#for them to see this relationship as it really is it would require a brain reset

[incognit0slut]

A little death

Softcore In which you provoke his jealousy, and he learns a lot more about himself.

Category: Smut (18+) Word count: 8.3k…. yeah Content: Jealous spencer, bratty reader, dom!spencer, fingering, edging, overstimulation, squirting again (do NOT look at me i am just a girl), and voyeurism if you squint bc someone overhears them a/n: don't you just looove it when they match each other's freak

-

Spencer doesn’t get jealous.

Jealousy, he believes, requires a certain level of entitlement. He’s never really had that. Never let himself believe he owed anyone’s affection, let alone their attention when his romantic history is threadbare at best, sparse enough that he could count past relationships on one hand and still have fingers left untouched.

Even calling them relationships feels generous. Fleeting moment of interest sounds more accurate, a handful of clumsy encounters that never made it past the shallow end of connection. False starts, quiet exits. Nothing solid or lasting. Certainly nothing that ever made him feel like he had the right to be possessive — not since he learned, in the cruelest of ways, that love and loss could be spoken in the same breath.

So no, he doesn’t get jealous. He’s never been presumptuous enough to think that someone could be his to lose in the first place.

Yet what he feels right now is something uncomfortably close to it.

It’s inconvenient, very uncharacteristic of him. And when he catches himself spiraling over things that defy reason, he attempts to pin it down with logic. The empirical part of his brain would call this a reaction to perceived threats to his social attachments. A primal response encoded in his DNA for survival and mate retention, which is nothing more than an evolutionary glitch. A relic of human competition.

A defense mechanism.

A biochemical reaction.

But knowing the terminology doesn’t stop the twist in his stomach as he watches the pretty curve of your smile settle on that overgrown boy scout of a man.

And you’re not even his.

Not in any official capacity. Not in any way that grants him the right to feel this way. Still, there’s something aggravating in the notion of another man soaking in your attention.

"I'm serious," a confidently smooth voice declares.

His gaze flicks to the side, just enough to catch Detective Palmer standing a little too close beside you. The same man who had spent the past two weeks slipping in offhand flattery towards your way whenever the opportunity came.

Unprofessional would be a strong adjective to describe what’s happening in this tight space when there’s technically nothing wrong with a little friendly praise. But Spencer has seen enough human interaction — has studied enough human behavior — to know the difference between a compliment offered in good faith and one laced with ulterior motives.

Motives that aren’t as pure as they appear. Surely, you see it. You must see it. He refuses to believe that someone as sharp as you is oblivious to the way Palmer’s shoulder barely brushes yours under the guise of casual proximity. But then you tilt your head and let out the loveliest laugh. A sound Spencer has never been on the receiving end of.

And his vision starts to blur.

“No, you’re not,” you chide. Teasingly, he notes. A hand on your hip, the other clutching a file. You’re currently in the middle of clearing out the desk everyone has been using for the past couple of days.

“I am,” Palmer counters. “Think about it. Steady hours, less travel. You wouldn’t have to worry about flying all over the country.”

“I don’t mind the travel.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice to have some stability?”

“Stability?”

“And a place where your work doesn’t get buried under a mountain of paperwork.” He cocks an eyebrow. “You’d be able to focus on what you do best without all that bureaucratic red tape.”

“Well, I happen to like politics,” you say, slipping a another document onto your growing pile.

“No one likes politics,” the man scoffs lightly. “People tolerate it, and I don’t take you for the kind of person who enjoys tolerating things.”

The prickling sensation burns behind his eyelids now. Spencer can’t decide whether it’s from his contacts settling uncomfortably out of place, or if he’s forgotten to blink while listening to this nonsense. It gets even worse when you shift your weight, subtly pushing your hip against the edge of the table.

He can’t tell if the curve of your mouth is leaning toward a smirk or a frown. “I’m actually more patient than I look.”

Palmer clearly sense an opening. “Patience is one thing, tolerating missed chances is another. Especially when a better opportunity presents itself.”

You narrow your eyes. “So what you’re saying is I should quit my job and settle down in a quiet little town where, oh I don’t know, you’ll take all the credit for my work?”

Even your sarcasm seems to delight the man. “Not at all,” he grins widely. “I’m saying I’d make sure you get all the credit you deserve.”

The stack of papers in his grip slaps against the table with a deliberate thud. Two sets of eyes snap toward him. One pair burning a pointed hole into his skull, and the other narrowing in awareness that someone else is very much listening to the conversation.

Spencer keeps his head down.

“We should discuss this somewhere else,” Palmer proposes, eyeing him once more before shifting his attention back to you. “Tonight. Over dinner.”

His reflex betrays him. His head lifts before he can stop it, eyes finally landing on the man he’s been stubbornly avoiding.

And he immediately wishes he hadn’t. Because Palmer is… pretty decent to look at. Polished. Light, neatly trimmed hair, sharp cheekbones, and a confident set to his jaw that speaks of someone who’s never had to work too hard to hold attention.

He also seems young. Not inexperienced, exactly, but young enough that the difference is painfully noticeable. Young in a way Spencer can’t help but acknowledge, with the easy confidence of someone closer to your age than his own. Closer to the kind of man he imagines people expect you to be with that it would be easy to find you together in one of those chic little restaurants this town probably prides itself on.

But you’re awfully quiet, and he wonders if even half of his existence resides in your mind right now. He finds himself waiting for your answer too, against his better judgment, as he sweeps up stray papers and photographs scattered along the surface.

“Unless… you have someone waiting for you back home?”

His fingers press into the worn edges of the papers and skirts around the table. A quiet shift in orbit as he walks just within the edges of your periphery.

Your gravity pulls him without permission, an invisible thread compelling him into alignment. A cautious step left, another hesitant drift to the right. By the time his shadow spills gently across your shoulders, he isn't sure you’ll acknowledge his presence — or if you’ll pretend not to feel anything at all.

“So, do you?”

You clear your throat, then offer Palmer a shrug.

“No, I don’t.”

He quickly falls off your orbit.

“Perfect,” Palmer chimes, extremely pleased with your answer. “I’ll pick you up at Seven.”

Spencer crosses the short distance toward the door as your eyes follow the taut muscles of his back.

“Sure. Seven it is.”

He stalks out of the room without a word.

Time is supposed to be constant. Linear. A dependable, predictable stream moving forward at exactly the same pace. But it starts to feel uneven after he left the precinct. Minutes stretch themselves thin while seconds snap by in disorienting bursts, turning the hours into something unbearably long and frustratingly fast.

At five fifteen, Spencer steps into his hotel room and heads straight for a cold shower, hoping the water might wash away the tension clinging to his skin. It doesn’t.

At five forty-seven, JJ calls him about the team heading to the local bar for one last night out before flying home tomorrow. He politely declines.

At six twenty-two, he opens War and Peace he had stuffed into his bag for the trip, but the words slip past his focus.

At six thirty-eight, he gives up entirely, his feet pulling him into restless loops across the carpeted floor.

By six five zero hour, he’s already knocking on your hotel room.

It takes exactly forty-two seconds before the latch clicks and the door swings open — then he forgets how to speak.

You’re standing there in a blouse and slacks he’d seen you wear earlier this week. Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet somehow the familiarity feels different. A few buttons at your neckline remain undone. Your hair is styled differently, and though he doesn’t fully grasp the concept of makeup, he notices how your lips are a shade warmer.

There’s no question in his mind that your beauty has always captivated him, but then his eyes catch on the delicate stretch of skin along your cleavage, and suddenly his mouth turns sour.

A deep scowl knots between his brows. “You’re really going?”

Your chin lifts up at the judgement in his voice. “Excuse me?”

“With Palmer. You’re actually planning to go?”

Silence, then you square your shoulders.

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”

He does. In fact, he has at least half a dozen reasons that are all perfectly logical and justified, but there isn’t a way to voice them without sounding like a jealous fool. So he settles for the simplest objection he can manage.

“You barely know him.”

You’re clearly not impressed by his argument. “He seems nice.”

“You think he’s nice when he’s trying to sell you the idea of staying here?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to offer.”

He can't decide which is worse. The thought of you entertaining another man or that you might actually be considering something bigger than that. A different job. A different city. A whole different life, one that unfolds without him in it. There is no mistaking the tension carving itself across his face.

“Why are you doing this?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Why do you care?”

His breath pulls in sharply through his nose.

A fairly good question, and he can’t think of an answer. At least not one that wouldn't cross a line you've both silently agreed not to cross. He knows the rules with you — he helped make them. Casual. Unattached. Simple in theory, but infinitely complicated in practice. You don’t owe him the space you take up in his thoughts.

If anything, he’s the one who owes you. For letting things be what they are even when it doesn’t always make any sense. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he started taking everything for granted, or when he stopped wondering if you’d stay and started assuming you would.

He realizes how precarious that assumption is. The notion carries his feet forward until he looms over you, close enough to feel the gentle warmth rising from your skin. Close enough to remind him it’s been nearly a month since he’s spent any real time in your proximity. A month defined by long, relentless cases and a tension that hasn’t faded since the night he confronted you for stepping too close to danger.

A danger he thinks hasn’t exactly passed. Not entirely, because the risk isn’t concealed in some reckless threat. It’s in this room.

In the careful distance between your bodies.

In the doubt that lingers between unspoken truths.

In the quiet hesitation of his next breath.

“Because it’s late,” he decides to answer, “and you don’t really know this town.”

A flimsy excuse. One so weak that even he feels embarrassed the second it leaves his mouth.

Your lips twitches. “I think I’ll manage.”

“You don’t know what he’s expecting.”

You fail to hold your disbelief with a tiny scoff. "And you do?"

He knows nothing for certain, only what he suspects when he lets his thoughts stray too far. What he does know is that he’s never been good at expressing his feelings without making it sound accusatory or desperate. And with aggravating clarity, he realizes he’s already toeing that line. The thin line he crosses meekly as he makes the decision to close the door before he can think better of it.

An audible click echoes in the room.

He sees a myriad of emotions travel through your pinched expression. There’s a slight tightening around your eyes, a faint crease forming between your brows. Still, he closes the silver of space between you, drawn by a need he can’t quite articulate and tries to quell your confusion. Skims a wide palm over your arm with more weak excuses on his tongue.

“He’s not good for you.”

Neither is he.

“He doesn't deserve you.”

Neither does he.

It’s irony in its purest form, laid bare unapologetically in its cruelty. He knows he doesn’t have the right to say this. That if he was any better than any other man, any less selfish, he’d be the one stepping aside. Although he’d argue that logic has never done much to stop him when it comes to you.

And you look as conflicted. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards. Stop is all it would take for him to put back the distance. He’d call it a night and walk back to his room even if it left him wondering what he could have done differently.

But the tension in your stance unravels in quiet increments, each taut line of muscle easing under the rough pads of calloused fingers. Though your body relents before your mouth does. That much is clear. Stubborn is the tilt of your chin, the way your lips part to let out words that contradict the softness he feels beneath his hand.

“It's dinner,” you assert. “I can handle myself.”

Your voice comes out softer than expected, and he would pull back if you weren’t leaning toward him a fraction closer. So he hums agreeably in a way that isn’t agreement at all and trails his hand upward, unhurriedly in its journey, until it brushes the base of your throat.

Warm breath fans over his face when he thumbs over your pulse. “I mean it.”

"Mhm.”

He can tell there's very little resolve left in you. Your eyes are hooded, depriving his lips of the attention they were given. The last shred of defiance that kept you upright is gone.

“You do realize you have no right to act like this,” you manage, aiming for composed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He treats it like permission to flush his body against yours.

“I know.”

"You can’t just… walk in here and go all alpha male on me or whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

The term feels absurd the moment it leaves your mouth.

“I’m aware,” he slowly replies, tries to soften his tone.

“You also need to let go of this ridiculous idea that you get to make any decision for me.”

He acknowledges that too, of course. Although it hardly feels like a decision when your body’s already answering for you, leaning closer despite your stubborn protests. His thumb drags along the side of your neck, right over the place where your pulse kicks the hardest.

“Should I leave then?”

He will if you ask him to, without a doubt.

He’ll question his own sanity if it comes to that.

But after painstakingly long seconds, after watching the resolve slowly dim from your dainty eyes, you gradually shake your head — to his utmost delight.

He selfishly grabs your jaw and kisses you.

There’s no time for pleasantries. No time for careful touches when every nerve in his body has been screaming your name.

His lips part like he’s been holding his breath for too long, slotting his tongue against yours while hindering your movements with fingers holding your cheek, which is unnecessary because you give in without hesitation. Wholeheartedly, like you always do. Surrendering to the rhetorical desperation of a taste you haven’t had in a month.

He tastes like smoldering tension. He tastes of a man fighting a feeling he can't seem to agree with, even as every stolen breath betrays him.

The very breath you drink — humid air thick with shared saliva. Wet in every sense. Glossed on every inch. Your mouth, your teeth, your chin. Spreading a different kind of wetness between your thighs the moment his other hand trails along the waistband of your pants.

He dips his fingers inside, bypassing layers of fabric until your mouth falls open in shock at how suddenly deep those long fingers delve between your folds.

He presses his middle finger inside you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, nipping at his lower lip, and he chastises you by inserting a second finger.

You’re not even that wet. Damp, preferably. Enough to let him in, not enough to mask the awkward stretch. Although that hardly registers when he’s too aware of the tender patch of nerves he knows will have you drenching his fingers in seconds.

You melt against his chest instantly, and it’s very much embarrassing to admit how quickly you always fold for him. One moment you're fighting off his petty arguments and the next thing, your hips undulate to chase friction, grinding down into the curl of his hand with no shame at all. Your pride barely has time to protest before it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of his fingers working you open.

You're being absolutely ravaged. He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can reach, while his fingertips press into your walls as deeply as your pants allow. The confinement barely seems to matter — it’s enough to make your knees buckle, worse when he picks up the pace. Faster than usual, more urgent than his usual rhythm when he asks for sex. He normally takes his time upfront, teases, tempts.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s ragged. Focused.

You notice it in the tension of his forearms, the way they flex with each thrust of his hand, how he moves with a kind of voracity that could be mistaken for hate if you didn’t know him better.

But hate is too strong of an emotion to ever explain the scorching jealousy radiating from him.

"Don’t—"

He curls his fingers upward.

"Go—"

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"Don't want you to see him."

Your legs shake, the bones melted beneath your skin as he reduces you to this pliant mess. You don't know what to say to that — you're not even sure it's something you could put into words without making a complete fool out of yourself. So instead you shift, just enough to rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm.

Because that's what he wants anyway. It’s what he’s offering, in the only language he knows. Touch, control, denial. And you’ll take it as long as it distracts you from having to respond to his admission.

But it’s then that he stops moving his fingers, leaving your walls to clamp around them as they fall still.

“Stay.”

You ball your fist in his shirt. “Your hand is inside my pants in the middle of a goddamn hotel room. I’m not going anywhere.”

You can practically feel the tension roll off his shoulders in waves, but then he pulls his fingers out, and a wounded sound slips past your lips before you can stop it.

“Spencer…”

“Come on, let’s move to the bed.”

You’re grateful he’s holding you up, because your legs feel one good shudder away from crumbling. Every step is clumsy and floaty, like your body’s lagging half a second behind your mind, as if sensation is still catching up to motion.

You don’t even remember your clothes hitting the floor, only that his hands were everywhere. Your shirt comes off. Then your pants. The cold air bites your thighs, cool against the heat of your skin. By the time he sinks onto the bed and tucks you between his legs, you’re stripped completely bare.

The soft cotton of his shirt clings to the sweat rising on your back, and you squirm when a certain hard pressure brushes your ass. This isn’t the position you expected to be in, slotted between his thighs while being the only one lacking any fabric at all. But you don’t complain. You melt into the way his large hands slip between your arms to cup the soft weight of your breasts. Your body goes slack as he rolls stiff nipples between the rough pads of his fingers and the smooth press of his thumbs.

You’re nothing short of liquid when his lips brush your ear and tells you to open your legs, a command you follow as easily as breathing. By the time his hand travels between the supple skin of your thighs, you’re already pool of aching heat.

Every nerve in your body seems to funnel down to that one point. Your clit swells shamelessly beneath his fingertips, and the sheer sensitivity makes your head spin. You feel it pulsing, and keeping quiet becomes less of an option when he starts to wet the rest of your sex, dragging his fingers through every swollen ridge.

You shudder when a finger prods your hole.

But he does nothing with it. Just stays there motionless, making you keenly aware of how empty you still are.

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, glossy lips finding the side of his neck, tongue dragging along the skin just to feel the way his throat bobs beneath you. Your way of pleading. A signal he usually listens to. Only this time he leaves your cunt untouched, choosing instead to let his fingers tap lightly on your clit. He saviors the stiffness under the pads of his fingers, how the more he skims them over it, the harder it gets.

You feel quite the opposite.

The scrape of his stubble burns against your mouth, but it’s nothing compared to the spark of frustration curling tight in your belly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

He is. Even he can admit to that—though he’d rather bite his tongue than call it what it is.

“Define purpose.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Don’t play semantics with me. Is this about him?”

He hates how easily you read him.

Hates more that you’re not wrong.

“Thought we were already past that,” you observe.

He doesn’t say anything, but the tension rippling beneath your lips speaks volumes. You suck the exposed flesh on his neck where his little mole resides.

“What—” you huff, words trembling as starts to l stroke your puffy little clit, “did you finally decide I needed reminding? Is that what you’re doing?”

Is that what this is? He didn’t have an exact definition in mind when he started this. No plan, no clear intent, just the magnetic pull that always exists between the two of you. He was going to touch you the way he always does when he can’t help himself.

But then the coil in his chest tightens again. The image of you with that smug excuse of a man still clung to him like smoke — too much smile handed to someone who didn’t earn it. Which is why his touch became measured, his rhythm a shy satisfaction that isn’t enough to break you open, but close enough to remind you where your body fits best.

His focus leaves your clit and shifts behind you, hooks your legs over his to lock them securely in place with his calves. The slight flare of your pupils doesn’t go unnoticed before he cocks his head.

“What if I am?”

Your smile reminds him of a match just before it lights. “Are you punishing me right now?”

The flame in your eyes sears low, and he’s not sure he should play with fire.

Punishment wouldn’t be the right word for it anyway. There’s no retribution in what he feels. No malice, no need to correct. Hurting you is the last thing he wants to do. But you’ve placed the match right in his hand, and if you ask him to strike it, he doubts he’ll be able to stop the burn. It’ll be consuming, a wildfire racing through every carefully drawn boundary to smoldering ashes scattered between your bodies.

He’ll scorch every inch of you with the excuse you gave him until there’s nothing left but smoke and the heat of his name in your mouth.

“Is that what you want?”

You wiggle under the weight of his hand. “You know I’ll take whatever you give me.”

True enough, but what he wants to hear the need blooming along every frayed nerve in your body when you can’t seem to stop yourself from grinding your hips as he trails down your inner thigh.

“Be more specific,” he presses. “Tell me what exactly.”

You huff and try to reach for his lips. “Want you to make me cum, old man.”

A gentle slap falls onto your clit.

“Without the attitude.”

He swallows your gasp as you jolt at the shallow sting. “Fuck—okay,” you mutter, trying to keep a shred of control even as your knees inch further apart. “Will you make me cum?”

“Where are your manners?” He hums, and drags a long finger along your clit with infuriating patience. “I think you can do better than that.”

You groan and let yourself sink further against his chest. “You’re seriously gonna edge me over politeness?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. Just draws another excruciatingly slow circle over your sensitive nub so light it leaves your breath faltering. He counts the seconds in your sighs, measures the quiver of your hips, then meets your increasingly desperate gaze with eyes that fall short of the jeer in your voice, because while your body pleads, he knows you have something sharp tucked up your sleeve to use against him.

And while he’s weak to the way you’ve always twisted him, he’s even weaker to the things you do without trying. The act you play so effortlessly. That faint, practiced whine you let slip just before you wet your lips and bat your pretty lashes.

“Please, Spencer?” You whimper. “Will you please make me cum?”

The sarcasm drips so thick he could wring it from your tongue. He wonders if he should drink every last drop and savor the sweetness that coats your words, but the sudden shrill of your phone cuts through the air, its screen lighting up on the far edge of the bed.

You both glance toward it simultaneously as he presses his mouth to your ear. “Are you expecting someone?”

The laugh you let out is incredulous. “I was until you decided to barge in here and lock me in place.”

His eyes drag over the length of your body tucked between his legs, knees conveniently hooked on each of his thighs. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, how your pulse flutters beneath his palm resting across your collarbones. He’s holding every trembling muscle of you still as his other hand swirls over your aching clit, yet his mind seethes with the memory of why he had decided to knock on your door in the first place.

It’s that flicker of spite that has him reaching for your phone, and sure enough, the word Detective glares at him across the screen followed by that grating name — those syllables that shouldn’t hold weight but dig like splinters all the same.

“He’s probably waiting for me in the lobby,” you jest, and jealousy, he realizes, is something he’s entirely capable of feeling. Even though he’d suspected it all night, no amount of logic can dull the ache that comes with the confirmation.

It isn’t just a primal response encoded in his DNA for mate retention that drives his actions.

It’s far more complex than a mere defense mechanism, woven with threads of genuine emotions that goes beyond the physical.

And biochemistry can’t explain the visceral satisfaction he feels when your body softens the moment he finally buries two fingers deep to the knuckle.

It doesn't account for the way you shudder around him, for the helpless roll of your hips that tells him he's exactly where you want him to be. He observes the tension in your jaw falter, the way your breath catch in a rhythm he now knows as well as his own. But even that doesn’t fully settle the unfamiliar thing gnawing inside him. So he clutches your phone and presses the device into your open palm, even as his other hand remains buried between your damp thighs.

“You should answer it,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “Tell him you won’t be coming down.”

“What?” you heave. “I can’t answer right now.”

“Sure you can, it’s the polite thing to do. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “You’re insane.”

He doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He hooks his middle and ring finger against that unbearably soft spot along your walls, and a choked sound punches out of you before you can stifle it while the insistent buzz of your phone continues to mock you.

“Go on, answer it.”

“He’s—I—” you stammer, trying to summon some coherent protest but your thoughts are hopelessly scattered, all mush and molten heat. A free hand reaches back to clutch at his thigh. “I don’t—fuck, stop doing that. I can’t think straight.”

“Do you really want me to stop?”

The lull that follows is cruel. His fingers slow to a near crawl, and the absence of intensity makes the growing ache so much worse. You roll your hips once, twice, trying to urge him without giving him the satisfaction of words, but he stays painfully still as the ringtone on your phone keeps hissing, then it stops. A brief silence. And just as your heart starts to settle, it begins again, that repetitive chime clawing at your nerves.

You grit your teeth, shame burning under your skin as your shoulders slump.

The word scrapes along the roof of your mouth before you can stop them.

“…no.”

“Answer the call,” he insists, lips pressed on the side of your flushed face. “The sooner you do, the sooner I’ll let you finish.”

You glare at the phone in your hand before lifting the device to your ear, and the moment the line opens, his fingers resume their rhythm. Perfectly timed with the soft “Hello?” on the other end.

You inhale a sharp breath.

“Detective... Palmer?”

Your brows screw in a wince at how your voice pitched higher than intended.

“Yeah, hey, I’m calling to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight. I’m in the lobby.”

You clench your jaw, swallowing a moan so hard it burns your throat. “I’m sorry,” you breathe out, “I—I got held up.”

“Held up?” Palmer’s voice tightens with worry. “Are you with someone? Everything alright?”

Spencer’s lips skim softly beneath your ear, warm breath ghosting over your pulse just before he plunges his fingers deep enough to send your eyes scattering upward. Your vision blurs, the dimly lit room tilting dangerously around you. You don’t even realize you haven’t responded until he nips gently at your neck with an amused smile tattooed on your skin.

“You might want to answer him.”

You blink hard.

“I—yes. I mean no—I mean…” you gasp, arching sharply as the heel of his hand rolls against your clit in tandem with his fingers. “Everything’s fine. I just… I don’t think I can make it tonight.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin as you struggle to breathe evenly.

“You sure?” Palmer asks. It’s hard not to miss the sudden edge of suspicion in his tone, carefully tucked behind forced concern. “You sound a little off.”

You don’t even have the energy to care how obvious you’re being. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your face away, pressing your forehead into the scratch of unshaven jaw to regain some semblance of dignity. You'd have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt this pathetic, strung out on the edge of pleasure with someone’s fingers buried deep inside you while another man’s voice lingers in your ear. Your pride, what little of it remains, is dangling by a thread. And pride is the one thing you always thought you could keep intact around Spencer. He’s a smart man, observant. But soft in all the places that made you believe you could stay one step ahead.

Apparently you’d underestimated him. Gravely. You forgot that the same man who knows the weight of every word you’ve ever spoken also knows the weight of your silence, and you’re humiliated by how easily he can reduce you to this pliant mess. Even more humiliated by how badly you want him to keep going while your name abruptly echoes in your headspace.

Spoken by someone else entirely.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

There’s nothing but weakness sitting in your throat. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

Another beat of silence. Then you feel the pointed brush of his nose along your shoulder before gentle teeth latch onto your skin.

“You should get some rest then,” Palmer continues to press, the same way Spencer’s fingers keeps digging into that soft patch of flesh inside. “I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Are you still flying back tomorrow?”

“…yeah.”

“How about breakfast—”

The relentless pressure of gruff fingers buried in your cunt sends your heels kicking against the mattress.

“I-I’m sorry, Detective, but I really need to go. It was nice working with you.”

You barely manage to hear his reply before your phone slips from your grip, landing between the sheets with a muted thud. In the back of your fucked-out little brain, you figure the call must have ended by now — surely he would have cut it off. But the timer keeps increasing. The quiet count of seconds continue to tick away unbeknownst to you.

But not to Spencer. He’s keenly aware of the numbers climbing on the screen.

00:50

00:51

00:52

By the 01:00 mark, he’s already made up his mind.

And he’s not proud of it — as to every touch he’s given you tonight. He’ll call this as instinct, or maybe inevitability, anything but what it truly is: selfish.

Selfish in the way he rams his fingers back and forth inside you, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit with unrelenting force. Selfish in the pace he sets himself with. Selfish in how he reads your body like it’s his to interpret, all written in a language only he claims fluency in.

The curve of your spine bows as you lean back helplessly, mouth parted in a perfect, silent “O”. Your eyes are glassy and fixed on the dull ceiling above, as if it might offer some kind of reprieve from the flood of pleasure he’s practically dragging out of you.

And somehow he’s managed to drag you right to the brink without letting you topple over the edge.

You don’t know whether you want to cry or come. Your hips jerk to chase more pressure, more friction, more anything, as your lips part in a desperate sound that’s slurred and barely audible to his ears.

“What was that?”

“Wanna cum,” you gasp around humid breath. “Please.”

He peers at your phone still laying innocently on the bed, the call blinking at 01:24. “A bit louder.”

You choke on a whimper, and for the first time since you’ve tangled your limbs with him for the past few months, your pride isn’t enough to hold you together.

“Please,” you beg, sounding a little pathetic. “S-Spencer—please, need to cum.”

He makes a satisfied sound of his own the moment he feels you leak around his fingers. “Look at that,” he mutters, watching the slick sheen of your arousal coating even to his wrist. “You’re making a mess.”

“Fuck—yes yes, right there.” Your hips buck shamelessly into his hand. “Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please…”

He can’t even if he wanted to. You’re chanting his name over and over again like it’s the only word you know, a mantra that sends ripples of heat low and thick in his gut. His cock throbs painfully against his zipper, but he pushes his own desperate need to the back of his mind, focusing entirely on his fingers plunging in and out of your poor swollen hole until he feels you clench helplessly around him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this helpless. The sharp edge of your smart mouth is gone, melted away under the rhythm he’s carved into your body. There’s a flicker of something like pity in his chest, because even if he doesn’t feel like the best version of himself right now, he still doesn’t want to push you too far beyond your limits.

So he starts to pull his fingers from your soaked, fluttering cunt.

Or at least he tries. Because the second he begins to slip away, you grip his forearm with surprising strength, pushing him firmly back between your spread thighs.

God forbid he stops now.

He pulls his legs apart just to drag yours along for better leverage, and focuses on the wet hood of your clit. Three fingers stroke in fast motions, the delicate skin folding and bunching while you weakly claw around his wrist. He wonders if you’re still conscious of the noises you’re making, or if the tears pooling at the corners of your eyes have blurred away any sense of awareness. He wipes them off with a slow drag of his lips and savors the way your clit tense even more under the pressure of his hand, the stiff kink of nerves coiling tighter to its limit.

It only takes a few more flicks until your second orgasm tumbles right through you. Wrecks you out completely — back arching, thighs clamping around his wrist in a futile attempt to slow him down. He probably should, you’re already an overstimulated mess of body fluid. Arousal coating your thighs, drool catching at your mouth, sweat beading along your hairline.

Purges of sensation seeps through every corner of your pore, but now he wonders how far he can wring you dry. His stubble scratches your already blotchy cheek, “One more, give me one more.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing.

“Spence—” You croak, slightly pulling back to speak. “I-I can’t—Stop.”

“You can,” he hums, and presses a soft peck to your jaw. “I know you can.”

You slowly shake your head.

But Spencer has been in this position too many times that he understands the precise way your body folds when it’s too much. The lack of safe word you both agreed on tells him you’re still greedy for more despite how far gone you look.

“Red?” He asks, doubling his effort on your clit.

You blink through heavy lids, and he presses his mouth to your the shell of your ear.

“Come on, answer me,” he urges. “I’ll stop if you say the word.”

Your nails clutch at his skin. The press of your eyelashes clamping shut accompanies another quiet sob, followed by a firmer shake of your head.

Your answer isn’t clear enough, he tries to question you again.

“Red?”

The frantic rhythm of your heartbeat kisses your chest, and slowly, very weakly, you guide him back to your hole with a wet sigh.

He can’t stop himself from letting out a torn sound that rumbles in his throat. A noise that feels like it extends from a place so deep it feels unfamiliar. You shouldn’t have this much power over him. Shouldn’t be able to tear down every carefully built barrier and unravel him to his very bones with nothing more than the tremble of your thighs and his name clinging onto your lips. Lips that would normally spit fire are incredibly soft as he chases them with his own.

They’re still burning, nonetheless.

It sears through him the moment your mouths connect, a slow spreading heat that starts in his marrow and flows outward like molten lava, sliding down his arms until it lingers at his fingertips where you’re unduly scorching in his palm.

You feel it too, don’t you? It’s impossible not to with the way his hand glides in harsh motions between your legs, building a friction that’s equal parts brutal and addictive. So addictive that you find yourself chasing a numb, blissful escape in the ceaseless waves of sensations that threaten to wash away every coherent thought.

Your toes curl.

Your stomach tightens.

