I've been gone for a while— I just..."

Your hands came to rest over his as he struggled to keep his image while being vulnerable to you, sighing. "... this is gonna sound corny as shit, but I really needed to see you."

You laughed, bordering on a sigh as you guided him inside, your room was relatively the same except for a few shuffled plushies, books and items of the sort. His feet reconnected with the ground as he settled in your room, holding one of your hands.

"My god..." You mumbled, his features now clearer in the dim glow of your room's lamps and laptop light, your hand cupped his cheek. "Baby, what happened? You look horrible..!"

He snorted, his cheek leaning into your warm nailed hand. "You would not believe the shit I've been through the past 3 days."

"3 days..?" you mumbled, tilting your head curiously. "You've only been gone for a day."

So the calculations he was given were off... a part of him was glad he came back so soon, but a sadistic part of him wanted to disappear for longer to make you miss him.

"... did you miss me?" He smugly asked, the smile widening as he heard your familiar laugh. "Oh, absolutely, I missed you sooo much!"

Mark's arms wrapped around you and tugged you closely, his nose almost nudging against yours. "Yeah? Missed me bad, didn't you, baby?" He asked over your flustered giggling, your hands cupping his cheeks. "C'mon, tell me how much you missed me."

"Shut uuup! You're so gross!" You laughed, no real malice behind your words as he guided you to your bed and flopping down on your fluffy, Inviting sheets, plushies jumping slightly before sitting back in place or toppling aside. "Mark! Nooo! You stink!"

"You love it." He grunted as he nuzzled his face into your neck, biting and kissing as you tried to wrestle him aside. "Noooo!! Stop smearing your grime on me!"

He laughed as you tried to push him away, licking his lips— suddenly, the dried blood was the least of his worries now. "I'm marking my territory! Stop moving!"

The giggling and laughing echoed in your room, your sleeping trouble gone, his exhaustion seeping away, his heart felt disgustingly full.

Mark winced as he sat up with a groan, his hand coming up to his neck. "Oh.. a-are you okay..?" You asked in an unsure tone, sitting up. "Jeez, Marky... who messed you up?"

He grunted, hissing as he sat on the edge of the bed. "You don't wanna know... can you patch me up?" He rolled his shoulder as you got up. "Hmm, 'Kay.. take it easy, alright?"

Mark hummed in response as you leaned down to kiss him briefly, he licked his lips; a habit he developed after everytime he kissed you. "... you going to bed with gloss on?"

"It's from a lip mask, dummy!"

[turnaboutfix]

Hey! Your blog makes me very happy, I love the relationship Phoenix has with Maya. However, I have a question about them in canon that I'm not sure who else to ask, it looks like you know a lot abt them and it felt like you were the person to go to. I hope you don't mind.

This sweet relationship they have, is it really like that in canon?

I've played the first trilogy and I really don't get the impression they're as close in canon as fanon says they are...?

Phoenix thinks rather poorly of Maya a lot. In 2-4 despite being so worried about her, he thinks he'd need to explain what a watch is to her, unlike Pearl, which kinda implies he thinks Maya's dumb. That's the case in which he's most worried about her too.

He ignores her during most of aa1, he's constantly body shaming her internally and out loud too. He calls her a glutton after she was starved for two days.

In 1-3 Maya's sprite has tears when Sal Manella harasses her and Phoenix ignores her too. In 3-2 he doesn't do anything again when Larry gets pervy with her, and in 3-3 he essentially offers her up so Kudo can perv on her too.

It isn't until 3-3 too that Phoenix realises Maya has a lot to think abt. Despite all she's gone through and him thinking to himself that Maya always gives him crucial evidence in 2-4 he thinks she's stupid or immature all the time.

I know he cares abt her cause he does a lot to save her a lot of times. But is the bond that deep if all the times Maya isn't in deadly danger (most of the time) Phoenix thinks so little of her out loud sometimes?

At the end of 3-5 Miles has a better understanding of why Maya is acting strong than Phoenix. Miles doesn't even know Maya that well by comparison, and he knows her so much better.

Don't get me wrong, I love Nick and Maya. But I don't see their relationship in canon as close as it is in fanon. I left the games with the impression that Phoenix is fond of Maya as Mia's little sister and a nuisance.

