#i should make a tag just for this genre of post

[that-stanford-girlie]

Broken Hearts and Fucked-Up Souls

Mark Meachum x Reader

tags: use of y/n, arguing, mark being mark, pissed-off reader, reader drinking, implications of cheating, foul language, real shitty ending

rating: teen and up (mostly because of the drinking/foul language)

genre: angst

word count: 701

a/n: this took me WAY too long to write. i had to get an idea, and then put it into words… it was a shitshow. BUT. it’s here!! this will also probably be the last story i post on this account (unless i make a sequel to this, maybe? idk yet lol. future works will be on @that-stanford-girlie-writes.) @zepskies, thank you so much for letting me do this!!! it was so much fun, especially to write mark :)

Mark hadn’t expected to be pinned down today.

Of course, here he was.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything and everything you say can and will be used against you. Do you understand?”

Shit. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“…Y/N?”

“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” you grumble. You hate Mark with every fiber of your being, and he’s the last person you want to see right now.

You haul him to the squad car, slamming the door shut behind him. You slide into the driver’s seat, typing furiously on the laptop. You grimace as you type in his name. Of course, you were the one who got the tip that he was here. You had to be the one to arrest him.

—

“So. Drugs? Wow.”

You were unamused.

“They’re for my-”

“Your tumor? Yeah. Right.”

You question him. You take note of every little movement he makes.

But your mind is stuck on the fact that the last time you saw him, he was leaving your sister Rachel’s house, and she was in nothing but her pink sheer robe. It left nothing to the imagination. He said he was “going for a drink” after you found out he had a brain tumor. You were distraught, but you let him, and you had gone to bed alone.

Just for Mark to leave your sister’s house when you went to go pick up birthday present for him that you had sent to your friend’s house, who lived a couple houses down from Rachel.

You remember the fight clearly. You had screamed at him for hours until your throat was raw. Tears streamed down your face until you almost fell asleep from how tired it made you. Ceramic dishes broke. You had gone to bed alone, telling Mark he had three days to get his stuff out and leave.

He was gone by morning.

Do you still have some of his clothes? Yes. You sold most of them to Goodwill, but there’s one shirt that you took from him within three weeks of living together that you always wear to bed—some random Budweiser shirt he won from a stupid game with friends.

“The amount of drugs you had in your possession… that could get you at least ten years of jail time. Of course, those 9 months in Palmdale should be enough to show you what it’s like.”

You smirk as he goes speechless. He was undercover—you knew that, but you weren’t supposed to know that.

You were having fun watching him squirm, but after a couple more minutes, Paul came in and let you go. He knew that Mark wasn’t the first person you wanted to see, so he was kind enough to take over. So you headed home.

—

You hadn’t been in your bedroom in months. It still has so many mementos and memories of Mark. You sleep on the couch in your tiny living room. Your apartment wasn’t the nicest place, but you were able to make it work.

The bottles still litter the floor. You wonder how you go into work not smelling like alcohol.

While you sit on the couch, watching your comfort show, your phone rings. “Hello?” you ask, half-distracted.

“Y/N?”

You almost put the phone down, but something in his voice wouldn’t let you as he says, “Y/N, please. Just hear me out. Please.”

You take a sip of your beer as he talks.

“Y/N, listen. I’m sorry, okay? She showed up at the bar, and dammit, she had the same dress you do. I was wasted. And I thought she was you. She looks so much like you at 2:30 in the morning.” He goes quiet for a moment. “I know that doesn’t make it better-”

“Damn fucking right it doesn’t,” you snap.

“-but you deserved to know. And…” His breath hitches, and he draws in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You’d think you’d feel a little better. Happier. At least knowing what happened. You’ve already cut your sister out of your life, but maybe you’d be able to forgive your ex-fiancé.

Maybe if you weren’t wasted, you’d be able to.

But you don’t even care.

“Goodbye, Mark.”

Taglist:

@cevans-is-classic

@peoplewatching-notstalker

@meeshsen

@shouldntyoubeinthewoodssomewhere

@lordofanguish

@valdelion

@pansaremykryptonite

@yftmaifky123

@keircat7

[nullapophenia]

hiiiii lisaheads im back with Poasts <2 craft skills now

(this is isat act 5 spoilers shhhhh 🤫)

i dont wanna make names for thos skills </2 maybe i'll do it later

[corviiids]

THANKS @kimdokjafan you are so kind and generous. ok im cashing in the first of three blank checks to talk about faith trust and pixie dust (most recent chatfic) because the last two directors commentaries were too serious so let's do a silly one.

some p5r spoilers, and this is mostly about sumire, and it's long again. do i need to keep disclaiming that these are long? you should know me by now.

i had this written for a while before i started formatting it because i wasn't really sure if i should post it? i feel like silly chatfic is something people go to for predominantly lighthearted nonsense so i was like, maybe there's too much plot and dramatic misunderstanding and i should just keep this one for myself. but then i was like well nothing matters and maybe someone will have fun with it. it's kind of terrible how much fully or mostly completed fic there is my docs that just doesn't see the light of day lol. write for yourself etc but i like sharing! too bad it comes with the mortifying ordeal etc. anyway that was a tangent

potato counter is a neopets game. there's no deep lore i just like neopets. i guess in this universe ryuji doesn't play neopets? or maybe he's just never played potato counter specifically. i also have a different fic where ryuji DOES play neopets. it's about neopets and ryuji and goro talking on neopets.

i think this might literally be the first time ive written sumi in a fic because i haven't actually written that much fic for royal, like, now that im looking, literally almost none? and none that had a group dynamic. so it was kind of fun to find her voice for the first time in a silly groupchat like this. i was worried people would find her exclamation marks annoying but i personally thought it was endearing so i added it in there.

every time i do a gag where a character corrects their own typo i have to code more stupid little bubbles to make it happen but i think it's worth it. all the effort that goes into making tgis look as much like a real chat as possible

this obviously doesnt take place in the canon p5/r universe, but im imagining sort of a postcanon sumi personality where she's more comfortable being herself and isn't borrowing kasumi's brand of confidence, but she's visibly a really anxious person without that kasumi veneer. i also think in this universe sumire is a fairly recent addition to the friend group, and while everyone likes her a lot and she really likes them, i kind of wanted to emphasise that feeling of being in a friend group where everyone's established and you're sort of a plus-one? you don't really fit yet. part of that is her being new, part of it is her anxiety, part of it is just the kind of person sumi is where she's so polite and self-conscious she ends up taking herself out of things with her own good intentions. stuff like her interrupting the flow of an existing conversation by greeting everyone instead of jumping straight in because she doesn't feel comfortable inserting herself, which means everyone else stops to greet her even though that doesn't normally happen in a friend group, or making a point of thanking everyone for being invited to events while the others take it as a given.

idk i love that she feels a bit out of place with the phantom thieves in p5r. and part of that is a natural consequence of being a new addition in royal who can't be naturally integrated with an existing dynamic but i honestly feel like the writing team realised that and acknowledged it, and really leaned into it, and that made it work incredibly well for me. like, it's part of her character that she's sort of an outsider. it's not like p4g's incredibly clumsy integration of marie and subsequent attempt to shove her down everyone's throat as the canon love interest in p4ga (knife). sumi has that outsider vibe on purpose and it makes me really like her dynamic with the thieves as an individual

goro also feels slightly out of place in these chats, but his conversational style blends more naturally with the other thieves at this point and he even uses their codenames sometimes. i keep saying my chatfic series isn't a real Series because the lore keeps changing, but if we accept that they're all kind of following a General Continuity, assume this takes place some time after the last fic in which ren added goro to the groupchat and they made an effort to integrate him into their friend group. he's kind of there now and has settled into being the weird boyfriend. that's his role.

