#i Will miss things!!! that is a Promise!!!

[luveline]

Missing hotchner reader❤️❤️

hotch and spencer have to work together to look after you when things get really hard. fem, 3.3k

cw cptsd episodes and descrips of abuse

Adoption isn’t as permanent as people might think —they can give you back anytime they want. So when the oldest Hotchner started hitting you, it wasn’t that different to a previous placement, nobody was watching over you, and you were so afraid of losing your new brother that you didn’t say a word. 

You knew, reasonably, that if Aaron was to find out about how his father (your father) had been treating you, he’d report it to your caseworker or the police or somebody and you would be removed from the Hotchner household. And Aaron was the first person you’d ever met to care about you, really care, maybe even love, so you hid it all away and you told him that things were fine. You do it for years.  

You move out, you go to college. Aaron moves you into a nice apartment a few streets away from his own, and for a while, life is good. You meet his coworker, Spencer, and you get along. Spencer takes you on dates to cinemas and patisseries and he buys you cuddly plushies with hearts sewn into their hands at Valentine’s. By all accounts, things should be good. 

You can’t breathe, is the problem. Somebody has their hand raised to hit you again and you can’t do anything about it, you just have to take it, because you’re useless, because you deserve it, because you’re a drain on everything and everyone and you aren’t worth the trouble, you deserve the hit. You’re so sorry.

“I know,” someone murmurs quietly, a sensation on your shoulder. You wait for it to close around the back of your neck. “I know. It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say, barely, a breath of sound. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

But you did, you did, he was in a bad mood to begin with and you hit his glass of scotch right off the table, smashed glass and wasted drink and a bad mood made worse. He should’ve hit you by now. He’s waiting for you to sit up. He doesn’t like to hit the back of your head, but he will if you cower long enough.

“Honey,” the voice says, right by your ear, “I’m not going to hit you, do you hear me? I am never, ever going to hit you.” 

“I’m really sorry.” 

“I don’t care that you knocked the glass over. I don’t care at all.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Can you look at me? I promise,” —he emphasises until his voice burns— “I am not going to hit you.” 

Aaron sounds upset enough to force your gaze. You look at him through your lashes, ready to shut your eyes if this is a trick, but he has his hands flat in front of you and he’s completely still. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, so unlike himself, “I wouldn’t hit you over a glass. I wouldn’t hit you if you did it on purpose. I wouldn’t hit you if you smashed every piece of glassware in this apartment for fun.” 

He’s hit you for less. 

“Sweetheart,” he says again, waiting for a reaction you can’t give, “do you want me to go away?” 

It’s a good question. Do you want him to leave? Immediately, everything inside of you says No. He’s gonna hit you just like the last time you smashed his drink, out of the blue, ‘cos didn’t mean to doesn’t matter. But you don’t want Aaron to go. He’s the only person who’s ever loved you properly. 

“It’s okay, just hit me,” you say, staring at him, pleading with him not to even as you ask for it, “it’s my fault.” 

“Not gonna hit you,” he says, reaching for you now, even when you flinch, he holds you by the arms and he stares at you hard. 

“It’s okay,” you say. 

“It’s not okay. It won’t fix anything.” 

“I deserve it.” 

“No, you don’t.” Aaron rubs your arms in tandem, shaking his head, a trace of panic in his eyes you’d missed until now. 

It’s Aaron. Aaron’s never hit you. 

“You never deserve to have someone put their hands on you,” he says, practically murmurs, “I’m sorry I let that happen.”

“I lied to you.” 

“I know. I know you did, honey.” He shakes his head gently. “It’s not your fault.” 

“I hit the glass over,” you say, And he hit me so hard I couldn’t hear right for hours. You still remember the way it shocked you, because you’d started to expect it but you were still surprised he’d bother with such a hard hit, that he could get that angry about it.

“I thought it was just me,” he murmurs, sorry, clutching at you like he needs you to listen. “I never should’ve left you in that house, but I thought it was just me. It was only ever… me.” 

You already know —you’ve had this conversation before. He’s apologised already. 

He cups your cheek. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not angry with me?” 

“No. I’m never angry with you.” 

You come to yourself in fits. You’re kneeling on the floor not far from the table, the mess of glass, half still intact and cupping a few sips of scotch. Aaron’s kneeling right next to you, still in his suit, hasn’t been home long, you were waiting for him. You used your key because you didn’t want to be home alone. Today’s been a bad day. You’ve felt stringy and strange for hours and you knew seeing Aaron would set it right. That Aaron would make you feel better through force of will. 

And then you’d knocked his drink off the table and both of you had startled, and he’d said, “Wait, don’t, you’ll hurt yourself,” but all your brain heard was You. 

You. What could be said to mean more than that? 

“You’re not gonna hit me,” you whisper. 

“Never.” 

“Can you help me up?” you ask, half apart from yourself. Your head is back, but your legs won’t cooperate. 

“Where do you want to go? The kitchen?” he asks, leaning so you can wrap your arms behind his head. He lifts you up with some effort on his part, adjusting you, and leading you together to the kitchen to sit you at the island bar. “Sit tight. I’ll clean the glass, okay? It won’t take long.” 

You don’t want him to go, but you don’t wanna say no. 

Time away from him is good, in a way. It makes you remember who you actually are outside of the bad memory. It hammers home that this is Aaron’s apartment, your big brother, your number one supporter. There’s a picture of you and Jack right there on the fridge stuck by an alphabet magnet. Aaron’s never hit you before and it’s not going to change now, because he is nothing like his dad. 

He’s never really seen you act like this, though, and you aren’t excited for what he has to say next. He has a penchant for seeing you at your worst and building you back up again. It shouldn’t be his problem, but it is. 

He brushes the glass into a dustpan and unloads it into a bag, which he trashes. You watch him wet a paper towel and wipe it across the floor for the shavings. 

When he’s drying his hands on a towel, you summon the courage to apologise. “Aaron, I’m… I’m sorry. Sorry.” 

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t look much like the other Hotchner’s. He’s dark-haired like his mother, and he smiles with all kindness. You never saw anything so soft at home, not unless he was there to visit. It’s a wonder he ever bothered getting to know you, already living his life very much outside of the household, and shouldn’t he have moved on? If it were you, if there were another kid in the house right now, could you go back? Knowing how you were treated? 

“I love you,” he says. “You know that?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Do you think you could understand why I don’t want you to say sorry, or be sorry, because of that?” 

You smile weakly. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah? Because if Jack were in here today, and he had hit that drink over, you couldn’t have hit him. Could you?” 

“Of course not.” 

He’s mildly guilty for the example, you can tell, but it cements the sentiment in your mind and he can see that. “When you love someone, you don’t hit them. We just can’t do it.” 

“I just… just– you– I got all mixed up in my head.” 

“I know.” 

“Thought you were him,” you say tightly, quietly. 

“I know. Is that the first time you’ve had something like that happen? Like you weren’t sure where you were?” 

Your face crumples of its own accord, heat clogging your nose and throat and lining the backs of your eyes. “No… but it hasn’t been that many times…”

“The bad panic attack at work a few weeks ago, was that like this?” 

“No, that was just that I couldn’t breathe right. I– I had one with Spencer.”

Aaron frowns, but he speaks kindly, “When was that?” 

“A couple of days ago…” You stare at your hands.

“We don’t have to talk about it. But I need to make sure you’re okay.” 

“He told me to tell you, but it– I thought he’d break up with me, after, but he hasn’t, so I’ve just been waiting.” 

“Honey, I don’t think this is the sort of thing that could make Spencer break up with you. He cares too much.” 

“You don’t understand, I– I begged him not to touch me, Aaron. I really scared him.” 

With Spencer, it was late. You asked him to stay the night on a limb, and you’d forgotten he was there sleeping beside you, met him in a dark hallway, where he asked what you were doing out of bed. It’s late. You shouldn’t be up. 

His hand had settled just behind your neck. He won’t touch you there anymore. 

“If there’s something you want to tell me–”

“I want it to go away,” you say. 

“It’s not going to be that easy.” He takes a big, deep breath. “You could’ve told me this was happening,” he promises. 

“I didn’t want you to know that I– lied so much. Sometimes I can’t believe I let him do it.” 

Your tone, quiet and calm and a juxtaposition to the ache in your chest, couldn’t hurt him worse. You're familiar with the pain on Aaron’s face, how it makes him do this sorry smile, how he tries hard not to give it away. “If anyone let him hurt you, it was me.” 

“What?” 

“I knew he was unkind to you. I knew he shouted. I didn’t try hard enough to get you away.” 

“Aaron–”

“If you’re going to blame someone, it has to be me.” 

It’s ridiculous. If you hadn’t had Aaron, you would’ve been completely miserable to the marrow of your bones. He’s the last person on earth you’d blame for the way you’re feeling now, so when a tear wells in your eyes, when it hits your cheek in a splash, you let him tut and wrap his arms behind you. 

“It’s my fault,” you insist, hiding your face in his shoulder. 

“No.” 

“It’s my fault, I hit the glass–”

“No, no, it’s not your fault.” 

“I’m really s–sorry.” 

“It’s gonna be okay, honey. Just breathe. Just take a deep breath for me. I promise you I’m not mad about the glass.” 

“Maybe you should be.” 

He holds your forehead to his chin, clutching you to him, reassuring and a little too tight. “I’m not mad at you.” 

You can’t make yourself believe him. 

—

Spencer isn’t expecting to get waylaid by Hotch at Rossi’s dinner party. He can’t think of what he did wrong. You’re happy with him, clingy lately, which he loves, and as smart and sweet as ever, and work is great. Spencer’s a good agent and a better profiler. 

Hotch looks so serious that he follows him in silence, squeezing his coke neck like a lifeline. 

“I want Y/N to be assessed for PTSD, and I need to know that you’re going to support her,” he says simply. 

Spencer searches the backyard for you. You’re laying down in the grass with Jack, Henry, and Penelope. It’s getting late, barely any sunshine left, but nobody’s wanted to ruin the fun and call it a night yet. You don’t fuss as Jack throws himself sideways across your chest. 

“Did something happen?” Spencer asks. 

“She had an… event. She told me about a similar incident with you the other night. That she panicked and got confused about who you were.” 

Spencer nods. “Yeah, I– yeah. I caught her by surprise.” 

“That’s the only time it’s happened?” 

“Yeah. She’s told me a little about it.” 

“About the episode?” 

“Everything. And it’s obvious?” He enthuses it with apology, worried he’ll offend Hotch if he says something too blatant, but desperate to be honest. “Most of the time she’s this– she’s amazing, she’s like this light, and then sometimes it’s like she thinks I don’t like her? Like I don’t want to be near her, or like she thinks I’m gonna hurt her.” 

Hotch lets his eyebrows rise a little. “Yeah.” 

“She cried so much that I didn’t know what to do.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about that part, she already told me you made her feel better,” Hotch says quietly. Neither of them mention what they know, how you’d begged Spencer to stay after the episode, how sorry you’d been, how desperate Spencer was to calm you down. “But if you can’t do it in the long run, you need to know now. I can’t start this with her and have you duck out halfway through. I know,” —Hotch gives him a fond smile, half-knocking the wind from him— “that you care about her, and I know it’s not my place to come to you on her behalf, but I’m going to do it anyhow, and you know why I am.” 

“What do you mean?” he says, though he knows. 

“I’m saying I think she’s going to get worse before she gets better. She’s not well right now.” 

“I know she isn’t.” 

“I trust you, Spencer. I care about you, too. But she’s going to be my priority, and if you can’t be there for her then it has to be done now... I’m worried she’s going to get really low.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says genuinely. Spencer’s not defensive, only urgent. “Hotch, I more than care about her.” 

Hotch nods. “Okay. Good, because I need your help. You have to vet these doctors for me, I have a preliminary list. I’ll send it to you.” 

“Wait, have you talked to her about this?” 

“I said we’d talk to a doctor. I promised I’d talk to you about it. She’s… I don’t know, she’s scared.” 

Spencer straightens up. You have nothing to be scared of with him, not his reaction, not his lack of support. He wishes Hotch had had more faith in him, but none of this is about him. Someone hurt you, and now you have to put yourself back together again. 

The kids have disappeared. Penelope’s climbing onto her feet and offering you a hand, but you stay laying down in the grass. 

“I really care about her,” Spencer says. 

Hotch clasps his shoulder. “Are you going, or am I?” 

“I’ll take this one, please.” 

“Sure.” 

Spencer trudges around the side of the yard, past the bench and the tables and the string lights on the patio to where you’re laying in the bluegrass, eyes nearly closed. “Is this seat taken?” he asks, nudging your hip with his shoe lightly. 

“No, sir.” 

Spencer sits down in the grass. He finds your wrist to hold. 

“You okay?” 

“Did Aaron talk to you about the doctor?” 

“Yeah, he did. You want to go?” 

“What do you think?” 

Spencer rubs your pulse. “I think it’s good. If you were having headaches, we’d go to the doctor.” 

“Headaches that make me not know who you are.” 

“Especially that kind.” 

You turn a bit and give him an amused smile. “Sorry I was too scared to say more about it.” 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Spencer brings a cautious hand to your cheek. He sees the flicker of hurt it brings —you don’t like that he’s careful how, but how can he not be, remembering the way he’d touched your neck and the wound it seemed to inflict in the dark— but he tries to caress it away. “I’m with you,” he says, “I care about you. I want to take care of you, as much or as little as you might need that from me.” 

Your eyes fall closed. “It might be nice.” 

“What would?” 

“To be taken care of by you.” 

“I’ll try my best.” 

You cover his hand with your own. JJ laughs across the yard, and Jack and Henry shout battle cries. Hotch says, “Jack! Not so rough, buddy!” and makes you laugh. 

“Did he intimidate you?” you ask. 

“No more than usual. He said I have to decide if I can do this with you.” 

You squirm and attempt to sit. If Spencer weren’t nervous about touching you, he’d force you back down. “He shouldn’t have.”

“No, he should. But I already decided.” Spencer finds your fingers, lacing them with his. “It wasn’t really a decision, actually. I want to do this with you, but only if that’s okay with you.” 

You nod slowly. “I already said it’d be nice if you took care of me,” you whisper, letting your face dip downward. 

He chances a kiss pressed to your temple. 

You laugh under your breath. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.” 

“Did you?” he asks, giving your back a rub like a wave. 

“It’s different. I knew what was happening to me.” 

“Angel, you didn’t have a choice,” he says, so quiet he’s surprised when you hear it. “I know you’re… What?” he asks, perturbed when you shake your head. 

“You and Aaron…” 

You never finish. Spencer can’t make you. He holds your shoulder until the tension under his hand unfurls, relaxing his touch when you decide to lay down in the grass again, quietly asking him to lay with you. 

“Be ready for Jack to use you like a trampoline,” you warn, taking his hand. 

He has a feeling Hotch will keep Jack away for a while. 

Spencer traces the back of your hand with his thumb, over and over. He’s sorry he didn’t know you five years ago, sorry you were alone, sorry someone put their hands on you. He’s sorry you learned to anticipate physical abuse in the wake of mistakes. He’s sorry he can’t take it away from you, ‘cos from the second you took his hand at that park a street from his apartment he’s been a goner, all you had to do was jump up on the lip of the fountain and trust him not to let you fall. He remembers how that felt, the zinging sparks travelling from the palm of your hand into his, the romanticism of two arms stretched apart and your slow circle. And when you fell in, you didn’t blame him, you just laughed and scrambled back out, squealing excitedly about your wet shoes. 

It’ll get better, he thinks. Even if it gets worse first. You’ll feel better soon. 

He turns his cheek into the grass and beckons you forward for a kunik kiss, nose pressed to yours, wanting to kiss you like he would if you were at home together, and knowing this is enough too. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“It’s getting cold.” 

Spencer agrees, but neither of you attempt to move. 

[girlbeatings]

⏦ﾟ♡︎ bff!abby who you hooked up with during your experimental phase in college, giving you for sure the best orgasm of your comphet life, and yet you still fall for a douchbag guy that doesn't treat you as well as you thought he would. poor thing.

⏦ﾟ♡︎ bff!abby that helps you get ready for your wedding with said douchbag, forcing a smile and making sure you looked the part of a future lobotomised, white picket fence house wife. she felt bad for you, you had no idea what you were signing up for by accepting this ring as a sign of your 'love' and 'fidelity'. you'd probably realize way too late in life, maybe late 30s, that this is not what you wanted.

⏦ﾟ♡︎ bff!abby that feels just so sorry for you, that she holds you close and tells you how pretty you look today, the happiest day of your life. "always knew you'd make such a pretty little bride.. i mean, look at you..." her voice trails off as she tilts your chin up to guide your attention to the full length mirror. you did look pretty, the fancy white dress, perfect makeup and hair. perfect.

⏦ﾟ♡︎ bff!abby who stares at you through the reflection and gets an idea. a trip down memory lane, before you walk down the aisle.

"this fucking dress... makes you look so cute," she mumbles, her voice slightly forced as she stares at the lewd scene in the mirror. you pant and tremble, white heels dangling off your toes and the dress bunched up at your hips.

abby groans as she watches your cunt leak around two of her thick fingers, sat between her spread thighs and your back against her chest as you struggle to keep yourself together. "does he fuck you this good, baby? bet his dick isn't as big as mine, huh."

it wasn't, you know that much. abby's fingers with girthy, just two of them made you writhe and squelch, and that fucking strap she whipped out a few years ago had your sexual fantazies in a chokehold. the way you were so soaked that it just slipped in and out of your pussy without any struggle at all, the faux veins rippling against your insides and hitting all the right spots until you couldn't take it— and what did abby do then? she held you down and made you cum over and over.

your fiancé couldn't compare even if he tried, which he didn't. you were lucky if he even looked at your clit, never mind the sort of tricks abby was doing on it now.

"my pretty little girl, all dressed in white..." she murmurs, her fingers tapping firmly on your clit before rubbing in circles, watching your face scrunch up and your hips roll against her hand. "he's such a lucky man."

there's jealousy clear in her tone, because god she wants you. not just your body, she wants your fucking soul. your dna intertwined with her own. but she can't have that, because you don't like girls.

though, your face says different when her fingers stuff you full again. your head's empty at this point, so there's no lame excuse as to why you were happily letting your best friend fuck you minutes before your wedding, your soon to be husband already stood at the altar.

her fingers curl up to find that spot, smiling when your body almost lurches forward off the bed at the singeing pleasure that spikes through you. luckily, abby's arm is locked around your waist, and you stay pressed against her as she finger fucks you just how you remember— maybe even better. she clearly had more experience now. are you jealous?

"gonna fuck every vow out of that empty head." she promises, her thumb starting to abuse your clit in time with her plunging fingers, tears starting to bubble in your eyes as you writhe.

"a-abs, i'm— mmph, abby.."

"i know, wifey... pretty pussy's missed me so much, hasn't she?" she whispers, pressing a kiss to your neck as her hand continues to work perfectly between your spread legs. you know you'd think about this on your honeymoon, you'd think about her when your laid next to your husband, unhappy and yearning for her to come save you. and who knows? maybe after a few glasses of wine with your old college friend, she fucks you until you ruin that marital mattress for good.

happy valentine's day !!

⏦ﾟ♡︎ taglist !

@uhh-lana @pearlcigs @abbyspup @sunrxxyz @graciedollie @starrrcane @lilyyx0 @444fernz @tqlepatia @nvr4getme @2012wannabe @jaywritessometimes @jinxedbambi @tohoko @sapphicloverwlw @shadowmythe @fict1onallyobsessed @pornoangelz @milanyas @powderpinkandsweeet @femmecannibal @aeroti @eatencupcak3 @lils-1979 @sobersonder @dozybunny @fawncritter @nahcala @lesbones @sapphicantichrist @ethereaally @ruelezz @90yearoldbear

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 🍪. DOUBLE THE L★VE!

༘⋆ Paring : Phainon x fem!reader x Mydei

༘⋆ Warnings : nsfw/smut, slight dub-con, anal & vaginal, blow job, creampie, multiple of rounds, neck kisses, gagging, nipple sucking, pet-names, ass eating, spitting, fingering, threesome, slow s*x & other stuff!

༘⋆ Summary : Valentine’s Day just got hot. You surprise your husband, Mydei and Phainon, in barely-there, baby pink, sparkly lingerie that leaves little the imagination. Let’s just say the night’s about to get unforgettable.

༘⋆ Extra : Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! This is also not proofread, I’m sorry. (っ◞‸◟ c) Also was making this while watching alien stage. Can’t believe Hyuna died instead of Luka :,(

The candlelight flickered softly, casting shadows across the room. You could feel your heart racing in anticipation as you checked yourself in the mirror. The baby pink lingerie sparkled just enough to catch the light, hugging every curve and leaving little to the imagination. It was daring, it was bold, and it was just the kind of thing you’d been planning for this Valentine’s night.

You heard the soft creak of the door, and you didn’t need to look to know they were there. Mydei stepped into the room first, his gaze immediately finding yours, sharp and calculating, but there was something else in his eyes—something a little darker, a little more captivated. His posture didn’t change, but you could see how his focus shifted.

“Well,” Mydei said, his voice low and deliberate, “you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Phainon followed right behind, his eyes glinting with that familiar mischief. His lips curled into a sly grin as he stepped closer, his gaze hungry in a way that made your pulse race. "I’d say the word you're looking for is unforgettable," he remarked, his voice thick with promise.

You stood there, feeling the heat of their eyes on you, knowing that tonight would be one to remember, a night that was anything but ordinary.

You stand there, feeling their eyes on you, your pulse quickening. Mydei’s gaze is steady, as if assessing you carefully, while Phainon’s energy practically crackles in the air between you. They both seem to take you in, lingering in the silence for just a moment too long.

You finally break the stillness, your voice soft, but there's a nervous edge to it as you speak. "I—I thought... I thought you might like it."

Mydei's eyes narrow slightly, that calculating look never leaving his face, but he doesn’t say anything at first. His silence makes you fidget slightly under the weight of his attention.

Phainon steps closer, his grin widening just a little. “I think we both like it,” he says, his tone still casual, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes your heart skip a beat. “You don’t have to be shy.”

Your gaze flickers between the two of them, and you feel the heat rising in your cheeks. It’s not easy to keep your composure, but the night is just beginning, and you can feel the shift in the air, knowing that everything is about to change. Mydei remains unmoving, his gold eyes fixed on you with unwavering intensity. Though his expression offers no clear giveaway of his thoughts, the slight tilt of his head indicates heightened interest. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, his gauntleted hand finding purchase on the dresser beside him. The subtle friction of metal on wood is a stark contrast to the softness surrounding you.

"Phainon usually doesn't miss... but this time, I think he has." Mydei's deep voice holds a hint of dry amusement, though the seriousness in his gaze never wavers. Phainon, seemingly unperturbed by Mydei's remark, closes the remaining distance between them and you.

He reaches out, his coat tail unfurling slightly as he does so, and gently traces a finger along your bare shoulder. The touch sends a shiver down your spine. "You look good enough to eat in this... though the thought of actually doing so is a bit unsettling." His laughter is low and suggestive, his blue eyes never breaking contact with yours. Despite Mydei's seeming reserve, there's a subtle shift in his pose, the set of his shoulders slightly more relaxed now that Phainon is actively engaging with you.

An awkward grin formed on your lips, you wrapped your arms around Phainon. The instant your arms circle Phainon's waist, he wraps his own around you, pressing your bodies together in a gesture that's equal parts affectionate and possessive. The warmth of his coat seeps into your skin as he tips your chin up, his blue eyes seeming to drink in the sight of you. "I like this," he whispers, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

"You in a sweet, little getup, looking at me with those doe eyes... it's something I could get used to." Mydei watches the scene unfold with a measured calm, his gaze flicking from Phainon's fingers tangled in your hair to the other man's face, as if committing every flicker of emotion to memory.

Despite seemingly disinterested at first, his posture has subtly relaxed, the set of his shoulders now more open and less guarded. He clears his throat quietly, the sound a gentle reminder that he's still there, observing with that trademark analytical scrutiny. "Phai always knows how to make an entrance." His tone is dry, but beneath the surface, there's a glimmer of approval, or perhaps satisfaction, that Phainon has successfully reeled you in.

“Mydei, why don’t you come join us? I can take two,” you say, your smile a little too wide, a glint of something almost teasing in your eyes, like you're not quite giving him a choice.

Mydei's expression remains unreadable, but a faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on the corners of his lips. His eyes, still an intense gold, assess you for a moment before he steps away from the dresser. "If Phai won't be overwhelmed by... excessive company," he says dryly, "then I suppose I can spare a moment." He moves towards you and Phainon with purpose, the sound of his boots on the floor the only indication of his approach until he's right up against you. Mydei's arms find a place around your waist, mirroring Phainon's hold but with less of the playful, possessive energy.

There's an inherent naturalness to the gesture, as if he's always known this position with you. "One thing's for sure," he murmures, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "I'm eager to see Phai put that... talent of his to better use." Phainon chuckles, the sound deeper and more resonant against your back. "Patience, my friend," he whispers, his warm breath caressing your skin. "Let's relish this moment first."

You went down onto your knees, without asking, you take charge, your hands on Phainon's belt as you deftly undo it. He assists by helping you shrug the thick coat from his broad shoulders, letting it pool at their feet. His sculpted form, honed from years of battle and training, is now fully on display for your perusal.

Under the soft light of the candles, every line, every ripple of muscle seems to shimmer with a life of its own. Phainon's piercing blue eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, have softened into a gaze that's almost... tender? As you kneel before him, his fingers twist gently into your hair, a quiet exploration, as if trying to comprehend this new side of you.