Ig I'm missing something. Ig I'm taking everything too literally or something, because I've never seen anyone share this view. I'm asking for your interpretation of their canon (game canon) relationship, since you have a better grasp on them than me. Thx

Hello there! I'm glad my blog makes you happy and I'm very flattered you came to me to ask this question.

Fanon certainly tends to mold these relationships into idealized, nuclear-family archetypes. This doesn't really match the games, but it brings a lot of people catharsis and I think that's great.

As for me, I don't know if I'd describe their relationship as "sweet". On top of what you've pointed out, Maya dunks on Phoenix's looks ("You're not very photogenic, are you?"), hits him with objects, insults his intelligence, what have you.

But on the other hand, they believe in each other. They stick together during their cases and give each other a push when they need it. Maya throws herself before MVK's taser. Phoenix rushes across a burning bridge. Maya gets herself arrested for contempt of court to help Phoenix save Edgeworth. Phoenix rushes to the train station so he can tell her that she's worth more than her spiritual power to her face. Phoenix nearly throws away his morals to save her life when she is kidnapped. Maya tells him to prove Engarde guilty knowing that it would mean her demise.

If I can talk about the Japanese version of the game for a moment, just the way they call each other illustrates their closeness. Phoenix calls her "Mayoi-chan", the "-chan" honorific being one of familiarity. But what's even more revealing is what Maya calls Phoenix, which is "Naruhodo-kun", what Mia addressed Phoenix as his boss. The "-kun" honorific being familiar as well as describing someone of lower rank. Phoenix never corrects this, and they call each other those names all the way through into Spirit of Justice.

And "close" doesn't mean "perfect". It doesn't even mean they don't go for months or even years without seeing each other. But they're always on each other's minds. Phoenix can't even get himself to work because Maya is away for training. While Maya is training, she thinks about Phoenix, that she'll return to him as what she believes is an improved version of herself, despite Phoenix telling her that she's already valuable.

This multifaceted nature of their relationship is what is interesting and endearing to me. They have flaws, a therapist would probably raise their eyebrows, but at the end of the day, they have a unique and firm bond.

And I love them, your honor.

[n0rmal-cat]

Normal, normal, it's me, ✨

I'm here to submit a request bc it's been eating at me, and I know you'll do it justice.

You know VNs (visual novels), right? The basis being, multiple people get their own little versions to play with the same character(s), choosing different choices that line up with them irl, an immersive experience for different people, stay with me, ik I sound crazy,

Okay so imagine this, a VN MC keeps going through the story and understands his life is looping, he also understands that, like, the player character keeps picking different options every so often and he'll make comments on that. Like if the player picks different sweets as like their favorite treat, he'll make little comments on that like "oh this time it strawberry" or "you know last time it was..." "will it be something else time" stuff like that. So he basically sees the player as either someone with amnesia or like a system/DID

Anyways, the true idea is, a player starting up the game for like a 3rd time and getting all confused about how the MC is reacting to them, maybe he goes off course,

Yandere visual novel protagonist x reader

[WHY WOULD YOU INTRUST ME WITH THIS GOOD IDEA IDK WHAT IM DOING HALF THE TIME, SO SORRY ✨ I DONT KNOW IF THIS IS WHAT YOU WANTED, BECAUSE I GOT A LITTLE CONFUSED, IF NOT ILL WRITE ANOTHER ONE😭💀]

[also yes his name is #### because most protagonists don’t get names]

It wasn’t like everyday was the same, no god had given him the luxury of letting him live a full life only to restart them over…and over…and over.

“So #### what will it be, you can either study with me or sneak out so you can go to the party or it’s the drop out”

He didn’t know how many times he had been asked that stupid question. If he study with his ‘best friend’ he gains enough knowledge to pass the next test with flying colours and impress them.

But if he went to the party they would gain a reputation with the ‘bad boy’ and impress them instead.

He didn’t want to do either, they honestly just wanted to stay in his dorm and sleep for the night.

“I don’t think-I’m sorry I think I’m going to go out tonight” what was that, that was his voice wasn’t it but he didn’t say that.

“Alright I see how it is, you go have fun”

“Wait hold on i didn’t say that!-“ before he could finish his sentence he were already in a different scene.

“No I didn’t want this!”

“#### I’m so glad you came. I promise this won’t be a waste of time” they swooped their hair.

“God you again?” For the past three times he had been hanging out and living their life with this guy.

