#is this the first time i’ve drawn her? i think so

[ari-ana-bel-la]

omg can you write one for Lewis where he makes a special helmet with some of the drawings his daughter has made for him, his helmet ends up having stars rainbows etc

A Helmet full of Art

The moment Lewis became a father, he knew nothing would ever matter more to him than his little girl, Yn. At just three years old, she had already captured his entire heart, filling his life with laughter, tiny hugs, and endless chatter about her favorite things. She was a bright little spark—curious, loving, and always eager to create something new.

And lately, that "something new" had been drawings.

Lewis had first noticed it when Yn would sit at the coffee table, her tiny tongue sticking out in concentration as she held a crayon in her chubby hands, dragging colors across the page with uncontainable enthusiasm. At first, her drawings were just a mix of squiggles and chaotic rainbows, but over time, they started to resemble actual things—flowers, cats, and even an attempt at drawing both of them together.

"Look, Daddy!" she'd exclaim every time she finished. "This one’s you and me!"

And every single time, Lewis' heart melted.

He was the kind of father who supported Yn in anything she wanted to do. If she decided tomorrow that she wanted to be an astronaut, he’d find her a tiny space suit. If she wanted to become a ballerina, he’d be at every recital. So when he saw how much she adored drawing, he went all in—buying her the best colored pencils, sketchbooks, and even a little artist’s apron.

But what he hadn’t expected was how much her drawings would come to mean to him. He kept every single one. The rainbow she had drawn with colors that didn’t quite follow the traditional order. The cat that had oddly shaped whiskers but still looked adorable. The one of them together, with his curly hair drawn way too big and Yn’s little stick-figure self holding his hand. The flowers and bees that she had proudly declared were for him because "you like flowers, Daddy!"

So when the time came for his first home race as a Ferrari driver, Lewis wanted his helmet to be special.

And there was only one thing that felt right.

The paddock was buzzing with anticipation. It was Lewis’ first home race wearing Ferrari red, and everyone knew he’d do something big. But no one expected what he revealed when he stepped into the garage on Friday.

"Alright, guys," Lewis said, grinning as he pulled the cover off his new helmet. "Meet my new favorite helmet ever."

The garage fell silent for a moment. Then—

"Oh my god," Charles breathed out, stepping closer. "Are these… Yn’s drawings?"

Lewis beamed. "Yep."

The helmet was a masterpiece. Instead of his usual bright yellow, it was now a canvas filled with his daughter’s art. Her rainbow stretched across the top, her wobbly cat drawing sat proudly on one side, the flowers and bees covered another part, and right at the back, a big, bold drawing of them together. It was messy, colorful, and absolutely perfect.

"You actually put them on your helmet," Carlos said, grinning. "Man, that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen."

"She loves drawing," Lewis explained, running his fingers over the helmet. "And I love everything she makes. I wanted her to be part of this weekend somehow, and this felt right."

Oscar, who had just arrived, let out a low whistle. "This might be the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen in F1."

Pierre nudged Max. "Admit it, even you think this is cute."

Max rolled his eyes but smirked. "Yeah, yeah, it's cute. Not as cute as my cats, though."

Lando burst out laughing. "I swear, you and your cats—"

"But seriously," George interrupted, shaking his head in admiration. "This is incredible, mate. I bet Yn’s gonna freak out when she sees it."

"She hasn't seen it yet," Lewis admitted. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

And oh, he couldn’t wait to see her reaction.

Later that afternoon, after all the practice sessions, Lewis finally had time to call home. He was sitting in the Ferrari motorhome, holding his phone in his hands, waiting for the call to connect.

The moment the screen lit up, Yn’s bright little face appeared, her curls bouncing as she gasped.

"Daddy!" she squealed. "Hi hi hi!"

"Hey, baby," Lewis grinned. "I’ve got a surprise for you."

Yn's eyes widened. "A 'prise? For me?"

Lewis laughed, turning his phone camera around to show his helmet. "Look at this, baby. Do you recognize these drawings?"

For a second, there was silence. Then, an excited shriek.

