#i will....put this on ao3 sometime this week

[demonic0angel]

Celestial Bodies AU (7/?)

(Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6. Also on AO3)

Sometimes, it felt like the whole world was against her.

It was especially evident in Batman's pissy attitude and his insistence on her quitting her night job, despite how he allowed Tim and Dick to do whatever they wanted.

She may not have been trained like those two, but it didn't mean that he couldn't step up and teach her, right? She had to rely on her own wits and Tim's sporadic (and admittedly rather lackluster) moments of teaching in order to know how to defend herself without a weapon.

So yeah, now that she had an opportunity to rub it in Bruce's face that he was wrong to dismiss her, she wouldn't let this opportunity go!

At least, that was what she was thinking before the harsh reality of being stuck to Batman all the time hit her.

Quite literally.

Robin groaned, rubbing her sore shoulders after another day of patrol with Batman. She messaged Tim with one hand while the other started taking off her cape and belt. She started peeling off her mask as Tim responded back.

Girl Wonder: tim

Girl Wonder: howas ur day

Boy Loser: Fine

Boy Loser: How was yours

Girl Wonder: pandil

Girl Wonder: painful*

Boy Loser: Lmaoaoaoao

Stephanie sighed again, as Tim started teasing her about the spelling mistake. Sometimes, he would let it go and sometimes, he had to rub it in her face. Usually, she would just roll her eyes fondly and take the ribbing, but today, she just wanted comfort.

After Tim had been forced to shelve Robin after his dad found out about his secret identity, he has given her the role of becoming Robin. She had taken it with great reverence, but Batman clearly wasn’t ready to let go of Tim yet, because he was an absolute asshole while training her.

She felt like perhaps he was seeing someone else through her (either Tim or someone else…?) but it was so tiring and infuriating that she didn’t mention it, only wanting to quit Robin after a few weeks of this near-torture.

Batman was oddly petty for a man who spent his life fighting crime.

… wait a minute.

Stephanie sighed again.

Boy Loser: ... Steph? You alright?

Stephanie pursed her lips as she realized her uncharacteristic lack of reply was now worrying Tim.

Girl Wonder: yea

Girl Wonder: B is being a dick

Boy Loser: ... I wish I could make some sort of Dick joke but I feel like it won't be appreciated rn

Boy Loser: What happened?

Stephanie chuckled a little and continued to reply.

Girl Wonder: nthing but he keeps putting me down

Girl Wonder: it pisses me off

Girl Robin: im robin now! i dont deserve this

The three talking dots popped up as Tim began typing out his reply and Stephanie waited, suddenly wondering if she had been too whiny and he was annoyed. After all, how many people got to say that they were handed the Robin costume by an actual Robin and then allowed to be Batman's sidekick? She needed to be grateful, but it was difficult when Batman was being a little bi—

Okay, deep breaths.

Stephanie shook off her thoughts, just as Tim finally replied.

Boy Loser: How about going to meet the cluster?

She blinked.

Girl Wonder: the wut?

Boy Loser: The Phantom Cluster? All Robins got a star bonded to them. Like mine, remember?

She paused again.

She didn't know much about the Phantom Cluster. All she knew were that they were a group of cursed children who were forced into becoming sentient stars. They were considered all-knowing, but relied on a Robin in order to exploit some unknown loophole in their curse and grow up past their frozen ages.

At least, that was what Tim had explained to her.

Girl Wonder: ... can i do that?

Boy Loser: I'll come and bring you to them?

Boy Loser: I want to see my star anyways.

Wow, she almost wanted to feel jealous, but she had already been long aware of his obsession with his star and now it was just funny to see how close he was to them.

Girl Wonder: ok

Boy Loser: Sweet. Stay there

Her eyes widened.

Girl Wonder: right now??

He didn't respond. Only 10 minutes later, as Stephanie debated between taking off her uniform or leaving it on to leave a more professional impression on the stars, did Tim scurry into the Batcave with a breathless smile.

"Let's go!" He said. "I snuck past my dad and Bruce for this."

Stephanie laughed, "You're so excited! Don't you have camera feed of your star? It's not like you haven't seen her in a while."

"Nothing beats seeing her in person," Tim grinned. "C'mon, I'll show you how to get to the cluster."

He directed her towards the tube and began explaining its mechanisms and codes for various locations. Stephanie listened carefully, although there were butterflies in her stomach as she thought about meeting the cluster.

Would they hate her?

After all, no matter how much she wished she was, she wasn't like the other Robins. If all of the previous Robins had a star, would she be considered different if she didn’t have one herself?

Suddenly, she felt nauseous. What if she wasn’t chosen? Would it be further proof that she wasn’t meant to be a hero?

She suddenly felt a hand slide into hers. She blinked and looked up as Tim gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“It’ll be okay, I promise. They’re nice.”

Stephanie returned his look with a shaky smile and then the two of them went into the tube, and off they went.

When they landed, Stephanie barely had a moment to bounce back before Tim was pulling her through the metal halls. They walked for a while, and Tim finally burst from the silence.

“Did you read the files about the Phantom Cluster?”

“They’re locked to me,” Stephanie replied. “I only know what you and Dick told me and that they’re a group of sentient stars.”

“That’s because Bruce can get… irritated and try to delete or edit the information. We locked it so only Robins know the passwords,” Tim explained. “But the Phantom Cluster is a group of sentient astronomical bodies, such as several stars and planets. There’s six of the main ones, but there are also a few other planets that can occasionally communicate with them. However, they’re not as sentient and only the six in the middle is— actually, I’ll just let you see for yourself.”

Stephanie followed him and when he finally opened the doors to the command room, she stopped in place and stared.

The room they were in was shaped like a half circle, and all of the walls were covered in glass, allowing ample view of the stars outside. In front of the glass were several machines and computers, silent as they flashed with notifications and alerts about the readings of the stars.

A soft song was playing, one made entirely by voices. It was angelic, like that of a choir and it sent a shiver down Stephanie’s spine as the chilling and seductive music wrapped around her like a siren’s call.

But she wasn’t too focused on the singing.

No, she was focused on the stars.

They were beautiful.

Dick had mentioned it once, how much he loved looking at them. Tim had also mentioned it several times, of how he visited them just to watch them and to see his star.

With the way they spoke of them at times, Stephanie sometimes wondered if they were brainwashed.

But now, she could understand.

Humans had always been fascinated by the stars. It was what created astronomy, telescopes, stories of constellations and space travel and aliens, it was what created NASA and the moon landing and astrology and rocket ships.

She could understand it now.

In the middle of space was a cluster of stars. Four of them whirled and twirled around each other with various degrees of energy. One in particular spun and slowed down in intervals, like doing a skip during a walk because it was so excited that it had to jump a little, but it still wanted to keep pace with the group.

There were also two planets, one covered in clouds and the other was a red and yellow sandy looking planet with wide rings surrounding it. They circled the stars quickly, but carefully, like trying to keep close but also not wanting to bump into the hot balls of gasses. A variety of asteroids and other smaller planets then circled them at a distance, as if not wanting to get closer.

Stephanie could quite literally see the personality within all of them, as they orbited one another.

Tim grinned. “They’re amazing, right?”

“You weren’t kidding,” she breathed.

Tim pulled her to the window and then pointed at a large, bluish star. “That’s Dick’s. We call it Nightwing’s star or Dick’s star. He’s one of the oldest and also the largest. He can be kinda mean, but he protects Dick a lot.”

“How can a star be mean?” Stephanie wondered. She watched as Dick’s star spun and then directed the pretty pink and purple clouds towards two other astronomical bodies.

“You’ll know what I mean,” Timothy said, before pointing to another celestial body. This time, it was a swirling, bow-tie shaped thing that was funneling gas and dust. There were two of them, but this one was distinctly colored blue and was smaller than the other.

“Is that…?”

“Yeah. That one is my star. Well, she’s actually a baby star— a protostar,” Timothy proclaimed proudly. “Isn’t she beautiful? I call her partner.”

Stephanie stared with a mixture of amazement and endearment. “She’s pretty cute. She’s smaller than all of the others!”

“Yeah. She’s the baby of the cluster.” He pointed to the other protostar. “And that one is… Jason’s.”

Stephanie stared at its enormous, funneling body and nodded slowly. “… it shows that he’s alive, huh?”

“Yeah. That’s the big sister of the cluster. She’s Jason’s star, and we don’t know how but… they’re back.”

Stephanie nodded again. She knew of this. Before Tim quit and while she was still Spoiler, she would occasionally babysit Gotham whenever he left with Nightwing in order to search for Jason.

“…. At least they’re both back?” She offered awkwardly.

Tim nodded. “At least they’re back.” He pointed to a small, faintly glowing blue and green ball that was following Tim’s star. “That one is the King. He takes care of the other stars and he’s a neutron star. He also used to be a hero, like us, before he died.”

“How young was he? Do we know?”

Tim met eyes with her.

“He was fourteen when he died,” he said softly, and Stephanie pursed her lips.

The amount of child heroes who died before 16 was quite uncomfortable.

The atmosphere was suddenly awkward, but Tim forcibly changed the subject and pointed to the two planets. “And lastly, these are the other two planets. They’re part of the ones singing as well as the main six of the cluster. That one is a rocky planet and that one has life on it, but we haven’t been able to touch down on either of them.”

Stephanie blinked and leaned closer to the glass in awe, squinting to try and see past the thick clouds. “Life? Like Earth? Why can’t we land?”

“They won’t let us. Sometimes, we can fly along their orbit, but when they get mad or want to stop us, they’ll push us back. The stars will help and send out solar flares and if they get really pissed, well, it’s not pretty.”

Interested, Stephanie asked, “What happens?”

Tim shrugged. “I'm not sure. But there were some people who betrayed the Justice League and tried to come here to take over. The stars took them out.”

Stephanie’s eyebrows rose.

She looked around for an invisible camera.

Did Timothy Drake, once Robin, just tell her that the stars killed people?

“Wait, what? How?”

“One ship got pulled in via the gravitational pull and then exploded on Dick’s star, and another ship had an asteroid hit them and a hole appeared in the hull. They all died.”

Stephanie recoiled. “Wait, seriously? They all died?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. The Justice League was pissed. Dick argued that the stars were just defending themselves and—“

“The Justice League was mad at the stars??”

Stephanie felt like she was learning too many things at once. She was almost dizzy from the confusion.

Timothy gave her a light glare for interrupting him again but said, “The Justice League was angry since they had deliberately killed people. Even the asteroid was intentional.” He shrugged then. “But what can they do? Punish the Cluster? Dick fought for them and they’re still here as allies to the Justice League and to the Robins. But that’s also why you don’t see any other heroes here. They kinda stopped coming after that, though Superman does visit sometimes.”

“… wow. That’s so messed up on so many levels.”

Tim grinned.

“So, ready to introduce yourself? They’re waiting.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. Especially with all of the very nice, normal things he just told her about the stars.

Stephanie told him that and he laughed. She took that brief moment to allow the panic to sink in and then flow out of her as she took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said, facing the main communicator, “I’m ready.”

“I’ll introduce you,” Tim said. He tapped the glass softly and then said, "Hello, everyone."

There was a pause as the hair rose on the back of Stephanie's neck, and she listened as the sound of angelic song slowed to a halt, allowing only ocean waves and TV static to fill the room with an energy that she could not place.

The crackle of static and burbling of water was the only sound for awhile.

And then—

"Hey, partner."

Tim beamed. "Hey, partner. It's good to see you. You're getting bigger, huh?"

The protostar gave a deliberate whirl, sparkling as gas and dust rubbed against each other within its accretion disks.

There was suddenly an angry, high pitched noise on the communicator.

Both Stephanie and Tim winced, although Tim also looked exasperated.

Dick's star, which had been silently following the orbital path suddenly froze in place. It turned slowly, seemingly facing in one spot before stopping completely, its edges flaring with bursts of light.

“Is… is that Dick's star glaring at you?” She said, bordering on a laugh. Tim’s star did a cycle around the other protostar and then did a loop around Dick’s star, as if trying to poke it into reacting. Dick’s star was still for a moment longer, before inching along their orbital path again without spinning, as if still trying to keep its eyes on Tim through the glass.

She burst into giggles, absolutely delighted in the way Tim looked exasperated and resigned of a star seemingly trying to antagonize him.

“Yeah. He’s like that a lot whenever I’m around,” Tim sighed exaggeratedly.

“That’s so cute! To be honest, I didn’t expect them to have so much personality.”

“Yeah, me too. But once you get to know them, they’re really fun. Even if Dick’s star hates my guts.”

Stephanie giggled again. “He’s like an overprotective dad.”

“Yeah, but at least I'm not the only one he hates. He also really— uhm.” Timothy paused in the middle of his tirade.

Stephanie blinked and turned to stare at him.

Timothy looked uncomfortable, but soldiered on and continued, “But I also heard that he disliked Jason too. Apparently, he was pissed when Jason got his star. He has a real complex about his sisters from what we know.”

Stephanie tried to imagine the image of a big blue ball throwing a hissy fit because his sisters were being taken away by human boys, and the absurdity made her laugh.

“Aww, poor guy!” She snickered. “He just wants you stinky boys away from his sisters.”

“Hey!” Timothy exclaimed with a playful glare. “I take showers!”

"Coulda fooled me!"

Tim huffed a laugh and then addressed the Cluster again. "Everyone, this is Robin."

There was a pause, and then the Cluster spoke in unison, a whispery coo, "Hello, Robin."

Stephanie breathed out a sigh of relief as Tim perked up, smiling broadly.

One voice in particular spoke up over the rest.

"Robin, I have someone who'd like to make a deal with you."

Its voice was soft and light, but there was a quality within that made her want to relax within its soothing reverb.

Stephanie couldn't help grabbing at Tim in excitement, who patted her hand with a wide grin.

"Would you like to accept?"

She coughed to calm herself down. "... who is asking?"

The communicator crackled and then the cluster spoke again, with the one voice leading in front, "Come into the space pod and you will be taken to him."

Stephanie met eyes with Tim. Timothy raised an eyebrow and then shrugged.

"Now what?"

"... I guess you go?"

She gulped. She looked at Tim for reassurances, for him to tell her— something, but he didn't.

He just stared at her and then smiled, a glint in his eyes that she knew was him knowing something that he didn't want to share.

Stephanie sighed.

She went into the space pod that was attached to the station with instructions to just stay still and let the Cluster's solar winds lead her to where she needed to go, and off she sent.

Stephanie sat in the space pod, watching the distant stars and galaxies while she was slowly led deeper and deeper into the Phantom Cluster. The communicator crackled with no words as she sat there in a drifting metal ship within the vacuum of space.

For a moment, she wondered if she was going to die.

She wondered if they were rejecting her and would then kill her via asteroid smashing into the pod or fire as they guided her straight into a star's surface.

She wondered if this was going to be the last thing she ever saw, stars and planets and galaxies in her eyes before her life ended, but when she blinked, she was sailing straight into the golden planet with rings.

Her eyes widened and she held on as the pod began to shake with its descent into a planet's atmosphere.

She yelped as the pod sank past the deep yellow clouds and then she was falling.

"Oh fuck!" She screamed, as she immediately tried steadying the pod.

But there was nothing. The buttons on the pod were not meant to let the driver steer, since it was merely an extension of the space shuttle that the stars were meant to guide themselves.

For a moment, she cursed Tim and Dick and all of the Robins and their insane trust in the stars for creating a death trap of a machine, and as her heart lurched into her throat, she was suddenly caught and the pod stilled.

She looked out the window and gaped.

Metal contraptions were floating in the air, attaching to the pod to slowly bring it down to the ground.

No, wait, it wasn't floating. The metal contraptions were part of the ground too. They looked like long tentacles that drifted from the ground to bring her down.

A shudder ran down Stephanie's spine.

What did this mean?

Had someone landed on the planet before the Justice League or the Robins had?

When she was guided down onto the ground, she hesitated.

She was not like Tim or Dick. Hell, she didn't even become Robin because she particularly wanted to or because Bruce offered. She became Robin only because Tim asked her to take care of Gotham while he was a civilian.

She was Spoiler before she was Robin. She was not like the others.

(She wasn't even a boy, or a particularly good Robin. Batman had never treated the other Robins like he treated her: carelessly, callously, coldly.)

But the thought of getting Batman's approval, of being a real Robin made her move. She pressed the button and the door opened.

For a moment, she worried that she wouldn't have been able to breathe, but before she could worry about lack of oxygen, something sand colored began crawling towards her at high speeds.

She screamed and immediately flew back to the pod, trying to close the door to no avail.

Looking closer, it was like some bizarre mix between a gold colored android and a mummy. It was the size of an adult man and looked half broken, like it needed repairing. It didn't matter though, because it was approaching the space pod rapidly and Stephanie was weaponless.

She shrieked again when the android climbed into the pod and started crawling after her. She kicked at it and it stopped moving when she started screaming and cried out, “What the hell!”

It twitched and then crept towards her again.

Stephanie waved a hand hurriedly. “No, no! Don’t get closer!”

It paused.

Stephanie almost could've cried.

Just what was going on?

The android twitched and then it pulled out something from a pouch on its waist.

It clicked and then laid the thing on the ground at her feet.

Stephanie flinched and moved away.

"What is that?" She asked, thankful that she did not stutter.

The communicator finally spoke then, and a voice called out, "That's a mask to help you breathe. If you don't want sand or glass in your lungs, wear it."

Stephanie blinked and turned her head, though she didn't take her eyes off of the android thing.

"Are you... the planet?"

The echoey voice of a planetary body made him sound wistful as he hummed, "Mhm. You should leave the ship."

"What about..." she did a vague gesture towards the mummy-android thing.

"He's a helper. He won't hurt you."

Stephanie hesitated for only a second before she moved. She took the mask and fit it onto her face. Then she carefully followed the helper. It crawled away and led her to their destination, but as Stephanie stared at it, she realized that its legs were broken off.

Was it damaged?

She didn’t ask, a little too weirded out by the entire situation. Instead, she observed the world around her.

The ground was dry with dirt and sand. A light wind blew the sand in billowing, gold swirls. She noticed that the mask seemed to protect her from the sand, since she felt none of the wind against her skin, and she narrowed her eyes before looking up at the red sky. Slightly visible above the yellow clouds, was the bright figures of the other stars, glowing brightly like white circles.

The air was thick, like she was breathing through a heavy, dry soup. The temperature was hot, almost scorching, but Stephanie persisted as the robot continued.

She swallowed, trudging carefully past the thick sand, and the robot thing led her to a blocky mobile home-looking machine. It stopped by the door and tilted its head.

Stephanie shivered. “Am I… supposed to go inside?”

It creaked and then nodded.

Stephanie cursed out Tim again and then stepped inside, pushing the heavy door with a grunt. Piles of sand covered the floor, making her feet sink as she walked through.

It was like a small cabin made of metal. Inside were tables and a bed, all crowded in unreadable papers and books. Wires and metal tubes covered the ceiling in a tangled mess, and a large supercomputer was attached to the wall at the end of the room.

The screen buzzed with static.

Stephanie stared, watching the faint light of the computer sparkle across the dark room, lighting everything with dark shadows before she stepped through the sand and approached like a mindless puppet.

When she was close enough to the computer screen, it flickered with a spark before turning black. Stephanie tensed.

The air began to feel heavy, like a pressure was being put on her, like eyes were beginning to watch her.

There was a hum, and then the screen crackled.

It turned black, and then pale bronze words began to type, one by one in quick succession.

“Hello, Robin.”

There was no sound, beyond the hum of machinery and the faint back-and-forth of rising tides, despite this place clearly being a desert planet.

Stephanie swallowed again.

“Hello,” she said carefully. She laughed a little, trying to shake off the jitters. “This whole thing is very creepy, y’know?”

“LOL, sorry about that. I’m glad you’re here, Robin.”

She laughed at the first statement, finding it surreal as to how a planet knew how to use words like “LOL”. At the second sentence, she bowed her head, a weird flare of happiness appearing within her, the humor quickly dying and being replaced by a sense of pride. “Glad to be here,” she mumbled. “Are you… are you the planet?”

The silence was brief, but oddly, she could tell that its personality was pleasant.

“Yes.”

Her mouth felt dry. She just wanted to confirm that the same being who spoke to her on the communicator was the one on the computer, but she still couldn't help but feel a sense of cold going down her spine.

So this was the strength and power of a celestial entity?

“… what is all of this? If you’re a planet, then… who created all of this stuff?”

The pressure grew heavier, like a hand was being pressed down on her. Stephanie tried to straighten underneath it, but it felt gentle and firm, like the hand of her mother when she wanted to scold her but didn’t have the heart to do so.

It made her feel cold and sleepy, but she was awake as the planet then spoke.

"Would you like to make a deal with me?"

The planet asked, and Stephanie hesitated.

Why did it not answer her question? Should she continue to press for answers?

She did not feel the same devotion and love that the other Robins did. She did not know if it was because she was not a real Robin or if it was because she was different from the others, but she just didn't feel the same blind trust for the stars.

(But…

She wanted the approval of Batman. Of Gotham. Of the other Robins. Of the stars.)

She decided not to ask again.

"What... what would it mean? To make a deal with you?"

"You'll be my host,"

Was the patient reply.

"How am I supposed to be a host? What does it do?"

"Just live. And be your true self."

She bit her lip.

But then she thought, what was she supposed to lose?

Every other Robin had a star. Only she didn't have one, and this was her chance.

She wanted to do good. To be good.

"Deal," she said, and the machine crackled. “I’ll be your host.”

“So be it.”

Stephanie had placed her hand carelessly on the machine’s surface, and in the next moment, her palms began to burn. She yelped, but it hadn’t actually hurt. The surprise of the heat made her pull back and she raised her hand to look at her right palm, where a four pointed star now bloomed into existence.

The highest point touched past the second knuckle of her middle finger, while the lowest point reached her wrist. Bronze yellow and wine purple blended together into something unique and beautiful and a flare of warmth spread throughout Stephanie’s body and into her chest.

No wonder the Boy Wonders were so devoted to the stars.

So this is what it felt like to become a host of the stars.

Cheerfully, Stephanie asked, “What do I call you? Is there anything you want me to do for you?”

“Call me whatever you like. And I’ll tell you if I need something.”

Another line appeared below that one.

“Thank you, Robin. For saving me.”

Stephanie blushed. “Okay! Uh, bro!”

“LOL. OK, buddy.”

Later, when her ship was guided back to the sky with the unexplained metal tubes, she was met back into the Phantom Space Station with a pacing Tim, who beamed when he saw her.

“How was it! Did you get it!? Who were they?! What did you call them?!”

Stephanie grinned and presented her palm to him.

Tim squealed.

————

Batman was not as thrilled, but nothing she could do satisfied him much anyways. Nightwing and Oracle were delighted to hear about her new celestial body, while Batgirl looked interested and curious.

Robin was just happy that she had her own celestial body to herself.

At first, it was awkward as Robin didn't understand the signs or signals that were given to her by her astronomical object, but Nightwing and Tim had no problem helping her understand how to interpret them. As time continued, they began to work together in amazing ways.

Whenever she dealt with any machinery (which was unfortunately a lot as too many people had access to bombs for some reason), it was always handled easier than before. She also felt no more fatigue or exhaustion from traveling in hot, dry weather, and had a minor immunity to heat and electricity.

Her abilities were not entirely unique, as she discovered that the other Robins also had shared abilities, but only she could communicate with her celestial body through her phone or computer.

