#cherry stem knots

[eff-exor]

drooling is the second most fun thing my mouth does

[god-of-this-new-blog]

EXCUSE ME. I am in the middle of trying to disarm a bomb sir?

[lelianaslefthand]

when your troublemaking protege is back after being put in timeout for fucking up big but you're not allowed to show genuine emotion or blatant favoritism as if you havent been noticeably crashing out over them not being there for the past year

[stellamancer]

cher(ease)  (satoru gojo x reader)

notes: i want to preface this by saying: yes, i know i posted a fic yesterday too. no, i am not actually that prolific. this was written for the willow house Meet Fruit collab. actually, i wrote it right after @willowser​ suggested it, but i waited to post it because I was actually a little unhappy with it when I was done writing it initially and i figured some time away from it might help. it did. a little. i think. now i’m not sure any more.. 

contains:  gender neutral reader, typical satoru gojo antics, some small manner of sexual tension

wc: 1.4k

You love cherries. 

They are, without a doubt, your favorite fruit; tart, sweet and easy to eat with their stems serving as a cute little handle. It does suck having to deal with eating around the pits, but your beloved cherries are worth the inconvenience. It’s truly, truly a shame that they’re only really available in the summer, but that just means you need to eat your fill when they’re in season.

Which is why, when you stumble across a display of them at the market, rows of cartons filled to the brim with bright, plump, juicy red cherries, you end up buying a carton or three without a second thought.

In retrospect, it might have been better to show some restraint. Maybe you had hungry eyes, or were just a touch too excited, or maybe it was even the fact that you’d spent an unspeakable amount of money on just cherries. Regardless, in order to attempt to absolve yourself of some of the buyer’s regret that’s clearly haunting you after splurging on fruit you benevolently decide to share them with the students and your fellow staff members at Jujutsu High. 

Or at least, that had been your intent. 

“Oh hey,” Satoru Gojo greets you casually as you walk into the staff room, his feet propped up on the table so he can lean his chair back as far as possible. In one of his hands is a cherry, one of your cherries, hanging delicately from its stem. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing?” you ask him reflexively, ignoring his question outright as a surge of annoyance courses through your veins. There’s a part of you that feels weird about suddenly feeling possessive over the cherries. You brought them to share with everyone and everyone includes Gojo. It shouldn’t be a big deal that he's gone ahead and helped himself to some without asking, and yet you still find yourself feeling agitated. 

"I was hungry," he replies nonchalantly, popping the cherry in his mouth. 

"And you thought it would be okay to snack on my cherries?" 

Gojo shifts forward in his chair and offers you an easy-going smile that only makes you scowl more. “There were so many in the fridge I’d thought you’d brought them to share.”

Your instinct is to argue, to be obtusely contrarian with him, but the fact of the matter is that he’s right, so you keep your mouth shut. Instead, you sit yourself down and stare at the half full carton of cherries on the table. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Gojo wiggling around, not-so-subtly vying for your attention like an overly excitable child. You ignore him and instead choose to think of the rising cost of produce. It was truly an ungodly amount you spent on those cherries and you know for sure that a year ago the same amount of them would have cost marginally less. When you thought about sharing them with the students, the blow to your wallet seemed bearable, their smiles worth the cost and more. But rather than your students' darling faces all you can see is the image of Gojo’s face, his cheeks stuffed with cherries like he’s a squirrel feasting on nuts. It’s annoying. Maybe you can get him to pony up and pay you back for a portion of what he’s eaten. Surely the heir to the Gojo clan can pay for some of the cherries he’s gobbled up. 

“Hey…” He’s whining loudly now, any attempts at being subtle abandoned. You consider ignoring him more, but think better of it and look in his direction. Unsurprisingly, he’s pouting, his perfectly moisturized lips puckering out, and you’re glad that his blindfold detracts from what is otherwise a disgustingly handsome face. “Why the long face?”

He’s mocking you. He’s totally mocking you. Not that you’d expect anything different from him. Rather than grace him with an actual answer, you shoot him a pointed look. There’s no goddamn way that he doesn’t know. But still, Gojo plays his favorite role and tilts his head innocently. When you don’t say anything more he exclaims, “Oh! I know! You must be hungry.”

Again, he’s not wrong, but this time he’s not exactly right either.

He grabs another cherry, this time holding it up in your direction. He grins as he propels it toward your mouth. “Here. Say ‘ah~’”

“Gojo, you are not feeding me.”

He ignores you, insistently pressing the cherry to your lips as he speaks, his voice an octave lower, "They taste really good, you know." 

The sexy drop of his voice is nothing short of deliberate— a tried and true tactic of his meant to get under your skin. You glare at him, your agitation clear as day. He is, as expected, completely unfettered, the cherry still flush against your lips. 