Speckles of liquid spatters across the sheets the more he drags his fingers through your dripping, swollen cunt, its squelching sound rising above the fight of your labored breathing.

He greedily swallows each gasp in his mouth, tastes your pleasure in every pant.

“Oh fuck! Fuckfuckfuck—”

A sudden rush spills over his hand. Soaks the sheets beneath you in dark patches and streams down the inside of his wrist, seeping hot into the thighs of his pants where your legs are still slung over him. He couldn’t care less about the fabric sticking to his skin, or the growing discomfort of wet clothes when it’s nothing compared to the discomfort written your pinched brows. He’d actually think you were slipping into another dimension from the way your features crumple if it weren’t for the ghost of a smile curling lazily at your mouth.

He slightly leans back and studies your profile. You’re clearly out of it, but there’s no mistaking the ecstasy etched into every line of your pretty face. A little strange, given everything he’s done to you. Even more out of place is the slurred compliment you offer after a long, dreamy sigh.

“You’re getting too good at that,” you mumble, cheek softly pressed to the ridge of his shoulder blade.

Your voice is uncharacteristically sweet, but he can’t let it stroke his ego when he catches the black screen of your phone lying forgotten on the bed. A quiet unblinking thing, and guilt starts to curl in the space where pride tried to form, souring any sense of satisfaction before it ever fully sinks.

He absently runs a hand along your inner thigh and swallows the lump in his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

It earns him a puzzled frown.

You try to blink the drowsiness from your eyes, unsure if you heard him right or if your mind is still swimming too deep to trust the shape of words. But the tight pull of muscle beneath your cheek gives him away, which deepens your confusion because an apology doesn’t seem to belong here. Nor does it fit easily with the usual rhythm of wandering hands and biting retorts that define your interactions.

“Where is this coming from?” You ask.

He hesitates, his hand resting loosely on your thigh, then lets out a long exhale. “I’m not sure when the line cut off.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a high chance he heard… most of it, or enough to know that you’re not alone.”

It’s your turn to play semantics with him. “Define high chance.”

“Somewhere between eighty and ninety percent.”

That’s an oddly specific high range. It’s precise enough to make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on.

Your eyes touches his, so close now you can see the enlarged pupils eating at the brown irises. You might think what you’re doing is profiling, but you know it’s more about noticing the little details you’ve come to memorize over time. The subtle shift in his jawline, the tension at the corners of his lips. The patterns are familiar they make his thoughts almost transparent.

And somehow you can read his mind, though you need to confirm if what you’re sensing is mutual, if the unspoken words you’re catching are the same ones circling behind his glossy eyes.

“Were you aware the call kept going the whole time?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and the pause alone feels like an answer on its own. Your brows rise sharply.

“So it was intentional.”

“No. Yes.” He looks away. “Maybe?”

You don’t say anything at first, save for the slow breath you draw in through your nose.

You try to vivisect your own mind while he sits uncharacteristically still, attempting to determine why the possibility of him leaving the line connected doesn’t disturb you as much as it probably should. Why, despite the implications, part of you isn’t shocked.

The answer eludes you, buried perhaps deeper than you care to dig. You’d already tasted the bite of his jealousy long before he stepped foot into your room tonight. Felt it in the taut set of his shoulders whenever Palmer so much as looked at you when the three of you shared space. Even after he’d folded you into his arms and wrung a quake of orgasms from your body, you could still sense it humming under his skin.

But the extent to which this jealousy has driven him to is what baffles you. It’s as startling as the faint thrill fluttering traitorously through your heart.

You huff out a short, disbelieving laugh. “All because he asked me out to dinner?”

It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, guides your legs together until your knees touches and rakes his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in one night — a record, as far as he’s concerned.

Yet it feels like he’s only skimming the surface of what you deserve.

The intricacy of your relationship has always defied easy definitions, but even in the mess of it, he’s never stopped respecting you. While he often questions your judgment or disputes the way your opinions cut so differently from his, you’re nothing less of smart, and perhaps this is where your clever mind finally puts a stop to this nonsense. Drawing a line he’s long since blurred.

He wouldn’t even blame you. He’d decide the same outcome if he were in your shoes. After all, he knows he’s too much of a burden, too wired for disaster to offer you anything but chaos. And no matter how tempting chaos can be, it never leads to anything good.

Goodness, as he’s come to accept, is far from his reality.

Tonight only serves as another proof of how right his presumption is.

The dampness from his wet slacks slides across even wetter sheets as he moves, a clammy sensation that replicates the sweat beading along his palms. His arms loosen from where they’d caged you in, falling away with a hesitant drag until he finally touches your gaze. Your eyes are already honed in on him, but there’s no trace of animosity in those sharp depths. No shards malice. He doesn’t even discern any hint of anger. Your face is soft, head tipped the slightest degree, but it’s the faint curl of your lips — the barest hint of a smile — that truly undoes him.

Along with the trace of fingers placed over his heart. He’s sure you can feel its wild rhythm beating through the thin fabric.

“Thought jealousy wouldn’t look good on you,” you slowly declaim, thumb idly tracing little circles around a button. “I’m starting to believe it does.”

His throat scrapes like sandpaper.

He doesn’t know what to make of that. Your fingers worry a stray thread over the seam of his shirt like you’re stitching together all the wrong parts of him as if it makes them right. It’s disorienting, and he can’t decide whether your soft words and even softer touch align with the conclusion already forming in his mind. A conclusion so unlikely that it twists every time he tries to pin it down.

Because if you truly accepted his jealousy, it would mean his worst impulses weren’t entirely unwelcome. It would also validate the possessive instinct he’s buried to claim you as his. And that, in turn, would feed the dangerous notion that he’s entitled to you in ways he has no right to be.

But you’re still smiling, and he’s just a man. A man whose logical brain stands no chance against the delicate curve of your mouth.

The right course of action would be prying the truth between those softly spoken words. Wisdom dictates caution, but fear grips him more fiercely than the cold hand of reason ever could. Terrified that one wrong placed question might send you retreating behind walls he’s only managed to breach, and that dread pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds him in silence as he rides the comfort of your satiation like it grants him the access to stay.

Again, he’s selfish.

Yet it’s a ruinous habit — one that slips over him as easily as breath. Too easy to indulge when you’re letting him with no objection.

You don’t even flinch when he gathers you onto his lap.

Not a single word of protest when his lips touches your hair.

"She sought death on a queen-sized bed." A Little Death—The Neighbourhood

[esote-rika]

𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Smut 18+ MDNI Summary: Bringing your boyfriend to a lingerie sale causes some big problems to arise. Luckily, you’re always down to take care of him, regardless of when and where. Content: 3.3k words, established relationship, Spencer is so so so down bad, reader is a menace, lots of banter, semi-public sex, hand job, improvised gags, unprotected p in v, needy sub!Spencer, kinda switch? Idk they’re both horny for each other, size kink, reader wears lingerie and is shorter than Spencer. a/n: not proofread + am sick, pls forgive mistakes. I just needed something light and stupid after reading THG prequels and rewatching all the movies back to back so here we are. Same girlfriend reader as the last fic. Based on my darling lover’s request.

He’s not sure how he got here.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly how he got here, why he’s here, and it’s because every single atom in his body seems to become irrationally unable to say no to you. It’s pathetic, really. You don’t even have to plead anymore—though you still do, of course, pretty eyes widening just so, lower lip pushing out into a slight pout, and it makes his heart clench and his heart swell in ways that distress him. (You’re dangerous for his health, he’s sure of it, but it doesn’t even matter. If his life is cut short, he can’t think of a better way to go than being loved by you.)

Today, you hadn’t even done that. Just words spoken in a soft little whine, “My favorite store has an ongoing sale.”

How is he to deny you? The boutique isn’t too far away, and while he’d had plans to read for his day off, he can put those off for you. He can read anywhere, at any time. In pockets of vacancy at work, idle minutes during his commute. Time with you is precious, and if you want him to accompany you to a store, then that’s precisely what he’ll do.

There’s just one problem: you hadn’t really specified what kind of store.

Would he have been able to say no if you told him from the beginning that he’d be accompanying you into a lingerie store? Survey says no, probably not, but still, the heads up would have been nice. Kind, actually, because now he’s trailing behind you like a lost puppy, surrounded on all sides by flouncy, see through fabric in suggestive cuts. Lingerie. You brought him along as you went lingerie shopping.

Here’s the thing: Spencer Reid is no prude. He has studied the human body and anatomy extensively as a young boy, and has such a vivid, graphic memory of them from his time working at the BAU. But those had always been under the guise of science, where he could step back and assess things objectively. Often, the human parts are injured, devastatingly mangled. Viewing them requires compassion and intelligence, not lust. 

He has no idea what to do with the thought of bodies in this way—scantily covered by pretty patterns and thin fabric. Your body specifically. The very idea causes a shudder through him, the familiar heat. Focus, he tells himself, hands shoved deep in his pockets, balled into tight fists. His nails bite into his palm, and he welcomes the sting, focusing on that instead of the image of you in that navy silk slip… or in the pretty purple lace set… or—

“Spence?” 

“Yes?” 

“I’m gonna try these on, okay?”

A panicked look must cross his face, because you laugh, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek.

“I won’t be long, baby. None of these clothes can hurt you, and the sales people don’t bite.”

He’d feign offense if he were in a better state of mind, but he’s a little too panicked to come up with a response. You don’t understand. The very idea of you trying on lingerie is sending some very dangerous images to his brain. Images that, in turn, are causing very physical problems. Specifically in his crotch area. Still, he’s in public. He’s a grown man with working functions and impulse control. So he nods, forces a smile on his lips. 

Satisfied, you press a quick kiss to his jaw, and hurry off to the corridor on the far corner of the boutique, where a line of fitting rooms await. He watches the bundle of lingerie in your hands. He hadn’t even noticed what you were choosing, but Spencer decides that’s for the best. It’s easier to fight his imagination if he doesn’t know the details of your choices. Easier to sit on one of the lounge chairs and fiddle with his hands, gnawing on his lip anxiously, patiently, waiting for you to reemerge with a smile that tells him you’ve made your choice. 

Still, being alone while other women mill about is making him restless. He stands, wandering over to the fitting rooms, “Angel?”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t like being impatient, he doesn’t even mind waiting for you but god he can’t get his mind to focus. “You almost done?”

“Not yet!” 

He nods, before realizing you can’t see him. “All right, I’ll be right here then.” he answers, leaning on the wall and staring at his feet so he doesn’t seem like a random creep. But then you’re calling out to him again.

“I want to show you.”

Oh, you really are bad for his health. 

“Don’t come out!” he says quickly, looking around. The store isn’t busy, but still, the idea of other people catching sight of you makes something in his chest tighten.

A giggle, and then your head pokes through the heavy curtains, “Okay, then you come in.”

Once again, he is powerless to say no. His feet move, one in front of the other, even though his mind is telling him no, this is a bad idea, turn back. Still, he finds himself in the enclosed space with you. A full length mirror greets him, and that’s where he sees you first. Swathes of artfully arranged black lace and soft mesh fabric that barely cover your body, fastened only by thin straps over your shoulders. 

So very dangerous.

“What do you think?” your eyes meet his in the mirror, deceptively, infuriatingly innocent.

“It’s-uh-pretty.”

“Just pretty?” your head cocks to the side, lips pulled into that pout and Spencer swears the room has no more oxygen. He’s about to pass out.

“Gorgeous,” he manages to say, “Stunning, radiant, angel it fits you perfectly.” his eyes drop to your chest and the words stop abruptly, though his mouth remains slack.

You twist to the side, examining your reflection. The fabric floats around your body, giving him a view of your perfect ass underneath. The panties you have on are a baby blue, not matching the sultry, inky ivory of the slip you’re wearing, and he wants to ask why don’t they match, but no words come from his open mouth.

“Spence, baby, you’re gonna catch flies.” your teasing remark wrenches him from his reverie. You whirl around to face him, half naked and mused, the loveliest creature he’s ever seen. He manages to tear his gaze away from the mirror and focus on the real thing, and how did he ever get so lucky with you?

“No flies anywhere.” he replies, hands finding your waist. His grip is shaky, but firm. Your eyes flash with mischief and he knows he’s a goner. 

“It’s just a saying.”

“I know.” he dips his head, unable to help himself. Soft lips latch onto your jaw, open and warm, “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“In this slip?” Your giggle goes straight to his groin. 

“In anything,” he pulls back, trying to reign in his desire, “In nothing.”

Your brow raises, and he lets out a soft sheepish laugh. 

“Sorry, it’s just…” he trails off, his hands rubbing your hips through the flimsy dress. Mind absolutely devoid of any thought except for how beautiful you look in this tiny piece, how it clings to your breasts and shows teasing hints of your nipples through the thin lace.

“What was that, Spence?” you murmur teasingly, stepping into his personal space. Bodies flush. The lack of distance between you, the familiar softness of your body melting into him brings his attention to the growing tightness at his crotch.

“Mhm? N-nothing.”

“Doesn’t feel like nothing.” There’s that sparkle in your eyes again, devious as you sway your hips against his carefully. The action makes his steadily swelling cock twitch with even more want. 

He has to swallow a moan, but the warning still comes out strangled, “Angel.”  Really, you’re closer to the devil right now, tempting him like this. He tightens his hold on your hips to steady you, brows furrowed as he tries to calm down. 

It’s too late though. You’re both well aware of the growing tent in his pants.

“All right,” you step back, wearing a mask of mock surrender, “Fine, no more teasing. You can go back out now, I’m gonna change again.”

“What?” 

One corner of your mouth lifts into a smirk, “I was being naughty, I’m sorry. You can go back out, I just wanted to show you this slip.”

Evil. You’re evil and dangerous and Spencer Reid is so utterly in love with you. And a little turned on by it.

“Angel, I can’t go back out there!” he whispers, tugging his tight pants. It’s no use. He’s so worked up his cock is beginning to ache in its confines. 

(Okay, so more than a little turned on.) 

Your eyes fall to his crotch, widening comically as though you’re seeing it for the first time, “Oh, would you look at that!” You step back into his space, hands coming up to cradle his jaw. He leans into your touch, welcoming your sweet mockery with his usual, eager docility. “Got worked up for me, hmm? All from seeing me in this slip?”

He nods, hands finding your hips again, holding you to him. “You knew what you were doing.” There’s absolutely no hint of accusation in his voice. You both know it’s true anyway.

“Mhm. And I can’t let you walk back out there like this, can I?” you lift yourself to your tiptoes to press a soft kiss to his cheek, “Not after you’ve been so patient with me.”

A sharp inhale as he feels your hands on his belt. What he would give to just be completely buried in you right now, to lose his mind in your tight heat, but— “We’re in public.”

“We’re in a room.”

“A fitting room.”

“Still a room.” you’ve pushed his pants just enough to free his cock. Even being out of his pants eases some of the tension, the length springing out and jutting from his body. Long and embarrassingly red. Your hands close around it, one hand at the base and stroking up and down, the other at the tip, squeezing gently, thumb running over his slit and spreading his leaking pre cum. 

He fights back a moan and promptly loses.

“Spence.” Your voice is low, but stern, “Keep quiet.”

He nods, teeth sinking into his lower lip to contain his moans. He squeezes his eyes shut, too overwhelmed by the vision of you in nothing but a flimsy slip and panties, in this well lit, public room, giving him a hand job. No, he can’t watch, he’ll bust then and there, but he knows you’re only getting started.

Your hands work up and down his length, twisting just the way he likes, all while continuing to thumb at the tip. Unable to help it, his hips buck into your hands, shamelessly fucking your palms while his cock twitches in them. 

“Look at me,” you croon, breath hot against his neck. Once again, as though his body is wired to obey your every command, his eyes fly open. He moans immediately at the sight of you, which makes you tut disapprovingly. With a shake of your head, you stop, and he can’t help but let out a whine in protest.

“Why’d you—” “You’re too loud, baby, they’ll catch us.” 

He watches with a dazed, glassy eyed confusion as you hook your fingers through the waistband of your panties and tug the lacy blue material down your legs. Crumpled between your lovely hands, it turns into a small ball of fabric which you hold up to his mouth, “Bite down on this.”

His brain seems to snap at attention. “I-I can’t, isn’t that store property?” Leave it to his mind to worry about logistics and practicality.

You chuckle, pulling his collar down for a kiss. When his lips meet yours, he wonders why he ever questioned you.

“It’s mine,” you mumble against his mouth. A nibble at his lower lip sends tremors whispering down his spine, “We’re not allowed to try on panties in this store. Something about sanitation.”

Sanitation. The very thought makes him chuckle. It seems so insignificant now, with what they’re about to do.

Still, he accepts the explanation, and allows you to slip the crumpled panties into his mouth. He bites down, tasting hints of your arousal as the fabric meets his tongue. It becomes very clear that he needs this gag, because he immediately moans at the taste.

You giggle soundlessly, the effort to keep silent making your shoulders quiver from your laughter. “You just can’t help yourself huh?” You give his cock a few more strokes, lazy and playful, before walking over to the mirror and bracing yourself against it by your elbows. The panties nearly fall from his mouth as he watches you push your hips back, the slip riding up to expose your ass and the wet, swollen folds beneath. 

Is this heaven? It must be. Just him and his angel, who’s offering herself up and watching him intently through the reflection in the mirror.

“Come on, baby, before the sales people get suspicious.” you murmur. Your eyes flash dangerously in the mirror, but he knows it’s not a mere trick of the light. You’re getting a kick out of this too, the same way he is. 

With a choked sound, muffled by the lace, Spencer steps up behind you. Cock in hand, he lets the blunt tip glide across your soaked folds, letting your arousal mingle with his precum and coat his length. Normally, he’d use his fingers first, coax your walls into a more relaxed state, but you’re right. There’s no time for that. Someone could check up on the two of you any time. The thought makes his cock twitch, and he finally eases into your entrance, slowly pushing into the familiar warmth of your pussy.

He sees your mouth fall open from the stretch. It never gets old, this initial penetration, the way your body always seems to yield to the sheer size of him, no matter how long it has been. He knows he’s moving on borrowed time, only moments to bring you ecstasy, but still he allows himself to savor this first entrance, the tight grip of your pussy around his cock. 

And then he moves, rocking his hips back and forth, watching the mirror for your reactions, trying to make sure he’s not hurting you. But the mirror only reflects pleasure on both your faces. Your face lax, a vision of bleary eyed bliss. His own brows are furrowed with concentration as he shifts his hips, trying to hit the spot from this new angle, one where you’re upright, but bent slightly and anchored by your arms against a wall. 

One of his hands grip your thigh, lifting it up so that your knee is braced on the mirror as well, opening you up to him a little more. His cock sinks another inch deeper, teeth biting down on the panties as he feels you clench.

“Fuck!” you groan, and he knows he’s found the spot. He moves both hands on your waist, holding you steady, marveling at the way he towers over you in this position. A sense of power fills him, warm and glowing from the trust you’ve put upon him. His thrusts grow firmer, steadier, as he feels your tight pussy fluttering and clenching around him. Spencer has to fight the urge to bury his entire length in you; you’ve never done that before and he doesn’t want it to happen on some random quickie.

Still, even though he’s not all the way in, he knows he’s doing a good job, judging by the increasing gasps that leave your perfect mouth. The looming threat of being found, the promise of people beyond the heavy curtains excites him, alarmingly so. And it seems like you’re on the same boat, as you keep glancing over your shoulder, half keeping watch, half daring people to yank those curtains back and expose the debauchery happening within the tiny space of this dressing room. 

He shudders at the thought, thrusting into you more roughly than before. It sends him deep inside your walls, and a cry escapes your lips. Your gazes meet in the mirror, equally mortified, nervous, and excited. 

Spencer continues to move, fucking you in this position. If someone heard, they must have opted to ignore the sound instead, and he’s going to take advantage of that fact, bending his body over yours so that his chest is flush against your back. You clench around him in response, your body greedily eating up every inch he’s allowing himself to give you. 

“God, you’re in so deep.” you gasp, “So, so deep, feels so good.”

He recognizes this state, mindless and vocal from pleasure and he knows you're close. 

“Spence, oh my god baby, so big, you’re - oh fuck, yes!”

It makes him proud, his chest filling with a warmth only you can seem to produce, the very act of reducing you to this babbling, nearly incoherent mess but it also poses a problem. You’re becoming too loud. Too risky. In the heat of the moment, and without stopping the rhythm of his thrusts, Spencer yanks your panties out of his mouth and transfers the fabric into your own. Crumpled up, damp with his saliva, they stop the silly, pleasure drunk stream of words that have been spilling from your lips.

Your eyes meet in the mirror again, his own amused and slightly apologetic, yours barely comprehending.

“Gotta keep quiet, angel.” he murmurs, voice gravelly from disuse, “We wouldn’t want an audience.”

A whimper, smothered by your own panties, perks up his ears and goes straight to his cock. “God baby, you’re so good, letting me have you like this.” he gasps, dropping his head to the crook of your neck. 

His cock feels sensitive, ready to burst at any given moment. His thrusts become sloppy, erratic, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you tethered to him because he can feel your legs and thighs quivering under his weight. Spencer uses his other hand to brace against the mirror, staining the once clear glass with sweat and condensation.

“Angel, ah!” he’s aware his volume is increasing as the pleasure intensifies, so he bites down on the closest possible thing—your shoulder. As teeth sink into flesh, your pussy tightens around his cock in response, and he’s done for, unraveled, spilling his cum deep into your being. He continues to thrust, recognizing the way you’re squirming against him, the nearly vice like grip of your walls on his thick length.

“That’s it,” he gasps soothing the bite with his lips and tongue, talking and fucking you through your own orgasm, “That’s it angel, come for me, please, need to feel you, that’s it, there you go.”

Normally, he’d bask in the afterglow, hold you to him until neither of you can breath and the lack of space becomes claustrophobic. But not right now. He has to remind himself you’re still in a public store, separated from people by mere fabric—heavy, curtains, sure, but still fabric. So he holds out his hand in front of your mouth, allowing you to spit out the wad of lace into his palm, and pulls out of your fluttering cunt carefully. His cock still throbs but is slowly softening. He helps you stand up.

“God, that was—I can’t believe we did that.” Spencer whispers. Unable to withhold his affection, he peppers your temple and forehead with kisses, relishing in the sweet sighs of contentment that leave your lips, now no longer cushioned by the panties.

“‘Twas so good,” you bury your face in his chest, and he holds you, supports your weight by wrapping his arms around your waist, “‘M so sweaty.”

He laughs, “Yeah, this fitting room got a little heated.”

“Ruined the slip.” you peek up at him, eyes no longer flashing with mischief but cloudy with pleasure.

“Good thing I’m buying it for you then,” he presses his lips to your sweat stained forehead, “There’s no way you’re leaving without it.”

Thank you for reading! Part of the big useless dick chronicles collection.

[nightingale-prompts]

Is it mine?-DCxDP prompt

Tim and Danny currently have a very casual relationship. Its not exactly talked about since it can be really hard to explain the esoteric part of it. It is mostly because they have an odd sex life. It is purely emotional. No seriously. One of the drawbacks of being with Danny is that he's not a human but an ancient. That means too much touching can overwhelm and fry a human's brain. So their relationship was purely on a metaphysical level that was based on Tim's need to understand that Danny was and Danny's desire for contact.

Danny decided to join the Justice League at some point and use a physical body again.

Things kind of got out of hand after that. Tim and Danny finally consummated their relationship.

But then things between them got awkward after that. The part about making things official just never came up.

Then Danny told him that he was leaving to take care of some things in his realm.

Two months later they see each other again but this time Danny was holding a baby. His daughter, Elle.

Elle looked a lot like Tim and well Danny of course. Tim immediately assumed that through Danny's freaky ghost biology and them having physical sex caused him to get Danny pregnant some how.

Tim didn't actually ask Danny to confirm this and Danny just assumed they weren't in the sort of relationship that required him to tell Tim what happened.

Tim's first instinct was to never tell anyone what happened and pretend he did nothing wrong as always but recently he's had a talk with his family and they agreed to be more open. Tim didn't actually want to be open but if word got around and they didn't hear it from him he'd hear the end of it.

So with his tail between his legs, he awkwardly told Bruce that he not only knocked Phantom up but they had a daughter.

Bruce took it well. Mostly. I mean Tim was an adult now and he was going to have adult relationships but he would have rather been given more of a heads up. Though he'd be a hypocrite to judge. Having a grandchild now did improve his mood though.

Jason however was going to strangle Tim for this. Mostly because this would get in the way of him asking Jazz out now that his irresponsible brother had a baby with her brother.

Dick had alot of mixed feelings. His little brother had a baby before him, and he should be distraught that Tim's life will be deeply affected. But on the other hand, he had a niece. And he really liked the idea of a niece.

Damian just slammed the door of Tim. So there is no clear answer on how he feels.

And Danny. He was unaware of what was going on. He had spent the last few months with Clockwork working on reconstituting Elle's body and keeping her soul ready for transfer into a new vessel. It was agreed that she'd rather be reborn into a new body that wasn't partially related to Vlad and wasn't just a clone.

I took alot of work but she was finally ready after months without sleep from Danny.

As soon as he got back he kind of just passed out after asking Tim to hold her.

[helioooss]

ii. wearing no disguise, you erase him

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 5k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

guilt is a strange thing. it doesn’t hit you all at once. instead, it lingers, creeping in slowly until it’s everywhere — woven into the fabric of your thoughts.

for the last few days, you’ve done everything you can to not think about what happened; convinced yourself that if you kept your head down, stuck to your routine and ignored the teasing from your friends, it would eventually fade into the background, becoming nothing more than a weird, blurry memory.

but today — wednesday — the weight of it all finally crashes down on you like a tidal wave.

and the reality of the situation…the one you’ve been desperately trying to ignore, finally catches up to you when you see them together; much closer in person.

karina is standing at the edge of the field, her arms folded as she watches jaewook jog towards her, sweat-drenched but still grinning. she doesn’t move as he reaches her, only tilting her head up, that same unreadable expression on her face.

but then he’s slipping an arm around her waist, pulling her in, and she smiles: soft, familiar, like this is second nature.

you tell yourself to look away; you don’t.

instead, you watch as he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips, one that she doesn’t hesitate to return with the kind of ease that comes from loving someone — from knowing them.

and why wouldn’t it be easy?

she’s his. watching it, you feel like something inside you splinters.

it isn’t jealousy, at least not in the way people usually mean. it’s not that you want what he has.

it’s more the fact that you shouldn’t have been anywhere near this situation to begin with. this isn’t you. you don’t do messy. you don’t even do relationships.

the last one you had was in high school with a girl named yeji, and even that had been doomed from the start. she had wanted more: more time, more emotions, more of you…but you had never been able to give her that. you were distant, unwilling to let yourself get swept up in anything that required vulnerability and eventually, she stopped asking.

the breakup had been mutual, clean, painless.

“you’re hard to love, aren’t you?” was the last thing she said before closing your chapter together.

that’s the kind of person you are. you keep things simple. controlled. you don’t let emotions dictate your choices.

but somehow, you’ve ended up here, tangled in something so far from simple that it makes your skin itch.

“y/n, please get giselle,” ryujin’s whine pulls you out of your trance, her head hanging out of the passenger window. “we don’t have all day!”

“we do have all day,” yunjin corrects from the backseat, stretching her arms. “but we’d rather waste it inside the house, not out here.”

you roll your eyes, arms crossed as you lean against the door. “yes, yes, i’ll go get her.”

giselle, god bless her soul, has never had a sense of urgency. she does everything at her own pace, stretching time like it exists solely for her convenience.

you’ve lost count of how many times she’s been the last one ready, the last one out the door, or the last one to finish a meal when everyone else is already standing.

and today, as you stand there watching her casually chatting away, you really don’t have the patience for it.

“giselle,” you call out, striding toward them with a scowl. “hurry the fuck up or i’m leaving you behind — the girls are getting pissy.”

“relax,” giselle sighs, waving a dismissive hand. “i was just about to —”

“looking good today,” minjeong interrupts smoothly and your brain short-circuits. “who for?”

for a second, you don’t even register the words, too caught off guard by the fact that she of all people is saying them.

warmth crawls up your neck and you internally curse yourself for it. you should not be flustered, but you are. “uh…thanks, sure as hell for nobody.”

“aw,” ningning teases, grinning. “you blushing?”

“shut up,” you mutter, glaring at her.

she only laughs, clearly enjoying this. “so, excited for dinner?”

you groan, rubbing your temples. “ningning —”

“what?” she smirks while pushing your buttons more. “it’s a date —”

“it is not a date,” you cut her off sharply. “karina literally has a boyfriend — who, by the way, is kissing her in front of everyone right now.” you motion toward the field where, sure enough, jaewook and karina are still wrapped up in each other.

ningning barely spares them a glance before shrugging. “huh. yeah, i guess that does complicate things.”

“you guess?” you grumble at her. “it’s very much complicated. so no, i am not excited for dinner.”

giselle sighs dramatically, finally pulling herself away from the conversation. “alright, alright, we’ll go before y/n here kills you both.”

“thank you,” you mutter, head low. “yunjin and ryujin are getting hangry and if we don’t leave now, they’ll probably kill us both.”

before you can even turn on your heel to leave, giselle is already yelling out for karina’s name. you whip around in horror, eyes widening as you watch karina and her boyfriend turn toward the sound, surprise flickering across her face when she sees you standing there.

fuck.

she waves at giselle first, but then her gaze locks onto you. and when you look at jaewook, your heart skips a beat because he nods at you before facing forward again; a slight acknowledgment.

“he knows,” you point out. “deadass.”

you don’t wave back at her, too caught up in the way she’s looking at you, like she’s actually embarrassed to see you there.

ningning, the instigator, steps on your foot. “wave,” she hisses under her breath.

“i hate you,” you whisper back, but you force yourself to lift a hand in the most awkward, half-hearted wave of your life.

karina’s lips twitch, amusement flickering across her face. you immediately turn away.

“what is your deal?” you growl at ningning, dragging your feet toward the car.

“act normal,” minjeong chuckles, shaking her head. “it’s weird when you don’t.”

giselle starts hugging them goodbyes like she isn’t seeing them tonight at their dorm — to probably make an entertainment out of your suffering.

as you reach the car, yunjin and ryujin immediately start yelling in relief. “fucking finally!”

“sorry babies,” giselle puckers her lips when she clicks her seatbelts on, settling into the car. “ready.”

the drive back to the dorm is quiet, which is unusual, because when yunjin and ryujin are in a car together, silence is normally impossible.

but this isn’t the usual car ride filled with dumb arguments about what to eat or what song to play next. they all know.

you’re lost in your own head, spiralling in thoughts you can’t put into words — stuck in a loop of guilt and confusion that’s been building up since saturday night.

keeping your eyes on the road, the buildings blur past, feeling the weight of something heavy settle in your chest. you don’t want to talk about it, but at the same time, it’s suffocating, pressing against your ribs, demanding to be let out.

giselle must notice, because after a few minutes, she reaches over from the passenger seat, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“it’s gonna be okay,” she says softly.

for the first time in days, there’s no teasing in her voice, no amusement in her expression. just quiet reassurance.

you exhale slowly, gripping the fabric of your jeans, fingers tightening around the material as you finally let it out. “i feel guilty.”

yunjin turns in her seat, looking at you through the rearview mirror. “guilty?”

