#he adds a little something else instead

[withthewindinherfootsteps]

Wei Wuxian and Narrative Agency – Part Three

For Xiantober Day Five: Past and Present, in which the author gets very unhinged about what parts of the past are shown and how that’s affected by the present!

(Part One | Part Two | Full version on AO3)

The Power of Agency: Shaping the Narrative

When I've discussed Wei Wuxian's agency previously, I’ve talked about how what’s shown and omitted tells us about a character, and we’ve talked about the character himself. Though this is a niche topic, it’s not necessarily something out of the ordinary to analyse, and we can assume everything up to here has been in some way intentional.

This? Linking structure to a character’s in-universe preferences?

This is where we get unhinged.

Before I start, let’s quickly establish something which will be important later: although Wei Wuxian is the central character, MDZS isn’t strictly from his POV. While omitting events a character doesn’t like to dwell on and concealing things the character wishes to hide is common in books with only one narrator, MDZS has multiple narrators which it switches between relatively quickly. This includes Wei Wuxian, but it also includes nearly every major character that appears in the story, and omniscient narrator as well. As a default, this format doesn’t lead to this deliberate shaping and omission because of one character’s preferences, since we have many other sources of information and events – which is what makes Wei Wuxian’s influence over the narrative and structure so interesting. We could have access to a lot more information, and access to it at different times, than we do (and that’s not an insult, quite the opposite!).

To begin: we’ve established that times such as Wei Wuxian’s time on the streets, his three months in the Burial Mounds and his loss in the Siege aren’t shown because Wei Wuxian has little agency there. But that’s not the only special thing about them. They’re also the three most traumatic times in his life, and so moments Wei Wuxian himself either can’t remember, or doesn’t like to dwell on.

This is why discussing Wei Wuxian’s treatment of tragedy in his life was important. Firstly, it shows he doesn’t focus on the tragedy in his life, so the idea that the narrative not focusing on this tragedy relates to his character has merit; secondly, it affirms that this is not a passive trait, but a choice. Therefore, when the narrative omits events due to this aspect of Wei Wuxian, it’s respecting not only a character detail – which would be cool by itself – but also an active decision. One that shapes the story it’s made in.

In other words, its very structure is respecting Wei Wuxian’s agency!

Now, of course there are flashbacks to other moments of his past he probably wouldn’t like to dwell on, too. But within the structure, they’re only shown when Wei Wuxian is thinking about them (or when he has reason to)!

Wei WuXian hadn’t woken up yet. His eyes were still tightly shut, yet his hand didn’t let go either. He seemed to be dreaming, muttering, “… Don’t… Don’t be angry…” Lan WangJi seemed somewhat surprised. His voice was gentle, “I am not angry.” Wei WuXian, “… Oh.” Hearing this, as though he finally felt assured, his fingers loosened. Lan WangJi sat beside Wei WuXian for a while. Seeing that he was motionless again, he was about to stand up when Wei WuXian grabbed him with his other hand, hugging his arm and refusing to let go. He shouted, “I’ll go with you, quick, take me back to your sect!” Chapter 63, EXR translation

Which, of course, is him dwelling on…

Lan WangJi spoke one word at a time, “Go back to Gusu with me.” Hearing this, both Wei WuXian and Jiang Cheng were surprised. Quickly afterward, Wei WuXian laughed, “Go back to Gusu with you? To the Cloud Recesses? Why go there?” He immediately seemed to realize, “Oh. I forgot. Your uncle Lan QiRen hates crooked people like me. You’re his proudest disciple, so of course you’re the same as him, haha. I refuse.” Chapter 62, EXR translation

…the painful flashback immediately preceding this. The third set of flashbacks (which are also painful) are a similar case. Look at the contex:

He lifted the bottom of his robe, revealing a prosthetic leg made of wood, “This leg of mine was destroyed by you, that night in the Nightless City (…)” (…) “Wei WuXian, I won’t ask you if you remember or not. Both of my parents died by your hands. You owe too many people. You definitely won’t remember them either. But, I, Fang MengChen, will never forget! And never forgive you!” (…) “In the fight at Qiongqi Path, my son was strangled to death by your dog Wen Ning!” “My shixiong died by poison, his entire body festering due to your cruel curse!” Chapter 68 (immediately preceding the flashbacks), EXR translation

And Wei Wuxian’s own thoughts and words:

Wei WuXian looked at the cultivators before the Demon-Slaughtering Cave. Their expressions were the absolute same as those of the cultivators from the night of the pledge conference, pouring their wine on the ground as they took the pledge to scatter the ashes of the Wen Sect’s remnants and him.  (…) Wei WuXian, “Now it’s time to ask just whom it is that treasures it so much. It’s like Wen Ning. Back then, some certain sects or so were scared to death of the Ghost General. They said they’d kill him on the surface, but behind their backs they hid him for over ten years. How strange. Who was the one that said his ashes had been scattered back then?” Chapter 79 (immediately succeeding the flashbacks), EXR translation 

Once again, Wei Wuxian’s own thoughts relate to the flashbacks we’ve just been shown. And, as I previously mentioned, though all the events which are shown are tragic, they’re also events which Wei Wuxian’s own choices and actions shaped – which he has this to say about:

“The things I did, not only do you remember them, I remember them too. You won’t forget them, and they’ll stay even longer in my mind!” Chapter 82, EXR

Admittedly, this applies more to the third set of flashbacks than the second (which is still fitting as the third set was the most recent), as in the second, although he still had agency within and influence over his circumstances, the majority of the pain was caused by others’ actions (excluding, of course, the Golden Core transfer… which is something we know stays for a long time in his mind, albeit with a caveat we’ll soon discuss). But it’s still important to note – especially considering that otherwise, focusing on this very painful time in his life wouldn’t seem like something very in-character for Wei Wuxian to do.

Of course, this can all just be explained by good writing. It is best to insert flashbacks when they’re relevant to the characters and events in the present day! But it is interesting to compare these to the start of the (not painful) Gusu flashbacks, which open this way:

At a later time, Wei WuXian pondered upon the reason why his relationship with Lan WangJi wasn’t good. Getting to the root of the matter, everything started when he was fifteen, coming to the GusuLan Sect with Jiang Cheng to study for three months. Chapter 13, EXR

Again, considering the circumstances around which these flashbacks take place – returning to the Cloud Recesses for the first time since the lectures, and meeting Lan Wangji once more – it makes complete sense for Wei Wuxian to be thinking about these events*. So it does fit the pattern of Wei Wuxian dwelling on something, thus leading to the narrative dwelling on it, too (and being shaped by his thoughts)… but there’s another layer to this. Importantly, it is the only flashback where Wei Wuxian’s present thoughts don’t lead to this happening, with his thoughts at an unspecified future time leading to it, instead. I like to interpret this as the text saying that, since these events aren’t something Wei Wuxian wouldn’t focus on in normal circumstances, he can dwell on them at any time. Therefore, they’re free to come up in the narrative at any time as well, even if he’s not dwelling on them in the present moment!

So, to summarise: Wei Wuxian’s decision not to focus on the painful times in his life directly influences the narrative to not focus on these times. When painful times are brought up and shown to us, it’s in the context of him thinking about them in the present day, and even then, his most painful moments still aren’t shown to us. His agency in this regard is still respected by the narrative structure.

This is the main way his agency influences the structure of the narrative, but I’d like to talk about the revealing and concealing of information, too. For example, I said I’d talk about the Golden Core transfer – though Wei Wuxian does think about this many times, as evidenced by his internal narration in Chapter 103. But unlike everything we’re shown through the flashbacks, this is something Wei Wuxian is actively trying to hide from others. And the narrative respects this choice (Wei Wuxian’s agency, again), never reveals it even when it would be relevant in the flashbacks, and we find out not through narration, but through a character’s dialogue!

And to clarify – I know these aspects may not be in the book for this exact reason. Showing flashbacks in relevant moments is good writing, concealing an important plot point you want to do a reveal for is necessary writing, and MXTX has said she didn’t want to write about Wei Wuxian’s time in the Burial Mounds, due to not liking to write transformation sequences (and also because it would not be pleasant at all, which likely also applies to Wei Wuxian’s death). That doesn’t prevent it from also being intentional – MXTX’s intelligence is shown in many aspects of this book, and there’s nothing disproving it – but there’s no proof for either option, so I won’t pretend there is. I bring this up because I know this feels like I’m overanalysing, as I feel that way as well.

But, whether it’s intentional or not, it exists in the text, and I adore it – so, regardless, it’s something I’ll explore. Because taking this into account… We aren't just told about Wei Wuxian having agency, we aren’t just shown it in the text, we aren’t even just shown it through which parts of his past are shown and hidden in the structure of the text (as I talked about in Part One). The parts of the past that are shown and hidden also have an in-universe reason for being shown and hidden, this reason being the choices he makes! Agency is the ability of a character to influence the story they’re in, but Wei Wuxian’s agency, as a property of a character who only exists in-universe, shapes the out-of-universe structure as well! That’s how we’re shown its importance! How cool is that?

At The End Of The Road: Summary and Final Thoughts

In this essay, we’ve covered how important Wei Wuxian’s agency is not only to the events of the plot, but to the structure of the narrative as well. The narrative omits periods in which Wei Wuxian has little or no agency, in favour of showing us periods in which he does, even when important events happened in the former. This indicates that who Wei Wuxian is without agency isn’t important enough to be shown to the audience, and therefore that his agency is an integral aspect of his character in MDZS. We’ve discussed how both in-universe and out-of-universe, tragedy does not define him – out-of-universe, the tragic events in Wei Wuxian’s life are used not to build sympathy but rather to show his strength of character and who he still is despite going through them; and in-universe, he chooses not to focus on the negativity and resentment caused by his circumstances or others’ actions, instead staying true to his moral compass and enjoying his life in the present day. Finally, we’ve also explored how this choice is another reason for the omission of certain events from the narrative, resulting in his agency shaping the story in a very literal way – it affects the out-of-universe structure, as well.

It’s quite fitting, for a story whose essence is about defying a conventional narrative – that of righteous clans rising up and defeating a great evil – and about a character who defies many conventional narratives on his own – that of status defining how skilled you could be, that for a golden core being necessary for cultivation and other paths being unavailable, that of a tragic but complete story of someone killed for staying true to their moral code (instead, that character returns to life and has a happy ending) – to have its own narrative play a role in such an important and interesting way.

(Or, if an image would be preferable:)

Thank you for reading!

(Part One | Part Two | Full version on AO3)

--

*This strong relation to the present day circumstances is another reason I love the flashback placement so much (and why I think it’s such a loss both screen adaptions altered it so strongly)! 

[sixeyesonathiel]

all’s fair — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

YEARNER gojo, heavy making out. thats it. my pants dissipated writing ts

the air reeks of blood.

a secret war tent, just outside the battlefield. the sounds of clashing swords and dying men fill the air, but inside, there is only the suffocating tension between the goddess of love and the god of war who should know better than to meet like this.

satoru storms into the tent, covered in blood and victory, a grin splitting his face. his white hair, streaked with crimson, clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. his armor is dented, the bronze darkened with soot and gore, but his movements are easy, languid—like none of it matters. the god of war lives for carnage, breathes in battle like it’s the very air keeping him alive. and tonight, he’s gorged himself on it.

“missed me?” he teases, voice rough from shouting commands, from laughing as he tore through men like parchment. his gaze finds you immediately, drinking in the way your posture stiffens, the way your fingers tighten around the stem of your untouched goblet.

you shouldn’t be here. not so close to the battlefield, not so close to him.

you exhale sharply through your nose, eyes flaring with barely contained fury. “you’re a fool,” you spit, tossing the goblet aside, letting the wine stain the furs beneath your feet. the taste of it had turned bitter on your tongue the moment he entered. “my warriors fall like flies because of you.”

he hums, stepping closer, unfazed by the scent of rose oil and wrath curling in the air between you. you’re angry. it sends a thrill down his spine.

“your warriors?” he muses, tilting his head, one blood-streaked hand coming to rest against his hip. “love, they’re not yours once they pick up a sword. the moment they choose war, they belong to me.”

your eyes flash dangerously. “you arrogant—”

“besides, you don’t care about them,” satoru murmurs, voice suddenly lower, quieter. the air crackles. “you care about me.”

“you only ever look at me like this.” he adds before you can even deny with another step. he was so close now, close enough that you could see the cut on his cheek, the golden ichor beading there, shimmering in the dim light.

“like what?” you asked, voice quieter now, betraying nothing.

“like you’re furious. like you want to kill me.” his fingers brushed against hers, featherlight, teasing. “like you ache for me.”

your breath catches.

his smirk deepens, something slow and knowing curling at the edges of his lips. his fingers flex against his hip, his other hand dangling loosely at his side, but you can see the tension in his stance, the way his muscles coil beneath the straps of his armor.

you move to slap him, but he catches your wrist, swift and effortless. it’s not a tight grip—he knows you could break free if you truly wanted. instead, he pulls you closer, forcing you into his space, making sure you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint tremor of barely restrained energy thrumming beneath it.

“let go.” your voice is steady, but he doesn’t miss the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingers.

“make me.” he dares, his thumb brushing lazily along the inside of your wrist, over skin that has been kissed by kings, worshipped by emperors.

for a long moment, neither of you move.

you should hate him. you do hate him. he ruins everything, turns every battlefield into his personal playground, drenches the earth in blood as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.

and yet.

your free hand lifts, nails grazing along the rough line of his jaw. he lets you.

“you’re reckless,” you whisper, gaze tracing the cut along his cheekbone, the smear of blood—his or someone else’s—you don’t know, don’t care.

his fingers slide up your arm, curling against your bare shoulder, tracing the delicate gold chains draped there, the silken folds of your dress shifting beneath his touch.

“and you’re a coward,” he murmurs back, breath warm against your lips. “you play your little games, make men burn for you, but the moment someone plays back?” his grip tightens, dragging you against his chest, metal clashing against silk. “you run.”

you exhale sharply, something wild and sharp flashing in your gaze.

he expects you to push him away, to twist from his grasp with one of your usual coy little smiles and words that cut sharper than any blade. but you don’t.

instead, you shift closer, lifting your chin, lips nearly brushing his. “you think i run?” your voice is soft, syrupy, dripping with something deadly. “when i’ve had you chasing me for centuries?”

his eyes darken, that ever-present smirk twitching at the edges.

“don’t flatter yourself, love.”

“oh?” your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping just enough to make him tense, to make him feel. weak. “so if i were to walk away now,” you muse, voice a purr, “you wouldn’t stop me?”

his grip around your wrist flexes.

you laugh. sharp. knowing.

“that’s what i thought.”

his patience snaps.

he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your triumphant smile with a kiss that tastes of war and lust and something dangerously close to devotion. the world collapses into heat, hunger, and the intoxicating scent of iron and rose oil. the stench of blood still clings to his skin, mixing with the subtle sweetness of the roses in the air, as if the battlefield had bled its violence into the very fabric of the room.

you expect violence—after all, this is the god of war, the very embodiment of destruction. but what you get instead is devastating precision, an artistry in chaos. his mouth moves with practiced arrogance, every kiss a calculated claim, a conquest, forcing you into submission with the same ruthless determination he wields on the battlefield. your lower lip is caught between his teeth, a sharp, agonizing sting that sends a thrill of heat through your body before melting into a slow, sinful drag of his tongue. you curse yourself for the way your knees tremble, betraying the effect he has on you, but you refuse to pull away.

you have kissed kings, emperors, gods. you have been worshipped in a thousand ways, a thousand times over.

but no one kissed like satoru.

no one kissed like a man who had spent his entire life craving battle but found himself craving her more.

his hands, still streaked with blood, still warm from the slaughter, slide down your waist with a predatory grace, the tips of his fingers leaving burning trails over your skin. you gasp as he grips the filmy fabric of your chiton, tearing it aside with a single, effortless pull. the sound of the silk ripping is obscene in the quiet of the tent, echoing between the tension that coils tighter in the air. but you don’t care. not when his palms sear against your bare skin, rough and possessive, tracing every curve he’s only ever dreamed of touching, claiming you like the spoils of war he’s always deserved.

“look at you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with victory, dripping with satisfaction. “all this time, i thought you’d taste like honey. but you’re just as bitter as i am.” the words are a challenge, but there’s no real bitterness behind them. it’s just the way he sees the world—always finding something to conquer, something to take.

you retaliate by sinking your nails into the nape of his neck, scoring red lines down the sweat-damp column of his throat. the sound he makes—low, filthy, a guttural groan meant for your ears alone—sends a wave of desire crashing through you. before you can process, he lifts you effortlessly, the edge of the war table digging into your thighs as he slots himself between them, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that speaks of battles fought and victories won.

the cold armor at his chest presses against your fevered skin, an icy contrast to the heat pulsing through you. his mouth is scorching, trailing from your lips to your jaw, and then lower, nipping at the frantic pulse in your throat. every movement is deliberate, a dance of dominance and passion, as if he’s marking every inch of you as his own.

“you—” your breath hitches, his teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he breathes, his words dark with satisfaction, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils wide with want. the hunger in his eyes is raw, unfiltered, and it makes your heart race in your chest. “here you are. letting me ruin you.”

his hands slide higher, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other traces the dip of your waist, skimming the edge of your hip with a touch so light, so teasing, that it feels like torture. you arch into him, a silent plea, a challenge that lingers between you. and his grin—it’s all teeth, a hungry thing, twisted with desire and amusement.

“say it,” he dares, his thumb brushing the peak of your breast with a featherlight tease that makes your stomach coil tight, an ache that builds with every passing second. “tell me to stop.”

you should. you should push him away, demand he stop. but you won’t. you can’t.

instead, you drag him back by the hair, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s more war than surrender, more battle than love. he laughs into your mouth, the vibrations curling straight down your spine, a sound that promises chaos and recklessness, the very essence of him. then—

a trumpet blares outside, cutting through the tension like a knife.

the war calls.

for the first time in centuries, satoru, the almighty god of war hesitates.

his forehead presses against yours, breaths ragged, his fingers trembling where they grip your hips. the air between you is thick with everything unsaid, everything undone, as if the world has paused, holding its breath, waiting for what will come next. you can feel his heart beating against yours, fast and uneven, as if he too has been swept away by this relentless tide of desire.

then, with a smirk that promises retribution, he pulls away, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s reluctant to let go.

“next time,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, as if he’s daring you to defy him. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that contrasts with the hunger still burning in his eyes. “i won’t stop.”

and just like that, he’s gone, leaving you breathless, flushed, furious, and aching in the ruins of a war tent that smells like him—like blood, rose oil, and something far more dangerous.

outside, the battle rages on, but inside, you’ve already lost.

a/n : part two is out fellow freakies🫶🏻

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

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

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

You’re doing it again.

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

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

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

“Don’t you agree?”

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

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

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

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

“You’re such a guy."

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

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

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

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

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

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

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

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

It makes you very bold.

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

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

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

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

“I do.”

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

Will you show me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

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

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

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You think so?”

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

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

“I’m just being honest.”

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

“What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m listening.”

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

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

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

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

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

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

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

“Is this what you had in mind?”

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

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

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

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

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

“Can you blame me?”

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

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

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

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

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

"Spence?"

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

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

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

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

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

"More than anyone."

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

"Anything."

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

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

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

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

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

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you sure?"

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

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

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

And you want him. So fucking bad.

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

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

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

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

“Should we move to your bed?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

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

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

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

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

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

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

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

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

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

"Do you think you can take a third?"

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

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

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

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

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

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

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

You need him inside you.

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

He has the audacity to shake his head.

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

Your breath stutters even more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

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

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

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You won’t—”

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

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

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

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

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

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

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

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

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

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

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

“Like this?”

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

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

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

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

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

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

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was I not obvious enough?”

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

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

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

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

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We slept in?”

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

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

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

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

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

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

"I think she's onto us."