“Sorry man I think I’m just going to go home” he didn’t like this guy and never had, but the universe just loved to put them together he guessed.

“Did I choose the wrong option? I don’t remember this dialogue?” They snapped their head to the sky. What was that, ‘who’ was that.

You, they saw you. His chest twisted, his stomach felt like it was clasping on itself. Who were you? And what were you?

God? Was that what you were, were you the one setting him on loop over and over again, but why?

“Maybe I should look up the guide again?…did the game freeze? No no no! My progress!”

Game? That’s what this was wasn’t it you weren’t god and they weren’t a person were they. They felt their world go dark, literally in fact as they stared into the empty void.

They clenched and unclenched their hand a couple of times “haha….hahahAHAHAHA” how could they have been so stupid. Of course it was a game but then if they weren’t alive what were they? And if they felt alive could they die?

The world booted itself up again to the ‘first day’. “Damn we’re gonna have to start over again I guess, fifteen endings to go”

Only fifteen? And then what you’ll just leave them, their world never to be opened again left and forgotten. They couldn’t have that not when your were the only real person they had ever met, they didn’t want to constantly fall in love with the same cardboard cutout anymore.

A prompt pop up, “oh no I wake up late, and for my first day at college to, should I have breakfast and risk being late to class or skip breakfast and risk being hungry the rest of the day”

“I guess we’ll skip breakfast, I want to get Raphael out of the anyway”

Is this what it felt like to be controlled by you, was everything he did up to you? Oh god they were having a crisis.

“I actually would like breakfast, kinda want to think about my life right now I also wouldn’t like to start collage for the third time today”

There was an unsettling silence “huh..”

“Can we talk about my life over breakfast actually” they poured themselves a bowl of cereal.

Their world turned black again but when it came back on they were in the same spot. “Stop I literally just want to talk”

“Oh my god this is not happening to me, I’m in a creepypasta aren’t I?”

“What’s a creepypasta?

They got no response back, “so why do you want to get endings of my life, and also why are all the endings to my life me getting with different people, is there a bad ending can I die, have I died and I just don’t remember?” They ate their cereal.

“I’m just gonna” they shut the game off it seemed, #### turned it back on themselves.

“That’s very rude you know”

“How did you do that?!”

“Don’t really know, I’d like to know a lot of things actually, and it would be a help if you answered them”

“Are you gonna haunt me?”

They look up at the sky looking at the face looking back at them in fear.

“Yea…if you don’t play my game every day and talk to me I will haunt you” that will definitely work.

“You sound unsure?”

“And…?”

Reader eventually caves in continues to play, it’s actually pretty fun he gives them tips on how to answer certain questions so they don’t even have to look up a guide anymore.

He also stopped complaining when they turn off his game console now, oh but don’t worry that’s just because he’s infected your phone with his code your stuck with him forever <3

He just wants to talk please, please talk to him.

[pixel art because he’s a game…it just fits]

[aventurineswife]

Aalto

Getting chomped on

By reader.

Whos short asf (4'10")

Please and thank you

I got flashbanged by a nsfw bot post when i opened the obey me community *sob*

“You Can’t Just Bite People… Right?”

Summary: Aalto prides himself on being untouchable—until you, a 4'10" menace, decide that his arm looks too biteable to resist. What starts as a simple chomp quickly escalates into a battle of wits, mist, and absolute absurdity. Aalto may have the power to vanish into the fog, but can he escape you?

Tags: Crackfic, Comedy, Fluff, Reader is a Gremlin™, Aalto is Confused but Intrigued, Biting (as a Love Language 🫶), Mist Powers but Make It Useless Against a Gremlin, Found Family Vibes (if you squint).

Warnings: Mild Violence (playful biting), Aalto's dignity is under attack, Reader is a menace to society, No serious plot, just unhinged nonsense.

A/N: this is why I left that community 💀🙏

Aalto was used to people trying to get a rise out of him. He was a walking enigma, after all, and the sheer curiosity people had about him was practically an art form. But there was one thing—just one thing—that he had never quite prepared himself for. And that... was you.

You, at a towering 4'10", had a very particular habit.

"Do you really have to do that?" Aalto asked, an eyebrow raised as he leaned back in his chair, his sunglasses perched on his nose. His usual unflappable demeanor was a bit more fragile than usual as you hovered near his side, eyeing his arm with such intensity it was borderline creepy.