“because karina cheated on jaewook with me,” you mumble out, the words tasting wrong on your tongue. “and now we’re all acting like he’s not in the picture.”

there’s a beat of silence, before ryujin sighs. “y/n, that’s not on you.”

“but —”

“you were both drunk,” yunjin cuts in, voice firm but gentle. “whatever happened, you weren’t thinking straight. and you definitely weren’t the one in a relationship.”

“yeah,” ryujin adds. “karina’s a big girl. she made her own decisions. that’s not something you should be carrying.”

you shake your head, looking down at your hands. “but i let it happen.”

“you let what happen?” giselle frowns. “existing in the same bed as her while being borderline blackout drunk?”

you let out a dry laugh, but it dies quickly. “it’s not just that.”

“then what is it?” yunjin asks, watching you closely.

you hesitate. you don’t know how to explain it —not in a way that makes sense. but the guilt isn’t just about the sex, or the fact that it happened at all.

it’s merely the fact that now, karina is acting like she wants to be in your life. like she’s fine with it; like this is normal.

and the worst part?

a small, selfish part of you wants to believe her. because if she’s okay with it, then maybe — maybe — you don’t have to carry all of this weight on your own.

“i don’t know,” you admit finally, running a hand over your face. “it just feels…wrong. like i should stop this before it gets worse.”

giselle hums, tilting her head. “but do you want to stop it?”

you should.

you say nothing.

“look,” ryujin says, shifting in her seat. “you don’t have to overthink this. you don’t even know what she wants from you yet. maybe she just wants to be your friend.”

you let out a sharp laugh. “right. because friends take each other to dinner and personally pick them up like after they’ve slept together like it’s some rom-com date.”

“maybe that’s just how she is,” yunjin offers. “she’s rich, isn’t she? rich people love doing unnecessary, dramatic shit.”

“of course,” ryujin nods as you glance at her from the mirror. “maybe this is just a regular weekday for her. maybe she does this for everyone.”

“oh, for sure,” giselle snickers. “karina probably has a roster of people she picks up for dinner every week. y/n’s just the wednesday slot.”

you glare at her. “you’re not helping.”

“sorry, sorry,” she says, holding up her hands with a grin. “but seriously. what if this isn’t a big deal for her? you’re the only one making it into one.”

“she has a boyfriend,” you remind them, voice tight. “even if i didn’t mean for this to happen, she’s the one pretending like it’s normal.”

“so let her,” yunjin shrugs. “if she wants to pretend, let her pretend. that’s her problem. but you can’t keep torturing yourself over something that wasn’t even your fault.”

“just…go to dinner,” ryujin sighs. “hear her out. see what she actually wants from you. if it’s weird, if it feels wrong, then end it.”

“but give her a chance,” giselle adds, nudging you. “just as a friend. nothing more.”

you stay quiet, rolling their words over in your mind. they’re right. you should just hear her out. it doesn’t have to be complicated.

and yet — you know it will be.

“fine,” you mumble, sinking deeper into your seat. “but if this goes south, i’m blaming all of you.”

“noted,” ryujin chuckles. “but let’s be real. it’s already gone south. you just need to figure out where it lands.”

you groan, shoving your face into your hands as the car finally pulls up to your dorm.

this is so not going to be okay.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

when you get back to the dorm, the weight of everything is still pressing against your chest, heavy and suffocating. you can barely think straight as you shut your bedroom door close, let alone process the fact that in an hour or two, karina will be outside, waiting to take you to dinner.

wrapping a cardigan around your shoulders, you head downstairs where everyone else is waiting.

you barely make it two steps into the lounge room before giselle speaks up, voice far too casual. “oh, by the way, she just texted me. she’s picking you up in like five minutes. she said to let her know when you’re ready.”

you stare at her. “she said five minutes?”

“yep,” she confirms, throwing herself onto the couch like this isn’t sending you into full-blown crisis mode. “plenty of time for you to overthink every life decision that led you here.”

“too late for that,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. you feel sick. “what the fuck am i even supposed to talk about with her? i don’t know anything about her besides the fact that she has a boyfriend.”

“that’s a good start,” yunjin says, scrolling through her phone. “you can lead with, ‘so, how’s your very committed, very public relationship going?’”

“great icebreaker,” ryujin nods, feigning approval with that shit-eating grin of hers. “really set the tone.”

you glare at them both before collapsing onto the couch beside giselle. “i’m serious. what if it’s awkward? what if we just sit there in silence for hours? what if she realises i’m the most boring person alive?”

the last question is unnecessary — you definitely don’t care if she thinks you’re dull.

“oh please,” giselle waves you off. “karina’s the most interesting person on campus. she could talk to a brick wall and make it seem engaging.”

“that’s not reassuring,” you groan.

“okay, okay,” she hums, thinking. “here’s a fun fact: her real name isn’t even karina. it’s yu jimin.”

you blink, turning towards her. “what?”

“yeah,” she grins, raising her eyebrows. “yu jimin.”

“why the name change?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“branding,” ryujin shrugs. “karina sounds cooler. more mysterious.”

“rich people love reinventing themselves,” yunjin chimes in with a chuckle. “‘oh, i was just a humble girl named jimin, but now i am karina, goddess of yonsei university.’”

“makes sense,” you mutter. “i should’ve known she was born for this level of campus mythology.”

“what else do you wanna know?” giselle smirks, stretching her arms behind her head. “we’re basically a walking biography.”

“does she have any siblings?”

“an older sister,” ryujin answers immediately. “which doesn’t make sense because she has only child energy.”

“big ‘i don’t share my toys’ energy,” yunjin nods, bouncing her leg so fast the sight of it made you anxious. “actually, it makes this whole situation very interesting, don’t you think?”

“i hate all of you,” you mumble, shoving your face into a pillow. “also, can you not bounce your leg at that speed? jesus.”

“y/n, you can be such an ass —“

“we love you too,” ryujin says cheerfully before sitting up suddenly, giving you a once-over. “by the way, your outfit? kind of great. where’d you get that cardigan?”

you glance down at the grey cardigan draped over your shoulders. “uh…i don’t remember?”

“damn,” she sighs. “i was gonna ask if i could steal it, but i already have too many clothes as it is.”

“you really do,” yunjin rolls her eyes, still bouncing her leg. “your wardrobe is basically a department store.”

“a very cool department store,” she corrects, grinning. “but yeah, you look nice, y/n. karina’s gonna lose her mind.”

“shut up,” you groan, but your ears burn anyway. before you can even process any more of this, there’s a knock at the door.

the room falls silent.

“oh my god,” yunjin whispers, eyes wide. “she’s here.”

you panic, not ready at all.

but giselle is already pulling you off the couch and pushing you toward the door, grinning like she’s sending you off to your doom. “go on, y/n. your princess awaits.”

“shut up,” you groan, swatting her arm before grabbing the doorknob. taking a deep breath, you brace yourself, then open the door. and you forget how to breathe.

karina stands there, leaning slightly against the doorframe, wearing an oversized leather jacket over a fitted top, her hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. she looks ridiculously good, like she walked straight out of a magazine shoot and landed at your doorstep.

you open your mouth to say something, anything, but your brain completely malfunctions.

“hey,” she says smoothly, offering a small smile. “you look good.”

you…

your words are gone.

she blinks, tilting her head slightly, clearly amused by your sudden inability to function. “y/n?”

“hi,” you finally manage, your voice embarrassingly weak.

“wow,” ryujin mutters behind you. “strong start.”

“shut the fuck up,” you whisper violently before stepping outside, closing the door behind you before your friends can make this even worse.

she raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, just tucks her hands into her jacket pockets. “ready to go?”

you nod.

because words?

yeah, they’re not happening today.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the car ride is so awkward you feel like you might actually combust.

her mercedes is too sleek, too quiet and too expensive. the kind of car that makes you painfully aware of every tiny movement you make. even just sitting in the passenger seat, you feel wrong — like you’re tainting the luxury with your presence.

your own little hyundai could never compare. it rattles when the engine starts, the air-conditioning works half the time and there are at least three green stains from ryujin’s grimace shakes on the seats that you refuse to talk about.

but this car?

this car smells like leather and something lavish — probably her perfume, that same ridiculous scent that’s been haunting you since that night. it clings to the air, faint but noticeable and the second it hits you, your brain malfunctions.

you sneak a glance at her, because how could you not?

her side profile is insane.

sharp jawline, high cheekbones, perfectly curled hair that falls effortlessly over her shoulders. the glow of the streetlights flickers across her face, highlighting the curve of her nose, the shape of her lips, the way her fingers tap idly against the steering wheel.

how is she even real?

and how the fuck did you end up here?

yu jimin — yonsei university’s most untouchable person, the one every person on campus either wants to be or be with — is sitting next to you, taking you to dinner, like this is something that happens in your life everyday.

it’s so stupid.

“you okay?” she asks, glancing at you briefly before focusing back on the road.

you physically jolt. “yeah!”

too loud, too fast.

her lips twitch, eyebrows furrowing, but she doesn’t comment on it. “you’re quiet.”

“just…processing,” you mutter, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “this whole thing is just…yeah.”

she hums. “what, nobody’s ever taken you to dinner before?”

meaning, you have never slept with anybody then take them to dinner afterwards. in fact, you haven’t even done it with anyone at all in over two years.

“not like this,” you say before you can stop yourself.

her eyebrow lifts slightly. “like this? meaning?”

you internally groan at how much of an idiot you’re being. “i mean…you know, with the — car and the…uh, just — you know.”

she’s fully smirking now and you want to throw yourself out of the moving vehicle. “are you always this articulate?”

“shut up,” you mutter, looking out the window, willing the universe to strike you down.

there’s a pause and then she says, “you don’t have to be nervous, you know.”

sinking deeper into the seat, you want to scream; not expecting her to call it out. you thought she would let you suffer in peace, allow you to pretend that this is totally normal and you’re completely fine.

“i’m not —” you start, but she cuts you off with a knowing look.

“y/n,” her voice is calm, gentle in a way you weren’t prepared for. “it’s just dinner.”

you swallow. “with you.”

“yes,” she nods, smiling. “with me.”

you grip your hands together, trying to keep your voice steady. “do you — do you take a lot of people out to dinner?”

karina raises an eyebrow. “would it make you feel better if i said yes?”

“no,” you say quickly, then blink. “i mean — wait, yes? actually, i don’t know.”

she laughs, properly this time, shaking her head. “you’re cute when you overthink, but seriously, i owe you one for the weekend.”

you short-circuit, the rest of her words not registering with you at all as warmth rushes to your cheeks.

“i —” you choke up, shaking your head. “shut up, no compliments.”

she still looks too amused for your liking, but she lets it go, switching lanes with ease. “so, how have the past few days been for you?”

she’s enjoying this. and you hate it.

you exhale, grateful for the change of topic. “same old. classes, work, dodging my roommates’ nonsense. nothing new.”

“dodging?” she raises an eyebrow. “i thought you were close with them.”

“i am,” you say. “which is exactly why i have to dodge them.”

she chuckles, the corners of her lips twitching like she understands exactly what you mean. “fair enough. how’s law treating you?”

“slow death by legal theory,” you mutter, making her laugh again. “what about you? what have you been up to?”

“hectic week,” she sighs. “midterms are coming up, so professors are losing their minds.”

“midterms,” you groan, shaking your head. “right. because life isn’t hard enough already.”

“tell me about it,” she muses. “and being an econ major means i get to spend my nights staring at graphs and pretending to care about financial models.”

you purse your lips. “wait, you’re an econ major?”

“why do you sound shocked?”

“i don’t know,” you shrug. “i just assumed….something else. business? art?”

“art?” she glances at you. “what about me says i’m an artist?”

“your whole ‘i don’t care about anything but i’m effortlessly cool’ vibe,” you say, making air quotes. “feels very tortured artist.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” she smiles at you.

before you can spiral any further, the car slows to a stop. you frown, glancing out the window, and then your stomach drops.

“karina,” you say slowly, staring at the dimly lit, ridiculously expensive-looking japanese restaurant in front of you. “this place is, well, looks like it’s going to cost…a car payment.”

“good thing i already have a car then,” she says smoothly, undoing her seatbelt.

“you could’ve taken me to, like, a normal restaurant place,” you argue, still stuck on how outrageously fancy this place is.

the way you just sounded so fucking stupid makes you cringe.

“this is a normal restaurant place,” she smirks, stepping out of the car. “for me.”

“that’s insane, yu jimin,” you grumble under your breath, following her inside.

she laughs at that, leading you through the entrance, where the inside is just as obnoxious as the exterior — dim ambient lighting, minimalist decor, waiters who look like they judge your financial status the second you walk in.

the kind of place that doesn’t bother listing prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you shouldn’t be here.

“you’re paying for this,” you whisper as you both are led a seat deeper into the restaurant; your stomach twisting into knots.

private rooms weren’t for casual dinners. they were for business deals, for secret meetings, for people who didn’t want to be seen.

and suddenly, this dinner — this whole situation…felt heavier.

“obviously,” she nods, completely unbothered as she looks back at you. “i invited you.”

this wasn’t just a meal between acquaintances.

there was so much more to this than she was letting on.

you hesitate for half a second before stepping inside, feeling like you were crossing some invisible line, stepping into something you couldn’t back out of.

the room is small, intimate, with soft lighting casting a warm glow over the wooden table. the air is thick with the scent of grilled fish and soy sauce, but it does nothing to calm your nerves.

karina moves with ease, like this is just another normal night for her. she shrugs off her leather jacket, draping it neatly over the chair beside her before settling in. she’s completely comfortable, unfazed by the weight in the air.

meanwhile, you feel like you can’t sit still.

“relax,” she says, smirking as she watches you hesitate by the door. “you’re acting like i brought you here to commit a crime.”

“didn’t you?” you mutter, finally sinking into your seat.

“if i did, you’d already be an accomplice,” she muses, casually picking up the menu.

you scoff, rolling your eyes, but it’s fake, a weak attempt to mask the very real panic thrumming under your skin.

this is out of your depth. you shake your head, still processing the fact that you’re here, sitting across from her, in a place where a single sushi roll probably costs the same as your entire grocery budget for the week.

“this is ridiculous,” you mutter, picking up the menu. “this entire restaurant is ridiculous.”

“what?” she tilts her head, watching you carefully. “you don’t like it?”

“i didn’t say that,” you huff. “i just think i could feed my entire dorm for the price of one dish here.”

she grins, resting her chin on her hand. “then i guess it’s a good thing i only brought you.”

your stomach flips.

the way she says it — casual, like it’s nothing, like she isn’t looking at you with that same unreadable expression that makes your pulse skyrocket — it’s too much.

you clear your throat, forcing yourself to focus on the menu. “so, what’s good here?”

she laughs once more, like she knows exactly what she just did to you. “i’ll order for us.”

you narrow your eyes. “is this an ‘i have impeccable taste’ thing again?”

“yes,” she says simply, not even trying to deny it.

you sigh, but you let her do it, leaning back against the plush booth as she orders effortlessly, she’s done this a million times before.

as the server leaves, she turns back to you, gaze steady. “so, y/n…tell me more about yourself.”

you blink, caught off guard. “what do you want to know?”

“everything,” she says easily, leaning forward slightly. “start talking.”

you hesitate, caught off guard by the genuine interest in her voice. you’re not used to people asking about you — not like this.

but for some reason, with karina sitting across from you, watching you closely, waiting…you kind of want to answer.

“how about you start first?”

and surprisingly, the conversation flows. despite the initial tension, talking to her is easy.

she’s quick-witted, sharp and knows how to keep a conversation moving. she talks about her family, her older sister — the golden child, already married, already working under their father. she talks about how her dad owns several businesses, how she’s expected to follow in their footsteps even though she has no idea if that’s what she actually wants.

“business was never my thing,” she admits, swirling her white wine idly. “but my dad doesn’t really care about that.”

“so what is your thing?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

she exhales, lowering her head slightly. “that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

you hum, nodding. “must be nice, though. having all these options, being able to choose what you want to do.”

she looks at you carefully, like she’s studying the way you said that. “and you don’t?”

you hesitate before shrugging. “i mean, i guess i could change paths, but law is what i’ve always known. it’s what makes sense.”

“but do you want it?”

you falter. “i think so.”

she doesn’t push, but something flickers in her gaze, like she’s filing that information away for later.

this is a date.

and the closest thing you’ve ever had to one was that awkward high school relationship, where you would sit in the same café after school, pretending to be interested in whatever yeji was talking about while secretly wishing you were at home reading instead.

but…this is different.

because no one has ever gone out of their way for you like this before. no one has ever picked you up in an expensive car, taken you to a restaurant that probably requires a bank loan just to order a side dish and actually wanted to know you.

and that’s what makes this worse.

because she is sitting across from you, watching you closely, her expression unreadable but undeniably focused, like she’s trying to understand you.

and you don’t know what to do with that.

she had a way of making even the most casual topics sound interesting, like she could take something as mundane as a daily routine and make it feel like a secret worth knowing.

somewhere between the first round of appetizers and her casual, smug decision to order for the both of you, you started to let your guard down.

“so you really just don’t go out, huh?” karina asks, leaning back slightly, her fingers playing idly with the rim of her glass.

“i go out,” you say, defensive. “just not to places like this.”

“where do you go then?”

you shrug. “work. classes. home.”

karina raises an eyebrow. “that’s it?”

“sometimes the convenience store,” you add. “for essentials.”

she snorts at that. “right. because instant ramen and energy drinks are essential.”

“they are when you’re studying law,” you say, pointing your chopsticks at her. “you wouldn’t get it, econ major.”

she hums, tilting her head. “actually, i do get it. i survive off caffeine and overpriced sandwiches.”

“the rich struggle too,” you deadpan. “who would’ve thought?”

“we all have our burdens,” she sighs dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “mine just happen to involve foie gras and a trust fund.”

you let out a quiet laugh before taking a sip of your drink. “must be tough.”

“you have no idea,” she smirks, then rests her chin on her hand. “but really — why don’t you go out?”

you hesitate.

you don’t know how to explain it without making it sound like some kind of tragic backstory, because it’s not. you just…never saw the point.

you were never the type to crave social outings, never had the urge to throw yourself into clubs or attend every party like your life depended on it. even in high school, while other people were busy forming friendships and getting into messy relationships, you were just existing — watching from the sidelines, never feeling the need to participate.

and for the most part, you were fine with that.

until now.

until you’re sitting across from someone who had every reason to never notice you, and yet here she is, looking at you like she actually wants to know.

“i guess i just never saw the point,” you admit finally. “going out, meeting people — it’s never been my thing.”

karina watches you intensely for a moment before nodding slowly. “i get that.”

you raise an eyebrow. “do you?”

“yeah,” she hums. “contrary to popular belief, i’m not actually that social.”

“you’re literally the most popular person on campus.”

“popularity doesn’t mean i like people,” she muses, lips curling slightly. “it just means i tolerate them well.”

you huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “so, you’re saying you tolerate me?”

she smirks. “i think i can handle you.” your stomach flips. before you can even respond to that, karina leans forward slightly. “so, no dating history then?”

you nearly choke on your drink. “what?”

“you said you don’t go out much,” she shrugs. “so i’m assuming you haven’t dated much either.”

you scowl. “that’s a bold assumption.”

“am i wrong?”

you glare at her, but the way she’s looking at you— so smug, so sure of herself — makes you sigh. “no. not since high school.”

karina chuckles. “i knew it.”

you roll your eyes. “what, is that funny to you?”

“a little,” she admits, still wearing the smirk of hers. “just didn’t expect it.”

“why?” you challenge. “because you thought i was some kind of romance expert?”

“no,” she says, biting her lip. “i just thought someone would’ve tried harder to keep you.”

your heart stumbles over itself, your fingers tightening slightly around your chopsticks — you don’t know how to respond to that.

luckily…or unluckily, she shifts gears before you have to because suddenly, the warmth in the conversation diverts.

“you know, it’s kind of weird we’ve never crossed paths before,” she muses, setting her drink down. “giselle’s been my friend for years, and yet you and i? nothing. like we existed in separate universes.”

you chuckle. “maybe i was actively avoiding you.”

“probably,” she smirks. “but still. two years, same campus, same social circles. and yet this is the first time we’ve properly spoken to each other.”

you shrug, trying to ignore the weird tension creeping back in. “maybe the universe was trying to keep us apart.”

“and yet,” she begins, resting her chin in her palms. “here we are.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you hate that she makes you feel comfortable.

but then —

there’s a pause. a long, drawn-out silence where she just looks at you, her gaze steady, unreadable.

the warmth of the conversation dims slightly, something unspoken settling between you. and you know. you know what’s coming before she even says it.

“about that night,” she begins, carefully, like she’s testing the weight of each word. “do you remember?”

you knew this conversation was inevitable, but hearing it out loud sends a rush of panic through you.

and with fingers tightening slightly around your drinks, you admit: “bits and pieces.”

she nods slowly, her gaze dropping for a second, like she’s trying to figure out how to phrase what she wants to say next. “same.”

you don’t speak. you can’t.

“i don’t know what came over me,” she continues, voice quieter now. “but i remember looking at you, and your lips, and your stupidly attractive smile, and it just…happened.”

there it is.

the confirmation.

the final piece of proof that what happened between you wasn’t just a drunken mistake — it was a choice.

your breath catches in your throat, the world suddenly slowing down and shrinking right before your eyes.

karina leans back slightly, exhaling deeply. “i don’t regret it,” she confesses honestly. “but i know it was wrong.”

the words settle between you, thick and heavy. and suddenly, it all clicks. the private room. the secrecy.

“you took me to dinner so you could make sure i keep my mouth shut,” you start off, forcing a dry chuckle, trying to make it lighter than it feels. “i get it. don’t worry. the only people who know are our trusted friends and that’s where it’ll stay. he will never find out.”

“what?” she frowns, seemingly confused, then frowns more. “that’s not why you’re here.”

your stomach tightens. “then why am i here?”

she lets out a sigh; watching you closely, like she’s waiting for you to catch up. “because i don’t want that to be the end of it,” she answers, voice quieter, steadier.

your heart stops.

she leans closer, elbows resting on the table, fingers barely grazing the edge of her glass. “i don’t know what this is, but i know i don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

your brain races, trying to process what she’s saying, trying to understand why she’s saying it.

“karina —”

“jimin,” she corrects softly.”

you swallow, your pulse pounding as you nod gently. “jimin.”

she smiles slightly at that, but her expression stays serious. “let’s continue this. whatever this is.”

your stomach twists. “but you —”

“i know,” she says, cutting you off gently. “i know…but i still want this.”

the weight of the conversation lingers between you, heavy and inescapable. you stare at her, speechless because deep down, for whatever reason, you do too.

you don’t know how to sit still; your fingers trace the edge of your drink absentmindedly, your mind is running at a pace you can’t keep up with. the air in the private room feels thick, charged with something you’re not ready to name, something you don’t know how to handle.

and across from you, she watches you with a gaze that’s too steady, too knowing, like she’s picking apart every hesitation, every moment of doubt playing out in your head.

you have spent your whole life avoiding this exact situation. you don’t do complicated. you keep your world small and your life structured.

and yet, here you are, sitting across from the girl who has single-handedly destroyed every rule you’ve set for yourself.

it terrifies you, but what terrifies you more is that you don’t want to leave.

“we barely know each other,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you mean for it to be, like you’re trying to convince yourself more than her. “this is ridiculous.”

she doesn’t react right away. she takes a slow sip of her drink, her lips pressing together briefly before she sets it down with a soft clink. she tilts her head slightly, considering you, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“that’s the point,” she says finally, leaning forward slightly. “i want to know you, only if you’ll let me.”

your breath catches in your throat.

there’s something about the way she says it — so simple, so assured, like the most obvious thing in the world has already been decided.

your heart beats unsteadily, an uneven rhythm that makes your chest feel tight. “why?”

she exhales, her fingers idly tracing the condensation on her glass. “because whatever i felt that night, i want more of it.”

you can’t look away from her.

“for the first time in a long time,” jimin continues, voice softer now, “i felt…seen. understood.”

the words settle between you, heavy with something unsaid. you know that feeling all too well, understand what it’s like to exist in a space where people only see the version of you they want to see — what it’s like to be looked at but never really known.

but you don’t let yourself dwell on it.

instead, you force yourself to focus on the one thing that keeps clawing at your brain, the one thing that refuses to let you ignore it. “what about jaewook?”

she sighs, leaning back against the booth, running a hand through her hair. “jaewook is…safe. stable.”

you frown slightly. “what do you mean?”

she nods, her gaze flickering to the side briefly before returning to you. “he pursued me for months before i finally said yes. he really tried. so i thought, why not?”

you don’t say anything.

“he’s stable,” she continues, her voice steady, but there’s something underneath it — something detached, like she’s explaining a business decision rather than a relationship. “he’s nice. he’s everything that should make sense.”

“but?” you prompt, even though you already know the answer.

“but it’s not what i expected,” she admits, breathing the words out slowly. “our relationship is all surface level. we look good together, people like seeing us together, but that’s it. there’s nothing deeper. nothing really…real about us.”

you hesitate before asking, “does he love you?”

jimin lets out a quiet, humourless laugh, almost like she’s too hurt to admit it. “i think he likes having me. i think i’m just…another thing that fits into his life. another box he gets to check off. perhaps, it’s his way of showing he loves me.”

you don’t know what to say to that.

“he’s only been to my dorm once,” she continues, her tone almost absent, like she’s only realising it as she says it out loud. “he doesn’t try to know my family, my friends. all he wants is to play football and have a pretty girlfriend.”

you frown, something about that making your chest ache in a way you weren’t expecting. “he doesn’t ask about your life?”

she shakes her head. “if you asked him right now what my major is, he’d probably say law. or communications.”

your eyebrows knit together. “but you’ve been together for over a year.”

“and he still doesn’t know me,” she says simply. “because he doesn’t want to.”

you can hear the quiet frustration in her voice, the resignation.

“so when you asked me all those questions at the party,” she adds, watching you closely, “it was the first time in a long time that i felt like someone actually wanted to know me.”

you inhale sharply, the weight of her words pressing against you.

because you remember now.

-

you hadn’t even wanted to be there.

ryujin and yunjin had thrown yet another one of their weekend parties and because you unfortunately lived with them, you had no choice but to exist in the middle of it. the plan was to just lock yourself in your room, maybe throw in some noise-cancelling headphones and wait it out, but that plan had gone to shit the second ryujin shoved a tequila shot in your hand and dared you to leave.

so you stayed. you drank. and somehow, somehow, you found yourself on the balcony, away from the suffocating crowd, just trying to catch your breath.

and that’s when she showed up.

you had never spoken to her before. you’ve seen her in passing, of course, because who hadn’t?

she was the kind of person people gravitated toward, even when she wasn’t doing anything.

but that night, when she stepped onto the balcony, she looked…different.

tired, almost.

“escaping too?” she had asked, leaning against the railing beside you.

you had hesitated before nodding, head spinning. “not really a party person.”

she hummed, taking a slow sip of whatever was in her cup. “me neither.”

“yeah, right,” you scoffed, glancing at her. “you’re karina.”

“and?”

“and people like you thrive in places like this.”

she turned to you then, eyes sharp, curious. “people like me?”

you shrugged. “popular people. you know, social butterflies. the kind that make parties their personality.”

she let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “see, that’s where you’re wrong. i hate parties. but people expect me to be here, so here i am.”

you frowned slightly, stumbling upon your words. “so you…i mean…do things just because people expect them from you?”

“sometimes,” she admitted, tilting her head. “don’t you?”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

because, well.

you did.

your whole life had been about following a path, about making the right choices, about doing what was expected of you.

she studied you for a second before leaning in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel intimate. “so what do you actually want, then?”

you had paused. blinked.

then, you looked at her — really looked at her.

at the way her dark eyes flickered in the dim light, the way her lips curled slightly when she was genuinely interested, the way she was leaning in closer than necessary.

“i don’t know,” you had admitted. “maybe more tequila?”

and she had smiled.

“me neither, but i agree with you on that one.”

-

you exhale as your thoughts finally gather, trying to push past the feeling creeping up your spine. “but like i said, we barely know each other.”

“then let me,” she argues, putting a hand over hand — the contact sending jolts throughout your body. “i want to.”

you glance up, meeting her gaze, and fuck, she’s so pretty.

“i feel bad,” you admit, your voice tight. “this goes against everything i believe in.”

jimin tilts her head, studying you. “why?”

“i don’t date,” you say. “i don’t sneak around. i don’t…do this.”

“but you want to,” she prompts and it’s not a question. your pulse stutters. “tell me why you don’t date.”

you exhale, rubbing your temples. “i had one relationship in high school. yeji.”

she raises an eyebrow, arms crossing. “and?”

“and i was terrible at it,” you admit, groaning. “she wanted me to be affectionate, and i just wasn’t. i didn’t know how to be. i was emotionally unavailable and probably the worst girlfriend ever.”

she chuckles, shaking her head. “poor yeji.”

“yeah,” you snort, running your fingers through your hair. “we lasted six months before she realised i was a lost cause.”

“so you think you’re incapable of dating?”

“i think i’m bad at it,” you say honestly. “and i think this…us…is dangerous.”

she nods, letting your words settle before she speaks again. “then let me know when you’re ready.”

you blink, caught off guard. “what?”

“i’ll wait,” she says simply. “if you need time, i’ll give it to you.”

you stare at her, searching her face for any sign of dishonesty, any hint of a game, but there’s nothing.

she means it. you don’t know what to do with that. so you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “okay.”

and as she leans back, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips, you feel it — the inevitable pull, the thing dragging you toward her, despite everything.

because even though you should run, even though you should shut this down completely —

you already know. you’re going to fall into this…you never stood a chance.

the rest of dinner feels easier. somehow, after everything that had been said, after every unspoken tension that had settled between you, the weight of it all lifted.

you still didn’t know what this was.

but you knew, without a doubt, that you wanted to be sitting across from jimin.

for the first time in years, maybe ever, you weren’t rushing to leave, looking for an exit, counting the seconds until you could be alone again.

she told you more about her family, about the expectations placed on her shoulders from the moment she was old enough to understand what it meant to be a yu.

you told her about your life — about how your world had always been contained, structured. how you had never been the kind of person who sought things like this out, who chased after feelings you didn’t understand.

she listened and you listened back.

and by the time you were both walking toward her car, stepping back into the night, something inside you settled. you still weren’t sure what you were getting yourself into…but it shed some light.

there was no more overthinking. no more agonising over whether you should be here.

you were just here. with her.

the drive back to your dorm is quiet, but it’s not awkward. it’s a kind of shared silence that feels warm, comfortable, it doesn’t need to be filled.

the radio hums softly in the background, playing something slow and easy. you watch the city lights blur past through the window, the occasional streetlamp casting a glow over the dashboard, the soft hum of the car’s engine settling into the silence.

but then, jimin moves.

at first, it’s subtle. a shift, a slight adjustment.

and then you feel it.

her fingers brush against yours where your hand rests between you on the centre console. it’s not a mistake. it’s deliberate.

your breath stutters.

you barely have time to process the rush of warmth that spreads through your chest before she stays there, her fingertips resting lightly against your skin.

your pulse spikes, but you don’t pull away. instead, slowly, carefully, you turn your palm upward, letting your fingers graze hers — an invitation.

she takes it.

her hand finds yours, warm and certain, fingers intertwining with yours like they were always meant to.

you’ve never felt this way before — never felt something as simple as holding someone’s hand feel like a shift in your entire world.

not knowing what to do with it, you don’t say anything. you just squeeze her hand slightly and she squeezes it back.

