#i had something else i was going to say in the tags but i lost it.

[sevsgiirl]

— this love is glowing in the dark.

sevika week 2025: phantom pains, day 5.

synopsis: sevika has spent most of her life not asking for help, pushing it away even. but when the time came where the pain became too much to bear, she looked to you for salvation.

word count: 1.6k

tags: TONS of angst but with comfort, mentions of injury and recovery.

note: happy day 5 of sevika week, loves! for today’s prompt I chose phantom pains and I really like this one because I was able to explore more of sevika’s struggles with the loss of her arm. so I hope you guys like this too!

she doesn’t want you to see her like this.

she knows her moments of weakness won’t make you love her any less. in the time that you two have been together, you’ve witnessed each other at your highest and at your lowest, and you’ve told her time and time again the same exact thing:

“I won’t go anywhere just because there are days where you don’t feel like your best. you do so much for others already, you don’t need to be everything all at once. especially when it comes to me.”

and she’s held onto that promise very dearly, but she’d be lying if she said that just because you told her you’d love her in spite of her short comings doesn’t mean she’d allow herself to show them to you.

then the incident happened.

when you got the news, you wanted to tear silco a new one. bury him six feet under if you had to, because the sight that greeted you when ran informed you about the explosion and what it did to sevika’s arm, it took everything in you not to break down in tears when you rushed into singed’s lab and saw her lying motionless on the metal bedding where singed performed his surgery.

you had to be physically pulled back when you tried getting to her.

your eyes were bloodshot and narrowed into slits as silco met your fiery gaze with a look of controlled sympathy.

“I apologize for the inconvenience, but rest assured singed will do everything in his power to fix the situation,” he said, referring to her injury as if it was the common flu.

your jaw fell open “inconvenience? inconvenience?! she lost her fucking arm, silco! she’s unconscious for crying out loud! I can’t believe you’d let something like this happen to her! I can’t fucking believe you!”

he let you scream, cry and curse at him until you lost your voice because he knew it was your only way of showing contempt, because anything else was risky - and even you knew that. so you screamed until your throat stung and ran dragged you out of the lab and back to the last drop.

rubbing your back as you cried into your hands, offering their support.

“hey, it’s okay.” ran reassured “she’ll get through it, she’s strong.”

“it’s not about being strong, ran. but this has gone too far. silco knows how much sevika wants to be of use and he fucking took advantage of that. now she played martyr and it caused her so much more than what she should’ve been willing to sacrifice for him,” you spat out, venom dripping from your words.

ran gulped, not knowing what to say “and I understand that, but it’s not like there’s anything we can do.”

you hated the way they said it, like it was a lost cause. as if everything that happened couldn’t have been prevented when you know if you had been there, nothing would’ve happened to her.

but you know her. it’s not like this was out of character for sevika, she’s always been sacrificial, not knowing her limits, and it infuriated you because you knew this attitude of hers was eventually going to lead her down a path she won’t be able to undo.

and you were right.

but still, despite your frustrations you stayed beside her every step of the way and helped her with recovery. it took months for her even to properly get out of bed without having one side of her body completely drag her down, but she was quick to adapt like she always does.

silco went out of his way to commission one of the chembarons a prosthetic for her, not only because he felt like he owed it to her but because you knew he still needed her to be of use to him.

and that angered you in ways where you felt like killing him, especially when you saw the vials of shimmer attached to the mech arm that served to enhance her senses, because in his words:

“due to the loss of your arm it’d be harder to engage in combat. because if you’re still willing to work for me, I need you to be at your absolute best,”

when she told you what he said you could only scoff in response “he has a lot of fucking nerve to ask so much from you after what you’ve already done for him,”

sevika sighed, shaking her head “I was the one who jumped in front of him-“

“still! the least he could do is not act like a jackass! as if you owe him your life!”

“he’s doing what he can to rebuild the under city, and I owe my life to zaun. what I do for him, I do for our people,” she told you, her eyes sunken and pleading “so don’t be unfair. please.”

indignation seeped in as you stared at her with your eyebrows furrowed “I’m not. but you wanna know what is unfair? risking your life for a cause that’s going to take you apart one by one,” you argued “and by the looks of it, you’re already getting there,”

it was hard to navigate the outcome of the explosion but you knew sevika’s well being was above your pride and your resentment.

because yes, even though you were mad at silco it’s not like you can reverse time. and you didn’t want sevika to feel as though what the explosion did to her was a burden to you when it’s not.

you’d walk through the ends of the earth if it meant you’d keep her safe and that she was well taken care of.

that’s why it broke your heart every single day as you watched her recover from her injury and how it just took a toll on her.

whether it was during the day while doing simple chores, or at night when she’d suddenly shoot up from bed, clutching her left shoulder as the pain of the explosion lingered and thrummed through her veins like poison.

she’d let out curses but she’d never shed a tear, insisting time and time again that she was alright. to not make a huge fuss over it.

“I’m fine,” had become a mantra in her daily vocabulary.

and when the time came her new prosthetic was made, you could see the relief on her face knowing from that day onwards, it was going to be less unbearable managing her day to day life. because now at least a piece of her wasn’t missing, or so she’d like to think.

but it wasn’t easy getting used to it at first, especially when screws needed to be tightened and she kept telling you that she got it, that she didn’t need any help, that she was fine. that she’s got this.

but it wasn’t until one night she came home all battered and bruised with her prosthetic in ruins and hanging off, that she could only look at you with somber eyes, a million words being exchanged yet not a single one being spoken.

again, she hated that you had to see her like this. because she was supposed to be the stronger one between you two - the one who protected the other and not the other way around.

“I’m fine, I can take it from here,” she said in a grave tone as she reached forward to try and grab the screw driver from you.

to which you pulled away, settling it down far away from her and before she could protest, you took her face in between your palms, forcing her to look you in the eye as sevika stared back and saw the way your lashes were stained with tears.

“sev, stop. just stop. I know it’s in your nature to want to do everything by yourself, but please just for once. let me help you,”

“I already said that I don’t need-“

“then I might as well leave,”

her heart immediately sunk to her stomach, staring at you with so much panic in her eyes “w-what are you-“

“if you’re so hell bent on not wanting help from me I don’t see the point of this relationship if all you ever do is push me away when I try to be there for you. I’m not doing this out of fucking pity, vika.” you hissed, the fire in your eyes as strong as ever as you glared at her.

then it dwindled into something softer, more vulnerable, frightened “… I’m doing this because I love you.” you said, your voice merely a whisper “because I’d do anything for you the same way you’d do anything for me. and if something happened to you again I wouldn’t know what to do with myself,”

she was quiet, letting your words sink in as you reached for her right hand and laced your fingers with her own - bringing it up as you kissed her bloodied knuckles.

lifting your head as you stared at the light that emitted from beneath her scars, and how they glowed brighter with each deep breath she took.

and how it reminded you of the the time when you told her that you saw her as a painting, so perfect and striking.

and you still stand by it now, even when the paint has cracked and chipped off at the edges.

she was beautiful then, and my god, was even more beautiful now. even when she doesn’t see it.

“I love you,” you muttered “and I’m here even when the pain gets so unbearable - I’ll shoulder it for you if I have to. just please, don’t hide it away from me.”

she spoke not a single word, but instead, she let herself fall into your arms as you caught her, her head being cushioned by your shoulder as she lets out a shaky breath.

“… it hurts,” she muttered, not bothering to conceal it any longer “it hurts so fucking bad,”

you closed your eyes, holding her tighter “I know, baby. I know.”

[aziraphales-library]

Hello!

I have been hoping there is a fun/funny GO fic out there somewhere like the Indiana Jones / Raiders of the Lost Ark / Temple of Doom / (etc.) movies? I've seen different events that use movies as a jumping-off point, and I am hoping someone has come across something with this feel, if not Good Omens characters inserted into the original roles.

Thanks in advance, and please disregard this if there is already info on the blog about it that I missed or haven't dug deep enough into yet to see. (I'm still digging.)

Hi! We have an #action/adventure tag which includes several Indiana Jones fics. Here are more to add...

Anthiana Jones (Crowley) and the Lost Book by EveningStarcatcher (G)

For the Great Good Omens Snake-Off Inspired by a conversation with a friend and whiteleyfoster’s amazing art Crowley and Aziraphale go on an adventure!

Pimpernel Fell by Eigon (G)

I really enjoyed "It's not the Years, it's the Milage" by MovesLikeBucky – which has Aziraphale and Crowley taking the parts of Indy and Marion in the first Indiana Jones film. But before Indiana Jones, there was Pimpernel Smith, a 1941 film starring Leslie Howard, playing an archaeology professor who rescued intellectuals from the Nazis just before the Second World War. I didn't want to make Aziraphale into an archaeology professor, but the antiquarian book trade was Europe-wide at the time, so that's what I started with. The plot of the film doesn't really work without the archaeology students and the romance sub-plot, and I changed the order of the escapes (and added a couple), but I did use quite a few characters from the film, like General von Graum, who is great fun to write dialogue for. The story is set in the spring of 1937.

The end of the world by probably_publius (T)

Crowley and Aziraphale were able to stop The End of the World, but didn't see what would come afterwards. Aziraphale has lost his memory, and Crowley doesn't know if it's Heaven or Hell or something else entirely. All he can do is try and help Aziraphale regain an idea of who he is by telling him stories from their past together. I had a dream where I was watching season 2 and wrote this.

Why Is It Always Snakes? by BasketcaseBetty, PBandJammothy (T)

Two film writers, panicking over needing an idea for their next project, stumble into A.Z.Fell & Co. Aziraphale is delighted to recall a couple stories to tell the two writers. AKA Raiders of the Lost Ark, but make it Gomens.

The Book Thieves by ThingsJustHappenSometimes (T)

“Did they steal it? Professional book thieves, probably going around in their car stealing books.” Be careful what you tell an adolescent antichrist who has the ability to warp reality, he might just make things real. - - - Featuring: A confused ineffable duo in ridiculous costumes, a presumed relationship, overpowered magical books, meddling humans, multiple chase scenes, and a generally all around silly action-packed time. - - - [If you like 1920s Costumes, Indiana Jones, Isekai Vibes, and/or That-One-Auction-Heist-Scene from Uncharted 4, you’ll like this story.]

It's Not The Years, It's The Mileage by MovesLikeBucky (T)

“Dr. Fell,” says the first, “your specialty is religious artifacts, is it not?” “More or less,” Aziraphale says, fidgeting with his hands. “Then you’re just the person we need,” the second agent says as he pulls out a few leaves of paper.  “Our latest field reports put them somewhere called Tanis.  We know from the information we’ve intercepted that they’re searching specifically for religious artifacts, but other than that we haven’t the foggiest idea what it is they’re looking for.” The first takes a sip from his glass of water, then pointedly stares at Aziraphale.  “Any idea what it might be?”  They stare Aziraphale down like it’s an interrogation.  Like a test he hasn’t studied for.  Like any of his meetings with Gabriel. Aziraphale freezes in his seat. Centuries - millennia, even - have passed since he last saw the Ark.  Since he had walked with the slaves through all of that pain and suffering; tried to be a helping hand to Moses.  He had been there when it was constructed, when the tablets were laid inside.  He knew its power.  He’d seen it. He hadn’t been there when it was lost.  Had he known it would be, he would have destroyed it himself.

- Mod D

[memento-morri-writes]

Rook's Horrible, Very Bad, No-Good Day

(Aka, just one part of Rook's first Horrible, Very Bad, No-Good Weekend. (he's had two of those.))

I posted a small portion of this yesterday, but I'm just so obsessed with this scene, and I figured it's time I shared a slightly more complete version of it so you guys have a little bit more context. There's actually a lot more because a whole 'nother very intense conversation happened after this one, but that's for anther time. Enjoy getting stabbed in the heart several times in quick succession! pov: Rook wordcount: 1.7k character(s): The Liars [Rook (D&D), Sigmar (NPC)] canon status: canon session rewrite trigger warnings: mentions of death, suicidal behavior, and self-harm; implied self-sacrifice. (yk, usual Rook stuff.) summary: Rook wakes up after collapsing in the middle of a tavern. His mentor, Sigmar, interrogates him about the circumstances leading to his collapse. Note: I can only take credit for some of this, since the dialogue is as close to a direct transcript of the dnd session as I could manage. You can thank my amazing DM for all of Sigmar's gut punches here.

Rook comes to consciousness slowly, his mind fuzzy from sleep. He slowly opens his eyes, blinking them several times before he registers a wood-beamed ceiling. Where is he? He raises his head ever-so-slightly, looking around. The room comes into focus, semi-familiar. This is his room at the tavern. He has no memory of going to bed. The last thing he remembers is entering the tavern after the fight, and then…

Footsteps draw his attention away from that mystery. “Rook, you’re awake!” Sigmar rushes over to Rook’s bedside, relief clearly visible on his face. “You were out for twelve hours.” Seeing the question forming on Rook’s face he adds, “You fainted last night. It was… concerning to say the least.”

Rook slowly sits up as Sigmar continues talking. “What happened to you? I knew things were rough for you after we talked on the way here but the way you looked last night… you’re lucky to be alive.”

“I wasn’t.” The words are off his tongue and out of his mouth before Rook can process what he’s saying. “I wasn’t, yesterday.”

Sigmar peers closer at Rook, concern mounting on his face. “You weren’t what,  Rook.”

Again, he speaks without thinking. “Alive. I wasn’t alive yesterday.”

The color drains from Sigmar’s face. “What do you mean? What do you mean you weren’t alive yesterday?” 

Rook is taken aback by the forcefulness in Sigmar’s voice. Why does he sound so worried? Slowly, parsing out the words to keep from stumbling over them, he says, “Wolf sent an assassin after me. She succeeded.”

Sigmar’s brow furrows and his voice get louder. “Why didn’t you tell me?” When Rook doesn’t respond he adds, “Who saved you?”

“Aki. At least, I think it was him. I woke up and he was next to me.”

A flash of surprise crosses Sigmar’s face before vanishing, obscured by a new wave of concern. “What caused this? You looked terrible last night.” There’s a thread of something that sounds vaguely like fear in Sigmar’s voice as he says it, which catches Rook by surprise.

Rook takes a long moment to think. He can’t tell Sigmar the truth, at least not the whole truth. He’d tell the rest of the party immediately, and they’d all be in danger again. Rook settles on a partial truth. 

“I haven’t been sleeping.” He thinks hard, trying to remember the details. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than a couple of hours in the past two weeks.”

Sigmar’s jaw drops. “With that little sleep, you’re lucky to be alive.” He looks at Rook closely, inspecting his face. Rook shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. “What has been keeping you from sleeping?”

Again Rook pauses, taking a moment to consider his answer. “I don’t know. I can’t fall asleep and when I do I wake up again shortly after.”

Sigmar narrows his eyes. “I’ve told you: you and I are the same. We’re both liars. So don’t lie to me.”

An answer pops into Rook’s head and he puts conviction behind it, laying on false hesitation as if he’s revealing a big secret. “It’s Captain Wolf. Ever since I ran into her again, I haven’t been able to sleep. I keep having nightmares. About her.”

Sigmar stares at Rook for a long moment before seeming to accept the answer. A sense of relief floods Rook’s body. His secret is safe, for now. 

“Why are you doing this?” Sigmar asks, breaking the silence.

Rook blinks at him, uncomprehending. “Doing what? Coming to Torsek?”

Sigmar nods. “You’ve been pushing yourself to your limits, throwing your life on the line over and over again. Why? You’re endangering yourself, you’ve even died,”  Rook could have sworn he heard Sigmar’s voice waver on that word. “But you keep doing it. What could possibly be worth that?”

An answer leaps to Rook’s lips. “Because they need me.” It comes out quietly, but seems deafening in the empty room.

Sigmar leans back slightly, eyes widening in surprise. He looks Rook up and down, as if he’s reevaluating him. 

Without thinking, Rook adds, “You’re one of them.”

Sigmar, who has opened his mouth to speak, closes it again. He regards Rook for a long time. Eventually he says, “Your motivations may be more noble than mine, but at heart we act for the same reasons. I know you have not felt the care of a parent the same way I did…” He trails off momentarily, then continues, “But you are desperate for love all the same. I do everything in hopes of someday committing an act that will make the world love me. You, you act in hopes that the Vanguard will love you.” He looks Rook directly in the eyes, face serious. “You’re a fool.”

Rook says nothing, unable to summon up any kind of response to that statement. Sigmar continues, “The Vanguard does nothing but show you love, try to help you. They attempt to show you their love over, and over again. But you refuse to accept it.”

The words hit Rook like a slap, and he opens his mouth to retort, but Sigmar pushes ahead. “Instead of accepting their love, you throw yourself recklessly into danger, putting your life on the line again and again. You’re killing yourself, Rook.”

Rook’s eyes blaze with anger. He isn’t killing himself at all. He doesn’t want to die, far from it. He fights viciously for his life in every battle. He snaps back, “I’m not killing myself.”

Sigmar’s reply is swift and painful, like a bullet from his gun. “You might as well be.”

Rook finds himself speechless. What the hell is Sigmar talking about? He crosses his arms and turns away, refusing to meet the other man’s gaze.

A long silence stretches between them. Sigmar finally breaks it by saying, “I’ll help you. I just need to know that you’re telling me the truth.” His voice is surprisingly gentle, much softer than the whip-like tone from a moment earlier. 

Rook looks up at him. “I am telling the truth.” 

Sigmar frowns. “Rook, I told you, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!”

“You are. I know your tells.”

Arms still firmly crossed, Rook keeps his gaze fixed on the floor. He won’t – can’t – tell Sigmar the truth. 

Sigmar seems to realize that Rook plans to stay silent, and sighs. “I can start listing off my theories. My ideas as to what’s keeping you from sleeping.”

Rook says nothing, still looking at the floor. His eyes follow the grain of the wood as it meanders through the planks.

“Did Maka do this to you?”

Before he can stop himself, Rook’s head whips upwards, mouth falling open in shock. “What? No!” 

Sigmar merely nods, and Rook is hit with a sudden feeling that he may have just played right into Sigmar’s trap. Rook turns away again, trying to find the same grain on the same plank he had been before Sigmar had spoken.

“I’ve felt the same symptoms as you are now, but lesser, once before. Do you still bear Furicifer’s curse?”

A chill runs down Rook’s spine. He forces his voice to stay steady and calm as he says “Furicifer was banished. He’s gone.”

Sigmar is silent for a long moment, and Rook’s heart begins to race. Surely Sigmar will believe that. It’s not far off from the truth.

When Sigmar speaks, it almost knocks the air from Rook’s lungs. “I told you not to lie to me.” His voice is deadly serious, simmering with anger. As he begins to speak again, it grows in intensity, though still quiet. “What in the gods’ names were you thinking? We need to get rid of him.”

Rook interrupts him, voice firm. “I can’t. If I lose this curse, Furicifer is free to return to the material plane.”

Sigmar shakes his head. “We’ll find a better demonologist. Someone stronger than this Dr. Zayeed.”

Without thinking, Rook blurts out, “You promised you’d help me!”

Sigmar immediately falls silent, looking at him. His face is a mixture of sadness, concern, and something else that Rook can’t quite read. He stares at Rook until Rook grows uncomfortable, looking away. “I have two options here. I can enable you, help you continue to hide this from the rest of the party. Or I can tell them. Let them try and talk some sense into you.”

“I can’t.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you can. Tell the party and-”

“I can’t.” Rook’s voice shakes, but his tone is determined. 

“Why not?” Sigmar snaps back.

“It was them or me.” The words are out too fast, and Rook regrets them the minute they’re out. But he looks up, meeting Sigmar’s gaze. He says again, softer, but more steady, “It was them or me.”

A long silence passes, and Rook eventually looks away. He stares at the ground for  a long, long time, before he sees something enter his field of vision. Sigmar’s hand, holding one of the pills he’d made. Rook looks up at him, surprised. “Take it.” Slowly, Rook reaches out and grabs the pill. 

He swallows it quickly, downing it before the taste can manifest on his tongue. Energy floods his body. Though he feels miles better than the day before, he hadn’t realized how much exhaustion still lingered in his body. 

Sigmar grabs a pouch, presumably holding the other pills in it, and holds it out to him. Rook reaches for it, but Sigmar pulls it back. “I’ll help you on one condition.” Rook stares at him, but says nothing. “If your condition worsens again, I’m telling the party. And if you’re in your right mind, you’ll be telling them too.”

Rook’s shoulder slump in defeat. He needs the medicine desperately. He looks down at the floor again as he says, barely louder than a whisper, “Fine.”

Sigmar places the pouch in his hand and turns towards the door. “The rest of the party will want to see you.” 

As he reaches the door, hand on the knob, Rook speaks. “Thank you.” The words are quiet, but genuine, tinged by the weight of Rook’s desperation. Sigmar’s hand hesitates on the doorknob, but he doesn’t reply or turn back before he opens the door. As he walks off down the hall, Rook can hear him calling out to the party, “Rook’s awake.”

[necrotic-nephilim]

What's so fun about BruJay as a ship is Jason's sheer obsessive devotion to Bruce. Jason is possessive over Bruce, to the point he doesn't care about the deaths of others so long as he has Bruce's attention. A part of the UTRH arc this isn't talked about enough is that Bludhaven fucking explodes mid-way and Jason won't let Bruce see if Dick is alive.

batman (1940) #650

A lot of discussion about UTRH paints Jason as this anger-driven cold, calculating machine up against Bruce when it's so clear that his love for Bruce is what drives him at his root, even if he won't acknowledge it. He says it himself, he would've done anything if it was Bruce who'd died instead of him and his anger is rooted in that possessive devotion not being reciprocated.

batman (194) #650

BruJay as a ship always to be, to some level, unrequited. Even if Bruce loves Jason back in that way, he'll never be that obsessed with Jason. Jason will always view Bruce's love for Dick or Tim to be a distraction, proof that Bruce isn't dedicated enough to him. Jason has the need to always have Bruce's attention, even when it could come at the cost of Bruce's other loved ones. Something something cannibalism as a metaphor for love in how Jason wants to consume Bruce's whole existence. He can't let Bruce leave him again, can't let Bruce love or grieve anyone else. Forcing Bruce to choose between Jason and the Joker isn't just about confronting Jason's killer, it's about confronting the other person who exists as this duality with Bruce and consumes so much of Bruce's life. That's the role Jason wants to fill, calling himself Red Hood and forcing Bruce to look at what he's become. But still loving Bruce and wanting more than anything for Bruce to reciprocate that love in the way that Jason understands. I just think it's good soup and rife with Dynamics that are underexplored with them.

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

Why am I even so desperate for this. Out of all the things that I could get stubborn determination over why is it this. Is it because I know the end result would bring me so much silly enjoyment that my brain has sheer will to want to get to that? Why am I. Even so glued to getting a dumb 3D model of him to mess with. Is it cause it gives me something to do? Something to accomplish or fail at or to just not be wasting away time?

[elytrafemme]

(kinda gets 18+ in tags srry. i never know how/where to talk abt it) and honestly it's never like i can pull up and talk about like, emotional abuse either. or like atmospheric triggers and shit. because talking about any of that is hard. but it's specifically fucking impossible to ever talk about sexual trauma to anybody ever, which is fucked because like... i'm trying and i'm doing good at it, i'm proud of myself, but it's so like. idk. when something dominates your entire life for an incredible critical five years of your life and entirely transforms how you approach anything it's like... i don't actually know how to express any of this at all. and i guess it's sometimes hard for people to get it. i dunno.

[dduane]

Just a local update

For those who'll be wanting to know how I'm doing: I think right now the line from The Right Stuff is probably apropos. I'm "maintaining an even strain."

I sort of have no choice, because there's a lot of bureaucratic stuff surrounding Peter's loss that has to be dealt with, and there's not really anyone else to fall back on in terms of local legalities; this burden falls on me. (shrug) So, I'm keepin' on keepin' on. It's not easy, when half your world has ended: but there's nothing else to do.

Just repeating the news that I just edited into the original post about all this: the "funeral expenses" issue is now handled.

And I want to thank EVERYBODY who so incredibly generously has stepped up to assist. You are all, every one of you, in my heart right now... not least due to the many, many kind things you've had to say about Peter. Current events mean I'm going to be backed up on the thank-yous for some days yet. Please bear with me.

For those who feel inclined, the Ko-Fi account here is open as usual for those who might simply want to drop something into the pot tagged "GNU Peter Morwood."* I'm looking into his notes about his preferred charities so that I can split all such donations in those directions. (For example, P. lost a beloved cousin to childhood leukemia, so I'm looking around for appropriate cancer charities. ...But more of that later.)

In local issues (ETA, 28 May 2025): The post-mortem required by law in Ireland when a death is so sudden has occurred, and I'm now waiting for the full report (which has to be delayed until pathology is done analyzing tissue samples and getting culture-&-sensitivity data back). This routinely takes from two weeks to a month. Not much to be said about this except that the sooner that's all handled and resolved, the happier I'll be. Then other adjacent issues can start being dealt with.

At the physical end: I haven't been sleeping terribly well, but that's probably no surprise. My appetite has been recovering somewhat (to the point where at least food is no longer a source of "no interest whatsoever" or of active distaste). Right now it seems I get better results from eating out instead of cooking in: so that's the way things will go in the very short term.

But for now, pretty much all I can do is sit tight, try to keep household business from getting out of hand (why does it suddenly take so much energy just to do the dishes? ...like I don't know perfectly well why), and wait for Forces Beyond My Control to get moving.

Meanwhile, let me take a moment here to thank everybody who's expressed concern about the state of my wellbeing (and that at a time when I care a whole lot less about it than usual). It's heartening, and I very much appreciate it. I promise to do my best to do right by myself, on all of your behalf. (Behalfs? Behalves? Pfft.)

Thanks again, everybody. —D.

*People are also reminding me that the financial health of the household's still-living member in the immediate future is also an issue here. 😏 Heaven forbid I should argue the point. If you want, tag such donations as "DD" and I'll note that. ...And thanks again, all. I can always count on y'all to look after me. ❤️

[it-was-summer]

Busy Woman

A/N: I do not wanna see ANY Minors in this bitch. Seriously. Like you'll get it when you get older I promise. This worm has been wiggling around in my brain for MONTHS. Things have been so busy that it's been a real struggle trying to write. I really hope you all like my excuse to write porn. Thank you to @cafekitsune for the border/dividers used. Thank you to @beenreidingaboutyou and @alsofoundinpeas and practically the WHOLE discord server for letting me send this google docs to you and yapping with me about logistics (positions at one point I'm sure). Enjoy!

Link to the AO3: Busy Woman -> Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Tags: Smut with plot. Reader is a maneater, some she/her pronouns at one point or another, PinV sex yall, wrap it up!!!! condoms my beloved (they are not used here, reader and the team go out drinking, spencer reid yapping, reader is a dommy mommy idc Spencer Reid would have a mommy kink, he’s a whiner, SUB SUB SUB SUB Spencer, nothing too crazy sexually (in my eyes), i forget something else this is porn, no creampie for you!!! (I know... i know..).

Genre: Smut w/ Plot. Pairing: ManeaterBAUFem!Reader x Season4!SpencerReid

Plot: After spending countless months watching you break men's hearts, Spencer is surprised when you call a sudden dating hiatus. Amid your 'break,' you confide in your lanky coworker how much you miss certain physical intimacies. Spencer is quick to offer a solution.

Word count: 11,827

 A man-eater… by definition, is ​​a woman who uses men to have a series of sexual relationships but does not love the men. The thought of being one of those men has been lingering in the back of Spencer’s mind for the past eight months. 

He knows, of course, that you’re more nuanced than that feeble definition. The team never misses the opportunity to tease you; your dating habits are an ongoing joke and mystery within the bureau. Derek often jokes that the two of you are peas in a pod, which, in turn, makes you respond that he’s the one with commitment issues, not you. You insist that you’re just picky.

You’d give any guy a chance until they disappoint you, and then you’re gone. You knew what you wanted from them, and if they couldn’t fulfill those ‘duties’ (as Emily jokingly puts it), then it wasn’t worth it. Spencer hates to admit it —to you or anyone else— but he loves how you detach from them. 

He likes how you lure them in with honey and how they drop like flies at your feet— that trap of yours working effortlessly. It feels strangely voyeuristic, which makes him feel like a creep, but he swears it isn’t like that. If he could describe it better, he’d say it was more like a form of admiration. He likes that you know what you want out of your relationships. The way you don’t stick around and accept bad behavior. It’s exceptional and incredibly intimidating. Maybe femme fatale would be a better title, though he doubts you’ve ever destroyed a man’s life, as that definition suggests. Distress? Most definitely. 

His eyes are glued to you now as you brush a stray hair behind your ear, how your brows knit together when you’re concentrating, watching as your left hand plays with the chain of your necklace. Tearing his eyes away from you, he focuses on the map on his desk, circling the location of the recent body discovered earlier that morning. JJ leans over his right shoulder, her blue eyes looking at the work-in-progress geographical profile with silent intrigue. 

She leans away from him, folding her arms across her chest, getting lost in thought until her gaze lands on you. You were so focused a few minutes ago, but now you’re looking at one of the officers across the station. He was young, about the same age as Spencer, if she had to guess. His uniform is a little loose on him, the material around his arms droops, and his shirt hangs off his body in a way that makes it obvious he’s wearing a size too big for him. 

She watches with you as he tucks it into his pants nervously, his fingers adjusting his collar as he mutters something under his breath. He’s handsome, boyish, with decently styled brunette hair. His dimples pop when he gives one of his fellow officers a slight grin— just your average prey. “Don’t give him that look.” 

Your eyes are on her in seconds, and she holds back a laugh when she sees your offended expression. “What look?” You sound shocked, glancing at the young officer. “I was just people-watching.” 

“I think the word you’re looking for is hunting.” JJ counters as Emily walks in with a coffee in hand. 

“Oh? She’s on the prowl away from home? Down girl, down!” 

You frown, eyes narrowed as you look between the two women taunting you. “I’m not a dog. A girl can’t make an observation anymore?” 

Emily shakes her head as she pulls her coffee cup away from her lips, “Not when the girl is you.” 

Your frown deepens, looking at Spencer with a look that silently pleads for help. He can never resist that look— it’s one he knows well. He looks over his shoulder at JJ and gives her a light pout, “I don’t think that’s a fair assumption of her character.” 

JJ’s eyes shine with amusement. This is how the dance usually went. You’d be selecting some poor gentleman as your next meal, they’d tease you about it, and then Spencer would come rushing in to protect your honor— assuming you had any, to begin with. “Spencer the Valiant enters into the arena, ladies and gentlemen.” Her hand comes up to playfully ruffle his hair.

Spencer fails to dodge her efforts. “Don’t,” he grumbles as he swats at her hand as it touches his already messy curls. “Do that.” He can never catch a break when it comes to being teased by the team. 

You grin, watching Spencer flatten out his hair carefully, rearranging it until it’s slightly neat and wavy. You silently motion to him that part of his hair is still sticking up and watch as he blindly tries to fix it. Watching him struggle with his hair, you break the usual respect you show for his personal space, leaning over and smoothing down the cowlick with a soft chuckle. 

His cheeks are red, watching you lean away from him, his gaze awkwardly avoiding yours. “Besides,” You begin, looking at the young officer with a charming smile. “You and Will make it work, don’t you?” You ask, talking to JJ without looking at her. 

