#did you know memory loss and gaps in memory are affected | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mullermilkshake · 9 days ago

Text

One life. One promise.

With your Father gone, the only person you have to rely on is Gojo. And he's been obsessed with you for years.

Satoru Gojo x Fem Mafia boss!reader Mafia AU, Parental death and loss, Organised crime, Ten year age gap, Grieving, Softer Yandere, still psychotic though. (Our babygurl is self aware) Manipulation, Exploitation, Toxic relationship, Reference to blood play, Riding, Grinding, Vaginal sex, creampie

<<< For more Satoru content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

“You’re the head of the organisation now, Boss.” That’s what they had told you when your Father died, shot dead in his own car.

You weren’t ready, how could you have been?

There wasn’t a day that went by where you could have wiped that memory clean of seeing his dead body from your brain. It was just there to stay and all you managed to do was disagree about following in his footsteps.

It took time, but there was something at the time you used to get you through, a weapon of sorts, dedicated to protecting you with all of the love and affection they could.

Satoru Gojo.

That’s what led you up to this moment, sitting at your Father’s mahogany desk, a leg crossed over the other, arms folded with a smug expression, glaring at the man before you. Smug enough to pass so that the vultures did not come looking to scavenge.

And this bastard in particular happened to know exactly what weakness smelt like.

Suguru Geto.

You knew that both of the men in the room had been friends, Suguru was even part of your Father’s protection detail for a time. But then he turned bad, becoming a natural rival. A vile man clever enough to manipulate even the most intelligent people before succumbing to his charm and potent addiction. Suguru Geto had become the monster’s from the books you read as a child.

And you still believed in those monsters well into your mid twenties. And this monster wanted to abuse the fact that, although you had the support from your Father’s organisation, you were far too young to lead an organised crime unit this advanced.

After Geto vanished for a time, had expected and hoped that Gojo would have left you alone after that, but he never joined his friend when he resurfaced a year later, the obsession only got worse. He was such a pain in your ass still, even if he was standing behind you with a scowl on his face at the smugness of his old friend. He was useful in many ways. That was why you kept him at your side.

The air in the office was dampened by Geto’s face looking back at you. What he had just suggested was utterly abhorrent. At first you weren’t sure what to say, but in keeping your dignity, a long drawn breath was particularly useful

“If you honestly think I will provide anything for you because you were reckless enough to start up some cultist bullshit and piss the foundation members off, you are less intelligent than I thought.”

“What the foundation doesn’t know won't hurt them.” Geto leaned back pompously into the padded chair opposite your desk. “You’re more adventurous than your Father, I thought you would want to take a leap to make it in this city.”

He never should have mentioned your Father. “I’m doing perfectly well as I am. I don’t need help from a drug pusher.”

Geto was lower than the dirt on your shoe. Not because he was lower than you, even though he was. This wasn’t his kingdom, rather just a puppet for the real overlord. It was because of what Geto did that made you want to vomit.

“I wouldn’t call my role that. More like I introduce people to the wonders of science.”

Another deep breath. It allowed you to keep your cool and not set Gojo on him. He stood stiller than the marble statue on the foyer, waiting for instructions. “I was born in this city, and now I have the power to make this place better than under the reign of my Father. I want to do better. You need to do better.”

Standing up from your chair, you paced over towards the window from the high rise, observing the lights and hustling below by the overhead train tracks which wound around buildings like a venomous snake. You always hated that rail line. High percentage of thefts, murders, assaults. Being a child, it always reminded you of a long winding tentacle that threatened to choke the city out from under it, constricting and pulling until the very foundations of the city would swell up and die.

It in itself was hateful, twisted and you begged your Father to do something. To remove the bent steel’s venom and make it safe for travel. He never did.

“I will do better. And you have no part in this city.”

“Don’t be that way.” He spoke your name sweetly, but you could hear the poison a mile away. “I’m just a man trying to make a living, delivering high quality goods to a boring, dull city to liven it up. Opium is the apex feel good substance that doesn’t harm.”

You returned back to your seat just as fast as you left it. “A man, as in by yourself? Don’t make me laugh, Geto. I’m not one to make jokes during a formal meeting.”

“Well it is rather somber in here, maybe a smile or two would improve morale around here-”

“Watch your mouth, Suguru.” Gojo was closer to you now, his hands still behind his back, but his teeth gritted together far tighter than ever.

“So the dog talks. Shame to see you so whipped, Satoru. You could have been such a good ally.”

“I’ll have you address me, not him.” It seemed enough to get him to back off, but Gojo was still close. Close enough to touch your shoulder if he wanted.

Suguru Geto had a tendency of getting into factions or organisations and tearing it apart from the inside out. Up until now, he had not been so successful with yours. You paid a part of that gratitude to Gojo.

For he could read the man without a crystal ball in his palms.

The message was entirely different to what he was producing. That much was obvious, even you knew that. “Speaking of dogs, I’ll get right down to it, because honestly, I don’t know how people fall for your bullshit. If Kenjaku wants to ask me a favour, he can ask me himself. Not his lap dog.”

Kenjaku was a natural rival to your Father and in extension with that, you. He was far worse than Geto could ever be, a devil incarnate that your Father had only held back by a thread. These days he seemed to operate in the background, utilising Geto’s charming nature to deal for him all together.

The man had developed into a nightmare, a scary story to tell newbies when they joined up to keep them in line. You knew it because you were one of the first to hear that story before you turned eighteen. After that, the story had grown more unrealistic and distorted.

Because no matter how much damage he dealt, Kenjaku was still just a man.

Geto however, was no man. He didn’t do things unless they expressly benefitted him and his leader. Though usually he enjoyed playing that part when his own boss didn’t see him.

He smiled eerily, showing parts of his teeth under his half lidded eyes. “Kejaku isn’t behind this, it’s just me. He doesn’t actually know I’m here.”

That was a full faced lie.

“And I’m coming to you, because we have history. I hoped you would help me knowing how smart you are. I can bring a lot to the table with my opium. It’s the best quality stuff-”

“So it being highly addictive means nothing to you- okay.” You sat forward, your fingers laced together as your Father's always were. “If you’re working on your own or with Kenjaku, I don’t give a fuck. If you want to go against the foundation members, then that is your choice, I however, will take no part in it.”

He sighed like he was actually disappointed. “You realise what the foundation members do, right? They will turn on you, as soon as you show weakness.”

The foundation members were the real driving force in this city. You hadn’t realised until you assumed power over the organisation just how much they were involved. You knew they existed of course, but not to this extent. Everything had to go through them, they divided the city in half exactly between your Father and Kenjaku and allowed the minor factions to be subdivided like realestate between the two halves.

Whoever got on the foundation’s bad side, made sure never to be on that side again and if they found themselves in shark infested waters a second time, they never came out the otherside when the chum was thrown in. It was calculated. Not haphazardly.

“If I wanted to get fucked, I’d ask Gojo to bend me over the desk and do it within an inch of my life- do you really expect me to welcome you with open arms, because what? You knew my Father?”

You remember the first day you met both Geto and Gojo.

Geto’s features were much softer, calmer by the way he used to bring you doll’s and toys whenever he was tasked with visiting you. It didn’t seem that way to outsiders, but Geto came first before Gojo was even on the scene.

“I protected you, not only him-”

Did you notice a subtle hint of sincerity behind his words? “For a time you did. But it was just a job.”

Until then, Geto was more than enough to protect your Father and you, but by the time you turned eighteen, you had turned rogue. A bratty adult that wanted the freedom of those civilians you were always watching out of the bulletproof car window.

You were unruly, and therefore needed your own protection. Someone who could truly handle you until you inevitably calmed once you integrated into civilian life and went to college. That was the condition.

“It wasn’t just a job. I grew to love you like my own.”

Another shitty tactic to get you on side. No one loved you, not truly, not even Gojo. And that was okay, because now you were just numb to it all.

You had to be to survive.

At his words of love, you still waited for Gojo to step in and rectify it, but he knew better than to interrupt a second time. It took time and discipline, but you had fortunately trained him well enough to do as you asked on command.

“You have a funny way of showing it.” In honesty, you were more hurt that he decided to leave the organisation the way he did.

It broke your Father’s heart and you wouldn’t forgive him for that.

Before Geto could respond, you cut him off as arrogantly as you could. “That’s besides the point anyway, we’re getting off of the subject. I won’t give you any of my men to help move your opium around the city under the foundation members' noses.

“Your Father would have helped.” Another fucking lie.

“My father was an asshole then if he would agree to anything as stupid as that. He had no clue of what possibilities were out there. You, however, know the horrors.” You nodded your head at Gojo. “And your opium is one of them.”

In truth, opium was the least of anyone’s worries with Gojo on the streets. He was feral at the best of times, wide eyed and audacious in the face of danger. All to protect you.

Kenjaku had his horrific bedtime stories, and so did the snow haired angel fallen from the clouds that even hell spat back out.

Just the image alone made men weak in the knees. All but Geto.

“You’ll regret not thinking it over-”

“I don’t think I will, actually.” Standing respectfully, you smoothed down the edge of your skirt. “But you know where the door is, so you can leave now. Gojo, make sure he doesn’t get lost on his way down.”

Without one word, he nodded and made his way to the door and propped it open, waiting for Geto to wipe the bewildered look off his face and clear his throat on his way to the door.

“I won’t be long.” Gojo said, barely bowing, turning the light switch off and closing the door for your own quiet space.

Quiet enough for the desk light to be the only source of visibility, and enough to listen to the large exasperated exhale from your throat, right before the rain started pelting on the large floor to ceiling windows and over the dark night of the unsleeping city.

“I hate him. I fucking hate him!” That was the part of you that still wanted to be the child you never got to be. Bratty and unruly.

Suguru Geto left you. And it broke your heart too.

You would have gotten away with stamping your foot too in that empty room, though you held that compulsion back. A clap of thunder grounded you only momentarily, looking back out onto the city, the whirling lights of the rail line jittered and blinked behind buildings and reappeared unsuspectingly until it arrived at a station.

“Why did you leave me to do all this on my own, Dad?”

You never had the best relationship with him, it was strained at best. Still, you missed him like any other child might miss their parents. At least he was with your Mother now. But you never got to meet her before she died.

Maybe it was best if you just quit?

The door opened without knocking. One person did that. Only one person. “He’s gone. Are you alright?”

Wherever you went, Gojo was only three steps behind. “I’m fine.”

His movements were silent, neither his shoes on the burgundy carpet or rushed breaths from running back up here even graced your ears until he was right behind you, the palms of his hands flush against your shoulders.

“Toots, you’re not.”

Toots was his pet name for you. You never knew why.

“I am.”

“No. You are not.”

He turned you round to face him firmer than you would have liked him to, the lightning illuminated his stern features of the thin line his lips made, just like his frown.

“Don’t start this again. I’m fine, that’s all there is to it.” You were always so vulnerable in Gojo’s company. However, you still would not call him by his first name.

It still had to be professional.

It had to be.

“You forget that I know you better than anyone else. I will start it because you’re always skirting around the subject. Let me in-”

“I don’t want to let you in- I just want you to leave me alone, why can’t you just do that for once?!”

He didn’t mean to shake you but the shoulders the way he did, you knew that. “You know I can’t do that, I just can’t… I’ve told you time and time again that I’m yours. I’ll be yours until I draw my last breath and nothing you do to me will change that.”

You should have been pleased to have someone so dedicated to you. To be in possession of a man who would leap in front of a bullet for you without hesitation. In fact, he had already done so on two separate occasions and suffered greatly for it.

“I’m not asking you to tell me how you feel about me. But I do expect you to tell me how you are feeling. Or I can’t help. Please, let me help.”

Here, right in front of you, was a man who wanted to share his soul with you, going far beyond just work. And knowing how he had felt since the age of twenty years old, you undoubtedly used him, made him suffer for your own foolish pleasure and selfish priorities.

Though no matter how often you tried to let him go, like a fed stray he would always return and find his way home despite how many times you dropped him off at the side of the freeway in a box for someone else to take home.

He always found his way back to you.

Hell, the man broke out of hospital with a fresh stab wound to find you in the endless pouring rain of last year's winter because there was news of a fatal car crash that happened to occur on your route back home. He passed out right in the doorway of your office once he knew you were back safe and dry.

And you were using him.

“I just need space, Gojo. I feel suffocated with you around all of the time; I just need some time to get my head on straight.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” It was supposed to reassure you, coupled by the way his thumb came up to stroke your cheek and dry away a tear from your cheek you didn’t know was there. “I can’t leave you alone to do this on your own.”

“Why… Why are you still here with me when all I’ve done is be horrible to you? I don’t get it.”

He cupped both your cheeks in his palms, like a husband consoling his exhausted partner. “Nothing you do will ever drive me away. Not the organisation, Suguru or anything your Dad did. No hurtful words will make me feel any differently. Because I will always be yours, to use, to keep, to discard and throw away… But I’ll always come back and let you do it all over again.”

You were barely whispering at this point, the rain came down harder on the tall glass. “Why?”

“Because I’m the only one you can ever trust. I made a vow to keep you safe, Toots. And I’ll keep it.”

It should be noted that this side of Gojo was a side no one ever saw, apart from one other person. But even now, Geto was denied that luxury. The real reason that Gojo stayed was purely because of you. Had you changed your mind and joined Geto, you were sure that the two would join arms again like nothing ever happened.

“I can’t keep doing this, Gojo.”

“I know you can, because I’m here with you. Your Dad believed it too.”

You paid no mind to the comment about your Father. “You don’t have to be, you can go and leave all this behind- find something else to do-”

“I won’t. Don’t even think of that.” His tone was sterner than you were used to. “Why do you keep trying to push me away?”

“I’m so numb to it all!” Pushing away from him did nothing to physically get him away from you. “I’m not cut out for this, and the only thing that keeps me in this position is all the people I can help, but I never wanted this for myself. I wanted to settle down into civilian life but all this bullshit just dragged me back into this cesspit!”

You didn’t react to it at first, Gojo’s lips on yours for a moment before he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours. “You don’t have to be numb.”

“I don’t know how not to be anymore.”

“Let me help you... I love you so much.”

A shake of your head was enough to convince yourself. “You don’t actually.”

“I do-”

“No you don’t, you think you do but this obsession with me has gone on long enough. It has to stop.” Letting him go was the best thing to do.

“I do, Toots. I do.” He pulled away from you completely, running his fingers through his hair with exasperation, the heavens opening up outside, lighting the entire room up with light.

“What do you want me to do to prove it to you, huh? Go and find Suguru and kill him? Because I will; you know I will because if that makes you happy then I’ll do it. I’ve jumped in front of bullets for you, knives and I’m still here. You want to know why? Because of you. You were the one that kept me goin’ all this time. I love you so much it hurts and I let you use me because if it’s the only way I get to be close to you, then so be it.”

Speechless.

“Every time we fuck, I do everything you ask of me because if fucking you like a one night stand allows me to get close to you then that’s what I’ll do. I want to be with you and I’ll destroy this whole city to the ground and throw Kenjaku into its leftover crater if it meant you would see me as more than just a dog to recall whenever you feel like it. But I take it how it is because it's a compulsion and I will not be apart from you. It’s not going to happen.”

Years of pent up frustration.

“You mean everything. You are everything to this organisation and everything to me. Without you, I have no meaning. The killing, the torture, yeah it’s fun, but only because I do it for you. I never did it for your Dad or the organisation, it was purely for your benefit. And all I ask is that you admit to yourself that you want me too.”

He approached you after minutes of anxiously pacing and took a hold of your hands. “Because I know you feel something towards me. I know it.”

“Gojo… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me something, Toots.”

“I… Uh, Well,” What could you say to that?

You wanted someone with that amount of dedication, but as soon as it became more than just casual, Everything would change. What would happen between you and the man that was obsessed with you for the last six years?

A man who gladly killed for you just because someone happened to upset you in passing.

A man who grew incredibly jealous whenever a guest from a neighbouring faction showed you more attention than was technically necessary.

A man that would happily give his life for you just so you wouldn’t feel one ounce of physical pain, where all his was emotional.

A man who was currently exposing his soul to when he had never in this much detail in the past.

“But, what if that doesn’t work out?” You couldn’t let yourself feel, otherwise it would show weakness.