“your fingers are so soft,” she mumbles out.

when you glance at her, her lips are pulled into a small, knowing smile, eyes still focused on the road, but there’s a softness to her expression, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

fuck. you swallow hard, your skin burning where she touches you and you don’t know what to do with any of it.

all you know is that you don’t want her to let go.

as your dorm comes into view, jimin sighs out, fingers tightening briefly around yours before she pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine.

“thank you for tonight,” she begins, her voice quieter now, softer. “i had a really good time with you, y/n.”

you glance at her, lips twitching as you rub circles on her skin. “the food was actually good despite the price tag.”

she scoffs. “you were expecting it to be bad?”

“i was expecting to resent how good it was,” you admit. “but i’ll never talk about the price again.”

“bold claim,” she smirks. “we’ll see how long that lasts.”

the teasing makes you grin, but then she speaks again, her tone shifting, turning serious. “really, y/n, thank you.”

you blink at her, caught off guard by the sincerity in her voice. “for what?”

jimin hesitates for just a second before exhaling. “for this. for giving me a chance.”

something in your chest tightens.

“if it makes you feel better,” she continues, her eyes flickering between yours, “i haven’t done this before either.”

your lips part slightly, surprised by the confession. “you haven’t?”

she shakes her head. “not like this.”

the words sit between you, and for a moment, neither of you say anything. you just look at each other.

it was all happening so fast.

the dim glow from the streetlights outside casts a soft, golden hue over her face, highlighting the curve of her jaw, the slope of her nose, the way her lips part slightly as she watches you.

she’s so pretty.

so ridiculously, unfairly beautiful, like she was carved from light itself, only made to be looked at.

your stomach clenches.

and then —

“can i kiss you?” her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, but it hits you like a strike of lightning.

all you can do is nod because you can’t even form words. your brain is not functioning.

the second your head moves, she’s already leaning in, already closing the space between you.

her lips press against yours, soft, warm and suddenly, it’s like every single nerve in your body lights up at once.

you inhale sharply, tilting your head gently, and she follows, deepening the kiss with a slow, unhurried ease, like she’s taking her time memorising you.

her hand lifts, fingers grazing your jaw and you swear you dissolve into her.

she tastes like the remnants of her drink, the faintest hint of citrus and something undeniably her, something that makes your head spin.

you have never been kissed like this before. it’s not rushed, not careless. it’s intentional.

it’s like she’s trying to tell you something without saying a word.

and when she pulls away — just slightly, just enough for you to breathe — you don’t even think before you whisper, “do you want to come in?”

she freezes; you watch as her eyes flicker between yours, widening just slightly because she wasn’t expecting you to ask, thrown off for the first time tonight.

you don’t know where the boldness came from. maybe it was the way she kissed you, the way her fingers felt against your skin, the way her lips still tingle against yours. but you don’t regret asking.

she swallows, her gaze flickering toward the dorm, then back at you.

she nods — the beginning of a dangerous game.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

part 3 — i wanna feel guilty, i wanna feel that it’s wrong

[orphicsun]

nsfw. ellie fingers you on patrol to help with your cramps. 1.4k words.

Never in your three years of residency in Jackson would you ever predict this–Ellie’s fingers deep inside of you, stroking the soft, sweet spot swollen by your own arousal. You would never have been able to predict actually crying out for her touch, hips bucking up to meet her palm like it was nothing. It was truly everything, because this was never supposed to happen.

You and Ellie had a strong distaste for each other from the start.

You liked to go to parties and drink, be reckless during patrols, and (at least attempt to) sleep with anyone who you thought was even slightly fuckable. Ellie was a wallflower, so maybe her distaste for you was plain jealousy. For you, your dislike for Ellie was much more than just something solvable with a little chat.You really resented her, and maybe it was because she actually made you feel things.

It was just another patrol like the rest, Ellie being quiet around you, and you refusing to make your usual conversation. Ellie was the only person you didn’t chat up a storm with when it came to these long patrol shifts, this one even lasting two days and requiring a camp set-up. If the two of you had really thought it through, you would’ve been more careful. Two people who have that obvious and yet annoyingly oblivious tension? It should’ve been predictable.

It started with the growing of blood in your underwear. The perfect time to be on your period, huh? You only let out a little huff to which Ellie ignored, setting off into the forest to put on a pad. When you returned, it was like fate that hit you, much like a lightning strike. Literally a strike of pain in your lower stomach signifying cramps to come, and on the one patrol you before to bring a bottle of Ibuprofen on.

You laid in your sleeping bag in pain, not wanting to even complain to Ellie, as much as you were the whining type. It’d be real nice to have someone to listen to you express how badly this cycle was, how your body was doing you dirty. You weren’t expecting Ellie to speak to you first.

“You okay over there?” not the usual irritated tone she liked to use with you, but not the most empathetic. Just slightly softer, but that was a mercy due to the strain in your relationship.

“Cramps.”

“Just take an ibuprofen and lay on your side.”

“Gee, thanks. I would’ve never thought to do that,” you bit, making Ellie glare. “I don’t have anything on me. I forgot I was close to my period.”

“Damn,” a not so sympathetic, and possibly indifferent curse from her.

“Yeah, damn is right. I feel like I’m being stabbed in my uterus repeatedly.” 

Silence went on for a few more minutes, but it was visually obvious that you were in a lot of pain. Despite her dislike for you, she didn’t like seeing you suffer. There was a small flutter of empathy deep inside her that made her suggest something she probably shouldn’t have.

“Physical stuff can help cramps, you know.” Quiet, and yet the implication was clear.

“You mean like..sex?”

“Don’t think of it as actual sex, obviously. Just me helping you.”

“If we do this, we aren’t having sex. I’m not moaning for you or telling you how much I want you, so don’t expect that shit. You’re simply giving me an orgasm, and then it’s done.”

“Agreed. No kissing, and as soon as you..finish, we stop.”

And it started just like that, as sexual act of non-sex.

Ellie didn’t warm you up with neck kisses or sloppy love bites like your usual partners did, and partially, you were glad. This was just supposed to be an orgasm, and you didn’t need to like each other to appreciate a good orgasm, right? A simple pain reliever. Anytime your brain would bleed with thoughts of Ellie doing those things for you, however, you’d block them out as soon as they entered into your mind. The imagery was more difficult to get out of your head, though. Just simply picturing her plush lips trailing over your neck, breath ghosting over…

You snapped out of it, and just focused on trying to cum so that this would end, and you and Ellie could go back to hating each other.

One finger slipped inside of you, and you bit back a gasp. You were wet enough to take it without much at all, and you hoped Ellie just assumed that was just because of your period and not actually because you were turned on.

Ellie started out slow, just rubbing your g-spot with her finger, providing some direct stimulation. It made you realize how different the act of sex itself was from sex with all of the other stuff. The teasing, how your typical couple would build up the moment to make it the best possible experience. That wasn’t what this was, though. So, why were you biting your lip to stifle moans when Ellie slipped in another finger into your increasingly wet hole, and even padded over your clit with her thumb?

Your head was spinning, and you were starting to lose your focus on just having that orgasm, the aid to your cramping. You were already too distracted to think about the pain, too focused on trying your hardest to pretend like Ellie’s calloused fingers curling into your pussy wasn’t the hottest thing you’ve felt in a while. 

Ellie didn’t complain when you instinctively bucked your hips up into her touch, and she had to try really hard not to lean down and kiss you when the occasional moan slipped past your lips. She couldn’t blame you, it was a natural reaction.

So, why was it that you were now begging for more when she curled right up into your sweet, tender spot?

“Ellie,” you breathed out, eyes fluttering open to meet hers. The scrunch of her nose that was usually present when you were around faded away, and her eyes were lidded, her lips parted slightly. A delicious, rosy tint set across her freckled face.

“Is it helping?”

“Please. Please, fuck me..just like that, I need it,” you begged, making her stomach do summersaults. It couldn’t be helped, though. Ellie took note that you shed off a little bit of your dignity when she slid her fingers slightly out and shoved them back into your hole, just to slam into your g-spot. She liked the way you sounded, the way your usual walls built around her crumbled when she fucked you good. Even though she didn’t (or at least tried not to) care to observe you enough, she noticed that you were different when at parties dancing with random people, more inauthentic. Something was ironically beautiful about the rawness to your voice that hit hard when she did something particularly mind-blowing to your pussy.

A mix of blood and your juices were dripping down her knuckles, and she really wanted to taste you. It would probably be something she would regret later, but Ellie decided to sate herself with a soft kiss to your lips instead. She felt warm and tasted like the rations from earlier, but you kissed her back fervently. The needy sounds coming from your throat were swallowed by her own mouth.

The orgasm that hit you was mind-blowing enough to aid with the cramps, but that wasn’t what you were focused on. Instead, it was the way Ellie’s tongue coaxed your lips apart, and the scent of her hair against your nose when she buried her face into your neck to taste your pulse. You felt every tremor run through you like lightning, and it was unlike anything anyone else could give you. It wasn’t forced, and the passion there was real. You actually felt something with her. 

As you came down however, the moment dissolved into awkward silence and the careful removal of Ellie’s fingers from you. You swallowed, holding back your words. You wished to forget it all now, not because you wanted to deny it ever happened, but you were scared of what it meant if you got attached to someone in Jackson.

Just like that, it was over, and you and Ellie didn’t go quite back into disliking each other dynamic but rather an awkward limbo. You left that patrol and spent the next few weeks sleeping with people, pulling all-nighters trying to make yourself feel what you did on that patrol, but you never could find the same peak in every single category of feelings that Ellie gave you.

[ms-demeanor]

You posted about adhd and I was hoping to follow up to clarify something. I’ve explained to my partner a million times about how the borderline-hoarding mess of his space is very mentally draining to me, and he understands but we’ve both essentially accepted he won’t clean his mess because he can’t because of his adhd. You’re saying he’s actually being a shit head?

This isn't necessarily an issue of him being a shithead, but it also isn't a sustainable situation. It's not good for you and there's a level of clutter that's probably not good for him either.

Large bastard is a lot more clutter-y than I am. The solution we've come to is trying to keep our messes at least isolated from one another; he can have his messes and I can have mine, but he can have those messes in his spaces, not all over the place. Sometimes those messes migrate, and that's when it's important for him to make the effort to rein them in rather than trying and failing to make a daily effort to keep our entire shared space tidy.

I think when you say "we've both essentially accepted he won't clean his mess" what I'm hearing is resignation; you're not happy about this but you don't know what to do so you've thrown up your hands and he feels helpless and unsure of what to do to improve the situation. This is the kind of "it's fine" that isn't really fine.

I think it would be worthwhile for you to each separately think about the mess and talk about it together. Are there areas that YOU *need* to have not-messy? Both for utility and your mental health? Are there areas where you can tolerate more mess than otherwise? Are there areas that are going to be harder for him to keep the mess out of than others? Are there things he doesn't *know* about cleaning up the mess?

I'm obviously a big "communication communication communication" person so I'm going to recommend a lot of talking about stuff, which is probably going to mean a lot of thinking about and interrogating stuff. I'm going to say "talk to him about why the mess bothers you" which means you also have to really articulate to yourself why the mess bothers you (for instance I'm not actually *bothered* by a messy kitchen, but I know it's going to reflect badly on us - and me specifically b/c of presumed gender roles - if someone pops by and the kitchen is a disaster, AND a messy kitchen is going to be harder to use). Genuinely, sometimes knowing *why* something is a problem might make it easier for someone with ADHD to do something. And it's not that he doesn't care that it upsets you, it's just that "Oh if I don't wash my breakfast dishes Anon won't have clear counterspace to make lunch" might be stickier in his brain (and less hard to look at emotionally) than "this thing I forget to do upsets my partner so I should do it."

For the record, I think that people with ADHD should read up on Demand Avoidance and see if it might explain some of the issues that they have in their day-to-day life; I've seen some really unfortunate situations with friends where trying to do things that their partner needed became the subject of demand avoidance. *I* have experienced negative outcomes of demand avoidance. The solution to that, however, isn't to stop making attempts to do the thing OR to simply try harder to do as they're asked/told (which reinforces the demand), it's to work on setting up a situation where the partners' needs are not interpreted as a demand. This is fuck-off difficult and requires a lot of patience and care and many attempts to succeed and will be different for each person and relationship.

(Also for the record demand avoidance isn't *super* strongly linked to ADHD and it's not a definitive symptom; like Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, it is something that occurs in some number of people with ADHD and can be a useful lens through which to examine various behaviors; you don't need to have DA or RSD to have ADHD, and having DA or RSD also doesn't invalidate your diagnosis; they're symptoms. For me, DA often feels like "if I don't look at it, it can't get me" - If I ignore all the messages I've got they aren't real and don't have real consequences so I'll just ignore my texts. If I don't look at the vendor email about the order, the problem with the order isn't real and it won't get added to my task list. If I don't look at the requests in my inbox I can't let people down when I don't do them. It's a self-protective coping mechanism but it's *maladaptive* and I can't just ignore the vendor email or all my texts. I need to work on a way of doing the stuff that I'm avoiding in a way that makes it less stressful and doesn't hurt the people relying on me. That takes a lot of effort, personal insight, trial and error, and )

But before I dive into specifics I want to be really really clear about one thing: sometimes people are simply incompatible. Sometimes one person has such a low tolerance for "mess" and the other person has such a high threshold for "mess" that it can't be reconciled. It sucks that this can end up being a thing that people break up over, but it is MUCH better to acknowledge incompatibility as early as possible instead of spending years and years building resentment.

There used to be a great forum called MiL's Anonymous that I spent a lot of time on. It had a lot of people in a lot of difficult situations struggling to get by and hold their relationships together. The question that was used as a litmus test to approach each situation was simple: If you knew today that everything about living with this person would be the same in five years, would you stay?

Because you can't control your partner. You can't control the future. You can only control yourself and your proximity to situations that are harmful to you. If you knew, 100%, that things wouldn't get better in five years, would you be okay with staying in this relationship? If the answer is "no," then that's that. Don't worry about questions of whether or not your boyfriend is a shithead, start the process of ending the relationship because there's a good chance the situation is going to be exactly the same in five years.

If the answer is "yes," and you'd stay in the relationship regardless of whether or not things changed, then it's time to take actions to improve your life within the context of the relationship.

(No judgement on that yes or no, btw. If you would hate living like this for another five years, and you would feel like you'd wasted your time and hadn't done the things you wanted to with your life, get out. Bail. Go. It will be better for you and better for your partner if you split instead of spending half a decade building resentments and and problems that you'll have to spend another half a decade healing from.)

Also, a note: you describe your boyfriend's mess as borderline hoarding - is the issue *mess* or is the issue *clutter*? I have friends who are very tidy, but whose homes are very cluttered. They like things, they have many things, they keep many things around, but their houses are always clean and well-dusted and orderly, just with a tremendous amount of *stuff.* I am addressing all of this as though the issue is mess, not clutter. If your boyfriend's situation is clutter (the space is busy and packed with things but it is functional and clean) and your issue isn't with *mess* (things out of place, things not having a place, things that need to be cleaned up gathering in stacks, falling behind on regular chores like laundry and dishes and taking out the trash) then you definitely need to assess whether or not you are compatible.

For instance here's a room that is messy but not cluttered compared to a room that is cluttered but not messy:

That first room is a *mess* but it would be very easy to clean up in under an hour. The second room is fairly tidy, but would take significant effort to pare down and declutter. BOTH of these can be difficult to live with but the second one is not dangerous or threatening to anyone's health. (The second one is QUITE cluttered and if every room in a house looks like this it can be overwhelming to live with; this is actually harder to deal with in a relationship than the first one in a lot of ways. I don't have a lot of advice for what to do if your partner is a high degree of tidy-but-cluttered because I don't actually think it's a problem or wrong to have thousands of books or bins full of lego or a million kitchen appliances as long as you have the space and can keep it safe and well-maintained; this is a really significant compatibility issue)

Okay, all that out of the way, here's the hard work.

Talk about this shit

Talk to your partner and define "mess." Make sure you are on the same page about what you mean when you're talking about what a messy room looks like versus what a tidy room looks like. Gather reference pictures. DRAW reference pictures.

Explain not just that the mess upsets you, but *why* and *how* it upsets you. In this context don't think of it as your boyfriend's mess, think of it as an unpleasant roommate. Discuss this using "I-statements". "When I have to pick up laundry all over the apartment, I feel like a parent more than a partner." "When there are piles of miniatures all over the table, I feel like I don't have anywhere to do things I'm interested in." "When there are dishes in the sink, I feel frustrated because I have to clean before I can feed myself."

Discuss, frankly and openly, whether he knows how to clean. I'm not trying to make excuses for him here but a lot of people with ADHD have a lot of stress and avoidance around cleaning because they spent a lot of time getting yelled at for not knowing how to clean properly.

Discuss your needs, be firm about what you require but willing to compromise. You *need* some spaces to be clean, and some spaces may be harder for him to keep clean than others. It may be MUCH harder for him to keep a bedroom tidy than it is to keep a kitchen tidy; if you need a clean and empty bedroom with everything put away and he simply cannot do that, that is a compatibility issue. But perhaps you need *your* side of the bedroom to be very orderly and can tolerate a moderate level of mess and clutter on his side. Maybe you're really really bothered by a messy kitchen, but it doesn't bug you if the dining table is covered with projects and papers. Figure out something more workable than "his mess goes everywhere and i live with it because he's incapable of cleaning" because he probably is not incapable of cleaning and you deserve to have places in your home that are comfortable for you.

Reduce friction for cleaning

Sometimes the problem isn't cleaning, the problem is the many many steps before cleaning, or not knowing where something should go when you are done cleaning. One of the absolute best things I've done for myself for cleaning my space is getting a broom holder and mounting the broom to the wall. Sweeping is now essentially thoughtless. I don't have to find the broom or pull it out from a pile of fans or go scrounging around for a dustpan it's right there on the wall, frictionless. So here are some ways to reduce the barriers to cleaning:

Make sure you and your partner both know how to use your cleaning supplies and know where those supplies are. When I switched dishwasher soap I had to re-show Large Bastard where I was storing it and how it was used, because to him what happened was the dishwasher tabs just vanished one day and he didn't know what I was putting in the machine or the process I used. He sometimes puts tools away in places that I can't see (he's more than a foot taller than me) so sometimes I can't get started on a maintenance project until he shows me where he put the battery pack for the drill.

Consider making a how-to chart to or having him make a how-to chart to keep someplace accessible so he can reference it while cleaning. Goblin.Tools Magic ToDo is great for this. Basically a lot of the time people with ADHD have trouble knowing what to do from step to step even if they've done something before, so having a step by step guide can make it easier (I have notebooks full of step-by-step guides for everything from paying for my tuition to removing licenses for my customers to weeding my yard)

Remove obstacles; don't keep cleaning chemicals in the garage in a box that's behind a stack of parts, keep them in the room you'll be cleaning. Don't keep the cleaning supplies that you use to clean the bathroom in the kitchen. Sometimes this means buying two bottles of bleach solution and two scrubbers and two sets of cleaning gloves but having fewer steps (fetch the windex, fetch the paper towels, fetch the gloves) is often the key to getting things done (open under-sink cabinet and grab windex, gloves, and paper towels that are there instead of in the kitchen).

This sort of overlaps with the next category, which is:

Create Dump Zones

One thing that I've found that seems very different between people with ADHD cleaning and neurotypical people cleaning is that neurotypical people are good at getting to a point where the cleaning is "done." They have checked off their tasks and they have finished and it is over. There are *SOME* chores that are like this (taking out the trash is a binary state, the trash has been taken out or it has not) and some chores are perpetual (horrid cursed dishes) but I think with people with ADHD, some chores that are binary for neurotypicals are actually perpetual chores. For instance "clean off the counter" is not a one and done for me. "Clean off the counter" may involve a three day reorganization project. "Clean off the counter" does not mean "wipe down the tile and put dishes away" it means assessing whether or not I need to make vegetable stock and bleaching three tea containers and reconsidering whether or not the sharps container should live somewhere else and going through the mail and figuring out what needs to be responded to and taking out the recycling and on and on and on.

We have had company at the house for the last two weeks, so I asked large bastard to clean off the dining room table, which is largely a project zone for him. Cleaning off the dining room table meant putting away his meds (and since he's a transplant patient that involves a 30 gallon rubbermade tote), throwing away some trash, and totally reorganizing his workshop. It also incidentally involved picking up a table from facebook marketplace and moving my plants, which has now involved moving my former plant rack outside (moving buckets, finding and organizing planters and gardening tools) and taking the former table to the thrift store (not done yet) and cleaning the rug that was under the former table. So "either the table is clean, or it isn't" isn't really true for us.

HOWEVER "hang on we can't eat until the table is clear so let's drive to Pico Rivera to get that console table right now" isn't a workable plan, so you create dumpzones as areas of holding between the start and the finish of the chore.

A dump zone can be a laundry basket. It can be a craft bin. It can be a back room or under your bed. It is a place to put things that you are going to deal with later because if you deal with them now it is going to derail the thing you are actually trying to do, which is set the table for dinner.

Dump zones are vital to cleaning with ADHD and I recommend them for day-to-day cleaning as well. The day-to-day dump zones might be more for you than for your boyfriend. For instance, Large Bastard works with bullets and he sheds bullets all over the house. I used to get stressed when I found bullets when I was cleaning because are these work bullets? Are these recreational bullets? Are they in testing? Do they need to be pulled? Do they go in the workshop or the office or the garage or does he need these today so they have to stay on the counter? And the answer now is "that's not my problem naughty bullets go in the jar." Which is perfectly sensible because he gets to say "mystery yarn goes in the bin" and "art supplies go in the bucket."

I feel helpless when cleaning a lot of the time. I'm frustrated and lost and I don't know where stuff goes and everything I pick up spins off into three projects in my head and every step feels like a wall to scale. Dump zones help me with that when there's pressure or a reason for cleaning beyond day to day home maintenance. People are coming over? The bedroom is a dump zone, I'll deal with that later. I'm just cleaning up because I need to? Okay I can find a permanent home for this new dish soap.

AS A VERY IMPORTANT COROLLARY TO THIS:

Active projects do not go in dump zones while you or your partner are cleaning. This may mean designating a project sanctuary area like a corner of the table or one particular chair in your main room where a project can be placed so as not to be disturbed. (if my current crochet project ends up in the yarn bin, that may mean that I don't pick the project up for another three months, it lives on the windowsill behind the couch because that's where it'll get worked on)

Do not put things away for your partner, put them in the dump zone for your partner. Your partner has to be the one to put their own stuff away in a way that works for them. I tend to find that this naturally puts a limit on the time stuff sits in the dump zone, because eventually you'll go "hey where's my thing?" and will put stuff away. If that doesn't happen, it's still generally better to have stuff in a dump zone than all over the home.

Do not decide you know what things go together from your partner's stuff and try to "put like things together." The neurotypical urge to put like things together is the mindkiller(j/k). You do not know which things are "similar" in your partner's organization schema and attempting to organize things on your own is going to end up with all of the things "organized" being functionally lost forever from your partner's perspective. Large Bastard's mom would do this and it was infuriating, she'd say "oh I put all the electronics stuff in one box" and she would mean soldering irons, transistors, ham radios, HDMI cables, and cellphone chargers. We are *still* going through boxes of stuff that she "tidied up" when he was hospitalized in 2020 and 2021.

To prevent the need for quite so many dump zones over time, you can work on setting up landing zones and "homes" for projects and tools.

Landing Zones

Landing zones are places where things go when you come inside from doing various things. Sometimes your landing zone only needs to be a tray for your wallet and keys, sometimes your landing zone needs to be a place to take off muddy boots and put a trowel and gloves down before you shower.

To make an effective landing zone, consider what behaviors you're trying to minimize and whether the people using it are ACTUALLY going to use it. For instance I was tired of the corner of my hearth getting cluttered with random junk so I hung up some hooks and put a shelf and a basket there and it became a really effective landing zone for my bag and keys and the mail, but it was VERY ineffective for Large Bastard because it's by a door that isn't the primary door he uses to enter the house. As a result I always know where my keys and bag are but he has trouble finding his keys and wallet. He tends to enter the house through our bedroom and has an overloaded valet next to the door and that's usually where his wallet ends up. Mounting a shelf to the wall above the valet and putting a basket and a hook on it will be a better place for his stuff to land. It's not that he's not using the first zone because he doesn't know that it's there, or because he doesn't care about lost time when I'm searching for my car keys after he borrows them, he's not using it because it's not by the door he uses. That's all.

I have a landing space for when I come in for gardening that's different than the one when I come in from grocery shopping. I have a landing space for when I walk into the dining room instead of the kitchen when I get home.

Landing spaces prevent stuff from piling up all over the place because they are a limited functional space that should be used frequently. Mail ONLY goes in the landing zone. If you have mystery mail or if you're not sure it's safe to toss, you put it in the landing zone. You can't let the mail get piled up too high or you won't have a space for your keys. You can't let the change in your wallet tray get too deep or your wallet is going to slide off, etc., but you also don't just put change on the coffee table or your nightstand because the landing zone is right there.

Homes for items are just what they sound like. They're the place the item goes. It lives there. My meds live on my nightstand. You would not believe how poorly I did with taking my meds on my vacation because they weren't on my nightstand. A while back large bastard lost one of his sets of sorted meds and we tore the house up looking for them because he couldn't find them in his nightstand, which is where they live. *I* found them in his nightstand because I emptied out the entire top drawer (he had only looked on the top layer) and found them underneath a radio and a hammock. Even though they were *hidden* they were in their home, so they were findable. I recently needed ink for an art class. Art supplies live in a dresser by my desk. Ink lives in the art bin or the top left drawer. The ink was not in either of these places (it was on a cabinet in the dining room behind a teacup) so it took me weeks to find it.

Sometimes the reason that ADHD spaces are so messy is because objects have been assigned homes in places that are visible and if they get moved they get lost. This is a genuinely difficult problem that requires a lot of effort to solve and can involve a lot of trial and error for creating a tidy living space. For some people, open shelving and visible storage might be a good solution. For some people, assigning a VERY clear home and inculcating that location by habit is the only way to clean up a space. For some people one very cluttered corner to at least isolate the chaos does the trick (for me and large bastard open shelving doesn't work because anything in one place for too long becomes invisible; that means that I rely on assigning things homes and large bastard relies on having contained chaos and a general idea of where to search but what that DOES NOT mean is that he is clean or tidy. His spaces look like an explosion. But he can mostly find his stuff and do what he needs to do and as long as that's limited to specific places in shared spaces I can live with it; the dining room table can be a disaster, the kitchen cannot).

People organize things differently. It often takes a while for neurotypical adults to settle into an organizational style that works for them and ADHD adults may need to settle into a new system every few months for it to continue working. The cleanup and declutter is most likely going to be a permanent project that is always going to demand some level of attention from everyone in a shared space, but "my ADHD means I can't do it" is not really going to fly. Maybe his ADHD means that he can't keep his space tidy, but it doesn't mean you can't move stuff from shared spaces into dump zones or that he can't do stuff around the house.

If he's insisting that his ADHD means that he can't clean it is possible that he's not being a shithead, he just feels helpless and doesn't know where to start and has adopted the belief that he's a useless piece of shit who can't even keep a tidy space like a grownup because he's internalized a lot of shitty attitudes (hello, my internal monologue about keeping a clean house). But it's also possible that he's just being a shithead.

It's something that's worthwhile to investigate with him. If he's unwilling to make an attempt, then he's being a shithead.

It is also not your responsibility to rehabilitate another person. If he wants to clean and it's something he feels bad about and needs some help and support with the way that someone might need help or support for learning to use a mobility aid, that is fine but you don't have to be the one who gives him that support if it's detrimental to your health, and you don't have to be the one to teach him that stuff if it's not something you're capable of. And if he is NOT interested in working on making your shared living space more accessible for you, that is not your suitcase to unpack and you just have to ask yourself the question from the start: would I stay with this person if I knew the situation was never going to change?

IDK, I'm sure a lot of this reads like "anon you must take on the emotional labor of training your partner to be an adult" but it's really meant to be more of a way of assessing yourself and your relationship. If you created landing zones do you think he'd use them? Would he get angry if you assigned a laundry basket as a dump zone for his stuff while you tidy the living room? Is living with him long-term going to be comfortable for you if nothing changes? Do you have enough of a shared definition of "mess" that you're at least in the ballpark for what counts as a clean house?

anyway good luck, and a reminder to folks that I'm compiling a bunch of adhd resources and other information on my personal website, ms-demeanor.com. It's coming along slowly but it will eventually include stuff like ADHD cleaning tips and how to tackle a hoard, so maybe keep your eye on that space.

[blog-o-meter]

Pump It Up - Nicholas Alexander Chavez x fem!reader

summary: Rained in, (Y/N) decides to workout at home while Nicholas reads a script in the kitchen. Halfway through, though, she realizes that he wasn’t really reading anymore.

warnings: 18+, caught masturbating, needy!nicholas, established relationship, dom/sub undertones, voyeurism, exhibitionism, denial

required listening: n/a

word count: 4,123

a/n: here’s a quick little fic <3 im sorry my word counts are so long compared to others’ — my brain literally won’t let me write unless I drag scenes out to make them seem more realistic/plausible in my head, if that makes sense LOL

reblogs, likes, and replies are greatly appreciated and let me know if you’d like to see more!

The rain outside was relentless, its constant drum against the window and the occasional rumble of thunder enough to convince me to not leave the house. I’d driven through too many rain storms in this neighborhood to know that risking getting my car flooded from driving through the backed up water at the end of the road was not worth it. That’s horrible infrastructure for you.