JJ scoffs a little, watching as the young officer looks up from his desk and across the station— he won’t last. You give him a little wave and flirty smile combo before looking at JJ. “Don’t even think about it,” JJ warns, but you technically don’t have to do anything. You shrug a little, looking down at the evidence pile on your desk. 

Not while the young officer stands up, smoothing out his too-big uniform and taking large strides over to you. You don’t have to look to know he’s coming. JJ shakes her head with Emily when he arrives at your side. When he clears his throat, you don’t look up from your task, twirling a pen around your fingers. 

The way you look up with gentle doe eyes and a polite smile on your lips as you turn to face him has Emily holding back a giggle. You blink a little, eyes reading the name tag on his uniform— David Miller. “Can we help you with something, Mister…” You trail off, acting as though you hadn’t just read his name tag. 

“Miller and I don’t need help from all of you, maybe just you.” His voice is slightly deeper than you expected, and he sounds confident— which is fine— you just thought he’d be the shy type.

You let out a soft ‘ah,’ nodding slowly like the idea just occurred to you. “Well, as sweet as that is,” you don’t even let the poor guy officially ask you out. You just openly assume. “I’m afraid we’re all swamped working on this case— myself included.” You watch his broad shoulders slump slightly— the action doesn’t even last a full second— and you sigh like you’re contemplating something. “But maybe we could get a coffee in the break room?” 

His demeanor brightens, eyebrows raising as he asks, “Now?” 

You shrug, looking at the clock on the wall, “Ten minutes.” Standing, you brush off your jeans, as if this sudden coffee date weighs heavily on you. “You coming?” As you walk towards the breakroom, the question hangs in the air, and you don’t even bother looking back to see if he’s following you. 

Three days later, Spencer watches you frown at David. Words can not describe how much he hates David. Well, many words could describe how much he dislikes David, but Spencer Reid is not a man to spit petty remarks at a man undeserving of them (though some may disagree). In truth, he only dislikes David because he envies him a little… he’s lying to himself. Spencer Reid envies that man with an intensity that rivals forest fires. 

Spencer watches as David’s lips form words he cannot hear— words he’s sure you know all too well— Stay. He watches as you give David a small, sympathetic smile. His gaze lingers on your plump lips as you lean in to press a chaste kiss to another man’s lips, and he can imagine the sticky, sweet tone of your voice as you tell him that you have to leave. 

Once you’re in the backseat, you relax your shoulders with a huff. Derek shakes his head at you in the front seat, staying quiet as the black SUV drives off towards the airport in this small Maryland town. Spencer knows that he should stop watching you, but it’s like he’s bewitched. 

Your lip gloss is a faint pink— messy. You probably left some of David’s lips. Spencer wonders if it has a taste; he’s seen you use a cherry lip balm a handful of times. He can imagine kissing you, slow and sweet to start, if he had the time, getting hungrier and hungrier with each press of your lips on his. He wonders if you’d let him drag his tongue on your bottom lip and let him get a taste of cherries and skin. Could he pull on that full bottom lip with his teeth– “Spencer!” 

He blinks, hazel eyes focus on yours. You chuckle, airy and slightly concerned, “Are you okay? You’re staring.” 

Derek barks out a laugh from the driver’s seat, “When isn’t he?” 

Spencer shakes his head, mainly at Derek’s idea of a joke, but also because he doesn’t want you to think something is wrong with him. His smile is unconvincing and quick: “I’m fine.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, trying again. “Just thinking about you and David. H-He seems nice.” 

You shrug, hair falling into your face, “I guess he’s nice, yeah.” Then you lift a hand, waving the idea off like it’s bothersome. “I don’t think I’m going to see him again.” 

Derek groans out, “Surprise, surprise.” 

Spencer manages to keep the smile off his face, but his voice gives him away: “Why not?” he sounds elated. 

You move with your hands, throwing them up before letting them rest on your outer thighs, slumping a little in the seat. Your eyes search the car’s floor, as if it’ll help you find a good enough answer. Why not? He’s not what you envisioned in a romantic partner. He wasn’t gentle, well-spoken, or even stimulating.  

He seemed like a good conversationalist during that ten-minute coffee break, but he kept pushing for a late dinner with you. When you finally relented, you found he lacked any real substance. He was… dull, hot, but bland. He didn’t have strong beliefs like you, lacked wit, and seemed entitled. 

Sure, you could have let him take you home and given him something to remember you by. But, considering how dull he was over dinner, you doubted he could impress you in the bedroom. Why go looking for disappointment? 

You force a small smile, gentle eyes leaving the SUV’s flooring to look at Spencer. “Didn’t pass the benchmark, I’m afraid.” It’s meant to be a joke, but your delivery is slightly off. You sound somewhat saddened by the fact, and Spencer debates asking you what’s wrong. However, discussing your dating life is not his strong suit. Instead, he simply delivers a curt nod, lips drawn into a tight line as the car falls silent on the way to the tarmac. 

A week later, it’s one of those rare days when the BAU team stays in DC. Indeed, this week is a way to make up for lost time. Spencer has heard about two coffee dates, one dinner date, and how you’re going on a lunch date this upcoming Saturday. Not that you’re telling him necessarily; he tries his hardest not to ask about your dating habits out of fear that you’ll eventually catch on to his hopeless crush on you and break his heart before he’s mentally prepared for such a tragedy. 

No, he hears about your escapades from Penelope, Emily, or JJ. Mostly in passing gossip sessions, he hears when he shouldn’t be eavesdropping.  He’s not the biggest fan of gossip, especially when said gossip is about a coworker, but he can’t stop listening when it’s about you. 

The second he hears your name leave one of their lips, he pours his coffee a little slower in the break room or takes smaller bites of his lunch. He even held the elevator doors for the group of women on a handful of occasions so he could silently listen in. Morgan says he’s whipped (and after Spencer gets clarification on what that terminology entails, he nervously disagrees). 

He’s just a naturally curious person. His high IQ can be blamed here— you’re a constant question on his mind. He cannot solve you, and every time he thinks he’s close, you switch it up on him. 

Penelope is trying to be discreet—genuinely— she’s walking at a normal pace, a rested smile on her face, and the feathered flower pinned into her blonde curls shakes slightly as she approaches Emily’s desk. Her eyes look towards your desk, glad to find you lost in conversation with Anderson. Spencer watches her anyway.

Emily’s eyebrows raise as Penelope leans down and whispers something into the small space between them, which is effective because Spencer can’t hear anything (much to his dismay). Emily reels her head back, shocked as she mutters in disbelief, “No way.” 

Penelope beams, nodding quickly and letting out a drawn-out “Mhm!” 

Spencer wonders if it has anything to do with Anderson. Could they be alluding to the two of you getting together? Spencer would feel nervous about the idea, but you never dated coworkers. Besides, Anderson didn’t have that boyish charm you so adore. Spencer thinks he can mark him as safe.

But what else could it be? He’s trying his hardest not to stare at Penelope and Emily as they whisper to each other a few feet away, his eyes darting around the case file in his hands as his mind runs away with him. His gaze occasionally flits over to your desk, taking note of that polite smile you’re sporting. Yeah, you’re definitely not into Anderson. 

Something work-related? No, that sounds ridiculous the second he thinks it. He blinks, forcing himself to set down the case file and mull over all the probabilities. He feels like it’s too obvious to be a date. You go on those all the time. And he doubts it's a second date update because those never end well for you. However, there is a slight chance that this time, it did. 

He’s still in the process of analyzing every bit of information related to you when he hears an open laugh from Penelope as she follows Emily over to your desk. Anderson is nowhere to be seen as you settle back into your desk chair, barely looking up when Emily asks, “You’re taking a break from dating?”

“Derek is such a gossip.” 

“Don’t blame him, he can’t resist me.” Penelope sighs out. 

Emily dismisses the comment with a slight wave, “For how long?” 

You shrug, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, “I don’t know. Until I feel like talking to a man again?” 

“Oh my god, an indefinite hiatus!” 

You chuckle a little, “Why do you care so much?” You couldn’t imagine your dating life being that interesting. Then again, you have dated some questionable people.

Penelope gasps, hands reaching her chest, “Why do we care? You’re the only thing that saves us from boredom. You’re water in this gossip dessert. Don’t let us dehydrate, please, please.” Her palms press together as she begs you. 

A strange laugh escapes you, your shoulders shaking as you giggle. “Listen, I really need—” You gently swat at Penelope’s still clasped hands, “I need a break from all the disingenuous compliments and ploys to get into my pants—” you scoff. Spencer’s heart stutters in his chest; he’s empathetic towards your feelings. He wants what’s best for you, of course (that and this could be his once-in-a-lifetime chance to see you be wholly unattached, his chance). “I need to be alone and work on some things before I date again, simple as that.” Well, so much for his chance. 

“She’s so wise.” Emily turns to Penelope, her tone mocking. “Isn’t she so wise?” 

“Oh, on par with Buddha.” 

Your eyes shine with amusement, though you keep your tone serious, “Yes, laugh at me all you want for being a healthy person.” 

Two months later, your hiatus is still going strong. Spencer has not seen or heard of any flirty endeavors surrounding you, much to the other’s dismay. It’s true in a way, gossip is drier during your dry spell. There’s been no mention of terrible dates nor any mention of bad kisses on first dates, or worse, lousy lays. 

Spencer has never had any issues talking to you, but lately, he’s noticed you’re prone to daydreaming. You’ll stare off sometimes during a lull or mutter to yourself in the breakroom. He wants to ask how you're feeling amidst your break from dating, but it feels like such an intimate topic that he’s hesitant to approach it. 

So now, he’s watching you watch Emily flirt with some stranger at the bar. This week has been grueling, with case after case. It never gets easier, but moments like these—the whole team spending time together—make it less painful at the end of the day. Spencer’s nursing his whiskey, always a slow drinker, but his attentions are on you as you roll the straw of your mojito between your fingers. 

Eventually, after a quick sip of whisky, he gains the courage to ask, “Everything alright?” 

You jump at the sound of his voice beside you, but you still smile at him when you turn to look at him. You open your mouth for a moment, then close it again, then open it again, “Yes.” You say in a strange voice— a twisted mixture of confident and drained. 

Spencer raises an eyebrow, his expression letting you know that he doesn’t truly believe you. You laugh a little at that look of disbelief before your shoulders slump, and you mutter a soft, “I sort of miss dating.” 

“Sort of?” It's more confident, more teasing than he’d like, but it just slips out of him. His cheeks are tinted the prettiest shade of pink, and you try your hardest not to stare at him. 

Your eyes shift to the drink in your hands, fingers leaving the straw as you elaborate on the topic. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I would miss the flirty conversations or feeling wanted.” You trail off for a moment, eyes not meeting his for a moment. “Does that make me sound,” Your eyes finally reach his, “Conceited?” Your gaze is so full of worry that he has to stop himself from shouting his answer upon impact. 

Instead, he swallows down a shocked breath, shaking his head. “No! No, you’re not conceited. That’s normal, considering all the attention you…well, attract.”

“Great,” You murmur, frowning. “You think that I’m some shameless, attention-seeking seductress,” gazing downcast at your mojito. 

Spencer laughs nervously,  “What?” He can’t deny that the seductress part might be true— you could seduce a saint, he’s sure. “I think a lot of things about you when I think about you, but shameless, attention-seeking seductress is not one of them.” 

He’s melting at the look you give him. Head slightly bowed, looking up at him through those long lashes of yours, full lips in a slight pout. “Really?” 

“Really.” He squeaks, much to your delight— the alcohol is messing with your head. 

You sit a little straighter at that, sighing, “So, what do you think about when you think about me?” You ask, teasing Spencer wasn’t something you did often. The team teases him so much that you feel bad joining in. But you can’t help yourself, not when he’s looking at you with his gorgeous, honey eyes. All wide and deer-like, fuck, he’s pretty. 

You would feel bad for thinking about your coworker like this, but in the dim lighting of this bar, you find that you don’t mind. Truth be told, if Spencer Reid weren’t your coworker, you would have worked some charms on him a long time ago. He was so pretty, so receptive to new ideas, a genius, a man of his word. God, he was so sincere. Why is that such a turn-on? 

You drag your tongue along your bottom lip, lost in thought, a movement not lost on Spencer as he can’t seem to take his eyes off your lips. His mouth is dry, and his voice is caught in his throat as he stammers out a gentle, “What–” he clears his throat, trying to stop his voice from sounding so high, “What do I think about?” 

That slow smile makes his heartbeat skip a beat, he’s seen that smile before, and he’s screwed if you decide to do anything more than teasing him. “Yeah, you said you think lots of things when you think about me. I’m curious.” 

“Well, I, uhm,” He swallows, his tongue feels like sandpaper. His eyes shift down to his whiskey, his gaze shifting between you, his drink, and the table. “ I think you’re kind. You’re always willing to help a friend, like when you made all those meals for Penelope after she got shot.” Your expression softens at that, your teasing smile melting into something warmer. He takes this as a sign to keep going, “You’re considerate. I think you could make Hotch smile, I’m sure you have, all because of your sense of humor. You rarely judge people; you’ve never judged me. You’re empathetic, seeing you connect with people so easily, it’s— you have this gift for shifting your perspective, and I—” 

“Spencer,” You cut him off with a gentle touch of your hand on his. You’re quiet for a moment, eyes searching his, looking for some kind of sign of deception, but finding none. Your gaze warms him to his core, melting away anything cold residing within him. “Thank you.”

He lets out a soft stammer of confusion, about to ask you why you’re thanking him, but instead, he regains some of his composure and nods. “Anytime.” He hates how cold his hand feels when your fingers leave his skin. Everything about you is so warm: your smile, your laugh, your touch— and against all reason— he’s sure he could survive frigid winters as long as he spends them by your side. 

An hour later, you’ve ditched the idea of feeling sorry for yourself. You were seemingly determined to make your own fun. And you were. Penelope had bought a second round of drinks, and you chose something a little stronger than the mojito from before, and drank it fast. It wasn’t enough to get you drunk, but it did give you a slight buzz, feeling looser now as you spun around the dance floor with Penelope. 

Penelope’s sure that your voice will be gone from how loud you’re singing to the song the DJ just started playing, laughing harder as you place a finger to her lips, grab hold of both of her shoulders, and dance to the beat. 

Spencer isn’t a dancer, well, he can slow dance, but he doubts he could keep up with you right now. So, he lingers on the sidelines of the bar. He —like many of the men at this bar— can’t take his eyes off of you as you spin around in a sloppy circle. The way you move your hips in a circle has his head cocking to the side, focusing on the slope of your lower—

A chuckle can be heard beside him, making Spencer stand up straight, turning to look at Derek. Derek, who has the biggest grin on his face, is shaking his finger at Spencer. Spencer rears back his head, giving his friend an odd look. “What?” 

“Nothing.” Okay, so he’s lying. Derek stuffs his hands in his pockets, acting aloof as Spencer stares him down. Derek, however, has his attention on you and Penelope. “You know,” there it is, “She’s gonna need someone to walk her home.” 

“Who?” For a genius, Spencer can be incredibly dense at times. 

Derek sends a deadpanned look his way, eyebrows raising, waiting for Spencer to catch on. Spencer blinks, his brows furrowed in confusion, oblivious to what Derek is saying. Derek groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down his face. 

He then points over to you, Spencer’s gaze following his finger. “Ms. Vixen, Pretty Girl, the Man-eater of the BAU, the temptress of the —” Spencer holds up a hand, cutting him off. 

“I get it, okay?” Even though he knows that Derek’s joking, Spencer’s tone still comes out clipped. He forces his shoulders to relax. 

“She’s going to need someone to walk her home,” Derek says in a calmer tone, his shoulders shrugging slightly. 

Spencer stammers, flustered with the idea of walking you home. To be honest, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He wouldn’t let it. His imagination runs wild when it comes to you, and he daydreams about the oddest things— the taste of your skin, his palm on your lower back. “Didn’t she come with you and Penelope?”

Derek clicks his tongue, “Nope, she lives two blocks over, walked here.” 

“Oh,” He responds lamely, his arms crossing over his chest. He chews lightly on his bottom lip, thinking it over. He had his whiskey over an hour ago and had been nursing a water, but it didn’t matter much, considering he, too, walked here. “Well, I mean, I can’t assume, wouldn’t it be rude to think she’d,” He bounces around before he drops his arms at his sides. “You think she‘d say yes?” 

“What makes you think she’d say no?” 

“I don’t know,” Spencer tries to think of a good reason as to why he’s worried you’d turn him down, but finds nothing but his own insecurities. He knows that you’re kind; he knows if you didn’t want to do something, you wouldn’t. Spencer finds that very reassuring. “Just don’t want her to think I’m weird.” 

Derek barks out a sharp laugh as if he knows something that Spencer doesn’t. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Pretty Boy.” 

Spencer wants to ask why, but Derek looks away from him before he gets the chance. Spencer steals a glance over to the dance floor, watching as Penelope and you giggle yourselves away from the crowd. 

Your pupils are dilated, and Spencer is sure that if he pressed a hand to your cheek, your skin would be warm, either from the alcohol or light giggles still leaving your lips. He feels his lips twitch upwards at the sound of them, broken up with soft gasps of air as you and Penelope hold onto each other in front of them. His heart clenches in his chest as he hears your giggles die away, and your gaze meets his. He wishes he could keep you this giddy all the time.  

Your face relaxes into a gentle smile, and you let out a slow sigh. “Hi,” you motioned between Derek and Spencer with a wave of your hand. “What are we talking about?” 

Derek cuts Spencer off before he has the chance to embarrass himself. “We were actually discussing leaving,” Derek says, much to Penelope’s dismay. 

She’s frowning, and Derek knows he can’t tell the blonde his plan to get these two together, not yet, anyway. Spencer’s pining is evident to anyone with eyes, and you aren’t exactly smooth either, always choosing men who look strikingly similar to your lanky coworker. 

“It is getting pretty late,” You mutter, sobering up a little at the idea of walking yourself home at this late hour. 

Worry must be written across your face because Spencer is softly clearing his throat. “I can walk you home,” he offers in a soft voice. You don’t even question how he knew that you walked here. Instead, you can feel your cheeks flush. The idea is tempting, but it feels somewhat… intimate. 

“That’s okay,” You begin, “You don’t have to go out of your way–” 

“I don’t mind!” He’s leaning into you, nodding his head slowly. “I’d sleep better knowing you got home safe.” 

A little tiny voice inside of you is shrieking with delight at that, but you answer him in a reasonably calm voice. “Well,” you tsk, “if it’ll help you sleep better.” Your tone is flirtier than you’d like it to be. You’ll be the first to admit it: It’s hard controlling yourself around him, and being dehydrated and tipsy isn’t helping. “Let me grab my things.” 

Spencer is nodding, discarding his plastic cup of water and ensuring he has everything on his person before he looks at Derek, who has very clearly filled Penelope in by now in fast whispers. Derek gently taps a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “Breathe. You’re just walking her home. Remember, you’re already friends with her. She won’t bite… hopefully.” 

Spencer prepares to shoot back that he doesn’t need the pep talk because nothing is going to happen, but his mouth snaps shut as you materialize by Penelope’s side. “Ready?” You rock back and forth on your heels, eyes shining. 

Spencer’s brows raise, smiling nervously as he hums a shaky-sounding, “Mhm.” 

The night air smells fresh and clean with the promise of summer, warm and refreshing. You dragged in a slow inhale through the nose and hummed. A cool breeze brushed over your shoulders for a moment, and you felt awake again, your slight from earlier replaced with a second wind of energy. You glance over at Spencer, who is still holding the bar’s exit door for Penelope and Derek. 

He doesn’t look bored or annoyed by the task, and though it’s the tiniest act of kindness, it makes you smile. You hug Penelope, tight and secure around her middle, muttering gentle goodbyes to her in a playful tone. Derek laughs when you bid him farewell in the same style, pulling away from the hug, smiling widely, and shaking his head. He then points at Spencer, “Stay safe,” his gaze moving to you. “Both of you.” 

You wave his worries off, nodding, “Dr. Reid, lead the way.” 

Spencer lets out a tiny scoff, waving his friends goodbye before doing exactly as you say. You seem incredibly awake, despite the last hour. His eyes are so focused on you as the two of you begin the short walk back to your respective apartments that he almost trips on a crack in the sidewalk, not even ten minutes in, and he’s already making a fool of himself. 

You pause your movements, hands raising in the air as if you’re preparing to catch him, “Everything okay?” Your tone gives away your amusement. 

He nods, “Yeah, yes, just distracted.” 

“How out of character for you.” You tease lightly, sighing out as you lower your hands. You let out a soft hum, thinking about a tune they played at the bar, when you see two bodies pressed up against a wall in the not-so-far distance. 

Your shoulders feel tense as you try your hardest not to stare at the couple as they kiss, soft sighs and moans of pleasure leaving one lover’s lips as you force your eyes straight ahead. Spencer, however, is staring. His eyes don’t stay on the couple long as he hears a frustrated sounding exhale from you. 

His lips quirk up when he sees you walking with a rigid posture. “Does PDA bother you?” He asks curiously, keeping his voice low as he passes the couple to his right. 

You shake your head, cheeks feeling warm at the sound of his voice. “What? No. I just,” You pause, unsure about how much you should be sharing with him anyway. Would he want to hear about how much you missed it, dating, kissing, sex, the touch of someone’s hand in your hair? Your eyes nervously glance at him, then the sidewalk, a soft laugh leaving you. “It’s going to sound so pathetic.” 

Spencer finds that highly unlikely, “Try me.” 

You bite your lower lip, considering it for a moment. It had only been two months, how could you be so… needy? You can feel the edges of your ears grow warm as the night air— you were so pathetic. How could someone become so touch-starved in such a short amount of time? How could you tell that to him? Then again, Spencer Reid was not quick to judge… though maybe he would be if he knew what you were thinking about right now. 

You're slow to smile, and your face looks a little shy and awkward. You speak in a hushed tone, “I think I miss it.” 

“Kissing?” 

“No, I mean yes, but more than kissing. Touching, heavy-petting, dates,” You dare not glance at him, “Sex.” You can’t stop yourself now, the words leaving you against your will. “I’ve just been stressed, irritable lately, and I think sex… took my mind off things.”

Spencer’s throat fills with cotton, and he tries to swallow normally, going shockingly quiet for someone who always seems to have something to say. It doesn’t last long as he feels the growing silence crawl under his skin— he can’t stand it. “That’s normal, for someone— well, anyone who hasn’t had it, sex, I mean, in a while.” He stops himself from asking how long it has been before continuing. “Regular sex can boost your immune system, am-among other things.” 

You grin, “Of course, it does.” You feel lighter hearing Spencer nervously ramble about sex, less judged, more listened to. You glance to your side, admiring the sharp slope of his jaw, the ends of his brown hair curling against his smooth skin. “Don’t stop on my account; I love learning.” 

Of course, you do.

It seems to be Spencer’s turn to stare daggers into the distance, following you as you take a left turn. “In some women, sex can lower the risk of heart attacks. Which is funny, Men’s likelihood of a heart attack goes up with continuous sexual activity.” He chuckles lightly, sparing a glance over his left shoulder at you. 

His knees feel weak seeing the way you’re looking at him. Your gaze occasionally glances at the sidewalk, but your eyes shine with curiosity. He’s always liked that about you. You’re always willing to listen to his random rants, never poking fun at him. No, it's not like you to laugh at someone for something as direct as knowledge, but you still smile at him. 

He keeps going, his hazel eyes focused on you. “Rhythmic stimulation,” He should not look at you as he says this, “During an orgasm, has similar brain activity to dancing.” Your eyebrows raise at that, mouthing a gentle ‘huh’. 

“So, what, like birds?” 

“Yes! Dancing has been a long-standing method of seduction, so I suppose it stands to reason that muscular stimulation, in that way, would make our brain activity act that way.” 

Your head tilts, trying to get the mental image of Spencer’s hands on your waist as you dance against him out of your mind. “I suppose it would. Though I wouldn’t consider orgasmic pulsing to have a steady rhythm.” 

Spencer feels his heart stutter against his ribcage, his jaw clenching as his mind graces him with the mental image of you under him, shaking, hips stuttering against his roughly. He blinks, the tips of his ears turning red as he struggles to find something interesting to say. “W-Well,” he squeaks, and he feels panic flood his system, watching your grin widen when you hear such an embarrassing sound. He coughs, fixing his shirt collar, “Oxytocin— endorphins really— are released when dancing, same with uh,” His mouth hangs open for a second as his gaze dips down to your lips, “Climax.” 

He’s your coworker, he’s your coworker, coworker, cowork— “Would you consider orgasms to have a steady rhythm?” Honestly? Not the worst question you could ask right now. You just hope that it comes off as you being curious instead of desperately horny. 

Spencer needs someone to put him out of misery, cheeks hot as he answers you, “I suppose that maybe, possibly, they could, yes.” 

Your chin tilts upwards, and a soft “Uh-huh” leaves you before the two of you are swept up in a slightly charged, albeit awkward, silence. You try to talk down the little voice in your head that seems to be screaming at you for making things so uncomfortable. 

Why did you ask him that? What did you expect? Was Spencer supposed to drag you into an alleyway and immediately make you cum? Well, on second thought, that’s not such a bad idea— enough! You try to think of a possible escape from this silence, but all your dirty mind can think about are more inappropriate questions and remarks— just your luck. 

“It wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” Spencer’s voice pulls you away from your thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea––” He clears his throat in an attempt to keep it from closing up, “Having sex, to help with your, uhm, stress problem.” He holds his breath, waiting for your reactions. Morgan told him that the worst thing a person can do is say no, but Spencer disagrees. Said person could scream at him, slap him for being brazen, or stop talking to him altogether. He wouldn’t blame you if you did. Why did he have to say that? Why would he suggest something like that so openly—

Your laughter makes his brain short-circuit. What kind of reaction is that? Did you think he was joking, or did you find his suggestion so funny that you’re laughing at him? His laughter escapes him in a nervous attempt at self-preservation. If he can play this as a joke, maybe you won’t tell Penelope, and then Penelope won’t tell Derek, and Spencer can live another day free of embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry,” You stammer, “Is the Doctor Spencer Reid suggesting that we sleep together for a dopamine boost?” 

He doesn’t know how to save himself from that; his poker face is not a good one, not when it comes to you. His emotions almost always show on his face; there’s no way you’d believe him if he lied. So, he mentally prepares himself for rejection. “Not necessarily, strictly, suggesting anything. I’m just saying that it could be beneficial to you— both of us— if you needed some help with your irritability, since you’re free.” 

“Are you saying that I have nothing better going on, so I might as well have sex with you?” He’s not exactly wrong, but you don’t need to admit it. 

His cheeks feel hot, burning as he rasps out a shrill, “No! No, speaking from a scientific standpoint, biologically it is one solution to your problem.” 

You let out a soft chuckle, breathy and short-lived. He can’t be serious, there’s no way he’s serious. Not Spencer Reid. And if he wasn’t joking, what would you even say? Sure, sounds like a great plan. Do you have a condom, or should we stop at the store? Better yet! Let’s do it raw to reap the full biological benefits of sex together. 

It’s not realistic. 

Spencer says odd things all the time. Once, he told you about how the spread of ringworms between animals and humans works, solely because of one off-handed comment. Not that you mind, you do enjoy learning, that was no lie. Spencer was a plethora of knowledge, and you trusted every little word that came out of that pretty mouth of his. 

He’s grown to be more than just your favorite walking, talking, human encyclopedia. Spencer Reid had the biggest heart, the best laugh, and the softest hazel eyes. He cares about other people intensely, is always willing to go out of his way to listen and help others, and is borderline selfless sometimes. Sure, that was part of the job, but Spencer made it into something more, something raw. 

So, no, he couldn’t be suggesting such a thing. Not your Spencer Reid. “You’ve got a weird sense of humor, Reid.” You mutter, your feet falling into sync beside him. You can see your apartment building coming into view and feel your body beginning to long for your bed. 

The rest of the walk is quiet, with soft mentions of summer plans and idle chatter. Spencer shouldn’t be so disappointed. You’re still talking to him, still laughing at his jokes, listening to his random facts mid-conversation. You’re willing to make everything go back to normal, ignore his odd suggestion, and go to bed. He should be grateful, and maybe a small part of him is, but the rest of him? The rest of him is so disappointed.

Not because you ignored him, but because you didn’t give him a proper yes or no. Even without a direct answer, he feels rejected, and he’s kicking himself for not being able to make a move like a normal person. 

He walks you up to your door, staring at the number four on the outside of your apartment door for longer than necessary as you dig through your bag to find your keys. When you find them, you hold them up with a proud smile. “They materialize.” You muse, your back facing him as you push the key into the lock. 

The last thing he wants tonight is for him to walk home regretting something. He could go home lamenting the fact that he didn’t make a move, or he could go home regretting the fact that he did. For him, one of those options is far worse than the other. 

Pushing your apartment door open, you begin to turn back towards him, “Thanks for walking me home, Spence, I appreciate it—” A jolt of energy zips through you as Spencer’s lanky fingers wrap around your wrist, yanking your body closer to him.  You barely have time to look down at your wrist before he’s inching closer, pressing his lips against yours in one swift movement. 

The kiss is timid and far too quick for your liking, and when he pulls away from your lips, he immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry! I know I should have asked you first, but I got so nervous with everything I said earlier and—” The rest of his rushed apology is tuned out as you stare up at him with wide eyes. 

In complete amazement, you stare at him like that for what feels like forever. You’d blame it on the alcohol for the way that you find his pathetic ramblings adorable, or for the way you’re reevaluating your conversation from earlier, when you laughed him off. And then there was that little, insistent voice in your head that demanded another kiss, claiming the feeling of a dim spark. 

And who were you to deny it?

Spencer’s hands are moving with him as he talks, finger trembling as he explains that he “....couldn’t go home ruminating on the what-ifs and I needed to do something, and Morgan says that confidence is key and I was trying—” Your fingers hook into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down to your level with a rough yank.

Your lips meet his in a sloppy kiss for just a moment before he kisses you back, and when his head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side, it becomes something else entirely. His lips are softer than you expected, hungrily meeting yours. Spencer kisses like he’s starved for attention, for touch. His hands find purchase on your hips, holding you in place with both hands, like he’s scared you’ll disappear. 

The way the palms of his hands squeeze at your waist makes you weak at the knees. The kiss has seemingly shifted from tender to needy in a matter of seconds, his lips pressing against yours with a delicious roughness. When you pull away, you can feel your bottom lip tingling, a feeling that leaves you a little lightheaded. 

The soft pink of Spencer’s lips is the first thing you’re looking at before pushing him deeper into your apartment. His feet stumble as you force him into your apartment, the flat of your palms on his chest. When the door shuts behind you, the two of you are left in the dark of your apartment. Moonlight seeps through your living room curtains, illuminating the room with a softness so close to ethereal that it leaves Spencer wondering if he’s dreaming.

He’s sure you’re about to tell him that this is a bad idea and send him home, before you let out a frustrated groan and ask him, “Are you sure this is alright?” 

Holy shit. 

He can feel a faint squeeze in his lower abdomen, licking his lips as he tries to think clearly, for your sake and his. “I want this.” He’s clear with his feelings for once. “And I can promise you I want this and much more.” 