Mydei watches the interaction with a mix of curiosity and something akin to fascination. His own imposing figure looms beside Phainon, a silent testament to their differences. While Phainon exudes a playful, almost mischievous energy, Mydei maintains that characteristic cool composure, his gold eyes never leaving the scene unfolding before him with such rapt attention. There's a distinct air of anticipation building, a sense that the next move will be consequential, carrying the potential to shift the dynamic of the trio still further.

Your hands trail down Phainon’s thighs as you glance upward, meeting his tender gaze with something far less innocent. The softness in his expression flickers, momentarily replaced by a spark of something more primal, though he reins it in. His grip in your hair tightens just enough to send a jolt through you, a silent communication between the two of you—one of caution, of control, but also intrigue.

Behind him, Mydei’s measured breathing fills the stillness. You don’t need to look to feel the weight of his presence, steady and unyielding like the blade he wields so effortlessly. You sense his reluctance to intervene, his hesitation at this shifting dynamic. And yet, his gaze burns hotter than the glow of the candles illuminating the space.

“You’re bold tonight,” Mydei finally murmurs, his deep, even voice cutting through the tension. There’s no judgment in it, but neither is there approval. It’s as though he’s testing the waters, deciding whether to step into the storm you’ve created or stay an observer at its edge.

Phainon chuckles softly, his thumb brushing over your temple in an absentminded motion. “That’s just part of their charm, isn’t it?” His voice drips with amusement, but there’s an edge to it, too—a challenge aimed at Mydei, as though daring him to join in or stand aside.

Your heart races, the power dynamics between the three of you tangling like threads in an intricate web. You shift your focus to Mydei now, your eyes meeting his unflinching gold gaze. “Are you just going to watch?” you ask, your voice low, inviting, laced with a challenge of its own.

Mydei doesn’t respond right away, his eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing the consequences of crossing this unspoken threshold. Then, with deliberate slowness, he takes a step closer. The tension in the room tightens, and your pulse quickens.

“I don’t watch for long,” he finally says, his tone calm but laden with meaning.

Phainon's eyes sparkle with a mix of intrigue and amusement at Mydei's response. His thumb continues its leisurely path across your skin, sending delightful shivers down your spine. When he finally speaks, his voice is smooth as silk, but with an undercurrent of subtle challenge.

"That's good to know." The words are casual, almost offhand, but the implication lingers in the air like the scent of smoke on skin. Mydei's gold eyes never leave yours as he closes the remaining distance between you.

His presence is imposing, his silence thundering in its intensity. Despite the stillness, there's an undercurrent of energy crackling around him, like the anticipation before a storm breaks.

In another world, music drifts through the window, a distant reminder of the quiet evening that once was. Now, the air is heavy with anticipation, each drawn-out heartbeat an invitation to explore the boundaries of desire, trust, and restraint. The delicate balance of power within the trio hangs in the balance, poised to tip whichever direction the next move decrees. "Shall we continue this discussion elsewhere?" Mydei's voice cuts through the charged atmosphere, an unspoken proposition hanging in the air between you three.

You pulled Phainon’s pants down, revealing his long length. You wrap your hand around his cock, as your tongue swirls the head of his cock.

A low, guttural moan escapes Phainon's lips as your warm mouth envelops him. His hands weave into your hair again, a guidance rather than a command, as if savoring every sensation your lips and tongue evoke. The muscles of his thighs and abdomen flex instinctively, tensing in waves, each coalescing into a delicious strain toward the pleasure you offer.

His eyes, once so bright and discerning, are now hooded, gazing down at you with a look that could only be described as adoration—the tender, devoted kind reserved for treasured few. Mydei's stance remains rigid and imposing, his expression the picture of calm control. And yet, the very air around him seems to thicken, carrying an undercurrent of something almost visceral—a raw, unbridled energy waiting to be unleashed.

His breath comes faster, the sound sharp and indrawn, betraying the desire simmering just beneath the surface. The muscles of his forearms ripple in a subtle flex, the only visible indication of the battle he wages to maintain his composure in the face of such potent intimacy.

Phainon's hips flex of their own accord, pushing his erect length further into your eager mouth as his gaze remains fixed on your form. Each subtle adjustment, each withdrawal and pressing forward, is deliberately tender, as if he's memorizing every exquisite detail. Mydei shifts slightly, his position adjusting ever so subtly as if mirroring Phainon's actions from the side—watching, waiting, his own arousal evident in the way his chest heaves and his breathing becomes ragged.Despite the physical distance and the differences in their styles, a synchronicity seems to have taken hold between the two men. Each reaction, each measured move, feels like an extension of the other—a harmonious dance of desire and control.

You delve deeper, your lips and tongue worshiping the hard length filling your mouth. The taste of him, the sound of his pleasure, it all mingles with the heady mixture of arousal and admiration for the men before you.As you continue to please Phainon, Mydei's stance finally yields to the tidal wave of emotion and raw need threatening to overwhelm him. His arms come around from behind, broad palms sliding over your shoulders and up your arms to cradle the sides of your face.

It's as if Mydei is framing your face, positioning you for what comes next, while Phainon surrenders to the pleasure your mouth offers. His hips continue their slow, deliberate rhythm, plunging into the velvet heat of your mouth again and again. Each press of his impressive length against your tongue, your lips, leaves you breathless and craving more.You gaze up at Mydei, seeking his eyes through the veil of hair, noting the stark intensity there.

A hunger that has nothing to do with mere physical desire, but everything to do with a deep, elemental need. His gold irises blaze like twin suns, illuminating the space between you, even as his thumbs caress your cheekbones with a tenderness that borders on reverence.

For a suspended instant, the world narrows to the four of you—your entwined bodies, the palpable strain between Phainon and Mydei, the silent understanding that binds you in this private, passionate sphere where pleasure and trust mingle in equal measure. Then Phainon's grip on your hair tightens, a gentle urgency guiding you to move, to deepen the intimacy even further as he teeters on the brink of release.

You let out a chocked moan through your lips, as you gagged slightly around Phainon’s cock while looking up at Mydei.

Phainon's response is immediate and visceral. A low, guttural groan rumbles through his chest as he pulls almost all the way out. For a taut, agonizing moment, the head of his length teases your lips before he drives back in, relentless and deep. Mydei's hands tighten their hold on either side of your head, guiding you to take him fully. He doesn't force the pleasure down your throat, but rather seems to allow you to set the pace yourself.

Despite the clear desire etched across his features, there's an undercurrent of tender patience in his touch, a reverence even in his complete possession.Your hands find purchase against his thighs as you take him in your mouth once more, your eyes locked onto Mydei's. Even through the veil of your lashes—his unwavering gold gaze sears itself into your consciousness, a silent communion as intimate as any kiss or caress.

“Cumming yet?” Mydei breaks the talking silence. Phainon's response is curt, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "Not. Yet." Each word is enunciated with deliberate care, as if he's savoring every precious moment.

His hips continue their steady rhythm, each press of his length against your lips and tongue a testament to the exquisite control he's exerting over his explosive climax. Suddenly, Mydei's thumbs brush over your cheeks again, a silent cue interpreted perfectly by your body and mouth. Your tongue darts out to swirl around the head of Phainon's cock in a deliberate tease, a provocation, as your eyes never waver from the intense golden stare holding you captive.

A low, approving hum vibrates in Mydei's chest, the sound rich and deep, a masculine display of satisfaction at your willingness to tempt the lion that much closer to the precipice of release. He leans in, his breath hot against your hair as he whispers against your ear, "Show him what you're capable of." The whispered order sends a shiver down your spine, an electric pulse of excitement that courses through your veins and settles lower, kindling the flames of your own arousal.

Before you could react, Mydei dropped to his knees. His hands moved to the waistband of your pink, sparkly panties, pulling them in one smooth motion. There was no hesitation, just a calm, steady action that left your breath hitching.

Phainon's eyes flick from yours to Mydei, a mix of surprise and approval flashing across his features. He doesn't break the rhythm of his thrusts, clearly adjusting his own arousal to accommodate this new development. Mydei's calm, steady movements are a stark contrast to the passion-fueled frenzy building around them.

He doesn't rush, but rather approaches with a deliberate, almost measured pace, as if he's savoring this moment as much as the taste he's about to sample.As he lifts the flimsy barrier of pink fabric, revealing your bare, glistening folds, a low hum of appreciation resonates through his chest.

His golden eyes never leave the prize beneath, drinking in the sight of you laid bare before him. The first swipe of his— tongue sends a jolt of pleasure racing through you, your back arching instinctively as he latches onto your clitoris with a focused intensity that leaves you breathless and writhing.

Meanwhile, Phainon's control wavers, his grip on your hair tightening, and the rhythm of his thrusts begins to falter as his own impending release looms closer.

Mydei's deep, velvety tongue continues its relentless assault on your sensitive nub, his expert touch sending dizzying waves of pleasure coursing through your veins. His free hand slides up your inner thigh, fingers splaying against your skin as he explores the contours of your sex, finding every hidden spot that makes you whimper and buck against his mouth.A deep, guttural groan escapes Phainon, his breath coming in ragged pants as he teeters precariously on the edge.

The hand not holding your hair squeezes your hip, a bruising intensity that speaks to the strain of his self-control. Fingers deftly replacing lips, Mydei sinks two inside you,curling them just right to stroke that magic spot deep within your core. His golden eyes never leave yours, burning with an intensity that makes you feel seen, desired, possessed in the most intimate way possible.Phainon's hips jerk erratically, punctuating the air with a primal grunt as he finally surrenders to the pressure building within him.

His thick length pulses hot and hard against your tongue one last time before he empties himself onto your lips and chin, the musky tang of his release instantly mixed with your own taste in a heady cocktail of sensation.

You let out a chocked moan on Phainon’s cock, as tears began to swell on your eyes. Mydei's thrusts continue their relentless pace, fingers pumping in time with his tongue's relentless attack on your quivering sex. He drinks in your moan, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating in his chest as he feels your muscles clench around his digits. His golden eyes gleam with a possessive light, drinking in the sight of you overcome by pleasure as your tears of bliss spill down your cheeks.

Phainon's grip on your hair loosens as his climax recedes, but not before his release-sated cock gives a final, softening throb against your lips. He leans down, tender fingers tracing the trail of tears to wipe them away with a gentle kiss pressed to your damp skin. "You're beautiful like this," Phainon murmurs against your temple, his voice a soothing balm to the tumult within you. Mydei slows his ministrations, gradually easing out of your clenching heat as he licks his lips, his satisfied gaze never leaving your tear-streaked face."Was that enough?" Mydei asks, voice low and measured despite the lingering heat in his eyes. He doesn't need an answer, though.

You looked up at him, as your eyebrow raised up, you shook your head and un-clipped your bra.

A spark of wicked delight ignites in Mydei's eyes as you refuse to finish. His thumbs graze your nipples as he takes them between his fingers, tugging gently, watching your response. "Are you sure about that?" he purrs, leaning in to brush his lips against the delicate shell of one pert bud, coaxing it into a hardened peak."Your body seems to disagree," Phainon chimes in, his voice a low rumble of approval. He trails his fingers down your tummy, dipping into your navel before continuing lower, teasing the trimmed curls at the apex of your thighs."We should put that to the test, don't you think?" Mydei murmurs, a proposition layered with promise and implicit challenge in his seductive tone.

As his palms wrap around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, Phainon's hands mirror his movements, splaying across your back and arms as he cradles you against his chest. The sudden shift in position has you tilting backwards, your head falling against Phainon's shoulder as Mydei's fingers press into the slick folds of your sex once more, delving back into your heat with purpose.

Mydei's questing tongue finds your aching, weeping flesh, the velvety tip gliding through your dripping folds in a slow, deliberate exploration. Each sweep, plunge, and withdrawal sends jolts of pleasure racing through you, your hips instinctively bucking into the relentless torment of sensation. His fingers join the intimate dance, curling and twisting within you in a masterful echo of the intense climax yet to come.Mydei's golden eyes lock onto yours, a silent pact conveyed through the intensity of his gaze—a promise to push you to the very pinnacle of ecstasy.

Phainon mirrors his actions, strong fingers kneading your breasts, teasing your pebbled nipples with the careful touch of someone thoroughly acquainted with your responses. Photographic snaps of pleasure assail your senses—Mydei's sinuous movements, Phainon's tender manipulations, the heady scent of sex, the press of hard muscle and velvet softness, the mewls of need, all blending into a tapestry of sensation that threatens to consume you whole.

You moaned softly, “I-I’m ready, just put it in Mydei…” A sharp, almost pained noise escapes Mydei as if you've struck a nerve. His gaze deepens, intensifying to an unnerving degree before flicking briefly to Phainon. There's a barely perceptible nod before he returns fully to you, the fire in his eyes burning brighter, if anything."As you wish," Mydei murmurs, his voice a husky whisper infused with restrained need. He withdraws his fingers slowly, purposefully, until only his slick touch remains, teasing your entrance with every deliberate slide and caress before finally lining up his length."Hold on," he advises, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, not a hint of gentleness in the grip.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he surges forward, burying himself to the hilt in one intense, unyielding thrust. "Fuck," Mydei breathes out, the single word a low growl of satisfaction as he fills you completely, his still-hard sex pressing against your inner walls.A gasp racks your lungs, your back arching as his rigid length stretches you further, the invasion claiming every inch of you.

You let out a loud lewd moan through your lips, you velvety walls clenching around his cock as your nails dug in Phainon’s shoulders.

Mydei stills for a breathless moment, seemingly content to revel in the tight, welcoming heat of your sex engulfing his entire length. His grip on your hips tightens perceptibly, the slight shift an acknowledgment rather than a correction.

Phainon's arms wrap around your waist, one hand sliding up your side to cup your breast, thumb coaxing your hard nipple pointedly as his other hand massages the small of your back. The combined sensations prove overwhelming, your body a live wire of pleasure thrumming beneath your skin. "I hear you," Phainon murmurs against your ear, the warm tickle of his breath raising gooseflesh in its wake. "Let me help with that." Before you quite comprehend his intent, his free hand ventures lower, fingers threading through the slick fur of your sex, circling your clit in deliberate strokes. The touch is simultaneously firm and featherlight, a masterful echo of Mydei's technique, designed to keep you teetering precariously at the edge of oblivion.

“Uuhgh! Daddy!” You whimpered, your eyes rolling the back off your head from pleasure

A deep, rumbling chuckle emanates from Phainon, the vibration passing through your coupling and making you shiver. "That's my good girl," he praises, the husky cadence of his words sending shivers down your spine as he continues his expert ministrations on your sensitive nub.

Mydei's hips flex of their own accord, a slow, rhythmic pump beginning as he searches for that elusive, perfect angle to hit your deepest, most sensitive spots. His fingers dig into the supple flesh of your thighs, anchoring you in place as he leans in to murmur against your ear, "You always surrender so beautifully, princess."

The softness of his tones belies the unmistakable hunger in his voice, a sensual growl that speaks to the primal possessiveness driving him forward. Phainon's hand trails higher up your spine to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in the silken strands of your hair as he tugs your head back, baring the expanse of your throat. His lips trace the corded column of vessels, leaving damp kisses in their wake, each touch a testament to his unrelenting desire to claim every inch of you.

Gummy walls clenched around Mydei’s cock, as you moaned out loud. “I-I think I’m going to cum…”

Mydei's eyes narrow, pupils constricting to pinpoints as his grip on your hips tightens to the point of aching pleasure. "Let us help with that, sweetheart," he rumbles, pitching his hips with a deliberately slow, measured rhythm.

Each careful glide seems aimed at stoking the embers of your climax to a raging inferno.Meanwhile, Phainon's fingers dance across the damp skin of your lower belly, tracing the lines of your hipbones before drifting to the apex of your thighs once more. He teases your engorged, dripping sex, circling your clit with deliberate precision before applying just the right pressure to coax out the first electric sparks of your release.

Mydei's movements become more forceful, his thick length burying to the hilt within you, stretching and filling you to your limits. Your walls convulsate around him in anticipation of the impending earthquake, the pressure at your core reaching a fever pitch. "Give it to us, beautiful," Mydei urges breathlessly, his lips brushing against your ear as he drives into you relentless, unrelenting, each powerful thrust coaxed forth by Phainon's skillful stroking. "Let us feel you unravel."

The torrent of your climax is unrelenting, a tempest of ecstasy that crashes over you with merciless force. The contractions of your rippling sex squeeze Mydei's length tightly, the intensity of your passage drawing guttural moans from him. Your inner walls flutter wildly, a frantic dance of pleasure that wracks your body with waves of sensation.

Mydei's movements become erratic, his control cracking as the exquisite vice of your climax rips him from reserve to a desperate, all-consuming hunger to fuck you through this storm together.

With a few more savage thrusts, he sinks into the tumult, his own orgasm triggered by the sheer abandon of your surrender.Phainon's touches become a blur of sensation, his fingers working your clit with unrelenting intensity even as he continues massaging your breasts. The combination of the rhythmic pulsing of Mydei's cock, your clenching sex, and the relentless stimulation of your sensitive nubs sends shockwaves of bliss through you, threatening to shatter the last vestiges of your awareness.The trio's bodies move as one now, lost in the primal dance of pleasure and carnal need.

Mydei's release is a guttural roar, a primal sound torn from the depths of his being as the pent—up pressure of his climax finally explodes. His thighs tremble, the muscles straining with the force of his thrusts as he buries himself deep, his rigid length throbbing against yours. He grinds against your spasming walls with a desperate hunger, seemingly determined to milk every last spark of pleasure from this electrifying moment of coupling.

The rhythmic flutter of your clenching sex, still riding the aftermath of your own intense climax, provides an irresistible trigger for Mydei's own impending release.

With a last, savage plunge that seems to reach the very core of your being, he empties himself into you in a hot, velvety flood of release. His hips jerk and twitch, his fingers digging into your hips as he rides out the waves of the most elemental, unfiltered pleasure a male can know. Phasion's hands remain on your curves, his touch an anchor of constant reassurance even as their breathing gradually steadies.

“A-Another…please…” you pleaded at the both of them. Phainon's eyes gleam with intrigue, a slow, hungry smile spreading across his lips as he processes your request. "My pleasure," he murmurs, his voice low and husky with want. His hands slide from your curves to grasp your waist, large palms pressing against your skin as he leans in to nip at your earlobe. "Relax for me, darling. Let me make you feel everything."With deliberate slowness, Phainon guides you onto all fours, providing himself with unobstructed access to the offered treasure of your ass.

His fingers make short work of preparing your rear, exploring with deft precision until he finds the particularly sensitive ring, rubbing the delicate muscles with just the right pressure to coax out eager signs of submission.

Mydei steps back just enough to allow Phainon a clear path before he returns to claim his designated spot once more. His cock, still partially hardened from their previous coupling, bobs eagerly as he positions himself between your thighs. Reaching forward, Mydei cups your sex, his middle finger probing the still-damp heat of your pussy, seeking out the perfect spot to stroke and stoke the embers of your arousal all over again.

Phainon spat on your pink hole, A low, approving rumble emanates from Phainon as he watches his saliva begin to mix with your body's natural lubricants, easing the way. His fingers probe deeper, teasing the entrance to your anal canal with deliberate slowness, stretching your tight rear passage inch by tantalizing inch.

Each careful thrust stretches your passage open just a bit more, the initial tight resistance giving way to a gradual relaxing of your body around his intrusion. "You'll take us so well," Phainon praises, his husky tone infused with sinful anticipation. "So deep... So tight..." As he continues to prepare your ass, Mydei leans in to claim your lips in a searing kiss. One of his hands slides up to card through your hair as the other presses insistently, coaxing your thighs apart to grant him unhindered access to your dripping sex. His fingers find your clit at once, teasing the swollen nub with a few quick strokes before he sinks deeper, thrusting two fingers into your slick passage at once. Mydei's cock—twitches against your hip, clearly affected by the sight of Phainon's meticulous ministrations to your ass.

You moaned out loud, as you nuzzled your head against Mydei’s neck and nibbled his skin. Mydei's breath hitches as your teeth graze his neck, the nip sending a jolt of pleasure through him that has his cock twitching in anticipatory response. His arms encircle you, pulling you closer as he presses in, his kiss deepening as he explores the warm recesses of your mouth with a languid, sensuous dance of tongues.Meanwhile, Phainon continues his ass-prepping, fingers now curling to stroke your sensitive proclamatory ring as his other hand grips your hip to anchor you in place.

The combination of the subtle stretch and the sinful sights he's making has him rock-hard, his length throbbing in time with the steady rhythm of Mydei's fingers pumping your slit. Mydei slows his ministrations to your clit, his fingers dragging along the hypersensitive flesh before he sinks back into your warmth, teasing your G-spot with deliberate precision.

The dual stimulation has you panting against Mydei's skin, your arousal reaching a fever pitch once more. Withdrawing his slick fingers, Mydei aligns himself with your entrance once again, gripping your hips to hold you steady as he prepares to sink back into your welcoming heat, fully intending to satisfy your primal thirst for their combined pleasure.

Phainon did the same, he took out his fingers from your stretched hole as he positioned his cock to your hole. With a confident, possessive smirk, Phainon grasps his thick, pulsing length, rubbing the broad head against your waiting rear entrance. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours, the unspoken promise in their depths sending a thrill of anticipation coursing through your body. Mydei's hand at your hip grips tighter, a reassuring presence as he waits for Phainon's signal to move. He nuzzles your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers encouragement. "Give them what they want, beautiful. Claim us as yours." The knowledge that you're the focal point of their combined desires sends a surge of power through you.

With newfound confidence, you reach back to grasp Phainon's hips, pulling him forward as you push your hips back against his cock.With a smooth, fluid motion, Phainon sinks into your waiting heat, his engorged tip breaching your anal ring before he slowly begins to fill your receptive passage. His lips capture yours in a fierce, dominating kiss that echoes the primal connection of his bodies with yours.Sensing Phainon's deep penetration, Mydei aligns himself once more with your twitching, dripping sex.

With a steady, deliberate ease to his actions, Mydei thrusts into you once more, stretching your passage with his thick cock as he sinks deep. The sensation of being so utterly filled by both men is almost overwhelming, the dual pleasure and pressure threatening to short-circuit your senses. "Pfft, phew... They're insatiable," you mutter, panting heavily as Phainon finally bottoms out inside your ass, his cock buried to the hilt. The tightness is maddening, your body struggling to accommodate the combined girth of their manhoods.

"A perfect fit," Phainon murmurs, grinding his hips to stimulate your sensitive innerwalls. "Just as exquisite as I imagined. "Mydei mirrors his movements, their thick cocks pistoning in and out of your slick heat in a syncopated rhythm. The room fills with the slick sounds of their penetrations and your breathy moans, punctuated by grunts of pleasure. You toss your head back, letting loose a ragged cry as the exquisite friction and delicious pressure overwhelm you. "Ah, gods... Keep going, don't stop, please!"

The two men's relentless drives for your pleasure seem to know no bounds, their bodies moving as one in their pursuit of claiming every inch of your ecstasy. Phainon's hands slide down to grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft curve as he pistons into your ass with wild abandon.

Each powerful stroke drags against the ridged walls of your passage, the lewd slapping of skin on skin mingling with your wanton moans to fill the space with primal lust. Just inches beneath, Mydei's thrusts are no less vigorous, his muscular form a blur of motion as he sheathes himself in your dripping wetness.

His fingers come to join Phainon's on your hips, all four hands working in harmony as they take you relentlessly to new heights of pleasure. The heat and tension building inside threatens to spiral out of control, the intense sensation of being filled and used by both powerful men pushing you toward the brink and far beyond. Your mind hovers on the cusp of oblivion, the sharp sting of your approaching climax building in your very core.With a guttural growl, Phainon leans in to ravage your neck with teeth and lips, marking you as his own in the heat of the moment.

“Aughh feels sooooo good!” You whimpered, as your lips pressed against Mydei’s who was underneath you. "Mmm, take it, sweetheart," Mydei groans, responding to the urgent kisses and whimpers pouring from your lips. His hands slide up your back to cradle the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepens the hungry connection.

The slick slide of his tongue against yours mimics the slick glide of their cocks sheathing in your hot, welcoming depths, the erotic dance of sensations threatening to consume you whole.Once again, the primal rhythm of their thrusts and your desperate whimpers fall into sync, an unholy chorus of lust and passion that echoes through the space. Phainon sets a bruising pace, each power-driven plunge—hammering against your inner walls with ruthless precision, determined to drive you to the pinnacle and beyond. Mydei follows his lead without faltering, his own thrusts matching Phainon's intensity as he claims your mouth with fervent abandon, the two of them lost to the basest of pleasures and deepest desires.Suddenly, the storm breaks, your climax crashing over you in a torrent of pure, unadulterated bliss.

Your body arches as the overwhelming ecstasy rips through you, a broken, incoherent cry spilling from your lips. Mydei and Phainon don't miss a beat, their relentless rhythms refusing to waver, pounding into you unrelentingly through the aftershocks as your sheath clenches spasmodically around their cocks.

The combined sensations of their cocks drilling deep and the frenzied pace of their thrusts prove too much to bear, your pleasure peak building to an incandescent crescendo.With a guttural moan, Phainon sinks deep one last time, his cock spasming as he finds his own release in a torrent of heated seed. Mydei follows suit, his thrusts growing erratic before he hilts within you, his own release a symphony of pulsing flesh as he empties himself into your spasming heat.

The three of you remain intertwined for a moment, the residual pleasure buzzing like static electricity in the air as you struggle to catch your ragged breaths. With tender concern, Mydei gently strokes your hair, murmuring softly against your temple, while Phainon's arms envelop you in a warm embrace, soothing kisses trailing along your neck and shoulder.