“Nothing will change, if anyone tries to ruin it then I’ll get rid of them.”

“Murder isn’t always the answer.”

“Then what is the answer?” The hint of Gojo’s spearmint toothpaste suspended you over the pit of scalding hot water you wanted nothing more than to tip away down the drain.

Then, he simmered the pit. “I’m yours. But I want you to be mine too.”

Could you give in to a crazed, obsessed man with problematic morals? Submit to the proposition he was displaying right in front of you?

“Gojo…”

“Call me Satoru.”

Did you even have a choice?

Did rain drip upwards?

No. It seemed like you didn’t. But in this case, being his object of affection led you to have so much power to control him.

You controlled the devil that hell spat back out. And that made you unstoppable.

Saying either name would let him know what you chose.

“Sato-” He took your face and put his lips upon yours, holding you so close unlike anything he had ever done to you before.

Because everyone in the organisation knew you two were fucking. But none dared to question it.

The door remained unlocked, Gojo lifted you up like you were nothing and slumped down on the chaise lounge in the corner of the room by the other corner window. The commotion knocked your teeth together, biting the other’s lips with a feverish moan and pant.

If you couldn’t beat him away, maybe it really was just best to join him.

Your skirt had ridden up over your thighs either side of his lap, hugging him tightly whilst his hands were already finding their way under your blouse. The shock of his chilled fingertips got you jolting under his touch until you adjusted, grinding yourself over his crotch and listening out for the irregularities in his shallow breaths.

It was always a more than pleasurable experience when Gojo fucked you, he knew how to make your body react like a test he’d studied years for and just waited to put it into practice. So much chemistry. So much. Fuck, there was so much chemistry the more you played into the taste of his tongue on yours, moving in such a way you liked having it send tiny little shocks down your spine.

“Be mine.” He said, pawing at your blouse until he cursed and ripped it, sending the buttons flying and pinging against the window. “You’re all I think about. It drives me crazy.”

“Satoru…”

“Say it.” He massaged your breasts under your lacy bra, making them bulge over the top until he yanked the material down and took your nipple between his lips for a moment. “Say you’re mine, Toots.”

He licked the delicate skin, creased and sensitive in a way that took breath from your lungs. “Satoru. I-”

One quick knock and your office door was opening. “Ma’am? There’s some-”

“Fuck off!” It came out on instinct, without you meaning it, but it got the door shut quickly like you asked.

“Shit.” His cock was hard, it was perfectly grazing your pussy as you kept grinding and rubbing yourself over him, it was obvious how wet you were. You could only imagine the wet patch on his suit trousers when the lights came back on.

Gojo cupped your ass, your nipple still between his teeth. He pulled you closer on him, forcing you to rub yourself on him. Then, he pulled away, his free hand caressing your cheek so that you knew he was serious.

“I love you. I want nothing more than to please you. Let me do it.” The kiss was sweeter than honey. “No one’s gonna ruin you. Not while I exist.”

“Satoru-”

He pulled your hand straight down to his cock. “See how you make me feel? Only you can do that… Please be mine.”

Could you? Realistically, could you be his in some sort of functional relationship after you had seen what kind of bad side he had? The blood, the times he had arrived back to your office covered in so much blood. The times, he had fucked you passionately over your desk covered in that blood.

Would the two of you ever be functional like your Father and Mother were?

“Please baby.”

Would you?

Could you?

“I’m yours, Satoru.” There, you said it.

By the lightning, it seemed like his pupils dilated, he rushed to get the button of his pants open, fiddling with it as he kissed you, licking your bottom lip as you helped pull at the tight material until it was around his thighs. His cock was free, hard as anything and waiting for you.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.” You didn’t want foreplay. Not today.

“Again.” It appeared like he understood that too.

You moved up yourself to get enough room to sit on him, pulling your panties to the side before he even could. His cock was right there.

“I’m your- Fuck! ” Satoru pulled you down to the hilt, holding you there for just a moment, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

So you moved yourself, riding his cock like your life depended on it, up and down, up and down like true lovers. Was that what you were now?

Satoru would do anything for you. You controlled him and all he asked for in return was your love, to stand at your side until the end of the fucking world, disgusting with crime and filth. You were his bright light and calm amongst the shit and pig headed fools that herded like sheep.

He truly loved you. No one ever did, not even your Father, really. But Satoru did.

“You’re so perfect. I’m gonna take such good care of you.”

“You already do.” Your hands were firm on his shoulders, supporting yourself on his lap whilst he held your hips tight.

Such pent up raw emotions led you to get wound up like a spring, coiled and ready to snap, you were getting so close like never before, almost prematurely just by his cock. You wouldn’t complain or try to stop it.

“Look at me when you come.” Satoru knew. Of course he did, he knew how your body worked like clockwork. “Do it, Toots.”

He cupped your face again and made sure you kept your eyes open. “Come for me, baby.”

It got you clenching around his cock, speechless and dumbstruck with the inflamed passion of it all. He cursed as you watched him, direct eye contact which gave you an overwhelming swell in your chest like you could have cried.

You made sure to hold it in though, taking in breaths while you orgasmed and fell into yourself. “Satoru… I’m yours now.”

“You are.” He kissed you quick, a nip and peck. "Forever."

Maybe now you were ready to rule the little city you were given by loss and hurt. But with Satoru by your side, maybe the two of you could really make a difference and help protect those from the likes of Kenkjaku and Suguru Geto.

It wasn’t like you were going to lose now.

Not with the man hell spat back out. Though it turned out, he wasn’t all that bad.

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

146 notes · View notes

itoshislave · 1 month ago

Text

⊹₊ ˚‧₊୨𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙 𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘙𝘒୧₊‧ ˚₊⊹ — Suguru Geto

۶ৎ between the damp shelves of a bookstore forgotten by the rush of the world, two strangers meet under the melody of a warm rain — he, made of silence, she, made of absence. In a universe where words are too subtle for what is felt, their bodies recognize each other first in gestures, then in smells, and finally in touch. But there are stories that, even though they start out soft, carry old cracks.

wc. 8.2k+ cw. fem!reader, heavy angst! emotional and affective mourning, silence as a form of pain, memories of abandonment and absence, processes of affective reconciliation, love marked by scars and imperfections, explicit sex, fingering, dirty talk, sooo much pining!!, brief descriptions of painful pleasure/overstimulation, unprotected sex, cumming inside, physical and emotional longing, fragility of intimacy, melancholy and aesthetics of loss, characters are in their 20's, MDNI ๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑ so… english is not my first language. So I apologize in advance for any spelling mistakes, I'm still in the learning process so… yeah, my bad. I hope you enjoy, anyway! ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა

You always knew he loved more in the dark.

It was in the gaps of light filtered through the curtains that he would lean his body against yours. When the city slept and the noises of the world faded, Geto became whole. Not the man he wore for the day — but the one who existed behind the fold in his shoulders, beneath the silence.

At night, he said nothing. He just played—with a gentleness that hurt. Like someone who knew that everything could break at any moment. Like someone holding on to the last thing that was still real.

It was in the dark that he remembered to breathe for you. It was in the dark that he allowed himself to be vulnerable, dirty and true. Without the armor of speeches.

Without anyone's eyes.

In the shadows, he let himself be loved.

Slowly.

In a way that seemed to apologize for existing.

You felt it.

The weight of his body bending the mattress. His warm breath on the back of your neck. The sweet, woody scent of his perfume clinging to the sheets — twined with your skin.

It was in those moments — between the last strike of the clock and the first bird of the morning — that you understood:

He loved you.

Not like in the books.

Not like in the movies.

But like someone holding a memory with their teeth — so as not to let it slip away.

The room would wake up with damp walls and a tired body. And he would always leave before the light hit the floor.

He never promised you anything. But in the dark, he was yours.

Only in the dark. Only while no one was watching.

And no matter how much it hurt, you stayed.

Because there — in that colorless gap — he knew how to love you the right way.

"It was raining — not like it was pouring down, but like it was whispering. You just wanted shelter. He just wanted to forget. And, by accident or fate, you found yourselves in the midst of world-weariness. Before the touch, before the name, before the kiss — there was this. A suspended moment, between the smell of paper and the sound of an unexpected question. That's where it all began." — Before the Dance

It was a rainy day.

It wasn't a screaming rain. It was the kind that you can barely hear — a constant, humid whisper that seems to come from the ground.

The city breathed heavily, fogged up, exhausted.

The sky did not cry. It dripped.

Like someone who has cried too much and now all that’s left is to drip.

You didn't know exactly why you entered the bookstore. Maybe because the old awning promised shelter. Maybe because the fogged-up window seemed inviting. Or maybe because, somewhere between your pulse and your memory, you already knew there was something there waiting to be found.

The door bell jingled unhurriedly.

The air inside was warm, smelling of old paper, forgotten coffee, and damp wood. The yellow lights flickered in soft mourning, illuminating more dust than letters. Books were stacked like poorly organized memories. Silence broken only by the rustle of pages being turned by other people's fingers.

It was then that you saw him.

He was there, leaning in a corner—half shadow, half presence.

Black coat, hair tied up carelessly. Body inert, but whole.

And his eyes… his eyes didn't belong to the moment.

They moved even when stationary. As if they were always observing the invisible version of things.

You looked away. But it was no use.

Because he didn't divert his.

And then you approached. Not out of courage. Out of impulse.

Like someone who touches water without knowing if it is shallow or an abyss.

He turned his face slowly. He looked at you like someone reading a book they never finished for the second time. And he said, in a low voice with the texture of faded velvet:

“Do you like sad endings?”

The question passed through you with the lightness of something that was already inside.

You didn't even realize that you had stopped next to him. That your shoulders were almost brushing. That your fingers were dangerously close to the spine of the same book.

It took a full second — an echo-laden second — for you to respond:

“It depends. They have to make sense.”

He smiled.

Not with the lips. With the eyes.

Like someone who approves, but doesn't deliver. Like someone who recognizes something they didn't remember feeling.

And then there was that.

The first vibration.

A subtle tremor in the air between the two of you—a warm electricity, too delicate to name, but intense enough to be impossible to ignore.

No touch.

No exchange of numbers.

But at night, alone, with your feet still wet inside the house, you felt his gaze glued to your shoulder.

As if it were a heat that remained.

As if he were still there.

The next day, you came back.

Same time. Same rain. Same bookstore.

And he was there too.

As if time had folded back on itself just to repeat the moment.

This time, he talked about the book. Then, about the feeling of losing things that cannot be explained. You answered as if you were slowly opening a window that had been closed for years. Geto listened with the attention of someone who has hardly ever been listened to.

The coffees came.

The silences shared on damp sidewalks.

The near-touches.

The hands that brushed by accident — or choice.

The electricity was rising, but it remained contained. As if desire knew how to wait.

And then, in late autumn, with the sky so white it seemed diluted, he held your hand.

Without warning.

No fear.

As if that had already happened a thousand times in silence.

“You make me forget for a while.”

That's all he said.

You never knew exactly what he was forgetting—but for some reason, it hurt. As if it had to do with you.

From then on, everything was built in a raw way.

Slowly.

With tenderness that didn't dare assert itself. With touches that burned even when they didn't happen.

You started using that perfume.

Not out of vanity, but as an invisible letter.

You wanted him to feel, on your skin, what you still didn't know how to say.

He never commented.

But you saw.

He felt.

It was just the beginning.

But you already knew: there would be no happy ending.

Just dance. And absence.

You work with restoring old books.

Not by chance. Not out of romanticism.

But out of a silent need to restore wholeness to broken things, you spends your days with your fingers covered in vegetable glue, brushing broken spines, rebuilding what time and carelessness have unraveled.

It's a job that demands extreme attention. Obsessive delicacy. Like loving someone who's already broken — without trying to fix it, just keeping it standing.

Your studio is upstairs in a forgotten stationery store, with large windows and old glass, the kind that distorts the world outside. The smell of varnish and black tea fills the corners. The plants are always a little dying, but they are still there.

You always wear the same colors: gray, maroon, dark navy. Shades that don't draw attention, but keep you from feeling tired. Sometimes you wear your hair up any old way. Other times, you let it down — as if you don't want to hide anything, but also don't want to show too much.

The routine is a sequence of small repeated gestures: opening the window, putting the kettle on, turning on the crooked-arm lamp, arranging the books on the table.

But there are holes.

Holes in time.

In the sound.

In the skin.

Since he left — or rather, since he stopped showing up — your days have become cleaner, calmer, and, for that very reason, harder to bear.

Because now, every silence carries the weight of his absence. Every old song sounds like an echo with a certain address.

And the perfume — with the scent of chaos disguised as longing, which still sits on the bathroom shelf — remains untouched.

You stopped using it.

As if your body still knows he was not there to feel.

Sometimes, when the sky is the same pale white as that day, you think you'll see him around the corner.

You know it's foolish, but your eyes insist on searching for him among strangers.

The last time you saw him, he didn't say goodbye.

There was no fight.

There was no desenlation.

Just silence.

He stopped going to the bookstore. He stopped showing up at cafes. He stopped existing within your routine — like a character who stopped being written.

And that...that destroys you in a way that is impossible to explain.

Because there was no end.

The story just paused.

And you don't know whether to wait or bury it.

And yet, you continue.

Day after day.

Stacking books. Sewing pages. Blowing dust with a delicacy you no longer know how to use with others.

“He said few words. But the kisses came in abundance — heavy with meanings that you never had the courage to ask. It still hurts pretty. Like someone who bleeds inside, but with flowers in their veins.�� — When the Body Remembers

There are days when the memory comes like a smell—it comes like a pulse between your legs. In the middle of the afternoon, between the steam of the tea and the creak of the old wood, you smell his perfume—not the one he wore, but the one that lingers after he’s gone.

Salt on the tongue. Dry sweat on the thigh. The flesh still throbbing with a pleasure that never asked permission.

Sometimes the warmth returns with such precision that you flinch. Your entire body reacts, as if your body still remembered to open when it heard his breathing change, as if your skin still waited for his touch, as if it still knew the path of his palm—slow, steady, silent like the way he looked.

Geto did not play in a hurry. He played as if he were praying quietly before sinning.

His fingers explored as if he wanted to decorate sacred territory — hot, moist, pulsating.

You remember the first time he tasted you.

It was a night too warm to be spring.

You had said you wanted to see the bookstore after work. He showed up with a key he shouldn't have had, an indecent smile on his lips, and that look that always promised more than it said.

The lights were off. The moonlight filtering through the windows made shadows dance between the shelves. You walked among the books as if you knew you were about to commit something irreversible.

He stopped at the philosophy section. You, at the poetry section.

But when you turned around, the desire was already there.

Him between your legs. You on his chest. The electricity in the narrow space between your mouths.

“You smell like someone who will destroy me.” He whispered, as if tasting his own fate.

You felt your belly tighten, your nipples harden beneath the light fabric. A thick heat ran down your thighs, hot as fever, sweet as guilt.

Then the kiss came — and it didn't come clean.

It came with tongue, with saliva, with teeth scraping the lower lip.

He came with his hands going straight to you waist, then up, then down, as if he didn't know where to start — or how to stop.

You moaned softly as he bit your chin. He growled as your nails scratched the back of his neck.

There was no music, but your bodies rhymed.

He pressed you against the bookshelf as if he knew the world was going to end that night. You opened your legs as if you were choosing the end.

The books watched. Silently. Like accomplices.

He licked your collarbone, bit you earlobe, whispered immoral promises in the lowest voice he had ever used.

You hurriedly ripped off his shirt. He took yours off more slowly than he should have—like someone unwrapping something too precious to tear.

And when he penetrated you with his fingers, right there, leaning against Rimbaud's verses, you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.

But he wanted to listen.

“Don’t hide them from me, I want to hear them.”

That's what he said.

And you gave.

His name, in the rhythm of each friction.

Your moans, in the cadence of guilt.

Your body, begging to be discovered whole.

Geto pulled you close, his body pressed against yours with an urgency that seemed to want to grab the gift before it escaped. His fingers slid inside you with a mixture of haste and care, as if he knew that each touch was a stolen moment of something that wouldn’t last.

His eyes searched yours for a moment, and in that heavy silence, you recognized each other — two crooked pieces trying to fit together, aware that the shape would never be perfect, but unable to give up on the fit, even knowing that one day the pressure would make the edges bleed.

