#even if he was dancing around the whole truth

[presumeddeaddie]

since we’re adjacent talking about it and i need to rehash this, “because, evan” is still the single most important utterance of buck’s given name to this date. yes, sure, he was trying to grab buck’s attention. eddie knew that it would ensure that buck heard his next words loud and clear since he doesn’t ever call him evan. he needed buck to listen. IN ADDITION, we have to remember the turmoil that buck went through with his parents and maddie earlier in the season. he found out about daniel and he found out that his parents conceived him to save daniel, but it didn’t work. he voiced to the team his belief that he was defective parts, and he felt as if wasn’t wanted or mattered to his parents especially after not having served his “purpose”. he even felt like maddie saw him as a burden and a disappointment. the person who knows what buck is feeling better than anyone else during this? eddie. he has watched his best friend losing himself over his past, feeling unworthy and like a disappointment over something that he couldn’t even control. when buck feels insecure and out of control, he becomes even more impulsive and reckless because he needs to feel anything other than helplessness. anything other than useless. EVEN if that means he gets harmed or is in danger in the process, because hey, he’s at least worth something now, right?

them being blood hounds about each other in every sense, eddie understands this about buck. he’s certainly aware of where it stems from - buck’s childhood where he never felt like he was enough or that he mattered. even as “buck”, arguably more cherished and accepted for who he is, there is still the problem where he doesn’t feel like he matters. it was never resolved. so he can’t just stress his important point to buck; he has to stress it to EVAN too. he has to stress it to evan who, despite maddie’s best efforts, never truly felt supported and loved unconditionally. that was never a job for her, a child herself going through the same shitty parenting, but for their parents who failed them and traumatized him to the point where, 29 years later, he STILL doesn’t feel like he’s enough. evan and buck, for all that they’re different from each other, are the exact same at the core. eddie needed buck to know that he was never expendable. not now. not when the bone grafts transplanted from his infant body didn’t work. he doesn’t need to be anything or anybody but himself to matter, and who he is is somebody that eddie loves so much that he had to declare it to buck and evan through a will reveal, making it clear that eddie trusts all of him with his heart.

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Request idea:

Your darling, adoring, wonderful boyfriend Jason sits you down And solemnly confesses that he is red hood. He’s been dreading this day for months. If you want to leave, he’ll understand and wait—-

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU KNEW THE WHOLE TIME?

Jason thinks he’s in an angst fic. The reader is in a rom com where her boyfriend has been a ridiculously obvious superhero, but she’ll let him tell her when he’s ready.

Maybe some shaningany flashbacks where you’ve helped to keep his identity secret (stalling so he can change, giving alibis) while he was oblivious.

- Batchilla

To Wait and To Love

Hi Batchilla! Hope you enjoy! ♡ ~1.5k words

Your boyfriend is a vigilante, Red Hood, to be exact. You know this. He's just not aware you know this.

It's obvious, really, and kind of cute the way he makes excuses to leave. Sure, before you put two and two together, it was starting to seem like he was just dragging you along. But it all made sense when you caught sight of the helmet poorly concealed under his bed.

It makes you wonder if he wants to get caught. Especially when he brings you flowers from the shop you just saw him save from Poison Ivy on TV. Or freezer-burnt cartons of ice cream from your favorite ice cream shop, which was buried under piles of snow courtesy of one Mr. Freeze only twenty minutes ago.

You offer him big smiles and kisses of thanks, and your heart melts a little at how relieved he looks, how baffled he is by your understanding. And you do understand. To tell someone you run around in spandex and leather every night is a big risk, especially for someone who used to run crime in Gotham.

You're no angel yourself, even if he does call you one, and it's endearing to watch him scramble for excuses. It's even more endearing that he tries so hard to make it up to you when he's late, when he has to leave early, when he comes back battered and bruised with flimsy half-thought out explanations.

You'll let him take all the time he needs to tell you, and it's almost funny how easily you've come to cover for him.

"Jason? Oh, he's changing his suit. Someone knocked into me and I spilled my drink all over his jacket. How embarrassing," You laugh out, answering the reporter's question over Jason's absence from the latest Wayne Gala. It's only half a lie, you might not have spilled your drink but he's definitely changing his suit. It's just not the suit anyone would expect.

Once whispers of a break-in at Gotham National Bank started circulating the Gala, it wasn't hard to miss the meaningful glances between your boyfriend and his family. Sometimes you wonder how no one's noticed it before.

You smile brightly at him once he comes back, smelling like gunpowder and leather, and you let him kiss your knuckles while he mumbles apologies over getting caught up with an old friend. You don't imagine Riddler is exactly an old friend, but you teasingly tell him how he owes you a dance for making you wait. He smiles back, his own grin even brighter than yours, as he leads you to the dance floor.

You're opening the door to your apartment, chatting lazily with your friend after a night out.

"Is your boyfriend here? I remember you saying you two were practically living together," they ask, eyes trailing around your living space.

You hum thoughtfully, "We pretty much are. I think he might be sleeping or out looking for the stray cat we saw the other day. It had a bad limp." It's not a hundred percent a lie either, there was a hurt stray. You just know that Catwomen already picked it up, after a text Jason sent to Bruce Wayne's current girlfriend, Miss. Selena Kyle. Which would have been more of a surprise if you didn't already know who Batman was.

But it definitely isn't the truth, because you did catch sight of a red helmet following you and your friend back from the club. (Gotham never felt safer, than when he was watching over you.)

Your friend coos and starts to respond, when a thump sounds from the fire escape. They jolt, "What was that?"

"The cat, probably," You say quickly, letting out a laugh, "it's, uh, pretty big. Has a limp. Hey, did I show you the flowers Jason got me?" You gesture towards the bouquet behind them, and you both focus on the pretty blossoms.

Within minutes, you hear your bedroom door open and close. "Hi, baby," Jason drawls, looping an arm around your waist to pull you to his side, "Sorry, I fell asleep, how was your night?"

You pretend not to notice the limp he's nursing, one you're certain he should be resting, and tilt your head up to kiss his jaw, "It was fun. Missed you."

"I missed you too," he echoes fondly, and the three of you fall into an easy conversation. You distract your friend when you all go to sit on the couch, and if you choose to avoid sitting on his left side, it's certainly not because Red Hood hurt his leg fighting Killer Croc earlier this week.

Jason has never said your name like that before. His eyebrows are knitted together. He's kneeling in front of you, his hands clasped over yours as you sit on the bed.

"I love you and I– I have something to tell you," he chokes out, strained, "please, just– just, hear me out."

It clicks. This is it. He's going to tell you.

You smile and nod, it'll be nice to finally air out this secret. And maybe he could help you work on your excuses? It'll be easier if you're working as a team. You reach out and brush his hair back, unfazed and delighted he's trusting you enough with this, "Of course, Jason. Anything you need to tell me."

Jason is going to throw up. He's finally gotten his act together enough that he's going to tell his partner he's Red Hood. His stomach is churning, it's agony, knowing he could lose them over this.

They're so good to him. So understanding and patient and kind. He has no idea how he got so lucky. And he loves them. It's scary sometimes, how much he loves them. He wants this to last so badly. So, he has to be honest. Has to tell them he isn't what the world says he is.

He's a vigilante. Was a crime lord. He hurts people to save people. He terrifies the trash that calls themselves human. He's not good for you, but he tries. He wants you to still love him.

He wants you to stay so much. Even if he's not good. He wants you. You deserve so much more than the excuses and lies he gives. Jason's wanted to tell you for weeks, but he chokes on his words every time. He's never been so afraid of doing something. Not when he was a kid on the streets. Not when he was Robin. Not as Red Hood.

You look so perfect, sitting at the edge of your bed and smiling at him. He almost flinches when he thinks this could be the last time you smile at him.

He's on his knees. He's prepared to beg. He would beg to keep you.

He says your name, he tells you he loves you. It might be the last time he gets to say that to you. The thought makes him even more nauseous. He tells you he has something to say.

You brush his hair back and keep smiling. He wants to sob. You don't know. You don't know what he is, what he's done.

"I'm Red Hood," he gasps out, voice ragged.

A beat. You're still smiling, you still look happy, and you're nodding at him.

He blinks at you, "I'm Red Hood," he repeats, "I know that- I know it's a lot. I understand if you never want to see me again, but, baby–"

You lean forward and kiss him. He's more than just a little dumbfounded. "Jason, I love you too. I'm not leaving you. I, um, kind of already knew you were Red Hood?" You say, a sheepish smile coming over your face.

"You– what?" Jason stumbles out. You're still here. Still touching him. You kissed him. You look relaxed. Happy.

"I saw your helmet under the bed. Everything clicked after that," You tell him gently.

"And you're okay with that? You're okay with me?" He asks, tone betraying his desperation.

Concern flashes in your eyes, "Of course I'm okay– I'm more than okay with that, Jason. I love you, tights or not."

He lets out a laugh, and his stomach swoops, the tension dissipating throughout his body, "Yeah?"

You grin at him, cupping his face, "Yeah, but you're going to have to show me how you swing around rooftops."

He gets off his knees to kiss you again, he doesn't think this moment could get any better, "Is that all?"

You giggle, at the pure elation in his eyes, and he grins widely at your joy. Then, the moment does get better, "Well, I'm kinda interested in the car Batman drives around you."

"I could make that happen," he murmurs, and seals the promise with another kiss, "You wanna see the batplane too?"

Your eyes light up, and Jason thinks he might be addicted to the mischievous glint that flickers in your gaze.

[dottyistired]

The missing Journal 3 pages in TBOB are so interesting to me in further contextualizing Ford's mindset of shame regarding Bill. We'd gotten a snippet of it in the original J3 release:

But Bill shows us the less pragmatic motivations behind his actions, the mushy feely stuff he was too embarrassed to properly journal, putting certain series events into new context. Particularly this scene where after a whole episode of dancing around it, he finally opens up to Dipper about the nature of their relationship:

"Bill wasn't always my enemy, Dipper. I used to think he was my friend, long long ago..."

But does he really tell the full truth here? The cat's out of the bag, Dipper knows they had a deal, there's no reason not to tell everything. But Ford proceeds to explain his reasoning for summoning Bill as a purely practical, scientifically-driven one.

"I had hit a roadblock on my investigation of Gravity Falls. Until I found some mysterious writing in a cave. Ancient incantations about a being with answers. It warned me not to read them, but I was desperate."

Desperate...for what? Ford would have us believe it was for the sake of knowledge. Yet TBOB shows us that this is the entry immediately preceding his and Bill's first meeting.

Ford isn't some unfeeling robot powered solely by knowledge, he has human needs. He was lonely, lonely enough to summon a demon for companionship. A companionship so intimate, he describes his meeting Bill as the best day of his life, and laments the periods of absence from him.

That desire for intimacy is ultimately what drove him, and even with all his dirty laundry laid out he can't admit that part to Dipper. Maybe he doesn't even realize it himself, at least not until the post-Weirdmaggedon sections of TBOB:

Under the shame of unleashing Bill Cipher's destruction on the world, there's a much deeper shame: that Stanford Pines is not a lone-wolf, unfeeling sci-fi hero, but a fallible human being, capable of illogical sentimentality and longing for approval and (in)human connection. The exact nature of this sentimentality and longing is left to interpretation, but the efforts he goes to to conceal it make me lean towards something beyond platonic. Alex Hirsch's own words might support this:

"I think he is deeply, deeply hiding from his real feelings about things, because at some point early on, he decided that he could run from hurt by achievement and by creation, and has dug that hole so deep that he has no relationships. He doesn't have friendships, he doesn't have romantic relationships, he is someone trapped in a tower of his own mind and estranged. Ford shows none of that. He has sublimated himself romantically so, so deeply. (…) I really thought of Ford kind of like Tesla in that realm.”

TL;DR Ford is up in his feelings about Bill and repressing hard. This is also eerily reminiscent of the self-blame abuse survivors engage in, the hesitance to tell others, and shame over persisting feelings for their abuser.

[nereidprinc3ss]

hourglass

in which spencer disappears from fem!reader's life entirely for three months, right as it seems they were finally about to make things official. when he comes back they reunite, all the while knowing things can't be the same as they were.

18+ (smut, angst) warnings/tags: oh god so many. NOT canon compliant in the slightest, i make shit up, softdom!spence, nipple stuff prob, fingering, oral f receiving, piv sex, unprotected sex, pet names, tara mentioned, depression, mentions of trauma cause its the prison arc duh, passing mentions of alcohol, mentions of spencer losing weight, reader mistakenly thinks spencer tried to kill himself BUT ONLY FOR A SECOND, where is diana reid, nobody knows or cares, probably filming glee, optimistic ending a/n: haven't posted smut in forever but this wip required it and the angst was so angsty i just had to finish it. it was started in jan or feb and subsequently added to and changed months apart and then edited so the writing quality varies from section to section which i apologize for. originally based on good guy by julia jacklin... also the odyssey by homer? can't really explain that one you'll just have to see for yourself anyway byeeee ilysm!!! PLS tell me if you liked it! or if you hated it! but preferably if you liked it! MWAH! wc <12k

It’s been about three months since you last saw Spencer Reid.

About three months since you had an early Valentine’s Day celebration (even though you weren’t a couple) complete with champagne (even though he doesn’t usually drink) and slow dancing (even though you swore you’d be terrible and he spent the first ten minutes laughing at you as you stepped on his toes.)

About three months since you finally settled your head on his shoulder and let the warbling vinyl carry you somewhere distant as the two of you danced slow circles on the parquet floor for what felt like hours.

You’d have liked him to stay later that night. You’d have liked him to stay all night if you were being honest with yourself, but at 11:45 he gently pulled away and told you he had to go.

“Curfew?” you joked, the corner of your mouth lifting a little and you hoped you were hiding your disappointment well.

“Actually, I’m going down to Texas for a few days to speak with one of the leading doctors in experimental Alzheimer's and dementia treatment. I’m going to see if he can get my mom into a clinical trial. I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing, Spencer! What are you doing still here? You should be at home getting ready to go!”

A rosy blush stains his cheeks and he looks down at the ground, laughing that little self-deprecating laugh of his. It makes your heart dance to see him so happy, makes you want to wrap your arms around him and never let him go so that he knows how much you absolutely adore him—but you settle for an affectionate squeeze where your hands have come to rest on his biceps.

“I wanted to see you tonight because I won’t be here for Valentine’s Day... but I still really wanted to spend it with you,” he admits meekly.

If before your heart was dancing, it is now melting.

The dreaded ‘what are we’ talk has been lurking in the dark corners of every conversation you have with each other lately—at least, in your mind it has. What you have with Spencer is not easily defined, and near impossible to explain to your friends—you act like a couple, you go out on dates, he introduces you to his team like you’re his girlfriend without ever putting it into so many words—but this validation that your pseudo-relationship might be evolving is better than any flowers he could have gotten you (although the peonies he brought will look very nice on your bedside table.)

“Four whole days... what will I do without you?” you whisper, brushing a hand along his face, and your chest aches with the heavy truth of it—despite the fact that he often is gone for stretches about that length. They don’t ever start to feel shorter.

“Well, you can start by reading that copy of The Odyssey I annotated for you.”

“Depressing,” you admit. “And a little ominous, considering you’re about to embark on a hero’s journey.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” he smiles.

You chew on your bottom lip, looking up at him as you think.

“Give me something to look forward to,” you say, earnestly.

“I—well, honestly, I just really want to kiss you and I’ve wanted to for a long time now and, you know, if that’s something you’re maybe also interested in then we could, uh, figure out a time to—”

“You want to kiss me?”

“Wh—you couldn’t tell?” Spencer says, like he can’t believe it.

As if on reflex, you lunge up and capture his lips with your own. It obviously catches him by surprise, but when you lower from your tiptoes he follows you, pulling you in closer and holding your face in his hands.

It’s too natural, too right, to be exhilarating. There’s no rush of adrenaline—it's more like stepping into a hot bath or warming your freezing hands at a fire. Like pieces clicking into place. It’s a relief.

You breathe into it, letting more and more of yourself melt against him. He keeps coming back to you deeper and deeper like a rising tide, and you want more than anything to keep getting closer to him—but then he stops. He stays close enough for you to breathe his air, but dodges your kiss gently before supplanting it with a gentle one to the corner of your mouth.

“I really have to go,” he breathes, before moving away from your mouth to kiss your forehead and speak softly against your skin. “If I don’t leave now I’ll be here all night.”

Which is exactly what you want, and the implication does little to make you want him less. But you care about him too much to be so selfish.

At some point, his hands found their way into your hair, and you gently grab his wrists.

“Incentive for you to come home.”

Nearly three months since that night.

At first when he stopped answering texts, you’d assumed he just had too much going on down in Texas. Which you could understand—you knew how stressful this situation with his mother was.

Even when four days came and went without even an alert from him that he was back in town, you thought, okay, maybe he’s been called away on a case. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s disappeared because of his work. But even then, he’d at least text you enough information so that you would know he was alive. Now, radio silence.

So you tried not to be clingy. You tried to act like an adult, to focus on school and your life outside of Spencer, but when Tara Lewis cancelled your weekly meeting due to an “unforeseen work-related emergency”you called her immediately. Tara was something of a mentor, and it was she who had connected you and Spencer to begin with. You had met the other members of his team by that point, yes, but none who you knew as well as Tara.

When she had informed you that Spencer had been arrested in Mexico and was now facing prison time for murder, you laughed.

Laughed until you realized her end of the line was silent.

Realized it was not at all a joke.

In a catatonic state of tranquility, you asked her for more details. Beyond assuring you of his innocence, she couldn’t (or more likely, wouldn’t) provide them. Asked where he was now. Asked all the right things that made sense to ask.

Then you hung up and had a panic attack because Tara said something about 25 years and you saw Spencer evaporate from your future like an apparition.

Slowly, you felt him evaporating from your past, too. Those memories from the night he left, became visions of you swaying with a ghost. Holding nothing but light between your hands as you kissed the peony air of your apartment.

He doesn’t want to see you, she had said into the phone one night, her tinny voice cutting in and out. You’re not on his list of approved visitors.

“You asked him about me?” you had whispered, curled up on top of your made bed in the dark.

I tried. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.

All your days melded together like a muddied smear of paint. Suddenly you felt you had nothing to look forward to. No anchor, no goal. Yes, a PhD... and then what?

The only thing that punctuated one 24 hour period from the next was the time you spent crying because Spencer was in prison and he didn’t want to see you and by the looks of things you may never see him again. When you weren’t crying, you were thinking about how your life was a big cosmic joke. An unfortunate statistical anomaly that didn’t mean anything to anyone else, and that you couldn’t do anything about.

That copy of The Odyssey, which wasn’t even bound and instead was a thick stack of printer paper organized by a single black clip, became something of a manifesto for you—a tome that your poured over, reading and re-reading each note in the margins, each word beautiful and imbued with meaning because you knew Spencer had selected every single one specifically for you. You traced the letters reverently, because in a way this was the last thing he had said to you—about Lattimore’s faith to the original text, Merrill’s strict use of dactylic hexameter, the stylings of Wilson and Lombardo, and how he thought you would enjoy Hammond’s prose just as much as he did.

Day by day it was becoming more prophetic than fictional, and you allowed yourself to sink into madness. You would rather be a deluded zealot than be nothing at all.

He didn’t want to see you.

He might as well have been dead, for all that you were grieving him. And you started to hate him, because he wasn’t dead, but wouldn’t do you the kindness of proving it. Like a festering wound, scratched open day after day so as not to ever heal, you had to live knowing he was less than an hour away. So no, you weren’t exactly over it. You lived day by day, waiting for the occasional call from Tara to keep you updated on Spencer, but either she didn’t want to share much about how he was doing, or he had specifically barred her from doing so, because she was always sparse on the personal side of things. That thought actually lifted your spirits, because it meant he was at least acknowledging your existence in some tiny way.

But your routine was becoming more regular, and so you staid on top of your classes and your non-Reid related meetings with Tara once a week, and you learned to dip your toes into existential dread and the oily black pool of depression every night without ever fully submerging yourself. You learned hope, because it was pretty much all you had, and the BAU had confidence that they would get Spencer out one way or another so you did too.

So you didn’t really think about it when you missed a couple of calls from Tara some evening in May. You were preparing for finals and had way too much on your plate academically to think about anything else which was a welcome relief so you fully embraced it. I’ll call her back tomorrow, you think, as you clean up from dinner before going back to the living room where your textbooks and papers are completely covering every available surface. Maybe I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life after school, but I’ll be damned if I don’t even make it that far.

Hours later, well into the night, you’d all but forgotten about the calls. A knock at the door takes you a bit by surprise, and you frown as you stand again, tugging your Georgetown sweatshirt down over your shorts as you shuffle to the entrance of your apartment. You’re not expecting anyone, so you crack the door, peering around the edge of it.

And you couldn’t even consider trying to hide that shaky inhalation of dead air when you see Spencer standing on the other side.

Surely you’re hallucinating.

Surely this man in front of you who looks like he just got back from a day of work didn’t spend three months in prison pretending you didn’t exist.

He looks the same. Hair a bit longer, maybe—and gaunter even more than is normal for him. 

But it's him.

You can’t think about the apprehensive look on his face—you can’t think about the impossibility of him being here. You can’t think at all. Without your explicit permission, your body surges forward into his, and he’s real, and alive, and warm, and he is an anachronism in the hallway as he accepts everything you pour into the embrace, doesn’t flinch when you move your arms from around his waist to loop around his neck and back to his waist again with crushing force because you just can’t get him close enough.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters into your hair, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry, he keeps saying, rubbing your back as you try to find a solid grip on the sleek material of his suit—try to gather all the pieces of him, already afraid he might fall apart and float away again.

“You—dis—disappeared,” you hiccup after an eternity, pulling away enough to look up at his pretty face. Tears blur your vision and darken the front of his jacket, bending the florescent lights so they form a kind of halo above his head.

Through the surreal haze you can see his throat bob.

“I know.”

He knows?

He knows?

You scoff.

“You have no fucking idea, Spencer. What the fuck is wrong with you? I—I'm—”

The hot anger is such a relief for a second, boiling the oceans of your despair into a wrathful, scorching fog, but as soon as you try to tell him how you feel, the barbed wire cuts into your throat again. You shove him away, skin burning where his hands had been.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, hands hanging uselessly at his side. There’s that kicked puppy look about him—and it’s familiar, but now there’s more damage. You don’t know anything about his time in prison, you haven’t heard a damn thing, but beneath the glassy desperation in his eyes there is an unfathomable void that seems to be preventing him from being fully present—and you realize for the first time that he is different.

It chills you.

Before, you and Spencer shared everything. There wasn’t one part of his internal machinations that you didn’t understand, nothing you kept from each other. But as you study him now from a few feet away, you realize there might as well be a yawning chasm between the two of you.

He is so different.

Those eyes look deeper. No gears turning just behind the slashes of gold and brown anymore—only an endless dark corridor that goes places you will never go.

Gone is the perpetual boyish up-turn at the corner of his lips that always made him look slightly vacant in a way that you found incredibly amusing. Something you had been so fond of, even if you teased him.

He seems to have aged ten years—if not physically, then in demeanor. And now you feel like a little kid throwing a tantrum.

You cross your arms, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

You’re embarrassed. And pissed. And relieved. Everything is worse and better. You want to fall back into his arms, but you have been jarred by the revelation that this might not be the same Spencer. It might not be the same relationship. You have no idea where you stand.

He says your name gently, with so much familiarity you’re briefly jerked into the past. It makes you wish you could look up to find him as he was three months ago. Wish this was just a bad dream. But that’s not fair to him.

“Sorry,” you mutter, studying the grey carpet fibers instead of looking at him.

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says immediately, “you’re right. I don’t—” he clears his throat— “I’m being incredibly selfish. I shouldn’t have just shown up, I’ll just—I'll leave. I’m sorry.”

A silent moment passes.

You don’t look up as he turns and swiftly begins to move down the hall toward the stairway, leaving as quickly and silently as he had come, like a few bars of a song sighed in and away on a fleeting breeze.

Your bare feet are concretely planted, imagining him jogging down the steps and speed-walking away from your building—

And suddenly you’re sprinting after him, feeling like you might puke because Spencer was just here and you let him go again—and even though you’re still so mad and confused and hurt, the realization that he is leaving again makes the entire building spin and lurch.

“Wait!” You yell, almost wiping out as you run down the stairs and whip around corners in your slippery fucking socks. “Please, wait!”

The lobby is already empty as you spill out into it, and cold dread tightens around your neck like a fist as you shoulder your way through the double doors and right into Spencer.

“Please don’t leave again, you just—I'm sorry, I really need you to not go—” you blabber, lachrymose once more, gripping onto his forearms for dear life.