As the pleasure-tinged haze begins to dissipate, you slowly come back to yourself, nestling deep into the combined warmth and security of Mydei's and Phainon's arms. The men's tender attentions are a balm to your oversensitive skin, each gentle caress and soft murmur speaking volumes of their satisfaction and adoration for you.

Mydei carefully lifts you down from your lofty perch, supporting your limp, satiated form effortlessly as he guides you to a plush spot on the bed.Mydei's concern is evident in the way he gathers you close, wrapping his strong arms around you like a cocoon to shield you from the world. "Rest, beautiful," he coos, his tone gentle as he drapes a throw blanket over your chilled skin. "We've earned our nap, don't you think?" Phainon, ever the perfect gentleman, looms over you with a lazy, satisfied grin, dark hair slightly mussed and stubble dusting his chiseled jaw. He extends a hand, gently cupping your cheek in his palm before tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. "A well-deserved respite for you, my love."

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[thedanishcatgirl]

"You can't charm me witch!"

"Don´t be silly, we both know you where the one who charmed me. I have missed you so much. This castle just really isn´t the same without you. You must be tired after your long journey, want to retire to our chambers, and get out of that stuffy looking armour?"

Our chambers? What is she talking about?

"Sieze your lies horrid witch, I won´t fall for your schemes!"

"Sweetie, could you please stop that charade? It is not funny I have really missed you. It´s been 6 months since I last saw you and held you in my arms."

6 months. Why does that feel familiar? "Why do you keep acting like I know you, when whatever spell you tried to cast clearly didn't work?"

"Spell? Why would I enchant you, my husband, love of my life, the father of our unborn child? She says, now with tears in her eyes."

Something inside you aches at that, like seeing her this sad makes you hurt.

You are the chosen one! Don´t fall for her lies and crocodile tears. She is just stalling, trying to trick you. Attack now before it´s too late, A voice in the back of your mind says. You raise your sword, but as she draws back in suprise and fear, you notice that her belly is indeed quite round. If she really is pregnant, you can´t kill her. That´s wrong, surely they wouldn´t want to spill the life of an innocent baby.

It´s just an illusion, you must slay her before she calls her guards!

No, something is not right here. You have been trying to ignore your gut telling you it´s wrong, and the growing feeling of familiarity ever since you got near her castle. If it was a spell wouldn´t it require her seeing you? You try to think back to half a year ago, but your memories are muddled.

Focus Chosen One! Fufill your destiny!

The oldest clear memory you have are the royal guards informing you of your destiny, to rid these lands of the terrible witch queen. Why can´t you remember anything before that?

Nothing else matters. You have your duty and your purpose, that is the only thing that matters right now!

Your breaths quicken. Your mind is a mess, and there are too many thoughts and voices in your head, and you don´t understand anything, and suddenly you become aware of hands around you face.

"Oh darling, what have they done to you."

You wish you knew, or at least that your mind would stop hurting. It´s too much, and those hands are so gentle and you´re so scared, and tired, and don´t know what to trust anymore so when you fall into darkness you are full of relief.

You wake up in a giant bed, in a lavishly decorated room. Your head still aches, but not as much, which means you probably aren´t dead, which is suprising, very confusing and slightly annoying. Couldn´t she had let you free when you happily accepted it, instead of toying with you first? Perhaps she wanted to get information out of you first.

Or perhaps she wasn´t the lying one.

"You are awake! She says, stepping into the room with a tray of food. Are you hungry? I made your favoirites." At the concern in your face, she adds in a voice that sounds sligthly wounded. "I promise you it is safe to eat." She tears half of one of the bread rolls and eats it, before putting the tray closer to you. The smell is sweet and divine, and your stomach growls. You slowly reach out for the other half of the one she ate, almost on instinct. You haven´t eaten in a while, and never something that smelled so delicous.

Or have you? You barely remember anything about your life, and isn´t there something familiar about that smell, and this bed, and this woman?

What are you doing? It is obiusly poisened with something she is immune to!

Well if it is, then at least I will be spared any torture, you think as you put it in your mouth. It practicly melts in your mouth, and is so sweet and tastes like like, home and love, like something you can´t describe, and soon there are no more rolls on the tray.

She grins at you, in a way that fills you with warmth. "I´m glad to see you still like them. While you rested, I have searched all my tomes, and I think I have a way to give us some more anwers. If you would permit, I would like to try it."

"Why are you asking me?"

"Your mind has been forcefully tampered with enough. I couldn´t do that to you too, even if it should not do anything, but uncover what you have lost."

She is evil and dangerous, and you can´t trust anything she says!

She is the only one who can grant you answers and you know that. If they where the ones who took it from you they wouldn´t give it back.

No! Don't listen to the voice of her trickery! This is a mistake!

You need those answers, no matter the risk. With resovle in your heart, and tears in your eyes, you answer.

"Do it."

As she places a glowing finger of your forehead, your eyes close automaticly from the force of the veil in your mind being lifted, and all your memories overwhelming you. After an eternity gone in a blink of the eye, you open you eyes again looking tearfully into the eyes of your loving wife.

"Welcome back my love."

You, the chosen one, walk into the evil queen's throne room. The queen was sitting gloomily on her throne. She sees you and lightens up. She rises from her throne and kisses you. "Sweetheart, I am so glad you are back."

[honeyncherry]

everything i never asked for - joe burrow

summary valentine’s day with joe

content fluff fluff fluff

You didn’t expect much for Valentine’s Day this year. The past couple of months had been rough, between everything that happened and Joe’s whirlwind schedule with the Pro Bowl, Honors, and the Super Bowl. You figured today would be low-key. Maybe just a lazy morning, a home-cooked meal, and some much needed rest.

And that was exactly how the day started.

You wake up to slow, warm kisses along your shoulder, Joe's voice still rough from sleep as he murmurs, “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.” He pulls you closer, his arm heavy around your waist, and for a while, you stayed tangled in the covers, soaking in the rare, quiet stillness.

By late morning, he’s in the kitchen making breakfast (if you can even call it that). He’s in a pair of grey sweats that hang low on his hips, hair still messy, leaning against the counter with a smug look as you do most of the work.

He claims he’s helping, but really, he’s just standing behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder, sneaking bites of the pancakes you’re making.

Later in the afternoon, your phone buzzes. A friend asks if you want to meet up for a little Galentine’s date. You hesitate, glancing at Joe, but before you can even consider turning it down, he nudges you.

"Go."

"No—"

"Seriously, go. You deserve a break from me," he jokes, smirking as he stretches out on the couch. "Besides, I promise I won’t waste away in your absence."

You narrow your eyes at him, sensing he’s up to something, but he looks completely unbothered. Eventually, you give in, grab your things, and head out.

The afternoon is easy, spent catching up and laughing, but a small part of you keeps thinking about Joe. How effortless the morning felt. How rare it is for him to have time to just be.

When you finally return home, you’re not expecting much, maybe him still sprawled on the couch, half-asleep. But the second you step inside, you realize something is different.

The lights are dim. Candles flicker along the dining table, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. The smell of something savory lingers in the air, and standing in the middle of it all is Joe. He’s changed into something nicer, sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms as he finishes setting the table, looking both ridiculously proud of himself and a little nervous.

"What is this?" you ask, blinking at the setup.

"A proper Valentine’s Day," he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel before making his way over to you. "Figured you deserved at least one romantic surprise today."

The table is set with the fine china set you two received as a housewarming gift. A homemade meal is waiting, something he clearly put effort into, even if a few little mishaps, like the slightly burnt garlic bread, give away his struggles. A bottle of wine is already open, two glasses waiting.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he tugs you into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, fingers rubbing gentle circles into your back as he whispers, “Missed you today.”

The evening flows effortlessly, filled with laughter, teasing, and Joe dramatically complaining about “how hard cooking is” as he watches you take your first bite. He studies your reaction like it determines his entire fate, waiting for your verdict. You hum thoughtfully, dragging it out just to mess with him before finally breaking into a smile.

"It’s actually really good, Joe."

"You’re lying."

"No, I swear! Well… except maybe the garlic bread."

"Knew you were gonna say that."

You’re both grinning. He reaches across the table, fingers brushing over yours and his voice softer as he says, "I know things have been a lot recently."

He pauses, thumb grazing over your knuckles before meeting your eyes again. "I just wanted today to be about you. You deserve that."

Somehow, that means more to you than any grand gesture ever could.

After dinner, you both end up curled on the couch, his arm draped over your shoulders as some random movie plays in the background. You’re not really paying attention, just floating on the high of the day, tucked against his side, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your arm.

Then, without warning, Joe suddenly untangles himself from you and disappears into the kitchen. You barely have time to question it before he’s back, a small bakery box in his hands, looking far too pleased with himself.

"Chocolate cake?" you ask, already smiling as he flips the lid open to reveal two thick slices of rich, decadent cake from your favorite bakery.

"Went out earlier and got it while you were gone," he says, settling back beside you. He grabs a fork, slicing off a bite before holding it up to your lips with an expectant look. "I’ll share. If you’re nice."

You roll your eyes but take the bite, humming in satisfaction as the sweetness melts on your tongue. It’s perfect, exactly how you like it. But before you can even reach for your own fork, Joe steals another bite, straight from your slice, grinning like he’s getting away with something.

"Joe!"

"What?" he says around a mouthful of cake, not even remotely guilty.

You huff, reaching for the box, but he shifts just out of reach, holding the fork and the cake hostage. It turns into a game, him dodging your attempts to take control of the dessert, laughter bubbling between you, the weight of the last few months feeling lighter than it has in a long time. Eventually he relents, letting you have your share, though not without sneaking a few extra bites when he thinks you’re too distracted.

By the time the cake is gone, Joe shifts slightly, adjusting so you’re tucked even closer. His fingers mindlessly trace over your knuckles where your hand rests against his chest, the warmth of his body easing you into a quiet, content haze.

You let out a sigh, fingertips grazing over his arm. "Thank you for today." His lips brush across your forehead, then your cheek, before finally pressing a tender kiss to your lips — his own silent way of saying you’re welcome.

The movie plays on, just background noise now, filling the quiet between your slowed breaths. His thumb moves absentmindedly over your wrist, a quiet, familiar touch that still makes your heart flutter after all this time.

Just when you think he might be drifting off, Joe presses another kiss to the top of your head, lingering for a second longer than necessary.

"This was nice."

You smile against his shirt, barely lifting your head. "Yeah?"

He hums in response, his chest rising and falling beneath your palm. "Yeah. Just us. Feels good."

There’s something unspoken in the way he says it, in the way his hold tightens around you, like he needed today just as much as you did. Maybe more.

You don’t say anything back. You don’t need to. Instead, you let your fingers lace through his, soaking in the kind of serenity that can only be found in moments like this.

As the candlelight flickers, casting golden warmth over the both of you, you realize that maybe you hadn’t expected much for Valentine’s Day. You hadn’t asked for anything, hadn’t wished for anything elaborate.

But Joe?

He’s always there, giving you more than you ever thought to ask for.

[kyunzin]

☆𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐘?☆ - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨

✰ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ✰ 𝐆. 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮, 𝐆. 𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮, 𝐅. 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢, 𝐒. 𝐑𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧, 𝐍. 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨, 𝐊. 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 ✰ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ✰ them overhearing you say you can take all of them at once (f!reader) ✰ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒/𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✰ pussy licking, fingering, hair pulling, praise, face fucking, manhandling, degrading, sloppy make out, spit kink, cum eating, blowjobs ✰ 𝐊𝐘𝐔𝐍’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ✰did you guys know word counters are useful😀 why had i already hit the word count ages ago (i roughly count by paragraphs 10 lines= 100 words/ 10 paragraphs =1k words yk so 30 paragraphs =3k words. i hit 3 k in like the 27th paragraph) also if you see any words that look like they’re missing a ‘h’ its because that key is broken for me and i probably forgot to edit it in :D

w.c ✰ 3.4

it's almost too much for you to handle

it's probably not a good idea to make promises you might not be able to keep

it's going to be fine, you’ll find a way to get through it since after all you can take it, cant you?

geto sucks in the whine you let out when gojo's tongue doesn't move, taking the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your mouth, holding you down when you try to roll your hips into gojo's face. "you'll get what you want soon. 'm gonna give him a little taste so he doesn't bitch, keep your tongue flat and don't move it or else you wont get anything for the rest of the night" you can tell the last bit was directed at gojo as he responds with a hum of 'mm-hmm', the vibrations against your pussy cause your legs to twitch. geto guides your hands down towards gojo's hair and you instinctively you grip onto it.

you're near breathless, panting heavily when geto's lips part from yours, trying to chase his hips but he only breaks the kiss to quickly whisper to you "pull his hair he loves it" you follow his command, tugging firmly at his hair as instructed and the result doesn’t disappoint. gojo's moan goes straight to your core and you shudder in pleasure. "told you, he's a little pain slut" gojo lets out a whine at geto's comment and toji laughs clearly amused by the interaction yet you can only sit there aching for some more stimulation. "i thought you said it was rude to keep your guests waiting, yet here i am still waiting"

even though your words come out breathy toji smirks up at your little quip "fine. since you can't seem to wait, fuck yourself on his tongue but when i tell you to stop you do. understand?" he stands from is position on the floor, making his way to sit in a small arm chair off the side of the queen sized bed. "yes, fuck finally" you get to work immediately drag gojo’s tongue over your aching cunt, pulling his face further into your pussy while he keeps himself still for you to use. "where d’ya find this one, she's so demanding" in your periphery you can see him stroking is cock through his pants.

you ignore his words and focus on working gojo’s tongue, throwing your head back relieved that you’re finally able to gain some stimulation after being left waiting for so long. you can tell gojo’s enjoying this from the little vibrations of noises he lets out as well as his firm grip keeping your legs spread wide out next to him. geto's soft chuckle tickles the crook of your neck at the clear desperation of your movements "found her and her friend talking about all the things she would let us do to her in the middle of campus so proudly" you curl into his touch without halting the movement of your hands.

toji raises is eye brows at geto's words but you're too occupied with the feeling of gojo's wet tongue to notice. "and what exactly would she let us do to her?" toji says with a curious smirk eager to hear the answer. "why don't you tell him, i'm sure you had a lot more to say than what you told us, right?" you can hear the teasing tone in is voice, wishing that you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. a couple of seconds pass without your reply and the two of them realise that you didn't hear them, head thrown back on geto's shoulder, lost in the way gojo's tongue glides up and down your folds.

it’s hard to focus on what their saying when you’re so lost in your pleasure. gojo’s saliva oozes out his mouth, creating a hot wet mess between your legs as he practically drools all over you yet your pleasure is lost without any warning. "i asked you a question," you let out a choked sob when gojo is ripped away from you and try to chase his mouth with your hips only to be stopped by geto, opening your eyes to see gojo's spit soaked face smiling up at you mockingly while he inwardly mourns the loss of your taste on his tongue. "how will we know what to do, if you don't tell us?"

you know there's no use in trying to evade the question yet you're too frustrated to even care. "i want you to fuck my throat. want you to mess me up inside and out. i don't wanna be able to talk or walk after you're done with me," you turn to look at toji who's grin stretches from ear to ear. there's a very visible wet spot marking out where the tip if his cock lies yet his makes no moves to remove himself from his confines. you’d leave it at that but you might as well tell them the full extent of what you want "want you to fuck me up real good, whatever you want. do your worst, i can take it"

even though you may have skipped over a few minor major details you're sure that they would be able to get the gist. "atta girl, that wasn't so hard now was it. now we can finally get to the good shit" he rises from his place on the chair and makes his way over to the three of you with his yes locked with yours. toji's words paired with geto's soft "good girl" sends a thrill down your spine. geto’s calloused hands keep you grounded where you are as you start to get fidgety again “keep still, you’ll get what you want soon princess” his words still your little tremors as the promise of more eases your mind.

"toru' move i didn't get a good taste earlier" toji winks at gojo and as if on cue he follows his words without a moments fail, letting his hair loose from your hands you mourn the loss of his warmth between your legs, and you catch a glimpse of his dejected face as he stands up taking toji's previous place on the seat and you spot the raging tent in his joggers. "looks big doesn't it?" you nod your head as you continue to stare and upon noticing your gaping, gojo’s face lights up again. as if to show off gojo makes quick work of pulling out his cock, geto scoffs as his display and focuses his attention on you.

"i'm sure you'll be able to take it and if not, well i guess that's your problem isn't" you can hear his soft laughter from above you. gojo's size should be the least of your problems right now because the feeling of whatever is poking your head is breaking any hopes you had before of them being average. it’s stupid to keep that idealistic thought. your head snaps downward at the edge of the bed as toji settles himself between your legs with a predatory look in his eyes, stopping a few inches from you. “don’t worry, you’ll be able to take it with a little practice” that does little to ease your worries.

the yelp that you let out when toji lifts your calf and bites it has the other three in the room laughing at you. he keeps up his ministrations while placing each leg over his shoulders. "don't act so surprised sweet cheeks, i'm just getting into position" you can hear gojo mumble something about ‘taking his spot from him’ but pay him no mind as toji licks his way along your thigh "squeeze ya legs if you want, that way i’ll be able to tell how good i'm making you feel since you wont be able to speak" confusion must show on your face yet instead of satisfying your curiosity toji just winks at you.

toji’s calloused hands run up the length of your left leg pushing it to the side ever so gently, while he scatters ostentatious kisses along the other. his frequent kisses have your legs twitching in anticipation as he teases you, taking his sweet time, eyeing you closely until he finally presses a feather light kiss to your spit soaked clit. he pulls back and you watch as a thin wet string connects his lips, glistening with your slick, to your pussy until he licks them clean “s’ as sweet as sugar princess,” he leans down and repeats the motion this time with more emphasis “where’ve you been hiding?”

your response is a choked moan and your hands reach into his hair which he takes that as a sign to continue, sucking on you clit as if he’s expecting something to come out. he soon lets up and smiles down at your now puffy clit like a child proud of their drawing, rubbing his thumb in circles over it while your hand uselessly holds onto his thick wrist as his hand abuses your clit. “that feel good sweet cheeks?” you frantically nod your head as you bite your lips while trying to buck your hips into his touch but he suddenly stops with a harsh slap to your outer thigh which has you whining at the loss of stimulation.

“I want words cheeks and look at me when I’m talking to you” you don’t remember closing your eyes but you open them not surprised to see toji looking up at you from between your legs with a slick covered smile. a few seconds pass without your reply so he pinches your clit in warning and you quickly remember what else he wanted “fuck- yes it feels so fucking good please don’t stop” seemingly satisfied with your response he releases his hold on you and presses a kiss to your clit as if it’s an apology. “there we go. keep makin 'em pretty noises for me and I won’t have to check in so often”

a sudden movement behind you almost causes you to jolt in surprise, in one swift movement your hands are pinned above your head and your vision of toji is obscured by geto’s thighs straddling your chest, looking up to see him smiling at you. his hair frames his face as he looks down at you and he swiftly ties his hair into a bun at the back of his head. from this angle you're faced nearly directly under the swelling in his pants and you're slowly catching onto the meaning of toji's words. "don't look so surprised, this is what you said you wanted isn't it. i'm just giving you what you asked for"

geto's words remind you that even though his smile may look sweet and harmless he's just as cunning as the other two, he’s just able to hide it well. you're pulled out of your thoughts when geto starts to pull down his waistband, lowering it just underneath his balls. feeling it was one thing but seeing it right in front of you makes you worry for the state of your throat after he's done with you. at first glance you can tell that it'll be a mouthful, thick and girthy. geto’s hands gently lift you head from it’s position and your brought out of your thoughts.

"open nice and wide for me" you follow his words without question and two things happen at the same time. one, geto thrusts as much of his cock as he can down your throat causing your throat to constrict around him as you try not to choke and struggle to breathe at the same time. simultaneously toji decides at that exact moment to lick a stipe up your pussy to collect all of yours and his mess on his tongue, laying his tongue flat on your pussy only for it all to dribble back out his mouth creating an even wetter mess. “sounds like you’re having fun over there” gojo taunts.

both motions leave you spluttering around geto's cock and your legs threaten to close around toji's head despite the firm hold he has on them and you can hear gojo’s sardonic laugh in the background. tears begin to well in your eyes until geto taps your cheek to get your attention. “princess, breathe through your nose” you cant help but notice his voice comes out near strained and you hope you’re the reason for it. following his instructions you find that you can actually breath better though you still struggle a bit “isn't that much better?” you let out an appreciative hum and his response is immediate.

your just barely able to make out the small tensing of his abdomen through his shirt however you do feel the way his cock pulses down your throat as you try to maintain a steady breathing pattern. “told you you could take it” your lured into a false sense of security when geto slowly starts to pull back out of your throat only by a couple inches before he practically plunges back in, throwing your breathing off balance again however you remember his advice and try to regain composer as he waits for you. “such a good girl, taking me so well” he praises and you can feel tears begin to well in your eyes.

just when your able to control your breathing again toji agrees with him and his response is short hum into your pussy, which vibrations straight to you core. you had forgotten he was there with how consistent he’s been. as if before had only been a warm up he begins to lap hungrily at your pussy, letting his tongue edge slightly into you as if to tease you. instead of holding your legs apart like before he leaves them to clamp firmly around his head as you slowly try rock your hips into his face as much as you can but he holds you down by your hips “stop fucking moving and let me take care of you”

you hips still at his command and he presses a kiss to your pussy, causing your legs to tense from the feather like touch. “‘s like she’s eager to get her holes stuffed ” gojo snorts from the side of the room. you let out a whine of protest that gets swallowed by geto’s cock and he looks down at you with a disapproving face. “don’t lie to us sweet cheeks” toji bites into the flesh of your thigh and you feels the tears fall rolling down the side of your face from the sting of his teeth digging into your leg. you soon realise denying anything won’t get you anywhere as all motion stops around you.

“that won’t do will it,” geto stars to ease his way out of your mouth “if you’re not eager to be filled then I guess we can wait for the others to get here before we continue then” you hear gojo laugh out from the side of the room “seems like it’s gonna be at least another ten minutes before they all get her, sure you can wait that long princess?” they should know the answer to that question already but you know they won’t be satisfied until they hear it from your mouth. “let her speak” knew it. geto pulls out completely and you can feel the strain in your jaw from having it stretched for so long.

your throat feels raw and a bit too empty without geto occupying it but you push the feeling down so that you can respond before they begin to grow impatient. “please don’t make me wait,” you raise yourself onto your elbows, leaving your face mere centimeters away from geto's dripping tip and look over to gojo “I’m sure if they really wanted to be here they would make an effort to get here faster. so if they miss anything it’s their loss” toji strokes your thigh seemingly pleased with your answer “polite with an attitude, I like her. we might have to keep her” gojo lets out an agreeing hum.

“think she deserves a treat for bein such a good girl for us” before you can even begin to think about what the treat might be toji runs two fingers up your pussy, collecting all the wet mess. you can only assume that he sucks it into his mouth when you hear a pop sound after he removes his fingers from his mouth and your legs twitch again at the stimulation. only a second later does geto begin to inch his cock back into your mouth, holding the sides of your head gently “such cute noises she’s makin for us” geto agrees with a hum as he comes to a halt when he feels your throat close around him.

it’s only then do you realise that the soft mewls and whimpers that you’re hearing are coming from your mouth that’s wrapped around geto’s cock. “since I know you’re begging to be fucked, i’ll do ya a favor "your legs fall back onto the bed when toji rises from his position between your legs “toru come over here and open her up” in the corner of your eye you see gojo hop up with glee jumping almost too eagerly onto the bed, using his hand to practically shove toji out of the way. geto seems to be ignoring their interactions in favor of teasing his cock down your throat with shallow thrusts.

you can tell that he’s holding back from choking you with his cock from the concentrated look on his face as well as the fact that he’s not reaching nearly as deep as he was before. “that’s it. nice and easy” his soft spoken words soothe your nerves however it’s a futile attempt, as without warning gojo slides a nimble finger into you with little resistance and you can feel as his second knuckle breaches your entrance. the stretch of his finger has your throat sporadically closing around geto's cock which causes his concentration slips as his hips stutter, forcing his cock down your throat.

“s-shit sorry” he apologises while wiping tears that fall from you eyes as gojo slides in another finger, pushing in all the way to his knuckles. geto slowly eases his cock out of your throat allowing you to take in a few breaths of air loosening his grip on your hair. “don’t apologise to her,” your eyes dart to the side where you watch toji lazily stroking his cock until gojo curls his fingers and your eyes shoot upwards to geto who is letting out soft breaths while he massages his cock. “remember she said she could take it,” there's a sadistic undertone in his voice when he says “I’m sure she’ll be fine”

gojo repeats the motion and you let out a loud wail and your back fails to arch off the bed with geto’s weight on top of you “she’s squeezing me real tight down here, bet she likes it when you’re rough with her, isn't that right” it’s impossible to respond with how deep geto is now lodged down your throat. “you’re not gonna answer me cutie?” you knows he’s taunting you and you’re sure he’s smirking when he presses his thumb on your clit waiting for a response. your issue is resolved when geto’s pulls you off his cock and your head drops back down onto the pillow and your response is practically immediate.