I had plans of hitting the gym, maybe even treating myself to a little smoothie that I had been looking forward to all day. Just thinking about the tartness of a berry smoothie after a grueling workout was enough to make my mouth water, but it looked like the rain wasn’t going to let up. The worst part was I had already gotten dressed, and I had so much pent up energy ready to be exerted.

That’s when I thought — why not just do my workout here? The living room was spacious enough, and as long as I had my music, I think I could manage. Sure, I wouldn’t have access to any of the fancy machinery, but I could still do some sets without anything extra — planks, sit-ups, Russian twists, leg raises, etc.

Determined to use up my energy, I grabbed my phone and earbuds and walked out of the bedroom, making my way over to the open-concept living room to find Nicholas perched on the kitchen counter, his back to me. He had been tirelessly looking over a potential script his agent had given him earlier — writing notes, highlighting pieces of dialogue, the like.

I set down my things on the coffee table before coming up behind him, running my hand up his back and settling it on his shoulder, giving him a little massage as I looked over the booklet open in front of him. He let out a sigh, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me close.

“Nic, is it ok if I work out here?” I asked while I brushed away the single strand of hair flopped over his forehead.

“Yeah, of course,” he nodded his head.

I turned my attention to the script, bending over the counter a bit to reach for it. The half-scribbled nonsense caught my eye. I could barely make out any of the words he had written, but I guess the only person that had to understand it was Nicholas — and the guy knows his shit.

“Are you sure it won’t bother you while you’re looking over your script?” I asked as I flipped through the script casually.

Nicholas chuckled, leaning back slightly on the stool. His arm stayed wrapped around my waist, his thumb brushing idly against my side. “Don’t worry; I’ll tune it out.”

I smiled, thankful for his understanding. I planted a quick kiss on his temple, running my fingers through the back of his hair. “I’ll try to keep it quiet,” I said as I pulled away from his grasp and walked toward the open space between the coffee table and the tv in the living room.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have a yoga mat, so the laminate floor would have to do, whether I liked it or not. Maybe I’d get used to the stiff floor the more my workout progressed, and I would have already done my exercise for the day by then. Note to self: buy a yoga mat.

I grabbed my earbuds, deciding to only put one in just in case Nicholas told me to keep it down, and reached for my phone to press play on my workout playlist, which consisted of EBM and Acid House — no lyrics for maximum concentration. Plus, it helped me keep a steady rhythm.

I began with a series of deep stretches, my arms reaching high above my head before I bent forward, letting my fingertips brush the floor. A quiet groan escaped my lips as I felt the soreness from yesterday’s workout still lingering.

The music pumped softly in one ear, the beat steady and hypnotic as I transitioned through my warm-up. I shifted into a runner’s lunge, my knee grazing the cold laminate as I leaned into the stretch. A soft sigh slipped out, my muscles pulling deliciously.

Rolling up slowly, I shook out my legs and moved into a few standing side bends, my hands clasped over my head. My breathing grew deeper, the ache in my sides fading as I worked through it. A low hum escaped me as I twisted my torso, relishing the sensation of each vertebra popping gently back into alignment.

I stood straight then, shaking my arms as I prepared to start the real workout. “Okay,” I muttered to myself.

I dropped to the floor for my first set of planks, planting my hands firmly and aligning my body. The strain hit almost immediately, my core engaging as I held the position. My breathing grew audible, sharp exhales through pursed lips as I counted the seconds.

“One… two… three…” My voice was quiet but breathy, each number punctuated by a soft grunt.

The timer on my phone ticked down, and when I reached thirty seconds, I pushed myself into a series of shoulder taps. My palm slapped the floor softly with each shift of weight, my breaths turning into little gasps as the effort increased.

“Almost there,” I whispered to myself, my tone more encouraging than determined.

When I finally finished the set, I rolled onto my back, chest heaving and gasping while the music in my ear pulsed. I clocked Nicholas shift in the stool then, but I didn’t think much of it. He had been sitting there a few hours now; his back must’ve been stinging.

Next up were leg raises. Lying flat on my back, I slid my hands beneath my lower back for support and lifted my legs until they were perpendicular to the floor. Lowering them slowly, I felt the familiar burn in my lower abs. Those were killer.

“God,” I groaned softly, squeezing my eyes shut as I held the hover position just above the floor.

My voice came out in broken exhales as I finished the set, letting my legs drop to the floor with a thud. My head tilted back, and I let out an exaggerated sigh, the exertion starting to creep up on me.

After a moment of rest, I rolled back onto my knees and pushed myself into a standing position. I moved into a series of squats, setting my feet shoulder-width apart and sinking low with each rep. The burn in my thighs was immediate, but I leaned into it, pushing deeper with every squat.

“One… two…” My voice grew louder, the numbers mingled with quiet grunts as I tried to keep my form steady.

By the time I reached 20, a soft whimper escaped me. I straightened, pausing to catch my breath before diving into the second set. Midway through, I let out a particularly loud groan, the sound filling the quiet room. I glanced over my shoulder toward the kitchen, half-expecting Nicholas to say something, but he remained silent, his back still turned.

He shifted in the stool again then. I noticed it this time — the way Nicholas’s arm moved. It wasn’t just a casual shift in his posture or an adjustment of his script. His elbow dipped, his shoulder tensed, and there was a sort of rhythm to it.

I thought it weird, but I pushed through the rest of my squats, continuing my quiet counting. But from the corner of my eye I could see him continuing to move his arm ever so slightly, like he didn’t want me to see. And of course, curiosity got the best of me.

When I finished the set, I let out an audible sigh to signal that I had finished my squats. His back was still to me, and I could see past the outline of his other arm on the counter that the script was still open in front of him, but his movements were stiff.

I strolled toward the kitchen under the guise of grabbing something to drink, letting my footsteps fall heavy against the floor to make noise. As I neared, I noticed the faint tremor in his shoulders as he turned the slightest bit away from me as I rounded the counter and made my way toward the fridge, opening the door casually.

I pulled out one of the cold-pressed juices Nicholas liked to keep stocked to indulge in after coming home from the gym and closed the door. I turned around on my heels, glancing over to him. His jaw was clenched, and he didn’t flick his eyes up once to glance up at me. I also noticed his left arm was under the counter while his right arm was propping up his chin, his pointer finger curled against his lips.

“Hey, Nic,” I said, my voice light as I twisted the cap off the juice bottle with a crisp crack. “Is my workout bothering you?”

He stiffened, his body locking up as if I’d just caught him in the middle of something incriminating. “No,” he said quickly, his voice unusually tight. “It’s fine. Keep going.”

I raised an eyebrow, taking a long sip of the juice as I watched him. He still wasn’t looking at me, his focus seemingly glued to the script in front of him, but he didn’t even have a pencil in his hand anymore, the pencil laying flat some inches away as if forgotten.

“Are you sure?” I asked, the tiniest bit amused at his behavior.

“It’s fine,” he replied a little too fast, his voice clipped. He shifted on the stool, his left arm pulling slightly closer to his body.

I lingered for a moment longer, watching the subtle tremor in his shoulders and the way his right hand moved to grip the edge of the counter. It was obvious he didn’t want me to see what he was doing.

“Alright,” I said with a shrug, “Let me know if I’m being too loud.”

I rounded the counter again, noticing from the corner of my eye Nicholas shifting his body away from me another time as I passed by to make my way back to the living room.

I didn’t sit down right away, instead taking my time to stretch dramatically, letting out a long exhale as I reached for my toes, glancing periodically over to Nicholas. Now that he had shifted from his previous position, I could catch his reflection from the framed artwork hung on the wall perpendicular to him, and it gave me a full view of what he was doing.

Nicholas’s left arm was indeed beneath the counter, moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm that told me everything I needed to know.

He was helping himself.

His head was tilted slightly forward as if he were trying to focus on the script, his jaw tight, and his eyes were closed — completely lost in the moment. His right hand gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white, as though grounding himself in reality, and he was being very mindful of keeping his noises to himself.

I froze mid-stretch, my fingertips grazing my toes as I processed what I was seeing. Heat rushed to my face and neck, a mix of shock and complete amusement. He had no idea I could see him — no idea that his every movement was perfectly reflected in the glossy surface of the artwork.

The realization sent a jolt of excitement through me. The idea of Nicholas pleasuring himself while listening to me grunt and huff was like a spark to my flame, and I intended to add more fuel.

Straightening from my stretch, I took a moment to steady my breathing and hide the growing smirk tugging at the corners of my mouth. If Nicholas wanted to keep up his little secret act, I’d give him something to really work with.

Dropping back down to the floor, I positioned myself for a new set of planks, but this time, I exaggerated every movement, letting my body shift slowly as I adjusted my form. “Alright,” I muttered, just loud enough to carry over the sound of the rain outside.

As I held the plank, I let out a low groan, my voice breathy and drawn out. “God, that felt so good,” I said, my words broken by strained exhales.

From the corner of my eye, I could see his reflection in the artwork. Nicholas’s hand paused for the briefest moment before resuming its rhythm, a little quicker this time. His shoulders hunched slightly, his body shifting as if he were trying to control himself.

Biting back a grin, I moved into shoulder taps, each motion accompanied by a soft grunt. “One… two… three…” I counted aloud, my voice deliberately low and husky.

Nicholas’s head dipped lower, his jaw clenching tighter as his hand moved beneath the counter.

“Is my counting bothering you, Nic?” I called out between breaths, my tone innocent but teasing as I watched him through the reflection.

His head snapped up, and for a second, I thought he might stop altogether. But he quickly recovered, clearing his throat before replying, “No, I’m fine. Keep going.” His voice was rough, strained, and completely unconvincing.

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “You sure?”

His jaw tightened, and he dropped his head back down, his eyes fluttering shut as he continued to stroke himself. “I’m sure,” he muttered. “Just… focus on your workout.”

“Ok,” I replied lightly, smiling to myself and dropping my hips to the floor as I transitioned into a set of cobra stretches. My back arched as I pushed up onto my hands, letting out a loud groan as I tilted my head back.

Nicholas’s breathing hitched audibly, and I couldn’t resist glancing at his reflection again. His movements had picked up just the tiniest bit of speed, as if he were afraid going any faster might have me catch on. His other hand, though, gripped the counter so tightly I thought it might leave marks.

Pushing back onto my knees, I transitioned into a child’s pose, my arms reaching out in front of me as I let my hips sink low, making sure I let out a soft moan. I tilted my head just enough to glance at the reflection, catching the way Nicholas’s head dipped even lower, his movements more frantic now.

My lips curled into a smirk as I pulled myself up from the floor and removed my earbud, tossing it onto the couch so it could land without making a sound. Keeping my steps light so as to not warn him, I slowly made my way over to Nicholas, inching my way closer and closer.

When I was close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, I paused, watching as Nicholas continued, completely unaware of my presence. His head was still bowed, his breathing shallow and uneven, his left hand continuing to stroke himself under the counter. I bit my lip, the smirk on my face growing as I leaned forward, positioning myself just behind him.

I stayed there for a moment, hovering, my own breath steady and quiet, while he was too lost in his own world to notice. Then, as quietly as possible, I leaned in until my lips were just inches from his ear, waiting a few beats before letting out a soft moan.

Nicholas froze, his entire body locking up as his hand stopped mid-motion. His head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock, and I could see the flush spreading rapidly up his neck and cheeks. He started to pull his hand away, stammering something incoherent, but I was faster.

I reached down, my hand sliding beneath the counter to replace his. His sharp inhale echoed in the quiet room, and I could feel the tension in his body as I wrapped my fingers around his hard length.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I murmured, my lips brushing against his ear as I began to move my hand in slow, deliberate strokes. With my free hand, I brushed my fingers through Nicholas’s hair, clutching it in a fist and lightly pulling his head back toward me.

Nicholas’s head fell back against my shoulder, letting out a low, guttural sound as his mouth fell open and his chest rose and fell with labored breaths. His hand, now free, gripped the edge of the counter again, his knuckles whitening as he held on for dear life.

“Did the sounds I was making turn you on, huh?” I teased, my voice a soft purr in his ear as my hand continued its slow, torturous rhythm.

Nicholas groaned in response, his voice ragged and desperate. “Mm-hmm,” he muttered, nodding as his breathing grew heavier. His free hand slid up to cover his face, his embarrassment palpable even as his body betrayed his need. But I made sure to pull his hand away, wanting to see his beautiful face.

“Don’t hide from me,” I whispered, tightening my grip on his wrist to keep his hand away from his face. “You wanted me to catch you, didn’t you? Isn’t this what you wanted?” I teased, increasing the pressure of my hand just enough to make him gasp.

Nicholas let out a shaky breath as his body gave into my touch. His chest rose and fell erratically, and he whimpered softly at the teasing in my voice.

“Yes,” he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. His hips bucked slightly into my hand, and he let out a needy moan, his restraint crumbling. “Please… don’t stop,” he begged, his voice trembling.

Nicholas’s desperation was intoxicating, and I couldn’t help but savor the way he melted under my touch. His vulnerability was rare, and seeing him this undone because of me was exhilarating. I let out a quiet moan into his ear, mimicking the sounds I was making while working out.

“Such a good boy,” I murmured against his ear, letting my lips brush against the shell of it. My hand continued its slow, steady rhythm, deliberately teasing him. His hips jerked, seeking more friction, but I tightened my grip slightly, controlling the pace.

“Please,” he whispered again, his voice cracking with need. “I need…”

I chuckled softly, my breath warm against his skin. “Need more…?” I asked, my tone dripping with playful cruelty.

Nicholas whimpered, his hand clutching at the counter like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “More of you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Please… I can’t… I need you.”

His admission sent a shiver down my spine. I kissed the sensitive spot just below his ear, drawing a shaky breath from him. “You sound so pretty when you beg,” I whispered, my hand picking up its pace ever so slightly.

His entire body shuddered, and he turned his head to try to capture my lips with his own, but I pulled back just enough to keep him from reaching me. “Uh-uh, you’ve been bad, Nic,” I teased, my voice a low purr.

Nicholas let out a frustrated groan, his head dropping back against my shoulder again. His chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, his desperation spilling over in the way his fingers gripped the counter.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice trembling and raw. “Please, I’ll be good. I just… I need you.”

I smirked, savoring the way he unraveled beneath me. “Oh, I know you’ll be good,” I replied, my voice laced with mock sweetness. My hand slowed its pace just slightly, enough to make him whimper in protest, his hips shifting to chase the friction. “Tell me how much you want it,” I demanded, tightening my grip ever so slightly. “I want to hear it, Nic.”

He let out a shaky breath, his head tilting back to rest on my shoulder as he turned to look at me, his eyes glassy and pleading. “I need you so fucking bad,” he admitted, his voice rough with vulnerability.

His words sent a jolt of satisfaction through me. I leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Good,” I murmured, pulling back just enough to see the way his lips parted, his eyes closing briefly as if savoring the moment.

“You’re so perfect like this,” I said softly, my free hand sliding up to brush through his hair again, tugging gently at the strands. “So needy. So honest.”

Nicholas let out a low moan, his body trembling under my touch. “I’ll do anything,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Anything you want. Just don’t stop.”

I chuckled, the sound low and teasing as I tilted his head back further, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. “You’re mine,” I murmured, pressing my lips against his skin, my hand resuming its deliberate pace. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “All yours.”

Hearing those words fall from his lips made my heart race. I pressed a kiss just below his ear, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “Good boy,” I whispered, my tone both soft and commanding.

Nicholas let out a ragged moan, his body arching into the back of the stool as he surrendered completely to me. Every sound, every movement he made was for me, and I relished every second of it.

“I—” His voice cracked, his body trembling as he struggled to form coherent thoughts. “I need… I need to—please, just let me…”

I chuckled softly, tightening my grip for a moment to make him gasp. “You’re going to make a mess, aren’t you?” I teased, brushing my lips against his ear.

Nicholas let out a broken moan, his head falling back against my shoulder. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice trembling with need. “I can’t—please, I can’t hold it…”

I smirked, my hand picking up its pace just enough to push him closer to the edge. “Go ahead,” I whispered, my voice a low purr.

His entire body tensed, his hips jerking against my hand as he let out a strangled moan. His eyes squeezed shut, his breath hitching as he finally gave in. The tension in his body snapped, and a low, guttural sound escaped him as he spilled over, the warm evidence of his release landing on the script spread out on the counter.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the steady rhythm of the rain against the windows and Nicholas’s ragged breathing as he slumped backward, his head resting against my shoulder as his lips parted.

I pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, letting my hand linger on his waist as my other hand reached to brush my fingertip against the white ropes that landed all over the counter. I held his gaze as I brought my fingertip to my lips, letting the taste linger on my tongue. A slow, deliberate smile spread across my face as I tilted my head slightly, savoring both the flavor and the effect it had on Nicholas.

Quickly brushing my fingers through his hair, I softly asked, “How about you clean up your mess while I finish my workout, hmm?”

Nicholas let out a weak laugh, his cheeks still flushed as he tilted his head to look at me. “You really know how to humble a man,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but laced with affection.

I leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, tasting the lingering warmth of his breath. “And you really know how to make a workout interesting,” I teased, pulling back.

Nicholas groaned softly, running a hand through his tousled hair as he sat up straighter on the stool. “I’ll clean it up,” he muttered, reaching for a nearby paper towel with a sheepish grin.

Nicholas moved with a quiet efficiency, his usual confidence tinged with an endearing embarrassment. As I settled back into my workout, I couldn’t help but steal glances at him from the corner of my eye. His shoulders were still a little tense, his cheeks still faintly pink as he wiped the counter clean with meticulous care. He avoided looking at me directly, though I could see the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When he finally finished cleaning up, Nicholas tossed the used paper towel into the trash with a dramatic sigh of relief. Turning to lean against the counter, he folded his arms over his chest, his eyes locking onto me with a playful intensity. “You know I’m going to get you back for this, right?”

As I settled into my next stretch, I smirked up at him, “I hope you do.”

[filmtv2022]

Our Time is Limited (18+)

Part II

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Reader

-- Platonic/former lover relationship with Emperor Caracalla x Reader

Synopsis: Reader has belonged to Caracalla for as long as she can remember, her job has been to love and serve him in the quiet moments when even the attention of a concubine cannot suffice. She has served the emperor in whatever capacity he desired. Through the years her love for him grew beyond what many would have deemed proper for one in her position of employment, but it was not a romantic love. The presence of disease had stolen the man she'd once given everything to. Left to care for Caracalla in the midst of his break from reality, Emperor Geta and the reader are forced to admit the feelings they've long harbored for one another.

Warnings: SMUT/sexual acts + "cheating" (but not really, Caracalla and reader no longer have that kind of relationship) + alcohol consumption + language (?)

A/N: Well... when I said the crazy emperors had my brain... I wasn't lying. I have not abandoned my Marcus Acacius story... I just needed to get this off my mind. That said, there may be one more part of this depending on how I feel and how this does. I apologize for any mistakes. I wrote this in a couple of hours.

------------------------------

Hovering in the background, you squeezed between the spectators, inching closer to the emperors. The copper-headed pair sat surrounded by their entourage of concubines and common whores whose sole purpose was to entertain, to give in to the whims of the men they served. Your role was not entirely different, and yet, you were to be set apart from the others. Your presence at these events was required, but the emperors would sooner murder than allow the public to view you in the same light as those whose hands roamed their bodies in public. You served a much more intimate purpose. Therefore, you kept your distance, leaving just enough space between yourself and them so that no eyes would wonder and question. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Emperor Geta caught your approach. His eyes locked onto you, searching for any sign of anxiety or nerves. He knew without question that you desired to be anywhere but here, and still, he didn't doubt that your loyalty remained strong. Your features were stoney and severe with your attention falling to his brother whose eyes were on the scantly clad man sat before him. The burnt orange of your stola matched the hue his brother famously loved and complimented the bare expanse of skin along the shapely curve of your arms and shoulders. You were positively stunning, every bit the measure of the well-to-do women who adorned their husbands' arms. 

Satisfied that nothing was amiss, Geta hesitated for a moment, seeing the weariness behind your eyes. Something troubled you, but given the state of his brother's mental well-being, it was likely as anything that was the cause of your worry. With nothing to be done at the time, he reached for the concubine he’d carted along for the day's festivities. Hauling her close, he let the weight of her hand against his chest, settle the crashing energy that sang through his body, but nothing was a match for the intensity of the fight that erupted amongst the gladiators. 

The fight was brutal and quick. The larger man crumpled into a bloody heap, soaking the marble floor in a sea of sickly scarlet. The pool smeared beneath the weight of his body as the guards dragged him out of the room. The grunts and moans of pain were soon replaced by the questioning trill of Emperor Geta. The fight had clearly impressed him. The eloquent sound of poetry rolling off the tongue of the victor caught you as strange, but now was not the time to linger. With the crowd in awe and Geta keyed up, it felt like the appropriate moment to slink back into oblivion. 

You maneuvered down a darkened hall, the only light poured in amber waves along the stone from the torches that lined the walls. The walk passed without note, the distant sound of chatter gave way to the echo of your sandaled feet. Each step brought you further from the chaos of the arena and for that you were grateful. No matter how many games you saw, the violence never grew more appealing. You couldn’t blame the emperors for enjoying the joys they were afforded in life, but that did nothing to change your opinion. They could eat, drink, fuck, and enjoy whatever and whomever they desired. Your job was simply to be there when called. No questions or judgment, and that was more than enough for you to handle. 

The sudden clomp of footfalls barreling down the corridor sent electricity singing down your spine. Snapping back in their direction, you reached for the blade which sat flush along your thigh. The metal was warm to the touch, the heat of your body having warmed it palpably. No sooner had you freed it of its holster, than a familiar face rounded the corner. Emperor Geta’s pale face glowed oddly in the flickering light, the shadows casting his features in mystery. Sliding your weapon back into place, you stayed rooted to the spot and waited the mere seconds it took for him to close the space between you. 

“Where are you going?” His voice was soft as he crowded into your space. His hands flexed at his sides, itching to touch you, to hold you close, but that was a line he couldn’t bring himself to cross, if only for the sake of his brother’s well-being. “My brother… he calls for you.”

Your face dropped to the floor, unable to stand the burn of his molten stare. “I am unwell… my-my head.” The lie was partially rooted in truth. The violence of the fight brought back memories of a long past day that led you to the gates of the palace, in need of a kindness that only those in power could grant you. The simple memory of which brought you real physical pain.

“Have you eaten today? Perhaps some wine and bread could cure what ails you. I have selected the best for our celebration.” A thin smile flashed upon the emperor’s face, pulling the corner of his lips up in a beautiful tilt though the grin didn’t meet his eyes.

“As much as I adore your taste in wine, I do not believe any amount of drink will ease the pain I am feeling. Now if you’ll excuse me, Emperor.”  The swish of your stola brushing against your skin sounded as you turned away. 

Panic flashed hot forcing Geta to move… to speak. “Wait!” His outstretched hand sat in the space between you for only a moment before dropping back to his side. “He needs you… he’s- he’s struggling. Today is not a good day.” 

“I am aware, but he has you.” 

“But I am not the one he desires.” Once again, Geta stepped closer, pleading with you to listen. “I fear what he will do, how he will act before the public today without you by his side. Please, for his sake… and for my own. Care for him as only you are able.” 

The sheen that pooled in Geta’s eyes was enough to flip your stomach. This cruel and vicious man held his heart wide for those he loved. It was a select few, but those he cared for in that way were not only adored beyond measure but treated with a life only he could provide. There was a true sincerity to it. He held his brother dear despite the many rumors that circulated about the pair. Caracalla had long since been the subject of jokes and cruel speculation. It was true, the illness that plagued his loins had spread to his brain, eating away at the once vibrant and loving man he’d once been. And yet, no matter how much he’d lost to the disease, there was always a thread of his former self there to reel him in and back to reality.  

But as of late, that thin connection between reality and fantasy had grown more fragile. It took a delicate hand to keep Caracalla balanced, especially in front of important company and prying eyes. You and Emperor Geta were the cherished few who had the ability to return Caracalla to this world, and increasingly, your loving touch seemed to be the only thing that worked. 

“I understand. I will do what is necessary.” You nodded shallowly, acknowledging the favor the emperor had asked of you. “Let us not linger, it is unwise for him to be alone with those vultures you surround yourselves with.” 

A flicker of shock at your boldness shot across his features, but he decided against pursuing the thoughts and questions that flooded his mind. Instead, he settled with a simple statement of thanks before guiding you back to his brother. 

The murmur of people grew louder with each passing step until it reached a tipping point. Back inside the space you’d fled so quickly, you searched the crowd for Caracalla. It took only seconds to find him, standing beside the table overflowing with treats and wine. Your approach was lost on him, his entire focus settled on selecting the next delicacy. With his stability in question, you knew it would be wise to make your presence known before stepping into the space beside him. 

“Emperor Caracalla!” The youthful man turned to find the person who’d spoken, and at the sight of you, an enormous grin erupted from ear to ear across his pockmarked face. “What delicious finds have you discovered for us today?!” The shirtless man who’d accompanied the emperor from before took one look at you and decided he was no longer needed. Relieved of his duty, he retreated to stand with the group of concubines that had formed near the entrance, greeting the guests as they moved to and fro. 

“My dear!” Crumbs adorned the corners of his mouth as he held the remnants of a pastry in his hand. “Come! You must try this! It is simply delightful!” 

The emperor met you halfway, holding out the last bite for you to take. You could feel the stares that descended upon the pair of you as he held the last bite to your lips. You opened for him, luxuriating in the sweetness that coated your tongue. Caracalla’s eyes gleamed with delight at the sound of your satisfied hum of appreciation unaware of how this interaction would appear to others. 

“It was delicious. Thank you for sharing.” You reached for his face and brushed away the flecks of baked dough that clung to his makeuped countenance. Avoiding the open marks that even rouge could not cover, you pushed through the pain to give him the smile he so clearly wanted to see. The boyish wonder in his eyes was catching.

The emperor’s fragile hands settled on your waist. His touch was not that of a lover, but that of a young man desperate for the attention and love he deserved. Holding you close as he spoke. “Where did you go? I’d thought you’d left me.” Caracalla paused for a moment intending to let you speak, but the furrow of your brows kept the words flowing. “Are you all right? Your brow is pinched. You only get that look when you are in pain.” 

Tenderly, you swept a stray hair away from his temple. “I am as well as can be expected, and please, forgive me for my momentary absence. The swell of noise during the fight was too much for me to handle. But I am here now. I would never leave you.” 

“But you are not well… I can see it here. It is one of your head pains.” The pad of his finger ran between your brows and down the bridge of your nose. “You need not be brave for me. You must rest, there will be many more games for you to enjoy.” 

Sensing a pair of knowing eyes upon you, your attention flicked in the direction of Emperor Geta and found him watching just as you’d suspected. Even without words, you knew exactly what he asked. The nearly imperceptible nod of your head assured him that you were going to uphold your promise. 

“I appreciate your kindness, Emperor, but my place is here… with you. There will be time for rest later. Besides, I’m sure a steady flow of wine and pastries would do me good.” You forced yourself to smile once more before heading toward the table. “Join me. Tell me what I must try!” 

A gleeful laugh bubbled from Caracalla as he followed quickly behind. The pair of you stayed like this, tasting and drinking until it was time to retreat to the Emperors’ box for the games. Focused only on the task at hand, your eyes never ventured into the arena. Rather, you studied the way Caracalla moved, the cadence of his speech, admiring the way his eyes lit up at the clash of swords.  Through all this, unbeknownst to you, Geta’s attention split between the violence unfolding before him and yourself. He clung to the sound of your laughter and marked the hazy film that unfocused your gaze the longer the day drug on. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the pain you’d claimed to be ailed by earlier had grown nearly unbearable, and yet your attention never wavered. The dedication you showed his brother filled him with something he couldn’t label. The warmth low in his belly belied just how fully he’d come to care for you. 

--------------------------------------------------------

Night had settled upon the emperors' residence. The halls fluttered with torchlight, but the depths of Geta’s chambers were a murky gray, illuminated only by the moon filtering through curtains that swayed in the breeze. The concubines he’d selected to entertain his needs lay spread out over his bed, their bare skin damp with sweat from the night’s activities. The only sound besides that of their gentle breathing was the rustle of the soldiers posted outside his door. One could never be too careful. 

The blissful silence had him drifting into sleep when the sudden thunder of banging upon his door ripped him from the edge of slumber. Sitting bolt upright in bed, he reached for the knife that sat beneath his pillow, ready to defend himself should the need arise. Geta’d barely managed to extricate himself from the pile of limbs he’d been entangled with and don his robes when the frantic call of your voice pleading with his praetorian sent dread running through his limbs. Heavy with worry and lack of sleep, he pushed across the large room and ripped open the door. 

The movement was followed by your lithe frame pushing inside his chambers, and what he saw only heightened his fear. Crimson stained your cheek, running down the smooth expanse of your neck before soaking into the luscious fabric of the robe you had wrapped around yourself. He recognized it at once as belonging to Caracalla. The fact that you’d been attending to his brother was not unexpected, but the wound that marred your face was terrifying. 

“You’re hurt! Tell me at once who did this to you!?” Geta’s voice shook with the effort it took to maintain his control. Behind him, the stirring of his “guests” went unnoticed. His calloused fingers wiped gently at the oozing cut along the top of your cheek. You’d flinched from the pain, reaching for his wrist to still his ministrations. Frozen in place at the feeling of your touch, he waited barely breathing for your response. 

“It’s your brother! He woke in a fit, he… he didn’t recognize me. He tried to- he thou- he thought I was there to kill him. He-” 

“He did this to you?!” It wasn’t so much a question to you, but to himself for this was the thing he’d always feared. The day in which even your presence wouldn’t be enough to return him to this world. 

“Yes.” You whispered, afraid of what this could mean for the beautiful men you’d come to adore after all this time. The pain in Geta’s eyes at your confusion was crushing. “I am so sorry, Geta.”

“Do not apologize. I will take care of this.” Forced to let go of you, he spoke quickly with his guards before dismissing his guests. The women scrambled for any scrap of clothing they could find and made their hasty exit. 

Moving on his command, the soldiers hastened toward Caracalla’s chamber, leaving you behind with Geta. Alone, he grabbed for a chiton that lay draped over the chair beside him. Reaching for you, he pressed the cloth to your cheek applying pressure as he spoke, “Stay here, and keep this on the wound until I return. When I leave, lock the door behind me and open for no one other than myself. Understand?” 

“Yes.” A slight nod from him was all he managed before turning to follow his praetorian. 

Doing as you were told, you soon moved further into the room. You admired the lived-in feel it maintained despite the solid marble that made up every surface. The bed sat disheveled, clearly the night's adventures had been rather boisterous. Staring at the tangle of sheets, you felt the bile rise in your stomach. You laid no claim upon Geta and yet you couldn’t stop the bubble of envy that stirred in your soul. 