“I’m not going,” he breathes shakily. “I tried to leave because I think you were right and maybe I should and maybe it would be better for you but I can’t.”

“You can’t,” you agree, more sob than spoken word. He cups your jaw, then your cheeks, wiping tears and brushing away hair like he can’t figure out how to hold enough of you between his hands. The wild kaleidoscope of his eyes, bright and alive and real as he scans you desperately captures your attention enough to slow the tears to a trickle. He notices this and stares back, entranced.

A silent agreement is made, or maybe an inevitable fate is accepted—either way, something was set in motion three months ago and it matters to see it through. Spencer kisses you and you’re ready for it. You don’t need slow or tender. You need to feel how he feels. You need to know what he knows.

You sling your arms around his neck and he pulls you closer until you almost tip backward, chasing the bruising kiss even as you regain your footing. You want to drink him in and you do your best, breathing deeply as he kisses you deeper, backing you inside and toward the elevator.

“Is this okay?” he manages, only after blindly reaching for and mashing the up button on the wall panel.

Ideally it wouldn’t happen like this, but the world you live in obviously isn’t ideal and your personal situations as they coincide are far from ideal, so this is how it has to happen. But it’s hard to explain, and you’d rather not admit that this is so far from what you wanted for both of you and follow up with the fact that despite that you need him like you need water. So you don’t say a word as the metal doors slide open promptly. Instead you pull him in and let him press you to the chrome wall as he hits your floor button, and that very hand comes back to grab your ass like you didn’t think Spencer Reid capable of. It almost aches as his fingers dig into the flesh, but it’s a good ache because it means he’s real and he’s there.

You gasp as he hitches your leg up, arching into him. The shorts that you’re wearing leave very little to the imagination to begin with, but they become downright indecent like this.

Quickly the elevator stops and the doors hiss open. You don’t hesitate to pull Spencer by the hand down the hall. When you notice you left your door wide open, you don’t even care. Neither does he, apparently—once you’re inside he slams it shut, flipping the deadbolt while his eyes are glued to you like you’re already naked. Now Spencer is shameless in the way he drags his eyes over every curve, every place your clothes and hair are disheveled from his touch and eye-fucks you so obviously it makes your face warm. Three months ago Spencer would have at least been bashful about it when he met your eyes again, but this Spencer is far from apologetic as he pins you with his burning gaze once more. His hand stays stuck to the door like he’s holding himself back.

“Is this what you want?”

There’s an undercurrent of sorrow below the gravely arousal, like this isn’t what he wanted for the two of you either. But you’re both at the mercy of fate. This is all you have, and it might be all you can do for each other anymore. So you don’t need to say that, because he understands.

“Yeah. Yes, this is what I want.”

For just a second more he watches you from his place by the door, and there’s an unexpected softness to it. He looks at you the way he would have looked at you before. Like as long as he stays there he can entertain the idea of being that person again.

Need wins out quickly, though, and he surges forward. Immediately you’re caught in the riptide of him, helpless as he kisses you all the way to your bedroom.

He’s never been in here before. You find yourself glad it’s relatively clean—one of the pastimes you’d picked up in his absence was keeping everything tidy. It was something you could control.

A lamp glows at your bedside. You lean against the footboard of your bed, hands timidly behind your back and suddenly shy to have in him in your intimate space. Both of you set aside the heaving desperation long enough to catch your breaths, and for him to scan the room like he too is being forced to reconcile with the innate and unexpected intimacy of the moment. He cuts a harsh, dark gash in your sweetly decorated bedroom, radiating something wild and powerful and unsure of himself like a chained bull as he takes in the soft, pale bedding, the paintings and photos taped to the walls, the woven rug and the sheer drapery. His breathing slows as he studies it all—eyes eventually catching on something behind you. Looking is unnecessary. You’re sure he’s spotted the dried peonies in their ceramic vase. Or maybe the now worn stack of papers that is his Odyssey, marked up and soft around the edges from constant flipping-through.

Then Spencer looks at you, and that softness seeps in again. Along with something like... fear? Grief?

In some other universe your first time with Spencer is sweet and giggly and kind and he smiles at the decor in your room and looks around with wonder because it’s another way he gets to know you. It’s a different way to learn you from the inside.

You sense that he’s caught in between universes right now as well, painfully aware of what he would have given you that he can’t anymore.

He breathes your name like an apology, and foolishly you let a second go by in which you think he might offer you one. But he doesn’t. Not with his words, anyway. His eyes tell a different story.

“It’s fine,” you say unprompted on a whispered exhale, then a little louder as you push off the footboard, crossing the space until your hands are on his chest. You focus on his tie, not making eye contact as you rush to undo it. “It’s fine.”

He lets you do this for a few seconds before finally covering your trembling hands with his own. You still can’t meet his eyes.

“We don’t have to do—”

“No! No, please. I want to. I need—I need us to be okay.”

“Hey,” he murmurs, catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. “We are okay. Me and you are fine.”

It’s a pretty thought, but it’s not true. In fact, it’s a hideous and abject affront to the truth. Sure, maybe you’re fine in comparison to last week. Maybe anything feels fine compared to an eight by six cell. But it would be impossible for you and Spencer, for your relationship, whatever that relationship may be, to be fine. It’s especially impossible for him to make that claim, after all he did or rather didn’t do while he was gone. What you need is for him to stay anyway. What you need is to find a way to be with him, to exist with him, even when you are so clearly not fine.

“I just need you to stay,” you whisper, and he’s already nodding, wide-eyed like he’d do anything for you. You ignore all the bitter venom rising in your throat. You pretend this isn’t all happening after he cut you out of his life with a dirty switchblade. Instead you focus on his hands on yours, the familiar smell of him, which invites you to let go of each and every thought and worry. He must’ve showered before coming here, you realize. How long has he been out? What happened? 

“Okay. Okay, I can stay. What else can I do? How do I make it better?”

You sniffle and look back down.

“You can untie that for me.”

He hesitates, then nods some more, fingers working under yours to undo the tie around his neck.

“Okay.”

A moment goes by and after that final whispered word, the tension begins to build again. Spencer senses it in the way your fingertips linger on his chest and you step even closer, dragging them down to his belt. The metallic sound of it unbuckling, despite being your own doing, still manages to flip your stomach. How many times have you pictured this? When was the first time you realized you wanted it? You’re sure you haven’t stopped wanting it even once since then.

Spencer tosses the tie away and is shrugging off his jacket now, then before you see it coming he’s kissing you again, ducking down to do it. He feels taller this close up, and especially in your bedroom, where he just seems rather out of place. But you want him here. God, you want him here.

You break the kiss, forced to look down as you fumble with his belt.

“Sorry,” you gasp, embarrassed by your lack of dexterity. The light is barely sufficient to see what you’re doing, especially when he’s wearing black on black and your eyes are still bleary.

“You’re okay,” he assures you, and it’s so Spencer a fresh round of nerves electrifies the tips of your fingers. That thing is happening—the thing you’d hoped to avoid if you hadn’t lost momentum partway through, where you’re allowing your actual feelings for him to get in the way rather than getting swept up in the pathos of the moment and letting everything be easy and mindless. “Here, can I help you?”

But he doesn’t actually wait for an answer before he’s finishing off the belt for you, tugging it loose from his hips till it’s a leather coil in his hands. Your fingers brush the material and he lets you take it as if it were your prize. It’s heavier than you thought it’d be, and you just feel the weight of it in your hands for a moment, your dropped head brushing his chest.

You have a terrible feeling that if you do this now, it doesn’t mean everything will be alright. Because it can’t just go back to normal. Spencer has told you nothing of what must be an enormous trauma, and you haven’t spoken about it at all, but you sincerely doubt that after this he’s going to be ready to just jump into that committed relationship the two of you had been toying with for months before his absence. You’re almost... scared of him, now. Scared of where he’s been and what he’s endured—things you’re sure you couldn’t have taken. What that does to a person, you can’t imagine. He seems so solid and real in front of you now—but you know that’s not always enough. Maybe you’re just scared that somehow whatever he’s been through will have made him care for you less. That you were too far removed from the whole ordeal, and now you’ll never understand. If you could understand, maybe you could fix it for him. Maybe he’d stick around.

Still—even if you do end up pushing him further away in the long run—won't it have been worth it to have had him so completely, even just once?

You toss the belt to the ground, compressing all of these very complicated thoughts and feelings into a few seconds so short he can’t ask you any questions about them. Instead you find his top button, and just as you manage to undo it with relative ease he’s gently grabbing your wrists. You look up at him, immediately surrendering.

“If we’re going to do this I need you to relax a little bit.”

Gears grind in your chest. You feel need and anxiety comingling in every square inch of your body. It’s a sick buzz—a high on an empty stomach.

“I can’t,” you admit.

“Yeah, you can,” Spencer gently disagrees, slowly lowering your hands. When he’s sure you’re not going to try ripping his clothes off again, he releases, and his eyes lower to the zipper of your hoodie. His fingers follow, warm against the soft triangle of revealed skin at your chest as he grips the small piece of metal between barely shaking fingers. “You can.”

You match his eyeline, breathing shallowly and watching as he slowly drags the zipper down. You wonder if that sound has haunted his fantasies the way the sound of his belt has haunted yours. If he’s seen this hoodie on you and wondered what’s underneath, staring at you and daydreaming during movie night with you none the wiser.

Both of you have your eyes glued to the span of skin as the zipper parts. Spencer stalls with the zipper at your sternum, just below the band of your bra.

Right. No shirt.

You look up and find his eyes already on you, tinged with a curious kind of humor.

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

The words come out shy. Spencer’s chuckle has its own nervous airy quality as he resumes tugging on your zipper, leaning down until your noses bump.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Then he kisses you again, a little sweeter now. Sweet enough to give you butterflies and for them to flutter right out of your stomach and spill from your lips in a little whimper against his.

It comes as a surprise when he pushes the fabric from your shoulders without looking or asking. Not that you’d have said no—you're just underprepared for how assertive he is in this foreign context.

Left just in your flimsy shorts and your thin bra, you feel quite exposed—but Spencer’s hands are as demanding and hungry as his mouth. They skim up your sensitive sides and sweep lower, suggesting less proper placement over your ass and pulling at your bottoms until you gently put a stop to their wandering.

“Wait. We’re... we’re uneven.”

It’s a struggle to get any words out at all when he keeps chasing your lips, nipping at you like he physically can’t stand not kissing you, but they catch his attention and he laughs airily, pulling back to let his gaze pour over your less clothed form. It lingers and catches and lights you up everywhere it touches, drops of heat soaking into your skin and making you feel all fuzzy and needy.

“We are,” he acknowledges, tone low and colored with the faintest smile. “You’re a lot prettier without your clothes on than I am.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The challenge comes immediately and thoughtlessly. Spencer’s golden eyes flash up to yours. He’s breathing a little harder than usual.

“You want me to show you what I mean?”

If that means getting him naked, then yes, absolutely.

You nod, but rather than immediately stripping, he takes your hand and holds his own open next to it. A thick pink scar bisects some pretty significant palmistry lines, but you don’t mention that. Instead you swallow—your thoughts, your words, your nausea.

“That’s new.”

You wonder how you hadn’t noticed it earlier.

He nods.

“A lot is new.”

It sounds almost like he’s challenging you—there's a kind of tremulous force in his voice, despite the perpetual softness there, like he’s inviting you to say it’s ugly. And you realize he’s referring to more than just the glowing scar cutting an asteroid trail against the flesh of him palm. The scars he obtained in prison must form a constellation over his body.

“I don’t care. I wanna see you.”

Spencer swallows, cupping your face with the scarred hand once more. You can’t feel it against your cheek but you know it hasn’t gone away.

“I’m sure you think you do,” he permits, and that’s where the conversation ends for the moment—with his hand on your face and his lips back on yours. “For now why don’t you let me worry about you?”

Obediently, you breathe, “okay.”

This is, for whatever reason, amusing to him. The brief levity dies as quick as it comes like a snuffed-out brush fire as soon as he lets his hands fall back down to your hips.

“I want... I want to give you slow. But...”

But slow is for people who didn’t lose three months of their life. Slow is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be starving. Slow is not for the desperate.

You understand the feeling.

“I don’t need slow.”

You’ll let him use you up like quick-burning fuel if that’s what he needs. You’ll go as fast and as bright and as hot as he tells you.

“But you want slow,” he murmurs, a secret acknowledged into your own waiting mouth. You’d keep it there forever. You could be the object he hides his soul in. “I know you do. You deserve to get what you want.”

“I can go fast. I want whatever you can give me.”

Spencer’s shuddering exhale is like a drug, dizzying as you inhale it and your eyes flutter at the high, pressed head-to-head with him. For so long you’ve needed him so badly. It’s overwhelming to have him now, all over you. If only your walls could breathe him in the way you are, if this room could remember what it feels like to hold him the way you will, if any inanimate object could bear witness to how you’ll give yourself, any part of yourself, over to him, so willingly.

“I’m going to try.” Spencer’s voice is hoarse as he walks backward to the bed, taking you by the hips as he goes. “I want to do it right. I want to do this the way I... the way I imagined it, before...”

Now he’s sitting, and you’re standing between his legs as he finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it, his fingers a comforting pressure where they ghost down the slope of your back. Your heart is pounding at the confession, at the way his tongue darts over his bottom lip and his fingertips journey back up to your straps, looking up at you with haloed irises as if he’d find anything other than the most dangerous kind of smoldering devotion in your eyes—the kind cult-leaders seek and spend years nurturing, and he’d earned with a mere brush over your bare skin.

The fabric slides down your arms, and as it falls to the floor, you watch something like despair flash-flood his eyes. It is a deep, distinctly human grief. The ineffable kind where something is almost too beautiful; so perfect it offends the mortal senses because it should be permanent, but nothing is, and the clash of divine beauty with unstoppable time which oxidizes copper and covers marble with vine is almost as grotesque as metal rending delicate flesh. It is the grief that drove the first poet to write and the first parents to press their baby’s painted hands to the walls of a cave. It is the desire to do the impossible—to capture ephemeral perfection and make it eternal, and the knowledge that it is hopeless. You recognize it because you’ve felt it for him.

“I thought about you all the time,” he whispers, doesn’t bother calling you beautiful but you don’t mind because he’s telling you with his hands and his eyes and the waver of his voice. “When I was gone, I thought about you—”

You’re just as quiet, just as soft.

“Don’t, Spencer.”

He doesn’t get to tell you about when he was gone. Not now. Not after he acted like you didn’t exist.

“Okay.” He swallows the things he’d wanted to tell you like you choked on the things you needed to tell him for three months. “I’m sorry.”

But his hands—his hands are perfect over your waist and his lips are perfect where they kiss your ribs like they’re his homeland. You could forgive a thousand wrongs for each kiss he puts to your skin. Light from the full moon stretches over the room like a blessing from the cosmos, and you have every intention of making the most of that gift, how the silver gilds the planes of his face and highlights curls like they were carved, and invites you to search for something in each shadow.

Some of his kisses land over the sensitive skin of your breasts though you doubt he has much intention or that there is any sort of end-goal with the trail he blazes—in fact, you have to root your hand in his hair and pull gently back when he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s making you wait again. His eyes are glassy and cheeks slightly pinkened—you weren’t expecting this wave of fondness to knock you on your ass but here you are, falling all over again.

“You don’t have to go that slow.”

A slow smile splits the heart of his mouth at your bashful tone and he’s emboldened to bring his hands higher for a moment, thumbs brushing particularly delicate though not downright indecent spots. Nonetheless, your breath catches.

“Impatient girl,” he scolds, and though it’s lighthearted it still inspires heat to dance across your face. Oh, I think I’ve been plenty patient, you itch to say, but you bite it back because it’s only sad and true and unkind.

Still, he gives you the beginning of what you want, really only the tip of the enormous iceberg that is your desire for him, by slipping his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down. His hands slide up the fronts of your thighs, tracing the trim of your underwear, and you’d swear he’s not even breathing. The moment one of his hand loops behind your knee and pulls forward until it’s pressed to the mattress and you’re half-kneeling, half standing, desire begins to truly cloud your mind. Manhandling never seemed like Spencer’s style, but when paired with how softly he reveals your hip, pulling gently down on the fabric of your underwear just to admire you up close, you don’t mind it.

More kisses are littered over your stomach, and he takes you by surprise a second time with a quick maneuver landing you on your back and him on top of you.

“I wasn’t doing you justice with my imagination,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I couldn’t have known.”

“Couldn’t have known what?” you pant as he shamelessly digs his fingers into the plush of your ass. You almost hope it bruises.

“How pretty you would be,” he coos like he means it, and you dissolve, slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. “You were holding out on me.”

It’s a tease, not at all serious, but you manage to hit him with a, “Was not, asshole,” and he chuckles, placating your little hurt with another sticky kiss, and you get another disorienting glimpse of some other timeline where you’re both a little less damaged. Where it’s a little easier.

But in this timeline, his touch becomes starving and ragged and urgent, and you accept the drag of his thumb up your thigh and between your legs, gasping when he runs his knuckles up the center of you. This touch is metal on screeching metal. It does not pretend to be anything more than what it is—brute, powerful, executed to elicit sensation. You get the sense that Spencer’s never touched anyone this honestly, and while you do envy the girls who got to have him gentler, you’ll take this as the compliment that it is. A kind of vulnerability that is nearing primal.

His lips, though—always his lips—are kind when they brush and land on your skin guided by some invisible map. A dip down your neck and chest and then a plunge, his tongue dragging over your hips, chasing the fabric of your underwear as he almost pulls it off and then reroutes, making room for himself between your legs and pushing lace aside to mark the hinge of your inner and upper-most thigh. Your chest heaves and you don’t dare move for fear he’ll stop leaving signs of himself on your body and you won’t be able to reassure yourself that it was real and he was here and it was not another dream.

Because something in you knows, if only consciously recognizing it for the first time now, that he will disappear again. That this may be your only chance.

The desire to make the ephemeral eternal. An impossibility.

He’s clearly losing himself to something, eyes shutting blissfully. You wonder when the last time he let his guard down even a  little was. You’re okay with being the thing he gets lost in, even if you’re not exactly okay with him—something you are becoming more acutely aware of as each touch makes a part of you want to cry. Maybe you still have some things in common. A strange pain that doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to you, for one thing.

You slam back into your body as his nose nudges against you through fabric, and his lips catch on cotton as he drags himself up, eventually settling a kiss against the little bow at the waist of your underwear. There he stays, eyes closed, mouth pressed to you.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow, buzzing. Is this really what he wants? After everything?

“You don’t have to...”

“But is it okay with you?”

Nothing more than an airy whisper, you reply, “Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Being emotional at this point seems wrong, but it’s difficult to ignore the fact that you have thought about this before and it’s finally happening but it’s not exactly as you’d imagined it. There is an indelible sadness to it, to the way he’s so hungry for you because he’s been deprived, to the desperation with which he touches you because he’s had everything taken from him.

For a moment, before he tugs your underwear down, he pauses, and you wonder if he’s freezing one moment in time, this moment, and grieving all the other ways it could’ve been, and accepting that this is the way it is going to be. You are.

These higher realms of thought abandon you as he finally pulls the last barrier down your legs and encourages you to spread them further. You don’t have time or energy to be embarrassed, not even by his staring, or the way his eyes dart up to yours and back down again, wide and shining, as if to say, have you seen yourself? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

All you feel is the lack of him on you, the pull to have him closer so strong it’s almost sickening because he could be gone at any second. Maybe he understands that because he doesn’t waste anymore time before he’s kissing the most sensitive part of you. The drag of his tongue has you loosing a shuddering cry.

His mouth wanders, making connections you wouldn’t have realized the value of until you feel them on your skin. Your hips buck as he traces you and you’re unable to stop yourself from tangling your hands in his hair. Speech fails you—hell, you can hardly breathe as you watch his with a furrowed brow and parted lips, only expelling air from your lungs in the form of little cries and gasps and failing to hold your hips down to the bed.

The tip of his tongue teases around your entrance and he catches your leg as your foot rises off the bed, slinging it over his shoulder and consuming you more fervently until you have no choice but to moan though you’ve never been one for theatrics. Nobody has done this for you like he’s doing it for you. Locks of hair fall in front of his face and you hold them back for him, shuddering as he shifts his weight and presses the tip of his finger to your cunt.

“Ah—please,” you manage, your first words since he started. Spencer groans against you and the sound is so wonderfully unexpected, so much better than in your dreams. You cant your hips up in further invitation, chirping as he takes it, pushing two fingers into you at once. Your eyes screw shut and you bite back a whine at the slight stretch, unconsciously writhing your hips either to get further away or take him deeper, you’re not sure.

Spencer pulls back, kissing your hips and thighs and pumping his fingers very slowly as you adjust.

“’M sorry,” you pant, “it’s been awhile, I...”

“Don’t apologize,” Spencer says like it’s simple, his own breath coming quicker. “How’re you feeling? Need me to stop?”

“No! No, it feels really good, I feel good.”

He holds your burning gaze, matching it with his own, and his hair is tousled and his cheeks are flushed as he continues to move his hand.

“Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

This little show of obedience, of call and response, has him smiling before he occupies his mouth with something else once more. It’s a different smile than you’re used to from him, but you decide you don’t at all mind it.

Like that, with his tongue and fingers working tirelessly, your orgasm comes on quickly. The feeling is rare but not entirely foreign, and in that brief moment of utter disconnect between your brain and reality, of sheer white-hot pleasure, you don’t feel you’re missing out on anything at all. How could you be, when you are here and Spencer is here and for a moment all your neurons are lighting up and flashing neon? How could there be anything more to life than the searing feeling of him slowly withdrawing his fingers from you, than your hips between his hands like he’s cradling the world, and his lips, indiscriminate with where they kiss because every part of you is worthy of attention?

You’re reeling, and your legs are gelatinous as he so affectionately sucks the darkest mark yet onto your inner thigh like a parting gift, like he’s signing his trembling work. If you could clamp your legs shut around the almost painful aftershocks you would, but he’s climbing back up your body, so all you can do is wriggle against him and release delayed, stunted little moans. He stops to kiss your neck before he makes it to your mouth and drinks down all your sounds until you’re gentle and pliant for him like you haven’t been yet.

His voice is soft and sympathetic when he speaks. “Better?”

Wordlessly you nod, both comforted and unsettled by how well he knows you. What, exactly, has been made better, you’re not sure. Not trust. You don’t trust him anymore. Something cheaper, but temporarily effective. A sense of permanence, maybe, however fleeting it may be. You’ve completed something with him now, and he’s still here, still sweet.

He looks into your eyes, then, for a moment—and there is just enough light in the room for you to tell yourself that the shadows dancing there as he looks at you are love.

They morph as you watch into haunting, wild hunger. Pained even now.

He sits up abruptly and so do you, scooting back against your headboard and pulling your knees to your chest to protect your pounding heart as Spencer takes you in with darting eyes and quick breaths. His fingers find the collar of his shirt and he begins to unbutton.

“I need you to remember it’s all going to heal.”

He swallows, and you hardly have the wherewithal to study the way he unbuttons his shirt, a way he exists in the world that you had previously not been privy to. The words are too distracting.

“What?”

Sometimes he reminds you of a deer, with those big brown eyes that can’t help betraying anxiety. Moreso in those old pictures he’d shown you from his early days at the BAU—but it shines through occasionally even now. It’s reassuring to know that something inside of his has remained soft.

“Just...” his fingers don’t stop at their task, and you come to the disturbing realization that his knuckles are bruised. “Please don’t freak out, alright?”

Your mouth goes dry, eyes glued to the lengthening span of revealed skin.

And before he even has his shirt fully undone, something isn’t right.

He’s like a Pollack of bruises—starbursts and watercolor blots of discoloration blooming over his side and stomach.

You’re glad the light is off for two reasons: one, being that you don’t think you could handle the bruising in all its glory, and two, you hope the look of horror painted on your face is at least partially obscured from Spencer.

But you can’t. You simply don’t have the gas in the tank to freak out, as he’d said—at least not externally. Those bruises shouldn’t be there, but 96 days is a long time to be gone.

You drag your eyes back to his—nervous, deeply insecure and mistrustful. A deer. Just like those pictures of a 24 year old Spencer in an FBI jacket that was too big for him.

It’s enough to have you scooting on your knees across the mattress to him. Those big eyes stay glued to you as you draw near, falling as you carefully push open his shirt, cautious not to bump any tender spots as it falls to the bed. A flash of white gauze wrapped around his forearm that makes your stomach flip. How? You want to ask. Why?

He doesn’t seem to know what you’re going to do, and neither do you, until you’re grabbing his hands, bruised knuckles and all, and just... holding them for a minute.