She learned that he was a funny, easy-going individual who loved food and meat dishes and technology.

In many ways, he was so human that she often forgot that he wasn’t actually one.

It made her feel complicated, remembering how he was once a child, just like her, before whatever happened to him and the other astronomical objects.

But no matter how she asked or cajoled or coaxed, it was useless because he shut down every single time.

In the end, all she knew was this.

Whatever curse was placed upon the stars, only the Robins could save them.

So she just shrugged it off and continued to chat and use her planet’s help in being a better vigilante. With his technological help and his aid in guiding her, she was slowly learning new hobbies, better techniques, and more knowledge.

Robin was relearning her place in the hero scene as the partner of Batman, and with her celestial body by her side, she knew that she could do anything.

But all good things must come to an end. Like how great TV shows got canceled, like how the last day of childhood ended, like how everyone died eventually, like how the sea pulled back, like how stars evaporated from going supernova.

It had happened so suddenly.

She had thought she was doing well.

Robin— no, Stephanie bit her lip.

She wasn't Robin anymore.

Batman had fired her.

She fought back the tears in her eyes at the injustice of it all. She knew she made mistakes. She knew she wasn't perfect. But she just wanted to feel like she belonged, like she was doing good.

It wasn't fair how everyone else made mistakes, but she wasn't allowed. So that was why she decided that she had to prove herself.

She had thought that she was doing so well, but Batman had not thought the same.

It had not even taken him a second thought before he fired her.

He would have never treated any of the other Robins this way.

(Somewhere in the sky, the stars murmured to themselves, tending to their comatose sister.)

She was about to look into the files of the Batcomputer for a plan to implement and prove herself as a hero, when the keyboards sparked as she pressed her fingers down.

She paused.

The spark crackled and then flew into the computer with a fizzle. The screen glitched and then turned black and Stephanie froze as an intense wave of fear entered her, quickening her breath and heartbeat until she was frozen with terror, almost unable to breathe.

The feeling of being watched by an otherworldly being washed over her again, more pervasive than ever before.

The screen flickered and then coppery yellow words appeared. The fear began to fade like a lowering tide and Stephanie finally breathed as she read the words that began to type.

"Stop what you're doing."

The sound of space filled the Batcave with a hiss, the familiar crackle of technology struggling to understand the words of celestial objects and the ocean waves of outer space, washing over her like the unforgiving sea.

"... buddy?"

The keyboard moved without her input. Words were typed onto the screen by unseen hands.

"I'm here."

His words were reassuring, but the next sentences that appeared were anything but.

"Stop what you're doing, Robin. You'll kill yourself."

The stars could see the future. They often warned the Justice League of future events and dangers, and even the Robins were often given prophetic dreams when the stars could offer them. Jason was the best example, as the only Robin so far who could communicate with his star in dreams. Everything he had known from the stars were foretold as true.

This fact popped into Stephanie's mind.

Her vision began to blur from an onslaught of tears. Her breath hitched and then she sobbed.

Oh stars.

Nothing she did was right.

She covered her face and whimpered. Tears involuntarily flowed down her face and her cheeks felt hot with humiliation and shame. Humiliation for being caught at trying to hack the Batcomputer to come back as Robin, and shame as she realized that she would've inconvenienced everyone by dying doing so.

Was this a sign that she was actually supposed to abandon her life as a vigilante?

The keyboard tapped away again. She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked up through blurry vision.

"Don't cry. You're still my Robin."

Stephanie sniffed. Finally, she croaked, "What?"

"You were Robin once. But that's not your future. You have another identity, don't you?"

Spoiler.

Stephanie straightened her back as she realized what he was trying to imply. After a moment, as the realization set in, she reached up to wipe her eyes. She breathed in deeply and calmed herself down forcibly.

"Are you saying that... I should go back to being Spoiler?"

"You were never meant to stay as a Robin, bro."

The casual, flippant "bro" was so absurd that she giggled wetly.

She stood up from the chair and nodded, blinking the sting from her eyes.

But she felt better.

Sharp relief filled her and she shuddered at the swell of emotion that got rid of the dark negativity within her.

Suddenly, she knew who she was.

Like Nightwing, she had found her true calling. But unlike the others, unlike any other Robin, she was returning to her true identity.

A Spoiler of secrets and evil plans.

She wore purple far before she wore red, yellow, and green. She was a vigilante far before Batman. She was a Spoiler far before she was a Robin.

And just because she had changed her identity, just because Batman fired her, just because she had failed in one thing did not mean she had failed entirely.

Now she was almost embarrassed, but she just felt relieved more than anything. It made her want to go slack, but she took another deep breath to calm down.

"Okay," she said softly. "Okay. You'll be with me, right, buddy?"

She looked up as the keyboard clacks continued and golden letters started to appear on the screen again. Even though there was nothing spoken aloud, she could sense the affection in each word as her celestial body typed a response for her.

"Of course. I'll always be here for you."

Stephanie beamed and tidied up the Batcomputer before leaving the cave.

She did not need Batman to be a hero.

Just like she didn't need to be Robin to do something more with her life either.

The next day, as she put on her old uniform, dark purples and magentas and blacks, she checked up on her astronomical body with the tablet given to her by Tim and laughed.

A pale yellow moon was following her planet.

A gentle song came from the screen, soft and soothing, a sign of change and revival, like the rain after a period of drought, like the peeking flower buds underneath snow, like the moon's reappearance after a dark night.

In it, she could hear a third voice, a male voice that was lighter than Dick's star, one with a hint of teenage youthfulness and strength.

Stephanie smiled, touching the screen with her right palm.

“Is that yours? Are you in your final form?" She asked with a small smile. “Did that appear because I’m Spoiler again?”

The moon gave a little deliberate twirl and Stephanie grinned.

She pulled out her grappling gun and then opened the window to her apartment. She jumped out onto the roof and aimed the grappling hook. With a single shot, she hit a building and then jumped, flying through the air with a loud whoop.

The Spoiler was back.

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

Soooo much lore. I’m not sure who would’ve betrayed the Justice League, but knowing DC’s long history, there’s probably someone, right??

Nothing makes me lmao more than having Dan hate on Jason and Tim bc they’re too close to his sisters.

Tucker with the ability to communicate with Steph through tech!!

Him guiding her through becoming a hero on her own right without Batman 🥹 the reason why she feels different from the other Robins is bc she actually doesn’t feel different, she’s just doesn’t understand the feeling.

Also, has anyone noticed that a lot of the events that make a Robin who they are is basically Bruce being a jerk or an uncommunicative asshole? Like seriously, I'm struggling to make him a good dad sometimes.

Planet classification is not as fun as stellar classification… but Tucker is an extragalactic, chthonian, and desert or terrestrial giant exoplanet. Extragalactic = outside of the Milky Way, chthonian = a gas giant that’s been stripped of its gas layers and circles really close to its star, terrestrial = made of rocks or metals, exoplanet = a planet that orbits another star from the Sun.

…. Ik it’s a lot, but I had to get specific. In essence however, he’s just a terrestrial giant exoplanet. He’s big, but only around the size of Neptune or Uranus.

Why does Stephanie get saved but not Jason? You will find out :) writing these as one-shots mean that they take time, also bc I’m close to finals and my classes are getting harder.

[shoshiwrites]

Can I request Jo and Bucky + 39. a lit candle and a snowstorm, please? 💕

Please forgive me for really only using this prompt as a jumping-off point for fall vibes instead of winter. I was also going to keep this short and OOPS. Biggest hugs to @floydmtalbert for helping me brainstorm this and for answering all my questions, Harvest Festival-related and otherwise ♡ Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC.

sky full of song

She wished Kay were here, to take photographs of everything.

Kay had left Jo with a Kodak Brownie that she insisted she could spare — Jo hadn’t summoned the nerve yet to test it out, fearing she’d break it. The same skittishness she reserved for plants and watering cans and, she hoped, not a lot else. Kay had narrowed her eyes with only a little judgement. “I’d hand over the Rolleiflex too if I had another one to spare,” she said, while Jo made a noise of dismissal. “You’re very much to be trusted, Jo, I hope you know that by now.”

The Kodak, a couple of rolls of film to get her started. That didn’t count the fresh bars of soap packed at the top of Jo’s suitcase, the gin and fernet under the sink, or the tiny bottle of perfume she’d slipped into the pocket of Jo’s coat in the front closet. Jo didn’t remember the label — French, of course, and floral, like the beautiful dresses and suits packed away in Kay’s trunk from home. 

She’d dabbed a tiny bit on tonight, her wrists and behind her ears. She didn’t often wear a scent, or if she did it was something someone might call cheap. Orange blossom, usually, which she loved. But today she’d been out in the fields, observing the Land Army girls and the farmers around the village and the base. Talking about the harvest and about the relatives fighting, as carefully as they could. It loomed above them, behind them, below, the Norwich Blitz of the year before, the war still ahead, the news out of Italy they’d all been following on the radio. 

She was still dressed for the day outside, amongst the dry grass and the cow patties, having been too caught up in edits and wiring to change out of her trousers and light peasant blouse. She’d adjusted the blouse in the mirror in her room, tucked it in more carefully, and tried to do something with her hair — it still wisped out around her ears, the back of her neck. And, of course, she’d changed her shoes. 

It had even been sunny, and what you might call warm — it accounted for the tiniest hint of copper in her brown hair, and something almost like a tan, or as much as you could get in late September. She feels warm here, inside the village hall, the day’s sun and the stuffiness of the building, despite the beautiful decorations, the food and drink, the music. 

Kay would appreciate the decorations, too — flowers Jo carefully notes for no other reason than to let her friend know — heleniums and coneflowers, deep chocolate-brown dahlias and frilly white yarrow and coppertips, delicate cosmos and chrysanthemums besides. Kay could write a book, she thinks, of flower samples and photos and vignettes. Jo’s article doesn’t need such specificity — it’s about the American fliers joining the harvest festival, the cases of Coca-Cola brought over from the base to join the ale and cider and lemonade, the folk dances, the corn dollies pinned to olive drab by the children of Thorpe Abbotts. They’ve been shepherded home, the children, and now left are the grownups, the fliers, some of the village teenagers not far in age if not the same.

She’s not sure if she craves a ginger beer or something stronger. She knows she needs a cigarette. Cold air, too, maybe even more than the smoke.

There’s still plenty of people — part of why it’s so warm inside, too, she notes – and she slips out to the front steps with hand already in her pocket for her lighter. The stars look even brighter tonight, in the crisp fall air. She lights up carefully, shielding her hand. Her arms are covered in goosebumps, but she doesn’t care. It’s hardly the first time, here or back home. This time, at least, nobody’s locking her out. She sits, takes a drag. Tries not to think about how crowded it felt in there, how for a moment she felt as though she were suffocating.

“Oh good-” she hears behind her. “You’re still here.” She turns to see him behind her, above her, pressed uniform and the stray curl on his forehead. “Thought we spotted you leaving.” In the moonlight, his cheeks still look pink. “You heading out?” 

She hadn’t decided until this moment. “I think so,” she says. 

“Hot enough for you in there?” 

“A bit.”

He takes a second, adjusts to the outside. The chill in the air. Watches her, sitting on the step in her blouse and her bare arms and the hair she’s unpinned now that she’s alone. “Can I walk you home?”

She’d refuse the offer, except the house she’s staying in is at least a ten minute walk, on the edge of the village. A little more, even, ambling along in the dark. She’d refuse the offer, except she doesn’t want to. He holds out a hand to take her cigarette, the other to help her to her feet. 

“You can have it,” she says, before she can stop herself, but he’s handed it back to her already as he starts to unbutton his jacket. She watches the cherry glow, imprinted on the darkness, before she remembers to cup it with her hand. 

“Oh no- I’m alright-”

“Wasn’t a question,” he says, and drapes it over her shoulders before she can protest further. “What would Kay say if I let you catch something?”

She almost snorts. It smells like him, of course, settles the unease in her body before she can worry that someone else will leave the party and see the two of them standing there. It’s also entirely too big. Comical, even. It’s practically a coat on her.

“Pneumonia’s no joke, Josephine.”

“Oh, I know.”

Before she knows it, they’re on their way back to the house, gravel crunching quietly under their feet. It’s enough to walk beside him, here, take the moment to breathe.

The house is quiet too, blackout curtains drawn. Muriel’s gone upstairs for the evening, and it’s with a gentle yank of his hand that Jo leads them around to the back gate, the one that’s never locked. It creaks open, the sound magnified in the dark.

They don’t bother with chairs, or more accurately she doesn’t want to make the noise, open the shed door and drag them out onto the flagstone. They sit, on the ground, in the garden. It smells like earth and cold and she can partly make him out in the starlight, the slope of his noise and his ears and his mouth, eyelashes, the insignias on his shirt collar. He doesn’t let her take off his jacket, even like this.

“Yankees won the pennant,” he says. “On Saturday.”

“I saw. Heard,” she corrects. Her knuckles brush against his on the stone. “I’m glad.” She almost laughs — Lena would be shocked to hear her say so. “Don’t tell my friends I said that.”

She hears him huff a little laugh. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

She looks over at the dark outline of the house, her eyes drawn to what looks like the tiniest glimmer of light upstairs. A candle, she realizes, in Muriel’s window. Jo hopes she hasn’t left it burning while she’s asleep. 

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks. “Kay left a couple of things in the kitchen, some of the hard-to-find stuff. I’m sure we could rustle up some glasses-” She stops, stills, when she notices he’s reached into his pocket for his flask. His pocket, of the jacket she’s wearing, the one that’s trailing on the ground. “Sorry,” she says. 

“What’re you apologizing for?”

For rambling, she wants to say. For not knowing. For taking your jacket. For sending you up there day after day with nothing but a lousy stack of clippings to show for it. She doesn’t believe that, not really, except for when she does.

“Nothing, I guess,” she says.

“Good.”

She goes and gets herself a drink as quietly as she can, carefully making her way back to the spot in the middle of the garden. 

“Are you cold?” 

He shakes his head, tips back the flask. “Used to it.”

She sips at the gin, the sharp, piney flavor of juniper floods her mouth, makes her pull her lips over her teeth. Not enough tonic water, but she’s not about to head back in again in the dark. 

“It’ll be snowing already in Wisconsin,”  he says. She squints at him in the dark, at the warmth she feels beside her. “Or almost,” he corrects. 

“It’s only September.”

“We got snow in late September last year,” he says. “Up north.”

“Not in Manitowoc.” She tries not to stumble over the name, but it halts in her mouth.

He makes a noise that’s almost like a laugh, almost like surprise. “Not in Manitowoc,” he repeats. He hands her his flask; she can feel his arm bump her own. “C’mon, have some of the strong stuff.”

“Gin isn’t the strong stuff?” She takes the flask anyway, tips it back against her lips. She hasn’t had any in a while, certainly not like this. It’s hot in her throat, smoky and burning. The barest hint of honey. Despite herself, she coughs. 

She doesn’t hand it back to him yet, only proffers her own drink. “Only fair,” she says. She can’t see his face too well in the dark, but hears him take a sip. 

“Kay could make a killing here in England,” he says. “The booze.”

“She could.”

Upstairs, Jo notices the candle’s gone out. The warmth of the whiskey and the gin blooms in her chest. 

“When you do think they get snow in England?” he asks. 

There’d been a dusting on the ground in London when she and William had arrived in February. But not much. “I don’t know,” she says plainly. “Why?”

“Figured you’d know these things,” he says, and she can hear a smile shade his voice. “Being a reporter and all.”

She does laugh at that.

“There was a little, when I got here. A dusting. Like icing sugar.” It sounds silly as she says it. Like it hadn’t been pissing rain and cold and she’d had to bundle up in bed like she’d had to when she was a girl, curled up and waiting for William to come up from the hotel bar and whatever story he’d claimed to be chasing. She could think these things now, call it for what it was. That the “stories” usually had blonde hair and long legs, or red hair and short legs, or were anyone but Jo.

“Sounds picturesque.” He sounds like he’s sounding out the word.

“Almost.”

“Merry old England not living up to expectations?”

She takes a deep breath. “No- I just-”

“Just what?”

She can call it for what it was now, but she can’t think about what couldn’t have been. John instead of William, there beside her. During the air raids, the ones she’d almost always had to soldier on through without him. “I don’t know,” she says again. Maybe she should thank god it’s dark outside, so that he can’t see her face.

He takes another drink from the flask, but this time it’s slower. She can’t help it, the way she places her glass down and pulls her knees up, not quite to her chest. She can’t tell if she’s cold or not, between the jacket and the whiskey and the fact that he’s here, quiet and not, breathing, sitting on the ground here beside her. That there had been no questions about it. That she’d sat, and he’d sat. That he’s closer to her now than he was when they started. 

His hand, next to hers, and pressing against it now, and hooking his fingers around hers in silence. She thinks of the names she knows that he doesn’t, she ones she carries in her pockets, the names he stores away in his jacket lining, the barracks, buried out in the field. The runway. The air.

Maybe it’s alright, in this moment, to let them all leave her mind. To hold his hand.

Out beyond the garden wall, something rustles in the trees. A small animal, probably. A pair of birds. They both sit up just a little at the interruption. 

“I don’t know what time it is,” he says. “Must be late.” She motions for his wrist, and he holds steady as she shields her lighter with her hand, reads the face illuminated against his skin. 

“11:17.”

“A good year,” he says. She huffs a laugh. “I don’t know.”

“Me neither.”

It’s getting colder out, as the hour darkens. All that wind coming down off the North Sea. The thought of him walking back all by himself kicks at her heart. 

She wishes they could just go inside together. Go up to bed. She can’t say it out loud, she knows. A secret she can’t let him keep. Not now. Maybe he already knows.

“I can’t keep you out so late,” she says. 

“Protecting my honor, Josephine?” She can hear the laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes.

She stands with his help, her hands clasped around his. They walk to the gate, like holding a breath before they fumble a kiss goodnight in the dark. Slow, and unseeing, only feeling him, his lips on hers. His hand finds the small of her back, slides down to her hip. She leans into him, tasting the whiskey, the smell of him, his jacket still around her. His breath on her cheek. One hand on his chest, and then the other. She reaches, touches his jaw with the backs of her fingers. He hums against her, low and wanting. 

“I’ll go,” he says, like he’s convincing himself too.

“I’ll be back at the base in the morning,” she says, shrugging out of his jacket. Immediately, she’s cold. “You’re not flying tomorrow.”

He takes it, but he doesn’t put it back on. If he’s surprised that she knows that, she can’t see it. “Right.”

The moon is higher now, the stars scattered above. He kisses her again, the gentlest tug at her bottom lip, the brush of his mustache against her. He’s everything, here, where she can barely see him. She can’t help herself from the exhale, the kind that sounds like she’s trying to hold it all in.

“You smell nice,” he says. His voice is the quietest she’s heard. Like a little boy. He touches his forehead against hers, just for a moment. Her hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing. And then he’s gone. 

She turns back to the house, looming in the dark. The wind whistles in the trees, the only light the moon reflected in the closed windows. She wraps her arms around herself, and heads inside. 

[rosie-b]

🦮 fill this empty space (ask game)

(link to the summary)

This turned out to be... longer than a snippet, and like the summary, angstier than I expected. It's been that kind of week ig! But there's a promising ending because I needed one :)

It had been a warm summer day when the old Marinette died.

The new Marinette woke up surrounded by golden light, soft, green grass, and the soft murmurings of a stream in northern France. It was perhaps the best way for her rebirth to happen, in a calm, relaxing environment far from the place she somehow knew was home.

She met her family there. They already knew her, and called her "maman," or "ma femme," or "my lady."

Marinette was no one's lady. She never had been, but according to video evidence and the testimony of her husband and children and best friend, that was one of the many roles her past self had filled.

Marinette did not know how to fill any of those old roles anymore. But because of the secret, magical way she'd chosen to lose her memories, she couldn't let anyone know this fact. She had to study years worth of business lessons in mere weeks, preparing for her return to Paris and the international company she would soon be in charge of running again.

At least her past self had accounted for this new Marinette's incompetence. But no one else seemed to see that she wasn't the same woman she had been once, back when a kwami lived in her purse and villains of the day (and year) kept plaguing Paris.

Adrien, the man past-Marinette had married, professed to still be in love with her. He saw some of the differences between the new Marinette and the old one, but claimed they weren't nearly as big as Marinette thought they were. And he chose to spend most of his time around her, so maybe he was right. He whispered praises for each small thing she did, both when they were alone and in public; took the time to learn her new habits; made her fresh coffee for when she woke up two hours after he did; stayed out of her bed to help her feel comfortable.

Marinette could see why her past self had loved him. It was something both halves of her were beginning to share, a love for this man who found a way to bring joy to her life even when it had been turned upside down.

But it didn't change the fact that the new Marinette was not the same woman he'd married. That fact was written into the vows Adrien and the past Marinette had exchanged; the way they had split up their chores; the daily schedule that Adrien still remembered while the new Marinette did not.

To Marinette, this new self of hers was nothing more than a facade made to cover the void her past self had left behind. She was thirty years old and as empty inside as a newborn baby, with no memories to guide her through this unfamiliar world.

Marinette was an icon, the magazines said. A paragon of virtue in an age of corruption, one half of both Paris' favorite couples, a woman who managed to be a world-famous CEO and an attentive mother at the same time.

That wasn't the new Marinette's reality. She didn't even know her children's middle names, though she was learning their favorite desserts, sports, and hobbies.

Most days, it was like learning a foreign language, and it felt just as isolating when she got something wrong or tried to remember something she thought she knew but actually didn't. Sometimes, this new life of hers was crushing, a drain on her already empty self, taking the last bit of Marinette out of her.

But not always.

As out of place as Marinette felt in her own life, the people in it still felt right somehow. They'd been there for her when she woke up; they were there to hug and comfort her when she cried in the night, to help teach her about her own life and tell her about theirs, and to listen when she said she felt different. They loved her, that much was clear, and they promised to love her no matter which Marinette she was; the old one with all her memories or the new one just fumbling through life.

And somehow, even though she claimed not to feel anything more for them than for other strangers at first, Marinette still loved them back. Their presence soothed the ache she felt in her chest, the one she felt when she couldn't remember, and she found herself more than missing them when they weren't there. She looked forward to hearing about their day, to learning their middle names; she held on to the facts they told her about themselves like sweet gifts of gold and honey, like they were all she needed to survive, to fill the empty space her memories had left behind.

The new Marinette was not the old one, and she never would be.

But maybe that was okay. The new Marinette had her own space, too; it began here, in this remote, rural town near the seashore, and it would expand back to Paris, to the place where the old Marinette had lived.

Marinette's home had always been her family, the people she loved. That was something she knew without having to remember it, and something she was more sure of every day.

So she studied the journals her past self had written, re-learned how to design, baked bread beside Adrien, sang songs with her children and stayed by their side. If her mind was an empty slate, then she was going to fill it with love, the same love she'd chosen before and was choosing again.

And someday, this new Marinette would feel whole again.

Thanks for the ask! I hope you enjoyed <3

[pyrosomatic-metamorphosis]

I read that same fic earlier and I just straight up muted the person so their works don't show up for me anymore lmao

there was also another one like that posted yesterday because the person was mad at something qBad did a couple of days ago while not at all in his right mind and amnesiac, it was odd (not shitting on the person just confused and slightly concerned)

yeah there’s. a lot of misconceptions around qbad rn lmao. It’s one of the reasons Im so obnoxious about him, tbh, so that it’s not JUST the negativity that gets spread. He’s a really good target for the hate rn, because he has a smaller fanbase and his pvp playstyle + lore lead him to all that antagonizing during purgatory, and that gets vented out into fics.