every time goro says something like "ren and i" assume it's the text equivalent of him talking to the group with his arm around ren's waist.

ok i got really fond of this silly running joke where sumi brings up the weather when she's feeling uncomfortable. she's so polite. i like this thread because setting it up meant i got to tie it off like this:

this just made me happy lol i liked writing this. i tried to use it to demonstrate that despite goro's abrasiveness he obviously knows sumire pretty well, he's attuned to her quirks and knows how to tell when she's having a bad time with her anxiety, so he uses her little weather habit to ground her.

i honestly dont think goro and sumire could be considered close in p5r and as much as i like the "royal trio" in canon they're not really... like... friends? with each other? they're both attached to ren, so it' more a V shape than anything else. but that said, i really LIKE goro and sumi's canon dynamic. he takes a really grouchy but politely attentive supervisory role to her during their few forays into the palace as a trio where he doesn't really know her well but clearly identifies her as a harmless little tryhard who needs some guidance and steps into that role grudgingly, and she immediately looks up to him despite being very wrong footed by his ruthlessness, which i find incredibly charming. i think given time they could be good friends, they just didn't get much chance to know each other very well in canon. so i tried to kinda do that here.

once goro stops being evil and joins the group they all kind of tiredly accept that his role is to occasionally push a cup off a bench while smirking and refuse to clean it up. emotionally, i mean.

wait i need to backtrack chronologically to talk about akeshu.

in this scene they're in the same room lol talking and snickering while typing. im trying to get at that vibe of the annoying couple who is flirting with each other, via you. you know? like ostensibly they're talking to you (sumire) but everything they say to you is part of their stupid game. sumi is incidental to goro and ren teasing each other about flirting with someone else, goro is reporting everything ren says because his boyfriend is so eye-rollingly foolish in a cute way. they're very tickled by how amusing and charming they are. gross. disgusting. sumire im so sorry for putting you through this

anyway here are too many of my favourite jokes from the fic

[summergoodwife]

Gonna say it again, "Just stop consuming the genre" is THE WORST POSSIBLE RESPONSE to someone complaining about the lack of representation in their preferred genre!! And "Consume other stuff too" is not much better!!! I don't care how much you think varying media consumption is a Good and Holy lifestyle, not everyone wants to do that! There is no obligation to do that and there should not be! Because it's fucking entertainment. It's not a college major.

And! And and and. I would be remiss to not point out that when you tell someone, "If you want well written (minority) just get out of (genre fandom)" you are, regardless of your motivations, rhetorically aligning yourself with the exact same bigots who just want the pro-representation crowd to shut up and go away.

[siaanme]

Something I've been thinking about lately on tumblr is the tags, and specifically leaving comments in them

Much has already been said about how they're great for making comments without them getting appended to every reblog of that post (unless someone really likes your tags, of course), and that is great. One of the top features of the tags. But there is something that frustrates me about them now, and I think is contibuting to friction between tumblr users

When I first joined tumblr, tags already were being used for impermanent commentary, but (I'm pretty sure) OPs couldn't see those tags unless they went looking for them. Which I honestly think was a good thing

Now, if you have a popular post that blows up, you are going to be exposed to whatever someone is tagging your post as. And that may be mostly harmless, sometimes funny, but I think it negatively impacts someones ability to make commentary. Just speaking from my own experience, I feel less happy making a joke in the tags, especially if I think thousands of other reblogs have also made that same joke. The OP gets it, and they'll be sick of it. And sure, maybe I don't need to worry about one hypothetical individual being annoyed at me for making an obvious and/or trite joke. But I will anyway.

It also affects other kinds of commentary, not just jokes. For example, right now Monster Hunter Wilds is a big topic among certain users. As a major video game, there are going to be people going through different parts of the game at different times. Some of them will be eager to share their experiences, and they may use the tags of someone else's post to do that. But what if the OP isn't as far through the game as the commenter? And they don't want to be spoiled on some of those moments they haven't gotten to yet? Intentionally spoiling someone is an asshole move, but accidentally spoiling someone is more understandable, though still frustrating. And this wouldn't be a problem, if a post's creator wasn't exposed to all the tags by default, instead of having to go looking for them.

Another thing it factors into is negative commentary, or criticism. To avoid kicking too many hornet's nests, let's talk about Goncharov for a second. I personally did not care for the Goncharov posting – happy for those who did, but it wasn't for me. So again, if I went onto a post explaining why someone loved Goncharov, and commented (not in the tags) "This thing sucks and only people with no taste could like it" that would be an asshole move. It would probably still be an asshole move even if was more nuanced and thoughtful talking about why, for example, I would rather dedicate my media appreciation to things that actually exist, rather than this fictional thing where it is being created en mass by so many different people that things are going to be contradictory leading to no one canon for people to discuss. However, that kind of thing feels a bit more appropriate to talk about in the tags, leaving them safely ignorable to the vast majority of people who just want to collectively invent a Scorsese movie. But with the current way tags are seen by a post's creator, they'd see that. And maybe they'd feel like I'm justing coming onto their post and insulting something they love. Which would not have been my intention, rather my intention was just to explain why I, personally, didn't like something.

I think it ties into some friction between people who use this site like social media, or reddit, versus people who use this as a micro-blogging site. That friction exists elsewhere as well on the internet, but I think it's more obvious here. Some people want to express their opinions about something for the sake of expressing their opinion, others want to discuss those opinions with others. I don't think either of those two groups are in the wrong, and I think that if tags were by default not shown in the creator's notifications, there would be a bit less of this

And sure, there's a temptation to just say "well you should just make your own post then (and hey look, that's what I'm doing), but again, things didn't use to be this way. And sometimes what you want to say is not consequential enough for a separate post (like my Goncharov rant above), but you still want to get it out there. It just frustrates me is all

[sojourner-between-worlds]

I normally don't vague post about other people (and I'm not really here, even) but someone in the tag suggested that Jack would make a better Team Leader than Yusei and it made me realize something, in part, about why people think that Yusei is boring.

tl;dr: Yusei isn't boring; he was written as the MC in the wrong genre.

See, Shonen protagonists typically have the following personality traits: loud, brash, hot-headed, sometimes abrasive. Yusei is none of those things, and Jack is ALL of them. Which, I'm sure, is what led that person to say that Jack would make the better leader and what leads so many people (who are mostly only fans of Shonen anime) to say that Yusei is boring. He doesn't fit their expectations of what a Shonen protag is supposed to look like, therefore he's boring.

But the thing is, if you popped him into, say, a Slice of Life, he'd be perfectly at home (well...except for the Trademark YGO Hair anyway) and well-loved by the fan base. I can say this with fair certainty because I've at least never seen anyone say that Natsume Takashi (Natsume's Book of Friends) is boring in any way, and honestly the two of them have very similar temperaments. The difference is, obviously, the genre of their respective stories.

Slice of Life allows for its protags to be softer-spoken, more reserved; Shonen often does not.

It's time people stopped saying that Yusei is boring and just admit that they like loud, brash characters as opposed to quiet ones, and that Yusei just doesn't fit what they expect from a Shonen protagonist.

He's not boring; he was just written for the wrong genre.

[enjoyvoidblack]

Was midway through typing out a defense of Jon's decisions in light of how everyone (including Jonny) seems to think he could've done much better, but then I remembered he walked up to Jude Perry's front door and knocked and yknow what post cancelled actually. For that alone this man is an idiot (affectionate)

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

HOLD ON WAIT UP HOLD THE PHONE

I KNOW I WAS GONE FOR A FEW MONTHS THERE BUT HAS BLUE LIKE DON'T FORGET ABOUT ME ALWAYS BEEN A PART OF A SERIES OR IS THAT A NEW DEVELOPMENT???