Your options at this point are to: wait until he gets bored and drops the cherry, possibly onto the floor— wasting it or shamefully accept it and endure him gloating about it for the rest of the day. As much as you’d love to waste Gojo’s time and sit at the table in a silent stalemate, you have other things to do. Important things.

So you open your mouth wide, wider than necessary, and use your teeth to rip the cherry from Gojo’s grasp in the most unattractive way possible. 

“Yay!” he cheers, choosing to focus on seeing just what he wants to see instead acknowledging that you obviously don’t want his offering. You consider, for one wild second, spitting it back in his face. However, you don’t and just drop the cherry into your open palm. Now what? Do you eat the cherry or just toss it? Frankly, it feels like a lose-lose situation either way, so you might as well go with the option that gives Gojo less satisfaction: you toss it into the trash can. 

“Aw…” His lips jut out to form an excessive pout.

“I already told you: you are not feeding me.”

“You’re no fun."

“I’m plenty of fun,” you dead pan at him, scowling. “I’m just not your plaything.”

“Meaning you won’t feed me either?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Not even if I say please?” 

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” He’s being overly dramatic and you both know it. “Guess I will enjoy the cherries all on my own, then.”

His voice drops again. The second time makes your body feel a little bit weird, but you remain largely immune to his antics, electing to grab another cherry to eat over paying him any mind. 

But Gojo reaches for the cherries right when you do, obviously and intentionally going for the same one you are, and your fingers brush against one another. You scowl and rather than play some weird version of finger footsie, you go for a different cherry.

Annoyed, you shoot him another glare, or at least, you intend to, but he’s pulled his dumb blindfold down and that’s a tell-tale sign that he’s up to no good. You can already feel your blood pressure rising. Dealing with him like this is even more of a pain than usual.

He holds your gaze, his eyes clear as the summer sky, glimmering, as he presses the cherry to his mouth every so gently, as if he’s kissing it. You watch, almost entranced, your mouth suddenly dry. Gojo rolls it over his lips, parting them ever so slightly to press the damn fruit further in, his tongue darting out and—

You force yourself to look away, rolling your eyes as you do. “What the hell are you doing? You look stupid.”

Gojo merely hums, chewing on the cherry. You hope he bites into the pit and dies of cyanide poisoning. 

He tosses a few more cherries into his mouth before he speaks, another seductive drawl, and though you would never admit it, you think your immunity grows weaker every time he uses that damn tone of voice. “Hey.”

“What,” you deadpan, glancing at him.

Gojo grins at you and his lips part just slightly, calling your attention to them again. He reaches up and slowly pulls a cherry stem from his mouth. It’s looped into a little knot and the sight of it throws you back to your middle school days— your classmates giggling quietly to themselves over the implications of things like tongue tied cherry stems and candies unwrapped using one’s tongue alone. 

“So,” he starts, his stupid blue eyes shining with shameless amusement, “have you heard what they say about people who can do this?”

He grins at you, far too pleased with himself for his own damn good. You know the answer he’s looking for. And he should know that hell will freeze over before you give it to him.

“Yeah. They call them idiots for putting the damn cherry stem in their mouths.”

[wittymumbledon]

welp since people seemed to like that heavymedic drawing y'all can have some stoopid lil doodles (affectionate) that were inspired by it

[whotookmysenbon]

Do you have a favorite ANBU? Or are you just neutral? This is much needed information!

I cannot answer this question without getting assassinated (me. I’m the best. I got a fucking raccoon mask and poison)

[zkyfall]

Young Silco for @roxnpens​ from the NSFW Expression Challenge !

[dark-elf-writes]

Would an evil man really be tonguing that sucker in front of me?

Shoichi, probably: no man with a tongue game that strong could be evil. I refuse to believe it

[that-darn-clown]

A minor victory

[gniteruirui]

hmmm

small question (totally not because I wanna do it)

can sundrop do a french kiss?

With that tongue, he can do more

[solarmorrigan]

I am the person who absentmindedly ties cherry stems, like I just think it’s fun to do and I do it all the time !! And like I know people do it to flirt but it only just occurred to me that maybe people have been thinking I was flirting ……this whole time…….same with unfeeling starburst in my mouth…..my friends and I learned to do that for fun as kids

My guy. Listen.

The year is 2012. It is summer. I am bored.

My mother has just purchased an entire bag of cherries.

I look at the bag sitting in the fridge and think to myself, "Well why the fuck not," and I start pulling stems off.

It takes a lot of trial and error and more spitty cherry stems than I'm comfortable admitting to, but I figure it out! Knot in a cherry stem!

I tuck my new, thoroughly useless skill in my back pocket and forget the entire thing.

Fast forward a year, and I am at work. My first job. I'm a server at a pancake house that may or may not be international. I have a table of about five men in military fatigues asking if we have any cherries.

"Uh. We have maraschino cherries?"

"Do they have stems?"

"Yyyyes?"

"Great, we need a bowl of those."