“yesyesyes- fuck, it feels so good don’t stop” your eyes are a bit glossy from the few tears you shed earlier but you're still able to make out the rise in the corners of geto's lips while he looks down at your disheveled face. he adds insult to injury by rubbing the tip of his cock against your lips, letting his cockhead slightly slip but not fully teasing both himself and you in the process only making bigger mess of your face when it passes the corner of your lips and onto your cheeks. "sorry didn't mean to make such a mess, s'shame you can't clean it yourself." you know the apology’s fake but accept it anyway.

you would try to protest but gojo's relentless assault on your cunt prevents your mouth from making any coherent sounds other than what they can only presume to be his name. "want someone else to clean it up for you princess?" you know that it's futile to speak with geto's cock head laying heavy on the tip of you tongue so you lazily nod your head hoping that it's an accepted answer, in the process you also coat geto's cock with more of you saliva. yet before geto can even acknowledge your answer toji rises from his spot with pace and purpose in his steps. "i'll help ya out, move back"

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐉𝐔𝐉𝐔𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍

end note ✰ I didn’t want the note to take up too much space but I talk quite a bit so here's an end note ;p. who do you guys want to join next { i might make a poll}? it’s already a challenge to give four people things to do at the same time idk how im going to manage seven.

✰ taglist ✰ @lik0 @yaygurist @dvarlinggg @valleydoli @yeet-ur-feet @silkija @nuggetalli @zillahgocrazy @satoryaa @yaya4thawin @nowhoremones @yeetlixs @happy2delivur @heliumshorns @chocopuchino @luvv4lurd @sorceira @maniaerodesi @chysalxsm @cobraisveryhorny @servalswifey @chrissysblog @futureittomainn @zacatecanaaaa @ichikanu @ameeeeeliie @bluupen @prettybakerswife @blankwashed @klumrine @chadychadyy2k @hantenguclonesimp-minuszoha @dl-yum @jalepp @kibananya @jjksimp3579 @xemmysblog @shawnberry @bleachisfood @barryatsumu @zennyxxy @dyeforkenma @bloomingheartss @sousblogga @alluresenses @zwmbizz @queenkassradite @dawnhero @xthatpottahfanx @loavibeycipoosan

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Huge thanks to hattiemagix for commissioning this!

Doey & motherly fem reader

★ When Doey first met the reader, he was immediately wary of her. Her kind nature was unfamiliar and he couldn't tell if it was an act or not, it made him suspicious. Even though he liked it when you were around he tried to keep his distance. Can you really blame him? He’s met a lot of people who’ve pretended to be nice, only for them to end up hurting him. 

★ Doey tested the reader's boundaries to see if her kindness was genuine. Slowly challenging her patience. "Let's see how long she can keep this up," he thought, observing her reactions closely. Shurely she would slip and show her true colors. 

★ Even though it was a tad annoying, you were still patient with him. You never raised your voice or showed anger, even when he was acting difficult. Whether it was explaining something for the hundredth time or dealing with his defensive attitude, you remained steadfast in your kindness. 

★ He started to realize that the reader genuinely cared for his well-being. Something he’s not at all used to. Doey never expected to meet someone, an ex-employee no less, who would try so hard to make him feel safe. He misses having someone to look after him, it's been so long, he almost forgot what it's like to be cared for. 

★ After that he quickly got used to you, your presence became a comfort. As the days in the factory slowly passed he grew even closer to you. Soon enough he started seeing you as an adoptive mother. But he decided to keep that to himself, for now at least, he wouldn't want to make you feel uncomfortable.  

★ If anything were to happen to you, he would be devastated. If you need to leave the Safe Haven, Doey becomes visibly anxious. He begins clinging to you, reluctant to let you go. He asks you to make a promise to stay safe and be careful. The thought of losing you fills him with dread."Promise me you'll be careful, okay? I need to know you'll come back safe” 

★ After defeating the Doctor and the Prototype you bring him, and many of the other toys, home with you. Because of course you had to bring Kissy, Poppy and those who called the Safe Haven home out of the factory where they were starving. 

★ Doey feels a mix of emotions—relief, uncertainty, and a bit of excitement—as he steps into the reader's home "This is... home?" he asks, looking at the various objects you have hung up and strewn about. “Of course” you declare, looking at him as he turns his head. Doey’s expression unreadable, “that is, If you want it to be.” you quickly add. 

★ And of course he stays with you! Where else would he go? He's so attached to you he couldn't imagine living anywhere else. By this point, it was clear as day that he needed you around. The way he beams when you compliment him or how he always lingers by you gave it away.

★ After spending the past 10 years in the abandoned shell of a factory, Doey is very eager to make up for lost time. He's really excited to try something new. You take the opportunity to teach him various domestic skills. His new favorite thing is baking with you!

★ He still has nightmares about the factory. When Doey wakes up from a nightmare he's immediately disoriented and filled with fear, the trauma of the factory still lingering in his mind. His breathing is heavy and a sense of panic is overwhelming him. His panicked cries always wake you up.  

★ You’re quick to comfort him, rushing to his side and hugging him close "It was just a bad dream. You're okay, and nothing can hurt you here." your gentle touch helped to ground him, "It's okay, Doey. I'm here. You're safe now." it's working, because now his cries have dissolved into a quieter whimper.

★ To help Doey calm down, the reader reaches for his favorite book, "The Adventures of Word Wizard." She knows how much the story means to him and starts reading aloud, her voice steady and comforting. As she continues, doey feels his eyelids grow heavy. 

★ Just before he falls asleep, Doey murmurs softly, "Goodnight, Mom." The reader smiles softly, her heart melting from Doey's words. For the rest of the night, he sleeps soundly, knowing he's safe and cared for.

[sincerelybubbles]

The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader

You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentence—small moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but it’s the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.

12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.

CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.

Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you don’t realize you’ve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. He’s not someone you’re supposed to know, not really—he works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while you’re still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.

He’s only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that he’s just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybe—just maybe—he lets himself be found.

You don’t think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet places—hallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:

It’s Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.

“It’s only a few cases,” he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. There’s a rare kind of confidence in the way he smiles—small, knowing. “But Rossi and I agree—you’ve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.”

“You’re sharp,” Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. “Play this right, kid, and you’ll be glad you did.”

Rossi’s words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.

Your first case comes fast—too fast. One moment, you’re standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, you’re on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. It’s a triple homicide, the kind of case you’ve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then you’re standing in a house that doesn’t feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.

You swallow hard.

“Deep breath,” Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You don’t want him to notice—don’t want anyone to notice—but Spencer’s eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.

“This is different than the academy,” you admit, voice just above a whisper.

“It should be.” Spencer doesn’t sound condescending, doesn’t sound like he’s telling you anything you don’t already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. “But you’re still here.”

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\

“Okay,” you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order you’ll present them. “JJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,” you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. “Each presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.”

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

You’re following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.

Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but it’s what they want students to do.

“In Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.”

Emily crosses her arms, frowning. “That’s theatrical.”

“It is,” you agree, clicking to the next slide—a zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victim’s gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. “The unsub is mimicking a local legend—one about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.”

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

You nod. “The first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Hotch observes.

“Yes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.”

Morgan exhales, shaking his head. “A guy like this? He’s loving the attention. He’s not gonna stop on his own.”

“No,” you agree. “And if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he won’t just pick random victims. He’s looking for something—someone—to fit his narrative.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. “That level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. He’s not just killing—he’s curating.”

“He’s hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

“In Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.” You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene images—too much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. “In all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.”

A grim silence settles over the room.

Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s not just taking them out—he’s making them suffer.”

Morgan exhales sharply. “Which means this is personal.”

“Possibly,” you say. “There was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.”

“A service worker, maybe?” Emily muses. “Someone posing as law enforcement?”

“That’s a strong possibility,” you admit. “And if the pattern holds, we’re looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.”

JJ’s expression hardens. “We can’t let that happen.”

The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

“Denver, Colorado,” you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. “Four people have vanished over the last five months—one woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.”

Spencer tilts his head. “No pattern in victim selection?”

“None that we can see,” you agree. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.”

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

You shake your head. “In each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.”

“That’s not a coincidence,” Hotch says.

“No,” you agree. “Which means we’re looking at an unsub—or possibly multiple—who is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.”

Morgan exhales. “Damn. If he’s this careful, we might not even know how many victims we’re missing.”

You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

“Phoenix, Arizona,” you begin. “Five women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.”

Emily shifts in her seat. “That’s a long time for that many women to go without names.”

“Exactly,” you say, flipping through the slides—malnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. “We suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.”

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

“Maybe. But what stands out are these.” You zoom in on the marks along the victims’ backs—precise, deliberate incisions. “The wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

JJ’s face tightens. “He’s experimenting.”

“That’s the concern.” You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. “The unsub could still have others in captivity.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Hotch clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.” The part where you choose.

You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you don’t let it show.

“Take a moment,” Hotch says, voice even. “Decide which one we handle first.”

The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitor—each one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives you’ll never be able to save if you don’t act now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know it’s important – they have to test you. You’re here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotch’s last report, you’re proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.

You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals they’re noting and remembering. “The Tulsa case,” you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. “That’s where we go first.”

Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.

Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. “Walk us through your reasoning.”

You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. “The unsub’s pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in danger—possibly right now”

JJ’s jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And this isn’t just about killing them,” she adds. “The way he makes the fathers watch—it’s personal.”

“Exactly.” You glance at Spencer, who’s already nodding in agreement. “The level of control, the methodical nature—it suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.”

Morgan folds his arms. “Which means he’s not picking his victims at random.”

“No,” you agree. “If we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.” You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. “Right now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.”

Emily tilts her head, considering. “A grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?”

“Possibly,” you say. “But we won’t know for sure until we dig deeper. And we don’t have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.”

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.” He turns to the team. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victims’ professional histories—see if there’s overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim services—we need to talk to the families.”

Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.

Then, Spencer speaks, “You made the right call.” You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.

You swallow. “I hope so.” Because it doesn’t feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.

Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you haven’t said aloud. The decision is made. 

You catch the guy — you’re with the best team in the world, of course, you do — and subsequently pass the ‘test’ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. It’s not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.

What’s unusual is how long you stay on the team. 

It’s long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.

You don’t mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mug—quick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You can’t help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.

You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens. 

You don’t have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really don’t, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly. 

\\

 The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.

You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching. If you weren’t, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through them one too many times.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if he’s reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasn’t yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum once—twice—against the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.

It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like he’s weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too small, too insignificant, and yet you can’t help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.

You realize that you’re still staring but you’re struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. It’s beyond physical attraction — something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.

You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but it’s too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadn’t given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You don’t, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you haven’t typed anything in at least five minutes.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.

After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.

“Did you know,” he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, “that the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?”

You blink, glancing at him, and he’s still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like he’s only half-aware that he’s doing it.

“A trillion?” you echo. You hope you hadn’t inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore. 

His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Most studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests it’s significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which means—”

“That we’re capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.”

His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. “Exactly.”

There is something about the way he looks at you in that moment—something unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surface—that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesn’t continue with the tangent.

But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. “You know, you have a tell,” he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.

You turn to him, brow lifting. “A tell?”

“Whenever you’re thinking about something but don’t want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like you’re holding something between them.” His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, you’re doing it now.

You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. “I always do.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now. He’s looking at you like he’s already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. It’s his job, of course he does.

The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You don’t know what to do with it.

So you do what you always do. You look away.

It’s nothing more than what he’s trained to do. You’ve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when she’s happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when he’s tired.

You all notice things, it’s natural. There’s nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isn’t watching you for any reason other than it’s a habit he’s developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work. 

The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.

You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.

Spencer’s breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expression—something unreadable, something you don’t think you have the courage to name.

“What is it?” He asks instead of taking the leap. 

“What is what?”

He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. “What’re you thinking and not saying?”

You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think you’re beyond attractive, I can’t believe you’ve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that I’m sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and I’m simply putrid?

“I’m allergic to oranges,” you blurt out instead. 

Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadn’t noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often — bites the tip of his tongue when he’s fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay. 

“What?”

“I’m allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so he’s started giving them to me, too, and, well,” you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle. 

Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that you’ve been waiting on a clear office to throw away. 

“You’re kidding!” Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. “I thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.”

“Oh, ew.”

Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, “It’s lovely, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say anything? You could get sick.”

You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. “It’s only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you. 

You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didn’t just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didn’t mean to reveal. You tell yourself that it’s fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that don’t linger.

But later, when you’re in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

“You lied, earlier,” Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator. 

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

“Do you want to see a doctors note?” You’re tired, struggling to remember what he’s talking about. You two are the last in the office usually — you’re just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work. 

“No, I believe you’re allergic, it’s just not what you were thinking about.” He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s not the most flattering — the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick. 

Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it. 

You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing there’s not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. There’s a reason why he’s only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt. 

“You freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldn’t think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.”

Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when he’s tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you. 

“I mentioned it because I could smell you, but it’s not bad, I promise.”

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Sure. Just say I reak and I’ll change my shampoo or something, promise!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Spencer pleads, laughing. “What will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!”

\\

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

It’s supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.

You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.

You don’t let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you haven’t seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like he’s about to ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.

You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn’t settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.

Spencer shifts behind you. “The odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs won’t risk a direct confrontation in a location they can’t control.”

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease that’s gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isn’t blind to the feeling in the air—the one that says something is coming.

And then, something does.

The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You don’t think. You move.

Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaos—glass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. He’s speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.

“Move!” you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You don’t know how many shooters there are. You don’t know where they are. But you know you have to get out.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.

“Basement,” Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. You’re mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. “We need to get underground.”

You don’t argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but it’s shelter. For now.

You’re still gripping Spencer’s arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.

He doesn’t move away.

The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.

Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you don’t have time to name.

“They’ll breach soon,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencer’s cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that he’s here, that he’s real, that this isn’t just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.

The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.

Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.

“You’re hit,” he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

Spencer doesn’t laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesn’t belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isn’t over, not yet, but Spencer isn’t moving away from you.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. “Worried about me, Reid?”

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.

Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. “We need to move.”

The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. “What do we do?”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. “There’s a cellar door. Side of the house.”

Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. “We go now.”

He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isn’t planning to leave survivors.

The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.

Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.

“She’s hit!” Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. “Get her in the car!” he orders.

Spencer doesn’t wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, she’s sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?

Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. He’s breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. “You still with me?”

You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. “Still here.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.

Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. “Let’s get you home.”

\\

The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.

Spencer hasn’t left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not opening your eyes.

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Reid.”

He presses his lips together. “I’m just… observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why you’re still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.”

You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. “You always talk this much when you’re worried?”

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.”

He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue. “I just think you should be resting.”

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. “Right. Okay.”

You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside you—the soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.

You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.

“Spence—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You need it.”

You don’t argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another page—not reading, just waiting.

\\

The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It’s one of those rare in-between days—no pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.

You’re at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports you’ve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps drifting—particularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. He’s not even pretending to do his paperwork.

You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent he’s found himself in. You fight a giggle.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?”

Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like he’s just realized he’s been caught.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. “Did you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that don’t contribute much meaningful information.”

You blink at him. “So, what, you’re saying we all talk too much?”

His lips twitch. “Not exactly. Just that… statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.”

You smirk. “And yet, you’re one of the most talkative people I know.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering there. “That’s different. I provide new information.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “Debatable.” The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.

Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. “Flirting through statistics again?” she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.

Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.

“Face it, Reid,” you say, taking a sip. “You talk a lot. Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You weren’t on the assignment you’re tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk. 

“Now who’s zoning out?” Spencer asks. When you look up, he’s smiling at you.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “No. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.”

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. “Most daily conversations consist of formulaic exchanges—small talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We don’t follow typical social scripts.”

You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. “So what you’re saying is… we’re special? Different? Not like other coworkers?”

Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. “You already said that.”

“I’m repeating myself,” he says, deadpan. “Which, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “See? Redundant.”

Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like he’s barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but it’s obvious he’s no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if he’s waiting for whatever you’ll say next.

After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, “If most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything you’d actually like to know about me?”

Spencer’s fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. “Yes.”

You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. “Oh. Okay.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. “That’s what you want to know?”

He shrugs. “I like colors. They’re associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.”

You consider it. “Hm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, like he’s cataloging that information for later. “That makes sense.”

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

“Yellow,” he says easily. “Statistically, it’s associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.”

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, “Do you like to cook?”

“I can cook,” you say hesitantly. “Do I enjoy it? Debatable.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, a reluctant chef.”

“More like a survivalist cook,” you amend. “You?”

“I actually do like cooking. It’s methodical. Precise.”

You snort. “Of course, you’d say that.”

His lips twitch again. “What about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?”

You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. “I do read. But nothing… analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.”

Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. “Escapism.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“I’m currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.”

“Ah. So you research at work and at home.”

Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. “No, I think it’s still escapism. It’s something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels don’t do enough to ‘pull me out of reality.’”

Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeper—favorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.

“Are you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?” Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.”

You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. “We’re conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “It’s a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.”

Morgan snorts. “Right. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?”

You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. “Define ‘process.’”

Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re really letting him rub off on you, huh?”

Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You don’t want to just be letting it happen—you want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.

Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.

When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."

You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."

"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."

Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.

Morgan groans. "Oh God, don’t tell me you brought a book to dinner."

"It’s not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "It’s just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."

You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"

Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"

You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.

"You know," he starts, "there’s actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."

You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me I’m doing it wrong?"

His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just… suboptimal."

You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."

Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe it’s attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what he’s doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morgan’s voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"

Emily snorts from where she’s leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I’d pay to watch that."

You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."

Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. What’s next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you—this unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.

You’ve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You can’t help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.

Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."

The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you don’t move away, and neither does he.

The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but it’s not the food that lingers—it’s the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.

You and this team have been through so much together — the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day. 

Beyond the toughness though, you’ve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. It’s more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, you’ve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life you’ve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, you’re hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team. 

Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he listens—really listens—his attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.

At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since we’ve got everyone here tonight, I’d like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."

A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a song—present, felt, but not yet fully realized.

You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.

Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesn’t look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.

\\

It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The café is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral ground—safe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.

Spencer is fidgeting.

His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like he’s working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.

You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. “You look like you’re debating something incredibly complicated.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “I am.”

“Must be serious, then.”

“It is.” He shifts, finally—finally—meets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. “Would you—” he stops, swallows, starts again. “Would you want to go to dinner with me?”

The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.

You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, “In what way? A date?”

You are hesitant, voice barely audible. You’re scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you can’t have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks — months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness. 

Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. “If that’s okay, yes.”

The words hit you in the center of your chest. You’re certain you’ve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldn’t possibly be confirming your wildest dreams. 

“I would really like that.”

His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of ways—the way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.

You don’t miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.

\\

The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.

Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself it’s not nerves—it’s just a normal dinner, just Spencer—but your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversible—

Then, the knock at your door.

You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like it’ll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.

Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.

“They’re beautiful.”

His gaze flickers to yours, searching. “They, uh… they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.”

Your chest feels warm, full. “I’d like that.”

He nods once, clearing his throat. “Well, the blue cornflowers—they mean ‘hope in love,’ and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, that’s for fidelity, and um—” he stops, shifting awkwardly—“I wanted it to mean something. To you.”

Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.

“It does.”

The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talks—of course he talks—his voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.

“You’re romanticizing it,” you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.

He huffs a soft laugh. “It’s just history.”

“History can be romantic.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. “I suppose it can.”

You watch him as he drives—the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. There’s something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something significant.

When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You bite back a laugh. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softer—low candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.

Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. “This is… nice.”

You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.

“You know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, and—” he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I can, uh, get carried away.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I like when you get carried away.”

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.

And then it happens.

The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isn’t a slow realization, isn’t something that builds over time—it hits all at once, undeniable.

The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.

You realize, suddenly, that you’re staring. That you’re leaning in.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. “What?”

You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like he’s trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, it’s with the same easy rhythm as before.

And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

\\

The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.

You aren’t asleep. Haven’t even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he’s been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but there’s something else, too—something hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when he’s trying to pick the right words before speaking. “I—” He hesitates, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like he’s afraid of being caught.

You step aside, let him in.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.

You should say something. Should ask him why he’s here, why he looks like he’s spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words don’t come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.

You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows he’s cataloging it the way he does everything.

Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, there’s something unguarded in his gaze. “I think about you all the time.”

You watch as he sways slightly, like he’s resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.

And then he stops resisting.

He moves carefully, like he’s giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you don’t. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like he’s debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but it’s enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his hands—hovering, waiting—to finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.

His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.

He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like he’s bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breath—uneven, shallow, shaking—ghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flex—barely, just a little—but the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.

He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.

You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. “Me either.”

Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze drops—to your lips, flickers back to your eyes—searching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.

You make the choice for him.

You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and that’s all it takes.

The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.

His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you fit against him if he doesn’t take his time.

He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to this—his breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.

And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.

When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.

Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. “It’s not.”

Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.

And then, he kisses you again.

[maskedbyghost]

it's a happy ending, i promise!

The first thing Simon registers is pain.

A dull, burning throb in his ribs, a sharp sting along his jaw, and the constant, nagging ache of his wrists tied behind the chair he’s strapped to. The room is dimly lit, damp with the scent of mildew and blood—some of it his own. He keeps his breathing even and controlled, despite the way his head pounds from the last hit they landed.

A man steps forward, cracking his knuckles. "You’ve killed a lot of our people, Ghost." The way he says his name makes Simon's stomach churn. "You really thought that wouldn’t come back to bite you?"

Simon doesn’t answer. He’s learned silence is its own weapon.

The man chuckles and gestures to one of his men, who rolls a small television stand into the room. The screen flickers to life, static at first, before it settles on an all-too-familiar image.

Simon’s house.

His breath stills. The camera angle is high—hidden, probably in a corner of the living room. And there she is.

You.

Moving around the kitchen, completely unaware. A soft glow from the stovetop lights up your face as you hum to yourself, stirring something in a pot. Simon can almost hear your voice, that familiar melody you always hum when you’re cooking.

Ice settles in his chest.

"You see," the man continues, circling Simon like a predator, "an eye for an eye. You took our people from us. Now we take something from you."

The screen changes. Another angle. The front of the house now, where three men slip through the unlocked door like shadows. They move fast.

"Now, we could just kill her," the man muses, crouching beside Simon. "But where’s the fun in that? Maybe we start with a few fingers. Maybe a knife to that pretty face."

Simon jerks against the restraints, the chair creaking beneath him. His muscles coil with panic, and rage. His voice is muffled against the tape over his mouth, his heart hammering in his chest.

He watches as the men move closer—one creeping toward the kitchen doorway. He wants to scream, wants to warn you, to do something.

And then—

You turn.

And everything shifts.

The first man lunges.

You sidestep easily, grabbing a pan off the counter and slamming it into his face so hard he crumples instantly. The second man barely gets a hand on you before you spin, kneeing him hard in the gut before driving an elbow into his throat. He staggers, gasping, and you grab a knife from the counter, plunging it straight into his chest.

The third man hesitates.

Simon can see it—hesitation—as if he just realized this isn’t the easy job he thought it would be. He tries to pull a gun.

But you’re faster.

You twist his arm, forcing the gun toward his own leg before squeezing the trigger. He howls, dropping to his knees, and you grab the knife from the dead man’s chest, slashing the last attacker’s throat in one clean motion.

Silence.

The only sound is your heavy breathing.

The room Simon is in is frozen. No one speaks. No one moves.

"What the fuck," one of the men behind the camera mutters.

Simon can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. His body is still tense, his pulse still erratic, but his mind is caught between disbelief and something close to admiration.

He didn’t know you could do that.

Hell, he didn’t even know you knew how to throw a punch properly, let alone take down three armed men like it was nothing.

On screen, you quickly search the bodies, taking one of their guns and their earpiece. Then, without missing a beat, you grab your jacket and bolt out the door.

The man next to Simon snarls, grabbing a radio. "Find her!" he shouts. "She couldn't have gone far!"

Simon lowers his head, exhaling through his nose, swallowing down the relieved laugh bubbling in his throat.

That’s his girl.

It takes hours for you to track Simon down. Hours of listening in on enemy radio chatter and moving with the precision you never thought you’d need outside of training. Your heart pounds, but your hands remain steady as you grip the stolen gun.

When you finally pick up on the radio chatter—"Move the prisoner to the safehouse outside the city"—you know exactly who to ask for help.

The moment you contacted Price, he didn’t even hesitate. "We’re on it," he had said, and that was that. Now, as you move through the safehouse with the Task Force, the sound of suppressed gunfire fills the air as they clear the rooms.

Your thoughts are simple. Find Simon. Get him out.

When you reach the back room, you kick the door open so hard it nearly flies off the hinges.

Simon lifts his head at the sound, and the sight of him knocks the air from your lungs.

He’s tied to a chair, his wrists raw from the rope digging into them. There’s blood at his temple and a bruise darkening along his cheekbone. His mask is gone, and his hair is damp with sweat. But it’s his eyes that stop you in your tracks—sharp despite the exhaustion, locked onto you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

"Jesus, Simon," you breathe, already moving.

You reach him in seconds, hands shaking as you rip the tape from his mouth.

"Fuckin’ hell, love," he rasps, his voice hoarse.

"You look like shit," you mutter, and his lips quirk up at that, just a little.

"Feel like it too."

But you’re already working, fingers fumbling at the knots around his wrists, trying to ignore the way they’re rubbed raw. "Are you okay? Did they hurt you? How bad is it—"

He cuts you off.

"Marry me, woman."

You freeze. "What?"

"Marry me." And there’s no hesitation in his voice.

You blink, mind struggling to process. "Simon, are you concussed?"

"Dead serious, love," he mutters. His head tilts slightly, eyes flicking to the doorway behind you. "Get me outta this chair first, then we’ll talk rings."

Behind you, a low chuckle sounds. "Well, that’s one way to propose," Price comments, stepping into the room.

"Should we give ‘em a minute?" Soap adds, grinning.

You don’t even look back. "No, because I’m gonna kill him."

Simon snorts, and somehow, despite everything, that tiny sound makes your chest ache.