I FEEL LIKE ITS CHRISTMAS ALL OVER AGAIN FUCK Y E A H

Okay so

I...

have been cooking

by which I mean illusions of grandeur and

schemes

And I have not been forthcoming lol Everyone kind of disappeared all at the same time so I kind of stopped talking about what I'm doing but I have been biding my time, quietly putting mechanisms into motion and plotting and occasionally cackling over my cauldron.

I finished the first draft of Blue like don't forget about me and didn't like it so I cut out all the sci-fi fantasy stuff (bye bye aliens farewell superpowers) and in November wrote a new first draft that's all contemporary romance babeee and I'm so in love with it I'm turning it into a little 3-part (possibly 4 if I can't control myself) series.

The original childhood years have been split off into a prequel novella called Red like my bleeding heart in your hand. Then Blue like don't forget about me will take place 20 years later. Nash works at Cherished Hope Nursing Home

“And what is it you do? At the nursing home, I mean.” I wipe shit off of old people. And Teddy’s a hockey player. What’s Luke, an underwear model? He shouldn’t have come.

Teddy comes back to town for a funeral and

Teddy looks at him for the first time in twenty years and every ounce of warmth leaves his expression. Message received. He should not have come.

OKAY SO AND THEN the next book will be Jo's POV and is called Violet like these delights. and MAYBE there will be a 4th from Luke's POV bc he gets to live this time by the grace of god (me) but it'll depend on how Violet goes (its current state is mostly vibes and a single overarching theme so, stand by).

Red needs a clean-up round of edits to snip out the few little threads that connected it to OG blue. And rewritten blue is basically done. I've done the major revisions and am about to start line edits and after those are done I'm sending it out to beta readers (lmk if you're interested).

There are concise actual summaries in my pinned post btw lol

WHICH REMINDS ME

The series title is Wildflowers of Deliverance. Which I'm extremely proud of. Did you notice did you notice how each title incorporates a wildflower did you did you? and the town they grew up in where Nash and Teddy first met is called Deliverance!!! It's okay I know I'm a genius.

And this brings us to the meal okay? because like I said I've been Cooking™ quietly but steadily for a few months now. ANd what have I been cooking? PLOTS and PLANS

I've decided on a pen name: Sarah B. Elisa

I've created a(nother) side blog for it that will be exclusively centered on my og writing and geared more toward readers rather than writers like this blog is: @sarahbe-writing

I'm going to create a website (as soon as I convince myself to spend money)

and a newsletter (as soon as I convince myself to spend money and do work)

I'm still waffling between trad publishing and DIY. I really like all my hats and it would be a shame to have to share them but oh my god I don't want to do all the marketing but trad pub seems hit or miss on how well they market you so I might get half of my hats taken away and still have to do the marketing bullshit UGH

anyway

OH YEAH and the OG draft I wrote for Blue? I'm going to spin it back to its OG OG roots [parkner, naturally--Return of The childhood friends to estranged almost lovers to super-powered rivals to reluctant allies to friends to lovers finally wip!!! AKA: We Were Gods (we were kids)] and that will fix all the things that went wrong and I didn't like 😌 so it's basically like double Christmas I think

[werewolfsmile]

I was tagged by @lindseymcdonaldseyelashes to put my music on shuffle and list the first 10 songs + tag 10 people.

The Hero - Nathan Wagner

Come Over (Acoustic Mixtape) - Sam Hunt

Red Earth Dirt - Greta Stanley

Power Over Me - Dermot Kennedy

Should Have Known Better - Jessie James Decker

Till There's Nothing Left - Cam

Howl - Florence + The Machine

Heavy Stone - Kyla La Grange

Right Here - Ashes Remain

The House Rules - Christian Kane

Tagging: @independent-fics @dinotoaster @vampiritea @undisclosed-serendipity @sagiow @combat-librarian + anyone else who wants to do this, just say I tagged you!

[ekingston]

SO HERE IS THE WHOLE STORY (SO FAR).

I am on my knees begging you to reblog this post and to stop reblogging the original ones I sent out yesterday. This is the complete account with all the most recent info; the other one is just sending people down senselessly panicked avenues that no longer lead anywhere.

IN SHORT

Cliff Weitzman, CEO of Speechify and (aspiring?) voice actor, used AI to scrape thousands of popular, finished works off AO3 to list them on his own for-profit website and in his attached app. He did this without getting any kind of permission from the authors of said work or informing AO3. Obviously.

When fandom at large was made aware of his theft and started pushing back, Weitzman issued a non-apology on the original social media posts—using 

his dyslexia; 

his intent to implement a tip-system for the plagiarized authors; and 

a sudden willingness to take down the work of every author who saw my original social media posts and emailed him individually with a ‘valid’ claim,

as reasons we should allow him to continue monetizing fanwork for his own financial gain.

When we less-than-kindly refused, he took down his ‘apologies’ as well as his website (allegedly—it’s possible that our complaints to his web host, the deluge of emails he received or the unanticipated traffic brought it down, since there wasn’t any sort of official statement made about it), and when it came back up several hours later, all of the work formerly listed in the fan fiction category was no longer there. 

THE TAKEAWAYS

1. Cliff Weitzman (aka Ofek Weitzman) is a scumbag with no qualms about taking fanwork without permission, feeding it to AI and monetizing it for his own financial gain; 

2. Fandom can really get things done when it wants to, and 

3. Our fanworks appear to be hidden, but they’re NOT DELETED from Weitzman’s servers, and independently published, original works are still listed without the authors' permission. We need to hold this man responsible for his theft, keep an eye on both his current and future endeavors, and take action immediately when he crosses the line again. 

THE TIMELINE, THE DETAILS, THE SCREENSHOTS (behind the cut)

Sunday night, December 22nd 2024, I noticed an influx in visitors to my fic You & Me & Holiday Wine. When I searched the title online, hoping to find out where they came from, a new listing popped up (third one down, no less):

This listing is still up today, by the way, though now when you follow the link to word-stream, it just brings you to the main site. (Also, to be clear, this was not the cause for the influx of traffic to my fic; word-stream did not link back to the original work anywhere.)

I followed the link to word-stream, where to my horror Y&M&HW was listed in its entirety—though, beyond the first half of the first chapter, behind a paywall—along with a link promising to take me—through an app downloadable on the Apple Store—to an AI-narrated audiobook version. When I searched word-stream itself for my ao3 handle I found both of my multi-chapter fics were listed this way:

Because the tags on my fics (which included genres* and characters, but never the original IPs**) weren’t working, I put ‘Kara Danvers’ into the search bar and discovered that many more supercorp fics (Supergirl TV fandom, Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor pairing) were listed.

I went looking online for any mention of word-stream and AI plagiarism (the covers—as well as the ridiculously inflated number of reviews and ratings—made it immediately obvious that AI fuckery was involved), but found almost nothing: only one single Reddit post had been made, and it received (at that time) only a handful of upvotes and no advice. 

I decided to make a tumblr post to bring the supercorp fandom up to speed about the theft. I draw as well as write for fandom and I’ve only ever had to deal with art theft—which has a clear set of steps to take depending on where said art was reposted—and I was at a loss regarding where to start in this situation.

After my post went up I remembered Project Copy Knight, which is worth commending for the work they’ve done to get fic stolen from AO3 taken down from monetized AI 'audiobook’ YouTube accounts. I reached out to @echoekhi, asking if they’d heard of this site and whether they could advise me on how to get our works taken down.