As his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, he can see the shine in your eyes. You're staring up at him with the eyes of a woman lost between admiration and awe. You nod slowly, your left hand grabbing his right, “Then don’t keep me waiting.” And while your tone is playful, he can’t help but take it to heart, letting you guide him toward your bedroom. 

A soft giggle can be heard from you as you press a quick kiss to his lips, then another, and another, until the back of his knees are hitting the edge of your bed. You lean in slower now, with the tempting promise of a sweeter, sensual kiss—one where Spencer can enjoy the taste of your lips in full. Your lips brush against his as your hands press against his chest, his balance wavering, and then he’s pushed down on the edge of your bed with a light groan of disappointment. 

His head is spinning from the teasing brush of your lips, his eyes lingering on them as you smile down at him, the look of innocence. “Did you think I’d make this easy for you?” Your teasing words shoot an electric shiver down his spine, a breathless laugh leaving him as your hands rub his shoulders.

“I don’t believe easy is in your vocabulary.” 

“Oh?” You muse, your hands stopping the gentle massage of his shoulders, your left hand leaves a trail of fire up his neck to his chin, tilting it up slowly. Your head cocks to the side, he’s never seen you this smug. Were you like this with everyone else? Or is this just for him? He’s too scared to ask. “Care to elaborate?” 

Spencer swallows slowly, trying to keep his voice steady. “You like the challenge. You like having to work for it. I used to think it was because you wanted to be intellectually stimulated, but seeing you like this makes me think that you get off on it. ”

You try to hide your smile, the grip on his chin slacking as your thumb traces a soft pattern on his lower jaw. “God forbid a girl has a bit of fun.” He cracks a smile with that, letting out a low hum as he raises his hands to pull you closer towards the bed, your knees hitting the edge of the bed that lies between his thighs.

Spencer’s pleading eyes almost make you cave, those soft chocolate pools of desire almost too alluring to resist. Almost. Although you guess he deserves a little treat before the night begins. You lean down, cupping both cheeks to press a slow kiss to his lips. Spencer matches your energy, not taking the kiss up a notch until you do, one of your hands straying to the root of his hair and pulling lightly at his brown curls while your tongue slowly slides against his bottom lip.  

Fighting back a groan, Spencer eagerly parts his lips for you. Your tongue drags against his, exploring his mouth at a torturous pace. Spencer can feel his cock, begging for some friction, jump inside his pants as you softly suck on his bottom lip. He’s breathing hard, your mouth swallowing most of his groans and sighs, until your teeth pull at his bottom lip and he lets out a sweet, quiet whimper. 

You pull away, and Spencer can feel himself spiraling before you push his hair back and whisper a breathy, “So good, baby.” His genius mind is out of commission after that, and whatever energy, whatever brain cells he has left over are now yours to use as you like. “Lean against the headboard.” 

It’s a direct order that he immediately follows. He’s kicking off his shoes as fast as possible, moving around on your bed until his back hits the headboard. 

His enthusiasm both excites you and amuses you, your eyes rolling with a playful shake of your head. He watches as you crawl over to him on the bed, swallowing hard as his eyes take you in. He’s waiting for his alarm to go off and for him to wake up in bed, without you, alone, and painfully hard. 

You let out a short laugh, seeing his wide-eyed expression, “You’re sure you still want this?” You ask as you reach him, your eyes on his. 

Spencer’s answer is a quick, “Yes!” which makes you smile wide at him, “Are you?” His fingers are itching to touch you, but he keeps them in his lap, fidgeting. 

You let out a playful hum as you swing a leg over his lap, carefully straddling him. “Yes," you answer, looking down at him. You lean in, teasing his lips with a light brush, leaning away whenever Spencer tilts his head up in a vain attempt to kiss you thoroughly.

“Patience is a virtue.” Your lips brush against his as you whisper, kissing the corner of his lips, much to his dismay. 

Spencer would say he’s not usually this needy, but he doesn't have ample experience to draw from anyway. He can only blame his neediness on you. You who is grinning from ear-to-ear as you kiss his cheek, you who is hovering over his lap, you who is laughing when you see his pleading expression. You mutter something that Spencer can vaguely make out as disappointed, “Greedy.” Before your lips press firmly onto his. 

He could spend hours kissing you. In fact, if nothing else happens tonight, he’d walk home happy knowing he kissed you like this. Your languid kisses easily turn hungry as Spencer slides his hands to your waist, guiding you to sit on his lap. He can feel a ghost of a smile against his lips, his hands squeezing gently at your sides as you resume your earlier task of exploring his mouth with your tongue. 

You swallow a groan from Spencer as you take a moment to suck on his tongue, his hand gripping your waist tighter. Letting out a muffled hum of pleasure, you grind your hips down on his with almost perfect precision. 

Spencer’s back goes rigid, feeling the way your hips grind against his, unsure if it’s okay for a moment before lust wins out against logic. His large hands tighten around your clothed hips, pulling your hips down against his until he’s rutting his hips against yours like a dog in heat. He can feel your grin against his lips again, and he’s already whining by the time you pull away from him. Your hips lean away from his, sitting up on your knees. 

His eyes look dazed, lust and confusion dancing in them as he tries his best not to come off as anxious, “Why’d you stop?” His breathy voice sends a shiver down your spine, right to your core. 

“You want to take my clothes off, don’t you?” You leave his lap, moving to the side of his outer right thigh to properly strip. 

His parted lips snap shut, nodding as fast as he can, immediately playing to your whims. You raise an eyebrow, “You need to learn to let a girl have her fun with you.” You muse as your hands reach for the edge of your top. Spencer’s heart rate doubles as he watches your fingers curl around the bottom hem. 

His gaze darts between your fingers and your face, but his brows knit together, clearly confused. “What do you mean?” You’re pulling your top off painfully slow, and he’s debating asking you if he can do it for you. 

Your top is passing your midriff. “If I’m on top,” His breath catches in his throat as he sees the bottom swell of your breast, “And if I want to tease you, learn how to take it.” 

“Jesus Christ,”  He shifts under you, your words reminding him how his erection is going ignored. “I’m going to need a good teacher.” It’s meant to be witty, but his tone sounds so strained that he’s surprised that you aren’t laughing at him right now. His eyes, not knowing what to stare at, barely meet yours before the sight of your lace-covered breasts enthralls him. 

His strained, whiny voice has your body feeling hot all over. Making a mental note to make this man whine some more, you throw your top off to the side of the bed, hands making a beeline for your pants. “Oh, how exciting.” You slide out of them, leaving you in your bra and panties. “Your first lesson.” 

Spencer, feeling awkward that he’s still fully clothed, begins to pull his shirt off. But when he goes to undo his pants, your fingers cover his. Your fingers are quick to pull his pants down to his thighs, and Spencer kicks them off without needing to be told. 

You were a professional; you didn’t sleep with coworkers, no matter how tempting. Spencer Reid, however, is your forbidden fruit. His hazel eyes, wide and soft with need, make your chest clench with affection. You can feel some part of you salivating for another taste of him, knowing you’re too far gone to listen to reason. 

Your gaze is slow to drop to his lap, eyes flickering across his bare chest, then down to the bulging outline of his cock against the thin material of his boxers. You hesitate, just for a moment, hand hovering in the air before you gently trace the outline of his cock through his boxers— undeniably pretty. 

“Just for me?” Your head is bowed, eyes looking up through your lashes. Spencer lets out a shaky sigh, nodding a wordless response. You drag your index fingers roughly against the tip of his clothed dick. “Words, Spence.” 

“Yes,” He whines, groaning as your hands pull down his boxers. “It’s all for you.” 

“Very good.” Then, you're pulling his boxers down, gaze hungry as you expose Spencer’s hard cock inch by inch. You shift slightly to help him pull his boxers off, but your eyes are locked onto his cock. Red, hot tip with a slight curve towards his stomach, thick and twitching. You swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth slowly, and millions of ways to tease him immediately come to mind. 

He tries to stop himself from feeling hot under your intense gaze, fighting the urge to beg you not to stare. He’s about to cave when you reach your left hand into your panties. A gentle groan leaves your lips as you swipe your fingers along the entrance of your warm cunt, “I can do that—” Spencer begins, but you’ve already stopped touching yourself, pulling your left hand away from your heat, fingers covered in your slick. You wrap your hands around his length, and Spencer has to stop his hips from immediately bucking at the feeling of your slick-covered hand.

“What was that, pretty boy?” Your hand slowly begins to move up and down the length of his cock. 

Usually, Spencer would say something in rebuttal to that nickname, but the only thing you can hear right now is the sounds of him letting out tiny moans. He sputters, trying to reply, but your grip grows tighter as your hands move down his length, and all you get is a pathetic-sounding whine. 

Leaning in to press a wet kiss to his shoulder, you watch as Spencer’s hips jolt when your index finger does a quick sweep over the pretty pink head of his cock. “Feels so much better than your hand, huh?” You read his mind, looking up at him. 

Spencer’s head nods, breathing picking up as your lips suck on the sensitive skin of his neck as your hand steadily strokes him. “I–” You pick up the pace, teeth dragging against his pulse point. “Mmm, I’ve fantasized about you touching me like this.” He has no reason to lie, not now. He has pictured what it could feel like to have your fingers wrapped around his cock instead of his own, how you’d spread the pre-cum around the head of his cock, how you’d look licking his cum off of your hand. 

His breathy admission earns him a soft groan, “Often?” You sound excited as you pull away from his neck. The idea of fulfilling one of his fantasies leaves you with an oddly triumphant sense of pride. Truth be told, he was fulfilling your fantasy: having Spencer Reid whining and moaning at your touch—a guilty pleasure on lonely nights. 

Spencer doesn’t want to look you in the eyes when he answers, but he does anyway, your lustful gaze making it hard for him to look away. “Yes.” 

You let out a satisfied sounding hum, looking away from him to lean down closer to his cock, for a second he’s sure you’re about to take him into your mouth. But, he isn’t disappointed when he sees a long trail of spit leaving your lips and coating the head of his cock. 

Your hands helps coat your spit all around his cock and he’s in heaven. His head leaning back against the headboard as your hand brings him closer to the best orgasm he’s ever had. “ I-I’m, oh god,” He pants out, head rolling to the side to catch your gaze. “I won’t last very long if you keep this up. I’m not as experienced as,” His mouth falls open mid-sentence as you move your hand faster, letting out a cry of pleasure. 

“I’m not, shit—” He swallows hard, “I’m not as experienced as I’d like to be, can–can’t last that long with you doing that!” He practically shouts at the end of his sentence. 

“With a cock this pretty,” You give his length one last pump, “I find that hard to believe.” Carefully letting go of his cock, after all you want to have fun too. If Spencer thought his cock was being ignored before, he wasn’t expecting this. He whines, feeling the warmth of your hand leave him, his breathing heavy. 

Your hand, covered in remnants of spit, dips into your underwear where you haphazardly smear the spit against your folds. Spencer’s heart skips a beat, enjoying the show you make of pulling your panties off your body. He almost sobs when you straddle his lap again, carefully sitting with your dripping core pressed directly onto his aching cock.  

You let out a shaky groan when Spencer’s hips buck into yours, a wild look in his eyes that makes him seem more animalistic than needy. You can feel your walls squeeze around nothing as the head of his cock slowly grinds up into your clit. You bite your bottom lip to muffle a low moan, shuddering above him. 

Your lips part, staring down at him with half-lidded eyes as Spencer’s brows furrow and eyes flutter shut with every needy rock of his hips. His hands grab at your hips, pushing and guiding you down to meet his. It’s not nearly enough and the both of you know it, the desperate urge to fill your sopping cunt to his heart's content growing with every pleasured sigh that leaves your lips. 

“Please,” Spencer’s hands move to swell of your ass, gripping the skin hard as he uses your pussy lips as his personal toy. His breath is hot against your chest, lips leaving sloppy kisses below your collarbone. To him, you’re ethereal, a seraph, as you grind your pussy lips against his length and he desperately needs to be inside you. He needs to know how the cunt of an angel feels as soon as possible. “Let me fuck you.”

Fuck. It’s not a question, nor a demand, but a plea. His wording makes you groan, the idea that he has to beg to fuck you like this, that you have control over him like this. You’ve imagined Spencer in bed a handful of times, assuming that he’d be timid, yes, but fantasies are nothing compared to hearing that desperate plea.

You reposition your knees, pressing your chest into his face as you reach between your legs to guide him to your entrance. Spencer’s hands knead against the plump skin of your ass as you slowly sink down on him, a shaky exhale can be heard from the both of you. The fact that you haven’t been stretched out on his fingers dawns on you as you struggle to relax around the girth of his cock. 

And Spencer seems to have the same thought, his hands snaking up your back to unlatch your bra. Once off, his lips sucking and nipping at the skin around your right nipple before his lips latch around its aroused bud. Your discomfort is partially forgotten as the flat of his tongue drags against the sensitive bud. A gasp, followed by a small, “Mhmm, that’s it.” Your hands leave his shoulders to push his hair back and away from his face as he focuses on his task, threading your fingers into his brown locks. 

Your core swallows the rest of him whole, and you experimentally grind your hips down on his cock. His eyes, previously half-lidded, widen for a second before looking up at you. His lips still attached to your breast, eyes silently pleading for more, for anything, he has you teasing him with a light clench of your walls around him. 

“Remember what I told you, Reid,” Spencer remembers… well, practically everything. But memories are hard to conjure when he’s buried deep inside you, velvet walls pulsing around him. Leaning away from your breast, a trail of spit still connects your skin to his tongue. “Learn how to take it.” You playfully scold, right thumb trailing down from his hair to swipe at the spit on his lips. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Spencer’s lips twitch into a soft smile, your thumb tracing a soft pattern against his bottom lip. “I can do that.” He confirms with a gentle tone, eyes searching yours. The man beneath you looks lovesick, drunk on your touch, perfectly content to spend his days doing whatever you tell him, obedient. 

The thought that he’ll do anything you say. The first move from you is a gentle roll of your hips, followed by a slow exhale. The sting of discomfort readily gets replaced with pleasure as you begin to ride him. Your palms move to grip the headboard behind Spencer’s shoulders, tilting your head to the side to carefully observe him, getting off on every little reaction he shows you. 

A quick, lust-filled smile graces your lips as you move your hips up and down at a slow and steady pace. Spencer’s head tilts back slightly, soft sighs of pleasure leaving his parted lips everytime your hips sink down on his cock. “Is that good?” 

You're teasing him, and he’d be dumb not to notice it; he knows that you can see—feel— how much he’s enjoying this, hear it even. Nevertheless, his head nods quickly as he rasps a mewl of a “Yes, so good.”

Canting your hips closer, you pick up the pace. The slight change in your position has his cock brushing against that sweet spot inside your pussy that has you shivering ontop of him, electricity coursing down your spine. Your eyes flutter closed, chasing after that feeling, panting as you use Spencer’s cock to bring yourself closer to your climax. 

Spencer’s hips meet yours now as you ride him faster, the slapping and squelching of skin meeting skin can be heard alongside a cacophony of sinful-sounding moans and pants. Spencer’s head is thrown back, brows drawn together as he staves off his orgasm, wanting to drag this out for as long as possible. “Oh, god,” your name falls from his mouth in a string of pathetic-sounding moans, “Oh, Mommy—” He squeaks as he realizes the words that have escaped the dirtiest parts of his mind. His rosy cheeks turn slightly pale, eyes peering open to see your reaction. 

Your cunt squeezes him tighter when his worried eyes reach yours. Your gaze isn’t filled with disgust, but darkened with desire. “What was that baby?” You gasp out, hips expertly snapping down onto his. Spencer’s mouth falls open to shamelessly repeat himself, but it’s too much for him. His words choking in the back of his throat as cries of pleasure replace them. 

Pouting, you snap your hips down onto his with an abrupt stop. Spencer lets out a strangled sounding sob as you tilt his chin up, “Oh, Spencer, baby, do you need to say something?” You’re breathless and so, so, so, so close, but you need to hear him repeat those words before you cum. 

Spencer’s chest softly heaves, blinking away the confusion in his eyes as you squeeze your tight walls around him, his hips struggling against yours.  It’s hard to tease him properly as the head of his cock keeps grinding into your g-spot, your mind becoming hazy with pleasure.  But you can’t risk stopping, not when you’re this close. Your lips part, a whine threatening to leave them as you speak, “I’m so s’close, you can handle a little more. Just a-a little longer.” Your voice trembles for a second, but it coaxes a gentle moan out of him nonetheless. 

His cock feels desperate to empty into you as you deny him his orgasm with another sharp, “Not yet.” He feels he must obey your demand, his head becoming lightheaded whenever you order him around. He can feel tightening around him, walls fluttering against him with every second you get closer to your climax. 

Spencer can feel his eyes prickle with tears, his bottom lip trembling, “I need to cum. Need to cum, let me cum, Mommy.” 

You let out a broken laugh as he finally says the words you were so desperately waiting for, “You’re the one who asked for this, Spence.” You managing to speak so coldly to him while vigorously bouncing on his cock has him letting out another weak sob, “Look at you, you can barely handle it.” Your moans are becoming louder and slightly animalistic. “Let me use you while I can.” 

You do exactly that, using him as you feel your orgasm crashing on you, your hands move to his shoulders, nails dragging against his skin as you loudly cry out for him. When your hips stutter against his, your body shuddering and melting into pleasure, Spencer is quick to buck his hips erratically up to yours, helping you ride out your orgasm to the fullest. 

Spencer is quick to follow, grabbing your hips tightly to pull himself out of you with a curse, his seed coating your pussy lips and inner thighs. “I’m sorry,” He pants out, the ends of his hair sticking to his forehead, “I’m sorry, I’m–” 

“Spencer, it’s okay.” You exhale, panting lightly as you look down at him with a lazy grin. 

He’s quiet after that, his grip of your hips loosening as you dip your head to look at him, forehead slowly pressing against his. You let out a little laugh, exhausted and giddy, “You good?”

He lets out a soft ‘mhm’ that tells that all his energy has left him. You can’t judge him; your body is suspiciously close to crashing. You can hear him mumble your name, and you move your head away from his, “Yes?” 

“Are you—” He stops, licking his lips, “I’d like it if we could be—” He struggles to find the right words, anxiety and exhaustion making him into a simpering fool. 

But you’re grinning, so he must be doing something right. He’s about to attempt his messy request to be the only man in your love life when you mutter a soft, whisper-like, “I’d love to be exclusive with you, Dr. Reid. On one condition.” 

You smooth his hair back, out of his face, “We keep this between us until we’re ready to tell the team, I don’t need a team of profilers in my love life— not while we’re together.” 

Spencer can feel his chest tighten, watching as you move to hold your pinkie finger towards him. He links his pinkie around yours, “Deal,” He laughs.  “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Spencer finds acting normal around you increasingly difficult, especially when you keep leaving flirty notes telling him to meet you in the supply closet in ten minutes on his desk (for the fourth time this week). Ever challenging when you insist that your ‘innocent’ little rendezvous won’t lead anywhere, but your plump lips kiss his so hard that they’re swollen in seconds. 

He knows the team knows something is amiss, but he can’t think to worry about it as his head finds a place between your hips, your fingers threading into his hair as you bite your swollen bottom lip in a weak attempt to quiet yourself. 

JJ and Emily note your absence this fine Wednesday morning, something Derek doesn’t find too interesting until he sees that Spencer is also missing. But who is he to ruin it for Spencer? He’s sure the boy genius has you on a mini-coffee date at some café across the street. 

Well, he was sure, until he rounded the corner to see you stumble out of a supply closet, your hair ruffled and makeup smudged. He almost calls out your name when he notices Spencer tailing behind you, his cardigan ruffled and hair equally tousled. Derek’s jaw drops open, waiting and standing in awe as you blow Spencer a kiss and head in the opposite direction toward the bathrooms. 

The second Spencer turns to see his friend, the smile drops away from his face, and the color leaves his cheeks. Morgan’s smile is reminiscent of the Cheshire cat’s as he draws out a proud “My man!” and Spencer feels dread fill his soul. He’s never going to live this down.

[sceletaflores]

SINK IN ME WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

ೃ⁀➷ pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 7.0k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, feral nasty unhinged logan yes god, logan only slightly losing his humanity but like it’s a lot less sad than it sounds, maybe some toxic relationship dynamics but who cares it’s porn, predator/prey dynamics, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, HEAVY scent kink (like don’t make me say it…but beware of some very subtle armpit stuff), pain kink, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, blood, so much come and come talk, creampie, squirting, this is just gross, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat's note: hi…hi y’all…so here’s the winner of the poll and i need everyone to just hear me out for a second! walk with me! this is probably the most unhinged thing i’ve ever written, like omg those tags. this upsetting depravity was inspired by this post by @stupidfuckingwindow and this post by @monimccoythings which both altered the chemical balances of my brain so fiercely i blacked out for a while and when i came to this was in front of me. merry christmas and happy holidays! take this not at all christmas themed fic as my present to you my precious angels. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you notice a strange shift in logan...

There’s something off with Logan.

The changes were subtle, but you’ve been with him long enough now to pick up on them. And while he's always had a raw, untamed edge to him, a sort of wildness simmering just beneath the surface, this feels different.

It started with the way he would go quiet for longer than usual, like his mind was too far away for you to reach—lost to somewhere distant.

Logan has always been quiet, but this was a different kind of silence. Conversations that used to flow with ease now hang in the air, unfinished. All of his responses reduced to nothing but low grunts and clipped words.

And he was more territorial over you, so much more.

His hand has started to linger at the small of your back or the curve of your waist for a lot longer when you’re in public, his strong grip firm enough to remind you—and anyone nearby—that you’re his.

He would fume at even the slightest hint of someone else's interest in you, a low warning growl escaping his throat to anyone who spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t just the physical closeness, though. It was also in the way Logan has started to watch you—his sharp gaze a never ending constant. An all imposing, heavily looming shadow.

There were even times late at night when you thought he was asleep, that you’d find him staring at you in the dark.

Not the usual, protective gaze he’d have when he thought you were vulnerable, but something deeper, more intense. His breathing would be slow, measured, but there was this energy, this tension that hummed between the two of you.

The nights he did manage to sleep, he’d hold you close to him, his grip iron-tight, his face buried in your hair. If you tried to shift away, even for a second, he’d stir, his arms pulling you back with a quiet, possessive growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

There were bite marks on your neck when you'd wake up, small enough to pass off as nothing—at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself, but each one felt like a brand. They were deeper, more deliberate.

Then there was the scent—his scent.

You swear it’s gotten stronger, more potent. It clings to you like a second skin, lingering in your clothes, your sheets, even your hair. An intoxicating blend of leather and pine and musk that makes your head spin.

Each time you left the house without him, he’d pin you to the mattress and rub himself all over you before begrudgingly let you walk out the door. His hands or his face running along the delicate skin of your neck, of your stomach, of your wrists.

Everywhere.

He was claiming you in ways—new ways—that left you both exhilarated and confused.

There were other things too, smaller but no less odd things that were starting to add up.

More and more of your clothes have slowly started to go missing over the past few weeks. Each morning when you open any of your dresser drawers, it seems like there are less and less filling them.

Shirts, shorts, socks, bras, panties. All things you’ve found shoved under his side of the mattress or tucked under his pillow. The most memorable hiding place was the front pocket of his leather jacket, your favorite pair of panties haphazardly stuffed inside.

You haven’t said anything about it yet, unsure if you should be concerned or amused.

It isn’t like he’s truly hurting anyone.

He’s just acting…strange.

A part of you can’t help but be drawn to it—the new intensity, the new rawness. There was something undeniably magnetic about the way he clings to you, like you're his anchor in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet.

You’ve seen Logan at his worst—bloody, broken, and lost. But this? It’s never been like this before.

Whatever it is, it has its claws in him deep, and by extension, you.

You just got home from a run, barely walking through the door and kicking your shoes off when a call of your name rings out from the bedroom.

Logan’s tone stops you in your tracks—low and rough, like gravel crunching underfoot.

Your reaction is nearly instant, breath hitching in your chest, heart skipping a beat as a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature outside starts to pulse through you steadily.

It’s like you’ve become reprogrammed to respond to him this way, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up as his deep, familiar voice rolls over the sweaty expanse of your skin.

You drop your bag at your feet and slowly make your way to the bedroom, a bead of sweat trailing down your temple as you push the door open.

All the curtains are closed, the only light in the room a yellow glow that shines from your bedside lamp. 

Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, but there’s nothing casual about his posture.

His gaze is locked on you, dark and intense, tracking every step you take, like a lion stalking a gazelle as it drinks from a watering hole.

“Didn’t tell me where you were going.” His eyes gleam as the lamp’s rays reflect off of them, his pupils dilated so he can see you better in the darkness that shrouds your room.

You swallow hard, trying to be as nonchalant as you can as your feet carry you to your dresser. “I went for a run,” you reply, your voice a little too steady, a little too casual.

You tug open the top drawer, rifling around for a clean shirt with a little more focus than necessary to distract yourself from the way his eyes burn a hole into your back.

“You didn’t tell me,” Logan repeats, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I don’t like it when I don’t know where my girl is.”

There’s a sharp edge to his words, but it’s not anger—it’s something far more primal.

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze.

"I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you." 

You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

“Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward.

The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus.

You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long."

Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a deep, gravelly purr. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.”

His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake.

You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry.

"Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out." 

Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat." 

His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it.

Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest.

He stops in front of you, so close that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you.

“There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser. 

Your hold on the wood tightens, your knuckles turning white with the strength of your grip.

It’s almost chemical, the way you can feel your body start to give in to him. The thought fills you with as much arousal as it does unease, a heady combination that churns in your stomach.

You muster up enough will to breathlessly nod in agreement, a quiet submission.

Logan’s lips quirk into the faintest smirk, his heavy gaze dipping to the curve of your neck, lingering on the rapid flutter of your pulse. “That’s my good girl.”

Any words you might say get caught in your throat as you stare up at Logan, wide eyed and steadily leaking wetness into the gusset of your panties. 

His nostrils flare, and a knowing sound rumbles from somewhere dark and low in his chest as his eyes flutter shut on a deep inhale.

Your thighs clench together instinctively, the overwhelming need to be filled wracking through your body like thunder.

When Logan opens his eyes again, there’s no trace of anything but pure animal need. The muscles in his jaw working furiously under his skin in time with the strain of his forearms still caging you in place.

“Yeah…” he trails off slowly, tone both condescending and soothing all at once. “I know you’re not all that scared, honey.”

He leans in, tearing a small whimper from your throat at the way his beard scrapes against your cheek as he crowds you.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, hot and enticing as they brush against your skin when he speaks again. “I can smell how fuckin’ wet you are.”

Logan’s words send a sharp jolt through you, a broken moan falling from your parted lips as your cheeks heat up so fiercely it’s as if you’ve been slapped.

Your body moves without thinking, pressing up into his hard, unyielding frame like you can’t help it—and maybe you can’t.

“L–Logan…” Your voice trembles, a weak thing that dissolves in your throat as he noses along the skin of your neck.

His hands come down to rest on your waist, palms rough and possessive and warm and a perfect fit where they lay over your curves, anchoring you in place.

“Shhh.” His lips trail down your jaw, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “You don’t gotta say a thing, princess. I know what you need.”

Logan’s hands slip lower, cupping the backs of your thighs with ease before hoisting you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing. The sharp edge of the wood digs into your legs, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the discomfort.

Your hands go to his shoulders without much of a second thought, nails digging into corded muscle as you try to keep your balance. 

Logan’s hands stay on your thighs, his grip strong enough for you to feel the power behind them without hurting you.

He noses along your sweaty skin like a hot-tempered hound, desperately inhaling greedy lungfuls of your scent wherever he can get it.

Behind your ear, in the crook of your neck, along your collarbone, the exposed swell of your breasts, dangerously close to your underarm.

He groans against your shoulder, a full body shiver jolting his frame. “Smell so fuckin’ good darlin’, drives me goddamn crazy.”

You can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His mouth finally finds yours, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

Logan's tongue slides against yours, a messy, desperate kiss that has you moaning into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

It’s filthy, fueled by nothing but raw need and desperation. Spit drips from your chin to trail down the length of your throat until it gathers in the valley of your breasts. Whether it’s his or yours, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a perfect mix of the both of you, lewd and messy in the way it claims your skin.

Logan breaks the kiss with a low moan, his chest heaving the same as yours as you both inhale harsh lungfuls of air.

His lips are red and raw, swollen in a way that your own must mirror. A string of saliva keeps you connected, drooping thinner and thinner in the space between you until it breaks under the weight of gravity.

Logan doesn’t give you long to catch your breath. His lips trail down your jaw and latch onto the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth scraping against skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. 

Your head falls back against the wall as his mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of your sports bra down with his teeth.

The way he’s acting—like a man crazed, like he needs you more than he needs air—has you dizzy with need. But there's a part of you that’s still trying to hold onto some semblance of control, to hold onto something familiar in the chaos.

It’s only then that you realize this may be a bad idea. 

Whatever this is, is clearly an accumulation of all the things you’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks.

Maybe indulging Logan will only make things worse, like giving in to him when he’s in such a state could be the tipping point to a much deeper and all consuming issue buried somewhere inside of him.

It can’t possibly be healthy for him to act like this, and it can’t be healthy for you to bask in it as much as you are.

“W–wait.” Your thighs slip shut, hands coming up to push at Logan’s shoulders weakly.

There’s no real force behind your ministrations and you keep your neck bared to him all the while, but he stops anyway, rearing back with a displeased noise. 

His face hovers inches from yours, and for a moment, you swear he looks almost pained—his brows furrowing, jaw tightening as though reigning himself in is a Herculean effort.

His hands remain on your thighs, trembling slightly as he keeps himself rooted in place, clearly fighting every instinct roaring through him to just take what he wants.

“You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, a stark contrast to the restraint in his expression. His thumbs stroke idly against your skin, his touch soothing even as his words drip with pure, feral confidence. “I can smell the way your pussy’s achin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re shakin’ for me.”

You are—your whole body feels like it’s on the verge of unraveling under his touch, your resolve crumbling faster than you’d like to admit.

Everything you were going to say gets clogged in your brain on the way out, leaving you silent as you hold his gaze.

You don’t even have the capability to feel embarrassed at the way you blanch, lost in the way his scent attacks your senses, in the rough drag of his palms over your bare thighs, in the way your lips still tingle from his kiss.

Logan sighs, long and all suffering as his hands come to rest on both of your shut knees. The impatient raise of his brow paired with the dissatisfied curl of his lips is enough to shake you to the core.

“Now, you gonna show it to me?” His fingers drum along your knee, his patience thinning. “Or am I gonna have to make you.”

And it may sound like one, but you know it’s not a question. 

It’s a choice.

Your mind races, hands clenching and unclenching on Logan’s shoulders as you weigh your options. His own hands squeeze your knees, just hard enough to let you feel it in your bones.

You spread your legs.

Logan doesn’t waste a second, dropping to his knees in front of you with a satisfied rumble and a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider. Wide enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in the best way. 

Your head dips, chin falling to your chest as you watch the way Logan takes up the space between your legs. Your shorts are soaked, fabric so drenched that it’s melded to the shape of your cunt, your puffy folds on display for his greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet room. His hands find your waistband, and the dull sound of fabric ripping rings out.

The sturdy cotton tears like tissue paper in his hands, the scraps of your shorts falling carelessly to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the light blue panties you slipped on before your run. 