And since the pancake house is a lawless place, I bring them a bowl of maraschino cherries. No charge, because I'm curious. Also I don't know how to ring up a bowl of cherries. One of them deigns to explain that they're seeing who can tie a knot in a cherry stem, and without thinking, I reply, "Oh! I can do that!"

The table erupts. It is at that point that I remember this is technically a flirting trick. I regret everything.

Half the men are demanding that I demonstrate. The other half are insisting they not get me in trouble at work. I side with the latter, not least because it's been a year since I attempted it, and I've probably forgotten how to do it.

I escape the encounter without having to demonstrate and I still get slightly better tips than usual. (Judging from the number of knotted cherry stems left on the table, not very many of them were able to figure it out.)

So anyway, I getcha, dude. I getcha.

[absentmoon]

like. hes a good kisser.But he doesn't deserve to be.ok?

[thisperfectmonsoon]

28, 38 & 71

28. What was the last thing that made you laugh?

it was a tiktok! slide 1 read "normalize naming your child after something you love" and slide 2 was a stock photo of a kid being tucked in and read "goodnight, laura dern standing up in a jeep, placing her sunglasses on her head when she sees a dinosaur"

38. Who did you last call?

my mom (regrettably)

71. Can you curl your tongue?

yes i can

[luveline]

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬

You’re in love with Spencer from the minute he gets you in his bed. [4k]

c: fem/afab. smut mdni, p in v sex, oral, fluff, aftercare, early intense feelings, spencer in sweetheart mode, flirting.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

It’s a cold day in November when you see him across the bar. He’s sitting at a table of friends drinking from a tall glass of coke. He’s normal. Non-imposing, undeniably cute, laughing with a smile that shows his teeth. His tie is to his belt and his suit jacket’s been thrown over the back of the chair. 

He looks like he might have fun with you, if you can catch his attention. Something about him seems… eager to please. 

You watch him, and you watch his friend. He seems more your usual type, muscled, confident. He’s the key. You let your gaze linger on the curly-haired boy until the friend glances your way. You give him a look. Hey, who’s your friend?

You look away once you see an arm rise. There’s elbowing, arguing. You sit relaxed at the bar and twists your straw through cherry spritz, ice cubes tinkling. After a minute you think, Oh, come on. After two you worry you aren’t his type. 

Then comes salvation. The curly haired boy slots between your seat and the next, beckoning the bartender forward with a nearly perfect, “Excuse me?” 

“Right there with you.”

You wait. He seems cute, but you’re not trying to take him home if he doesn’t have the chops for it. And not because you see yourself as some deadly thing to be pleased, but you can’t spend another night fluffing someone else’s feathers. 

“Hey,” he says finally, surprisingly without the nerves you’d read before. He must’ve breathed through them. “How’s it going?” 

You lift your gaze from the dark purple of your spritz. The first thing you notice are the beauty marks you couldn’t see before, along his cheeks and hiding among a light shadow of stubble. “Hi, handsome,” you say softly. You can’t imagine him liking a firm touch, but that might become more apparent later on. “Nothing’s going on, I suppose I was just waiting for you.” 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Mm-hm.” 

He puts one arm on the bar. You let your eyes dawdle on his hand. “Are you here alone?” 

“I was with a friend,” you confess, lifting your gaze to his, making steady eye contact for as long as he’ll allow you to. His gaze flits to your mouth as you continue. “But she met somebody. I was told not to wait up.” 

“So you’re in need of company?” 

You tip your head to give him the best glance at you, all eyes and gentle smiles as you nod. “Would that be you?” 

“What are you drinking?” 

“Cherry spritzer.” 

“Can I buy you another one?” 

“Just one, please.” You believe in the overarching reach of sexuality, of being with someone, but you don’t believe in drinking and sex, nor allowing a man to pave the way. “This is my first. If I have more than that I’ll be too tipsy to do what I want tonight.” 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

You tap your nose. The boy —the man— to your delight, seems to like the gesture very much. 

The bartender approaches. Your unknown, lovely looking man asks for a coke and a cherry spritzer, extra cherries, though you didn’t tell him too. He nods to your little plate of cherry stems and asks, “Can you tie a knot?” But before you can answer, he adds, “I’m good at it.” 

Spencer proves to be good at a few things. Kissing, touching, his face in sweet places and his spit-wet thumb to a nerve. One moment you’re sitting at the bar wondering if he’ll take you home and the next you’re taking a taxi, you’re lying in his bed being stripped of your stockings, being laid on top of. You didn’t know he had it in him, this sweaty, adoring kissing in the dark; there’s a difference between kissing for hunger’s sake and kissing with love, and for some strange reason Spencer doesn’t seem to know the difference. 

“Have we met before?” you ask, the ache between your legs sharper than ever as his hand flirts with the boundary of your stomach and the apex of you, begging to go back there and prolong what he’d started. 