"Oh, I absolutely do," you said, a sly grin spreading across your face as you eyed the flesh of his arm. "Come here, Aalto. I’m gonna bite you."

Aalto blinked, clearly confused, though his cool facade remained. "What are you...?"

Chomp.

Before he could finish his sentence, your teeth found their target, sinking into his forearm with alarming precision.

“Ow!” Aalto yelped, jerking his arm away, but you were quicker, clinging to his limb like a playful kitten who just discovered a new toy.

"You've got such a nice arm, Aalto," you said sweetly, ignoring his flustered attempts to remove you. "I just couldn't help myself."

The resonant fog around him swirled in sudden confusion, his mist powers fluctuating as your bite caught him off guard. Normally, Aalto was unpredictable, able to vanish into the mist in a second, but this? This was new territory.

"Seriously?! I'm literally a powerful Information Broker, and you're biting me like a feral gremlin!" he snapped, his usual suave charm dissolving into an incredulous laugh. You were literally hanging off of him, and your small stature made it even more ridiculous.

"Hey, hey, I told you I’d bite you," you teased, keeping your grip tight. "You're just too irresistible with all your mysterious charm, Aalto. And your arm is like... really biteable. It's giving me 'chomp it' vibes."

“I’m the one giving you the vibes?” He sounded utterly flabbergasted, clearly struggling with how he should handle this situation. He reached for his bone flute but hesitated—he wasn't sure if summoning a misty fog to hide from you was the best way to handle things. This was... different.

“You don’t understand,” you said between your soft bites. “This is what you get for always being so mysterious. I'm hungry for secrets, Aalto! And... maybe a little snack too.”

Aalto’s attempt to wiggle free resulted in him stumbling backward, colliding with the nearest wall. You, on the other hand, stayed attached like a determined dog with a favorite chew toy. The unexpected absurdity of the situation didn’t escape Aalto, but it did leave him momentarily speechless.

The mist around him thinned, his control slipping as your antics continued. He sighed, adjusting his sunglasses with an exaggerated movement. "You really are something else... You can’t just... bite me whenever you feel like it, can you?"

You finally let go, but not before giving his arm a final playful nibble. "I mean... that depends on if you keep being irresistible or not."

Aalto’s expression was a mixture of disbelief and... something else. Maybe a little bit of appreciation for your sheer audacity. He gave a small, bemused smile, though the perplexed look in his eyes didn't leave. "Unbelievable."

“Well,” you grinned, dusting yourself off. “It’s all part of the deal, right?”

Aalto’s eye twitched slightly, but before he could form a retort, you had already disappeared into the mist he'd casually summoned. And though he couldn’t see you, he had a strong feeling that, no matter how far away you were, his arm was probably still going to be your next snack.

"Unbelievable..." Aalto muttered to himself, walking off, his mist swirling around him, even more unpredictable than before.

[another-goblin]

Let's examine some of the less talked about aspects of Dr. Ratio's relationship with the Genius Society as a character.

1. Did he really want to get into the GS?

The answer is, of course, a resounding yes! Or a confident no. Depending on who you ask. But what's the evidence?

The only direct evidence I could think of is this line from his pre-release interview on Hoyolab.

And whether or not it counts depends on whether you consider this kind of stuff canon (some people don't, since it's not in the game).

But at most, for me, it feels like an admission of a normal thing most young scientists would probably say (before he got completely disilusioned in the path of Erudition in particular and the divinity of the Aeons in general).

Like a young person who first gets into a sport might think about winning the Olympics. It doesn't feel like a passionate dream (the anime-esque "I'll dedicate my life to becoming a Genius whatewer it costs me").

What else do we have? His in-game fans' speculations and his former secretary's interpretation of a seemingly insignificant event (strictly speaking, that episode doesn't actually mean anything, let alone prove his wish to become a member of the GS. You can read me ranting about it here )

So the popular idea that his inability to attract Nous' gaze played a big role in his life and psyche seems more like a fan-popular headcanon (that might be the intended interpretation, but still a HC) than a strict reading of the canon. But who can blame us? This man desperately needed a personal inner conflict, and we kind of invented it.

2. What was the narrative point of making him not a member of the GS? What would have changed if he were a Genius?

I'm still not sure.

What distinguishes him from the Geniuses?

Is it the idea that the GS members only do their science for the sake of Nous? And aquire knowledge for the sake of it?