Your fingers work faster, finally loosening the ropes enough for him to yank his arms free with a hiss of pain. The second he’s out of the chair, your hands are all over him—checking his bruises, pressing against his ribs to see if anything gives under your touch.

He catches your wrist. "I’m fine."

You glare up at him. "You’re not fine."

"M’fine now that you’re here."

And there it is again—that way he looks at you, like you just flipped his entire world upside down and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

You shake your head, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, exhaling hard. "You scared the hell out of me, Simon."

His hand slides up your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your jacket. "Didn’t know you could fight like that, love."

"Yeah, well, I don’t advertise it." You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. "Didn’t think I’d ever need to."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Lucky me."

"Lucky you," you agree, voice softer now.

Simon’s thumb brushes against your cheek, and there’s something raw in his expression. "So, that’s a yes, then?"

"To what?"

"Marry me."

"Simon—"

"You literally just saved my ass. Killed three men in our kitchen. Lookin’ downright stunning doin’ it." He squeezes your waist. "Think I’d be an idiot not to put a ring on you."

You stare at him, pulse thudding in your ears. "Simon, you’re literally bleeding out right now."

"And?" He tilts his head slightly, looking at you like he’s already made up his mind. "Still waiting on an answer, love."

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. "Can we please get you out of here first?"

"So that’s a yes?"

"It’s a 'get moving before I knock you out myself.'"

His smirk is lazy, but there’s something warm in his eyes, something real. "Close enough."

Behind you, Soap snorts. "Bloody hell, that was the least romantic proposal I’ve ever heard."

Price sighs. "Sort it out later. We need to move."

You shake your head, but when Simon tugs you just a little closer before letting go—you know he already knows your answer.

-----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah

[ghost-proofbaby]

I love the idea of Eddie having an especially grueling day at work his friend (they have mutual feelings but nothing has been said) offers to give him a massage. Eddie is genuinely grateful but also vv flustered by the end!!

listen. LISTEN. i know this got out of hand. i know i said these were going to stay short n sweet. i know what i said and promised. but. listen. you can't hand me a prompt that is just so delicious, with so much potential to sprinkle in a light dusting of angst, and to give me the chance to garnish with a beautiful open ending full of promise, and not expect a monster of a product to come from it. you just can't. i'm sorry. i hope you enjoy this, regardless. even if it's not quite bite-sized.

warnings: seemingly unrequited love that turns into clearly idiots in love. eddie gets shirtless. that's all.

wc: 4.4k+ yikes

It had started off as an innocent, well-intentioned offer. You swear it did. 

When Eddie had called you right after pulling a double at the garage, begging to come over and simply relax at your apartment, you’d set up to allow him to do just that. You’d cleaned up a little bit, lit a candle that normally gave you a headache if it burned too long but that Eddie loved, prepped a selection of movies for him to choose from, pulled out the menu for your favorite take-out – you’d gone the whole nine yards for your best friend. 

Someone might even point out it wasn’t just best friend behavior at this point. Steve and Robin alike had certainly called out your behavior at times, coining it as “girlfriend behavior on a best friend salary”.

You didn’t care. You were well aware of what you were doing, and you didn’t care. 

You’d spend the rest of your life on the best friend salary, as the two dinguses had so lovingly called it, for the look of sheer peace on Eddie’s face right now. 

He’s leaning back on the opposite end of your couch from you, knees spread and chin facing the ceiling as he sighs in bliss. Take-out containers are scattered about the coffee table, and his movie of choice of Return of the Jedi is about halfway over on your TV. 

You both had already chosen a second movie – The Lost Boys. The plans for the night were set in stone.

You tuck both knees up beneath your chin, side-glancing your best friend for a second and ignoring the flutter of your chest as you watch him sink deeper into the cushions, “We can talk about it, y’know.” 

“Hm?” 

“Your day,” you adjust a bit, turning your body to face him fully, “If you wanna talk about it, I’m all ears. We’ve already seen enough Jabba the Hutt to last a lifetime.”

That earns a smile from him, slowly crackling over his cheeks as he rolls his head towards you, “I dunno. Is there such thing as enough Jabba the Hutt?” 

You toss a piece of your sour watermelon candy at him, and despite it landing on his shirt, he still grabs it to pop it into his mouth. 

You try not to think too hard about how that shirt had been sitting in your drawers, clean and neatly folded, occupying space as if that might be normal. As if everyone has some of their best friend’s clothes at their apartment that they can change into after a long day at work. 

As if everyone has occasionally used said shirt as pajamas on nights they particularly miss the scent of their best friend’s cologne.

“Shut up,” you finally snicker, dropping your knees from your chin, sitting criss-cross now, “We don’t have to talk about your day if you don’t feel like it. By all means, if you wanna keep drooling over an alien slug, be my guest-”

At your teasing, Eddie moves quickly to grab one of your ankles, pulling your feet towards his lap before you can register what he’s doing. You gasp a little, and it’s definitely not because of the feeling of his warm palms wrapped around your bare skin. Totally not at the rush of warmth that travels up your body, head to toe, when you feel his rings pressing into you so eagerly. 

Absolutely not. You gasp, because anybody would gasp in this scenario. Because you’re just best friends. And best friends do stuff like that. 

“I am not drooling over a slug,” he chastises, grinning recklessly as he wiggles his fingers menacingly, mere inches from the bottom of your foot, “Take it back, or pay the price, baby.” 

Has he ever called you baby before? 

Certainly not, if your roaring heart has anything to say about it. 

“Don’t you dare,” you squeal – genuinely squeal – as you try and tug your legs out of his grasp. It’s a useless effort; he’s too strong, even after his long day, and your body isn’t even sure if it approves of taking his hands off of you. “Edward Munson, I swear to God-” 

It’s a mess of flailing limbs, painful laughter, and high-pitched screams from there. Squeaks from your own mouth, and a few from Eddie, mocking you all in good fun as he continues to persist for you to take it back. For just a moment, it feels like this is the normal – you’re living in a space where Eddie comes home from every day, grueling or effortless, to you. Where the two of you always end up on the couch together, bodies touching in any way they can. Where there’s always background noise on the TV as his focus is solely on you, smiling foolishly at his antics that were really just a simple effort to hear your laughter. Where your laughter is the only thing he really wants to hear at the end of the night, and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. 

A world where he tells you as much. 

A world where after this, he’s reaching the knob of your shared bedroom door rather than the front door of your lonesome apartment. 

A world where you aren’t existing on a best friend salary.

“Had enough yet, sweetheart?” he quips, just as breathless as you are from the struggle. This time, the nickname he uses is normal. It took you off guard during the first few months of friendship, but now? Your weary heart could handle it, cherish it even, and not let your stupid little crush get in the way of appreciating it. “All you have to say are the magic words.” 

“Are the magic words, you’re a dickhead?”

“Hm,” he pretends to ponder thoughtfully for just a second before shaking his hand, “‘Fraid not. Try again?” 

Instead of verbally replying, you give him a gentle kick in the stomach. Not the magic words he had in mind, but they sure do the trick. 

He lets out a soft oomph, one arm cradling his midsection as though you actually hurt him. You take it as your cue to remove your legs – his dramatics quickly come to a halt to prevent just that.

It’s probably meant to be subtle, the way both his arms fall down over your calves and keep your feet in his lap, but it has the capability to implode your entire world. 

“I can’t believe you’re being mean to me after the day I’ve had,” he whines, and all you can focus on is the way his thumb is rhythmically stroking the ball of your ankle now, “Me, your best friend, has had the most awful day and you-”

“Now you wanna talk about it?” you laugh a little, rolling your eyes at him.

“Absolutely.” 

“After you’ve just tortured me?” 

“Well, yeah. When else would I talk about it?” 

“I’m rescinding my offer to listen,” you continue to joke, making one more good faith offer to slip your legs from his lap. And, once more, he won’t allow it. 

He whines out a long, drawn out no, starting to lay his entire body across your legs this time. More direct, more to the point. Subtleties have been forgotten, you suppose. 

You don’t know if it’s more for you, or for him. You just know you like it. You like existing within a sneak preview of a girlfriend salary.

“You never answered me, drama queen,” you murmur as the joking lean across your legs becomes a bit more heavy, and Eddie is more genuinely collapsing his figure into your lap. He doesn’t even have to ask, or gesture – your fingers find home within his hair, and you can feel his hum of content against your thigh as you scratch along his scalp, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

All joking pretenses slip away from him as he mumbles out a muffled, “Not really.”

And you can work with that. You swear, you can. 

If you’d been so ready to lend a listening ear, then you can offer him this peace and quiet. A simple head massage as he leans into you, cheeks pressed to the top of your thigh as you think he returns to watching Return of the Jedi. 

His eyes might be closed, if his heavy breaths are anything to go off of. You’re just not sure. 

You just keep up your massage, sluggish strokes, clement scratches, deep breaths to match his own- 

And then, an idea hits you.

“Eds,” you whisper, your hand in his hair traveling to his shoulders, shaking him a bit, “Eddie.”

Only a grunt in response.

“Eddie, seriously, get up,” you stress, overeager, “I have an idea.”

“The apartment better be on fire,” he grumbles as he finally raises his head, face imprinted with the lines of your shorts in rolling hills of soft indents. 

Definitely was sleeping. Definitely wasn’t watching Star Wars. 

But even with his shoulders wrapped with dreary slumber, you’re still excited about your idea, motioning him to sit up fully. You let him take his time, of course, only after he swats your hands away sluggishly a few times. 

Once his back is straight, you lift one finger in the air, and draw a circle – motioning for him to turn his back to you without saying a word. 

His eyes narrow to slits at you, “Are you about to pull a prank on me? Because-”

“I’m not,” you assure him, reaching for his shoulders, nearly turning him yourself, “Scout’s honor.” 

He listens to you. Despite it all, despite his seeming mistrust, he turns his back to you. More specifically, he turns his shoulders to you. 

He’s still mumbling on about how you better not make his day worse, getting a little bit snappier when you gather his hair up to lay out of your way and claiming his scalp was extra sensitive today.

You pay his attitude no mind. He’s just grumpy. It doesn’t particularly phase you after years of close friendship.

“Listen, I know you like braiding my hair, but-” he continues with his protests as you grin behind him, shaking your head as you settle yourself closer to him. Knees bumping his hips, back straight for the time being. “I’d rather just nap right now. And I was really comfy, and really getting my rocks off to that damn alien slug-” 

All his words cut off when you finally put your plan into action. Your palms fall atop his shoulders, fingers curling around the tense skin, and he’s melting before you’ve even begun. 

“I- Oh,” he jumps a little at the first squeeze, but quickly returns to being pliant in your hold, “Oh… That’s…. That’s nice.” 

You continue your massage, gently squeezing, thumbs and fingers digging into any knots you find to work them away as you jeer, “Is it now?”

He nods, the smallest of movements as to not interrupt your work, “It is. ‘S real nice.” 

His head rolls with each pinch of your fingers, posture loosening as he leans back into your touch further. 

You take it a step further, biting back nerves when you slip your hands beneath the collar of his old t-shirt. You feel the shiver begin before it races down his spine at the press of your skin directly on his now. 

Your warm hands work dutifully, determined to bring as much relaxation to your best friend as possible. Definitely not enjoying yourself a bit too much at his smooth skin under your palms. Definitely not enjoying yourself just as much as he is. Certainly not. 

The shirt constricts you, though. Prevents your hands from traveling fully over sore spots you can feel the edges of. Catching your wrists, limiting the full potential of your movements. 

You’re glad he can’t see you as you suddenly request, “Take your shirt off.” 

“Hm?” he can’t form a proper word at first, not startled but simply sunken too deep in his relaxation, “What was that?” 

“I need your shirt off, Munson.” 

You try to sound brave, nonchalant, as you repeat yourself. You don’t want him to hear the fluttering of your heart – you don’t want him to hear the shake of your hands as you remove them from him.

You only want him to hear the totally reasonable request from a friend, who is simply trying to offer the best massage possible to their best friend who’s had a bad day. 

“Oh?” he looks over his shoulder, and you can see the edges of his raised brows through messy bangs, “Damn, sweetheart. If you wanted me naked, you just had to ask.” 

Can ribs break from a heart beating too fast? Is that even possible? 

“I did ask,” your voice is flat as a trade off to avoid any quivering to filtrate it, lips pressing tightly together as you swallow your heart, “So get to it.”

He leans forward, putting a bit of distance between you two before he reaches back to grab the center of his shirt. The fabric comes off with a flourish, and all you’re left face to face with is the bare expanse of his back.

You silently beg him not to look back over his shoulder, if only for just a second. 

You’ve seen Eddie shirtless plenty of times. At pool parties with the entire group, on rare lake days that always ended sun drunk and giddy, that one time he’d answered his door right after a quick shower and you’d seen a lot more than you’d bargained for. He was your friend. After a while, it would have been weirder to not have seen Eddie shirtless at least once. 

Something about this time feels different. 

He has freckles – not nearly as much as Steve or Robin, but they still exist. Small markings across skin glowing warmly in the dim light of your living room lamp, spattered without rhyme or reason. One on the back of his left shoulder, another slightly off-centered at the base of his neck. He has a light scar towards the bottom of his right shoulder blade – a memory from his childhood he told you once when you’d first seen it at the lake. Everyone else was out splashing about the ten-degrees-too-cool water, and he’d joined your side on the shore. Laid on his stomach as you laid on your back, offering you conversation in the form of stories about every blemish across his skin. The intentional tattoos, the unintentional scars. Everything. 

Even that day doesn’t quite compare to the intimacy of him being here now, being shirtless in your apartment, just the two of you. 

Maybe there was something extra in your coffee this morning, making you feel so delusional. 

“I don’t have any lotion or oils,” you finally clear your throat, trying to joke about as the two of you had been before, “But that doesn’t matter. You ready for the best damn massage of your life, Munson?” 

“Yes, please,” he groans, and something deep in your stomach clenches at the sound, “Want me to lay down or something?” 

Your brain short-circuits for a second, because you know where that leads. 

If he lays down, there’s only one way to continue to comfortably give him the massage. If he lays down, you’re about to bite off more than you could chew on a best friend salary. 

“Sure,” you choke out, damning yourself in the process. 

It’s all robotic mechanics as you two shift to assume the position; you stand up, and he sprawls out. And you swear, in the process, you catch a smothering of pink slow creeping across his chest and neck. 

“Can I…” you start to question, finally growing a bit shy as you stare down at the dip of his lower back. Two dimples on either side of his spine, looking so inviting and yet daunting. 

He finishes the sentence for you, saving you the embarrassment, “Sit on me? Yeah, go for it, babe.” 

There it is again. An unfamiliar nickname that falls so effortlessly off the lips for him. Another pet name to send you into a tailspin as your breath catches and your heart races, as though needing to catch up after the fleeting endearment.

“Thanks,” you whisper out. 

You’re starting to regret all your choices, but it’s too late to back down now. You just want to help him relax – that’s all this is. 

Stop making this more than it is. 

You’re exceptionally careful as you crawl over Eddie, placing a knee on either side of him, hovering for just a second as you take deep breaths to hype yourself up to do the inevitable. 

He twists a bit, startling you enough for you to balance yourself with a palm on each shoulder blade, “C’mon now, you’re not going to crush me. You should know this by now,” his eyes glitter, and you know he’s referring to that time you two made a bet he couldn’t carry you bridal style while drunk. He could, “Sit your pretty ass down and get to work, Masseuse.” 

You weren’t imagining the pink across his chest and neck. It’s climbed up now, tendrils tickling his cheeks. The bridge of his nose nearly looks sunburnt from this angle. 

It’s a good look on him. 

“Masseuse?” you snort as you shove him to be fully laying down once more, needing to get his eyes off of you for just a second, “That’s an awfully big word. You been reading without me or something? Becoming a secret genius?” 

Fall back into the normal flow of things. Try not to think about the heat of him between your legs as you sit half your weight down. 

“That is not a big word,” he chides. 

“Spell it, then.” 

“I-” he cuts off as your hands smooth back over his skin, no more restrictions. 

He never finishes his sentence, never complies with your request. All that falls from his lips are soft sighs as you begin the massage again. 

There’s an occasional twitch below his muscles as you knead away, slowly but surely becoming more comfortable with it all. Becoming more mesmerized as you can now see his skin moving with you, occasionally letting up when you skirt past freckles and scars alike, fingertips merely tracing them as he shivers under your delicate touch. 

You do exactly as you set out to do – you relax him. And then some.

You’ve never really gotten into the art of massages, something about it always feeling a bit too intimate. You’d never consider yourself a professional at it by any means – if anything, you’ve been on the receiving end rather than the giving end more often than not. And even those occurrences were rare. 

But when it came to Eddie, it seemingly came naturally. 

Not all of your movements are conventional. You pass back and forth between the usual squeezes of skin you’ve witnessed on TV and from others, and gentle tracing of your fingertips. Drawing shapes, painting pictures that vanish without ever having existed in the first place. Words, sentences, secret messages for just you two. 

When you trace out the endearment of idiot, Eddie seems to catch on, lazy grin peeking up past his curtain of hair covering the cheek almost facing you. 

In another place, where you make that coveted girlfriend salary, you’d trace out three little words on the tip of your tongue. 

You almost do it, too. It’s when you trace out idiot, in fact. You start, entirely subconsciously, with the i. A long pause, a space between words. 

And then you trace an l. One long line down the center of his spine. 

Your finger is already rotating for the o, ready to trace it in the center as the other two letters had been, a signalling it wasn’t a part of that last simple line. 

And then you divert. And you rush to finish out with the i, the o, the t. He laughs a little, the rush of air felt below you as he lets it out soundlessly, and you catch sight of his smile.

A seeming endearment to Eddie, a hidden scolding for yourself. 

Maybe one day you can find the nerve to properly trace it out – or better yet, say it. Speak your truth outloud and handle whatever consequences come from it. Because you do – you really, really do mean it – and those feelings for Eddie can’t seem to change. Something carved into your very soul, unchanging as the years pass. If anything, the carving only digs deeper into you with each month you spend with him. 

One day. But not today, not when Eddie’s had a bad day. It should be a good day when you say it, lessening the blow of rejection, hopefully. 

You almost lose your balance a few times. Each time having to adjust your position of sitting on him, shifting his hips right along with yours. And each time, you notice the catch in his sighs. The way they almost transform into moans, tense noises that seemingly tear from his throat, only dampened by poor attempts to conceal them. Even the back of his neck has grown flushed now, the tips of his ears vibrant when you see them poke through his hair. 

Sometimes, you lose your balance from his shifting, even. 

The air is sticky with tension as you finally finish up. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour – you weren’t keeping score, more focused on continuing on until Eddie’s entire body has gone boneless beneath you. 

Pretty, and pink, and pliant. Entirely slackened beneath your touches. 

It takes more to encourage yourself to climb off of him than it did to climb on originally. Your body protests entirely, knees not caring for the ache forming, inner thighs happy to be bracketing his hips. But you do it. Because you’re just a friend, a best friend, helping your friend relax. 

You stand, towering over him, looking down to find him hiding his face just a bit. “Well?” 

“Well, what?” his voice is entirely muffled by his mouthful of couch cushion, and you furrow your brows. 

“How was it?” 

He lifts his face strategically. He probably hopes you don’t notice, but you do, “Oh! Oh, it was, uh- It was fucking great, sweetheart. I… I swear, your hands are fucking magic.” 

Why is he tripping over his words like that? 

He can’t even look you in the eyes, line of sight darting anywhere but you.

Why is he flushed, head to toe? 

“Yeah?” you cross your arms, and subtly lean to block the TV now displaying credits that Eddie found terribly interesting, “Would you consider it the best massage you’ve ever had?” 

He nods, and you catch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows before squeaking out, “Oh, yeah! The absolute best I’ve ever had,” his eyes widen at his words, as if he’s made a terrible choice that you’re unaware of, “I mean, you know, I just- you should really consider becoming an actual masseuse.”

That’s when it hits you; Eddie is absolutely refusing to sit up. To remove his hips from your couch. 

He’s blushing, and he’s stuttering, and he’s definitely hiding something. 

There’s a twist in your gut that you can’t reveal. A satisfaction you know better than to celebrate right now. 

Instead, you decide to play with him just a little bit more. 

“Good,” you nod, stepping towards the end of the couch you’d originally occupied. Where Eddie’s knees are stiff against. “Maybe I will consider a career change. But for now – move, Munson. I’m just exhausted.” 

“What?” he looks at you, frightened, only moving his neck to keep his hips flush and hidden away. 

“Get your legs out of my seat,” you laugh a little, leveling him with a daring stare. 

You know what he’s hiding. You’re a bit proud of it, too. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says slowly, and you can see him going over his options in his head. A million excuses he’s probably conjuring, a hundred different escape plans he’s grasping at. “Yeah, of course.” 

And, just as you’d suspected, he doesn’t go with a single one to save his dignity. 

He moves quickly. Tucking his legs up and twisting himself into an upright position in the blink of an eye, and immediately grabbing one of your throw pillows that two of you had tossed off into the floor amidst the original movie night plans. 

He’s fast, you’ll give him that. But not fast enough for you to not catch sight of the tent in his pants. 

You don’t let your eyes linger too long. Swallow down any drooling threatening to begin. Tamper down any desire flaring in your chest and between your hips. 

Best friend salary, you remind yourself even as you grin a tad bit too salaciously for your current cover. Best friend salary, not girlfriend salary. 

You plop down on the seat still warm from Eddie’s legs, sinking back in self-satisfaction. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe it doesn’t have to be another time, or place, or Universe to get what you want. Maybe all your delusion, that wild imagination of yours, wasn’t so misplaced after all. 

Best friend salary, your mind whispers. For now.

Eddie makes himself comfortable right along with you, still seeming in a much better condition than when he’d first arrived, even if his cheeks had bloomed into a rose garden. He presses that throw pillow of yours protectively over his crotch, and once more focuses on the screen in front of you two. 

“Say, Eddie,” you drawl, almost radiant with your grin. A fire now lit inside both of you. “Think you could be a doll and pop in the next movie for me?” 

It’s a little evil, you’ll admit. But he kind of deserves it for underpaying you over the years, when it’s so clear you’re due for a promotion. Sometime soon, you hope. 

Both your heads turn to each other at the same time, wildly different speeds. Eddie’s neck snaps in disbelief, while you take your time to make eye contact.

All it takes is one knowing look exchanged, and the illusion fumbles on its stilts. 

“I…” his embarrassment, all that flush, slowly morphs as he catches the truth behind your intentions. The hand pressing down on the throw pillow alleviates just a bit, stiff shoulders relaxing as they should have been after your massage as he reflects back just as evil of a glint in his eyes as you had, “Sure thing, baby.”

It’s probably going to be a long night. Surely, the promotion of best friend to girlfriend is going to involve some paperwork. Or an interview, to prove your capability and experience first hand, of course.

But, well, he never did put his shirt back on, did he?

[miaoua3]

Be My Sin.

Pairing: priest!joshua x stripper!f!reader

Genre: smut (MDNI), piv sex, oral sex (f! receiving), religious trauma/inner conflict, slight angst from joshua’s side (thoughts about regret, religion and such), stripper x priest, virgin! joshua

Warnings: mentions of r@pe and p€dophilia as the reason why joshua’s faith in god is wavering, and once again, smut (MDNI)

Description: after years of being a priest, joshua starts questioning his faith in god after receiving some upsetting news. what was supposed to be a walk to clear his mind ends up being a walk straight to his most delicious sin-you.