“No.” His lips are on your neck, kissing as he slips a finger behind your ear. “I’d remember.”

His chest pushes into yours again, triggering a breathy gasp as the button of your nipple takes the brunt of him. He turns your face, that flirting hand abandoning your wanting cunt to squeeze at your sides, your ribs, the soft hill of your breast. 

“Do you wanna cum again?” he asks softly. The best part is that he’s earnest, not a second of bravado in it as he lays his lips against your cheek. 

You could. He’d done stuff with his mouth you’ve never experienced before, fingertips teasing your wetness as he told you something about tantrics and pleasure, his hand under your knee, holding you open. You’d felt so suddenly out of control and —and honestly, you’d thought yourself half in love with him for the way he was kissing you alone. No shyness, but softness. No rushing, no annoyance when it took you time to tip into pleasure. He’d been delighted when you seized, had sat up to draw the climax out with circles, matching pace to your rising chest. 

You slip a hand into his curls and treat him with the same sweetness he’d given you, kissing him like you love him: for whatever time this is, you really do. He’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever fucked. All it took to meet was a snowstorm and a need to escape the rigid cold. 

“I think you should fuck me now,” you say, scratching his scalp lightly, not so frantic, no more pulling. “Please.”

He kisses you, kisses your jaw, and doesn’t pretend he isn’t eager as he snatches the condom from the dresser. For a while things are giggly and breathless, nervous for a pause, then achingly tight. You stay and Spencer wraps his arms behind you, kissing your neck as you let your leg fall to the side. 

“When did you tell me your name?” you ask, breathless again as his kiss matches his rhythm, slow grinds of his hips, flirting as his hand had been, just a few inches from filling you completely. 

“I don’t remember,” he says through a kiss.

“Spencer.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I just thought I’d try it,” you say, covering your eyes with your hand as his hips flex and he touches that worst part of you over, and over, and over. 

Spencer turns your face to take your hand, slowing to a crawl. He checks your gaze, and sinks into you again. Slow fucking, long kisses, his hands rubbing up the juncture of your neck and down again, then stroking your arms, comfort for a pain you don’t feel. 

“What do you want me to do?” he asks quietly. 

“Just this.” 

“No, but what do you want?” he asks, lips pulled into a smile that didn’t quite make it into a laugh. “What feels best? I can get you there again.” 

So you end up more on your side than your back. He helps you lift a leg over his hip and then he’s back to kissing you senseless. You can’t think of anything but being kissed, being fucked, it doesn’t just feel like an okay pastime with a vaguely handsome guy heightened by a drink, it’s fucking with intent. He curls an arm behind your back to hold you against him and he lets you have everything. 

Something must give you away, a shaking leg, the way you breathe; he knows you’re ready before you do, kissing down your chest as his hand sinks between your hot thighs. Slick or not, he finds where he wants to touch, your eyes filling with heat as he slows. 

He draws it out. The second his lips find your chest you trip into cumming for the second time. You hadn’t realised he was close but you cum and he quickly follows, his nose at your collar. He sounds insane. Beggy, breathy moans, a shade from laughter.

“Can I keep going?” he asks just under your ear. 

You can’t say yes fast enough. He’s kind, ignoring your desperate tone. 

You don’t count the number of times you fuck that night. It’s not clear, really. They aren’t separate occasions. You come down and he’s stroking the skin of your neck as you catch your breath, drawing lines down your arm, murmuring, “You okay?” as you nod and slip a hand behind his back. 

He hugs you like he’s known you for years. When you kiss his blushing chest, kiss downward, he turns breathless. It goes on like that for a while. Afterwards, he situates himself between your legs and lets his weight force your thighs into your abdomen, just enough to feel the pressure, searching kisses pressed to your knee. 

It’s not that you fuck all night, it’s just different than before. And when he encourages you under his sheets to lay behind you, there’s a part of you that wants his hand to stray between your legs again, no matter how tired you are. 

“I’d say sorry for keeping you up, but you sounded like you liked it,” he murmurs in the dark, wrapping a solid arm around your stomach and pulling you tightly to him.

You have no regrets. For perhaps the first time ever, it feels as though all your gasps and teary sighs were adored, and not just smugly kept. “You didn’t notice me falling asleep?” 

He laughs at your teasing, his breath kissing the back of your neck. “When did that happen?” 

“…I don’t want to fall asleep, now.” 

“You don’t have to… I can make you a cup of tea, or…” He draws another line down your arm, ending in a swirl before your elbow. “You could shower.” 

Both sound nice, but no. Your legs are still weak from being held, the ache of a good fuck taking home in your stomach. Truthfully, nothing could make you wanna leave whatever it is he’s doing to you now. The shape of his lips warms your shoulder. 

“That was amazing.”

“You’re amazing,” he says, wrapping you up all over again. He can’t decide how to hold you. You grab his hand and keep it there under your breasts, letting your eyes flutter closed. 