While waiting for a reply I looked into Copy Knight’s methods and decided to contact OTW’s legal department:

And then I went to bed.

By morning, tumblr friends @makicarn and @fazedlight as well as a very helpful tumblr anon had seen my post and done some very productive sleuthing:

@echoekhi had also gotten back to me, advising me, as expected, to contact the OTW. So I decided to sit tight until I got a response from them.

That response came only an hour or so later: 

Which was 100% understandable, but still disappointing—I doubted a handful of individual takedown requests would accomplish much, and I wasn’t eager to share my given name and personal information with Cliff Weitzman himself, which is unavoidable if you want to file a DMCA.

I decided to take it to Reddit, hoping it would gain traction in the wider fanfic community, considering so many fandoms were affected. My Reddit posts (with the updates at the bottom as they were emerging) can be found here and here.

A helpful Reddit user posted a guide on how users could go about filing a DMCA against word-stream here (to wobbly-at-best results)

A different helpful Reddit user signed up to access insight into word-streams pricing. Comment is here.

Smells unbelievably scammy, right? In addition to those audacious prices—though in all fairness any amount of money would be audacious considering every work listed is accessible elsewhere for free—my dyscalculia is screaming silently at the sight of that completely unnecessary amount of intentionally obscured numbers.

Speaking of which! As soon as the post on r/AO3—and, as a result, my original tumblr post—began taking off properly, sometime around 1 pm, jumpscare! A notification that a tumblr account named @cliffweitzman had commented on my post, and I got a bit mad about the gist of his message :

Fortunately he caught plenty of flack in the comments from other users (truly you should check out the comment section, it is extremely gratifying and people are making tremendously good points), in response to which, of course, he first tried to both reiterate and renegotiate his point in a second, longer comment (which I didn’t screenshot in time so I’m sorry for the crappy notification email formatting):

which he then proceeded to also post to Reddit (this is another Reddit user’s screenshot, I didn’t see it at all, the notifications were moving too fast for me to follow by then)

... where he got a roughly equal amount of righteously furious replies. (Check downthread, they're still there, all the way at the bottom.)

After which Cliff went ahead & deleted his messages altogether. 

It’s not entirely clear whether his account was suspended by Reddit soon after or whether he deleted it himself, but considering his tumblr account is still intact, I assume it’s the former. He made a handful of sock puppet accounts to play around with for a while, both on Reddit and Tumblr, only one of which I have a screenshot of, but since they all say roughly the same thing, you’re not missing much:

And then word-stream started throwing a DNS error.

That lasted for a good number of hours, which was unfortunately right around the time that a lot of authors first heard about the situation and started asking me individually how to find out whether their work was stolen too. I do not have that information and I am unclear on the perimeters Weitzman set for his AI scraper, so this is all conjecture: it LOOKS like the fics that were lifted had three things in common:

They were completed works;

They had over several thousand kudos on AO3; and

They were written by authors who had actively posted or updated work over the past year.

If anyone knows more about these perimeters or has info that counters my observation, please let me know!

I finally thought to check/alert evil Twitter during this time, and found out that the news was doing the rounds there already. I made a quick thread summarizing everything that had happened just in case. You can find it here.

I went to Bluesky too, where fandom was doing all the heavy lifting for me already, so I just reskeeted, as you do, and carried on.

Sometime in the very early evening, word-stream went back up—but the fan fiction category was nowhere to be seen. Tentative joy and celebration!***

That’s when several users—the ones who had signed up for accounts to gain intel and had accessed their own fics that way—reported that their work could still be accessed through their history. Relevant Reddit post here.

Sooo—

We’re obviously not done. The fanwork that was stolen by Weitzman may be inaccessible through his website right now, but they aren’t actually gone. And the fact that Weitzman wasn’t willing to get rid of them altogether means he still has plans for them. 

This was my final edit on my Reddit post before turning off notifications, and it's pretty much where my head will be at for at least the foreseeable future:

Please feel free to add info in the comments, make your own posts, take whatever action you want to take to protect your work. I only beg you—seriously, I’m on my knees here—to not give up like I saw a handful of people express the urge to do. Keep sharing your creative work and remain vigilant and stay active to make sure we can continue to do so freely. Visit your favorite fics, and the ones you’ve kept in your ‘marked for later’ lists but never made time to read, and leave kudos, leave comments, support your fandom creatives, celebrate podficcers and support AO3. We created this place and it’s our responsibility to keep it alive and thriving for as long as we possibly can.

Also FUCK generative AI. It has NO place in fandom spaces.

THE 'SMALL' PRINT (some of it in all caps):

*Weitzman knew what he was doing and can NOT claim ignorance. One, it’s pretty basic kindergarten stuff that you don’t steal some other kid’s art project and present it as your own only to act surprised when they protest and then tell the victim that they should have told you sooner that they didn’t want their project stolen. And two, he was very careful never to list the IPs these fanworks were based on, so it’s clear he was at least familiar enough with the legalities to not get himself in hot water with corporate lawyers. Fucking over fans, though, he figured he could get away with that. 

**A note about the AI that Weitzman used to steal our work: it’s even greasier than it looks at first glance. It’s not just the method he used to lift works off AO3 and then regurgitate onto his own website and app. Looking beyond the untold horrors of his AI-generated cover ‘art’, in many cases these covers attempt to depict something from the fics in question that can’t be gleaned from their summaries alone. In addition, my fics (and I assume the others, as well) were listed with generated genres; tags that did not appear anywhere in or on my fic on AO3 and were sometimes scarily accurate and sometimes way off the mark. I remember You & Me & Holiday Wine had ‘found family’ (100% correct, but not tagged by me as such) and I believe The Shape of Soup was listed as, among others, ‘enemies to friends to lovers’ and ‘love triangle’ (both wildly inaccurate). Even worse, not all the fic listed (as authors on Reddit pointed out) came with their original summaries at all. Often the entire summary was AI-generated. All of these things make it very clear that it was an all-encompassing scrape—not only were our fics stolen, they were also fed word-for-word into the AI Weitzman used and then analyzed to suit Weitzman’s needs. This means our work was literally fed to this AI to basically do with whatever its other users want, including (one assumes) text generation. 

***Fan fiction appears to have been made (largely) inaccessible on word-stream at this time, but I’m hearing from several authors that their original, independently published work, which is listed at places like Kindle Unlimited, DOES still appear in word-stream’s search engine. This obviously hurts writers, especially independent ones, who depend on these works for income and, as a rule, don’t have a huge budget or a legal team with oceans of time to fight these battles for them. If you consider yourself an author in the broader sense, beyond merely existing online as a fandom author, beyond concerns that your own work is immediately at risk, DO NOT STOP MAKING NOISE ABOUT THIS.

PLEASE check my later versions of this post via my main page to make sure you have the latest version of this post before you reblog. All the information I’ve been able to gather is in my reblogs below, and it's frustrating to see the old version getting passed around, sending people on wild goose chases.

Thank you all so much!