His kiss wasn't just desire, it was a silent request that, for now, that moment was all that mattered — even knowing that soon distance would reign again.

Your breathing mingled with his, heavy and filled with an almost painful tension, as if each moan carried with it the promise of a goodbye that neither of you wanted to say out loud.

He held your waist tightly, as if if he let go, you might disappear into the void he fears so much.

His fingers began to move with raw, relentless precision—it wasn’t just about pleasure anymore, it was about breaking you, leaving you shaking, begging, forgetting even your own name. He felt you throb around him, wet, hot, surrendered, but still fighting against collapse, against losing control.

And he wasn't going to allow it.

“Come on, baby…” he whispered against your mouth, his eyes fixed on yours, his voice husky, filled with urgency and desire. “Don’t run away from me now.”

His fingers sank deeper, his thumb finding your sensitive, swollen clit in firm, calculated circles. It was too much. It was perfect. Your body arched, your hips trying to escape and seek more at the same time, the pleasure rising so fast it burned.

“Look at me,” he commanded, but not harshly—needily. “I want to see you lose yourself. I want to feel you whole, all the way.”

Your mouth opened in a choked moan, almost a sob, and he didn't stop. His other hand held your waist tightly, keeping you there, trapped in him, in the sensations, in the moment.

“Suguru– ahh!”

“That’s it,” he growled with a sweaty half-smile, his pupils dilated, his breathing ragged. “you look so gorgeous like this… feel’s so good, right?” he whispered, sucking air between his teeth like hot steel through water.

He chuckled softly against your neck as he felt your legs tremble uncontrollably. His laugh was husky, muffled by the salty skin of your chest where his mouth sank, sucking hard, leaving red marks that burned. There was a cruel pleasure there—not in seeing you weak, but in seeing you open, alive, exploding in his hands.

You gripped his wide wrist tightly, trying to contain the movement of his fingers that still brought you to the brink of unbearable. Your body writhed against his, trying to escape the stimulation that burned you, broke you, pulled you into a second orgasm before you could even breathe between the first and the next.

“Oh no, baby…” he murmured, his warm breath fanning against her collarbone. “You look beautiful like this, trembling for me. I'm sorry sweetheart, I just can't resist abusing this pretty pussy a little bit.”

He slowly removed his fingers, covered in your pleasure, and brought them to his mouth—his eyes fixed on yours as he sucked them with relish, devouring the taste of what you were creating there. It was almost devout. Almost too dirty to be real.

And then he turned you around, one hand supporting your lower back, the other guiding his cock into you, thick, hard, throbbing with the need of someone who had been holding back for too long. He brushed the tip between your swollen lips, sliding easily along the entire length, without entering. Just teasing.

“Open up for me, baby,” he said, his voice low, almost a moan. “Let me feel all of you.”

And when you moaned in response, without the strength to deny anything, he sank in slowly—all the way. All at once. Without stopping. The sound that escaped your lips was almost a scream, mixed with his name.

He stood there for a second, buried inside you, his hands gripping your waist tightly. His face pressed against yours, sweaty, panting. The two of you were silent. A silence woven with anticipated longing, as if even pleasure knew it had an expiration date.

Then he started moving.

Slow. Deep. Rhythmic. Like someone who records in his memory the sensation of a body he knows he will never have again. Each thrust was firm, complete, as if he were trying to melt into you. As if pleasure was the only place he could live.

Your name escaped his lips in slow, almost reverent moans. His mouth found your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your chin, leaving hot, bitten kisses between ragged breaths.

“You’re killing me, baby… look what you do to me,” he murmured, his forehead pressed against your temple, his thrusts getting faster, more intense. “squeezing me so tightly.. f-fuck–”

You moaned loudly, your hips moving in search of him, wanting more, wanting everything, even though you knew there would be no later. And that only made the now hurt more beautiful.

His hands moved down to your ass, pulling you deeper, making your body shiver with each encounter. He whispered through his teeth, hoarse and lost:

“You're so warm, so perfect, so mine right now... no one has ever made me feel this way.”

You panted, your entire body throbbing, begging, trembling around him.

“Keep me like this,” he whispered between moans, his eyes closed as if trying to memorize. “Make it last... just a little longer.”

The pleasure rose in violent waves, and when he brought his hand between your bodies, touching you with wet, quick fingers, you couldn't take it anymore. Your orgasm came tearing through you, intense and unbearably sweet on the tip of your tongue—his name escaping your throat in a dirty, broken, desperate moan.

He kept fucking you while you trembled, feeling every spasm, every contraction around him. And when you pressed your body against his, as if you wanted to merge it with yours, he moaned your name one last time — hoarse, broken — and came inside you hard, as if he were giving everything. His body tense, glued to yours, his breath caught in time.

Because there, in that moment, with sweaty bodies, with bated breath, with pleasure making you lose your footing, he was yours. Entirely.

Even if only until the end of the night.

When he stopped, minutes later, you were both exhausted, trembling, your breath slamming between your mouths and the taste of each other marked on your lips.

“That was stupid.” He muttered, his hand still between your thighs, as if he didn’t want to let go.

But you smiled, your eyes moist and your body still vibrating.

“It was inevitable.”

And that night, for the first time, you understood: some bodies don't love each other — they recognize each other.

And once found, burning is the only way to exist.

The day always starts the same way. With the muffled sound of the kettle, the window half-open letting in a bit of the street and the smell of violet incense burning lazily in the corner of the room.

You wear the same crumpled linen clothes, puts on the small earrings and puts on the shoes that Geto hated — the ones that make a lot of noise on the sidewalk tiles.

He said you always seemed to be leaving in a hurry. But you've never been in such a hurry as you are now, even though you have nowhere to go.

The store opens at ten. And until then, the neighborhood is still yawning.

You arrange the display with automatic hands — dried flowers, books stacked on purpose, small frames of black-and-white photographs that no one ever asks if they are for sale.

The studio is half store, half refuge.

You sell handmade paper, bookbindings, candles that melt like slow tears. And when you have time, you also write letters to strangers on request. People miss words they don't know how to say.

You meet a lady who talks about her grandson. Then a man who looks for paper to write a farewell. Then a girl who smells everything as if she were looking for something she doesn't even know she's lost.

And everything goes through you.

The voices, the looks, the brief stories. But nothing touches like it used to.

Nothing is Geto.

At six, you close the curtains and put up the "back tomorrow" sign.

The silence finally breathes along with you. And the store changes tone — it becomes a territory of intimate ghosts.

It's when you climb the narrow staircase to the mezzanine, where you keep your old notebooks, the inks that dried and were never thrown away, the memories that pretend to be matter.

It's hot.

Summer has finally arrived, but you still carry its cold on your back.

You start rearranging the shelves.

Without purpose.

Just to keep your hands busy.

That's where you see it.

The book.

Lying on his side, like someone who fell asleep waiting to return.

The cover is worn, the title faded around the edges. It's the one he lent you a week before he disappeared.

"No need to return it in a hurry," he said.

But you knew.

He didn't want the book back.

He wanted to stay inside your bookshelf.

You pick it up carefully—as if it might wake something up.

And then…

A piece of paper slips out.

Yellowed, folded in half, with nail marks on the corner.

You unfold it with trembling fingers.

The handwriting was his: firm, but tired.

As if each word had been written with the exact weight of what could no longer be said out loud.

"I don't know how to love you in the daylight. A lot of things are visible when the sun is high. Things about me you shouldn't see. Things I can't face either. But in the dark… in the dark I forget what broke me. And somehow, even after everything, I still remember how to touch you the right way."

There was no signature at the end.

Just the faded smell of incense and smoke.

And a silence so deep it almost whispered:"If I had learned to love you with the light on… maybe I would have stayed."

You feel the air empty.

As if the walls were receding, as if time had gone back a second.

That hot pain rises from your belly to your eyes.

But it doesn't run.

You just lean back in your chair, your fingers still clinging to the note. Your heart is nothing more than a disoriented animal.

There, on that ordinary night, among paper and dust, he came back.

Not in flesh.

But in word.

And word, with him, was always touch.

“This is how you survive an absence: one step at a time, with the care of someone who already knows that even the ground can hurt.” — Like someone learning to walk on glass

You didn't cry that night.

You just sat there, motionless, on the floor of the studio, with the book still in your hands and the note lying on your lap as if it had weight. As if it were made of lead and not paper. You read his sentence so many times that it lost its sound. But it didn't lose its smell.

“I don't know how to love you in the daylight.”

The next morning, you wore the wrong blouse.

The one he liked — loose at the shoulders, tight at the wrists, thin fabric, almost transparent against the light.

Not because of longing.

But because the body asked for it.

As if the skin still knew where he touched. As if dressing was a way to soothe the absence.

The studio opened at ten.

The first customers arrived in pairs, talking loudly, laughing a lot, like someone who lives with their chest full of air.

You smiled back.

You responded as always — kind, precise, almost rehearsed.

But something was different.

Your touch lingered longer on the fabrics. Your gaze wandered over buttons, threads, and memories. And every time someone mentioned the word “marriage,” your stomach churned as if swallowing a promise that was never made.

You sewed silences that day. And the following ones too.

During lunch, you read half of a book he would never have read.

You wrote down random words in a notebook.

Made lists of things you needed to forget—but just writing them down hurt, as if they were being remembered on purpose.

At night, you would return home with a limp body.

But your head was too busy to sleep.

One morning you woke up sweaty, with your lips half-open, and realized you was calling for him.

Not in a dream.

In reality.

As if your voice had escaped by accident, crossing the empty house like a lost whisper.

In the following days, the note remained hidden inside the book. But you could feel it even with the object locked away.

And that's how the healing began.

Not with relief.

But with routine.

With the body getting used to not waiting for him. With the fingers learning not to look for the back of his neck at the wrong time of night.

It was only weeks later — on a sultry late afternoon, the sky casting a dirty gold over the buildings — that you felt something different.

A strange kind of calm.

As if, for the first time, his memory fit entirely inside you.

Without hurting so much.

Without having to go out.

But then… the day the heat gave way to the wind, the day you didn’t think about him when you woke up — he appeared.

As if the time between you had not passed.

As if the note was still in your lap.

And your body.

Your body still knew exactly what it was like to have him around.

“There are places where memory is not erased — it just takes shelter under the skin. There, where the touch has already passed, but the body still twitches at the memory.” — Where the skin still remembers

It was raining again.

From that same fine, oblique, almost invisible rain — the one that tangles eyelashes and drags ghosts through the corners of the city.

You weren't expecting it.

Not like that.

Not with hands too busy to shake. Not with a heart so calm it seemed unaccustomed to racing.

Time passed as if it forgot to warn. The days piled up on top of the note — but it remained there, like a small crack that time could not smooth over.

You had left the studio late. Late enough for the city to have already faded into neon hues and the residue of voices.

You closed the door carefully and walked down the steps with the slowness of someone who still carries dust on their chest.

And there he was.

Standing.

On the other side of the sidewalk.

Under the same rain that didn't wash, it just wet.

Dark coat. Quiet shoulders. Looking at you—as if he'd been waiting since the first day he left you.

Geto Suguru.

He didn't smile.

But there was tenderness in the way he looked at you—as if your presence was a song he remembered by heart.

The world was silent for a moment.

And not that empty silence, but the dense one. The one that sounds like held breath. The kind of silence that precedes something that can't be undone.

You crossed slowly.

Each step was an echo of all that was and all that could have been.

Your eyes burned. Not with sadness—but with recognition.

He didn't say anything. Neither did you.

But when you was close enough, he took his hands out of his pockets. And held one of them out.

Not to touch.

Just to leave there — between you — the gesture that you never learned to forget.

You didn't move either.

You just let your eyes fill with it.

From the smell.

From the contour.

Of the time that passed and did not take away.

“You still wear the same perfume,” he said finally.

The voice was the same. Deep, clear. A little slower. A little deeper.

You just nodded.

And then he took a step.

Not abrupt, not invasive.

Just enough for the rain to cease to exist between the two.

And hugged you.

Slowly.

With arms like someone who gathers. With the chest like someone who shelters.

You sank there.

Not knowing if it was his body or the past that still lived in the smell of the shirt.

But it sank.

The whole world continued around you — horns, footsteps, the brushing of drops on other people's umbrellas.

But you were somewhere else. One that only exists when two bodies remember.

You didn't ask where he'd been. He didn't ask if you still hurt.

Because sometimes reunion doesn't require explanations. It only requires that two silences recognize each other.

And his — it was still the only place you could rest.

You stood there, on the curb, for too long to just hug. But not enough time for everything that needed to be said.

When he pulled away a little, he was still holding you by the arms. He looked at you like he didn't know where to start — so he started with the simplest thing.

“Did you read the note?”

You could lie.

But his name was still stuck in the roof of your mouth.

"Yes."

Silence.

He nodded slowly, as if the answer hurt and relieved at the same time.

“I almost didn’t,” he said. His voice was low, heavy with unsaid things. “I almost tore it up before I left. But I thought you…maybe needed one last thing from me.”

You swallowed hard.

“It was the first thing that made me feel again. It didn’t hurt like before. It just… burned.”

He let out a muffled laugh — sad and sweet, like someone laughing at themselves.

“You always had this beautiful way of describing pain.”

You looked down at the ground. The tip of your shoe touched the puddle where the water reflected the streetlights.

Geto looked at you, but with the gentleness of someone who doesn't want to force memories to come back before their time.

“Why did you come back?” you asked.

The question came out small. But it carried the weight of all the days he hadn't shown up.

Geto ran his hand through his hair, which was tied up haphazardly, took a deep breath — and responded with the raw sincerity of someone who is exhausted from running away:

“Because I thought I had managed to erase you. But I discovered that I had only locked you in a place where everything I touch has your name written on it.”

You closed your eyes for a moment.

And it all came back: the smell of the back of his neck on warm nights, the sound of his bare footsteps on the old wood, the weight of the kisses that never said anything but always meant something.

“I also trapped you in a corner,” you whispered. “But it was the brightest corner of the house.”

He reached out, touching your cheek with the back of his fingers. The touch was light, but it sparked something beneath your skin — as if the entire memory of your body had been awakened by that gesture.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” The question came like a whisper, almost shy.

You hesitated.

Not because you don't want to, but because you're afraid of losing everything again.

But then you remembered: what existed between you was never meant to last. It was meant to burn.

And you answered like someone learning to walk on glass:

“You can. But without promising anything.”

And he smiled.

With that same sideways smile, the first one that took you apart back there — in the bookstore, between the rain and the damp paper.

“Promises have never been our strong point.”

You walked down the same sidewalk, without holding hands, but with your shoulders almost touching.

And in the distance between one body and another — the dance began again.

He pretended not to look when you walked through the door, but his body knew before his eyes.

The muscles tense, the air thicker, the slightest shiver on the back of the neck—as if the universe had pulled back a thread that had never been broken.

You were there. Just as he left you, but with a new absence around your body.

Geto had always been good at reading silences. And your was saying that the days had passed heavily. That the note had been found. That the book had been in the right hands for too long. That He, even absent, was still leaning against every wall of your memory.

He wanted to smile. But the weight in his throat didn't let him.

Because it wasn't a reunion. It was a materialized memory. A reflection of everything that was left half-open — and that time, for some cowardly reason, didn't have the courage to close.

He remembered your scent before you breathed. How the back of your neck seemed to ask for shelter in his chest even when you didn't move. How your fingers trembled slightly after the third kiss. And how, inside, you bled softly. Without making a sound. Without asking for help.

And He…

He pulled away before you realized he was bleeding too.

You're standing now, right in front of him. Eyes fixed, no anger, no expectation—just that beautiful weariness of someone who doesn't want to get hurt anymore, but also doesn't know what to do with so much memory pressed against their skin.

He wanted to say everything.

But everything always seemed too much in his mouth.

And then He said what He could:

“You still wear the same perfume.”

You blinked slowly. A simple gesture. But at its pace, it meant something inside still recognized the tone of his voice.

Geto wanted to say that he even missed the silences. That the heat of his body was trapped in the sheets for weeks. That there were nights when he slept on his stomach just so he wouldn't remember the curve of your waist. That there were entire days when everything smelled like rain, even under the sun.

But time does not forgive those who return late.

So He stood there. Standing still. Just like the day you walked into the bookstore for the first time.