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

"What should I tell her?"

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

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

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

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

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

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

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

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

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Before we even kissed.”

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

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

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

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

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

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

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

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

“What took you so long then?”

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

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

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

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

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

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

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

“If you must know, I do like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

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

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

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

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

Six minutes.

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

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

“What did you tell her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, your taste.

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

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

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

[faramirsonofgondor]

AU where the mayor of Gotham retires or dies or something, and the Batsiblings decide it would be funny if they ran for mayor. Except they don’t run as their civilian identities, but as they’re vigilante ones.

Dick won’t stop pouting because the people of Gotham refuse to vote for someone from Bludhaven, Tim is incredibly offended that he ends up tied with Dick for last place, Damian is smug that he beat Tim and indignant that people refuse to vote for him because he’s “a child”, and Jason preens but is internally panicking as more and more people vote for him. He wins by a landslide.

His first act as mayor is to increase Bruce Wayne’s taxes. His second is to ban Lex Luthor from entering the city. Someone tries to tell him it’s illegal to do that and he just… walks away. Eventually he starts to get a hang of this whole mayor thing and ends up working with Wayne Enterprises to strengthen housing and construction in poorer neighborhoods, he gives teachers raises, encourages trade school and alternative routes for henchmen, he adds diversity and inclusivity courses to public schools, safety programs and gas masks are made more accessible, and he reinforces the security and integrity of Arkham.

Of course there are still times where he misuses his power a little bit, but it’s never anything serious and most Gothamites watch in amusement as the scene unfolds.

Like just imagine:

Jason, dressed as RH: You’re not allowed in, you know what you did.

Dick, standing outside the Gates of Gotham, giving his best pouty expression in his Nightwing gear: Please, Hood! I promised Robin I would take him to the zoo after patrol!

Jason: You should’ve thought about that before you ate the last cookie Agent A made.

Dick, now wailing: This is abuse of power! Cruel and unusual punishment! I demand a lawyer!

Of course there are also the times when Jason decides to do something nice for his siblings, except it just ends up confusing the fuck out of everyone else in Gotham. On Dick’s birthday, he announces that there is now an Official Animal of Gotham, and most people are expecting a bat, or maybe a bird, or hell even a crocodile. Everyone except for Dick, Bruce, and Alfred are confused when it ends up being an elephant instead. Jason also decides to unveil plans for a Gotham Animal Sanctuary on the same exact day. Everyone is even more surprised when Nightwing jumps on Hood, entrapping him in an octopus hug as their mayor flails around trying to pry him off. It doesn’t work and Batman has to pick Dick up by the scruff of his neck to get him off.

There are also some of the odder, but somewhat sensible laws that are passed. Condiments are banned during the holidays and in schools (Condiment King could be heard sobbing throughout Gotham when this proclamation aired). No one is allowed to dress as clowns for any circumstance. The sewers are off limits to everyone except maintenance/construction workers, who must carry guns on them at all times. Lex Luthor’s birthday becomes Gotham’s Official “Fuck Lex Luthor Day”.

Then comes Jason’s most popular decision to date, he has The Joker reassessed mentally, and when he’s found as sane he pushes for the death penalty to be given (not that he really needed to - it was going in that direction already). He almost expects an angry lecture or fight with Bruce to occur, but Bruce just looks at him and says, quietly, “You’ve done a beautiful job, son, I couldn’t be more proud.”

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

A/N: My comms are discounted for a limited time for Black Friday btw. This is a kofi request, so if you want more then send me a Kofi~ it’s a snow leopard hybrid ^^

Being abandoned by your owner in the middle of winter was already not ideal, but being caught in a record breaking blizzard was definitely worse.

You could sense it coming. Being a cat hybrid had its perks, but you almost wished you were blissfully unaware of your imminent demise.

It had been a few hours since your owner drove off, leaving you in a torn hoodie and your thin pajama pants. He hadn’t known the risks of owning a cat hybrid such as yourself, and when you went into heat and started rubbing your scent on everything and biting him to try and claim his as your mate, he abandoned you.

It really hurt. You adored your owner, thinking he was different from other humans who simply saw you as a pet.

But you were wrong. He tossed you away without a second thought, leaving you to die. Had you really meant that little to him?

Despite your sadness, you curled up under a bench, shivering as you tried to keep yourself warm. Even being in heat wasn’t helping much, the ache in your belly only adding to the discomfort and pain you were feeling.

You wanted to be warm, to nest and be properly bred by a kind male. Maybe that was too much for a house cat hybrid such as yourself to ask. Thinking you were worth something led you here after all…

As the snow only continued to fall, you tried your best to stay warm. It was only to try and find the most comfort you could while waiting for your death.

You weren’t accustomed to taking care of yourself. Ever since your birth, food had been handed to you, beautiful clothes and jewelry adorning your body when it came time for you to be presented before humans for sale.

Before this, you had never worried about warmth or sustenance, simply relying on your owner.

What else could you do?

As you thought all hope was loss, a scent other than the cold and wet smell of snow wafted through the air, a familiar yet strange one.

It an instant the bench was ripped from its foundation, a figure bending down to examine you.

Your vision was a bit blurry, but you could smell it.

This was a wild hybrid.

In the past you heard tales of such beasts, hybrids that fled to the wild to escape human subjugation, but because you were a pampered house cat hybrid, you had yet to encounter one.

“Lost, little one?”

Your tail puffed out as you let out a weak hiss, watching as the hybrid’s face got closer to yours. He smelled like blood, perhaps he had just procured a fresh kill and was looking to add to his winter stockpile.

At least if he killed you, it would be a quicker death than freezing. Perhaps this was some kind of twisted mercy…

But you never felt his fangs puncture your throat, instead your hoodie was being bitten, your body lifted and carried by his strong jaws.

He was taking you somewhere. Where? You could only guess back to his den. It would be easier to kill your there instead of risking the scent of blood being left on the snow, leading back to his home.

Although you were afraid, the big cat was warm. His breath fanned against your neck, and your body reacted against your will, producing enticing pheromones that told any hybrid nearby that you were in heat.

He was soft, and for some reason you felt something being wrapped around you… some kind of furs from one of his hunts. Why would he bother to keep you warm? Did he prefer his prey fresh and didn’t want you to freeze to death?

None of this really mattered to you. You were cold, hungry, and exhausted. If you slept now, perhaps you would be unconscious when the time came and pass on in your sleep.

So you passed out, too tired to even notice how his pheromones responded to yours.

When you awoke, you were in bed. Your owner had never allowed you to sleep with him, so this was the first time you had been in a human bed and not one for pets.

The blankets were made of the same furs you had been cloaked in before. You sat up slowly, still processing what led you to this.

Being abandoned right before a blizzard… nearly freezing to death… a wolf hybrid taking you with him…

It was a lot to think about, and even with a now well rested mind your head was still spinning. Maybe a meal would help you make sense of this…

“You’re awake…”

You stiffened at the voice, your blood running cold. When you finally found the courage to turn and look at the source of it, you nearly passed out again.

In the doorway was a snow leopard hybrid, his cat ears flicking as he stared down at you. He was nearly twice your size, and thoughts of you beating him in a fight went down the drain immediately.

“Thought you were a goner for a bit. Tougher than you look.”

He spoke slowly, his eyes on your plump form. You weren't sure what he was thinking, and before you could respond your belly rumbled.

“Hungry, huh?”

His long, thick tail swayed behind him as he approached. Although he was tall, he was thin and lean, not the same type of terrifying a lion or tiger hybrid would be, but still holding the same predatory glint in his eye.

“Kittens in heat such as yourself have to eat.”

You felt your cheeks warm. Of course he could tell you were in season, your scent was probably overwhelming at this distance.

He tilted his head. “Not wild, are you? What’s a little thing such as yourself doing all the way out here?”

Your lip wobbled. All the pain, all the anger and confusion came bubbling to the surface.

“My owner… he just… he left me all alone… a-and it was scary, I…”

The snow leopard stared at you, letting you cry before he leaned down to lick away you tears before beginning to groom you.

This calmed you significantly, a soft purr rumbling in your chest. This was a comfort you had been denied since you had been separated from your litter as a kitten, and you couldn’t help but lean in as he licked back your hair.

“It’ll be alright. You’re mine now, my property. You won’t be cold or scared anymore.”

He rubbed his cheek against yours, moving his face to your neck and giving a harsh bite to your sensitive flesh, a clear marking of his territory.

While you ate, it was clear he was holding himself back from something. His golden eyes followed your every move, his tail swaying behind him almost sending you into a trance like state.

You usually ate whatever your owner did, even if it made you sick or upset your sensitive belly, but tonight you had stew, made with cat hybrids in mind.

Once you had your fill, your body was able to recover enough to start producing more pheromones. It was well aware there was a male nearby and that you were fertile, so it made your cunt grow wet and hot, ensuring you’d be easy for the average male to penetrate.

But unfortunately your stupid body didn’t understand the male before you was twice your size. He could sense your heat, knew that your body was trying to stir him forward.

He sniffed at you. This was the scent that had interested him. It wasn’t like he was cruel, if a female such as yourself was in need he wouldn’t just abandon you in the cold, but the fact you were plump and in heat certainly made taking you in much more enticing.

You let out a startled mew when he approached, his face burying itself into your neck. His tongue lapped softly at the scent gland there, his hands moving to hold onto your hips.

From the moment he saw you, he knew that you would be his mate. The bond had been formed before you even noticed he was there, and the snow leopard was eager to confirm it.

You smelled like heaven, a mix of your natural musk and some kind of sweet perfume your owner had you wear. Tearing off your clothes was child’s play for his sharp claws, and his body vibrated with purrs once he laid eyes on your naked form.

Already he was imagining your belly heavy and swollen with his kits, his hand gently pressing against the fat of your tummy. Being fat and plump was good for surveying the harsh climate where he lived, and it was important for females to be fed fresh meat throughout the winter.

His cock hardened, it wasn’t going to be easy fitting into such a small cat hybrid. Compared to him you were like a mouse, easily positioned however he wanted.

His fingers dipped into you, making you mewl and arch your back. You had already been bucking your hips like a needy little thing, your body desperate to be mated before your heat was over.

His cock stretched you out. It was unpleasant at best, almost painful as you struggled to take in something too big for you.

Even though he was being gentle, nothing would help when you were never meant to be bred by a big cat such as himself.

Despite this, your heat ridden body made it work, beat pooling into your abdomen as your gushed around his fat cock. Your tail twitched as he slowly pulled out and pushed back in without warning, a bulge forming in your belly from the sheer size of him.

The feeling of being ravished by him was… exhilarating. You were too small, too weak to do anything besides moan and writhe underneath him, letting the snow leopard use you as a living flesh light to be filled with his seed.

Even though it felt like you were being torn apart at first, his finger slowly rubbing at your clit and his tip hitting your special spot over and over has your cunt clenching around him before you could even think.

If you hadn’t been in heat, you most likely would have died during the mating session, but while you were in season your body produced so much more lubricant and pheromones that helped you take him inside of you.

You felt so warm when he came inside, thick ropes of hot and sticky cum filling your little womb. Your heat eased a bit as you were thoroughly bred. You knew that this would ensure pregnancy, even if all you had to go off of was instinct alone.

“Little one…”

He purred into your ear, keeping his cock inside of you to make sure none of his cum leaked out. His tongue licked at your neck and hair again, grooming you out of affection now.

“My mate, my sweetheart… I’ll take care of you, alright?”

And that was enough for you. Now all you wanted was a mate and somewhere warm to sleep with three meals a day. It was clear that he could provide that.

So you slept without worry, curled up with your mate, your new provider.

————————

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @icommitwarcrimes @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @murder-hobo @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @spicyspicyliving @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @binnieonabike @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @wil10wthetree @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko

[thinkinonsense]

Sit Still｡𖦹°‧

—gif credit: not mine!! i can't remember where i found it but if i can find it again or the owner comments, ill add their username <3

logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: cockwarming (sorta?), innocence kink, p in v, logan attempts to teach reader how to ride.

a/n: apologies for this being so short but chapter two of bewitched should be out friday or saturday! also i'll be responding to some requests soon too in case i spam lmao

"a-are you sure 'bout this, lo?"

your timid voice echos around the bedroom, capturing logan's attention again. he's been dreaming for months of this sight in front of him; you sitting pretty in his lap, only wearing a pink lacy bra and a pair of matching panties.

"you want me to make you feel good, right sweetheart?"

a small sigh escapes you as you attempt to grind onto him again. logan places his large hands on your waist to stop you from wiggling around. he knows you can't help it, you're still new to this after all.

it started a month ago when you and logan were left alone together in the mansion. everyone was on a field trip a couple hours away. you were recovering from a cold and logan simply didn't want to chaperone. instead, he offered to stay back with you.

late one evening, he came in to check on you and ask if there was anything you needed. that's when you asked him the question that nearly killed him, 'will you take my virginity?' you didn't see a problem with it. the two of you weren't strangers, you trusted logan, and he obviously has experience since he's much older than you.

ever since that night, you two have been going at it like rabbits. tonight, logan promised to help you get used to being on top. more importantly, training you to take him from this angle.

"c'mon, baby..." he coos with one hand on your hip and the other holding a cigar to his lips. "do it just like i told ya'."

swiftly, logan removes the rest of the material between the two of you before resting back against the mattress. anxiously, you line him up to your entrance and slowly sink down until you're sat fully on his lap again.

"nice 'n slow for me, sweetheart. that's it, stay still..." logan hums, lost in your tight, wet heat. he can hear every little noise coming from your lips. "atta girl."

it's a struggle to take all of him at once. you can feel him deep in your gut, nudging that sweet spot inside of you. logan can tell that your nerves are still tangled in knots, practically strangling his cock.

"lo, i c-can't do it." you huff, upset at yourself. "too full to move."

"poor fuckin' baby." logan teases with faux sympathy. "how 'bout we try something else for now?"

too caught up with the soft grind of his hips, you nod your head mindlessly to his proposal. logan brings his thumb to his lips, replacing the cigar which is now back on the nightstand. he sits up, making you whimper as he does so. you lean forward to capture his lips with your own, whispering how badly you needed him to just fuck you himself. instead, logan's got something else in mind.

"ah!" you gasp as he starts to rub your button with the wet pad of thumb. "f-fuck, right there..."

the soft rocking of your hips makes your toes curl and fingers pull at his little kitten tuffs. logan's mouth moves south to your chest. one nipple in his mouth then the other until both are swollen and kiss bitten. vibrations pour from his mouth as he groans at the tight squeezing of your cunt around his girth.

"ah-ah." he tsks, hand coming up to grip your jaw, pinching your cheeks together gently. "what did i say 'bout staying still?"

"s-sorry, lo.." you whimper voice muffled by your squished pouty lips.

despite having incredible stamina, logan was ready to release just from looking at your pretty face. he never been this close to cumming so soon but feeling you tense around him and wiggle in his lap made his head spin. all of this movement from only his thumb drawing circles.

"christ..." he grunts in your ear, moving faster now and with more pressure. "you're tryin' a kill me, sweetheart."

all logan gets in response is incoherent babbles of 'don't stop' and 'please, please, please'. he knows you are close when you claw at his back and start to bounce on him little by little, just enough to make you see stars. it all feels too much yet not enough at the same time. logan's circles start to get sloppy as he approaches his high too.

"l-logan!" you squeal, heavy eyes trying to focus on his face. "wanna feel you..."

in a rush, logan picks up the pace, torturing your button with his thumb. a loud moan falls from your lips, trying to wiggle out of logan's grip as your orgasm washes over you with intense euphoria. logan growls in your neck from your tight fucking grip on his cock, pumping his load inside of your walls. some of it spilling out of you and drenching the sheets.

the two of you catch your breath in silence for a moment. your nails scratch his scalp softly while logan pulls you down to kiss him. after a second, you move back, smiling down at him in a way that makes him harden again.

"thought you were gonna show me how to ride?" you tease.

logan shoots you a cocky eyebrow raise before leaning back again, one hand on your hip and the other returning to his cigar on the night stand.

"alright, baby..." he chuckles, re-lighting the cigar and paying little attention to the roll of your hips. "let me see what you got."

[lemonlover1110]

𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝

Toji Fushiguro

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: Perhaps Toji should've listened to his wife about using sunscreen, but the man never listens.

Warnings: Minors do not interact! Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Public Sex, Creampie, Toji calls you 'princess'

*You might not get sunburnt but you still need sunscreen! Baddies protect themselves against skin cancer❤️

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

There’s a drawn out whistle behind you from none other than your husband. He watches as you slowly take off your dress and reveal the bikini that you chose to wear for your beach trip. You feel your face get warm, still not used to all the love and attention that he gives you whenever he sees your body. 

“Well, aren’t you going to get undressed?” You ask, a risky question considering how Toji is. You bite your tongue the moment the words leave your lips, knowing exactly how Toji is going to respond. You’re about to add more to it, but Toji beats you to it.

“You want to do it here? I’m not opposed to having an audience.” There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he responds, making you roll your eyes. He lets out a chuckle at your reaction before taking off his shirt. “It’s still a little crowded, princess. Wait till everyone leaves.”

“I’m not having sex with you at the beach.” You reply, taking your eyes off him as he shows off his well-toned body. If you could whistle, you’d have the same reaction as him. You add, “Wait till we get back to the hotel.”

“Where’s the fun in that? We have a bed back at home.” He tells you, earning a light hearted slap on his shoulder. He loves to tease you out in public, saying just about anything to get a reaction out of you.

“Come here, let me put sunscreen on you.” You change the topic, wanting to talk about something more lighthearted for the scene.

“I don’t need sunscreen.” He answers, making you frown. He’ll ruin your trip by refusing sunscreen– By the end of the day his skin will be all red and burnt. If he goes wandering around with no sunscreen on then the trip is practically over.

“Toji, if you don’t come here–” You begin but he walks away before you can finish your sentence. Of course. Then he’ll come whining to you later about how his skin burns.

He talks about Megumi’s stubbornness, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“Here.” Toji leans down and hands you a popsicle. You lift your eyes up from your book and notice his rosy cheeks. A couple of hours have passed, and granted, you were right. That’s why he comes to you with a peace offering. He’ll do anything but tell you that you were right.

“What’s this for?” You ask as you prompt yourself up from the comfortable lounge chair. Toji sits on the edge, and you notice how his shoulders and chest are red. You lick the top of the popsicle, tongue circling around it which draws Toji’s attention.

“Just saw the ice cream truck and thought you’d want one, nothing else.” He shrugs. “You know I swam all the way to– Ah, what are you doing?”

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” You tease him with the popsicle, tracing the cold treat on his collar bone. It does. It feels so nice but he wouldn’t say that to you, at least not now. He won’t prove you right.

“It feels weird.” He tries to push your hand away but it doesn’t work. Instead, your hand moves down and the popsicle goes down his chest. It’s just what he needs, but he won’t admit it. He definitely won’t do it when you’re acting so smug.

“Does it? You look relieved.” You point out with a smirk on your face. He absolutely won’t give you satisfaction now.

“Shut up and eat your popsicle before I take you behind that rock and show you what relief looks like.” His hand wraps around your wrist, and he guides it back to your lips but your lips form into a straight line. You turn your head, and the tip hits your cheek.

“I’m taking the popsicle as an admission that I was right!” You ask him, and he takes the treat back. He brings it up to his lips and takes a bite of it.

“Can’t your husband just be nice? Damn.” He’s irritated, but you’re right. The sunburns are too fresh, he won’t admit that he should’ve put on sunscreen before going swimming. 

“I know you.” You snatch the wooden stick from his hand once again, putting the popsicle on his shoulder. “Just admit that it feels nice. I know I’m right either way.”

“Fine. You’re right.” He says, his gaze going elsewhere because he knows there’s a smug smile on your face. He feels your warm, soft lips press a kiss on his shoulder, and he sighs. Maybe it isn’t all bad.