The way he gazes at the space between your thighs is feral, unrestrained, like he’s a man starving for his next meal—and you’re it.

“Look at that…” Logan mutters, almost to himself as he runs his knuckle along the wet cotton of your panties. His touch is featherlight, barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough.

Your breath hitches, a sharp intake of air at the teasing touch, and your hips instinctively cant forward, silently begging for more. 

Logan's eyes flick up to yours, a dark smirk curling his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and how much you're already falling apart.

“Eager fuckin’ thing,” he drawls, voice rough with arousal. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You want me to give your pussy some kisses, baby?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words never make it out. Logan’s lips press against the damp fabric, placing a kiss right over where your covered clit throbs with need.

Your head falls back to rest on the wall behind you, a shocked moan bursting from your lips.

“Logan.” His name is pulled from your mouth like a plea, but he doesn’t let up, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the soaked barrier of your underwear.

“Hmm?” He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Thought you wanted me to stop?”

The taunt is maddening, the rasp of his voice and the teasing flicks of his tongue combining to unravel you piece by piece. 

You shake your head furiously, thighs trembling where they rest on his broad shoulders. “N-no—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Logan chuckles darkly, his hands sliding up your thighs to hook his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties. 

“That’s more like it,” he taunts. With a single, sharp tug, the ruined fabric joins the scraps of your shorts on the floor.

Logan groans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick with your juices and flushed with arousal. His mouth waters, his tongue running along the sharp points of his canines in anticipation.

You’re already so ready for him.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he growls, leaning in to drag his nose along the slick seam of your folds. The deep inhale he takes is obscene, sending a ripple of anticipation through your entire body. “Know that you taste even better.”

Logan licks a broad stripe through your folds, groaning like the taste of you is enough to satisfy him completely. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you spread and utterly at his mercy as he begins to work in earnest.

He alternates between laving the tip of his tongue over your clit and dipping down to fuck into you, his beard scraping along the skin of your thighs in a way that’s almost too much. Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud as your vision blurs.

“God, Logan.” You squirm on the vanity, but he holds you steady, growling low and deep into your core like your moaning only spurs him on.

“That’s it,” he mutters between licks, his words unmistakably smug. “Make those pretty little sounds for me, baby.”

Logan circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, alternating between firm, deliberate strokes and light, teasing flicks that leave you gasping for air.

You cry out, fingers tangling in his thick, unruly hair as he repeats the motions, your thighs starting to tremble on either side of his head.

Every time your hips buck against him, he growls, the vibrations of it sinking into your skin and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice muffled against your dripping core but no less commanding. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place with an unrelenting grip. “You’re not in charge, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling as you fight the urge to grind against his face. But it’s impossible to stay still when he’s licking into you like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with an intensity that has your vision going hazy.

“I know, you're just so damn needy, aren’t you, baby?” He drawls , pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal. “You love this, hmm? Lettin’ me take care of you?”

You can only nod, words failing you as his fingers replace his mouth, sliding through your spit soaked cunt.

“You’re so goddamn pretty down here.” Logan mutters, almost to himself, spreading your puffy, abused folds obscenely wide. 

He teases your entrance, fingertips dipping into your warm heat only to retract a second later. You whine, high and embarrassing as your hips twitch with want.

Logan watches your face closely, his expression equal parts smug and adoring as he finally sinks one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head lolling back he adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that has your toes curling. He pumps them slowly at first, each deliberate thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Takin’ me so well,” Logan murmurs, his thumb brushes over your clit, drawing tight circles that make your thighs tremble. “So tight and wet for me. You’re makin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

Your moans grow louder, unrestrained, as he picks up the pace, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that has your skin burning hotter and hotter.

Logan’s mouth returns to you with renewed fervor, tongue and lips working in perfect tandem as he drags you closer to the edge. 

He shakes his head back and forth like an animal, his nose rubbing up against your clit deliciously as buries his tongue as deep in your cunt as it’ll go. The coarse hair of his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your inner thighs red and raw.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you. 

“Logan—” Your voice cracks, your head falling back against the wall as the spring of pleasure inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. “I’m—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Good,” he growls, pumping his fingers in time with the flicks of his tongue. “I can feel you squeezin’ me. I want you to come for me, baby. Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You’re powerless to resist.

You cry out, thighs clamping shut on either side of his head as you come on his tongue. Your body shakes so violently you knock a few things off the vanity, the distant sound of glass shattering hardly registers. 

Logan growls, low and dragged from the back of his throat in such a way that makes it reverberate in the space between your legs. His own arms come up, grip strong and encouraging as he forces your legs around his head even tighter than before.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and pumping his fingers to drag you through the aftershocks like a man obsessed. 

When you finally come back to yourself, panting and trembling, Logan’s holding your shaking thighs apart, his mouth still pressed to you in soft, languid strokes.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, voice rough and gravelly as he presses a final kiss to your oversensitive clit. 

Logan’s hands slide up to your hips, gripping tight as he rises to his feet, towering over you with that same dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. 

His lips are even redder than before, swollen and slick with your juices. His beard is damp and shining in the low light, and the smug, satisfied smirk on his face sends another pulse of heat through your already spent body.

“Good girl,” he purrs, not even bothering to wipe his mouth before leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and possession. 

You can taste yourself on his tongue, the salt and musk mingling with the raw hunger. It’s filthy and intoxicating, and it leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

But Logan’s far from finished.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting you off the dresser with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you to the bed and tosses you on it with little preamble.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to have you bouncing on it once, twice, three times before Logan is crawling up to blanket your body with his. 

The heavy weight of his metal laced bones sink you into the soft plushness, keeping you stuck beneath him with nowhere to go.

Which you know is exactly where he wants you.

He slots his hips between yours, dragging the straining jut of his cock along your sensitive cunt. You can feel the warmth of him even through the thick material of his sweats, a scalding plane of heat that makes your cunt ache with need. 

You can feel the damp patch where his clothed tip nudges against your clit, and you know from that alone he’s already soaked through the cotton with pre-come. His cock leaking like a faucet in the harsh confines of his bottoms while he ate you out.

“Feel that?” Logan asks, voice hoarse as he buries his head in your neck. “That’s all ‘cause of you, baby. Got me drippin’ like I busted a damn pipe.”

The sharp intake of air you suck in at his words does nearly nothing to help your breathlessness, your desperation bleeding through as your frantic hands push at the waistband of his bottoms. “Off. Off.”

Logan huffs a rough laugh against your neck, his warm breath skating across your skin as his lips ghost over your pulse. “So fuckin’ bossy.”

He doesn’t move to help you, not right away, savoring the way your hands fumble and tug, your frustration bubbling over in breathy little gasps.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, the rough timbre of his voice a stark contrast to the gentleness of his lips pressing along your jaw. “Look at you, so damn needy. Can’t even wait for me to get my cock out.”

You only tug harder, patience nonexistent as your fingers curl into the waistband. “Please, Logan. Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Logan finally gives in, sitting back just enough to push them over his hips, freeing his cock.

It springs free, slapping against his stomach heavy and slick with pre-come, the ruddy tip glistening in the low light.

The sight alone has you clenching around nothing, a devastatingly desperate noise falls from your lips as the ache between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable throb.

He makes quick work of ripping his shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it behind him before he’s back on you.

This time, when he bullies his hips in between yours, there's nothing separating you.

You feel every inch of his cock as it grinds along the seam of your cunt. The velvety skin is almost scalding as it drags against your own, the drool of pre-come only adding more to your own wetness.

Logan presses you into the mattress harder, rutting against your cunt almost desperately as he noses along your damp, overheated skin.

His mouth is everywhere. Sucking marks where the junction of your neck meets your shoulder, lapping up the sweat that pools in the valley of your breasts, licking a filthy stripe across the side of your face that has your cheeks burning.

He buries his nose in the sweaty skin of your underarm, whining and panting like a surly dog all over again. Each breath is hot and wet against you, and it only seems to make him hungrier, greedier. His cock blurts even more pre-come onto your skin with every inhale he takes.

It should gross you out. 

It should be utterly mortifying, but the sight of Logan like this only leaves you thrumming with want. 

His desperation, the raw, unfiltered way he takes you in—like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of you—has your pulse racing and your mind spinning out of control. 

You feel his nose press harder against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over you as he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates right through you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “You smell so goddamn good. Can’t help it. Can’t fuckin’—” His hips jerk, the weight of his cock sliding slickly against your cunt, bumping up against your clit in a way that makes you shiver. 

“Logan,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction, the relief, the unbearable stretch you know only he can give you. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I need you—need you so bad.”

He smirks, his lips curling against your skin as he nips at the curve of your jaw. “Need me, huh?” he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. “Need my cock inside you, stretchin’ you open? Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“So bad.” Your hips tilt up instinctively, desperate for him to push inside. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, the blunt pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Need you so bad it hurts. Please—please don’t make me wait.”

Logan growls, a feral sound. “Such a good girl when you beg for me.” he snarls, big hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise so he can flip you on your front, gently manhandling you until you're on all fours. “Gonna fill you up, princess.”

His hands knead the soft flesh of your ass as he lines himself up behind you. The weight of his cock presses against your entrance, slick and ready, and for a moment, he just stays there, teasing.

Your arms shake beneath you, elbows locked as you force yourself to stay still, patient.

The head of his cock nudges against you, spreading your slickness, and your body trembles in anticipation. He sinks himself into you in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

The stretch is instant, the burn delicious as he pushes inside, inch by inch, filling you in one fluid, devastating stroke. A choked gasp spills from your lips as he bottoms out, his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck.” Logan stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he lets you adjust, but the restraint is fleeting. 

His hands glide up your back, palms rough and grounding as they map every curve, every quiver of your body. He starts grinding his hips in slow circles, pressing every inch of his cock along your velvety walls. 

Your head drops between your arms, brows pinched together as you take in greedy lungfuls of air. You’ll never get used to this, the way Logan fills you so perfectly, no matter how many times it’s been.

“Come on, baby.” Logan leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips fever hot. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you could hardly wait. Now’s your chance, fuck me.”

It takes a few long seconds for his words to cunt through the molasses clouding your mind, the small thrust of his hips hinting at what he wants you to do.

You let out a pitiful whimper, hands digging into your bed’s puffy comforter as you start rocking your hips. 

You start slow, letting yourself build up a nice, steady rhythm as Logan purrs words of encouragement from behind you. His hands never leave your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your skin as you start to pick up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encourages darkly, giving the rippling muscle of your ass a sharp swat. “Find the fuckin’ spot, baby. Write your name on this cock, tell everyone who it belongs to.”

You cry out at the sting of his palm, bouncing yourself on his length impossibly faster. Your arms burn under the strain of your movements, but you can’t stop chasing the high of pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, a lewd slap slap slap as you fuck yourself on Logan’s cock like he’s a replacement for the cheap suction cup dildo collecting dust in a box hidden away in your closet—like he’s nothing but a expertly shaped lump of silicon molded solely for your pleasure.

You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, and in nearly no time at all. The telltale coil buried deep in your belly winding tighter and tighter as you work yourself on Logan’s cock hard enough that the cheap frame of your bed thumps against the wall.

It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone already, so fuck drunk that the too loud moans falling from your lips hardly phase you.

It's like there's nothing but the feel of Logan inside you, bumping against that spot inside you that has stars shining behind your closed eyes. 

“Close already?” Logan taunts from behind you, voice just the tiniest but breathless, but the way his cock pulses and jerks where it’s sheathed in your cunt lets you know he’s right there with you. “I know you are, honey. I can feel how she’s squeezin’ me, so damn tight.”

His hands dig into your hips, not even waiting for a response as he starts thrusting in time with your bounces. He pounds into you, hips snapping against your ass hard enough to sting.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too baby,” he bites out, the rhythm of his hips getting sloppier. “Gonna come so fuckin’ hard, fill you up so good. Shit–”

Logan pulls out enough that only the thick tip of his cock stays sheathed in the warmth of your cunt, his body falling to hunch over yours as he pumps his come into you with a feral growl.

You whine at the feeling of his release filling you, painting your insides with spurt after spurt of thick come. It’s so much, it’s always so much. A rush of warmth that floods your insides each time without fail.

And just like that, the feeling alone has you coming.

Your back arches as your cunt gushes over the tip of his cock, drenching his thighs and the rest of his shaft in your essence. You think you may scream, but it’s hard to tell over the white noise rushing through your ears.

Your arms finally buckle under you as Logan helps you ride out the last few tremors of your orgasm with a few slow rocks of his hips, and your spent body collapses onto the mattress.

Logan’s low noises of pleasure barely register as your chest heaves almost violently, your lungs desperately trying to get as much air as they possibly can.

But you barely have time to catch your breath before Logan plants his knees back firmly on the mattress and starts thrusting, again. 

“Logan!” Your hands scramble for purchase on the mussed sheets of your bed, the overstimulation making your legs kick out frantically.

“You thought we were done?” Logan asks, his tone equal parts amused and mocking. “You popped twice already, baby. S’only fair that you let me catch up.”

With no warning, he takes you in his arms, pulling his cock out just long enough to flip you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders before plunging back inside your fucked open cunt with a filthy squelch. 

He feels even bigger like this, yet your body swallows his cock like it’s nothing. The spongy warmth of your walls melding to the shape of him like it’s what you were made for. 

The coarse hair of his happy trail drags across your clit each time he thrusts, adding to the blistering feeling where the knife's edge of too much too much too much meets not nearly enough.

His come stuffed in your trembling cunt only makes it all the more filthy, his cock plunging inside you and coming back out slick and wet on every thrust. 

Your lips fall open on a broken moan, eyes screwing shut as you work your cunt around him, feeling the way his release gets fucked deeper and deeper inside you.

Logan notices, of course he does.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your own as he leans down enough to whisper into your slack mouth. “You like havin’ someone come in your pussy, baby?”

You moan into his mouth unabashedly, loudly. Both of your eyes burning as tears threaten to fall down the flushed skin of your cheeks, your throat going dry and scratchy in the best way possible. 

“Shit–” Your hands claw at the rippling muscles of his back desperately, nails digging into his skin hard enough that you feel the unmistakable slickness of his blood coating the tips of your fingers.

The pain spurs him on, his head tips down on a low groan and his eyes squeezing together for a split second before he’s spewing filth again.

“You want some more?” Logan asks, tone going dark like he already knows the answer as his hips speed up impossible faster. “You want me to come again?”

You don’t respond, you can’t respond. You can barely make a coherent thought. 

All you can manage are whiny moans that fall from your slack lips, broken little uh uh uh’s that get punched out with each new thrust. Your nails rake down his back mercilessly, leaving behind deep red welts that heal as you go.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He turns his head to nip at the skin over the delicate bone of your ankle where it bounces near his head, sharp teeth digging in enough to have you whining pitifully. “You love havin’ a messy fuckin’ pussy, don’t you? Love being stuffed so full of my come you can’t even hold it all, huh?”

His words hit you like a physical blow, lighting up your body from the inside out. Your thighs shake where they’re wrapped around his hips, ankles locking over his lower back so he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.

His come mixes with your juices to coat his cock, completely drenched all slick and shiny in the dull light of your bedroom. It drips down almost leisurely compared to the near feral snap of his hips, trailing all the way down his length to his heavy balls. 

“Yes.” He groans, reverent. “Give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock again, feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t ever get enough—”

You’ve never heard him like this, so high of pleasure that his speech slurs and his words all meld together into one filthy stream of ramblings that has you sinking your nails even deeper into his back and coming on his cock with a loud wail.

Your cunt convulses around him, shaking with the force of your release, milking him. 

“Fuck, princess.” Logan pitches forward, his sweaty torso covering yours as he keeps fucking into your shaking body, desperately chasing his own release.

Finally, with a muted roar of your name, he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck and comes for you.

You cry out at the sharp sting of his teeth bearing down hard enough to draw blood, your vision whiting out with the pleasure of being claimed in every way imaginable.

Logan’s hips only stop when he’s drained of every last drop, his body shaking where it lays over yours. He laps at the broken skin of your neck, a soft gesture that isn’t quite an apology for making you bleed—because you know that he isn’t sorry whatsoever—but it’s nice nonetheless.

Your arms come up to circle around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion hits you all at once. You get lost in the steady rhythm of Logan catching his breath, in the way his heart pounds against his ribcage where his chest is pressed to your own, in the way his fingers twitch and flex on your hips.

The last thing you hear as you drift off, his come starting to leak down your thighs in thick streams of white, is a hushed whisper of “I got you, baby. I’m right here, I’m always right here.”

It puts you at ease, all the worry you felt over the last few weeks slipping from your mind like grains of sand through your fingers.

Maybe, this new side of Logan isn’t so bad after all.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[satoblue]

“HIS ONE AND ONLY” — gojo satoru

satoru asks you to be his egg for easter. | wc: 0.8k+

MDNI, f!reader, established relationship, slightly suggestive but all around fluff, a festive easter fic (i enjoy doing these if you can’t tell LOL.) | dividers made by me (it’s the gojo head from the japanese gojo tag on twt/X)

“will you be my egg?”

straightening up in your seat, you give satoru a once over.

“your… what?” brows furrowing, the words leave your lips slowly in your confusion. “are you saying i look like an egg?” your eyes narrow, slightly offended and defensive.

chin dipping down to his chest, satoru releases a heavy sigh. a disappointed one, emphasized by a small shake of his head.

“and you told me to invest in a calendar.” he scoffs in disbelief. “don’t you know what holiday is coming up?”

“. . . easter?”

“exactly.” he emphasizes as if it is the answer to all of your questions.

the puzzled expression on your face doesn’t change one bit and satoru groans, full body turnt towards you now as you both laze on the couch on a random afternoon.

“and what do we do on easter?”

you blink, brows shooting up in surprise.

“i didn’t know we had anything planned.”

growing frustrated, satoru tuts and takes your hands in his, staring deep into your eyes as if it’d help convey the answer to your brain through telepathy.

“c’mon! stop acting so oblivious.” “i’m not—” “it’s a fun activity — a game.”

it takes you a second, but your eyes light up like a little kid’s once it hits you.

“egg hunting!” you perk up with expectant, glittering eyes. “are we going egg hunting?”

satoru chuckles at your misunderstanding, “no, you aren’t.”

“aw,” you pout, shoulders falling.

“i am.” he corrects with a smirk, and your head tilts slightly to the side. “we’re going to have plenty of fun. but, i’m going to be the only one scouring for eggs.”

your lips purse. “how would that be any fun for me?”

a certain gleam takes over in his eyes, and you know it only means trouble.

“well, you see — there is only one egg i’m interested in…” satoru begins slowly, his large hand creeping up and resting over your stomach. the warmth of it does nothing to stop the shiver that runs up your spine from his touch.

“one i’d love to coat in a layer of thick, gooey, white chocolate. what do you think?”

for a moment, your mind goes blank.

“oh… oh!”

your cheeks heat, visibly flustered by the innuendo. you get it now. this bastard. his ability to turn anything and everything sexual is unbelievable. you swat at his chest.

“you’re such an idiot.”

he laughs in the face of your embarrassment and half-hearted insult, clutching where you hit him softly with a jutted lip.

“you’re so weird.” you huff, defiantly looking away. god, he is something else entirely.

“only for you.” he giggles happily, enjoying your reaction. “you make me so so weird, my most precious egg.”

with a quirk of a brow, you cross your arms. “oh? so you have other eggs in your life?”

it’s meant to be a lighthearted joke, just to tease him a little. but you see satoru’s face fall. your lips part slightly, lost at the way his expression turns cold all of a sudden.

“sa—”

“no,” he states firmly, as if it is a fact in every piece of literature and textbook in existence. you go silent.

with a firm hand, satoru grips your chin, turning you to face him properly once more. your breath hitches in your throat, surprised by the shift in his demeanor and the atmosphere.

observing him, your sights rake all over his face. the seriousness is still there, but you see the softness creeping into cerulean blue — the gentleness he ever only holds for you. as if he can’t help it.

he’s trying to remain extremely focused, because what you said just now was no joke — but he can’t stay stone faced in the face of his joy in human form.

that’s not funny. another? there will never be another. there is nothing after you — nothing without you. he may as well not exist.

“there’s only you.” he breathes close to your lips, as if they are the only words he knows to speak.

“there is ever only you.” satoru repeats, as if to make sure you know it deep down to your core.

the sentence is at the tip of your tongue, an “i know” — because how could you not know when satoru never fails to remind you every day how you are his one and only?

but, you are left speechless as you always are. though this time, it isn’t because of something ridiculous.

it is because of something real, something raw. ironically — like an egg.

“do you understand, sweetheart?”

satoru continues to stare deep into your soul, reading you, reaffirming if you know it to be true — any confirmation. you give him a small nod and his shoulders relax with relief.

“now, i’ll ask you again.” his voice breaks through the air in barely a whisper.

“will you be my egg?”

[tbaluver]

GAME OVER!- The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x fem! reader, zayne x fem! reader, rafayel x fem! reader, sylus x fem! reader, caleb x fem! reader summary: the lads men try to get your attention when you're busy playing a video game genre: smut a/n: hihi lovelies! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ if you're the anonnie that requested something similar to this im so sorry but i may or may not have accidentally read it too fast and did not realize you wanted this as a headcanon .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. but im working on making a headcanon version for this one! anyways enjoy reading ! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

tags: mentioning of nipple play and fingering

you lost.

you lost the moment his fingers hooked onto your clit.

this wasn’t the usual way he’d get your attention. usually, he’d curl up beside you, his head resting in your lap, gazing up until you gave in with a gentle pat or pulled him closer. 

no, this time was different. he was clearly getting frustrated by how much the game was getting more of you than he was.

“xavier..” you murmur, only to get a hum in return from him. his hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, and his fingers brush the smooth skin of your stomach. you lean your head back slightly, resting it against his chest. your mouth nearly parts as he moves further up when he notices your eyes remain fixed on the screen.

his fingers roll your nipple between his fingers. a flicker of amusement tugs at his lips when he catches the way you fumble in your game. it was enough to give you away and only encourages him to keep going.

you bite your lips in frustration. you were so close to reaching your goal, only to slip at the last second. but it’s hard to stay upset when his fingers teasingly drag back down to your body and slip in between your shorts.

you tried. you tried to keep your eyes locked on the screen for as long as you can manage but you eventually slip. you let your head rest against his chest, letting him stroke and rub at your clit in delicious patterns, making your grip on the controls loosen.

xavier watches the way your eyes flutter shut and you breathe heavily as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. as much as he’s fascinated by the sound and the way your cunt takes him in so easily, the sound of your character dying on the screen catches his attention for a second.

a small bright idea pops up in his head. he picks up the controller with his free hand and effortlessly guides your character through the round you were struggling with one hand.

this earns a whine from you from the loss of contact from him and he was quick to press open mouth kisses on the bare side of your neck. his growing bulge presses against your back.

“now that i helped you..can you help me?” 

Zayne:

tags: mentioning of kneading your breasts, nipple play and fingering

you’d think by now you’d know not to ignore a doctor’s orders—especially when that doctor is your boyfriend.

you were so locked into your game that you canceled everything outside of it. zayne’s voice barely registered to you—questions, little comments, and even a suggestion to take a break. nothing. not even when he reminded you to sit up so your shoulders and back wouldn’t ache later. all to get the same distracted hum as your eyes stay glued to the screen.

a shift on the bed behind you made you aware of him again. he lets out a quiet sigh as his hands find your shoulders, guiding you into a better position. zayne makes quick work, his fingers expertly finding the spots that had gone stiff from sitting too long without support.

you shift beneath his hands, stretching slightly as you lean into his touch. the subtle reaction doesn’t go unnoticed making him quirk a brow. “if that was sore..” he murmurs. “then perhaps you’re aching somewhere else too?”

his hands slide a little lower as he pulls you closer, his hands slipping inside the hem of your shirt. you’d be lying if you were to say you weren’t heating up when his hands found their way to your breasts. his thumb drags slowly over the pebbled nipple before kneading them both slowly.

zayne never fails to miss a thing, even if it were the smallest reaction. he catches the subtle twitch of your thighs, the way your grip on the controllers falters, your thumbs moving just a little slower than before. a quiet inhale escapes him. “i see..” he murmurs.

one hand stays latched onto your breasts while his other moves down to your waist before dipping into the waistband of your panties. he watches how his fingers slowly disappear when his fingers press against your clit, circling around the swollen bud.

“z-zayne..” you whined, grinding your hips into his palm. the screen you’d been so focused on becomes a blur in an instant as your eyes slowly flutter shut, a gasp slipping past your lips as you arch into him.

the pace he’d been building up begins to slow slightly, drawing a soft whine from your lips. you lean back further into his chest, searching for him with desperate eyes. 

“now, won’t you be a good girl and listen?”

Rafayel:

tags: eating you out

it was amusing to watch you get hot and bothered just by a simple touch of his.

what could be more entertaining about a video game when he’s right there? you didn’t even bother to reply to most of the things he said. or the way you didn’t even notice the way he crossed his arms, puffed out his cheeks and pouted in front of you.

with a small hmph, he shifted his attention elsewhere, deciding two can play that game. he flopped down in between your legs, his hair tickling over your skin.

it starts with a small innocent kiss on your inner thigh that leads to another and more which doesn’t go unnoticed by you. he inches in closer, letting his hair brush against your soft skin. each one a little further up and a little bolder. it was as if he was a dried-out fish and the ocean was calling him.

“cutie..” he murmurs teasingly, drawing your attention just enough to make you glance at him over your controller. without a word, you lift your hips, letting him slip your shorts down. now it was only the thin material that separated you both. actually, it was that stupid game and the thin material separating him from you.

you knew how clingy rafayel could be—it was one of the things you found adorable about him. you’d promised yourself you’d give him your full attention the moment you beat your game. but every passing minute only made it more frustrating.

what you hadn’t expected was how far he’d go to get your attention—not that you were complaining. if anything, you were starting to realize that you needed some way to release this pent-up frustration.

he licks a long stripe from your fold up to your clit, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud, making you gasp. you taste divine, rafayel thinks. your fingers are almost sliding off the buttons and your grip on the controller barely hangs on when he spreads your legs a little bit more to dip the tip of his tongue inside you.

it only takes a few thrusts with the top of his tongue before he hears you moan and in his head, he knows that he has already won.

Sylus:

tags: fingering

“winners finish”

those words echo in your mind as you watch the big red ‘DEFEAT’ flash across your screen again. he clicks his tongue, tauntingly. “aw. that’s too bad.”

he slips his fingers out, earning a whine from you. one by one, he savors the sweet rich taste of your arousal to his lips. he’s never letting you finish after a loss-- not when you weren’t paying attention to him. 

and with the way he’s distracting you, you’re not even sure you can win. you were already struggling to finish your game before you stopped paying attention to him for a split second and now, now it’s nearly impossible.

“go ahead. finish your little game, sweetie,” he whispers lowly in your ear, his hot breath against your skin, sending that familiar heat traveling back down to the lower half of your body. your legs were wide apart, your panties pooling down to your legs while your back against his chest. 

a new round of the game starts. this time, the sounds of the game faded into the background—ironically, just like how you tuned him out a few minutes ago. but now, your focus was entirely on him and the way his fingers expertly work their way around your clit.

a wicked smirk curls on his lips as soft whimpers of his name leave your lips when you feel his fingers slide up to circle your clit, rubbing over it. “that’s right,” he whispers teasingly into your ear. and you know damn well that he’s not encouraging you about the game at all, especially when you think you got back into the rhythm of the game.

or so you thought. his wet fingers drag against your folds before dipping back to your fluttering weeping cunt. sylus doesn’t even need to look at the screen to know you’re losing. with the way you’re trembling with the controls, tells him everything.

his fingers sink further inside you as you clench tightly around him, your hips matching the pace. your eyes struggle to stay locked on the screen, after countless failed attempts, you’ve grown desperate. your grip on the controls loosened, leaving your character on the screen on idled as you melt deeper into him. 

you lean back further into his chest, head tilting up to meet his lustful eyes, lips parted as shaky breaths escape you. one look is all it takes for him to surrender.

his two digits drag in and out of you and it doesn’t take long for your eyes to roll back. the little pants turn into a final gasp that slips past your lips as you ride out your high on his fingers. this time he lets you have it. he lets you win. after all, he’s already won many times.

Caleb:

tags: cockwarming

“how about you let me help you?”

- 

bad ideas. one after another. you didn’t think much of it when he suggested there was no need for an extra chair when you can just sit on his lap so you both can share the desk. 

you barely even registered the things he said after that, his encouraging comments, his teasing questions, that were meant to pull your attention from the game. you were so wrapped in the screen that you failed to notice the small frown tugging at the corner of his lips. or how you definitely didn’t notice how much you kept shifting on his lap, unintentionally making him hard.

-

this was not your idea of help at all, but you weren’t exactly complaining.

you can feel caleb’s cock twitching inside of you as you continue to play. caleb suggested this would be better. that the game would be easier when he’s deeply buried in your cunt to help keep you steady while you play.

you shift on his lap ever so slightly, making sure to not rock against him. you want to move so badly, desperate for some more friction. you feel so full, so full of him that warm precum dripped out of your soaking cunt.

or so you thought. your breath would hitch, your fingers on your keyboard coming to a halt whenever he would lean forward, hitting just a little more deeper in you.

“hey, c’mon pipsqueak what’re you doing?” he murmurs. “let’s finish this together, alright?” and you’re not sure if he’s talking about the game anymore. “keep going. i got you,” there’s a faint hitch in his voice, his warm breath ghosting over the bare skin of your neck.

his large hand settles on top of your shaky hand, guiding your fingers across the buttons. the other moves further up your inner thigh. your arousal is growing further, both your heart rate slowly picking up.

he’s trying so hard but he just can't. he felt so warm inside of you and it didn’t help whenever you would clench around him. he lets out a pathetic groan, filling you up with his seed. his hand on your falters, messing up the entire gameplay.

he quietly pants behind your shoulder before leaving soft kisses. you could hear him softly groan when you feel him becoming harder inside you again.

“sorry pipsqueak, guess we gotta start over huh?”

ʚɞ cr. for the dividers @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ 𝘕𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯:

ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! The Love And DeepSpace Masterlist, Pg. 2

ʚɞ Others:

Wattpad

Twitter ( but like i barely know how to use it )

[inseobts]

Heyy! Love your work! I have an idea for law and ace (my goattss dont playy lol), but it can be for anyone else in one piece too! I was thinking reader thats similar to Maomao(apothecary diaries) and her obsession with poisons, eating it etc. As for plot, really up to you but I have an idea, maybe they dock at a new island with lots of herbs and their caught trying to eat the most textbook poison looking plant, no doubt thats not poisonous type of plant. Idk it can be like their secret or something. A lil basic cause I have the creativity of a stick, so if u think of something better then plss do it no hesitation fr!! If you do write this thank youuuu!! 🫶🫶

Poison Queen

a/n: I don't know the anime/character but I hope I got the intention of it right after a small google research T.T

characters: law (wc 2.6k), ace (wc 3.6k)

tags: poison enthusiast reader, slow burn, humor, fluff (eventually)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Trafalgar D. Law:

The island is lush. Dense, dripping green stretches as far as the eye can see, humid air thick with the scent of earth and herbs. From the deck of the Polar Tang, you practically bounce on your heels.