It’s genuinely really interesting, the dichotomy that seems to exist between tumblr and twitter regarding him. Ive heard nothing but slander about bbh from twitter (again, he is not faking his illness, that is a lie), but he’s got a solid enough foothold on tumblr that ive seen more hate towards the fans that the cc, here. which makes sense, given how we take over the tag almost ever day when he logs on. genuine o7 to people who find that obnoxious but thats one of the reasons i overtag so much, for blocking purposes.

anyway i think all the bbh mischaracterization means that we just need to write about him more >:D please this is a call for more bbh centric fics from people who do not hate him/know a little bit about his lore. blease he’s such a fun pov to write i promise

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

Ok my dudes I continue to languish and thus will be in bed all day again so

[safyresky]

Oh! It's February 13th, you know what that means!!

FROSTMAS ON AO3 UPDATE!!! 💃🏻🥳

Check out Frostmas: Year Two, digitally remastered on ao3, HERE. Now with more swearing and an extra 3k words somehow! I didn't add SHIT so this is very confusing!

Year Two

Trapped by societal conventions, Jacqueline has a contentious dinner with Jack. Jack discovers an unpleasant caveat to his new job.

What to heck is Frostmas?? Have a summary:

The Twelve Years of Frostmas

Nobody but he and I knew the truth. Jack wasn’t supposed to be Santa; I wasn’t supposed to be Jack Frost. He thought being Santa would fix everything. He was horribly, horribly mistaken. [My take on Jack’s reign as Santa during the Escape Clause. MAJOR OC involvement AND First Person POV from said OC. Finally cross posting THIS behemoth! Enjoy!]

Interested? Take it from the top HERE on ao3! And here on ff dot net, where it is done up to Year 10. But this ain't ABOUT HER.

This is about Y2 on ao3! Have a delightful little preview under the cut~

Jack’s next sentence took me right out. “I know, I know, it’s a lot to take in, I get it. But this’ll, this’ll make everything better!” I finally rebooted. “Everything better?!” I shot up out of my chair, stirring up enough of a wind for cutlery to go flying. “Everything was better eleven years into the future before you screwed it up again with your little timeline jump! We were okay, finally! I was okay! We actually talked about things and it was really, really, great! Then I wake up and suddenly it's 1994 and not 2006 and Mom and Dad are both upset and nothing is right! Nothing is the way it's supposed to be! And you think it’s better?! Better? This has made everything worse!” “Ah. So you do remember. I had a feeling that you might. Tell me something, Jacqueline,” he paused, shifting in his chair and recrossing his legs. “How much do you know?” I puffed up my cheeks and held my breath, trying really hard not to show how little I knew. My hands gripped the table so hard, my knuckles looked like snow. (Come to think of it, they may have actually shifted into snow. I was angry enough that that may have happened. Ough. Embarrassing.) I let out the breath I was holding. "What do you think I know?" "I think that you know something I thought only I knew.” Jack stood up, serving me with a calculating stare. I shifted unconsciously into a defensive pose. “But given your whodunit questions and how much you seem to know about different timelines and the future, you must also know something I know, no?” He arched an eyebrow, steepling his fingers together. A pulse near my eye started up; it twitched. The temperature in the room dropped. “Well? Silence isn’t exactly an answer, Jacqueline.” I scrunched my nose. UGH. On the one hand, if I told him I didn’t know, he’d have the upper hand. BUT. If I told him I did know, then maybe I’d be able to get a little bit closer to figuring out what he did. Or it’d backfire and he’d still have the upper hand. “Hmm. Seems I was mistaken, then.” He looked relieved in like, a kind of smug way. My nostrils flared. “Nu-UH. The something you thought only you knew is also known by someone in this very room!” Jack dropped his arms. “Interesting. I would’ve thought that the clause—” "AHA! So it's a CLAUSE!" I pointed an accusatory finger his way. "AHA! You DIDN'T know!" he pointed an accusatory finger my way.

Ohoho! the cold front are FIGHTING! I'm surprised it took this long, tbh. How will this go? Who's gonna emerge from this spat victorious? WHAT DOES JACK FIND OUT ABOUT THE JOB? Check out Year 3: 2024 Edition on ao3 HERE for all those answers and MORE! :)

[coralhoneyrose]

What Have I Ever Done to Rely on You? - m!Chrobin one-shot

Plot Synopsis: The Shepherds' most recent battle did not go according to plan, and Robin thinks it's all his fault. Chrom is determined to convince him otherwise. (Post-Battle Hurt/Comfort)

Originally posted on ao3 with f!Robin as part of the Day 4 prompt for Chrobin week. I thought it would be fun to share an m!Chrobin version of it here for anyone who prefers that version of the pairing.

Rating: Teen

Words: 3,774

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

Chrom ducks out of the medical tent, careful to ensure the flap swishes fully closed behind him. A biting chill has entombed their camp since the sun set; gray flurries diffuse through the air like dust motes and prickle where they land against his exposed skin. Beside the tent post, Robin waits restlessly—fists balled at his sides and his lip a raw red from being worried at. His head whips up at the sound of Chrom’s steps. 

“H-how are they?” he asks.

“Awake and stable,” Chrom replies, with a reassuring smile. “Maribelle’s already feeling well enough to boss the others around again.”

“And Lissa?” Robin urges.

“Much the same. Frederick and Miriel are attending to her as we speak.”

Robin’s shoulders slump with relief. “Good…that’s good,” he breathes. “Gods, I wasn’t sure if…”

A shiver ripples through him as he trails off. Clusters of half-melted snowflakes glimmer like miniature diamonds where they’re ensnared on his eyelashes and Chrom can’t help but wonder how long he’s been waiting outside the tent. 

“Why don’t we get you out of the cold,” he suggests. “Then we can discuss how to proceed.” 

Robin gives a tight nod and falls into step alongside him. Their footsteps crunch against the thin layer of frost that blankets the earth—the only sound breaking the silence as they walk. There’s still an odd rigidity about how Robin is carrying himself, and Chrom can’t tell if it’s from the temperature or something else. 

He leans closer, keeping his voice low. “Hey, are you alright? You’ve been quiet since we got back to camp.” 

Unthinkingly, he brings a hand to Robin’s waist in what’s meant to be an offer of reassurance, but the second his fingers brush against Robin’s side, he winces away. 

Chrom jerks his hand back, rebuking himself for the momentary slip. It’s ironic: despite finally knowing they hold the same affections for each other, they must be more careful about sharing touch than ever. Lingering hands were nothing to worry about when there was no hidden meaning attached. Now, every brush of their fingers comes with the risk of drumming up suspicion. 

“S-sorry,” he apologizes hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine, Chrom,” Robin assures him, though his strained voice and gritted teeth leave Chrom less than convinced. He really needs to be more cognizant of their surroundings—no matter how distracting Robin’s nearness can be. 

They’ve made it to just outside Robin’s tent now, and he pauses in front of the entrance even as a gust of frigid air whips his hair against his cheeks. Chrom raises an eyebrow at him quizzically, unsure why he seems so hesitant to go in and take shelter from the cold.

Instead, Robin gives him a tiny smile. “Alright, what’s the first order of business, Captain?”

“Well, we’ll want to review the inventory sooner rather than later,” Chrom says, after a moment’s consideration.

“Right,” Robin agrees, “so we can stock up on supplies when we arrive in Ferox. What else?” 

“Nothing that’s pressing,” he replies. “With Lissa and Maribelle hurt, we won’t be marching tonight, so the route can wait until tomorrow. If you need a moment to warm up and rest—”

“I’m fine,” Robin interrupts. “I’d rather keep busy—you know, try and make myself useful.” He takes a long shaky breath before smiling at Chrom again. “I’ll be over to help with the inventory in a minute. I just want to change first.” 

“Alright,” Chrom agrees. “Do you want to walk over together?”

“No, no, I don’t want to hold you up. I’ll meet you there,” Robin assures him. He peels open the tent flap and hurriedly side-steps in, pulling it tight around him so only his face is peeking out. “You can just go on ahead.” 

“Okay, if you’re s–”

Robin disappears before Chrom finishes speaking. He blinks at the tent canvas, taken aback by the abrupt dismissal. Robin must be really eager to change out of his battle sullied clothing. 

Chrom is just turning to go when he remembers that the ledger for the inventory is still in Robin’s tent from the last time they reviewed the Shepherds’ expenditures together. Better for him to remind Robin now so neither of them will have to run back halfway across camp.

Chrom pokes his head into the tent. “Oh, and Robin; one more thing. Make sure you bring—”

Robin yelps sharply, severing the rest of Chrom’s sentence. His eyes catch up to his mouth, and a dozen thoughts crash into his head at once. 

Robin is sitting on his bed, his shirt pulled halfway over his head—just barely covering his chest. His coat lies discarded on the floor, and for a moment Chrom can’t manage anything but to be floored by his own thoughtlessness. Robin just told him he was going to change clothes and he still didn’t think to knock? Then Chrom’s eyes slide down Robin’s bare torso, and all of his embarrassment is swallowed by horror instead. Robin yanks his shirt back on, but it’s too late: Chrom has already seen the ribbon of weeping, scarlet skin wrapping from his ribs across his abdomen. 

“C-chrom! Get out of here!” he shouts, at the same time Chrom exclaims:

“You’re injured!” Immediately, Robin’s face crumples—guilt laden in every line. Chrom crosses the room in a few long strides and kneels beside him. “Let me see it.”

“I-it’s not as bad as it looks…” Robin mumbles.

“Robin.” Chrom’s tone brooks no argument. 

A sigh hisses out of him. With shaking hands, Robin curls his fingers around the hem of his shirt and lifts it to expose his stomach. Chrom inhales sharply as his eyes trace the wound’s path: it’s a brutal burn—furious crimson and already blistering. 

“What happened?” he asks, voice hoarse. Robin is his partner in battle—if he sustained an injury like this, he should have seen it. Unless it was when—

“...when the reinforcements showed up,” Robin says, answering Chrom’s unspoken thoughts, “and I sent you and the other infantry back to cover for our healers. There was still a small squadron of mages left to dispatch. My fault. I should have been able to handle it alone. But I was distracted and…” His voice breaks off suddenly and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Chrom gapes at him. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? How can you say that?” he demands. “You should have told me!”

He’s already berating himself for not noticing sooner. Robin wincing away from his touch before probably wasn’t motivated by a privacy concern at all—he was in pain. And if Chrom hadn’t barged in when he did, he might never have realized it.

“We’ve had other things to worry about,” Robin insists, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

“Other things?” Chrom echoes. He can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “You mean the weapon inventory? Robin, you know injuries take priority over our damned camp supplies! You need to be treated for this right away, it—”

“By who, Chrom?” he snaps, voice warbling. “Neither of our healers are in any shape for that!”

Chrom’s eyes fly up to his—all his frustration snuffing out. “...Is that what this is about?”

“Well, am I wrong?” Robin counters, but he looks gutted. He drops his hold on his shirt, concealing his scorched skin again before slumping forward to hold his head in his hands. “We don’t have anyone to heal me…and I have no one to blame for that but myself.”

Chrom’s heart clenches tight. With a small sigh, he takes a seat beside Robin on the cot. “You are wrong, actually,” he says. 

Robin’s head snaps up to look at him, and he almost smiles from how obvious it is that Robin isn’t used to hearing those words. 

“There are things we can do to treat injuries even without Lissa or Maribelle’s help,” Chrom continues. “But even if there weren’t, that doesn’t mean you deserve to suffer through this, Robin. You can’t punish yourself for what happened to them.” 

“Why not?” Robin asks, voice wavering again. “It was my fault, Chrom. I’m the one who made the battle plans. I over-extended and left our healers without proper coverage. If we’d been spread any thinner, or if there were more reinforcements, th-they could have been—”

“But they weren’t,” Chrom interrupts, voice gentle but firm. “Lissa and Maribelle are recovering as we speak. This wasn’t a fatal mistake, Robin.”

Robin glares down at his own clenched fists. “But it could have been…” he mutters stubbornly.

“But it wasn’t,” Chrom emphasizes again, and this time he takes one of Robin’s balled fists and pries his fingers apart to weave them between his own. “But since you’re so concerned with hypotheticals, let me say this: even if it had been, the blame and guilt still wouldn’t be yours to bear alone.”

Robin shifts to look at him sidelong, and for once Chrom is glad that his face is such an open door to his heart: Robin won’t be able to ignore the sincerity there. Robin gives a shuddering sigh and grips Chrom’s hand more tightly.

“I just…I don’t understand why you’re not angry with me,” he admits quietly. “This is your sister we’re talking about, and one of your childhood friends. They were hurt because of my miscalculation. How could you not resent me for that?”

“Because they were also hurt on my orders,” Chrom says. “You may have made the plans, but it was my decision to enforce them. And that leaves me just as much at fault as you. I’d be lying if I said the weight from that isn’t overwhelming sometimes, but…” He runs his thumb over the familiar hills and valleys of Robin’s knuckles, soothing himself before he continues, “...but at the end of the day, I know I’m always trying to do right by the soldiers under my command—as are you. That’s all any of us can do.” 

Robin mulls on this silently, eyes fixed on where their fingers are wound together: as if their entwined hands are some riddle that needs solving. 

“What if my best isn’t good enough?” he asks suddenly. “What if the Shepherds would be better off without me altogether?”

Chrom chuckles before he can think better of it and immediately indignation flares on Robin’s face.

“Err, sorry, sorry! I’m not laughing at you,” Chrom apologizes quickly. “It’s just…you weren’t around to see what the Shepherds were like before we found you, and—” another wry chuckle slips out of him, “—believe me when I say there’s no comparison.”  

The hurt in Robin’s expression wanes into a watery smile. “Was it really that bad?” 

“I’ve seen bands of brigands with more coordination,” Chrom replies, grinning sheepishly back. “As much as I may be suited for battle, I hardly have your mind for tactics.” 

Though, to be fair to himself, he’s not sure if anyone in the world does. If Robin has a match when it comes to strategy, Chrom has certainly never seen it…and would not be eager to face them from the other side of a battlefield. Gods, sometimes he thinks finding Robin in that field when he did must have been some kind of divine intervention.

Robin huffs out a feeble laugh and scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his free hand—banishing the pin-prick beginnings of tears that had formed there. “Well, I suppose I’ve no choice but to take your word for it, do I?”

“You don’t,” Chrom agrees, squeezing his hand again. “We need you, Robin. And for much more than just your tactics. You’re the only reason I feel brave enough to face any of this.” 

Robin makes a tiny, strangled sound—a brilliant blush painting his cheeks. Chrom knows Robin finds his penchant for declaring his feelings so intensely to be overwhelming, but in truth, the cute way Robin flusters from it only leaves Chrom more eager to spill his heart to him.

Robin leans his head against Chrom’s shoulder, but for all the content in his eyes, there is still a strain to his smile. His body is contorted slightly to keep their sides from brushing—Chrom remembers all at once how much pain he must still be in. 

“Alright, enough talk,” he decides. “It’s past time we do something about that burn.”

Robin straightens up. “I was going to bandage it myself before you barreled in here,” he says, just a little petulant. 

“Well, now you don’t have to,” Chrom says. “I can do it instead.”

Robin blinks back at him, surprised enough to forget his own obstinance momentarily. “You’re going to?”

Chrom nods, moving to Robin’s trunk in search of the supplies he needs. Fortunately, most of their militia keeps at least a few bandages and concoctions on hand, and Robin is no exception. “When I first formed the Shepherds, Emm made me learn some basic first aid to use in a pinch. It won’t be elegant, but I should at least be able to keep the wound from getting infected until Lissa or Maribelle can look at it properly.” 

Robin flinches almost imperceptibly at the sound of their names. “I can manage it just fine on my own, you know.”

Chrom shakes his head as he settles back beside him on the cot, supplies now in hand. “I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to. And besides, I’ll be able to reach it more easily than you can.” Robin opens his mouth to protest, but Chrom cuts him off. “Please, love, let me do this for you.”

The term of endearment, still relatively new between them, slices right through any counterargument Robin could make. Relenting, he leans back on the bed to grant Chrom better access to the wound, and Chrom takes a breath to inspect it again. The edges are ragged and beaded with droplets of serous fluid. Despite being no stranger to injuries, his stomach roils: Robin must have immense pain tolerance to have concealed it as he did.

There’s just the matter of Chrom’s hands, then. His gloves are soiled with dirt, blood, and dried sweat from the battle—dressing Robin’s wound while wearing them would not be remotely sanitary. Chrom peels the first glove off, then tugs at the second with his teeth so as not to dirty his hand in the process. When he glances back at Robin’s face, he finds him biting down on his lip—eyes wide and fixed on Chrom’s now bare fingers with a breathless intensity. Chrom studiously makes a point of ignoring the flush it brings to his face: Robin’s injury is much more pressing, and he can’t afford to be distracted. 

With great care, he uncorks the concoction and empties the flask’s viscous contents onto the bandages.

“Alright,” Chrom says, keeping his voice steady and low—trying to inject in it a surety that Robin can ground himself to. “I’m going to put my hands on your sides to let you adjust.” 

Feather-light, Chrom ghosts his fingers against the edges of Robin’s toned abdomen, still some distance from the wound. He can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears: he’s never touched Robin here before. Silk smooth skin glides beneath his finger pads, adorned with scars like copper cross-stitches. If only the circumstances were different perhaps Chrom could learn the path of each with his lips instead. 

Stop that! You’re getting ahead of yourself, he chides. If he doesn’t focus on tending to this burn properly, Robin could well be adding another scar to his collection. The thought sobers him, and Chrom shifts the bandage against his palm, aligning it nearer to the injury.

“It’s going to sting for a moment,” he warns him. “This first layer will be the worst.” 

Robin nods around gritted teeth. “Just do it.” 

“R-right. Okay…” Chrom takes a bracing breath. “Then here we go…”

As delicately as he can, Chrom lays the bandage across Robin’s scorched skin. There’s a faint sizzling sound as the concoction seeps in and accelerates his body’s natural healing process. Robin hisses in pain, fingers digging into the blankets of his cot, but he manages to hold still, and Chrom gets the first layer of bandages wrapped firmly in place. He’s trying desperately to be both gentle and efficient, but Robin whimpers, and he wants to curse his big, bumbling hands for not knowing how to make this easier on him. 

After a few more passes, though, Robin’s shallow panting eases to something steadier—a wash of calm settling over him. Chrom’s fingertips brush over the ridges of his ribs as he tucks the bandage edges down to lie flat and secure—tight enough to hold but not so tight as to be uncomfortable. He’s feeling pretty good about it…up until Robin shudders.

“Are you alright?” Chrom asks, immediately concerned. “You don’t feel sick, do you?” It can’t have been more than a handful of hours since the battle concluded. Surely Robin can’t have developed a fever already… 

“N-no, I’m fine…” he answers, but the wavering in his voice pulls Chrom’s eyes up to his face, and he finds it flushed nearly as bright as the seared skin he just bandaged. 

“You don’t look fine.” Chrom brushes a hand against his cheek and is alarmed to find heat pulsing off him in waves. “Gods, Robin, you’re burning up. We need to get you—”

“Chrom, trust me,” he interrupts, suddenly looking away. “I don’t have a fever. Or at least, if I’m feverish, it’s not because I’m sick.”

“What do you—oh.” Chrom breaks off as he registers how he’s leaning over him—one hand cupping Robin’s face while the other lingers against his bare waist. He sits up straighter and withdraws both hands, certain his cheeks must be burning just as brightly now. “S-sorry.” 

Robin waves his hand in dismissal. “It’s nothing you need to apologize for. It’s not like I didn’t—” he stops short, suddenly shy, but it’s easy for Chrom to fill in the rest of the thought.

“W-well, that’s good then,” he admits. “Because I’m actually not sorry at all.” 

Robin huffs out a laugh, and something fizzles in the air between them when their eyes meet. Chrom’s fingertips tingle at each point where they were touching his skin. 

“Robin, I wish—” he starts, but he cuts off just as suddenly. 

Chrom wishes he could stay with him—wishes he could spend the night at his side, combing his fingers through the sleek silver of Robin’s hair and murmuring soft assurances of all that he means to him. Wishes that he could love him so fiercely that Robin would never be able to doubt his worth again. The fact that he can’t is a wound all its own.

“I know,” Robin whispers, before his eyes fall—brought right back down to earth by the weight of their duty. “I do too.” 

Chrom’s heart kicks around in his chest; an electric current humming in his blood with every beat. Blazes, this war cannot end soon enough. 

Before he can do anything he really will regret, he cuts the tension by clearing his throat and rising from the cot. “I suppose now that you’re all patched up, I should see what other matters need tending to."

Robin’s face alights. “That’s right! I almost forgot. I still need to change so that I can help you with the inventory.”

He tries to sit up, but Chrom lays a hand on his shoulder, stopping him before he can stand. “You’ll do no such thing,” he tells him firmly. “You need your rest. I’ll take care of it.” 

Robin’s brows furrow, a protest budding on his lips. “But the burn is already healing. There’s no reason I can’t–”

“This isn’t up for debate,” Chrom interjects, before adding, more gently, “Rest, my love. The most important thing is to get you feeling better. I can’t do this without you, after all.” 

Robin’s eyes soften, warm as melted caramel. With a resigned sigh, he flops back onto his bed, sinking boneless into his pillow. “I guess a break wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he concedes. 

“Then can I ask one more thing of you before I go?” Chrom requests. Robin hums in affirmation, so he presses on. “Promise me that the next time something like this happens, you won’t keep it from me.” 

A pause. Robin cranks an eye open to look at him and Chrom wonders if maybe he pushed his luck—braces himself to sit back down and argue through it if he must. He can see Robin mentally rattling off justifications for his behavior in the purse of his lips and the pinch of his brow. 

“...Alright,” he says finally. 

Chrom blinks at him. “Really?” 

“Yes, Chrom, really,” he says, attempting to stifle a laugh at Chrom’s obvious disbelief. “If the situations were reversed, I’d want you to do the same. So…you have my word: no more secrets or silent suffering. Consider me thoroughly chastised.” 

“Thank the gods,” Chrom sighs, and on a whim, he leans down to press his lips to Robin’s forehead—chaste but lingering.

Robin huffs, his face a pretty pink. “We’re not very good at this ‘waiting’ thing, are we?” 

“I think we can afford a brief lapse in protocol every now and then,” Chrom replies, attempting to smother his grin. “It’s important for a general and tactician to maintain morale.”

“Oh, really?” Robin sits up straighter. “Well, in that case…” 

His fingers wrap around Chrom’s collar, a coy smile curling his lips before he tugs him down and into a kiss. Robin’s lips burn against his, and a rosy warmth unfurls from Chrom’s chest all the way to his fingertips. He plants a hand on the pillow beside Robin, and threads the other hand through his hair, but just as he stoops to deepen the kiss, Robin pulls away from him, laughing.

“Easy there,” he teases, lightly shoving Chrom’s shoulder. “I’m still injured, remember? What happened to wanting me to rest?” 

The tips of Chrom’s ears blaze red. “Wh—you started it!”