“Tastes like cherry.” You comment, making a low laugh leave his lips. He looks back at you, and presses a kiss on the top of your head.

“You know, the beach is almost empty if you–”

“I’m not having sex with you out here.” You cut him off, reading his mind. He clicks his tongue as he reaches into your beach bag. You notice that he grabs the sunscreen, making you comment, “It’s a little too late for that now.”

“It’s not for me, princess.” He responds, opening the bottle and squirting some of the cream on his hands. Before you can even question it, his hands go to your cleavage, “Isn’t it time to reapply?”

“Toji–” You begin, but he brings you to his lap, unable to escape from his grasp. “You’re a sly little fox.”

“Huh? I’m just making sure my wife is taken care of.” He says as he continues to massage your breasts under the pretext that he’s reapplying sunscreen. His fingers sneakily go under your bikini top, getting too close to your nipples.

“Toji, you’re playing it dangerously.” You warn him before you shove the rest of the popsicle in his mouth. He takes it out and tosses it aside.

“I like danger.” He tells you before his lips land on yours. You lick up the sweet cherry that remains on his lips before quickly pulling away. 

You look over Toji again. The way the water drips from his hair down to his body. The water streams down his rosy chest, all the way down to his V-line. He’ll make a sinner out of anyone, that’s for damn sure. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you… The beach is practically empty, who cares?

“I’m going to the water.” You respond, a look of mischief in your eyes. You get up from his lap and begin to walk to the water, a sight that makes Toji sigh. A beautiful sight, dare he say. A sight that makes his dick hard.

“Wait for me!” He yells, standing up and going after you. You’re not too far ahead, making it easy for him to catch up with you. He’s just planning on accompanying you, until he notices that you’re going to the giant rock that he mentioned earlier. Of course you are. “And you’re saying I’m sly?”

“What? I’m literally just going into the water.” You try to play all innocent, an act that he certainly won’t fall for. Maybe in the beginning he would’ve, but Toji knows you too well to know that you’re up to no good. “You have a dirty mind, Toji.”

“Right, I’m the one in the wrong here.” He scoffs. He wants to make a comment about how you’re not even in the water as you hide behind the rock, but he won’t play with his luck today.

“Are we out of everyone’s view here?” You ask, and Toji chuckles. So much for not having sex at the beach. His hands cup your face, lips going down to meet your own. Your hands go to the back of his head, pulling him closer as your back makes contact with the rock.

“You just had to play hard to get?” He pulls away for a second before his lips kiss yours again. One hand trails down your body, going to the bottom of your swimsuit. His fingers run through your folds, and it takes everything in him to not comment just how wet you already are for him. 

Toji loves to tease you, but he’ll play it safe considering the situation. He wouldn’t want you to back down now. Maybe when he’s got you all worked up and on the edge he’ll have his way with you.

“Don’t draw any attention to yourself, princess.” He warns you as he pulls away. He likes the risk, but he certainly doesn’t want to get caught. “You got that? Can you do it?”

“Yeah.” You nod, followed by a breathy moan that he tears from you by slowly pushing in two fingers. He smirks. Yeah, you were absolutely right about the sunscreen but he was right about where you’d end up today.

“Good girl.” He praises you, taking his fingers out just as quickly as he put them in. He pushes your swimsuit to the side, grabbing one of your legs and resting it on his hip. He’s all the balance you need right now. “Gonna make this quick, okay? Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and steal your book and shit.”

“Wait, my book–” You comment, that part completely forgotten from your mind. Though before the sentence is finished, you feel his tip run through your folds. “It can wait.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles before slowly pushing himself inside you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as Toji stretches you out. The man doesn’t waste a second before moving, giving slow thrusts so your body isn’t overwhelmed.

“You’re so fucking tight.” He comments, keeping his voice low. Toji wouldn’t want to draw any attention to himself at this moment. He can’t come up with any possible excuse.

You’re biting down your lip, not trusting yourself to not be too loud. You want him to hear how good he’s making you feel. He always feels so good inside of you, hitting every right spot that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. But you’ll hold back.

He’s groaning. He’s succumbing to the pleasure your pussy is giving him. So tight and warm. So fucking perfect. His thrusts slowly pick up speed, the sound of skin smacking slowly getting louder

“Fuck, Toji–” You moan, your brain slowly working less and less. Your hand goes down to play with your clit, seeking more friction to reach your high. You can’t be gone for too long. The longer you’re here, the higher the risk of someone coming around.

“You want my cum, princess?” His lips go to your ear, and you nod in response. Every thrust just hits every right spot, making it hard for you to contain yourself. Your pussy is squeezing around him, your free hand gripping onto his shoulder. Your breath gets caught up in your chest, and you fully rely on him for balance. 

You moan loudly as you reach your orgasm, finishing around his cock. Toji bites your neck, a sort of punishment. Since he can’t make noise, he’ll suppress whatever noise with your body, and this time your neck is the poor victim.

“I need your cum, Toji.” You finally tell him as he slowly loses control. Maybe the excitement of being at the beach has caught up to him. The risk of getting caught certainly makes it more fun.

It doesn’t take too long for Toji to finish inside of you, making a complete mess out of you. A mess that he’ll wipe his hands from since he won’t have to walk around full of cum. 

His forehead presses against yours, delivering soft kisses to every part of your face before he finally pulls out of your cunt. He fixes the bottom of your swimsuit, and allows you to regain complete balance before letting you go.

“You ready for the walk of shame?” He finally gets to tease you, and you roll your eyes.

“Worry about yourself, shrimp.”

[pucksandpower]

Mon Soleil

Charles Leclerc x high school sweetheart!Reader

Summary: you don’t belong in the shadows, but selfishly Charles loves that you’re only his there (in which Charles Leclerc has kept his girlfriend hidden from the world for years and years … until he didn’t)

The door shuts softly behind him.

That in itself is telling — Charles always shuts it gently when he’s trying not to bring the world inside with him. Shoes scuffed, travel-worn jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes a little too tired to be young, he exhales like the weight of the grid is still pressing against his spine.

Silence greets him, familiar and warm. It’s not the absence of noise, but the presence of peace.

He walks through the apartment slowly, like something might break if he moves too fast. The city hums outside, Monaco golden and quiet beneath the early evening sky. From the living room, the sliding balcony doors are cracked open just enough to let in the scent of sea salt and sun-warmed stone.

That’s where you are.

Curled up on the balcony chaise, legs tucked beneath you, a loose cardigan slipping off one shoulder. There’s a book in your lap, but it’s long since fallen shut. Your eyes are closed, head tipped toward the sky like you’re soaking in the last of the daylight. Hair soft, skin glowing in the low sun — it hits him all at once, how desperately he’s missed you.

Charles leans against the doorframe, watching for a moment, throat tight.

“Mon soleil,” he says softly, barely more than breath.

You blink your eyes open, slow and sleepy, like your mind’s still somewhere inside the pages or the sunlight or the quiet. Then you smile.

“Hey,” you say, voice rough with rest.

He crosses the distance in seconds. The moment his lips brush your temple, everything else dissolves — the cameras, the interviews, the brutal double-header, the fake smiles. All of it gone. You tilt your head so he can press a second kiss just under your ear, and his arms wrap around you from behind, grounding.

“You’re home early,” you murmur.

Charles huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “It’s nine.”

Your fingers find his. “Early for you.”

He exhales, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t want to go to the after-party. Couldn’t take another question about the championship.”

“Did you win?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, simply, gently. Like you mean it and nothing else. No noise. No expectations.

He closes his eyes.

“You know they had me filming a social media bit with Lewis twenty minutes after I crossed the finish line?” He says, muffled against your collarbone. “I was still sweating. I hadn’t even called Maman yet.”

“Sounds like a dream job.”

Charles snorts. “Yeah. The dream.”

You twist a little to look at him. There’s a faint crease between his brows, like something he hasn’t said yet is still sitting there, waiting.

“What is it?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he brushes your hair back, fingers gentle at your temple, then your jaw. The kind of touch that says you’re real. I need that right now. You lean into it.

“They want me to fake date someone,” he says finally, eyes fixed on yours. “For a brand thing. PR stunt. ‘Broaden my audience appeal.’ Some model who’s apparently very into vintage cars and barely has a pulse.”

You blink.

He watches you, gauging the flicker of emotion across your face. “I said no,” he adds, quickly. “Obviously. I didn’t even let them finish the pitch.”

Your voice is dry. “But you told me anyway.”

“I had to,” Charles says. “It’s your life too.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “Do you think they’d actually push it?”

He sighs. “They’re not stupid. They know I’d walk before I let them touch this.” His thumb presses to the space over your heart. “But they’re not used to me saying no to everything else.”

“You’ve said no to a lot.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah, but only when it’s worth it.”

You reach for his hand, the one still resting on your shoulder. Your fingers link instinctively.

“Was it hard?” You ask. “To say no?”

“No,” he says immediately. “What’s hard is not being able to tell the world why.”

There’s something deeper in that — something that aches.

You look at him. “You’d want to?”

He hesitates.

“I would,” Charles says quietly. “But I know what it would do to you.”

That stings, a little. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true.

He sees it in your expression. “Hey,” he says, gently. “I didn’t mean that like — like you can’t handle it. I know you could. I just … I like this. Us. The quiet. The privacy.”

“I like it too,” you admit, leaning your cheek into his shoulder. “But sometimes I think … maybe I’m hiding.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, and there’s something fierce about it, the way his arms tighten around you. “You’re not. You just like peace. And that doesn’t mean you’re hiding.”

You shrug.

He shifts to face you more directly, hands cupping your jaw now. “You don’t belong in the shadows,” Charles murmurs, brushing his thumbs across your cheeks. “But selfishly, I love that you’re only mine there.”

You exhale a shaky little laugh. “That’s kind of possessive.”

He smiles. “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re usually not.”

“Not with the world, no,” he says. “But with you? Yeah. I am. I want to be.”

You look at him for a long time.

There’s still sea breeze in the air, warm and thick with salt. The sun is low now, slipping behind the hills. The light on your skin is rose-gold, and he looks at you like you hung the sun there yourself.

“I wrote today,” you say finally.

His eyes brighten. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Couple thousand words. Not great ones. But better than the last few days.”

“I want to read them.”

You raise a brow. “You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

“I’m not ready.”

He doesn’t push. “Okay.”

You smile, just a little. “But I like that you ask.”

Charles leans forward, brushing his lips across your forehead. “Always will.”

The wind stirs a strand of hair across your cheek, and he tucks it behind your ear with a kind of reverence.

“How long are you home for?” You ask.

“Five days.”

“Before Spain?”

“Yeah. I was going to train tomorrow, but I think I’ll take the morning off.”

Your voice is quiet. “For rest?”

“For you,” he says, and the way he says it makes your heart stumble.

“Charles-”

“No,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to earn it. I want time with you. You’re the only place I feel human lately.”

You swallow.

He leans in and kisses your cheek, slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then your neck, just above your pulse. You shiver slightly, but it’s comfort more than anything else — being found, being known.

“You want to go to bed?” He asks quietly.

You nod.

So he takes your hand, and it’s not rushed — it’s not hungry or dramatic. It’s grounding. Soft. He guides you inside, flicking off lights as you go, easing you into your shared room like he’s placing you somewhere safe.

In the bedroom, he pulls off your cardigan for you, brushing your shoulders with his hands. He peels back the covers, helps you climb in, then joins you. Not an inch of space between your bodies. His arms come around your waist from behind, holding you steady.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re not hiding,” he whispers. “You’re home.”

You reach back for his hand under the sheets. “Even when I’m quiet?”

“Especially when you’re quiet.”

He’s tracing patterns across your ribs now, soothing. Breathing slow. The world doesn’t exist here.

“Mon soleil,” he murmurs again, a little sleepier this time. “Even when the lights go out.”

You hum. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I always come back to you.”

And in the hush of the room, you believe him.

He holds you closer.

Outside, Monaco sleeps.

Inside, he dreams only of you.

***

The car pulls up to the curb in front of the Palais de Tokyo, slow and deliberate like it knows what’s waiting outside.

Flashes ignite immediately — paparazzi like moths drawn to the promise of fame. The bulbs flicker against the polished black of the car, against the glittering heels stepping out before them, against the tension sitting thick in Charles’ chest.

He glances over at you.

“You sure?” He murmurs.

You nod, hands smoothed over the deep navy fabric of your dress. His fingers brush over yours where they rest in your lap — one soft, grounding touch.

“Okay,” he breathes. Then he adds, a little lower, “Stay close to me.”

The door opens.

The noise hits first — camera shutters, yelling voices, someone shouting his name in five different accents. It’s not unusual. It’s just … amplified. Paris amplifies everything. This isn’t a race weekend. This is Fashion Week. Which means the crowd outside isn’t just motorsport fans — it’s models, influencers, press junkies, people who invent rumors for fun and watch them come to life in real time.

You step out first.

And it’s small, the moment. Barely three seconds between your heels touching pavement and Charles following behind you, hand briefly ghosting the small of your back.

But it’s enough.

The buzz changes pitch the second he emerges.

There’s a flicker — a sharp inhale among the crowd, someone saying “Wait, who is that?” and another whispering your name as a question. Not as a fact. Just an idea. But ideas are dangerous here. Ideas spark headlines.

“Keep walking,” Charles mutters under his breath, close enough for only you to hear. “Just smile. Straight through.”

You nod. You’ve done this before — stepped through this minefield together. But something feels different tonight. Sharper.

Inside, the noise doesn’t follow. The air changes. The show hasn’t started yet, and the room is full of champagne flutes, soft designer scents, the low hum of fashion people pretending not to care who else is watching. You don’t drink — your fingers toy with the stem of a glass while Charles excuses himself for a brief interview across the room.

You watch him go.

He’s good at this. Too good. Easy smile, charming accent, sharp tux — he blends in so well it’s almost hard to remember how badly he used to flinch under attention.

The memory hits like a whisper.

***

It was at school, back in Monaco. He’d shown up to class ten minutes late, hair still wet from training, a smudge of grease on his collar. You were already sitting near the back, half-hiding behind a copy of Little Women.

He slid into the seat next to you, awkward and quiet. Everyone knew who he was. Charles Leclerc — the golden boy. The kid with the karting trophies and the tragic backstory. But up close, he didn’t seem golden. He seemed … tired.

He hadn’t spoken until three days later, when you’d accidentally left your notebook behind after class. He ran it out to you — literally ran. You were already halfway down the hall when he called your name.

You turned.

He held it out. “You forgot this.”

You took it, quietly. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then blurted, “You write poems in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You read it?”

“No, I mean, just that one page. The one on the train. It was … good.”

You tilted your head. “You read poetry?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. Then, “Sometimes. I don’t understand most of it.”

You smiled. “That’s okay. Most people don’t.”

He paused. “Can I sit next to you again tomorrow?”

You nodded.

That was it. That was the moment it began.

Not with a spark. But a softness.

***

Now, across the room, Charles finishes his interview and makes his way back to you, expression slightly tight.

“Are we okay?” You ask under your breath.

He kisses your cheek. “Fine. One of the photographers caught a weird angle of us getting out of the car. It’ll blow over.”

You nod slowly. “You sure?”

“No,” he admits, low. “But I’m pretending.”

The lights dim then, and conversation dissolves into applause as the show begins. Your friend’s collection floats down the runway — fluid and sharp, dramatic and quiet all at once. You squeeze Charles’ hand, and he leans in to whisper, “He’ll be huge after this.”

You smile. “I know.”

But it doesn’t last.

After the show, as the crowd floods the exit, there’s a moment — a flash of something too fast to be fully seen. A journalist stepping forward, recorder in hand.

“Charles, Charles, one question?”

He stops out of habit. You hesitate beside him.

The journalist glances at you, sharp and curious. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Silence.

For a second — just one — he doesn’t say anything. The beat stretches, too long, too brittle.

Then, “No comment.”

You flinch, barely. But he feels it. Of course he does.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, not possessive but anchoring. “We’re here supporting a friend.”

The journalist tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Right. So the matching entrance was just coincidence?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

You can feel the tension in his body, coiled and barely held.

He pulls you away before it escalates. No scene. Just a quick exit, one hand in yours as you disappear back into the private car waiting in the alley.

The moment the doors shut, the silence is deafening.

You stare out the window.

He speaks first. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know,” you say, too quickly.

“But it didn’t sound like-”

“I know, Charles.”

Another pause.

“I just …” he sighs. “It wasn’t the moment.”

You nod. “It never is.”

He closes his eyes. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not. But it’s true.”

There’s a sharp quiet between you now, the kind that doesn’t come from anger but from ache.

Charles leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair. “I’m trying to protect you.”

You stare at him. “And I love you for it. But I’m not breakable.”

“I know that.”

You exhale, soft. “Do you?”

He turns to face you fully. “I do. But you didn’t see the headlines they almost ran after Monaco. They twist everything. I don’t want you swallowed up in that circus. I want you safe.”

“And I want you honest.”

His jaw tightens.

You look away. “This is the first time in months we’ve fought.”

“I hate it.”

“Me too.”

The car pulls up to the hotel. You walk inside together, quiet, each step heavy with words unspoken. You ride the elevator without touching. Not out of distance, but because neither of you knows how to fix this yet.

The second the hotel door clicks shut, Charles exhales.

You kick off your shoes, walk toward the window. The Paris skyline is lit in gold and white. The Eiffel Tower gleams in the distance, unbothered.

You don’t hear him cross the room, but you feel it when his hands come to your waist.

“I didn’t say it,” he murmurs, voice rough. “But I thought it.”

You swallow.

His lips brush your shoulder. “I always think it.”

“I know.”

His hands move slowly, drawing you back into him, arms around your waist. His voice dips lower. “I’m yours. Always. Even when I can’t say it out loud.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have to hide the things you love.”

“I’m not hiding,” Charles says, quiet but certain. “I’m guarding. There’s a difference.”

Your eyes search his.

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Don’t shrink from the light,” you whisper.

“I don’t,” he breathes. “I just want the light to stay mine.”

You kiss him first.

And then everything slows.

There’s no rush in the way he undresses you — just reverence. His fingers skim your spine, your ribs, the sides of your thighs. You feel his breath at your neck, his lips brushing over your skin like apology and promise all at once.

He lifts you gently, lays you back against the sheets with a kind of sacred care. Like the whole world could fall apart and he’d still hold you steady. Every movement is deliberate, grounding. He touches you like you’re sunlight made tangible — something fleeting he wants to memorize again and again.

His hands stay on your hips, firm and steady, even as his mouth whispers over your skin — your collarbone, your chest, your stomach.

“I don’t need the world to know,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But I need you to know.”

“I do,” you breathe. “I’ve always known.”

He kisses you like that’s the only answer he’ll ever need.

When it’s over, your limbs tangled, breath synced, he brushes a strand of hair off your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For freezing.”

You shake your head. “You were scared.”

He holds you tighter. “I just want to keep you.”

“You have me.”

He nods.

Outside, Paris lives loud. Inside, Charles stays quiet — arms around you like gravity.

He says it again, barely audible.

“Mon soleil.”

And you fall asleep knowing he means it.

***

It’s early when Charles wakes, the sky outside a soft watercolor of dawn. The city’s barely breathing yet, Paris muted under pale blue and silver. The sheets are warm. You’re tucked against him, one arm slung across his ribs, your face buried somewhere near his collarbone.

He stays still for a moment.

Watches you.

You’re beautiful in the way only people at rest can be — unguarded, soft-edged, not thinking of the world or the weight of it. And Charles, for all his fame, for all his speed, has always worshipped slowness with you. He memorizes the shape of your mouth, the curve of your spine under the duvet. It makes him ache, how safe you look here, next to him. Like maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t ruined that yet.

He slips out of bed carefully, not waking you. Pads across the hotel room barefoot, dragging his fingers through sleep-mussed hair. There’s a note of stillness in him this morning, unusual but welcome. The weight of last night is still there, but it’s different now. Muted.