[no1ryomafan]

You cannot see it but I’m restraining myself from typing out long paragraphs about something I don’t even fucking care about yet made me so upset that my teacher said Friday the more I think about it that I cannot tell him directly because I fear my opinion of him will be worsen but oh my fucking god I’m realizing more and more being in film major actively ruins your enjoyment in media, like holy fuck dude

(I had a long day yesterday seeing my friends and was doing nothing until now so uh- yeah I’m beyond in a daze which is why I stopped myself from writing something super super angry)

[pucellerie]

i can find any song in MP3 format on tumblr

[whisperedmeg]

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

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[pixie-felix]

O V U L A T I N G

So this drabble has been coming up a lot in my notifications recently so I thought I'd try and write a proper fic for it :) unfortunately I kinda got carried away with the crack, so when it came to the Chan smut the tonal shift was pretty jarring. I got bored trying to make it work and then I got sick of looking at it, so I figured I'd stop stressing about it and just post it in two parts 💁‍♀️

Thank you @a-jazzy-bitch for reading through this and convincing me to keep in the notes I wrote when I was half asleep.

wc: 1.7k genre: cracksmut summary: poly!ot8 x fem!reader lore with condoms galore. so much safe sex. Channie would be proud if he wasn't so pissed at Seungmin. explicit warnings under the cut (they're mostly silly).

explicit warnings: mentions of han’s freaky rodent libido, jeongin being a (literal) sneaky fucker, [redacted] bottoming for the maknae, felix x you x seungmin spitroast, flavoured condoms, ovulating makes you crazy horny.

Once upon a time, Chan would have been embarrassed about buying sixteen boxes of condoms at once. He’d tried to get away with just eight before: one for each member.

One box each seemed reasonable, right? 

But then Han’s freaky rodent libido had kicked in, and he’d gotten through his box so fast he started stealing condoms from the other guys. Chaos had ensued. Arguments about fairness, accusations of favouritism. Tempers had flared, fists had been raised. 

Moms had been mentioned. 

And the whole time you were a needy, horny little mess, whimpering and whining for someone to just shut up and fuck you. Begging like you’d been cock starved for fifty years.

Chan was almost proud of Jeongin, the way he used the argument to his advantage. Quietly sliding over to you and gently lifting you up so he could dress his cock with your cunt, while the others almost came to blows. The way he rolled his hips gently, murmuring no donut filth into your ear while you tried to stay quiet. 

You've always been bad at keeping quiet. Especially with Jeongin. Chan understands, he bottomed for the maknae once. He might not be Catholic, but there's no denying it: that cock was sculpted by God.

Thank fuck Jeongin decided not to be a priest. Dick that good should always be deep in someone's guts. 

It was actually the lack of sound that gave you two away. When Minho stopped to take a breath after a full two minutes of cussing out Jisung and he noticed you were no longer mewling for attention. 

A quick glance over to the bed revealed the reason– the way you were holding one of Jeongin’s hands over your mouth with both of yours. His other arm was wrapped around your waist to keep you still as he ground into you slowly.The seething jealousy stirring in Minho’s gut was quickly stifled by the big boba eyes you gave him, silently promising him a turn too. 

The ultimate hyung-but-one had always been a patient man, and was more than happy to watch until it’s his turn. Especially when the view was that good.

Han was less gracious when he saw what was happening. Cue the cries of betrayal, the whining, the pouting, the begging for his turn. Completely disregarding how it was him and his ridiculous libido AND lightspeed recovery rate that caused the whole kerfuffle in the first place. 

It was Seungmin who snapped, whacking his hyung over the head with a rolled up newspaper and telling him to wait his damn turn. 

Han shut up, pouting those cute quokka cheeks so hard he gave himself muscle cramps. Even then he would not stop. Not even when Felix started peppering his stupid sulky face with tons of teeny tiny kisses, trying to make him giggle and smile and generally cheer the fuck up.

But Hannie sulks as hard as he smiles, in the end being banished to his room and only let out for snacks and bathroom breaks, to stop him from ruining the mood. Not that you would’ve been able to notice, being caught up in a seven way tag team and all…

You did find him later, raiding the cupboards for snacks and hoarding all of the emergency heartbreak ice cream from the freezer– his heart was broken after all. 

On the plus side, he’d written two new songs in his exile– both with the kind of heart wrenching lyrics that’d make you think he’d gone through three divorces, eight jobs, and watched everyone he loved perish in an 18th century shipwreck. Possibly involving a kraken or two.

Two excellent songs, sure to stir the emotions of any Stay. Though the second one–the one about the cure for his heartbreak being your thighs around his head and his tongue deep in your cunt…

Yeah, that definitely wasn’t going on the album.

He gave you his best kicked puppy eyes when you cornered him in the kitchen, clutching his high calorie loot to his chest, holding it like it was his first born child.

Which he promptly dropped, nay, threw to the floor when you shyly asked if he’d come back to your apartment and keep you company for the night.

His face lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, bidding a fond farewell to his junk food child as he scooped you up and princess-carried you to his room. Mumble-babbling something to the tune of yes yes 110% yes please yes yes I would love to come and spend the night at yours but I need to fuck you right now before I actually explode.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Chan realised Han had somehow stolen all of the condoms, including the emergency one he kept in his back pocket.

So, two boxes each it is. Plus one extra box, bought in secret and hidden at the back of Chan’s wardrobe. For emergencies. Right next to the extra emergency first aid kit, in case some overenthusiastic riding ends up with another painful penis incident…

Chan had been worried about the checkout girl taking too long, about one of the others taking his turn and having to wait another rotation before getting inside you. 

Rotation? Explanation:

You might be willing to jump on anyone’s dick in your estrogen-induced haze, but after the Great Condom Theft of 2024, Chan and Minho worked out a strict schedule: keeping your days full of dick appointments while making sure none of the members felt left out.

It worked, mostly. Until unexpected events. Like the checkout girl taking too. damn. long.

But when Chan finally walked back into the dorm (in a cool and dignified manner, he definitely didn’t sprint up the stairs because the elevator was taking too long) the scene awaiting him in the living room was not what he was expecting.

Because instead of Hyunjin having his turn, or even Han sneaking a quick one in… it’s still Seungmin fucking you.

He’d had you in a mating press on the floor when Chan left, (which Chan was 100% not jealous about because that’s definitely not his trademarked move), but now Seungmin's got you on the couch, pounding you from the back while you moan around Felix’s dick. 

You must’ve sucked the blond raw by now, but if the gentle way Felix’s cupping your head and smiling at you is anything to go by, the way he’s brushing the hair off your forehead so he can look you deep in the eyes even as your nails leave little red scratches over his thighs… yeah, he doesn’t seem to mind. Felix has always been into a little bit of pain anyway.

Han is jerking off to the side, because of course he is. 

And Seungmin's designated box of condoms lying on the floor next to the couch, empty. There had been two left when Chan left, and he was only gone for 30 minutes. Chan’s not sure if he’s impressed, relieved, or frustrated. Probably a healthy mix of all three. 

Damn these young ‘uns and their ridiculous recovery rates.

Seungmin doesn’t look up when Chan shuts the door behind him, too busy concentrating on not nutting until he’s fucked you through at lease one more orgasm. But you do. 

You moan something that might’ve been his name, the vibrations finally pushing Felix over the edge and into filling his pretty pink condom. Watermelon flavoured of course, Lixxie always buys you sweet flavours when he wants head. So considerate.

As Felix slips from your mouth, your face lights up into an almost-exhausted-but-radiant smile as you murmur “Channie~” in a tone that makes Chan’s heart melt to mush… and his dick as hard as a diamond.

Seungmin definitely heard that, and there’s no way he misses the way you reach for Chan, but he chooses to ignore it. 

“Minnie.” Chan warns the younger man, who doesn't even spare him a glance and just starts to pound you harder instead. Pressing your face down into the cushions a little more, getting you to arch your back so he can hit it just right, making you cry out in that special way that means you’re about to cum… 

And as he fucks you through it? That’s when Seungmin finally acknowledges Chan, smirking up at him through his sweat-slick bangs as he taunts his hyung:

“Wait your turn, old man.”