“Yeah, but you were the one getting carried away,” Robin counters with a smirk. “Now go on, already: the inventory awaits.” 

Chrom grumbles and rolls his eyes fondly on the way out. He knows Robin well enough to realize he’s probably still not totally at peace with what happened in the battle—his commitment to bearing the blame for a failed plan is much too dogged for that. But if he’s poking fun at Chrom again, it must mean he’s feeling at least a little better. And Chrom will gladly endure a little teasing if it comes with the assurance that Robin is okay.

[bestshipsmackdown]

Can you tell us which ships have more votes so far or would you rather not ?

I’ll tell you the top ship submitted at the moment is Percy x Annabeth! Honestly there’s enough submissions for it on its own that it’s qualifying regardless of if it gets more submissions or not.

It’s been so long since I read PJO and I never finished the series because I was trying to read it around the time high school took away my love of reading physical books.

But honestly I think it’s really neat that that’s the one at the preliminary front of the pack!

[stobinesque]

I always forget when I finish editing something to post to AO3 that I have to do a whole other round of edits and proofreading because seeing it in the context of the site always makes me find some new problem. except that usually by that point I'm sick of looking at it for the day so then I don't

[spencerreidenjoyer]

guess | spencer reid x reader

wc: 2.3k, rating: explicit/18+

tags/warnings: slight exhibitionism/voyeurism, alcohol consumption (reader is not drunk during sex), lingerie, munch!spencer, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

a/n: heavily inspired by guess by charli xcx ft. billie eilish, specifically billie's verse. yes the song dropped yesterday. yes i listened to the song once and decided to write a fic about it. i'm insane about s7/8 reid rn so :) (also posted on ao3!)

You swear you don’t mean to show off, but the miniskirt you’re in doesn’t help your case in the slightest.

Spencer had told you to join him at the bar for drinks with his coworkers, the bar just a couple blocks down from the club you were at with your friends. Your boyfriend had been away for most of this week and you really wanted to see him, so you don’t think twice about popping by to see Spencer. Besides, you hadn’t seen Penelope, JJ and Emily in a while either, and those girls treat you too kindly.

You realise how skimpily dressed you are when you walk into the bar, though, when you approach the very properly-dressed group of FBI agents at a booth in the corner. Your top is cropped and low-cut, revealing your cleavage, and you were wearing a little black miniskirt, the hem of which barely skirted the tops of your thighs.

Spencer has never commented on your fashion choices, often being the very satisfied recipient of your sometimes revealing outfits. But as you greet the BAU, his eyes are dark and hungry as they roam your figure. You smile at him with a whispered “Hi, baby,” before you kiss him chastely. The look on Spencer’s face is unreadable, other than the fact that you know he appreciates the view.

His gaze darts up at Derek from across the booth when he whistles at you.

“Looking good, mama.” Derek waggles his eyebrows at you, earning him a smack to the chest from Penelope and a hearty chuckle from Emily.

You lean over to hug JJ, Penelope and Emily in that order on the other side of the table, and you feel Spencer’s hand quickly snake across your waist, pulling you back to sit down. You glance over at him briefly, but he only keeps his gaze straight ahead.

“You are one lucky guy, Reid,” Emily laughs, and you feel Spencer’s arm curl around you tighter, pulling you in closer.

The rest of the night is pretty fun, cracking jokes and talking with Spencer’s team, but with the alcohol in your system from earlier, it only takes a few more drinks for you to get drunk. You’re extra giggly, half-sitting in Spencer’s lap, his hand not leaving your side. You feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, saying, “I think we’re going to head home first. This one here seems a little drunk already.”

“I’m not drunk,” you lilt, rolling your eyes. You lay your head on Spencer’s shoulder, blinking hard before you meet Penelope’s gaze. You hear Emily defending you about how you aren’t drunk, but Penelope smiles at you and says, “I think boy genius is right.”

You frown deeply, almost comically so. “Penny! You’re supposed to back me up here!”

Penelope laughs, always so kind to you. “Come on, honey. Let Reid take you home.”

You huff, crossing your arms like a petulant child. You don’t notice the way Spencer’s gaze darts down to your chest shamelessly. Derek whistles, and you assume Spencer must glare at him because Derek is raising his hands in surrender, telling Spencer he doesn’t mean anything. What were they even talking about? You don’t know, but Spencer is murmuring in your ear about getting a taxi home, and after you say goodbye to all of his friends, you’re letting him guide you out of the bar and into the cool night.

You shiver, the very little fabric you have on not doing you any favours when the temperature drops. Spencer is quick to shrug off his jacket and help you put it on. His jacket is long enough on you, considering Spencer’s height, to cover your skirt.

“I swear alcohol’s supposed to warm you up,” you grumble, holding your arms close to your chest as you try to stay warm. “I’m fucking freezing.”

“You feel warmer for a bit because the alcohol is a vasodilator – it causes the blood vessels under your skin to dilate, increasing blood flow, which makes you feel warmer. If you drink more, the higher levels of alcohol actually work to shrink your blood vessels instead and make you feel cold. Do you have a headache?”

You shake your head, but take the chance to snuggle up to Spencer now. “You feel nice and warm.”

“Good,” Spencer says, holding you close. In no time, he flags down a taxi, and you two pile in and drive towards his apartment.

Spencer’s hand is drawing circles into the side of your thigh, mindless, but the touch is incredibly distracting. You ask him softly, “You’ve been touching me all night, Spence. Something on your mind?”

“You,” he whispers back. “Can’t stop thinking about your underwear.”

You squeak at his brazenness, smacking his chest. “You– Spencer!”

“I got a good look when you were practically bent over the table just now,” Spencer continues, his voice a low rumble in his throat. “Didn’t even give me a chance to guess.”

You gape at him like a fish, but Spencer smiles and murmurs in your ear, “You know how much I love when you wear that lacy black pair.”

You bite down on your lip, trying not to moan like a whore in the back of this taxi. You just look at him, silently wishing he’d do something. Spencer presses a kiss to your jaw, and you feel your cheeks heat.

Thankfully, the driver is quick to announce that you’re at your destination, and you and Spencer stumble out of the cab quicker than you’d like to admit. Spencer doesn’t even wait for his change before he slams the car door shut.

Spencer crowds you against the back of the elevator, an old, rickety thing with no camera, so you feel less bad when Spencer slips his hand under your skirt and past your panties, his finger sliding between your wet folds. “Spencer!”

“You’re so wet for me already,” Spencer groans, kissing down your neck desperately. His fingers are so tantalising, rubbing up against your clit, your hole. “You’re so sexy.”

“Spencer,” you whine. “Hurry up and fuck me.”

The elevator doors creak open on Spencer’s floor. “Let’s go, then.”

Spencer barely locks the door behind you before he’s kissing you, eager and sloppy and desperate. It’s so hot, his large hands on your waist pulling you closer to him, and you feel the growing problem in the front of his pants.

“Spencer,” you moan. You feel his hands push up your skirt, feel him wedge his leg between your thighs. You must be soaked through your underwear by now, and you shamelessly rut your hips forward to grind against his leg.

“You know I love your fashion sense, my love, but this is slutty even for you.” Spencer’s voice is dark when he says it, and you whimper. “You’re dressed like you want somebody else’s attention.”

Your eyes widen and you look up at him. “No!”

“Derek was eyeing you like a piece of meat earlier. Emily, too.” Spencer frowns.

“I only want you, baby,” you insist, holding onto Spencer’s arms. “Only want you to notice me.”

“I am the only one who knows the colour of your underwear,” Spencer hums, his fingers skirting the waistband of your panties. “And fuck, you look good in them.”

“Please, Spence,” you whine, your plea lilting off into a gasp as Spencer lifts you, getting you to wrap his legs around him. You’d seen how he looked when he was younger, so scrawny he looked like he’d get swept away if the wind blew too hard, but now, he’s got more meat on his bones. His body is a pleasure to look at, let alone feel under your hands, which you’re happy to do now.

You touch the firm lines of his body through his shirt, as Spencer carries you to his bedroom. You mumble, hands frisky, “You’re so hot.”

“Says you,” Spencer smiles. “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby.”

You grin as he lays you on his bed, gasping when he slides his palm over your wet cunt through your underwear. His thumb flicks over your clit through the lace, the material dulling the electrifying sensation. you whine, “Spencer, please.”

Spencer tsks, looking down at you. “Let me take my time with you, darling. You’ve been teasing me all evening.”

He presses his thumb against your clit a little harder, making you moan loudly. While he tends to tower over you in bed, you also deeply appreciate the view of him getting on his knees so he can make a home between your thighs. His hair is wild, unruly, and you run your hand through it, admiring it. Keeping your gaze, Spencer leans down to kiss your pussy.

You feel his warm breath on you, the scratch of his stubble on your skin, pinned down simply by his gaze as his tongue darts out to lick you over your underwear. You whimper, as Spencer wraps his arms around each of your thighs, using you as an anchor as he presses his face between your legs.

You sob, because what Spencer’s giving you just isn’t enough, not when you need to feel his tongue on your cunt. He thumbs at your hole through the fabric, dipping into your wetness in a cruel approximation of the pleasure he usually gives you.

“Fuck me,” you groan. “Take my panties off already.”

“Not yet,” Spencer hums. Instead, he pushes your panties to the side, lets his fingers slide over your cunt. You gasp at the sensation, his rough, calloused fingers sliding over your wetness, and then you feel the warmth of his tongue.

The sounds his mouth makes as he eats you out are filthy, obscene. His tongue flicks over your cunt with a practised precision, familiar with what makes you tick, the wet, slick sounds too overwhelming. Your toes are curling with how good Spencer makes you feel – legs trembling, breathing heavy. You can’t stop the whimpers that leave your lips, almost helpless in the way you moan for him.

“Please,” your voice is shaky as you cry out for Spencer. “I need you so bad, baby."

Spencer hums against your cunt, the vibrations sending shocks up your spine in your pleasure. “Okay, my darling.”

Finally, finally, he’s sitting up and pulling your panties down, your little skirt still pushed up to expose your cunt. You look up at him, silently wondering why he hasn’t taken it off. He plays with the soft fabric in his hands almost absentmindedly and says, “I think we should keep it on.”

You blink up at him, not coherent enough to say anything about it. Instead, you watch him take his shirt off – you whistle at the sight, while he just rolls his eyes. He unbuckles his belt and push his pants down, his cock bobbing up, hard and red and leaky. You bite your lip, thinking about how he’ll feel inside of you.

“Kiss me,” you whine, and Spencer smiles at you. He tastes of you when his lips press against yours, and he’s quick to deepen it, his tongue in your mouth, like he's close to devouring you whole.

While he kisses you hungrily, you feel his hand between your legs, moving to line himself up with your entrance. You moan as the blunt head of his cock presses up against your hole, the sensation you’ve been craving all evening. Cruelly, he rubs up against you just like that, sliding between your folds but not giving you the satisfaction you need. You’re close to biting his head off.

“Spencer–” you start, but Spencer decides to press his cock into you right at that moment, and you sob with the way his thick length splits you open. Every time he fucks you, you feel like he was made for you, filling you up in all the right ways, feeling so perfect on top of you, inside of you.

You meet his lips and kiss him lazily as he starts to thrust into you, at the perfect pace, just deep enough to hit all the right spots. It’s too good, Spencer knowing you and your pleasure like the back of his hand.

“Fuck,” Spencer groans against your mouth, finally showing some sign of his unravelling. “You’re so tight, darling.”

You gasp, groaning his name, legs wrapped around his waist to pull him closer, feeling like you could fuse into one person with how much you’re clinging onto him. You press your forehead to his shoulder, moans punched out of you with every one of Spencer’s thrusts.

“Feels– Feels so good, Spence, love you,” you cry.

“I love you too,” Spencer groans, voice low and rumbly in his chest. “You’re so perfect, my love.”

You sob as your orgasm hits you, crashing into you like a tidal wave. You shake as you come, feeling so positively overwhelmed with the way Spencer fucks you, the way he holds you, the way he kisses you. You can’t feel your legs as you come down from your high, head spinning with all the pleasure. “Spence…”

“I’m– Fuck–” Spencer’s tripping over his own words as he comes right alongside you, your clenched pussy sending him over the edge too. He blows his load deep inside you, sticky and hot and so satisfying. You can feel how hard he’s breathing as your mind clears, his arms trembling as he holds himself up so he doesn’t end up collapsing onto you.

“You’re perfect,” you hum in Spencer’s ear, soft and gentle as you kiss the side of his head. You pull him in close, letting him rest his weight onto you, and your hand goes to stroke his hair softly. “So good. I love you.”

“Thank you. I love you more,” Spencer groans, his voice a little raspy already. “I’m sorry if I was too possessive over you in front of my friends tonight."

“All is forgiven, especially since you were sexy as fuck,” you grin up at him. “You’re always sexy.”

“Says the girl in a miniskirt and black lace panties.” Spencer smiles.

“All the more I know what I’m talking about, then,” you giggle, before kissing him slow.

[iclarye]

Good Looking

pairing: opla!sanji x reader

summary: your plan was quick and simple. you would go to the kitchen, make some tea to ease your headache, and then return to your comfy bed. you weren't expecting to come across your crew's blonde cook barechested cutting carrots.

word count: 3.1k

warnings: 18+ content, smut, swearing, pet names, kitchen sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, cunnilingus, semi public sex, PIV

authors note: english is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes. read this fanfic on ao3: good looking. enjoy!

You are used to this. The utterly exhausted sensation after several hand-to-hand combats, so when the headache started when you finally lay down in bed, you just decided to ignore it; the sleep would catch up before it got.

Until the needed sleep never got you. So, after an hour or two of rubbing your temples and staring at the ceiling while feeling envy-induced annoyance for Nami’s peaceful breathing, you pushed yourself to stand up.

Even if the cool night air almost makes you wish you hadn't left your warm bed, you needed that green tea to stop the pounding headache in the back of your head. The kitchen lights shining through the window went undetected as your mind was busy figuring out how you could prepare the drink quickly so that the pain could cease as soon as possible.

“Oh, it’s you, darling. Is everything alright?” As you walked into the door and recognized Sanji's words, you snapped out of your thoughts and began to look over your surroundings. He was not wearing any type of shirt while he sliced carrots from behind the counter.

Barechested. Topless. Half naked.

“Y-yes, I mean, no. Just a headache.” You gaze the blonde in the eyes as you stumble through your sentences, you are merely vaguely aware that your face is beginning to turn red. “I just want that green tea; I know it's somewhere around here. I saw Nami storing it in the cabinets earlier.”

You felt foolish. You became used to seeing shirtless men given that you lived in the middle of the ocean and therefore often came across Luffy, Usopp, and even Zoro barechested. They would often walk around the deck that way on hot days. Sanji, however, always showed up in a suit or, at the very least, had a formal shirt rolled up to his elbows. Even so, there was no chance of seeing him dressed otherwise since he went to sleep after you and woke up before everyone.

“I can do it for you; it’s my job after all, taking care of my sweet girl.” He placed the knife down, threw the chopped carrots in a nearby pot, and proceeded to go through the cupboards. “Love, do you remember where she stored it? There are plenty of cabinets in this place.”

"What are you doing here?" You instantly regret your tone as you noted Sanji just froze in his search.

“I mean, sorry, the kitchen is your place, I know. I just never saw you here this hour, and me and Luffy go here to do midnight snacks sometimes”

“I could not sleep”

“Me too” Once again, an irrational remark. He was informed that you were having trouble falling asleep; that's why you were there. “Why the carrots?”

“The attack that happened today. I had hoped for more food, but I believe you are aware of how fucked our situation is.” He continued looking for the tea while chuckling flatly. “We don't know when we will receive more supplies; we right now have barely anything stocked. Even the carrot peels have been put to use in an effort to reduce waste, you know.”

You weren't sure how to respond. It was clear that everyone's mood was negatively affected by today's incident. The worry of what would happen in the next few days or weeks was filling your head since Usopp managed to escape the ship. His back was to you, so you were unable to see his facial expressions, but you couldn't help but notice his muscles.

You felt a little guilty since you couldn't take your focus away from it, despite him having just voiced some serious concern. Has he lately started working out, or has he always had muscles like that?

“Are you and Luffy close then?”

The sudden break in silence confused you as he turned toward you with the pot of tea in his hands and a pleased smile.

“I suppose so. After all, he was the one who invited me to join the crew, right?” You smirked at the thought. It wasn't much time—perhaps a few months—and you were losing track of time at sea. “I fearlessly agreed to become a pirate, although I had never spent more than two weeks on a boat.”

“I remember that. You were so naive”

Of course he remembers. When you joined the crew, it was very easy to have a conversation with Sanji; he was constantly complimenting you or flirting in a straightforward manner. You never took him seriously, hearing about the blonde's techniques from Nami from the first day, but it was often hard not to chuckle or blush when he was so…

“Not anymore.”

He grinned at you before returning his attention to the tea. It was impossible to look away from his bare chest. You were unable to rest your mind from imagining how his skin would feel on your hand now that he was in your line of sight. You are already aware that he's a good-looking man, but now seeing more of his body did things to you.

“All right, madam. Here is your tea.” He circles the counters until he's right next to you. Really close. His eyes twinkle with recklessness, and you know he caught you staring at his figure.

You ignore the tickle in your lower belly as you stand there, grab the mug in your hands, and sip while gazing at his face. He still has that typical smirk, and when you finally finish drinking your tea, he glances at your lips before returning to your eyes. Everything becomes fuzzy and hot then.

He's very close. His hand has been lying on the counter, his chest is nearly brushing your own, and you can't help but notice his modest, almost transparent blonde hair in there. Perhaps it's a sign for you to walk away, that this is going in a dangerous direction, but you can't.

“What dear? See something you lik-”

You interrupt him with a kiss; it's all very messy and quick, and he is unable to have time to handle everything. You come to an abrupt halt and stare at him with wide eyes, realizing what you have done.

“Sanji, fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant t-”

He didn't let you finish the apologies. His hand pulls your head back, bringing your lips together. The kiss looks right now. It begins carefully, with both sides cautious, but it quickly gets heated as he doesn't hesitate to push his tongue into your mouth.

You’re breathless when he finally pulls away, and his eyes are hungry. He didn't think twice before pressing his open mouth and tongue on your neck. A moan escapes from your lips.

His left hand shifts down to grab your hip, and you catch your breath. Your hands graze his nipples as you reach for his pecs, and he hisses at the fresh sensation in your throat.

“Gods Y/N, you’re going to kill me this way”

You chuckled, and he kissed you again, although this time you took charge, moving one of your hands to his blonde hair before tilting his head to grant you more access. You stop the action just to take a moment to recover and gaze into his dilated pupils. He looks so attractive like that that you can’t help but want to go down on him.

”Sanji,” You whisper breathlessly, enjoying the sensation of his name in your mouth, “let me taste you.”

He groans in response, which you take as encouragement as you lean down and proceed. You lick and kiss the trail that leads to his crotch, and he hisses softly, his abdomen tense beneath your hands and mouth. As you get down on your knees and look at his pants, you can see his erection, which seems big and marked.

You don't hesitate to pull down the waistband of his pants and boxers together, exposing his hard, leaking cock to your eyes. It's big. It's more than you expected. There's a buildup of cum at the head, and you reach forward and wrap your lips around it, licking gently just to tease.

You look up as you swirl your tongue over the tip and dip your tongue into the slit to see him biting his lower lips, his head thrown back. You wanted to see his face while sucking him. So you take him out of your mouth and cautiously wrap a hand around him, teasing him a little with your hand. Your movements are agonizingly slow as you lightly suck and lick the sensitive head until finally he looks down.

“Oh, darling, you’re so pretty like that.” Sanji whined above you, and then your mouth opened around the head of his cock, and he slid it into your mouth. “Fuck, fuck. So… so perfect.”

You can clearly see the blonde struggling to keep his composure, like how his knuckles are white while gripping the counter behind him. You relax your throat, take a long breath through your nose, and exhale slowly before swallowing him whole while gripping his inner thighs.

His penis is large, so the initial sensation isn't the most pleasant, but as he lets out a loud groan, you forget about everything. Something about hearing Sanji whine in the kitchen while you gagged on his cock made the aching between your legs unbearable.

"Oh yeah, Y/N. You are so good to me. Your mouth feels so good in me.”

You moaned softly at his words of praise, making vibrations around his penis, causing another moan from him. His left hand reached from the counter to your hair, and you didn't reject the help while bobbing your head up and down.

“My love, you are so perfec-“

A few tears occasionally escaped as you sucked him and he fucked your throat, sometimes only taking him out to run your tongue along his length. You started to see signs that he was close to cum. One of your hands left the thighs to rub his balls.

 “I… I'm going to cum, Y/N, dear... I" He gives you a chance to pull away from him, but you choose to continue and accept it all. You remove the entire length of his throat and leave just the head in your mouth.

He comes soon after, with a muffled groan, while you attempt to swallow as much as you can before it gets difficult, followed by a satisfied moan coming from you.

You felt his hand leave your hair, and for two or three minutes, you just remained there. He has his head back and is trying to catch his breath while you are on your knees, glancing at his chest and the beads of sweat gathering on his neck. It’s a perfect vision, honestly. You ponder whether he would notice if you began to masturbate right then.

“Come on, madam, let me help you up.” Sanji extends his hand to support you in getting up, and once you are upright, he grabs hold of your waist to keep you close to him.

He kisses you, tasting himself in your mouth. It's slow, and you realize he's still trying to emerge from his afterglow. When he breaks the kiss, that smile returns to his face, and you peck him once more just to get rid of it.

Sanji deepened the kiss again. And fuck, what else could you do but reply in the same aggressive way?

You're hoisted up by the hands on your hips and thrown onto the counter. The blonde is now between your legs, breaking the kiss, only to go straight to that specific spot on your neck that you're almost certain will leave a mark in the morning.

“Oh- Sanji,” You try to speak breathlessly as he licks your collarbone and his fingers brush the hem of your t-shirt, “You don’t h-have to do that.”

It wasn't that you didn't want Sanji. Since you entered that kitchen and spotted him without a shirt, you wanted this. Yet, you took the decision to give him an opportunity to back out, be thankful for the blowjob, and never bring up the matter again. Him taking you would be very personal.

“Please, my love,” You can hear the yearning in his voice as he whispers in your ear. “I just want to make you feel good too.”

You nod, and he attacks your mouth once again while his hands pull the hem of your t-shirt, exposing your chest, and you can't stop yourself from moaning at being so bare to him.

He doesn't think twice about placing his mouth on your breasts as he rolls the hard bud between his teeth and tongue and gives the other one a gentle stroke with his other hand. He bites your nipple as your head is flung back, and all you can do is pray that no one hears your loud scream.

He takes his mouth from your breasts and begins a trail down your stomach, and you can't stop whining due to the lack of warm sensation from his tongue in your niples, but you quickly figure out where he's headed as he lowers himself between your thighs.

He doesn't ask for permission as he aggressively rips off your shorts and, along with them, your underwear, revealing your pussy to him. He pulled your hips closer and dragged a finger down your folds, then placed it inside his mouth.

"Oh, you're so soaking wet, just for me, hm?" You are so stunned by the sight that you hardly pay attention to what the blonde is saying. “You taste so good, my darling.”

You stand on your elbows and glance at the man who is standing in between your legs. You can't help but gasp at the taunting as he starts giving you small small bites and kisses along your inner thighs. But you want him now.