Hoping that, by instinct, you would come closer.

As before.

Like always.

“There are pains that are not extinguished by the daylight — they are embers that burn silently, persisting in the silence of the morning, reminding us that what burns is not lost, it just changes form.” — What still burns when dawn breaks.

He came back.

He didn't say it that will be back — and you didn't ask either.

There you were, in the same place where yesterday your eyes met with more fear than anger. The bookstore was too empty to hide any tension. The sound of the rain had gone, but its presence still dripped between the furniture, dripped down the shelves like a living memory.

Geto was standing again. As always.

But inside…

Everything hurt differently.

He thought time had made him dull, hardened. But you came and he knew: there were parts of him that were left open — waiting for you to receive him with the right hands.

You didn't say anything.

Just looked.

As if someone knew that words don't fit into certain silences.

And then he walked. Slowly.

The measured steps, the tense shoulders, the scent in the air like an ancient secret that never aged. He didn't know if it was the same or if it was just the way your skin held his scent.

You stopped next to him, on the same shelf as the first time.

And this time, it was Geto who spoke first:

“I never read the end of that book.”

Your answer came with a twinge at the corner of youe mouth. Almost a smile.

"Me either."

He felt something open in the middle of his chest.

Something warm.

Something that hurt.

But it was also too beautiful to ignore.

The conversation continued in fragments. Little sentences, memories thrown like stones into a lake. He told you he moved to another city for a while. That he tried to forget you. That he failed — but at least he learned to pretend.

You said you started painting again. That the colors came back a little shaky, but they were coming back. That some nights still smelled like sweaty bodies and that certain touches still lived between your sheets.

Geto looked down.

You touched the spine of a book and your fingers brushed against his. Lightly. By chance.

But that touch — God, that touch — ignited things he'd been trying to extinguish for months.

It was at that moment that he understood: you hadn't left. You had just hidden yourself in every part of him that still remembered the warmth.

Then he looked at you.

Truly.

With that look that analyzes, dissolves, understands. And he saw: the longing was still alive in your shoulders, in your lowered eyelashes, in the way you held back the words before they descended into your heart.

He wanted to pull you in. Right there.

But not the body.

I wanted to pull you back to a time when you could still believe.

“Do you still feel it?”

That's what he asked.

Not with the voice.

With the eyes.

With bated breath.

And you responded with the same silence you used the first time.

He understood.

Because sometimes what remains… is what was never said.

The silence between you is not empty. It is a low music, made of hesitations and contained sighs, a tension that vibrates in the warm air of the nearly deserted bookstore.

He smells your hair — that delicate mix of rain and cold coffee — and it's like an ancient spell that won't break.

You're close. Too close to be just a coincidence.

Geto extends his hand, slowly, almost without meaning to. It is a gesture so subtle that it could be an invitation, or a request for the world to stop for a moment.

Your fingers meet — light, almost hesitant — a touch that is everything and nothing, a promise hidden in the skin.

You don't back down.

It doesn't even move forward.

He just stands there, feeling the electricity running between his fingertips.

He holds your hand with a gentleness that contradicts everything they left unsaid. As if, in that touch, it were possible to glue together the invisible cracks that absence left.

His gaze searches yours, seeking permission, an answer that doesn't need to be said out loud.

You finally let out a low sigh, a sound that is lost in the immensity of the moment. An invitation.

Geto closes his eyes for a moment, absorbing everything you didn't say. When he opens them, the world seems to shrink until there's only that moment left—just you.

He pulls his hand closer, as if holding onto a piece of light he was afraid of losing.

His fingers brush against your skin, moving up your wrist, awakening a warm current that creeps inside.

It is inevitable.

The distance between you disappears.

The touch, once delicate, is now firm, precise — and full of that desire they both hid for months.

Geto leans in slowly, letting time dissolve into the space between breathing and touching.

And then, his lips find yours, not in a hurry, but with a sweet and cruel urgency, as if he knew that everything there was the dance that the bodies rehearsed without music.

The kiss is hot, heavy, loaded with memories and unspoken promises.

And you feel — finally — that that moment is where it all should have always begun.

The kiss lingers, slow, as if each second were a stolen piece of time—something the outside world couldn't take away.

You feel the heat of his skin, the weight of his hands that now hold your face firmly, but unhurriedly, as if they were afraid of breaking what exists between you.

The air is mixed, heavy with longing and contained desire, and the world seems to narrow until there is nothing left but the unbridled beating of hearts.

He still holds your face, his fingers sliding delicately, as if he fears you might disappear at any moment. The heat from his hand penetrates your skin, invades your bones, lights a silent fire.

You feel his breathing, slow and heavy, mixed with yours, an invitation and a confession.

“It’s been so long...” His voice is a hoarse whisper, which seems to weigh an eternity.

You sink into those words, into those thin lines between past and present.

“Not enough to forget,” you reply, trying to hold back the tremor that starts in your chest.

Geto lowers his face and his lips find your neck, warm, tracing a path of light, almost trembling kisses. Goosebumps spread across your skin, as if each touch was a reminder that you are still alive for each other.

“You know it was never just longing, right? It was more — it was pain, it was waiting...”

You close your eyes, allowing that confession to sink in deep, like a knife dipped in honey.

“I felt every absence of yours like a storm inside me,” he says, his voice choked. “But I also kept every piece of us here...” His hand touches his own chest, as if he could hold what was left intact.

His fingers curl around yours, firm, precise.

“I wish I had been better. I wish I had stayed,” Geto murmurs, with the raw honesty that always defines him.

You open your eyes and meet his gaze, an ocean of guilt and tenderness. And even in the face of the weight of silence, you dare to smile — fragile, but true.

“We weren’t perfect,” you reply, “but we were real. And maybe that’s enough.”

A soft laugh escapes his lips, an unexpected, warm sound.

“Too real to let go easily.”

The kiss begins again, more urgent, but still full of that melancholy that never disappeared. The bodies touch, slide, trying to reconstruct what time wanted to undo.

Your skin feels the texture of his shirt, the heat of his body against yours, the smell—a mix of rain, wet earth, and something uniquely his.

“Tell me what’s left,” you beg, breathless, “before I lose myself again.”

He holds your face with both hands now, so close that he can feel his own heart in his mouth.

“Everything. The fear, the will, the desire... but, above all, you.”

Your answer is a whisper, a caress:

“Then stay.”

For an instant, time stops.

And in the touch of hands, in the weight of gazes, you find the beginning of what could perhaps be a new chapter — fragile, uncertain, but entirely yours.

“Not everything comes back. But there are pieces that remain — like dust in the corners, like smells on clothes, like a voice that memory insists on repeating softly. You don't keep the person. Keep the echo. The gesture. The heat that did not evaporate.” — The Remaining Parties

The apartment is not big.

Light enters through the living room window in soft beams, piercing the dust in the air as if time were moving more slowly there. It smells of old coffee, fabric warmed by the sun and a dormant perfume on the collar of a blouse forgotten on the back of the sofa.

You are sitting on the floor, barefoot.

He too.

Geto rests his forehead on your bent knee, his hair half-down and his shirt wrinkled from someone who has had little or no sleep.

But he is there.

You don't talk much.

You don't need to.

The radio plays something instrumental and melancholic.

And when his fingers find yours, it's not a request. It's a presence.

A touch that says:“I'm still here, even if I don't know how.”

Geto looks at you the way he always has—with those eyes that seem to know too much and hide even more than they know.

“I don’t know how to fix any of this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, still low.

“Me neither,” you reply, leaning your forehead against his. “But I don’t want to run away from what still breathes anymore.”

He closes his eyes as if it hurts.

But it stays there.

With fingers intertwined with yours.

With a tired body, but a heart… less haunted.

You share the silence.

You share the space.

You share the memory — without trying to erase it.

There are your clothes on the armchair.

There are his books piled up on the table.

And the perfume you wear seems to have permeated his sheets as well.

It's strange.

Inaccurate.

But there's a kind of beauty in it: accepting the cracks as part of the structure.

That night, he cooks badly, you laugh with tears in your eyes.

You eat on the kitchen floor.

Then you hear the city breathing through the open windows.

It's not about promises anymore.

It's about presence.

Of him running his fingers over your wrist as if to say, “I still feel it.”

You rest your head on his shoulder as if to say: “I still remember.”

And so, in the gap between what you have lost and what is still possible, you begin to learn another dance.

Less urgent.

More intimate.

An imperfect dance.

But true.

You didn't go back to the beginning.

You also didn't try to repeat the steps.

It was another dance now — slower, more crooked, more honest.

He still had the long silences, but now he let you in on them.

You still looked away when you felt too much, but looked back later.

Always looked back.

There were days when neither of you said anything.

You just shared the same space, the same breath, the same cup with half-full coffee.

Other days were full of failures.

He withdrew.

You got irritated.

The world seemed to repeat the same mistakes.

But at the end of the day, there was the payback.

Not as someone who finds themself, but as someone who chooses to remain.

The house, previously echoing with absence, began to smell of clean laundry and cheap incense.

The radio played songs that no one remembered the name of, and hands found their way to each other without needing an explanation.

You laughed more.

He slept better.

It wasn't perfect.

But there was calm.

And there was truth.

And when he lay down next to you on a normal Tuesday, his hair still damp from the shower and his forehead resting on your shoulder, you understood that love is sometimes not fire, nor a storm — but an ember that survives.

Some things still hurt.

But they didn't cut anymore.

Because now you bled together, and that changed everything.

“The space where both fit. Where touch doesn't hurt. Where absence no longer bites, and the presence... well, it calms.” — What's left when it no longer needs to hurt

There was no big statement.

No scenes rehearsed in the rain. No certainties announced too loudly.

It was a lazy Sunday.

The sky was overcast. Time was slowly slipping through the open window.

You were sweeping the room when he appeared at the door with two coffees—one with sugar, the other bitter. Knowing exactly which one was yours.

He dropped his coat on the armchair, sat on the floor beside you, and for once, Geto didn't say anything to apologize.

You didn't ask for explanations either.

Because the silence between you, finally, was not absence.

It was acceptance.

Your love no longer screamed.

It didn't entreat.

It didn't plead.

It was a tired body that, nevertheless, remained standing.

It was a breath that continued, even after the wind.

You saw it in his eyes — that same old question, but now without the urgency.

And for the first time, you answered without saying anything: just laid your head on his shoulder.

There, in the touch of skin against skin, where the world stopped hurting for a few seconds, you knew.

It wasn't about finding what you had lost.

It was about carrying what was left behind — even if your hands were shaking.

And Geto, with his eyes lowered and his breathing ragged, whispered in a voice that no longer trembled:

“This time I'll stay.”

You didn't answer.

You just touched your fingers to his, slowly, like someone signing an ancient pact that finally arrived at the right time.

Outside, the sky threatened rain.

But it didn't rain.

Maybe, just maybe, it was tired too.

And then, together, you followed.

Not for happily ever after — but for what is possible.

For real.

For now.

Because some stories don't need an end point.

You just need to know where to continue.

©This content belongs to @itoshislave 2025, do not modify, translate or repost on another platform.

154 notes · View notes

bunny-jpeg · 5 months ago

Note

pls can i req sugar pie, pithivier, fried dough, chocolate milk + champagne w/ team principal!oscar piastri 💝

bakery menu

thank you for the awesome order! the idea of team principal!oscar is super interesting and i love it to be honest! i put him with mclaren just because it would be easier and something about that (horrid) orange is just alluring to me.

sugar pie: “gonna let daddy hear ya?” + pithivier: "if you don't behave, i'll let the boys take care of you." + fried dough: "i know virginity is a stupid concept... but i want to take yours." + chocolate milk: tenderness + champagne: sugar daddy situation served by oscar piastri (formula one)!!

tags: smut/pwp, team principal!oscar, tenderness/loss of virginity, driver!reader, age gap (20s/30s), sugar daddy situation, (slight) daddy kink, (slight) jealousy, protected sex

"mister piastri! you shouldn't have!" you chirped as your eyes went wide at the sight of the gift your team principal gave you.

"well, only the best for my crow." he said cheekily as he got the necklace out of the box and then put it around your neck softly. once it was secured on your neck, he rubbed the back of your right shoulder and smiled, "my little bird."

crow was a nickname that oscar came up with that the rest of the team and the fans picked up on. crows were smart and had long memories, a skill that secured your victories on the track. but, oscar called you his crow because you liked your shiny objects.

and he was more than happy to provide them to you.

you placed your hand over the pendant on the necklace. you didn't even notice the engraving on the back, "belonging to oscar piastri". and when you turned to hold him tightly, he patted the side of your head while he locked eyes with his competition.

with your face in his chest and his hand moved to the back of your head. he gave a cheeky wink to ferrari's new driver. the other man who vied for your attention. but he wasn't even important enough to name, because oscar had you wrapped around his fingers. his delicate little crow. so eager, so sweet. perfect all for him.

when you pulled away to look up into his eyes. a smile spread across your face as you said softly, "tonight, i'll wear it for you in bed." and your lover smiled. that smile only grew when you leaned up closer to his ear and said, "i know you'd like that, daddy."

you had been planning this for weeks. you were a virgin, something that caught the attention of many, many men. a star racer who never had sex, that was quite the combination. but, you finally wanted to lose it. and to no other than the man who made you the driver you were okay. oscar. even his name brought a smile to your lips.

he looked at you with eyebrows raised as he asked, "seems i picked the right day to give it to you." he held your chin for a moment and gave you a slight peck when you were out of view from others.

the relationship was private, under lock and key. neither of you wanted the association that you fucked your way to the top. that wasn't the case, you were still a virgin. you just connected with oscar despite the close to decade in age difference. but you understood and he did the same with you. mutual attraction.

you nodded, "isn't that your superpower? to pick the right times? tire changes and what not." then winked at him. you looked pretty in the silver necklace.

he couldn't wait to yank on it in the bedroom tonight.

the bed of the hotel you were staying in was nice. soft in a way that most hotel beds weren't. everything was perfect, even your naked body in front of the bed in nothing but the necklace he gave you.

he licked his lips and started to unbutton his shirt, his gaze felt heavy on you. but not in an oppressive way. it was heavy with love, affection, admiration and most of all, lust. oscar wanted you.

he said as he got the first few buttons undone, "i know virginity is a stupid concept... but i want to take yours."

you clasped your hands behind your back and looked down at him. you felt the heat in your cheeks, "that's silly daddy." your voice a low mumble. he could barely hear you.

he leaned a little forward in his spot on the bed, “gonna let daddy hear ya? i want you to be loud, that's why your room is at the other end of the hallway. no one can hear you when i make you feel good."

you giggled, "dirty, dirty, daddy. going to dirty talk to you too."

he quickly got the shirt off his shoulders and tossed it to the farthest corner of the room. he beamed at you as he said, "oh? i know you'd like that. you eat it up when i make those little comments. which one was your favourite again? that time i played with your clit for over an hour."

you two never had penetrative sex, but you knew very clearly how nimble and talented oscar was with his fingers.

you swallowed before you said, if you don't behave, i'll let the boys take care of you." and felt the heat burn your face.

oscar laughed as he got off his undershirt, exposing his toned body to you. he was all smiles and laughter while he worked on his belt. "that's it." he said, "like i'd let anyone else have you." he knew his words were tinged with possessiveness, but he also knew that you loved it.

you watched him get undressed and you kept your hands to yourself. you went to go get a condom and once every stitch was off of him, you held it out to him. you admitted softly, "i don't know how to put it on."

oscar replied, "i understand. don't worry, i'll take care of it. just like i do everything else, right? I take care of you?" he reached out for you and got you onto the bed. you laid amongst the pillows and oscar took a moment to admire you.

you nodded as you got comfortable, "thank you, daddy." and gave him a shy smile which only made his cock twitch with want. he honestly didn't know how he managed to restrain himself this long.

he guessed it was like wine, and oscar now wanted to drink you up. savour you as he got between your legs and stroked his cock a few times before he put the condom on.

"safe and sound." he said as he tossed the wrapper to the side and put a hand around his cock to inch it inside of you. he was careful, slowly sank into you. "tell me if it hurts."