“Bad pup.” Chan growls, ready to rip him off you and silently regretting not taking up Minho on his offer to hide strategically placed spray bottles around the door for “when the dog needs to be trained.” 

Before Chan can go and grab a water bottle from the fridge, a quiet whimper interrupts his thoughts.

“Minnie… please. Need Channie.” Your voice is soft. Needy. Irresistible. You must be exhausted at this point, but you’re practically glowing, looking at Chan with that special soft smile you save just for him.

Seungmin groans in protest, fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts just a little harder before remembering consent is key and reluctantly pulling out. But his attitude melts instantly when you lean back and kiss him, your neck twisting enough for Chan to see the mosaic of love bites and hickeys adorning your skin. 

Someone completely forgot the no marking up rule. Or just straight up ignored it.

Chan makes a note to give Seungmin extra dance practice. Not as a punishment of course, that would be petty. The almost-maknae’s hip thrusts just need a little more work. They’re getting sloppy.

The way you whimper when Seungmin strokes your neck brings him back to reality, his eyes snapping open as he feels over the little bruises. He quickly kisses over each one, whispering something sweet in your ear and making you giggle. 

Then he shoots his hyung a grin that says “worth it” and makes himself scarce, taking Chan’s stress levels with him and leaving you lax and boneless on the couch. The way you giggle when he scoops you up makes his heart flutter, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he carries you to his bedroom.

While absolutely not against living room sex (sharing is caring after all, and it’s not like there’s room for embarrassment in a nine-way poly relationship) but right now Chan wants you all to himself.

He even takes the time to lock the door after kicking it shut, balancing your entire weight between his chest and one arm as he flips the handle.

No more interruptions.

part two?

Taglist: @sthaay @bluesungology @chrizzztopherbang @avnche @kemkem33 @mikaelless @lvrgrl-xo @eevenus @furioussheepluminary @sheerfreesia007 @aasthamoon @amazinglystay @delulustardust @galaxy4489 @lil-bear08 @abby-loves-aphrodite @a-jazzy-bitch @incognitoinstigator @minhooofr

[tbaluver]

S/O That Wears Glasses- The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x reader, zayne x reader, rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader requested: by anonnie `⎚⩊⎚´ -✧ genre/tags: fluff fluff + silly a/n: hihi lovelies ! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ we're nawt gonna talk abt how long ago this request was ( ;´ - `;) this is a lil short but i should have other posts uploaded soon ! enjoy reading! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ thank yew @ilovemitsuya and @deusfoundry for helping MWAH ♡(˃͈ ˂͈ ) any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

he adores you with or without them

The type to remove your glasses as soon as you both settle in for bed, believing you should feel comfortable and relaxed without them.

Sometimes he playfully tests how bad your vision is by leaning his face close, causing your face to flush

Whenever your glasses break during a mission, he immediately works to fix them on the spot so you can see clearly again.

Goes "boop" whenever he sees your glasses slipping off your nose while gently pushing them back up for you

Zayne:

He knows your exact prescription so he makes sure to always have an extra pair on him whenever you forget, lose, or accidentally break them

When he comes home late at night and finds you asleep with your glasses on, he gently takes them off for you, carefully placing them on the nightstand or back in their case

He would carry a small cloth on him whenever your glasses get smudged

One time he accidentally grabbed your glasses when rushing back to the hospital, not realizing how much smaller they felt

Gets you matching sunglasses that he wears often in the cafe so you can wear them when the sun is too bright

Rafayel:

The type to act cute whenever he tries to put on your glasses for you but ends up poking your eye. He’ll end up rambling many apologies right after

Attempt two. Covers your eyes- unless your vision is already bad, to surprise kiss you. Sometimes he covers your eyes and he’ll say “guess whoooo cutie?”

Attempt three. When you were looking for your glasses, he'd place them on top of his head. When you finally spot them and reach up to grab it, he'd lean down to your level and press a sweet kiss on your lips before handing them over

He'd make you a personal and special goggles so you can dive into the sea together. He'd also make a cute case for your glasses that's designed perfectly for you

Sylus:

When your current glasses feel too uncomfortable, he’ll go shopping with you to find a pair that’s more comfortable and suited to your style. He’ll even engrave something special for you on the temples. The same goes for when your glasses break after you accidentally leave them on the bed or couch, making his fifty pounds of voluptuous ass accidentally sit on them. He would have to remind you to be careful where you place them.

He’ll offer to read things out for you if you’re reading a book, using a tablet, or trying to read a menu way to close to your face

Brushes your hair out of the way when your glasses start to slip down your nose or get out place

Whenever he leans in to kiss you, he gently lifts your glasses off to make sure nothing comes between the two of you

Caleb:

If you lost your glasses somewhere at the house, detective Caleb is on it. He’ll reassure you that he’ll look for it himself because he doesn’t want you to bump into anything or hurt yourself- depending on how bad your vision is

He’s playfully taken your glasses before just to see how they’d look on him but then he realized that they were too small for him. But really he just wanted to know how your vision is just in case he could be even more helpful for you.

Anytime you go out with him, he’ll help adjust your glasses for you whenever he sees them slipping off.

Finds it cute whenever your glasses get fogged up whenever you eat something steamy or cook something steamy with him. He’ll offer to feed it to you or he’ll let you cook with different ingredients instead

[starsforxavi]

his beloved ⁘ rafayel

·······•✦ description: After a long day, you surprise Rafayel with an attempt at a 'love spell', and he's more than happy to play along with his beloved. [Inspired by 'Tidefall Allure']

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

“This blindfold is ineffective, beloved.” Husky notes turn deeper in his voice, lingering on your skin like the perfume you’ve sprayed on all your pulse points. “I can see the shimmering moonlight, the endless tide, and a goddess in the flesh.”

·······•✦ pairing: rafayel x afab!reader ·······•✦ word count: 3.5k ·······•✦ genre: smut, porn with plot, fluff ·······•✦ general tags: Established Relationship, Lingerie, Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Soft sex, Body Worship, Praise Kink, Scent Kink, Cunnilingus, Multiple Orgasms, Sexual Overstimulation, Aftercare, pet names - beloved, Rafayel is down bad you guys, Vaginal Sex, Come Swallowing, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Creampie, Praise, Not Beta Read, Missionary Position, Kissing, Gentle Kissing, Neck Kissing, Based loosely on a secret times, Present Day Rafayel, not merman, (perhaps another day), POV Second Person, No use of y/n

·······•✦ posted on: ao3

“What did you have to show me, beloved?” Rafayel’s voice rings out like a bell through his living room, confusion and interest mingled into his words. After a long day of phone calls and staring at a blank canvas, it’s a gentle reprieve to have you in his presence. 

“It’s a surprise.” You respond from behind him, your feet tapping on the floor of his bedroom as you toy with the small pearls and gems adorning your outfit. It’s simple lingerie, but the design reminded you so much of Rafayel that you needed to get it. “Close your eyes.”

“They’re closed.” A huff of air comes, and you step out to see the back of his head, fluffy purple hair framing his neck and broad shoulders as he lounges on his couch.

A strip of silk is bunched in your hand, and with bare feet on the tile floor, you’re able to sneak up to right behind him. “I have a love spell… I want to cast on you.” 

The sound of your voice right behind him sends a shiver through Rafayel, the warmth of your body almost touching him before you’re dangling the piece of silk. He’s about to argue, because he already loves you, beyond mortal words, but letting you have your fun is part of the excitement, so he nods. “Alright, and what does that entail?” 

“First,” the silk hovers just over his eyes, and at the tickle on his nose, his magenta irises make an appearance, “I’m gonna put this blindfold on you.” 