The breeze fluttered through the curtains allowing you to peer beyond the protective walls of the palace to the streets of Rome. Even at this late hour, people moved about. Some lit their path with flame while others remained shrouded in darkness, praying they could slither about unnoticed. It took only a few more steps to reach the balcony. Fresh air filled your lungs as you leaned against the entryway, your nerves still buzzing with anxiety. Time slipped by unreliably. Each minute an hour, fraying the last of your resolve into shreds. 

-------------------------------------------------------

Eventually, a soft knock accompanied by Geta’s worn voice pulled you across the room. Petrified to know what had become of the situation, you hesitated before opening the door. The wood groaned under your touch, but it was the tear-streaked face that lay on the other side that nearly stopped your heart. 

“What happened?” You inquired, giving Geta space to slip inside his room. The loud thunk of the lock being placed filled the silence before he gathered the strength to speak. 

Reaching for the cloth you pressed to your cheek, his voice trembled, the gravel in it even more present. “It is taken care of.” The soft thump of the chiton hitting the floor punctuated his confession. The pit in your stomach was anything but relieved by his answer.

“What does that mean?” You searched for signs of gore along the cuffs of his robes, terrified of what you might find.

“He’s sedated. May the gods right his mind during this sleep.” You watched Geta as he scanned over the now-clotted wound along your cheek. Though you couldn’t see, there was no doubt that deep shades of blue and purple had already begun to bloom alongside where the knife had sliced your skin. 

“Come here. We must clean this or risk infection.” He moved toward the nearby table.

“It is alright. I can take care of it myself. There is acetum and honey in Caracalla’s chamber. There is no need to waste your supply or your time. You must be exhausted.” Tired only of pretending, Geta’s sturdy frame crowded your space, backing you gently into the cool expanse of stone next to the doorframe. With nowhere to go, you forced yourself to look him in the eye for the first time since he’d returned from tending to his brother.

Words clawed at the back of your throat, trapped beneath the swell of emotions that burned the bridge of your nose. As if moving on their own accorded, Geta’s sure hands found the curve of your waist and the stained column of your neck. Resting his brow against yours, the warmth of his breath drifted over your face as he spoke. “Stay here... with me. I do not care for the idea of you alone with him. Not after this.” 

Geta’s chapped lips brushed over yours, never quite embracing the plush expanse of your mouth, but it was more than enough to send a flush rushing over your skin. Your lungs hitched at the feeling of his mouth falling to the hollow of your neck. He hovered over your body, only catching skin for fractions of a second at a time. Your hands found him, running the length of his chest before dipping inside his robes to trace light lines over the ripple of muscle that lay beneath the surface. Geta’s own lungs caught at the press of your hand low upon his abdomen.  

Your whisper at the shell of his ear locked him in place. “I cannot stay, you know this. My place is with him.” 

“That is only half the truth and you know it. You feel it the same as I… you belong here… with me. You always have.” 

“My contract would say otherwise.” The raw ache in your voice pulled Geta back to look at your face. Silver pools threatened to fall as you continued, “Until your brother passes or frees me from his service, I belong to him and no other. It matters not what I feel for you.” 

“You cannot believe that.” 

“Then what am I to believe?” Defiantly, you pressed the flat of your palms to his chest and pushed him back further. “He is the emperor of Rome, the same as you. To defy him would mean my death, even you could not overrule that.” 

“He would he would never have to know.” 

“Secrets move like lightning in this palace. There would be no keeping this from him.” You moved to make your exit, but the firm grip of Geta’s hand on your wrist kept you from fleeing. You whipped to face him, striking with your words like a snake, “My death would be on your hands and I do not want that weighing on your conscience. Not now, too much rests on your shoulders. If you feel for me as you say you do… then you know what we must be to each other. We can have nothing more.” 

“I’m tired of waiting, of pretending that I want anyone but you warming my bed. You are what I desire, what I have always desired. Must I continue to lie to appease my brother?” 

“Your brother’s time grows short. I will not squander it and neither should you!” 

“There are enemies around every corner, there is no promise of tomorrow. Why should I deny myself what I want most?” Swiftly, Geta hauled you close, his lips crashed against yours, devouring the taste of you. With your back against the wall once more, he slotted his thigh between your own, pressing you down upon himself and earning the most glorious moan from your lips. Caution was thrown to the gods as you threaded your fingers through his hair, holding firm to the roots as he palmed your breasts over your robes. The swipe of his thumb over your nipple sent shivers down your spine and sparked a newfound energy in the emperor. 

He wanted more, needed more. The sounds of your altered breathing, paired with the dampness pooling along his thigh gave him the permission to keep going. With practiced ease, he untied the knot at your waist, and pushed the oversized robe from your shoulders, exposing you to him. 

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He smiled against your skin as he spoke. His lips worked a line of fire from the hollow of your neck to your chest. The talented flick of his tongue over your nipple had you gasping for air. It was too much and not enough at the same time. Tiny whimpers from you accompanied his continued journey south. Dropping to his knees, he found himself mesmerized by the feeling of your skin beneath his lips. Calloused hands roamed the broad expanse of your stomach before dropping to explore your thighs. 

Geta nipped and sucked at the skin there, leaving marks only he’d know existed. Nearly to where you needed to feel him the most, the emperor pulled back, leaving your skin on fire and your need unfulfilled. A whine ripped from your lungs as your eyes dropped to look at him, and what you found was intoxicating. Geta’s eyes were blown, the rich brown was hidden behind his pupils. Lust had replaced all other emotions. 

Your fingers ran through his soft strands in a feeble attempt at guiding him back to you. When you felt him resist, you finally spoke. “Why have you stopped?” 

Geta’s strong hands gripped the back of your legs, keeping you steady as he spoke. “Believe me when I say this, I love you. Nothing will stand between us. I vow to protect you until my dying day”

The emperor didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, his mouth returned to you, this time right where you’d wanted him before. The steady pressure of his lips around your sensitive bud would have been enough to bring you over the edge, but the insistent curl of his fingers in your core had you keening. Geta hummed against you adding to the pleasure. It had been far too long since you’d felt the loving touch of another. What existed between you and Caracalla had never made it to this point. For certain, there had been romantic moments, sensual touches, and lust-fueled encounters, but those had long since ceased. Even prior to the onset of his illness things had begun to shift. But the real change had come upon him falling ill. This had brought about a necessary departure from that kind of bond. The disease that stole him from reality also stole him from the urges that all humans felt, leaving you to take care of yourself in those moments for far too long. 

But in this room, surrounded by only moonlight, and the man at your feet, you found yourself again. It took only a few more well-placed strokes of his fingers for Geta to bring you over the edge. Sparks tore through your body, causing your muscles to spam and your core to clench in rhythmic waves around his fingers. Carefully, Geta worked you through your release stopping only once he felt your body relax. Unsure of your ability to stay standing on your own, he stood to full height, capturing your lips at once. 

You could taste yourself upon his lips, earning him a heady groan. Wanting to hear more of you, he brought his slick-covered fingers to your mouth, running his calloused fingers lips along them before dipping past your lips. The plush heat of your tongue swirling around him, sent his head spinning as he purred in your ear. “Good girl.” 

You could feel him hard against your stomach, his own robes were now damp with arousal. The desire to return the favor was overwhelming, and had it not been for his next request, you’d have dropped to your knees just then. Geta smoothly whispered. “Let me take you to bed, even if it’s just for tonight. Let me love you the way you deserve.” 

Geta’s wide palms slid over your backside before lifting you gracefully into his arms. Stumbling back to his bed, he lowered you into the expanse of soft sheets that covered the mattress. With you safe and settled, he stepped back and removed his robe. Dropping the burgundy and gold material to the ground, his fist ran the length of his cock, tearing a hiss from between his teeth as he rolled over the throbbing tip. 

Geta’s self-control crumbled at the sight of you sprawled out before him. Your hands roamed your own body fluttering over your core and massaging your breasts. With each pass of your fingers, his need to feel you wrapped around him grew too much to bear. Done with waiting, done with watching, the emperor lowered himself on top of you, collecting your slick with his member before easing himself inside. Geta’s strong arms caged you in, blocking out everything but the feeling of you and him together. He searched for your lips, needing to kiss you, but the embrace soon turned into nothing more than swallowing each other's moans. Each roll of his hips brought you closer to the edge once more, even as he clung to the final shred of himself. 

“Geta, please…” The pitiful sound of his name tumbling from your lips, accompanied the drag of your nails along his back. Your actions were sure to have left a mark, but it mattered not. With one final pull at the base of his hair, Geta let himself go. You were soon to follow. Your ragged breaths matched with his as he lowered himself further onto you. His weight was heavy against your chest, and yet you knew without it you’d feel exposed. It was exactly what you both needed as you came down from your high. 

As your breathing slowed down, the emperor rolled to his side, leaving you empty. You whined at the loss of him, but as if sensing your need, he reached for you, hauling you close. Your face pressed into his chest as your legs tangled. Alone, in his bed, Geta pressed a kiss to your forehead and held you close. For the first time in ages, the world seemed right, as if nothing terrible could happen. He knew that come break of day things would return to normal, but for now, he’d live in this temporary reality. 

(Part II)

[mimasroom2]

Don’t stand so close to me

professor!ellie x student!reader

Young teacher, the subject

Of schoolgirl fantasy

She wants him her so badly

Knows what she wants to be

Inside her there's longing

This girl's an open page

Bookmarking, she's so close now

This girl is half his her age

Her friends are so jealous

You know how bad girls get

Sometimes it's not so easy

To be the teacher's pet

Temptation, frustration

So bad it makes him her cry

Wet bus stop, she's waiting

His Her car is warm and dry

Loose talk in the classroom

To hurt they try and try

Strong words in the staffroom

The accusations fly

It's no use, he she sees her

He She starts to shake and cough

Just like the old man in

That book by Nabokov

Long time no see, eh?

This trope has been done to death, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it while listening to the song, so I decided why not. Tried to follow the plot that the song gives us :3, but ofc I had to switch it up and make it my own. I was actually applying to a community college while I was writing this😭 took a big fat gap year & now I’m here!

C/w: Professor x student relationship (duh). R is specifically a lesbian (& described as fem). Mention of the book lolita. No use of y/n. Story after the smut!! Slight caregiving kink. Fingering, thigh riding 😛. Ellie says good girl a lot LMAO.

W/c: 7k. Damn I really had to come back with a BANG.

𓆟. ° .• .𓆝 .• ° . 𓆟 . ° .• .𓆞

“Alright, class.. need y’all to focus today.”

You swiftly take out your headphones as your professor walks in the room.

One of North America’s leading astrophysicists. She’s got it all: the brains, the dream career, actual money, and damn good looks.

You chuck your headphones into your bag below your feet, cracking your knuckles as she casually walks in. You need to pay as close attention as possible, unlike your other classes. Not because there was a big test or anything, but because the women herself was here.

Ellie Williams.

You had been super stoked to take her class, all giddy as you realized it actually was a requirement for your major. It’s not like you necessarily went to this college because she taught here, but it was definitely one of the perks. I mean, at this point you were a certified fan girl. You’ve read all of her books. Well.. at least skimmed them. It wasn’t really your fault you kept glancing at her picture in the ‘about the author’ section.

“Now there’s no reason for you guys to be as antsy as you are. It’s only the third week of school.” Ellie doesn’t even glance up at her class; if she wasn’t projecting her voice you’d think she was just talking to herself.

You look around the room at your semi-familiar classmates, and realized you’re really the only one dressed up. All these other people are ready to do some physics in sweats and pulled back hair, but not you. You realize that just maybe your subconscious knew to look good for Ellie today.

The class goes by somewhat slowly. You find yourself with your head in your hand, legs crossed, lipgloss on, staring at her. God, if you didn’t look like the biggest teacher’s pet right now.

Someone asks a question, to which you scoff to yourself. Seriously? This isn’t high school, dude. Don’t waste the teacher’s time with questions we’ve already gone over. You roll your eyes, then watch as Ellie slides her hand over her mouth and sighs slightly. Looks like she had the same thought as you.

“What was your name?” Ellie leans against her podium, sliding her hands into her front pockets, crossing her legs.

The guy who asked the question looks a little startled, “Uh, Owen.”

“Now, like I said, Owen. It’s only the third week of school, and I am here to support you.” She taps her foot in a really nice suede looking shoe. Must’ve been expensive. “However, your question would have definitely been answered have you read the assigned reading we previously discussed.” She slowly nods at him, “Think you can do that for me?” She doesn’t say it like a question.

The Owen guy just nods, muttering a quick ‘yes ma’am’ below his breath.

You continue staring at her. You think it’s pretty cool how she can be so chill one moment, and suddenly professional another.

And remain confident through it all.

~

Eventually, the class concludes. You close your notebook, which coincidentally has no notes from today. As you start to gather your things into your bag, you notice a small line leading up to Ellie’s podium. You smile to yourself. Perfect.

This happens every now and again after a particularly hard lesson from Ellie. You’ve joined them a few times in the past few weeks, occasionally asking minute questions, nothing too extraordinary or exciting. It’s not like you were doing this just to talk to her this time, I mean, you actually did have a question you deemed good enough. You reapply your lipgloss as you wait for the other students to finish up. You’re the last person in line.

When it’s your turn, you flash a smile at Ellie. She looks tired and honestly, a little over some of these students. But she recognizes you, at least a little, from your previous inquiries.

She gives you a nod, like how you see guys do to each other, “Hey. What’s up?” She leans forward on her podium, folding her hands together. Must be a habit of hers.

“Hi. Again. Uh, so I had a question about these next chapters. The ones about exoplanets.” You try looking her in the eyes, but you can already feel yourself getting nervous, so you opt for her eyebrows instead. You notice she has a slit in her right one, where a scar is. You explain your question without looking away from her.

She definitely notices you staring, slightly pressing her lips together, “Okay. Think we’re gonna need my computer for this. Probably gonna need that online calculator.”

“Oh, sure!” You glance behind you guys, to the back of the room. “To your office, then?”

She nods at you. “Right. Come with me. And bring that textbook, would ya?” She motions to the thick chunk of pages in front of you. You’re so glad she posts the chapters online. You really don’t want to be lugging that thing around.

You follow behind her into the office, closing the door behind you when she asks. You’ve never actually been in here before. It’s cute. She has some Jurassic Park posters, some trinkets that say ‘best professor ever’ on them, and of course loads of space models. She even has that one Milky Way LEGO set hung up next to her PhD. Aww. You feel a small smile forming at the corners of your mouth.

Ellie sits down at her desk and starts pulling up a few different tabs on her computer.

“Uh, nice decorations.” You try, gesturing around the room. You’re only making small talk with your teacher. Perfectly normal.

She doesn’t look away from her computer, instead smiling slightly and thanking you, “Pretty cool, right? You ever seen Jurassic Park?”

You blush slightly and shake your head, looking at the ground, “Hah, can’t say I have.”

Hearing this Ellie actually perks up and looks at you. “Damn. You really should. Maybe then we’ll have more to talk about next time.”

You smile and agree, brushing your hair to the side. It’s actually pretty great how cool your professor can be, even if she’s two times older than you. You wince at that thought - she can’t be that old. How old is she again? Gonna have to google that later…

Your stream of thought is interrupted by Ellie turning the screen toward you. She points to some crazy looking chart, “So if we use Kepler’s third law for the numbers here, we can calculate the distance and orbital period for stars close to the mass of our sun.”

You stare at her screen, recognizing the chart once she explains it verbally, “Right,” you start, “and then don’t we have to change the formula for exoplanets?”

She nods, looking at you, “Yup. So the formula for that is here.”She points to a little box below the first chart. R = ∛(T2 · Ms). Jesus.

“So then the next chart below that formula is gonna be using that on different exoplanets.” She swivels around in her chair to fully face you. Her thighs look real nice in her pants. What you would give to be sitting in her lap right now.

She derails your train of thought once again, “That make sense to you?”

You accidentally stare at her for a moment too long, “Yeah! Yeah, thanks. Uhm- do you actually mind sending that pdf to me?”

She turns back to her desk, “Sure thing.” You confirm your email with her, feeling all warm inside that she remembers you on a first name basis.

“So, is that in the textbook? Like the charts and stuff?” You ask, not wanting to cut your interaction short just yet.

She clicks around on her computer some more, “No, but there’s something similar a few chapters ahead of where we are. Want me to show you?”You nod, trying not to seem too eager.

She reaches over to the textbook you brought in for her, all while holding her gaze on the computer, reading some email. She can’t quite reach it, so you shove it a little closer to her, and your fingers accidentally touch. Jesus, isn’t this what happens in those cheesy rom-com movies?

She swiftly looks up at you, clears her throat and starts looking at the index of the book.

You just stand there, silently rocking back and forth on your feet, with your hands behind your back.

She’s still figuring out where to look in that damn book, and it seems your fidgeting has gotten her a little bit distracted. “All dolled up, I see. You going somewhere after this?” She raises an eyebrow while looking you up and down.

“Oh! Uh- no. Hah- no, ma’am.” You stutter out.

She just looks at you for just a moment too long. You’re thankful you’re wearing foundation and carefully placed blush, because otherwise your entire face would’ve turned red.

Maybe you should elaborate? “It just helps me feel more active. Like I actually wanna be productive. Look good, feel good.. or whatever people say.” You shuffle your feet as Ellie flips through the textbook. Even though she’s not looking at you, you can tell she’s actually paying attention to what you have to say.

It’s definitely different than what you’re used to: Old balding men who either don’t give a shit about you, or shamelessly stare at you. It’s really a good change of pace.

She finally finds the page and points to some illustrations, “This is basically the same concept. It’s just illustrating what Kepler’s third law is gonna look like out in the real world. Or, I guess, in space.” She smiles at you, and you chuckle a little.

You pull out your phone to snap a quick picture, and Ellie doesn’t move her hand away from the page. It’s not blocking anything, but it’s still there. In frame. In fact, it’s her left hand, and you notice she’s not wearing a ring on her finger. Huh.

You shake your head, quickly taking the photo and thanking her.

You slip out of her office, making sure to close the door behind you. Holy shit. That was real. That was really real. You smile to yourself, all giddy as you leave the building and walk around campus.

~

At the end of the day, you’re back in your dorm room - your two friends scattered around listening to your story from today.

“…and then, she knew my email without even asking for it! Meaning she knows my name! Isn’t that so cool?!” You’re absolutely cheesing, explaining everything with a wide smile and expressive hands.

“Yeah, that’s amazing.” One of your friends rolls her eyes sarcastically, “So when’s the part where you guys fuck?”

“Oh my god! We didn’t do that, okay?” You throw your hands up in defense mode.

She raises her eyebrows, “But you want to.”

“I never said that.”

“It’s written all over your face.” Your other friend across the room chimes in.

“I mean- yeah! I guess so.” You give up. They both know what you want. Hell, they’ve heard numerous stories about different girls trying to get with Ellie ever since she became a professor. Everyone has.

“Oooh bad girl!”

“I also got this pic of her hands. Well, her hands were in the frame. Anyway- please tell me I’m not crazy for thinking it’s kinda hot.” You cover your face and turn the phone towards your two friends, to which they squeal and giggle.

“Dude, I’m so jealous.” She sighs, “I wish I could take her class.”

Your other friend grabs the phone out of your hand, “WOWW!! She looks like she was sculpted by the Greek gods; and that’s just her hand.”

You dramatically put your head in your hands, “I know right! Do you think she’d even like.. want me?” You ask, a bit nervous because this could really go wrong for both you and Ellie if you screw it up.

“Come on, if you really want her you gotta own it! Go wear a mini skirt and flirt with her until she takes you out.” Your friend puts her hand on your shoulders, “Seriously, dude. I bet she wants you so badly she’s crying right now.”

You roll your eyes at this, thinking for a moment. Fuck it. You know you want her, may as well try, right? Suddenly, a wicked smile spreads across your face. “Alright. Let’s do it. Slutty outfits here I come.”

~

You adjusted your clothes as you walked across campus. You and your friends went shopping the next day, going to a bunch of different stores, trying to pick out at least a few outfits for you. Surprise surprise, you guys mainly found yourselves spending the most time at Victoria’s Secret - looking around at all the different lingerie items you could technically pass as actual clothes.

You always knew that boys looked at you, it’s not like they weren’t obvious about it, but you never cared for them. You’ve had a few girlfriends in the past, but none would really stick. ‘God, this is a stupid idea.’ you thought to yourself as you tried pulling down your skirt even just a little bit.

Suddenly, you got a text from your friend: ‘okay. she’s in the cafe now. window seat on the left.’

Great. You went through the checklist in your head. Got the bag with books in it, wallet for some coffee, and an absurd outfit to top it all off. You take a deep breath and walk through the doors into the campus cafe, the ceilings high. Thankfully you spotted a familiar barista; at least that part won’t be awkward.

You go up and order your usual, chatting to the worker about her day. She cracks a small joke and you laugh, honestly too loud, but that was all to get Ellie’s attention… if she hadn’t seen you already. The barista seems to be a girl’s girl, because she leans over the counter and says, “Whoever you’re meeting here must be really lucky. You look damn good.”

You gush and thank her, turning around to find a place to sit. Or at least, pretend to find a place to sit. You slowly walk around, sort of people watching - trying to make Ellie notice you. Thankfully it works, you see her take off her reading glasses and stare at you out of the corner of your eye. You sigh and turn the other way, then act surprised when you see Ellie sitting there, “Ohmygod, Miss Williams? What are you doing here?” You smile and prance over to her.

She honestly does look surprised to see you. That, or maybe it’s the cleavage. “I’m just- reading.” She coughs a little, and takes a sip of her drink. Looks like black coffee.

“Oh cool! Like for class or..?” You slightly tilt your head to the side, like a puppy.

“Nah, just for fun.” You can tell she relaxes a bit, probably after looking around and realizing no one is paying attention to either you or her. “Hey, why don’t you sit? You’re not busy right now, are you?” She gestures towards the chair across from her.

You thank her politely and sit down, smoothing out your skirt. You pull out your phone and quickly text your friend: ‘the eagle has landed😈🦅’.

You look back up, and Ellie’s just looking at you. Not in a direct or scary way, more inquisitive. You decide to get some conversation going, “What are ya reading?”

She closes the book and turns the front cover towards you, “Lolita.”

You smirk a little, recognizing the name and the cover, but never having read it yourself, “Isn’t that the one book by Nabokov?”

She clears her throat, “Yes. I’m assuming by your reaction that you’ve never read it?”

You shrug, “No. I mean, it’s pretty infamous for a reason, though, so I know the basic plot of it.”

She just hums, resting her chin in her palm and squinting at you. You feel a rise of heat make its way through your body.

You click your tongue, “Things like that shouldn’t be glorified.”

She shakes her head, “No, they shouldn’t.”

A beat, then, she takes out a cloth from her bag and starts to clean her glasses. You kick your feet in your chair, which causes the table to rock ever so slightly.

“Nice outfit, by the way.”

~

Eventually, an hour goes by, and you get a notification saying your class is in 20 minutes. Ellie is in the middle of explaining that she actually plays guitar, “…So then in the verses it’ll basically just be E flat and G minor until-“ she sees you staring at your phone. “You okay?”

You swiftly look up, flashing a nice smile, “Yeah! Yeah, sorry. Just forgot I had class this soon today.” You stand up, gathering your things into your purse. “It’s kind of across campus, and I walked here, so I better get going.”

She adjusts her glasses, “Oh.”

“Shit, I mean- Crap, I’m sorry.” You shake your head, maybe you shouldn’t swear at your teacher. “Uh, thank you for letting me sit with you, though!”

Ellie stands up too, placing her book and other things into her briefcase. “Of course. I did enjoy spending some time with you.” She smiles briefly, out of politeness.

You wave and turn around. You’re only about 20 feet in front of her, about to exit the cafe, when she clears her throat, “Would you- would you like a lift?”

You turn around to face her. She looks so unsure of herself, a direct contrast to how assertive she is in the lecture room. She’s rubbing the back of her neck with her hand, the one that hosts the end of the ferns on her tattooed forearm.

She licks her lips, “Just, if it’s across campus I don’t want you to be late. We can take my car; if that’s okay with you.” She gestures to the parking lot outside.

You pause, unconsciously biting the inside of your cheek. What if someone sees you getting out of Ellie Williams’ car? But then, you’re not doing anything wrong, are you? It’s just a quick car ride.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.” You smile at Ellie and she lets out a breath, following you out into the parking lot.

When you see it, you actually audibly gasp. It’s an old Chevrolet, black and sleek and elegant. She unlocks the back door, throwing her briefcase somewhere in the back seat. There’s something more important to replace it in shotgun: you. You walk around to the passengers side, but before you can open the door, you see a familiar hand doing it for you. Your eyebrows raise, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Just call me Ellie, kay?”

Ellie gets in and starts backing up, putting her arm around the back of your seat. You swallow. God. The two of you start driving, not really having much conversation. It starts to rain, just a little bit, sprinkling.

“Uh oh.” You remark.

“Mm.” Ellie makes a wide turn, looking away from you. You sneakily check her out. You don’t know why, but it’s really her legs that get you, she definitely has all her slacks tailored. And her neck? Why are the most random parts of her so attractive.

She turns back around and sees you staring, but you try to play it off by smiling. She pulls out her phone, hooking it up to the aux, “What kinda music do ya like?”

You think, “Mmm, I guess mainly rock and pop. I’m pretty basic. Oh! I do love The Police!”

She smirks. “Good choice.”

She puts on a playlist of them. A couple songs in, you realize it’s actually a playlist she’s made, not just ‘The Police essentials’. She snakes her hand closer to you; dangerously close to your thigh. And a couple more songs later, you’re pulling up at the building where your class is.

You start to get out, thanking her and finally getting a moment to breathe some fresh air after all that tension. She starts to light up a cigarette.

She takes a long drag, but holds eye contact with you. “You doing anything after this?”

Your eyes flicker to the ground, but you look back up. You’re trying to fight that habit. “I have a class later.”

“Until what time?”

“Nine.”

“And you’re seriously going to walk home in that rain?

“It’s only sprinkling, Ellie.”

She raises an eyebrow at you, “Obviously I’m no meteorologist, but those dark clouds over there tell me things are gonna get a lot worse.”

You huff. “I’ll take the bus.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

You open your mouth to complain, retort, say anything to drag this out. To make her think you don’t want this, or you don’t know what you’re doing. But you just have to give in to her.

“Fine. I- thanks. You really don’t have to do that.”

“I’ll pick you up here?”

“Everybody gets out at the same time. Meet me at bus stop D.”

She nods and drives away.

~

After four long hours and your two classes over, you head out into the rain to catch the next bus. Damnit, looks like she was actually right. The rain had now begun to really pour. You quickly got on the bus and popped out your headphones. Walking On The Moon starts playing.

You’re the only one who gets off at stop D. You mumble and curse to yourself, you didn’t have Ellie’s number. How were you supposed to tell her you’re here? You did tell her class ended at 9, but what if something went wrong? I guess you had her email. Would she even check it? Was that weird? Weirder than just going back to your dorm and catching up with her later? God, it was really raining. So much for this stupid sexy outfit. You hugged yourself as best as you could to keep yourself warm.

You decided you’d wait 15 minutes, and if she wasn’t here, you’d just walk to your dorm. Thankfully, the wait wasn’t long, and she pulled up in that same sexy black car as before just a few minutes later.

You quickly get in. Her car is warm and dry. “Guess you were right!”

“What?” Ellie adjusts her glasses.

“Guess you were right,” you gesture towards the sky, “about the rain.”

She laughs, slightly raspy, agreeing with you. She puts the car in drive and starts driving in the opposite direction of the dorms.

Your head whips around, “Where are we going?”

She keeps watching the road, doesn’t even glance at you, “Thought we could use some privacy.”

She drives slowly, checking in on you every so often. She has The Police on, volume low, almost like she wants you to say something. You don’t. She switches gears a couple of times. Still without making eye contact, she places her hand on your thigh. You try not to freak out, act like it’s all normal. Act like this is any other girl. But of course, it’s not. God, if this isn’t the hottest thing that’s ever happened to you, and you’re not even a virgin. You can feel the butterflies inside your stomach rising and then dissipating.

She pulls off onto the edge of a little field. You guys definitely won’t be seen here. It’s dark in the car, but in a calming way. She yanks up on the emergency brake and turns the car off.

Ellie doesn’t say anything for a moment, seemingly thinking to herself. She’s got both hands folded over. She looks over at you with her brows slightly furrowed, “Why is it that I can teach 400 students a day and yet you’re the only one on my mind?”

You’re shocked with how direct she is. It seems so sudden to you. You open your mouth, trying to speak, but you can’t think of anything better than “I don’t know.”

She places her hand on your thigh again, a little bit closer to the inside than the outside. She slowly rubs her thumb back and forth, like it’s habit, “You’re half my age.”

You let out a small scoff, “No I’m not. Uh.. how old are you?” God, it really sounds worse when she says it out loud.

“28.”

“Yeah, I’m not half your age.” You roll your eyes slightly.

“It’s close enough.”

You huff, “Doesn’t matter to me. How are you that young and a whole ass professor anyway? Aren’t your colleagues like 40?”

She licks her lips. “‘Cause ‘m smart.”

You smirk, “Then you better get that smart mouth over here.”

You see her eyes squint, before she reaches out to grab your waist and kiss you. You gasp a little, then melt into the kiss. All of you is melting, this is definitely better than you thought it could be.

She pulls away, exhaling, “You’re lucky I like you.”

And now your lips are back on each other. The first kiss wasn’t all chaste, but it was far from that now. She doesn’t just lick your lips, she intrudes. She’s trying to feel every inch of you, as if you could disappear at any second. It’s not like you’ve never done this before, but now with Ellie, you felt almost completely inexperienced.

Maybe she feels you tense up, just a little bit, because she slows down with her lips and her grip on you with her hands is slightly more relaxed. You sigh and deepen the kiss.

How weird it is that just a year ago you’d be buying all of her books at Barnes and Noble. Esteemed astrophysicist and author. You’d go home and read a little here and there, always finding yourself flipping to the back of the book where her picture was. Too bad it was in black and white. Of course, the internet did have photos of her, but there was just something different about having the physical version in your hands. And now, you were here. In her car. With her tongue in the back of your throat. Nice. Honestly, living the dream.

She groans and shifts in her seat, trying to top you as much as she can in this position. You’re full on making out now. It’s messy and dangerously slow and yet somehow coveys the need that you guys have for each other, especially when she slips a hand under your shirt.

She pulls away, pure passion and longing in her eyes. You laugh and pull your shirt off and over your head, not even thinking about how Ellie is still fully dressed right now.

This goes on for a couple more minutes. You can feel yourself getting antsy, “Ellie…”

Both of her hands are on your bare waist, and you realize how warm she feels compared to the cooling car now that it’s turned off. She shakes her head, staring at you, “This shouldn’t be happening.”

“But it is.” You raise your eyebrows slightly.

She squints at you, but doesn’t remove her grip on your waist, “Do you want to stop?”