Your suitcase sits open in the corner, a paperback wedged between layers of clothing. The spine cracked, corners worn.

But it’s not the book that stops him.

It’s the manila folder on the desk.

The pages are stacked neatly, a thick rubber band holding them together. His name’s not on the front, and you haven’t told him much — only that it’s your second book, slower going than the first. But the edges are filled with your handwriting, your margin notes, your scratched-out titles.

He tells himself not to look.

Then he does.

Just one page, he promises.

Then two.

Then-

A line.

To the boy who lives at 320 km/h but holds me like I’m fragile porcelain.

Charles stops breathing for a second.

The words blur.

He sinks into the desk chair, pages cradled in his hands like they might shatter. He flips through more — just a few at first, then faster, scanning blocks of dialogue and prose, your voice echoing in every line. It’s fiction. Of course it is. But he knows himself in the spaces between. In the way the protagonist runs from everything except her. In the way he comes back. Always.

There’s a passage — midway through — that hits too close.

He doesn’t know how to rest. His body hums even in sleep. But when he touches her, something changes. It’s not desperation — it’s reverence. He holds her like she’s a map, and he’s finally found home.

Charles exhales, long and slow.

He reads on.

The world never asked him who he was. They only told him what to be. But with her, he can become something else. Someone honest. Someone flawed. Someone who doesn’t always win but is still worth loving.

He closes the manuscript after that, heart pounding. A different kind of pressure — intimate, unbearable, right under his ribs.

You see him.

You always have.

And suddenly, he wants to speak. To tell you everything he never quite knows how to say out loud.

So he finds a notepad in the hotel drawer. Quietly, without thinking too much, he writes.

***

Letter one.

Found tucked inside your book the next morning.

I am so tired of being the world’s Charles Leclerc. But I never tire of being yours.

***

Letter two.

Slipped between your sketchbook pages a few days later.

Sometimes I think you’re a quiet kind of genius. The world sees flashes, but I get the whole storm. You make me want to be more than fast. You make me want to be still.

***

Letter three.

Folded into the pocket of your jacket before he leaves for Spain.

I dreamt once that we lived in a house by the sea. No press. No racing. Just your words, my hands, and time. I don’t know if I’ll ever deserve that. But I want it.

***

He doesn’t sign them.

Doesn’t say they’re from him. Doesn’t need to.

You’d know his handwriting anywhere.

***

The morning after you return from Paris, you find the first one.

It’s there, plain as anything, pressed between two chapters of the book you’ve been reading for weeks. You weren’t even sure where you’d packed it. But it finds you.

You don’t say anything.

You just … sit with it.

Read it twice. Three times.

Then you place the paper back inside the pages and slide the book onto the nightstand like nothing happened.

When Charles stirs, you’re already watching him.

He groans a little, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Still early,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he rolls closer, eyes half-lidded. “You’re staring.”

“Maybe.”

He grins. “Lucky me.”

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s longer than usual. Slower. More certain. His hands come up to cradle your face, a little confused but not resisting.

When you pull back, he’s blinking at you. “What was that for?”

You shrug. “Felt like it.”

He hums, pulling you in again. “Do it again.”

So you do.

***

That day, he flies out for a press shoot in Spain. You stay in Monaco, returning to your writing, to your own quiet world.

But something’s shifted.

You start noticing the notes.

They don’t come every day. They’re not dramatic or poetic. They’re just him. Honest. Raw. Tucked where you least expect them — inside your journal, between the receipts in your wallet, once even in the fridge, stuck to the almond milk.

And still, you don’t mention them.

Because that’s the thing about Charles.

He’s loud on track. Loud when he’s winning. Loud when he’s fighting.

But when he loves — it’s quiet.

***

A few nights later, you’re on FaceTime. He’s sprawled across a hotel bed, hair wet from a shower, wearing a T-shirt that used to be yours.

“You find any new letters?” He asks, casual, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch.

You tilt your head. “Should I be looking?”

He smirks. “Maybe.”

You smile. “No new ones today.”

He feigns offense. “That you found.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs, soft and real. “You like them?”

“I do.”

There’s a pause.

“Even when I’m not good at saying it out loud,” Charles murmurs, “I’m thinking about you.”

“I know.”

He leans back, arms crossed under his head. “I think about how we met, sometimes. How I didn’t talk for like two weeks. You probably thought I was an idiot.”

“I thought you were shy.”

He blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah. You were always rushing somewhere, but you looked like you were trying not to bump into anyone.”

He laughs. “Because I was. Monaco’s small but brutal.”

You soften. “You’ve always been good at seeing everything.”

He nods. “But you were the first person who saw me. Before the racing. Before the trophies.”

“I still do.”

He swallows hard.

***

Later that week, another letter finds you inside your typewriter cover.

Letter four.

I don’t always know who I am to the world. Sometimes it changes by the hour. But with you, I never have to wonder. You anchor me. You make the noise stop. I hope I do the same for you. Even if I don’t say it, I’m trying.

You fold it gently, slide it under your pillow.

He’s not with you tonight, but the space beside you feels a little less empty.

***

A few days later, you call him out of the blue.

He answers on the second ring, breathless. “Everything okay?”

You smile. “Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

He sighs, soft and happy. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks.

You blink. “Stop what?”

“The notes. The letters. If it’s too much.”

Your heart twists. “Charles. No. I love them.”

He lets out a breath. “Okay.”

You add, quieter, “I keep them. All of them.”

“I know,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I figured.”

***

That weekend, he comes home.

No cameras. No entourage. Just him, shoulders looser than they’ve been in months.

You open the door in sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower, and he smiles like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for all week.

“Hi,” you say.

He drops his bag and kisses you before you can say anything else.

Later, curled up on the couch, his head in your lap, he murmurs, “You wrote about me.”

You pretend not to know what he means. “Everyone writes about you.”

“No,” he says, tilting his head to look up at you. “You wrote about me.”

You brush your fingers through his hair. “I write about what matters.”

He closes his eyes. “I hope you always do.”

You kiss his forehead. “And you’ll keep writing letters?”

He grins. “Until I run out of hiding spots.”

You smile. “Then you’ll just have to start saying them.”

He nods. “I will. One day.”

But until then-

The notes are enough.

***

He sounds like someone else on the phone.

The call comes after the sprint race in Miami, crackling with poor reception and exhaustion. He’s finished P2, and the media's already torn him apart for not converting pole into a win. Again. You can hear it in his voice — the frayed edges, the clipped tone he tries to soften for you.

“They said I’m not aggressive enough,” Charles mutters. “That I’m too emotional. That I’m-” he breaks off, breathing hard. “That I don’t have the killer instinct.”

You’re silent for a moment. “Do you believe them?”

“No,” he says, too fast. “But maybe … I don’t know. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m-” he trails off again, breath catching in his throat.

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “Charles.”

He doesn’t respond right away.

“Charles, look at me.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “You’re not here.”

And that’s all it takes.

You’re already moving, throwing clothes into a carry-on bag with more purpose than coordination. You book a last-minute flight while brushing your teeth, your laptop balanced on the bathroom counter. The Miami heat feels a world away, but you can already see it — the chaos of the paddock, the swarm of cameras, the sound bites dissecting his every word.

And underneath it all: him.

Raw. Alone.

Not anymore.

***

By the time you arrive, the Sunday sun is already bruising the skyline, and you haven’t slept in seventeen hours. But the moment you step through the paddock gates, heart pounding behind your lanyard and sunglasses, you know exactly what you’re looking for.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s talking to an engineer, brow furrowed, body wound tight like wire. But then someone taps his shoulder, nods in your direction, and Charles turns.

His whole face shifts.

Like breathing after holding it too long.

He doesn’t say anything. Just strides across the paddock like the ground might collapse between you if he doesn’t close the distance fast enough. And then he’s there — eyes wild, chest rising and falling fast.

“You’re here,” he breathes, voice cracked.

You nod. “Of course I am.”

He grabs your wrist — not roughly, but with urgency. “Come with me.”

He pulls you through a back hallway you’ve never seen before, past mechanics and closed doors, until he finds an unlocked storage closet that smells like tires and adrenaline. He drags you in, shuts the door behind him, and exhales like he’s finally allowed to fall apart.

And then-

His arms are around you.

Just like that.

He buries his face in your neck, hands shaking at your waist. “I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers. “I tried. I really tried.”

“I know,” you say, threading your fingers into his hair. “I know you did.”

“They said so many things,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not just about driving. About who I am. About what I’m not. It was so loud, and I just — I needed you.”

You pull back just enough to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Charles. Listen to me. You are not what they say. You’re still my Charles. Not just Ferrari’s. Not theirs.”

His eyes close, a single tear slipping down. “You always say the right thing.”

“No,” you say, brushing it away. “I just say what’s true.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you — hair a mess from travel, skin tired from the flight, sunglasses still tangled in your hair. And he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Like if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, the world will take you too.

Your back hits the supply shelf with a soft thud, and his hands are on your jaw, your shoulders, your waist — everywhere at once. You kiss him back just as fiercely, anchoring him with every breath.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“You’re still mine,” you whisper. “Always mine.”

***

That night, the hotel room is dark and quiet, lit only by the faint glow of Miami’s skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. You’re on the bed, curled up in one of his shirts, freshly showered, still buzzing from the day.

He sits on the edge, towel around his neck, hands braced on his knees like he’s holding himself together.

You crawl over to him slowly, wrapping your arms around his torso from behind.

“Hey,” you murmur against his shoulder.

He exhales. “I keep thinking I have to be perfect. Not just on track. Everywhere.”

“You don’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But they make it feel like I do. Like if I’m not smiling enough, or fast enough, or hard enough, I’m … replaceable.”

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “You’re not.”

He turns to face you, eyes dark and heavy with everything he’s been carrying.

“You always know how to make it stop hurting,” he whispers.

You crawl into his lap, straddling him slowly, hands cupping his cheeks.

“Because I love you,” you say simply.

His lips find yours again, slower this time. Less desperation. More reverence. His hands slide under your thighs, then up your back, anchoring you to him like you’re the only solid thing he has left.

“You’re my girl,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “My warmth. My sun.”

You kiss his temple. “Then let me be.”

And he does.

He lays you back on the sheets like you’re fragile and sacred all at once. His touch is soft but sure, worshipful, his hands tracing every inch of skin like it’s familiar scripture. He whispers in French sometimes, half-prayer, half-plea. His mouth brushes over your collarbone, your ribs, the inside of your wrist.

“Mon soleil,” he says again and again. “My girl. My warmth. My sun.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, breath catching as he kisses a slow trail along your sternum.

“You don’t have to prove anything here,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But I still want to show you.”

His voice trembles — not from nerves, but from feeling. Too much of it, barely contained.

“If I crash out of everything,” he says, forehead resting against yours, “I want to crash into you.”

Your heart stutters.

“I’d catch you,” you breathe.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s softer. Slower. Full of promises neither of you speak aloud. He moves like he’s memorizing you. Not rushing. Not conquering. Just … loving. Tracing you with quiet devotion.

When it’s over, he doesn’t let go. Just holds you to his chest, face buried in your hair.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Eventually, you say into the silence, “I’m coming to the next race.”

He nods, arm tightening around you. “Good.”

“I’ll be at the track. No press. Just watching.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Knowing you’re there changes everything.”

You press a hand to his heart. “It’s still yours, you know. Even when you think you’ve lost yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “You always bring me back.”

***

And in the morning, before you leave for the airport, you find another note.

Folded into the pocket of your hoodie.

His handwriting, scrawled but certain.

You saved me this weekend. You keep saving me. I love you more than the silence between races, more than the moments I win. You are the only finish line that matters.

You don’t cry.

But you hold it to your chest for a long time before tucking it into your wallet.

Where all the others live.

***

The mirror glints with a kind of reverence.

Your reflection blurs around the edges, not because of the makeup or the soft updo or the silk pooling at your ankles, but because tonight — the first time ever — you are not just his secret. You’re stepping into the light with him.

He’s behind you in the hotel room, shirtless and warm from the shower, towel still low on his hips. His eyes are on you like you’re something he dreamed up. Slowly, he crosses the floor, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You look like starlight,” Charles murmurs against your skin.

You smile softly. “That’s poetic.”

“It’s just true.”

Your fingers rest lightly over his. “You still sure about this? We can still back out. Stay here. Order room service. Watch old races until you fall asleep in your pasta again.”

He laughs quietly, that low, melted sound. “And miss the chance to show you off? No, mon solei.”

He kisses your shoulder, breath warm. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’ve been mine in the shadows for too long.”

***

The carpet is a blur of white lights and velvet ropes, of camera flashes and murmured names, but his hand never leaves yours.

Not once.

You step out of the car together, and everything slows.

You feel the collective intake of breath from the press line, from the onlookers who’ve speculated, dissected, whispered. Your dress shimmers under the strobes, and his tux is impeccable — tailored like the life he lives — but it’s the way he looks at you that steals the attention.

Not just affection. Not even pride.

A kind of awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and that you chose him.

It’s the kind of look that writes headlines before they’re even typed.

Charles doesn't falter. He doesn’t glance around to see who’s watching. His eyes are only for you. Fingers laced, thumb rubbing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles.

You hear one journalist gasp softly into her mic, like she’s realizing it in real time.

“That’s her,” someone murmurs. “The girl Charles Leclerc looks at like she hung the stars.”

And still, his eyes don’t leave yours.

“Too late to run?” You whisper as cameras flash like lightning.

He grins. “You run, I follow.”

A dozen questions are hurled in your direction as you move down the carpet together.

“Is this your girlfriend?”

“Are you official?”

“When did it start?”

Charles only smiles — polite but cool. Still untouchable. But his hand never wavers in yours. He lets the silence answer for him.

A look. A touch. A truth held in the space between bodies.

The world sees it.

And for once, you let them.

***

Later, when the speeches are done and the champagne has long gone warm, you both slip away.

Charles leads you up to the rooftop of the venue — one of those quiet, off-limits spots only someone like him could access without question. The wind brushes against your skin, and the lights of Monaco twinkle in the distance, reflected on the sea like fallen stars.

You kick off your heels the second the door closes behind you.

“God, I thought I was going to trip over a camera cable and faceplant into Toto Wolff,” you mutter.

Charles laughs, pulling off his bowtie and pocketing it. “I was watching your feet the entire time, just in case.”

You walk to the edge of the rooftop together, city stretched out below you like something painted. He stands behind you again, wrapping his arms around your waist, just like in the mirror hours ago.

“Everyone was staring,” you say, voice quieter now.

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn your head, just enough to see him. “Not too much?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted them to see. Finally.”

There’s a silence — comfortable, but heavy with something unsaid. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, letting the night soak into your skin.

“I’m proud of you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For being brave. For letting them see the real thing.”

He exhales slowly. “It wasn’t hard. Not with you next to me.”

You feel him shift behind you, hands moving, and then he’s stepping around to face you. His expression is unreadable — tender but serious, eyes darker than usual under the moonlight.

Then he pulls something from his jacket pocket.

A ring.

Small. Delicate. Not flashy.

Two stones nestled together, pressed into a slim gold band.

One for his birth month. One for yours.

Not a proposal.

But something more sacred, somehow.

A promise.

“Charles-”

“I don’t want headlines,” he says quietly. “I don’t want statements. I don’t even want to trend on Twitter.”

He takes your hand.

“I want you to know, here and now, that even if no one ever saw us, if this had stayed ours forever — I would still love you like this. With everything.”

He slides the ring onto your finger. It fits perfectly.

“It’s not for the world,” he adds. “It’s for you. For us. For the days you stayed when I gave you nothing but exhaustion and travel and chaos. For the nights you held me when I came home empty. It’s a reminder. That no matter where I am, what I win, how loud it gets …”

He cups your cheek.

“You are still the only thing I want to come home to.”

You’re crying before you can stop it.

He pulls you into his chest, rocking you gently as you try to speak.

“You always make me feel like I’m not just … orbiting your world,” you manage. “Like I belong.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes.

“You are my world.”

You shake your head slowly, overwhelmed. “You’re always giving and giving. Aren’t you tired?”

His expression softens. “I am,” he admits. “But I’m less tired when I’m with you.”

You lean your forehead against his, the ring cool against his skin.

“I’ll wear this every day,” you whisper. “Even if it’s just for me.”

He smiles. “It’s always just for you.”

***

Much later, back in the hotel room, you sit on the balcony while he undresses inside. The city hums below, faint and electric. The air smells like salt and roses.

He comes out in soft cotton and bare feet, moving quietly.

And he sees you — bathed in the golden spill of the balcony lights, skin glowing, hair a little undone from the night, ring catching the faint glint of stars.

It mirrors the first night you sat like this, back at the beginning.

When he came home unraveling and found you, grounding him without even trying.

Now, he stops in the doorway, watching you like he’s memorizing it.

Like if he looks away, the light might disappear.

You glance up. “What?”

He smiles, slow and quiet. Walks over and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

“Mon soleil.”

You tilt your face toward him, teasing. “You’re really not gonna retire that nickname, huh?”

“Never,” he says simply, kissing your temple again. “Because it’s still true.”

You shift so he can sit behind you, and he wraps his arms around your waist, legs bracketing yours as you both look out at the water.

“The world saw you tonight,” he says after a long silence.

“And?” You murmur.

He presses his lips to the curve of your neck.

“And they finally know what I’ve always known,” he whispers.

You turn to look at him.

“That I revolve around you.”

The wind tugs gently at your hair, and his hands find yours again. His grip is warm. Steady.

You lean into him and close your eyes.

And for once, the world doesn’t feel too loud.

Because it’s not just you in the shadows anymore.

It’s you, glowing.

And him — right where he’s always been.

Yours.

[sttoru]

.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. toji can’t get his deserved rest due to his baby boy keeping him awake.

wc. 707

tags. dad!toji x female reader. nothing else to add; just pure fluff.

“he’s kickin’ me again,” toji complains with a deep sigh. tiny feet keep patting his back, not allowing the man to sleep at all. the culprit is none other than megumi—his beloved, yet bratty, son.

the little boy lays between you and your husband. you figured that this was best since megumi kept wailing each time you put him back in his crib.

you chuckle at toji’s groans of annoyance. your son is still full of energy, even if it’s already super late at night. your hand brushes against megumi’s chubby cheek and you can’t help but squeeze it lightly.

that action gains you a high-pitched squeak. you sigh and keep your child occupied with the movement of your finger against his face, “it’s his way of asking for attention, honey.”

toji grumbles something under his breath and scoots away from the both of you. megumi’s head turns towards his dad, his attention caught by the rustling of the sheets. you raise an eyebrow in response to toji putting distance between you both.

“papa’s mean,” you huff, talking to your baby. you can’t see toji’s face since his broad back is obstructing the view, though you can easily guess that he’s frowning.

maybe even secretly sulking about the lack of sleep. you do understand, however. he’s worked hard all day to provide for both megumi and you.

“papa,” megumi speaks up with an adorable pout on his lips. he crawls over to toji before you can stop him. the little boy taps at toji’s back again, tugging at the fabric of his shirt.

megumi’s need for attention and affection from his father is heartwarming to see. you reach out towards your son in hopes of picking him back up. toji needs his rest after all.

a deep sigh escapes toji’s lips. not one of frustration this time, but rather one of defeat. he opens his eyes and turns around to face megumi. the man’s stoic face softens the moment he sees those cute doe eyes staring up at him.

“c’mere,” toji grumbles and lifts his child’s tiny body up without any effort. megumi giggles instantly and reaches his hands out to hold his dad’s face. your husband playfully bites your son’s tiny fingers instead, “not gonna allow y’r dad to sleep, huh? tsk tsk.”

you watch the scene unfold with a tender smile. toji lowers his head and starts blowing raspberries against megumi’s tummy. the baby squeals and giggles uncontrollably, writhing around in toji’s embrace.