How can he say that? He has this strange way of touching that’s making you feel yards prettier than you usually do, and he’d just fucked you like a dream. You couldn’t manage that sort of pleasure alone. 

“Where have you been hiding?” you whisper, toying with his fingers. Might as well do everything you can while you can. 

“Nowhere.” 

“So where have you been?” 

He takes a breath. “Turn around?”

You begin turning and he takes you like a dance, leaning in slowly to kiss you, until his smoothness gives way to a smile. He pulls back. In the barest lick of light from the window, you can see a blush spreading across his nose. 

“Sorry. I should ask, I shouldn’t just kiss you,” he says, cupping your cheek. 

How might you go about marrying this boy? You decide to play it cool, kissing him until you fall asleep in his arms, your lips still parted for another lazy press of his as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. 

—

You wake to something new. There isn’t a man against you hinting for a morning tryst, nor an empty bed, a note to let yourself out when you’re ready. There’s a real, gentle hand on your neck. It slides to your shoulder and rubs. 

“You okay?” a voice asks. 

You force your eyes open, blurry vision further occluded by a face. 

His hair is damp. Like he showered a while ago. Spencer’s hand travels to the back of your neck and touches accordingly. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but it’s almost one. I was worried you might be sick.” 

You close your eyes, smiling, better when he scratches the back of your neck with short nails. “I was up late.” 

“I know, I’m  sorry.” 

You wait for him to tell you why you have to leave, any manner of excuse, but nothing comes. 

“So are you? Okay?” he asks gently. 

“I’ll leave soon.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to say. If you’re not sick, you can go back to sleep.” 

“And just lay in your bed all day,” you murmur, disbelieving. 

“If you wanted to. Or… you can shower, and I can make you something to eat.” His thumb takes to your cheek. One night stand sex can’t be something he does often, or there’s a real possibility that he’s the first man to ever do it right.

His eyes are so much bigger than you realised. “Do you wear glasses?” 

He stammers, embarrassed, “How would you guess that?” 

You raise a hand to his face and draw a short line against his nose. “You have the marks here. Were you reading?” 

“Just while I was waiting for you.” 

“What do you do?” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t ask what you do, I don’t think we managed to ask each other much of anything,” you say, rewarded for your vulnerability with a chest-aching smile, his canine teeth peeking from under his lips. He still looks kissed, lips a shade of sore you’re sure you’d see on yourself in the mirror. 

“I work for the government,” he says, catching your hand to cradle your wrist, “for something called the behavioural analysis unit.” 

“Like, statistics?” 

He lets your hand fall against his chest, a thin grey t-shirt under your knuckles failing to hide the shapes of him, of which you’d explored at length last night. You kissed as much of his chest as you could and it hadn’t felt like enough, Spencer leaner than you’d realised with a stomach on the soft side, easy to kiss relentlessly. 

Your mouth is drying thinking about it. Spencer watches you wordlessly, before saying, “I guess it is like statistics, especially for me. We try to think about serial criminals in terms of their motives. It’s an attempt at math for something not usually quantitative.” 

“And you’re good at it.” 

“I’m good at math, yeah.” 

“Probability of a,” —your breath betrays you, slightly too hopeful as it catches— “morning kiss if I brush my teeth first?” 

His eyes light up. He leans down carefully, and gives you a chaste, firm kiss. 

You forget that you’re naked, not worried about being shy. The sheets fall away from you as you lift up to meet him. He holds them to your naked waist, the other hand skirting just below your breast. You wish he’d touch you like he did last night, but he isn’t so forward. His kiss is kind. You frown as he pulls away. 

“I had a really great time, last night,” he says, tip of his thumb setting your nerves aflame as it drifts over your skin. “Really great.” 

“Me too.” 

“And you’re okay?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nothing hurts?” he asks. 

“No, of course not.” Your confusion clears. “No, you weren’t like that. I think my legs might be aching but that’ll go away in the shower.” 

“I can run you a bath, if you want. It’s a half bath so you might not be able to stretch out, but it’ll help.” He gives you a smile. The familiarity between you doesn’t want to ebb. 

“Shouldn’t have showered without me,” you say, soft, lest playful be something he doesn’t want on a new day. 

“My hair was greasy. Someone kept touching it.” 

You sit up. Spencer’s hands fall to yours.

It’s hard not to play with someone’s hair when it’s in their face, and when they’re trailing kisses in warm places. He doesn’t blame you really, you can see it in his eyes. 

For a pause, you just sit. 

This is nice. Not being thrown out, left with that aching gap in your chest like you gave something you hadn’t intended when it started. Sex will never be easy again, you realise, not when you know it can be good. 

“You’re not working today, are you?” you ask. 

“No, why?” he asks in turn, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. 

“Maybe we…” He waits. He’s pretty enough to force your hand. “We could get to know each other,” you say, gaze taking refuge on his hands. “If you want to.” 