“I lost weight,” he says quietly, as if that’s the most shocking thing about his current appearance, though it is noticeable.

“You’re still pretty.”

He smiles at this—a true Spencer Reid smile. Flattened lips, eyes tinged silver with sadness, voice quiet and anxious and wavering.

“I didn’t have a lot to spare.”

A moment goes by.

“I’m not going to ask you about them,” you promise, though you care so much and you want to know but you already understand that he won’t want to tell you.

Another moment. It doesn't surprise you to watch the shiny vulnerability in his eyes to freeze over completely. But he squeezes your hands once in thanks, and you know it’s still the same Spencer.

“Lie down.”

Oh. Right.

This.

You do as he says, taking a deep breath to try and exhale the concern twisting your stomach like a poison. Somehow your room feels so unfamiliar, so new with him in it. Even the whorls on your ceiling look different as you study them, trying to time the pattern of your breathing with the pattern of the paint and plaster and not let the sound of Spencer further undressing quicken your heartrate too much.

Soon he’s coaxing your legs apart again, reverently, and kneeling between them, studying every part of you—lingering not on the parts you’d expect. He traces the scar on your knee with his thumb, follows a line down your thigh to the freckle on your hip. The scrutiny is unnerving and warms you everywhere. Perhaps he senses the microscopic clench of your thighs as you imagine pushing them together, if he weren’t in the way.

“You alright?” He asks, still stroking your hip. Tender again. It’s so hard to keep up.

“I...”

Suddenly your heart beat is a deafening echo in your own ears. The tide of your breathing is too powerful, too in and out and whooshing, leaving you always too empty or too full but never comfortable.

Maybe he’s changed, and he’s harder to know now, but he is the same Spencer. He is the Spencer you’d fallen in love with. The hard part is knowing that now you may never get a chance to tell him that. You don’t know if he’d be able to hear it.

There are things you can’t have with him anymore. Not now, at least. Maybe not ever. But you can have this. It will be different, but you’d rather him be different and here than the same and only in your memory.

You swallow.

“I’m good.”

Tangling your hand in his hair once more, you pull him down into a kiss. It’s hesitant, at first—maybe he can taste your thoughts, where they’d been balancing just on the tip of your tongue. But the uncertainty fades and he kisses you deeper, harder, in a way that is hard to keep up with. You like the messy overwhelm of his lips, teeth, tongue. That’s the only way he knows how to want you.

When you go to wrap your leg around his waist he catches it, running his hands over the soft plush of your thigh. The hard line of him presses against you like memory foam and you gasp and he breathes it in deeply as your brain short-circuits, as you realize this is really going to happen, that you’re going to have him like you’ve never had him before and in ways you’ve only imagined and immediately felt ashamed for.

“Spencer,” you whisper. He ducks to leave open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your eyes flutter shut, craning your neck but not losing sight of your objective as you reach down blindly. When you find what you’re looking for he freezes, groans against your neck at the same time as you breathe the tiniest whimper. Just in your hand he feels impossible, hot and imposing and hard. Your heart palpitates.

Without thinking, you angle your hips up and encourage him closer, until the tip of him is smearing through your folds, and you both go utterly silent like the breath had been stolen right from your lungs. The moment crystallizes, time around you hardening like preserved amber to keep you frozen there forever.

And then he rolls his hips, catching the underside of his cock on the crux of you, and then he does it again, and you choke out a moan and so does he, and it’s beyond perfect—it's nirvana, more than you could ever have conceived of, with his weight pressing you into the mattress, arms caging you in, his heavy breaths hot against your neck and vice versa as you twine together like serpents on a rod, your foot floating in the air as you widen your legs to make more room for him.

And you’re not even fucking yet.

“Oh my god,” you whine, just for him, barely audible under the heavy cloak of night, the thickened air in your bedroom and the sound of panting and fabric shifting. It’s like your heart is trying to reach through your chest to his own where they’re pressed together—that is how hard it’s beating.

Spencer only breathes a long, low curse and shifts so he can grasp himself. Your fingers drift down the shaft of him as he slots himself at your entrance, notching half an inch in and you hold your breath, and you brace yourself—and then he’s kissing you again, but gentler this time. Reassuring. You soften, you can’t not, releasing all your air in a soft gust through your nose, and then he’s pushing in.

Your lips part at the stretch as it fuzzes your mind, but he stays right there, nose pressed to your nose, lips ghosting over your own. He’s not going anywhere, you think, and you’re glad for it, when it burns ever so slightly, and the tiniest whine escapes your open mouth.

“Shh,” he soothes immediately, low and soft, only fractionally louder than you had been. “You’re okay.”

Spencer. Your Spencer.

For a moment, you’re living in that alternate universe. The kinder one. The flash of pain you feel then has nothing to do with the way he’s opening you up.

This is the closest you have ever been, and in some strange way, the furthest apart.

Together, fingers brushing, you guide him until he settles at not quite your deepest point. You can feel that he’s not giving you everything yet, but you’re okay with that, as you adjust to the full feeling. Spencer again senses your desire to close your legs against the deep intrusion, and gives you the best he can by encouraging you to wrap your legs around him.

“Good girl,” he whispers tenderly, nudging at your jaw with his nose and dragging kisses along the ridge of it. Your stomach flips at the moniker and your brain turns to warm sludge as your eyes flutter shut. It makes you feel all light-headed and you flutter around him. Spencer chuckles into the junction of your neck and shoulder and the vibrations send a chill down your arching spine. “I thought you might like that one.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm. How are you? You okay?”

“’M ready.”

“You’re ready?” His tone is dripping sarcasm and faux-disbelief as he pulls back the slightest bit only to push right back in deeper, this time. Your toes curl, one thigh sliding higher up his waist as you cling to him.

“Fuck,” you manage, a pitiful, high pitched curse tossed to the wind. He echoes the sentiment.

“Oh, my god,” he groans, continuing with that slow pace, “you feel so good, angel.”

You grapple at his back, searching for purchase as your brow knits. “Faster.”

This inspires another breathy chuckle, but he obliges, and you cry out softly. It’s almost unreal, your head buried against his neck, drunk on his scent and the drag of him like a shock felt in the far reaches of your body, again and again.

There’s nothing you can say that will accurately demonstrate what you’re feeling, so you elect not to speak, to remain silent and try to get a grip on this cacophony of sensation and emotion. But it’s too much to be alone with. You feel you have to get it out, to seek understanding. You can’t do it alone.

“Spencer.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know...” the sentence trails off into a gentle keen. He moves to kiss you, speaking against your lips.

“You don’t know?”

Shyly you shake your head. Spencer sighs wistfully.

“Do you know how much I missed you?”

It’s like he can sense your need for comfort. For something grounding.

And while this topic was off-limits earlier—you're softer now. The stone walls that form your boundaries have been chipped away and lowered.

Spencer continues unprompted.

“I thought about you every day. Every night while I was falling asleep. You were always on my mind, angel girl.”

You whine. Whether it’s pleasure or distress is anyone’s guess—including your own.

“You were gone so long,” you whisper, eyes shut.

At this, Spencer slows again, and the tension that was building settles back to a simmer.

“I know. I wish I could—I wish I could change that. But I’m here, okay? I’m right here with you.”

Then he makes sure you feel every last inch, and it takes your breath away. If your thoughts were any more coherent, they’d be something along the lines of: but for how long? How long until you leave again?

“You’re here.”

You say it like a mantra, once out loud, and then again and again in your head, timed with every clash of your hips. With each repetition he becomes more real. Every little ache, every tingling, head-emptying brush against that most sensitive spot inside proves to you that he could not be any closer. This can’t be faked. It can’t be another dream to wake up in tears from.

“You’re here,” you gasp as it hits you, as it truly sinks in.

“I’m here,” he breathes.

There’s so much you want to say—three months of words you need him to hear, of things you need to talk to him about, things you need to yell at him for and things you can only say crying in his arms and things you can only say laughing or whispering or drunk or half-asleep—and in this moment you can’t manage any of it. Every word condenses into one drop of salt water, drifting away from your eye and down your cheek. Spencer doesn’t tell you to stop crying. He only kisses the tear away, and murmurs I’m here I’m here I’m here over and over again against your skin until he’s not even speaking it out loud anymore. But you feel it. With every brush of his lips, every breath, every movement, you feel it.

Soon he’s adjusting his angle, gradually picking up the pace but retaining that unforgiving depth, and your nails bite into the skin of his back as your jaw drops. Spencer hisses, pressing impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak.

“Do it again.”

“Wh—what?”

“Please,” he begs, low and hot against your jaw, just beneath your ear. “Do it again, honey.”

Honey.

You’d do anything for him if it meant he calls you that again.

When he shifts his weight to one arm and reaches down between your bodies to play with your aching clit in exactly the right way, you don’t really have a choice. You arch and moan wantonly enough to feel embarrassed as your nails scratch down his back. At the same time he’s making noises of his own, and you almost feel guilty for marking him up like this only you think he likes it. The most perfect and troubling tension is building in your core, so taut you almost fear the inevitable rebound when it snaps. But you’re driven to be exactly what Spencer needs right now, and to let him try and be what you need. Even if it scares you. Even if you’re not sure how.

Spencer groans, head tucked to the bend of your shoulder. “I’m not gonna last.”

Any response you might’ve been about to muster is annihilated by a sudden, deep bolt of pleasure.

“’M gonna cum,” you mewl like it’s a secret.

“Are you?” he asks, coming up breathless. If your eyes were open, you’re sure you’d see him above you.

“Mhm.”

“Look at me. Look at me.”

It is unmistakably a command—one you fight to follow.

You cry out as you meet the intensity of his gaze, those shadowy corridors suddenly ablaze and alive. They are not unending, like you’d thought. They are a door thrown open to let the light in, or maybe to let the fire out. They’re open in this moment for you.

No more words are spoken after that—you cum hard, gasping as you fall and spin. Spencer follows very shortly after, like he was holding it together just for you, and your eyes are still locked though everything is a bit bleary.

“Fuck,” you whine as he continues to fuck you for as long as he can, despite your writhing hips, but you’re entranced by him, unable to look away now that you’re hooked. Until he slows to a halt, glances down at your mouth, and you just have time to pray that he’ll kiss you before he does. You whimper against his lips—a plea for understanding. A plea for him to stay, even though this is over. He kisses back so soft and sweet it’s like he can read your mind. Echoes of I’m here I’m here I’m here still buzz across your skin. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. Your heart stops beating quite so quickly, melting and warm like the rest of your body.

Soon the kissing ceases and you’re just breathing together, trapped and faced with the knowledge that it must end just the same as you had waited for it to start.

Eventually the air between you becomes mostly carbon dioxide and you let your head fall to the side, dizzy and giggling breathlessly as you nearly avoid asphyxiation. Spencer laughs too, letting his head fall to your shoulder once more, and you finally let your eyes flutter closed. To do something as simple as laugh with him again is its own small euphoria. It’s unexpected, and a soft landing once all that tension breaks underneath your combined weight.

It can’t last forever, you know that well. But the slow fade of it makes the next parts a little easier.

Spencer presses a kiss to your neck. “Is your bathroom through that door?”

You hum a confirmation and are only slightly disheartened when he pulls out and rolls off of you. You’re further disturbed when you see there’s gauze around his thigh, matching what’s around his arm, and you wonder how you missed that. Spencer scoops up his clothing and disappears into the adjoining restroom, assuring you he’ll be right back and leaving you alone with your thoughts and the whorls on the ceiling which have seemingly shifted into entirely new constellations.

He leaves the door cracked which is oddly reassuring—the sliver of warm light and the sound of the sink running. Only a few moments pass before he’s returning clad in boxers once more to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing away the sheet you’d just pulled over your chest and pulling one of your legs over his lap. Your face warms as he brings a washcloth between your thighs. As soon as he glances up at you and catches your eye you’re looking back to the ceiling.

“I should’ve asked first,” he says quietly as he cleans up the mess he’d made of you.

You speak just as softly, like you’re both afraid of disturbing some peace, of waking some sleeping giant. “It’s okay. I would’ve told you if I didn’t want it.”

His reticence, his unreadable face, make you nervous.

When he’s done, he rises to toss the dirtied cloth in the laundry bin, and with his back to you (as scratched up as it might be) you feel braver.

“Are you gonna, like... hate me now?”

It was a mistake. That’s clear by the way he turns around, brow knit deeply and grimacing slightly like even the suggestion offends him.

“Am I going to hate you?”

Again you pull the sheet up, and again you look away, studying the pattern of moonlight stretching out over the floor and scooting to make room for him when he steps in it.

“Not hate, I just...” the bed dips beside you and you are indescribably glad he’s not immediately running out the door. “I’m not dumb. I know what this was.”

He pulls you into him and you settle against his chest. It feels good. “I never thought you were dumb.”

This is your first real conversation since he’s gotten back, you realize. And how quickly you’re falling into familiar patterns, familiar syntactical beats. You know when to speak. You know when to bite your tongue and keep him talking.

The silence goes on longer than you’re used to. Maybe he got good at not speaking while he was away.

Eventually your eyes wander, falling to the white strip over his thigh where it is parallel to yours on the bed, only over the sheets.

“What happened?”

You said you wouldn’t ask, but that was then, and you’re upset again. You almost want to hurt him. To piss him off. You don’t know.

But it doesn’t work.

“Do you really want to know?” There’s a note of something heavy in his voice, and you look up at him. It’s a privilege to have him this close—his beauty is a constant surprise that you’d become unaccustomed to over the months. You say nothing, and he takes that as the yes that it is. “I... I did it to myself.”

He may as well have reached down your throat and grabbed for fucking heart for all its clenching. Tears well almost immediately, though they’ve been waiting in the wings all night.

“What? Did you—were you trying to—”

His eyes widen.

“No! No, honey, no.” You wilt as he gathers you closer, a deeply confused frown still contorting your features, too heartbroken even to cling to him, or to appreciate the ease with which honey slips past his lips again. “No. I was—it's complicated. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to hurt myself, but I had to—I had to do it before someone else did something worse.”

The bruises covering his abdomen.

You sniffle and pull back enough to look up at him tearfully. “Why would they want to hurt you?”

Mist fills his eyes even as he’s looking down at you, a layer of separation, as if he’s two places at once. Even as he goes to brush your hair behind your ear, to stroke your cheek.

“I’m... not... the same, as I was.” It’s not an answer to your question—but it’s the beginning of the answer to a question you’d been too afraid to put into words.

“Don’t say that,” you beg, because you know where this is going. He keeps smoothing your hair like it’ll make this easier.

“But it’s true,” Spencer says gently, the slightest waver betraying his own emotion.

“You’re just going to leave again.”

And you’re losing to the tears.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you will,” you insist, like a child crying to a parent come to comfort them after a bad dream.

“Not right now. Right now I’m here.”

I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.

For now, maybe that has to be enough. 

You cry on his shoulder. He kisses your head and doesn’t tell you to stop. 

Eventually, you sniff and wipe your eyes. 

“We were so close. Before you… we were almost there.”

You’re sure of it. You’re sure that if he hadn’t gone when he did you would’ve been a real couple. You would’ve told him you loved him. 

“We’ll get there again,” he promises, rubbing your arm. “I just… I need a little bit of time. I think you do too. But we’re going to get there again.”

Maybe it will never be like it was. 

But as so often is the case—Spencer is right. Difference doesn’t mean it won’t ever be good again. 

You have to believe that, just as you had to believe you’d see him again. 

You look to The Odyssey on your bedside table. 

The sun has been obliterated from the sky, and an unlucky darkness invades the world. 

But the sun has a habit of rising, time and time again, after the longest nights, after the darkest storms. 

You feel the beginnings of its rise, see the golden tips of it lighting the room as he holds you. Even now. 

[nebulaafterdark]

The Succession (Part 2)

Summary: After the battle of Rook’s Rest, Queen Y/N is forced to rule alongside Prince Regent Aemond, in an attempt to keep her children safe and eventually seat her mother, Rhaenyra, on the throne. While attending her husband, on what appears to be his deathbed, she begins to unravel the dark truth of his near passing.

Aegon Targaryen x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Part 1

Y/N wakes to a knock at the door. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she sits upright. Aegon is still there, unmoving beside her. “Come.”

“Good morrow, your grace.” Her lady in waiting, Chérie, bows her head upon entry; a powder blue gown draped over one arm. “You must break your fast.”

“What ungodly hour is it?” The Queen grumbles, stretching both arms above her head.

“Nearly midday, my Queen.”

Y/N nods, taking her hand. “I need a favor of you.”

“A bath?” Chérie smirks.

Y/N stares down at herself, nightgown stained with blood and gods know what else. She huffs a laugh, “that as well.”

“I will ready the tub.”

“Chérie?”

“Are you seeking comfort, your grace?” She has lost her grandmother and her husband’s good health, “I could tend you.”

“No.” Y/N stares down at her hands.

“Forgive me for assuming.” She takes a step back, “I only want to help.”

Y/N moves forward, closing the space between them. “It was kind of you, Chérie. I appreciate your devotion, more than you know. There is something different I need of you.”

“Name it.”

“You know things…I must know them.”

“What is it you need know?” Chérie wonders.

“The truth of what happened at Rook’s Rest. I do not pretend to understand Aegon’s motivations. Gods willing, I may be able to ask him one day. But for now, I need know what befell him. Cole dances around it, the Hightowers will never be truthful with me.”

“Is there anything you do know? A talking point that might be of use as I consult the servants?” Chérie wonders.

Y/N leans in. “Helaena and Aemond stood at the foot of his bed last night. She asked if it was worth the price. Aemond denied any knowledge of what she meant. Still, Helaena does not speak to cause upset, she speaks when she has something to say. If he’s done this…the whole of our line may be in danger.”

Chérie sighs, “somedays I am glad to’ve been born a commoner.”

“For that I do not fault you.” Y/N forces a smile.

Chérie steals a glance at the king. “Will he live?”

“We’ve no way of knowing. I pray to the gods for his recovery, but it is a long road. He will never be as he was, so long as he lives, it matters naught to me.”

————————————————————————

“There’s been word from King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra’s head snaps up.

“Aegon has fallen, the stranger looms over his head. With Vhagar weakened in the attack, now is the time to act.”

“And what of my daughter?” The Queen ticks a finger against the table. “Has she been spotted since Aegon’s coronation?”

“We believe the princess lives, your grace. But upon second hand testimony, smallfolk in the streets, we cannot say for certain.”

“What was she doing?” Rhaenyra wonders, “my girl, when they saw her in the streets?”

The lords look to each other, “she marched beside the carriage with Aegon’s body.”

“That is proof enough. I must send word to her, she cannot think we have turned our backs on her. With Aegon gone, she may very well be Aemond’s next attempt.” Rhaenyra is sick over it.

“You must trust, as we have, that Aegon will care for her.”

“He cannot care for her, upon his deathbed. Should he pass, we leave her to whom? Aemond and Alicent? She will be put to the sword.” Rhaenyra shakes her head.

“Meleys was our largest dragon, your grace.” Ser Alfred reminds her.

“Which is why I must go.”

“You cannot, my Queen. You are the crown.”

“I will go.” Jacaerys fists the hilt of his sword.

“No,” Rhaenyra scoffs. “It is out of the question. You will be taken or slain.”

“Would you rather my sister or me?” Jace squares his shoulders. “Those are your choices.”

————————————————————————-

Y/N forces her meal down, spending the evening in her children’s rooms.

“Mama,” Visera calls to her, “I’ve made something for father.”

“I helped!” Dahlia chimes in. “Laenor wanted to, but he rubbed his hands all over it. The painting was nearly ruined.”

“Say it isn’t so, my loves.” Y/N lifts her eldest son onto her hip. “Shall I kiss his head off?”

“Yes.”

“Do it.”

Y/N smiles, peppering Laenor’s sweet face with kisses as he squeals, thrashing wildly in her hold.

Dahlia and Visera giggle, entertained for the moment.

“And you, my prince, best have learned your lesson.” Y/N says, releasing her son onto the floor.

He scampers away, still screeching with glee.

“Mother?” Dahlia tugs at her mother’s skirts.

“Yes, my darling?”

“When will we see father?”

Y/N sighs, “come, sit with me.” She pats the cushions on either side of her.

Her daughters look to each other, then join her on the settee.

“Do you remember what Papa told you about sickness? How it is a war we wage alone, within our bodies?”

“Is he ill?”

“Not exactly,” Y/N explains, “nevertheless, his body is at war now. Battling to repair itself from great wounds, some we cannot see. Every hour, he is fighting his way back to us. But he must remain abed for now, in a state of sleep.”

“May we watch him sleep?” Visera wonders.

“I fear you might be saddened by it.”

“Why, Mama?”

“He looks a bit different, on the outside. But on the inside he is the same.” Y/N says, fighting for composure, “we mustn’t touch him, lest we cause more pain. And it is hard to keep our distance, when all we truly want is to wrap him in an embrace.”

“Mayhaps when we see him, we might hold each other instead.”

Y/N looks to her eldest daughter. “On the morrow, after his bandages are changed, I will bring you. And if it is too much for you, there is no shame in saying so. We love him dearly and he knows it.”

“That is what matters, I think.” Visera says, “if I were waging war, I would want to know someone loved me.”

————————————————————————

Y/N sneaks down to the kitchens for a bit of cake, heading to Aegon’s apartments to eat it. The doors open onto Aemond, leaning over Aegon’s body.

“What are you doing?” She has no weapon, if she’s to kill him now, it will be with her bare hands or a serving spoon.

Aemond turns to her, with sly smile. “My brother was asking for you. He woke in pain, I was merely supplying him with milk of the poppy.”

Y/N forces her mouth to turn upward, “very kind of you, I thank you for looking in on him.”

Aemond nods, setting the empty cup on the bedside table. “Of course.”

“When he asked for me, what did he say?” She wonders, lying her plate of cake beside it.

“Only your name.”

Y/N nods.

“You have been a good and faithful wife to him. Aegon is blessed to have you.”

“Aemond,” Y/N breathes, “might I ask you something?”

His eye flickers about her, “of course, sweet niece.”

“What do you think was his undoing?” She motions to Aegon, “if you had to say?”

“Vanity…pride.”

“It would be suited,” Y/N forces the awful words past her lips, “for someone to take that from him.”

“You should not say such things, my Queen. The thought alone is truly depraved.”

“Of course, forgive me.”

“What befell my brother is nothing short of a tragedy.” Aemond purrs, “you must keep your wits about you.”

“Were they locked in battle?” Y/N asks, “when my grandmother gave Meleys the order?”

Aemond purses his lips, “when dragons fly to war, it is men who burn. Aegon is not the first, he will not be the last. You should be grateful he returned to you.”

“I have lost a brother to war.” Y/N says, as if he needs reminding. “I know its cruelty.”

“A shame, indeed.” Aemond hums.

“I hope it was worth the price.”

“Y/N.” Alicent calls, “Aemond, what are you doing here?”

The prince looks to his mother, “I was merely checking in on our king.”

“You are kind to do so,” Alicent swallows, “as his wife is now here, you are relieved of said duty. Unless you wish the three of us to hold vigil.”

“Perhaps another time, mother.” Aemond nods, “I’ve more pressing matters to attend.” He brushes past them, closing the door to Aegon’s bedchamber behind him.

“What were you thinking?” Alicent demands, in a hushed whisper. “My son pleads for your life and you stand here tempting the very man who-”

“The very man who what?” Y/N dares her to say it. “Killed my brother? Or are you referring to some other atrocity I am not privy to?”

“Your children are in danger, my grandchildren, let me help you.” Alicent reaches for her.

Y/N bats her hand away, “don’t you touch me! My children are in danger because of you.”

“You know what Aemond is.” Kinslayer. Alicent swallows, hard. “My only concern is keeping you safe. What is to stop him from taking out the whole of Aegon’s line to make room for his own? The smallfolk riot in the streets, demanding we open the gates. Even they wish to flee, it is all going to ruin. They need to see you.”

“They will see me as you parade my body through the streets after my murder, not a moment before. I will not betray my mother or her claim.”

“I am not asking you to stand against Rhaenyra, I am asking you to stand for my son. Before it is too late. You owe him this. You forced him onto that saddle as much as I forced him upon the throne.”

“I?” Y/N snaps, “I am the one you blame for this? You think I would have my husband reduced to ash over a fucking chair?”

Alicent presses her lips together, “all Aegon has done is in your name. He rose and he fell for you alone.”

“I wanted this to be peaceful, you know. I truly did and my mother did, then again and again I was taken for a fool.”

“Aegon loves you. He went to meet Rhaenys for you, in hopes of creating new terms with your mother. Mayhaps others have used you, like a pawn to carry out their own agenda, but not Aegon. He never plotted, he never wavered, even in his condition, you are the agenda.”