"it's okay... it hurts a little, but nothing too bad. keep going." your voice was light as you kept your legs open for him. you could feel the excitement force your stomach to twist in knots. you were losing your virginity to your older boss.

it felt right, it felt good. and when he started to rock against you. you felt pleasure unlike anything else. your noises were sweet, as were your words. you held onto the covers under you and let him use you as he pleased.

you knew he would take good care of you. he was everything to you. he made you a champion (despite his protests otherwise), his heart was the car engine as were yours. you were both connected in such a way that it only felt right to give yourself over that way.

to be so painfully intimate. you loved him. he leaned in to give you a brief kiss before he moved your hips to have better access to you. the stutter in your heart felt you shivering and your toes curling. his movements made your core throb with sexual desire for him.

you remembered touching yourself in your f2 career to the pictures of him online. you had some saved to your phone and you'd spend late nights under the covers touching yourself. now it was happening, this dream was a reality. you were a star on the track and the apple of oscar's eyes.

his pace increased, but not by a painful amount. this was your first time, he was going to treat you like fine china. you were a delicate teacup that he needed to not shatter. his little crow didn't need to limp to tomorrow's race. racing with a pain in that area was never fun, oscar knew from experience.

"look at you." he said softly as he rutted against you, "look at the sight of you under me. you did so well today, you are going to win it all. and then when you walk away with the trophy. i'll show you what i do winners."

you giggled and felt the pick up in your pulse as you held onto his broad shoulders. he pressed into your further and the pace quickened. he rocked you against the bed and you felt the pleasure in your mouth. there was something so painfully erotic about the entire thing, this all felt hot.

it was everything you wanted from him. you moaned a little louder.

"you have no idea what you do to me. i'm envious of those logos because they can be printed and stretched across your pretty tits." his tone was tinged with humour. but deep down he was envious of the logos because they highlighted your best asset to him. your beautiful breasts.

the same one that he leaned down to suck on. he bit them lightly as he continued to move against you. you couldn't help yourself and let out a sweet moan that made his pleasure only grow inside of him.

"i bet you are, sir. but they look good on you too. and that orange, look like a traffic cone. a sexy traffic cone." and were quickly silenced by heated kisses.

he chuckled when he pulled away and continued his movements. he watched you rock against him as he said, "you look better in it. a real eye catcher on the track. with those soft lips and beautiful eyes. i can see why you are so popular in poster sales. everyone wants a little bit of the crow. but she always comes to nest in my arms."

and you giggled at his words. they rang true, but they still made you flustered. you held onto him by the shoulders and let him move against you. it was a heavenly feeling. your eyes fluttered shut as you said, "i'm close. please, daddy. let me cum. it feels so good."

oscar pressed his chest against you, hitting the deepest parts of you. he heard your angelic moans before he replied, "cum for me, babe. my little crow."

the necklace bounced against your breasts as he fucked you. it was almost as beautiful as you fully coming apart at climax. your core clenched around him, you tensed up for a moment before you relaxed and dropped your arms outspread on the bed.

you shakily exhaled and let oscar to move against you. the pleasure grew in him quickly. your cunt was perfect for him, it was a beautiful sight to see you all blissed out while he continued to thrust against you.

the sex was still gentle, so oscar's climax wasn't as intense. but he didn't need to feel like he got hit by a train to have a good time. he finished inside of you, protected by the condom. he went in for another heated kiss.

he slowed himself to a stop and then pulled out. quickly he threw out the condom as to not cause a mess before he got back into bed with you. as soon as his hands were on you, so was his mouth and he started to leave heavy kisses across your heated face. he melted into you and you into him. curled up in one another and deeply in love.

"my little crow."

"daddy."

legs tangled together and oscar's lips across across the apples of your cheeks. he held your hand, how tender. how loving. pressed more kisses against you. you were his superstar, his trained driver. and with time, he'd make you a trained lover too. only perfect for oscar himself. <3

520 notes · View notes

reverie-starlight · 5 months ago

Text

gn!reader, no physical descriptions. one tiny mention of skipping breakfast, but that's it. FLUFF!! I’ve missed writing for knb!! I love kagami so much, take this as my warm up to get used to writing him again.

based on prompt 3 from this list :)

“you’re so warm and soft,” you mumble, leaning against kagami as you both wait in line at the grocery store. “it’s so unfair.” he’s decked out in a black hoodie, some jeans, and a tuque you had insisted he wear before leaving the house.

your boyfriend, who is apparently a walking space heater, somehow doesn’t seem to be affected by the winter chill that you’re dreading having to face when you're done paying.

kagami chuckles, rubbing your back up and down. “thanks, you’re shivering.”

you glare up at him and he holds you steady as you both shuffle forward a bit more. "don't you, like, hate the cold? how haven't you been complaining at all today?"

he snorts. "because we're inside, babe. besides, it's a short walk from here to the car, I can handle that no problem."

you roll your eyes and press your forehead against his chest. "unfair," you repeat.

"well maybe you'd be warmer right now if you had eaten a full breakfast." he chides, reminding you of how hungry you are and souring your mood a bit.

your face scrunches up. "I told you I'd eat after getting back! and in my defense, we didn’t have anything to make for breakfast to begin with since someone used up the last of my oatmeal."

instead of responding, your boyfriend turns you around so you can get ready to shuffle forward again and greet the cashier now that it's your turn to check out.

the girl, probably no older than seventeen, glances up briefly with a polite smile at you and kagami before doing a double take. you grin slightly as she watches him load your haul onto the belt, clearly recognizing him from somewhere.

now that he's made a name for himself in the NBA, more people have been noticing him, and you find it endearing. he gets so uncharacteristically shy interacting those who recognize him, and today is no different, apparently, because you see his cheeks turn pink as he keeps his head down, probably feeling her gaze on him.

you think she's about to ask him a question before shaking her head and snapping her mouth shut. she finishes scanning the items and asks you "um, how would you like to pay?"

you realize your mistake too late and scramble to answer her while fishing out the cash from your wallet, but kagami beats you to it. "card."

you glare up at him, forgetting any adoration you'd been feeling for him moments ago. "no way, it's my turn."

he shrugs and tries to insert his card into the machine but you block him. "taiga!"

this happens every time you go out together.

you’ve turned it into a competition of sorts, to see who’s faster and can pay first. it’s not like there’s a prize, or anything at all to be gained, really…

except the satisfaction of winning.

you were in the lead, well on your way to securing a two point gap, but now you’re back to being tied.

it’s clear that any embarrassment he was harbouring is gone as he looks at you, cocky grin playing on his lips and determination clear in his eyes. "just let me, I already had my card out anyway. it's fine, baby, you can take the loss."

you look behind him, still blocking the machine and realize the line is continuously growing. deciding it's not worth making a scene and holding all those people up, you very reluctantly lower your arm and start putting the bags back into the cart.

"you're gonna pay for this," you say menacingly as he nods at the cashier in thanks and takes the receipt.

he snorts. "I just did. what, have you got short term memory or something?"

"you-" groaning, you pull your hood on and bundle it tightly around your face. it's not as cold now that the sun is a bit higher in the sky, but the wind still feels sharp against your skin. "just don't get too comfortable, alright? who knows when I could strike."

he shakes his head in amusement and helps you load everything into the trunk of your car. "alright, alright. let's get you home so you can actually eat something."

_______________________________________________

BONUS:

after you get home and settle on the couch with the hearty breakfast kagami made for you, you scroll on your phone and see a post that catches your attention. you snort and tilt your screen towards the man beside you.

user020125: kagami taiga and his partner were getting groceries where I work today and they were bickering over who was going to pay like an old married couple. romance isn’t dead yet, folks.

“ah jeez,” he groans. “at least no one took a picture this time.”

you giggle and rest your head on his shoulder, staring up at him. “it’s kinda sweet, though, don’t you think?”

“what is?” he asks.

“that we give off old married couple vibes,” you soften your voice a bit and watch him ponder on it.

he nudges your arm nods at your plate, as if to say ‘eat, baby’ which only backs up the comment on your mind.

“I…” he pauses briefly to find the right words.

after a moment he meets your eyes. his normally fiery gaze is now softened, resembling a flickering candle rather than the scorching flames of a forest fire. his entire expression radiates warmth and love.

“I can’t wait to spend all that time with you actually becoming an old married couple,” he murmurs, reaching over to cup your cheek, which is still full with the bite you took. “I couldn’t imagine doing it with anyone else, baby.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

this is like. extremely short and I apologize for that, but I wanted to write something for him again 🥹

@dira333 this is why I asked you for a random number a while back hehe

@emmyrosee tagging you too, you can’t escape him, sorry :/

#kagami x reader #kagami taiga x reader #taiga kagami x reader #knb x reader #knb x reader fluff

208 notes · View notes

artsyacorn · 3 months ago

Note

I love your art! Your ANOMALI3S AU makes me so sad and yearny. 🥹 Do you think you could share a little bit more about it? 🥺 The idea that Mabel’s desperate to undo things (and also confused?) just before she finds Lil Dip is so painful. They’re meant to be the Pines. 🥺 But the idea of Lil Mabel being enamoured with Mason, a Dipper that’s so detached from her? Annoyed by her? Delicious. You are COOKING!!

thank you so much! sure i can share a lil more about the corresponding dynamics and the angst/loss/(non spoilerish?) character death and such

For context: The twins only have each other in this AU as Stan got turned into an ANOMALY when protecting Mabel. Before things got worse, Ford managed to trap and capture Stan to monitor and research on his infection stages. And.. you can imagine how distraughted the young twins must be seeing their infected Grunkle strapped down onto a chair, knowing the parasite is just eating away at him and processing his brain's memories for mimicry.

Eventually, the government reached out to Ford asking him to assist with creating an antidote. He agreed to leave Gravity Falls behind in order to find a solution to save the world, leaving the twins with only a pair of keys that they wear around their neck that access emergency vaccine kits and gas masks in case spore exposure gets too high. (Will make another post more about the ANOMALI3S and its stages etc.)

TW: Grooming, Age gap

Older!Mabel x Younger!Dipper

It all started with the psychological thing with her unresolved trauma from losing her brother in her timeline, and she regrets turning him down in the most horrible way possible since that was how their relationship strained in the first place. The Dipper from her timeline would always remind her to take her pills daily to keep her sanity in line, but after the time trip she abandoned that one responsibility.

Mabel always wanted to apologise and tell him that they could try if they wanted to, but it just wasn't the right time because it was in the middle of the apocalypse and she was freaking out, so time and place really ruined it all for them.

So, because she doesn't really have the Dipper from her timeline to express these feelings, nor does she have her grunkles with her as an outlet to vent out her feelings, she ends up projecting it onto younger dipper by grooming him + Her sanity's gone down post-time trip, so i would say she's a tad bit obsessive and posessive and that led to falling for him hard.

Personally, I think this song suits their dynamic best:

"My head is made of shrubbery and my body made of stone, cause I can't for the life of me reap what I have sown." - Suffering, Amélie Farren

Older!Dipper x Younger!Mabel

Now, things are a little more angsty with these two. Dipper still being cold, indifferent and finding his sister annoying despite the time trip is one thing. But another is being slapped in the face with a wake up call reminding him that no matter what happens, they have always stayed by each other's sides. They've done it before, they can do it again.

Dipper softens up, but he still struggles to express or show that he still cares. After all, he had to put up this tough demeanor as a front to protect his sister. But internally, he can't stop thinking and worrying about the Mabel in his own timeline. Is she safe? Is she eating well? Is she taking her pills for her sanity? Did she find her way back?

He'd silently watch the younger Mabel's still happy-go-lucky self and hope that she doesn't turn out that way, not in this timeline. He's clinging onto that last piece of memory of her and cherishing it through acts of service — like piggybacking her whenever she's too tired to walk, or giving a bigger portion of his food to her with the reason that "she needs it to grow stronger".

Younger!Mabel falls in love with this Dipper — there's just something about him, from the matured masculinity to the tender acts of unspoken affection. He doesn't have to say anything, but she knows deep down that he loves her. He loves her too much to lose his sister again, so he'll make sure she's alive and healthy in this one.

Mabel would confess and kiss him first, and Dipper would turn her down in this timeline at first — something he internally just wanted to do out of spite for the Mabel in his own timeline. However, with time and slowly opening up, he starts to see and understand why he fell in love with her in the first place. Instead of saying anything that's gotta do with "taking back his words", he would just pull her into a deep kiss out of nowhere.

A song to describe their relationship dynamic:

"I'm too tired to move, too tired to leave. I'm tired of you still tied to me." - Hard Times, Ethel Cain

Anddddd there's pretty much what I've got written thus far! Let me know if you have any headcanon questions and such!

#pinecest #pinescest #proship #anomalies au #tw: grooming #proship safe

13 notes · View notes

pluralhelp-archived · 1 year ago

Note

hello -- i feel like you've probably been asked this before but i didn't find it through searching so sorry if this is an annoyance. but... how do i know if i'm disordered? or what kind of disordered i am? i'm definitely a system and there are difficult times with it but idk if its intense enough to count as disordered? whenever we try web searching, the questions we get usually just default to asking if we're plural, which doesn't help.

Hey!

Checking out the criteria for DID/OSDD/UDD in the DSM or ICD might prove useful to you, to tell if you have disordered symptoms within your system.

Here's some parts of the DSM! Note that we've only shown the criteria here, and not the extra parts within the entries.

Though, to be disordered, you don't need a specific disorder. You don't need any particular label like DID or OSDD, because being disordered simply means that your plurality is experienced as disruptive/harmful/etc in some way. It doesn't even have to be all the time or every aspect of your plurality--everyone has bad days and good days, and different symptoms affect people differently. If you get distress from it, it can potentially be counted as disordered.

A lot of common symptoms that could be considered disordered are:

Dissociation that's disruptive or upsetting.

Amnesia/memory loss/gaps that disrupt you or upset you.

Headmates causing distractability that upsets you, such as getting in the way of IRL tasks or general downtime.

Switching during inapropriate times/places without being able to stop, such as a child headmate fronting at a business meeting and therefore not being able to properly attend the meeting.

General distress related to your plurality in some other way.

Being disordered is generally about the impact it has on your day-to-day life and how you feel about it emotionally.

Mike (He/They)

#endo safe #pro endo #plural #pluralgang #actually plural #plural system #plurality #system #alterhuman #op #ask #anonymous #mike posts

22 notes · View notes

salvatoreren · 2 years ago

Text

yk i see everyone criticizing michi why he wasn't able to remember hinata or perhaps anyone 12 years ago because it was supposed to be the very peak of his life

But have we considered that this man has been traumatized? In the same year he got a girlfriend and was in a gang, tables turned the moment he knew his cousin wasn't the gang leader and was therefore subjected to being a slave and was beaten every single time.

Mind you, it wasn't only Hina, he ran away from, though he probably broke up at the behest of her dad, still, but he also ran away from his friends because they were a reminder of what he went through.

We already know his coping mechanism is to run away and so he did.

He's got that dissociative amnesia.

"Dissociative amnesia is when you can't remember important information about yourself. These memories are often distressing or upsetting events. It's most likely to happen with severe or long-term trauma, especially experiencing abuse, neglect or violence of any kind"

People with dissociative amnesia may also have certain behaviors or traits related to memory loss. Those can include:

Lack of awareness. People with dissociative amnesia may not realize they have gaps in their memory. This can last until memory loss affects part of their sense of identity or if someone brings up or asks something a person knows they should remember but can’t.

Confusion or disorientation. People with dissociative amnesia (especially the generalized form) may seem unaware, or like they’re having trouble understanding what’s going on around them. In very severe cases, people may not seem or be aware of their own identity.

Source: https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/9789-dissociative-amnesia

Tokyo Revengers is about traumatized characters, how can you be aware of that with other characters but not with the main character just because he's a crybaby :/

#i rlly pulled up with this to defend michi as i shld #no bcus ppl will really bash michi for anything #not to mention i have experienced the same thing omg\#thats why i resonate with his character sm #hanagaki takemichi #takemitchy #tokyo revengers #tokrev #tokyorev #tokyo rev #michi my love

19 notes · View notes

hes-striker · 7 months ago

Note

Fuuuuuck, how much memory did he lose?!

Later that morning, a doctor enters the room, clipboard in hand.

Doctor: Good morning. How’s our patient feeling today?

Striker shifts uncomfortably in the bed, his golden eyes flicking between the doctor and Blitzø. His fingers absently trace the edge of the bandages on his chest.