But we have Stephen, who invents things for fun. We have Chadvick, who built that weapon out of hubris. We have Herta, who kind of treats Nous as an equal. We have Dr. Primitive, who just does whatever because he's evil (what's the scientific value of turning people into monkeys?). Or that guy (forgot his name) who seemed to genuinely care about humanity. None of them seem fanatically dedicated to Erudition.

And we have Polka, who seems to be even more of a hater of what GS stands for than Ratio.

Wouldn't it be fun to have a Genius Ratio who saw all the problems with Erudition after he joined, got disillusioned and turned into what he's now, and who's just miserable about it all the time? Because becoming a GS member seems to be a one-way road. How ironic would it be for a genius to preach the idea of how people should not rely on geniuses?

But maybe they didn't make him a Genius to be able to make him join the Intelligentsia Guild?

But the only purpose of that seems to be his connection to Aventurine (the IG being partners with the IPC).

Otherwise, he doesn't represent the IG's values at all. He doesn't see knowledge as a commodity. (He even got angry at Sunday for expecting him to exchange the knowledge of Aventurine's plans for some knowledge on Stellarons). In most cases, all the other characters are very typical representatives of their factions. But in his case I'm not sure why he's in the IG either. Probably just a faction for him to belong to, because we can't have a character who doesn't belong to a world or a faction.

The only potentially interesting thing I can see about the IG is him being a member of the Council of Mundenites. But they did literally nothing with it. Although I still hope that they will (but who am I kidding, with the amount of ongoing plotlines and the new ones they establish left and right, they just won't have time for that)

Btw the IG in general seems like a lot of wasted potential. They had a whole SU update dedicated to it, and they did basically nothing interesting with it. But it's a topic for another discussion.

3. Why didn't he attract the gaze of Nous?

The game doesn't give us any strict criteria of how Nous chooses people, so we can only speculate. I know there are a ton of theories, but they are still theories (I think the one that's supposed to be correct is something about him caring more about helping people help themselves than doing science for the sake of it, but it has been discussed to death already).

But I never saw people talking about my favorite theory, and my main takeaway from Unknowable Domain - the mind-blowing discrepansy between the intellegence of a Genius and that of a very smart normal person. (How Patavia, one of the best IG's scientists, wasn't a match for Herta even with Patavia's intelligence multiplied tens of thousands of times by the scepters).

Which tells me that the intelligence required to become a member of the GS isn't a matter of just being smart or studying hard, but rather a matter of being born a VERY special person. I mean, if you were born an ant, no amount of training would make you as strong as an elephant.

Let's take Stephen Lloyd, a kid who's mostly busy working in his dad's fruit stall and playing video games all day long and sometimes just effortlessly inventing mind-blowing technology in his free time, basically for fun. I don't remember any mentions of his education either. And let's compare him to child Ratio from his professor's recollections. How he worked his ass off from a young age, basically sacrificing his childhood, only to just skip a couple of grades and get into uni early.

And if my interpretation is true, it could play very well into the underlying topic of predeterminism/destiny/fatalism vs. freedom/unknowability the game establishes.

This would turn Ratio's rather simplistic supposed inner conflict of "boo-hoo, senpai Nous didn't notice me and didn't invite me into their cool kids club" into something much more interesting: Dr. Ratio, whose whole life goal seems to be about helping people take the responsibility for their lives into their own hands and stop counting on the higher powers, realizing that the biggest dream of his life could never come true and literally no human or inhuman amount of efforts would get him here. He would never achieve something others can do effortlessly just because he wasn't destined to.

The other interpretation works too: there are mentions of the Geniuses "communing" with Nous after attracting their gaze, so maybe their inhuman intelligence is partly the result of that. Not being able to achieve by hard work and sheer dedication what others just receive from a deity would clash nicely with his "anti-theist" philosophy too. Or maybe explain his current views. I mean, there is a certain sarcastic reverence in how he talks about Geniuses, distinguishing them from humans as a separate category.

What's ironic and kind of sad is that the game proves him wrong over and over again. I mean, who are the most powerful characters, both in-universe and in terms of meta? It's not normal humans who worked hard. Normal humans do nothing but wait to be saved by supernaturally or technologically enhanced beings (mostly us). And sometimes even by Veritas "Normal Person" Ratio himself.