"THAT’S MINE! THAT’S MY DRAWINGS!" Yn shouted, practically bouncing. "Daddy, you put them on your hat!"

"Helmet, baby," Lewis chuckled, his heart swelling at her excitement. "But yeah, I did! Now, when I race this weekend, I’ll have you with me."

Yn clapped her hands together, eyes shining. "I love it! I love it, I love it, I love it!"

On the other side of the call, Yn’s grandmother laughed. "Lewis, you’ve just made her entire year."

"That was the plan," he said, winking.

Yn leaned close to the camera, her tiny hands gripping the screen. "Win with my pictures, Daddy!"

Lewis smiled softly. "I���ll try my best, baby girl. Just for you."

When Lewis walked into the paddock on Saturday with his helmet under his arm, the cameras instantly caught sight of it. And within minutes, social media exploded.

@F1: Lewis Hamilton’s helmet this weekend is covered in his 3-year-old daughter’s drawings, and we’re not crying, you are.

@SkySportsF1: Lewis dedicates his home race helmet to his daughter Yn, featuring her personal artwork. A touching tribute from the seven-time champion.

The media went crazy over it. Every journalist wanted to ask about it, every interview started with the same question:

"Tell us about your helmet this weekend, Lewis."

And every time, Lewis proudly explained.

"Yn loves drawing, and I love everything she makes," he said during a press conference. "I wanted to do something special for my first home race with Ferrari, and there was nothing more special than this. It’s my way of carrying her with me on track."

The fans adored it. In the grandstands, they held up signs with her drawings, and Ferrari even arranged for a little sketchbook to be placed in the garage for Yn to "design" future helmets.

By Sunday, it wasn’t just a helmet—it was a symbol of love.

As Lewis strapped himself into the car, he ran a hand over his helmet one last time.

"For you, baby girl," he murmured.

And then, with the whole world watching, he raced.

He raced with his daughter’s rainbow on his head, with her flowers and bees bringing color to the Ferrari red, with her little cat keeping him company through every turn.

And when he crossed the finish line in P1, the first thing he did after climbing out of the car was point to his helmet.

That night, when he called home again, Yn’s excited squeal nearly burst his eardrums.

"You did it, Daddy! My pictures won!"

Lewis laughed, feeling his heart swell. "Yeah, baby. We did it together."

And as far as he was concerned, that made this the most special win of his career.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

[getaapologist]

Servant!reader with geta where he brings her to a gladiator fight or he gets her to suck his finger or something 😶‍🌫️🤭

I liked this so much that I tried to satisfy both parts of your request.

[ find an earlier iteration of your servant!reader here ]

[ Geta Masterlist ]

(also don't mind me, this gif is magical, as is this whole scene for him. it's not my fault he keeps leaving his neck out. one day I'm gonna write about it.)

“Are the gladiators not enough entertainment for you, brother? Must you bring your plaything?” Caracalla complained, grey-blue eyes studying every inch of you.

It was unnerving.

Geta rolled his eyes, turning away from his brother’s taunt to look to you, partially to check in with you, but more so to block you from Caracalla’s view.

Your position was not lost on you. Your access to Geta was… quite unique. After a few weeks, it almost felt… normal.

As much as fucking an emperor could feel normal.

There was much to learn about Geta. That in private, he could be playful, even sweet if he wished it. He craved touch. He liked it when you used his title. You hadn’t dared to call him “Geta” yet. Not until he asked it of you. Not that he ever would.

That would imply a familiarity that would cross too many boundaries.

Too much, too close.

Foolish thoughts.

“Do you like the games?” His voice was low and quiet, just for you. A small bubble of conversation, only large enough for you two. These small moments where he genuinely wanted to hear you speak, and didn’t want to share the sound of your voice with anyone else.

That’s what it seemed like, anyway.

“I’ve never been, Emperor.”

Surprise. Satisfaction. Words just on the verge of being arrogant. 

“It’s the greatest entertainment Rome has to offer. Nowhere else can you see strength like this,” he gestured to the arena, currently empty. 