“No.. do you?”

“Fuck no.” And she pushes you against the car door, lips connecting, trying but failing to crawl on top of you.

She curses under her breath, then instructs you to pull your seat back, “Move the passenger seat back f’me, Hon.”

You do as she tells you, chuckling softly, “Hey, this is just like that Chappell Roan song.”

She just looks at you, confused, “The what?”

You stare at her. How has she never heard of Chappell? “Never mind.” You shake your head.

She quickly goes back to shamelessly making out with you. You swear at one point you hear something that’s more of a moan come out of her mouth and right into yours. She pulls away, peppering little kisses near your lips, “Fuck, I need ya so bad right now.”

You just nod, and start silently taking off your skirt. She helps you, tugging it down your legs, sucking air through her teeth when she sees you in just your underwear.

“I’m guessing you specifically wore this just to drive me insane?” She raises an eyebrow at you, dangling your skirt in front of you with one hand.

You nod, out of breath, “Yeah, and thank god it worked.” You smile teasingly at her.

She kisses you again, spreading open mouthed kisses all over your neck and collarbones. Your hands instinctively reach up for her support, clamoring to her hair and the back of her neck. She just huffs and starts sucking at your neck in return. You can’t help but moan, your head getting thrown back to let her have more of you. Even just this feels incredible, and you didn’t even realize you were grinding up into her until she comments on it, “It’s okay sweet girl, I gotcha.”

You whimper as she tugs on your underwear, looking at you as her way of asking to take them off. You swallow, nodding. Was it just chilly in here, or were you actually shaking from anticipation? Ugh, how embarrassing.

With your last piece of clothing finally off, Ellie finally has you all to herself. She stares at you, studying your body.

“Tell me what you want.” She says lowly, voice commanding.

Shit. “Uh.. I-“ you start, barely above a whisper. Well this is definitely not any better than giving a presentation in class. You take one deep breath. “I want your fingers.”

She hums, hands roaming up and down your body wherever she damn pleases.

“And where would that be?”

You whine, bucking your hips up out of impatience, “Ellie, come on. You know.”

“Mmm, but I’m not done teasing you.” She smiles slyly, leaning up to your ear to whisper to you, “Be a good girl and listen to your professor, huh?”

You actually moan at just her words, just the audacity of her being able to say something so dominating.

You tug at the collar of her shirt, realizing that she was still fully clothed. That really shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. It’s like she was taking care of you. You slowly grab her right hand. The one with the tattoo on it. You lick your lips, bringing her fingers down to where you need it most, “Right here. Please. I need it.”

She spreads you. Slightly - enough to feel all of you comfortably. Her mouth drops open at how wet you are.

You whimper, completely unashamed at this point, and she’s not even in you yet. Ellie looks into your eyes as she slides her middle finger inside of you, gauging your reaction. You gasp when she starts to move, slowly at first. She nods to herself, so small that if you weren’t intently watching her, you would have missed it. She adds her ring finger, stretching you in a comfortable way.

She pauses for a few seconds, letting you adjust. But you’re losing it. Every moment she spends inside of you and not moving makes you so, so desperate.

“Ellie. I’m going fucking crazy right now. Move your fingers.. please.” You pant.

She laughs to herself, low and raspy, then finally starts moving her fingers.

You’re a moaning mess instantly, can’t make out words anymore even if you tried. Just hearing yourself speak makes you sound so pathetic, “Oh my- holy shit. Don’t stop. H-holy shit, Ellie-“

Your eyes at this point are closed, but you can tell she’s grinning by the way her voice sounds: cunning and desirous.

“Come on, my sweet girl, give it to me. Shit- there ya go. I’ve got it - jus’ keep feelin’ good for me, baby.”

Ellie fucking Williams was finger fucking you in her car. Dear god, this is gonna be one hell of a story. You feel something deep and vulnerable inside of you rising.

At this point you’re already so close, it’s not even funny. Your vision is totally tunneled right now - you’re only thinking of Ellie. She rests her other arm over you while fucking you faster and harder. Her face is directly above yours - seeing and hearing every moan.

“I’m- Ellie- fuck! You’re gonna make me cum.” You literally cry out, you’re panting and shaking and yet you never want this feeling right here to end.

“God, you’re so hot. I’m here, I gotcha. Want you to cum for me.”

And you do. Your vision goes black for a split second as white hot pure pleasure ignites throughout your entire body. And Ellie guides you through it all, babbling on with her dirty talk and slowing her movements down so as to not overstimulate you.

After your orgasm is completely done, you just lay there, trying to catch your breath. Ellie pulls out of you and wince a little, not because it hurt, but because you were already so used to her being inside of you.

You look up at her, she’s got this expression on her face you’ve honestly never seen before: She’s grinning. Fully. And her eyes are crinkling in just the right places that it makes your stomach do a flip all over again.

You stay silent, wanting her to do the talking. Half out of exhaustion, half out of not wanting to say something wrong.

Before you can properly register it, Ellie’s kissing you again. Slower, this time. She brushes the stray strands of hair out of your face and carefully pulls away from you, “Hey, think you got one more in you?”

You sigh, nodding, “Wanna switch it up, though.”

She smirks, “Good thing I have an idea.”

You two were now in her back seat, sitting and facing each other. She unbuttons her shirt a few from the top, commenting about how the car windows have steamed up. You’re still completely naked, but now you feel imbalanced.

“Ellie.. can you take something off?” You look away and mumble the last part, really almost being too embarrassed to ask. She stills for a moment and nods, reaching down to the buckle still holding her high waisted pants up. When she’s done, she slips those off too, leaving you with a view of her just in her boxers and slightly buttoned up shirt.

She grabs your hips, pulling you closer, but not to kiss you this time. She pats her thigh, initiating you to come sit on her. Oh my god. You look at her with a slightly confused expression.

“I’ve seen you staring at my legs when you think I’m not looking.” She holds your chin softly in her hand, tilting your head up so you can’t escape her gaze. “Come ride on me. Make yourself feel good.”

You’re genuinely taken aback. Not because she caught you staring, but because of her request. “That’s so…. Wow.”

She rubs your hips absentmindedly, “You don’t wanna do it?”

You swallow, “I mean. I never said that.” You’re really bad at stalling.

“C’mon. Do it for me, baby.”

And with one last mental shove, you let yourself sink down onto Ellie’s thigh. You hum at the feeling - her bare skin is so warm.

You don’t know what to do. It’s not like this is the craziest thing in the world, but you’ve always found yourself in more… typical positions. You look up at her, “Can you.. can you guide me?”

Ellie smiles softly and nods, placing her strong hands on your hips again. You start to move as you straddle her, letting out a soft ‘fuck’ as you realize how turned on and aching you are again. She does as you requested, moving you with her hands until you find a comfortable rhythm.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut. The attention to your clit was long overdue. Your hips stutter at the feeling, but this just eggs you on even more.

Your wetness is starting to get onto Ellie’s thigh. She groans at the feeling, “God, you’re such a good girl.”

You moan, guttural and raw, “Shit- say that again.” You’re moving your hips faster now, absolutely loving the duality of the friction and her undivided attention as she watches you.

She leans closer to your ear, like how she did before. She whispers, soft and sensual, “You’re my fucking good girl. So beautiful like this, getting yourself off with barely any help. So needy and desperate.”

You whine, whimper, whatever you have to do to let her know you’re close.

“Please cum for me, baby. Be a good girl and cum for me.”

As soon as she says this, it’s over. You come undone on her thigh. Moaning, you wrap your arms around her waist to steady yourself.

Her hands are still holding you firmly, guiding you through your second orgasm. You slump over her, all your limbs becoming jelly as you rest your chin on her shoulder. A bit of post orgasm clarity hits, and you feel dirty and naughty, but in the best way possible.

“You did so good for me, baby.”

~

It’s still raining as Ellie pulls up outside of the dorm building. You two drove the way back in silence. It was slightly dicey, but mostly comfortable. She puts the car in park and turns to look at you. She looks calm, smiling slightly.

You look back at her, too tired to do anything but shoot back a soft smile. You open the door, closing it back up once you feel the wet rain on you. “Mm, it’s cold out there.” You whine.

Ellie playfully scoffs and rolls her eyes at you. She unbuckles, “Hold on. Think I got somethin’ in the trunk.”

She slides back into the drivers seat with a blanket. It has a print of Jurassic Park on it. You thank her, covering yourself and running inside.

~

The next day you walk through the Scientology of space building, toward Ellie’s lecture room. You smooth out your shirt, the red, yellow, and blue of The Police’s synchronicity album looking extra bright on a beautiful day like this.

You take you usual seat, towards the right in the back. You’re just on your phone, scrolling through instagram, when you hear giggling and whispering a couple of seats to the left of you. Usually this wouldn’t catch your attention, but when someone says your name you instantly whip your head over to look at them.

There’s three of your classmates, standing together in a little group. You recognize one of them from your dorm floor. He smirks at you, “You had fun last night?”

Your heart skips a beat, but you just throw a confused expression on your face, “What?”

The other people around him giggle. He raises an eyebrow at you, “Coming out of Miss Williams’ car when it’s dark. Seriously?”

Your face heats up instantly. You stand up, “Nothing even happened. We were just hanging out.” You try defending yourself.

One of the girls chimes in, “Yeah right. What 19 year old is hanging out with her professor late at night?”

You stand up, mumbling ‘What-fucking-ever’ as you grab your bag and speed walk out of the lecture room.

You’re briskly walking down the halls of the building, trying to get out without attracting attention. You turn a random corner and see the staff room. You stop dead in your tracks when you hear a familiar voice whispering. “Look, I don’t know what to fucking do, okay? We were sitting together in the cafe and I gave her a ride to her next class. That’s it. Nobody should have seen otherwise.”

Another female voice pops up, “Well then obviously she talked to someone.” Her voice hushed, “You need to sort this out ASAP, Ellie.”

Ellie scoffs, “You think I don’t know that?!”

This time, a male voice, “Dina’s right. This can’t get any bigger or you could lose your job. Right now it’s a misunderstanding, but soon enough it’ll become a rumor.”

“For fucks sake, Jesse. People already believe it! I will not lose my career over this.”

You step into the edge of the doorframe. As soon as Ellie sees you, she starts to shake and cough. She excuses herself from her conversation with her colleagues and walks up to you. “Come with me.”

She finds an empty conference room, letting you in first and shutting the door behind herself. You don’t know what to say. You just stand there looking at her like a shot doe.

She’s standing close to the door, blocking it in case you try to escape. You don’t, you just want to sort this out. She crosses her arms, huffing at you, “Well. Are you proud of yourself?”

“What?”

You see her grinding her teeth, trying not to blow up at you, “Can you just not play dumb for one second?”

You’re absolutely stunned. How can this be the same women who was so kind and chivalrous to you yesterday? You feel tears starting to form at the corners of your eyes. Your throat burns.

She scoffs, gesturing towards you, “Nice shirt, by the way.”

You put your hands up in defense, tears threatening to spill. “No, I- Ellie. Some kids saw me stepping out of your car and walking into the dorm building.”

Her face softens in an instant. She takes a long pause. Now it’s her turn to say, ‘What?’

“I was just waiting in your classroom. I was.. sitting down and some assholes came up to me and were mentioning it. That’s why I came to find you. To talk about it.”

She pinches the bride of her nose. “Well. Shit.”

You take a step closer to her, testing to see if she had calmed down, “Ellie. I didn’t tell anyone. I promise.”

She sighs, a big look of regret on her face. She apologizes, saying something about wanting to cook you a fancy meal as a peace offering, and before you know it, she’s walking out the door towards her classroom.

You follow after her, “Um, what are you doing?”

She turns back on her heel, smiling at you, “I’m about to go talk some sense into those bitches.”

𓆟. ° .• .𓆝 .• ° . 𓆟 . ° .• .𓆞

[bats-and-the-birds]

My brain has latched onto thinking about the Batkids and their relationship to hugs when it comes to Bruce, so here's we go:

Dick got hugs by force and trickery. He was used to being held, and he wasn't willing to give that up. He flung himself through the air enough times that he trained Bruce to catch him, then clung to his neck and wouldn't let himself be put down. He demanded bedtime hugs, and off to school hugs, and good luck hugs. Bruce never offered them to him freely. Now, as an adult, Dick still has to request hugs. It's easy to get them, but they're never freely given. Bruce expects him to ask. Dick wishes he didn't have to.

Jason got hugs regularly. He was too skittish to ask, but Bruce remembered how Dick required physical affection, and transfers that to Jason without much thought about it. Jason appreciates it, cries about it, laughs about it. Hugs make him feel safe, and like he belongs. Later, after he dies, after he comes back, after things calm down, Bruce would still hug without being asked if Jason let him. He can see it in the way that Bruce's fingers twitch towards him when he comes near. He doesn't let him. Maybe one day he will.

Tim doesn't get hugs. They're not freely offered, and he doesn't know to ask. He doesn't think about it. He tells himself that it's okay that he watched the two before him (both at Wayne galas and on dark Gotham rooftops) get picked up and squeezed, wrapped in large arms that made them look small. He tells himself that that's not what he's there for. When he's older, long after he's no longer Robin, Bruce hugs him on one innocuous afternoon in the manor. Tim breaks down crying and doesn't stop for two hours. Bruce hugs him more often after that.

Damian doesn't understand hugs. At first. They're offered to him, stiffly, by his father, but he shies away and Bruce stops trying after awhile. It's Dick that really makes him understand. About affection. About family. For a while, Dick is the only person he lets hug him. One day though, after his Bruce comes back, Damian walks up to him with his arms held awkwardly out and lets himself enjoy his father's embrace for the first time. It doesn't feel like Grayson's, but maybe that's okay.

Cass figures out hugs eventually. She doesn't know how to go about it at first. She doesn't know if she's allowed. Eventually, though, she figures out that all she has to do is wrap her arms around Bruce's torso, and he'll let her. He'll squeeze her back and carefully brush her hair into place. She's never felt a touch that gentle before, and she quickly decides she likes it. She makes it a habit, and now, Bruce lifts his arms to make space for her if she's anywhere nearby.

Duke is a little awkward about hugs. For a while, he gets pats on the back for a job well-done, and that's about it. He doesn't know if he can ask for more. One day, he decides, to hell with it, and bear hugs Bruce out of the blue. Bruce grunts in surprise, but hugs him back with matched strength. He's not awkward about it after that.

Steph will claim she doesn't like hugs. Not from Bruce, anyway. She has plenty of other people to hug, she doesn't need him. Still, if she's upset, or if she's hurt, she can drop her head against his chest and he'll wrap her in his arms. Not for long. Never for long. But enough. And he won't bring it up the next time she claims that she doesn't need anything from him.

[winningmymind]

(wholesome twinyard, Andrew brotherly jealous)

Bee can tell that Andrew's upset. He hasn't touched his hot cocoa, even when she added jumbo marshmallows and whipped cream with chocolate syrup drizzle to sweeten his increasingly bitter mood. Whatever happened to him earlier today, concerned Andrew enough to text Bee for an emergency session.

One without Aaron involved. Although it seems Aaron is the cause for Andrew needing to speak to her immediately in private.

"Are you feeling alright, Andrew?" Bee's voice is professional with a hint of sincerity that Andrew respects and is endeared to.

"No."

His arms are crossed and his lips are the closest they've ever been to a pout. Bee thinks this is the most child-like Andrew's looked since she's known him and if Neil were here, they'd both agree that the Foxes goalie appears rather cute at current.

"Why aren't you alright, Andrew?"

It takes ten solid minutes of silence before Bee's given an answer.

"Some guy in the cafeteria called Aaron his brother." Andrew sounds borderline disdainful at the recollection.

Bee's eyebrows shoot up at the tone and her hand scribbles on a blank notepad page.

"Some guy? Do you know his name?"

"Andy Mathers. Senior. Pre-med. Hockey team. Tall. Filthy rich. Fratboy." Andrew curtly rattles off, really showcasing his criminal justice major skills.

"I see you've done your research." Bee curves her lips into a fond smile. She digs a little deeper at the reveal. "This Andy is in a fraternity, you said?"

"Wants Aaron to exclusively join his cult of uppity scholars. Something about med and pre-med students with high GPAs getting connections and resources to help them in fancy pants doctor land. Blah blah blah. Boring."

Andrew's stellar memory can't stop replaying how it all went down in the cafeteria a few short hours ago. The Monsters met up for lunch. Aaron arrived at the table last with this damn Andy (short for Andrew as well, gross) following behind him like a devoted puppy.

Andy kept praising Aaron for passing an infamously difficult exam from an equally vile professor with flying colors and how he's just the man they've been looking for to represent their frat's ethics and image. Started mentioning how if Aaron pledged, he could be the "little brother" to Andy's "big brother", and they'd have this unbreakable forever bond that no one would understand but them. Planned to take Aaron under his wing and care for him just like family.

"Clearly Andy bothers you a great deal," Bee's voice pauses the loop in Andrew's traitorous brain. "Why does Andy potentially forming an academic relationship with Aaron bother you?"

Andrew narrows his eyes. If it weren't Bee he was directly looking at and if Bee wasn't comfortable around him, one would think his visage promised violence.

"Aaron doesn't need anymore brothers. He has me. Just me." Andrew states matter of fact.

"Oh. Hmm. I see."

Bee observes Andrew finally pop a marshmallow into his mouth. By now the hot cocoa's gone lukewarm and the whipped cream looks less glamorous. She runs through some ideas in her head for Andrew to process this situation better. This is a first that Andrew is claiming Aaron as his brother only and no one else's. A far cry from calling Aaron, along with the rest of the Monsters, as his in a possessive manner.

He obviously values the title Aaron has as his brother and identical twin, maybe demands the same in return, and in Bee's opinion Andrew most likely feels insulted that an outsider thinks they can walk in uninvited to forge a cherry picked siblingship.

"Even if it's fraternity brothers? In spirit? That's no good?"

Andrew shakes his head. "Andy and whoever the fuck else doesn't meet the requirements."

"Requirements? Care to explain?"

Andrew lists off his fingers.

"We share the same blood, same pathetic birth giver, and same annoying cousin. If your last name isn't Minyard, it won't ever count. Makes it pointless to be brothers. Bonus that we share the same face too."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"No room for exceptions?"

"None."

"Tell me, Andrew. Have you ever felt jealousy?"

He grows awfully quiet. Which isn't abnormal for him. She can tell he's contemplating.

"I believe you're experiencing that right now."

Andrew slightly tilts his head.

"Explain."

"Well, you called for an emergency session. You expressed that you don't like the idea of Andy gaining Aaron's affection as a frat brother. You made up excuses to reject Andy on Aaron's unknowing behalf."

Bee let's her words settle in before picking back up at Andrew's insistent, "Keep talking."

"At any point when you first saw Aaron and Andy together, did Aaron ever give off signs that he is seriously considering Andy's offer? To become brothers in a sense? Any open body language or words humoring Andy even?"

Andrew doesn't speak for five minutes. Then, he slowly answers, "No. Aaron told him to fuck off."

"Interesting." Bee smiles at the almost pleased and smug tone Andrew has about Aaron's blatant refusal. "So, we are to assume that Aaron could care less about becoming a fratbro, in particular, Andy's pledging little brother."

Andrew leans back in his chair, not up to talking at the moment, only up for listening, and Bee freely gives her perspective.

"You're being irrational, Andrew, and that's due to feeling insecure, which is a normal reaction people have about those they see as loved ones potentially slipping away. Initially, Aaron was the one who reached out to you, chose you, wanted you both to be brothers regardless of circumstances. He easily could've went about his business, knowing your existence, never once trying to get you in his life and you'd be nonethewiser. Instead, he made a deal to keep you by his side, Andrew. It was a choice. His choice. You were wanted. A family member wanted you."

Bee watches Andrew for any minute change of expression before continuing.

"Now, this random Andy Mathers comes into the picture. Offering brotherhood much like Aaron did for you. And Aaron's in your former position all those years ago, having the option to choose Andy back, like how you chose Aaron back. The Minyard twins sticking together through college. Except..."

Andrew waits for Bee to assess him some more.

"This is different than what you and Aaron have. Andy toying with the idea of adopting Aaron into his fold. They share a common goal to become doctors, and that means they could have more similar interests, the kind that binds people together perhaps closer than those they share blood with. Am I striking a nerve?"

"Several." Andrew's blunt about it.

She can always put his conflicted thoughts and sentiments into words he can't say. Bee sets aside her notepad.

"All you need to do is remember that no matter what, you and Aaron will always be brothers. No one can take that from you two. Here, Andrew. I have some exercises for you to do that'll reinforce how Aaron won't replace you with Andy Mathers, or that Andy Mathers won't take Aaron from you."

And so, much to his chagrin, Andrew obliges Bee if it means he can stay in control of his emotions.

-----

Aaron finds it very weird that Andrew is more present in his life than usual. He thought joint therapy with Bee, mandatory Exy practice with the Foxes, and the weekly trip to Columbia would be it for them as far as acknowledging the other exists. Now, whenever Aaron’s done with his last class of the day, Andrew’s there waiting across the lecture hall or lab doorway leaning on the wall, and they'll walk to the dorms together.

It takes Aaron by surprise every single time. Mostly because of Andrew's clear, direct commands the moment he's aware Aaron notices him from the throng of rushing pre-med students.

“Hang out with me.” Words Aaron least expected to hear from his twin.

Feels like Aaron's being hunted, how well Andrew can catch him off guard with unforced honesty that Aaron didn't have to pull teeth to get. In his own Andrew way, Aaron supposes, his twin is specifically seeking his attention and it freaks him out so much he internally copes by viewing Andrew as a science experiment, thinking it'll ease the new tension developing between them.

“Video game.” Andrew would say after ambushing Aaron yet again at the end of the day and Aaron quickly deciphered the non-descriptive meanings in due time.

When Andrew simply says “video game” it means he and Aaron are to solve a horror puzzle game all night until completion. Sleep be damned and junk food their only nutrition. Nicky is not to participate, it must solely be a twin activity.

When Andrew says “nap” it means he is ordering a fatigued Aaron to take a break from studying and come nap with him. Basically letting the other Monsters know that the Minyard twins have commandeered the bean bags and that they will be murdered gruesomely if their nap time is disturbed.

When Andrew says “ice cream” it means Aaron is driven off campus to the recently opened ice cream shop where they eat so much they get sick and it's only them enjoying the array of flavors. They deem it worth the hassle, sharing petty amusement at Nicky whining about the rise of blatant favoritism within their circle while Kevin scolds the twins’ poor diet, and Neil is hilariously stressed at Aaron lording over knowing a secret place that Andrew refuses to take his junkie to.

A few weeks later of this routine, Aaron dares to assume that he and Andrew are… bonding? Getting closer? They're something, alright.

“Back from Twin Time already?” Neil and Nicky have evilly coined Andrew and Aaron's hanging out. If they weren't invited, then they'd be bitchy about it.

“Shut up!” Aaron stomps off, hurrying to his dorm room, avoiding Neil and Nicky's teasing.

Andrew doesn't seem bothered by it, even getting in on the joke by texting or telling Aaron “twin time” so he knows to drop everything and look at his twin's face. Like a bat signal summoning Aaron.

Aaron gets more confused by the day, though he can't say he's not pleased at their improving relationship.

Then Andy shows up again begging that Aaron re-considers about pledging the frat.

“It'll be worthwhile! I promise you that.” Andy has no idea he's on a landmine.

The cousins, Kevin, and Neil are on their way to Columbia when Andy approaches them in the parking lot.

“No means no.” Aaron rolls his eyes.

Kevin and Neil keep walking to the car. Nicky and Andrew come to a stop, sizing Andy up. Since Aaron first brought him around, Nicky has let all the Foxes know of his lust towards Andy and how it's a shame Aaron doesn't swing.

“I wouldn't mind being in a house full of men!” Nicky proposes with a flirty smile.

“Hello to you, too, Nicky.” Andy nods politely.

Andrew takes a step closer to be side by side with Aaron. He darkens his eyes, coldly gazing.

“Aren't frats known to drug people and be shady? They get away with more crime, too, right?” Andrew tilts his head at Andy, enjoying making the older man squirm at the scrutiny.

Aaron scoffs. Pot calling kettle black. The Monsters have the same reputation, it's just among the Foxes gossip.

“If you're worried about Aaron's safety, don't. I'm a pretty big deal. I'll protect him.” Andy tries to schmooze, putting on a charming smile that'd woo donors and win parents over, hoping Nicky and Andrew are the same saps and can convince Aaron to change his mind.

Andrew subtly does some breathing techniques, part of the exercises Bee taught him, because he has the urge to reach for his knife and carve Andy like a pumpkin.

“Aaron doesn't need you to protect him.”

And Andrew really wants to claim that he is Aaron's protector. That he's kept Aaron alive even from his own self-destruction. That only he is his brother's keeper. But Bee would call that regression so instead Andrew claws his way to maturity despite making his skin crawl.

“Aaron can protect himself just fine. He doesn't need anyone like you watching his back.”

Probably the first genuine compliment Andrew says aloud about Aaron's capabilities. Nicky is shocked, a bit teary eyed and sentimental and honored to be a witness to this. Aaron's eyes widen and his jaw drops, looking at Andrew like he grew a second head.

Andy awkwardly clears his throat being on the receiving end of Andrew's mild aggression.

“Y-Yes, Aaron is popular among the biochem department for his resilience.” Andy barges on. “Did you know he has a fan club?”

“He does?!” Nicky squeals.

“I do?” Aaron can't keep having whiplash or he'll hurt his neck.

“They do?!” Nicky snaps his head to Andrew along with Aaron.

“Of course I know.”

Andrew always knows what type of people Aaron attracts, murder case or not. His twin's useless at recognizing that people admire him from afar (having Andrew in proximity fuels the distance also).

“We look alike. Sometimes his fan club mistakes me for him.”

Andrew looks bored. “Yeah. They're not that smart for future doctors. Thinking I'm Aaron and confessing their undying love or whatever. I'm constantly reminding them that the only pre-med I tolerate dating Aaron is the cheerleader. Anyone else can go six feet under.”

“You threatened my classmates?” Aaron can't believe this, smacking a hand to his forehead.

“The real question is why are your classmates wannabe homewreckers? Aren't you in a supposedly happy relationship? Unless you and the cheerleader are finally breaking up.” Andrew is unapologetic as ever.

Andy watches the back and forth. He dons a strange expression. Aaron comes to realize later that Andy looked resigned.

“Well, I'm here if you decide frat life is for you Aaron. Just figured since you go clubbing religiously, you'd like to host the parties of the year too. I'll let you get back to your family. See you in class.”

Andrew feels accomplished observing Andy getting the hell away from them. Nicky's saddened that he's lost another pretty face to gawk at. They resume walking to the car. Nicky merrily climbs in, but Andrew halts Aaron, leaning in to whisper in his twin's ear.

“You really wanna be Andy's little brother? He can get you a lot farther with his support?”

Aaron is startled for a third time tonight and his brain clicks it together when he glances at Andrew's face.

Oh. So it's like that then. Aaron's science experiment of a clone has revealed stunning test results.

“You're already a pain in the ass, Andrew. Why the fuck would I want more brothers? One is enough.”

Andrew relaxes a bit knowing what Aaron means instantly. Man, he simultaneously loves and hates when Bee's right on the money.

Nicky, Kevin, and Neil (all nosy) peer out from the cracked car window.

“Thank fuck we're only children.”

[n0tamused]

Have you by any chance seen someone on Twitter posting a translated version of Xiangli Yao's daily schedule? How about writing something like what his schedule would be with the reader (already in a relationship) maybe on a day off? Something like: 8:00 AM - get up and start day 10:00-12:00 AM snuggled in bed with y/n as a result. Or - 4:00 PM - prosthetic maintenance. ambushed from behind. (Imagine nuzzling him from behind while he tinkers with his hand 🥺) Something like a bunch of small drabbles in 1 work? I guess finding someone to write for him awakened something in my brain, I'msorry.

A/n: I have heard of this schedule but tbh I didn't see it myself before I got this request lol, I really find the idea sweet so I hope I did it justice! And no need to apologize, I am happy to write for Xangli Yao

Contents: Xiangli Yao x GN!Reader, fluff, short drabbles, established relationship not proofread

Saturday:

08:30 - Wake up

It’s been many years since Xiangli Yao has practiced this continuous cycle of waking up at certain times, to the point he did not need an alarm clock anymore. It was 8:14 when he came to his senses, morning light sleeping through the blinds and softly caressing his eyelids to open. He turns away from them, shifting sluggishly underneath the blankets, knowing that work wasn’t waiting on him today. 

He is greeted by your sleeping face, relaxed and soft as the few spots of light from the blinds danced over your cheeks and lips. The light didn’t seem to disturb you, something he was thankful for as he shuffled closer and wrapped his good arm around you, bringing you closer to his warmth as he nuzzled his nose into the top of your head, breathing in your scent as your hair tickled his skin. He feels you mold into his shape, your sleep heavy arm going underneath his and over his side, the blanket keeping your shared warmth trapped, shielding you from the chilly morning.

09:30 - make breakfast with my beloved :) 

Well, it may have been 9:10 by the time you both willed yourself to leave the comforts of eachothers arms. It was hunger that pulled you both from bed, stumbling into the bathroom. Xiangli Yao was next to you as you washed your face while he brushed his teeth. He handed you your toothbrush after you blindly found the towel next to the sink and brushed your face dry. 

Although he had gotten used to being the one to prepare breakfast for both of you during workdays, the weekends did allow more time, and so Yao did try to listen to you more when you said you wanted to help or do more of the work since you don’t usually get the chance to do so. He did convince you some times before, letting you so simply sit aside and look pretty while he whips you up your favorite, but today wasn’t that day. You woke up with more energy and a craving for good quality time and to get your hands busy.

What ends up happening is a table full of food, a big but balanced breakfast of veggies and fruit and needed protein. While you were setting up the table, Xiangli Yao poured you both the juice you made the weekend. He may not think about it too often, but he always feels like the richest man in the world when he shares mornings like these with you.

13:00 - go to the market, restock groceries

His prosthetic arm is holding the basket while the fingers of his other hand are intertwined with yours. Xiangli Yao was yet to become truly used to these public displays of affection, but he never disliked them. The thing was that such little acts of affection flustered him so much at first and he’d rather not catch someone ogling him while his cheeks are red as the tomatoes you were looking at now. He was used to it, he tells himself as he slowly lets your fingers slip from his hold when you say you can use some of the tomatoes. He remembers you mentioning a recipe some time ago that required a good amount of tomatoes. He helps you pick out the best ones and he adds it to the basket after the purchase is done. Although today’s shopping trip ended with more bags than either of you expected, Xiangli Yao vehemently refused to  allow you to carry any of the bags.

You ended up stopping at the local dessert shop, purchasing a few sweet goods for home. You mentioned how the chocolate cake he got looked oddly similar to Xiang-LEE. Now he couldn’t unsee it..