”Really?” 

“I’ve never had that with someone. Maybe we’re, I don’t know, compatible in more ways than one.” You remember yourself, lifting your head, startled by the sheer want in his expression as he holds your fingers. “You’re handsome, and you seem kind. We could have fun.” 

“We could have so much fun,” he says, that flushed blush already spreading across his nose again. 

You draw a line up his chest. “I might need help getting my back, in the shower. That’s not a tight squeeze, is it?” 

“We might have to stand very close.” 

You giggle wildly as he pulls you up, worse when he drapes a sheet over you worrying about the cold. It’s treatment you could grow used to. 

— 

Spencer’s trying to figure out how he got here. You, across the bar sending him looks —Derek swore you were— and the second he got to your chair he realised you were out of his league, but he had nothing to lose beside his pride. 

Then there was you, in bed, pulling on his tie murmuring sweet somethings, sweet pleadings, really, taking another kiss as he moved as you asked. 

Then you, the morning after. You’d slept for long enough to scare him, but when you woke you were exactly the girl you’d been the night before, only slower. Ever so slightly bashful. We could get to know each other. 

Spencer’s not sure how he managed it, but you don’t go home. And on Monday you go to work and come back. On Tuesday he meets you outside of your building to take you for dinner, and you come back with him again, another night up in his arms, tangling his hair with enthusiastic fingers. The sex is good, it is, not just ‘cos his past catalogue of lays were with women who wanted casual experiences solely, or those few times with Ethan where it ended too fast and left him useless. You fuck him like you love him. It’s crazy, except he’s acting the same way. 

When you’re not fucking you’re in his lap, or sitting at the coffee table with your face on his thigh driving him crazy, or you’re laying with your feet tucked under him telling him something about you. He is desperate for the details. 

Like, this is it. You’ve pulled your chair as close to his as humanly possible and thrown both legs over his, basically sharing his seat as you laugh around a messy mouthful of Thai noodles. 

“Don’t look, I’m being disgusting–”

“You’re never disgusting, let me–”

He’s heard you pee. He’s kissed you all over. The human aspects of you don’t bother him. 

“Spence, can you–”

“It’s going up your nose–”

“–stop, holy s–”

He pinches your nose clean. “Tada. Kiss now?” 

“You wanna share?” 

“Yes!” 

“No.” You press your hand to your mouth before he can lean in.

He lets you swallow your mouthful. Your ankle is cool in his hand. When people talk about love, it’s about meeting someone, the dates and the phone calls, the big questions. Spencer didn’t know you could do it like this. Every time you go home, you’re asking if you can come back or pestering him to come your way. 

“Can I kiss you now?” he asks imploringly. 

“No, we’re done kissing for a bit. I want another one of those massages.” 

He can’t joke about it or he’ll turn crimson. You enjoyed a polite leg massage, until he got to your thighs, and things got out of hand. 

“No massages.” He taps you under the chin, letting his hand travel wherever it wants over the side of your face. 

“Fine, no massages. Unless you want one?” 

“No, we agreed tonight we’d just– sleep. My boss is onto me.” 

You wink involuntarily as he cups your cheek, his fingers pushed lightly over your eyes.

You aren’t fiends, but finding someone who matches as you do makes it hard to abstain from the fun. Last night was tame, though; he’d made sure you were happy and fallen asleep to grateful neck kisses. Tonight, he won’t say no, but these all-hours affairs have to stop. Derek’s suspicious of him, Hotch has the situation entirely sussed, he's sure, and Spencer’s sixty percent sure Rossi saw you both outside of Quantico tonight kissing against a toll booth.  

Not that it matters. Spencer has a good feeling you’re not a fling. 

“I got you some stuff earlier,” he says. 

You pull his hand from your face and ask, “What stuff?” 

“Like, stuff you need here. I don’t know what you like, but there’s a cleansing balm– are you allergic to chamomile?” You shake your head. “Um, it might be weird, I got you underwear, just ‘cos of the situation yesterday–”

“I liked wearing boxers, they were snug in a certain region is all–”

“–and some shampoo. That sort of stuff. Just so you can stop suffering with mine.” 

“You know what shampoo I use?” 

“I deduced it.” 

“Ah, yes, mister profiler,” you mumble, bending into your knees to hold his face. “If I hadn’t looked you up online I’d think you were a stalker. How can you guess my favourite ice cream flavour when I never told you?”

He smiles shyly. “I just can.”

“Is there anything else you’ve guessed about me?” 

“Every meal with you takes a half hour. You’re easily distracted.”

He laughs as you protest, “You’re distracting! You don’t need to guess that.” 

“You distract me, too.” 

You gather yourself up and stand over him to kiss his nose. “Spencer,” you whisper, your fingers sliding into his hair, “thank you. You don’t have to buy me stuff, I could’ve just gone home.”