It was far too easy to delude yourself into thinking he was truly interested in you and your thoughts, your opinions. The reality was surely something in between. He might think he wants to hear them, but it didn’t mean he’d ever listen to them.

“I am sure it is wonderful, Emperor.”

Placating, always placating.

The cheering of the crowd pulled his attention away and the bubble burst, though his hand remained on your thigh, pulling your legs across his lap as he made you share the throne.

Blasphemous.

Could you be blamed for your delusions, when this is how you were treated?

“Look, there,” Geta gestured, pointing to the gate opening on the far side of the arena.

And you did look, pressed up against his side, you took in the spectacle, wonder and interest waning as soon as blood was drawn.

The sounds should not have been so clear. They were so far below, away, and yet the wounded cries echoed in the oval, reaching your ears as if the man were right at your feet.

Salt, iron, the stench of death. 

With each slash and stab, Geta’s grip grew tighter. He cheered and jeered, winced and gasped, fully engaged in the violence below.

His brother was quite similar, though he was more energetic, a mad look in his eyes at times. All bluster and leaning against the back of the throne as if in agony whenever his chosen fighter fell.

Another of their servants stepped into view, obscuring Caracalla from view. They held a small plate. It contained some bits of fruit, nuts, honey.

Geta refused to acknowledge it, his eyes focused on the bloodshed before him. With a small smile, you reached out to accept the plate, holding it before you much like they had, waiting for Geta to notice. 

“Hungry, little lamb?” Geta finally questioned, noticing the plate for the first time.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he wasn’t listening, he wasn’t even looking, eyes falling to the plate’s contents, ringed fingers hovering over them as he decided what to choose.

A juicy slice of plum, flesh glistening, drizzled in golden honey. 

His eyes met yours, danger in them.

“Open.”

The command shot down your spine, your face warming. Squeezing your thighs shut, you opened your mouth, eyes on his as his own fell to your parted lips. He was entranced as he slipped the sliver of fruit between them, the pads of his fingers brushing over your lips.

He watched you intently as the sweet and tart flavor burst across your tongue, forcing you to give him a small sound of satisfaction at the taste. His lips slid into a wolfish grin.

“That’s a good little lamb,” he spoke, his voice oozing with glee.

He picked up a smaller piece and dropped it into his own mouth, still keeping his eyes on you.

“Another?” he asked, the piece of fruit already between his fingers.

You couldn’t refuse, because he wasn’t truly asking. You nodded.

He was clumsier, as if on purpose. The pads of his fingers touched your tongue as he slowly released the fruit, his eyes falling to a bit of honey running down your chin. He dragged his finger up, collecting the sweet nectar. He held his finger in front of your lips as you chewed, waiting for you to swallow.

His eyes moved down to your throat as you did, before they rose to meet yours.

“Clean,” he stressed, his big eyes bright with amusement. 

Another order. You couldn’t refuse.

His lips parted as yours did, as if he were in a trance, your perfect mirror. His tongue pushed at the inside of his mouth as you accepted his finger into yours.

The honey was cool, a bit thicker than usual. Your tongue worked that much harder at it, applying pressure to get the sticky sweetness out of the whirl of his fingertip. Once loosened, you sucked, swallowing the sweetness.

A delighted chuckle burst out of his chest as he bit his lip, attention fully on you, the bloodshed occurring below completely out of mind. His grin was otherworldly as you released his finger from your lips.

“Little lamb,” he muttered, “you are…” 

He didn’t finish his thought, just stared at you, as if coming to some realization. What it meant for you, you couldn’t know.