“This ritual is very complex…” He teases, the pink silk doing little to nothing to shroud his eyesight. As soon as the tie is tight enough on the back of his head, you walk around to face him. 

His legs are parted, an invitation of just your name on his lap as his head nods along the expanse of your body. A flush of pink that almost matches the blindfold paints his cheeks, and you step between his knees, your body so close to him that he can almost hear the soft clinking of the pearls and gems that decorate the lingerie. 

“This blindfold is ineffective, beloved.” Husky notes turn deeper in his voice, lingering on your skin like the perfume you’ve sprayed on all your pulse points. “I can see the shimmering moonlight, the endless tide, and a goddess in the flesh.” 

Rolling your eyes, you scoff lightly, only to be cut off by his fingers wrapping around your wrist. Your faces are inches apart when he tugs, bringing you down to eye level with him. “What’s this?” He makes an exaggerated sniffing noise, the tip of his nose nudging your jaw. “Are you using this oceanic fragrance to guide me?” 

A rush of air escapes you, breaking free from the prison of your lungs that keeps it trapped there. “Well…” 

“It should linger in the… appropriate places.” His lips brush the skin of your neck, a featherlight kiss finding a home behind your ear. “From here,” he starts there, and instead of kisses, his nose drags a trail down your neck, your shoulder, your arm, all the way to the inside of your wrist that he holds so reverently. A kiss, and then: “to here.” 

Beneath the blindfold, his gaze shifts to your face, taking in the way the moonlight accentuates your beauty. Like a goddess stepping from the shadows, he’s rendered breathless by the senses that overwhelm him in the best way. “Until the scent fully permeates your skin.” 

“Even this…” It’s you who is brought to silence, unable to do anything except bend to his will as his hands find a home on your hips, bringing you closer until you're standing straight and looking down at him as if he were a mere devotee to the woman before him. Taking a slow breath in, he lets the scent sit in his mind, bringing him back centuries ago. “It’s a recipe that’s potent enough to ignite a god’s desire.” 

Shining blue scales flash across his neck and ears, twinkling like Christmas lights in the night sky. The silk does nothing to stop the pink flash in Rafayel’s eyes as he gives himself to your heart. It’s his, and yet he’s willing to carve out his own chest for whatever you want. 

“Your scales are coming out again.” You point out, your fingers carding through his hair. Warmth sits on your skin in the form of his lips along the edge of your panties. 

The lingerie, which is a subtle pale blue with adornments of pearls and gems, washes over Rafayel, and his body responds in turn. His instincts as a god can’t ever take over when he’s marveling at such beauty. 

“The scales on my body?” He hums against your skin, his tongue poking out to trace each part of your abdomen that his lips can reach. “They appear during certain… special moments.” The silk of the blindfold tickles your hip. “You should know that well, beloved.” 

One of his hands wraps around you to settle on the curve of your ass, holding you in such a grip like iron shackles. Unable to move - but you don’t want to move, but also unable to get closer as the fingers tighten on your waist. 

Rafayel wants to take his time, his head dipping to kiss the junction of your thigh and hip, right below your panty line, and so close to where you need him. The smacking noises of his lips accompany low moans, as if worshipping you like this was bringing him his own pleasure. 

“I do…” You whisper, looking down at his white slacks. Not a drop of paint is on them, and the canvas behind you is completely empty. “I know.” 

The statue that sits in the corner of his living room calls out to him, and as he lifts his head, the blindfold slips down his face, curling around his neck in a pink lace necklace. The same beauty that he worshipped so long ago is painted in the small details of your face. The same eyes. The same curve of your nose. The same smile on your lips. It’s all you. It’s always been you. 

“Y’know, they come out even more when a particularly devout offering is presented to me.” With his chin perched on your stomach, he stares up at you with glowing pink eyes. The blue is but a sliver of softness that inches in before being swallowed by the magenta hue, not putting up a fight with the crackling pink that highlights his striking beauty.

“And I’m the offering?” More kisses run along your body, his hold tightening and fingers pressing into the flesh of your behind as he inhales your scent. It’s a mix of your natural musk and the sea water fragrance you’ve used, but it’s all a delicious draw. 

As if you were a siren and he were a lowly pirate, he nods. “Always.” His attention is directed toward your skin, reverent kisses worshipping every inch of you in a way that you don’t know what’s love and what’s pure desire. “I won’t be taking any other offerings besides the one standing before me.” 

Then, he stands. “It’s just you and I here.” The muscles in his arms flex as he picks you up, forcing your legs to wrap around his waist. The pearls clink together with each step he takes toward his bedroom, and his lips find the side of your neck while his palms sit below your thighs. “No one will disturb us.” 

The moonlight is brighter in his room, with one wall being completely windows. It’s a frame to the scene before him. You, lying on the bed with the lingerie you bought for him. You, whose heart beats for him. You, who can have him on his knees with just a look. 

You, who is his for the rest of eternity. You… His beloved bride.

The blue scales still illuminate his features, the edge of his jaw like a blade that threatens to pierce your skin. His eyes, regarding others with a silent disregard, look down at you with a gentle affection. 

“Is this for me?” He asks, his finger dipping under the waistband of your panties. 

A nod answers him, and he leans down to kiss right beside the strap of your bra. Without thinking, a light touch brushes his ear, the scales chilly to the touch. It isn’t until he lets out a sharp breath that an apology tumbles from your lips. 

“You’re allowed to touch these scales because your attempt succeeded.” He rasps, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tugs on the panties. “Now, I want you to reveal your innermost self to me, beloved.” 

“Please…” You whimper, lifting your hips to allow him to strip your lower half of the lingerie. It disappoints him for a moment because you’re so beautiful with the blessings of the sea decorating your body, but he needs all of you.

Lying in the middle of the bed, the ocean waves are the backdrop to your glistening pussy. Heat ignites in Rafayel’s chest, his skin crackling like a hearth that is never-ending flame. 

His shoulder anchors your legs, bracketing the scales on the sides of his head. They are the perfect headphones for the breaths and whimpers that erupt from your throat. His heated and gentle kisses start at your knee, strolling up your leg like a bride walking down the aisle. 

“Since you’ve awakened the desire that rests deep within this god’s heart…” The pink in his eyes crackles in a fire, each blink bringing him deeper and deeper into that desire you’ve coaxed from him. 

The ghost of his lips haunts you, so close to your throbbing need that you want to buck up and chase that pleasure, but you’re held down by his flexing biceps. Each breath fans out across your soaked folds, a lewd noise coming when he parts you with just his thumbs. 

His eyes meet yours, swimming in need and desire yet edged in a slow ebbing of devotion. As if you were a painting, he’s brought back to the statue, how similar you are, yet so so different. A masterpiece in the flesh, and Rafayel wants nothing more than to paint more strokes of beauty on your skin. 

“He wants to devour you. Now.” 

A blink and he’s buried between your legs, eyes closed and throat closing with grunts and groans. His tongue dips into you, collecting your essence and moaning at your taste. Every bit of you is swallowed by him, your moans, your taste, the way your fingers tug at his hair while he traces the ring of muscle fluttering around nothing. 

“Raf!” Your back arches, your body trying to run away from his mouth and the ferocity that he devours every inch of you, but you’re anchored to the spot, a pristine chain dragging you down to the depths where you can’t escape. “Fu-” 

A satisfied hum runs through your body, and as the soft white light flashes across his furrowed brows, you see a man who is irrevocably dedicated to his beloved. Wanting to show you all facets of pleasure and just what he can give without needing to take. 

“No… running… away…” He gasps between long licks to your pussy, the tip of his tongue flicking your throbbing clit over and over again. The sensation of his worship already led you to the edge, and it doesn’t take much until your thighs threaten to crush his head and your back leaves the comfortable sheets below. 