“Is that… purple nightshade?” you whisper, eyes gleaming unnaturally.

“Don’t eat it.” Law says without looking up from the chart he’s examining, standing nearby. His voice is as flat as the sea on a windless day.

“I wasn’t going to…” you lie.

He turns his head a fraction, golden eyes narrowing “Yes, you were.”

You hum innocently, stuffing your medical satchel with your vials and note scrolls “I’m just here to observe, Captain.”

Shachi leans over the railing besides you “This place gives me the creeps. Everything looks like it wants to kill you.”

“Or cure you” you murmur, a little too enthusiastically.

Penguin eyes you warily “Why do you sound excited about that?”

You flash them a polite smile “Because it’s fun.”

Law sighs, sharp and tired “No wandering alone. You stick close to the group. Got it?”

You nod obediently “Of course.”

He doesn’t buy it. No one does.

The island is a botanical goldmine. You’re taking notes faster than your ink can dry. Moss that numbs the tongue, vines that smell like overripe peaches but rot skin on contact, and…oh. You spot it.

A crimson-stemmed flower, petals a sickly sweet yellowish pink, growing under the shade of a tree.

You gasp.

Law, who had started sketching a tree trunk for identification, stiffens “Don’t.”

“But it’s not poisonous!” you defend, already crouching, eyes wild “It looks like it, but this is Miracle’s Folly. It only mimics toxic flora to keep herbivores away. You can eat it, and it has incredible stimulant properties.”

“You just said it looks poisonous.”

“Exactly!” You pluck one with clinical precision “I’ve never seen one in the wild before. This is amazi—”

Law snatches it from your hand, holding it between two fingers like it’s radioactive.

“You’re obsessed” he accuses.

You blink “I prefer the term enthusiastic professional.”

“You tried to eat a known neurotoxin last week.”

“I suspected it was a neurotoxin. And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“You lost motor control for six hours.”

“It was valuable data.”

He stares. You stare back, unbothered.

There’s a beat of silence before Shachi and Penguin burst out laughing behind you.

“She’s gonna kill herself one day” Shachi cackles.

“Captain’s gonna lose his mind before then” Penguin adds.

Law exhales through his nose. He pockets the flower, out of your reach “You’re banned from going anywhere without supervision.”

Your eye twitches “Captain, please. This is a scientific expedition—”

He turns “Touch another cursed-looking plant and I’ll have Bepo chain you to the ship.”

You pout “Kinky.”

His ears turn red. You catch it.

Later that night, while the others are prepping camp, you quietly flip open your hidden pouch. Inside: one perfectly preserved Miracle’s Folly bloom.

You smirk “I am a professional.”

You glance at the campfire where Law is sipping his tea, glancing up only when your giggles reach him.

His eyes narrow again.

You chew the petal. Slowly. Carefully.

It’s bitter. Burns the tip of your tongue. But beneath that… Electricity.

The world tingles. Not in a hallucinatory way but in a sharpened, humming, this-might-kill-me-or-make-me-a-god sort of way.

You lean back on your heels, staring up at the canopy as the flower’s effects trickle through your veins “Oh, I have to isolate what’s responsible for this…”

“What are you muttering now?”

Law’s voice cuts through your thoughts like a scalpel.

You jolt and whip your head around. He’s standing there, arms crossed, dark brows drawn low.

You swallow quickly “Nothing.”

His eyes narrow “You’re sweating.”

“It’s humid.”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“I’m excited to be alive.”

He steps closer. You instinctively step back, hiding your pouch under your coat. He notices.

“Show me what’s in your bag.”

“No.”

“Y/N.”

You sigh, dramatic “You know, trust is the foundation of any good captain-crew relationship.”

“You ate that flower, didn’t you?”

“No! Just a piece of it.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, stepping forward “Tongue out.”

“What?”

“Tongue. Out.”

You blink at him.

He’s completely serious.

“…Always so kinky.”

He closes his eyes like he’s mentally ejecting himself from the conversation “Just do it.”

You stick out your tongue, smug “Ahhh~”

He leans in, inspecting “Slight discoloration… mild irritation… your body’s resisting the stimulant effects.”

You raise a brow “You’ve memorized what this flower does?”

“I know every entry in that ridiculous notebook you leave lying around. Including the one titled ‘Things I Definitely Shouldn’t Eat But Might Anyway’.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh” you say, quieter.

He straightens, expression unreadable “You think I haven’t noticed? The stash in the med bay. The coded labels. You catalog poisons more lovingly than most people talk about their pets.”

You look away “It’s just… interesting. The line between medicine and poison. It’s so thin. One drop too much and—”

“You die.”

“Or you cure something incurable.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Law studies you, tone dropping low “Is that what you want? To be the one who finds what no one else has the guts to touch?”

You meet his gaze “Wouldn’t you?”

His jaw ticks.

“…You should be more careful.”

You grin “But then you’d have no one to lecture.”

Law huffs, walking past you “Bepo’s watching you tomorrow. Don’t test him.”

“Bepo lets me eat weird berries if I tell him they’re for science!”

“Exactly.”

Later that night, as the rest of the crew sleeps, Law leans over the log where you were sitting earlier.

He finds a scrap of petal.

Miracle’s Folly.

He twirls it between his fingers, thoughtful.

“You’re not letting me touch anything…” you whine.

“Correct” Law replies, not even sparing you a glance as he adjusts his gloves.

You’re trudging behind him, Bepo flanking your other side like a very fluffy prison guard. The island is buzzing with life but all you’ve gotten to do so far is stare longingly at roots and flowers like a kid with her nose pressed to a candy store window.

“I’m an herbalist,” you mutter “This is discrimination.”

“It’s self-preservation” Law deadpans.

Bepo pats your shoulder gently “You did try to lick a hallucinogenic frog yesterday.”

“It looked juicy.”

“You said you saw the celestial dragons dancing salsa.”

“…I mean, I did.”

Law shoots you a look over his shoulder.

You grin at him.

By midday, you’re sulking on a log while the others finish whatever they were doing.

You pull out your notebook and begin scribbling, sketches of the strange bulbous blue fruits you passed earlier, notes on the slightly vibrating moss near the creek, and, of course, the effects of Miracle’s Folly.

You don’t notice Law watching you.

He clears his throat “Give me your hand.”

You blink up “Why, so you can handcuff me to Bepo?”

“No,” he says, kneeling in front of you with a small vial “I want to run a test.”

You hesitate, then slowly offer your hand.

He drops a single, translucent drop of something onto your skin. It tingles.

“New tincture?” you ask, curiously sniffing it.

“Neutralized extract of Miracle’s Folly. I isolated it this morning.”

Your eyes light up “You tested it?”

He mutters “Voluntarily. With supervision.”

You snort “So boring.”

“But now I need to observe secondary exposure. You’re uniquely qualified.”

Your heart does a little somersault “You mean I’m special.”

He rolls his eyes “You’re reckless. And resilient.”

“And a little cute?”

“Don’t push it.”

You grin.

Minutes pass. He keeps his fingers on your wrist, counting your pulse with the pad of his thumb.

You try not to think about that.

“It’s steady” he murmurs.

“Disappointed?”

He ignores the question “You’re reacting differently than I expected.”

“How so?”

“Your nervous system is adapting.”

“Like immunity?”

“Like something else” he says, voice quieter now “You’ve been exposing yourself in microdoses, haven’t you?”

You pause.

“…maybe.”

He looks up at you, eyes unreadable “Why?”

You drop your gaze, suddenly unsure.

“It’s not just for fun.” you say “I mean, partly, yes. But it’s more than that. I want to understand them. The poisons. The lines. Everything people fear. I want to know it. Control it. Be stronger than it.”

He’s silent.

You add, softer, “I was sick once. Really sick. No one could help. All the doctors, all the books… nothing. But the old apothecary in my town? She mixed me something that should’ve killed me.”

You glance at him, eyes bright “But it didn’t. It saved me.”

Law doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, his voice is gentler than before.

“You and I aren’t that different.”

You blink.

He rises to his feet, brushing off his coat “But if you ever eat another unknown fungus without telling me, I’m performing surgery with no anesthesia.”

You beam “That’s fair.”

That night, Law catches you adding a drop of something green and shimmering into your tea.

He stares.

You pause “It’s just moss extract.”

He raises a brow.

You sigh “…Okay, mildly hallucinogenic moss.”

He snatches the cup.

“Captain!”

“You can have it back after I test it.”

Your eyes widen.

“…Wait. Are you going to drink it?”

He gives you a rare smirk “For science.”

Your jaw drops. And suddenly, you think you might be falling a little bit in love.

Now you’re staring.

Not at the moss sample.

At him.

Trafalgar D. Water Law, Surgeon of Death, Warlord-turned-revolutionary, terrifyingly brilliant man of mystery… just drank the tea you spiked with a moss known to mildly bend reality.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s nothing.

You blink “That was an experimental dosage.”

“I adjusted for body weight.”

“Oh my god.”

Bepo’s ears twitch “Captain… are you sure that was smart?”

Law gives a slow blink “I’m fine.”

You and Bepo exchange a look.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s very much not fine.

“What… the hell is that?”

You follow Law’s dazed line of sight “That’s… the campfire, Captain.”

He squints.

“It’s breathing.”

You purse your lips “Okay, slightly more than mild hallucinations.”

“Why is it breathing, Y/N.”

“Symbolic warmth?”

He stares at you. His pupils are so dilated.

You pull out a notepad “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I see seven.”

“…I’m holding up two.”

He sways.

You sigh and grab his arm “Alright, that’s enough science for tonight.”

He lets you guide him with surprising ease, mumbling under his breath.

You make it back to the tent just as the hallucinations seem to peak.

“I need to sit” he mutters.

You lower him down gently, watching as he pinches the bridge of his nose “Throbbing temple. Flashing visuals. You’re not vomiting, though… interesting.”

He opens one eye “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” you admit, handing him water “You’re cute when your grip on reality is slipping.”

“Y/N.”

“Mm?”

“There are tiny doctors running in circles around me.”

You blink. Then look around the tent.

“…Well. You’re not wrong.”

You sit next to him. Close, but not touching. It’s oddly quiet for a jungle night.

“Headache?” you ask softly.

He nods once.

You reach up and, very carefully, press your fingers against his temples. Slow circles. He doesn’t flinch.

“Pressure can help the tension pass” you say.

He closes his eyes. Exhales.

You pause “Tell me what else you see.”

“…You.”

You snort “No kidding.”

“No, I mean…” he trails off, brows twitching “You look… soft.”

Your hands freeze “I—what?”

“You’re glowing.”

You’re absolutely not glowing, but...

“Oh” you whisper.

“You’re always buzzing,” he murmurs “Like something dangerous in a pretty bottle.”

You stop breathing for a second.

“Law…” you say, too quietly.

But he’s not done.

“I always thought I hated that. The unpredictability. But now it feels like… I don’t know.”

He leans his head forward, forehead bumping gently against yours.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he breathes “And I think I’m starting to even like it.”

You think your heart just stopped.

“Definitely a side effect…” you whisper, but your fingers are still on his skin, still gently pressing against his temples.

He exhales “I’ll regret saying all of that, won’t I.”

You smile, a little shaken “Only if you pretend it wasn’t true later.”

Silence. He doesn’t move.

Then he mutters “I’m keeping the tea recipe."

You laugh.

Outside the tent, Bepo lowers his paw from the tent flap and whispers to Shachi and Penguin “They’re in love. Told you it wasn’t poison.”

After that, Law pretends nothing happened.

You give him three days.

Three days of ignoring the fact he hallucinated tiny doctors and confessed to liking the chaos you bring to his life. Three days of sidelong glances, awkward silences, and you very purposefully reminding him of the tea incident every time he gets too comfortable.

“Captain,” you say sweetly as you walk by him, “you’re not seeing glowing versions of me today, are you?”

He glares “No.”

“Shame. I looked great in your hallucination.”

He drops his pen. Hard.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

Coward.

Later on - You don’t mean to get sick.

Not really.

It’s just that the vines didn’t look that threatening, and you were pretty sure it was just a paralytic contact toxin, and well… maybe you’d misjudged the concentration.

The world tilts sideways.

You feel your legs give out before your brain registers it.

And then darkness.

You wake to voices.

“…found her by the river. Unresponsive.”

“I told her to stop touching unknown plants. Why can’t she just—”

“She didn’t do it on purpose.”

A long silence.

Then Law’s voice again. Quiet. Cracked.

“She always makes it look like she’s in control. But she’s not.”

You open your eyes.

The ceiling of the Polar Tang greets you. So does a pounding ache in your chest. You shift and wince.

Law’s at your side in an instant.

“Stay down.” he says, low and sharp.

Your voice is hoarse “Didn’t think I’d go out like that. No drama. No romantic poisoning. Just a stupid plant.”

His eyes flicker “It was… dramatic. You stopped breathing.”

“Oh…” you say, blinking.

“I didn’t know what it was. For once, you knew more than me. And I couldn’t—” He swallows the words.

You offer a small smile “So… scared the hell out of you, huh?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just sits back down beside you. Shoulders tense. Jaw clenched.

You watch him, softly “Law.”

“Don’t say it.” he mutters.

“Say what?”

“That I was right. That you should’ve listened. That this was inevitable. That I knew you’d get hurt eventually.”

You tilt your head “Wasn’t gonna say any of that.”

He looks up, surprised.

“I was gonna say,” you murmur, “that I’m sorry I made you worry.”

You reach out weakly, stupidly, and your hand grazes his.

“I forget sometimes,” you whisper “That people care.”

Something breaks in his expression.

“Y/N,” he says tightly, “you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep flirting with death like it’s a hobby.”

“I wasn’t flirting with death.” you tease “That was basically a date. I only flirt with you, Captain.”

He glares.

You smile, and it fades slowly as your fingers curl around his.

“I didn’t want to die. Not really. Not before I figured out what this thing is.”

He blinks “What thing?”

“This,” you whisper “Whatever this is between us. The hallucinations. The confessions. The weird tension where you want to kill me and kiss me at the same time.”

“You’re wrong.” he says.

Your chest tightens “Oh.”

“I don’t want to kill you, you already do that to yourself alone.”

Pause.

“I just want to kiss you.”

You stop breathing.

He leans forward. Slow. Intentional. One hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward him like you’re something fragile and fleeting.

“Captain” you whisper.

“Y/N” he breathes.

And then he kisses you.

It’s gentle, for all of three seconds, then desperate, frustrated, furious about the fact that he was almost losing you.

When he pulls back, you’re both breathless.

“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever studied” he mutters, forehead against yours.

You grin.

“And you’re my favorite side effect.”

── .✦ Portgas D. Ace:

The sun is brutal on the upper deck, but you don’t notice. You’re too busy holding a tiny, glittering vial up to the light with the reverence of someone holding an engagement ring or, in your case, an exciting new potential toxin.

It’s pink. Slightly viscous. Smells faintly like fermented fruit and regret.

Perfect.

“Please tell me you’re not going to drink that.” Marco says behind you, half-exasperated, half-terrified.

“I’m going to sip it,” you say, rolling your eyes “For science.”

“For science?” he repeats.

“For science,” you nod solemnly, uncorking the bottle “And also morbid curiosity.”

He groans “Y/N…”

Too late. You down it in one go.

There’s a moment of silence as you smack your lips thoughtfully.

“…Taste?”

“Like someone dissolved candy in cheap rum and lies.”

“Oh good,” Marco mutters “You’ve poisoned yourself again.”

You wave him off “If I die, I’ll write it down first.”

He opens his mouth to argue but a loud whistle cuts him off.

“Oi!” Ace calls, walking over shirtless, sun-drenched, grinning that smug grin that says I’ve definitely started three fires before breakfast “You experimenting again?”

You nod, blinking a bit “Just something I found in a locked crate under Izo’s bunk.”

Ace raises a brow “You… drank random liquid you found in Izo’s stash?”

“Yes,” you say matter-of-factly “And also, your laugh makes my spine feel weird.”

He stares.

You stare back.

Marco sucks in a sharp breath “Oh no.”

You tilt your head thoughtfully “And your shoulders are distracting. I’ve catalogued seventy-eight poisons but can’t remember what you said this morning because you yawned mid-sentence and I lost focus.”

“…You what?” Ace coughs.

You continue, voice perfectly even “Also, I sometimes fake headaches to watch you carry me to the infirmary. You’re very warm.”

You slam your hands on your mouth to stop it from saying more, while the crew begins to gather like sharks to blood.

Thatch appears holding popcorn. Someone is calling for Izo. There’s actual cheering.

“You’re glowing,” Marco says quietly, inspecting your skin “Shimmering. That’s one of Izo’s truth serums. A prototype he was working on some time ago.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Ace echoes weakly.

You turn to him “Also, I ranked your freckles once. The ones on your jaw are my favorite.”

Ace turns so red you think he might combust without using his powers.

“You… I… how long is this stuff supposed to last?!” he splutters.

You shrug “Few hours, probably. Don’t worry. I’ll be asleep before I get to the part about your hands.”

“What about my hands?!”

“Nothing!” you say, far too quickly “They’re just… statistically… dangerous looking.”

He’s speechless. Marco is already reaching for his notebook.

You’ve become the Moby Dick’s favorite form of entertainment.

You’re still sitting cross-legged on the deck, glittering faintly in the sun like a cursed disco ball, while the Whitebeard Pirates form a loose circle around you.

“Truth serum,” Thatch hums, rubbing his hands together “This is the best day I’ve had in weeks.”

“It’s unethical...” Marco mutters beside him.

“It’s hilarious,” Izo corrects, snapping open a fan and leaning in “Y/N, darling, be honest... who took the last chocolate muffin last week? It was you, am I wrong?”

You open your mouth immediately “Not me. It was Ace.”

“Traitor!” Ace sputters from somewhere behind you.

You shrug “You left crumbs in the storage room. Also, your heartbeat spiked when someone mentioned it at breakfast.”

Everyone turns to Ace. He throws his hands up “It was one time!”

“You licked the wrapper, too.” you add calmly “Twice.”

Someone howls.

“Alright, my turn!” Thatch grins “Y/N, have you ever sabotaged anyone’s food?”

You nod serenely “I put mild laxatives in Namur’s tea once because he wouldn’t stop stealing my ginger cookies.”

Namur gasps “You monster!”

“You deserved it,” you reply without a trace of guilt “You called my medicinal brownies ‘dirt bars.’”

“Next question,” Izo purrs, leaning forward “Have you ever kissed someone on this ship?”

The crew leans in.

You blink “No.”

“Have you thought about it?” Marco asks, suddenly very interested.

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ace.”

The sound Ace makes is somewhere between a squeak and a small, internal detonation.

The crew loses it.

“YES!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“PAY UP, IZO!”

“I had money on Marco, damn it!”

You sigh as if this is all deeply inconvenient, like the truth is just leaking out of you against your will, which, of course, it is.

You say casually “He smells good. Like firewood and something sweet. Maybe toasted sugar. I haven’t narrowed it down yet.”

Ace is covering his face with his hands now, bright red from the neck up.

“Can I go lie down?” you mumble “Or roll into the sea?”

Marco snorts “Not until the glitter wears off.”

Thatch throws an arm around your shoulder “C’mon, Y/N, one more... if you had to kiss anyone else on this ship—”

“I’d rather drink from the mildew jar in my lab.”

“…Fair.”

You blink slowly, tone still deadly calm “Thatch, you once tried to trim your chest hair with surgical scissors. Drunk.”

Thatch chokes “That was off the record!”

“No such thing,” Marco laughs “She’s the serum’s hostage now.”

“I regret nothing,” you reply “Except licking the blue mushroom last month. That hallucination lasted eight hours. I tried to dissect the air.”

Ace groans “Can someone drag her below deck before she tells everyone what I look like shirtless in creepy detail?”

You look straight at him “You’re built like a statue someone made while going through something personal.”

He explodes.

The next morning you’re back to your usual self.

The strange, glittering effects of the truth serum have worn off, leaving you feeling… normal again. You’re busy carefully grinding some herbs into powder, a mixture for your next experiment, when a familiar voice rings out behind you.

“Morning, poison queen.”

You freeze.

“Don’t call me that” you mutter without turning around, but there’s an unmistakable edge of dread in your tone.

Ace slides onto the bench next to you, uninvited, a grin spreading across his face as he leans toward you, looking like he’s about to launch into a full assault.

“Oh, I think I will...” he says, practically purring “You’re the one who told the entire crew how much you love my shoulders, remember?”

You tense “I did not—”

“And those freckles?” Ace raises an eyebrow, already loving the flush spreading across your face “Did you know that Marco bet I’d get at least five different comments on my jawline today? Maybe next time you should be more specific.”

Your eyes snap to his, and you open your mouth to argue but then he continues.

“You really should have warned me before you started cataloging all my features. Or how about when you admitted you fake headaches just so you can get me to carry you to the infirmary?”

The teasing tone in his voice is getting under your skin, and you try to focus on grinding your herbs, but his words are still ringing in your ears.

“You do know that it’s not even the ‘headaches’ you fake that’s the problem, right? It’s that you actually like it when I carry you. Which I can totally tell from the way you always sigh in my arms.”

You bite your lip, cheeks burning, desperate to look anywhere but at him.

“Or how about when you—” Ace’s voice drops low, “—admitted that I smell good? Like firewood and… What was that you said? Oh, right! Toasted sugar!”

You inhale sharply “I never said that.”

“Oh, yes you did, and you know.” he says, leaning in closer, the amusement in his eyes dangerously obvious “And you also said I’m built like a statue. Do you really think I wouldn’t remember that?”

“Shut up.” You finally look up, but your voice is strained as you meet his teasing gaze.

“I mean, I’m just curious,” Ace continues, a little too happily, “how much more stuff you’ve been hiding from me. How long have you been analyzing my muscles, exactly? Do you think they’re… aesthetically pleasing?” He pauses to let the words sink in “Hmm, maybe I should flex for you to get a clearer answer.”

The crew, who had been quietly watching from a distance (but clearly listening), suddenly bursts into laughter, but you just want to curl into a ball and disappear.

“Oh, this is good,” Thatch says, clearly enjoying the show “I never thought Ace would get revenge like this, but here we are.”

“You should see her when she’s trying to make that poison tea thing,” Marco says, shaking his head “She’s way too serious about it, but now we know she’s been obsessed with Ace’s shoulders the whole time.”

“You guys are awful.” you mutter, sinking into your chair, arms crossed tightly across your chest in an attempt to hold yourself together.

Ace, however, is not letting up. He knows the soft spots, and he’s making sure to press every single one of them.

“So, how’s it feel?” Ace grins, tapping your shoulder playfully “Being soooo open about how much you like me? You definitely don’t look uncomfortable at all.”

You shoot him a glare, but it’s hard to stay mad when he’s looking so damn smug about it.

“I don’t know, Ace. It must be so hard for you to carry the weight of being so perfect that I couldn’t stop talking about how handsome you are, huh?” you bite back.

Ace stares at you for a moment, clearly thrown off by your unexpected response. Then he laughs “Oh, that’s rich. You think you can out-tease me?”

“You’re the one who’s been doing it all day.” you shoot back, finally turning to face him fully “Seems like you loved me pointing out all the things I like about you.”

The crew laughs even harder, and Ace’s grin only grows.

“I won.” he says, smug as ever “It’s not my fault you’re so obsessed with me. Honestly, I’m kinda flattered.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.” You roll your eyes, not willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

But Ace doesn’t relent “Admit it, Y/N. You’re in love with me.”

You pause.

“And if I am?” you ask coolly, holding his gaze.

The teasing gleam in his eyes flickers, then vanishes. Ace looks just a little taken aback by the way you’re holding your ground.

“Well…” He scratches the back of his head, clearly flustered now “You’ve already said it once. So I’m just making sure you’re still on the same page.”

And just like that, it’s his turn to feel the heat in his cheeks.

“Well, maybe you should stop teasing me, then.” you say with a sly smile.

Ace grins, shaking his head “Nah, this is fun. You’ll get used to it.”

Now it’s your turn to mess with Ace.

After days of relentless teasing, you’ve decided that it’s time to use his own game against him. He’s made it clear that he loves to toy with you and now, it’s time for him to spill the truth, whether he wants to or not.

The deck is quiet, the crew all doing their own thing, but you know Ace will find you soon. He always does. And, sure enough, as you’re mixing something into a flask in the corner of the kitchen, his voice floats over the rim of the doorway.

“Hey, poison queen,” he says with a grin, clearly thinking of another thing to tease you about “Are you planning to poison the whole crew with whatever concoction you’re making today? Or is it just my poor, unsuspecting self?”

You don’t answer right away, focusing on your work. You’re careful with every motion. Just one drop of this ingredient, and you’ll have him talking like a parrot for hours.

“Alright, alright, what’s in the flask today?” he presses, inching closer “Am I going to shit myself?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling sweetly “Oh, nothing dangerous, I promise.”

“Then why do you look so… suspicious?” Ace narrows his eyes playfully, still not suspecting a thing.

You flash him a mischievous smile, taking the flask with one hand and adding a few drops of your carefully prepared herbal mix into his mug “Just a little something to make sure your day is… interesting.”

Ace raises an eyebrow, but at this point, he’s practically inviting the teasing. He’s completely unaware of the slight adjustment you made. After all, you’ve poisoned your own drinks with far worse. The concoction in his mug isn’t lethal, but it’ll get the job done.

You hand it over with a flourish “Here you go, fire boy. Drink up.”

Ace takes the mug, his smirk growing wider. He’s used to your antics, but he doesn’t know you’ve just pulled the wool over his eyes. He takes a swig, and just as the liquid slides down his throat, you watch him carefully.

But then, a few seconds later, Ace’s expression shifts, his eyes flickering with confusion as he sets the mug down.

“You okay?” you ask casually, keeping your voice neutral.

Ace blinks, a frown tugging at his features “Yeah, just… feel a little weird. Like, light-headed… You didn’t actually put something in here, did you?”

“Oh, it’s just a little herbal remedy,” you say with a shrug, your grin widening “You know, to make you feel better.”

“Well, I do feel better, but I also feel...” he admits with a nervous laugh “Weird.”

That’s your cue. You pull out a chair and sit down, raising an eyebrow “I think we can have some fun with that.”

His eyes flick to yours, unsure “What do you mean?”

“You see, I didn't drink all that bottle the other day. And, well… the thing is,” you continue, now holding his gaze, “you’ve been teasing me for days, Ace. And I’m really curious about how much of what you said was… well, the truth.”

Ace stares at you, confusion melting into realization as the drug starts to kick in, the subtle influence of your concoction making him more vulnerable to his own thoughts.

“Wait, what…?” He shakes his head, trying to focus “This is… a trick, right? Did you really—”

“So, Ace...” you say in a soothing tone, leaning in slightly “Admit it, you like me.”

Ace laughs awkwardly, his eyes unfocused as his lips move to speak without hesitation “Well, uh, yeah. I’ve liked you for a while now… I just thought it’d be funny to make you squirm about it.”

You narrow your eyes, pretending to act surprised “You like me? You’ve been teasing me because you like me?”

He stumbles over his words, but it’s too late to stop himself “Yeah, you’re like… fun. I don’t know how to act around you, okay? Every time I try to be normal, you just—ugh, you get under my skin. And I can’t stop teasing you.”

You smile wickedly, feeling the rush of victory surge in your veins.

“Is that so?” you ask sweetly, letting his confession sink in “And here I thought you were just being a brat.”

"That's just my love language ok? I don't know how to act normal around someone I like, so I just tease and tease and tease."

"Love language?" you ask actually a bit shocked "So you really do like me?? Couldn't you just confess back when I got exposed with that truth telling thing?"

"It's too complicated. I just... didn't know now." he says trying to avoind your eyes.

"You just did it."

"Well, not in a fair way, though."

"I've put nothing in that drink, you idiot..."

Ace freezes “Wait a sec… Are you messing with me right now?” he asks, his voice suddenly more wary “This isn’t real?”

“Oh, it’s very real,” you reply, letting a mischievous grin slip into your expression “The truth serum is working, wihtout even the need to actually use it. You’re just… a little more vulnerable than you think.”

His eyes widen “Wait… wait, what did you do to me?”

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair “Just a little something to get you to spill your guts. But what’s even better is that you’re admitting things you didn’t even realize you were feeling.”

Ace’s face twists as the realization hits him “I—I thought I was poisoned? You… you tricked me into confessing everything?!”

The crew, who has been silently observing the entire exchange, erupts into laughter from all corners of the room. Marco, Izo, and Thatch are barely holding it together, while the rest of the crew seems equally entertained by the spectacle.

“That’s right, fire boy,” you say, leaning closer “You weren’t poisoned at all. You were just brainwashed into thinking you were.”

Ace stares at you, his face redder than ever, looking like he’s ready to combust.

“Yeah, well, now I’m gonna make you regret it” he mutters, his earlier smugness replaced by genuine frustration and something else you can’t quite place.

But for now, you’ve won. And you’ll savor this small victory for as long as you can.

The crew is still chuckling from the aftermath of your little “truth serum” game. You can practically feel the heat radiating from Ace’s flushed face, the sheer embarrassment of his earlier confessions hanging in the air like a cloud.

“Well, Ace,” you say, leaning back in your chair with a smug grin, “I gotta say, you made it pretty easy for me to get all your secrets out.”

Ace grumbles, clearly trying to salvage what’s left of his dignity “I can’t believe I fell for that.” He crosses his arms, glaring at you but clearly not all that mad, more like… flustered.

You lean in a little closer, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips “You did admit a lot, though. Like how much you actually like me.”

That catches him off guard. He stumbles for a moment, as if he wants to deny it, but there’s no escaping the truth now “Well, what can I say, you did say a lot of embarrassing things, too, when you drank that ‘serum’.”

You raise an eyebrow, the teasing still simmering beneath your words “Like what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know, I still think about you counting my freckles…” He flashes you a grin, almost too proud of himself for turning the tables.

You smirk, taking a deep breath “Well, now that I know you like me back…” You pause for effect, leaning even closer, “I can finally say it all again without the need for any truth drink.”

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Ace’s eyes widen slightly, and for a moment, he’s speechless “Wait, what?”

You grin, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort “Yep. So now, I’m free to repeat everything. Your teasing? It’s actually kind of cute. And maybe I even find you hot… especially with that devil fruit power of yours.” You’re clearly enjoying this far too much “Might even be into that.”

Ace is completely flustered now, cheeks burning red, and he stammers, “You… you really are messing with me, huh?”

Before you can answer, he suddenly leans forward, a spark of determination lighting up his eyes “Alright, then, I’ll just prove to you how much I like you.”

You blink, confused “What are you talking about?”

He leans in, his usual cocky grin back on his face “You wanna tell me what you like about me? Then I’ll tell you what I like about you... Like a competition since you like it.”

You tilt your head, intrigued “A competition, huh? Alright. But what’s the catch?”

Ace leans in even closer, voice dropping to a low, teasing tone “No backing out. You have to admit everything you like about me, truthfully, no holds barred.”

Your eyes glint with mischief “Alright, fine. But be warned. You might not like what you hear.”

Ace’s grin only grows wider “I’m all ears, Y/N. Let’s hear it.”

“First off,” you begin, your tone as playful as ever, “I might like how your hair looks like you just rolled out of bed. It’s… charming in a ‘I just woke up and I’m not trying’ kind of way.”