[tenessee-walker]

Could we have some headcanons of reader and papa arthur with a toddler! pls I love u 🤲🤲

ofcccc!

father!arthur who absolutely melts the second his little girl, Madeline, calls him “Pa.” Like he could be in the middle of cleaning his guns or chopping wood, but the moment she toddles over with her tiny hands raised, he immediately scoops her up, pressing a big ol’ kiss to her forehead.

father!arthur who lets Madeline do whatever she wants to him. Like she’s got him wrapped around her little finger. She wants to braid his hair? Go ahead, sweetheart. She wants to put a lil’ flower crown on his hat? Of course, darlin’. She wants to paint his nails with the berry juice she found? Sure thing, Maddie. (He wears it proudly too.)

father!arthur who has no idea how to say no to her. You tell her she can’t have candy before dinner? She runs to Arthur with big, teary eyes, and suddenly he’s like, “Well now, Y/n, maybe jus’ one piece…” (HE’S TOO SOFT FOR HER.)

father!arthur who somehow gets roped into the most ridiculous games. You come back to the cabin and find him crawling around on all fours, Madeline on his back, giggling, “Faster, horsey!” And he’s just huffing, but still going, muttering, “Your ma’s gonna think I’ve lost my damn mind…”

father!arthur who gives the most dramatic bedtime stories ever. Like he sits beside her little bed, spinning some wild cowboy tale, using different voices for every character, waving his hands around for emphasis. Madeline is completely enthralled, clutching her stuffed rabbit like it’s the most exciting thing she’s ever heard.

father!arthur who pretends to be all grumpy when Madeline wakes him up at the crack of dawn but immediately softenswhen she climbs into bed with him. She’s all cuddly, curling up against his chest, mumbling, “Love you, Pa.” And Arthur just melts, holding her tight, murmuring, “Love you too, little lady.”

father!arthur who tries to teach Madeline how to fish but she keeps getting distracted by the frogs. He’s standing there, explaining how to hold the pole, when suddenly she gasps, drops everything, and runs after a frog. Arthur just sighs, hands on his hips, grumbling, “Well, guess we’re catchin’ frogs now.”

father!arthur who is her absolute hero. She gets scared of the dark? Arthur’s right there, lighting a lantern, checking under her bed like, “Ain’t no monsters in here, sugar. But if they try somethin’, they gotta go through me first.” (SHE TRUSTS HIM WITH HER WHOLE HEART.)

father!arthur who will fight a damn bear if it so much as looks at Madeline the wrong way. You two take her on a little nature walk, and the second Arthur spots so much as a rustling bush, he’s got his gun halfway drawn, narrowing his eyes like, “Ain’t nothin’ touchin’ my little girl.”

father!arthur who is the biggest, proudest sap when she does anything remotely impressive. She draws a wobbly little picture of a horse? Arthur’s holding it like it’s a priceless artifact, showing it to everyone like, “Look at this, look how talented she is, my girl’s a damn artist.”

father!arthur who acts all big and tough in front of the gang but the second Madeline comes running up to him, his entire demeanor shifts. He goes from grizzled outlaw to softest dad in the world in an instant, crouching down to pick her up like, “What’s up, darlin’?”

father!arthur who absolutely cries the first time Madeline calls him “her best friend.” You walk into the cabin and find him just sitting there, staring at the floor, looking emotional as hell. When you ask what’s wrong, he just sniffs, rubbing the back of his neck, mumbling, “Nothin’, just… she called me her best friend, Y/n.”

[gaydexvocaloid]

avanna drawn with lasso tool ^_^

[eeblouissant]

“Am i the only one who thinks diagramming sentences is fun?”

[re-re-redline]

02/08/25

Happy Birthday, Constantine Dragases Palaiologos XI!

[anachr0nismm]

Small drawing of rose Tyler mainly from memory because I love her so much and I haven’t been able to stop watching doctor who since I started it three days ago

I’m only up to episode ten of the first season sooo yeah this might not be entirely accurate but it was meant to be mainly from the first episode before she met the doctor

[hidingoutbackstage]

Chelsea doodle page! Still can’t decide if I like drawing her in a cartoony or realistic style more. Still playing around with it

[cowboyinternist]

does anybody else make up birthdays for their favorite characters or is that just me

[itspileofgoodthings]

Taylor returning over and over to the falling through the ice accident in the Bolter—everything to me

[seventh-district]

sometimes it’s late at night and you’re cleaning your room and you come across a few old black and white photos of a young girl and you stare at them for a long minute wondering how on earth they got lost in an old Kroger shopping bag with an unopened pack of cigarettes and a receipt dated 2017.