“I don’t really want you to.” 

You raise your head to see him eye to eye. “I don't want to either. This is… I like you.” 

He hums, wrapping his arms around you. The hugs are rarer than kisses, but only because you’ve shared so many of the latter in the dark. He’s been thinking of kisses as the extension to fucking, that they’re okay as long as it’s done in bed, but the more time you stay, the more kisses you’ve shared for no reason at all. You kissed his cheek on the train earlier and he felt it like a shock, tipping his chin down to peck you on the lips, your arm curled behind his back as the traincar rattled over a bend. 

“I like you too,” he laughs. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, of course I do.” 

“Not just…” 

“It’s not just the sex,” he says, waving his hand behind your shoulder as you curl into him all over again. It feels amazing. 

“Should we go out, then?” 

“We do.” 

“No, should we date? We could be partners, officially.” 

Spencer can’t take it, scooping you into his lap, though you do sit obligingly on his thigh. He shifts to take the weight. 

“Please, let’s be partners,” he says softly. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t, it’s still soon.” 

“Five days and counting. That’s longer than some marriages, you know.” 

“Maybe we can be, like, tentative boyfriend and girlfriend. If you change your mind, no hard feelings.” 

“And if I don’t?” he asks. 

“Then we get married in Vegas.” 

“You could meet my mom.” 

“I’d love to meet your mom.”

“Do you really wanna be my girlfriend?” he asks. 

“I mean… there’s not such a big difference in dating and what we’re doing, right? This is relationship stuff, we just sort of skipped the awkward first dates.” 

“We did,” he says, failing to hide his grin. 

You stroke his cheek with your nose.

Your attempt at abstinence doesn’t last, but neither party is to blame. You have to celebrate somehow. So you finish your takeout dinner and wash dishes bumping hips. He locks the door for the night and you, giggling, struggle to change his A/C. When he drags you by the sleeve to the bedroom, he doesn’t intend on jumping right into it, and for a while he doesn’t. You lay on top of him between his parted legs and he spends a sluggish hour stroking your hairline, listening to you talk. But his devotion turns to your ear, and he’s kissing behind it, and you’re hitching yourself up his chest soon enough. 

“That cherry spritzer was worth it, huh?” you ask lowly, scratching his jaw as you sit over him.

You really are pretty, amplified by your syrupy smile. 

“I guess that depends what you think. Was I as good at making knots as I promised?” he asks. 

“I can’t remember.” 

“I can remind you?”

“That might be prudent, Dr. Reid.” 

“I never should’ve told you about that,” he murmurs, your lips atop his, ready to be parted. 

“I would’ve found out eventually. I’m gonna find out everything about you, honey.” 

Spencer lets his eyes shutter closed. Me first, he thinks, giving in to another endless kiss. He has the advantage, after all. 

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚⋆

thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed please consider liking reblogging or leaving a comment/reply it makes my day and I am so grateful<3 

[danwithouttheplan]

I put a stapled packet of documents in my mouth and after a big swallow and a few seconds of movement I stick out my tongue with the staple bent perfectly into a paperclip.

[orphicdreamers-wp]

Smaller Acts — Quinn Hughes

Summary; Quinn meets you and realizes you’re different from girls he’s previously dated and that’s something he loves about you

Content Warning: alcohol consumption, pure domesticity, mentions of the canucks losing a game(to a unspecified team), fluff.

Based on Smaller Acts by Zach Bryan.

She’s got a need to leave you wanting more.

Quinn was sure he’d died and gone to heaven the night he met you. He’d been out with a group of his teammates celebrating his newly appointed captaincy. Brock had been the first to spot you and the group of girls you were with. However Quinn was the one who couldn’t take his eyes away from you. He was typically a shy and introverted person but for some reason he had the burning desire to approach you. But he didn’t.

Your best friend, Lydia hadn’t taken her eyes off of the group of men who’d walked in about forty-five minutes after you did. You heard them toast to one of them becoming captain. You were strangely pulled to the one who’d become captain. You weren’t shy to put yourself out there. You approached the bar and waited to be acknowledged by the bartender, who approached you almost immediately as he drank in your appearance. Your dark hair in curls, glossy red lips and a tightly fitting outfit.

You grinned sheepishly as you made eye contact with the man who’d been made captain, “Another cherry vodka sour and whatever the captains having. On me.” The man looked up at you bewildered. You straddled the barstool next to him and sat, “So should I keeping calling you Captain or could I get a name?” The man looked like a deer in headlights, “Quinn.” You hummed as you lightly bit your lip, “Nah.I think Captain suits you better.” Quinn raised an eyebrow and spoke out in a rushed manner, “Really? Why’s that?”