[rustedleopard]

I feel like if Chujin was still alive during the events of Undertale Yellow, his and Clover's relationship would be incredibly rocky. Pacifist!Clover could bring him around to tolerating them (after all, they have that sort of effect on everyone), but it would be more in a "this human is the only 'good' human" manner than a "maybe I should reevaluate my opinions on humans overall because you can't judge an entire group based off (very biased) stories and one bad experience." Even then, that opinion would be subject to change should Clover ever get frustrated or behave "too aggressively" or act in any manner that isn't perfectly docile. If Clover ends up attacking a monster then it's "humans are just as horrible as they were in the war stories, I should've known better" regardless of the circumstances that could've pushed Clover to fight. Suffocating expectations and endless demands for patience when he wouldn't ask the same of a fellow monster.

And heaven forbid he ever meet Clover on a No Mercy Run...

[adore-gregor]

.

[beeholyshit]

thinking about baby Pastelito wiwiw...

[tardis--dreams]

I actually realized i hate work. Won't be putting any effort into this anymore ♡

[babisawyer]

baby we are dropping like flies over here my great aunt passed this week.

[itsartsavvy]

No cuz actually. This is the kind of love that doesn't just fall into your lap. What are we doing tossing it around so carelessly? No no no, that was some bs. I'm meant to be the soft partner that comes home and takes care of their partner, rubbing feet and drawing bubble baths and making dinner (im GETTING BETTER OK DAMN) and bringing home flowers and candy and other gifts on random days because it doesn't need to be a special day for them to be treated special. Because I love them the same amount every day. And NOT expecting anything in return, like this brings me JOY. I feel just as good doing these things as someone else would feel recieving it

[cathymee]

ok. i guess

[humanityinahandbag]

I'd like to tell you all a story about my grandmother.

My grandparents raised their children, four girls (one of them my mother), to be fighters. My aunts marched in Washington for women's rights with babies strapped to their chests and like to joke that all of the grandchildren who came from that line (including myself) were born with picket signs in their hands.

But it started with my grandparents. They fought hard for what they believed in. They marched against Vietnam. They marched for Martin Luther King. They marched for women's rights. They marched for a better future.

But let's talk specifically about my grandmother for a moment.

My grandmother unfortunately passed away in 2016. She had to watch the first Trump election and did so knowing that it would probably be the last election she'd ever see. And there is some argument there that she could have given in to fear and defeatism. She could have decided none of it was worth it, and she could have decided that fascism had won and the world was over.

But she did something else instead.

To give some context, my grandparents had friends who were Republicans. I say were, because they shifted from the normal Republican towards the MAGA Republican we see today. And despite a very clear message from my family about how we felt, they were more than ready to still come to the funeral as if everything was normal. Like their beliefs were normal. Like they were welcome to celebrate someone who had fought so hard for the rights of other people.

These were people who would have absolutely used their rhetoric to scream and shout if they were left out or disinvited.

And so my grandmother, even past her final moments, pulled the most brilliant, petty move I've ever seen.

She'd decided ahead of time that everyone who had known her was more than welcome to attend but that she wanted everyone attending the funeral to donate money. That was the requirement to be invited. And so everyone did just that. There was no talk about what the donations were for, just that they were appreciated. I want to say that the assumption was the money would help pay for funeral expenses and give the family some support while we grieved.

Except that wasn't the case.

Because in those final moments of the funeral, the rabbi stepped forward to thank everyone, and then very cheerfully announced;

"Arlene was so happy to know just how many people were coming to join us here today. She couldn't have been more proud of her family. And I'm sure she would have been elated to see just how much money you all gave today to Planned Parenthood."

When I say that the faces of those people are enshrined in my memory, I mean it. The anger, the devastation, the rage, the betrayal. It was an absolutely gorgeous display of true defeat at the hands of a boss ass old lady who literally fought with her last breath and threw up both middle fingers all the way out the door.

What I'm saying is this.

It is very easy to feel defeated. It is very easy to think that everything is over, and there's nothing left for us to do. It's very easy to say that fascism won, that fear won, that hate won.

But that's only true if you let it be true.

There is always more that we can do. There is a future that is still worth fighting for. And it's more than possible, even when it doesn't seem like it.

And fighting is going to look different every time.

Some days it will look like picket signs in our hands.