Note: THIS IS FOR MY POOKS EAT UP HOE (also keep in mind that a lot of thoughts on religion may or may not reflect my own thoughts about it lol). another note: i really said porn WITH plot lmao this one is looong boys, buckle up.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

it must’ve been two hours already since the bartender slid a whiskey neat across the counter and towards joshua. and for the past two hours, joshua has just been staring at the glass and how the low light of the bar has been reflecting in the dark liquor, thinking if he should give into the temptation and break his promise that he made to god, or if he should just get up and leave.

in the 12 years of his life as a priest, joshua has never been more confused, angry and scared like he has been since he heard the news this morning.

joshua takes ahold of the glass and spins it around, and just….thinks.

should he or should he not?

at this point, the whiskey has gone warm, probably not even in the drinkable state anymore, but he wouldn’t care about it.

as long as it makes him forget this whole day today, he’s willing to down even poison.

being betrayed by a friend always hurt him the most. it’s sad, really, feeling pity and disappointment towards the people you once felt nothing but love and affection for.

but this…this is much more than just betrayal.

this is his friend going against everything they have been taught while on their path to become priests.

his friend since childhood, who inspired him to do better and devote his life to spirituality, who guided him towards being a better person.

he was charged with sexual assault of a young girl.

she is only 7 years old.

a bile starts rising up joshua’s throat the more he thinks about it, how he trusted him and saw him as some form of a hero. and so, before he can even think about it, in hopes that it will stop him from indecency that is puking in the bar, joshua picks up the glass and downs the whiskey in one, breaking his sobriety of almost 15 years.

the liquor burns his throat, the aftertaste on his tongue not all that pleasant, it actually makes him scrunch his face in disgust.

joshua then raises a hand and orders another one.

and another one.

and another one.

he stops counting how many he orders after that.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

joshua is stumbling over his feet as he drunkenly walks on the side walk, observing the pretty city lights and cars as they pass him by. he isn’t sure where he’s headed, letting his absent mind take him wherever it wants.

after the bartender called the last call, he thought that a walk would help him clear his mind. so, after paying for all his drinks, he just…started walking. and he hasn’t stopped for an hour now.

he stumbles as he tries to stop and look at the window of a shop that sells mostly technology, a bunch of tv’s on display behind the window.

he stops to look at whatever ads are being shown on the screen, vision blurry and hazy due to the insane amount of alcohol that is in his blood right now.

his eyebrows immediately scrunch in pain at the pictures that are being shown to him, his hand unconsciously coming up to rub his chest right where his heart is over his black shirt.

bunch of children just running around in slow motion, happy smiles and missing teeth the only things joshua’s mind can focus on.

this is what children should look like, happy and carefree. how could anyone even think about doing things so atrocious and vile to them, like he did? how can anyone harm the ones who least deserve it, who are nothing but pure and innocent?

there’s nothing joshua loved more than when children would come up to him after the sermons and talk to him, seeing children being so curious and mildly confused about the complex that is a religion. it always made him so happy to explain them the things they would ask about in the most simplistic way possible, sometimes even struggling to find the right words to explain things as to not make them even more confused.

seeing the good in people, especially in the young ones, always made his heart swell up with hope and love towards them.

now he isn’t even sure if there’s any hope left in his heart, only rage and hurt floating on the surface of it.

he watches the tv’s for another minute or so, overcome by the thoughts of the terrible day that he it has been today, from the moment he got the news this morning, him struggling to get through the morning sermon, turning away people that wanted to go to the confessionals to him and get the heavy stuff off their hearts, all the way to him downing the alcohol as if it were water.

finally turning away from the window of the shop, joshua attempts to start walking again, stumbling only minimally, only to come to a stop yet again as a wave of nausea hits him.

his hand shots out automatically to grab onto the street light, closing his eyes as he tries to focus on not spilling out his guts right on the middle of the sidewalk.

he’s taking deep breaths in and out when he hears some loud voices from across the street, drunken laughter mixed with it. he opens his eyes to look at what it might be.

a tall old building stares back at him, the bottom part littered with glaring neon signs, one in particular catching his attention. a silhouette of a woman in a martini glass, one leg kicked up to show off her high heel, hands thrown in the air as to signify that she’s having a good time.

huh. a strip club.

normal and sober joshua would never admit this out loud-or while alive for that matter, considering his profession- but he was always a bit curious about strip clubs. naturally, he has met his fair share of sex workers, he even helped a few of them get from troublesome situations where they were being threatened or abused, always ready to help anyone in need regardless of their background and/or profession.

he has never been in one though, as he had no reason to go.

his bloody eyes watch as a white convertible rolls up to the club, parks and turns the lights off. and then, like some sort of angel, steps out what he can only describe as the most beautiful woman he has ever laid his eyes on, all short skirts and tops, hair swishing around as she turns her head while she locks the doors of her car, before she proceeds to walk up the stairs and inside the building, disappearing as easily as she appeared.

joshua swallows harshly, unsure if his throat is dry due to the hot summer night that he finds himself in or because of the woman that just made him realise that heaven was more than just a place that he will officially never see.

before he can rationalise his thoughts, his legs start moving all on their own, walking across the street (and almost getting hit by a car that he didn’t see in the process) and through the door of the strip club.

he never had a reason to go inside a place like this, right?

well, one reason was just found.

he struggles as he walks through that type of curtain that is made out of beedy tussles, almost choking himself with one as he tries to get it out of his face.

the scene in front of him makes him freeze in his place, gulping heavily due to unfamiliarity of it all.

in the centre laid a stage in a shape of a martini glass, just like in the front. on both sides of the stage there were many leather chairs, the kind that you can just hear squeaking under your ass simply by looking at it. a part of the stage was covered by red curtains, the type that you can just tell are heavy and velvety to the touch. above that, on the wall, hung another neon sign.

angel’s heaven.

how ironic.

joshua walks to the left, where a bar with a few busy bartenders can be seen, patiently waiting on his turn to order.

before you ask- only water for him from now on.

he wants to remember everything he’s about to see.

as he waits, he can feel the people judgementally looking at him because of the uniform that he has yet to give a fuck about, the roman collar poking at his neck even after years of wearing it, the black shirt and pants making him look at least a bit presentable.

when his turn finally comes, he orders himself a water, drowning it in one go before he shyly asks for another glass.

as he pushes through the mass of people, he finally comes to where the leather chairs are. he decides to stay standing as it gives him a much better view of the stage.

just as he was turning his head left and right to look around, joshua notices the lights dimming around him and shining brighter on the stage, making it the main point of the room.

suddenly, some sexy jazz music starts playing, the kind where you find yourself imitating the sound of the trumpets. the red curtains get pulled to the sides harshly, revealing 4 figures behind it.

only then is the setup shown to the audience, the neon sign outside making much more sense now that joshua can see two gigantic martini glasses with a stepping stool on sides of it. in between them there are two tall poles.

joshua watches as two women on the ends carefully yet sexily climb the stepping stools so they can get into the martini glasses, making the liquid inside it splash on the sides. while they are trying their best to make it as sexy as possible to get into gigantic glasses, another two women present themselves to the public, wearing lacy and ever so sexily red lingerie.

men around him start to whistle and cheer, the one closest to the stage already throwing dollar bills at them, but joshua can only focus on one of the women that is on one of the poles, swaying her body, hips and hair to the jazzy rhythm.

you. the woman from earlier.

the reason for his sin.

he watches carefully as you wrap one leg around the pole, spinning gently and artistically, your hair swishing behind you. he gulps when you stop spinning, only to get down on your knees and let yourself to sort of dive into the floor, your chest touching the floor, your position giving the audience a beautiful view of your ass cladded in the red lacy panties.

joshua isn't sure if the other woman next to you is doing the same moves as you because his eyes, mind and desires are solely focused on you, but by the cheers of the men, he can only guess that she is.

he continues to watch with a weird feeling climbing up his stomach as you pull yourself back up, staying on your knees as you tilt your head back and play with your hair, your tits moving up and down as you intentionally inhale and exhale extra hard, slowly bouncing on your knees.

you then get back up to your feet-still as sexily as possible-your smile blinding the men in the chairs, and joshua too. you turn around to give men an even better view of your ass as you sway it to the music.

joshua has to remind himself to breathe again, air trapped inside his throat, only noticing it due to getting a bit lightheaded.

but that just might be the alcohol.

or you.

the cheers continue as you and your partner spin on the poles, throwing money and words like ''yeah baby, spin that ass! take that bra off!'', making joshua only mildly uneasy and annoyed, maybe even a bit jealous.

the show continues for half an hour, closer to 40 minutes, and joshua watches you and only you the entire time. at the end, you and the other stripper do the last spins before you slowly come to the stop, slowly stepping on your feet as the music cuts off.

the cheerful screams suddenly turn into those of slight disappointment as the two women (who joshua hasn't even looked at once) step out of the big martini glasses, to join you and your partner for the final bow. while you wait, you scan the crowd for the potential customers for one-on-one sessions, smiling and waving a bit to the ends who scream for you, when you suddenly notice in the far back, watching you with mouth agape, the most beautiful face you have ever seen illuminated under the neon lights of the club, his cheeks noticeably rosy even from a distance.

and then you notice his attire.

huh. a priest.

how ironic.

as you smile at him, both with certain gentleness and sinisterness, joshua's heart drops to his feet.

oh how much fun are you going to have with him.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

joshua never walked faster in his life, tripping tipsily over his legs as he reaches the bar he ordered his water from.

the second he’s in front of a bartender, he’s slamming his hand against the bar to balance himself up, and with desperate eyes asking the bartender “how do i get into the vip? are there private sessions with the dancers? private rooms maybe? how much would something like that cost? actually never mind, i’d pay however much it costs-“.

the bartender just looks at him with a raised eyebrow, waiting for joshua to realise that his rambling is a bit distasteful as well as embarrassing.

as it registers in his brain just how judgementally the bartender is looking at him, making him blush a little in embarrassment, shyly whispering “I apologise”.

seeing that he’s finished with the rambling, the bartender explains “there is vip section but that is for groups of 4 or more, so i’m guessing you are not interested in that.”

joshua just nods along, waiting for him to get to the part that he wants to hear about.

the bartender then continues “we also have private rooms for one-on-one sessions. you can pick the dancer, but if they’re busy with another customer or with the vip section, you can either wait for them to be done or request another dancer.-“

having heard enough, joshua interrupts him “is the pretty dancer-the-the one on the right pole-is she free? nobody booked her already, right?"

the bartender yet again gives joshua an are you serious right now? look, prompting joshua to look down bashfully, mumbling yet another "i apologise", scratching the back of his neck due to the awkwardness that has ensued.

seeing that he can speak freely again, the bartender continues "yes she is free, would you like me to book you a session with her?"

joshua nods enthusiastically, eyes shining brightly both due to the alcohol and excitement.

after paying for a double session, joshua follows the instructions given by the bartender and walks straight ahead until he reaches a hallway, where he turns right and enters the third door on the left side.

the room is isolated from top to bottom in some sort of leather material, probably as a way to sound proof the room of...everything and anything that might go on in it. in the centre of the room, there is a black, circular table with a pole going right through it. right in front of it stood a noticeably low black leather chair, intended for the customers, joshua assumes.

with unsure steps, joshua walks over to the chair before he takes a seat, looking around and observing the very weird room.

suddenly, the door that he has just walked through open, revealing your beautiful self wrapped in a silky white robe. joshua's breath catches in his throat upon seeing the sight in front of him, how beautiful you look so up close, how you radiate absolute confidence and effortless sexiness.

you look down at the chair only to see joshua in it, a smirk immediately appearing on your face.

"well aren't you a fast one, father. or should i say...", you pause for a moment to take a few more steps and grab the chair, leaning across the chair until your lips are right by his ear, the smirk spreading by every passing second.

"...daddy?", you finish, barely containing your cackling.

joshua just makes a face of disgust, if you were to look up the definition of the word "ew", you'd see his face right next to it instead of a complicated sentence.

expressing as much, joshua ushers out "ew, no, don't call me that, that's just- yeah no.", finishing his rant with a full body shiver.

cackling at his reaction, you proceed to walk over to the table. before sitting down on it, you quickly take off your robe and throw it somewhere to the side, beyond caring about it this far in your career.

joshua gulps as he sees you sitting on the table right in front of him, your red heel grazing his pants as you go to cross it. he tries really reaaally hard not to look at your exposed skin and how the lingerie clings to your skin. force of habit maybe? or maybe he's clinging onto the little hope he had left in himsef.

chuckling at his behaviour, how skittish he was, wiggling around his chair and looking away, all while redness greeted his cute cheeks, you start questioning him.

"so, father, what brings you here?", you tilt your head as you look at him, waiting for an answer.

joshua finally looks back at you, making it very evident that he's focusing on your face only. gulping yet again, he answers "just...thought i'd come and see what a-a place like thi-this would look like-", but before he can finish the sentence, you interrupt him.

"that's not what i meant."

joshua looks startled and confused, looking at you questioningly.

smiling a little at him, you stand up before him and come closer, your legs parting his own. joshua's eyes bulge out of its sockets so much that they look like they're about to fall out any second. his eyes follow the silhouette of your body-starting at the legs, and how glowy and shiny they looked under the blue light of the room. next were the hips that were right in front of his face. joshua had to swallow harshly as he eyed the red underwear hugging your lower body-the lacy material, how see-through it was. unintentionally he paid extra attention to your tummy and how cute it looked to him-somehow it made you look more human.

finally, his eyes skim over your tits, just briefly however, before he finally comes to look you in the eyes again.

you smile at his flustered expression, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. using the free space between his legs, you place on of your knees there, his half hard crotch already pressing against it. grabbing the chair right by where joshua's head is, ever so slowly you lean in until your noses are almost touching.

with your eyes locked now, you whisper in the little space between you two.

"what are you doing here, in my room?"

it takes joshua a bit to find his words due to being absolutely and incandescently in awe of you. his eyes are flying all over your face, taking in your beauty. if somebody were to watch the scene unfold from the sidelines, they would think that joshua might be in love.

with earnestness swimming in his eyes, he looks you directly in the eyes as he stutters out "because you are the most beautiful woman i have ever seen in my life. i just...i had to."

his response evidently stunts you, because the gentle smile from your lips slowly fades away, something between amazement and dumbstruck appearing in your eyes instead.

nobody has ever said something so...nice to me.

and you look. you look and you search in his eyes. for doubt. for earnestness. for honesty.

placing a hand on his cheek, you whisper ever so quietly.

"i'm going to kiss you now."

not giving him the time to overthink it, you lean in and gently kiss his lips. joshua, in return, starts feeling like he's having a heart attack, but doesn't pull away.

only a fool would pull away from the most beautiful women's kiss.

once you let your kiss naturally fall apart, joshua just blinks at you, his whole face red and his eyes as big as saucers.

you place the other hand on his other cheek as well, leaning your forehead against his. rubbing his cheeks to calm him down, you whisper "touch me, don't be shy" before you kiss his pouty lips again.

the man in question responds to your kisses but makes it evident that he's a bit unsure, a bit scared, and that he's letting you take control and lead the pace of the kiss.

after a minute or so of your kissing, of your tongue invading his mouth, of gently biting his lower lip to tease him and so that you can hear that little noise of surprise leaving his mouth, joshua finally places his hands on the back of your thighs-gently, of course. instead of grabbing them and using his hold to pull you onto his lap like you want him to, he just...hold them there, kind of like he's supporting them in case they might give out beneath you.

not liking this, you bite his lip again, this time a bit harder, sort of as a warning, before you pull away to look him in the eyes as you say one word only. one word that will unravel the true beast within him.

"harder."

just like a light switch, something changes in his eyes, before he grabs the back of your thighs harshly and leaning back in to kiss you like a starved man would.

his kiss is bruising, and it hurts you so good-the way his lips perfectly wrap around your own, the way his tongue dances and battles for dominance against your own, the way his hand squeeze and release your thighs periodically.

everything he does hurts you so good and deliciously.

sensing that you leaning down like this might be a bit uncomfortable for you, he uses his hold on your legs to pull you towards him, making you straddle him.

getting his cue, you oblige happily, sitting yourself on his lap, maybe but just maybe wiggling a bit on his lap to tease him, which seems to go exactly according to your plan. his hands immediately grab onto your bare ass, squeezing so hard, like he's trying to ground himself, to anchor himself, all while moaning directly in your mouth.

being naturally moved by his hands on your body, you unconsciously start rocking your hips back and forth, making joshua squeeze your ass cheeks even harder, to an almost bruising degree.

suddenly, a thought strikes you like a lighting making you part your lips with the man beneath you.

joshua just looks at you, somewhat scared, somewhat questioningly. but before he can start puking out all of his questions, you tilt your head to the side as you ask him.

"i never asked for your name, and i imagine you wouldn't like me calling you father the entire time, so. what is it?"

joshua just blinks for a few seconds before he answers "joshua, my name is joshua."

you smile at his words before you grab the back of his hair, making the man drop his mouth open as he moans at your action.

smirking directly against his lips, you compliment him "good boy", before you are kissing him to the degree of insanity.

using the newfound knowledge that pulling his hair does it for him, you use the hold on his hair to push and pull his head in directions that you want him to so you can kiss him under all the possible degrees there are. tilting his head to the left, you let your tongue battle against his own. he tries to put up a fight, but inevitably loses the moment you pull his hair even more.

somewhere between the minutes of being lost in your kisses, joshua starts rocking his own hips upwards, right into your barely covered crotch. just as he realises what he's doing and is about to pull away and apologise, you moan needily in his mouth, pressing your hips stronger against his own.

finally having had enough of his gentlemen-ess, you grab one of his hands from your ass only to push it in your own underwear.

joshua gasps at the action, blushing like crazy. looking you directly in the eyes, you just respond to his visible doubt.

"stop being a gentlemen and fuck me already."

....well.

still holding back a bit, joshua starts off slowly, rubbing his fingers over....something. considering that he has never done any of this, joshua is proud of himself for even being in this position in general. he always thought that...sex will always remain an unexplored territory, considering that he's a priest and all.

having sensed that joshua has never fingered a woman ever, you pull back, using his knees to balance your hands on.

looking him directly in the eyes, you order him with all seriousness.

"take my panties off."

joshua looks at you like a deer caught in the headlights for a second, before he looks down at your underwear just as confused, wondering how he's supposed to take them off while you are still sitting on his lap.

rolling eyes a bit at this, you help the poor man by adding "rip them off."

cue more startled looking at you.

gently taking the sides of your underwear, joshua exhales before he harshly pulls on the red fabric. it ends up ripping much easier than he thought it would.

huh. maybe he was stronger than he previously thought. or maybe the underwear was just that flimsy.

having been freed of the panties, you come to crowd his personal space again, taking his hand in yours again, making sure to keep the eye contact with him.

"okay, welcome to 'how to finger a woman 101' class. it's not hard math, you just have to know that every woman is different and likes different things, as well as that there are things all women like."

joshua furrows his eyebrows, if this were a cartoon, a question mark would start flying around his head just about now.

instead of explaining what all those things could be, you just bring his hand back to your pussy. you make his fingers spread you open, showing him where the magic happens.

hoarsely, you say against his lips "now i'll teach you what i like."

joshua, ever the good boy, just nods his head, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he exhales shakily.

taking over his fingers and keeping yourself open for him, you nod downwards, to your glossy and wet pussy.

"see the little bundle of top?", joshua looks down and nods when he notices the bundle in question, gulping at the sight beneath him, fingers and mouth itching to get them on you.

"rub it. gently."

joshua's eyes search for permission in your own for a second, only starting once you nod.

he uses his point and middle finger to gently and slowly rub circles on your clit, watching out for your reactions. you exhale slowly, eyes automatically closing the longer he goes on,

"put more pressure. and a bit faster."

as if he were your servant, joshua obliges immediately.

your moans are all the validation he needs, enjoying how it rings in the shell of his ear, how pretty they sound. like a tune that he himself is making.

gradually and mindlessly, joshua applies even more pressure and starts going faster, getting lost in your pretty noises and lust-filled air. he doesn't even know when he starts, but suddenly he notices that his lips are on your neck, licking, kissing and sucking on the skin there.

your moans get louder, which is exactly what joshua wanted. you're getting so lost in the pleasure that you feel the need to grab onto something, or else you fear you might fly away. you search for something to hold on, only finding his hair in return.

pulling on it harshly makes joshua moan loudly against the skin of your neck, his fingers rubbing your clit even harsher, even faster.

"don't stop."

you pull his head even closer, moaning away in his ear, curses and his name mixed with it the faster you approach your end. joshua, in return, doesn't stop what he's doing, just like you tell him. his lips bite your neck harshly, some sort of animalistic urge to mark you, to make you his taking over his mind.

legs squeezing around his, spasming and shaking as you're reaching your orgasm, you almost scream in his ear "fuck! don't sto-ah, i'm cumming, i'm cumm-"

you never get to finish that sentence as your finish interrupts you. throwing your head back, you pull on joshua's hair so harshly he fears he might lose the hair you are pulling on like a maniac.

riding through your orgasm, joshua finally starts slowing down when he notices you running away from his touch. figuring you have came, he finally stops, eyes immediately looking for your approval and review.

forehead coated in sweat, skin glistening, eyes still shut in pleasure-joshua thinks this might be the most beautiful sight he has ever witnessed.

opening your eyes, you smile at his cute expression, with red cheeks and sparkly eyes.

ready to give him a response, you pull his face towards your own, kissing him passionately, relaxing in his hold the moment his arms wrap themselves around your waist.

parting your lips, your hand gently grabs his cheek, rubbing your thumb over his cheek.

looking him directly in the eyes, so he know you mean every word you're about to say, you praise him.

"good boy."

your words setting him off, he immediately goes back in to kiss you, to eat you alive. grabbing your thighs, joshua then stands up while holding you, making you gasp in his mouth.

he lays you not-so gently on the table in front of him (not that you are complainig, you are loving this rough and wild joshua), his mouth biting your lower lip harshly. your nails imbed themselves in his back, pulling on his shirt, trying to pull it off him.

being sick of his own shirt, joshua pulls away to quickly take it off, revealing a surprisingly ripped and muscular build of his.

your breath catches in your throat, mouth salivating to get your hands on him.

grabbing the front of his pants, you pull him harshly towards you. taken aback by this move, joshua falls over you, luckily reflexes coming in handy and using his hands to catch himself and not squish you beneath his weight.

you immediately grab his face and pull him back for a wild kiss, his tongue responding enthusiastically to your own entering his mouth. and his hands? oh they have a mind of their own. grabbing your thighs and hiking them up against his hips, before they shamelessly grab your tits, squeezing them over the red material of your bra.

wanting- no, needing to feel them bare, joshua pulls away for a second in favour of ripping your bra from your body, snapping the front of before he pushes it aside.

his mouth immediately wrap themselves around your right nipple, sucking on them like an animal.

you arch your back at the contact, hands grabbing onto his hair harshly as you moan loudly.

letting the boy have his fun for about a minute, enjoying the way he's sucking on your tit, how he lets himself go and bite the skin of it, marking it with the imprint of his teeth. you let him have his fun for about two minutes before you are pulling his hair harshly until his face is in front of your own.

exhaling against his lips, you utter.

"fuck me. now."

normally joshua would kill to do as you say. normally. but the urge to get his lips on your sweet little pussy wins over that.

without answering you, he lowers himself until he is face to face with your lower body, eyes trained to focus on you.

his breath that leaves his mouth grazes the skin of your pussy, goosebumps appearing on your skin as it does.

eyes filled with desire, he says the words that will come to haunt your dreams for years to come.

"teach me how you want it. how you like it."

and then his mouth is on you, starving as ever. his lips-it's like he's trying to make out with your pussy, not afraid of getting messy, his spit dripping down. sucking on the clit, his eyes focus on your face for a reaction. your back arch the longer he keeps sucking and kissing you down there.

hands grabbing onto his hair, you pull onto his hair, almost as if you are trying to get more of him, to get him deeper inside of you.

getting your cue, he lets his tongue prod and explore your entrance for a bit, before he let it fully enter your hole, swirling it around, gathering your taste on it so he can taste you as he swallows.

seeing by your moans that you like it, he replaces his tongue with one finger, slowly pushing it inside of you.

throwing your head back at the feeling of fullness, you moan at the way he pushes the finger in and out of you, slowly twisting it each time. while he fingers you, joshua focuses his lips back again on sucking on your clit, using his tongue to flick it before he wraps his lips around it and suck it.

distinctly joshua registers you moaning "more", which he immediately responds with pushing another finger inside of you.

he keeps on going in a relentless pace, fingers pushing inside of you faster than they pull outside of you. while his fingers are working you, his mouth focuses more on his own pleasure, drinking your juices as if they were honey.

you let him eat you out for a few minutes, let him work out another orgasm out of you. but not only that-you let yourself enjoy, actually enjoy being with a man. a man who, presumingly, has never touched a woman this way before yet does a better job in satisfying you than all those fuck ass, try-hard man in power who only care about themselves.

a man who makes you feel like a woman.

feeling yourself reaching the finish faster than before, you forcefully pull his head, ignoring his hissing in pain, until his mouth are kissing your lips this time.

although his mouth aren't on you anymore, his fingers certainly are, still pushing inside of you at the relentless pace. you basically have to moan out "you had your fun, now fuck me", because joshua certainly wasn't stopping.

seeing as he was almost in a trance, eyes glossy and hazy, you take the situation in your own hands. literally.

grabbing the hem of his pants, you feel his front up in order to find the zipper, feeling up joshua's bulge in the process. finally feeling it, you pull it down to your best abilities, considering that joshua is distracting you with his kisses.

you pull harshly on his pants, just wanting them off of his sexy ass (that you felt up in the process of getting rid of his pants-nice and juicy, you must admit). with his pants you also pull down his black underwear, his dick jumping out freely.

you push joshua's chest a bit so you can actually look down and see his dick.

to say that you are very pleasantly surprised is an understatement. his cock is so...beautiful. with a pinkish tip, it slightly curves to the right. although not the thickest one you have seen, he's still definitely up there, with his size as well.

you take him and you pump him a few times, smiling widely the way joshua's pretty moans fly out of his mouth involuntarily.

guiding his cock to where you need him the most, you hear joshua exhale shakily. in excitement or fear, is the only question.

you put your hand on his cheek, making him focus back on you. looking at him with gentle eyes, you try to reassure him a bit.

"it's okay, if you don't want to, you can still walk away, baby. it'd be a shame, considering i don't see a face this pretty in here that often, never mind between my legs."

joshua weighs his options for a few seconds, but deep deep down, in his soul, he knows what the right answer it.

he has sinned plenty already today, what's one more?

and with that thought, he grabs the base of his cock and starts pushing inside.

after a minute or so, you both moan in unison as he finally bottoms out, his hips flush against your own. joshua has to take a moment to recollect himself and pray to god that he doesn't cum right there right that second with how much you are squeezing him.

your long nails claw at his naked back, sure to leave scratches for tomorrow to be seen. the way he fills you up, the way he makes you feel full and good. it's a little too much for you, it makes you want him even more, and you want him now.

pushing your heels against his ass, you signal to him to start moving which he does.

he starts off slow, taking his time, like he wants to remember it all, to remember you. he rocks his hips against your own so deliciously, you can't help but let the moans escape you.

gradually, he fastens his pace until he catches a rhythm that suits you both, skin slapping the only sound in the room besides your panting and moans.

he masters the moves pretty quickly, his moves rolling more so than hammering, just like how you like it.

his tip keeps on hitting your sweet spot over and over again, the tension in your tummy starting to slowly build again because of it after a few minutes of him going at it.

joshua notices how you start to squeeze more tightly around his cock, how you are trying to milk him dry-and succeeding, by the looks of it.

naturally, he starts going faster, until he's just chasing his high. his hips slam against your asscheeks, leaving the skin red and tender to each following contact of his hips.

the entire time he's fucking you, joshua is either attempting to kiss you, tongue invading your mouth and all, or he's just keeping them there, touching your own as he's moaning and groaning.

his sounds make you go insane, from him moaning while saying "pussy so good" to groaning out a "god, fuck" every now and then.

it all messes with your head.

it all makes you want him to cum. now.

you hug his shoulders and brace your heels against his back, trying everything to keep him as close as possible. your mouth end up right by his ear, moaning one thing over and over again.