“this is what ya get for being a brat,” toji mumbles and switches to leaving kisses along the little boy’s belly. that makes megumi laugh as well due to the ticklishness.

toji grins. his earlier drowsiness and annoyance have vanished into thin air. he can’t possibly stay mad at his son. not after seeing megumi happy. and especially not after seeing your content smile too.

“mama! mama!” megumi laughs between cries of help. his tiny hand reaches out to you whilst toji continues the little attack on his tummy. you chuckle and decide to intervene.

you scoot over to the other side and shield megumi’s tiny body from your husband’s tickles. you frown and playfully scold him, “stay away from my baby, you big bad guy.”

toji raises an eyebrow in amusement. he bites back a laugh before cocking his head to the side, that familiar smug expression appearing on his face.

“oh yeah? ‘m the bad guy now, eh?” the dark-haired man rolls his eyes. he towers over both you and your son - who’s giggling and still holding tightly onto you, “all right. i’ll show you just how bad i can be then.”

your eyes widen the moment you feel toji’s fingers land underneath your shirt, touching your bare skin. not a second passes by and he’s already tickling you. his other hand reaches for megumi’s tummy again—now making the both of you squirm and giggle loudly.

the happy sounds echo throughout the room. perhaps even loud enough for your neighbours to hear at four in the morning. but, you don’t care about any possible noise complaints. not during this cozy family moment.

plus toji’s fond smile as he continues torturing you and your son is definitely worth all of it.

[matrixfangs]

cradle and all

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: You can't keep any blood that you drink down, and that leads to a shocking realization. based off this request!

word count: 3k

warnings: pregnancy, blood, vampire baby

tags: @moobell55, @eternalstrigoii, @wpdarlingpan, @manyimaginativemuses, @boywivlove, @zatarias-pandora, @herccfs, @depressed-and-horror-obsessed, @jakesullyswhore, @resurrectionist3, @minaxcarter <<3 (i forgot to add the taglist until after i posted it, so sorry if you've already seen the fic!)

a/n: hello, hello! i would first and foremost like to thank all the people that helped me write this oneshot when I was getting terrible writer's block!! @spikedfearn, @eternalstrigoii, @hyoscyxmine, and everyone else in our cutesy little discord! rosie specifically gave me the "shootin' blanks" line which I giggled at for a long time, and the idea of reader craving things like blood mixed with grape jelly. they were especially such a huge help to me! cheers to the anon who requested this! i hope you enjoy!

Sick.

In your twenty years of being undead, you’d never felt sick before. 

Your latest victim sat in the corner of the alleyway you’d followed him into, hand pressed into the bite wound on his neck. The small remainder of his blood trickled through his fingers and into the white collar of his shirt. He was half dead, his dull eyes drifting to things that weren’t there. 

And you were hunched over in the other corner, hands pressed against a brick wall as his blood came back up, and splattered onto the dirty pavement. The intoxicating taste of his life was gone, and all that was left was a coppery burn in your throat. You pressed your forehead against the wall as you spat the last of it out. 

You knew bad blood, tainted with disease or substances. It was bitter and thin, it didn’t fill you up. This blood had been as pure as all other mortals, sweet and full of memories. Children’s laughter, a sunny day perched on a dock, clear skies. But your body was rejecting it, and if you couldn’t feed, you couldn’t live. Your body was wracked with shivers as you left your victim.

Remmick was reading when you got home that night, the edges of him all soft and pliant in your bed. His eyes brightened when you walked in, the book immediately forgotten in his lap.

“You smell hungry, sweet thing.” He held out his arms, his hands making grabbing motions for you. The lamplight next to him caught the light of the gold ring around his finger, the one matching yours. “C’mere.”

It took no time for you to kick off your wet boots and crawl on top of the sheets and quilted blankets older than your immortality, your head finding solace on Remmick’s lap. You pressed your face into him, breathed in his scent. Something much older than you, but familiar and warm.

“Thought you went out to feed.” Remmick hummed, drawing shapes into your scalp with his fingers. “But you still feel cold.”

“I tried.” You huffed, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling of his touch. “I couldn’t keep it down.”

Remmick’s hand stilled, and he grabbed your head gently, turning your face to look at him. The muddied, ancient red of his eyes made him look so devastatingly pretty in the low light. You resisted the urge to rub out the crease between his eyebrows. Instead, you found the gold chain that rested under his white t-shirt, the one he’d had since before you knew him. Your fingertips ran over its indent. 

“Couldn’t keep it down?” He looked into your eyes like he was examining you, his thumbs running over your cheekbones. His lips parted, and his teeth elongated and sharpened in his mouth. “Let me taste you. I’ll find out what’s wrong.”

You nodded, allowing Remmick to brush your hair from your neck. The pain of his fangs puncturing your skin was nearly nonexistent from how many times he’d done it before. His tongue licked over the wounds - tasting, not drinking. He hummed, pulling back with red-stained teeth.

“Nothin’ is wrong, sweetheart, but…” He leaned down again, tongue lapping up more of the blood that’d trickled down the expanse of your neck. “It’s off. Thinner, like somethin’ is draining you from the inside.”

Remmick’s tongue, long and serpent-like, ran over his lips. His hand splayed over your body, rubbing your skin like he was trying to feel what was underneath it. 

“Rem,” Your cold hand covered his, rings clinking together. “You’re making me nervous.”

He hummed low in his throat, hands continuing their exploration. Squeezing your thighs, running across your sternum, and ghosting over your chest. When his large palm reached your stomach, he paused, his face an expressionless mask. 

“Remmick,” You said, a bit firmer.

He looked at you then, and his eyes had turned a brighter red. “Impossible.” He said quietly, his accent twisting into something older. “It looks like I ain’t shootin’ blanks after all, darlin’.”

Your eyebrows raised. “Remmick, what the fuck are you talking about?”

His hand moved to your heart, undead and unbeating for the past two decades. “No heartbeat.” His hand slid back down to your stomach, pressing gently. “One heartbeat.”

You fell silent. You didn’t have to think about what he was saying, it made complete sense. But it couldn’t be real, not with how long you’d been dead. And Remmick, he was centuries old. How could the two of you create life?

“A baby.” He confirmed, his lip curling. “Our baby.”

“Our baby,” You repeated, the words a ghost on your lips. Your hands found his on your belly. “How are we going to have a baby?”

“Same way anyone else does, I reckon.” His lips pressed to the top of your head, his nose nuzzling into your hair. He wouldn’t move his hands from your stomach, his fingertips feeling the steady, tiny heartbeat underneath your skin. He’d made that heartbeat. He thought he’d never have a family, and here one was growing right in front of him. 

You slept in the same coffin that morning, Remmick’s arms tight around your stomach, legs intertwined with each other like long begonia vines.

—

Your hand tightened in Remmick’s grip as you looked over the small, decrepit cottage. The wood was rotted and coated in moss, a big willow tree hung over the collapsed roof. Your hand instinctively found the barely perceptible, 17-week-old bump of your stomach. You felt the small heartbeat, and it calmed you.

“Where’d you hear about this place again?” You asked nervously, looking to Remmick. The moon cast shadows over his face, coating his sharp features in a gray haze that made him look all soft around the edges.

He lifted your hand, kissing the knuckles. “Oh, I’ve known Mother Dierdre since before your time, belonged to a coven I was in for a time. She’s old, older than me.” His eyes slid down your body, over your stomach. He smiled, prideful. “A midwife, before she was one of us.”

Your nose crinkled as you looked at the cottage again, nestled in between a swamp and an ancient forest a few miles away, with branches that twisted out like they were reaching to grab you. “Doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”

Remmick’s hand untangled from yours to find purchase on your hip instead. He pulled you along, nestled into his side, as you walked down the long path that led to the cottage’s door. He didn’t knock, just twisted the moss-covered doorknob. 

The inside, surprisingly clean and cozy, smelled like something older than time itself - clove and cinnamon and moldy leather. A hearth held a crackling fire inside of it, and the rest of the cottage was lined with herbs hanging on hooks, books with pages falling apart, and old furniture that looked like it’d collapse if one person sat on it.

“Dierdre?” Remmick called, accent shifting into something more native to his being. “Cá bhfuil tú?”

A breeze blew through the thin walls of the cottage, brushing your hair against your shoulders. The door behind you closed, and when you turned, an old woman stood there. She was beautiful in her old age. Cascading gray hair, dark eyes, wrinkles carved into her olive skin that only prolonged her beauty and made her look wise. 

“Remmick,” Her voice was sweet and airy, like butterscotch candy on your tongue. “I was wondering when you’d bring her to me.”

Remmick’s thumb rubbed up and down the sliver of skin between your jeans and shirt. “Dierdre, this is-”

“I know who she is, darling.” Deirdre laughed, and it sounded like bells ringing. “Just didn’t think it’d be this soon.”

She stepped forward, hands reaching out with long, transparent nails that looked like glass on her fingers. She looked between your stomach and you with permission, and you nodded. The trust in her was something inherent in your chest, something you couldn’t explain.

Her hands were gentle on your stomach, pressing with only the slightest pressure. She nodded, eyes gleaming, moving back and forth as if she were listening to someone speak. 

“How lovely it is,” She whispered, looking at your stomach as if it were a miracle unfolding before her. “To create something so lovely out of such a horror.” She looked up at you, raising an abnormally long finger. “You hunger all the time now, don’t you?”

Your stomach nearly growled at the mention of it, your body growing feverish at the thought of hot blood running down your throat. “Yes,” You nodded, swallowing the drool that threatened to spill over your lips. “But I can’t keep any of it down.”

Deirdre nodded, lifting her hands from your belly. She looked at Remmick and pulled something from the pocket of her tattered, faded dress. A small blade, gleaming in the darkness of the cottage.

“Your hand, Remmick.” 

Something protective flooded your senses, your body moving to shield Remmick from her view. Your teeth felt longer in your mouth. “You’re not touching him.”

“I only try to help, dear.” 

Remmick’s hand was gentle where it landed on your shoulder, fingertips grazing the skin at your neck. “Let her help.”

Your eyes remained narrowed at the old woman as you stepped away, watching her grab Remmick’s hand. There was no flinching or hissing as she ran the blade over his palm, deep enough to create a small pool of blood in his cupped hand. As the smell lingered, you felt the hair on your body begin to stand up.

“The child,” Deirdre hummed, raising the blade coated in Remmick’s blood. 

The speed of your hand was inhuman, snatching it from her. Your hands trembled as you raised it to your tongue to taste the sweet, coppery essence of your partner. 

“Needs its father’s blood to survive. As well as the mother’s. Not just any mortal blood will do.” Deirdre continued, watching you like a lion slaughtering a gazelle. She nodded to Remmick, wrinkled hand pushing his own toward you. “It’s alright. Feed your child.”

Something animalistic had taken over you as you cleaned Remmick’s hand entirely, until all that was left was the small cut, fresh blood beading at the edges. Remmick was smiling, watching the color return to your skin. Watching your face become fuller before his very eyes. 

“She’ll need more as the child grows,” Deirdre said, patting Remmick on the shoulder and kissing his cheek like a grandmother would her grandson. You had released his hand, licking at the remnants of his blood at the corner of your mouth. 

“Will it survive on its own?” You asked, voice raspy and thick from the blood. “The baby…”

Deirdre hummed, crossing the cottage floor to peer out of the cottage window.

That, my dear,” She replied, eyes glowing when they moved back to look at you. “Depends entirely on the horrors you’re willing to commit for it.”

—

By the five-month mark, Remmick had obsessively warmed up to the baby more than you had. There wasn’t a night that passed where he wasn’t kissing the bump, talking to it, pressing his ear to your skin to hear the tiny heartbeat.

But your body, that had been dead and unchanging for twenty years, was now growing at a rapid rate. Your feet were swollen, elevated on a chair in your humble living room. Remmick had just gotten home from feeding, his lips stained red in that irresistible way that made something stir in your chest.

 He kneeled, pressing his cheek to your stomach.

“What’s that lil’ terror want, huh?” He pressed his ear against you as if the baby could talk back. “What’s she craving?”

You smiled, fingers coming up to brush the dark hair from his forehead. “She?”

Remmick’s eyes closed at your touch, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Just a feeling, mama.”

“Mm,” Your fingers left his hair, and Remmick’s eyes opened to look at you. “Well, this little terror is craving something bloody and sweet.” Your smile widened. “Do we still have that grape jelly?” Remmick’s nose crinkled, his body rearing back in disgust. “You can’t be serious. I was hoping that was a one-time thing.”

“It isn’t so bad.” You pouted, reaching for his hand. “And it’s for me,” You pulled his palm back to the growing bump of your stomach. “And for her.”

“For her, huh?” He asked, lips stretching into a smile, showing off his pointed white teeth. 

“Just a feeling, Rem.” You said, echoing his words. Referring to him as a father always made him giddy, and he stood, walking to the kitchen with a grin that threatened to split his face in two.

—

Warm water trickled over your hair, Remmick’s hand against your forehead to shield your eyes. At eight months pregnant, your belly couldn’t even be fully submerged in the steaming bath water that he’d prepared for you. Rose petals floated around your naked form, the only light provided being a few candles that Remmick had perched on the edge of the tub. You watched his flickering shadow on the wall, his hands gently moving to take care of you.

“You look so beautiful like this.” He hummed, setting down the pitcher he used to rinse your hair. His voice was sweet molasses falling from a spoon, slow and heavy. “Round with our lil’ terror, glowing…” The washrag in his hands found your shoulder. He moved it gently down your arm, quiet and worshipful. “Ain’t nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you carry my child.”

Despite the warm water surrounding you, your body shivered at his words. You tilted your head, the damp skin of your forehead finding his arm. “Nothin’ more beautiful than seeing you become a father, I’d say.”

Remmick’s lip twitched, his soft eyes crinkling with a faint smile. “It’s been twenty centuries since I had a family of my own…” He lifted his hand, pressing the rag to the back of your neck. The warm water trickled down your spine, tickling your skin. “To have one with you, if I had to -  I’d wait twenty centuries more. Longer, even.”

The candle flames flickered, and in the low light, you saw it - something shining in the corner of his eye. A small, bloody tear, falling down the side of his perfectly sculpted nose. It was all his immortal body could produce, but it was there. Your chest ached at the sight of your monster, crying by your side. In the two decades you’d been by Remmick’s side, hunting and killing and running - you’d never seen him weep before. Not when he talked about where he’d come from, not when he sang songs that he’d learnt as a boy. 

Your hand left the bath, coming up to cradle his face. He didn’t care that your skin was wet and clammy; he nuzzled into your touch anyway, cheek finding your slick palm as he closed his eyes. 

“Didn’t think I could cry anymore.” He chuckled, eyelashes fluttering against your skin. “Certainly not over somethin’ good happening to me for a change.”

—

The baby slept, her little body nestled in a small, rocking bassinet that Remmick had carved a few weeks before her birth. She was so small, so impossibly fragile. You watched her little chest rise and fall, her little hands opening in closing as if she were dreaming.

And though Remmick liked to say that she looked like her mama, you were happy to disagree. She had Remmick’s nose, his little curling, mischievous lip, his goofy, big ears that peeked out from dark hair.

Her name was Sorcha. Light. Brightness. A name chosen in defiance to any danger that dared to come near her.

You turned to look at Remmick’s sleeping form on your bed, his arms crossed against his chest as he lay on his side. He’d promised he’d only sleep for twenty minutes - you’d let him sleep longer.

When you had met Remmick, he’d been so weary. Mourning for a time long lost, ghosts pulling him down and making him drag every footstep. His eyes held the grief of every person he’d lost, or who’d left him. He’d been like that for a long time, a figment of his past. 

Now, he was entirely his own. 

When you awoke later that morning, curtains drawn to shield the cruel sun, you could hear wood creaking. You opened one eye, senses coming to life as you readjusted in bed. Remmick was no longer beside you, but instead across the room in an old rocking chair, cradling your child in his arms. His long legs stretched out before him, in knitted, mismatched socks, no less.

His hands, so capable of violence and destruction, held her like he’d burn down the world for daring to hurt her.

And then - his voice, lighter than you’d ever heard it. He was singing, low and smooth. His voice was quiet, so as not to wake you.

“I will build my love a bower, by yon cool and crystal fountain… and on it I will pile all the flowers of the mountain. Will ye go, lassie, go? And we’ll all go together to pull wild mountain thyme all around the bloomin’ heather… will ye go, lassie go?”

You remained still, not wanting to interrupt the moment. But your heart flooded with warmth as you watched them, your little family that you’d never expected to have. Sorcha was different, something not quite human, and not quite vampire. She craved blood already, in such a small body. Not just any person’s, but yours and Remmick’s. It brewed something ancient in her, something dangerous.

Remmick’s voice drifted off as his eyes met yours. You smiled at him, sitting up in bed. “I’m sorry,” You stood, crossing over to him in bare feet. One hand found his shoulder, the other cradled your child’s head. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“She was cryin’...” Remmick said in a hushed tone. “Just got her back to sleep.”

Your pointer finger found Sorcha’s hand, and she instinctively squeezed it, little fingers wrapping around yours. You could feel her - her contentment in her father’s arms. Her full belly. Her strong nature.

Your little Sorcha. Your light in the dark.

------

Irish Gaelic translations:

Cá bhfuil tú? - where are you?

[mercvry-glow]

Stop making this hurt

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

summary. jack knew he didn’t want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

warnings. pitt fest incident, guns/shootings, hospital setting, blood and gore, reader gets hurt, death (not reader), medical inaccuracies and not show accurate but i tried my best, jack and robby are stressed af, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. finally my first pitt fest fic, hopefully this is angsty enough for ya'll and pleases all of my anons who asked for this! I love all of you, thank you for almost 300 followers and as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 3600+

You knew it was a long shot trying to convince Jack to come with you to Pitt-Fest.

Crowds were never his thing, not even before his time as an Army medic. Too loud, too many moving parts, too unpredictable. Add a decade of trauma medicine on top of that, and the thought of shoulder-to-shoulder festival traffic was enough to make him visibly tense. You didn’t blame him — not even a little.

And as much as you loved your husband, you weren’t going to fight him on this one.

“Go have fun,” he’d told you that morning, standing in the doorway in his usual worn t-shirt and sweats, a coffee mug in one hand and the other wrapped around your waist. “Text me when you get there. And text me again when you leave. And maybe don’t lose your phone this time?”

You’d rolled your eyes, kissed him once, then twice — and promised to behave.

Truly, it was better for him to spend his one of his days off actually resting, not galavanting around the venue with you and your friends, half-drunk on overpriced cider and yelling about pierogi trucks.

So you let yourself enjoy it. The chaos, the music, the warm breeze coming off the river. You danced with your friends in the middle of the concert to some college band playing covers too fast. You tasted six different kinds of barbecue and took a picture with a guy dressed like a giant bottle of Heinz ketchup. And every couple hours, your phone buzzed with a little check-in from Jack — usually short, always a little dry since he wasn’t a big texter.

JACKY [1:14 PM] You hydrated today or just vibes?

JACKY [3:06 PM] Hope the pierogi truck is worth the foot traffic.

JACKY [4:11 PM] Home if you need me. 

You were smiling at that last one about to respond around 5pm, standing in line for boozy lemon slushies with Emma and a few others, when it happened.

At first, it was just a sound — one that didn’t register immediately. A sharp crack in the distance. Then another. Then screaming.

The crowd surged before your brain caught up. Someone dropped their drink. Someone else shoved you sideways. Your phone slipped out of your hand and hit the pavement.

“Is that—” Emma started to say, eyes wide.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Run.”

You didn’t know where the shots had come from. You didn’t stop to look. You just moved — through the panicked chaos, toward the edge of the crowd, ducking behind a food truck with a group of strangers just as another round cracked the air like lightning.

Your chest was tight. Ears ringing. People were yelling. Crying. Calling for help. And your phone—your phone was still on the street.