“And I love him for it, but please know I did not ask him to meet with her. I would have gone myself rather than risk his life. That is why I have not fled, or stole away with my children to Dragonstone. Aegon is equally important to me.”

“You must ready yourself then, in the color of our house.”

“No,” Y/N narrows her eyes, “this is for my husband, who hangs precariously in the balance of life and death. I will attend this procession in the color of mourning, not Hightower green.”

————————————————————————

In the absence of Daemon, Rhaenyra turns to Mysaria for counsel. “You know the ins and outs of King’s Landing better than any. I need an in.”

“Criston Cole made a mistake, parading a dragon’s head through the streets, like a prize of war. The people see an ill omen.” Mysaria tells her.

“Yes, as do I.”

“They are afraid, bread is scarce. The king has fallen, they whisper to each other that when Viserys lived there was peace.” They question the succession.

“But will whispers tear down stone? Break shields?” Save my daughter?

“Do not underestimate them, to the discontented, rumors are feed.” Mysaria continues. “What you cannot do, let others to do for you. There is more than one way to fight a war.”

Part 3

Series Taglist: @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark @lovelyteenagebeard @niyahnotnia @narwhal-swimmingintheocean

[shegetsburned]

❝ the duke’s proposal ❞ w. satoru gojo 𝜗𝜚.

BRIDGERTON AU⌇

• — dearest gentle readers. the time has come for us to place our bets for the upcoming social season! marriage-minded mamas must consider the oldest of the gojo’s family thrilled to conquer hearts with his wits and undeniable charm. having officially announced his wish to find a bride, we certainly hope to see the young rake, on the dance floor, turn the tides and find a wife after much seasons of avoiding his duty. may the best lady win! • — a/n. i know @grumpchua asked for this and i believe it will feed some of y’all, so here’s the food <3

.nsfw.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who you’ve known ever since your debut and has been a inconvenience in your life for quite a while. like a tick biting into your flesh, only bringing trouble and worry for yourself. truth is, the duke loved pestering you about failed courting attempts or clumsy men coming to steal your hand, only to fall with them into a life of misery and depths. you undoubtedly did not attract the smartest and wealthiest of them all and satoru took advantage of this unwanted success.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who’s audacious. far from being a gentleman. the cockiest of all rakes. you did not only despise the man, you thought he was without honour, unromantic and arrogant. lord satoru was, in fact, everything you thought he was, but loved to show you personally every single one of his flaws.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who, despite your best efforts, thought no better but to follow you around at every ball and "unexpectedly" bump into you at the market or when you walked out of the modiste. lord gojo was high in the instep, purposely shoving his strength of character and title in unfortunate suitors’ faces every time they deemed to approach you. needless to say, he took pleasure in crushing your chances of ever securing a proposal.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who has never really shown any interest in you, before. he would rather amuse himself by courting pretty debutantes only to leave them hanging and being chased by the impatient mamas of the ton. that was until his status caught up to him and forced the man to consider a serious marriage proposal. unfortunately for you, an idea blossomed into the young rake’s mind when he realized his need to find a bride was more urgent than he hoped to be.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who, one evening, during a tranquil promenade, abruptly stops and steals you from your mama, offering his hand for you to finish your walk beside him. he obviously had a plan and it involved the lady that despised him the most in this entire ton: you— and who would be better than you to not catch feelings and be able to execute his plan perfectly?

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who proposes an alliance. knowing you only attract the worst suitors possible, he assures you that more eligible men will throw themselves at your feet when they see the famous duke gojo court you. he swears it’ll only be temporary until he can find a suitable bride of his own without hundreds of ladies begging for his attention when you’re wrapped around his arm. you’ll be found desirable and he’ll have the peace he desires. what could possibly go wrong?

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who, for the first days, tries harder than any other years you’ve known him. the first day, your carriage’s waiting downstairs to meet him in the parc. he’s holding your umbrella above your head the whole time and acting like quite the gentleman, for once. he laughs with you, readjusts your hair and takes care of every single one of your needs. this masquerade goes on for two weeks where, each day, he surprises you with gorgeous flowers, kind gestures and words you would’ve never thought to hear. until one night, it’s an invite to his mansion that’s waiting for you, which you accept thinking it’ll just be another public appearance with him by your side. oh, but you couldn’t have been more wrong.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who welcomes you in his home, one gentle hand resting against the back of your corset to escort you to the ballroom where people were gathered and seemed to be enjoying their evening. everything would’ve seemed in order if not for the many men eyeing you from across the room. it seemed odd now, considering you hadn’t had this kind of attention for weeks, but it also seemed like satoru’s plan had worked and you couldn’t be more satisfied.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who listens to you converse with one of the gentlemen who had introduced himself to you. he seemed kind, polite, educated and of high status, which couldn’t have been more perfect if it hadn’t been for the duke terminating the conversation with a harsh remark and by guiding you to the dance floor without even writing his name on the card around your wrist. he had lost his temper in a matter of seconds and you were more than surprised by his lack of manners.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who tries to convince you to play along but you know this is entirely about something else. his grip around your waist and hand has never been so tight. he’s pulling you closer until his breath tickles your face and his words are whispers when he reminds you that your deal isn’t over and you’ll have to wait until you are allowed to let yourself be courted by other men. you try to respond but he spins you around gracefully. his fingers trail your column when he catches you and before you know it, you’re dancing with him and no one else is in the room.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo whose deep gaze startles you. he hasn’t left your eyes and does not plan to until he gets a proper response from you. satoru’s piercing blue eyes linger on your lips with a cocky smirk and you don’t know why your heart is beating so fast. he had never shown this facet of his before and it made your chest flutter. would he have preferred your attention was entirely on him, this evening, and not on the handsome suitor that had caught yours? no. you hated him. he was tricking you to make it seem real.. right?

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo whose tension is enough to fill the room with curious whispers surrounding your odd pair. you two made it seem like you had shared more than simple dinners and promises. in front of everyone, you looked used to being so intimate with satoru, but you were trembling in your shoes when he leaned forward, grazing his lips against your ear to try and make you understand that he wouldn’t allow any suitors to approach you just yet.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who pulls you away from the crowd, stealing you away to his bedchamber in front of indiscreet pairs of eyes. he seems more impatient than ever when his instinct takes over and, god, your innocence has an unexpected hold on him. you question satoru with incomprehension in your eyes until he finally closes the door to answer you.

₊˚ପ⊹ duke!gojo who skillfully shows you everything you’ve been missing and every little sinful activity he’s been partaking in with innocent debutantes such as yourself. only this time, he means it. his hands touch every sensitive spot, his lips cover yours and trail down to your exposed chest. his fingers slipped under your dress, letting him discover your body with your help as you take him in, whining at his insensitive touch.

you’ll never know, that night, if duke satoru gojo meant to lose his mind over you in front of everyone else for his scheme and personal gain or if it had been purely accidental and you had just mesmerized the rake in a matter of weeks to the point where he couldn’t think about anything else but to have you in his bed for the rest of his life.

© shegetsburned 2024 please do not repost/edit/or claim my writing as your own.

[gghostwriter]

Knots of Yearning

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer lies by omission or in which Spencer acts like he doesn’t know how to tie a tie just to get you to do it for him Trope: Yearning/Angst; think season 1 Spencer Reid w.c: 1.3k a/n: when i thought of this idea, i was thinking it would be some cute light hearted fluff but when i started writing it, it became angst, filled with pining and tension so I dunno what happened but i finished writing it and thought it would be a waste not to post my rambly written fic. I might write a part 2 for this just to close it out to a happy ending. Let me know if that would interest you. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! 💗

Two halves of a whole, the perfect pairing and yin & yang. Those were just some monikers that Spencer Reid had heard describing his partnership with you that started during the academy. He, being a genius in all things academic and psychological but severely lacking in the physical and combat department. You, on the other hand, filled those gaps—acing all physicals and being well known for being a shy but killer shot. Not to say you were lacking in the other categories, no, you came only second during written exams. 

So it came as a no surprise when graduation came and you both were cherry picked to join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Spencer being chosen by SSA Jason Gideon and you being selected by Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. 

The two geniuses of the BAU and the apprentices were added to the roster of nicknames.

Ever since then, he had traded in his standard issued trainee uniform to a button down and a matching tie—a tie that he badly struggles with or so Spencer made you believe. He didn’t mean to lie at first—didn’t mean it to go this far but by the time he felt the need to tell the truth, it had been too late. Each moment you’ve spent close to his space, invading it really, had become the highlight of his days and fuel for his nights. 

He often wondered if you catalogued his reaction just like how he did yours. Did you notice his staccato breathing just like how he noticed your subtle inhalation of his perfume? What about the reddening of his cheeks and neck in contrast to your trembling fingers? Or how about his eyes that convey his utter devotion as yours focus on any exposed skin in between his tie and collar? 

It seemed like a dance between him and you, to see how the other reacts and to figure out who would cave under the mounting attraction that had been building since the first ‘hello.’ 

With his choice of tie for the day hanging loosely on his neck, you would shyly smile and as if spellbound, he would shuffle to your orbit in silent plea for help that he needed.

Each glide of your finger made his encompassing thoughts about the mundane stutter into a halt. How his mind would then bombard itself with questions as to how the universe created such perfection. Each loop of your hand became vivid imagery of his own nimble fingers caressing your palm and all its engraved lines as if they contain the maps to all hidden mysteries of the world. And each tug to secure the knot transformed into a loud beating of his chest, encased within it’s cavity, with chants of waxing prose on how your very being, mind, body, and soul, call to his in a way that even his expansive vernacular could never explain. 

But no matter how much he wished for time to slow down for these intimate moments to last, it never did comply. So here he stayed, lying by omission—yearning for you to notice him, memorize him, and end his pining for the woman who seemed too unattainable for his clumsy, stuttering self.

———

 You accepted the lie well. Maybe too well.

The first time a blue striped flimsy piece of accessory hung around his neck, a sudden burst of courage took over, bringing you to a stop in front of his lithe, towering body and hands reaching up to whisper caresses on the silk to mold it into a secure neck tie that centered itself on his reddening neck—the color matching the one that bloomed on your cheeks as you realized what you’ve done. 

Your mind had rationalized someone as smart as he knew how to fix a tie but your body had moved on it’s own, having have spotted a once in a lifetime chance to invade his well protected space—the same way he had invaded your mind in every waking and sleeping moment.

That same chance turned into a routine. A blessing that you had come to look forward to, your steps having a bounce in them as you enter the bull pen and spotting a different pattern tie hanging undone on his neck every work day.

You knew, with no backing evidence that Spencer has to be doing it on purpose but didn’t want to spiral much into thought as to why he would leave that intimate action up to you.

Did he take note of every reaction you had to his presence the same way you did? The slight rocking on your heels as he inhaled your carefully chosen perfume? The biting of your lip as you felt his honey dripping eyes on your face? If he felt the same, you wondered why nothing has been done and if you had another burst of courage, would you have acted upon the tension? 

Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe that was why you settled for accepting his poorly crafted lie of not knowing how to tie a necktie. 

It wasn’t really a lie if the other party knew the truth, right? Or was it a double lie now that silence has stacked between you and him? 

If you were being slightly honest with yourself, Spencer Reid had always fascinated you. Among the sea of gym built muscles during the academy, his gazelle stature has stuck out like a sore thumb and that intrigued you. How was it that a male, younger than any of his peers, that looked like he could grace a runway was in an institution that reeked sweat and masculinity? That very same question answered when you found yourself seated beside him in a profiler career talk. His intellect, that was why and although it seemed to alienate the others, not once did you feel inferior beside him. Rather, it pulled you in more. His quiet, unsure demeanor was the next to capture your attention. It was an invisible coat that he wore everywhere he went, sewn from years of bullying and ostracizing—similar to your experiences of having skipped a grade. Here was a comrade you thought and so, you silently orbited around his gravitational pull until he took notice and uttered the words ‘hello, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid’ in a low, trembling voice. 

You didn’t know when that same fascination turned into adoration. There was never a specific moment in time that you could pinpoint when it all changed. It just happened, one day you woke up and the past truth had transformed into a half truth—and the whole truth now being, you falling and yearning for a man who had a bright future in reading people’s actions but seemed too oblivious to the call of your aching heart. 

———

Morgan and Elle shared an exasperated look as they noted the two youngest members of the team silently flirting in the middle of the bullpen, yet again. They didn’t get how obtuse the two smartest people in the room were with their feelings for one another. 

“You think we should give them a push?” He whispered to his female partner.

Elle scrunched her face. “At this point, we might just have to confess for the other.”

And in that moment, another moniker was added to the roster. The dense lovers of the BAU, a nickname that the remaining members use only behind both the duo’s back as they become bystanders to what could be a match made in heaven. If only one would admit to the other. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[dorkszn]

7 MINUTES IN HELL + satoru gojo

SYNP — getting stuck with your ex-boyfriend during a dumb game of seven minutes in hell heaven

WARNINGS — amab reader, dom!top!reader, sub!bottom!gojo, brat gojo, porn w plot, forced proximity, pet names, dunk sex, drinking, smoking (weed), closet sex, fingering, orgasm denial, anal sex, college au, implied commitment issues, implied toxic relationship, gojo’s kinda an asshole, degradation, creampie, minor feminization | 3.8K words

A/N — my first time writing top reader i think 🥹🥹 I’m actually so proud of this

Everyone knows when and why the two of you broke up. If you can even call it a breakup. It was more of a tear-filled yelling session between a pair of friends with benefits. That’s how he described it. One where Satoru ended up walking out your front door and you dropped onto your couch with angry tears in your eyes.

Nobody questioned you guys afterward though. Suguru kept quiet, listening to Satoru whenever he ranted. Shoko sat beside you, sharing a cigarette and takeout with you. Haibara kept his usual self, forcing everyone into group activities. And Nanami who kept to himself, per usual.

The house was full to the brim of loud, drunk college students. Music blaring and the stench of alcohol intoxicated every inch of the air. Your typical party. Some people play beer pong in the basement of the home you knew all too well, some make out in the corners and crevices, and some dance with their friends in the middle of the living room you’d hung out in many times.

Haibara wasn’t particularly known for his parties but he had thrown a few good ones in the past few months. Some you had attended and some you decided to miss out on. You couldn’t miss this one though. No matter how badly you wished you could. Shoko dragged you here because she couldn’t say no to Haibara’s invitation. Which for some reason meant that you couldn’t say no either.

Currently, you stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as a girl you recognize as a lower classman speaks to you. “But yeah, Mr. Yaga is just—“ her words are interrupted by a small hiccup. “Such an asshole, you know? And I don’t even have his class!” She’s been stumbling and stammering the whole conversation but for some reason, she’s one of the only bearable people here.

“Ain’t that the truth,” You blandly chuckle, sipping at your drink and emptying your red solo cup. “Be right back.” You tell her through the boisterous tune playing through the house. You slide past a few people to make your way to the fridge.

You open it and let the cool air abduct you. A nice break from the stuffiness of the crowd. An arrangement of alcohol sits in front of you. Your gaze runs through it, trying to pick whatever stands out. A singular white claw catches your attention. You reach for it only to be interrupted by another’s hand grabbing it.

“What the he—“ you whip around to face the thief. Of course, it’s this bastard. White hair and black, circular sunglasses greet you along with a stupid signature grin.

“Oops, did you want this?” Satoru hums. He cracks the can open and takes a dragged-out sip of it. You roll your eyes at his typical antics, shutting the fridge.

“Fuck off, Gojo.” You scoff.

“Ow, last name basis, baby?” He hums, drinking from the can once more. You feel your blood beginning to boil in your veins. You push past him, knocking him back ever so slightly with the force.

“Don’t call me that.” You grumble. You make your way to the basement where you know Haibara would have more alcohol. Gojo chuckles and trails behind you.

“We’re playing some games upstairs if you wanna join.” He offers. You glance back at him with narrow eyes.

“With you? No thanks.” You hum, jogging down the stairs. A cup pong game runs in the large basement, a crowd building around it. The well-known jocks stand in the middle, being hyped up by their teammate.

You hold a prolonged stare at one of the jocks. He’d always caught your eye. “Really? Jocks don’t give a good fuck. I know they seem like it but they don’t.” Gojo suddenly speaks up again.

“Do you ever stop and think that some people want more than a fuck-buddy?” You hiss, turning to look back at the man. He gives you a softer look. Your past flashed through his mind. He sits in silence. You sigh and continue to the box of beer in the corner of the room. You grab a can and crack it open.

“Go find something to do, Gojo.” You mumble, leaving him in the basement.

An hour or two and a few more drinks in, you find yourself watching a UNO game running at Haibara’s dining table. Utahime sits in front of you, holding three cards in her hand. She might be the only other person that Gojo irritates more than you. A focused aura surrounds her, keeping you just a foot away from her.

“You got money on this game?” You ask her, glancing over her cards through slightly hazy eyes.

“Of course she does. As do I,” Another voice speaks up. Mei Mei sits just one seat away from Utahime, she holds just two cards in her hand. You can’t help but chuckle. Of course. Utahime is too competitive for her good and Mei Mei is one of the freakiest gold diggers ever.

Suddenly a hand lands on your shoulder. You turn at the weight and see Shoko. She holds up a plastic ziploc bag, with a small bundle of green inside of it. “Holy shit, Sho.” You slightly gasp with a grin.

The woman smirks back at you. “Found out my guy was here. Plus it was free, beat him in Smash Brothers for it.” She explains. If there was anyone to count on to find something to smoke, it was Shoko.

“Wanna go up? I hear Yu’s room is open.” She questions, gesturing to the stairs. You nod and give Utahime an encouraged pat on the shoulder. You and Shoko find your way through the crowd, squeezing past people kissing, and dancing. You finally make it to the stairs where two students sit at the bottom, one sitting in the other lap. Everyone’s gonna feel like shit on Monday.

You somehow make it up the stairs and follow Shoko’s guide. You find your friend’s room but Shoko stops you before you can open the door. “Don’t freak out, okay? I know that’s unlike you but still.” She murmurs.

You shoot her a confused look before shrugging. “Okay?”

Shoko nods and grabs the knob, opening the door. Haibara’s bedroom looks how it usually does. Suguru and Gojo sit on the bed, sharing a bag of chips between the two of them. Haibara is on the floor beside Nanami, running a game of shogi. You look over at Shoko and she furrows her brows. You sigh.

“Hey, I found y/n.” She hums to the group before closing the door behind the two of you. You awkwardly wave to your group of friends and join Shoko on the floor against the wall.

“Y/n, will you tell Kento that this can't move diagonally?" Yu huffs, showing you one of the game pieces.

“You know I don’t know how to play shogi.” You reply. Yu facepalms before nodding and turning back to the blonde. You watch as Shoko quickly works to roll the weed into the paper. You think she could do this in her sleep if she tried.

When done, she passes you the blunt and reaches for her lighter. “Shit.” You hear her mumble.

“Suguru, got a lighter?” You ask, focusing your gaze on him and only him. You see Gojo watching you out of the corner of your eye but ignore him. Suguru digs through the pockets of his baggy sweatpants, finding his old-fashioned flick lighter. He tosses it to you and you catch it in your right hand.

Shoko cups her hand around the flame as you hold it to the paper. It lights and you shut the lighter. Gojo’s staring at you, you can feel it. You place it between your lips and tuck the lighter in your pocket. You look back at him as you take a drag of the drug. You pass it to Shoko and gently blow out the smoke.

Gojo’s face flushes a soft pink before he turns his attention back to Suguru.

“Oh my god!” Haibara suddenly outbursts. You all turn to look at him. “Ok! Ok! Let’s play something else.” He seethes, frustration written on his face.

“Jeez, grab a beer, dude,” Shoko says, blowing smoke out from her lips.

“What d’you wanna play?” Gojo hums, clearly amused by the idea. Haibara ponders for a moment before his eyes settle on a hat on top of his dresser.

“I have an idea,” he smirks. He stands and grabs the hat then a piece of paper and a marker.

“I don’t like this.” Nanami groans, dragging a hand down his face. While Yu begins ripping up the photo, the door bursts open. An angry Utahime and a grinning Mei Mei enter.

“How’d the game go?” You hum, turning to the two girls. Utahime simply glares at you and you smile back.

“I ran her pockets of course,” Mei answers with a smug grin. Before Utahime can remark, Yu calls out.

“Ok! Everyone write their name on a piece of paper and put it in the hat,” Haibara tells you all, handing everyone a small piece of paper and Suguru a pen.

“We’re not children, Yu-Bara,” Shoko scoffs.

“Exactly. That’s why we’re playing big games,” he says excitedly. “Spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven.” Everyone groans or sighs at his antics, except for Gojo. He laughs.

Reluctantly, you all scribble your names down and drop the folded papers within the hat. You all form a circle in the middle of Haibara’s room floor. Shoko on your right, Kento to your left, and the white-haired bastard across from you.

An empty beer bottle is placed in the middle of the circle. “Let’s keep this fun, guys. No fighting or arguing, alright?” Yu hums. You all nod and he grabs the bottle. It spins rapidly between you all. Everyone’s eyes trained on it. The bottle comes to a slow before stopping, the mouth of the bottle pointing at you.

A cloud of smoke leaves you with a sigh. “Of course.” You mutter. Yu then replaces the bottle with the hat of names. You look at the antsy expressions on your friends' faces before closing your eyes. Your fingers shuffle through the papers then grab one.

A combined “ouuuu” from Haibara, Gojo, and Mei Mei fills the room as you open your eyes. You roll your eyes at their childishness. Slowly, you open the small piece of paper.

‘Satoru ;)’

You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Your facial expression must’ve given away your thoughts because everyone stares at you oddly. Shoko leans over and reads the sheet. “Oh shit.” She gasps slightly.

You look up to meet blue eyes then flip the paper around for everyone to see. Numerous reactions leave the group. But you focus on the grin that covers Gojo’s face. “Well, isn’t it your lucky day?” He quips. He stands and holds his hand out to you. You take one last drag of the blunt before standing and ignoring his assistance.

“Sure is,” you mumble, smoke flowing through your words. Yu trails behind the two of you to the closet. You walk in first, Gojo following.

“Be nice guys! Have fun!” He waves with a taunting grin before shutting the door. You hear him push a chair up in front of it, preventing your escape. “Your seven minutes start now!” He yells, his voice slightly muffled by the door.

You hesitate through the darkness, trying to space yourself away from Gojo. “Just stay on your side for the next 7 minutes and we’ll be fine.” You sigh. Gojo pulls out his phone and turns on the flash, shining the bright light at you.

You wince at the light and put a hand up to shield your eyes. “You see the space we got? There aren’t any sides, sweetheart.” He scoffs, showing you the minimal space of the closet. He stands just about a foot and a half away from you. The proximity almost made your skin crawl.

“Why are you such an asshole?” You question, dragging a hand over your face.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Most people disagree with you, y’know?” Satoru hums, flashing you a grin.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss again. “Plus, most of those people don’t know you.”

“You didn’t seem to mind it the first time,” he snickers and you glare at him. “Besides, are you implying that you know me?”

“No, I thought I did but clearly not.” You grumble, folding your arms over your chest. Satoru ever-so-slightly frowns at this.

“C’mon man, it was just a misunderstanding,” Satoru sighs, pushing his snowy hair out of his face. A misunderstanding was a severe understatement. You couldn’t tell if it was the closet or the alcohol in your system but anger began to fuel your body. “And it’s not my fault you were naive.” He adds.

Before you can think about it, you’re grabbing his shirt and shoving him against the closet wall. His phone falls to the floor with a soft thud, the light illuminating the closet from the ground. Satoru swallows and looks at you with wide eyes. His hand grips your wrist.

“Sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to get you all worked up,” he apologizes with a smirk, gently tapping at your wrist. This bastard.

“I can’t fucking stand you, Satoru.” You seethe, bringing your face close to his. You didn’t want the others to hear and think something was going on.

“You say that and you still haven’t found anyone better than me,” The male replies, putting the two of you just inches apart. A sudden warmth surrounds you, your heart pounding in your ears. “You know you love how I make you feel.” He whispers.

He wasn’t wrong there. Every fuck after him just felt dull and you were left feeling bad for whoever you were with. And nobody pushes your buttons quite like Satoru does. Nobody makes you feel like he does. And you hate it.

“Fuck you,” you finally stammer out with a shaky breath. He lets out a low chuckle.

“You miss that, don’t you?” Satoru murmurs, his grin just inches away from your lips. You’d like to blame the alcohol for your next actions. But both of you know, your mind and body were craving the man in front of you. He was addicting.

You finally took him into a rough kiss, pulling a small sound from him. His lips feel so natural against yours. They feel no different than a few months ago. The two of you move so knowingly with each other, lips in sync. Satoru’s hands grip your shirt, slightly pulling at the fabric. One of your hands finds his waist while the other makes its way to his hair.