and you look at the girl in the pictures sat on the floor of someone’s home you don’t recognize, smiling and playing with a set of keys and a tiny part of you feels like it recognizes her but you aren’t sure.

and you flip the pictures over hoping to find some sort of annotation that would give you context and all you find is the year 1964 stamped in tiny font along the edge.

and you flip them back over and time stands still as you realize that the recognition you feel is because she looks so much like you once did and next thing you know your hands are sweating and shaking and you have to sit on the floor because you’re crying so hard because it hits you all at once that you’re looking at your mother.

[gaycrittercentral]

Rare Greg appearance to commemorate the occasion bc holy shit???? Wow that’s fun! Thank you so much to anybody and everybody who’s enjoyed my stuff, and especially to anybody who’s left sweet comments on it!!!!! I would just like you all to know that every time somebody leaves nice tags on my posts I shriek like a banshee with delight and regain a little more faith in humanity :’> (one of which is considerably more pleasant for onlookers than the other)

UPDATE .5 SECONDS LATER THIS IS ALSO MY 250TH POST LMAO

[cuteniaarts]

@katkastrofa, circa 40-ish hours ago: Hey, what if our newest bunch of OCs adopted a baby from one of the other brothel girls who knew she couldn’t afford to raise one? That would make for some fun shenanigans :D

Me, with a notoriously non existent sleep schedule, instinct of self preservation or concern for my poor wrist: Alright, bet. Watch how fast I can make you fall in love with this hypothetical baby >:)

Daneli as a gentle and loving caretaker-turned-adoptive-mother is something that can be So Personal, actually, and originally I was going to leave it at this quick sketch, but then I got carried away thinking about what this child will grow up to be like raised by this little gang of misfits, so…

Here she is!! A little older and so, so beautiful, I need more of her in my life immediately, she’s way too precious

And, because I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t also add a sapphic element to this absolute cinnamon roll, a small crack ship that I’m only half serious about for when she’s a little older still:

All in all, we may be getting impossibly far from canon, but I for one already cannot get enough of sweet darling Kumisai <3

(I fully drew three pieces from scratch in 9 hours I cannot feel my brain or my hands anymore send help)

[nereidprinc3ss]

bambi

in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex! a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!

You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there. 

How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that. 

So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for. 

He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”

You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips. 

“Fuck—I said slow.”

You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.

Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”

“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”

“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”

“It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more. 

Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it. 

“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling. 

It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching. 

“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”

“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”

By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”

You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air. 

“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”

Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.

“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”

Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact. 

“Please can I go faster?”

Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out. 

“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”

You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for. 

Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—

“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”

“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”

“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon. 

“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion. 

Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it. 

“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”

“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm. 

“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”

And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him. 

“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline. 

So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”

“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits. 

“According to who?”

“According to… I was on top…”

“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”

You whine softly. “No they’re not.”

His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles. 

“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”

You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”

“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”

“Hm.”

“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”

And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time. 

Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest. 

“I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment. 

“I can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”

“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”

“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”

“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”

“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble. 

“Tender?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”

“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Lie down.”

Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling. 

“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees. 

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind. 

The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him. 

Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway. 

“Was that on purpose?”

“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact. 

Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair. 

“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs. 

He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”

The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.

And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.

Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long. 

The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind. 

In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving. 

You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved. 

“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed. 

You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles. 

“Shaky?”

“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”

“No.”

He sighs good-naturedly. 

“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”

“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”

When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”

[adaki]

Are your requests open? Can you draw clockwork and Jeff the killer pretty please

Ive been in this fandom for over half of my lifetime and this is the first time I’ve ever drawn clockwork it’s over.

(Side note I’ve never thought of these two interacting and I think Jeff would piss her off so bad lol)

[moonsetsoda]

Back on her bike and better than ever!

This is the first time I think I’ve drawn a motorbike and I got kinda lost in the sauce but..I’m also very proud of it and have been thinking about the comic recently so this was cathartic to make!