Striker: I feel like I got trampled by a herd of hellhogs, doc. Can’t say I’m thrilled to be here.

Doctor: That’s not unusual after the type of surgery you underwent. Removing an Infernal Bloom is a delicate and intensive procedure. You’re lucky to be alive, Mr. Striker.

Blitzø: Yeah, about that—why doesn’t he remember us? Is that, like, a side effect or somethin’?

Doctor: It’s not uncommon for patients who’ve had an Infernal Bloom removed to experience memory gaps, particularly concerning the person who was the focus of their feelings. The bloom is deeply connected to those emotions, so when it’s removed, it can take those specific memories with it.

Striker stiffens, his gaze narrowing as he looks between Blitzø and the twins.

Striker: Wait, wait—you’re tellin’ me my memory loss ain’t from the surgery itself, but ‘cause of... him?

Doctor: *nodding calmly* That’s correct. It’s a phenomenon we’ve observed in many cases. The memories tied to unreciprocated or unresolved feelings are often the most affected.

Blitzø flinches at the explanation, guilt flickering across his face. He forces a small, strained smile as he tries to step in.

Blitzø: So... he doesn’t remember me—or the kids—because of the bloom? But... can he get those memories back?

Doctor: "It’s possible, but there’s no guarantee. Memory recovery in these cases varies from patient to patient. Sometimes, familiar environments, people, or routines can help trigger recognition over time. Other times, the memories remain... lost.

Striker: So what, I’m just supposed to sit here and guess at who you people are? ‘Cause right now, I don’t know you, and I sure as hell don’t remember havin’ kids.

Wesson and Winnie, sitting quietly by the window, glance at each other with concern. Wesson tugs on Winnie’s sleeve, and she whispers something to him, but they remain seated, sensing the tension in the room.

Blitzø: *stepping closer to Striker, his voice softer now* You don’t have to figure it all out at once, cowboy. We’ll take it slow, alright? No pressure.

Striker looks at Blitzø skeptically, but he doesn’t push him away. Instead, he leans back against the pillows, his expression guarded.

Striker: Fine. But don’t expect me to play house or whatever it is you’re thinkin’. I’ll listen, but that’s it.

The doctor nods approvingly, making a few final notes on the clipboard.

Doctor: That’s a reasonable approach. Patience will be key here—for both of you. I’ll check in again tomorrow. For now, rest and focus on your recovery. Anything else?

Blitzø: Uh, hey, Doc. Quick question before you go.

Doctor: "Yes?"

Blitzø: *scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Striker* Is it, uh… possible that Striker could be, y’know… pregnant?

Striker’s eyes widen, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

Striker: What the actual hell, Blitz?! Why would you even ask that?!

Blitzø: *holding his hands up defensively* Look, it’s not like it’s that crazy of a question, alright? You’ve been through a lot lately, and there was that whole IVF mix-up. I just want to make sure you’re okay.

Striker: *blinks with confusion* The fucking WHAT?!

The doctor blinks, clearly baffled by the question. They glance between Blitzø and Striker before letting out a long sigh.

Doctor: Well… it’s highly unusual, but given your history with the previous hospital, I suppose it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility. We can perform a simple blood test to confirm.

Striker: You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Blitzø: *shrugging, trying to downplay his own nerves* Better safe than sorry, cowboy.

The doctor nods and steps out momentarily, returning with a small kit. Striker glares at Blitzø the entire time as the doctor draws a vial of blood and leaves to process it. The silence in the room is tense, punctuated only by the occasional beep of the machines monitoring Striker’s vitals.

Striker: *gritting his teeth* "You’re unbelievable…uh…what’s your name again?"

Blitzø: It’s “Blitz”

Striker: Blitz huh? I think I’ve heard that name somewhere before.

Blitzø: Well I should hope so considering all that we’ve been through.

Striker: *thinks for a moment* OH NOW I REMEMBER!

Blitzø: *gets excited*

Striker: Ohhh, YOU'RE the bold imp to start his own killing biz?

Blitzø: *deflates* Oh…right…

Striker: Not many Imps start businesses on their own. That's pretty impressive, *winks* sir.

Blitzø: *blushes, realizing there maybe hope yet *

Soon the doctor returns with a clipboard in hand. They clear their throat, and both demons look up expectantly.

Doctor: The results are in. The test came back negative—there’s no indication of pregnancy.

Blitzø: *letting out a relieved sigh* Hah! Told you it was just a precaution.

Striker: *rolling his eyes, muttering under his breath* You’re lucky I’m stuck in this bed, or I’d knock some sense into you.

Doctor: *ignoring the banter, addressing Striker* While the test was negative, it’s still important to prioritize your recovery. Stress and further strain could complicate things.

Blitzø: *grinning cheekily* See? No babies, just rest. Guess you’re stuck with me hoverin’ over you a little longer, cowboy.

Striker: *grumbling, turning his head away* Great. Just what I needed.

The doctor smirks faintly at the exchange, excusing themselves from the room.

#long post ahead #helluva boss #he’s striker #helluva boss au #striker #striker helluva boss #ask striker #blitzø #ask blitzø #blitzø helluva boss

4 notes · View notes

thirdoasttraining · 21 days ago

Link

#CardiovascularFitnessMaintenance #Equipment-FreeTrainingSolutions #InjuryPreventionProtocols #MentalFitnessStrategies #MetabolicAdaptations #PreservingMuscleStrength #ReturntoTrainingGuidelines #UnderstandingDetrainingScience

0 notes

oliviagoodhealth · 2 years ago

Text

Key Qualities to Look For When Choosing a Dissociative Identity Disorder Therapist

Dissociative identity disorder is a complex mental health condition where individuals have two or more personalities that try to control their behavior at various times.

Dissociative identity disorder can cause severe memory gaps and other problems that interfere with daily life. Moreover, it can affect friends and family members. Individuals with multiple personalities might experience up to 100 “alters,” each of which could have separate ways of interacting with the environment, different ethnicities, genders, and even interests.

Thankfully treatment is available, which can help individuals manage their symptoms. However, individuals with dissociative identity disorder and their loved ones must find therapists who specialize in DID.

Symptoms of DID:

Anxiety

Depression

Disorientation

Delusions

Memory loss

Substance abuse

Thoughts of self-harm

Why is specialized therapy crucial for individuals with DID?

A qualified dissociative identity disorder therapist is crucial for individuals with DID. Dissociative identity disorder often results from physical or sexual abuse experienced during childhood. It can also manifest as a response to a traumatic event. No matter the cause, the condition is a way for individuals to distance themselves from that trauma.

Given the highly sensitive nature of the causes, it’s crucial for individuals with DID to find specialized therapists who can be patient, offer empathy, and ensure that they feel comfortable during treatment.

Equally important is a highly qualified and experienced individual who understands how to work with alternate personalities and can be patient in understanding how each personality might interact differently during a therapy session.

Key qualities for therapists specializing in dissociative identity disorder

Knowing how to find a therapist for dissociative identity disorder can be difficult if you don’t know what key qualities to look for.

Experience and Education

Figuring out how to find a therapist for dissociative identity disorder starts with reviewing their experience and education. If you are worried about the quality of service you might receive, see where they went to school. Ask whether they are therapists specializing in dissociative identity disorder or have another specialty.

Not all therapists or psychiatrists are the same. Some specialize in one type of mental health disorder. Others might specialize in family practices, working with children or adults. Find out what you need and find dissociative disorder therapists who are a good match.

Empathy and Patience

Empathy and patience are key to working with dissociative disorder. When reviewing the potential candidates for your treatment, it is important to talk with them, maybe even meet with them, to see how much patience and empathy they have.

Communication Skills

Good communication is key in treatment. So when you look for a dissociative identity disorder therapist, ask about their communication options. Some therapists will offer:

Online booking for appointments

Options for online therapy sessions

Phone numbers to call for help or information

Email addresses if you need to keep in touch

Secured client databases or portals where information can be viewed

Boundaries and Professionalism

Good therapists specializing in dissociative identity disorder will set boundaries. They will make this clear when you first meet. But the boundaries are an extension of their professionalism. Having a professional therapist means they won’t try to be your friend or text you late at night just to say ‘hi.’

They will take your treatment seriously, hold you to your goals, and be prepared for your sessions.

Updated Knowledge

Information changes as new studies are produced, and new techniques are approved. If you are looking for a dissociative identity disorder therapist online:

Review the types of treatments they use

Check whether they prescribe medication

Ask if they use updated studies to alter their practice where necessary.

Read more at Good Health’s Blog

0 notes

prose-among-the-trees · 2 years ago

Text

I was pretty excited to find this.

1. Yes. Absolutely yes. I know of diagnosed people who switch less often than we do. Tends to depend on the amount of external or even internal stimuli triggering that switch

2. Yes. Our host is genderfluid and we have parts all over the gender spectrum. I know a system who is trans mtf and they tend to have mostly women, I’ve seen it the opposite as well. Also seen just normal scattering of guys and girls and anything in between for trans and non trans hosts.

3. Yes. Our oldest presents as around 65 I think?

4. It depends. The four parts we have that we call ‘higher ups’ as far as protection are 48, 19, 25, and 6 1/2. Parts of all ages can fulfill all sorts of roles.

5. The way it works for us is that there’s near always a trigger, even if we can’t recognize it. Oh that smell reminded the host of a trauma? Someone else is here. Oh that one protector thought we were back in x situation? They’re out now.

6. Rapid switching isn’t common for me/us, but it’s when triggers are so frequent and overwhelming that parts don’t know who’s best for being around and kinda have to trial and error it in a state of panic. It’s not fun.

7. Yes. I personally have been out for a few days now and I know a system who doesn’t switch for months at a time.

8. Dissociative episodes can happen if a switch happens or not. Our switches tend to leave us pretty dissociated but we won’t always notice if the switch needs to be quick (quick trigger came on).

9. For us two things will happen. The host will now be in a safe enough situation to return, or something will trigger them out specifically that doesn’t affect the rest of us. They deal with pretty heavy memory gaps that we all try to take notes about and discuss in therapy, but it’s hard to remember what they’ve forgotten as we’re not actively removing it, just switching.

10. Yes. Inner worlds are pretty common in systems. Think of a proverbial ‘happy place’ or ‘mindscape’. They’re typically developed in therapy settings and it’s ‘where’ alters visualize communication and switches.

11. I’ve not heard of backseating but I’ll describe co-consciousness and co-fronting. The former is like if an alter was driving and another was in the passenger seat of a car. You can see the road ahead and you might even be able to adjust the air and the music but you’re just a passive observer to whatever the driver is up to. Co-fronting is if you stick both alters in the drivers seat. Tends to be very tiring and disorienting and confusing. It’s happened to us a small handful of times and never more than two parts. We have heard of systems who can have seven out at once but that sounds unbelievably complicated and stressful. Doesn’t work for our system if that’s possible.

12. Depends on the amnesia barriers between those parts. If I meet a hosts friend I’ll tend to recognize them, even if I don’t know why, but someone like 🧊 or ⚪️ might not because they’re not out a lot and they hold very niche traumas and triggers.

13. Absolutely yes. We have a few parts who vehemently dislike our host. They don’t trust them and think they’re unintelligent or incapable. It’s gotten pretty stressful but it’s something we address in therapy.

14. This answer I’m going to keep vague for my own sake. There are ten situations known as the ten ACEs (adverse childhood experiences) that are typically linked to causing did, but I’ve seen abnormalities in that being the only cause, and some of our trauma falls outside of that.

15. Did starts developing before the age of 9. I don’t know how much memory of childhood is a normal amount because I’ve never felt that. I honestly couldn’t tell you how it starts or what it feels like, just the effects of having your life in large chunks stolen. There are parts that don’t remember that we have parents. I forgot I had parents when I first formed. It’s memory loss and identify confusion and hurt and it doesn’t make sense because childhood isn’t supposed to feel like that, but it always has been so how else would it feel?

16. It really depends on the trauma but I’ll give a few mundane examples.

🪢 is a protector and gets triggered when people’s voices in public sound like abusers. They’ll front to protect the host whether or not there’s an actual danger.

I’m a trauma holder (📚) and I tend to front when I feel like the situation I’m in mirrors what I experienced when I grew up. It’s scary and I go into fight or flight to avoid ‘messing up’ in the same way I ‘did’ when I was 13.

Littles can be triggered negatively too. I don’t feel comfortable giving an example that works with our system but maybe they’re scared of a perceived or actual threat and will be out. Maybe something reminds them of home (good or bad) and they’ll be out.

Keep in mind child parts or littles can have any role. Trauma holder, protector, ANP (the ones that don’t deal w trauma), sexual memory holder, etc. their triggers can vary just as much as the entire systems would.

Thanks for letting me answer this.

-📚

I wanted to educate myself more about DID, so I wanted to ask some questions I have about it to further understand what it’s like. I do not have it myself so I will word these in a way to avoid accidentally offending anyone or any confusion:

Is it possible for someone diagnosed with DID to not regularly switch alters? Like almost little to no switches

Do some systems with a trans host have alter(s) that are their AGAB and vice versa?

Is it possible for a system to have an alter that’s much older than the host, like 30-40+ years old or older?

Is the protector alter usually near the age of the host or is it possible for a protector to also be a little/young alter, or are little alters usually not protectors?

How can an alter switch? Are they triggered by an external trigger or switch whenever they want?

How does rapid switching happen?

Can an alter front for more than one day?

Does a dissociative episode happen every time a switch happens or only sometimes, or is it also sometimes immediate?

How does an alter switch back to the host? And I’ve heard that when an alter fronts, the host has a gap in their memory from the time the alter was fronting. Does that memory gap ever get filled or is it just never told to you?

Do the alters share information with other alters if they aren’t fronting? And can they talk in the background like a subconscious? (It’s a silly question but I’m just curious)

What is backseating and co-fronting (I think that’s what it’s called) and what does it feel like?

If the host meets someone like a friend while fronting and a switch happens, does the alter recognize/know who the person is, or do they think they’re a stranger, since it wasn’t them who met them?

Can an alter(s) dislike/hate another alter/the host and does it cause any problems with the system?

What type of trauma usually causes DID? Can it be any physical/emotional/SA related event or does it usually affect a specific type? (Sorry if this question is worded poorly)

How quickly does DID start developing and what does it feel like when it first starts?

How is a protector alter triggered? How is a trauma holder triggered? How is a little alter triggered?

If anyone can help educate me on this topic I’d really appreciate it! Feel free to put your answer under a read more

53 notes · View notes

chungjoo · 2 years ago

Text

I did something for myself recently. I was really scared going into it because I thought I didn't need it. but I'm getting older, I don't want to always burden my friends and family with my emotions and stress. they have enough going on. paying someone to listen to me vent can be quite a concept to grasp but I think this could help me with a lot. including my irrational fears. and even if it doesn't help, I can say at least I tried.

#i mean it could be worth the $50 copay #and my stress OMG the physical symptoms #did you know memory loss and gaps in memory are affected

3 notes · View notes

mercy-burning · 4 years ago

Text

Your Favorite — Part 2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Y/N and Spencer decide to keep seeing each other in secret. Category: SMUT (18+) Content: Adults w/ age gap, cockwarming, heavy petting, penetrative/unprotected sex, breeding kink, oral sex (both receiving), degradation, exhibitionism, fingering, cum play maybe? Word Count: 7.5k

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | MASTERLIST

NOTE: This is... *nervous laugh* this is pure filth. Like... It’s nothing but sex scenes, y’all. Buckle in. (Also the end is a lil angsty so watch out hehehe)

———

JULY 8th

"You're sure you guys are okay without me for a little while?"

I love my mom. Really, I do.

But if she delays her bath for any longer than one more second, I'm going to burst into flames.

Thankfully it seems that Spencer is patient enough for the both of us. "Positive. You deserve to relax a little. Go. Take your bath, we'll be fine."

Mom looks to me for extra reassurance, and I give it to her with a nod.

"Okay. I'll try not to be too long."

She turns and kisses Spencer, long and lovesick, and I want to barf. What's even worse is that when she pulls away and pats my head before retreating up the stairs, he's smiling. And he's supposed to, I know that. Part of him obviously cares about my mom, and even if he's only fucking me on the side, the fact remains that he goes to sleep next to her. That's the way it has to be.