You tug on the snowy tufts, pulling a wince from the man’s throat. You slip your tongue past his lips, taking in every inch of him for the first time in a while. Your mind has every part of him engraved in it but your body longs to re-explore him once more. The taste of alcohol lingers on his tongue, matching yours.

You want to breathe him in more. Use him as your oxygen source instead of the small air supply of the closet. However, you pull on his hair once more and pull away from him. A string of saliva connecting the two of you. Your chest heaves up and down, pressing against his. You wonder if he can feel your racing heart.

“Missed you too, baby—“

“Shut up.” You say, voice stern. You pull at his belt with one hand, the other wrapping around his throat. Satoru lets out a weak groan as you undo his belt buckle. You move to his pants until they’re both loose around his waist. The waistband of his boxers reveals itself, as well as the slight bulge in the cotton.

You don’t loosen your grip on his neck when you lift two fingers to his lips. “Get 'em’ wet.” You mumble to him. Your fingers slip past his shining, pink lips and into his mouth. His tongue pressed against your fingerpads before swirling around your digits.

Satoru’s eyes stare straight into yours over the edge of his sunglasses. You feel your dick slightly twitch in your pants, making you swallow harshly. “So you do listen,” you hum. You pull your fingers out with a small ‘pop’ from him.

“When I want to—“ his words are interrupted again when you turn him around, his back facing you. You make quick work of pulling down his pants and boxers. Satoru’s back naturally arches when the cold air hits his skin.

You snicker in response with a small hiccup. “You’re such a slut, Toru,” you tell him as you reveal his hole to you.

“Shut the hell up.” He replies, his words breaking down into a moan when you spit on his entrance and push two fingertips past the ring of muscle. You push your fingers further, prodding at his walls.

“Shit, has anyone stretched you out since me? You feel exactly how I left you.” You grin cockily. Satoru grumbles curses in response and rolls his eyes. You scissor and part your fingers inside of him, stealing lewd noises from the man.

“Yeah… tons, guys way better than you.” Satoru pants, a faltering smile on his face as he glances back at you. You lean forward and bite down on the sensitive spot of his neck. His cry is like music to your ears, making you smirk against his skin. Your tongue laps over the reddening spot as your hand moves to his mouth, covering it with your palm.

“Quiet down, will you? Everyone already knows you’re a whore,” you hiss. You feel Satoru tighten around you, making you groan and his eyes roll. He’s close. “Gonna cum already?” You hum, quickening the pace of your fingers. Your digits curling inside of him.

“Ngh— fuck off,” Satoru mumbles, slightly moving his hips to fuck himself on your fingers. But you pull away, watching his entrance clench around nothing. A small gasp escapes the man. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He examines, turning his head to look back at you with a deep glare.

You scoff before reaching for your belt. “Nothing nearly as bad as whatever is wrong with you.” You reply, undoing your belt buckle and your pants zipper. You pull down your boxers that are slightly stained with your precum. Satoru swallows as he looks down at your growing erection, mouth practically salivating at the sight. A hungry lustful look in his bright blue eyes.

You tease Satoru’s entrance with your tip, just barely pushing into him and pressing kisses to the ring of muscle. Satoru lets out an annoyed whine, his hips squirming and pushing back against you. You groan when he desperately grinds against your length. “C’mon, just put it in.” He pleads.

“Such a needy boy,” you murmur. You push into him and his eyes roll back in his head as your cock fills him. Your breath shakes as it passes your lips, his walls tighten around your length. So warm and holding you just right. “Fuck Toru, you’re so tight.” You hiss in his ear, pressing a kiss against the skin.

“Just fuck me already.” He scoffs weakly, his chest slightly heaving against the closet walls. You wrap a hand around his throat and grip his hip with the other, your fingertips surely bruising where they sit. You pull out of him agonizingly slowly, taking inch by inch away from Satoru.

You then slam back into him to the hilt, a choked whimper leaving him. “Not such an arrogant bastard anymore.” You murmur before picking up your pace again. His muffled sounds don’t go unheard as you focus on the way your cock disappears into the plump flesh of his ass.

A harsh clap echoed throughout the closet with every collision of your hips. “agh— sweetheart, s’too good.” Satoru pants, hands clawing at whatever fabric was closest to him.

“Yeah? Who fucks you the best?” You hum, relentlessly as you buck your hips forward. Your leaking tip punctuating every time you hit that certain spot inside him. A spot you’d never forget.

“Shit, you do. You fuck me the best.” The snow-haired male whimpers. You shift your hand around his throat, pulling him right against you. A pornographic moan erupts from his throat. A noise everyone outside the closet definitely heard. Two of your fingers find their place in Satoru’s mouth again, pressing down on his tongue.

“Shh. Don’t want everyone to hear how much you love my dick, right?” You coo, running your tongue along the exposure of his neck. A muffled “mhm-mhm” leaves Satoru as his tongue focuses on your fingers occupying his mouth.

However, this can’t distract from the feeling of slamming into him. Spreading him apart and filling every centimeter of his insides, reaching sensitive spots he never knew even existed. The feeling of Satoru’s hand pushing against your abdomen doesn’t even register in your mind for seconds as you get lost in his cunt.

You take hold of his wrist and move it off of your flushed skin. “Take it, Toru. You know you can.”

“Can’t, m’fucking— gonna cum.” He babbles.

“Yeah? Go ahead, cum around my cock. Make a mess for me.” You tell him through a smug grin. Your hand drags down from his mouth to his dick, wrapping around it and pumping him to the rhythm of your thrust.

“Fuck, baby, missed you so so much.” Satoru groans before ropes of cum spurt from his tip. His eyes squeeze shut so tight and his body trembles against you. His seed coating your hand and fingers.

“So fucking sloppy.” You mewl, feeling your balls clench as you stuff yourself into Satoru to the hilt. You bite down on his neck as you release in him, stuffing him to the brim with your cum.

A weak whine pulls from Satoru when you finally pull your teeth out of his neck and lap your tongue over the spot.

The two of you sit in your mess, the smell of sex and sweat intoxicating the small space. You can feel Satoru’s heart racing in his chest. You just sit for a moment until you go limp within him before pulling out. Satoru leans against the closet wall, lips glossy with spit and eyes hazed over with lust.

Suddenly, he gives you a weak grin. And you can’t help but drunkenly smile back. Idiot. You glance down and see your cum beginning to dribble out of him. Satoru grunts when you push a finger into him, assuring your seeds place inside of him.

“Missed you too, baby.”

[ja3hwa]

♡ 𝐌𝐲 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐟 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐞 | 𝐉𝐘𝐇 ♡

Day Two - Masturbation

【Synopsis】 : You couldn’t wait any longer for your boyfriend to finish the match, so you decided to take matters into your own hands.

『Word count』 : 998

-> Genre: Smut. Gamer au  

Pairing: GamerBF!Yunho x GamerGF!Reader  

[Warnings] : Fingering. Swearing. Pet names. Dirty talk. Dominance play-ish.

Networks: @cromernet @illusionnet @wonderlandnet @atzhouse @k-vanity

Masterlist | Navigation | Kinktober list | Tip Jar ♡

Yunho was so concentrated on Valerant that he didn’t even notice you walk into his room, let alone strip yourself bare only a mere foot away from him. You had grown tired of waiting for your boyfriend to finish his campaign. You weren’t mad in any way, given you were a gamer yourself, but when you had died for the fifth time, you felt like you needed a little pick me up. The way Yunho grunts and growls into his mic, while your headphones were on full volume, was not helping your case either. You had decided to play on opposing teams to test each other's skill set. But you missed being his teammate. He had only three more rounds until the match was over, and you had died way back at the beginning cause one of your team mates can gotten you cornered, so you had to wait….

Stripping yourself of your sweats, you were left in Yunho’s large hoodie and some cute lacy panties. Your whole body shivered when the cool air hit the wetness that was forming on the soft fabric between your legs. Everything about your boyfriend got you riled up, including his physique, his voice, and his personality. He was perfect in your eyes from head to toe. Taking a seat on the couch behind him, nicely out of his line of sight, your devious plan set into motion.

You sighed as you felt your finger dance around your aching clit, jumping slightly at just the little bit of pressure you gave yourself. You whimpered through a bitten lip, feeling some of the tension from the game slowly melt away. Your fingers weren't as god-like as Yunho but they’ll have to do it for now. Pulling your panties to the side, you let a single finger slip into your soaked cunt. This caused you to tilt your head back against the couch cushions trying your damned hardest not to moan. Yunho grunted, mumbling something to his teammates. Fuck, did you wish he growled like that in your ear right now. Just the image of him pounding into you deeply, with sharp controlled thrusts, made you weak. “Yu…”

You sighed, remembering the way he would throw your legs over his shoulders to get a better angle. Or the way he would slap your ass if you were just a little bit too bratty for his liking. But in truth, he loved your bratty nature. Or dare you say, he loved taming it. Adding two more fingers into your pulsating hole, you could feel yourself creep closer to the edge, but you needed more. You needed to feel Yunho inside you before you combusted. You craved for him to empty a load or two, or three deep in you, that you’d be leaking for hours after. You needed— “What do we have here?”

You sat up quickly, your eyes snapping open to see Yunho had turned completely around on his chair. His computer was logged off, and his headset was perfectly placed on its stand… How long had he been watching? Your fingers stopped pumping at the suddenly low tone your boyfriend grumbled, making your head spin in the process. You were so close, you just needed a little more, and now you had stopped, causing the hairs on your body to stand up straight in an ache for pleasure. “Yun…P-please…”

“Oh no, baby, don’t stop on my account I want to see how this plays out,” Yunho smirked, sinking more into his chair. His palm rested dangerously close to his crotch but he wouldn’t touch himself, not yet when he was so hypnotised with the image of you spread out in front of him.

“Yunho… I need you.” You pleaded, desperate for some sort of relief. You shifted your ass side to side, spreading your legs wide in hopes to entice your lover to give you what you need but instead ... He laughed.

“You better make yourself cum, baby. Otherwise, you are going to be punished for this stunt you pulled.” This time his tone switched from a low calming one to almost sinister and pissed off. Your eyes widened as he continued to speak. “I could hear your sweet little whimpers through my headset. You weren’t exactly as quiet as you thought you were. What do you think our friends are gonna think? I wonder if they heard you over the mic?…naughty little thing aren’t you?”

Your fingers had picked up the pace once again, feeling a tingle from Yunho degrading you. Every nerve in your body felt like it was on fire and Yunho was the one holding the match. Just a little more you thought, just a little bit. “I’m sorry Yuyu. I got so angry with the game. I wanted some relief… but I didn’t want to bother you.”

Your thumb pressed down on your thumb as Yunho rolled the gaming chair closer until he was only centimetres away from your dripping cunt. He could practically feel the heat coming off your body against his legs. Closing his eyes for the moment he took a deep inhale before smiling. “I could never be mad at you. Poor thing just wanted to cum… Come on, why don’t you come right now? Do it for me, baby.”

You kept the pace, moaning out little whimpers as tears swelled in the corners of your eyes. You finally fell over the edge as Yunho groaned, placing an open palm on your thigh, spreading your further. He watched you come undone around nothing, sticky slick dripping out of you as your high slowly came to an end. Your ears were ringing, and your vision was fuzzy. You almost wouldn’t have heard what Yunho said if it wasn’t for him grabbing your jaw so you would hazily stare into his dark gaze.

“There’s my good girl.”

—

© 𝐉𝐚𝟑𝐡𝐰𝐚. Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my work in any way, shape, or form.

𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑 : 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑆 𝐼𝑆 𝐼𝑁 𝑁𝑂 𝑊𝐴𝑌 𝐴 𝑇𝑅𝑈𝐸 𝐷𝐸𝑃𝐼𝐶𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 𝑂𝐹 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐴𝑇𝐸𝐸𝑍 𝑀𝐸𝑀𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑆. 𝑇𝐻𝐼𝑆 𝐼𝑆 𝑃𝑈𝑅𝐸 𝐹𝐼𝐶𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 𝐴𝑁𝐷 𝐼𝑆 𝑁𝑂𝑇 𝑇𝑂 𝐵𝐸 𝑇𝐴𝐾𝐸𝑁 𝑆𝐸𝑅𝐼𝑂𝑈𝑆𝐿𝑌.

[chrollogy]

A LOVER’S UNWRITTEN SCRIPT

— kuroo tetsurou x f!reader

syn: A-list actor, Kuroo Tetsurou—your ex lover—is still shamelessly in love with you. It doesn’t help how the intimate scenes you film together feels like a trip down to memory lane where you held each other’s hearts in the past. Despite Kuroo’s best efforts to keep the bubbling feelings at bay, he shamelessly bares the truth that lay inside his heart during a private rehearsal with you—in hopes to rekindle the once passionate relationship you two shared.

18+ MDNI; actor au, ex-lover!kuroo, implied breakup, mutual pining, exes to lovers, light angst, fluff, kuroo is horrendously down bad for reader (pathetically, even), explicit smut, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, pet names (baby, temptress, my love), not beta read.

word count: 4.8k

notes: weeeee just a lil gift for my dear friend @avatarofstars whom i promised to write a kuroo oneshot for hehe !! enjoy :> divider: cafekitsune.

mimi approved: “he [kuroo] folded like a wet napkin.”

The air was thick, and suffocating, as if it had its large hands wrapped around your neck, blunt fingertips digging into your flushed skin as each second passed, each thundering heartbeat that knocked against your chest. Caged in between familiar arms atop the soft mattress, your gaze was met with bare skin—a beautifully sun kissed chest—peeking beneath an ivory evening shirt with a few buttons sinfully undone.

Kuroo.

An icy shiver kissed along the length of his spine as your digit sensually traced the dips of his collarbones, and down, down, down to the valley of his chest until it's halted by a fastened button. Breath hitching at the eye contact, his hooded gaze clouded with nothing but pure carnal desire, pools of endless hazel reeling you into wicked temptation as his stare lingered on your own a little too long for your liking.

And as Kuroo slowly inched in, your heart skipped a beat or two, the musky scent of his cologne driving all five of your senses up the wall, his evening shirt bunched beneath your very palm.

Fluttering your eyes shut, the mattress shifted beneath the weight of his palms as the tip of his nose found your own, lightly rubbing it against each other—teasing the intimacy of your faces. God, what a tease.

Mere centimetres apart from your lips, the tension in the air steadily climbed to its peak as Kuroo’s hot breath interlaced with your own, locked in an endless dance before being whisked away as he seals your lips together in a passionate kiss.

Familiar. It was all too familiar—the movement of his lips, the heavy breath that planted butterfly kisses all over your face, the miniature sounds that slipped past his mouth, the plushness of it.

Vivid memories burned into your eyelids at the familiarity of the kiss, recounting the bittersweet past that you once shared with the ravenette—the sweet exchanges, the ‘i love you’s’, the countless nights spent tangled in each other’s bodies under the moonlit skies.

A low groan stirred from Kuroo’s chest as he eagerly pressed his face further, the back of your head flushed against the ivory pillow beneath as the soft smacks of your lips together filled the thick atmosphere of the room. It made him dizzy, his body eager for more, more, more as the cloud he rode ascended higher.

Before Kuroo could brazenly slip his hot tongue past your lips to take it up a notch, the director’s sharp voice sliced through the sultry atmosphere, bitterly reeling him back to reality—as if his whole body had been drenched in icy waters,

“Cut!”

It felt like your bodies were mere magnets attracted to one another because it took all of Kuroo’s sanity to hesitantly pull away from you—from your lips—giving ample distance between both your bodies, a daring contrast to a few seconds ago. Lips parted, and chest heaving to satiate his lungs with much needed oxygen, Kuroo took the time to ground himself; to remind himself that, in fact, this was all just an act. Nothing was real.

A breeze of coolness engulfed your skin at the lack of your co-star’s body warmth, a tinge of loneliness rooting itself as you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. Reality slowly settled in your skin, slowly becoming aware of the amount of crew, and equipment around—harsh lights flooded from the side, the view of the boom mic hovering above the bed, the camera that captured each scene.

Kuroo couldn’t hear a damn thing the director was saying over the harsh pounding of his heart, mind plagued with endless thoughts of you—it was always you. No one else.

Sure, this was all for the upcoming movie the both of you starred in but he couldn’t erase the fact that everything felt so normal, like it was meant to be. It pained his yearning heart that outside these calculated scenes, you were cold, and distant, carefully treading around him as if you were surrounded by a field of landmines—one wrong move, and everything burns to ashes.

At the end of the day, Kuroo couldn’t blame you, he was the one who initiated the break up in the first place. Five years ago, you were both aspiring actors under the same agency, auditioning for supporting roles left, and right to get your respective names out in the film industry—to get noticed by your unique talents. Somewhere down the line, Kuroo prioritised his career, leaving you to man the boat in the staggering relationship until one day, he finally saw fit to break it off.

A long time has passed since then, now, the two of you were illustrious actors that became household names through sheer talent, starring in countless award winning films. You, and Kuroo only saw each other through prestigious award shows, and buzzing premiere nights but nothing more than a few distant glances here, and there. And it was certainly both your first time to land a romantic leading role together.

The first time Kuroo properly saw you again was during table work for script analysis. Bare faced, clad in the simplest clothes, and a navy blue hat over your head—it had his heart shamelessly hammering away despite the awkward greeting you both exchanged. Safe to say, the ravenette had his hazel gaze locked on you the entire time, stuttering over his words the entire time while a deep crimson blush stained his sun kissed cheeks.

You were different—attractively different. The way you carried yourself in absolute confidence had him weak in the knees. It felt like he was young, and crushing all over again. A feeling Kuroo swore he’d never get tired of as long as it was for you.

Back in his trailer, the raven-haired male unceremoniously plopped himself atop the black leather couch, the fabric groaning beneath his weight. Resting an arm over his closed eyes, he let out a sigh into the empty trailer, silence engulfing his whole body.

It had been a long day of filming for 16 hours, albeit, only the second day, Kuroo still hasn’t gotten used to spending full days with you, he only had his personal trailer to collect his thoughts, and calm himself down from the raging feelings that bubbled in his chest. It was embarrassing, really, a grown man acting like a lovesick, hormonal teenager around his ex-lover.

He felt guilty on his end—you’ve been nothing but completely professional as any actor should be. You voiced your thoughts with the director during particularly challenging scenes, even going out of your way to discuss, and rehearse some lines with Kuroo before the initial shooting had started. Meanwhile on his end, he gawked at you like some starstruck fan, blindly agreeing to whatever you suggested, if it meant getting closer to you.

Funny thing was that Kuroo was forced to work twice as hard to ignore the blossoming feeling deep within the pit of his stomach; the feel of your clothed body beneath his palms, your plush lips, your gaze that never failed to make his breath hitch, it all drove him absolutely insane. 

Removing the arm over his eyes, Kuroo’s phone loudly buzzed from the vanity table, the noise hastily reeling him back to reality. He let out a short sigh before standing up to check the device, legs heavy with exhaustion in each step. The device lit up in his hand, displaying a text message from you; that’s right, you’d asked for Kuroo’s number during the script analysis—he never really deleted yours but it was no use anyway, you had a new one.

‘Hey, Kuroo. Sorry for the late notice! I was just wondering if you wanted to briefly rehearse a few lines with me tonight before filming the scenes tomorrow?’

One thing he couldn’t get used to was you calling him by his surname—it was always Tetsurou or Tetsu from you. God, how he missed the way it rolled off your tongue like honey, saccharine, and smooth. Now, Kuroo just sounded so. . empty, and cold.

Nonetheless, he shook off the uncomfortable feeling rooted deep within his chest, rolling his broad shoulder’s back, muscles moving beneath his ivory evening shirt—it was a habit Kuroo had picked up whenever he felt slightly off.

He swiftly typed back a response, ‘Don’t worry, I don’t mind it at all! I’ll meet you in an hour?’

Seemed casual enough. 

A second later, you replied, ‘Cool :) Meet at my suite in an hour.’ Kuroo’s heart pounded at the thought of spending the late hours of the night in your hotel suite. Sure, he had previously rehearsed lines with you but that was in one of the rooms in your talent agency which felt like he was on the clock. Practising scenes with you in your hotel suite however, it was a completely different story—it felt more intimate.

Given the far distance of shooting location, the production had booked separate suites for you, and Kuroo under the same hotel. It had its pros, and cons—pro: being able to see you first thing in the morning whenever you both headed to the shoot in the mornings; con: even with a wall between your suites, just thinking about how close you were drove Kuroo a little crazy.

Given the ample time to wash up, and prepare for the night ahead, Kuroo stood before the ivory double doors to your suite, script in one hand while the other lightly knocked. After a heartbeat, padded footsteps from the other side hastily made its way towards the doors, faint sounds of the lock becoming undone. A door swung open, revealing you in your relaxed late night attire,

“Come in. Thanks again for coming.”

It was exactly the same view that Kuroo had in his suite—boasting a vast, modern space for its esteemed guest, the suite exuded utmost sophistication, and luxury with its grandeur floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the bustling city beneath. Not trusting his voice, and giving you a nod, Kuroo stiffly headed for the champagne couch beneath the gleaming chandeliers.

You weren’t going to lie, seeing Kuroo standing before your door was something you kind of missed, the way his build almost completely obscured the view of the carpeted hallway outside—it wasn’t a foreign sight at all. You had to mentally slap your face for ogling the man, even for a brief second. 

Though, no one could really blame you with the way Kuroo’s casual attire hugged his physique; clad in a white printed tee that you knew very well, paired with comfy, jet black sweats. The shirt he wore was his favourite, even back then, though, the only difference was that his torso filled it out much, much better now—the slight bulge of his muscled chest that left little to one’s imagination, and the sinful stretch of the ivory fabric circling his beefy biceps.

Oh, god.

Mentally cursing yourself, you followed suit after locking the doors behind, opting to sit on the champagne couch parallel to where Kuroo sat—his back was straight, and away from the backrest, sitting slightly on the edge of the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. Did you want anything? Hm, the complimentary dom pérignon is still unopened in the wine fridge. .”

Kuroo shook his head, “I’m fine.”

Mixing alcohol into this rehearsal sounded like a nightmare considering how much of a blabbermouth he became once liquid courage stained his bloodstream.

Nodding at his contentment, both of you spent the first few minutes sharing a few notes about the script from the table read, exchanging thoughts and ideas to grasp a deeper understanding of the scene at hand.

You had to physically refrain yourself from smiling at the way Kuroo stumbled over his words from time to time, his hands animatedly moving with each sentence that slipped past his lips. He was always so confident around everyone else but when it came to you, his mind just blanked. After all these years, he was still the same old Kuroo that you loved, and knew.

Something deep in your chest bubbled.

After a while, you were both on your feet, acting out the scene in the expansive living room which involved a bit of a heated argument back, and forth between the female lead, and the male lead.

Kuroo’s tall figure loomed over your own, pools of hazel staring down at you, full of hurt, and confusion, chest heaving from all the emotions that surged through every fibre of his body, “Do you—do you not love me anymore? To even throw baseless accusations at me while my heart yearns for you day, and night is unfair. If you don’t feel the same way for me anymore, tell me, my love,” Two steps closer, trembling hands coming up to cup your jaw, while his solemn gaze locked on to yours.

“Just. . just say the word, and I’ll let you be. Even if this is the very thing that breaks my beating heart.”

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you inhaled a sharp breath, returning Kuroo’s solemn gaze, your hand sliding up to rest atop one of his own, “No—god, never. I love you so much it hurts. I love you with all my heart, and soul. . ‘M sorry I said stupid things. I just—”

“Shh, it’s okay, my love.” He whispers into the air, barely audible. Kuroo leans his forehead against yours, staying still for a brief moment, before pulling away, eyes shifting down to your lips—the next part had a passionate kissing scene between your character, and Kuroo’s character.

He waited for your approval with a bated breath, and with a slight dip of your chin, Kuroo didn’t hesitate to dive into your lips, letting out a content sigh as he sealed the distance.

The kiss was slow, and deep—it felt real, almost like it came from the depths of his heart. He took his time with your lips, moving ever so slowly to savour the saccharine taste, and angling his head to gain better access. The two of you stood there, in the middle of the spacious living room, lips locked in a sensual kiss, neither one dared to pull away as if waiting to hear the director’s voice say ‘Cut!’ to end the scene.

It never came.

And Kuroo gripped your face a little tighter, pressing himself further into you, savouring the plush of your lips before abruptly pulling away. You shamelessly chased his lips for more, looking up at your ex lover through hooded eyes. Something in the atmosphere shifted—maybe it was the way Kuroo looked down at you, his pink lips parted, and chest heaving or maybe it was the way his kiss felt too real. It was different from the kisses he gave in front of the camera.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint it but Kuroo’s kiss weighed with history behind it.