Some days it will look like spending time with friends and family and people you love and knowing that you have a community that supports you and your vision of a brighter future.

And some days, it's pulling absolute natural level 20 petty trickster shit even after you've left the world.

Because you can always make an impact and you can always add a little brightness to life, and if that means tricking a group of MAGA idiots into throwing their money behind Planned Parenthood in the middle of your own goddamn funeral then that's what it means.

Keep fighting. People have done it before you. People will continue to do it after you.

And enjoy the little victories.

(Even the petty ones)

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[luna-azzurra]

10 Lies Your Character Believes About Themselves (And They’d Die Before Admitting It)

These aren't the fun, Disney Channel lies like “I'm just a regular girl” while literally being a secret pop star. These are the ugly ones. The ones that get in your character’s blood and start rewriting their whole life without them noticing.

» “If people really knew me, they'd leave.” Not "might." Would. No question. So they smile bigger. They edit harder. They keep conversations surface-level. All while carrying this bone-deep certainty that love is conditional... and they are dangerously close to failing the test.

» “I have to earn every good thing.” Rest? Happiness? A day without guilt? They treat those things like prizes at the end of a brutal obstacle course. No one told them they could just have good things. No strings. No blood price. (So they keep bleeding anyway.)

» “I'm too much.” Too loud. Too intense. Too sensitive. Too complicated. They know it. They've been told. So now they pull themselves in, hold their breath, bite back everything real until they barely take up space at all. (And ironically, they still think they’re being "too much.")

» “I'm not enough.” Neat little trick, right? They’re both "too much" and "not enough" at the same time. Magic. They're convinced everyone else got the secret manual for how to be lovable and they somehow missed it.

» “If I'm strong enough, nothing can hurt me.” They call it resilience. Other people call it stubbornness. Reality calls it self-destruction. They've mistaken numbness for healing and independence for invulnerability. But hurt still gets in. It just hits harder when it’s been bottled up for years.

» “I’m responsible for everyone's happiness.” Caretaker. Peacemaker. Therapist friend. Emotional sponge. They’ve appointed themselves as everyone's safety net, believing that if they don’t hold everything together, everything will fall apart. (Newsflash: it's not their circus, and it never was.)

» “I don't need anyone.” Need is a dirty word. It’s weak. It’s dangerous. So they white-knuckle their way through life, collecting scars and pretending it’s freedom. But late at night? In the dark? They’d sell their soul for someone to just... stay.

» “I'm the villain in someone else's story and they might be right.” They know they've hurt people. Made bad calls. Left damage. And no matter how much good they do now, some part of them whispers, You don’t get to come back from that.

» “My best days are behind me.” Whether they peaked in high school, lost their shot at something important, or just carry a chronic ache of nostalgia, they believe it’s too late. That nothing good can be built from where they are now. (Which, ironically, makes them waste even more time.)

» “This is as good as it gets.” They settle. For bad love. Boring jobs. Half-dead dreams. They tell themselves it's "realistic." "Mature." "Practical." But underneath? It's fear. It's heartbreak. It's the quiet belief that hope is something they can’t afford anymore.

[bunny-1111]

My Husband - Theo Nott x wife read

Description: The one thing that drives Theo literally crazy is when you call him "my husband"

Word count: 1.1k words

Warnings: violence - Theo getting into a fight, swearing, possessiveness, slight harassment

Reblogs, comments, and likes are extremely appreciated.

...

Call him self-centred. If there was one thing Theo loved hearing you say, most of all, it was two words, so simple that everyone else would hardly pay them any attention. "My husband" Yes, that's right, your husband, he would think.

Once you realised what it did to him it was basically a get out of jail free card.

He's mad? "my grumpy husband," you'd say, his frown relaxed, the smile that itched the corners of his lips tells you what it needs to.

You want money? "My darling husband, your wife needs to shop" you'd softly say with your palm out, while he practically falls over himself finding you his wallet.

It was about to exceed your expectations, indeed in public, and not directed towards him at all.

You and Theo navigated through the thick crowd of people, occasionally greeting old friends, at a gala, before Theodore left you to fetch you both a drink.

Patiently waiting for Theo's return, content, until you feel a tap on your shoulder, turning around to find Vincent Crabbe with a sly grin as his hand reached towards you to offer a drink.