But it still makes me incredibly envious.

It's a problem.

Mom is upstairs now, but our rule is that unless we know for certain that she's not coming into sight or earshot anytime soon, we remain distant.

Still, I make my distaste for their affections known. "You guys are gross..."

Spencer laughs, his hand sneaking over the couch cushion and grazing the end of my skirt. "Jealous, are we?"

Of course, I have to make it difficult for him. "You're a genius, you tell me..."

"Hey now... You're lucky I'm giving you any attention at all... Besides, you know the rules."

I glance over at him, practically crumbling apart at the seams under his intense gaze. It's one I've gotten used to as of late, one that rivals every smile I've ever seen him give my mother.

"Doesn't make it any easier," I mumble, glancing down at where his fingers are still toying with my skirt.

"I know..." He reaches out and touches my hand, and my skin tingles. "Come here."

Even though I can hear that the bath water has only just started running from below, I comply all the same. I scramble off the couch and return on his lap, straddling him and nesting my fingers through his hair while I lean in to kiss him.

He welcomes me with open arms and an open mouth. The moment our tongues brush, I sigh and melt into him, needing desperately to be as close as possible. Our kisses then are languid and wet, and soft. We don't want to get carried away in case we need to be alert and jump apart, so it's best to keep our bodies controlled.

But as I'm learning, around Spencer, controlling myself is painstakingly difficult.

A whine escapes me when his right hand slips under my skirt and rests along the inside of my thigh, and I shift, silently begging him to give me more.

"So impatient..." he mumbles over my mouth.

I pull away and slide my hands down over his neck and shoulders, my hips rolling forward as I pout. "I haven't had you all week. I'm lonely..."

It's true.

Once all my STD tests came back clean and I got my birth control figured out and solid, the first thing he did was tell my mom he wasn't feeling well and texted me the address to his apartment. And after I told her I was meeting up with a friend, I drove over there and got my brains completely fucked out. We spent all day under the sheets, on the couch, over the kitchen counter, and then on the floor, until I had to go home and pretend like it never happened.

Since then we'd only slept together once, and that was just over a week ago, quickly while Mom ran to the store for an onion of all things. And then Spencer had been busy with consulting on new cases that his old job wanted a little help with, and once he had free time, Mom insisted they go on a date weekend.

I pout harder, stomach churning at the memory of the look he gave me before they left—a silent, sweet goodbye that had left me empty and wanting.

But he's just amused.

A smirk ghosts over his lips, red and a little puffy from the pressure of my own against them. "So I definitely can't trust you to be quiet enough to fuck you properly..."

That warrants another whine and another roll of my hips, and I can feel his hand gripping my thigh a little tighter.

"Please... Spencer, I need you..."

His name rolling off my tongue must be what makes him give into me, because I barely have time to react before he's kissing me again, using both of his hands to lift the back of my skirt up and knead my ass.

"Wait... Are you wearing..."

I grin over his lips, wiggling my ass into his touch and utterly turned on by the fact that he knows what underwear I'm wearing just by touch.

"Mhmm," I answer, nipping his bottom lip. "Your favorite..."

The sound that rumbles in his chest as he crashes his body against mine has to be the sexiest thing I've ever heard. He's obviously trying not to be loud, but it's hard, and that makes the sound strained. He really wants this, wants to keep me, and to do that he has to refrain from going absolutely primal right now. He has to do anything to keep this quiet.

So he pushes me off of him, and I pout, thinking he's given up until we can get a true moment alone.

But I know that isn't the case when he spins his finger and then starts undoing his pants.

"Turn around, sweetheart," he huffs, slipping his pants and underwear down just enough that his erection emerges free. "You're gonna sit here, keep quiet, and keep my cock nice and warm, understood?"

Don't have to tell me twice... I'll fucking take what I can get.

So I spin, back up, and move all my clothing to the side, my skirt lifting as I nestle into Spencer's lap and hold my panties to the side. He laughs at my eagerness, though he isn't laughing much longer once I sink down onto him and get in real close. His hands come out to grab my chest and pull me flush against his own.

The way he stretches and fills me has my eyes rolling back, a long, happy sigh falling from my lips. I wish I could say I'm being dramatic about it, but I'm really not.

I'm genuinely relieved and satisfied with the burn.

"There's my girl," Spencer muses through a sigh of his own, his breath fanning gently over my neck right before he gives it an open-mouthed kiss.

His hands slip under the baggy sweater I'm wearing and run along the planes of my stomach, then up and up, taking the fabric with him until it rests above my bare chest. Being exposed like this, right in the middle of the living room while my mom is just upstairs, excites me more than I think it should.

While Spencer kisses and licks at my neck, his hands now gently kneading my breasts, I squirm.

He doesn't like that very much.

"Ah-ah," he warns, squeezing me tight and pulling me into him more. "Relax..."

He hooks his legs around mine then, spreading them apart and somehow filling me deeper. I whine, leaning my head back onto his shoulder and trying not to roll my hips.

Instead, I settle for clenching myself around him, and that seems to be the right move.

"Atta girl... Lay back and relax... Just feel me filling you up nice and slow..."

"Mmmm," I respond in kind as his hands loosen and glide down my body.

He's light with his touch, though the kisses on my neck feel hungry, and his cock feels heavy and thick inside me. It's a beautiful contrast, really, making me feel so full and yet so light, like I'm a raincloud.

Soon his fingers dip under my skirt and cover my hand, which is working at keeping my panties off to the side. He traces the curves of my fingers with his own, mumbling praises and scattering kisses along the side of my neck. And I'm distracted enough that I almost don't feel his other hand make gentle contact with my clit until I gasp from the sharp sensation.

I can feel his smile against my skin as he starts rubbing in slow, precise circles.

"That feel good, princess?"

"Uh huh," I breathe out, trying to keep still. My other hand digs into my knee in hopes that I can stay grounded and focused on keeping still. But despite that, I'm feeling rather calm. Satisfied...

Right where he wants me.

"Mmm..." He hums happily into my skin, continuing to kiss my neck while working my clit.

And I have no idea how long we lay there. It feels like it could be hours.

The TV is on, but we're not paying any attention to it. In the back of my mind I know that Mom could be done with her bath at any minute, but it's been too long without Spencer inside me... And even though he's not actually fucking me, just having him this close and feeling him touch me, fill me, breathe me in...

God, I never want it to stop.

I'm almost on the verge of coming, but he removes his hand from me and slides them up my stomach again.

I whine at the loss of orgasm, but he pays it no mind. "Here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna start moving..."

I start to get excited, wiggling in his lap a little.

With a dark laugh, he brings his hands to my breasts, kneading them gently and nipping my earlobe. Getting my attention...

"But you're not gonna stop until I fill that slutty little cunt with my cum, got it? I don't care if you come more than once. I don't care if you come at all... I don't care if your mom comes down here and sees..."

I swear I almost come on the spot from his words alone.

And then his voice is somehow even darker, seeping through my skin and settling into the very deepest parts of me.

"You will not stop until you make me come, am I clear?"

I wouldn't deny him if I could. I'm so damn whipped by this man, so eager to please and be near him that he could ask me to do any fucking thing on the planet and I would.

My rational brain might have second-guessed that feeling if it hadn't been horny as fuck...

And so I get to it, maneuvering my hips and working Spencer's cock like my life depends on it. And honestly, it kind of does, because if my mother comes down and catches us I'm dead.

Despite the urgency, though, I relish every second of it. I try to remember every sensation vividly because I don't know when I'll get to feel it again. So every time I sit back down on his dick, I clench it on the way up, because I know that drives him wild and it also means I get to feel him grab me tighter.

I can't see him, not even really when I turn my head, but I can picture how he's probably biting his lip, trying not to be loud. His eyes are probably shooting daggers at the ceiling, praying to the heavens above that my mom won't come down.

But it looks like the heavens above have decided to damn us to hell.

That unmistakable sound of the drain in the tub rumbles through the ceiling and down the inside of the walls as the water travels through the pipes, and my heartbeat races faster than it ever has.

Spencer tugs my hair then, pulling my head to meet his shoulder once more. "You better hurry, little girl..."

That's when I finally come. My cunt throbs and shakes around him as I bounce as quietly as I can. His grip in my hair is tighter, urging me to keep going, and the sharp sensation seems to extend my orgasm a little.

I whimper and whine as I feel it, and that seems to be what does him in.

"Fuck, Y/N, that's it... That's my girl..."

Four more bounces from me is all it takes, and then he's holding my hips in place. He grunts as quietly as possible into my shoulder and fucks into me slowly, filling me to the brim with his cum and breathing harshly into my skin.

I can hear Mom walking around upstairs, most likely getting dressed, which means she'll be down any minute...

"Time to get up, princess," Spencer whispers a moment later, letting go of my hips.

I turn my head into his neck, whining. "I don'wanna..."

"I know, I know... But you have to."

I know he's right. But I can't just get up and lose him so quickly. I want to hold on for as long as possible.

So I tilt my head up and bring his lips to mine. Thankfully he doesn't reject me, instead returning my affections and sighing into my mouth. He's still sheathed inside me, and I can feel his cum very slowly starting to drip down.

I have to get up now...

My mouth reluctantly parts from his and pouts. I expect him to return it with a sad smile, but his lips are rather mischievous.

He smirks, lifting me off of him and quickly pulling my panties back in place. His cum instantly soaks into the thin, lavender fabric, and it only reminds me of his absence.

But then Spencer spins me around on the heels of my feet and presses his hand firmly to my clothed, sopping wet cunt under my skirt, rubbing it in and making me whimper out at the overstimulation.

"I missed you," he whispers sincerely. Sweetly...

I can't help but smile as I lean down to kiss him one more time.

"I missed you, too."

JULY 23rd

I've been looking forward to this weekend since Mom brought it up after her bath—A call from work. A weekend business trip across the country.

She would be gone for almost a whole week.

Spencer's already started on his coursework for the next school year so he'll be busy most days, but at night? That's when he's all mine.

The only hard part about this, really, is containing my excitement. Just yesterday Spencer got me alone and warned me that I better keep my cool and be patient. Though, the way he said it was hardly a bad thing considering it gave me an excuse to feel his hands on me, even in the laundry room where, more or less, this had all started.

Even now I can still feel their warmth and their heft as they grope and paw at my breasts while he attacks my neck with sloppy kisses.

But right now he's not here, and as much as I can't wait to spend the week with him, my mom is also going to be gone for that long.

Just because I'm fucking her boyfriend on a regular basis doesn't mean I don't still love her.

Though, the thought of it all makes me a little uneasy—I don't know what the future holds. I know Spencer obviously cares about my mom, but if it really gets to a point where they've been together long enough, would he ever marry her?

And then what?

It's one thing for him to be my mom's boyfriend, who doesn't live here and only stays when he can... But it's a whole other one to be my stepfather. And what if my mom wants to have another kid?

No.

I'm not even going to think about it... If it ever gets to that point, then we'll deal with it, but right now I've only known Spencer for nearly 2 months, and it's way too soon to be thinking about any of that right now.

"You gonna be alright without me for a week?"

I curl into Mom's side, laughing and thankful for her distraction. "I spend almost a whole year away at college without you, I think I can survive five days."

"Ugh, don't remind me. I wish you could just stay here with me forever."

"Ha, no you don't. I'm a menace."

"Only when you eat all my food and then complain that you're starving..."

My eyes roll affectionately. "Mom. That was one time, and I was fifteen and dramatic."

She kisses the top of my head and then rests her chin on it. "Then my point stands... You were only a menace when you were fifteen. Now you're an angel."

I can tell she's sincere, and when I tell her Thank you, it feels incredibly deceitful—Especially when she starts humming my favorite song and brushing through my hair with her fingers, just like she used to do to get me to sleep as a kid. The foggy feeling it sends through my bloodstream reminds me that I'm definitely not the same person I was back then.

Although, it is true that some things never change, and within minutes I'm soundly asleep in my mother's arms.

———

When Spencer and I are sending her off at the airport the next morning, my heart thrums wildly in my chest.

"You have Spencer's number in case of an emergency?" she asks me in a haste.

"Yes, Mom. For the thousandth time, I have his number, and I have Grandma's number, and I have just about every other number you've ever given me for emergency contacts."

She gives me The Look.

"Yes, I have it. And I'll be okay. I love you."

"Oh, I love you, too," she says, pulling me in for one last breath-reducing hug, though, that's not truly what knocks the breath from my lungs.

She goes to Spencer next, reaching up to give him a goodbye kiss. I'm expecting it. I'm okay with it.

But this is unlike any other kiss I've seen them share, and it admittedly makes me jealous.

Spencer almost has her off the ground, pressing her close to him and kissing her deeply. Her hands weave through his hair as he tilts his head, and this time I can see his tongue slip into her mouth.

"O—kaaay, my eyes are burning... Thank you for that..."

I know I can get away with that because it's a completely normal reaction to seeing your mother make out with anyone, so I don't feel bad about it one bit. And I especially don't feel bad about the warning look he gives me over my mom's shoulder when she comes to give me another hug.

But then she's gone, and minutes later we're leaving the airport parking lot, and I can't seem to shake my jealousy. Even when his hand rests politely on my knee.

The whole way home I only barely acknowledge his presence, giving him half-hearted smiles and remaining mostly still when he glides his hand higher up my leg. By the time his fingers slip under the hem of my skirt, I think he knows something is up, because it stops there.

He waits until we get in the house to bring it up.

"Y/N, are you okay?"

I plop myself down on the couch with an overexaggerated sigh. "Kinda..."

I know Spencer used to be a profiler, and really, it's not that hard to figure out what's wrong with me. But it's still a little scary how easily he just knows.

"You know I had to," he says, walking over and standing in front of me. "Keeping up appearances and whatnot."

He's right. And it's a consequence of what we've decided to do, so really I'm in no place to complain.

Still, I reach out and pull him in by the belt loops, leaning my face in rather close to his crotch. "You know... Actually, I think you just like making me jealous..."

The smile that dances over his lips is amused and downright sinful. "Oh?"

"Mhmm," I drawl, sliding my hands to the front of his pants and rubbing him through the fabric.

He laughs. "Yeah, you are pretty cute when you're all huffy."

With big eyes and a fluttering in my stomach at the way he looks down at me, I feel that pressing of jealousy start to lift off my chest. I know that within an hour he'll have me pinned under his body somehow, and the thought allows my response to come out clearly and without question.

"So how are you gonna make it up to me?"

———

We're already out of our clothes by the time we make it upstairs. And when we finally get into my bedroom, I'm about to shut the door and then Spencer stops me.

"No one's home, sweetheart... Leave it open."

He takes two steps and has me in his arms, his hands sliding down my back and resting over my ass. And when he gives it a squeeze, he grins down at me. "You're gonna be loud for me, understand?"

"Hey, that's on you," I tease, wiggling against him. "You want me loud? Make me loud."

His grip on my ass gets tighter as he pulls me closer, and I yelp out. "Don't challenge me, little girl... You'll regret it."

I laugh then, calling back to his earlier statement. "Aw... You're pretty cute when you're all huffy..."

"Alright, fine."

The next thing I know, I'm on my knees, and his hands are rooting in my hair. The rough carpet underneath me already burns, but I know in the end it's gonna be so worth it.

Spencer brings me close to his exposed crotch and tilts my head up to look at him. "I'm gonna fuck that attitude right out of your pretty little mouth, got it? And you're not gonna do a damn thing but take it like a good girl."

I would have asked him if that was a threat or a promise if he hadn't immediately shoved his dick in my mouth. It has me wet in an instant, the way he just pulls me onto him and starts fucking my face with an urgency that seems to contradict all the time we have. He needs me now, with no time for teasing or pleasantries, and I fucking love it.

Which is why I do as I'm told, enjoying every second as he holds my head still and snaps his hips forward, his velvety smooth cock gliding over my tongue and down my throat with ease. It doesn't take long for my eyes to water, my vision going blurry and my body growing hot. My face is angled straight ahead, but I still find a way to look up at him, and from this low angle?

It's the best thing I've ever seen.

No matter how many times I've been on my knees like this, staring up at Spencer as he loses himself at my hands (or rather my mouth, if you want to get technical), I swear I could never tire of it.