“I love you. God, I still do. So fucking much.” Kuroo breathed out, voice shaky. He couldn’t hear his own words properly over the hammering of his heart. Fuck, he felt his head spinning. 

That wasn’t in the script. Was he improvising?

You froze beneath Kuroo’s searing touch upon hearing the sudden confession, meeting his solemn hazel eyes. If he was being honest, he didn’t know why he had the sudden urge to just let you know what lay inside his heart, all Kuroo knew was he was still shamelessly in love with you—none could change that fact.

“Kuroo . . ?” A deep crease between your brows formed as you furrowed them, trying to find an answer beyond pools of amber. He gave a mournful smile, “I’m sorry, I was such an idiot back then. I-I know it’s stupid to ask you to come back to me but . . you’re the only one I truly want.”

The man before you sheepishly looked down at his feet as you stared at him in disbelief, like you’ve seen some kind of ghost. Your head spun—it was too much to process, you didn’t know whether to be happy because you felt the same way or angry since Kuroo had the audacity to confess that easily after leaving you in the air for so long.

Fuck it.

At your deafening silence, the hands that cupped your face loosened, Kuroo’s body slowly reeling back but before he could put ample distance between, you grabbed him by the collar of his ivory shirt, and eagerly sealed your lips together, earning a surprised gasp from the taller male.

Melting into each other’s hold, Kuroo cut the sweet kiss short, opting to pepper hot, open mouthed kisses along the column of your neck, nose grazing against your sensitive skin to breathe in your intoxicating scent,

“Mhm—! Tetsu. .”

The sudden use of his nickname earned a sharp bite at the junction of your neck, pulling out a dulcet moan from you. Kuroo’s head spun at your dizzying sounds—god, he missed the way his name effortlessly rolled off your sinful tongue. The slumbering beast between his legs stirred as you continued to call out his name into the air like a prayer.

It wasn’t long before the two of you stumbled onto the soft bed while locked in a messy, passionate kiss, trails of discarded articles of clothing along the wooden floors of the suite, just like a pair of lovers who had been long deprived of each other’s blazing touch—it awakened yours, and Kuroo’s dormant, yearning hearts, and nothing was bound to stop it now.

It had been far too long silently orbiting around one another like two celestial bodies intertwined in an endless dance, gravity never straying you both too far from each other but also neither bringing you closer. Tonight, however, it seemed like the universe had granted you, and Kuroo a potent gravitational force—two celestial beings bound for a planetary collision.

It was scandalous—something keen-eyed tabloids would go crazy over—all teeth, and tongue paired with a series of whispered names into the night air. Professionalism was long thrown out the window.

Oh, you could already imagine the amount of bizarre headlines with your names plastered all over the media if one were to see a glimpse behind the doors of your hotel suite.

Just like the scene shot earlier today, Kuroo caged your naked body with his arms, every dip, and curve of his muscles contoured beneath warm hues of the lights above. He slowly kissed his way down the valley of your breasts—teasingly poking his sinful tongue to lap in between them—down to your stomach until reaching the very place where you needed him the most.

“Just like I remembered—beautiful as ever.” Kuroo breathed out, in awe of your raw beauty laid out in front of him to absolutely devour, hazel eyes filled with genuine admiration. His breath fanned over your hot sex, pulling your thighs apart to reveal your glistening cunt.

He didn’t hesitate to dive in, groaning into your soft skin as his tongue eagerly explored your sensitive core. With his eyes closed, forehead creased in absolute concentration, and fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, Kuroo pressed his face further, relishing the familiar flavour that graced his taste buds—you. Your hands were quick to fly down to his unruly raven strands, tugging at it as he lapped your insides like there was no tomorrow.

Whimpers of his name lingered on the damp air, going straight to his cock that hardened with each moan of his name.

Sinful, lewd sounds of Kuroo’s tongue against your velvety walls, mixed with your moans reverberated throughout the expansive suite. He pulled a long, airy whimper from your lips as he nudged the tip of his nose against your sensitive clit, sucking profusely on your sopping cunt.

God, he felt right at home.

The feeling Kuroo had been chasing for the past five years finally came to him on a silver platter, and he wasn’t about to let it go again.

A bubbling feeling in the depths of your core slowly made itself known, rapidly rising up, up, up near the surface where it was bound to release but before that could happen, you mustered all your strength amidst the lustful daze to form a coherent sentence,

“T-Tetsu—wait! Mhm! Hold on. .” You audibly gasped, prying him away from your sensitive cunt. A smack of Kuroo’s lips lingered in the air as he pulled away, hooded gaze staring up at you with concern laced in his eyes, “Something wrong? Did I hurt you?” He panted, hot breath ghosting over the apex of your legs; you watched as his eyes frantically scanned your face, looking for any signs of discomfort.

Shaking your head, Kuroo softly melted onto the ivory sheets below with ease, waiting for you to voice your thoughts; keen hazel eyes watched as you bit your bottom lip, a tinge of hesitancy clouding your blissful expression, “I want to cum around you.”

There was a heartbeat, a brief moment as your words registered in Kuroo’s head—his lips, glistening with your essence, slowly parted, the crimson blush across his cheeks deepening as he fully grasped your sentence. Millions of emotions surged through every fibre of his being, ranging from A to Z. He deemed himself the luckiest man alive, just the thought of feeling your hot, velvety walls around his cock made his head spin with lust.

”You little temptress.” He breathlessly chuckled, it was anything but innocent.

Kuroo eagerly situated himself to your left, propping his body sideways to face you. As if communicating through telepathy, you mirrored his action, bare back flush against his naked chest—it was second nature at this point, having done this countless times in the past; safe to say it was yours, and Kuroo’s favourite position.

Hooking your left hand under your thigh, you propped it up onto the air, a dainty moan escaping your swollen lips as Kuroo teasingly brushed the tip of his hard cock. It made you a little nervous with the knowledge of how thick he was—sure, you’ve taken him inside you before but five years was a long time ago. As if he could sense your nerves, Kuroo placed a trail of chaste kisses from your neck down to your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your skin.

With a bated breath, he slowly inched in bit by bit, earning a series of colourful profanities slipping past your lips. God, Kuroo was fucking thick. “Mhm . . Y-you feel so good.” He whined, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he bottomed out, relishing in the way your eager walls sucked him in without an ounce of hesitancy, almost like they were welcoming him back.

Both of you stayed still for a moment, sounds of heavy breathing filling the warm air of the night, basking in the rawness of each other’s body, the intimacy of the whole thing—the way Kuroo felt inside you, and the way you felt around him. “I missed you so much, Tetsu . .” That was the last coherent sentence you confessed before he slowly drew his hips back until the head remained, and sensually thrusting back in.

Kuroo wanted to take his time, giving you deep, slow thrusts to feel every inch of him, and fuck, you absolutely did. The way the head of his cock kissed your sweet, sweet spot had your eyes rolling back, and hand gripping on the ivory sheets below; it didn’t help how Kuroo directly moaned into your ear, hearing every incoherent mumble that slipped past his lips.

His fingers dug into the plush of your hips, angling his own to gain better access. Soft, lewd squelches of your bodies meeting filled your ears as Kuroo’s pace picked up a bit, the bubbling feeling once again resurfacing as each hammering heartbeat pounded on your chest.

Fuck, it’s been so, so long since you’ve had him—the way your body reacted under his touch were enough proof of how deprived you were of this man.

Tears pooled around your eyes at the depth of his sheathed cock, hitting places inside you that you’ve never discovered. A series of dulcet moans rumbled from your chest, and onto the high ceiling above, forehead pressed against the soft mattress beneath as pleasure engulfed your whole body. Tired, burning muscles on your left thigh was nothing compared to the ecstasy that gnawed at every fibre of your being.

But before you could reach the peak, Kuroo slowed down, earning a loud whine from you. Looking over your shoulder, you met his lustful gaze, lashes, and eyes glazed from tears of bliss, 

“W-wha—Why’d you stop, Tetsu . . ?” “I’m sorry but I really want to see you, my love.”

Next thing you knew, Kuroo had flipped your bodies—he remained on the bed while you straddled him, legs on either side of his waist. Impatience brewing in your chest, you wordlessly grabbed his hefty cock, and slipped it inside, earning a unison of deep moans from both of you.

An icy shudder licked up Kuroo’s spine as your nails scraped his bare chest. “Tetsu.” You whined, slowly moving your hips up, and down, up, and down. Raven strands stuck to his sweaty forehead, beads of sweat rolling down his flushed skin; he stared up at your fucked out expression, biting on his bottom lip at the sight before him; oh, how he missed this view.

It didn’t take long for you to become a whimpering mess as Kuroo thrusted upwards, meeting your hips as you came down. This earned a loud moan of his name, curling over your own body, and planting your forehead flush against his sweaty chest. 

He let out a humourless chuckle, “Tired, baby?”

Before you could muster a response, Kuroo shifted beneath your limp body, hands coming up to rest on your hips, and planting the soles of his feet firmly on the mattress before mercilessly pistoning his hips into yours.

You eyes swiftly opened at the intense pleasure that ate away at your body—fuck, you didn’t even know they were closed—moaning loudly against Kuroo’s skin like there was no tomorrow. The room was filled with the heavy scent of sex, sounds of shameless skin slapping echoing throughout the walls of your suite; if one were to walk along the hallway, they’d know exactly what was happening beyond the ivory doors.

Unable to move your hips due to Kuroo’s deathly grip, you lay limp on top of his naked body, taking all of him, and the relentless pounding, your bare figure jerking with every sinful thrust. Looking up at him with teary eyes, you rested a trembling hand on his cheek, basking in his handsome beauty—his face concentrated in pure bliss.

“A-ah—! Tetsu. . ‘M coming!”

All it took for Kuroo to cum with you was your blissful expression, and the broken whine of his name. Sheathing his hard cock deep inside your cunt until his hips were flush against yours, he let out a shameless moan of your name, head pressing into the pillows beneath as icy shivers ran up his spine. Your body stiffened with pleasure, clenching around Kuroo’s cock as you reached your orgasm; a small whine left your lips at the feeling of his hot cum painting your walls white. 

You lay limp atop his body, sweaty, muscles burning with exhaustion, and blissfully on cloud nine. Staying still for a brief moment, heavy breaths filled the air as the situation settled onto your bones. With your eyes still locked on Kuroo, your thumb gently caressed his cheek, earning his hazel gaze in return.

“I thought you were improvising earlier.” You let out a tired laugh, trying to lighten the mood now that lust was slowly wearing off your mind.

He looked down at you for a brief second before fixing his gaze onto the ceiling above, a solemn smile gracing his lips, “I meant every word I said back there, you know? I . . I still do love you. Like I mentioned earlier, it's stupid but I want to at least try again. I’d be more than a fool to let you go.”

Kuroo looked down at you once again as you placed a chaste kiss on the tip of his chin—something he had grown fond of—gaze melting as you met his eyes once again; he gave you a smile, one that reached his eyes.

“I’d be the more stupid one if I refused. I missed you a lot, Tetsu.”

The next morning, the shoot started off without a hitch. Surprisingly—as observed by the crew—there wasn’t a sense of awkwardness between you, and Kuroo in comparison to the first two days of filming where many had noticed that you, and your co-star didn’t have much chemistry off-camera to begin with.

No one dared to point it out but many have noticed the lingering touches here, and there, the prolonged eye contact, and the stolen glances. One member of the crew even swore to have seen you sneak over to Kuroo’s personal trailer at the end of the shoot with a lovesick smile written all over your face.

Safe to say that these subtle actions carried onto premiere night, and press tours for the film which may or may not have had eagle-eyed fans, and tabloids speculating about a budding relationship between you, and Kuroo, especially when asked during promotional interviews.

Though, you’d both usually just laugh it off with a shrug. It was best to keep it personal—like an unwritten script.

—

affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum !

[kamiversee]

˗ˏˋ My Love Note ´ˎ˗

10 | I know that's

❧ Synopsis | In which Choso Kamo, your asshole of a best friend, starts to change after you get involved with a rather cheeky cashier, Gojo Satoru.

❧ Content | language, tension, flirting, mention of drugs & alcohol consumption, sexual tension, teasing, taunting, etc.

❧ Word Count | 7.2k (phew.)

❧ Pairings | Choso Kamo x f!reader & Gojo Satoru x f!reader.

| Chapters mlist |

——Back in your room, you wasted no time calling Gojo back. That whole… thing with Choso is something you’ll save your worrying for another day. As of right now, Gojo should be your main focus since you have a Halloween party to attend with him tonight.

Laying stomach first across your surprisingly neatly made bed, your feet dance back and forth in the air as you hold your cellphone to your ear and listen to Gojo ramble to you about his day. He didn’t address the phone hanging up at all or the way he definitely heard Choso’s voice before the line disconnected earlier—he just got on the phone, asked if you were alright, and then when back to what he’d been telling you before.

Which brings a nice smile to your face. It’s refreshing to have someone like Gojo to talk to, honestly. Not only do you really enjoy conversing with him or listening to him talk but, you also like how he didn’t question you like crazy. That simple act alone took some weight off of your shoulders because it meant you didn’t have to lie again. God knows you hate lying to the guy. 

But you’re not gonna tell him the truth either because the truth is terrible. How do you even being to explain to your crush that you almost fucked your best friend again in the short amount of time you were off of the phone with him?

“So,” Gojo continues, clearing his throat a bit between words. “Aside from tonight’s party, you don’t have any plans for today, right?”

Your head tilts further against the phone as you release a gentle sigh, “To my knowledge, no I don’t have any other plans. Why?”

He yawns softly, “Because, that gives us enough time to go last-minute costume shopping, remember?”

Chuckling into the phone, your lips curve into a smile. “Don’t you have work?” You ask.

You can’t see it of course but, Gojo rolls his eyes at that, “I mean, yeah… But I’m sure my boss won’t mind if I close up a bit early. It’s Halloween.”

“If you say so,” You comment. “I’m assuming you want me to meet you at the cafe in a few hours then?”

“Yup,” Gojo hums with a sassy lil pop of the ‘p’ at the end there. “Til’ then, I’ll have to drown myself in work. My break’s about to be over.”

You click your tongue and frown a bit, “Aw, well hopefully time flies by fast.”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

· ───────── · ꨄ · ───────── ·

Once off of the phone with Gojo, you spend your day holing yourself up in your bedroom in an honest attempt of avoiding Choso. Luckily for you, at no point did he come knocking on your door trying to gain a bit of your attention. This provided you with a rather relaxing morning and afternoon of bedrotting.

Not the most productive thing to do but, hey, at least time flew by pretty fast. After lazying around for hours waiting for the right time, you ended up rolling out of bed and throwing on something cozy to go out in—you’d be changing into a costume in an hour so there was no point in dressing up too cute or anything. 

You end up exiting you apartment wearing something easy to get in and out of so that when you do find your costume, and in the event that it later gets uncomfortable, you have something else to throw back on. 

Taking a walk all the way throughout your campus just to reach that cute lil’ cafe you’ve grown to love and adore, you felt the season of fall brushing all against your skin as you walked. It’s as if that hectic morning of yours never even took place with how peaceful this part of your day was. For just a moment, it was only you and your thoughts. No horny Choso humping against you like a dog in heat, no anxiety induced thoughts screaming at you everytime Gojo talks to you… just, tranquility.

And when you finally arrive at the designated coffeehouse you’ve been to time and time again, a smile is painted across your face before you even push past the front doors. The sun is making it’s set so the sky is all pretty with different hues of oranges and reds—something you took a few pictures of on your way here.

Grabbing a hold of the warm metal door handles, you give it a light push and that homey smell of coffee rushes into your nose. A smell in which you’ve grown quite fond of given what follows shortly after…

No one is inside except for Gojo so the smile on your face merely brightens as you meet eyes with him. Almost like a damn puppy, his entire demeanor lightens up at your presence, pretty dimples peaking out in his cheeks as he reciprocates your happy expression.

You’re approaching the counter and he’s making his way around it, all too quick to embrace you by wrapping his muscular arms around your waist and pulling you in close. Gojo lets out a long sigh, “Been’ waiting all day to do this, y’know.” He tells you, voice muffled slightly with the way his face slowly barries itself into the crook of your neck.

You hug him back with the same amount of passion he’d approached you with and then smile. “Do what? Hug me?” Your voice is gentle against his ears and unbeknownst to you, his heart feels all weird in his chest. Then there’s these flutters your feel in your stomach at how good he smells and how stupidly clingy he seems to be today.

It’s this strange mix of coffee beans and his cologne that seeps into your nose now, making you hug him just a bit tighter to simmer into the scent some more. He smells like a hard working man and you simply love that for whatever reason. You suppose that thing people say about a man in uniform is true after all…

“Yeah,” Gojo soon answers your question whilst lifting his face from your neck and meeting your eyes again. His gaze stays put for barely even a second before he’s cracking a smirk and leaning in to kiss you. 

A brief grin ghosts your lips as he kisses you. Your arms firmly wrap around his neck and you push up on your toes a bit to deepen the connection of your mouths. Gojo’s lips feel like comfort against your own, almost as if you were ice and he the sun—his every touch melting you in his hands. You let out a small hum in between the kiss as he slots his lips against yours further, steadily drawing your bottom lip into his mouth and sucking on it.

His tongue dances against the plump skin for only a moment before he pries himself away and you both ease out a small breath of air. “And that,” Gojo says, “I swear you’re on my mind all day.”

Such a soft admission spoken to you so suddenly makes you gulp. “Am I now?” You whisper, noticing how he’s leaning back in for another kiss already.

Gojo wets his lips and smiles. “Yeah,” He utters back just as softly, skin brushing over yours, and eyes narrowing, “Jus’ can’t get enough of you.” Is the last thing he tells you before he’s ridding himself of all the space between you two again.

No one else is in the establishment, so you kiss for a hot minute. It’s soft at first, like always, but then it gradually heats up. His hands move to your waist and his head tilts further while his tongue makes its journey into the wet caverns of your mouth. Groaning at the sweet taste resting there, Gojo unconsciously steps forward with you. You naturally follow his lead and he ends up kissing you until your lower back meets the counter.

Not sparing you the chance to break the kiss, Gojo bends down a little and swiftly lifts you up onto the counter—his lips never once leaving yours. He feels starved as he makes out with you right in the middle of where he works. Hushing out a simple, “Taste s’sweet,” In between your lips.

You mutter his name somewhere throughout the kissing and one of your hands ends up on his chest, very faintly pushing him. As the kiss is severed, Gojo has this needy expression all over his face and his cheeks are reddened. He’s so pretty that it genuinely hurts to look at. It almost isn’t fair.

“Don’t we have some shopping to do?” You remind the man in a slightly breathless tone. 

Gojo bats his lashes at you almost innocently. “Yeahh, but we have time, don’t we?” As the words roll off of his tongue, his lips are curving into that taunting little smile again, and then his dimples are making yet another appearance.

His hands, which are so stupidly soft, trace the outskirts of your thighs upon the counter. Those almost beryl-blue eyes of his scan over your face, taking in every inch and curve, studying you, and getting mesmerized by you. If you looked way too closely into it all, you’d almost asume the guy was in lo—

You clear your own throat to cut that thought off. “No, it’s Halloween, silly.” You remind him with a smile, glancing down to your hands on his chest and moving your fingertips to trace what you can feel beneath his clothes. “There’s barely gonna be costumes as is, the later we go, the less there’ll be.”

Gojo sighs while he thinks for a moment. His bottom lip protrudes as he pouts and you can’t help the way you chuckle at that. “S’not funny. I really did miss you,” He tells you again, tipping his head down into your neck and pressing his lips against your skin, “But you’re right, we probably should head out now.” He’s agreeing with you with his words but the way he’s planting these soft pecks against your neck is saying something else entirely.

His kisses tickle and you end up holding onto his shirt a bit and letting out a giggle, “Satoru,” You call out once, receiving no sign of him stopping his ticklish kisses. Then you squirm and he smiles against you. “‘Toru,” You say, to which his teeth graze you.

“Such a tease,” Gojo simmered into your skin hotly. “Callin’ me that nickname like you don’t know what it does t’me…”

Full on smiling now, you angle your head to look at him and he pulls away from your neck to meet that incoming gaze. His pupils seem to expand ever so slightly as they’re met with yours but, you may have imagined that. “It does something to you?” You ask innocently as you push forward to slide off of the counter, “I had no idea…!”

That cheery faux innocence in your tone makes Gojo’s smile expand before his eyes roll. He watches the way you step aside and straighten up your clothes before sending him one last glance. Something about you really keeps his mind at this mushy state because every time his eyes lock with yours it’s like he can’t form a single thought in his brain that doesn’t involve you.

Staring, letting a small moment of the eye contact pass by, Gojo scoffs softly. “Riight, sure you didn’t.” He replies to your last comment sarcastically.

After that brief conversation, which could’ve easily progressed into something more if you didn’t stop him, you assist Gojo in cleaning up the cafe so he can leave with you. All you had to do was wipe a few tables off and then you watched him sweep and mop. It seemed like not many people had come in today given the state of the kitchen and how clean it was (you’d picked up on how messy it gets when Gojo is swamped with customers a while back).

Small talk is held almost the entire time up until he finally closes up and walks you to his car. It’s then that silence is welcomed back into your space and even as you walk with him, you still feel this comforting air wrapping around you. Especially when Gojo throws an arm over your shoulder and soon opens his car door for you. He’s so strangely perfect that you can’t help the way you feel for him.

Even throughout the car ride to… the nearest costume shop? He plays a bunch of Halloween songs and throughout Micheal Jackson’s ‘Thriller’, you notice that even Gojo’s singing is perfect. Hence why by the time you two make it to your destination your cheeks hurt from how hard you’d been smiling and you can hardly remember the last time a guy, aside from Choso, has made you laugh this much.

The shop he takes you to is rather… pricey, you note as the two of you stroll through together. And yeah, most of the shelves are cleared off and whatever’s left isn’t anything super creative. Gojo guides you to the back of the store though and you swear he had this all planned out in his head with the way he leads you straight to a particularly cute couples costume. 

“Y’know,” You start off, picking up the clearly designated costume that stands out in contrast to the other last-minute options left on the surrounding shelves. “If you wanted us to wear matching costumes, you could’ve jus’ said something.” 

When you glance back to Gojo, you notice the way he’s got a hand scratching the back of his neck and is looking off to the side nonchalauntly. “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about, sweets…” He hums, that faint pigment of pink coating his cheeks yet again.

You snort, “Really? So how is it that you’ve led me all the way back here and straight to the only decent costumes left in this store?” As you speak, you lift the two costume packages up and hold them out to showcase them to him. “Not to mention, they just so happen to be the only matching ones too.” 

Gojo redirects his eyes to the items in your hand and he grins innocently. “This is a coincidence, really.” He chuckles, “I mean why would I—“ He stops himself mid-sentence at the look you’re giving him and just ends up sighing in defeat. “Okay, okay, fine,” His hands went up, “Ya’ caught me.”

You smile, “Mhm, I know. Now, are you gonna go ahead ‘n ask me to match with you orr…?”

His shoulders sink a bit, “Do I have tooo? You’re already holding the costumes, are you really gonna make me ask—“

“Yep,” You hum in response with a mocking pop of the ‘p’.

Gojo scoffs playfully. “Fine.” He starts, stepping closer to you, “Do you wanna be the cowgirl to my cowboy and y’know, ride throughout this Halloween night with me?”

There’s half a beat of silence that passes after the cheesiness that just left his lips before you burst out laughing. “You’re so corny, oh my God.” You snicker out in an airy tone.

He joins your giggling with his own and then tips his head to the side, “So is that a yes orrrr…?”

Rolling your eyes, you nod. “Yeah, I’ll be the cowgirl to your cowboy tonight, Satoru.” Then you hand him his designated costume and brush past him.

Gojo clenches his fist and brings it down to himself in celebration, whispering a little, “Yess.” To himself childishly while you make your way to the nearby dressing room.

There were other last minute costumes that’d caught your eye on your way to the back of the store but, you think you’re pretty content with the cowgirl costume you end up putting on. Sure, you passed the classics like witches, cheerleaders, vampires, ghosts, etc… but this costume fits you so well that it’s almost as if it were made for you.

It fits your body almost like a leather glove but without being too uncomfortable or tight. It’s a top and bottom set—mostly consisting of black and an accenting hint of red here and there. 

Once you get it on, your body is quickly flattered by the fabric. The top is long sleeved, cropped up high, and has a knot that ties right in the lower center of your chest with a vest that has these sparkly red stars on it. Then there’s the sorry excuse for shorts accompanying the top, that’s decorated with this semi-chunky belt with matching sparkly red stars. Lastly were the boots and hat, both black with hints of red, that completed the look.