Jack.

You couldn’t call him.

But he’d know. You didn’t know how, you just knew.

And however a mile away, as police scanners lit up and trauma alerts pinged on hospital radios, Jack was already on his feet — keys in hand, work boots half tied—and heart racing faster than he’d felt since he returned to US soil.

He didn’t wait for a callback. Didn’t care that he wasn’t on the schedule. He grabbed his badge and his trauma bag and was in the truck before the next dispatcher finished her second sentence.

Because something had happened at Pitt-Fest.

And you were there.

It really sounded like a firecracker at first — maybe someone messing around near the alley that ran behind the Pitt-Fest booths. But then came the second, then the third. Screaming followed.

You turned your head just in time to see another wave of people running. And then—

“EMMA!!”

She was beside you one second, and the next, she was down.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just dropped to your knees, catching her head before it hit the pavement, your mind going a mile a minute.

“Hey, hey—Em—look at me,” you said, your voice louder than you realized. “Where were you hit?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, blood already soaking through her shirt and fingers.

“Fuck,” you hissed. “Okay. Okay, pressure. Emmy, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay.”

You barely noticed the searing pain until your legs buckled and you were on your side. A sharp, ripping sensation tore through your ribs like glass.

Shot. 

You had been shot too.

Someone was shouting. A vendor nearby had flipped a table and was screaming for people to duck. A stranger—a kid, maybe barely twenty not much younger than you—ran toward you both through the chaos, eyes wide.

“Are you hurt? I have a truck—”

“Help us—please!” you said, trying to sit up, trying not to black out. “I’m a doctor—ER. Trauma. She needs a hospital now.”

He nodded, panicked, glancing at the blood now pooling on the concrete. “We’re like five blocks from PTMC—I’ll drive!”

You helped haul Emma up with shaking arms, biting back a cry when your chest screamed in protest. She groaned as you dragged her toward the curb, her weight nearly toppling you.

The kid had his pickup pulled up half on the sidewalk within seconds.

“Put her in the bed!” you ordered. “It’ll be faster to lift her in!”

Someone else joined—another panicked bystande —helping you hoist Emma into the truck bed as gently and as quickly as possible. You climbed in after her, teeth gritted, your once cute outfit sticky with blood.

“Go!” you screamed as the tailgate slammed shut behind you.

The engine roared and the truck peeled off, tires screeching. You barely held on, your legs braced against the wheel well, one arm clamped across Emma’s wound, the other pressing against your own side to slow the bleeding.

“You’re okay,” you told her, voice tight, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. “Emma, you’re gonna make it. You’re not fucking dying at Pitt-Fest! I won’t let you.”

Her eyes fluttered, and you cursed under your breath, checking her pulse. 

Thready. Too fast.

You knew you had minutes. Maybe less.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Jack was at the Pitt. On shift or not, he was always there when it mattered.

He had no idea you were on your way. Or that you were bleeding out in the back of a stranger’s truck, racing through downtown Pittsburgh.

But if you made it… if you could just hold on a little longer…

You’d see him again.

The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart with every pothole it hit on Carson Street. The shocks weren’t built for this kind of weight or speed, and the stranger behind the wheel didn’t care. He’d barely said a word since he’d skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos. Now, you could barely hold your head up.

Emma was curled in on herself across from you, clutching the side of the truck bed like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her glitter jacket was soaked through—Msot of it hers, some of it not—and her ponytail had come loose, curls hanging limp against her face.

You turned your head toward her, everything in you aching.

“Em,” you rasped.

She didn’t answer.

“Emma, look at me.”

She did, finally. Her lip was split, her eyes glassy. She was holding her side with one hand, the other shaking where it pressed against her stomach. Blood oozed through her fingers.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know.” You reached out, hand slick and trembling. You were starting to feel lightheaded, the pain in your side sharp and spreading, warm and wet and endless. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. We’re almost there.”

She nodded—but then her gaze dropped to your side, and her eyes widened. “Babe… you're—”

“Don’t look at me.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Just breathe, Em. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. The blood loss was getting worse. Your top was drenched. The bullet had torn low, near your hip, and every bump in the road sent fresh agony lancing through your whole body. You tried to apply pressure but your arm wouldn’t stop shaking.

The guy driving honked again, swerving around a city bus. Ahead, PTMC’s trauma bay came into view, the red trauma flags flapping against the gray building. Almost there. Almost safe.

Then Emma made a sound that shattered you.

It was small. Wet. A choking breath followed by nothing.

You lurched forward, dragging yourself toward her with everything you had left. 

“Emma—Emmy. Stay awake. Look at me.”

Her head lolled. Her eyes were still open, just barely. “I’m really cold,” she whispered.

“No, baby. No, you’re not.” You gathered her into your lap, tried to shield her with what strength you had left. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

The truck hit the curb at full speed, rocking the bed. The brakes screamed as it slid sideways, stopping half a second before it would’ve crashed into the wall of the trauma bay. And then hands—at least half a dozen of them—were yanking open the tailgate.

Chaos.

“Two critical GSWs in the back—Jesus, they’re both going out!”

“She’s losing consciousness!”

“Someone help me get her—”

“She’s coding!”

You heard all of it like you were underwater. You were vaguely aware of someone pulling Emma from your limp arms. Someone else catching you as your head dropped back, limp, blood seeping down your spine.

A nurse’s voice rang out as she tried to open your airway.

“Who is she—anyone got a name?!”

No one answered.

Inside the trauma bay, Jack was elbow-deep in yet another chest wound, barking orders, adrenaline humming through his veins. He didn’t hear the commotion at the ambulance bay over the noise of suction and a flatline monitor. Didn’t look up when the bay doors slammed open again.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t know that somewhere down the hall, two trauma rooms were opening side by side—one for your best friend who wouldn’t make it, and one for you, his wife, who just might.

Not yet.

But he would.

He always did.

Now rushing inside to the hub, “Her BP’s eighty systolic and dropping—she’s hemorrhaging fast.”

“Pulse is thready. Pupils sluggish.”

“Get Dr. Robby in here, now!”

The trauma bay was already spinning into motion when Michael stepped through the sliding doors, hand dragging down over his messy brown hair. He was halfway into his  new trauma gown as he crossed the room.

“What’ve we got?”

“GSW to the lower abdomen. Entry left, possible exit—can’t tell through the bleeding. She was brought in non-EMS, unknown downtime.”

Robinavitch’s eyes tracked the chaos instantly, sharp and assessing. He reached the foot of the bed and froze just long enough to squint at your face beneath the mask of blood, dirt, and bruises. Something flickered across his expression.

“…Is that—?”

“Yeah,” one of the nurses whispered. “That’s our second Abbot.”

He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just snapped his gloves tighter and stepped in, voice calm but commanding.

“Alright. Let’s move. I need two large-bore IVs, type and cross, four units O-neg hanging yesterday, and someone page trauma surgery—now.”

A nurse slid a face shield over his head as he pulled the curtain closed behind him.

“Pressure dressing’s soaked through.”

“She’s crashing, Dr. Robby.”

Michael leaned in over your body, catching the faintest movement of your chest. He knew your voice, your laugh, the way you snapped off one-liners at Jack and him in the hall. And right now, none of that mattered. You were just another patient bleeding out on his table. And he was going to keep you alive.

“Hang another liter. Let’s get a FAST scan going—we need to find that bleed.”

A tech slid gel across your abdomen. The screen flared to life, the grainy black-and-white image revealing what they were dreading.

“She’s bleeding into her abdomen,” someone said.

“No kidding,” Robby muttered. Then louder: “Alright. We don’t have time. Prep her straight for the OR. I want her there five minutes ago.”

He pressed down on the wound with both hands, hard. Princess to his left winced.

“She should seee Jack,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “Jack needs her to still be breathing when he finds out.”

He looked down at you, your face pale and growing colder beneath his fingers.

“You hang on,” he said under his breath. “You do not die on me. He will never recover.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes fluttered once, lips barely parted. A sound escaped, too soft to decipher as Mikey leaned closer. 

Not as a doctor now, but as a close friend. 

“What was that?”

Your mouth twitched. “Tell… Jack…”

But then your body jolted under his hands—heart monitor screaming into v-fib.

“Code!” someone shouted.

“Start compressions!” Robinavitch was already moving, calling for paddles. “One of you get Abbot!”

“But he’s still in Pink—”

“I don’t care if he’s in surgery or nott,” he snapped. “Tell him it’s his wife. Tell him she’s coding.”

Across the hospital floor, Jack looked up—something in his chest going cold before he even knew why.

The Pink Zone was chaos, and Red was a shit show. 

Jack had blood smeared to his elbows and the kind of tension in his jaw that only came from running full tilt on no sleep. His short, curls—streaked at the temples with silver—were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and quick, were laser-focused on the wound in front of him.

“Clamp—now,” he barked, voice low and lethal.

The security guard on the table had been fine for the minute, eventually turning critical. Shrapnel to the chest. He’d already coded once in triage. Jack had cracked him open right there on the gurney, and there was no room in his world for anything else.

Until—

“Dr. Abbot!”

He didn’t look up. “Hold pressure!.”

“Jack!”

That voice. Too familiar.

He finally looked.

One of the new night shift  interns stood just inside the trauma bay doors, Jacob’s own scrubs stained and his expression wrecked. And he never looked wrecked.

Jack straightened, adrenaline still coursing, brow furrowed. “What?”

Jacob’s mouth opened—but nothing came out at first. He took a breath. Another. Then:

“She’s here. Your wife.”

The words didn’t land right at first. Jack blinked, frowning, like he hadn’t heard correctly.

“She what?”

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Came in the fourth or fifth wave from Pitt-Fest,” the young man said, voice tight. “They stabilized her. She was hypotensive on arrival. Tachy. Someone named Emma was with her—they were in the back of a civilian truck.”

The name Emma barely registered.

Jack’s pulse went sideways.

“She coded once—Robby sent her to the OR.”

“No,” Jack said, too fast, shaking his head. “No, she wasn’t even—she said she’d text me when—she wasn’t—”

The air felt thick. Too heavy. Too loud. His fingers curled into fists, shaking beneath his gloves.

“Dr. Abbot,” Someone said, stepping closer. “She’s still alive. They got her back. But you can’t leave right now. We need you here.”

Jack didn’t move.

“She asked for you,” Jacobs added quietly.

That broke something open.

Jack’s hazel eyes—usually unreadable—flashed wide. For half a second, pure panic. He turned, looking toward the hall that led to the elevators, toward OR.

But he couldn’t go. He knew it. The man on the table in front of him was dying.

And his wife… his wife was being cut open upstairs.

He squeezed his eyes shut once, breathing like it physically hurt. When he opened them, they were steely again. Grounded by sheer force of will.

“Tell Robinavitch to get me when she’s out,” Jack said. His voice was barely steady. “And tell him if she crashes again—he calls me. Immediately.”

“I will,” Jacob promised.

Jack didn’t answer. He just turned back to his patient like his spine was made of iron. Like his heart wasn’t bleeding under his ribs.

But his hands trembled—just once—before they found the scalpel again.

And he didn’t say another word about it, because what was there to say you could be gone before he even got to see you. 

Eventually the world returned in fragments.

A slow, stuttering beep. The soft rustle of hospital sheets. The sterile hum of fluorescent lighting. Everything hurt—but not sharply. Not like it had. Now it was dull and heavy, like your body was made of stone, barely yours.

You blinked against the overhead light. It took effort. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand.

A shape moved beside you.

Jack.

He was hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight. His short, silvery curls were flattened on one side, sticking up in the back like he hadn’t moved in hours. His hazel eyes were fixed on the floor, red-rimmed, dark and distant.

Your heart monitor ticked just a little faster. He looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he breathed, already at your side.

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hi.”

Jack let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and reached for your hand. His touch was careful, reverent. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“Me too,” you rasped.

He gave you a sip of water, helping steady the cup as you drank. When you pulled back, your throat still felt raw—but the words came anyway.

“Emma?”

Jack’s face changed.

The crack in his expression wasn’t obvious, but you’d seen it before—on the battlefiel, in different red zone code blues, in the quiet moments after a loss. He didn’t answer right away.

You already knew.

“…She didn’t make it,” he said softly. “They couldn’t even try. She was gone in the truck.”

Your breath hitched.

“She was getting married,” you whispered, tears already brimming. “She was twenty-eight, Jack...”

“I know.”

“She was going to try out for th-that promotion. She just bought her wedding dress last week—she wanted to show you, and—and she was finally gonna ask David to move in with—”

Jack didn’t try to stop your rambling grief. He just leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know,” he said again, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “She died in my arms...”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he murmured, guilt and grief bleeding into his voice. “I was a couple zones over. We were shoulder to shoulder with victims. I didn’t know until after they took you up to surge.”

You blinked fast. “Were you there when I came in?”

“Robby got you stable. Barely. Everyone just said it was bad. Said  one of ours went down.” His voice caught. 

“Jack.”

“I couldn’t go up,” he whispered. “They were still bringing bodies in. And you were already in surgery. I had to keep working.”

Your vision blurred again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you’re the one that got shot.” His hazel eyes were fierce now, even through the exhaustion. “You did everything you could. You kept Emma safe as long as you could. And you lived. That’s all that matters right now.”

You didn’t feel like it should be enough. Not with her gone, and the fate of the rest of your friends unknown. But the way Jack looked at you—like the entire world had stopped spinning until your heart started beating again—it made the pain settle differently.

He reached up and brushed your hair back, his touch gentle. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Since the first shots rang out at Pitt-Fest, you let yourself feel the weight of everything that had happened. 

Your fingers twitched under his, slow and aching, but deliberate. Jack noticed immediately, shifting to cradle your hand in both of his, as if he could anchor you there by touch alone.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “Thank you for staying with me…”

Jack’s eyes closed, lashes trembling. His head bowed as his grip on your hand tightened, pulling it gently to his chest.

“I’d stay a thousand times,” he murmured. “I’d go through hell a thousand times if it meant getting you back.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest—because you believed him. There was no part of Jack Abbot that ever did anything halfway, least of all when it came to you.

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “In that truck. I-I knew Emma  was gone and—I couldn’t feel my legs. Everything hurt. I didn’t know if you’d even know…”

Jack leaned forward again, resting his forehead against your hands, breathing you in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. “I know now,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve got you.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, the way his body trembled just slightly with the force of holding himself together.

“I kept thinking—‘he’s gonna be mad,’” you whispered. “Because I went without you. Because I didn’t duck fast enough. Because I let one of the girls get hit.”

“Stop,” he said, voice firm but thick with emotion. “You don’t need to carry that. Not even for a second.”

You nodded faintly, tears sliding into your hair. “She died, Jack. Emma died. And I couldn’t save her.”

He stayed quiet for a beat, then moved to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, like he could pour every unspoken word straight into your skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll carry that with you. Every single day.” The monitors continued their slow, steady rhythm. Jack stayed at your bedside like he’d never leave it again.

Outside, the world kept spinning—grief, news headlines, recovery, chaos—but inside that quiet room, wrapped in his presence, you finally let yourself rest. Because you weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And you knew, in the deepest part of yourself, that Jack would keep holding on enough for the both of you—because that’s the type of man he was. 

mercury-glow 2025

[mariasont]

JUST THE TIP(S) - A.H

aaron learns the hard way that upping your maintenance allowance has unexpected, explicit perks. especially when you insist on showcasing your newest investment while he's stuck miles away.

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexting, nsfw imagery, exhibitionism? (in the form of pictures), references to masturbation, workplace inappropriateness, power dyanmics (boss/employee), dirty talk, sugar daddy hotch vibes wc: 1.7k request: here!

Hotch attempts to read the file in front of him again, just to keep himself busy, but it starts to resemble gibberish somewhere between the countless victim timelines and his unwavering staring contest with the phone screen. 

Nothing. Still nothing. 

It’s been, he glances down for confirmation, thirty-nine minutes since he hit send. Not exactly long enough to panic. Yet here he is, panicking, because your replies normally land instantly, punctuated with frantic emojis, a parade of exclamation points, and nonsensical crises like:

i just made toast and almost caught my sleeve on fire but it’s ok now !!!! 🤭

So, yeah. Thirty-nine minutes feels like a small eternity.

Last week, he had upped your spending limit. You murmured something vague about having a bad day. You didn’t supply any specifics, no dramatics, just an innocent observation that he instantly took as an urgent call to action.

He logged into your account and adjusted your monthly extras, expanding that little safety net you didn’t even know he color-coded as you-time on his accounting spreadsheet. 

It wasn’t even remotely about the actual money. How could it be, when you were always giving pieces of yourself away — filling his silence with your easy chatter, kissing his frown lines, leaving perfume on his pillow (and everywhere else). So if a few extra hundred dollars meant more wellness appointments or a couple frivolous purchases that could help you feel more like yourself, it was the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. 

This is what he attributed your lack of response to. You’re probably out using that buffer right now.

He doesn’t need to spiral.

But he does anyway. Because when he’s not around, you have a tendency to forget to hydrate, to neglect to eat anything remotely nutritious, to lose yourself in shiny distractions, and his mind, unfortunately, never seems to shut off where you’re concerned.

He digs the heel of his hand into his forehead, trying not to jump to worst-case scenarios. He’s not clingy. Definitely not the kind of boyfriend who sends another text after less than an hour. 

Still, he nudges his phone a bit closer, strictly precautionary.

It takes exactly fifteen more agonizing, anxiety-inducing minutes — minutes shaped like big neon question marks — before the phone finally buzzes.

You: hi bossman !! miss ur grumpy face sooooo bad it’s criminal (arrest me??) how’s the case?

He exhales through his nose. His first thought is to correct you, to say that he’s definitely not grumpy, but his fingers pause, and he erases it instead. 

He is grumpy, though he’s fairly certain it’s directly correlated with how long it’s been since he’s since your face.

Hotch: Miss you too. Case is fine. Hopefully wrapping soon. Should be home late tomorrow. What did you do today? Everything okay?

You: yay !! can’t wait to see u ! got my nails done 🩷 they’re sparkly pink and sooo cute wanna see?

He snorts once, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his phone.

Hotch: Somehow I already know exactly what they look like.

He pauses, considers, then quickly adds,

Hotch: Send them anyway.

Hotch expects something wholesome, mundane even, manicure displayed prettily around a cup of overpriced coffee (a staple for you) or maybe the steering wheel of your car. 

What he receives instead is categorically, devastatingly the antithesis of wholesome. Completely unfit for polite company. His phone nearly plummets to the floor accordingly, eyebrows already halfway to his hairline.

Your new nails, as glittery as you advertised and innocent enough in isolation, become fully obscene in context, pussy spread wide, your fingertips highlighting slick, swollen folds and a flushed, glistening clit practically begging for attention. 

Hotch has always considered you beautiful — insanely, impossibly so — but this vision of you. A vision where you’re open, soaked with a brazen sweetness that borders on indecent, surpasses beauty entirely.

It’s sinful, artful perfection crafted with the sole intent of his demise. No matter how quickly he closes his eyes, the image is now seared permanently into his brain, burnt onto his retinas in dripping pixels.

Hotch never could fathom why anyone would willingly risk sending something so compromising. It spat in the face of good judgment and flagrantly ignored every articulated piece of advice he’d ever given. He’d lectured until your eyes glazed over about internet safety, how every text you send is stored indefinitely in some obscure digital archive, potentially retrieved at the most inopportune times. 

He was certain, perhaps arrogantly so, that you’d internalized his paranoia.

How wrong he had been.

Because he now stands staring at the evidence of your rebellion, humbly acknowledging that he himself has become precisely the sort of fool he’d warned you about, happily entrapped by the irreverence of a single photograph.

The only genuine risk Aaron can currently recognize is the frankly painful strain of his cock pressing against his zipper and the fact that you’re hundreds of miles away. 