“Oh Sanji, stop teasing for fuc-“

He didn't wait for you to finish the curse word before burying his face, pushing his tongue against your wet pussy, and licking a long, temptingly slow strip through your folds until he reached your sensitive bud.

In an attempt to create more friction, you thrust your hips into his mouth, and your left hand immediately settled on his blonde hair. Sanji found the ideal pattern to swirl his tongue over your clitoral region, leaving you panting for air.

He pushed two fingers deep within you, and you felt your walls clenching around them, sucking him in. His pace was fast, and he was still paying careful attention to your clit, leaving you close to the edge. You were a mess, and it wouldn't take long for you to cum. Yet you still needed him; you wanted more.

You sucked in a sharp breath and tried to block out the inappropriate sounds echoing through the kitchen.

“Sanji, p-please more”

"Use your words, my angel." You could see the glistening fluids from your pussy plastered on his chin when he pushed his head off of your thighs. “What do you want?”

“Fuck me, oh g-gods. I need you inside me." At your words, he groaned and took both of his fingers out to direct his cock at your entrance.

It wasn't difficult for him to enter since you were so soaked. At the feeling of it, you both simultaneously moaned. You felt completely filled; he just stood there for a while, waiting for you to get used to the size, until you signaled for him to start moving. It began off slow, but soon he started out moving his hips at a faster pace to satisfy both of you.

"You're perfect,” he moaned in two thrusts, and you had to put your hand over your mouth. “Look at you, taking my cock so well, oh darling.”

The hands on your hips let go and grabbed you under your right thigh, opening your legs and hitting you more deeply and faster. You thought you were seeing stars when he hit an exact spot inside your pussy that made you shout.

“Cum for me, my love. I know you want”

It didn't take long for your orgasm to hit you after that, your eyes rolled back and you let out a whine sound as you felt your walls squeeze his dick. He moaned along with you at the feeling and a few more thrusts and he came inside you.

Sanji's head fell directly to your shoulder, and you instinctively placed your palm in his blond locks. While the fluid was slowly dripping out of you, he continued to remain deep inside and breathe loudly.

He raised his head only to smile recklessly while glancing into your mouth. “So, do you still have a headache?”

Your hand reached out to push him, but you were helpless to suppress the giggles that came. He drew away from inside you but was still between your knees as he chuckled proudly.

“Do you think anyone heard?”

“I'm not sure, maybe when you let out that screa-" You slapped him on the shoulder to cut him off while embarrassed because of the probability. “Ok, ok my darling, next time we’ll find a more private place.”

“Next time, huh?

Sanji stood still with an anxious smile on his face; it was almost hilarious how someone so confident in themselves would respond in that manner. You wrapped his neck with both of your arms and gave him a quick kiss to reassure him that everything was fine.

"You should come to the kitchen more often, preferably alone.”

"And you should go shirtless more often too.”

"Only for you, my love.”

You gave him another kiss before leaving the counter, getting ready to go, and returning to the bedroom. Even though the night seemed to be becoming lighter, you were aware that there were still a few hours until sunrise. It was evident that there would be plenty of issues to address when you awoke, but for the time being, you were content, even though you were a little exhausted from the activities. As sleep came, all you could think of was Sanji and his smile.

© iclarye, 2023

[redtsundere-writes]

We need sukuna brutally murdering another servant because they put reader in a bad mood. ITS NOT A WANT ITS A NEED PLEASE

Blood Bath | Sukuna Ryomen

king!sukuna ryomen x femservant!reader

Sypnosis: The king needs to wash himself after defending his favorite servant. Contents: king x servant, kinda fluffy I guess, murder, a bit of humiliation, nudity. Word count: 2255 words. Author's note: Thanks for the request, anon! I was already writing this fic when I received your message, so it was a great add-in! Beginning. ← Previous | Next →

AO3/WATTPAD VERSION

Sukuna left the castle a week ago. He set out for distant lands to conquer villages, eat its people and spread the terror on his behalf. The absence of his presence was noticeable in the magnificent palace. Peace reigned in the spotless marble hallways, the quiet kitchen and the solitary great hall. Despite not having the pressure of everything being perfect, the servants were making sure the castle would shine for the king's return. The servants walked around at their leisure, pretending they owned the place. They ate at whatever time they wanted, lay down to rest on the lawn of the parade ground, and talked loudly about the rumors that have been surfacing about your relationship with the king.

Recently, it had come to your attention that you were Sukuna's favorite servant, but no one knew exactly why. The consensus had concluded that it was because you were his mistress. Sukuna used to lock himself in his room with you for hours at a time and always came out with a broad smile. The truth is that you didn't sleep with him, you just gave him massages, fixed his outfits and sometimes talked for hours. You tried several times to clear up the rumors, but no one believed you.

It was a rainy summer afternoon. You and a small group of servants were cleaning the great hall, the largest room in the castle. Surrounded by white concrete columns that rose to the ceiling, you sternly swept the red carpet that indicated the center. Diamond chandeliers softly lit the place, statues of the king stood tall and the beautiful hand-painted mural raised on the ceiling harmonized the entire room. The drops fell softly against the giant window in which the green outside could be admired.

“When do you think our king will return?” One servant asked the other as they cleaned the decorative torches that rested on steel bases around the perimeter.

“He won't be long, he has to come back to his mistress,” the other one joked. They both let out small, annoying laughs.

Those kinds of comments had become more recurrent as the days went by. You knew they did it on purpose. They raised their voices every time you entered the room or when you were about to go to sleep. None of the other servants seemed to want to intrude to keep what little peace they had. You slammed the broom down on the carpet hard to take out your frustration.

“How disgusting to be that monster's mistress, don't you think?” the other one asked. You could feel her piercing gaze on the back of your head, waiting for you to react to her uncalled-for comment.

“I know! I don't know how she can sleep with someone as creepy as our king,” she replied with disgust in her voice.

Those two had crossed the line. You firmly grabbed the broomstick to confront them about their lousy topic of conversation. You approached them at a steady pace, dragging the broomstick in case you needed it as a weapon to defend yours and your king’s honor.

“That's enough!” you scolded. “I don't sleep with our king! Besides, he may be a monster, but thanks to him, we can eat fresh food, sleep in comfortable beds and live in a magnificent palace! If I were you, I'd stop barking, bitches!” You exploded after such a long time of having to put up with their out-of-place comments.

“Shut up! You're only defending him because you're his favorite whore!” One of them exclaimed, throwing the feather duster in her face.

“Yeah, shut the fuck up, who-!”

A fine cut echoed throughout the great hall. A large splash of blood fell on your face, blinding you for a couple of seconds. The slight gasp of surprise from the other servants left you speechless. You dropped the broom to scrub your eyes. What had happened? You backed up in desperation until you ran into a wall that wasn't there before. After a crack, it all made sense. You looked up to see Sukuna's sharp jaw. Dried blood tainted his skin, his breath was cut short from exhaustion. He was back home after conquering another empire successfully. 

“Does anyone have anything else to say?” Sukuna asked the other servants, who were kneeling before him, giving him a warm welcome.

You knew you should kneel, but seeing the lifeless bodies of what used to be your gossiping companions made your body freeze. Their heads had been cut in half and the rest of their bodies were shattered. What used to be two women were now small pools of blood and bones. Sukuna had erased their existence with just a couple of his fingers. It was a scene you never thought your eyes would see in the flesh. That would be your fate if you did not obey your master's orders.

“This is a reminder that I can get rid of you just as quickly,” he threatened. His thick voice echoed off the walls. “If I hear that you even dare to speak blasphemies about me or one of your companions, I will not hesitate to kill you. Do you understand?” The servants, still kneeling, said, “Yes, my king,” in unison. 

Coming out of your state of shock, you turned around to kneel at his feet. Sukuna looked at your small figure compared to him. He had heard how you had defended his honor in the face of annoying accusations. He knew you were a good servant, but now you had proven to him that you were loyal. 

“Welcome home, my king,” you greeted in a trembling voice. Your body was still processing the murder your eyes had witnessed. 

“Draw me a bath,” he ordered, brushing past your greeting. 

“Yes, my king.”

You ran as fast as possible to his room to get there before him. Luckily, you had cleaned the bathroom thoroughly the day before, so everything was ready for the king to relax properly. You turned on the faucet to fill the tub with hot water, sprinkled scented bath salts, filled the water with bubbles and lit a few candles to romance the atmosphere. Sukuna soon arrived. Without a word, he began to undress as usual. Obediently, you stood in front of the wall to give her privacy.

“Since when?” He asked you as he untied the knots of his garments and let them fall to the floor. You could only hear the fabric sliding down his Herculean body.

“I don't understand the question, my king,” you answered confused, looking at the wall full of green tiles.

“How long have they been bothering you?” Sukuna completed the question while analyzing your figure from behind. He could tell you were nervous in his presence. It was the first time you saw him kill someone, it must have made quite an impression on you.

“Since a couple of months ago,” you answered.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Sukuna entered the bathtub, which was already bubbling. You closed the bath faucet and approached a stool to begin the most complicated task, washing his hair.

“I didn't want to waste your time.” You prepared the utensils: a sponge, a small wooden bowl and glass bottles filled with the hair products.

“You don't dictate what I do with my time,” he replied sternly.

Sukuna stepped into the tub so you could easily reach his head, drowning his torso into the soapy water. With the help of a soft sponge, you wet his pale pink hair, taking care that the water did not enter his ears. The king closed his eyes, letting himself be carried away by the pleasant sensation after a week of consecutive massacres. Untangling his short hair with a wooden comb, avoiding pulling too much so as not to hurt him. You placed the shampoo directly on his head and massaged the product into the roots.

Sukuna hummed happily every time your fingers gently stroked his scalp. You were so gentle with him even though he was the worst monster ever. You scratched, stroked and massaged his skull to your heart's content. While you let the product work, you focused on his broad shoulders. Your hands roamed his upper body calmly and patiently. The king was tired from having fought day after day and night after night to leave his name high as the greatest conqueror, you could tell by how tense his skin was.

“Answer me a question,” Sukuna asked with his eyes closed.

“As many as you wish, my king.”

“Are you loyal to me because you are afraid of me or because I am powerful?” He asked firmly.

“Both. I am afraid of you because you are powerful,” you replied as you took the bowl of water to rinse his hair.

Sukuna smiled in satisfaction with your answer. That's why you were his favorite servant. You are a perfectionist, shrewd and perceptive. You always managed to surprise him in a different way every time. Something no woman had ever managed to do before. Sukuna twisted his torso to face you. Your face and your white clothes were inked with the blood of your companions. He couldn't let you work like that, after all, it's his fault you were stained.

“Take off your clothes and come in,” he ordered.

“What?” You asked, shocked.

“You're dirty. Come in. I won't repeat myself,” Sukuna demanded.

You nodded and started to undress before his eyes. He had seen hundreds of women undress before. He knows what a pair of striking breasts, sexy hips and long legs look like, but even so, he was mesmerized as he watched you unfold before his eyes. Each garment slid down your body delicately, your hairs bristled from the change in temperature and your nipples stood erect at the lustfulness. No one but your mother had ever seen you naked. You had never been with a man, let alone a monster as imposing as he was.

Sukuna held out his hand to help you into the large tub. You sat in front of him and covered your breasts with the glistening bubbles that floated around you. He took one of the sponges and soaked it with soap to gently clean your face. The now dried blood came off easily. His black claws sometimes scratched your cheeks, but you could tell he was trying to be as gentle as possible with your beautiful face.

“It's not necessary, I can do it myself,” you asked, trying to take the sponge from him.

“I can wash my own hair too, but I prefer you to do it. Let me do it,” he replied before filling the bowl with water and wetting your hair.

He repeats the same process as you. The warm water, the closeness of your bodies and his hands taking care of your hair, transported you to fantasies where you had a relationship beyond king-servant. They were romantic ideas of a Sukuna you didn't quite know. A Sukuna who hugged you every time he saw you, who gave you head pats every time you did something right, and who sat you on his wide lap, demanding attention.

Someone knocked on the door, to which Sukuna allowed access. It was Uraume, who had just heard that the king had returned and what had happened with the reckless maids. What they did not expect was to see you in the bathtub next to his majesty, but even so, they decided not to ask details of how they had come to that situation.

“Welcome home, your majesty.” Uraume bowed from the doorway. “Dinner is ready. You must be hungry after the long journey.”

“I'll be there in a minute,” Sukuna answered. Uraume bowed again and left the room.

“They won't say anything,” Sukuna assured you before getting out of the tub. You were about to get out to give him his towel too, but he stopped you. “The water is still hot, it would be a shame to waste it,” he said before taking the towel and wrapping it around his waist.

“It's my job to do it,” you said.

“Your job is to obey me,” he dictated seriously. You sat back down in the tub and nodded. “Good girl,” he said with a satisfied smile before leaving the bathroom.

Sukuna returned to the bathroom and looked in his closet for what he would wear to dinner. He glanced into the bathroom from time to time to observe you. A small naked human wrapped in the ethereal steam of her innocence. He could have any woman in the world. Why was his mind obsessed with your beauty, your words, and your docility? He didn't know exactly, but he was sure you were completely his, so he didn’t have anything to worry about.

You stood alone with your thoughts in the elegant bath. You plunged your body into the water, submerging your head in the bubbles. Heads cut in half, his big hands stroking your hair, brains strewn across the carpet, his gentle touch as he washed your face. The quick, deep images made you feel confused. Your head went back up to the surface as you realized you were short of breath. You brushed your wet hair back to take a deep breath. What were you doing? Where were you? What kind of person were you serving? Sukuna confused you with his actions, and now you didn't know what to do with your poor heart beating a mile a minute for him.

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Masterlist.

[aureatelys]

she lives in daydreams with me

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader rating: explicit w.c.: 7k.......

content warnings: 18+ please MDNI, fluff and smut, service kink sorta, mild d/s undertones, oral (f) receiving, semi public sex, age gap duh, employee/boss relationship duh, an excuse to write hotch eating pussy ngl

It all started with a cup of coffee. Or: You've had a crush on your boss for a long time, but you've recently started noticing him going out of his way to do things for you without you asking. Or or: Aaron Hotchner likes to do things for people. And by people, he means you.

read on ao3 or below <3

It all started with a cup of coffee.

You had just walked through the glass doors and into the bullpen, still waking up and desperately needing a cup of coffee, when JJ walks by you with a stack of folders in her arms. She gives you that look and motions towards the conference room.

You sigh and follow her, not even bothering to put your bag down at your desk. “That bad, huh?”

JJ grimaces. “Isn’t it always?”

You choose not to say anything, because she’s right. Lately, the cases have been getting more gruesome, more violent, and you’re wondering if it’s starting to affect you at all.

You pass by Hotch as he’s leaving his office and down the stairs, most likely going to make a coffee. You nod at him, giving him a small smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Hotch says, curt as always. He makes eye contact with you briefly, silently telling you that he is still waking up as well and that he’s not being curt on purpose, before looking away.  

Thankfully, it’s been a couple of months since you’ve joined the team, so now you know that Hotch doesn’t actually hate you like you suspected. In fact, he seems to have taken a liking to you based on the number of dry jokes and banter he’s participated in just this week. It definitely doesn’t help the tiny, miniscule crush you have on him.

You don’t know where it came from. Hotch has always been an objectively attractive man, but it’s not often you have a crush on a man who is your boss who is more than 20 years older than you.

Maybe it happened last month, when you were on the jet and he was placing files onto the table to run through theories, and you noticed just how large his hands were. Or maybe, it started when you had knocked before entering his office and he hadn’t noticed you because he was on the phone with who you assumed was Jack based on the excited whispers and soft smile on his face. Or, to your horror, maybe it started when you walked in for your interview, and you felt something stir in the pit of your stomach when he looked you up and down, his eyes lingering on the form-fitting pencil skirt you had worn.

A very tiny crush, you think to yourself as you situate yourself in the conference room, throwing your bag underneath the table.

It’s still dark outside, barely 6 in the morning, and the entire floor was quiet while JJ set up the files and photos. You yawn and you’re just about to get up and make your cup of coffee since there was still some time left before everyone showed up, when a mug is placed in front of you.

You stare at it, halfway out of your chair, before the wonderful smell of that bad yet addicting office coffee hits you and you sit down.

You look up to find Hotch sitting down at the head of the table with his own steaming mug. He looks at you, not smiling, but his eyes are soft. “I hope I got it right.”

You look back at your coffee. It’s the perfect color. He even used your designated mug you brought from home, plain and pink, and the image of him carrying it through the office makes you want to giggle.

You don’t giggle, and instead carefully pick it up and bring it to your lips to take a sip. It’s warm and absolutely delicious, sweetened the way you like, which is a lot. How does he know, you blink, a bit shocked that Hotch was able to make your coffee perfectly, more perfectly than you’re able to make sometimes.

So you tell him. “This is better than when I make it. Thank you,” you say sincerely, and chalk up the warmth sparking in your stomach to be from the coffee.

“Don’t mention it,” Hotch says, the corner of his mouth quirking up before turning back to his own mug and taking a sip.

You feel pleased that he thought of you, and then a little anxious because why is he thinking of you? He’s never made you coffee before and you wonder how he knew you like your coffee tasting more like sugar than the actual coffee. You blame it on the fact that he probably saw how tired you looked and knew you needed a little caffeine to start the day.

“Morning ladies,” Derek announces, striding in with too much energy this early in the morning, and making you jump a bit. He laughs at your reaction and then notices the man sitting at the table, looking up at him wordlessly. “And Hotch.”

“Morning,” he says flatly, raising his eyebrows at him.

Derek laughs and chooses to situate himself between you and Hotch. You silently try not to be annoyed by that as you take another gulp from your coffee, and then internally beat yourself up because why would you be annoyed, he’s doing you a favor.

You start reading up on the file that JJ placed in front of you when Morgan asks “Hey, where’s my cup of coffee?”

You glance at him, still holding onto your mug like a lifeline, to find him looking at you almost offended. You shrug. “I didn’t make it.”

Morgan whips his head around to look at Hotch, who acts as if he didn’t hear him. “Where’s my specially made Hotch coffee?”

He doesn’t even look up. “I only have two hands.”

You snort, almost choking, while JJ laughs and Morgan scoffs before he gets up to go downstairs to the break room.

You glance at Hotch to find him smiling to himself, mirth in his eyes, and feel the warmth in your chest again despite how tired you feel.

It’s probably the caffeine.

-

The next time it happens, it’s after you had gotten shot.

To be fair, you’ve been shot a handful of times already since being on the team, but still. You hate being shot at.

Luckily, this time it was your leg and not your stomach like last time, which absolutely fucking sucked. You had been on bedrest for weeks and was going crazy in your apartment despite Penelope visiting you every day, bringing takeout or a steamy romance novel.

You’re currently in a hospital in Texas, leg in a cast, and starting to get antsy. They told you you’re going to be able to discharge later today, but you’re ready now.

“Relax,” Hotch says where he’s sitting at your bedside, not even looking up. He’s finishing up some reports from the case they just finished, laptop on the bed providing a warm presence against your thigh. You try not to ogle at his hands. How is he even able to work with hands that big?

“I’m just ready to go home,” you say through gritted teeth. “I don’t know why we can’t just leave now, I’m fine.”

“You’re lucky the bullet didn’t hit a nerve,” Hotch says, now looking up at you. There’s a frown on his face and his eyes are tired. The bags underneath his are deeper, darker, and you ignore the pang in your chest when you remember the frantic shouts of him calling for an ambulance after you got shot, the warmth of his hands on your calf to press against the wound.

“I’m fine,” you say, rolling your eyes. “What I’m worried about is what I’m going to do the next case we get.”

If possible, his frown deepens. “You’re not coming with us on the next one.”

Something like irritability rises up your throat. “Yes, I am. I can still work in this stupid cast.”

“Yes, but the doctor said you need rest,” Hotch states, sitting up a little straighter after seeing the look on your face. He knows how stubborn you can get, and this time is no different.

“I can rest on the jet, at the precincts.” You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow defiantly at him. “I can still be helpful. I’m not useless.” Like hell you were going to go crazy in your apartment again, living off of frozen pizza and reality TV.

Hotch sighs, and whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by a nurse coming in to check your vitals one more time, your pain level, and then giving you the rundown to be careful, get some rest, blah blah blah.

Somehow Hotch is the one who is tasked with driving you to the airport after you get discharged, the rest of the team already on the jet. You hobble awkwardly through the parking lot with your crutches, and Hotch is right next to you with his hand on the small of your back in case you fall. His hand is warm, nearly setting your whole back on fire, and you shake that thought away as you stumble a bit into the passenger side of his car.

“Are you okay?” Hotch asks as he puts your crutches in the backseat. His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at you with concern, his hands already out to catch you just in case.

You fight a blush and sit down with a grunt. “Yep, I got it.”

The drive to the jet is quiet besides the low hum of the radio. You stare out the window the whole time, just happy to finally feel the warmth of the sun on your face.

“Do you need me to stop for anything?” You turn your head to look at Hotch. He has some stubble forming on his cheeks, hair mussed, and he’s wearing that brown quarter zip-up you like. He has his eyes on the road and turns to look at you, eyebrow cocked. His lips are chapped.

You are struck with the thought of how insanely handsome he is.

You clear your throat. “Nothing I can think of.”

Hotch hums. “Let me know if there’s anything you’re needing.”

You nod silently, and five minutes later, you’re on the tarmac and stumbling up into the jet. Hotch’s hand is at your back again, barely grazing you, and making sure you don’t fall down the stairs. He’s holding onto your crutches despite your protests, and you try not to feel a little indignant.

“There she is,” Morgan singsongs as you plop down into a seat with a sigh. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ready to go home to my bed,” you say, immediately slouching down to get comfortable.

“I feel that,” Emily laughs, nodding, and then she’s patting you on the shoulder before she sits behind you.

Hotch sits across from you, and you try not to think about how this seating chart has become a normal occurrence. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, based on the small smile he gives you.

He’s setting up his laptop and takes out a couple of files from the bag. He then reaches in and places something on the table in front of you. A water bottle and a small bag of trail mix.

“Oh,” you say, caught off guard and not knowing what else to say.

Hotch clears his throat, averting his gaze. “I know you don’t really like hospital food. So.”

You’re suddenly reminded of the coffee incident, where he somehow knew how to make your coffee exactly the way you liked it and continued to do so almost every day since. You can feel Reid staring a hole into the side of your face from where he’s lying on the couch across the aisle.

Your stomach grumbles then, loudly, and you hear Emily laugh behind you. Hotch glances up at you from where he already has a file open. The corners of his mouth just barely quirk up, almost smug. As if he knew that was going to happen.

You wonder when he had the time to get you a snack. It didn’t come from the kitchenette in the jet, having been out of stock of snacks for weeks, and he hadn’t really left your side while you were in the hospital.

“Thanks,” you finally say. You reach forward to open the bag of trail mix. “You didn’t have to.”

Hotch’s eyes soften, his eyebrows relaxed, and there’s concern and something else in his eyes when he says “I wanted to.”

You smile before you can help yourself, ducking your head, and hoping no one else can hear how fast your heart was racing.

You’re hit with the fact that Hotch was thinking of you, planning ahead to get you a snack and make sure you were fed before you guys made it home. You notice the lack of snacks for the rest of the team and try to ignore the thrill that goes through you. It’s like he knows what you want before you know yourself.