And once you got a glance of yourself in the nearby mirror, you were gagged by how good you look. You spun around to get a full view of yourself, noticing the hug that the shorts have on your ass, shaping you perfectly. Hell, you almost never wanna take this damn thing off. And contrastingly enough, part of you is a bit self-conscious to actually go out like this.

It’s not until you take a deep breath and step out of the dressing room that your confidence returns to you with the wolf-whistle you recieve from Gojo. Your eyes had been somewhere on the floor until you heard the sound he let out, lifting your gaze to find him slouching back against some chair he managed to find and pull up. He’s got his legs all spread like some slut (not that you’d ever say this aloud, of course) and you don’t think there’s a single thought of innocence in your head as you take in the sight of him.

His costume is matching yours but, there’s a lot less skin showing, obviously. The shirt he has on is rolled up to his elbows and he’s got a teasing amount of his chest revealed—matching you with that low v-cut top you have, except his shirt is just a bunch of buttons undone.

His lower half is your typical pair of cowboy pants, all snug against his thighs, fabric straining over his muscles, and—

“Eyes up here sweets’,” Gojo says with a snap of his fingers. You flinch and revert your gaze to his face, gulping at the way he’d caught your gaze trailing elsewhere. “There she is,” He purrs, motioning with two fingers for you to walk toward him, “C’mere. Lemme get a better look at’cha.”

You almost awkwardly shuffle over to him, shyly covering your exposed midsection and trying to calm the pounding of your heart with each step you take. “Satoru, d-don’t you think this is a bit…” You hate how nervous you are right now, as if he hasn’t seen you with less clothes before.

Once you find yourself standing right in between his legs, he peers up at you with that ridiculously handsome smile of his. “A bit what?” Gojo hushes out as he reaches forward and moves your arms out the way to expose all of you to his greedy eyes. “I think you look perfect, like always.” He practically whispers, leaning forward and planting an all too affectionate kiss onto your stomach.

You flinch again and instinctively move your hand to his shoulder to push him back a bit, “Thank you but, I feel exposed.”

He acts as though you shoved him back, slumping into the chair like he was before and giving you this lovestruck expression as he meets your eyes. “S’okay,” Gojo tells you, “I’m sure there’ll be a lot more people wearing a lot less tonight so, you’ll feel more comfortable once we’re there.”

You give him a little nod in response and he moves his hands to trace your hips, feeling the tight fabric of your shorts beneath his fingertips and taking a deep breath. 

“And if not,” He moves to stand up and you’re reminded of the height difference between you two all over again. “I’ll give you my jacket or something, okay?”

Nodding again, you feel so safe beneath his gaze—almost like nothing else really matters when you’re around him. 

Once that’s all been settled, you and Gojo leave the costume shop. You forget to question him about how the hell you two were able to leave without paying for anything but, the rest of the night takes over all those questions you love asking him so much.

· ───────── · ꨄ · ───────── ·

Before you even know it, you’re pulling up to this huge house, distant thumping sounds of music and giggles heard throughout the air as Gojo parks his car not too far off. There’s vehicles placed all down the street, people all over the front yard, some just hanging out and others taking pictures or even making out.

It’s been a while since you last attended a party but, the sight of multiple skimpy outfits brings you a sense of comfort as soon as you step out of the car. The music from the house is so loud that you can’t even make out what song is playing right now due to the bass. Even so, Gojo quickly approaches your side and rightfully places his arm over your shoulder like he did earlier, keeping you nice and close to him while the two of you make way for the entrance.

The atmosphere is overly lively. You can hear and see people laughing, talking, dancing, drinking, etc. The music vibrates off of the house walls as you and Gojo walk in, shuffling past hella people just to make it fully inside. The house-, mansion, really, is packed with semi-drunk college students and you’re quickly reminded why you don’t surround yourself with party goers almost every weekend like you used to. 

There’s definitely heads turning as you and Gojo navigate through the crowd of people but, you can’t really tell if that’s because of him or you.

You would’ve loved to say that Gojo was the most attractive man there but… it’s really hard to say that when you’re quickly stopped by some tall polished blonde man wearing a priest costume. Ignoring the way Gojo’s got an arm around your shoulder entirely, this guy grins at you kindly and he’s got the prettiest honey brown eyes taking in all of you as he leans toward you to voice a compliment.

“Beautiful costume,” The man says to you simply. From where you and Gojo had made it to, the music wasn’t overwhelming and you could actually talk to someone without yelling or leaning in too close.

Naturally, you smile in thanks and give him a little nod. “Thank you, I like yours as well. You’re a priest, right—“

“Nanami!” Gojo beams beside you, unconsciously telling you the name of the blonde man you were seconds away from making casual conversation with. “The hell are you doin’ here?” He asks in a taunting tone.

Nanami’s face flicks into something tired at the mere sound of Gojo’s voice. “I should be asking you that, Gojo. You’re supposed to be at work right now.” He says sternly.

Gojo chuckles lightly, “Oh don’t be like that, boss.” He says, taking his arm from around you and moving to tap Nanami on his arm, “It’s Halloween!”

Nanami sighs. “Yes, yes, I know. That’s why I’m not upset or anything but, you could’ve sent a text. I’d like to be aware of whether or not my cafe’s closing early.”

It suddenly clicks for you that Nanami owns that beloved cafe you visit practically everyday—something which, getting a good look at his chiseled face, just fits him. Nanami is exactly what you imagined Gojo’s boss looking like, honestly. The only thing surprising you here is the fact that he’s around the same age.

You’re about to say something to insert yourself back into the conversation but you’re interrupted by a familiar voice. “Oh my God, Satoru! You made it!!” Hori says overly cheerful.

By the time you turn your head to spot her, her arms are wrapping around Gojo’s waist and she’s hugging him tightly. Gojo hugs her back with one arm and forces a friendly smile onto his face.

“Hey Hori,” Gojo greets rather plainly. “Are you dressed as a… bunny?” He asks as he looks down at her within his grasp. You couldn’t really see her because of the way she was hugging Gojo but that didn’t bother you too much when Nanami steals your attention away with a light tap.

“I didn’t get your name,” He says to you, having leaned in a bit so that you could hear him clearly.

“Oh,” You chirp before extending a hand out and voicing your name to him. Nanami nods as he shakes your hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Nanami.” You greet officially.

He grins kindheartedly, “The pleasure is all mine, honestly.”

There’s a moment of prolonged handshaking before someone bumps into Nanami’s arm and your hands disconnect. You both look to see who it is and you’re met with this brown haired guy dressed as some kind of criminal (?). Tugging the skimask up off of his face, your eyes are greeted with a very contrasting face. He’s got these big doe-like eyes and his features scream innocence in a way.

“Woah, you’re pretty,” He chuckles, clearly tipsy off of whatever drink seems to be held in his left hand. “Y’Mind if I get your number?”

Your eyes go wide at his straightforwardness and all you do is smile at first. “Uh, I’m actually…” You slowly glance to where Gojo is, only to find that he’s been dragged elsewhere with Hori. You see his a peek of his snowy white hair amid the crowd and your shoulders slump a bit at how quickly he just left your side. Turning back to the brunette male, you nod, “Y’know what, yeah, sure.”

Nanami clears his throat and his phone is held out soon, “Me too actually,” He chimes in.

With that, you're entering your number into the two guy’s phones and then handing their devices back to them. The brunette soon informs you that his name is Ino and the three of you stand there making small talk for a bit.

It’s mildly concerning that Gojo just left you like that but you distract yourself with the two men talking to you at the moment. 

After chatting with them for a bit, they eventually part ways with you and you navigate your way through the sea of party people alone. There’s not a single familiar face throughout the crowd and it’s not until you notice you’re getting stares from people that you start feeling self conscious again. 

You thought that maybe if you made your way to the dance floor and vibed by yourself for a bit, you’d be fine. But, you don’t even make it that far because somewhere throughout your shuffling through people, someone grabs a light hold of your arm and pulls you out of the crowd.

You stumble into step to see who the hell decided to grab you like that. It wasn’t aggressive or anything but it was concerning since you’ve only seen unrecognizable people thus far.

“Finally a familiar face,” The sound of Utahime’s voice hits your ears and she’s turning to face you after pulling you far away enough to talk to you. “Y’know how long I was in that damn crowd looking for literally anyone I knew? I’m so glad I found you.” She says with a sigh.

Your chest feels light as you drink in her wearing a cheerleader costume. “I’m glad you found me too, I was walking around here for maybe ten minutes or so.” You explain.

She rolls her eyes, “I thought you came here with Gojo? Did that asshole ditch you?”

You’re quick to shake your head. “Nono, he didn’t ditch me! I think Hori pulled him off earlier and I was talking with these other guys so we just got separated. Any longer in that crowd and I would’ve called him.”

Utahime pauses for a second while she gathers your words. Then, her expression changes and she smiles at you. “Oh, okay. I was just making sure because Gojo can be a real dickhead sometimes.”

“Think so?” You end up asking. This was the first time you’d heard anything remotely negative about him so, of course your curiosity is piqued.

“Yeah.” She replies, clearly having no intention of going further into an explanation at the moment. Then, with a sigh, she allows her eyes to drop down along your figure. Utahime lets out a small up and her head tilts, “Anyway, you look good—love the costume.” She compliments, her tone light and almost flirtatious.

Though, you could totally be misinterpreting things. “Oh, thank you! I love yours too, it fits you nicely.” Your returned compliment makes her smile and she allows her arms to fold beneath her chest.

“Aww, thanks. I think I—“

“Utahime!!” And there she is again… Hori. Cutting off yet another conversation and spawning into the scene out of seemingly nowhere, dressed as Regina George’s sorry excuse of a bunny from Mean Girls 1 (which is fitting since she’s blonde as well), Hori’s all smiley and her cheeks are lightly flushed. “I was looking for you everywhere. Where’d you run off to?!” She huffs as her arms wrap around Utahime’s singular arm and her head comes to rest on her shoulder.

Utahime says something to respond but all words and sound practically dies out in your ears as a pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind and a fluffy head of hair rests on your left shoulder. Flinching at the sudden contact, you don’t even get the chance to say anything before lips are grazing your ear and a familiar spread of warmth is brushing at your skin.

“Was lookin’ for ya’ everywhere, sweets.” Gojo hushes out into your ear. “God, you smell so good,” His voice lowers and the arms around your waist begin to shift along with his head. The tip of his nose is soon felt burying itself into the crook of your neck and he inhales sharply while his slender fingers smooth over the exposed skin of your waist.

Your body tenses up due to all the sudden touches but, a smile is sparking across your lips before you even realize it. “Thank you, Satoru. And, I was looking for you too… for like, ten minutes actually.” You inform him, earning a gruff little hum in response. “You invited me here ‘n then left me in less than five minutes…”

Gojo grimaces once the mentioning of his departure hits his ears. He sighs into your skin before pressing a small kiss at it, “M’sorry. First Hori pulled me away to find Suguru, and then some other people came pulling me along… I should’ve come back for ya’, my bad.”

You lean back against his touch a bit and your back becomes flush with his chest, “It’s okay, I’m glad you found me.”

“Yeahhh,” He sighs. For a second, you begin to wonder if he’s drunk with how sly his words seem to fall off of his tongue. “To make up for it though.. We could go—“

“Lemme guess, dance?” You cut off, recalling the last party you went to with him and how the same exact thing happened then. He really was a people magnet all around, huh?

Chuckling, Gojo gives your body a small tug and your ass is brought back toward his crotch. “You know it,” He says cheekily as he lifts his head from your neck and then drops his hands to your hips. It’s swift the way he spins you around to face him, your hands soon finding place on his chest and your eyes meeting his pretty blue ones. After which, he allows his hands to sneak behind you and grab a nice handful of your ass within his palm.

Ultimately, you were left looking up at him all surprised and confused. Gojo is touchy, sure. He always has been but… he doesn’t normally touch you so intimately out in the open like this. It was different. Not that you minded it but, it left you to wonder who or what he wanted to showcase these touches off to…

His cheeks were similarly flushed to how Hori’s were when you last looked at her, again leading you to wonder if he’d dranken anything. “Satoru,” You call out gently, moving your hands to cup his cheek and lull his expression a bit closer to your own for better study. “Have you been drinking?”

Gojo’s eyes take a second to actually focus on you, which silently tells you all you need to know. “Juuuust a lil’, yeah.” He admits to you.

To which you frown, “You went off and drank without me too? Wowww.” Your voice is clearly dramatic but Gojo seems to pout anyway.

Leaning in to you, he rests his forehead against yours and his arms circulate your waist again as he hugs you properly. “I jus’ had like, one cup of somethin’.” Gojo explains, his voice softening whilst his lashes bat in an innocent manner.

You stare at him. “One cup and you’re tipsy already?” You say, releasing a soft fit of laughter.

Gojo scrunches up his face a bit and you feel like it’s just you and him in the room right now, despite sounds of people laughing and talking all loud surrounding the two of you. “Mhmm. I don’t drink too often ‘cause I can't really handle alcohol too well,” He explains to you with a slight clearing of his throat.

The distant sound of Tory Lanez’s ‘The Color Violet’ can be heard and it makes Gojo lift his head and glance back toward where most people are dancing and the music is at its loudest.

Your eyes remain up on the man, “Should I be worried?”

He looks at you again and smiles, his brows tweezing together. “What? No. I’ve been told I get clingy when I’m drunk but aside from that, I’ve never done anything… stupid, I guess.” You hum in acknowledgement and Gojo starts backing away, tugging you along with him before he motions toward the dance floor. “Now c’mon, I owe you a dance, don’t I?”

It takes you a second or two to allow your body to be pulled properly with him but after that, your hand ends up in his and he soon pulls you through the crowd of people. 

· ───────── · ꨄ · ───────── ·

The music gradually gets louder and louder until it consumes the entirety of your senses. You could feel the vibrations of the bass within each step you took, the music blurred throughout your ears, and all the dancing and lingering smell of marijuana and alcohol truly gave you that party atmosphere you’d forgotten about over the years. Before you even realize it, Gojo’s got you somewhere lost amid groups and groups of people dancing, trailing you closest to him using the grasp he had on your hand until you were able to dance right with him.

In contrast to dancing at that gala with him, you feel a lot more at ease here (surprisingly). Instead of gentle sways and intimate slow dancing, it’s more of sensual rolling of bodies against one another and long lasting glances all up and down your body that make you feel warmer than you should be. 

Gojo’s got his hands everywhere with little care as to who sees what. From your hips, following their structure and the way you sway them around and against him, to your waist, twirling you around so that your back is facing him one moment and then vice versa so he can gather all of your neon illuminated features.

His favorite bit of the dancing is very obviously when your back is facing him and you dance against him. It’s in the smooth rock of your hips against him that he gets lost in, eyes all casted downward on your lower half, watching the way you dance back against him. One moment he’s smiling and the next he’s genuinely dazed by you. Then again, it could’ve been the alcohol in his system that made all his senses feel heightened like that.

Gojo felt like he was high simply from dancing with you. So much so that at some point he had to ask you if he could go sit down for a bit because you were uh… causing a bit of stiffening to stir up in between his legs. Part of you wanted to tease him about how just a bit of grinding back on him had turned him on but, another part of you was ready to loosen up a bit and partake in some drinking of your own.

Nothing crazy of course but, you felt like you would be a little stiff in the crowd without Gojo by your side and if he wanted to go sit down but you wanted to continue dancing, you’d have to get some alcohol in you to lessen the tension in your body. As such, a small conversation between you and Gojo took place and he ended up pointing you toward the kitchen before letting you know he wouldn’t be too far off.

The house was huge but with the directions he gave you, you figured you’d be fine.

And honestly? You were fine navigating through people on your own this time. But just in case, Gojo did take it a step further and message you the same thing he’d told you (just in case you didn’t hear him perfectly enough over the music). 

How considerate of him. You thought to yourself as you made your way down a hallway and toward the far off kitchen.

Upon entering the space, you spot a few people making their own drinks, smoking, or talking with a friend but ultimately it’s a lot more laid back in comparison to the dance floor you’d previously been on. This allows you a moment to breathe, exhaling softly as you make way for the first stack of red plastic cups you find.

As you find a decent space on the counter to prepare your stuff, you begin to replay the small events from this party in your head. Smiling, you realize how wonderful everything’s been going for you thus far. You met two guys who were really nice, one of whom seemed to be acquainted with Gojo, Utahime was really friendly with you, and then dancing with Gojo just felt… nice. It was almost like things had gone too good for you tonight. Well, safe for Hori repeatedly interrupting something for you and failing to even say hi to you.

It’s not like you were expecting her to but, it would’ve been nice. She was standing right in front of you. Twice.

But hey, maybe she didn’t even remember you and the small convo you had with her. After all, this is her party and she clearly knows a lot of people so there’s probably a million and one things occupying that brain of hers. Speaking of which, that small conversation you had with her reminds you… didn’t you invite—

“How much for a ride, princess?” Choso’s voice suddenly hits your ears and you practically flinch out of your skin.

Your elbow instinctively shoots back and you nudge him right in his stomach with a loud yelp, “Jesus-, fuck, Choso!” You spew out before clasping your hands over your mouth in response to the sound of surprise you’d let out. “Scared the hell outta’ me.”

He lets out a laugh in between some sort of cough, probably one provoked from your strike against him just now. Slowly, his coughing fades into a full on chuckle and you move your eyes to gather the sight of him behind you. He’s wearing red and black, his hair tied up into two messy pigtails using these red hair ties, and—holy shit. Choso’s dressed up as Garu from Pucca. 

The realization makes you gasp dramatically as you turn around to face him fully. “Oh my God? Are you… Is that a Garu costume?!” You exclaim, moving your hands to his shirt and tugging him a bit close as you study the big red heart imprinted on the center of it.

Choso finally clears his throat and drops his eyes down to the way you’re pinching the hem of his shirt in between your fingers, “Uh, obviously?” He remarks sassily before lifting his gaze to your costume and cocking his head to the side. “And what are you supposed to be? A cowgirl?”

“Obviously,” You say mockingly. “Didn’t you just ask me how much for a ride like twenty seconds ago??”

His red gloved hand moves to brush your touch off of his shirt and then he smirks. “Yeah, ‘n you didn’t even answer, jus’ gave me a mean nudge to the gut…”

“You scared me!” You huff out to him.

Choso’s eyes settle firmly on the cleavage of your tits, not making any sort of attempt to avert his gaze as he talks to you, “I know.” His tone makes it seem as though he did that on purpose. “But I had to get back at you somehow. Who the hell invites their friend to a party and then makes no attempt to see if they’re still coming or if they even made it?”

Oh damn. You did kinda forget about him as soon as you got around Gojo… You don’t think Choso’s even crossed your mind again since earlier that morning. “Ohh uhm, sorry about that.” You say, a slight awkwardness drafting by mere seconds afterwards.

Choso gives you this loose nod of his head before stepping past you. “Yeah uhuh,” He hums casually whilst taking two of those red cups out from their stack. “Too distracted dancin’ with your partner to think about me, right?”

Your eyes follow him as he moves and you watch the way he fixes two drinks—one of them clearly for you. “He… He’s not my partner, Cho. I just—“

“No? But you two are matching,” He points out as he interrupts your next sentence. “Cowboy and Cowgirl too, how cute,” Then, Choso’s turning his head to look at you with this expression you can’t quite read as the next words leave his lips lowly. “Wonder if you’ll ride him the same way you did me.”

“What—“

He scoffs, “Yeah, y’gonna show him all the things you showed me?” He presses even further, taking a step away from preparing those drinks and toward you. Your body seems to not want to listen to you because you remain still and don’t even try to step back. Choso leans in close and angles his head to the side as his eyes remain dead set on yours, “Hm? Are you gonna beg him to fuck you the same way you begged for my cock that night?”

You’re left staring at him all speechless and dumbfounded, no sharp remarks to throw back at him, no attempts at arguing with him, just… nothing. 

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[arabellasleopardcoat]

Muña (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: At the start of the Dance of the Dragons, you host a familiar face. But it is not your husband who darkens your doorstep. It is his nephew.

Warnings: Daemon haunting the narrative. Smut. Body image issues, self-esteem issues. Tully! Reader (Reddish undertone hair) Implied mommy issues. Vaginal sex. Breeding kink

A/N: I got no explanation for this. Might end up writing a part 2 if this does well. Pt 2

“THERE IS a dragon at our gates.” One of your guards announces. You get up from your seat, a wave of nausea already beginning to make herself known. You would rather not face your husband. Not today. Not ever, if you are being truthful with yourself.

You have gained weight. The slim figure that you flaunted at sixteen is long gone. There is more weight in your hips and chest, a bit of softness around your middle. You know he will mock you for it.

“Open them.” You order, bracing yourself for the uncomfortable encounter. You can’t bar him entrance to what is his home too, despite him not visiting in years. “Tell him to leave the dragon there. I’ll send it some food.”

The guard bows and exits the room. One of your companions, Lady Whent, starts to pace the hall. She fears what your husband coming here might mean for you. The rumors said he had loudly proclaimed he would deal with you himself.

Your choice to keep the Riverlands out of the war effort is controversial, but predictable. Surely, no one in their right mind thought you would aid your husband install his Queen. Not even him. Not after he had left your shared home and started living in sin with her, shaming you in front of the whole realm. Yet again, no one would have called Daemon Targaryen the epitome of saneness.

You go sit on your throne, placing your embroidery aside. Your tenants are happy enough that you don’t hold court as often as the other lords. And when they are not, they still refuse to bring their problems to you unless absolutely necessary. No one wants to burden their poor lady more.

You wish they did. The days would seem less empty that way, rotting away in this castle, your house’s sigil mocking you from every corner. Family, Duty, Honor, they had promised you. None had come.

The guard comes back. You remain sitting on your throne, the one you hardly use. You intend to receive your husband from a position of power, not allow him to cower you. But when you look at the man next to the guard, your breath catches.

This man is not your husband. This man is not even one of Rhaenyra’s men.

“Lady Tully.” He says, taking a deep bow. Very respectful, which would make you doubt his relation to your husband were it not for the fact he shares his silver hair.

“Prince… Aemond.” You say, looking at his face. It’s your best guess as to his identity, considering he has a green banner and an eye patch. He wears all black, the color of House Targaryen. You stand up, and curtsy.

“My lady.”

“My husband is not here.” You say, hurriedly. It’s your first instinct. You do not want that dragon of his torching your tenants.“You are welcome to check the castle and my lands, but there is no love lost between us. I assure you I am not hiding him.”

“I know.” He answers, lips twitching into a smirk. You find nothing humorous about it, but you do not dare voice it. You do not understand what he is doing here, if not chasing after Daemon. “I understand your people… Resent him.”

“It is not our place to judge.” You say, voice firm. This man is at least ten years your junior, you will not allow him to intimidate you. No matter how he towers over you, no matter how menacing and mean his features seem. He is no Daemon Targaryen, this green boy. Your husband is the only man you had truly feared. “Only the Seven are perfect, and thus, entitled to judge others' actions.”

“Very devout.” Aemond steps closer to you, his smile widening. The way his face contorts, sharp and with too many teeth, reminds you of one of the piscivorous fishes you have seen swimming up the stream during summer. The look in their eyes is the same he sports now, right before they decide to feast on an unaware trout. “Just like us. Seems like we have a lot in common.”

You gulp. You wish you were less easy to intimidate.

“We do?”

“We do. I don’t like your husband either. The tales of his prowess have been overly exaggerated. And I do not think you are too keen on bowing to Rhaenyra, considering your marriage will be annulled.” A pair of his fingers pluck a stray curl from your up do, twirling it between his fingers. The slightly copperish undertones of it glint under the candlelight.

The threat looms in the air, uncontested by you. Both Prince Aemond and you know that Queen Rhaenyra would be dissolving your marriage as you speak, were it not for the fact that your husband and her need your lands and men for her war. Annulment in exchange for your life would be a much less cruel punishment than whatever they are cooking.

If you were a quieter woman, a less brave one, you would accept your fate. You would say your marriage had been unconsummated, that you will aid your new sovereign and your ex-husband in their war. But you won’t leave your people to their tender care. With the privileged position your lands have, they are also in the privileged position to be amongst the first to burn.

You are not so craven as to save your life in exchange for the ones of your subjects. Hence, neutrality. Hoping it will spare you. All of you.

“Do you think I want to still be married to him? After all this?” It is not enough, you see it now. With the green banner inside your hall, with the one eyed prince himself sent to rally you behind their cause. Neutrality won’t save you. You need to resist Daemon, not just sit praying he won’t attack you. The Seven know he has no such qualms.