He draws in a sharp, shaky breath through gritted teeth, silently pleading with unapologetically indifferent cosmos to grant him patience. 

Or teleportation.

Hotch: Gorgeous nails, sweetheart. Clever use of your resources, though next time save me the torture and just show me in person.

You: glad u like them 😇😇 maybe consider it motivation to hurry home faster?

Hotch: Duly noted. If I close this case in record time, you’ll know exactly why.

You: i can always send additional inspiration if it helps your productivity 🥰

He doesn’t remember making the conscious decision, and frankly, he doesn’t care enough to second-guess it now, because his palm is already moving, instinctively pressing down to relieve the unbearable tension straining his trousers.

He’s halfway through typing out his surrender (a blunt, undignified Yes. Now.) when a sudden, sharp knock jerks him brusquely back into a reality that pales considerably compared to what he’s just been forced to abandon.

His thumb stalls above the send button then pockets the phone, exhaling through his nose as he smooths the front of his tie with a touch more vigor than necessary.

If he were honest, and lately honesty seems unavoidable, another second spent alone with your message would inevitably lead him to doing something highly inappropriate beneath the desk, your name hissed quietly against clenched teeth.

By the time he reaches the door, Hotch has resigned a reasonable facsimile of composure.

At least from the waist up.

He cracks the door open cautiously, standing at an awkward, stiff angle, hoping that Rossi won’t notice the disarray happening beneath his belt.

“Local PD's still caught up arguing procedural technicalities,” Rossi drawls, seemingly unaware. “Apparently, nothing moves forward without our explicit approval.”

You’ll have to wait. And so will his dick.

The so-called procedural technicalities take three hours. Three. hours. One hundred and eighty increasingly insufferable minutes drowning in bureaucratic drudgery, combing through details Hotch is positive he could recite while heavily medicated. He pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to fend off the migraine steadily encroaching.

He’d managed the polite, dutiful thing — a succinct, thoroughly unsatisfying reply to you about responsibility and paperwork, the kind of message that made his own eyes roll at its dreariness compared to your far more compelling offer.

And now, each monotonous signature is underscored by thoughts of you, each image progressively more not-safe-for-work than the last.

He pictures your nails, painted in that damned color you loved so much, wrapping firmly around his cock, stroking with leisurely hands. How good it would feel. How you would lean closer with thay look in your eyes, lips parted, whispering filthy words that would make the tips of his ears bleed red.

He loved spoiling you, sure, but secretly, selfishly, he knew the real reward came later, when your fingertips traced up and down each vein of his length.

His daydream splinters to pieces as another officer delivers a statement so inane, Hotch considers, with alarming sincerity, the merits of repeatedly banging his head against the wall.

Before he can fully commit to a public crisis of faith in his career choices, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

Stupidly, he sneaks a quick look,

You: bet that paperwork has you wound up tight. when u get home, feel free to fuck out all that frustration. im yours however u want me <3

Hotch snaps his phone off with such force he’s briefly amazed the device doesn’t shatter.

He redirects his gaze at the neat rows of law enforcement jargon before him, willing the flush spreading from his neck to his ears to retreat. He’s knows he’s past the age of blushing fits, but apparently, you delight in reminding him otherwise.

Hotch’s eyes briefly skim the room, double-checking that the rest of his team is sufficiently absorbed in their tasks.

Hotch: I sincerely hope you’re prepared to stand by that offer, he sends back, thumb tapping a bit faster. Because I fully intend to take advantage of your generosity. 

The familiar little bubbles of an incoming message appear almost immediately, punctuated seconds later by the ping of an attachment.

Hotch reopens the thread, only to be met with an image of your pretty hands cupping even prettier breasts.

Suddenly, he’s standing, brisk strides carrying him toward the hallway, a curt, excuse me tossed hastily behind him, already pressing your contact photo before the door swings fully shut behind him.

You answer on the first ring. “Hi there, handsome. Calling to check on me?”

Your voice, dripping with honeyed naivety, and the image of your tits still pulsing insistently behind his eyelids, sends an immediate rush of heat southward.

Hotch grits his teeth, resisting the temptation to flee toward the bathroom for a quick release.

“Do you really think you’re being fair to me? While I’m stuck here, of all places?”

“Fairness is subjective. Personally, I think it’s unfair you’re so far away when I clearly need your expert opinion on this manicure.”

“Expert opinions are usually best delivered in person. Very hands-on.”

Your giggle spills through the line, and Hotch is convinced it should be bottled and sold as medicine. How he managed to win the privilege of hearing it on demand is an eternal mystery.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you whisper, “is this how you typically behave at the office, or am I getting special treatment today?”

“You’re permanently on the receiving end of special treatment.”

Another giggle.

“Well, I fully intend to cash in on that privilege when you get home, and I advise your neighbors to consider getting some top-quality earplugs.”

He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to mask the fidgeting as purposeful adjustment. Unsuccessfully, of course. He can feel Morgan’s stare burning pointedly into the side of his head. Honestly, if roles were reversed, Aaron would probably be offering equally unsubtle judgment.

“Sweetheart,” he warns, lowering his voice, “you’re making it exceedingly difficult to pretend this call is work-related.”

“Fine, fine,” you say. “Go play nice with your friends and come home safely. I miss you.”

“I’ll be there as soon as humanly possible.” He inwardly rolls his eyes at his inability to maintain any credible authority with you. “Try to stay out of trouble until then.”

“No promises.” He can picture the smile on your face. “But I’ll do my best to keep your investment safe, these nails weren’t cheap, after all.”

“Careful. Because when I get home, I won’t be gentle enough to guarantee their safety.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[fireinmoonshot]

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Reader Summary: Since getting married, Joaquín has discovered he loves hearing you call him your husband. So much so, in fact, that he'll do almost anything to get you to say the word. Warnings: Mentions of food, gets a little spicy at the end (not the food). Word Count: 862 A/N: Another one where I've had the idea sitting in my notes for weeks. It turned out a little different to what I expected but I still love how this ended up so I hope you all love it too.

“Say it again,” Joaquin says, practically skidding into the kitchen where you’re cooking.

It’s a rare night where you’re making dinner instead of Joaquin. You found a new recipe online that you really want to try and Joaquin always loves when you cook – while he loves being the cook of the family, he also loves the food you make him.

There’s something he loves more than that though.

You spin around from where you’re standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. “What am I saying again?” You ask, a little confused. 

Joaquin walks further into the kitchen, wraps his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder. “You just called out to me and said husband, come and try this. Call me husband again.” 

You huff out a small laugh. Ever since you’d officially tied the knot just over a month ago, Joaquin had discovered that he had a thing for hearing you refer to him as husband. It was like when you referred to him as your boyfriend or your fiancé, but better. And then there were the few times when you called him marido instead of husband, which almost made him weak at the knees on more than one occasion. 

“Husband, will you try this and tell me if I need to add more salt?” You oblige, holding up the spoon a little and smiling to yourself as he leans forward over your shoulder and licks some off the spoon.

“Mmm,” Joaquin hums, right in your ear. “It’s delicious, angel.” He leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. “It’s perfect, it doesn’t need anything else. But personally, I could do with hearing you call me your husband again.” 

Rolling your eyes jokingly, you drop the spoon back in the pot and spin around in Joaquin’s arms. He loosens his grip on you a little so you can spin around easier. “Remember before we were married and I’d refer to you as Joaquin or baby? What happened to that? What is it about husband that makes you react like this?”

Joaquin shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t think it’s the word itself, it’s just hearing it come out of your mouth when you’re referring to me. Like the other day, when we were out for dinner and you introduced me as your husband to your new co-worker that we ran into. I’ve never been a husband before.”

“Oh, I’d sure hope not,” you laugh. “I did think this was your first marriage.”

He grins, leaning in and pecking your lips lightly. “First and last, actually.”

“Well, I’m honoured, husband,” you smile. The smile on Joaquin’s face grows even more as the word comes out of your mouth. “Now, will you let me finish making dinner? I don’t think I can keep cooking it unless you let me go.”

Joaquin groans, irritated at the thought that he has to let you go. He loves holding you, having his hands on you, and if he could all of the time, he’s sure he’d find a way. “If you call me husband again, I promise I’ll leave you alone until dinner is ready.”

“Husband,” you start, leaning in and pressing your lips to his. “Joaquin Torres, my husband, the love of my life, the man I married… making him my husband…” You milk it a little bit, knowing that Joaquin will enjoy every second of it.

It surprises you a little as you watch him literally shiver at hearing you say the word so many times in one go. Joaquin finds it incredibly hot, especially the way you say it with your mouth so close to his. If he leans forward just a little, he could capture your lips with his and kiss you senseless until he could convince you to say the word again.

“Angel,” he breathes, face still close to yours. “It’s a good thing you’re busy making dinner right now because if you weren’t, I would be picking you up right this second, putting you on the counter and making sure you know everything that comes along with the fact that I’m your husband now.” 

It’s like a switch flips inside of you at his words – this time you’re the one having a reaction to the words instead of him. The fact that you’re mid way through cooking dinner is a thought that slips right to the back of your mind as Joaquins thumbs dig into your hips, his grip having gotten a little tighter after you called him husband again.

You turn your head and reach behind you to turn off the stove before looking back at Joaquin again. “Dinner can wait,” you mutter. “My husband is more important.”

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate to step to the side and lift you up onto the counter, away from the stove and your half cooked dinner. He steps in-between your legs, hands gripping at your thighs, and leans up to press his lips to yours again. The kiss is messy and passionate and everything he’s been wanting ever since he heard you first call out to him. 

You think you should definitely call him husband more often.

[bows4tyun]

OBSESSION NEXT DOOR - ! ⸝⸝ 최수빈

۶ৎ: "you were just so oblivious, weren't you? didn't even realize something was in your cookies... " he huffs out in a pant, pressing a kiss to your lips "I'm so glad I got you as my neighbour, baby..."

⌗ pairing! - pervy neighbour!soobin x fem!reader

⌗ warnings! - smut, dom!soobin, sub!reader, soobin's a perv lol, masturbating, use of aphrodisiacs, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, breeding kink, bulge kink, dirty/sweet talk, breast worship, nipple play, soobin calls reader baby and good girl

⌗ lexi adds! - this was such a delicious request! I absolutely love pervy soobin so this was so fun to write. thank you to anon for requesting! (not proofread!)

feedback and reblogs are appreciated!!

you were looking for a fresh start in a new town, a new area where you would meet new people and new friends. that also meant you would have new neighbors, and oh boy, little did you know the surprise that it would give you. you had absolutely no clue what this new beginning would have in store for you.

the place you were moving into was a slightly spacious yet affordable apartment just for you. the efficient space enough for the small amount of belongings you carried from your car to what seemed to be the living room of your new home.

it had a modern design to it, quiet from the loneliness it had been in from having no owner. you guessed the past owners took good care of it from the substantial condition it was currently in.

when you placed your boxes on the polished wooden floors, a knock is heard on your door, startling you.

quickly, you regain composure and amble to the door. as you open the door, your eyes slowly begin to see the figure that reveals himself once the door is fully open

the tall figure of a man with soft bunny-like features stands lumberingly at your door step, a small container of some sort in his unusually large hands. both of you are silent before he starts speaking with a hint of nervousness evident in his voice. "uh hello... I'm your next-door neighbor and I just made these cookies..." he said, avoiding full eye contact with you, his eyes lingering on anything else in sight. "take them if you'd like." he extends his hands, the cookies inviting as they're each individually wrapped in a cute pink resealable plastic bag to ensure freshness.

hesitantly, you reach for the container, your fingers brushing against his the slightest bit. "thank you... I'll let you know what I think of them."

with a meek and mild nod he made his way back to his apartment. he was right; he was your next-door neighbor, the next door down the hall. before he entered his home he looked back at you, finally able to make eye contact with you, even for a small moment. out of the kindness of his heart, his lips form into a small grin, his dimples now visible to the human eye.

it's an innocent sight, really, so you smile back, heading back into your own home to get yourself situated in the new environment.

you try the cookies once you're done unpacking and surprisingly, they're really good. the sweetness of the still warm chocolate chips compliments the cookie itself that's not too hard and not too soft, the perfect cookie. you make yourself a mental note to thank and compliment him when you see him again.

a few weeks pass by until your next interaction with him. it's the same thing all over again, but this time with more conversation between the two of you.

it was when you were on your way back from work on a gloomy afternoon, the sun not wanting to reveal itself and instead hid somewhere behind the clouds, making the sky dreary and cheerless. your mood was the same as the sky's, exhausted and stressed out from the long day at your workplace. you would be lying if you said the sight of your handsome neighbour didn't brighten your mood.

he was heading out of his apartment and on the way to yours. once again, he had a container of cookies in his hands, the same cute packaging that was the opposite of his appearance. Today he seemed to look even more attractive from the last time you saw him, his hair slicked back probably from running his hands in it so much. the shirt he wore was a navy polo shirt paired with blue jeans. the outfit so simple yet so appealing. you watched his eyes widen when he realizes you're walking up to him.

his demeanour seemed to have switched, a timid look plastered onto his face as you approached him.

"hi, I wanted to thank you for the cookies you gave me the last time we spoke, they were really good..." you speak with a smile, being as friendly as needed to have him soften up from his timorous persona.

"oh right, thank you. I'm glad you liked them," his voice softened at the realization of the compliment, a smile crawling up onto his face. "would you like more?"

you look at the container, the same delicious cookies sat in it waiting for you to take them, how could you say no to him? if anything you're more than happy to have them.

you nod at his question, remembering something. "oh that reminds me, I have the container you gave me last time. I washed it so you don't have to worry about it." you unlock your front door as you speak. "you can come in while I go grab it." you offer and he nods in agreement.

the both of you walk in, him behind you as his eyes dart around your house, examining the small details of your cozy dwelling. the fake plants and flowers that were almost everywhere, small lamps that sat peacefully on their designated spots, or the small cat figures that sat next to the pot with the only real plant in the whole apartment. you seemed like a relaxed human being in his eyes.

while getting the container out of the cabinet you stored it in, he asks you a question. "d-do you mind if I use your bathroom?" you could tell that he hesitated before asking, just the way he spoke displayed the obvious apprehensive character he had.

a small 'mhm' leaves your lips along with the directions of the bathroom, "of course, it's the second door down to the left."

"thank you... " he mumbled softly but not softly to the point where you couldn't hear it. he sauntered his way to the given directions as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

after a while, he comes back, seeing you too busy on your phone to notice. you don't look up until he starts speaking, scaring you from the sudden voice. "I'll get going now, thanks again for letting me use your bathroom." his words are followed by a tender smile

you swiftly grab the container, handing it to him. "oh okay have a good day..."

"I forgot to ask your name..." he said, looking at you and expecting an answer.

"it's y/n, my name's y/n"

"I'm soobin. It was nice talking to you again, y/n" he heads to the front door, you follow behind him, not able to fully keep up with his steps and speed because of his long legs. you open the door for him and he steps out, waving politely with the same cute grin.

you wave back and close the door once he's out of sight, turning back to see the new container left on your counter. you'd save those cookies for later.

⸝⸝

after a while, it's dark outside. but not the complete starry sky you'd see at night. it actually wasn't even late, only past 7pm.

this time seemed like a perfect opportunity to finally enjoy the cookies before heading to bed. with that in mind, you made your way back to the kitchen and to the counter. your hands reached out to grab two out of the many cookies.

you began to eat one as you walked back to your room where you would eat and binge watch a show you had been dying to watch all day, excited for the new episode that had just aired.

you situated yourself on your bed and continued to eat, focusing on the show as you chewed happily on the delicious cookies.

after finishing both cookies, you felt as your body became hot, the sensation reaching your core. it was confusing that you were suddenly becoming needy but your hand crept down into your panties. this made you begin to think that maybe it was crazy of you to touch yourself because of nothing, there was no reason you should be doing such vulgar acts.

that was until in the middle of the episode, you hear a groan from the other side of the wall, in soobin's apartment. the groan was followed by more groans and lewd panting. your mind suddenly made the dirty conclusion that he was either having sex or masturbating at the same time as you.

your face heats up at the thought as the sounds continue and you end up listening and touching yourself to his sounds, the show becoming background noise as you continued to rub your clit in fast and rough circles to pleasure yourself.

a loud moan rolls off your tongue accidentally and soobin's noises come to a halt. he probably heard you. you mentally scolded yourself for being so careless of the noises you make, especially the volume of them. you couldn't see it, but you knew that your ears and face were now painted a bright strawberry pink hue from embarrassment.

you removed your hand from your pants but the needy feeling still lingered and you just couldn't get rid of it. it was nearly impossible after you were in the middle of trying to satisfy yourself.

but you tried and tried. tried to keep your hands away from your body. tried to not pay attention to the sounds of soobin that continued, this time they were quieter, but just because he lowered his volume didn't mean the wall was soundproof. you were becoming frustrated by the fact that you couldn't please yourself. you knew that you wouldn't be able to stop once you started. stopping early was probably the best choice, all you had to do was have your brain focus on something else, like your show.

that's what you decided to do. you were almost done with the episode, about ten minutes to the end. you didn't even notice the sweat drops that stuck to your forehead from resisting so much. the lower half of your body squirmed on your bed, you couldn't take it anymore. the feeling of frustration was finally able to overtake your mind and soon all you could think of was soobin and small parts of him that you found attractive; his hands and forearm muscles, how the veins embellished his arms with such beauty, the way his smirk was both cute and hot at the same time, his duality was insane.

with no other choice, you get up from your bed and start making your way to soobin's apartment, only wearing slippers and a short, thin, and threadbare night gown, the one you always seemed to wear to sleep. the breeze of the nightly weather hits your skin, barely covered from the sheer amount of fabric that made the night gown.

you gave his door a light knock, trying not to wake anyone who was potentially sleeping. it took about two minutes for him to open the door. your eyes look at the state of his face. his hair stuck to his forehead just as yours had been and his cheeks were a rosy tint. he wore a plain black tee with gray sweatpants. when you scanned his outfit with your eyes, a small wet spot could be seen from his crotch area.

your face has a surprised look on it from the new discoverment and the shade of soobin's cheeks seems to darken as his hands discreetly move to cover the cause of his embarrassment. "d-do you need something...?" the stutter of his voice backs up the embarrassed look on his face as he avoids eye contact.

it feels like a cat's got your tongue. the heat of your body overtakes you as the only thing you think of is soobin, displayed right in front of you, looking better than ever. lust clouds your brain and eyes, desire badly hidden as you look at soobin, getting closer as your body heat radiates on him.

you speak without thinking, completely oblivious of your words as you blabber out, "I-I need you..."