"cum for me."

joshua chases both your and his high, holding back from giving you what you want until you cum first.

your pleasure first, then his.

he wants you to milk him dry as he's cumming, not a second earlier or later.

he keeps on fucking you, repeatedly hitting your spot until you scream "i'm cumming!" right into his ear. you squeeze around him so tightly that it triggers his own orgasm, spilling inside of you, coating your walls white in his cum.

he groans as he finishes inside of you, riding out both your orgasms, his hands clawing at your thighs, pulling you closer until his balls are right against your ass.

once he feels that he's overstimulating both himself and you, he stops, but he makes no move to pull out, letting himself fall on top of you instead.

for a minute or so, you two just breathe as you hold each other, his face buried in your neck with his eyes closed, blissfully basking in the glory of the post-orgasm.

once you regain your breath, you post a question that only a fool would say no to.

"wanna go again?"

[goldfades]

★ DAY JUST FOR US ─── JOE BURROW⁹ [012] SWEET ON YOU

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | valentines day with joe! (sweet on you edition)

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | nothing but tooth rotting fluff!

The house was quiet—eerily so, almost unfamiliar in its stillness. No tiny footsteps padding across the hardwood, no early morning giggles, no faint sounds of cartoons filtering in from the living room. Just the low hum of the heater and the soft rustling of sheets as you turned over in bed, stretching into the empty space beside you.

Joe was already awake. You could hear him somewhere in the house, the faint clatter of dishes and the subtle creak of cabinet doors opening and closing.

And then, as if right on cue, the scent hit you.

Coffee. Fresh, strong, just how you liked it. And something sweeter—vanilla, cinnamon, maybe a hint of chocolate.

You smiled to yourself, sinking deeper into the pillows before reluctantly sitting up. The soft, golden morning light streamed through the curtains, casting warm patterns over the bed, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you had woken up naturally—not to the sound of a baby monitor crackling to life or a toddler calling for you.

You missed Hayes, of course. But God, this was nice.

Pushing the covers off, you padded out of the bedroom, following the scent that was practically pulling you in like a cartoon character floating toward a fresh pie on a windowsill.

And there he was.

Joe stood in the kitchen, completely in his element, wearing sweats and a hoodie, barefoot, hair still mussed from sleep. His brow furrowed in concentration as he flipped a pancake, and next to him on the counter was a tray—two mugs of coffee, fresh fruit, a little vase with a single rose, a ridiculously romantic setup for someone who always insisted he wasn’t ‘good at this stuff.’

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment.

"You look suspiciously domestic right now," you teased, crossing your arms.

Joe turned, caught off guard for a split second before his face split into a grin. "Well, good morning to you too," he said, flipping the pancake one last time before sliding it onto the plate. "Figured I’d let you sleep in. Big romantic gesture and all."

You walked over, wrapping your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. "You didn’t have to do all this."

Joe huffed out a laugh. "I kind of did. My son has been hogging you for two years straight—I needed at least one day where I get you all to myself."

You smiled against his hoodie. "Fair point."

Joe turned in your arms, looping his own around your waist, his hands warm against the small of your back. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then finally your lips—soft, slow, unhurried.

"Happy Valentine’s Day," he murmured.

"Happy Valentine’s Day," you whispered back, fingers curling into his sweatshirt.

And for a moment, it felt like you were in your own little world, wrapped in warmth, in love, in everything that made you two, you.

Joe pulled back slightly, eyeing the tray behind him. "I was gonna bring that to you in bed, you know."

You glanced at the tray, the effort he had put into it, and then back up at him. "How about I take my coffee, and we eat at the table like normal people?"

Joe smirked. "Deal. But only if you promise me one thing."

You raised an eyebrow. "What’s that?"

He leaned in, voice dropping slightly. "That you’re not too full for dessert later."

Your stomach flipped, and your cheeks warmed at the implication, but you rolled your eyes, pushing his chest playfully. "You’re ridiculous."

Joe just grinned. "And you love me for it."

And he was right. You really, really did.

--

The morning felt like something out of a dream—slow, sweet, wrapped in warmth and easy laughter. Just the two of you. No tiny hands tugging at your clothes, no early-morning cartoons playing in the background, no chaotic mess of toys scattered across the floor.

Just you and Joe, husband and wife, sitting at the kitchen table, your legs tangled beneath it as you shared a stack of pancakes, sipped on coffee, and indulged in something you hadn’t felt in a while—time.

“I forgot what hot coffee tastes like,” you sighed dramatically, cradling the mug in your hands.

Joe snorted. “See? This is why I planned today. You deserve a break.”

You tilted your head at him, eyes soft. “So do you.”

He shrugged, slicing his fork through a pancake. “I don’t mind the chaos as much as you think. I mean, yeah, Hayes is a maniac sometimes, but I kinda love it.”

You grinned. “Says the man who handed me a half-asleep baby last week and whispered, ‘Please, for the love of God, take him. I need to lay down before I pass out on the floor.’”

Joe laughed, setting his fork down. “Okay, fair, but in my defense, that was after he made me run around the house with him for like an hour straight. And then he made me read ‘Goodnight Moon’ four times in a row before he even thought about sleeping.”

You giggled, shaking your head. “He’s obsessed with you. Full-on daddy’s boy.”

Joe smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, well, today is about me being obsessed with you.”

His words sent a little shiver down your spine.

It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it, with that low, confident drawl that made you feel like the only woman in the world.

You swallowed, setting your coffee down. “So, what exactly do you have planned for today?”

Joe stretched, crossing his arms behind his head. “Well, since my mom has Hayes until tomorrow, I figured we’d do whatever you want. No distractions, no responsibilities, no ‘Mommy, Daddy, look at me!’ Just us.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Anything I want?”

Joe’s eyes glinted with mischief. “Anything.”

Your lips curled into a slow smile. “In that case, I say we start with a bath. A long, hot, uninterrupted bath.”

Joe’s smirk widened. “Sounds like a solid plan. But only if I’m invited.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the table. “Come on, Casanova.”

Joe was already on his feet, grabbing your waist and pulling you close. His hands slid down to your hips, his lips grazing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to today,” he murmured.

And neither did you—not until now.

Because after everything—the sleepless nights, the never-ending chaos, the constant whirlwind of parenting—it was easy to forget this part of your relationship.

But Joe had never forgotten.

And today, he was making sure you didn’t either.

The afternoon passed in a blur of easy conversation, warm touches, and stolen kisses between store aisles. Shopping together wasn’t something you got to do often—not without a tiny pair of hands reaching for everything in sight or a little voice repeatedly asking, “Can we go home now?”

But today, it was just the two of you.

Joe held your hand as you wandered through a boutique downtown, his fingers lazily playing with yours, rubbing circles against your palm. You weren’t even shopping for anything specific, just enjoying the act of browsing, of laughing over ridiculous designer price tags and testing expensive perfumes on your wrists.

At one point, he caught you eyeing a dainty gold bracelet in one of the glass cases, and without hesitation, he flagged down the salesperson. You tried to stop him, playfully swatting at his arm, but he just grinned and said, “Let me spoil my wife.”

And how could you argue with that?

After shopping, you made your way to one of your favorite restaurants, tucked away in the city. It was dimly lit, intimate, the kind of place that made you feel like the rest of the world faded away the second you stepped inside.

Joe let you order whatever you wanted, insisting you get the expensive cocktail you usually turned down and ordering extra appetizers just because.

“This is so much food,” you laughed, eyeing the plates covering the table.

Joe shrugged, cutting into his steak. “Yeah, well, if I’m gonna get my wife alone for the first time in forever, I’m gonna make the most of it.”

You sipped your drink, warmth spreading through your chest—not just from the alcohol, but from him, from the way he always made you feel like you were the most important thing in the world.

By the time you made it home, the sun had long set, and you were curled up on the couch together, presents sitting in front of you on the coffee table.

Joe leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, who’s first?”

You grinned, grabbing the wrapped box in front of you and placing it in his lap. “You.”

His brows lifted, clearly intrigued. He didn’t hesitate to tear off the wrapping, lifting the lid of the box, and as soon as he did, his eyes went wide.

“No way,” he murmured, pulling out the ultra-rare Mike Vrabel jersey, the signature scrawled perfectly across the front. His fingers brushed over the fabric, as if making sure it was real.

You laughed at his stunned expression. “Took a while to find that.”

Joe just shook his head, a disbelieving smile spreading across his face. “This is insane. Do you know how rare this is?”

You smirked. “Oh, I know.”

He set the jersey aside carefully before reaching for the next box, pulling out the Rolex inside. His mouth parted slightly as he turned it over in his hands, the weight of it settling against his palm.

“Baby,” he breathed, looking up at you.

You shrugged. “You needed a new one.”

He laughed, slipping it onto his wrist, twisting it just right to catch the light. “This is—god, this is incredible.”

You leaned closer, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You like it?”

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I love it.”

You beamed, but before you could say anything else, he grabbed a small envelope from the table and handed it to you.

You raised an eyebrow. “An envelope?”

Joe smirked. “Just open it.”

You did, carefully sliding out the paper inside, eyes scanning over the words. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized what it was—an all-expenses-paid spa weekend, booked just for you.

“Joe…” you whispered, looking up at him.

His smirk softened into something more tender. “Figured you could use a real break. No baby, no responsibilities—just you getting spoiled for a whole weekend.”

Your throat tightened, overwhelmed with gratitude. “You even planned for your mom to take Hayes?”

He nodded. “She and my dad want more time with him anyway. They’re excited.”

You shook your head in awe. “You’re really the best, you know that?”

Joe smiled, reaching for you, pulling you into his lap. His arms wrapped around you, strong and steady, holding you close.

“You deserve it,” he murmured against your temple.

You closed your eyes, sinking into him, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart against yours.

And in that moment, wrapped up in his arms, you knew—this was exactly where you were meant to be.

--

Sunday evening rolled in slow and sweet, the lingering relaxation of your spa weekend still wrapped around you like a warm hug. Your muscles had never felt looser, your mind never clearer, and you had Joe to thank for that. He was grinning like an idiot as you strolled into the house, barefoot and in one of the plush robes he had insisted you bring back because, according to him, "You deserve to be comfy at all times."

You had barely dropped your overnight bag in the bedroom before you felt Joe’s arms snake around your waist from behind, his chin resting against your shoulder.

"Feel good?" he murmured, pressing a slow, lazy kiss to the side of your neck.

You hummed, leaning back into his embrace, your fingers trailing over his arms, feeling the solid warmth of him. "Like a brand-new woman."

"Good," he said, his voice thick with something unreadable, and you could feel his smile against your skin. "Because I have one more surprise for you."

You turned in his arms, immediately skeptical. "Joe..."

His lips twitched, and he took your hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles. "I already planned it, and before you say anything—I cleared it with my parents. Hayes is gonna be more than fine. Actually, I think they might be more excited than we are."

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out what he was playing at. "What are you talking about?"

Joe pulled back just enough to grab his phone from the nightstand, tapping a few times before turning the screen to face you.

Your stomach flipped.

Staring back at you was a confirmation email for a week-long trip to Bora Bora—an overwater villa, pristine turquoise waters stretching for miles, the kind of place you had dreamed about visiting for years but never thought you’d actually get to see.

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Joe’s smirk widened. "So, what do you think?"

"Are you serious?" you finally managed to breathe out, your heart racing.

"Dead serious," he said, his hands finding your waist again, his fingers pressing into your hips. "I booked it months ago, just wanted to wait for the right time to tell you."

Your mind was spinning. Bora Bora. The dream destination. The place you had casually mentioned a hundred times, always in a wistful, "Maybe someday" way.

"But—Joe, a whole week?" Your voice was laced with both excitement and hesitancy. "What about Hayes? We've never left him for that long."

Joe nodded, as if he had expected that concern. "I know. But he's old enough now, and my parents are already planning a full itinerary of things to do with him. He’s gonna be spoiled rotten. And we haven’t had a real vacation since before he was born, baby."

You swallowed, processing it, weighing it against the part of you that always felt guilty for leaving Hayes. But Joe was right. The closest thing to a vacation you’d had in the last couple of years was a weekend here and there, always with Hayes in tow.

The thought of spending an entire week alone with Joe, uninterrupted, no responsibilities, no late-night wake-ups, no cartoons playing in the background of every conversation—it was tempting.

No, it was needed.

Joe must’ve caught the shift in your expression because his smirk softened into something more knowing, his hands squeezing your waist. "You deserve this, and so do I. Just you and me, away from everything for a little while."

Your lips curled into a slow smile. "Bora Bora, huh?"

Joe leaned in, his nose brushing against yours. "Nothing but us, white sand, crystal-clear water, and a private villa for a whole week," he murmured, his voice warm and full of promise. "Think you can handle that?"

You pretended to think for a second before finally giving in, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I think I can manage."

Joe grinned, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, one that left no room for doubt.

Bora Bora.

Just the two of you.

It was really happening.

[mountttmase]

Just For Us

Note - happy valentines pookies 🩷 I’ve been sitting on this one for a while so I hope you like it 😘 thank you to @saltyheartnightmare for always providing me with ideas and letting me run with them 😂 feedback would be appreciated xoxo

Pairing - Mason Mount × Reader

Word count - 6k

Warnings - fluff and angst

Another week over you told yourself as you shut your laptop down. Sighing as your eyes fell to the window that overlooked the garden next to you but it was pitch back outside and all you could see was your own reflection staring back at you. A tired and grumpy version of you that you were starting to not recognise.

You hadn't heard anything going on in the house, the time just ticking past 5pm and you knew you were still all alone in here. The thought of walking out of your home office into a dark and empty home upset you more than it should have, but then again everything was upsetting you at the moment.

Mason had promised he’d be here, letting you know that training would be over around 3pm and he’d make sure to get home at a reasonable time so you could spend your first valentines living under the same roof together, but once again he was nowhere to be seen.

You got why he was always in late, he was almost done with his recovery and had been staying later most evenings in order to get himself into a good place but you missed him and with everything else going on in your life right now all you wanted to was to be wrapped up in the arms of the man you loved.

You hadn't lived with Mason long, moving in at the end of November so you were approaching the three month mark but you felt like everything had taken a downturn for you since then. It was nothing to do with Mason himself, he was a dream most of the time and was looking after you just like he’d promised but it was everything you’d left home that was bringing you down.

Manchester was so far from everything you knew, having grown up in London you never envisaged living so far away when you had everything you needed right there but there was one thing your favourite city didn’t have anymore, and that was the boy you were in love with.

It wasn’t often you thought back to how you first met Mason, but since it was valentines day and you were in your feels a bit you let your mind wander back to that cold but sunny morning. It was your favourite type of weather on your favourite day of the year, pumpkin picking with your best friend, and as you reached for the last wheelbarrow your hand brushed against someone else’s as they did the same.

‘Oh shit, sorry. You take it, I can wait’ you heard, turning to your right to see quite possibly the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen and the sight of him filled you with nerves.

‘Oh n-no please you have it’ you stuttered, your face warming as your heart threatened to beat out of your chest but you could see the tops of his cheeks turning pink too and you thought he looked adorable.

‘It’s fine’ he laughed, motioning for you to take it but you knew you’d mess up somehow now if you had to try and get it out in front of him and you weren’t up for embarrassing yourself whilst he watched on.

‘No please, I’m not even sure I know how to use this thing properly and I’ll just end up taking someone’s legs out’ you joked and as you both shared a giggle, a worker came with a new batch of clean ones.

‘Here let me grab you one, these look smaller’ he nodded as he walked over to get one for you and you used the time he was facing away from you to give him a once over. You most definitely liked what you saw and as he turned back to face you, you wondered if he’d caught you staring at his bum. You gave him a warm smile though as he placed it in front of you but you were trying to stall as you still felt awkward pushing it in front of him.

‘Thank you…’

‘I’m Mason’ he smiled, nodding his head shyly before he gave you a look as if to silently ask what your name was and you had to swallow a nervous lump before you told him.

‘Y/n’

‘Well y/n, if you see me running away from you please don’t take any offence, I’m just protecting my ankles’ he joked and you covered your mouth with your hand as you laughed at his silly joke.

‘I’ll keep that in mind’

‘Mase? You coming’ you heard, looking over to a woman with two kids in tow and you felt yourself deflate. Of course he wasn’t single, look at him, and as he called over that he wouldn’t be a second you kept your eyes on the floor.

‘Sorry I best get going, I don’t wanna upset the nieces’ he laughed and your eyes flashed up to meet his. Relief ripping through you at the knowledge that was presumably his sister. ‘See you out there?’

‘I hope so’ you whispered. Your answer taking him by surprise a bit as his blush deepened but you just just picked up your wheelbarrow and went in search of your bestie so you could crack on with your day.

It was like you couldn’t get away from each other, him joining the line behind you for food, your eyes constantly catching as you browsed the little pumpkins in the wooden crates and once you’d made it out into the main field it felt like he was following you. Always in the same section and your friend had seemingly picked up on the way you kept looking at each other and would steer your wheelbarrow in his direction.

It was fun watching him play with the two little girls, posing for pictures with them and helping them pick out ones for them to carve and he looked as though he was having as much fun as them. Not caring how goofy or silly he looked, he just wanted to make them smile and from the constant giggles it was clearly working.

‘You need a hand with that one?’ You suddenly heard from behind you. Mason's voice shocking you slightly but as he brushed up next to you and you could tell he was looking at the same pumpkin you were.

‘Do you think it’s too big?’ You asked and you knew it was a stupid question. It was one of the biggest ones in the whole field but it was perfect and you just needed one person to tell you it was okay to have.

‘Nah, you need to measure pumpkins with your heart’ he told sincerely. ‘If you want it, I’d say get it’

‘You know what, you’re right. I’m having it’

‘Here let me’ he offered. Picking it up effortlessly and placing it in your wheelbarrow for you before dusting himself off as he was now covered in dirt be he didn’t seem to mind.

He stayed with you for a bit as you spoke. His sister had taken the girls to the loo so he had a few minutes spare and he started off by asking if you’d taken anyone’s legs out yet. Seeming dissatisfied when you told him no but there was always time and you were lucky enough to see that heartbreaking smile of his again as he laughed before he caught sight of the girls coming back.

‘You’re really good with them’ you told him honestly and you could see him getting shy again as he laughed nervously.

‘I don’t live round this way anymore so I like to make it count when I’m here’ he told you and you wondered how far away he was now. You knew you wouldn’t get to ask or find out though, your bestie was standing like a lemon a few steps away as she pretended to look at the pumpkins and with his family coming back over you presumed you’d be torn apart again but before he returned to them he faced you a little more ‘Listen, at the risk of sounding like a crazy person, I took a picture of you earlier and I was wondering if I could send it you?’

‘You what?’ You laughed, watching his cheeks redden more than you’d ever seen to the point the bridge of his nose was also glowing.

‘Sorry, I saw you posing for some your friend was taking and I just thought you looked nice and wondered if you’d want a more candid one’ he mumbled shyly. ‘Shit, sorry I shouldn’t have said anything. I can’t delete it if you-‘

‘I guess I should give you my number then’ you whispered with a smile, holding your hand out for him to place his phone in and the look of relief that washed over his face made you chuckle.

As soon as you handed it back he had to go but you knew it was coming so you bid him a quick goodbye and not even five minutes later you felt your phone buzz in your pocket

It was a fairly brazen comment from you, but it seemed to do the trick and the pair of you were messaging for the rest of the day and well into the night. All tucked up in bed later as you giggled into your pillow and when you got onto the topic of where he lived now, since he’d mentioned not being here anymore, things took a bit of a turn.

You’d had no idea he was a footballer, you had never met one in your life and had no idea what it even all meant but he told you he didn’t want you to think of him as any different than you had done earlier. He was still the same guy, he just has a slightly strange job compared to the average person.

He was right though, coming across to you as just like any normal guy and as the weeks passed you could feel yourself starting to slip under his spell. It was never your intention to speak to someone who lived so far away and you knew that seeing him again would be difficult, even if he wanted to see you anyway, but you couldn’t help your feelings towards him no matter how much you told yourself nothing would amount to anything.

You didn’t expect him to go in fully and dress up exactly like him but when he showed you his onesie on face time his enthusiasm excited you. You’d never had a boy to do a couples costume with before and you weren’t even sure he that’s what he wanted when he was asking for costume ideas but you’d decided to shoot your shot and thankfully it had paid off.

He was staying with a friend but just as he promised, he came to get you from your house. You thought it might be awkward, the pair of you only seeing each other in person once but as soon as you saw him again it was like no time had passed. Him knocking on your door fully dressed up and you giggled as he gave you a kiss on the cheek after a big hug.

You didn’t live too far away thankfully and after 20 minutes or so in the car with him, he was pulling up to his friends house. It was unlike anything you’d seen and you tried not to let it show that you were that impressed so you just took his hand and let him lead you through. You felt awkward instantly though as you looked around as it was full of gorgeous girls in barely there outfits whilst you stood there in a big pink t-shirt and your hair in bunches. Mason picked up on you straight away though and pulled you closer to him by your waist.

‘You good?’

‘You could have told me it was that type of party’ you laughed, hiding your face in his neck but he just squeezed you and bumped the side of your head with his nose so you’d look at him.

‘What do you mean?’ He smiled, rubbing your back a little bit as he was confused and you were finding it hard to be mad at him.

‘Mason, there are girls here who look like they’ve just stepped off a runway and I look like… well this’

‘You look perfect’ he whispered, kissing your forehead gently. Your cheeks warming instantly as even though he was being pretty touchy this was the first proper bit of intimacy you’d had from him. ‘I’m not looking at what anyone else is wearing anyway’ he reassured you and you felt your face heat even more at how lovely he was being.

His hand very rarely left yours and if it did it was just so he could hold your waist or wrap his arm around you and considering it was his friends party filled with people he didn’t see too often you were surprised at how much he didn’t want to mingle. That every conversation you joined you wouldn’t stay in long as he’d ask you something and soon enough you’d be in your own world again and when you asked him why he just smiled brightly.

‘I know those boring bastards, but I don’t know you yet. Not as much as I’d like to anyway’ he teased as his eyes flickered all over you and you felt your knees go weak as he bit his lip.

He was the perfect gentleman, getting all your drinks for you and letting you know he’d look after you. Mason himself wasn’t drinking as he wasn’t allowed but you noticed all his friends were and you figured it was just because he’d promised to take you home and was making sure he could. Mason seemed like the type to have a great time without drink though however you were thankful you’d had a few to loosen you up a bit.

As the night came to an end, you both knew you didn’t want to part but as you still lived with your overbearing parents it made things difficult. It had taken you enough time to convince them to let you come here tonight so staying out all night was completely out of the question and when the house began to empty out you knew it was time.

‘I think I need the loo before we go’ you told Mason, and his sad smile told you all you needed to know.

‘I’ll show you where it is’ he smiled, taking you by the hand upstairs and when he pulled open a random door and flicked the light on you were met with a bright and airy guest bedroom. ‘Just through here. Everyone’s been using the main one so this should be cleaner’ he laughed and you popped a quick kiss on his cheek as you passed by.

Once you were out you waited for him whilst he popped in there. Having a look at yourself in the mirror to make sure you looked somewhat acceptable and he was out quicker than you thought he’d be so he caught you checking yourself out.

He was quick to come over and wrap his arms around you from behind whilst taking his phone out of his pocket to hand to you. Instructing that he wanted you to take a few photos of the pair of you together to commemorate your first Halloween but soon enough you stopped taking any pictures and he was just holding you.

‘Come on’ he huffed. Removing his arms from around your waist and you could tell he was deflated just from the sound of his voice.

‘What’s wrong?’ You asked as you turned to him and the playful pout on his face made you feel a little bit guilty.

‘I’ve been dreading this part all night’ he chuckled, pulling you into his chest now so he could hug you properly and when he tucked his head into your neck you couldn’t stop your smile. ‘Sulley doesn’t want to say goodbye to his Boo’

‘Oh Mase’

‘Stay with me tonight’ he whispered, pulling back to look at you pleadingly and you almost gave in then and there. ‘Please, boo’

‘Mase.. I can’t’ you breathed, shaking your head ever so slightly. ‘I’m sorry-‘

‘No I’m sorry, I’m being way too forward. It’s just I’m not here long and I want to spend as much time with you as I can’

‘I want that too’

‘But?’

‘My mum will kill me’ you laughed, realising how ridiculous you sounded but Mason seemed to understand and quickly popped a kiss on your cheek. ‘Maybe I could come up to Manchester soon and visit?’ You asked, shock taking over his face at what you were suggesting and you were certain yours looked the same as you hadn’t even thought about the words before they’d come out of your mouth.

‘Yeah? You’d want to’

‘Yeah of course. I’ve never been before’ you told him and the smile he sent you made your heart race. ‘I just think it might be a bit too soon for you know … all that. I’ve never-‘

‘No you’re right’ he laughed as he cut you off. ‘Sorry I’ve just been getting a bit ahead of myself I think. I don’t know if I’ve made it that obvious but I really like you’ he told you as his cheeks flushed and you knew yours were doing the exact same.