“Perhaps we can make a widow out of you yet.” Aemond says to you, a hint of a smile making his expression turn even more menacing.

Tasting freedom on the tip of your tongue for the first time in years, you smile back.

YOU ARE on your side, Aemond thrusting into you from behind. His hand envelops your hip, greedily grasping your flesh. His other arm is under your head, serving as a pillow. For once, you are not self-conscious.

How could you be, when he had practically begged for entrance to your bed? He wanted you, and the thought of that was as thrilling as it was foreign. You hadn't broken your marriage vows ever since you took them. No man had dared voice interest, considering who your husband was.

Aemond had to convince you to get you here, and you had fumbled like a maiden every step of the way. You didn’t dare defy Daemon either. Despite your loneliness over the years, you had never taken another to your bed. No matter how tempted you had been.

When you had seen Aemond, you weren’t planning to, either. He was your good nephew, Daemon’s family. It was utterly scandalous, yet here you were.

You weren’t too sure how you had ended up into this predicament, though. One second the two of you had been making plans, your Lord Commander eager to be at his service, and the next, Aemond was crowding you against a wall and kissing you with unparalleled hunger. Your doubts had been quieted by his warm hands and eager mouth, as he forced you to writhe on his arms and try to divest him of his clothes. Perhaps he had carried you to your room then. You can’t remember, you just hope no one saw you.

“Did he fuck you like this?” He mouths at your ear, lightly biting. No matter how much you want to banish the thought of Daemon from your mind, Aemond doesn’t let you. It makes you feel guilty, breaking your self-imposed celibacy with your nephew in law, but he seems to get a secret thrill from it.

You don’t have the heart to tell him Daemon and you have only gone to bed together once. The night of your wedding.

You stay silent. His hand slides over your stomach, down to your mound. A single, long finger, slips through your folds and starts to rub circles on your pearl.

“Did my uncle ever make you peak?” Aemond asks you, still rubbing those maddening circles. You can’t think. All that is on your mind is a cloud of pleasure, warm and shameful. You shouldn’t be in bed with Daemon’s nephew. Nor should you be breaking your vows.

Aemond bites at your nape, sharply. Just like his uncle, he doesn’t take kindly to not being the center of attention.

“I asked you a question.”

“No.” You tell him, closing your eyes. Your face burns with your shame. Perhaps it is the embarrassment at your husband hating your bed so much he never visited It any longer, or perhaps it is the fact that you are breaking a vow you had really believed in. But Aemond doesn’t seem to like it, pressing soft kisses into your shoulder in an attempt to relax you.

“I'll give you one.” He promises, rubbing your pearl. His thrusting slows down, allowing the head of his member to hit deep inside you. “In my bed, you won't want for anything.”

The way he says it startles you. Dark, possessive. As if he doesn’t intend to let you go after one night, as if he intends to keep you.

“I don't belong in your bed.” You moan, trying to resist the pleasure that seems so sinful in your eyes. You clench around him despite it, not wanting him to leave your body. His free hand, the one serving as your pillow, grabs at your hair, the auburn mane as a bracelet in his pale arm. The pain of the tug only heightens your pleasure, making your body soar above the wave that threatens to crash and drag you under on the pools of hedonism.

Never before had you felt like this. In your encounter with your husband, as he huffed and puffed over you, you had only felt a quick pain and a vague feeling of shame. He had focused on his pleasure first, kicking you out of bed as soon as he was done.

But Aemond. Aemond stares at you, proud of how you unravel in his arms. He encourages you to do it, taking great delight in watching you fall apart.

“You do. With your gorgeous hair and your delicious cunt, I won't allow you to go elsewhere. You are a gift from the Mother herself.” He whispers, darkly. “I’ll worship you how you deserve, Muña.”

The last word seems to amuse him greatly, for it prompts a chuckle out of him. It’s an odd sound to hear coming from him. He seemed the kind who took himself too seriously. He licks at the shell of your ear, at your face, slobbering all over you.

It should disgust you, yet you can’t help but sigh in his arms. Surrender tastes cloyingly sweet in your mouth.

“I… Married.” You repeat, trying to get Aemond to see reason. You claw at his hands, trying to stop him from bringing you this overwhelming ecstasy that makes your body tense, and your thighs quiver. Your mind feels foggy, your wit reduced to half whimpers and softly spoken words.

“I'll wed you, and place my son on your belly.” He grins against your nape, contemplating his final triumph against Daemon. “My seed will take, where his never could. He is weak.”

“I am already married.” You repeat, a bit more firmly. Aemond laughs, rubbing at your pearl once more.

“Shhh, quiet. Quiet, Muña.” He whispers, pulling you to lie under him. He enters you in a single thrust, not giving you a moment of respite. You cry out, nails raking down his back. “I'll kill him. He is just an old man.”

You mutter something. Maybe a reply. Your lips move, incoherent, and you are screaming, the wave of pleasure finally crashing and pulling you under.

“That’s a good aunt. Squeeze your tight little cunt for me.” He grins, and you think this is it. The two of you are going to the Seven Hells.

[sagebrush-and-sadness]

BOOTHILL HEADCANONS

author's notes just some silly goofy headcanons for Boothill because he's a cutie patootie and I love him fem!reader, completely SFW ♡ and ⥩ are appreciated!

※ He always patiently waits for you to finish applying sunscreen or moisturizer to his face before he can finally go shooting bad guys to his heart's content. Most of the time he jokes around or teasingly dodges your hands; sometimes he mumbles that this is embarassing and he really doesn't care, sweetie, come on, but he will always give you a kiss as a token of gratitude. Because, trust me, he does care.

※ Loves snapping his teeth at you. It's a (weirdly charming) sign of affection, a habit Boothill took up pretty early in your relationship. You teasingly call it a cute aggression and he doesn't deny it. However, if he does that in public at someone else, you better get a hold of him and scatter away because the man is getting pissed.

※ Oh, he absolutely will blow raspberries on your neck whenever he has a chance to hug you from behind. And he's as sly as an old fox, lulling you into a false sense of security with gentle kisses and nuzzles — just to violently strike a poor, helpless you and dance away laughing joyfully.

※ Your first kiss with Boothill was that of desperation — he just barely made it out alive from one of the IPC warehouses, his left leg limp and dragging lifelessly across the floor, a few bullet holes adorning his signature hat, thankfully not lost in the heat of a battle. He looked no better than a wild ragged coyotte, a pitiful thing, an unsightly creature smelling of rot and blood, but upon seeing him, safe and relatively sound, your heart swelled with tenderness and your eyes — with hot tears. You wanted to kiss him then and there, and he anticipated as much, grabbing your face in his hands, firm yet gentle, and all but smashing your lips together. Perhaps, it was a shatter of all your dreams about a romantic first kiss, but at that moment it was the most perfect one...

...Or was it? As tender and loving as Boothill was with you, his tongue still tasted like oil and gunpowder. He laughed it off the first time you made a face, but since then he's made a mental note to always carry a bag of candies and lollipops with him.

※ He's the type of guy to randomly get you fresh field flowers.

Also the type to dance with you while holding one in his teeth. There is a whole anecdote about him picking an unknown flower that turned out to be quite poisonous and suffering from tongue swelling half a day after that. Don't bring this story up, though, his male ego is still recovering.

※ Boothill's upbringing obliges him to treat women with courtesy and respect. He may look like a heartbreaker to some, but in truth, his mindset is that of a traditional man. This said, he loves referring to you as a 'woman'. His woman. He relishes the fact and there is so much pride, so much infatuation and genuine awe behind this word every time he all but purrs it out. It's a strangely specific nickname of his, and no matter how unusual it might have sounded to you at first, now your heart flatters every time you hear it drip from his lips. After all, you are his woman and he is your handsome cowboy.

He might however bark at you when you're pestering him. Something in the lines of 'I'm busy, woman, what are ya yapping 'bout?'. Naturally, he never uses it as a means to offend and will put a bullet through the head of anyone who dares belittle you like that. The unspoken rule of a cowboy says: never criticize another gentleman's hat, horse and wife. And Boothill is very serious about his rules, even if technically you are not his wife (yet).

※ He adores it when you dress up for him. No matter how often or seldom you do that, no matter what exactly you're wearing — a cute cocktail dress or a strict suit — he would whistle low and stride right to you with the air of a beau who just saw the girl he'd buy a drink for. His sultry pretentious flirting never fails to make you giggle.

※ Boothill will always find time for you. No matter how many light days separate you from each other, no matter how busy the schedule or how dangerous the enemies, he can never really get you out of his head. You are always there, his little beacon of light, and he knows that you're waiting for him with worry and hope. He hates telling you that you can't come with him this time; hates seeing your smile drop and your fingers fidget anxiously as you watch him step on an unknown land. He misses you dearly five minutes into the mission, so he calls you as often as he can, showing you all the pictures he took or all the things he got for you as souvenirs. When it comes to your messages or calls there is never really bad timing for Boothill — an inconvenient one, perhaps, but even the heat of the battle will not stop him from picking up. He might even consider against shooting the poor son of a bitch that let him talk to you peacefully out of courtesy, but we will see about that.

※ Ever since you came into his life, Boothill's spending habits have gotten somewhat healthier. The thing is — the guy is loaded, yet money never held any real interest for him. After all, he became a hunting dog not for the promise of fresh bones, it was more of a pleasant bonus rather than a necessity. Most of his credits were spent on oil for his spaceship and himself, some repairs here and there, bullets and, surprisingly, booze — now unable to fully experience the harmful effects of a few bottles of whiskey a day, Boothill drinks it in the same manner some people chew on their gum. However you and your loyal companionship awoke something within him, something he thought had died many miserable years ago. An urge to care. And it came so naturally to him, too. It was very easy, on a level of subconscious, for him to pick up the habit of buying you food — the one he knows you like, of the highest quality. Or making sure you have an outfit for any occasion in your life and enough space to store them all. Or that all your beauty and health treatments are paid for. Or... and the list goes on and on. Boothill is a man who will respect you for wanting to be independent, sure, but will not shame you for wanting to be provided for.

English is not my native language. So please, if you see any mistakes in grammar, punctuation or spelling, or simply think that something sounds weird, let me know! Ty!

[werecreature-addicted]

Do you remember your writings about a minotaur and a farmer girl? Well, how about this, one night there is a party in the small town, you know, and that day both humans and monsters attend, it is a day when everyone can have fun and relax, humans, werewolves, half-snake creatures, orcs, minotaurs, etc, anyway, in the town the minotaur realizes that the girl he lives with is somewhat "popular" among some humans and monsters, since it shows that some have an interest in her, you know, they are in love with her, and well this is something that makes our minotaur jealous 🤭

part one, two, three. and for those who didn't see the Minotaur's name is Sam now.

Sam looks up at the dazzling lights that flit through the night sky. Fireflies glow in the dark like stars. Children run around with glass jars trying to catch the small insects. There's so much noise, it's a little overwhelming, children shrieking in delight, groups of people talking loudly, and a little further down a band was playing.

You reach out and squeeze his hand, reminding him that he isn't alone.

"It's pretty, isn't it? I'm so glad you decided to come to the solstice festival with me," you say smiling. It is a beautiful summer night, and having you with him makes it all the better. he can't help but think that you're pretty tonight too.

"You've been begging me for weeks to come with you, I couldn't say no," he murmurs. it wasn't quite true, you'd just been hinting over and over again that he should come out with you tonight. You laugh and squeeze his hand again before letting go completely, and he fights the urge to pull your hand back in his and cling to you a little longer. Sam craves your touch more than he should, your hands are warm, and small in his, and they make him feel at ease in a place like this, surrounded by noisy strangers. Even though he's out of his element, he is glad he came, he feels better knowing he can keep an eye on you, and keep you safe, should the need arise.

You'd promised him other nonhumans would be there tonight, and you'd spoken the truth. everywhere you looked there were werewolves, nagas, and some paler humans he could only assume were vampires, Still, he felt like he stood out, he was a good foot taller than anyone else here, and he did notice the nervous glances he was getting. He gets it. he's big and scary, covered in scars, and has a broken horn.

The people of the town surprise him. many people came up to him and started a conversation, even though they were clearly nervous. He hated it. And he hated that he hated it. He still wasn't good at talking to anyone who wasn't you, just because you're nice and treat him with respect doesn't mean All humans are like that, he knows all too well just how cruel most of your kind can be.

That being said, most people coming up to him weren't actually there for him but for you. He knew you were lovely, kind, charming, and attractive, but he's a little surprised that so many others thought the same. It seemed like half the town wanted to catch up, buy you a drink, take you for a dance. humans and monsters alike.

He feels the jealousy spike, he wants to hoard your attention, and selfishly keep you all to himself. The two of you were basically alone on the farm, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to have to share your attention. and it's not a welcome change. Luckily for him, you don't seem eager to leave his side. You politely turn down the handsome werewolf who asked you for a dance. You seem perfectly committed to staying by his side this whole night, just like you promised you would. there are no words for how grateful he is that that's true.

"I don't know how to dance," he admits softly as the werewolf walks away.

"What?" you ask, not following his train of thought.

"I mean. if you want to dance tonight, that's not something you can do with me," he explains, his mood darkening as he thinks about the things you couldn't do with him that you could with a more normal man. He thinks about all the people who've talked to you tonight, any one of them would make a better more stable partner than him. He feels guilty for wanting you, especially when he considers how much he doesn't deserve you.

"No one was born knowing how to dance, Sam, it's a skill, you practice and you learn. If you want I can teach you," you offer. Sam felt the blood drain from his face, He'd fought countless bloody fights and none of that was as terrifying as the idea of trying to learn to dance in front of such a large crowd. You laugh lightly seeing the look on his face,

"At home, I'll teach you when we're alone, besides this-" you gesture to the band playing "-isn't really my style, I'll figure something better for us to dance to," you assure him, and he relaxes. Dancing, alone with you, at home. your shared home. it makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Love is not a word that he never uses ever, and he rarely even allows himself to think it, but he's not sure how much longer he can keep the words inside. He's sure that if you really do teach him to dance that will be his breaking point, or maybe he wouldn't say "I love you" but he might just kiss you deeply instead. Then again, maybe he should, if you were officially his it might keep some of the other men in town away from you. He wouldn't mind that at all.

[rainylana]

“Somebody else.”

Modern!bully!Eddie Munson x fem!reader

summary: your bully realizes he’s in love with you.

warnings: god i love this so much and i’m so pleased with how it turned out. it’s short, but i’m in love with it! bully!eddie, mentions of drinking and getting high, drunk and high sex but it’s consensual, enemies to lovers, some brief smut and groping, heavy making out, this is based of my last relationship lol i basically lived this whole fic lmao. reader and eddie are over 18! based on my favorite song somebody else by the 1975!

He hates you. At lease he thought he did. It had been that way since he could remember. So why, all of a sudden, was he looking at you like that? 

Eddie never looked at you like another human being. He treated you like a toy, something to play with and keep him busy, but when he got bored, he tossed you to the side like you meant nothing.

He got off on being mean to you, that should have been his first clue. Pulling your hair in class, tripping you in the hallway, copying your homework, taking most of your food at lunch.

He seemed to thrive off making you miserable, gaining pleasure on those days where he could see his antics were getting to you more than they usually did.

The only one who saw through this was Steve, who dared not to say anything, because he knew how Eddie would react, and you’d pay for it in the end. He kept his mouth shut, but he knew the truth.

And apparently, so did Eddie tonight.

You looked so carefree. So..peaceful and without a single care in the world. You looked beautiful, he came to realize, staring at you from across the room, back to the wall and cigarette hanging from his lips.

It was the annual end of the year party at Steve’s house, one where almost everyone in town would show up at. Even Eddie. He only did because he knew you’d be there. His second clue.

The dance floor was crowded, yet Eddie could only seem to focus on you. Your face glowed in shades of flashing colors, purple, red’s and blue’s as you danced, hands in the air as you twirled and spun in circles, legs kicking out and hips swinging side to side.

“I don’t want your body but I hate to think about you with somebody else”

The speakers screamed the lyrics of Somebody Else by The 1975, a song you had requested. Eddie had never heard of it before, but after tonight, he’d never be able to get it out of his head, not with the scene you displayed for him.

“Our love has gone cold, you’re intertwining your soul with somebody else”

He was high, that’s what it was. He was stoned out of his mind and drunk. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, blinking as quickly as he could around the room, clearing his throat. He was hidden in the corner of the room, his face glowing red from the disco ball at his side, red solo cup in hand with some sort of mysterious liquid that burned on the way down.

But his eyes found you again. He couldn’t help it.

“I’m looking through you while you’re looking through your phone and then leaving with somebody else”

Steve was watching Eddie. He was watching both of you, but especially Eddie. The way his eyes wouldn’t leave you, the way his fingers clenched around the plastic cup when you moved your hips a certain way. He smirked, making his way across the room. Eddie barely noticed his presence.

“Make your move, Munson.” Steve clapped his hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze of encouragement before returning to the spiked punch bowl.

Eddie didn’t have words to speak, giving Harrington a glance before his eyes were back on your body.

“No, I don’t want your body but I’m picturing your body with somebody else”

Images flashed in his eyes, recalling the days he spent bullying you in school, the days you cried and broke down when he’d said one too many things. He gulped, suddenly feeling very foolish of himself. Make your move, Munson. He had no move to make, did he?

The chorus repeated and you let your head lull back, eyes closed as if the lyrics were speaking to you like they were to him. He wasn’t the only one who thought you looked beautiful. His attention flickered to the strange man, a man he did not recognize, making his way through the crowd to dance with you.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. You were his and his alone. You always had been. It seemed tonight was the night he needed to tell you that.

The song turned to the instrumental beat as he shoved everyone out of the way, heavy boots tapping against the hardwood floor. “Excuse me.” He very much rudely shoved your fellow dance partner to the side, ignoring his exclamation, including yours.

“I Don’t want your body but I hate to think about you with somebody else”

“Eddie!” Your eyes widened, voice barely audible over the loud music.

“Our love has gone cold, you’re intertwining your soul with somebody else”

His thick, large hands grabbed at your face, pulling you into his mouth with a hot, desperate kiss that screamed I love you, I always have. The song continued to play and he continued to kiss you, the beat dropped and you kissed back, the initial shock wearing off and realizing just exactly who it was that was kissing you.

You pushed him back, but only briefly, the look of fear across his face before you jumped back into his arms.

“I’m looking through you while you’re looking through your phone and then leaving with somebody else”

Your lips molded together like a piece of sculpted clay, tongues dancing like everyone else in the room, noses fitting together lockets.

His hand was dropping from your face to grab your hand, dragging you through the crowd and upstairs. Neither of you said a word, heart in your throat as you practically ran to keep up with him. He slammed the door to a spare room, a room he’d drunkenly slept in many nights, and pushed you against the wall.

The music vibrated underneath you, and you could hear the lyrics continue your favorite song. His mouth was on you again, lifting up your thighs to wrap around his torso.

“You dance with me,” He husked between deep, sloppy kisses. “and only me. Got it?”

You whimpered into the kiss, pressing your hips where your clothed heat met his groin. “Yes.” You nodded furiously. “Only you.”

“Only me.” He barely whispered, repeating you quickly as his hands slipped down to your ass, carrying you to the bed behind him. He dropped you, roughly yanking down your panties with a quick movement that had your head feeling fuzzy.

His full hand cupped your pussy, feeling you briefly before he was pulling out his cock. He couldn’t wait. The song was still playing, and he could see the way your lips twitched the lyrics as he thrusted into you sharply, dragging a long moan from you as you pushed up the bed.

“Somebody else.” You barely choked out the words, drunk yourself, as you both fucked each other.

[klausysworld]

can u write something about damon just being soft and whipped for his girl. just need a damon fluffy fic rn 😩😩

Everything to him

Damon stood with his arms around his girl’s waist as she finished her makeup in the mirror. His chin on top her head as he watched as she layered the romantic red lipstick onto her soft plump lips. He could only hope to have their prints all over him by later that night as she looked herself over.

“You look perfect” he mumbled when she frowned a little and tilted her head. “There’s absolutely nothing I would change, in fact although the makeup has you looking all this much sexier, even without you wear the face of an angel” he purred seeing her lips lift into a smile and her head turn to look at him.

“I’d say flattery gets you no where but it seems to have gotten you rather far as of now” she lifted her arms over his head and round his neck while batting her lashes as him. He pulled her closer so his lips ghosted hers and his eyes dropped at the feeling of her fingers in his hair.

“I only tell the truth to you” he whispered gravelly and she hummed in reply, scratching at his head slowly knowing how it affected him. His eyes shut and pressed his forehead to hers “god I love you” he muttered and her smile grew

“I love you Damon Salvatore” she grinned and he tilted his head slightly to have his lips against hers. He allowed her to take the lead, moving her mouth against his and Brighton’s her other hand up to cup his face as both his hands slid up her back to hold the tops of her arms.

“You’re going to ruin my hair” he muttered and she laughed lightly against his lips before pulling back to look at him, her fingers running through each lock

“I like it messy” she decided before brushing it through with her hands and positioning it in a way that she found suited him best. His eyes glossed over as he watched her loving smile and felt her gentle touches. Her fingertips dances down the back of his neck and round to the front before she adjusted his leather, pulling it tighter on him and wetting her painted lips. Her palms smoothed down his chest, her deep red nails dragging down his black t-shirt before pulling up the hem only to groan at his display of abs. Her thumb tracing his happy trail and stopping at the top of his low-hanging jeans. Her fingers skimming over his belt in a teasing manner.

“Y/n…” he muttered feeling his body getting aroused by her actions “we have a reservation”he reminded, a breath of air leaving him as her hand cupped his crotch through his trousers “baby…” he whispered “you can almost never get a table there”

She sighed and gave him a light squeeze, listened to him grunt and then fixed his shirt and stepped back admiring him “okay…but after…” she pouted and he nodded eagerly

“After you can do anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

She bit her bottom lip gently and held her hand out which he quickly took with a lustful smirk in place.

He kept a hand in hers the whole drive there, only breaking the hold for a second as they got out the car before an arm was back round her hips. She smoothed her cherry coloured dress down, adjusting it to rest a little lower on her thighs as it had ridden up in the car. His gaze dropped to her heels which make a distinct ‘click’ with each step she took. His eyes followed back up her gorgeous legs, along her beautiful figure and back to her face. Watching as she spoke to the waiter at the front who was finding their reservation in the system with a bashful blush on his cheeks as she flashed her pearly white teeth. Damon knew how easy it was to get lost in her charm.

He was barely aware of the world around them as he followed her to their table by the window, overlooking the sunset which was already meeting the stary night sky. Menus were slipped into both their hands and wine glasses filled as though the staff just knew what they would order.

She looked to him with admiration in her eyes and his lips curled up “I can’t believe you managed to book us in here” she whispered and he smiled back

“I can’t believe you almost had us miss our time slot, we only just made it”

“I’m sure I would’ve made up for it”

his mouth formed a lip lifted grin in response and he glanced down to his wine glass “I don’t doubt that, not for even a second” he muttered under his breath and she offered him another award winning smile which consequently brought his own upon his lips.

Her foot slipped out of her heel to leisurely brush along his leg as their food came and they engaged in pointless yet meaningful conversation and ate their meals. And for one of those rare moments, he felt like he was human again. He felt no urges, no lust for blood or chaos, he was calm. Happy.

He loved Y/n in ways he had never explored. Ways he wasn’t sure how to but he did them regardless and if he was doing it wrong, she didn’t tell him. She just helped him feel it, she chose him first and loved him and solely him and it was all he had ever wanted. All he had ever needed.

His mind often wondered at times like this, just listening to her voice and watching her lips move, and then the way her eyes would shine under the light and her hair would bounce over her shoulders as she waved her hands around in unnecessary gestures.

He knew he was smiling like a teenage boy with a crush but he couldn’t help it, even when she stopped talking and just grinned back at him knowingly. Her hand finding his and squeezing gently as their desserts were placed before them.

“If you’d like…we could skip dessert” Damon whispered suggestively making her smile

“Oh but then we’d have wasted our reservation” she sighed and leaned back in her seat, digging into her sweet dish and watching his eyes darken over slightly before he looked down to his food and begrudgingly ate the heavenly portion.

By the time they had both finished, paid and gotten to the door, a horrific amount of rain was bouncing off the ground.

Y/n turned her head to him before swiping the car keys from his hand and dashing for car making him let out a laugh and chase after her, completely forgetting his vampire abilities and just managing to get into the car before she locked it. Both of them looked at each other with large smiles on their faces before each bursting into fits of laughed and flicking their hands at one another to throw rain-water on their faces.

Eventually they got home and Damon had he run his arms, spinning in circles and running for the ridiculously big bathtub so they could soak together in the warmth of both the water and each others arms.