His eyes are glaring down at me as he concentrates, his arms are out in front of me as they hold my head in place, and his pubic bone and sculpted hips are right there, moving ferociously in front of my eyes. He's so deep in my throat for a few seconds, holding me down while I gag around him, that my nose is buried in the soft trail of hair that gathers on his skin, and I want to stay there forever.

But my gag reflex isn't much durable for more than fifteen seconds, much less forever, so I have to pull back.

Spencer pulls me off of him completely, a trail of spit following my lips and then detaching until it lands along my chin. I blink away some of the tears that had gathered in my eyes and pout up at him.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

"You're supposed to be making it up to me..." My voice is scratchy and a little hoarse now, but I know it'll probably be worse if Spencer really thinks he can make me as loud as he says (which I truly don't doubt for a second).

He tugs me up by the hair, and I whine as I get to my feet, my knees aching already. And then his mouth is on my cheek, gently kissing away a tear. "Aw, I thought you liked having my dick in your mouth..."

"I do..."I giggled a little, nestling into his body and feeling his erection, now slick with my saliva, press up against the inside of my thigh. "But I like it better in other places..."

"Mmm, you're right... I do, too..."

I certainly hadn't been expecting that answer.

But it doesn't surprise me when he walks us over to the foot of my bed and pushes me onto it. "Hands and knees, princess."

My knees still burn from the carpet, and I'm sure this squeaky-ass mattress won't alleviate the pain at all, but if there's one thing I've learned since having sex with Spencer it's that pain is all part of the pleasure.

So I don't question it. My limbs submit to his simple command, and once I turn away from him and perch myself on my hands and knees, I can feel him climbing on the bed and crawling up the backside of my body. His hands roam my ass and my waist, and within seconds he has his cock nestled against me.

He moves nice and slow at first, dragging the length of him through my slick cunt and ghosting the skin of my backside with his hands.

"Remember... Nice and loud, okay? Wanna hear how good I make you feel."

Like I could ever deny him. Even though I like to tease him and push his buttons, I couldn't think of a single thing in the moment that I'd ever deny him.

So he finally pushes into me, stretching me out well and good, and a low groan slowly rolls off my tongue like a waterfall. And I'm not doing it for his sake; It's like he draws it out of me like a syringe, and I'm utterly powerless against it... Against him.

Like I need a metaphor to explain how I'm well and truly his bitch...

"There she is..." Spencer breathes, reaching the very deepest part of me and staying there. "There's my obedient little girl... Tell me what you want."

I turn my head to get as good of a look at him as I can, and give him the pout to end all pouts. "I want you to fuck me, hard... Please?"

His answer is a gentle push forward, his body leaning over mine to take my hands and pin them behind my back, which pulls me up towards him so that my back is nearly flush with his chest. His hands are so big that one of them is able to hold both of my wrists while the other gathers my hair and tugs.

I feel like I'm being held by a bungee cord, especially when Spencer starts snapping his hips and pounding into me roughly. My knees are pushing into the springs of the mattress and lifting again with each thrust, and I can't help the stream of whimpers and shouts that escape me at the whole experience.

He lets go of my hair in favor of reaching around and palming my left tit, his pace never faltering for a second. Everything he's doing is precise and swift and so fucking good that my eyes can hardly stay open.

"I'm hearing you, pretty girl, but I don't think you're quite loud enough..." he grumbles in my ear, letting go of me and gently pushing me back down on the bed. He slips out of me and I whine at the loss, but I don't have to worry about it much longer when I feel him lay down over top of me and slam into me hard.

I yelp out, my hands reaching out and clutching the comforter for dear life. Spencer's hands, meanwhile, push up off the mattress on either side of my hips to lift himself up, and then he's grabbing my waist and pushing me into it while he fucks me.

When I instinctively shove my face down and try to muffle myself, though, one of his hands leaves my waist and comes up to tug my hair, pulling my head up. His hips pause, pressed deep into my backside, and I can feel how he's struggling to keep still.

"Uh-uh... No one's home, princess... Let it all out..."

He pulls back and plows into me again, and this time his pace is frustratingly slow. With each slam forward my voice grows louder, begging him for more with incoherence until I start to feel myself grow tense with pleasure.

"You're almost there, baby, I can feel it," Spencer breathes. His voice is far away, and I wish he was closer, his breath on my neck and his lips not far behind. But for now I gladly settle for his hands, tight and bruising on my hips, and the force of his pelvis as it collides brutally and wonderfully with my ass.

What finally brings me sweet release is the sound of him grunting out one word. A command. And once again it's like I'm powerless under his spell.

"Come."

I do, and he fucks me thoroughly through each wave. Even once I've finished, he chases his own orgasm for minutes.

By the sounds he's making and the way his hips falter here and there, I can tell he's close, but he wants to make it last. I want to tell him that we have all weekend, to maybe tease him a bit, but I'm so fucked out and incoherent that I couldn't have said a single word if I tried.

So I lay there and take it with a weary smile on my face, ever the whiny, whimpering mess that I am, and patiently wait for the moment he decides to let go.

And when he does, it's the most glorious feeling in the world. I'm tired, yes, but never tired enough to lift myself and wiggle my ass back into him, clenching myself around him and relishing in the way he grunts out my name. He empties himself into me, and I hum, positively satisfied and warm.

Before I know it, I'm sinking down within the comfort of my blankets, and I rest my head in my arms, the pillow still a little too far out of reach. And though I'm content, I still whine out sadly when Spencer retreats and leaves me feeling empty.

I'm about to tell him to get over here and cuddle me when I feel his weight redistribute, and it isn't long before he has his head between my legs, his tongue acting as a net for the cum that drips out of me. He barely touches me, only the tiniest of flicks with the tip of his tongue darting over my skin. I can't tell if I'm thankful because of the relief or if I want the burn to go on forever.

In the end, I don't really have a choice.

He pushes his tongue up, sweeping over my dripping cunt and cleaning me up. Suddenly his mouth is everywhere, making the most delicious sounds and bringing me closer to another orgasm, and all I can do is let it happen. My weary smile is joined by a fluttering pair of eyelids and a string of whimpers that are so small they don't dare drown out the words Spencer is grumbling between my legs.

Some of which, I can hear, sound out, "Another one..."

His finger adds to the mix, coming up and rubbing my clit in tight circles as he finishes cleaning up the mess he made, and within seconds I'm a writhing mess at his undoing.

I'm not sure how long it lasts, only that one second I'm tensing with another orgasm and the next I'm having my limbs moved.

Spencer is beside me in an instant, his face coming into view as I feel my breathing slow to a steadier pace. The longer I wait, the more focused I am on his features, soft and even a little concerned as he strokes some of the hair from my face.

"How are you feeling?"

The smile that beams across my face is just about the most natural thing I'd ever felt. And it seems to bring out those bright glints of adoration in his eyes that only ever serve to make my heart flutter, which makes what I tell him even more true.

"I'm happy."

JULY 27th

Waking up to Spencer next to me, while a daily occurrence these past few days, is still possibly the most surprising and comforting feeling in the world.

Our bodies never part. From the moment we lay down to sleep until the moment we wake up and decide it's time to start doing necessary daily things, not one inch of skin is untouched. Even when showering.

I think back to yesterday morning, where he dragged me out of bed because he had to pee and didn't want to leave me. I was slumped over the backside of his body while he went and then in his arms again while he ran us a shower to wake up.

It brings the widest smile to my face, however sleepy it may also be.

"What are you smiling for?"

I squint one eye open and see that Spencer is staring at me. I hadn't expected him to be awake.

"Just thinking about yesterday..."

He tightens his grip on my waist and pulls me even closer, my face instantly drawn to the crook of his neck. "Mmm," he hums as I nestle in and press a sleepy kiss to the bare skin at the column of his throat. "Which part?"

"Our shower."

I feel his thumb then, rubbing back and forth over my hip as clearly as I can feel him smile against the top of my head. "That was fun, wasn't it..."

"Mhmm," I agree. My lightly tongue traces over his collarbone before I kiss it again. "Our shower is much better equipped for sex than yours."

"So... What you're saying is that shower sex is out of the question this morning?" he confirms with a laugh.

"That's exactly what I'm saying..."

"Well then, princess, what uhh... What alternatives do you think we should try out?"

I start to laugh when he pulls my leg up over his waist and hoists me over on top of him. My face remains buried into his neck, though I trail my lips up and up until I reach his jaw.

"Hmm... What if I just ride you and see where it takes us?"

When my lips finally reach his cheek, Spencer shifts and captures them in a long, butterfly-inducing kiss before pulling away with a smile and brushing the hair from my face. "I think that sounds like a wonderful idea."

It helps that I can already feel him hardening beneath me, and from the moment I felt his hands on me, I'd been aroused.

Though, as soon as I line him up and get ready to start our morning the right way, his phone rings on the bedside table. I'm tempted to keep going, but he half pushes me off of him when he reaches and reads the name.

"It's your mom."

That instantly kills my mood.

With a dramatic sigh and a pout, I hop off of him and curl up under the covers, letting him answer.

"Good morning," he chirps rather happily, and I try not to imagine my moms smile on the other end of the line. Thankfully I can't hear her, but I can still see Spencer smiling as he greets her and goes through all the pleasantries that come with a long distance relationship; I miss yous and how are yous...

I wonder if he really does miss her. He must, at least a little, right?

I'm staring straight ahead now, picking at my nails while I wait for them to finish talking, but something feels off.

I can feel Spencer's eyes on me.

But then he asks, "What are you wearing?" through the phone with a voice so playful and seductive, and I snap my head around, glaring at him.

"Really?" I mouth.

The smirk on his face makes me want to chuck his phone across the room.

"Mmm," he hums, looking me dead in the eye. And the next time he speaks, I swear he's talking directly to me. "Why don't you take it off... I want to talk you through some things..."

I know my mom is hearing the roughness in his voice through the phone, but right now I can see his eyes, hungry as they rake over my body once I slowly peel the blanket away and reveal myself to him, and I know that his main goal isn't to get my mom off.

It's to finish what we started before she'd interrupted.

"Touch yourself for me, baby? Nice and slow. Just relax..."

He softly crawls over to me, keeping the phone to his ear with one hand while the other takes my knees and spreads them apart.

I start to touch myself as instructed, but he swats my hand away and winks, nestling between my legs. I lean up on my elbows and tilt my head, wondering where he's going with this, when he leans his other cheek into my thigh.

"You know what I'd do to you right now If I was there?" A small pause. And then, "I'd use my fingers to slowly stretch you open... Feel you contract around me..."

His fingers do exactly like he says, and I have to stop myself from making any sound. The evil grin growing on his face as he does it all makes it even harder.

"I'd finger-fuck you nice and slow," he continues in a voice just above a whisper. "Until you're begging me for more."

When his eyes meet mine, once more I want to lean forward, snatch his phone, and smash it on the floor. I want him to utterly devour me, without any interruptions or avoidances at getting caught.

But he's such a fucking tease.

Mom must be talking on the other end, because Spencer is silent, slowly fucking me with his fingers and watching them intently as they disappear inside me. Entranced... The thought of her speaking to him and holding his attention makes me jealous— Sure, he's fucking me right now, but really, she's the one calling the shots.

I lean my head back in frustration, letting out the tiniest of whines and grinding my hips up into his hand, hoping and pleading for more.

A low laugh leaves him. "Please, what?"

It's not lost on me that my mom must have asked for more from him at the same time I did... It cements just how absolutely fucked this whole situation is, and yet I can't help but clench around his fingers in earnest, silently pleading with him to go on.

He removes his fingers from me and I sigh out, trying not to disrupt their call.

"And... How would you like me to fuck you?" he asks, looking at me with an evil grin and knowing damn well I can't actually answer.

After he gets her answer, he climbs up on his knees and spreads my legs further, throwing one of them up on his shoulder while he leaves the other on the bed. Since he only has one hand to work with, he gestures to it and I help him out, lifting my other leg up to my chest and holding it with one arm to let him get inside at a good angle.

"Yeah, and how do you want it, baby?" He lines himself up with me and very slowly sinks the head of his cock in, holding it and running his hand along my stomach. "I'm thinking... I'd like to fuck you so slow you're practically writhing beneath me..."

I stick my tongue out at him, and then without warning he slams into me. I bring a hand to my mouth and bite down on my finger, trying not to make a sound.

"You're gonna be patient... And you're gonna let me take my time... Until you're nice and desperate... Whining out for me like a good little whore..."

Each sentence is punctuated with another thrust, hard and deep, followed by a short pause, and it's all I can do not to cry out his name and beg him to go faster.

Mom must be talking on the line again, because Spencer doesn't say a word as he fucks me. His pace doesn't pick up or slow, and his own self control starts to recede—I can see it in his features. I can also feel it in the way his free hand grips my leg. He wants to go faster, he wants to lose control, and this is killing him just as much as it's killing me.

But then he pants into the phone, his voice breaking a little as he pauses and rolls his hips into me, slow and burning. I whine into my hand as quietly as possible, and he asks the question that will seal my fate.

"Where do you want it?"

I wait, clenching around him and praying for the result I want.

And then he laughs. "Yeah? You like when I paint you with my cum, huh?"

I shake my head, silently begging him to resist and stay inside me, but he only shrugs as if to say, Sorry about your luck, and then pulls out, leaving me whiny and desperate.

Just like he said.

And then, he comes all over me, stroking himself fast and hard. Even though I've still yet to feel any sort of relief, seeing him in front of me like this, feeling his warmth dance across my skin in warm spurts, and hearing him groan out as he watches my body gladly accept it all...

It's quite honestly the most satisfying thing I've ever seen.

I can't say I'm not happy, though, when he slumps down and pants, sighing out a few goodbyes to my mom and then tossing his phone on the floor when she hangs up.

He smiles at me then, and I pout.

"You're evil..."

"Mmm, you love it," he drawls, leaning down and starting to dart his tongue over the mess he made on my stomach. Meanwhile his finger finds its way inside me again, and I feel myself start to turn into a writhing mess once more.

And he's right.

I do love it.

JULY 29th

Approaching the front door with Mom in step behind me, knowing that Spencer awaits for her on the other side isn't what makes my heart jump out of my chest.

It's the look on both of their faces when they see each other.

Though I push Mom forward to go see him, it nearly breaks me seeing her run into his arms. He picks her up and spins her around, reminiscent of their little moment at the airport, and the pure happiness on her face specifically makes my stomach twist.

This time it isn't jealousy.

It's guilt.

She's... incredibly happy. I don't think I've ever seen her this happy before. She's positively beaming as she hugs him tight and buries her face into his chest.

And when he looks past her head and looks over at me, I feel it.

The heartache.

Spencer's eyes burn holes into my own, and fill them with a sympathy that makes me feel more wounded than comforted.

I wonder then if he can see it on my face; The way I'm trying not to break down and cry... The way I'm only holding myself together by the weak smile I'm wearing, both to assure him that I'm fine and also to feign happiness for my mother, rather than the aching envy and sadness that festers within every crevice of my soul.

I offer to grab more of Mom's things from the car and dart right back out the door to avoid them for a little while. Maybe to also get some fresh air, even though I'd just been outside less than a minute ago.

After flinging open the trunk of the car, I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my chest start to tighten at the realization that I might be starting to fall in love with him.

A man who isn't mine, and who could never be.

———

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @elldell1204 @muffin-cup @calm-and-doctor @slutforthegubes @rainsong01 @yourmisosoup @liveloudwriteloud @reidsconverse @la-vie-en-amour1 @edgycowboy666 @averyhotchner @centiaaa @lizziechaseee @coffeeandendlesswords @usuck @spenxerslut @ssacalumsg0lden @emilyprentisslittlewhore @takeyourleap-of-faith @reidyoulikeabook @spencerreid9 @b-a-utiful @jareauswifey @flipperpenguins @pansexualthing @donald4spiderman @awesomebooklover17 @shemarmooresfedora @izraahh1 @bakugouswh0r3 @singularityjc @xoxospencerreid @thatsonezesty13 @big-galaxy-chaos @youabitchhhh @spencersjello @moonlight-2-6 @starrylang @foreveryoungxx3 @spencerreidscoffeecup @morganwilliams

TAGS NOT WORKING: @ayla-1605 @mggskneescrews

If you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist, feel free to message me or leave a comment and I’ll get on it right away!

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader smut #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds smut

869 notes · View notes