Ace scoffs, looking both proud and a little defensive “Well, you know, some people can’t pull it off, but I do.”

You roll your eyes “And I might find it kind of adorable that you get so riled up when I call you out. Your pride’s kind of cute… in a completely frustrating way.”

Ace stares at you for a second, then grins, almost cocky “I’ll take that as a compliment… for now.”

But before you can continue, someone shouts from the back of the room.

“Get a room, you two!”

The words echo across the deck, and everyone bursts into laughter. Ace’s face turns redder than ever, and for a moment, it looks like he’s about to explode.

“Shut up!” he snaps, but the crew’s laughter is uncontrollable.

But the comment gives Ace an idea. He stands up suddenly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you toward the stairs leading below deck.

“Alright, fine. We’ll take it to my room,” he says, his voice a little breathless but determined “Let’s see how much you really like me.”

You blink, surprised at his boldness, but you can’t hide the grin forming on your face “Ace… you think you can just drag me to your room and get away with it?”

“Maybe,” he says with a sly wink “But you’ll never know unless you come with me.”

You chuckle, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline you get when Ace is being this unpredictable “Alright then, hothead. Lead the way.”

The crew, of course, continues to shout playful remarks as you both head toward his room. Marco just shakes his head with a knowing smile.

Ace’s room door slams shut behind you both, and whatever happens next is anyone’s guess. But one thing is certain, this game of teasing is far from over. And in the end, neither of you is going to back down from it anytime soon.

[cressidagrey]

Family Traditions

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Lando finds out about a Piastri family tradition. 

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando had expected Miami to be loud. He hadn’t expected it to feel quiet beside Oscar Piastri.

The city was buzzing with race weekend electricity—neon signs blinking against glass, palm trees lit up from below, the distant pulse of music weaving through the air like static. Most of the drivers were either holed up with their engineers or attending overpriced sponsor dinners at rooftop bars.

They were supposed to be heading to one of those dinners.

Instead, Lando was standing outside a kitschy tourist gift shop, watching Oscar inspect a faded pink t-shirt that read I Survived the Miami Heat under a cartoon flamingo in sunglasses.

Lando blinked. “You’re not actually buying that.”

Oscar didn’t even flinch. He flipped the tag, checked the fabric like it mattered. “It’s 100% cotton. She’ll love it.”

“She—wait. Bee?”

Oscar nodded, already moving to grab a smaller size. “I get her a shirt in every city.”

Lando stared. “Every city? Like—since when?”

Oscar shrugged, distracted as he sifted through the kids’ section with the ease of habit. “Since last year.”

And suddenly, Lando saw it—how naturally Oscar moved past the mugs, magnets, and tourist bait. How he honed in on the children’s rack like his brain had filed the store layout by instinct. He paused at a glitter-print top, muttered something under his breath about how that’ll flake in the wash, and kept going.

Lando followed him, still stunned. “You never talk about this.”

“It’s not for talking,” Oscar said simply. “It’s for her. Just… something small so she knows I was thinking of her. Even when I’m far away.”

And something about the way he said it—so quiet, so matter-of-fact—settled behind Lando’s ribs like weight.

Oscar finally held up a pale blue shirt with a little beach scene and a smiling sun. “This one. She’ll like the dolphins.”

Lando watched as he paid, folded the shirt so precisely it could’ve come from a boutique, and tucked it into the bag like it was made of glass.

Outside, the Miami air hit them with a wall of heat. Traffic blurred past. Laughter floated down from a rooftop bar. But all Lando could think about was the bag in Oscar’s hand.

“How many does she have?” he asked.

Oscar didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty-eight, I think? I lost track when she started organizing them by fabric content.”

Lando huffed a laugh. “Of course she did.”

“She’s got a whole drawer just for them,” Oscar added, glancing down at the bag like it held a secret. “Felicity says we’ll need vacuum bags soon.”

They walked for a bit in silence. Lando kept sneaking glances—at the gift shop fading into the background, at the way Oscar cradled the handle of the paper bag like it was tethered to something deeper.

And suddenly, Lando didn’t see Oscar the way everyone else did.

Not just the reserved one. The quiet one. The sharp one who never cracked under pressure.

He saw it all differently now.

Oscar didn’t brag about being a dad. Didn’t post curated fatherhood moments on social media. But he carried Bee with him everywhere. In every tiny routine. In the care with which he picked out a souvenir shirt. In the way his voice softened when he talked about her. 

He didn’t talk about his love.

He wore it.

They walked in silence for a moment.

Lando cleared his throat. “You know… I always think of you as, like, the calm one. Logical. You do math mid-corner. You’re composed even when you’re about to throw up in your helmet.”

Oscar snorted. “Appreciate that image.”

“I’m serious,” Lando said, laughing. “You’re chill. Private. But I didn’t see it until now.”

Oscar slowed a little as they passed a gelato cart. His gaze flicked to the flavors—mango, strawberry—and Lando could almost hear him thinking, Bee would’ve picked both.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Oscar said after a pause. “I just never needed anyone else to see it.”

Lando frowned. “Don’t you want to share that, though? Show the world how much they mean to you?”

“I do,” Oscar said. “Just not loudly. I’m not trying to win points for being a good dad. I’m trying to be one. For them. Not for Instagram. Not for a sponsor highlight reel.”

He lifted the bag slightly. “This? It’s just for Bee. She’ll get it when I get home. She’ll squeal like it’s made of gold. And then she’ll wear it to kindergarten and tell everyone dolphins are her favorite animal. Even though last week it was frogs. Then she’ll fold it and put it in the drawer. Maybe one day, when she’s older, she’ll look at all of them and know—really know—that I was always thinking of her. Even when I wasn’t there.”

Lando swallowed past the lump in his throat. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger, huh?”

Oscar smiled, soft and certain. “She had me the second I heard her heartbeat.”

And Lando—who had known Oscar for years, who had raced with him, laughed with him, endured endless simulator hours and team debriefs—suddenly felt like he was seeing his teammate clearly for the very first time.

Not just as a driver.

But as a compass. A man who carried his love not like a burden, but like a map—guiding him back to the people he loved, no matter how far away he went.

“You’re gonna make me cry in the middle of Miami,” Lando muttered, sniffling. “It’s disgusting.”

Oscar chuckled, and they kept walking.

The city roared around them—bright, loud, alive—but between them, it was quiet. The bag with the tiny blue shirt swung between their strides like a soft echo of something much bigger.

And somewhere—half a world away, in a house filled with stars, frogs, and the warmth of soft-worn cotton—a drawer waited.

Ready for a new shirt.

Ready for another piece of proof that love doesn’t have to be loud to be unmistakably present.

***

The house was dark when Oscar got home.

It was nearly midnight, and Miami still clung to him—sand in the cuff of his jeans, humidity in his skin, the thrum of race day still humming through his bloodstream like a second heartbeat. His body was sore in the way that came from too much sitting and not enough rest. The flight had been long. The layover longer. But it didn’t matter.

Because he was here. He was home.

They had the win. Lando had his first win.

Oscar had stood back and watched the moment unfold—watched the confetti fall, the photos flash, the jokes fly in press conferences and interviews. He’d clapped Lando on the back and meant every bit of pride in it.

But now… now it was quiet. And Oscar had finally made it back to the only finish line that mattered.

He let himself in quietly, the soft click of the door unlocking sounding louder in the stillness of the hallway. He dropped his duffel by the entryway, shoulders slumping under the weight of the weekend and the travel and the emotional high of watching someone he’d grown up with claim a victory they’d both dreamed of.

The scent of lemon soap and vanilla laundry softener hit him the moment he stepped into the living room—familiar, comforting, home. There was a soft golden glow spilling from the corner lamp, left on like a lighthouse waiting for a sailor to return.

And there, on the kitchen counter, propped up neatly beside the fruit bowl, was a note in Felicity’s looping handwriting:

“She tried to wait up for you. Made it to 8:42. There’s banana bread in the kitchen. We love you.”

Oscar stood still for a moment, the kind of still that only came when your body stopped but your heart didn’t.

He reached for the paper bag next. The same one he’d carried through Miami like it held something delicate. The one Lando had teased him about in the gift shop while tourists took selfies with flamingo mugs and tank tops.

He pulled the tissue aside gently.

The tiny pale blue t-shirt was still folded perfectly inside. The smiling sun, the cheerful dolphins, the quiet promise stitched into every thread: Even when I’m far away, I’m thinking of you.

He set it down beside the note, as carefully as he would have placed a trophy.

Then he moved down the hallway, socked feet silent on the floorboards, the rhythm of his steps unconsciously slowing as he reached the door to Bee’s room.

He pushed it open just a crack.

Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of the star-shaped nightlight near her bed. She was curled up under her favorite blanket, the one with little constellations on it. Her pajamas glowed faintly—tiny stars twinkling against soft cotton. Button the Frog was tucked beneath her chin like a loyal soldier, and her curls had exploded in every direction, a wild halo of sleep and safety.

Oscar leaned against the doorframe and just watched.

Her chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. Her little hand twitched once, reaching for something in a dream. And his heart ached—not with sadness, but with fullness.

This. This was the part no one saw. Not the finish line. Not the press photos.

Just this: the quiet joy of coming home.

He stepped in and adjusted her blanket gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead and smoothing one rogue curl from her cheek.

She stirred, barely, but didn’t wake.

He whispered, “I brought your dolphins.”

Then slipped out of the room, closing the door with the care of someone who knew exactly how to keep the hinges from creaking.

Back in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water and cut a slice of banana bread, leaning against the counter in silence. The house didn’t feel empty. It felt held. Full of all the little things that made a life.

The shirt sat there beside the note, ready for tomorrow.

Ready for Bee’s excited squeal. Ready for her to declare it her favorite, until the next one.

Oscar smiled to himself, soft and tired.

He didn’t need fireworks. Didn’t need a podium.

He had this. He had them. And that was everything.

***

The next morning was a blur of cereal, milk drips, and tiny sock negotiations.

Bee tore into the kitchen like a whirlwind, hair halfway brushed, dragging Button behind her by one leg and already mid-sentence about how she definitely didn’t need help squeezing her own orange juice.

Felicity was at the sink, mug in one hand, quietly laughing at the chaos while Oscar leaned against the counter, bleary-eyed and barefoot, watching his daughter with a sleepy sort of awe. She really was a force of nature, even at 6:18 a.m.

He slid into the seat beside her just as she climbed into her booster, and without a word, placed the folded paper bag in front of her plate.

Bee gasped—gasped—like he had just handed her the Holy Grail. Her little hands flew to her mouth. “Miami?” she whispered.

Oscar nodded, resting his chin in his hand, watching her with barely-contained amusement.

She opened the bag like it was made of velvet, slowly peeling back the tissue paper and pulling out the dolphin shirt like it might float if she let go.

“It’s perfect,” she breathed. Her voice had dropped to a whisper, full of reverence, as if the dolphins themselves might hear her. “They’re smiling at me again, Papa.”

Oscar felt his chest pull tight. Every mile, every race, every layover—it was all worth it just for that sentence.

“You like it?” he asked softly.

“I love it. Thank you, Papa,” Bee clutched the shirt to her chest like it was a treasure map. “I’m going to wear it forever.”

“Maybe not forever,” Felicity chimed in from the sink, though her voice was warm with laughter, and her phone was already in her hand, camera open. “But at least until you outgrow it and Papa adds it to the drawer.”

Bee’s eyes widened, another gasp escaping her like she’d remembered a sacred duty. “The drawer! I need to fold it and rank it!”

She slid off her chair with a speed that defied gravity, dolphin shirt in one hand, Button flapping in the other as she bolted down the hallway.

Oscar watched her go, shaking his head, a small laugh caught in his throat.

“Snuggle rating pending,” he muttered.

Felicity crossed the kitchen and nudged his knee gently with hers as she sat beside him. “She really likes it. She really loves you,” she added, and this time her voice was quieter. Her hand slipped onto his knee, thumb brushing a circle there like she knew exactly what he needed to hear. “You know, she told me yesterday that she never feels like you’re gone. Even when you are.”

Oscar blinked. “Because of the shirts?”

Felicity looked at him like he’d just missed the point entirely. “Because of you. But yeah—the shirts help.”

He swallowed, something tender and almost fragile in the way his hand covered hers.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kitchen warm with sunlight and the background noise of Bee yelling from her room:  “THE NEW ONE IS SOFT LIKE A PILLOW BUT WITH BETTER VIBES!”

Oscar chuckled. “What does that mean?”

Felicity shook her head, grinning into her mug. “You’d have to ask the pillow.”

Then she looked back at him, smirking. “You know, Lando texted me after you bought that shirt. Said he cried in the middle of a tourist shop.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “He told me it was ‘disgusting.’”

“He said, quote: ‘Disgusting. I nearly cried in a tourist shop. I want to hug Bee and write a novel about fatherhood. I’m spiraling.’”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds about right.”

Felicity stood and reached for the dish towel, only for Oscar to wrap his arms around her waist from behind.

“Still think I should’ve bought the flamingo one,” he murmured into her shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she replied, leaning back into him with a smile.

“Lucky,” he echoed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He looked down the hallway where Bee’s voice had now reached a new level of excited shrieking.

“AND IT’S 100% COTTON!”

Oscar closed his eyes and smiled against her hair. “I think I’m the luckiest person alive.”

Felicity turned in his arms, looked up at him, and said simply, “We are.”

And somewhere, in a small bedroom lined with dreams, a frog prince plush, and the faint glow of plastic stars, a drawer clicked shut around a new memory—folded soft and pale blue, sunlit and sea-sweet, nestled right between “Baku: Fast Fast FAST” and “Melbourne: I Was Born Here.”

A drawer full of shirts. A drawer full of love.

Proof, once again, that some things don’t need to be loud to be absolutely everything.

[reilemon]

Powdered Gold

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ synopsis: When you invited Caleb to stay at your place in hopes of rekindling your friendship, you didn’t realize you’d be inviting the feelings you shunned years ago. You both changed, but what you feel for each other hasn’t—and maybe, this time, you’ll be brave enough to reach for it.

♡︎ pairing: Caleb x fem!reader

♡︎ tags: fluff, angst, smut, Caleb calls you pipsqueak (and always will in my fics), Caleb is a virgin, but reader isn't, oral (both of them giving and receiving), creampie as always

♡︎ word count: 10.3k

♡︎ a/n: this is my first time writing Caleb, so pls be nice to me ok??

♡︎ this is not beta read but i'm still giving a shout-out to my bestie ♡︎@its-de♡︎

divider by @/anitalenia

Caleb’s voice echoes from the bathroom, breaking you out of your thoughts. “How many body lotions does one person need?”

You roll your eyes but don’t respond immediately. Instead, you smooth the fabric of his shirt between your fingers before placing it on a hanger in your closet. Then you go to the bathroom.

You lean on the doorway, crossing your arms, “You’re not being a very pleasant house guest with comments like that.”

He’s standing in the shower, placing his travel size toiletries in one corner, his back turned to you. “And you’re not bein’ a very nice host for making your guest sleep on the sofa.”

You roll your eyes again.

This was your idea. That’s what you remind yourself as you watch Caleb settle into your space like he’s always belonged there. You were the one who matched your vacation days with his, and invited him to stay here instead of a hotel.

It made sense. You hadn’t seen much of each other since he came back, just a few meetups here and there, a handful of nights at his place. But now, for the first time in what felt like years, neither of you had somewhere else to be.

The sight of him here, snooping around your bathroom after setting down the toiletries you know he’ll use up in a day before inevitably stealing half of yours, warms your heart. When you’re like this - so close to him, grabbing his wrist to drag him out of the bathroom because ‘why are you inspecting every corner, you’re so weird!’  - and when he lets out that impish chuckle as he says ‘but I need to get acquainted with my vacation place.’ - it feels like nothing has changed.

Like there are no threats in the shadows. Like both of you haven’t lost a little light in your eyes.

But you have.   

And now, watching him here, so effortlessly at home in your space, you’re not sure if it’s comforting or bittersweet.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Time quickly passed while helping him unpack and putting away his stuff, and now it’s already dinnertime and you’ve worked up an appetite. You glance, from where you’re sitting on the sofa, at Caleb who’s rolling up his sleeves before opening your fridge. Before he can ask you anything, you stand up and start walking towards the coat rack.

“Since I am such a gracious host,” you begin, earning Caleb’s attention and he turns to you, “I’ve decided to spare you of your cooking duties on your first day – “

“It’s dinnertime.” Caleb intercepts, with a mock offence in his voice.

You ignore him. “We’re going to one of my favorite places to eat.”

He closes the fridge and turns to you, crossing his arms. “That is too vague. Do I need to change and wear something fancy? Is it your treat?”

“Do you want to come or not?”

“Sure!”

You toss him his jacket and when you reach for your purse you remember something. “Oh, wait – I got you something.”

You dig into your purse and pull out a brand-new lip balm, holding it up with a triumphant look. Caleb eyes it, then sighs.

“You’re so thoughtful. Thanks.” His flat tone as he accepts it makes you grin.

“It’s extra moisturizing so I don’t have to keep looking at your dry lips.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh? Why do you want to keep staring at my lips?”

Heat spreads across your face instantly. You immediately look away, mumbling, “I’m not staring.”

He hums, unscrewing the cap as he tilts his head. “What was that, pipsqueak?”

You exhale sharply, ignoring him. But the moment he swipes the balm across his lips, with orange glow of sunset spilling over his face, you can’t help but steal a glance. And you just know he catches it. But, for once, he doesn’t tease. He just smirks knowingly.

You grab your jacket a little too quickly. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t say anything, just follows, still smirking as he tucks the lip balm into his pocket.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

By the time the two of you return to your apartment, you feel sleep already overtaking you. The dinner turned into wandering around some shops, then you had smoothies, then Caleb insisted walking around more to burn off calories. Usually, an evening like that wouldn’t be so tiring if you didn’t spend the whole day cleaning and tidying up, and then picking him up at the train station. And there were these waves of butterflies in your stomach, that would appear whenever you thought of him. It was draining, and frustrating.

But not confusing.

You thought those feelings had disappeared. You really did. But as the years passed and you started a new life here—new city, new people, new experiences—you told yourself you’d moved on. You had to.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you fluff up his pillow after slipping it inside a fresh and clean pillowcase. You already took a shower, stole one of his baggy shirts and paired them with pajama shorts and fuzzy socks. While he’s in the bathroom, you decided to set up the bedding on the sofa, since you’re sure he must be tired as well, even if he’s not showing it. As always.

Though your body feels like velvet, heavy with exhaustion, you still accept Caleb’s suggestion to watch a movie before bed.

"We don’t have to watch it tonight." Caleb lingers in the doorway, eyes flicking over your sleep-heavy expression.

"I’m fine!" You try to sound convincing, but you’re already tugging the duvet over yourself. "I just need to lie down."

Caleb huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he watches you nestle deeper into the cushions, head resting on the pillow meant for him.

"It’s so nice and cozy in here," you murmur, voice already thick with drowsiness. The crisp, freshly washed bedding cocoons you, pulling you under.

He chuckles, stepping closer and tapping your legs, silently telling you to move. "You’re just trying to convince me that this is comfortable for me."

Before you can protest, he takes your legs and settles them over his lap.

Your body stiffens at the contact. This is normal. It should be normal. It’s not the first time he’s had your legs in his lap. You inhale deeply, telling yourself to relax, to stop overthinking. You’re just getting used to his presence again.

Though, suddenly, you don’t feel so sleepy anymore.

The movie plays on the TV, filling the space with voices and background noise. Comfortable silence settles between you both, broken only by occasional remarks—mostly Caleb critiquing the acting. Of course he can’t keep quiet even during a movie. You fight the urge to roll your eyes, but the annoyance fades the moment his hands slide under the covers, grazing over your shins.

He glances at you, voice low. "You seem a little tense. Was the walk too exhausting?"

Your breath catches for a second before you close your eyes, exhaling slowly. His fingers press against the tight muscles in your calves, kneading gently.

"Maybe a little." you murmur, your voice softer than intended.

He murmurs a small apology, letting his hands make it up to you. He presses and kneads with just the right amount of pressure, his thumbs digging into spots that unravel you far too easily.

Heat blooms deep inside you, catching you off guard.

He works his way down, his palms smoothing over your ankles, rolling slow circles there before moving to your feet. The added texture of your socks only makes it worse—the friction, the warmth of his skin through the fabric, the way his thumbs press into the soles of your feet, it makes it so much harder to focus on the movie.

You bite your lip, pulse thrumming. A small sound threatens to escape your throat, and you swallow it back before lifting your legs off his lap. You murmur a small “thank you” and curl up on your side, your gaze now glued to the screen.

Caleb teases you, saying you look like you’re about to pass out. And even though you mumble a half-hearted protest, swearing you’re still awake, your eyes flutter closed before the movie is over.

His presence might be the source of your simmering frustration, of all the feelings you’re trying to ignore—but it’s also the most comforting one you’ve ever known.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes open, it’s already morning. Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over your room. You’re warm, nestled beneath the comforter, a plushie tucked securely in your arms. A sleepy smile tugs at your lips as you nuzzle against it. You don’t remember how you got to bed, but you don’t need to think too hard about it. Caleb must have carried you here last night, just like he always used to, slipping back into old habits as if no time had passed at all.

The scent of something familiar drifts in from the kitchen, rich and savory. He’s up, moving around the kitchen, already making breakfast.

You stretch lazily before dragging yourself out of bed, moving through your morning routine. After freshening up and changing into more presentable loungewear, you step into the living room.

"Look who’s awake!" Caleb’s voice greets you the moment you enter. His back is turned as he works at the counter, only glancing over his shoulder briefly before returning to whatever he’s preparing.

You groan, voice still laced with sleep. “I don’t want to hear the usual ‘by the time you got up I already jogged’ and blah blah blah!” Caleb laughs at your mocking tone, shaking his head as he grabs a pair of plates from the cabinet. He starts setting the table, saying something in response, but his words blur in the background when your eyes catch on something unexpected.

A pillowcase. His pillowcase.

It’s hanging on the drying rack by the window, the fabric swaying slightly from the morning breeze. Your brows knit together.

"When did—why did you wash this?" You gesture toward it, confusion clear in your voice. "It was completely clean."

Caleb barely falters. "It was, but I drooled on it last night," he says easily, still arranging the table. "Didn’t want to make too much noise, so I hand-washed it."

You huff a small laugh, tempted to tease him for drooling, but for some reason, you don’t. Maybe he was exhausted. Or maybe your scent bothered him. Your stomach tugs uncomfortably at the thought, but you brush it off before it can settle. Don’t be ridiculous.

Instead, you take a seat across from him, scanning the breakfast spread. He made everything you like in the morning—even bought coffee from one of your favorite coffee shops. The warmth in your chest is immediate, dangerously soft, dangerously familiar.

“You should quit the colonel position,” you look up from the bowls and plates, meeting his gaze properly since you walked in – he’s already watching you, a hint of amusement in his eyes, “A – and be my personal chef.”

Damn it.

Heat creeps up your neck at the stumble in your voice.

He shakes his head with a small chuckle, setting a glass of water in front of you. "I wouldn’t mind that."

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The room is bathed in the dim, flickering light of the television, casting soft shadows across the coffee table cluttered with half-eaten snacks. The scent of buttered popcorn lingers in the air, warm and familiar, mixing with the faint traces of Caleb’s cologne. He sits comfortably beside you, one arm draped along the back of the sofa, his posture relaxed, his focus on the screen in front of him.

You should be watching too. After all, you’re the one who recommended it, but Caleb wanted to wait, saying he’d rather watch it for the first time with you instead of on his own.  And now, here you are, barely paying attention at all.

Your eyes are glued to the phone screen, and every so often, a quiet giggle escapes you, fingers tapping swiftly against the glass as you reply to messages. You don’t notice the way Caleb’s gaze flickers to you from the corner of his eye. You don’t register the barely-there tightening of his jaw as you keep getting distracted, your smile aimed at a screen instead of him.

At first, he says nothing. He lets the minutes pass, lets you have your moment, but with every small laugh, every glance downward, his patience begins to fray at the edges.

Who the hell is so funny?

He shifts beside you, stretching slightly, making himself known, a silent reminder that he’s still here. But you don’t even glance up.

Fine.

The movement is swift—before you can react, Caleb reaches over and snatches your phone out of your hands.

“Caleb!” You protest in disbelief.

He leans back against the sofa, holding your phone just out of reach, with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

"I thought we were watchin’ this together?"

You blink at him, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity, before a scoff escapes you. "Did you seriously just take my phone?"

He shrugs, turning it over in his hands, inspecting it, like he has every right to.

Your eyes narrow. "That is a violation of privacy."

His smirk widens slightly, thumb hovering just over the screen. "So what were you laughin’ at?"

You sigh in defeat. Time to change the tactic.

You lunge for your phone without hesitation, but he’s faster—his arm lifts easily, keeping it just out of reach, and he leans away, making you chase after it.

"Caleb—!"

The next few seconds is a blur of limbs, the glowing screen of your phone, and breathless laughter.

You scramble onto your knees, grappling at his wrist, stretching upward, trying to reach the device, but he moves effortlessly, dodging you like this is nothing. You nearly lose your balance in the process, your hands bracing against his chest—

Fuck, those muscles are strong.

Caleb chuckles at your failed attempt, his grip on your phone still firm, completely unbothered by your struggling.

You’re not giving up that easily.

With renewed determination, you grab at his wrist again, pushing against him with your full weight, throwing him slightly off balance. Your bodies end up in a tangled mess of limbs as both of you topple on your side onto the cushions. His body is so close, his warmth suddenly everywhere. Your breath catches, but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because you notice a slight flinch when your fingers brush against his ribs.

You blink up at him as realization dawns, slow and sweet and far too tempting.

Caleb’s expression shifts instantly. "Don’t."

A slow, dangerous smile spreads across your lips.

You dig your fingers into his side, and he twists in protest, his muscles flexing as he tries to escape you. His laugher is light and carefree - and it is the most unfairly attractive sound you’ve always loved.

You falter for a second too long.

Caleb doesn’t waste the opportunity. Before you can react, he grips your wrist, and with ridiculous ease, he flips you onto your back. By the time you catch your breath, he’s already caging you in, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

Everything stills for a moment. His breathing is heavier now. Yours is too. The TV hums softly in the background, but neither of you are listening. Your phone has slipped onto the carpet, forgotten. His grip isn’t tight, isn’t restricting, but it keeps you in place. Caleb’s gaze lingers on you, no trace of teasing left in his expression. And something about that - the way he’s looking at you, about the weight of his body pressing against yours, how his chest rises and falls above you—sends a slow, unbearable warmth curling through you.

But then, just as easily as he pinned you down, he lets go. You sit up quickly, forcing a small laugh, brushing off the moment like it was nothing. Caleb leans back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair before reaching down and lazily tossing your phone back to you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop stealin’ your stuff. For now.”

You roll your eyes, unlocking the screen, but you hesitate for a second before speaking. “I know it was rude to text during the movie,” you admit, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “I was just talking to my friends about tomorrow.”

Caleb doesn’t react at first. He’s stretching out his legs, seemingly unfazed, “Yeah?” his voice is too neutral. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

“I already made plans to go out with them.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, something quickly buried, masked with indifference. He exhales through his nose, nodding, like he’s completely unbothered.

“Cool.”

"I won’t be out late," you say quickly, feeling a pang of guilt. “Just a couple of drinks, maybe some dancing. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, eyes flicking back to the screen, but his jaw is tighter now.

You hesitate, studying him for a moment, before offering a small smile. "If it makes you feel better, you can come pick me up.”

That makes him glance at you, his eyes softer now. “Yeah. Alright.” Then he takes the TV remote to pause the movie, and now his full focus is on you. “So, what are you gonna to wear?”

The question makes you flustered, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “I don’t know.” You admit quietly. It is the truth, which is why you’ve been texting your friends during the movie. But he hasn’t seen you in anything revealing before—not really. Not outside of tiny glimpses in summers past, when you’d lounge around in shorts and tank tops, never once thinking about how his eyes followed you.

And it shouldn’t be a big deal. It wouldn’t matter if you weren’t so unbearably attracted to him.

You spent too much time getting ready this morning. From the cozy loungewear you’d picked out before breakfast, to the outfit you chose for your day out with him, to the subtle refresh of your makeup before settling down for the movie—it had all been intentional. Every choice, every small detail, designed to make you look effortlessly good.

“Why don’t you show me the outfits you had in mind?” He asks, leaning back against the sofa, “Maybe I can help you.”

You force yourself to exhale, keep your tone light. "Fine. But don’t be annoying about it."

Caleb smirks, tilting his head slightly. “No promises.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You disappear into your room, trying to shake off the ridiculous way your body reacted to that simple suggestion. You shouldn’t care. It’s Caleb. He’s seen you barefaced and half-asleep, wrapped in blankets, wearing mismatched pajamas. He’s been around you long enough to know every version of you.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress. It’s soft beneath your fingertips, sleek and form-fitting, hugging the shape of you in a way that suddenly feels too revealing. You refuse to dwell on it.

You smooth your hands over the fabric before stepping out, ignoring the way your pulse picks up the moment you re-enter the living room.

And the moment you do, Caleb stills.

He doesn’t shift, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t offer some offhanded remark the way you expect him to. He just watches, his gaze moving over you. Then, his brows pull together slightly, his head tilting as if he’s weighing something in his mind.

"Hm. I don’t know."

You gasp, almost appalled at the comment. “What do you mean you don’t know?” You’re trying your best to sound normal, and not like your cheeks are burning under his gaze. He looks effortlessly handsome, sprawled across the sofa with his arms draped over the backrest, legs spread in a way that makes him seem both completely at ease and utterly in control of the space around him.

His eyes lift to yours. "Turn around for me."

The request is effortless, spoken with the same ease as everything else he says. But something about it—the quiet authority in his voice, the way his gaze stays locked onto yours, unblinking—makes your skin prickle.

You try to shake off the thought, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Turn around? What, am I on a runway?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Exactly. Indulge me.”

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You try on another dress, stepping out with a little more confidence this time, expecting at least some approval. But Caleb only exhales, tilting his head slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

"Not my favorite."

You huff, retreating into your room once again, determined to find something he can’t find an issue with. But it becomes a pattern. No matter what you put on, Caleb always has something to say.

"That one’s not very practical."

"You’ll be freezing in that."

"It’s fine, I guess."

But you’re not stupid. The pattern is glaringly obvious—the more revealing the dress, the less he seems to like it.

After one final unimpressed hum from him, you let out an exasperated breath. There’s a pile of clothes on your bed and your muscles are aching from the endless zip-twirl-sigh routine. “Okay,” you snap, sharper than intended, “you’re officially no help.”

Caleb smirks, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. “Just bein’ honest.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for your phone on the coffee table. "Whatever. I’ll just ask my friends."

You barely hear whatever excuse he’s offering now, his voice a low murmur in the background as you tap out a message. Then, an idea pops up in your head. You glance up from your screen, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You should go out as well.”

Caleb stops, his gaze flicking to yours, just for a second. Then, he shakes his head, exhaling lightly. “Clubs aren’t really my scene.”

You nod, finishing your message and sending it off before locking your phone. You lean your shoulder against the wall, the cool surface pressing against your heated skin.

"Well, who knows—" your tone is casual, "you might meet a cute girl."