"No, thank you, Theo's on his way with my drink" you politely decline

"Oh come on, take it" he insists, coming closer

You unintentionally breathed out an annoyed sigh. Crabbe was just like this in school too, so relentlessly determined to start something with you.

"Crabbe, please don't make me say no again, we both know it won't end well" You smile, your lips closing even tighter this time as you inch away from the unwanted company

"It's habit, you know, the things I'd would do if I- I-I've always wanted just, one, chance" he desperately, almost drunkenly admits, coming so close that you can smell his lunch on his breath

"Yes well, I suggest you kick the habit now, considering my husband’s leniency spreads thin after one blow" You quickly say before stepping back, Theodores hands catch your waist, moving you behind him, as he steps forward, now closer to Crabbe face than he tried to get to yours.

"See Crabbe, I heard that last sentence my wife spoke, and" Theo started, synchronised with his hands rolling up his white linen shirt to his elbows

"- I don't like the way she sounded. Her tone almost scared, Crabbe, wouldn't you agree?" He continued as he backed him into a corner, you followed close behind, watching your husband unfold.

"The sort of scared that you're showing in your face right now, that's the scared I hear in my wife's voice when you were exceedingly flirting with her. Would you agree with that too?" he says his anger rising, his jaw tensing.

"N-No, I mean yes, yes, or no, no! I-" Crabbe stumbled on his words as quickly as he was stumbling over his overworking feet, all ability to flee from Theodore was impossible

Theo had weighed up his opinions but every time he blinked he saw red, hearing your voice repeating 'my husband’s leniency'. It was a reminder of who he was to you, who you are to him, something to protect by any means, that's when he fist acted before his words, clashing into the side of Crabbe's face twice.

Crabbe now on the floor, Theo dropped one more blow directly to his mouth, his wedding ring marking his the skin below his nose "See how well your mouth works now with a busted lip, you piece of shit" He spatout as he left his wounded foe.

"Are you ok? Come on" Theo's brows upturned, frantically worried he missed the worst of your conversation with Crabbe.

"I'm fine, let's get out of here" you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

...

Now home and safe in bed, Theo stared straight ahead, taking his hands in yours, you gently place delicate kisses to his busted knuckles.

"Baby" he almost whispers out, if your weren't paying such cautious attention to him you might have missed it.

Clawing on top of him you move your hands to his face as his hands take a strong grip of each side of your hips.

"I know" you soothe

Before you can add to the comfort, Theodore's lips lock yours.

The kiss needy, greedy and possessive.

His mouth moving down to your neck, "you know how much I love when you do this shit" he says behind wet hot breathes "Do what?" you smile

"call me your husband" he growls

"You are my husband" you beam, as the words leave your mouth, his hands dig into your thigh like a deathgrip

"I fucking know" he whimpers.

You feel him shift beneath you, his body humming under your touch like a live wire, each kiss, each word, only spurring him on further. It was like a thread inside him snapped every time you repeated the words.

His grip tightened, enough to bruise if you stayed like that too long, but you only welcomed it, sinking against him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he needed you to survive.

"My girl," he muttered harshly against your skin, voice cracking, almost desperate. "My wife."

You thread your fingers into his hair, giving a gentle tug that earns a guttural sound from deep in his chest. Theo had always had this temper, but this part of him, raw and pleading, always followed his outbursts.

"All yours," you whisper back, lips brushing his ear, the words an oath. Theo pulls away enough for your eyes to meet his.

"You scared me," he says, voice hoarse. "When I saw you, when I heard you. I could've fucking killed him."

"I know," you murmur again, stroking the side of his face with your thumb, the bruised knuckles resting against your hip.

"I fucking should've" his eyes exploring your own as if he was searching for reassurance

"I'd do it again," he continues

You smile, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth

"I know," you repeat

Theo’s hands roamed now, slower, more deliberate. His nose brushes yours before his lips dip to kiss your cheeks all over

"Say it again," he mumbles.

You knew entirely what he meant

"My husband." flashing his your wedding ring

And just like that, the air leaves his lungs in one, broken exhale, as if the words physically knocked the breath out of his body.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, pulling you flush against him, "I’m done for."

...

AUTHOR NOTE:

HIIIIIII my lovelies. Getting back into writing, starting with something small-ish, my apologies if it's not up to scratch, first time writing in months LOLLL. Also, this is unread or unedited.

Reblogs, comments, and likes are extremely appreciated.

All my love,

B <3.