‘Really? I had no idea’ you teased but you knew you needed to be honest with him too. ‘I like you too’

It was the longest three seconds of your life. Watching his eyes flicker down to your lips as he moved closer to you and you were powerless to stop anything. Tilting your face up to meet his and before you knew it his lips were on yours.

This wasn’t like any kiss first you’d ever had before. It was slow and sexy and you both hummed into each other's mouths as his tongue brushed against yours playfully. Your heart racing in your chest as he ever so carefully moved his lips against yours and you knew you’d never be the same again after this.

‘Come on, I’ll get you home’ he whispered against your lips after you’d parted but you felt deflated instantly. You didn’t want to leave him now, not after the best first kiss you’d ever had but you knew it was the right thing to do.

‘Are you sure it’s okay? You know-‘

‘I can wait. You’re worth it’ he confirmed quietly and you didn’t realise how much you needed to hear those words. ‘I mean I got to kiss you, that's more than enough for me. I’m just being greedy really’ he winked and your heart felt lighter as you both giggled.

‘You’re right, you need to be cut off’ you joked but when he lent down to kiss you again you let him.

y/n

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y/n Happy spooky season 🧡

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masonmount wow whoever took that first one has got a great eye 👀

y/n thank you my sulley 🩵💜

Going to Manchester to see him was the beginning of the end for you. You loved it up there and you loved your time with Mason just as much to the point you’d just sob the whole way home each time you had to leave him and you knew he was always just as down as you were about it. Each time it getting harder and harder to say goodbye so when next Halloween came and Mason wanted to celebrate your first anniversary together you jumped at the chance to spend some quality time with him.

Moving to Manchester after just a year of dating was a risk, and you both definitely knew it, but when Mason brought up wanting you to move in with him at your anniversary dinner you wanted to jump at the chance. You knew in your heart you were going to be with Mason for a really long time and the thought of starting your lives together up there really excited you. Your mum took it pretty hard but she knew you’d have to leave home eventually but neither of you could have guessed it would have been so far away.

You mostly worked from home in London anyway, only needing to visit the office twice a month so after a quick chat with your manager about different options, she told you keeping you was more important and that working in Manchester would be no different than London so she was happy for you to make the move.

Mason seemed to be the most excited. Letting you pick out any spare room you wanted to turn into your office and you picked the one at the back that overlooked the garden. The main reason being that in the summer you knew you’d be able to watch him training out of the window, but you told him it was because it was near the kitchen and downstairs loo so you didn’t have that far to walk.

It was lonely sometimes, spending all day at home on your own and when work was finally done not having anyone to talk to. At home at least your mum would be there so you could talk about your days as you fought over what to cook, but the house being empty did nothing to cure the ache of loneliness that would settle in your tummy until Mason was with you.

You hadn't been here long enough to make friends of your own and the ones you’d left behind did nothing to help you feel less lonely. Carrying on like you didn’t even exist and going to all your favourite places without you as well as new places you’d always wanted to try. You tried not to take it to heart too much as you didn’t want them to stop living their lives but you thought it was funny how as soon as you were gone they suddenly had time for all the things you wanted to do when they never had before.

Not wanting to be a grump for too much longer you quickly glanced at your phone when you were finally ready to get up. No text or update from him to let you know he was going to be home later than planned and usually it wouldn't have mattered but you thought with it being Valentine's Day he would have made a touch more effort as you were meant to be having dinner together. Your tummy hurt as your sadness migrated into every fiber of your being and you knew it wouldn’t be disappearing anytime soon.

All the lights were off when you eventually made your way out of your office. Traipsing through the silent house to the front so you could look out onto the drive, however it only upset you more to see that his car wasn’t there and suddenly you weren’t hungry anymore. Wanting nothing more than to get into bed so you could sleep this awful mood away, but there was something that stopped you as soon as you made it upstairs.

You noticed the warm glow coming from the bathroom as soon as you reached the landing. The door was ever so slightly cracked open and you knew you hadn't left it like that so the light confused you. In the end you took a few cautious steps over so you could peek around the gap and the sight before you made your heart flutter.

There was Mason, hunched over the bath as he swirled his hand around the soapy water that was topped with rose petals. The scent of your favourite bubble bath filling the air as he checked the water temperature before he was standing back up and reaching for a lighter so he could continue to light the candles he’d set up in a row on the window. Watching and waiting until he’d grabbed a fresh towel to place on the warmer until you couldn’t help but open the door a little more and step inside.

You felt instant regret as soon as you did. This was clearly meant to be a surprise for you and you’d just marched in on him but the smile he gave you after the initial shock of seeing you made your eyes sting and as your face began to crumple, he was over to you in a flash.

‘What’s wrong, boo?’ He asked softly. Hands holding the tops of your arms as you tried to wipe your eyes but it was pointless as more tears came falling seconds after.

‘I didn’t know you were h-home’ you hiccuped, sounding completely ridiculous as you broke down into sobs, but just like always he took you as you came and listened intently. ‘I t-thought you’d be late a-again’

‘Well I’m a lot later than I wanted to be’ he told you softly. ‘I only got in about five minutes ago’

‘Where’s y-your car?’

‘I got a fucking flat tire, didn’t I’ he laughed but you could tell he was pissed off underneath. ‘Had to leave it at training cause I couldn’t get anyone out to fix it and then Luke dropped me home’ he explained before his face softened again and his voice came out in just a whisper. ‘Baby, tell me what’s wrong’

‘Sorry’ you blubbed. Covering your face with your hands again so you could hide yourself and thankfully he knew not to try and make you look at him. Simply wrapping his arms around your shaking body so he could pull you into his and when you felt his lips on your forehead shushing you gently you nearly lost it again.

He always knew what you needed, and right now all you needed was a big cry whilst he held you and whispered that everything would be okay until you found enough courage to take your hands away from your face and wrap them around his body.

‘You think I can’t tell that something’s been going on with you?’ He whispered, pulling back to look at you but when he realised you weren’t budging he just rested his cheek on the top of your head with a sigh. ‘I notice everything, boo’

‘I’m sorry’ you croaked, not even too sure what you were apologising for but it just felt like the right thing to say for hiding your emotions from him.

‘Don’t say that’ he told you as he squeezed you a bit tighter but you still weren’t ready to look at him. Holding him back just as tight as he rubbed your back and you could feel the love from him pour into you. ‘You gonna tell me what’s up?’

‘I don’t know, I just feel a bit down’ you mumbled, shrugging your shoulders as you wondered what you should say to him but you realised there was no point giving him half truths. ‘I've just been a bit homesick I think, it gets lonely in this house when you’re not here and I know you’ve been working really hard to get back into the team but I thought you’d forgotten about me tonight’

‘I’m sorry’ he breathed. ‘I know I haven’t been around as much lately and I know that hasn't helped with how you’re feeling. That’s why I wanted to get home early so I could do something nice for you and I couldn't even get that right’ he laughed. ‘And I know you miss your family, I miss mine too so I know how you feel and I know I’ve been a bit wrapped up in myself but I promise I’ll make it up to you. Starting tonight, yeah?’

‘What’s all this?’ You asked, finally pulling away as you could look at him and the sympathetic look on his face almost set you off again, but Mason was quick to kiss your forehead and look at you softly again.

‘Well I thought you deserved a bit of relaxation while I cooked for us’ he confirmed. ‘Happy valentines, boo’

‘Happy valentine’s, Masey’ you smiled, reaching up to give him a soft and sweet kiss. ‘What are you making?’

‘I’m not sure yet’ he laughed. ‘Any requests?’

‘Well I was hoping you would stay with me in here, I’ve missed you’ you told him shyly. ‘We can always order food’

‘Yeah? Okay let’s do that’ he nodded shyly. ‘C’mere, let’s get you in’

Mason helped to undress you so you were ready for your bath. Kissing your skin gently as he carefully removed each piece of clothing and helped you into the perfectly warm water as you felt all your troubles melt away into the bubbles.

He happily sat on the floor next to you as you chatted away and you finally opened up to him about how your friends had been acting with you lately as well as everything else you’d already mentioned. He sympathised with you as he sometimes felt that way himself and apologised for neglecting you for the last few weeks.

‘Come get in with me?’ You asked after 15 minutes or so, watching his eyebrows raise in shock as his cheeks turned pink but now you’d said it all you could think about was relaxing your body into his.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah why not’ you laughed. ‘I wanna feel close to you’ you pouted and you could see his blush deepening from a mile off. Watching him gently standing up so he could whip his clothes off and you shuffled down the tub a bit so he could slide in behind you.

You didn’t ask for it, but as he began to massage your shoulders you could have melted into the water. You didn’t realise how uptight and tense you were until his fingers began to work away at your knots and it felt so good a shiver ran up your spine. The warm water of your bath felt like a safe blanket lapping against you and you didn’t know what you’d done to deserve this type of treatment.

‘That okay?’ He murmured into the side of your head but it was like you could barely string a sentence together and your whole body felt like it was floating.

‘That’s perfect’ you mumbled, feeling more relaxed and loved than you had in weeks and you knew he was laughing at you as you felt his chest rumble against your back.

‘I’m not very good at this, but I’ve picked up a few tricks from having them done so often’ he laughed but soon enough his hands were traveling down your arms and holding you around your waist so he could hold you close and talk to you without any distractions. ‘So listen I need you to pack a bag tonight’ he mumbled in your ear and you turned your head to look up at him questioningly.

‘Are you kicking me out?’

‘No’ he laughed. ‘But I bet after that you could do with a proper massage, right? Well I’ve booked us into a spa for the weekend with a slightly delayed valentines dinner tomorrow night. It’s in London though so we’ll have a bit of an early start if that’s okay’’

‘I thought we weren’t making a fuss’ you whispered, your face breaking out into a smile so wide your cheeks hurt but he was looking back at you so lovingly it was like you could feel him coursing through your veins.

‘I know, but you deserve it’ he affirmed. Kissing your forehead softly as he stroked his thumbs over your skin ‘Then Sunday we’ve got lunch with your parents. I organised it the other day so I think that’s worked out pretty well’ he winked, feeling tears well in your eyes again for the millionth time that night but this time it was for a whole different reason.

‘What? Really’

‘Yes’ he nodded. ‘I knew you must have been missing them and since we’ll be down there I thought we could make the most of it’

‘Thank you’ you gulped. Reaching up to kiss him properly and it was like you were having your first kiss all over again, carefully kissing each other like you had all the time in the world.

When you were both ready to get out, Mason jumped out first to grab your towel from the heater before walking you back over to your shared bedroom to get changed. A huge bunch of red roses on the bed waiting for you and you had to tell yourself to hold it together as you’d you’d done tonight was cry.

Mason grabbed you a pair of shorts and one of his favourite comfy tops that you loved to wear for you to change into and while he was putting in your food order, you grabbed an overnight bag and began to pack.

‘Where are we going for dinner tomorrow night, Mase?’ You questioned as you fingered through some of your nicer things on your rack but you didn’t want to be overdressed if it was somewhere more casual.

‘It’s a surprise’

‘But I need to know what to pack’ you pouted, hoping you’d be able to get a little more from him than that but he seemingly didn’t want to give too much away.

‘Something nice’ he shrugged, locking his phone before standing up to join you and you placed your hands on his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

‘Those new pjs you got me for Christmas are nice, maybe I’ll just wear those’ you teased, hoping you could taunt him into telling you and from the way he rolled his eyes you knew it was working.

‘Okay fine’ he laughed. ‘You should pack that black dress, you know the one you’ve been saving for a certain restaurant’

‘You didn’t’ you breathed, not knowing if he was just messing with you or if he’d actually got the pair of you into the restaurant you’d always wanted to try but from the nod of his head you knew he was making your dream come true. ‘Mase’

‘I know you were meant to go there with your girlfriends and I know I was meant to get you a table and never did cause I’m a rubbish boyfriend and I forgot’ he laughed, bumping his nose against yours as you both giggled before his face got serious ‘but I know they’ve been trying all the places you wanted without you so I thought we could keep this one just for us’

‘Thank you’ you pouted, reaching up to kiss him gently and he deepened it straight away. You hadn’t kissed each other like this in days and you could have quite easily taken it further but it was Mason who pulled away first much to your dismay.

‘Easy there, boo. We’ve got food on the way and there’s nowhere near enough time for me to do what I want with you’ he told you lowly, his voice thick and warm like honey and it made your insides quiver. ‘I’ll make it worth your while if you wait’

‘You always do’ you winked and you noticed how he blushed at your words.

‘Come on boo, we’ll go set the table yeah? Eat like proper humans for a change’ he laughed as he took your hand and you laughed along with him as he led you out of your room. Your mood a lot lighter than it was just over an hour ago and you couldn’t wait to finally spend your first Valentine’s Day under the same roof with the boy you loved most in the world.

y/n

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y/n quick trip home for some well needed downtime and a visit to somewhere I’ve always wanted to go with my valentine ♥️

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masonmount anything for my girl ♥️

y/n love you sm 🥰 🤭

[meazalykov]

goodbye means forever

ingrid engen x f!reader

summary: you cannot stop the inevitable

warnings: angst, reader kinda abandoned ingrid due to a mistake in communication.

things haven’t been the same at barcelona for a while now.  

it started with the coaching change. new tactics, new ideas, new rotations that never seemed to favor you or ingrid with it came to romeu.

no matter how hard you trained, how much you gave on the pitch, there was always something missing in the eyes of the staff. it was as if your star quality just dimmed, as if you were pushed into the background.

you were still starting most matches, but it was totally different than from the first season you came. you weren’t playing the full ninety like before, weren’t the first name on the teamsheet anymore.  

for ingrid, it was even worse.  

as a center back, she relied on consistency, on knowing who was beside her, what the system required from her. the constant shifting of defensive pairings, the coach’s indecision, the sudden preference for younger players…it was exhausting.

she never complained, not in front of the team, but you saw it at home.

the way she sank onto the couch after training, the way she lingered in the shower longer than usual, the frustration simmering just beneath her calm exterior.  

at the same time, the drama started coming inside of the dressing room.  

it started small. little things between teammates that shouldn’t have mattered but somehow became everything. disagreements in training, tension in the locker room. whispers about who should be playing more, who should be benched. 

it was nothing new. competition at a club like barcelona was always fierce, but this time it felt toxic. it wasn’t pushing anyone to be better; it was just wearing everyone down.

the loss against levante proved that, the first league loss since 2023. 

you and ingrid were supposed to be some of the best in the world. a left winger who could glide past defenders like they weren’t even there, a center back who could read the game better than anyone. 

now, it felt like you were both taking steps backward. as if you were back in lyon and her in wolfsburg.

so you talked.  

at home, away from the ears of your teammates, you and ingrid talked about transfers.  

"lyon is interested," ingrid told you one night, sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through her phone. 

"they want me in the winter window."  

"lyon?" you repeated, raising a brow. 

"ingrid, that’s back home."  

she shrugged, not looking up. 

"for you.. not me... so?"  

"so... are you really thinking about leaving?"  

ingrid sighed, setting her phone down. 

"i don’t know. i love barcelona, but this... this isn’t the same club we were promised.. if that is the right way to say it."  

she wasn’t wrong.  

"it’s just... lyon just has a different– a different level of competition i guess?," you murmured, unsure how to phrase it without sounding dismissive of your ex-club.  

she nodded. 

"y/n, it’s stability. it’s a chance for me to enjoy football again. isn’t that what we want?"  

you hesitated. 

"what do you think i should do?"  

ingrid looked at you then, really looked at you. 

"i don’t know, baby. i don’t think you’re happy here either."  

you weren’t. you knew that.  

going back to lyon? that wasn’t an option for you. ingrid has never played at lyon before, but you have. you don’t think that lyon is in your path again.

you already did that part of your career, and it never felt like home.  

chelsea had been on your mind for a while. keira had an offer from them too, and lucy was already there. it made sense. it felt like the right step for you.  

you didn’t say that. not yet.  

the winter window dragged on, full of rumors, speculation, constant questions. neither of you spoke about transfers at the club. 

you couldn’t. it was an unspoken rule…no distractions.  

at home, it became everything. it's the only thing that you and your girlfriend could talk about. 

"i think i’m taking it," ingrid told you one night, curling into your side on the couch.  

you tensed, fingers pausing where they were tracing lazy circles on her back. 

"taking what?"  

"the lyon deal. but... not yet. i want to finish the season here."  

you swallowed hard, not sure how to respond because it was already done for you. chelsea had sent the final paperwork. you had accepted.  

"ingrid..."  

she lifted her head slightly, sensing something in your tone. 

"what?"  

you took a deep breath. 

"i’m leaving."  

the scandi’s entire body stiffened.  

"what?"  

"i…i thought you were leaving in the winter, and i—"  

you protest. 

"when did you decide this?" she asked, sitting up fully now, looking at you with wide, betrayed eyes.  

"last week."  

she let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking her head. 

"last week? you’ve known for a week, and you didn’t tell me?"  

"i didn’t know how," you admitted. 

"i thought you were leaving too. i didn’t think we’d.."  

"i never said i was leaving in the winter, y/n."  

silence.  

she exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. 

"so... that’s it? you’re going to london?"  

you nodded, stomach twisting.  

"and you didn’t think we should talk about this? actually talk about it?"  

"we did talk about it."  

"not like this!"  

your chest ached. 

"i didn’t want to make you choose between me and barcelona."  

"but you made the choice for me, didn’t you?"  

you had no response to that.  

the last night before you left was quiet. too quiet.  

ingrid lay beside you, but there was a distance between you that felt impossible to close. you wanted to reach for her, to tell her that everything would be okay.  

you didn’t because you didn’t know if that was true.  

the morning came too fast.  

you stood at the door, bags packed, heart heavy. ingrid was in front of you, arms crossed, looking like she was trying so hard not to fall apart.  

"we’ll figure this out," you told her.  

she swallowed. 

"yeah."  

"i love you."  

she nodded, blinking rapidly. 

"i love you too."  

you kissed her. soft, lingering. desperate.  

then you walked away.  

london was different.  

chelsea felt strange at first, like you didn’t belong. the rivalry you had with them back in barcelona still lingered in your mind.  

keira was here and came along with you, and lucy had been here a season already. they welcomed you with open arms, helped you adjust.  

surprisingly, the team? they made it easy.  

there was no drama. no tension. no toxic environment.  

you could just... play.  

it wasn’t perfect, not yet. you still missed ingrid. 

you still hated the way the spanish media twisted your transfer into some betrayal, still saw the comments, the hate.  

ingrid is receiving hate for the lyon rumors too.. how dare she try and transfer to another club but demand a starting spot once the window has closed? according to the media.

for you, you hoped that you’ll be loved in london. you hope that ingrid can continue to be the best with barcelona until she can transfer clubs. 

however, for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.  

london is a breath of fresh air.

masterlist

[woso-story]

Sore Loser

Leah Williamson x Reader

You always knew Leah was competitive. It was one of the many things you loved about her. She brought that fire onto the pitch every single game, and it was one of the reasons she was such a great leader. But what wasn’t always so great? That competitiveness extended far beyond football. It didn’t matter if it was a simple card game, a casual bet with Beth, or even something ridiculous like who could get dressed the fastest in the morning—Leah hated losing. And when she did? Well, she became a sulking, grumpy mess.

Which was exactly why you were not looking forward to tonight.

Game night at your apartment with the team was usually fun. It was loud, chaotic, and filled with laughter, but there was always the underlying knowledge that Leah would inevitably throw a small tantrum if she didn’t win. She had promised, again, that she’d be on her best behavior. You had given her a knowing look when she said it, and she had grinned, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “I swear, babe. I’ll be good.”

You wanted to believe her. Really, you did. But history had proven otherwise.

Sure enough, the night started off great. Everyone piled into your apartment, bringing snacks, drinks, and way too much energy after a long week of training. You sat curled up next to Leah on the couch, listening to the friendly banter flying around. Even Leah was in high spirits—laughing, joking, being her usual charming self.

Then came Taboo.

The teams were divided, and by some cruel twist of fate, you ended up on opposing sides. Leah shot you a playful smirk, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Prepare to lose, love.”

You smirked back. “We’ll see about that.”

At first, the game was lighthearted, the usual chaos ensuing with people shouting out wrong answers and groaning at tricky clues. But as the rounds progressed and the scores became tighter, you could feel Leah’s competitive streak creeping in. Her relaxed posture became rigid, her lips pressing into a tight line whenever her team missed an easy point.

And then—disaster struck.

Your team won.

The moment the final point was called, the room erupted into cheers and groans. Some of Leah’s teammates slumped dramatically onto the couch, laughing at their defeat, but Leah? She looked devastated. Like someone had just told her that football had been permanently canceled.

“No way. No. Absolutely not. You cheated,” she accused, pointing at you with narrowed eyes.

You barely held back your laugh. “Leah—”

“This game is rigged!” she continued, turning to everyone in the room, her voice filled with righteous indignation.

The room fell into silence for a beat before Kyra, ever the instigator, piped up. “Leah, you sound like little Harper when she doesn’t get ice cream.”

And just like that, everyone burst out laughing.

Everyone except Leah.

With an annoyed huff, she stomped out of the living room and into your bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Kyra smirked. “Told ya. Toddler.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go handle my toddler.”

Walking into your bedroom, you found Leah sitting on the bed, arms crossed over her chest, a deep frown etched onto her face. She looked so ridiculously cute in her little sulk that you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling.

“Go away,” she muttered.

You didn’t. Instead, you sat beside her and grinned. “You know everyone loves you, right? They weren’t making fun of you.”

Leah turned her head away. “I don’t like being the butt of the joke.”

“You’re not. You’re just a sore loser, and everyone finds it hilarious.”

She shot you a glare, but it had no real heat behind it.

Leaning in, you pressed a kiss to her cheek. She remained still, her pout still intact. So, you kissed her again. And again. And again.

Finally, she cracked. A tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“There it is,” you murmured, grinning at her.

Leah sighed dramatically. “I still think you cheated.”

You chuckled. “Of course, you do. Anything for my little grumpy toddler.”

She shoved you playfully, but when you tugged her hand, she followed you back into the living room.

The second you both stepped out, the team erupted into cheers.

“Look at that! She smiles!” Caitlin teased.

Leah rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the slight blush creeping up her neck.

And, just as you predicted, for the rest of the night, everyone mysteriously let Leah win every game. Because sometimes, it was just easier that way.

And you? You wouldn’t have her any other way.

[mcflymemes]

AS SAID BY GALE DEKARIOS *  assorted dialogue from baldur's gate 3

is that... is that truly you? i thought i might never see you again.

i love you, more than i've ever loved anyone. and you've proven your love for me in more ways than even the greatest mathematicians would dare to count.

you licked a dead spider. dead spider. you licked it. that is something that happened.

i think we need to get you some air and perhaps have a long talk about unresolved childhood issues.

stop licking the damn thing!

i see the art of eloquence is alive and well.

i'm awed, impressed, and a little bit scared of you right now.

nothing like a brisk stroll through the forest to invigorate the spirit.

i've never wanted to kiss you more than i do now.

right now, i need nothing more than a kiss.

tell me you feel the same way. tell me you want what i want. please.

i'll always have you.

you really would prefer me as i am?

do you doubt me?

you put the stars to shame.

let's sit here another while - i want to drink you in.

there you are.

you led me down this path.

i don't know myself anymore.

all this... it's not who i am. around you, i'm not who i want to be.

you really are absolutely heartless, aren't you?

i was hoping you'd spare me a moment.

this seems as good a time as any for me to stop babbling on.

i think you're rather wonderful. and that's not a word i waste on anyone unworthy of it.

go. enjoy your evening.

i like that about you. it's one of your rarer qualities.

i promise we'll make it work, if you'll have me.

what are you doing? stand back! now!

i thought i meant more to you than a sacrificial lamb. clearly i was mistaken.

you've brought me right where i need to be. i have no right to ask more of you.

you're plotting something, aren't you?

i go where you go.

i'm telling you, this is a mistake.

don't worry too much. a handful of powerful spells go a long way.

hold on! it's not too late to settle this without bloodshed.

mercy is not your strong suit, is it?

well... so much for my previous sentiment.

the choice is yours. there's really no good decision to be made here.

i'll be delighted to see you try... from a safe distance.

how generous of you.

there has to be a way to stop this thing!

i have no desire to end your life. you know that.

i see the glint in your eyes. you've a strategy in mind. the same one as me, i'd wager.

well, now that we know what it is, i suggest we leave it well alone.

better be careful around here.

i'll miss you, friend. your companionship has been quite the education.

i won't lie. i miss our group.

don't worry, i'll handle matters from here.

i'm ready. are you?

we must discuss it privately.

have you lost your wits? you must not do this!

we can't afford to let that happen.

they say madness and genius are separated by but a hair's breadth. perhaps the same is true of madness and stupidity.

you make me sound like some preening peacock.

i'm taking notes. making observations.

you're adorable even when you're teasing me.

you know what, i think i've clearly had far too much wine. and you've had nowhere near enough.

don't worry about me. i'm quite content to enjoy the party from here.

don't let me drag you away.

that, my friend, must remain a secret.

i do hope you know what you're doing.

might be the wine talking.

why am i doing this?

i'm sorry it had to come to this.

i'm going to bed. perhaps this was all a mistake.

careful. you don't know what i'm about to ask.

kill me, and i'll destroy the city anyway.

i want it to be perfect.

stay with me a while, will you?

i'm in love with you.

i'm many things, but coy's not one of them.

listen, i need to speak to you.

i might need you to be more specific.

i regret many things in life.

we all have our burdens, one way or the other.

i am as honored as i am enamored.

i am not the only one who longs for you... yet you chose me.

my time is yours. what do you need?

tell me, what can i do for you?

you need me?

you look... comfortable.