His laugh is hollow. “Doubt that’s happening.”

“Oh?” You tilt your head slightly, feigning innocence. “You have someone back home?”

The room stills.

You notice Caleb’s jaw shifting just slightly before his frown deepens. It’s not irritation—not exactly.

"I don’t." His voice is steady. Then, his gaze sharpens, latching onto yours, his expression more serious than before. "I would’ve told you, like I promised."

A breath catches in your throat.

"Like we promised."

Caleb’s words linger. I would’ve told you. Like we promised. You stare at him, throat tightening as his gaze sharpens—he’s studying you, dissecting the guilt spreading across your face.

“You never told me,” he says, voice deceptively casual, “if you ever liked someone.”

Your phone buzzes in your hand, but you barely register it. You don’t want to answer this question. You swallow, but your throat feels dry. "We weren’t talking as much." The words come out quieter than you intend, "It didn’t seem relevant."

“Relevant.” He repeats.

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even as something in your chest tightens. "You can’t deny we grew apart, Caleb." The words claw their way up, bitter and ugly, “And you're the one to talk - as someone who decided to go no-contact for months.” and the second they leave your mouth, you regret them.

You watch his face shift from stunned to something that looks an awful lot like hurt.

Before he can speak, you sink onto the sofa beside him, your scarred knee bumping his. “I’m sorry.” you curl your fingers into the fabric of your dress to keep from reaching for him. “I didn’t mean that.”

His eyes soften and a sigh leaves his lips. Then, the faint pressure of his palm settles on your head, the familiar gesture offering comfort. “You don’t have to apologize,” he says, voice low.

You lean into his touch, eyes burning. “But I am sorry.”

“I know.” His hand stills, heavy and warm. “So am I.”

The admission is so quiet you almost miss it. You glance up, but he’s already looking away, jaw clenched against whatever else wants to spill out. So am I for leaving. So am I for coming back broken. So am I for loving you like a man who was never meant to fly—reaching for the only light that ever felt like home, even knowing that if I get too close, you’ll be the one who burns.

You don’t press. Instead, you let your shoulder bump his. He exhales, tension seeping out of him as his hand slips down to cradle the nape of your neck. "Come on, pips." His voice is quieter now, lighter. "We should get some sleep."

The argument dissolves, but the ache remains—a bruise you’ll both keep pressing, to remind yourselves it’s real.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

Even though it was late, you had insisted on finishing the rest of the movie, clinging to the familiar comfort. You slipped back into the playful banter – you had whined about the pile of clothes still sitting on your bed, blaming him for it. Caleb, ever unbothered, had only smirked and offered to neatly put them away tomorrow.

While he was in the shower, you took the time to make up the sofa, tucking the sheets with more care than necessary. When he stepped out of the bathroom, hair damp, skin warm from the heat of the water, you didn’t comment on the familiar citrus scent clinging to him—the scent of your body lotion.

You’d exchanged a quiet goodnight before retreating to your bedroom, closing the door behind you.

Grabbing the pile of discarded clothes, you stacked them onto the armchair in the corner, ignoring the mess for now. You had planned on wearing your usual pajama tank top, but Caleb had insisted you wear one of his shirts again, claiming it was more comfortable.

You’re here now - lying beneath the comforter, pajama shorts brushing against soft sheets, the soft fabric of his shirt enveloping you, and yet still— you’re completely awake. Your eyes remain wide open, staring into the darkness, as if sleep might find you if you just keep pretending you’re not thinking about him.

You shift beneath the comforter, rolling onto your side, then onto your back, only to flip your pillow to the cooler side and press your cheek against it. The softness offers no relief.

A deep sigh slips past your lips, but the weight in your chest remains.

I should have told him.

You should’ve told him about the men you’ve dated. You should’ve kept your promise. That’s what he did. But you tell yourself, keep comforting yourself, that at some point your lives drifted apart. When time and distance made him feel more like a memory, you thought it didn’t matter anymore.

Except it did. It mattered to Caleb.

He’d said it plainly —I would’ve told you—as if keeping that promise was as simple as breathing. No loopholes. No expiration dates.

Your breath hitches slightly, something twisting in your chest. You roll onto your side again, eyes drifting toward the empty space beside you.

The dull ache in your lower back pulls at your attention, a stiffness lingering in your shoulder. You shift slightly, frowning at the discomfort— a souvenir from last night when you’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He had carried you to bed, made sure you were comfortable. And now, he’s the one out there, sleeping on the same sofa, crammed into a space too small for him.

The guilt creeps back in.

Finally, with a sigh of surrender, you throw off the covers and rise from your bed. You move carefully through the dark, the wooden floor cool beneath your bare feet as you make your way toward the living room.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

The apartment is silent, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, and as you reach the doorway, you pause, peering inside. Your eyes take a moment to adjust, but you can already make out the shape of him—Caleb, stretched out on the sofa, one arm draped over his stomach, his breathing steady. For a second, you think he’s asleep -

"Can’t sleep?" His voice is quiet, but in the stillness of the apartment, it still makes you flinch.

You step closer, your gaze meeting his, even in the dark. “You should sleep in my bed tonight.”

There’s silence for a moment. You can’t make out his expression, but you can feel the hesitation in the way he exhales slowly.

Then you hear a soft chuckle. “I’m perfectly fine here.”

You narrow your eyes, irritation mixing with your exhaustion. Of course, he’s being stubborn. Any other night, you might have tried to coax him with teasing, maybe thrown in a snarky remark or the fact that he’d be doing the same thing for you if the roles were reversed.

But it’s late, and you don’t have the patience for an argument you know you’re going to win anyway.

So instead, you move without warning.

With one swift motion, you snatch the duvet right off his body, yanking the pillow from beneath his head before he can even react. A startled breath escapes him, but you don’t wait for a protest.

You’re already retreating toward your bedroom, grumbling under your breath, "I’m trying to be nice here."

Behind you, Caleb exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He doesn’t argue this time, just watches for a moment before finally pushing himself up from the sofa and following.

By the time he steps inside, you’re already back beneath your comforter, curled on your side. The mattress shifts slightly as he settles in beside you, his presence familiar yet suddenly overwhelming.

“Goodnight,” you say, too stiffly.

“Night.” His reply is softer.

You close your eyes, and the fact that he is sleeping in a comfortable bed eases your mind long enough to let you drift off to sleep.

⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

When your eyes blink open, the darkness feels denser, heavier. The digital glow of your nightstand clock blinks 3:07 AM. You're not sure if you ever truly slept or if your mind simply hovered somewhere between dream and wakefulness.

The room is silent, save for the distant murmur of the city and the steady rhythm of Caleb’s breathing behind you—deep, even, grounding. You listen for a moment, letting the sound soothe you, lulling your nerves the same way it always used to. From the sound of it, he managed to fall asleep.

Slowly, carefully, you shift onto your other side, moving as if the smallest rustle might wake him. Your body rolls toward him, your eyes adjusting to the dark until his silhouette takes shape in front of you. He’s asleep, facing you. The moonlight spills in through the slit in the curtains, illuminating his face with delicate silver light. His brows are relaxed, mouth slightly parted, and one cheek is gently squished against the pillow.

Seeing him like this makes you smile, faint and bitter-sweet. He looks like a memory. Like all those nights you used to crawl into his bed after a nightmare, when he’d shift just enough to let you under the covers, barely awake but always aware of you, always there.

But the warmth of that memory fades almost as quickly as it came. Guilt rises like bile, acrid and insistent.

I don’t blame you.

You should have said that. You wish you had. When you apologized earlier, when you sat beside him trying to make up for your comment, you should’ve said that too. Because it’s true. You don’t.

You understand why he disappeared. You understand why he didn’t call, why he let you think he was gone—you know that he did it to protect you.

But the girl who slept with his necklace clutched in her fist for months, who scrubbed explosion residue from her hair until her scalp bled—she blames him. A splinter of her still does, lodged too deep to dig out.

Your eyes sting, but you blink quickly, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

You focus on the rhythm of his breathing, his lashes that cast delicate shadows on his cheeks, the slight sheen on his lips. He is right here.

So close you could reach out and touch him. So close you can feel the warmth coming off his body.

And yet, so impossibly far.

But wasn’t he always?

Hadn’t he always felt just beyond reach, even when you shared the same space, the same roof, the same memories?

You had spent so many years convincing yourself he didn’t see you that way—that his devotion was born out of duty, not desire. That he was bound to you by shared history, not longing. You told yourself that he saw you as something fragile, something to protect—not something to love.

But there were glances. Touches that lingered longer than they should have. But he never crossed the line. Never let himself want aloud.

So you told yourself he didn’t want to. That he couldn’t. That you weren’t something he was allowed to reach for.

And that’s why you found distractions. That’s why you chased comfort in other people. Because if you couldn’t have him, you had to have something.

But now, lying here beside him, in the quiet of your own bed, there are no distractions. No excuses. No distance left to hide behind. And suddenly, you wonder—

What if he wanted more?

What if he was always waiting for me?

You could wake him now. Could trace your fingertips over his eyelids, could say the words that have lived in the marrow of your bones since before you knew their name. I loved you then. I love you now.

But your lips won’t move. Your hand won’t reach out. Instead, all that comes is the memory of the aching regret that followed you around when you grieved him, whispering your sins in the dark - You should have told him. You should have been brave.

But now—he’s alive. He’s here. He’s right beside you.

But nothing is the same.

And even if you let yourself reach for him, even if you handed over every buried feeling and begged him to take it—the world around you hasn’t changed.

The people who tried to destroy you once are still out there, still watching, still hunting. There are still shadows at your back, and Caleb has always been the one who walks toward them first.

And if you lost him again—really lost him—

You don’t know if you’d survive it.

Because if regret was unbearable before, the devastation of another goodbye—this time after knowing what it’s like to have him— would split you open, would leave you hollow as the day you buried an empty casket.

You don’t realize the tears have started to fall until your vision blurs, until a soft sniffle betrays you. Caleb stirs - he takes a slow inhale, then a deeper one. You still, but it’s too late. His eyes open—drowsy with sleep—but the moment they land on you, on the shimmer on your lashes, they sharpen with clarity.

"What’s wrong?" He whispers softly, concern clear in his voice.

You swipe hastily at your cheeks, the salt sting lingering on your skin. “Nothing,” you lie, offering a trembling smile. “Just a nightmare.”

He doesn’t question it. Doesn’t search your face for more or press for the truth he knows you’re not giving. He just reaches out. His hand finds yours first, then the warmth of his palm presses against your side, gentle as it invites you closer.

You hesitate, just for a moment. But then your body moves on instinct, pulled to him like it always is, like it always has been. He shifts onto his back, making room for you, letting you tuck yourself against his chest, his arms wrapping around you.

You let yourself melt into him. Let yourself take comfort in the solid warmth of his body, in the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek. Your tears dry slowly, absorbed by the fabric of his shirt. Your fingers trace the chain around his neck, finding the pendants, the metal warm from his skin.

And you listen to the heartbeat beneath your ear.

Strong. Steady. Real.

He’s alive.

He’s here.

He’s yours, if you want him.

The fear is still there. The shadows haven’t disappeared. The world is still dangerous, still cruel, still capable of breaking him again.

But here, in the cradle of his arms, with his heartbeat syncing to yours, you finally understand: bravery isn’t the absence of fear.

So, maybe…

If that’s what sits at the end of this—if tears and heartache is what awaits you—then let it be. Let the hurt come. Let it hollow you. At least the emptiness will echo how fiercely you loved him.

You lift your head from the steady rhythm of his chest, propping yourself on your elbow, your face hovering just above his. Your eyes find his in the moonlight—half-lidded, warm, still laced with sleep, but softened by the sight of you. A small, barely-there smile touches his lips, a quiet relief. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, calloused and warm, and you lean into his touch, your lashes fluttering shut. Then you feel the press of his lips against your forehead, featherlight and lingering.

When your eyes open again, he’s still watching you. Your faces are close now, close enough that your breaths mingle, close enough that the brush of your nose against his sends a soft shiver down your spine. You glance down at his lips, drawn to the place you’ve denied yourself for too long.

His fingers still on your cheek.

And when your gaze returns to his, you see it - the look you’ve spent years misreading. The one you chalked up to pity or duty, something you’ve caught glimpses of over the years and turned away from. Something you didn’t recognize at first. Then later, refused to acknowledge out of fear.

But now, there’s no more running.

You shift closer slowly, cautiously, as if giving him time to stop you if this isn’t what he wants. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His eyes dart to your lips, just once, but it’s enough.

In that stillness, you close the distance.

The kiss is soft. His lips are warmer than you imagined, but still a little chapped. He goes utterly still, as if fearing the slightest movement might dissolve this moment. But when you press closer, his hand slides to the back of your head, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against him.

And when you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his eyes still closed.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming.” he murmurs.

You smile softly, and press a delicate kiss to his eyelid.

“You’re not dreaming, Caleb.” you whisper.

His lashes flutter open. His gaze searches your face like he’s still trying to understand how this happened. His hand rises to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth with aching gentleness. And then he moves. This time, he closes the distance. His mouth moves over yours, his breaths shaky against your skin. There’s no practiced skill, no calculated seduction—just raw, aching want, tempered by the fear of wanting too much.

Your hands slide from his chest to the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the silken, messy hair. He groans, low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you as his tongue brushes hesitantly against yours. It’s clumsy, earnest, his nose bumping yours, his teeth catching your lip by accident.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, but you laugh—a soft, breathless sound—and pull him closer.

“Don’t be.”

You lean into it, guiding him with soft sighs and quiet hums.

His hands hold you tighter now—one on your back, the other slipping down, splayed at your waist like he doesn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’s started.

And when your lips break apart for breath, you don’t pull away. You rest your forehead against his, and you whisper, barely audible, "I don’t want to stop."

He exhales, "Me neither."

Your fingers tremble slightly as they wander from his hair, along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth before trailing lower. Over the column of his throat, skimming the pulse beneath his skin, before drifting lower—over the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. You feel the way he shivers beneath your hand, how his muscles tense slightly.

His breath hitches when you tug at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling there, his gaze locking onto yours.

He doesn’t need you to say it.

Without a word, he sits up, the sheets pooling at his waist as he yanks the shirt over his head. The fabric falls to the floor, and for a moment, you just stare—you’ve seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never yours.

You gently press against his shoulder, coaxing him to lie back down, and he does so, collapsing against the pillows. You swing one leg over, your thighs bracketing his hips, but you hover just above him—close enough to feel his heat, yet far enough to let him breathe. You lean down to reclaim his mouth, your hands framing his face. The kiss deepens, and you tilt your head to better taste him, to feel more of him. He gasps into your mouth, one hand slipping to your lower back, the other lowering—slow, unsure—to brush against your bare thigh, the contact making you shiver.

And still, his hand doesn’t wander, doesn’t explore. It lingers like he’s afraid of being told to stop.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your breaths mingling between kisses. Your hand covers his where it rests against your leg, and you guide it higher, to your hip, where your skin is warmer.

You hold his gaze.  “You can touch me, Caleb.” Your voice is soft, “Wherever you want.”

His eyes widen slightly, color blooming high on his cheeks. His fingers flex against your skin, then he speaks, “I don’t… I’ve never—” He swallows hard, and you see the flicker of frustration in his eyes, not at you, but at himself, at his own nerves.

“I know,” you whisper, your hand slipping up to cradle his jaw, your lips brushing just beneath his ear. “It’s okay.”

Then, slowly, you lower yourself until your hips meet his, the hard ridge of his arousal pressing against you. His head falls back with a groan, eyes squeezing shut. Heat blooms through your belly at the contact, and your hips rock forward just enough to make him shudder.

His hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still. “Wait—wait.”

You freeze, pulse thrumming in your ears. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” he says, eyes snapping open. “Just… let me—” He swallows, his voice dropping to a plea. “Let me do this right.”

You smile, and brush his hair away from his eyes. “There’s no right, Caleb. Just us.”

He exhales, nodding, and then his hips roll upward tentatively, the friction drawing a gasp from both of you. His thumbs press into the soft curve of your hips as they continue to move against him in a slow, rolling rhythm. The thin barrier of fabric between you—his sweatpants, your pajama shorts—only amplifies the heat, the friction of every roll of your hips against his. His breath hitches, his eyes fluttering closed, as you grind down again, your own shorts riding up, the seam catching just right. He curses under his breath, hips jerking up to meet yours, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs.

You want to feel all of him, nothing between. And the way his hands start to roam, still cautious, still learning, tells you he’s thinking the same thing.

You shift slowly, rising from his lap with a final roll of your hips that leaves him gasping, lips parted, brows knit. His hands fall away reluctantly, his eyes flickering with confusion and curiosity. Your hands trail down his chest, over the taut planes of his stomach. His muscles jump beneath your touch, his breath hitching when your fingers graze the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” His hand covers yours, trembling. “You don’t have to—”

You lift his palm to your lips, “I want to.” Your gaze holds his. “Let me show you how much.”

He swallows hard, but nods.

You hook your fingers into the fabric, tugging gently. He lifts his hips, letting you peel the layers away, his eyes never leaving your face. When you finally see him, all of him – hard, heavy, straining for you, you feel a fresh heat rise in your chest, in your belly, deeper.

When your eyes meet his again, you find him watching you just as intently—like he’s searching your face for any flicker of doubt. But there’s none. At first, his body tenses—thighs taut beneath your touch, hands clenching the sheets under him. He tries to hold still, tries to be polite, tries to hide the way his hips twitch when your lips press to the sensitive skin just below his navel.

“Breathe.” you whisper against his skin, and you feel it when he does - shoulders softening, jaw loosening, a low groan slipping past his lips as you finally take him into your mouth. You take your time, learning what makes his body melt under your touch. You relish the way his hips stutter when you swirl your tongue, the broken whimper he tries to smother with his fist, the devotion in his voice when he rasps your name.

Gradually, his iron grip on the sheets loosens, one hand resting on the back of your head, and his hips finally start to move to the rhythm you set.

His breath starts to come faster. You feel the change in his body—the way his thighs tense, how his fingers flex and twist in the sheets. “Wait—” His voice is rough. “If you keep going, I’m gonna—”

You don’t stop. You slow, just for a moment, lifting your eyes to his flushed face. You reach for him, one hand sliding up his stomach, calming. “It’s okay,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the sharp cut of his hipbone. “Let me take care of you.”

He groans at that, head turning into the pillow. He doesn’t speak again, but his muscles start to twitch, his legs falling wider, hips stuttering as your mouth picks up the pace. His moans become deeper, more raw, and then your name spills from his lips again.

“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

You hum in acknowledgment, not letting up, your hands gripping his hips as he shudders beneath you, and then—he falls apart. You taste him on your tongue, feel every desperate pulse of release as his thighs tremble beneath your hands, coming undone in your mouth—helpless and wholly yours.

You don’t pull away. You stay with him through it, coaxing him through the final tremors. You only ease off when he makes the faintest sound of overstimulation, brushing your lips one last time to the hollow of his hip before sitting up.

Caleb is panting, eyes closed, arm thrown over his face.

But when you crawl back up his body, he opens his arms instinctively, pulling you into his chest, where you hear his heart is thundering under your ear. And after a long pause, his hand cups your cheek and kisses you softly, tasting himself on your lips.

His breath is still uneven, and there’s a slight sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. But he sits up, and for a second his eyes search yours again—asking permission without words. You nod once, and his fingers curl around the hem of his shirt you’re wearing.

He pulls it up slowly, his eyes tracking the reveal of your stomach, the curve of your breast, watching the way your chest rises and falls a little faster under his gaze. His hands tremble, just slightly, and you can see it - that mixture of reverence and disbelief in his eyes. He bends to kiss you again, before his mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, the flutter of your pulse.

He guides you onto your back, and shifts to follow, half-hovering over you. His lips trail kisses along your neck, your breasts. You arch into him, a gasp escaping as his tongue flicks over your nipple, and he hums in response, the vibration rippling through you.

His hands move lower, fingers hooking under the waistband of your pajama shorts. He pauses, “Is this okay?”

You nod, your voice failing you, and lift your hips. He slides the shorts down, his knuckles grazing your thighs, his breath hitching when you’re finally bare. For a moment, he just stares. Fading moonlight spills across your body, catching the sheen of arousal between your thighs. A shaky exhale escapes him as he drags a single finger across the wetness, his touch featherlight.

But before he goes further, before his mouth finds its way to where you’re already pulsing for him, something else catches his eye. The faint scar across your knee. Fading now, but still there. His thumb brushes gently along the uneven line, before he leans forward and presses a kiss to it, the silent apology making your heart flutter.

Then his mouth drifts lower, lips brushing against the soft skin of your inner thighs. The first flick of his tongue on your folds is so startlingly gentle you flinch. A soft laugh escapes you, breathless and giddy, goosebumps blooming on your skin.

Caleb stills, lifting his head, brows creased in confusion.

“You’re tickling me,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair in reassurance.

He huffs a laugh against your skin. “Got it,” he murmurs. His mouth presses more firmly, his hands holding your hips as his tongue parts your folds and he groans at the first taste. Your back arches off the bed, a moan slipping out, and it spurs him on. One hand stays braced on your thigh, the other moves to gently trace one fingertip around your entrance, testing. You whisper yes, please, and that’s all it takes. He sinks a finger in, his eyes flicking up to watch the way your face shifts—lips parted, brows gently pulled, the rise and fall of your chest now uneven.

His mouth finds your clit, more confident now. The heat of his tongue, the wet pressure of his lips - it’s clumsy but it’s honest, driven by need and the desire to learn what makes you tremble. Then his finger finds that spot inside you, the one that makes you fist your hand in his hair, the one that makes your toes curl. You whisper yes, yes, yes, and you swear you feel him smile.

His free hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers against your belly.

“Look at me,” he rasps, and you force your eyes open, “Want to see you.”

Your body is starting to unravel beneath him, soft moans spilling from your lips, your thighs trembling.

“Another,” you pant, and he obeys instantly, adding a second finger. His rhythm stutters at first, but you guide him with whispered pleas, your hips rolling against his hand. His tongue flicks faster, his fingers pumping in a deep, steady curl, and you’re suddenly so close to the edge. His name spills from your lips like a prayer, and he growls against you, as if your climax is his own.

And when you fall apart with his name on your lips and your hands tangled with his, Caleb doesn’t stop. He holds you through it, lets you ride it out, his fingers easing only when your thighs start to shake, when your hips twitch with overstimulation. He pulls back, resting his forehead against your inner thigh, his breaths ragged. His erection strains against the sheets, but his focus still on you, always on you, even as his hand trembles where it grips yours.

You pull him up, his body collapsing over yours, and kiss him slow and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue. His hips grind reflexively against your thigh, a broken noise escaping him, but he doesn’t push. Just holds you, his head dipping into the crook of your neck, your hands cradling his damp hair.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Just breath and skin and the quietness of the morning twilight.

His fingertips trace along the curve of your side, not teasing, just feeling. Like he can’t quite believe you’re here.

Then he murmurs—soft, regretful, honest:

“I should’ve been your first.”

The words make your heart skip a beat. Still, the way he says it isn’t bitter. There’s no accusation in his voice. Only ache.

You draw back just enough to meet his eyes, your palm resting flat on his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Then be my last.” You whisper.

His breath hitches, eyes widening for a split second. He presses a kiss to your temple, before he meets your eyes again.

“Do you… have anything?” A pause, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Protection?”

You pause for a moment. Then you nod, brushing your fingers over his jaw.

“Left drawer,” you whisper.

He hesitates, his thumb circling your hipbone. “We don’t have to—”

“I know.” You press a kiss to his furrowed brow. “But I want this.”

He shifts to reach for it, but you catch his wrist. “Wait.”

His eyes snap to yours, brows furrowed.

You trace the skin with your thumb, suddenly too sheepish to meet his gaze. “We don’t need it.”

He stills at your tone. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." You finally meet his gaze, “If it’s you… I don’t want anything between us.”

He exhales, shakily, the tension in his shoulders softening as his arms wrap around you again.

When your legs shift, parting around his hips, you feel the hard length of him press against your entrance, and it pulls a soft gasp from you both.

Caleb stills. One hand rests by your head, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking softly across your cheekbone.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, threading your fingers into his hair, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

He exhales slowly, trembling slightly as he reaches between you, lining himself up. The head of him nudges your entrance, already wet and aching for him. You feel the pressure first, a stretch that makes your breath catch. He sinks in just a little—then stops immediately when you tense.

“Too much?” he breathes.

You shake your head, running a hand down his back. “No… keep going.”

Inch by inch, his body presses into yours, your warmth pulling him in, taking him deeper. His jaw clenches, a guttural sound caught in his throat as your walls flutter around him, as your hand curls over his bicep for something. His restraint is palpable, sweat beading at his temples as he presses deeper, his hips rolling in shallow strokes until he’s sheathed fully inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His necklace rests warm against your collarbone, the metal shifting slightly as his chest heaves above yours.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, his lips grazing your temple.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I will.”

His thrusts start slow, each one sinking deeper than the last, his eyes locked on yours as if searching for permission with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck,” he grits out suddenly, halting his movements with a trembling inhale. His entire body shudders as he lowers his forehead to your shoulder, nose brushing your throat, lips finding your pulse.

“I need a second…” His voice is breathless. “I don’t want this to end yet.”

You cradle his jaw, lifting his face up so you can look at him. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you whisper, your thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Just be here. With me.”

His gaze falters, then finds yours again. He draws back just enough to move again, slow at first, like he’s trying to find a rhythm that won’t break him.

One of his hands tangles with yours, fingers lacing tightly together as he presses it into the pillow above your head. The other slips between your bodies until his thumb finds you, pressing a gentle, slow circle over your clit—and it draws a gasp from you, your thighs tensing around his hips.

“Like that?” His voice is hoarse.

“Yes,” you breathe, hips chasing the movement of his hand. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he leans in to kiss you again—messy now, all teeth and parted mouths. He keeps moving inside you, each thrust dragging along your sweet spots, and the rhythm of his thumb against your clit grows more confident, bolder with every breathless moan you give him. He watches you with blown pupils, flicking between your face and the place where your bodies meet, as if committing every detail of your pleasure to memory.

His forehead drops to yours, the weight of his body pressing deliciously down as his thumb circles faster, more intently, chasing the way your thighs begin to tremble, the way your grip on his hand tightens.

Then his hips shift—just a little, but enough for a sharp discomfort to shoot through you. You suck in a breath through your teeth, a soft, involuntary “ah—” escaping your throat.

He stops immediately. Every muscle in his body locks, his expression flashing from concentration to concern in an instant. “Shit—did I hurt you?” he asks, breath still ragged.

You shake your head quickly, already reaching for his face, your palm cradling his cheek. “No, no,” you whisper. “Just... not like that.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, your heels pressing against the small of his back, gently urging him into a better angle. “Here,” you guide, your voice low and coaxing. “A little lower. Like that.”

He swallows hard, still frozen in place, but the panic softens as he watches you, sees that you still want this. He nods, his throat working with the effort to calm himself.

“You’re doing so good,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I promise.”

He exhales on the word promise, and then he moves again. His brows draw together, not in worry now, but in focus, lips brushing your cheek as he resumes the rhythm that had your body unraveling.

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he grinds deeper, the angle just there, the friction so exquisite your vision blurs.

“Caleb—” you gasp, voice cracking as the pleasure rises sharp and fast inside you.

“I know, I know.” he rasps. His hips snap harder, deeper, the slap of skin echoing as you spiral closer. “That’s it,” he grits out, his thumb pressing harder. “Let go. Let go for me.”

When your thighs lock around his waist, when your walls clench around him in a sudden, overwhelming spasm, your release rips through you - deep, intense, every nerve alight. Your back arches off the bed, a cry spilling from your lips as you pulse around him, your fingers clawing into the sweat-slick skin of his back.

“Fuck—” His rhythm stutters, his thrusts turning erratic. With a shattered groan, he buries himself to the hilt, his hips jerking as he spills into you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath a ragged pant against your lips.

For a heartbeat, you’re both still, just a tangle of sweat and shared breath, his necklace resting between your breasts, now warm from the heat of your skin. Then he collapses against you, his weight comforting and grounding, his lips brushing your collarbone. His arms curl tightly around you, one hand tracing slow, mindless patterns over your hip, and the other splayed beneath your shoulder. You exhale slowly, your fingers sliding through his damp hair.

You’re not sure how long you lie there like that, tangled and breathless, your hearts gradually slowing from their frantic rhythm. The first sliver of sunlight filters through your curtains, golden and gentle. You tilt your chin to study him, how sunlight looks like powdered gold over his lashes.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, because it’s true, and because you know it’ll fluster him.

His nose scrunches, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Men aren’t beautiful.”

“You are.” You brush the hair from his temple. “Like a pouty Renaissance angel.”

He only chuckles, burying his face against your chest.

You tilt your head to kiss his temple, your voice a soft murmur against his skin. “Come on. Let’s wash up.”

He groans. “Or we could stay like this forever.”

“You’re sweating all over me.” you protest, already nudging at his side.

He lifts his head just enough to squint at you. “You liked it when I was sweating five minutes ago.”

You roll your eyes, pushing him off with a laugh as you both untangle from the bed. The sheets are a mess, still warm with everything that happened, and your thighs ache, making you bite your lip as you stand. You grab a towel and toss one at him too. He catches it, looking far too smug for someone who was blushing just an hour ago.

As you step under the warm spray, Caleb holding your hand for stability, something crosses your mind.

“Hey… did you really drool on the pillow?”

[checkeredflagggs]

Secret Sweethearts

Pairing: pierre gasly x leclerc!reader

summary: las vegas was a lot more exciting then people think

a/n: my first pierre piece! This was requested so I hope you guys like it!!

a/n2: I love Kika but she had to go 😭😭

a/n3: Vegas is the race that keeps on giving

Masterlist | Taglist

Bluesky

user1: no no no you’re on to something

user2: thank god someone else noticed this! I thought for sure after he and Kika split he’d have a couple more months of wild parties…

↳user3: same! Instead he had like a month of pr problems then it went all silent…

↳user2: I don’t know what I miss most — Kika’s Pierre or Party Pierre…

↳user3: hmmm I’m gonna go party pierre cause he lost his T-shirt consistently

↳user2: good point good point

user4: is this a safe place? Can I say something?

↳user5: nope!

↳user6: do it anyway!

↳user4: ummm fuck you both??

↳user6: what did I do!?

user7: user4 was your thought the fact that the after party of George’s race win and Max’s WDC win in Vegas was the last of Pierre’s wild days?

↳user4: it absolutely was

↳user8: ok grandmas. Let’s get you back to your beds

↳user9: no no no let them cook

user10: ok but let’s say user4 and user7 are right?? Bets on the reason why?

↳user11: I’m guessing that he got his socials taken away — can’t have too bad of an image…

↳user12: I mean it’s Vegas…I’m guessing he got married

↳user13: A VEGAS WEDDING?

↳user14: not who I thought would have a Vegas wedding…

↳user13: right?? I always had money on Lando or Charles…

↳user14: same!

↳user11: ok but we don’t know that’s the reason why he changed!

↳user13: let’s be real this makes more sense…

↳user12: it does! If he had his socials taken away for pr, we probably would have seen him on other drivers posts but it’s been a near complete blackout since Vegas!