Like he’s taking care of you.

You nearly choke on a cashew when the thought occurs to you. Hotch’s head shoots up at the sound, looking alarmed, and it looks like he’s about to get up and hit you on the back when you wave him off. He doesn’t look satisfied until you take a swig from your water bottle and give him a thumbs up. He goes back to tapping away at his laptop, but you can tell he’s still watching you out of the corner of his eye.

It makes sense now that you think about it. He’s made a habit of checking in with you at the end of the day, offering to drive you home if you stay at the office too late. Whenever you check out a location while on a case, he always goes first. He makes sure you’re getting enough sleep, reminding you that you can take time off whenever you want.

You’re not sure if you’re imagining it, but ever since The Coffee Incident, you feel another pair of eyes on you more often than usual. Sometimes you would look up and see Hotch staring fixatedly on a particular file or his phone, but you can’t deny the prickling feeling you get on the back of your neck. You’ve noticed your fingertips touching more, sharing looks when the rest of the team argue, knees and feet knocking together underneath tables.

You’ve noticed that not only is Aaron Hotchner, your boss, very handsome but extremely and undeniably hot.

His broad shoulders, his tall stature. His cologne, the way he fills out his suits. His deep voice that’s able to dominate and control an entire room and make you weak in the knees.

“Interesting,” you mumble to yourself. Hotch glances at you with that same concern etched in his face, a question forming on his lips. You smile at him innocently and knock your knees against his underneath the table. It’s easy to find him with the annoying cast on your leg.

He knocks his knees back, gentler than he needs to, and a corner of his mouth just barely lifts.

-

You are absolutely sure now that Aaron Hotchner has a… thing.

You don’t know what to call the… thing, but there is undoubtedly a thing.

It’s late and you’re the last one in the office. Well, besides Hotch of course, because he practically lives at the office.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to stay?” Emily asks, JJ on her arm. “I’m sure we can find something for us to do.”

You wave them away. “I’m almost done. Just got at least 2 more reports I need to finish my notes. Promise.”

Emily frowns, but you can see she’s slowly walking backwards to the exit. JJ looks like she’s trying not to tug at Emily’s arm to walk faster. “If you’re sure…”

You roll your eyes. “Go on and have fun with… whatever you guys are going to do. I don’t want to know.”

JJ gives you a wink over her shoulder and you watch as they head into the elevator, a skip in her step. And then they’re gone.

Even though you had just gotten back from the case, it takes you awhile to finish your notes hunching over your desk. It’s quiet in the building, silent besides the faint hum of the air conditioner and your pen scratching at the paper. Your hand cramps a bit and you seriously wonder why this has to be handwritten rather than being in the current century and use a laptop. You’re motivated by the thought of sleeping in tomorrow morning though, which means getting up at 9 instead of your normal 6.

You lean back into your chair, staring at your completed notes. You hear paper rustling from the office upstairs and look up to see Hotch’s door slightly ajar. You suddenly feel nervous being alone with him, as if you haven’ t been alone with him countless of times before. Recently, however, it’s been happening more, and you’re not quite sure how to feel.

You get up from your desk and stretch your back, groaning when you hear a pop. You take a deep breath, imagine your soft bed, gather your reports for the final signature, and head upstairs.

You knock, hear a faint “Come in,” and step inside Hotch’s office, closing the door behind you.

He has his desk lamp on, washing his office and his face with a warm golden glow. He hasn’t even looked up from where he’s writing his own reports, so you take the brief chance to stare.

He’s surrounded by piles of papers; messier than how he usually keeps his desk. His tie is loosened from around his neck and the top two buttons are undone. His sleeves are rolled up and you try not to stare at his thick forearms, the veins in his hands. He grabs a nearby mug to take a sip of coffee, no doubt already cold. Your eyes follow his mouth when he takes a drink, watch the way his tongue flicks out to lick his lips, and then to his face. Where he is watching you with a faint smirk tugging at his aforementioned mouth.

You clear your throat, fighting the blush that’s starting to crawl up your neck. You go to stand in front of his desk, files in hand. “I have the rest of my notes from the Florida case.”

Hotch’s face easily morphs back into his stern and professional look, but you can still see something dance around in his eyes. He takes the files wordlessly, opens one, and reads your notes for not even 5 seconds before he says “You have the names of the sisters mixed up.”

You blink, still trying to fight the nervousness you feel and the warmth pooling slowly at the pit of your stomach as you watch his hands. “Huh?”

Hotch points at the crooked paragraph you scribbled out. “The older sister is named Amanda, the younger sister is Cynthia. You have them mixed up.”

And suddenly the nervousness you felt from being in the same room as your boss, alone and in the middle of the night, is overtaken by sheer embarrassment. You must have been more tired than you thought. “I’m sorry.” You put your hand out for the file. “I can go fix it real quick.”

“It’s fine,” Hotch says, and somehow, you’re not surprised. “I got it.”

You think about the past couple of months and the small gestures he’s been doing for you. Even though you’ve known Hotch for a couple of months now, you can’t quite get a read on him. It’s confusing, he’s confusing. You hate to say that it feels like he’s giving you mixed signals. One second, he’s opening the car door for you when you’re on a case, the next he won’t even look at you when the team is at a bar for an evening. Now this? Offering to fix a mistake you made at work? Something indescribable crawls up your throat and you suddenly feel irritated, upset, and something else.

“No,” you say as professionally as you can despite the rush of blood you can hear in your ears. “I can fix it, Hotch.”

He looks at you then, something like surprise on his face. “It’s just a quick fix, I can do it.”

It’s just a little typo, why won’t he let you fix it, you think to yourself. Maybe it’s the stress from the case you just got back from, how late it was, or something else entirely, but you find yourself unable to stop yourself from saying “Why do you keep doing things for me?”

This time, it’s Hotch who blinks back at you. He puts his pen down and clasps his hands together, looking like he’s ready for a talk. “What do you mean?”

“This!” You wave your hand at him, now not sure exactly what to say. “You keep… doing things for me. Things that I am perfectly capable to do myself, you know.”

Now you realize what that nagging feeling in your throat was— anger. Has Hotch been doing this because of how old you were? Because you were a young and new agent, naïve and innocent and can’t do anything herself?

Hotch just looks at you blankly. You quickly try to read his face; he’s clenching his jaw, his hands where they were clasped are now clenched into almost fists, and his eyes are dark.

“You are perfectly capable,” Hotch says, slowly. “I do know that.”

You huff a bit. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Hotch is silent again before letting out a deep sigh. He closes his eyes, runs his hand over his face, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ve just ruined your friendship/professional relationship with your boss. You can almost see the wheels spinning in his head as he figures out what to say.

He smoothly gets up from his desk and is now standing in front of you, leaning against his desk. He’s close, nearly towering over you, and you can almost feel the heat of his body like this.

The close proximity makes you nervous, because this is different than sitting next to each other on the jet or in the car. It’s different because the entire floor of the building is empty and you’re alone in your boss’s office.

He finally opens his eyes, making sure to make eye contact with you. His hands open and then close, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I do these things because I like doing them. For you.”

You stare at him, not sure what to say and feeling overwhelmed at the onslaught of emotions you’re feeling. You feel pleased, shy, giddy, anxious, and overwhelmed.

It makes sense that Hotch likes to take care of people. He’s a leader, a father, and his whole life is about helping those who are in need. You’ve seen it in the way he checks in with everyone, the way he humors Reid with his ramblings or lending an ear to Rossi. You’ve seen it in the way he talks to children and the way he tries to make himself appear softer, almost smaller.

You see it in him now. If it was anyone, Hotch would look stoic or cold, however you can tell he’s just as nervous as you are with the way he’s clearly biting at the inside of his cheek, the tense jaw, and the concerned furrow of his brow.

You’re still not sure what to say, but you know what you want to do.

So, you close the several inches between you and him with one step, grabbing the collar of his pristine button-up, and kiss him.

You’ve clearly taken him by surprise, but he pretends to act otherwise as he gingerly places his hands on your hips and kisses you back.

His lips are soft, addictingly so, and he tastes like coffee when he swipes his tongue along your bottom lip. The feeling makes your knees weak and you think you let out a soft moan, but you’re unable to hear anything over the sound of blood in your ears. His hands, large and hot, roam from your hips and up your back, giving you shivers.

Hotch is the first one to pull away and you instinctively chase after him with your lips before he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “Are you sure?”

You look up at him, not realizing you had to crane your neck so much to do so and feel that all-too-familiar feeling between your legs that makes you clench your thighs. His lips are already swollen, pretty and pink, the collar of his shirt wrinkled from where you were pawing at him, and his eyes boring into you like he’s going to eat you alive.

“Yes,” you breathe, looping your arms around his shoulders to pull him back in. Hotch goes willingly, almost eagerly.

Hotch kisses like he works—meticulous and focused, however his hands are needy with the way he runs them over your ass, your back again, and your breasts through your sweater. He still seems like he’s being careful, like he’s worried about breaking you. You weave your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and pull out of pure curiosity, marveling at the way Hotch lets out a groan deep in the back of his throat.

That seems to set him off because now he’s groping you a bit harder, mouth trailing down your neck and peppering kisses in a way that makes you breathless. You can tell he’s refraining from biting and leaving marks, instead making sure to pay extra attention to the spot underneath your ear that makes you gasp and grab at the back of his shirt. “Hotch…”

“Aaron,” he mumbles against your neck before bringing his face back up to yours, noses nearly touching. “Please call me Aaron.”

He’s looking at you like you hung the moon, like he can’t believe you’re in front of him. His face is relaxed, void of any stress, a faint redness on his face, and his hair is so effortlessly messy in a way it makes him look so young and devastatingly handsome.

You nod and move your hands up the nape of his neck again to touch his face, feeling the rough stubble on your palms. “What are you going to do to me, Aaron?”

He groans again and the sound goes straight between your thighs. He suddenly spins you both around until you have your back pressed up against the desk, nearly digging into you. Your breath is knocked out of you, from surprise or desire you don’t know, but then Aaron has his hands at the hem of your sweater. He looks at you, silently asking, and then quickly taking it off when you nod.

His hands immediately gravitate to your breasts, kneading them through the plain black bra you’re wearing. You’re almost embarrassed that it’s so plain, but clearly Aaron doesn’t mind from the way he’s staring at them, thumbs pressing with the lightest pressure against your nipples through the fabric. You feel them tighten, sighing at the soft beginnings of pleasure, and think surely he’s able to feel them even through your bra.

“Fuck,” Aaron curses, and you have never heard him curse and definitely not like this. For some reason, it makes you hotter, and you scramble to bring your hands behind you to unclasp your bra.

And then his mouth is immediately pressing hot open-mouthed kisses down your chest, between your breasts, and then onto your right nipple. You gasp and involuntarily arch your back to press closer to him, chasing his warm and wet mouth.

Aaron takes his time with you. He alternates between sucking hard to little kitten licks while his hand is rolling the other nipple between his fingers. You bite your lip in an effort to suppress your moans, trying to keep in mind that both of you are still technically at work. The thought of being caught during sex has never appealed to you, but for some reason, tonight it sends lightning down your spine. You could tell that you were already incredibly wet, probably soaking through your panties, and you spread your legs a bit to relieve some of the pressure. Aaron immediately steps in closer.

You suddenly feel the hot line of his hard cock against your leg through the several layers of clothing and it makes you moan even louder. “Please,” you gasp, nearly clawing at his back.

His mouth lets go of your nipple with an obscene noise and he’s back to pressing kisses against your neck now, soft and slow, as if giving you a second to catch your breath. “What do you want?” He murmurs, voice deep, and going straight to your wet pussy.

And there it is again— Aaron’s need to take of people. To take care of you.

You spread your legs more at the thought, feeling like you can’t breathe.

Aaron hums, stroking his hand along your thigh, and it feels like you’re burning through your slacks. “Is that you want?” The deep timbre of his voice makes you dizzy, especially when he talks to you like that; teasing, like he’s playing with you.

You nod, your words stuck in your throat. You feel the sweat start to gather at your forehead, your chest, and you can feel him staring while you’re trying to catch your breath.

“I want you to say it,” Aaron says before he’s lifting your hips up so you’re sitting at the edge of his desk. He then tucks his fingers in the waistband of your pants but makes no move to tug them down.

You glance helplessly at the door, thanking past you and the thought to close the door. You know there is a low chance of being heard since it’s almost midnight on a Friday, but again, the thought of being caught with your pants around your ankles and your bra off sends a shiver through you.

“Look at me.” And there’s a hand on your chin, pulling your attention back to the older man in front of you.

He looks absolutely wrecked despite all of his clothes being on. You didn’t notice his tie was gone, thrown somewhere in the office. Aaron is looking at you intently, eyes dark from how dilated his pupils were, and you can tell he’s just as affected by the way his chest is heaving up and down underneath his button-up.

“Tell me what you want,” Aaron whispers, his free hand running up and down your thighs. “And I’ll give it to you.”

Your throat clicks when you swallow, licking your lips, and you watch as Aaron’s eyes follow the movement. “Please eat me out,” you say breathlessly, and it almost feels stupid to say until Aaron is surging into you to press his hungry mouth against yours.

“That’s a good girl,” Aaron mumbles against your mouth and you want to melt into a puddle.

He finally pulls down your pants, helping you lift your hips up to take them off. He’s helping you take off your shoes and then suddenly, he’s kneeling on the floor in between your thighs.

You almost want to close them, suddenly feeling shy, until he has his hands on your knees to keep them apart. You can’t see his expressions from this angle, but you squirm when you feel his eyes and warm breath on your core, probably having soaked your panties right through. You wouldn’t be surprised if you soaked through your pants.

He lets go of your knee to trace your slit through your panties and you jump a bit in surprise, moaning nonetheless and grinding your hips up into his touch. You’re sensitive and have been teased for who knows how long, and secretly you’ve always liked getting dirty with some clothes being on. Blame Aaron and his penchant for suits.

 And then he’s leaning in and pressing his hot hot mouth against your cunt through your panties.

You gasp, loudly, and your hands fly to the top of his head. That’s all the permission Aaron needs, it seems, as he begins by swiping his flat tongue up you before dissolving into slow languid licks. He’s not exactly touching you where you need him most, but it’s enough for now. He’s messy and you’re starting to wonder if a mix of his spit and your wetness is dripping onto his desk, onto the floor, and the thought makes your thighs shake. You know he’s doing this on purpose to make your panties wetter, and it’s so hot in a way you didn’t know was possible.

You feel him hum against you and you squirm against his hands, mewling when you feel them tighten on your thighs. You secretly hope he leaves bruises.

“Please,” you whisper. As much as you love the thought of him so desperate to get a taste of you, him willing to take what he can get through the fabric, you need more. “Aaron, please…”

He groans, something masculine and guttural, and then he’s moving your panties aside from your wet pussy and delving back in again.

His mouth feels infinitely better like this, and you can feel his tongue swiping into your opening, gathering the wetness and completely avoiding your clit. You whine, grasping at his hair a little harder, and wonder if that’s his smile you can feel against your pussy. You grind against his face, almost involuntarily, and he lets you, even enjoying it based on how he moans and moves his tongue faster, exploring.

He finally moves his tongue to your clit and your eyes nearly roll back at the pleasure wracking your body. You gasp and tighten your hold on his hair. It feels so so good, and again the thought of Aaron being so hungry for you he’s willing to do this in the office, his office. Stern and cold, highly esteemed SSA Aaron Hotchner. Your boss.

“Fuck, Aaron,” you whimper and look down at him on his knees between your thighs. His eyes are closed, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, as if he’s just at his desk filling out paperwork or working on a case. Instead, he’s focused on eating you out so intensely, on making you feel so good, he’s so hot.

He opens his eyes at that, as if he could feel you watching him, and they’re a warm golden brown, pupils blown. His hands on your thighs tighten and he shifts from where’s kneeling on the floor. You could see he’s genuinely enjoying making you come apart with his pretty mouth as he flicks your clit ever so gently. You distantly wonder if he’s hard and leaving a stain through his own dress pants.

He gives a soft suck on your clit and your hips stutter, your breath catching in your chest as you feel that familiar pressure start building at the pit of your stomach. And it’s like he can immediately tell, because of course he can, and you suddenly feel one of his thick and long fingers enter you.

“Oh,” you gasp in surprise, eyes rolling back at the primal feeling of being filled. You wish it was his cock, God do you wish, but this is enough for now.

Aaron is still looking up at you and you can tell he’s about to move away to ask if this was okay, if you’re okay, but before he can, you put your leg on top of his shoulder and pull him in. You hope that that answers his question.

And because Aaron is Aaron and can somehow read your mind, he almost imperceptibly nods and puts his mouth on your clit again. His finger starts slow, despite how wet and open you are, as if he’s still teasing you. It’s almost enough for you; the steady sucking of your clit and something thick in your pussy, if he would only move a little faster.

“Harder, please, please,” you beg, unable to stop yourself, nearly babbling. It would be embarrassing if Aaron clearly didn’t like it based on the way he pushes his finger in deeper and harder, his sucking moving into hard licks to your clit.

It was good, so so good, and so intense that you wish you could swipe all of his files and folders off the desk and lay on your back to savor it. Instead, Aaron moves his tongue faster and that tidal wave is getting stronger. You instinctively push at Aaron’s head so you could catch your breath for at least a second because you don’t want this to be over just yet.

Aaron grunts and moves his free hand to your hip, grabbing you hard to keep you in your place. He inserts another finger, and it’s almost too much but it’s also just the right amount of fullness you want at the same time. He’s pumping them in and out of your wet pussy so fast, the lewd noises filling the office, maybe even carrying downstairs.

And then he’s curling his fingers just so, flicking your clit just so, and looking at you with eyes so dark and intense that you finally, finally come.

The shout of his name dies in your throat as you throw your head back, squeezing your eyes shut, and feeling that blissful white-hot pleasure all over. Your pussy clenches around Aaron’s fingers as he keeps his fingers curled inside you. You can feel your hips stuttering, unable to make your mind up on whether to chase the feeling with his mouth or away, but Aaron makes that decision for you as his hand grips impossibly tighter and laps at your clit gently to help you ride out your orgasm.  

You’re trying to catch your breath when you feel Aaron give a whisper of a kiss on your cunt, making you jump. He chuckles quietly and you blearily open your eyes to see him slowly standing up, hearing him groan when his knees pop. You don’t even have the mental capacity to make fun of him for it, especially when you see the look on his face as he steps closer between your shaking legs.

His hair is absolutely ruined thanks to your fingers and his eyes are soft with a touch of concern. There’s a near triumphant smug grin on his face, sweet dimples poking out, and the bottom half of his face is unquestionably glistening. He flicks a tongue out to lick his lips and you want him so bad.

You glance down and feel a shiver of pride and hunger when you see the line of his hard cock through his slacks, a wet spot barely visible.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you nearly swoon at how low and deep his voice sounds. He uses his clean hand to swipe a strand of hair that’s fallen in front of your face and tuck it behind your ear. You can’t even imagine what a mess you look right now, face probably flushed and naked on his desk.

You nod, swallowing the dryness in your throat. His smile gets wider at that, if possible.

He leans in and gives you a gentle kiss and hums when you part your lips to taste yourself. The hand that’s migrated to cradle the back of your head trails down to the nape of your neck, gripping you in a way that was almost possessive. It’s hypnotizing and you feel breathless again at the thought of his hand around your throat.

You feel his cock pressing against your inner thigh, so close to where you need him the most, and you reach to fiddle with his loosened tie before trailing it down his chest. You can feel his muscles flexing, his stomach tensing, before passing his belt and pressing your palm against him. “Can I…?”

He groans against your mouth before pulling away, leaning his forehead against yours. You can imagine the veins in his throat popping as he tries not to cant his hips against you.

You’re marveling at the size of him as you run your hand up and down his length. You had a feeling he was going to be big but not this big. Your mouth waters at the thought of him between your lips, hot and heavy, or pulsating in your pussy as he comes inside of you, filling you up. You can imagine his biceps tensing, the veins in his forearms showing, and the way his eyes would close as he chased his own orgasm.

So, you’re shocked and maybe a little offended when you feel Aaron’s fingers circling your wrist to pull your hand away.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against your lips before you could say anything.

“But I want to—”

“Not here,” he says, now rubbing your wrist like an afterthought. “I wanted to take care of you first.”

You huff a laugh, starting to understand now. Something warm unfurls in your chest at that. Aaron Hotchner had always seemed like the type to want to make the woman come first, maybe even multiple times before his own release.

He steps away, adjusting himself in his pants and fixing the collar of his shirt. Your eyes follow the motions, fixated on his hands, and for some reason you’re feeling hot again.

You must have made a noise because Aaron’s head whips up at you, that smug grin that he’s not even trying to hide anymore getting wider. He leans down to pick up your pants and helps you wriggle your panties back up your legs and to your hips. His hands linger on your inner thighs as if he can’t help himself and you notice his breath getting deeper, his mouth parted.  

You’re just about to slide them off again, maybe even using your arm to finally slide all the papers on his desk off when he steps away again.

“My place?” He asks lowly. His gaze lingers on your thighs, your chest, and then back up to your face. The desire and want is plain as day on his face.

As if on cue, you hear the familiar sound of a custodial cart next door in Rossi’s office. Your heart leaps in your throat and you push off the desk to scramble and put your pants and sweater back on.

Aaron laughs at that, quietly again, as if they don’t work here and they’re about to get caught doing something they’re not supposed to be doing. Which, you guess, is somewhat true.

But then Aaron is on his knees again, your shoe in one hand and his fingers circling your ankle to lift up with the other as he looks up at you. His eyes are so sincere, sweet, as if he just didn’t give you the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life here in his office.

You smile at him, feeling the fondness grow impossibly larger in your chest, and let him help you put your shoes back.

You can return the favor in his bed.

[loveandpeaceanddoughnuts]

Nanami x Reader ~ Kento's Stress Toy

feat: fluff and smut, established relationship, body writing, rough sex, loving sex, praise, overstimulation, light bondage // wc: 4170 // [ao3]

Nanami was working overtime again. You both hated when it had to happen, and on a Friday after a particularly long week? Your poor husband would be coming home exhausted and cranky.

Not that he was ever mean to you, of course. In fact, sometimes you wished he would be just a little bit meaner. You fantasized about him taking out his frustration on you, using his chiseled body to fuck you like a pretty little toy.

It wasn’t your fault that he looked so goddamn sexy when he was mad. His brows would furrow, sharp cheekbones somehow even more prominent as he clenched his jaw. His broad hands, always so gentle with you, would curl into fists, and you couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to have that fist in your hair, yanking your head back as he railed you…

Heat pooled in your belly as you indulged in the fantasy for the hundredth time. You wanted to see that side of Nanami, wanted to feel it. After all, he kept things so bottled up. It would do your husband good to work out some tension, right?

—

Nanami was exhausted and beyond tense when he finally came home. He couldn’t shed his work stress at the door as he usually did, his broad shoulders still hunched around his ears as he slowly loosened his tie and toed off his dress shoes.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called as he made his way through the kitchen, smiling tiredly as he saw that you’d put the kettle on for the two of you.

“I’m in here, Ken!” You called from the bathroom, frantically scribbling the last letters of your surprise in eyeliner. You eyed yourself approvingly in the mirror before slipping your clothes back on and heading out to meet him with a kiss.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms. He relaxed just a fraction as he inhaled your scent, tucking his face into your neck. “I’ve had the longest day.”