There’s no reprieve. 

Immediately after the first orgasm hits, he just gets more feral. Like his ebb day but worse, his thoughts muddled and full of just one thing: you. Hearing every noise, feeling every clench of your hole around his tongue, tasting every drop of your arousal that is only for him. 

“Raf… Please… Raf-” 

Your words are cut off when his lips suction around your clit, the sharp stab of pleasureable overstimulation biting at your ankles. It shoots up your nerves, quickening the beat of your heart like you’re watching a horror movie. It’s too good to look away, but the fear of another jumpscare tenses your muscles. 

“Relax, beloved.” He whispers against your pussy, his cheeks slick and chin dripping. “Need to hear… more.” 

His voice is more profound, more intense than usual, and you fight back the whine as he eagerly devours you like he said he would. Because he would never go back on his promises. 

So he takes another, the waves of the ocean playing a part in the warm waves that lap at your abdomen. It’s more pleasure that ebbs into pain, overstimulation hardening your joints and locking your thighs around his head. But Rafayel doesn’t mind. If his end is brought between your legs, his senses full of you, then it’s a pretty good way to go. 

“Rafayel.” His full name rolls off your tongue, lips slick with saliva and throat hoarse from the cacophony of whimpers and noises that play on repeat. “I… I’m- please…” 

The sound of your desperate whimpers is like music to his ears, but not when he thinks it’s hurting you. So he raises his head, the entire bottom half of his face shining in the moonlight, highlighting the pleasure that he’s given you three times now. 

“Are you okay, beloved?” His eyes are more muted, the flaming pink edging into a soft petal of a flower as his hands soothe the tops of your thighs. The edge in his voice is gone, replaced by worry and the rasp of being down there for some amount of time known only to the moon drifting in the sky. 

“Yeah… Yeah…” Your breath fills your lungs once more, trapped there while you trace his features with your gaze. He’s still dressed, the short sleeves of his shirt framing his muscles and the white slacks crumpled from the bed, and you watch in fascination as he unbuttons his shirt, sliding it off. His pants follow, the slow drag of his underwear coming with it and leaving him bare to your eyes. 

Rafayel lets you breathe, watching the pearls that accentuate your curves and rest across your abdomen, still hanging from the cups of your bra. When he sits back, he sees the tides behind you, beckoning him closer with their soft crashing on the sand. But he would rather crash into you. 

“Can you handle one more?” It’s exploratory, just as his hands are as they rub along the sides of your torso, one slipping behind you to pop the clasp of your bra. Just like that, you’re both bare to each other like you’ve been so many times before, but this god is ready to become a follower himself. “Please?” 

A chuckle turns into a gasp as his tip nudges your entrance. Ripples of heat run along your skin, threatening to pull you into an even deeper need, and you’re ready to take the plunge. 

You reach out a hand to him, wanting to cup his cheek, but you’re surprised to feel his fingers threading through yours, pressing your clasped hands into the mattress above your head. Once again trapped, you meet Rafayel’s eyes, coming closer until his lips ghost over yours. 

“Say it, beloved.” He whispers, his other hand dragging his cock through your folds, a hitch in his breath coming when he feels your hole fluttering around him. “I need you to say it.” 

“Yes.” A whisper fans across his lips. “One more… Please.” 

Mesmerized by his eyes, you both share a moan as he sheathes himself inside you. From your previous orgasms, the resistance is nothing except a slick glide until he’s nudging the most sensitive spot that rips a whimper from your lungs. 

“You’re so…” He pauses, needing to take a breath before catching the words from the lake in his mind. “So beautiful.” 

His fingers dance up your side, then your arm, your wrist… Finally, they intertwine with your own and join the other set of hands above your head. You’re entirely at his mercy, caught in the trap of his eyes that pulse with each beat of his heart. 

With legs parted, you arch your back, the curve of his cock pressing into you over and over as you beg wordlessly for more. Always more… Forever more. 

“I’ve got you, beloved.” He whispers into your parted lips, the slow drag of his hips pulling him almost all the way out. “I’ve always got you.” 

Each thrust is another declaration of his love, your essence coating your own lips as he kisses you over and over and over. Melting into one flame, the scales on his neck fade slightly, replaced with the real color of his irises. 

He’s Rafayel… He always has been… But it seems like a part of him has awoken, and you tilt your head up to meet him halfway, embracing him with your thighs around his waist, aiding him in each pulse of his hips against yours. 

The smooth expanse of his pelvis grinds against your clit, the slow, sensual rutting beginning a trek up a tall mountain. The previous orgasms were a quick drop off a water slide, but this is a lazy river, going around a track until the eventual end where you find yourself satisfied and relaxed all at the same time. 

“I love you.” He buries his face in your neck, your scent filling his nose, and whimpers resting on his ears. “I love you so much.” 

“Love… you… too.” The snap of his hips comes when he’s only an inch away from being fully inside, bouncing your body up the bed. You would be hanging off the edge if he weren’t holding your arms above your head. “I love you… too.” You manage the whole sentence, and he twitches inside you at the saccharine sweet tone in your voice, despite being ruined over and over by him. 

“My beloved.” The whimper is different, his chest heaving with the pull of his head toward yours, wanting to become one. To harden into a gem, sink to the depths of the ocean, never to be seen again. 

You’re one. One being. One heart. One soul. Belonging to each other like you were made of the same seafoam, finding one another despite the hardships, and always… Always falling in love. 

“Rafayel.” Your head digs into the mattress, the slow trek up the summit leading to the tip of the mountain. Oxygen leaves your body in lesser increments, creating a haze around you that edges into incoherence when you hear Rafayel whimper your name like a prayer. 

The tsunami is more of a crashing of waves, and your nerves are frayed with the fourth orgasm that tightens your muscles and wraps Rafayel in a cocoon of warmth. He’s there, inside you, filling you with everything he has to offer. 

“Beloved…” He whispers again, his knees shaking as each pump of his seed inside you brings another grunt. Twitches of his cock push him even deeper, until he can feel each bump and pulse of your walls around him. “Fuck.” 

Minutes. 

In the aftermath of your orgasm, you both lie there. His hands now rest in the dips of your hips, and his body shrouds you from the eyes of the stars up above in the sky. How dare they catch a glimpse of his goddess? 

“How are you feeling?” His voice breaks through the silence, cutting through the tranquil sound of the tide.

“Good.” A sigh and a breathless chuckle come when he picks himself up just enough to meet your gaze. “Full, and like jelly… But good.” 

Rafayel mimics your chuckle, slotting your lips together in an even more gentle kiss than the rest of the night. He cups your cheek, holding you still while he devours your lips with languid strokes of his tongue against yours. 

“Why don’t we take a bath together?” He suggests, his lips brushing yours, because he doesn’t want to pull away too far. “I’ll massage your tense muscles.” The caress of his thumb on your cheekbone soothes you, and you whine when his hips move and his softened length slips from your entrance. “And then you can put that lingerie set back on so I can properly admire my beloved.” 

A smile breaks out on your lips. “I wore it for all but ten minutes.” 

Sitting up, Rafayel picks you up bridal style, cradling you close to his chest. “Well, can you blame me when you looked like an absolute goddess? I thought I was staring at a statue in the Louvre.” 

“You flatter me too much.” 

His smile reaches his eyes as he turns the faucet on, and steamy water fills the tub. While he waits, he nuzzles his nose against your cheek, and when he speaks again, each word vibrates his chest like he’s reciting a prayer. 

“I don’t flatter you enough.” 

© starsforxavi