16:00 - prosthetic maintenance(p.s. keep your back guarded!)

How oddly homely it felt to have your arms around him while he tinkered away on his mechanical arm..

Although at first you only observed him from the doorway, he chose to skillfully ignore you when you began to sneak closer, almost as if he couldn’t see you from the corner of his eye. 

You knew he knew too, but it's a game you both chose to play every evening when the sun began to lean in to kiss the mountains. 

You hum as you put your chin on top of his head, peering down at the assortment of open wires and metal plating scattered about on the table. There's a screwdriver in his good hand, and he's clearly doing something, but you're unsure what. Perhaps you'd ask one day, tell him to explain how his arm really works, but that is not today.

He feels you leaning in and kissing his cheek and then his temple.

“The meal is soon to be done. Don't keep me waiting all alone at the table, Xiangli Yao”

19:00 - Free activities 

Xiangli Yao can't help the chuckle that escapes him as he witnesses your scowl and furrowed brows, and all for the little board game with black and white pieces. You've won the round from last night and he deemed it appropriate to ask for a rematch, although he only wished to make you blow off the steam. You've been rather stressed this week, perhaps some back and forth of the game could allow a reprieve.

“You've been thinking about your next move for quite some time now, my love…” he tries, a smile plastered on his lips, both amused and sympathetic.

“...I got it…shh” you return, pushing your chin into the heel of your palm. He hums in response, and another few heartbeats of silence pass before he sees your face light up, as if a star had whispered the next act into your ear. Your fingers deftly move across the board and move your piece across the checkerboard.

“Checkmate!” 

He laughs, his chest shaking with joy as you beam at him. You beat him. Again.

22:30 - bedtime

Mornings are where Xiangli Yao thrives. He is a morning person to the last bone in his body and on work days it is not rare for him to rise before you and his alarm, but they don’t bring him nearly as much relief and joy as bedtime does. Your sleepy face as you go to brush your teeth and change into your bedwear always has his heart softening, his own movements slowing down as his entire body yawns for the comforts of the mattress and comfortable blankets.

He is sitting at the edge of the bed, tinkering with his prosthetic arm for the last time and setting it aside on the table right next to his side of the bed. His prosthetic is cold and rather uncomfortable to sleep with for both of you. From behind he hears you exiting the bathroom and the sound of your bare feet against the floor hurrying up has him turning around to see how you crash into the bed, your face buried into your pillow with a low groan, a breath of relief as weight is taken off your feet.

He shuffles, telling you to get under the blankets while he turns off the lights. Once he remembered you both joking about being afraid of the dark, and although it was all just a joke - Xiangli Yao has been the one to turn off the lights since then. 

He hums as he returns, sliding under the blankets and finding the warmth of your body with searching fingers, pulling himself closer until he was wrapped around you. He buries his nose into your hair, inhaling your scent before laying a lingering kiss to your cheek, bidding you goodnight. 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[voidofthevoidmv]

TAKING SHIFTS- A classic Stanley Pines adopts the shapeshifter AU-> Little info dump

Basic gist of it is that post portal accident, Stanley is trying his damndest to get his brother back by fixing the portal- Which logically requires that Stanley get all the journals so that he actually has a full blueprint to look at.

However, in his search for any of the journals, he discovers some kind of top secret tree bunker- Classic Ford antics. He investigates the bunker, only to find some kind of kid monster, who is under the impression that Stan is his own brother and tries to kill him. The only thing that convinces the creature that Stan is NOT Ford, is the fact that Stan has a mullet and his brother does not. Would you be surprised to discover that the mullet would play a deeper role in things than at first glance? Not me, but I think it’s very funny anyways.

The monster kid is revealed to be some kind of alien shapeshifter thing, and upon realizing that Stanley is some kind of Ford doppleganger, the shapeshifter suddenly becomes the most clingy kid ever, following Stan around throughout the bunker like a lost duckling. Stanley tries to be chill about it, but the memories of being attacked are still pretty fresh in his brain.

After a bit the two will leave the bunker, yadda yadda yadda dialogue, and Stanley will be concerned to find that this kid hasn’t had the best upbringing in the world so far- If the limited English and big eyed staring at the sky was anything to go by. While Stan has half a mind to leave this monster kid to the wild, he apparently has these weird issues with abandonment. Something about seeing himself in the little monster kid. So he takes him back to the shack, helping the shapeshifter pick a name that isn’t a weird number. They eventually land on Simon, which is a play on Simon Says, because of course any name idea Stanley has it just HAS to be a pun.

And of course, taking in this shapeshifter will trigger changes to the timeline that will affect how things will go from here on out. A lot of wholesome, father kid bonding and found family stuff.

Other unmentioned information and idea snippets:

-The journals are found much sooner than in canon, which means Ford is brought back sooner than in canon. Journal 2 is found first, due to the fact that Stanley has Simon (Shifty) enrolled in elementary school, which just so happens to be were one of the journals are hidden. Simon finds it and recognizes it- And Stan is so proud. Meanwhile, later on journal 3 is found by Soos in a situation similar to canon, but like- Soosified.

-Stanley is constantly wracked with guilt as time goes on, because he will hear about of make a realization about the poor treatment of Simon by Ford and his assistant in the past- All while Stanley is still actively working to bring him back. Simon doesn’t know that it’s FORD that Stan is trying to bring back, which will only result in some betrayal later on when Ford inevitably returns.

-Simon, Tate, and Soos act almost as siblings, due to circumstances that bring them together at different points in time. Tate is Simon’s best friend, a friendship which had blossomed when Emma-May showed up to the Pines cabin door, demanding that she see her ex husband and that she has some WORDS to say to the homewrecking scientist who ruined everything. Stanley had never been more confused about anything- But while Stanley is trying his best to save the situation, Tate and Simon hit it off quickly despite the broken language barrier. Meanwhile, Soos come in later when both Simon and Stan are a bit older. Stan and Soos’s relationship is similar to how it played out in canon, but Simon gets really jealous. May or may not try to kill Soos because of it- But it’s ok cuz once Soos’s natural charm infects Simon, the big brother little brother dynamic is born.

-Simon practically idolizes Stan, and makes it a point to have his human form reflect that. He has a mullet, and it reminds him that Stan is Stan- Even after Stan cuts the mullet off so he could be a bit more business appropriate. Simon also has little freckles cuz he saw the little baby Boyish Dan and just immediately was like- Oh I want those too-

-The shapeshifter will also have his own little book of “forms” he could take. He has photos and information of various creatures, things, and people- I want you to envision how this book looks and is treated like a Pokémon card collection binder. The shapeshifter may get into photography. By the time the little twins Dipper and Mable show up, it’s not the journals that they find- But Simon’s shifting scrapbook. Which is how they find themselves getting involved in the spooky stuff in the first place.

-Because of Simon and Fords earlier arrival, the younger Pines twins adventures in Gravity Falls are a tad bit tweaked. Simon is a very powerful shapeshifter who is plenty protective of his little niblings- The Mcguckets are somewhat healthy with the whole divorced situation, and Bill is not an issue alongside Gideon… Everything else is free game though. Pretty silly.

- The way that Fiddleford is introduced to the duo is that at some point, Stan gets his memories of Simon wiped causing severe emotional distress- And it’s lowkey kinda heartbreaking. (The blind eye sees Simon shifting in front of Stan and assumes the worst.) Once Stan gets his memories back, it’s the beginning of a warpath. (And also the end of Fiddlefords crazy cultist arc- Which is good for Tate who really likes hanging around his bestie.)

-Hijinks WILL ensue, especially after Ford comes back. Probably some other tidbits I’m missing, but that’s a problem for another day- If this interest you folks anyways- Lemmy know if this is interesting or anything and feel free to ask questions. I haven’t thought so much as to how Bill gets defeated earlier and everything- But if anyone has any cool ideas I’d be open to it. Unsure if I’ll ever get to writing this one 😂

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

bragger

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.6k (lyrics included)

Warnings: fluff

Summary: Spencer is the best thing to ever happen to you, and you make it known to everyone just how lucky you are to have him.

Square Filled: bragger by kelsea ballerina for @criminalmindsbingo (formerly @spencerreidbingo)

Author’s Note: this is based on the song "bragger" by Kelsea Ballerini

x

He's got the look, he's got the touch He's got the arms that make me clutch And he's not one to make a scene But he deserves the spotlight

You set the curling iron down once you finish with your hair, and you spray your entire head with hairspray to make sure the curls don’t straighten out during the night. You walk back into your childhood bedroom and see Spencer standing in front of the floor-length mirror straightening his tie. Club attire doesn’t require a tie, but Spencer will always wear one if the choice is up to him.

“Thanks for coming with me. I know this isn’t really your scene.”

It’s true. You two are visiting your parents for the week, and all your friends invited you to go to the club as a way to unwind before the dinner with your parents. Spencer despises clubs but he’s going to this one for you.

“It’s no problem, really. I want to meet your friends. It’s about time I do, don’t you think?” The only reason he hasn’t is because you moved halfway across the country for him. You left everything behind to be with him, so he wasn’t able to see your friends and family early on in the relationship. “How do I look?”

He turns to face you and your mouth goes dry. He looks damn delicious, and you make it a point to tell him every single day. His big brain and loving personality aren’t the only reasons why you married him. What he doesn’t show other people is that he has muscles. Lean but strong muscles. He doesn’t show them off like Derek does, but you get to feel them every single night you take him to bed.

You walk over to your husband and run your hands over the front of his shirt, feeling his muscles flex under your touch. You wrap your arms around his neck and he pulls you in by your waist.

“Looking good, Dr. Reid.”

He leans down and rubs his nose against yours. “Feeling good, Mrs. Reid.”

With a grin, you lean up and kiss him.

He ain't from 'round this side of town But he fits into every crowd And he knows how to do my body and my heart right I know a lady should always be modest but I'm just being honest

You and Spencer walk into the club that’s beaming with life. Your group of friends isn’t hard to miss. Your best friend, Cheryl, loves wearing anything sparkly, so she lights up every room she walks into. Your other friend, Trina, is super loud so you’ll always be able to hear her. Cheryl sees you and squeals in excitement. She runs over to you and practically jumps into your arms.

“You made it!! You’re here!”

“I’m here! God, I’ve missed you!” You hug all your other friends, giving each of them a bit of love. “I’ve missed all of you guys!”

“You must be Spencer.”

“You must be Cheryl. Y/N’s told me all about you.”

“Same,” she grins.

“Spencer, this is Trina, Kacey, Iris, and Ophelia. Girls, this is my husband, Spencer Reid.”

Spencer doesn’t shake their hands but Cheryl does pull him into a tight hug. Your friends and family never came to your wedding because you two had eloped in a courthouse, but you agreed to have a vow renewal in a few years that everyone would be invited to. Spencer isn’t used to being around all these people but he fits in like he does.

One of your favorite club songs comes on, and you drag your husband to the dancefloor. He twirls you before pulling you into his arms with your back to his chest. You grin and turn to face him, swaying your hips to the beat.

“You’re fitting in nicely here.”

“You make me feel confident and comfortable. You make it easy.”

Spencer runs his hands down your body and turns you so that your back is to his front. You reach back and slide your hand into his hair, moving your hips against his to the music. It’s the fact that he hates this scene but he’s here dancing with you because he loves you.

I've got his nights, I've got his name There ain't no shame in this girl's game If he was yours, you'd do the same Without apologizing

“Remember, my dad loves golf and fishing while my mom loves romance novels and true crime. So, that’s good if you just want to talk about your job.”

“Okay,” Spencer nods.

You two walk up the front porch steps to your family’s home. They were excited to hear you and Spencer were coming to town, so they organized a dinner with immediate family. You don’t knock when you get to the door and instead push it open. The house is warm, chatter comes from the kitchen and living room, and you smile from the memories attached to this house.

“Hi! We’re here!” you call out.

“My baby is home!” your mom grins. She pulls you in for a hug. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you so much.” Your dad comes and hugs you a bit tighter than your mom did. You love his crushing hugs. “Daddy, Mom, meet Spencer. He doesn’t like to shake hands.”

“That’s okay. I like hugs.”

Your mom brings him into a hug and he smiles at how welcoming she’s being. Your dad is next but he gives Spencer a fist bump instead of a shake.

“You’re just in time. Francine just finished cooking.”

Francine is your eldest sister so is a professional chef. When she heard you and Spencer were coming, she brought out the big guns. The family gathers at the table and immediately starts digging into the food.

“So, Spencer, what do you do?” your grandmother asks.

“I work in the FBI. I’m a profiler.”

Your mom’s eyes light up. “You must see a lot of gory shit.”

“Sometimes,” Spencer chuckles.

“How’s it feel to date someone in the FBI?” your grandmother asks.

You hold your left hand off and show off the sparkly diamond ring. “Married, Nana. He’s my husband.” You look at him and smile lovingly. “Don’t let him tell you any differently. I’m the lucky on here.” You look at your nana. “He’s honestly one of the best people to be around, and I thank God every day that he’s mine.”

Spencer blushes because of your words but you will keep telling him how lucky you are to be his. He’s entirely yours and you’ll flaunt him every which way you can.

If he were a wine, he'd be the shelf at the top (Top) If he were a house, he'd be the end of the block (Block) Walked up to my heart and went, "Knock, knock, knock" So I've got to show him off

“Thanks for coming with me to see my family.” You and Spencer got back last night so today is spent being lazy in bed. “My mom loved you.”

“It’s no problem. I liked them. I can’t wait to see them at the vow renewal when we have one.” Spencer rolls over in bed and pulls you closer to him, peppering small kisses on your neck. “You know what we should do?”

“What’s that?” you smile.

“We don’t have to be at work for another week. We should go house hunting. I think it’s time to move on from this apartment, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I do.” You turn in his arms and slide your hands up his bare chest. “I have a few listings saved, but I haven’t found the perfect one yet.”

“We don’t need perfect.”

“Yes, we do. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, so we need the best house. I won’t stop until I find it.”

“Until we find it,” he smiles and kisses you.

I don't wanna be a bragger But my man's a heart attacker Like McConaughey and Jagger Hotter than a Saturday night I can't help that I flaunt him (All the time) I understand why you would wanna (I don't mind) And you keep up all the chatter 'bout my happy ever after 'Cause all that really matters is he's mine

After a few months of looking at houses, you think you’ve found the one. It sits on five acres of land about thirty minutes from work, and it’s a three-story farmhouse. It’s perfect for having animals and a big family. You and Spencer are newly married but you’ve always wanted a big family, and you know he’s excited to start working on kids.

“So, what do you think?” the realtor asks, a nervous smile on her face.

She’s been with you for this entire journey, and you know she hates it when you keep turning down houses. You look at Spencer and already know his answer just by the look in his eyes.

“We’ll take it.”

“Oh, goody!” she grins happily.

“This is the perfect home to start a family in. I can’t wait to start, especially with this one.” You wrap your arms around his waist. “I mean, look at him. He’d make great babies.”

Again, Spencer blushes and the realtor smiles happily.

“I’ll be right back with the paperwork.”

“You know, you don’t have to show me off to everyone,” Spencer says when she’s gone.

“You’re my husband. Of course, I do. I have to show them just how lucky I am.” You lean up and kiss him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you more.”

“Not possible,” you grin against his lips.

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[adore-laur]

hmmm maybe dadrry where he pretends to make her jealous but it doesn’t work bc they’re so secure in the relationship they just smirk and tease them, or that yn gets mama bear when she sees other moms hit on harry at school or daycare

——

In a couple of weeks, the preschool your eldest daughter attended was going on a field trip to a petting zoo in Montebello, California. Chaperone sign-up sheets were recently emailed to every parent, and you were debating with Harry about who should be the one to tag along. It wasn't a requirement to be a chaperone, but your worrisome maternal instincts sure made it one.

Harry was lying on the couch, his socked feet dangling over the armrest. You sat normally, your legs bent over his straightened knees, as you stared into space. The conversation kept hitting dead ends, but you were insistent on coming up with a solution as soon as possible. You had enough on your plate to deal with in the weeks ahead.

"Only one of us can chaperone the field trip," you repeated for probably the fourth time that night.

"I'm more than willing to take off work for it," Harry replied, his fingers casually laced over his chest. His eyes were closed since it was nearing ten p.m., and you hadn't been able to make up your mind about which parent should volunteer their time and energy toward the field trip. You had cornered Harry when he went to shut the living room lights off and forced him to sit down before he retreated to bed. It wasn't that you didn't trust him to be a chaperone—he'd definitely handle the controlled chaos that came with supervising a group of kids in an environment full of animals to gawk at. You just considered yourself a more watchful person, but really, it was an excuse to witness your daughter's interactions with her classmates and make sure she was adjusting well to being in school.

"I'm more than willing to as well. So..." You tapped your fingers against the couch cushion. "We need to make a decision right now. Signups are first come, first served."

Harry hummed in acknowledgment. "I can go."

You slowly nodded and said, "Okay. Well, so can I. You know, if you're not able to take off work."

He snorted a laugh and shifted his body, getting more comfortable. He was going to get a crick in his neck if this conversation didn't hurry along.

"What?" you asked, unsure why your reasonableness was so amusing to him.

"You're funny."

You tilted your head back against the couch and sighed. "Harry, I'm trying to get us ahead of the game. Otherwise, neither of us will be able to chaperone, and then our child will be in the care of a random person."

Your trust in the preschool was substantial, but a part of you was still cautious about the parents. You hadn't found the chance to build relationships with them since you started working part-time again. Your little girl was a wanderer, and if something caught her attention, she was off and admiring it without notice. Other parents didn't know that about her. What if they didn't pay close enough attention and accidentally let her get lost? The mere thought was why you were determined to claim an open spot as a chaperone.

"You're not making this particularly easy, honey," Harry said lightly, tiredness rasping his voice. "I’m telling you that I would love to be a chaperone instead of a chef for a day. Getting to pet adorable animals is also a plus."

"Maybe we can write both of our names down," you replied, deep in thought. Half of what Harry had said ricocheted off your brain.

"I thought that wasn’t allowed." He yawned, stretching his arms. "Just put my name down. If work ends up being a problem, I'm sure they wouldn't mind you taking my place."

You contemplated his decision, then asked, "Did you read the chaperone responsibilities list?"

He frowned. "No, but there's time. The email was only sent this morning."

"You have to read it," you said firmly. He needed to be as prepared as possible. This was the first field trip of many, and rules have most likely changed since you were a kid.

In a lull of silence, Harry's hand caressed your ankle. "What are you anxious about? Talk to me."

You wanted to say everything, but not even someone as wise as Harry could procure a remedy for that. "Nothing," you mumbled. "Just trying to have a solid plan ready."

"Are you worried the moms will be all over me? Pulling me aside and asking me"—Harry paused for dramatic effect—"burning questions?"

You looked over at him, taking in his sly little smirk. He was being like this on purpose. Not to make you jealous, since you were years past that phase—instead, it was a way to distract you from ruminating over minuscule matters.

"I’m not worried at all," you said confidently, flashing him a grin. "Because you know what to do if that happens, right?"

Wordlessly, Harry lifted his left hand, showing off the gold wedding band snugly fit on his long ring finger. Exactly, you thought to yourself.

"And if they persist?" he asked, enjoyment brightening his expression. You knew he loved this type of banter.

"You show them the picture of me that you keep in your wallet." You leaned toward him. "If that doesn’t work, you call me and put whichever mom is flirting with you on the phone."

He bit his soft bottom lip. "Yes, ma'am."

You crooked your pointer finger, beckoning him closer. He sat up with a groan, his face now mere inches from yours. The hypothetical scenario caused misplaced jealousy to surge through your bloodstream, and you had to remind him of some things.

"You are my husband."

Harry traced the tip of his nose along your cheekbone and said, "Loud and proud, baby."

Your breaths became shallower. "Father of our two children."

"And counting."

You pinched his waist, and he writhed with a heavenly laugh. "You're conventionally attractive, which piques a lot of people's interests. And while it used to bother me in the past, I know that your soul is tethered to mine."

His hands traveled an intimate path up your thighs. "It always has been," he said, his eyes sincere.

"So," you said with finality, your heart racing from his words, "I’ll let you chaperone the field trip. Because you always come back to me and our family, and I know work has been keeping you away from our girls."

"How do you turn the most mundane thing into a romantic declaration?"

"With you as my muse, it's pretty simple."

Harry moved closer and brushed his lips against yours. "If you keep melting my heart, I'm going to lay you down on this couch and make love to you until the sun rises."

"Risky," you whispered, smiling against his mouth. The kids were asleep down the hall. Any lovemaking would no doubt be interrupted by the baby monitor.

"Tell you what," he said, stealing a hot, deep kiss from you that left you briefly stunned. "This weekend, I'll have my mother take the girls for a day so you and I can love on each other without any distractions. I miss having you all to myself."

"I'm right here," you said, cupping his face. "And I'd appreciate it if you kissed me some more."

"I thought you needed to sign me up as a chaperone."

You kissed him three times in quick succession before saying, "Shut up and make out with me."

"Roger that," Harry murmured, towering over you until your back sank into the couch.

——

[cherryblossom-heart]

Cry (One-shot)

Nanami x Reader

Summary: Love was never an option for you. Until you met him.

Content warning: ANGST (Yes, this is about Shibuya) Do not read this if you are already sad or if you’re happy, still don’t read it.

Word count: 2.2k

A/N: Felt a little angsty, sorry besties.

Love only comes for those who are willing to get hurt by it, your mother used to say.

You should’ve known it was a warning.

Life as a sorcerer wasn’t for the average person. The imminent danger, the great possibility of death along with the realization that you had signed up for a life of loneliness. Maybe if you had been born in one of the clans there would’ve been a marriage arranged for you at the cost of self-value as a woman. Even then, the thought of an arranged marriage more than always meant a loveless relationship, a transaction if you will. An heir for status.

With time you had accepted it. You kept relationships superficial, nothing more than a one-night stand or, if they were good enough, you kept them in your rooster of fuck buddies for whenever the stress of the job proved itself too big.

You didn’t want a relationship. You weren’t looking for love. You weren’t looking for your happy ending.

Not until Nanami.

He wasn’t around when you had transferred to Tokyo, the rumors of a fellow student’s death being the reason reaching your ears whenever you asked who Gojo always referred as Nanamin. He had left the sorcerers life to pursue a mundane life, just like your father had done.

After a mission that required at least two first grade sorcerers had put itself on top of the list, Gojo had reached out to him as the school had to face a lack of manpower, leaving you as the only one available. Reluctantly, Nanami had agreed to help.

Nanami and you got along the same way oil and water mix. The man was everything you weren’t: cold, composed, calculated and over all he needed to be in control. His presence felt like a gigantic iceberg surrounding you.

You, on the other hand, were everything that Nanami had grown to dislike. Your unpredictability, your hot temper, the rashness of your decisions along with your tendency to over share your thoughts. Nanami hated the fact that you always took him by surprise, yet it seemed like as a team, you both were gears of the same machine.

Neither could deny the abilities the other possessed, it wasn’t for anything that you both held the title of first grade sorcerers. However, neither of you would admit it, unwilling to give a compliment one to another.

That’s why, when Nanami decided to leave the mundane life he had worked for and came back to the dangerous world he left behind, the higherups decided to pair him off with you, much to his distaste.

It’s funny how life works. Pair two people that dislike each other for hours on end, two things are bound to happen. The dislike for each other would increase, its tentacles reaching the depts of your mind until pure, scolding hate would be the only thing you had in common.

Or, as it turned out with you, a spark of something would ignite.

After a particular taxing mission, Nanami had suggested resting up in a nearby motel. It’s reputation wasn’t to your liking, the love seats posted in every room warned you off of even laying down in the bed. But after spending days hunting down curses without much rest, you didn’t really care for it. You took your key, and you went to your room.

Of course that would be the time you couldn’t fall asleep, even with every muscle in your body aching for relief as they tried to relax. Your mind, on the other hand, couldn’t stop working, thought after thought racing through your brain as you closed your eyes.

You decided to take a walk, the silver flask you caried with you carefully placed inside the left pocket of your jacket. You hoped a nice walk in the middle of the night might pacify the demons that clouded your thoughts. What you weren’t expecting was to see a blond, tall man outside of his room, a cigarette between his fingers as he laid against the wall.

That night you learned Kento Nanami was capable of surprising you. The blush that settled across his face and the non so discreet way he tried to conceal the lit cigarette. If it were another day, perhaps you would’ve laughed. The oh so perfect Kento Nanami, so prideful on his own control on any situation and overall, his emotions, the one that had said his worst habit was overworking himself, who had scolded you instantly of your tendency to drink and smoke after a hard day of work.

Any other day you would’ve rubbed it in his face.

Instead, you walked to his side, taking out your flask as you unscrewed the cap. You took a long sip, the bitter taste of whiskey invading your taste buds. Kentos eyes followed your every move until you laid back against the same wall he was on. After a minute of silence and a couple of swings, you offered him the flask. Silently, he took it off your hands, replacing it with the cigarette he had been smoking of.

That night something changed between you. Perhaps the deep dislike had turned into camaraderie, the constant pressure that death held on both pushing you together. After all, who better to talk about the occupational hazards than the man that experienced them with you. Who could understand better the perpetual state of loneliness that came with the job?

You should’ve stopped it that night, cut it from the root.

Fight after fight, curse after curse, drink after drink a night came a long where everything came to surface.

You couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe it was the way his eyes traveled over your face as you ranted over the lack of freedom you had. Maybe it was the way his eyes had lighted up when you had asked him what his biggest wish was, a storm of thoughts clouding his expression. Maybe it was the way his shoulder bumped against you, his warmth extending past the darkness you carried where your heart should be.

You kissed him. Everything came to a stop around you and for the first time in a long time you felt what peace was.

He kissed you back and from that moment it was over.

Neither of you defined things, the words relationship and love were never spoken as in the Jujutsu world they were considered a jinx. So, for your surprise, both of you were able to just go with it. You slept together, you went out to places, you held hands as you walked down the street, you cuddled each other at night as he peppered kisses along your neck.

One night you had brought a duffle bag with a change of clothes and a toothbrush, that night Kento had surprised you once again.

“You should leave that here, it’s unnecessary to keep bringing back and forth if you stay here most of the nights.”

Almost a year after, he did it again.

“I have to go, I have to go resign my lease before the office closes.” You said as you gather your things.

A hand in the small of your back stopped you.

“You don’t have to resign it.”

His eyes shined with the glimmer of hope while the shadows of fear creeped up. You would never forget the small smile that plaster over his face when you said one word.

“Ok.”

For years you had each others back in the field. There was no curse that could stand a chance, not when all you could think about was what Nanami would cook for dinner that night.

For years you had known what pure happiness was.

Until Shibuya came.

Everything happened faster than you could process it. A special grade curse had shown up, swallowing all of you into its domain. A beach so beautiful it had almost made you forget how certain death was knocking on the door.

Naobito had lost his arms, a couple of your fingers had turned into chump and Nanamis eye had taken a hit. There was no escape, no hope other than a fifteen-year-old kid opening a small gateway that could save all of you.

Hit after hit, you kept fighting. You couldn’t understand the sudden doom that had fell on you as you clawed at the hope you could scape, not until a hit sent Nanami flying into a monsters mouth. A scream left your lungs, the anger vibrating along your body but most of all the fear. You had been close to death too many times to count and not one of those times had you ever been as scared as you were in that moment.

You wanted to stay alive.

You wanted Kento to stay alive.

You wanted a life with him.

A tear had ran down your cheek as you kept fighting.

Suddenly things had changed, a man had bursted through your gates of hope, annihilating the curse. The domain had broken, leaving you all in the train station the battle had started on. You were ready to fight the man with the dark eyes as he walked towards you, the deadly smirk he possessed chilling you to the bone as his eyes fell in each one of you.

You had barely any time to react as he pushed the Fushiguro kid through the window, himself disappearing along.

You ran to the window he had gone through, trying to catch on where Megumi had fallen but there wasn’t a trace of them behind. You had readied yourself to jump down, but a hand stopped you in your tracks.

Silence fell on you all, Naobito and Maki assessing their own wounds. Nanami’s eyes fell on your left hand as yours feel on his eye, blood cascading down his face. Your heart had crumbled as you reached out to touch him.

“Your eye” you whispered, the words choking on your throat as you tried to stop the tears.

His hand cupped yours, your body welcoming the familiar warmth he had you accustomed to.

“I’m ok” with care, as if you were a porcelain doll, he lifted your wounded hand. “Your fingers…”

“It’s ok” you assured him. “I didn’t like them anyways.”

Nanami chuckled.

“Even now you can’t stop trying to drive me crazy, can you?”

“As if you don’t love it.”

He paused, hesitation plaguing him.

“I do. I love everything about you.”

Your eyes prickled with tears as a happy smile extended over your lips.

“I love you too.”

Your blood had begun pooling underneath you, a few drops falling each second.

“After this, we should go to Malasyia.” He whispered.

“We should retire there.”

“Yeah, we should.”

You felt him before you heard him. A suffocating amount of cursed energy entering the room. It was a special grade, there was no doubt about it.

His speed was something out of this world, only compared to the man that has saved all your asses. He has placed himself in front of Nanami, his hand placed on his torso.

Your heart rose to your throat, the same desperation that had caught you in the other curses domain. Your hand has already began to form into a fist, ready to take on the hit Nanami was about to be struck with. Kento had been faster than you though.

One second, that was all it took for Nanami to react.

His hand pushed you out of the window, your body tensing as you lost your balance. You blinked as you tried to hold on to anything to prevent your fall but when you opened your eyes you saw it.

Fire. Deathly flames engulfing his body, starting from the place where the curse had placed its hand.

A curling scream burned through your throat, each millisecond passing slower than the last. Before the flames covered his face, you had seen the relief that filled his eyes.

The last thing you saw was his body falling to the floor, it’s echo barely reaching your ears as your body raced to the ground.

You had woken up hours later, Shoko’s face welcoming you back as you jumped on your feet. You were in a random alley in the outskirts of the dome, far away from where you had fell. You tried to make your way towards the middle of the city but a sharp pain on your side stopped you halfway through your attempt.

Shokos hands held onto you, trying to drag you back with her but your arms flayed, fighting with whatever energy you had left.

“There’s nothing you can do.” She said, eyes sadder than usual.

You shook your head, your mind and hear unable to listen to reason.

“You don’t understand. I have to– I can go and– I need to get to him.” You pleaded, the burning despair in your chest overwhelming your senses.

“You can’t help him.” She whispered. “He’s gone.”

Your mother had been right, love could only come with pain. It’s claws tearing apart the hopes and dreams you had foolishly allowed yourself to have.

Love came with pain, and as your heart bleed out in the streets of Shibuya you wondered whether you were strong enough to survive it.

If you like the story please interact: reblogs, likes and comments go a long way. Feedback is always appreciated! Feel free to message me about it.