You hummed. “I’m listening, baby. Tell me all about it.” He followed you into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he watched you make tea. You pushed a mug into his hands before hopping onto the counter opposite him.

Nanami closed his eyes appreciatively as he sipped his tea. “Perfect as always, my dear.” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know what they want from me at that damn office. Actually, I do know, and it’s ridiculous. The sales goals are impossible to meet for anyone with a conscience.”

“Oh?” You had heard this before, but sometimes marriage meant letting your husband repeat himself. And if he worked himself up, so much the better for your little plan.

“Yes. They are. And my boss berated me in front of the whole team for trying to be honest with a new hire about the way things work.” He shook his head, gaining steam. “It’s completely unfair. The whole goddamn system.” Nanami scowled into his mug.

“I’m so sorry, my love. That sounds awful.”

Nanami moved closer to you, nestling himself between your legs and leaning against your chest. Atop the kitchen counter was one of the few places you could be taller than your mountain of a husband, and you never wasted the opportunity. You ran your hand through his hair, scratching gently at his undercut.

“It’s the weekend, my love,” you murmured. “You don’t have to think about those bastards again for a few days. It’s just you and me.”

He softened a bit. “Just you and me, hm? Forgive me, dear. You know I hate bringing work home.”

“Nothing to forgive.” You bit your lip. This is where you’d make your move. “I just wish there was something I could do to help relax you.”

He had been with you long enough to recognize the suggestive lilt in your voice. “Oh, do you? You’re sweet, love. But there’s nothing to be done.”

“Nothing at all?” You ask, tugging at the buttons on his collar.

He tilted his head, wordlessly allowing you access to begin undoing them. You smooth your fingertips over the freckles at his neck, the collarbone constellations you love so much.

You’re halfway down his chest when he catches your wrists in one hand, an apologetic smile on his lips. “I adore you, but I don’t think I’m exactly in the mood to make love. I don’t want any thoughts of work to distract me from you.”

“Who said we had to make love?” You lean back to look him in the eyes as you offer the challenge, relishing the flush that crawls up his cheeks.

“Angel…”

“I mean it, Kento. I want you to use me.” Heat pools in your stomach at the vulnerable words. “Use me to fuck out all your tension, all the work bullshit. I’m all yours.”

Nanami’s wide eyes drink you in, his heart pounding. He couldn’t hide how much your words affected him, least of all how painfully hard he suddenly was, cock jumping against his slacks.

You pressed your hand against his growing bulge with a soft smile. You knew all his weaknesses. “Please, baby. I wanna make you feel good.”

He pressed his forehead against yours with a ragged sigh. “You undo me, you know that?”

You guided his hands to your waist, lifting your hips so he could pull off your shorts. He huffed a laugh against your neck. “Eager, are we?”

You bit your lip, hardly able to contain your excitement as he grew closer to unveiling your surprise. “Yes, take them off already…”

You felt him smile against your skin as he finally stripped them off, rubbing teasing circles against your cunt through your damp panties.

“Those too,” you whined, bucking your hips against his hand.

“Such a needy little thing,” he murmured, gently teasing as he slid them off. You watched his face, rewarded with the sight of your stoic husband’s mouth falling open. His fingers dug into your hips unconsciously, hard enough to bruise, and you loved it.

“M-my love,” he breathed, eyes locked on what you’d written in black eyeliner just above your cunt.

Kento’s Stress Toy.

He released one of your hips to trace the words with shaky fingers, his touch almost reverent. “What is this?”

You smiled up at him, cheeks burning with exhilaration. “It’s the truth. I’m your stress toy tonight, Ken.”

He closed his eyes and swore under his breath. “I…I don’t want to disrespect you, angel.”

“But I want you to,” you whispered. You pulled him closer by the speckled tie that still hung loose around his neck. “I know you love me. And I love you…all of you.” You let your hungry gaze fall on his tense muscles, the way his shirt strained at his shoulders. “I want to feel all of you. If you’ll give it to me.”

He watched as you slowly lifted your shirt, letting your breasts fall out. One was adorned with the word “fuck”, and the other with “doll”, your handwriting curling along the top of each tit.

Nanami groaned , the sound going straight to your aching cunt. He roughly palmed your breasts, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Oh, my dear …”

“Your doll ,” you correct, gently tugging his lip free with a smirk. “Will you play with me?”

“God yes.” Nanami scooped you off the counter and into his arms, heading straight for the bedroom as you clung to him and giggled.

You hadn’t even made it through the doorway when he crashed his lips into yours, rough and needy. His tongue swiped against your bottom lip impatiently, pushing into your mouth. “You taste perfect, my love,” he breathed, “but I need more…” 

He crossed the room and dropped you onto the bed, shoving a pillow underneath your hips as he rolled you onto your stomach. He settled himself behind you, his weight sagging the mattress so you were pulled even closer to him. He surveyed you with a low groan, drinking in the lewd sight of your ass up and your dripping, exposed cunt. 

“May I?” He always asked before he tasted you, but his voice was strained tonight, eyes locked on your glistening pussy. 

“ Please, ” you sighed, hardly able to draw a breath before Nanami was devouring you. He was messy , dragging his nose against your slit as he lapped up the slick that was already spiderwebbing between your thighs. When you tensed your legs reflexively he pulled away with a pout.

“Said you were gonna be my toy , hm love?” He held your thighs in a bruising grip and pried your legs apart. “Need to relieve my stress, right?” Your face was pressed against the bed but you could still feel the weight of his stare. He was practically panting for you, and you suddenly wondered if you’d be able to handle what you’d be wanting so badly.

With your legs held out of the way he dove back in, flattening his tongue against your lips in long, languid strokes before licking into your sopping cunt. “Be a good girl and keep these open,” he murmured as he gave your thigh a light smack, grinning as you trembled from the impact. 

He brushed the back of his hand against your lips, spreading them open and dipping his knuckles into you as he kept his tongue working. 

“Oh please, baby, fill me,” you babbled, but he was already there, sliding two thick fingers into your cunt effortlessly. He pulled his face away to look up at you adoringly. 

“Look how good you are for me. Needed me that bad?” His lips were glossed in your essence, a string of slick still connecting them to you as he pumped his fingers with a wet smacking sound. 

“Yes, hah-fuck- needed you…wan’ you to use me, angel…”

“I know love, I know.” He added a third finger, grinning at the gasp it tore from you as he sucked your clit into his mouth. “And I will, soon as you come on my face, okay?”

“This is…s’posed to be about you ,” you protested weakly, finding it hard to argue when he had you melting underneath him.

“I know, my darling. So sweet of you to offer yourself as a pretty little present for me. My naughty little wife, knowing I had such a long, hard day…” his eyes darkened, wanting to rail into you right then and there, but he caught himself with the superhuman restraint you so hated and admired. “But first I have to get you ready to take me, don’t I? Want you all warmed up so I can fuck you exactly how I want.” 

He pressed sloppy kisses to your cunt, sucking at your clit as he stretched your needy hole around his fingers. Scissoring them in and out of you, heavy-lidded eyes on the way you coated him with your arousal. He reached up to press his dripping fingers to your lips, shoving them against your tongue. “Clean your mess.”

You sucked at him eagerly, ignoring the strain in your neck as you twisted back to face him. He dragged his sharp jaw between your thighs, suckling and nipping at the sensitive skin. 

“Come for me, beautiful. Come so I can fuck my toy,” he purred, flicking his tongue against your clit faster and faster in the rhythm he knew you loved. 

“Ken, don’t stop, please, I’m…!!” You saw stars as you crumpled into the bed, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave. Your legs shook at the force of it, but Nanami didn’t slow his assault, still rolling his tongue over you as you bucked into his mouth. 

“ Ugh it’s too much, I can’t,” you protested weakly, struggling to your knees as you tried to crawl away from his greedy tongue. 

“Ah ah, beautiful. You’re all mine, remember?” He locked his strong forearms around your thighs, holding you down. “You’re not going anywhere.” He buried his face between your legs again, licking up higher and higher, lapping up every drop of your release. 

He pulled you tighter against him, your ass practically smothering him as you were forced to arch your back harder, grateful for the pillow he’d balanced you on. “Mmmm that’s it baby, grind on my tongue.”

Your face burned at the words, but he was already lifting you effortlessly, rocking you back against his face in a steady rhythm that had his tongue slipping deep into your cunt.

You hardly had a chance to breathe before your second orgasm was creeping up on you, an overwhelming intensity that you were helpless to escape from as Nanami held you to himself. He kept going even as you shuddered into another peak, his hands kneading into the fat of your hips and ass. 

Your vision went fuzzy as you scrabbled at the bedsheets, desperately trying to cling to something, anything to ground you. Overstimulated tears pooled in your eyes, every nerve ending on fire with the intensity of your pleasure. 

Hoarse, fucked-out moans were all you could manage in response to Nanami’s stream of praises, telling you how good you were, how pretty you looked gushing for him. He finally pulled away with one last soft kiss to your hole, making it clench around nothing. 

“You’re so perfect, love,” he sighed, smoothing his hands over your hair, your back, brushing his lips over your neck. “You’re not done yet, are you?” He pulled off his tie in one smooth motion, trailing the fabric down your spine to watch you squirm. “I’ve had such a very long day. I’ve been so tense , my dear.”

“Not done,” you panted, turning onto your back and reaching up to cup his cheek. He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes. You pulled his hand down to trace the words you had written on your skin again, reminding him of what you were. All his. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmured. He slipped his tie around your wrists, pulling them together in a loose hold. He slowly stretched your arms above your head, pinning your wrists easily with one hand. He trailed his mouth back down your arms, gentle kisses and nips at the soft skin until his face hovered over yours. 

“Are you ready, darling? I’m going to take you up on your very generous offer.” Your husband’s soft eyes glinted with something sharp as he freed himself from his slacks. 

You nodded, feeling your wrecked cunt start to throb again at the sight of his cock, achingly hard and drooling pre already. As much as he’d already done to you, though, you still had a few cards to play. 

You wriggled your wrists out of his grip, still bound by his tie, and reached down to stroke his cock. Lightly at first, watching through your eyelashes as he threw his head back, throat bared and jaw clenched. You gently pulled him closer, slotting his swollen head between your folds, just barely letting him press into you. 

Nanami hissed through his teeth, dark eyes desperate as you teased him. “My love, don’t, hah - don’t be mean , I need you too badly…”

Electricity surged up your spine at his neediness. This was exactly where you’d wanted him. “I won’t be mean, baby, that’s your job tonight. Why don’t you tell me about your day?”

“My day,” he huffed an impatient laugh. “You know how it was. It was shit.” He bucked his hips against you, trying to get deeper, but you held him back, still stroking his tip and nothing more. You were lying in a pool of your own slick now, torturing yourself as much as him. 

“Oh?” You rocked your hips forward suddenly, forcing his whole head into you, then went still again. 

Nanami whimpered . “What do you want me to say? Work is shit .” His hands were trembling, clenching and unclenching at his sides as he watched where you dragged him against yourself. 

“That’s it, baby. Aren’t you frustrated? Don’t you want to let your fuck doll make it all better?” Your words were calculated, flung at him with the most seductive look you had in your arsenal, lips pursed in an empty-headed little pout that you knew he had a guilty weakness for. If you knew your Kento, he wouldn’t be able to resist… there. 

Nanami surged forward, pushing your hands out of the way and back above your head, your back arching obscenely as he slammed himself to the hilt in your cunt. “This is what you wanted my dear, isn’t it? This is what you’ve been waiting for,” he growled, not needing an answer. He kneaded your tits, the fuck doll label smearing under his touch. 

He shoved your knees up to your ears, nearly folding you in half as he rutted into you with a force you’d never felt, hips smacking against yours with bruising strength. 

“Work.” “Was.” “Shit.”

He punctuated each word with a sharp spank to your ass. He roughly palmed the reddening skin, swallowing your cries with a messy, open-mouthed kiss. He buried his face in your neck as he kept up a punishing rhythm, heavy balls slapping against you with each mean thrust. 

“All fucking day I have to listen to idiots tell me what to do. All fucking day I have to sit in a cubicle, ripping people off…” he pulled out slowly, dragging his cock against your walls so you could feel every throbbing vein. 

“And you know what I think about all fucking day, my love?” He whispered the pet name into your ear, making you shiver. “What keeps me going?”

“This.” 

He slammed into you without warning, every inch bullying into you, the breath ripped from your lungs. When he bottomed out he held you there, grinding against you, making you clench and twitch against the sheer depth of him, filling you impossibly deep. 

“I think about this . About coming home to my pretty wife and fucking her senseless .” His whispers were harsh against your neck, his voice ragged. Your mouth was stretched in a scream, sure you’d wake the neighbors if not for your husband’s heavy hand coming down on your mouth. 

“You’re always so good for me, always so happy to see me…sometimes I wish I could show those fucks at the office exactly what I come home to, just to watch them burn with jealousy.” His kisses grew rougher, sucking and biting at your neck, laying claim to your skin. 

“Wish I could mark you up like this and have you come visit me the next day, wearing some tight, low-cut dress that shows them all exactly how you’re mine. How little anything else could possibly matter to me…” he shudders against you, his fantasy overwhelming. “Maybe have you crawl under my desk and take care of me right there, since you wanna be my little stress toy, hm?” 

Your mind is scattered, trying desperately to focus on his words and the increasingly difficult act of staying sane as he fucks you into oblivion. Your eyes roll back as another orgasm builds, his cock reaching a secret spot deep inside of you, sending you over the edge again. 

The new height of pleasure makes you stupid, babbling into his chest as he fucks you through it, gasping for air from the press of him folding you in half. “Yes, please Ken, I’d do it, wanna be your fuck doll, need this, need you, need… nnghhh! ” 

“That’s it gorgeous, my beautiful toy, my perfect love, come on my cock, come from me using you like this…” Nanami’s brows are knit together, his face twisted with concentration as he pumps into you again and again and again, his rhythm never faltering, he’s nothing if not consistent, ramming into your sweet spot over and over until you’re not sure where you start and he ends. 

The base of his cock is decorated with a soft white ring of the cream that’s still leaking out of you, and he moans at the sight. “God you’re such a mess for me, I don’t think I’ve ever felt you this wet, darling…” He smiles down at you, looking angelic even as he tries to break the bed in half. “And from writing such filthy things on your perfect body…you were soaked just waiting for me to come home and see this, weren’t you? Naughty little thing.” 

You moan helplessly in answer, unable to deny it. This was everything you’d wanted and more. Your eyes slide shut of their own volition, and he gently taps your cheek. “Oh no, my dear, not yet. Don’t worry, I won't break my toy.” He slows, just barely, letting you breathe. 

He traces his fingertips over the words between your hips again, reverent. “What does this say again, angel? What are you?”

“Kento’s stress toy…” you murmur. 

“Mmm, that’s right. And you’re being such a good one,” he praised. “My brilliant wife, with such wonderful ideas.” He kisses you softly on the lips, the tenderness almost shocking. “Can you be a good toy for a little bit longer?”

You nod your head eagerly, though you don’t think you can move much else. Your arms and legs feel like (well-fucked) jello, the tie around your wrists almost forgotten in the sea of other, stronger sensations. 

Nanami seems to remember it at the same moment, tsking apologetically as he slips it off of you and rubs your arms. “Are your wrists okay, my love?” 

You almost laugh at the sudden return of soft, protective Kento. “Yes, they’re fine. It’s all fine. I feel amazing.” 

“You are amazing,” he soothes. “In that case, can you hold on to me?” He drapes your arms over his neck, holding himself steady against your hips. 

“Just like that.” And he’s fucking you again, in the way only he can, fast and hard and precise. You’re grateful for the grip around his neck as he pulls you up and over his lap, lifting and dropping you onto his cock like you’re weightless. 

“Kento ohhhh!!” You dig your nails into his back instinctively, biting back a scream as you feel his cock jump inside of you in response. You don’t need to be told twice, raking your nails over his back as he uses you mercilessly. 

He’s back to muttered praises, his honey-silk voice adoring as his cock splits you in half. You’re drunk on the dichotomy, dizzy with lust and love for the man beneath you. 

He leans forward and tips you back onto the bed, his muscled arms caging you in as he continues pistoning into you. Sweat drips from his face to yours, and you dart your tongue out to lick the droplets away. Somehow, that of all things makes him blush, dark red dusting his cheeks as he watches the act. 

You reach a shaky hand up to brush back the strands of hair that have fallen into his eyes, and he catches your arm to press greedy kisses to the inside of your wrist. 

“Ken- Kento, I love you,” you moan, every stroke of his cock sending electricity down your limbs, your whole body tuned to him, undone and rewired in ecstasy. 

“I love you,” he groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, his powerful thrusts finally, finally stuttering as he nears his peak. “I love you, I love you, I love you, fuck I love you…” 

Nanami came with a broken cry, his cock pumping what seemed like an endless stream of hot, thick seed into the deepest part of you, his arms shaking from the effort of keeping himself up. You pulled him down onto you, stroking at his hair as he shuddered in the aftermath of his orgasm. 

You lay there in blissful quiet, sweat and slick sticking your skin together, feeling each other’s wild heartbeats begin to slow. Nanami reluctantly pulled out of you with an over-sensitive groan and curled into your side, his head on your chest. You ran your hands over his hair, his neck, his back, proud to feel the tension slowly leave his tired body. 

“Do you feel better, Kento?” You asked, happily exhausted. 

He laughed out loud, wrapping his arms around you and shifting to curl you into his side. “I’ve never been more relaxed in my life, my love. I can’t even remember what I do for work.” He kissed the top of your head and sighed contentedly. “You were incredible. Thank you, darling.” He pulled you closer. “I think I might be out sick on Monday, for that matter…”

You pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “I’ll always be your stress relief, my love.”

“And I’ll be yours,” he smiled. “What did you use to write this, anyway?” 

“Oh it’s an old eyeliner!” Your laugh turned into a yawn. 

“Mm, good to know. For when I return the favor,” Nanami said, but you were already fast asleep in his arms. 

[maxlarens]

Hi, I have a smau request for Charles (based on c.ai bot lol, and the fact that I love painting), so the reader is invited by her friends to a house for vacation, her friends are all with their s/o and they also always try to set up reader with someone, that's when her and Charles meet, and reader finally gives it a chance because she knows her friends won't stop to set her up. They talk for a whole evening about what they do in life (reader is an artist/painter) and they get along really well. Eventually they get together and reader is very liked by the public, even if there will always be haters, but most fans thinks she's just very adorable (especially because of her insta/twitter posts)

CL: slip up and i call you baby

pairing(s): charles leclerc x artist!reader

summary: you love your friends, you really do. you just wish they’d stop trying so hard to set you up with random guys. [smau + written fic] (read on: ao3) (part 2)

fc: faceless

word count: 5.1k

warnings: mild sexual references

a/n: this is such a cute idea! thank u so much for sending it in!! u will not believe how much this idea gripped me like i never write one shots like this its just unheard of for me if im honest. anyway i know u asked for a smau so i will be doing a second part/continuation to this that is solely an smau to make up for that. (ALSO sorry for disappearing i was super sick for the whole week and have been getting my shit back together in the aftermath😭)

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ynusername italy we are in u!!!

Amalfi Coast, Italy

You’ve never been particularly boy crazy. At least not the same way your friends are.

There have been a few not-quite boyfriend’s over the years, but those relationships never last long. They never really get you, or they never really get the art thing. Which means, of course, that they don’t get you and never will— and that’s fine, you’re content with that. If living for your art means you’ll never be in love then so be it and frankly, good riddance to them.

For the most part, you’ve given up trying. You go on a few dates here and there, but you never let them stick around. Even the ones that seem interested in your paintings you don’t bother with— none of them really seem to be able to grasp what art truly is to you. It isn’t just paint on a canvas, it’s living, it’s breathing. You are only yourself with a way to make art.

It’s difficult to put into words.

So you don’t. Instead, you send texts that say ‘thanks for your time but this isn’t working out’ and you keep the men your friends try to set you up with at arm's length. You placate Chloe and her partner Rowan– who collects friends like they’re Pokémon– with, “he wasn’t my type” and “I’m not looking for a relationship right now”, which you suppose is true, but also isn’t the entirety of it. Yet, every time without fail, there’s a new boy at the scene of the crime.

Chloe doesn’t get it, none of your friends get it. You don’t try to explain it to them. So, y’know, here you are again.

Anyway, here’s the thing: they’re getting closer. Inexplicably, without knowing how you really feel about it all, Chloe and Rowan are getting better and better at picking the boys who are able to tempt you. Which is a pain really, because sometimes you’re trying to have a perfectly nice vacation in Italy without the lure of a boy you can’t let yourself have. But alas, these things generally don’t go your way.

You should know that by now.

Charles Leclerc is bang on the money, he really is. He is unbearably cute, like so cute that you have to leave the room when he walks in, because you don’t trust yourself to be in close proximity to him right now. You have a hard time looking at his face when you are forced to be around him. The dimples when he smiles, the squint of his eyes even when he isn’t. If you look too long you’re liable to stare and that wouldn’t lead to anything good at all.

He’s nice as well. So nice, just like Chloe told you. You try to pretend he doesn’t exist and he still asks you questions about your job and the area of Monaco you live in— like he’s even interested, like he’ll remember you two weeks from now. You try your best to be pleasant, to answer without it being like pulling teeth, and to ask questions of him as well. You’ll probably see him again after this, so best to not to go too far and act like you hate him. It’s difficult though, toeing the line between friendly and encouraging of more. Or it feels difficult for you. Charles doesn’t make even the slightest suggestion of the two of you being set up by your nosy friends. That’s unbearable too. Part of you wishes he’d just make a clumsy pass at you so you can rebuff it and make your intentions abundantly clear. But, obviously, he doesn’t, because he’s perfect or something.

It sucks. You hate him, you think.

Or you want to.

On the second day of the trip, you’re on the villa’s private beach, laying in the hot sun. Chloe, Anaïs and Bea are there; everyone else is either still sleeping off the wine from last night or swimming in the glittering ocean. You’ve got a secondhand book, a 2B pencil and a pair of sunglasses over your eyes. You’re trying to read but you just end up doodling, drawing your friends bikini-clad bodies over the text and shading grapes into the margins. Trying desperately not to accidentally put Charles Leclerc’s dimples, messy hair, or sloped nose to paper.

“So,” Chloe says conspiratorially, as you abort an attempt at drawing a slightly squinted eye with thick lashes, “What do you think of Charles?”

You raise an eyebrow carefully at her over your sunglasses, betraying nothing of your inner turmoil, “I think nothing.”

Anaïs laughs, rolling onto her back, “That’s such shit. You practically sprint away from him everytime he comes near.”

“I do not,” you answer too quickly.

Anaïs laughs again, louder. Chloe joins in and Bea raises her eyebrows at you like you’re a fucking liar. You frown, glaring a little before stubbornly turning your head back to your book. The conversation about Charles ends there, but unfortunately your actions have spoken for themselves. A chill of something like panic chitters up your spine and into your shoulders. You have to roll them to make the feeling go away.

As the sun climbs higher in the sky you lose some people to the heat and gain others. It’s just you and Chloe sweating onto your towels when Rowan and Charles finally give up on whatever game they were playing in the ocean. Rowan collapses unceremoniously into the space between you and Chloe, kicking up sand and getting water droplets all over you like he’s a wet dog. You let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated groan as you roll away from him, landing in the sand.