If soobin's cheeks couldn't blush more they certainly could now. he gazed at the way your thighs rubbed together, your pleading eyes justifying your words. you looked so needy, so submerged in the sensation of desire and it was all shown in your body language. soobin didn't know what to do, you could tell from the way he just stared, the timid expression from when you first met him back on his face and for a good reason. How else was he supposed to react when his pretty neighbor was suggesting something sexual with him?

he loses his train of thought. his pink lips parted as if he were to say something but stopped himself. the longer he took, the needier you grew, you felt your panties dampen more than they already were. before he could even agree, you pushed him and yourself into his apartment, and soobin allowed it. he made sure to close the door behind the both of you and waited for what you'd do next.

he thought you'd say something else or wait for him to get you riled up but instead you kiss him. the kiss is hungry and full of need, soobin could now fully understand the crisis you were really in, how painful it must be not getting the dirty attention you needed.

he pulled away, leaving you to catch your breath as he huffed out lecherously, "my bedroom's the second door to the left, get on the bed. I'll be right there."

hearing his words you didn't hesitate to start making your way to his room, soobin chucked to himself as he watched you speed walk.

when you made it to his room, you hopped on the bed and couldn't help but rub yourself through your panties as you await for soobin, not knowing how much you'd be able to last without getting frustrated or impatient again.

just as you're about to let out a loud whimper, soobin enters, watching the scene in front of him unfold as he sees your eyebrows furrowed and your face contort with pleasure. "you couldn't wait a few seconds, could you? nasty girl..." he walks up to you, getting down to business as he gets on top of you, getting a closer look at your horny expression. "tell me how bad you need me." he demands, placing a fist next to your head while his other hand comes to rest on your hip.

you stopped rubbing yourself to answer the question, knowing not to ignore it. this soobin was different than the soobin you met on your first day in the apartment complex. he was so fierce and demanding now; and you loved it. "p-please... need your cock badly, it hurts being empty..." you confessed, only the truth rolling off your tongue.

he raises an eyebrow in amusement to your response, clearly satisfied by it as you see him holding back a smirk that poked at the corner of his lips. "is that so? I'll have to get you ready for it then, not sure if you'll be able to take me without any prep, hm?" his hand crawls from your hip and to the hem of your night gown, pulling it up above your chest, your pretty lace bra in his view. he swears he could cum just from looking at your breasts. "so pretty..." he mumbles under his breath, his hands working hard to remove your bra and take your nipples between his finger, tweaking and rolling them in a way that had you grind against air. he places a hand on your clothed cunt to stop you, but this only drove you even more insane as you began to grind against his hand. "you're acting like a fucking bitch in heat..."

his remark makes you whine, the needy noise loud enough to echo throughout the room. "I can't take it anymore! please do something...!" your remark only adds more gasoline to the fire as soobin feels himself grow harder by the second.

you gasp as you feel your panties being pulled off, his strong hands removing them with ease. he watches the way your pussy was glistening, and all because of him and what he put in the "innocent" cookies. before anymore could be said, two of his long fingers shoved themselves inside your impatient hole, causing you to shut your eyes and hold in the inappropriate noises that threatened to leave past your lips as he pumped his digits in and out of your hole at a rapid pace, almost too much for you to handle.

you felt a knot reach your stomach as your climax neared. it felt way too fast. this was the fastest you've ever cummed. "a-ah! soobin! g-gonna cum...!" and just before your could release, his fingers removed themselves causing tears to swell in your eyes from the amount of frustration you felt at that moment and you whine in protest.

this adds to soobin's fun, making him laugh and giggle as he watched your face basically plead to him, you didn't have to say it, your face showed it all. "fine... I'll give you what you need. but I don't want you whining when it hurts, got it?" you nod fairly quickly at his words, spreading your legs for him to have better access. he loves how quick you listen to him in your needy state, he feels like he's on top the world having his pretty neighbor in his bed all to himself and no one else.

your eyes lighten up when his finge crawled their way down to the waistband of his sweatpants, finding the loosely tied drawstrings and untying it with ease. you wait with eager as he grabs the base of his dick through his pants before pulling it out of it's confinments. your lips part in shock and you have to stop your jaw from dropping at the sight. his dick is so pretty; the tip is the same strawberry red his cheeks had been when he blushed, the length so long you couldn't believe your eyes, and the girth left you in shock. you regretted not letting soobin prep you because now you knew that the stretch would hurt.

he pulled his shirt off too, his sculpted yet soft abs not matching his cute and innocent face. his forearm muscles flexed as he threw his shirt somewhere on the floor and gripped your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed and closer to his dick. you couldn't deny the fearful look on your face as you stared at the monster that hid in soobin's pants the whole while, scared to see if it'll even manage to fit in your hole that hadn't been stretched in a good while.

aligning his dick with your hole, he could already feel the tightness of your pussy as you clenched around nothing, desperate for him. with much effort, he pushed inside, your walls already gushing as they encompass his dick and he enters inch by inch. a soft moans escapes his lips when he feel the way you fit around him. "fuck baby... so. fucking. tight." he punctuates his words with each thrust, filling you to the brim that it made you dizzy.

only a few thrusts in and you're fucked dumb, gripping the duvet sheets under you as you hold it in your fist and holding yourself back from waking up anyone in the building. your sounds are high pitched, full of the lust that holds inside of you as your climax neared once more, this time not holding back. incoherent blabbles leave your mouth and you see a small menacing smirk tug at soobin's lips.

he chuckles, watching your expressions as his cock pushes deeper inside, hitting all the right spots. "already fucked so dumb, aren't you?" he said, putting you in a mating press as his hips sped up, showing no mercy to your spent cunt. "you were just so oblivious, weren't you? didn't even realize something was in your cookies... " he huffs out in a pant, pressing a kiss to your lips "I'm so glad I got you as my neighbour, baby..."

your confused and pleading eyes meet his in a haze as you question him, "w-what did you... do?" you felt as if you could barely breath from how good you felt, this was the best sex you've ever had in your life. soobin only smirks even more at your question, knowing the exact answer to your curiosity.

"you know what I put... why else would you be feeling so needy, hm?"

and then it clicked in your head, the sudden uneasiness you felt in your core wasn't for no reason at all, why would that ever happen? the cookies were filled with aphrodisiacs, and on purpose.soobin knew what he was doing since he laid eyes on you. from that moment, he knew he wanted you, he just didn't know how he'd do it when he was a timid guy who rarely talked to girl, especially pretty girls like you.

it seemed as if soobin sensed your realization, finding it amusing as he watched your eyes shift in emotions. "there you go, finally figured it out... such a good girl..." this is where soobin felt his balls tighten, knowing what was doomed to hapoen.

grunts left his lips like wildfire as he interlocked your hands even tighter, listening as your noises were easier to get out from how sensitive and overstimulated you had come to be. wet lewd sounds are heard loudly from inbetween your legs and soobin watched as his big dick disappeared inside your small tight cunt with each inhumane thrust, looking at the bulge that formed. one of his hands creeps down to press on it, making you feel as if you were on cloud nine.

"I c-can't- soobin! I need to cum...! pleasepleaseplease let me... " your pleading words seemed to have touched his soul in all the right places as he began to slow down a bit, enjoying the last few seconds before his full release. he kissed you again, tongue invading your mouth in a frenzy as you came on his cock, your moan muffled from the kiss as you grip his hands as if to never want to let go.

he followed suit, burying himself inside of you enough to cum inside of your what felt to be your womb. his seed shot out and painted your walls a thick and sticky coat of white. both of you are left panting for air when he pulls away from the kiss. his now sweaty hair is sticking to his forehead from the intense session while he stays like this with you for a small while, admiring the beauty of your face when and after you orgasm. he couldn't believe he was lucky enough to have you like this, he felt completely moonstruck, completely crazy.

turning you over and holding you tightly in his arms, his voice is sweet like honey as he spoke softly in your ear.

"I hope you don't mind being mine from now on."

⌗ taglist! - @hyunj00 @lovingbeomgyudayone @saejinniestar @g0r3wh0rre (pls let me know if you want to be added!)

[tired-biscuit]

Logan would probably moan like he’s having the best sex of his life from just a shoulder massage. Do you think he’d deny he needs one? Or would you catch him off guard while he’s asleep?

18+ MDNI, fem!reader // cw: friends to lovers, unexpected mutual pining, logan realises he’s touch-starved after you offer to give him a backrub, and you both get turned on by it.

divider credit: div1nepetal

what if you’re, like… his friend, who’s grown to care deeply about him over the years and wants nothing else but to help him out a little from time to time in simpler, more ‘humanly’ ways because of said caring?

i mean, he’s got super fast healing and all that jazz, sure, however that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get sore and thus — unbearably — cranky about it… and since you’ve known each other for so long, you’ve also gotten quite comfortable in each other’s company! so it wouldn’t be that odd if you were to offer to relieve the pain in your friend’s back when he swings by your place one random evening… right?

it’s really just to make him feel better, nothing else! because as soon as he flings himself onto his favoured spot on your worn out couch (a dent that he fucking made with the help of his heavy adamantium ass), you catch him repetitively stretching his neck from side to side and rolling his shoulders every so often with a furrowed brow and a tight-lipped expression that somehow manages to appear even grumpier than his usual neutral.

you steal glances because of it. listen intently to the laboured sighs he keeps letting out. and after leering at him and his struggles from the corner of your eye for a little while, not at all paying attention to the movie that you’re supposed to be watching with him, you finally succumb. you turn to the side and propose your offer whilst wiggling your magic fingers, as you like to call them, right in front of his face, and logan, as is expected, denies it by gently swatting your hand away.

taking over pretty much the entire space on the couch from how he’s manspreading, he doesn’t even peel his eyes from the television that — unlike you — he’s actually watching when he tells you that, “you don’t gotta worry about it” and that it’s not that bad, then. for some reason, he even feels the need to add that he can handle himself just fine.

it all makes your eyes roll.

and instead of listening, you rather choose to persist. he’s a wall whenever he makes up his mind on something, you know this, but you also know that if you nag him and scold him for long enough, prodding and picking at the cracks between phantom bricks, he’ll have no choice but to give in and give you what you want just to make you stop… though not without adding a snide comment or two himself during it because he can’t help but act like a dick sometimes around the people he’s fond of, it’s just the way he is!

as you tell him to scooch over and lay on his stomach, you feel just a little bit bad that you had to resort to annoying him in order to being allowed to help him. however, the guilt isn’t nearly as strong as is the sense of victory that you’ve just achieved, so you allow it to curl the corners of your lips into a satisfied, cat-like smile while you busy yourself by straddling the small of his back. he can’t see your face anyway, so what’s the issue?

meanwhile, logan lets out a tired exhale, smushing one cheek against the decorative pillow that he’s folded his arms under so that he can still watch the tv while you work your supposed magic. he listens to your sheepish apology and request to tell you if you’re too heavy, to which he responds by calling it nonsense and that you’re insulting him by thinking you’re heavy whilst sitting on top of a guy who’s literally filled with metal.

and filled with metal he is, indeed! it’s not long before you realize just how much freaking pressure you have to apply to his shoulders and back in order to make him feel something. how much physical strength you have to put into it, to the point that you’re nearly sweating because of it. popping a bone in order to ease some of the tension is literally impossible, so you aim your focus onto the taut cords of muscle instead.

you can see them even through the thin white shirt that he’s wearing — they’re that profound. flexed and attractive, attained with hard work. but they become even more visible when he reluctantly lets you roll the hem of his shirt up towards the collar, unfolding his arms just so that he can lift the upper half of his body, and you right along with him, with no visible effort whatsoever.

the air in the room shifts a little after that; it gets kind of tense. because all of a sudden, you’re skin to skin. his should be covered in scars, but he’s lucky enough to have them all healed and smoothed away by his power. and while he may not be able to feel relief in his adamantium-covered bones, he sure as hell can feel the warmth of your palms running down the slopes of his broad shoulders, the grazing of your nails that nearly makes him shiver when they reach a particularly ticklish part on the nape of his neck, the heat between your legs as you continue to sit on him, dressed in nothing else but a pair of comfortable and tiny shorts…

forcing himself to be a loner, logan isn’t used to being touched like this all that much, and it makes him sensitive. and as a result, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and groan in absolute pleasure when you readjust by wiggling your hips on top of him and lean in super close to really dig your fingers into his strong back.

you pause at the sound; he can hear your breathing hitch a little before it continues to fan his shoulder blade. he’s already halfway on opening his mouth to say something in order to avoid things from getting too awkward even if he’s not the kind of man who minds if they do, when all of a sudden it hits him.

it’s barely there, just the faintest whiff of something sticky and sweet. it would be impossible to catch by a normal human, but he isn’t a normal human, now is he? no, he’s a mutant — a primal one, at that — and because of it, his nose is more than capable of catching a scent like this.

you’re… aroused. have gotten turned on by the sound he just made. are getting wetter between the legs by the second. and he can smell it.

fuck.

logan chooses not to say anything even if the pheromones that he’s steadily inhaling now are making his blood grow feverish to dangerous levels. meanwhile, you choose to remain quiet as well, simply continuing your ministrations as if nothing has happened.

something that does change, however, is the way you touch him. from that hiccup onward, you get more, should you say, intimate with it; even daring to comb your fingers through his rich, dark hair at some point and experimentally tugging at the roots, making him actually shiver this time.

he doesn’t just shiver, though. the action is so freaking good that it also causes his eyes to roll into the back of his head — he silently prays that he’s managed to squeeze them shut for a second time before you could catch it.

and that’s not all there is to it either. by now, his cock has become painfully hard in his pants. thick, hot and leaking pre-cum from how excited he’s getting. it makes laying down on his stomach extremely uncomfortable, but he thinks it’s better to suffer through it than enabling you to see what you’re doing to him both physically and mentally.

mind fogged by a mixture of your and now his own lust, he’s getting so horny that all he wants to do is rut into the couch while you continue to touch him. he doesn’t, of course, he’s been around for over two centuries so he’s pretty good at restraining himself, however that doesn’t mean that he likes doing it.

so he remains decent… well, somewhat. he pants a little bit, and he grunts and curses under his breath in a way that makes him sound like he’s balls deep in your cunt, folding you in a mating press and pounding away until you’re nothing but a whiny mess and his cum is trickling down your thighs, but he still tries his very best.

by the time you pat him on the shoulders and tell him you’ve finished, he fears he did, too.

[darknight3904]

It Burns For You

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴘɪᴛᴏʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅᴀʏ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ɴᴏɴᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ. ᴏᴏᴄ ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟʟʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ʜᴇᴇʟꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ. ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ!

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

Coriolanus is 12 when he sees you for the first time. Your red uniform is pressed perfectly and your school bag looks brand new. Your lunch consisted of a hearty-looking sandwich with roast beef and lettuce and a container of fresh fruit that had his mouth-watering.

"Do you want a piece? Our maid always packs too much and I can never finish it. You can have some if you want." Your voice fills his ears

A delicate-looking hand is holding a juicy-looking strawberry in front of him. He reaches for it and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to shove it in his mouth. Instead, he takes a small bite and thanks you for sharing.

"Don't you have a lunch today?" You ask

He doesn't. The school had said they would start supplying the students with lunches soon but how soon? Coriolanus had already been attending for a number of years and still nothing.

"I already ate it." He lied

"You're still hungry though. You can have the rest." You say with a smile as you push your fruit bowl to him.

"Is it your first day?" He asks

"Yes, my mother thought that my governess wasn't doing a good job so she had my father enroll me here. I miss being at home with my new kitten though. She has long white hair and she is the cutest thing in the whole world." You said

Coriolanus can't believe that you had your own governess, let alone a pet to call your own. He later learns from Arachne that your father became incredibly rich by manufacturing weaponry for the Capitol. Despite your inherent wealth, you've never flashed it around him.

You and Coriolanus are 15 when you discover all the lies he tells at school about his family. He had left his uniform jacket behind on his chair and you got his home address from Sejanus, meaning to give it back so he'd have it for tomorrow. Instead, you had discovered the Snow's decrepit-looking building and barely functioning penthouse. Coriolanus' heart nearly stops when he emerges from his room to see you and his Grandma'am sitting together as she compliments your shoes.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, ready for your judgment and teasing words

"I wanted to return your jacket, Coryo. You'll need it for tomorrow."

The red of the jacket in your arms matches his face as he ushers you to the door, trying to hide the fact that Tigris was preparing cabbage in the kitchen that would undoubtedly stink the entire place up with the scent of the Snow's poverty.

"Stop rushing me, your cousin invited me to stay for dinner." You say trying to stop the way he is leading you to the door.

"You don't want what she is making. Tigris is a terrible cook." He said

Tigris lets out a shout of disagreement from the stove and Coriolanus ignores it.

"How about, I go out and get something to add to the meal Tigris is cooking, and by the time I get back you change your attitude about me staying for dinner Coryo. "

And with that, you walk out the door and slam it in his face. He's rather stunned at your declaration but knows you're serious. He rushes around their home, trying to clean up what he can while Tigris laughs at his frantic motions. Then, just as he was debating whether or not he wanted to change out of his uniform, you return from your short trip to the closest market.

"I wasn't sure what Tigris is cooking so I got a couple of things." You say placing the bags on the table.

Coriolanus is sure you spent a fortune on what is in these bags. Fresh bread accompanied by a sickly sweet fruit spread and a block of butter sits in one while the other holds something else in a brown box. You take your seat next to him at the ugly little table he has eaten too many meals at and cut a piece of the bread for Grandma'am. He is worried when Tigris starts portioning out the cabbage she cooked on the stove. Coriolanus watches your expression as you take a bite but nothing that he expected happens. You don't knit your brows in disgust or get up to leave and take your fresh bread and mysterious box with you. Instead, you go back for a second bite and compliment what Tigris has done with the food.

He sits stiffly next to you and can barely accept the slice of bread you offer him. You excuse yourself to use the bathroom and Tigris reaches across the table and pinches his shoulder.

"Stop sitting like that, Coryo!" She scolds

"Like what?" He asks,aware that Tigris meant how oddly straight his back was.

"You're making her uncomfortable. You've been friends with her for years she isn't worried about what our home looks like." Tigris says

"She might not be but what happens when she goes to school tomorrow and talks?" He asks

He shuts up when he hears the sound of the bathroom door opening again.

"That was lovely Tigris. I've never had anything like it, I'll have to invite you all to my own home for dinner sometime. Our cook makes these pastries that are simply wonderful. They even get sold at local markets, which leads to this..."

His eyes widen when you finally unveil what was hiding in that second bag. A dozen expensive looking deserts sit in the brown box you brought, each one decorated differently.

"I hope I picked something everyone would like. I know Coryo mentioned that Grandma'am liked chocolate so I picked this one just for her."

Coriolanus feels a wide smile stretch across his face as you pass out your little desserts. His worries about you gossiping to their peers fade from view as he bites into what he thinks is a croissant. You laugh at his reaction and toss a napkin at his face which is most likely covered in the gooey fruit filling that was in his pastry.

He walks you back to your home that night and thanks you for making his night. He can't remember the last time Grandma'am had smiled from eating chocolate. You accept his thanks and gently tell him that he shouldn't be ashamed about his financial situation. He never gets to disagree with you though because a soft kiss is pressed to his lips followed by a rushed,

"Goodnight, Coryo! Thanks for the cabbage!"

He walks back to his own home with a jump in his step. Thoughts of you consume him as he smiles to himself, proud his first kiss was shared with you. He feels his heart burn with something that felt like it was going to come up and out his mouth as he finally made it back to his room, you officially had him wrapped around your finger.

Your room is flooded with sunlight the first time Coriolanus sees it. A soft, silky-looking bed spread sits atop one of the biggest beds he has seen as you beckon to your cat, Maisy to come and say hello to him. He looks at the oversized wooden dresser that sits against one wall. He sees the photograph of him and you that was taken a few weeks ago at your 17th birthday party nestled among little knickknacks. Books Coriolanus has never even heard of line your shelves as he you place a record on the player that sits on your desk. Soft sounds of a piano and the words from an unnamed singer fill your gorgeous room as he turns to you.

"Do you want to dance?" He finds himself asking

You accept and he leads you or well tries to. You're rather stiff and it turns out dancing is harder than it looks because he isn't any good at it either. You laugh as he trips over his feet and end up falling with him, landing on the ground entangled in each other. Your fingers brush his curls from his eyes as his nose brushes yours.

"What're you doing?" You ask quietly

"Nothing." He responds, his eyes flicking to your lips.

The moment his lips touch yours, a tingle shoots down his spine. This is a real kiss, not what you gave him when you were both 15. He cups your face and your hands are tangled in his hair as he deepens it. He felt his head spin as you moved against him, almost as if you wanted him to swallow you whole right here on your bedroom floor. A giddy feeling swelled in his chest when he pulled away for air.

"Coryo...what was that?" You ask

"I thought you'd know by now. That was a kiss, darling." He laughed brushing his thumb across your lip

"I know that...but why'd you give me one?" You ask

"Don't you know?" He smiles and places a chaste kiss on your lips "My heart, it burns for you, it always has."

Part 2 is out now!

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