Private Messages, the Gasly’s and their mothers

Private Messages, y/n and Pascale

y/n_leclerc

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, and 193,102 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lorenzotl, pascale.leclerc

y/n_leclerc: Christmas time! Featuring the best ugly Christmas sweaters you’ve ever seen! Mine won — both the worst sweater and the itchiest!

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user15: ugly sweater or not, you’re still the prettiest!

user16: oh to be y/n leclerc…

maxverstappen1: so how many of those presents are yours?

↳y/n_leclerc: I don’t know what you mean…

↳charles_leclerc: I don’t like your tone…

↳arthur_leclerc: nearly all of them…

↳charles_leclerc: arthur!

↳y/n_leclerc: 🥺

↳arthur_leclerc: as it should be! liked by charles_leclerc, lorenzotl, pascale.leclerc, pierregasly

pierregasly: Joyeux Noel!

↳y/n_leclerc: Merci Pierre!

carlossainz55: Feliz Navidad!

↳y/n_leclerc: Merci!

oscarpiastri: Merry Christmas

↳y/n_leclerc: thank you nephew!

↳oscarpiastri: I am 3 years older than you…

↳y/n_leclerc: and yet…

Private Messages, Pascale and y/n

y/n_leclerc

liked by user, pierregasly, maxverstappen1, and 824,294 others

y/n_leclerc: just some quiet days spent with you, my love 🩷

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charles_leclerc: What is this?

charles_leclerc: Who is this?

charles_leclerc: What is happening?

charles_leclerc: Answer your phone y/n!

↳user17: oh you know it’s a serious thing when he comments multiple times AND uses correct punctuation and capitalization…

user18: is this y/n leclerc…soft launching…a boyfriend??

↳charles_leclerc: Non!

↳arthur_leclerc: she hasn’t introduced him to us yet so he doesn’t exist and isn’t dating our baby sister!

↳user18: that is absolutely not how it works btw

↳charles_leclerc: yes it is

↳charles_leclerc: Also y/n_leclerc answer your phone!

user19: ok I know what everyone is gonna think but if I may…

↳user20: no. I refuse to believe you again!

↳charles_leclerc: What?

↳user20: don’t listen to her she’s a conspiracy theorist

↳user19: who has frequently been right!

↳charles_leclerc: What do you know?

↳user19: know? Nothing actually liked by y/n_leclerc

arthur_leclerc: Belle petit sœur, qui est cet homme et pourquoi vous impose-t-il les mains? Beautiful little sister, who is that man and why is he laying hands on you?

↳y/n_leclerc: ☺️☺️

↳arthur_leclerc: THATS NOT GONNA WORK THIS TIME!! WHO IS HE??

↳y/n_leclerc: 🥺🥺 why are you yelling at me?

↳charles_leclerc: Arthur stop yelling at y/n! And y/n, ma belle petit sœur, please answer me — who is that man?

pierregasly: little Leclerc has a man now?

↳charles_leclerc: No!

↳y/n_leclerc: yes 🥰🥰

↳pierregasly: he treat you well?

↳charles_leclerc: He doesn’t exist!

↳y/n_leclerc: Pierre, he does…

↳charles_leclerc: …Not! Exist!

user21: I did not have baby Leclerc giving her brothers heart attacks on my bingo card for this year?

↳user22: right? I thought it was going to be the car…

↳user21: oh big same

oscarpiastri: congratulations y/n!

↳charles_leclerc: NON!

↳y/n_leclerc: thanks nephew

↳charles_leclerc: Answer you’re phone please y/n!

user23: ok but does the pink heart mean anything?

↳user24: it absolutely has too… she’s a Ferrari girl to her core, it’s been red her entire life. To switch now?

Bluesky

user25: I’d say you’re crazy and to tell me more!

↳user26: well we know that the Las Vegas GP after party was Pierre’s last public party

↳user27: he has been suspiciously quiet lately

↳user26: right?

user28: wait was y/n in Vegas? I didn’t think she traveled too much for the races?

↳user29: she was! Charles mentioned it during one of the interviews — she just turned 21 and wanted to celebrate in Vegas

↳user30: ok that’s so girlboss slay of her?

↳user29: I guess?? I’m too old to know what those words mean

user31: so we know that Pierre and y/n were in the same city (known for its drunk marriages), Pierre dnfed pretty early on in the race…

↳user32: what are we thinking? That she slipped away from Ferrari to alpine?

↳user31: I mean I would? Better to hang out with someone I know to finish watching the race…

user33: I think it was Alex or Lando? Who posted that there was going to be a big after party — to celebrate both George’s race win and Max’s WDC win

↳user34: it was Alex! And he was also the one that had photos of Pierre cuddling up with some girl

↳user35: Charles posted a picture of the view from his hotel room very early in the night — everyone kinda took it to mean he left the party early cause he was mad at the race

user36: so we have them in the same location, more than likely at the same party, almost certainly with Charles leaving early…

↳user37: in a city known for drunken decisions?

secretly/n: wow you guys are through

user38: ok but what’s the evidence after Vegas? Like divorce exists…

↳user39: vibes mostly…

↳user40: and the pink heart!

↳user38: vibes and a pink heart??

↳user39: the pink heart! She’s always used a red heart (Ferrari forever!!) but when she finally soft launches a man it’s with a pink heart?? Pink like alpine??

f1gossip

liked by user, user, secretly/n and 824,193 others

tagged: y/n_leclerc, pierregasly

f1gossip: with the increased interest in Pierre’s newly quiet public life and the subject of y/n’s soft launch, here comes another twist! Recent pictures from Pierre’s social show the newest Gasly, Simba — while y/n’s latest story has an identical pup getting cozy with her! Could this be the confirmation we’ve all been waiting for?

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user41: awwwweeee 🥹🥹🥹 shared custody

↳user42: ok but Pierre got simba right after Vegas right?

↳user41: …oh my god you’re right!! They got a dog together!!!

↳user42: they got a dog together 🤗🤗

user43: I’m going to laugh when it’s revealed that they aren’t together…

↳user44: I’m gonna laugh when you release you’re wrong!

user49: ok but simba and the helmets is so adorable ☺️

↳user50: yes!

user51: I don’t know who I’m more jealous of…Pierre, y/n, or simba…

↳user52: it’s a big choice…

secretly/n: damn you guys are fast to put the pieces together…

pierregasly has posted a story, y/n_leclerc has posted a story

[dinner date][my valentine 🩷]

user54 replied proof of relationship!

user55 replied exactly what we’ve been waiting for!

user56 replied are you with y/n right now??

y/n_leclerc replied looking good…and the pizza looks delicious too

↳pierregasly 😆

↳pierregasly right back at you, jolie fille

↳y/n_leclerc 😘💋🩷🩷

charles_leclerc replied ohh? A new love?

↳pierregasly something like that yes…

↳charles_leclerc and you haven’t said a word *smh*

↳pierregasly not yet

user57 replied IS THAT PIERRE

user58 replied omg its happening!!

user59 replied YOURE MATCHING WITH PIERRE YES!!

charles_leclerc replied what’s happening right now? Are you at Pierre’s??

↳y/n_leclerc oh my god leave me alone!

↳y/n_leclerc I’m with my MAN

↳charles_leclerc who doesn’t exist!!

↳y/n_leclerc that’s what you think!

Private Messages, Charles and y/n

Private Messages, Pierre and y/n

y/n_leclerc

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, pierregasly, and 2,183,193 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, lewishamilton, pierregasly, jackdoohan, maxverstappen1, alex_albon, liamlawson30, yukitsunoda0511, isackhadjar

y/n_leclerc: got to go to this cool event, met some weird people, and crashed a redbull family reunion

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user60: oh god that is pretty much the redbull family isn’t it??

↳user61: so much trauma all in one photo…

pierregasly: weird people??

↳y/n_leclerc: yes! where did all your hair go???

↳user62: she’s speaking for all of us!

oscarpiastri: I see how it is…you spend a couple of hours with your aunt and she doesn’t even acknowledge you…

↳y/n_leclerc: I’m so sorry dearest nephew. How ever could you forgive me?

↳oscarpiastri: I could do with some dog cuddles?

↳y/n_leclerc: sure!

↳charles_leclerc: stop giving away leo!

↳y/n_leclerc: leo?

↳y/n_leclerc: no! I’ll not be doing that

↳user62: she forgot about her nephew Leo and was offering time with simba… liked by secretly/n

alex_albon: A redbull family photo and yet Charles is right in the middle…

↳y/n_leclerc: come on we all know he and max are attached at the hip

↳alex_albon: true true

↳maxverstappen1: what are you talking about?

↳y/n_leclerc: don’t worry about it Yapstappen liked by alex_albon, charles_leclerc

user63: ok girl we see you posting the brother and the boyfriend

↳charles_leclerc: Wait what?? What are you talking about? Who???

↳y/n_leclerc: apparently no one because “he doesn’t exist”

↳charles_leclerc: good you’re learning

↳y/n_leclerc: how do I dislike a post

user64: ok but did anyone else catch the looks those 2 were sharing??

↳user65: no! They were legit gazing into each others eyes the entire night

↳user66: are we talking y/n and her man or Charles and his?

↳user65: yes

y/n_leclerc

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, maxverstappen1, and 829,103 others

tagged: pierregasly

y/n_leclerc: posting my man while Charles is still busy

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user67: A HARD LAUNCH?? IN THE MIDDLE OF MY DAY??

user68: good lord what is happening right??

pierregasly: Je t'aime aussi, belle fille. I love you too, beautiful girl

↳y/n_leclerc: Vous êtes de loin la meilleure décision que j'aie jamais prise. You are by far the best decision I ever made

maxverstappen1: he’s gonna go ballistic

↳y/n_leclerc: haha yeah

↳maxverstappen1: you’re a chaotic little thing aren’t you…

↳y/n_leclerc: 🤣🤣

oscarpiastri: Hello. What is this?

↳y/n_leclerc: I believe the youths call it a hard launch?

↳user69: girl you are one of the youths

charles_leclerc: WHAT KS THIS?!?

charles_leclerc: ABSOLUTELY NOT

f1gossip

liked by user1, user2 and 790,469 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, pierregasly

f1gossip: Charles before he saw his sisters post and Charles after her saw his sister post during pre-season testing here in Bahrain

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user70: you could see the rage grow on his face…

↳user71: oh man could you…I could feel it from here and I’m not even in the same hemisphere

user72: he went through all 5 stages of grief, invented a few new ones, then settled on pure rage

user73: I’m so glad Pierre wasn’t on the track at the same time as Charles…

↳user74: right?

↳user75: I’m sure Pierre is feeling the same

Private Messages, the Leclerc Siblings

Private Messages, Pierre and Charles

f1gossip

liked by user, user, user, and 2,824,348 others

tagged: pierregasly, y/n_gasly

f1gossip: things got heated today during the Australian press conference where Pierre defended his WIFE??

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user76: I’m so…WHAT

↳user77: speaking for all of us right now…

user78: that interviewer was out of line

↳user79: he’s so lucky that Charles wasn’t there…

↳user80: ok but did you see Max and Oscar? Cause they looked like they wanted to hunt him for sport too

user81: that type of language has no use in today’s questions

↳user82: I’m with the drivers — how fucking dare that sexist piece of shit ask Pierre those questions???

↳user83: if anyone of them had kept at the man I wouldn’t have said anything

↳user84: he had it coming

user85: ok but are we all skipping over the fact THAT PIERRE AND Y/N GOT MARRIED???

↳y/n_gasly: that’s old news I’m afraid

↳user86: Wait? What? Why? When?

↳y/n_gasly: Marriage. Because I love him. Las Vegas!

↳user86: you changed your handle!

user87: this gonna go down in the history books — where were you when you found out that y/n is now a gasly…

↳charles_leclerc: SHES A WHAT NOW??

↳user87: you didn’t know yet?

↳charles_leclerc: KNOW WHAT??

↳user87: man I hate to burst your bubble…

↳charles_leclerc: 😤🤬

Private Messages, the Leclercs and the Gaslys

f1 posted a story, y/n_gasly posted a story

[All’s well now!][My husband and I 🩷]

user88 replied awww the in-laws getting along…

user89 replied my pookies

y/n_gasly replied I better not have to fight my brother for my husband now…

↳f1 we can make no promises…

user90 replied we love to see this!

charles_leclerc replied only temporarily…

pierregasly replied I love you, Lumière de ma vie

↳y/n_gasly I love you too, mon œuf

↳pierregasly 🙄🙄

charles_leclerc replied ABSOLUTELY NOT

arthur_leclerc replied TELL HIM TO GET HIS HANDS OFF YOU

lorenzotl replied how much are they yelling at you?

↳y/n_gasly ehhh I’m mostly ignoring my phone right now 😂😂

↳y/n_gasly they’ll get over it…eventually

Taglist

@anamiad00msday @suns3treading @daniskywalkersolo @awritingtree @justheretoreadthxxs @coral7161 @lost4lyrics @mastermindbaby @freyathehuntress @angelluv16 @nichmeddar @mxm47max @justaf1girl @a-beaverhausen @tallrock35 @elizamoe133 @imlonelydontsendhelp @jessica3478 @il0vereadingstuff @taylorrrrrrrrrrswiftttt @widow-cevans @1-of-my-many-obsessions @charlesgirl16 @elliegray2803 @anunstablefangirl

[iamasaddie]

YOUNG, GREEN AND STUPID

Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: after spending the night at Joel's your walk of shame is darkened with a hangover and anxiety. As you try to reconstruct the events of last night in your head, you realize that despite feeling uneasy, you can't say no to Joel. warnings: darkfic, manipulation, self-gaslighting, age gap [Joel is 61, don't read it and don't @ me about it if it's not your thing, just leave], switching POVs, explicit sexual content. Some tags are not added to avoid spoilers. reader description: afab she/her, has hair long enough to be pulled; has boobs and ass; reader mid to late 20s-30s. word count: 3,8k

a/n: thank you to the freaks who support me and this fic, i'm kissing y'all. i appreciate all the asks and comments and reblogs, they motivate the fuck out of me. giant thanks to the one and only @arcanefox207 , if not for her i'd smash my laptop against the wall. Ally you are my blessing of a beta and a friend <3 READ ON AO3

MASTERLIST | part 1 | part 3

The crushing weight of someone’s body around you made you feel trapped. Your back was covered in sweat, sleek where it pressed against your last night’s date. You wiggled, your head pounding in an unforgiving manner. Slowly, you opened your eyes and tried to fight the pain from the light punching you square in your face. 

With bleary eyes you took in your surroundings, at least as much as you could make out. The room welcomed you with dark pastel colors. It looked tidy, but stuck somewhere in the 80s. Dark blue walls were scarcely decorated by a painting of a lone cowboy in the middle of nowhere and a wooden plaque of the Texas state map. A shred of sunlight that bothered your pulsing eyes crept through the curtains that the house owner had forgotten to fully draw last night. You couldn’t make out the color as staring directly at the light made your headache worse. 

Hardwood wardrobe matched the bedframe and the table, and by the look of you realized that even the furniture in this house could be older than you. Simple cotton bed sheets soaked in your warmth, it felt overwhelming and too hot to enjoy, so you tried to get out of your date’s embrace. 

Without looking at him too much, you cautiously threw off the duvet cover, finding yourself fully naked underneath. You couldn’t remember when you undressed. The last thing you could dig out of your foggy mind was falling asleep on the man’s chest, with your dress still hugging your body. You dared to peek underneath, just to be met with your suspicion. Joel was as naked as you. 

Was there anything else you didn’t remember?

Anxiety started prickling at your heart, unease settling in. Gently, you grabbed the hand that was still laying heavy on your stomach and placed it on the bed. You held your breath, listening to the man next to you, but he didn’t budge. You slid out of bed, your bare feet met with a soft worn out rug. Before standing up, you give Joel one look over your shoulder. As if feeling your gaze, he shifted in his bed, turning to lay on his back. 

Your nakedness felt very apparent, and you brought your hands to cover your breasts, like someone could see you. You looked around, in search of your clothes, planning to find it on the floor or wherever else you could throw it in the state of bliss and inebriation. 

To your surprise, you found the skimpy outfit gently folded and placed on the table in the corner of the room, Joel’s clothes laying in a neat pile just next to yours. Something similar to a smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you quickly regained your composure. The fact that your clothes were taken care of didn’t cancel the fact that you didn’t remember how you lost it in the first place.

You unfolded the dress, sighing over the walk of shame you were going to face. The material felt unpleasant against your skin that was still sticky with sweat and potentially some other fluids. 

Once you pulled the dress on, you finally dared to look at the man in the bed again. Somewhere between your attempts to remember the night and redressing, his tossing made the duvet slip lower, and now he was laying there in almost all his naked glory. A beam of sun that peeked through the heavy curtains tickled his weathered, tanned skin with its warmth. You couldn’t deny it, the man was gorgeous with or without alcohol in your system. Him laying on his back let you see his face more clearly: it was ridden of any emotion, peaceful dream ironing the deepest of his wrinkles. His broad chest that was sprinkled with freckles and sun spots kept raising and falling slowly. One of his hands was resting on his lower belly, hiding a patch of almost fully gray happy trail from you. 

Your eyes slid lower, tracing the same pattern your tongue did less than twelve hours ago, if your foggy memories were correct. His cock laid soft against his hairy upper thigh, no less intimidating in girth, though shorter in length. Your mouth watered against your will as you tried to recall what it felt like to have him in your mouth. Gently, your pussy throbbed, bringing fire to your core. Joel’s legs were spread a little, and if you stood right in front of him, you’d see a pair of massive balls that you lathered in your attention and saliva last night. Heat crept to your cheeks and you shook your head trying to force the unwanted desire out of your body. You tiptoed towards the door, keeping your eyes on him and praying that his door doesn’t squeak. Just as you tugged at the doorknob, his left thigh jerked, and Joel brought his hand to rub his closed eyes. 

The loud bang of his front door forced Joel to finally open his eyes. He heard you rummaging around his room, trying to be a quiet little mouse, but for his old age he still had pretty decent senses. Well, hearing, at least. He didn’t budge, not exactly pretending to be asleep yet also not giving you any reason to think otherwise. His body pleasantly ached from sleeping on his side, cocooning you with his body. 

Now that you were gone, he stretched his arms wide and flexed the fingers on his bad hand. It’s been a year too long since he had a pretty young thing like you warming his sheets. The sweet scent of your sweat clung to the pillowcase and he wanted to bury his face in it as he lazily jerked himself to the memories of your cunt exploding on his tongue. 

Your pretty young body tasted divine. He licked his lips hoping to taste the remnants of your cum from his mustache. There was something so addictive about having a girl more than half his age writhe and moan for him, beg so prettily. All of them were the same, so desperate for real attention, for someone who knew how to give them what they didn’t even know they wanted. 

Joel’s cock throbbed in his hand and he brought his palm to his face to spit at it again. You were so wet on his tongue, a fountain of youth no less. So fertile, so easy. His balls were heavy with unspilled cum, he knew it wasn’t long before he burst into your pretty little cunt, and then your ass, too. It took him only a couple of hours to have you gulping him down. Yes, he had to turn to the assistance of trusty powder he kept in his drawer this first time. But judging by the hunger you had in your eyes as you climbed off his face some time later, studying his face shiny with your cum, he wouldn’t need that anymore. You’d end up craving him as much as he craved you from the moment he set his eyes on you.

He squeezed his shaft tighter, his movements more deliberate as his thumb teased the tip and smeared the pearly precum. He didn’t doubt that he already had crept under your skin, the eyes you gave him yesterday with your mouth full of his balls was one of a person hooked. He’d seen it before enough times to know you’d be back. He just needed to be patient now, and if there was something his years made him good at, it was waiting.

Joel gave himself a final jerk, exploding over his knuckles with a deep grunt.

A bunch of keys rattled loudly when you dropped it into a ceramic plate on a table in the hallway of your small apartment. You cursed gruffly, squeezing your eyes shut at the harsh sound. You kicked off your shoes on the way to the bathroom, and with a tired sigh, you pulled off your dress.

“Damn, what the--?” In a hurry, you forgot your panties at Joel's. If this was a regular date, you might have intentionally left an intimate piece of clothing, but with Joel, you couldn’t even... hell, you couldn't even remember if your panties were on that table with your dress.

Your head was still pounding, even taking a taxi with your head out the window didn't help much.

You kept replaying last night in your head, trying to fill in the blanks. You didn’t think you drank more than a bottle; plus, Joel shared it with you, so what the hell happened? He was definitely pouring the slightly bitter-tasting liquid from the bottle that you handed him, you saw the label. You remembered how he walked into the kitchen with an opened wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. Surely he couldn't...?

No, that was crazy talk. It was high time for you to stop listening to your serial killer podcasts. After all, he didn't do anything to you that you hadn’t asked for, that you hadn’t begged for. Especially since now you were in your own apartment, and not tied to a radiator in his basement.

You pulled the faucet handle, the warm water was filling your tub quickly. To make it better, you poured a handful of lavender-scented salt, the soft odor seeped into your lungs and gently calmed you down.

Slowly, you sank into the water, it enveloped you like a hot blanket, making you moan with pleasure. You allowed yourself to close your eyes, leaning your head against the back of the bath tub.

The recollection of your arrival to his house was clear as day; he was friendly and so, so gallant. None of Joel’s actions made you feel uncomfortable or unsettled. He was attentive, his gaze followed your every move, and even the memory of his brown eyes made your skin boil with an inexplicable feeling of desire.

The way he shot glances in the direction of your boobs made your heart beat wildly in your chest. He was trying to hide how much he wanted you, it was adorable and sexy at the same time. He wanted you more than any of your previous lovers seemed to. Maybe that was the reason why you didn't want to leave. The thing that pulled you into his living room and then pushed you to fall between his legs.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't remember exactly how you got there. You just remembered the taste of his salt, the low vibrations of his moans, and the insatiable desire to have more. 

Damn, you felt your pussy purr. Joel had some strange effect on your body, manipulating your mind even in his absence. Summoning all your willpower, you continued your journey through your memories, but the further you went, the more hazy they became.

Only your body remembered something, and that something was pleasure. His hot tongue exploring the folds of your pussy; his curved nose teasing your clit with every greedy movement. His bestial growl when you poured the sweetness of your orgasm into his thirsty mouth. 

And then darkness.

[Joel M.]: Hey, sweetheart, did you get home safe? [Joel M.]: I am not counting that yesterday was something you’d want to repeat, I just want to know you’re alright.

You jerked up from a dreamless nap and blindly found your phone under the pillow. Blinking the sleep out of your eye, you looked at the messages on your screen, doubt about opening them creeped inside you when you saw the sender. The little picture next to Joel’s name still showed you the dream man you went to meet yesterday. A man who turned out to be a lie, kind of. Thoughts of Joel confused you, on one hand he was an accidental liar, and on the other he was one of the best orgasms you’d ever had. An orgasm that still sent tingles down your pussy and made your hand go south. 

Hoping that the attraction your body felt to him was the result of your drinking, and then your hangover. You sighed as the memory of his cock sliding down your throat and the phantom touch of his tongue tracing your wet folds made you weep for him in a way you didn’t think your body could. Rationally, you still tried to fight your carnal interest in a man in his grandpa years, but your hand slowly trekked to your pussy that was filling with warmth and slickness.

You tapped the message open and typed your reply with one hand.

[You]: Hey, Joel, yeah, I’m good :) And I had a very good time yesterday.

Your text was read immediately, and you felt a pang of guilt that you made him sit and stare at his phone waiting for your reply while you were tracing the lips of your pussy and thinking about him in the most indecent way.

[Joel M.]: Well my evening certainly beats yours, I had this beautiful lady come over, she was so intelligent and beautiful, I thought I’d been dreaming the whole night.

A smile spread across your lips as you grinned at the screen. Something warm bloomed in your heart that made it difficult to stay indifferent. 

[You]: Is that all you can say about her? [Joel M.]: I don’t think other things would be appropriate to share, darlin

The buzz of your need that you tried to suffocate since you got out of your bath returned to your body with doubled vigor.

[You]: I promise I won’t tell

Your heart began to pound harder, the vibrations of excited beats bouncing off your ribs in the rhythm of the three dots that flashed at the bottom of the screen. You bit your lip, tearing at the delicate skin in an attempt to calm the swarm of thoughts that were constantly buzzing, trapped in your skull. 

You were driven by greed, by the selfish need to experience again what thrilled you yesterday. It was inexplicable, as if two basic instincts were fighting for control over you, and desire won out, pushing self-preservation into a distant dark corner of your mind.

[Joel M.]: In that case, she was the sexiest little thing I’ve seen my whole life. She had this gorgeous skin tight dress on, looked delicious in it, I think I started salivating the moment I saw her. And I was lucky enough to taste her later and let me tell you, just the memory of her sweet pussy on my face makes me hard.

You reread the message three times, feeling a drop of arousal leaving your hole and sliding down to the crack of your ass. With one finger you swiped it up and brought it to your clit, not playing with it but gently teasing around, soft moans sticking to your throat as you refuse to let them out.

[You]: does it really? [Joel M.]: You want proof? [You]: yeah

[image attached]

You had ripped your hand from your pussy, opening the photo and adjusting the brightness. It was the most stereotypical dick pic ever sent, but you couldn’t care less when you saw it. 

“Fucking hell.” You whined out loud. Joel’s cock, hard and standing proud, looked massive even in his bear paw of a hand. Its head was deep pink, the drop of precum on his angry slit catching the light of the lamp lit room. He didn’t lie a word, he looked painfully aroused and it worked like your personal siren’s song. 

You licked your dry lips, hoping you’d be able to taste him again, to have his fat head stretching your lips with no regard to your comfort. Pushing you just enough without breaking. For a second, you felt like you could smell his musk, your mind playing tricks on you. 

His message beeped, jerking you out of your haze. 

[Joel M.]: Been dreaming her juicy little cunt all day today, could barely get any shit done. Shoulda let her feel my cock yesterday. [You]: Do you regret it? [Joel M.]: I regret that I couldn’t see her pretty face in the morning, wake her up by licking her pussy, fucking her with my fingers before she spills on my tongue. [You]: Fuck, I bet she’d like that. I bet you made her feel so good last night. Bet it was one of the best orgasms of her life and she’s touching herself right now thinking about it. [Joel M.]: Does she? [You]: yeah, she does. 

Forgetting to overthink your every decision, you bring your camera to your naked pussy, making sure that your face is not visible. You tapped the red button and looked at the screen, fascinated by the way your own pussy looks this close. You dragged your index finger to your slit, parting your lips, and then shamelessly demonstrated a string of arousal that stuck to your digit.

[video attached]

[Joel M.]: God, just look at this pussy, so sweet and wet, just begging for some attention. [Joel M.]: Needs someone who knows how to take care of her. [You]: will you? [Joel M.]: You know it. Now do as I say, sweetheart, and touch that pretty clit. Slowly, no need to rush. 

A part of you was relieved that he didn’t freak out about sexting, who knew if the man was even familiar with the concept, but he was definitely a natural. Once again, you captured your pussy and obedience, as you took another short video following his simple command.

[video attached]

[You]: like that? [Joel M.]: Fuck, honey, yeah, just like that. Look at her, gushing already, asking to fill her up so polite. Why don’t you use your fingers to make her feel better, hm? Use two fingers.

It felt good, it always did, you knew how to take care of yourself, you knew how to make yourself writhe and moan. But after him, it was like something was missing. He didn’t even fuck you properly and you felt empty, not enough. You started pushing your fingers inside with more anger and disappointment, unable to fill that weird hollow space that he carved inside you after one drunken night. 

[image attached]

[You]: feels so good, joel, but it’s not enough, fuck need something bigger [Joel M.]: I know what you need, darlin, you need my big fucking cock fucking you dumb. I know that’s right. Dying to fuck an old man, ready to beg for it, ain’t ya? [You]: yes 

You should have been ashamed of yourself, but in reality you didn’t give a crap. In that moment he was giving you something you wouldn’t dare take, and he made you feel good about it. You wished you could hear his raspy voice kissed by South spilling filth in your ear. 

[Joel M.]: Such a good girl, so responsive, so needy, can’t wait to fuck you properly. Add a finger, sweetheart. Not gonna match my cock, I know, for that you’d need to shove your whole fist inside, but I want you tight and crying when I fuck you.

Blinded by the haze of your pleasure, you followed every command, his message replaying in your head over and over, overstimulating your mind. The stretch didn’t burn, it felt good, welcomed, and you tried to curl your fingers to reach the spot that’d break you. You threw your phone on the bed, bringing your other hand to play with your nipples as the heel of your palm rubbed your clit.

“Fuck, fuck, Joel,” you chanted. Your ears rang as your body convulsed in pleasure with the man’s name on your lips.

Your phone rang and you were surprised to see Joel’s request to facetime you. With a shaky finger you swiped to accept the call, leaving a smear of your cum on your screen.

“Judging by your face, that felt good?” His face was poorly lit, but you still saw a smile. 

“Yeah, good is one word,” you admitted, biting your lip. Your lower belly still trembled in the post orgasmic bliss.

“Show me, I think I deserved that, hm?” 

You hesitated for a moment, but spread your legs and angled your camera at your sleek, puffy pussy. Joel grunted, air leaving his lungs with a whistle. 

“Spread those lips, baby, I need to see you pretty hole twitchin’, need to see her winking at me.” It was gross, and weird, yet you did exactly what he asked. Your pussy was sensitive, and you whined as you spread yourself for him.

For a moment there was only silence and wet sounds of him jerking his cock to the sight of your abused pussy. You didn’t dare move. didn’t dare look at the screen even though another spark started burning deep inside you. 

“Fuck, good girl, good fuckin’- good pussy.” Joel’s voice shifted into growling, panting as he came all over his fist. It was your cue to bring the phone back to your face, he was already smiling at you from the other side. 

“So,” his breathing was mostly even, but the sweat glistening on his forehead was a telltale sign of the recent physical exercises. “Whatcha doin’ this Sunday?” 

You closed your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. 

“After this? Going to church.” 

“No, don’t do that, sweetheart,” Joel chuckled. You opened one eye, noticing how intently he was watching you, his eyes studying every bit of your face for crumbs of reaction, cracks in your freshly-built facade. “We don’t want you to burn alive, do we? How about you visit me?” 

“Pretty sure that’s what Satan said to Eve.” You brought yourself back into the darkness, your heart still pounding as if you’d ran a marathon. All of this wasn’t good, it was wrong but you couldn’t pinpoint the exact problem. He was seeping under your skin, and if you wanted to get rid of him, you’d have to flay yourself alive. Not a bright prospect by any means.

He was looking at you from the other side of the screen, his brown eyes piercing, but he didn’t push you. The words fell from your lips on your own accord.

“I can come by around 8, but this time I’m bringing food.”

Joel smiled, and nodded in agreement. Thick thumb rubbed his plush lower lip, like he was trying to remember something.

“Can’t wait to have a taste.”

You shook your head, a chuckle stuck in your throat. Without saying goodbye you disconnected from the call and dropped the phone on the pillow next to you. Your skin was sticky with sweat, a cold breeze from the opened window teased your flesh, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Pleasant exhaustion and abysmal unease dragged your mind in two different directions keeping your body on the edge of sleep but not letting you fall.

Your bed felt too lumpy, wrinkles of your rumpled sheets digging into your skin. Tossing and turning until early morning, you couldn’t shake the creeping anxiety over your decision.

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