You shrugged as you sipped your drink, “Captain sounds sexier. It fits you. Have a nice night Captain.” You winked at him as you began to walk away. Quinn’s eyes were glued to your ass as you departed, “Wait!” You spun around with a small smirk on your lips as he spoke again, “I didn’t catch your name.” You smirked as you stood in place, “I didn’t give you it. It’s y/n.” You spun around and walked out of the bar before he could speak again. Quinn was in awe as you walked away. He looked down at the bar to find a cherry stem tied in a knot by your empty glass. Damn you were good.

Leave your shoes off at the door, cause dinners waiting on you.

You and Quinn had got in touch not too long after the night you met at the bar. You two had become quick friends, although you flirted with him so much he was unsure if you wanted to be just his friend. Regardless he invited you to the lake house that summer. He and his brothers and Trevor had left you alone in the house for a good three hours while they were on the boat. They’d invited you but you declined as you got motion sickness easily on boats.

You were currently cleaning up the kitchen after you’d made dinner. Your ears were filled by the sound of the boat engine shutting off. You hurried onto the boat dock, sporting a wide smile, “Shoes off boys. I mopped I don’t want your dirty shoes messing up my work. Dinners done.” The four men looked between themselves and then at you before smiling and a chorus of thanks filled your ears.

Quinn hung back as the other three entered the house, “You didn’t have to do that.” You smiled at him as you adjusted your crop top, “I know. I wanted to.” Quinn looked down at you with a small glint of something unreadable in his eyes, “You’re amazing, you know that?” You grinned up at him through glimmering eyes, “Tell me about it. Come eat before it gets cold or they eat it all.” Quinn laughed, “The second is probably more likely.”

Grand things don’t impress her much,she’s keen to smaller acts.

Quinn was less than happy when you met Noah. He found him incredibly irritating and extremely wrong for you. Quinn had been shocked when you opened the gift that Noah had gotten you for your birthday. It was a expensive and glamorous necklace that Quinn knew you would hate just by how expensive it looked. He noticed how the smile you sported when you opened it seemed forced and somehow didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He saw how your eyes lit up when you opened the gift he got you. It was a beautiful matching turquoise necklace and earrings set. You’d seen it on your trip to Nashville you took with the Hughes siblings to see Zach Bryan in concert. It was in a family antique store’s window. You inquired about the price and the woman told you the entire set was only $20. You gasped lightly as you looked at Quinn, “You didn’t. Quinn i don’t know what to say.”

Quinn smiled softly, “Don’t say anything. Put it on. It’ll go perfectly with your dress.” And you did that, the turquoise complimented your tan skin and dark hair and looked stunning against your white dress. Quinn made note of how your smile never fell after you opened his gift. He also took note of how he stopped seeing Noah after your birthday party.

Never needs much and sure knows how to dance.

Two months later, you joined the Hughes brothers, Trevor, Jamie and Nico on a spontaneous trip to Dallas. You and Quinn had been seeing each other for a good few weeks, but you had kept it from the rest of the guys. So when Trevor suggested you all go like dancing you agreed. You’d grown up in Fort Worth so you had a little bit of experience in line dancing. So you found yourself teaching Quinn, his hands rested on the small of your back and the two of you were unaware of the audience that you had.

You’d feel her in a room, if you was blind.

Quinn’s head was between his knees. He heard the door to to locker room open. He was the only occupant in the room. He didn’t even need to lift his head to know who’d entered the room. You had a calming presence that always affected Quinn. Your voice came out soft and feathery almost causing Quinn to forget the loss, “Hi Q.” Quinn didn’t look up, he couldn’t meet your eyes. He felt like he had disappointed you. You sat down on the bench next to your boyfriend, you began to reassuringly rub circles on his back, “It’s not your fault babe.” Quinn looked up, finally making eye contact with you.

His eyes were bloodshot and it was apparent he’d been crying. Your face softened as you pulled him into a tight embrace, “Oh Quinn.” Quinn melted into your touch, “I just feel like I failed the guys. I’m supposed to be a leader and someone they can look up to. I let them down. And I disappointed you.” You lifted his face up, “You could never disappoint me Quinn Hughes. You went out there and did your very best. Sometimes we fall short. You didn’t let the guys down. You will come in tomorrow and get back on top. You had a bad game not a bad season.” Quinn sniffled as he weakly smiled at you, “You really are the greatest aren’t you?”

There ain’t a thing a man can do. She’ll only love you for you.

Quinn Hughes was head over heels for you. He had been since the night he met you. But seeing you standing in his bathroom doing skin care wearing nothing but your panties and one of his Canucks shirts drove him crazy. He’d known for months he was in love with you, but he was unsure if he should tell you. But seeing the sight of you in his clothes looking so perfect was the selling point. His voice came out sure and smooth, “I love you.” You didn’t skip a beat as you rubbed your facial serum into your skin, “I love you too Quinnie.” Quinn sighed as your words filled his ears. He was finally at peace with you and the smaller acts that he would argue are the biggest things in the world.