“Watch it,” you cry, “You’re getting my book all wet.”

Rowan laughs, “You’re drawing in it!”

“So.”

He pulls a face at you that makes you roll your eyes; then he turns into Chloe, shoving his face into her collarbone and flinging limbs over her. You snort, leaning over to snag the book off your towel before it gets dragged into the mess that Rowan is causing. You’re about to get up and go inside until you realise Charles is still standing there. Has, in fact, been standing there since Rowan ran over. Your breath catches, heart skipping a beat as you look up to find him standing there.

“Hey,” you smile briefly at him, quickly looking away from his damp hair and bare chest (–which is difficult to do because, holy shit–) so you can gather up your towel.

“Hi,” he replies.

He might smile back. You don’t look. You’re trying to get the image of his washboard abs out of your head. This proves difficult when you clamber to your feet and find yourself face to face with him.

“Are you heading back?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

God, you want to kick yourself. You’re being so awkward, and right in front of Chloe too, who may not be watching but is absolutely listening to you make a fool of yourself in front of a guy you have very firmly said that you are not interested in. It must be clear to him too, that you’re trying very deliberately to not be interested in him. You cant tell what would be worse; if that means he’ll think you’re a weirdo or if it means he’ll take it as a sign that he should make some kind of move.

Ugh.

“I’ll come with you?”

“Hmm,” you blink yourself back into existence, seeing the questioning look on Charles’ face, “Yes, yeah. Sorry.”

You say goodbye to Chloe and Rowan who barely look away from one another, still rolling around in the sand like teenagers.

“Gross,” you say to Charles, as the two of you trudge through hot sand toward the sandstone steps that lead up to the villa.

He laughs, a breathy thing that tapers off with a sigh, “A bit, yes.”

You don’t say anything else, but you find yourself staring at his back and the way his muscles shift and move underneath his tanned skin. At the top of the stairs you part ways, he smiles at you and you offer something awkward in return, trying to pretend you hadn’t been looking at him. You don’t think he notices, but your cheeks red burn anyway.

You don’t see him watching you leave.

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chloegarelli hungover, sunkissed and lovesick

Amalfi Coast, Italy

Dinner is a huge affair, as it always is on these trips.

You, Anaïs and Chloe spend three hours in the kitchen that afternoon making chicken fricassée and about a hundred different side dishes to go with it. Everyone crowds around the dinner table to eat and drink even more wine than the night before. Piero Piccioni plays on the old record player, crackling away as you laugh and talk and tell stories with your friends well into the night. You watch the sun set through floor-to-ceiling glass windows and you wish wish wish that you had your paints right now.

You brought along a set of oil pastels and one of your art notebooks, but it doesn’t compare at all to painting. If you could get your hands on cadmium yellow in all it’s hues, maybe vermillion and a powder blue, your lack of paintbrush or canvas wouldn’t even matter. You’d use your fingers if you needed to. It bothers you so much that you get up in the middle of clearing away the meal and go to your room for the pastels and notebook. You need to get it on a page at least.

You push a few plates to the side, folding out your notebook and immediately marking the page up with a creamy white pastel. Bea teases you when she comes over to take the rest of the dirty dishes, but you just mumble something unintelligible, too engrossed with smudging the sunset into something that looks like what you’d seen out the window. When the oranges and yellows blend to your satisfaction you take the black and brown and draw in the top of your friends’ heads, not thinking about how much attention to detail you’re paying to the shape of Charles’ side profile.

When you’re finished, you’re surprised to see that the table is cleared save for a few half-full wine glasses and a fresh bottle. Only Chloe, Rowan and Charles are still sitting by you. You’re listening to another Piero Piccioni album now, or maybe just the other side of the record. You remember saying goodnight to the others and saying yes to a glass of wine, so you’ve not been totally dead to the world, but it’s all in a bit of a haze.

You think this might be part of the reason why you can’t hold down a boyfriend. The disappearing into your art like you cant breathe until it’s finished. That may as well be the case if you’re honest.

You sigh, wiping your stained fingers on the next blank page, then you take a long sip from your glass of merlot, pretending you dont notice the others’ eyes on you.

“All done?” Chloe quips, somewhere on the border of teasing and being annoyed at you.

You look at her, your eyes just narrowing enough for her to notice. She does and purses her lips. You raise an eyebrow to ask okay, what’s your fucking problem? And you see her eyes flash to Charles. You follow her gaze to see him and Rowan pretending to look disinterested in your answer. Charles is tracing the base of his wine glass and absently biting the inside of his mouth. You have to tear your eyes away.

“All done,” you answer, tone clipped, before gathering your things (including the wine glass) and leaving the room in a move you hope doesn’t come off as too rude.

At your back you hear Rowan ask Chloe, “What was that?”

Chloe means well, you think as you wind through the villa, making your way to the balcony overlooking the private beach. She wants you to be happy and she thinks you need a boyfriend to be happy. But she’d found the love of her life in Rowan after only a few years of dating around and she doesn’t quite understand that it’s never going to work like that for you. There aren’t enough people out there that understand the kind of passion you have for your art and certainly not many that would also be compatible with you. You’re fine with that, but Chloe doesn’t know what to do with it. Especially not now she’s cottoned onto the fact that you have some kind of interest in Charles. It’s killing her.

It’s irrelevant though, whatever interest you have in Charles doesn’t factor into anything. He’s cute, he’s nice, but so were the dozen boys that you’ve already dated and not continued dating. So really, Chloe needs to stop pushing it because it’s pissing you off. You’re here for a holiday, not to be forced into conversations with a guy you don’t know. If she needs to have an argument to finally understand that, then so be it. You’ve been friends for years, it’ll blow over eventually.

You flick a switch and blinking lights illuminate the balcony. Fairy lights are wound up the posts and draped on the awning, intertwining with the lush green vines that have grown up through the wood slats. The air is balmy and the breeze light as you settle into one of two cushioned chairs situated by a coffee table. It’s perfect. You spread the oil pastels out next to your glass of wine and set your open notebook on your crossed legs, listening to the sound of waves lapping against the shore.

You’re alone for what feels like a long time but is probably only an hour or two.

When the sliding door clunks open you expect it to be Chloe coming over to have it out, but it’s not. Instead, Charles slips through the gap with the rest of the wine gripped in one hand.

“Hi,” he greets, smiling at you in a way that makes dimples carve in his cheeks, and dashing any hopes you have that he’d walk right past you.

“Hey,” you forget yourself for a moment and bite your lip on a broad smile.

He holds the bottle out toward you, offering more. You lean over your notebook and hold your empy wine glass up in acceptance.

“Merci,” you say, and in a moment of weakness (and probable wine drunk-ness) you gesture at the plush chair across from you.

Charles, somewhat caught off guard, looks between your outstretched hand, the chair, and your face, before shaking his head almost imperceptibly and finally taking a seat. Despite his apparent shock, you find it hard to believe he’d come out here simply to offer you some of the last of the wine. Surely, this is Chloe and Rowan’s doing. Though, strangely, you cant quite bring yourself to care.

He sets the bottle on the coffee table, next to your oil pastels. You lean forward to place a few back in their rightful spots, snagging your wine glass as you go.

Charles eyes’ scan your face for a moment, searching for something you suppose, then he points at your notebook, “Have you been drawing?”

You nod, “Mmm.”

You think perhaps the answer is a bit obvious. He seems to realise this, you watch a blush spread onto the top of his cheeks and he flutters his eyelids slightly, almost like rolling his eyes at himself. You don’t think about his eyelashes, thick and dark as they brush against his cheekbone, and you don’t think about his eyes, the lights reflecting off them, making them sparkle.

“What are you drawing then?” he asks after a moment of collecting himself, an edge of embarrassment to his voice.

You give in easily to the strange urge you have to show him, grabbing the notebook off your lap and holding it out for him to see what you’d been scribbling in the book for the past two hours. You let him take it off your hands, ignoring the spike of anxiety. He holds it gingerly, like it's a precious artefact (of course, to you, it is), which makes something warm bloom in your chest. You take a sip of wine and gesture for him to flip through a few pages, which he seems hesitant to do without permission. The book is angled in such a way that you can see most of the page, so you’re content to let him. Or at least you are until he flips to the page you’d started when you’d first come out here.

Panic drops like a stone in your gut because he’s looking right at a fully rendered drawing of his eyes. It’s in amongst some pillars strung with lights and covered in climbing vines; your best attempt at capturing the way the beach looked earlier in the day; and, perhaps your saving grace, Chloe half asleep on her towel. But the drawing of her is haphazard, it’s half-scribbled and half-finished, whereas the one of Charles eyes’ is as detailed as the sunset scene you’d done the page before. It had been something you just needed to get out, drawn in one of those hazes of yours. You’d felt better after it was done, your hands had stopped feeling like they were itchy.

Now, you itch to snatch the notebook off him, but you fear that would be even more incriminating. So you watch him look at the page and try to sit with the panicked feeling spreading in your chest.

Eventually, he points at the page, “Is this me?”

You bite your lip, breathing slowly through your nose to try and abate the blush spreading up your neck. You don’t say anything exactly, just shrug and rock your head back and forth in a kind of confirmation that doesn’t really admit anything. Though, there’s no denying the drawing is him.

“It’s good,” he says, seemingly stumbling over the words, “It’s very good.”

You frown into your drink, “Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

You know he means it. It’s not that.

“Yes,” you put down the wine glass, looking at him but avoiding eye contact, “I know. I know it’s good. I’m just… I’m embarrassed,” you admit.

He furrows his eyebrows– or it’s more that he squints and his eyebrows fold in with it. You watch his tongue dart out to run across the top of his bottom lip and you stamp down the less than innocent thoughts that come bubbling up at that. He waves the hand that’s not still holding carefully onto your notebook about for a moment, trying to conjure up words that he doesn’t have yet.

Slowly, he says, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I– It’s–”

He’s about to say flattering, so you cut him off, not wanting to hear the tone of it, whether it be pity or something else entirely.

You try to explain yourself, “Things get stuck in my head sometimes. Like after dinner,” you reach forward and flip the page back one, to the sunset, “I have to get it onto paper. Or… or… it just runs laps in my head for the rest of eternity, I guess. I don’t stop thinking about it.”

You cringe internally. You’ve just told him that you were so consumed by thoughts of his eyes that you had to draw them immediately. That is perhaps worse than just wanting to draw him because you thought he was cute. Charles raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by your admission, but there’s perhaps also something sincere in there? You can’t pinpoint it, but it makes you feel a fraction better you think.

You sigh forlornly, “That’s weirder, huh?”

He laughs, properly laughs, and it sends some strange feeling skittering down your spine, “No. No, I get it. I don’t have any way to get it down as quickly as I’d like, but I definitely understand the feeling.”

You bite the inside of your lip, hesitant but still curious, “You understand the feeling? Really?”

“Yes,” he smiles easily now, relaxing more in the chair after he places your notebook onto the counter with a cautiousness you still don’t expect, “For me, with racing, it’s like I get an idea and I can’t sleep until I try it on track or talk about it with someone. Some of them don’t work, or aren’t possible, which is fine, but if it sounds right to me and it checks out with the people that it needs to, then, well, then it literally does run laps in my head.”

You laugh, mostly to yourself. You’re not sure yet if he understands what you’re saying, but he’s trying. That’s more than you can say for a lot of people. You try not to let that thought linger for too long.

“You think it’s similar?” you ask in a way you desperately hope comes across as curious and not accusatory.

He hums, waving his hand around again for words, “Perhaps. I think the urgency is the same. The passion is the same. Do you ever feel like something terrible will happen if you can’t–”

“Yes,” you’re a bit breathless in your haste to agree, to talk about this feeling with someone who understands, “Yes. I do. It’s like I need to put it somewhere before I lose it. Otherwise, it won’t be perfect, or it’ll be too late.”

“Exactly,” his eyes seem to light up, for a long second you watch the flickering lights reflect in them, “Exactly.”

“It’s never as good as I want it to be,” you admit, finding it easier to look him in the eye now that some strange barrier between you has been broken, “It’s never quite how I imagine it in my head.”

Charles points at your notebook, “These are very good, really. I don’t see how they could be better. But,” he shrugs, “Eh, I will win a race and still think of everything I did wrong.”

You nod eagerly in understanding as you lean back into the chair, finally relaxing into the cushions. It’s strange to have this conversation, knowing you’re talking about two entirely different careers, but feeling like they’re so similar. Maybe it’s just you and Charles that are similar, maybe your jobs have nothing to do with it? You don’t know, you just know it’s nice to feel like someone gets what you’re talking about.

Charles continues, speaking like he’ll explode if he doesn’t get this off his chest, “It’s there all the time, do you know what I mean? Maybe I’m not thinking about it every second, but it’s always there waiting for something to draw attention to it. And people ask what else is going on in my life, and of course I do other things, and I enjoy other things, but I want to be on the track. I want to be driving whenever I can.”

You nod again, more subdued now, “Mmm, right. I want to be making art all the time, and when I can’t it’s like missing a limb. To me art is– it– it’s like–”

“–breathing,” he finishes, almost the lilt of a question to it, but not really, it’s like he knows exactly what you mean… how you feel.

You exhale, long and slow, “Yeah. Like breathing.”

Both of you are quiet for a little after that. You’re trying not to stare at him, but it’s not easy. He’s looking at you almost blatantly and you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks the longer he stares. The air feels thick with some feeling you can’t place. All you know is there are butterflies in your stomach and a smile keeps pulling at the edge of your pursed lips.

The smile takes over as you catch him starry-eyed in your peripheral vision, you mutter, “Stop that. Stop looking at me.”

“Why?”

You tip your head back so you can’t see him looking at you, “Because.”

“Because?” he laughs breathily, shaking his head at you, “Okay, well, tell me if I’m misreading anything, but I’m pretty sure that drawing of me in your notebook says something, at least.”

You run a hand down your face, sighing loudly, “Yes, okay. I suppose it does. But– I–” for a moment you struggle for the right words to explain yourself, “I guess I’m not really looking to date anyone.”

He tilts his head to the side, furrowing his eyebrows and looking for all intents and purposes, like a confused puppy, “You guess?”

You nod, resisting the urge to just launch over the table and grab his face. He is very cute and he is making this so hard for you.

He sucks his teeth briefly, shrugging, “I’m not really either.”

“Alright,” you say, “Good.”

As over as that should make the issue, strangely enough it doesn’t feel like you’re done with Charles Leclerc and it certainly doesn’t feel like he’s done with you either.

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Amalfi Coast, Italy

You try to avoid Charles after that, you really do, but he doesn’t quite let you.

For a few days of the holiday you give him pointed looks and purse your lips a lot when he’s around. Chloe catches on straight away and that makes it all infinitely worse until she finally realises she might need to leave you alone (yeah, shocker). When Chloe finally forces everyone to get off your back about Charles, it becomes much easier to be around him. You’re not glaring at your friends while they make eyes at you, or worrying if you’re acting weird; you’re just allowed to be.

It’s nice. He’s nice.

But you knew that already.

Neither of you are looking for a relationship so there’s no pressure for it to be anything at all. But you have this sneaking suspicion that perhaps both of you are looking for a relationship with eachother regardless. You try to ignore the thought.

On day five, you’re sitting together on an outcropping of rock that overlooks the ocean and you’re letting Charles doodle in your notebook with a ballpoint pen. The bare skin of both your arms are pressed together, they stick with sweat from the hot midday sun but neither of you seem to care. As you watch him doodle inexpertly you can smell him— salt and sweat and whatever cologne he uses masking the very faint scent of burning rubber. Your hair, still damp, brushes his forearm, you wonder if you smell of acrylic paint and mildew from all the water cups you accidentally leave out for your paintbrushes.

You reach out to trace a line he’d made, “Here, it should be more like…” you taper off, taking the pen from his hand and quickly fixing the curve of the beach before handing the utensil back.

“Hmm,” he hums, giggling a little, “I guess that looks better.”

“You guess?”

He nods, “What if I had a very specific vision?”

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief, leaning back to look him in the eye you tease, “A vision. Did you?”

He tilts his head down to look at you. You’re very close now, you can feel his breath fanning over your face. In the reflection of his sunglasses you watch your lips part slightly and your eyelids flutter. Your chest grows tight with anticipation and maybe a little bit of panic. Still, you reach out and slide his sunglasses up to settle in his hair. You’re a little careless, but you like the way his hair pokes out from them at odd angles. As he breathes out you hear it catch for a split second.

“Did you?” you repeat, knowing he won’t remember what you were talking about.

He blinks twice, still staring at you, “Hmm?”

“You said you had a vision,” you breathe.

“Oh,” as he says it, his eyes flicker down to your mouth, only for a second, but it’s long enough to you know you’re done for.

You both lean in at the same time, your noses sliding off each other in your eagerness. You breathe a kind of laugh into his mouth and you feel him try to suppress a smile against your lips. It’s slow for the first few seconds, just you and Charles figuring out how your mouths fit together. His mouth is warm and wet and so soft, and it’s easy to lose yourself in it. You move the hand that had adjusted his sunglasses, sliding it up his shoulder to the back of his muscled neck. Your fingers weave into the short hair at the base of it, your nails scratching absently there. He groans, ever so slightly into your mouth and it sends heat skittering down your spine, into the low of your gut.

The hand of his that isn’t clutching onto your notebook slips forward and winds around to press at your bare back. He pulls you closer to him as you slide your hand up to cup the back of his head, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Soon it’s a mess of tongue and teeth and Charles blindly shoving your notebook somewhere it wont slip into the water so he can grab you with both hands. He tastes like red wine and coffee and you love the way his fingers dig into your skin and the way his teeth have been grazing at your bottom lip, like he wants to sink into it.

You’re almost in his lap when you’re forced to pull away for air.

Foreheads pressed together, you breathe heavily into the space between you. Your hand is still stuck in his hair and one of his on the small of your back, the other holding your knee. The sides of your noses touch, you nudge yours against his affectionately, tempted by the proximity of his mouth.

He laughs and you feel it against your lips, intermingling with your own breath, “Alright. That was–”

“Yeah,” you finish, dipping forward to kiss him again.

You’re lost for another few minutes. Tongue and teeth and the sound of the waves crashing against the rock behind you. And his hand on your jaw and in your hair and pulling you closer closer to him.

He pulls away this time, turning his head to press your cheeks together, mouth at your ear, “So,” he drags the word out with a laugh, “are you looking for a relationship now?”

You snort unceremoniously, and tease, “Hmm. I guess I would be amenable to that.”

“You guess?” he asks— but not really needing to at all because you can feel his dimples pressing into your cheek as he smiles knowingly.

You nod, smiling too, “I guess.”

🎨 yes of course i made a playlist>> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6cAJaZjvK0V7SrmxoMosBX?si=ADlJGHxxQYKnlZ1jWFJxfw&pi=a-AI0MKbo3RTqE

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[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Moon Boys Sleeping Headcanons

Rating: PG •  Masterlist | ao3 | want to be tagged? • ko-fi •

Warnings: some fluffy fluff, mentions of reader, not beta read

Word count: 861

Steven:

I firmly believe that this man constantly moves in his sleep.

He’s rolling around all over the place.

One of those people that hold their arms/legs up in their sleep in the most uncomfortably looking positions. 

There has been more than one occasion where you wake up and see Steven sitting up in bed, fully asleep, and you have to coax him back into lying down.

He is taking up all of the space, then hardly any. 

He’s got all the covers and then none. 

Side and back sleeper, for sure. Loves to be the big or little spoon when going to bed and will twist himself into the most uncomfortable positions for himself if it means you're comfy. 

There is normally at least some part of him touching you, even if he is out of it. 

You have woken up to him holding your hand or your arm in his sleep. Or curled up into a ball and snuggled into your side. 

His feet are always warm, no matter how cold it is.

Delights in eating in bed, watching TV cuddling with you. (Will tell Marc he never eats in bed with a completely straight face.) 

Once he knows about Marc and doesn’t worry so much about sleepwalking he has the ability to fall asleep anywhere and anytime. Literally his eyes are closed and a second later it’s lights out. 

Mumbles in his sleep. It’s never actual words, just little sounds. You video him sometimes to show him in the morning. 

He laughs about it for ages. 

Remembers his dreams in vivid detail. 

Always wakes up with messy hair, no matter how hard he tries or what material his pillow is. 

Prefers to sleep in pyjamas even when it’s burning hot, because it doesn’t feel right otherwise.

Marc:

Back sleeper. Literally lays down like he’s going into his coffin, so stiff it should be uncomfortable. 

However if you’re in bed with him he will snuggle up and lay all over your chest and tummy, and please play with his hair while he goes to sleep. He needs it. 

Doesn’t talk in his sleep, but flinches and twitches. The movements are usually small, like a mini electric current runs through his nerves. 

Pulls a face at eating in bed, will get the handheld vacuum cleaner out and hoover the sheets. “Steven, why are there crumbs here?” 

“I don’t know mate, don’t ask me.” 

“They're those stupid seaweed chip things you eat, you’re the only one of us that eats them.”

“First, they're crisps Marc, say it with me crisps.”

“Steven-”

“Secondly, Jake eats them too.” 

“I know it was you Steven, you always eat in the bed-”

“I’m the only one who changes the bloody covers, aren’t I? I think I’ve earned it.”

“That’s not-”

“I changed the covers last week.” Jake chimes in. 

“You’re right, you did mate, sorry about that.” 

“No problem.” Jake gives him a mental thumbs up.

Marc is just like !!! Where is my apology for eating in the bed? !!!

However, if Marc wakes up before you he will bring you breakfast in bed and purposefully ignore Steven when he playfully calls him a hypocrite.

Sleeps in pyjamas if it’s cooler, but will also sleep naked if it’s hot. 

Falls asleep quickly and doesn’t remember his dreams at all. (He prefers it that way.)

Deep, but light sleeper. Goes into a deep sleep very quickly, but is awake and alert if something sounds ‘wrong’. You once stubbed your toe on the bathroom door and let out a little yelp and he was up and by your side before you’d even realised.

Likes to put lavender and eucalyptus sprays and oils on his pillow. 

Jake: 

Very good at sleeping sitting up and power naps, but prefers you to be laying on top of him if you're in bed. 

It makes him feel grounded to have your weight on him. If you’re happy to lay completely on him he is so content, it doesn’t matter what weight you are, he just loves wrapping his arms around you like you’re his own weighted blanket. 

You buy him a weighted blanket for a gift and he wraps himself up in it constantly. 

Often complains about the cold when sleeping, even when it’s hot his feet are still freezing. He has taken to always wearing socks in bed.

Which leads to a rather amusing sight in August when it is boiling hot, so he’s sleeping naked, but his feet are still covered in fluffy socks. 

He calls them his ‘sexy socks’, and has pairs in a variety of colours. He prefers ones that have loud patterns and colours. 

(I headcanon Jake as a kniter, so I think he would definitely make some for himself as well.) 

Doesn’t usually eat in bed, but does on occasion to affectionately annoy Marc. 

Remembers his dreams, and remembers Steven’s and Marc’s as well. 

Likes to dramatically push you into bed, and throw himself in after. 

Doesn’t move around a lot in the night, but occasionally talks. 

Never wakes up first if he can help it, usually stays asleep while Marc and Steven are up. 

Thank you for reading!

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